Fic: Lost (Pros, B/D)
Feb. 2nd, 2009 03:17 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
przedTitle: Lost
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
przed
Fandom: Pros
Pairing: Bodie/Doyle
Note: Written for the 2009![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
picfor1000 challenge. My prompt pic is under the cut. Thanks to runriggers and sooguy for helpful beta comments.
Lost
Bodie leaned against the wall of the Cité Metro station while hordes of tourists chattering in a dozen languages surged past him. He took a deep breath and tried not to clench his fists as he waited.
Bloody Paris. Bloody Cowley.
Bloody fucking Raymond Doyle.
Bodie caught the phone on the first ring. Not that he'd been waiting. Not that he'd spent the evening sitting on the sofa on the off chance his partner might grace him with a phone call.
"The Savoy," he said, his best plummy accent covering any irritation he felt. "How may I direct your call?"
"You're bloody lucky I'm not Cowley, mate."
"Knew it was you. How's Paris?"
"Full of Frenchmen and tourists," Doyle said in his best scathing tone.
"And French wine, French food..."
"Yeah," Doyle said, and Bodie could practically see the smirk on his face.
"Don't know why Cowley asked you to go with him." Bodie was still a bit irked that Doyle had got to go to Paris on expenses, even if it meant babysitting the Cow. He also hadn't much enjoyed being deprived of Doyle's company for two days and two very cold nights.
"Because my French is better than yours."
"Your French is atrocious," Bodie said with mock outrage.
"Yours sounds like you learned it in an African mercenary camp."
"Bastard."
"I'll tell my mum you called me that, shall I?"
"Don't you dare. She'll have my head off."
There was a pause as Bodie considered what he could say on an unsecured line, what he could reasonably tell Doyle and have him understand. As always, Doyle was there before him.
"Miss you, Bodie."
"Yeah." Bodie didn't say any more. He didn't have to. "You coming home soon?"
"Tomorrow. Cowley's nearly done with his meetings. Said we should be on the afternoon ferry."
"Want a curry tomorrow night?"
"Takeaway?"
"Yeah. My place?"
"Yeah." He could hear the smile in Doyle's voice, and let his own mouth curl in response.
"See you tomorrow night."
"See you."
Bodie tensed as another train pulled into the station. He scanned the crowds as people rushed in and out of the doors, though he had no idea who he was looking for. He didn't have a face, didn't have a name, didn't have a fucking clue. All he had was the word of French military intelligence that contact would be made here.
Not much to pin all your hopes on, but it was all he had.
Bodie was just about to pull away from the kerb when he caught sight of Murphy on the steps of HQ gesturing frantically in Bodie's direction. Bodie popped his head out the window.
"This better be quick, Murph. I'm on my way to pick up Doyle and the Cow."
"Cowley's on the phone for you."
"Don't tell me they got in early."
"He's still in Paris. Said he needed to talk to you."
"Has there been trouble?"
"He wouldn't say."
"But…"
"He didn't sound good."
"Christ." Bodie locked the car, bounded up the steps into HQ as a thousand nightmare scenarios played in his head. He headed for the front desk and took the phone Murphy passed him.
Cowley didn't take any time for social niceties. He came right to the point. "They've taken Doyle, lad."
"They?"
"Libyans, we think. We're none of us friends with Colonel Gaddafi. Four men broke into the hotel where I was meeting with French military intelligence. They were there to snatch Gerard Cluzet, my liaison with the SDECE. Doyle tried to stop them and they took them both."
"I'm coming over." Bodie was already planning his route, London to Dover to Calais to Paris.
"The French are handling things. They won't brook interference."
"I'm coming." There was no way he was staying in London, not with Ray being held God knew where. Not when he might be able to help.
There was a sigh and a pause at the other end of the line, then Cowley spoke again. "I'll meet you at Gare du Nord."
Bodie didn't even both to say goodbye, simply hung up the phone and looked over to where Murphy was standing.
"Charing Cross?" Murphy asked.
"Victoria," Bodie said, tossing his keys to Murph. "It's closer."
Another train entered the station, bringing another group of tourists who knew nothing about Libya or kidnappings or murder beyond what they'd read in the evening paper. Bodie was beginning to think that the French intelligence was stuffed, that they were being played. Then he noticed a young man approaching him, junkie thin and earnest, in shabby threadbare clothes. A boy as out of place in this crowd of well-fed tourists as Bodie was.
"Monsieur Bodie?" the boy said.
"Oui."
"Ici. C'est pour vous." He pressed a crumpled paper into Bodie's hand, and then faded into a crowd of German tourists headed for the exit. Bodie nearly gave in to his desire to haul the boy back and beat him to a pulp until he explained where he'd got his information, but he knew he couldn't. It had been difficult enough to get the French to let him in on this op. He'd earn no friends if he beat up someone's grass.
Instead, he straightened the paper in his hand. The address on it, scrawled in smeared ink, was in an outer banlieue, far out in the working class suburbs that held so many immigrants, so many from former French colonies, so many with reasons to hate the security services. They might know where Doyle was, but it wasn't going to be easy getting him back. Bodie was going to make sure they got him back, though. He couldn't not. Partner, friend, lover. Doyle was fucking everything to him.
Winding through the last of the crowds, Bodie called Cowley from a pay phone and then made his way to the surface to wait for his ride to the suburbs and to Ray, optimism warring with pessimism in his breast, hope warring with pain.
Continued in Found
Author:
przedFandom: Pros
Pairing: Bodie/Doyle
Note: Written for the 2009
picfor1000 challenge. My prompt pic is under the cut. Thanks to runriggers and sooguy for helpful beta comments.Lost
Bodie leaned against the wall of the Cité Metro station while hordes of tourists chattering in a dozen languages surged past him. He took a deep breath and tried not to clench his fists as he waited.
