The BistoCon 2016
Let’s Write a Story Together
final version. Thanks to all con-goers
who participated by
contributing to this… outcome.
Cowley could be heard yelling from his office. “Bodie! Doyle!”
Bodie paused in his tea-stirring. “Bloody hell,” he muttered. “Now what?”
Doyle shrugged as he fastened his flies. “Guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”
“Get a move on, you two! Put your clothes on and get in here!” Cowley’s voice rose impatiently.
“Bloody hell, how did he know we didn’t have our clothes on? Now that’s triple-think!!!”
“That’s not triple-think. He’s got us on camera AGAIN.”
“I thought it was your turn to disable it.”
“He must have more than one camera set up in here. We need to find that other one and disable that too.”
Looking around frantically, Doyle saw the red light hidden between a couple of books and shouting triumphantly, he yanked it from the shelf as he ran toward Cowley’s office.
Bodie followed, admiring the spot where he’d worked loose the threads on that bright blue patch on Doyle’s bum patch.
“Bodie! Doyle! Hurry up!” Cowley called again, impatiently.
“Coming, sir,” Doyle called out, sniggering.
“Again?” Bodie asked.
Cowley eyed them as they arrived. “Slack, gentlemen, slack. I can see another session with Macklin in your future.” After a pause, he added, “You should have noticed that second camera.”
“I thought that was your personal one, Sir,” Bodie said with his eye brow raised.
“None of that, Bodie,” Cowley scoffed.
“I just thought you were thorough,” Bodie winked at his partner.
“None of your cheek, Bodie,” Cowley drained his Scotch and raised his eyebrow. “I’ve got a job for you. Undercover.”
Cowley pulled out a photo with the profile of a rather attractive man filling the frame. “Protection job, posing as the boyfriend of Sir Ronald Craig, perhaps the best known homosexual in the British Isles.”
Bodie blanched. “Sorry, sir,” he stammered. “Can’t.”
“Can’t, Bodie?” Cowley scowled. “Why not?”
“Because…because I…” Bodie fidgeted.
“Spit it out, man, what?” Cowley growled.
“You know him, yeah?” Doyle asked.
“I did,” Bodie admitted through clenched teeth. “In the—uh—Biblical sense.”
“I don’t recall this coming up in your entrance review, Bodie,” Cowley frowned, “Though I did actually already know. Since that would make you perfect for the job, I will assume you are volunteering.” The head of CI5’s face remained blank, although it was clear his temperament had brightened. “Here’s the dossier; read it and be in my office by 7am tomorrow, sharp.”
“I need a drink,” Bodie growled as they stormed down the hall.
Doyle grabbed his arm and pulled Bodie to a stop.
“You’ve got some explaining to do, mate.”
“Not here.” Bodie’s eyes shifted around. “The walls have ears.”
The two men clambered into the Capri, Bodie muttering at the same time, “I cannot handle Ron again, Doyle.”
“Did you handle him much the first time, Bodie?”
Bodie shot him a dark look. “Not as much as he would’ve liked, sunshine.”
“Likes his whips and chains, then, does he?” Doyle kept his tone measured.
“A little too much,” Bodie growled. “I’m no shrinking virgin, I’m up for a good time, but Ron takes it too far and I’m not sure I can play that again, even for Cowley.”
“What about me, then?” Doyle said quietly.
“You?” Bodie’s heart stuttered and raced. “Why?”
“T’save you the bruises,” Doyle looked at him steadily, clearly serious. “Besides, I…” he sputtered, “I…l….like you. Counts for something, eh?”
“Sure it does,” Bodie offered cautiously. “It is something you could really do?”
“Hurting you would be a treat. Christmas and New Year’s all in the same package,” Doyle snarked.
“I couldn’t do it to you, could never hurt you.”
Doyle wasn’t sure he heard Bodie correctly. Focusing on the road, the rest of the ride remained silent.
Following Bodie thru the door, Doyle took a huge breath. Bodie walked over to the kitchen cabinet where Doyle stored the good liquor. He squeezed the high ball glass tightly as he filled it.
“The thought of Craig hurting you makes me want to hunt him down and put a bullet in him.”
The glass in Bodie’s hand shattered.
“Ray,” Bodie asked, heedless of the blood running down his hand.
“I think,” Doyle was hesitant but plowed on determinedly, “I think it’s more than like for me now. I can’t stand the thought of you with any one else, and never anyone who would willingly hurt you.”
“So, sunshine,” Doyle sounded on much surer footing, “If Sir Ron touches a hair on your noggin, I shall have to have a word with him.”
“My hero,” Bodie snarked.
“ ‘m serious, Bodie. I know it’s the job, and Cowley, but I cover your back and I’m the only one who gets to beat you over your thick skull. If you want to say no to Cowley, I’m right with you, even if it means no more CI5.”
“Leave CI5? What would you do without the A Squad?” Bodie sounded doubtful.
“Same thing as you, sunshine, which we figure out later. But we’re in this together, and together we shall remain.” Doyle grabbed a tea towel and rapidly wrapped it around Bodie’s bleeding hand. “You’re getting blood on the lino, mate. Takin’ you to A&E.”
Bodie clenched his hand, watching the blood stain the jaunty green & blue striped towel. “Can’t you stitch it up?”
Doyle stared at him, aghast. “If you were a ripped jumper, yeah. Not flesh.”
“Will you kiss it and make it better?” Bodie pouted.
“Oh, you—c’mere.” Doyle gently took Bodie’s wrist and pulled him forward, then placed a kiss on his lips, with all the concern and care and protectiveness and promise he could deliver. “And there’s more where that came from.”
“Promises, Raymond, promises.” And Bodie moved forward for more.
And left a bloody handprint on Doyle’s arm. “A&E, mate, now,” Doyle growled, pushing him out of the flat.