The Professionals Circuit Archive - Unspoken	     Unspoken

 

by Bistokids 

 
 As was so often the way after a particularly trying operation, or quite
honestly any time they could think of an excuse, the elite operatives of
CI5 headed down to a tiny local off the beaten track, far enough out of
the public eye that often they were the only occupants of the dusty bar,
apart from a few knowledgeable ancients who looked old enough to have had
the pub built around them.

 Gathered round a cluster of tables, crisps spilling out of packets,
cigarette butts mounting in the grimy ashtrays, the lads would share crude
and raucous stories, laughing more than the anecdotes warranted, relieving
the stresses of an unremittingly dangerous career in the only way they
knew how. The shared traumas were never discussed, seldom alluded to
beyond solemn toasts to the injured or dead, hanging in the air above and
around them until blown away by alcohol and forced merriment.

 So it was that, one grimly drizzling autumnal evening, a dozen or so of
them were to be found clogging up the back room after a day of fierce
firefights as they successfully ran to ground a suspected IRA terror cell.
The only regular not present was Jax, kept overnight in hospital for
observations, and they raised glasses to him in traditional style before
diving into pints of bitter. Stuart, an unusual addition to the group by
virtue of his tip-off having led to the raid, was regaling them all with
an unlikely tale of an Ambassador's daughter called Annabel with some
quite outstanding physical skills. The conclusion was spectacular enough
to earn a smattering of light applause, followed by an earnest if slightly
drink-fogged discussion about the possibility or otherwise of the act in
question.

 Bodie was loudly determined both that it certainly was possible, speaking
from personal experience, and that he was sure he had made the
acquaintance of the fair Annabel himself. Doyle, hooting with derision
along with the rest, privately thought that, with Bodie, it was always
worth keeping an open mind on such matters. As Bodie glanced over towards
him, he dipped his eyes and raised his glass fractionally in an
acknowledgement meant only for the two of them. Bodie had come closer to
death that day than either of them was comfortable with, completely
blindsided by a sniper who had his sights trained on the agent from the
moment he broke cover. Doyle, spotting the muzzle of the rifle with a
fraction of a second to spare, had yelled at Bodie to get down. Bodie, who
from long experience responded to his partner instinctively and without
question, flung himself flat against the concrete at the very moment the
shot was fired, the bullet actually grazing his shoulder as he fell.

 They faced each other afterwards, as the last suspect alive was led
bleeding away. Any words appropriate to such an occasion would remain
unspoken -- either dragged out so many times before that they didn't need
repeating, or edging into territory too searching and precarious to be
desired. So, instead, a blowing out of cheeks and slight shake of head
('*Owe you another one there, mate. I'd have been a goner if you hadn't
got my back.*') met by a quirk of eyebrows and grazing of teeth against
lower lip ('*That's what I'm here for. I'll always have your back, Bodie.
I'm just worried that might not be enough one of these days.*')

 The gaze lingered, a sharing of tension, unvoiced terror mutually
acknowledged, until the clear blue clouded and darkened, near-death
adrenaline seeking an outlet. ('*I want you. Hard and fast. Now.*') The
hint of a smile quirking the corner of Doyle's mouth, a sheen of mischief
sparkling in the depths of green eyes. ('*I'll just bet you do.*') Doyle
turned away, running a hand oh-so-casually across denim-encased buttocks,
striding off with all the sensual confidence of one guaranteed a riveted
audience. Glancing over a shoulder, casting back a blatant, gleaming,
come-hither grin, knowing with gleeful certainty the effect he was having.
Bodie contented himself with a narrowing of eyes and a slow headshake
('*Oh you're going to pay for that.*') Watching with delight as the grin
widened and he was rewarded with the slightest nod ('*You're on,
hotshot.*')

 The scene was cleared, the minutiae taken care of, the inevitable
grumbles covering a tacitly understood gratitude for the chance to channel
pent-up energy into tedious detail. At some point during the
report-writing and form-filling, someone would push back a chair, sigh and
proclaim, "Bollocks to this. Anyone for a pint?" Amid nods and grins of
accord, the agents would gradually drift out and away, leaving the
deserted offices to the ghosts.

 Doyle took another long sip of now-warm beer, ruthlessly forcing the
day's images from his mind. Sitting back, he allowed his gaze to trail
slowly across the disparate group ranged around the scratched tables,
fixing on the details of each face, building of each a living snapshot to
be dragged out and examined in the likely event of yet another colleague
being violently removed from the team.

 Murphy, chuckling as he shared a fatuous joke that nobody was really
taking in, not even him -- the words weren't really the point. Stuart,
rueful exasperation etched in sharp lines across his forehead as he
reluctantly handed over a crumpled pound note to a smug, grinning Anson.
McCabe, King, Matheson, Ruth Pettifer. How long before glasses would be
raised, solemn toasts proclaimed to the memory of one of these?

 Bodie. A second slower today, from either of them, and it would be Bodie
they were drinking to now, Bodie's image being drowned in beer, papered
over with crude anecdotes and unfunny jokes. A fact of life -- *the* fact
of life, really, its ephemeral quality, but just occasionally a fact that
could overwhelm.

 Doyle glanced swiftly at his partner, seeking nothing more than the
reassurance of his presence, expecting to catch him holding forth on some
half-formed opinion or trying to top Stuart's wild tale with one of his
own. Startled to discover a searching pair of blue eyes already fixed on
him, their expression a mingling of concern and understanding. A lift of
expressive eyebrows ('*You OK, mate?*') Doyle allowed the corners of his
mouth to curl in a rueful smile-grimace ('*Yeah, you know me. Just gets a
bit much sometimes.*') Deliberately his gaze dipped, trailing lazily down
Bodie's body before lifting to meet the now cloudier blue-grey. He jerked
his head fractionally towards the door. ('*Get us out of here? I'll make
it worth your while.*') Enjoyed the barely noticeable splash of colour
across his partner's cheekbones, the gleam of white teeth. ('*Leave it
with me, sunshine.*') As Bodie returned his attention to his pint, Doyle
involved himself in light conversation with Ruth, sitting alongside him.

 Barely three minutes later, Doyle heard the clink of glass hitting wood,
looked up to see Bodie stand up with an ostentatious stretch. "Right, I'm
off," Bodie said. "You lot are just going to have to get by without my
dazzling company."

 He met Doyle's eye. "You want a lift, sunshine, it'll have to be now.
That OK? Or are you going to make your own way?"

 Two could play this game. Doyle frowned in indecision, glanced
sorrowfully at his still half-full pint. "Dunno. Seems a shame to waste a
good drink. You OK to hang on a few minutes?"

 See, and raise. Bodie shrugged. "Not this time, mate. I'm done in. You
carry on, though -- I'm sure someone with your looks and charm won't have
a problem getting a ride." Turning away with a general wave and an
unmistakably smug grin, he sauntered towards the exit.

 Damn. Time for a bit of fast thinking. Doyle patted himself down in
apparent alarm. "Hang on. He's only managed to take off with my wallet.
Borrowed it to get a round in." Pushing his chair back, he took off in the
direction of the door. "Bodie! Hold up!"

 Slowing his pace as soon as he was out of sight of the others, Doyle
strolled unhurriedly across the car park to the waiting Capri. Flung
himself into the passenger seat, slamming the door with unnecessary
vehemence. ('*Anyone ever told you you're a complete bastard sometimes?*')
Bodie responded with a seraphic beam ('*Yeah, mate. It's part of my
charm.*') Humour and irritation evaporated as a long, searching look
passed between them. Doyle swallowed. ('*No more messing about. Get us
home. Now.*') Immediately, obediently, Bodie gunned the engine, breaking
all known speed limits as they careered through the thankfully sparsely
populated streets.

 They never made it to the bed. Sometimes, when time allowed and pressures
were minimal, sex between them was gentle, romantic even, softly murmured
endearments whispering back and forth as tenderly exploratory fingers
provoked shivers and gasps, climax drawn forth with almost unbearable
gradualness.

 Today was not such an occasion. The two men crashed into Doyle's flat,
door slammed shut behind them, fumbling hands giving up the struggle with
buttons, ripping through cotton to grasp and scratch at goosebumped skin.
Limbs tangling in uncoordinated desperation, inarticulate moans and grunts
escaping from lips ground together. Trousers and underwear hoisted hastily
to ankle level, shoes still on, the pair sagged down onto the carpeted
floor, hands snaking round to cup and pull at buttocks, forcing their
cocks into the closest possible contact. Thrusting in unison, teeth
nipping at earlobes and necks, legs wrapping round each other in a frantic
attempt to get even closer. No time for words, now, nothing existing but
the overpowering urge to find sanctuary in mutual completion.

 It couldn't last long. Doyle felt the familiar ache spark within him,
growing and swelling until it felt as though he could burst with the sheer
terrifying force of it, a hoarse primal yell escaping unbidden as the
release of climax took over. He felt Bodie stiffen and shudder, heard a
strangled gasp that was closer to a sob, felt warm stickiness spurt out to
merge with his own. The two clung fiercely together, letting the horrors
of the day surge over them and fade into a warm calm glow.

 They rolled apart, lying side by side in comfortable contemplation as
ragged breathing subsided. Doyle realised he was smiling, a broad inane
grin that had plastered itself to his face without his knowledge. Turned
towards Bodie, seeing a mirror image of the expression as his partner
twisted his head round to meet his gaze.

 Suddenly, Doyle had to speak. To find some way of communicating exactly
what Bodie meant to him, how much he relied on him. He took a breath.

 "Bodie," he began. "I..." The words caught in his throat and he shook his
head, frustrated. Bodie nodded slowly, bringing up a hand in an
unexpectedly tender gesture, placing a slightly sticky finger on Doyle's
lips.

 "It's OK, mate," he said, voice smooth and comforting as a mug of hot
chocolate on a snowy day, and Doyle was warmed through. "I know."

 -- THE END --

 *April 2008*

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