Bloody Paris. Bloody Cowley.
Bloody fucking Raymond Doyle.
Bodie caught the phone on the first ring. Not that he'd been waiting. Not that he'd spent the evening sitting on the sofa on the off chance his partner might grace him with a phone call.
"The Savoy," he said, his best plummy accent covering any irritation he felt. "How may I direct your call?"
"You're bloody lucky I'm not Cowley, mate."
"Knew it was you. How's Paris?"
"Full of Frenchmen and tourists," Doyle said in his best scathing tone.
"And French wine, French food..."
"Yeah," Doyle said, and Bodie could practically see the smirk on his face.
"Don't know why Cowley asked you to go with him." Bodie was still a bit irked that Doyle had got to go to Paris on expenses, even if it meant babysitting the Cow. He also hadn't much enjoyed being deprived of Doyle's company for two days and two very cold nights.
"Because my French is better than yours."
"Your French is atrocious," Bodie said with mock outrage.
"Yours sounds like you learned it in an African mercenary camp."
"Bastard."
"I'll tell my mum you called me that, shall I?"
"Don't you dare. She'll have my head off."
There was a pause as Bodie considered what he could say on an unsecured line, what he could reasonably tell Doyle and have him understand. As always, Doyle was there before him.
"Miss you, Bodie."
"Yeah." Bodie didn't say any more. He didn't have to. "You coming home soon?"
"Tomorrow. Cowley's nearly done with his meetings. Said we should be on the afternoon ferry."
"Want a curry tomorrow night?"
"Takeaway?"
"Yeah. My place?"
"Yeah." He could hear the smile in Doyle's voice, and let his own mouth curl in response.
"See you tomorrow night."
"See you."
Bodie tensed as another train pulled into the station. He scanned the crowds as people rushed in and out of the doors, though he had no idea who he was looking for. He didn't have a face, didn't have a name, didn't have a fucking clue. All he had was the word of French military intelligence that contact would be made here.
Not much to pin all your hopes on, but it was all he had.
Bodie was just about to pull away from the kerb when he caught sight of Murphy on the steps of HQ gesturing frantically in Bodie's direction. Bodie popped his head out the window.
"This better be quick, Murph. I'm on my way to pick up Doyle and the Cow."
"Cowley's on the phone for you."
"Don't tell me they got in early."
"He's still in Paris. Said he needed to talk to you."
"Has there been trouble?"
"He wouldn't say."
"But…"
"He didn't sound good."
"Christ." Bodie locked the car, bounded up the steps into HQ as a thousand nightmare scenarios played in his head. He headed for the front desk and took the phone Murphy passed him.
Cowley didn't take any time for social niceties. He came right to the point. "They've taken Doyle, lad."
"They?"
"Libyans, we think. We're none of us friends with Colonel Gaddafi. Four men broke into the hotel where I was meeting with French military intelligence. They were there to snatch Gerard Cluzet, my liaison with the SDECE. Doyle tried to stop them and they took them both."
"I'm coming over." Bodie was already planning his route, London to Dover to Calais to Paris.
"The French are handling things. They won't brook interference."
"I'm coming." There was no way he was staying in London, not with Ray being held God knew where. Not when he might be able to help.
There was a sigh and a pause at the other end of the line, then Cowley spoke again. "I'll meet you at Gare du Nord."
Bodie didn't even both to say goodbye, simply hung up the phone and looked over to where Murphy was standing.
"Charing Cross?" Murphy asked.
"Victoria," Bodie said, tossing his keys to Murph. "It's closer."
Another train entered the station, bringing another group of tourists who knew nothing about Libya or kidnappings or murder beyond what they'd read in the evening paper. Bodie was beginning to think that the French intelligence was stuffed, that they were being played. Then he noticed a young man approaching him, junkie thin and earnest, in shabby threadbare clothes. A boy as out of place in this crowd of well-fed tourists as Bodie was.
"Monsieur Bodie?" the boy said.
"Oui."
"Ici. C'est pour vous." He pressed a crumpled paper into Bodie's hand, and then faded into a crowd of German tourists headed for the exit. Bodie nearly gave in to his desire to haul the boy back and beat him to a pulp until he explained where he'd got his information, but he knew he couldn't. It had been difficult enough to get the French to let him in on this op. He'd earn no friends if he beat up someone's grass.
Instead, he straightened the paper in his hand. The address on it, scrawled in smeared ink, was in an outer banlieue, far out in the working class suburbs that held so many immigrants, so many from former French colonies, so many with reasons to hate the security services. They might know where Doyle was, but it wasn't going to be easy getting him back. Bodie was going to make sure they got him back, though. He couldn't not. Partner, friend, lover. Doyle was fucking everything to him.
Winding through the last of the crowds, Bodie called Cowley from a pay phone and then made his way to the surface to wait for his ride to the suburbs and to Ray, optimism warring with pessimism in his breast, hope warring with pain.
Continued in Found
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2009-02-03 12:05 am (UTC)Thank you!
(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2009-02-03 12:20 pm (UTC)(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2009-02-11 03:22 pm (UTC)(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2009-02-12 05:29 am (UTC)I really like the way this story reveals itself. Bodie's frustration in the opening scene -- Bloody fucking Raymond Doyle -- followed by his waiting in all evening in case Doyle graces him with a phone call really sets us up for something other than Doyle having been taken, that Doyle has been deliberately callous in some way.
And this is just so the lads:
"Because my French is better than yours."
"Your French is atrocious," Bodie said with mock outrage.
"Yours sounds like you learned it in an African mercenary camp."
"Bastard."
"I'll tell my mum you called me that, shall I?"
"Don't you dare. She'll have my head off."
Thanks. :D
(no subject)
From: