Fic: Found (Pros, B/D)

[przed]

Title: Found
Author: przed
Fandom: Pros
Pairing: Bodie/Doyle
Note: A sequel to my 2009 picfor1000 story, Lost. Thanks to runriggers and sooguy for helpful beta comments.

Found

Ray Doyle took a shallow breath and concentrated on staying very very still. Not something he enjoyed doing--he always liked to be moving, to be doing--but just at the moment, his life depended on stillness.

The ones who had taken them—Libyans, Gerard Cluzet had guessed as they'd both ridden in the boot of a car--knew what they were doing. They'd thrown Doyle in this room and trussed him up with a rope around his throat, wrists, and ankles. If he moved at all, the rope choked him. His arms were falling asleep and his hip felt like it was digging into the floor, but he was damned if he was going to die because he couldn't keep still.

They'd gagged him, too. Taped up his mouth so he couldn't manage more than a muffled shout.

He wished he knew where they were. The car had driven around for hours, then he and Cluzet had been dragged out in darkness and taken into what looked like a shabby block of council flats. They'd been hustled through a back door and thrown into a cargo elevator. They'd both been hauled off at the top floor and into the same flat, but it had been hours since Doyle had seen Cluzet. The Libyans had taken him out of the small bedroom where Doyle currently lay shortly after dawn. Since then he'd heard muffled talking and the occasional shout, but nothing that told him what was going on outside the four walls that confined him.

This hadn't been in his plan for the past 24 hours. Not at all. His plan had involved Bodie, curry, snogging, and bed. Most definitely bed. Bed and skin and Bodie and sex and fuck, but he wanted out of this place.

He took a breath and tried to find a quiet centre in his head. A well of calm that would keep him from strangling himself out of sheer frustration.

Focusing on what he could do, as opposed to what he couldn't, he wiggled his fingers in a vain attempt to get the blood moving in them again. Bodie would know what to do. He was always going on about the bloody SAS putting them through evasion and capture training, teaching them how to survive interrogation, how to escape. He could use some of Bodie's experience now, 'cause he knew the longer these blokes had him, the more likely it was he'd end up dead.

He didn't want to end up dead. Not now. Not when Bodie was out there waiting for him. Looking for him, if he knew his Bodie.

If only he could do something beside lie here.

He spent the day on the floor, drifting in and out of a shallow disturbed sleep that only made him feel worse when he woke up. He had hopes for escape when a pair of grim, silent men showed up to take him to the toilet, but his legs were so cramped up by then that he could barely walk. He settled for putting up a token struggle as they once again bound him, and for his troubles he got a punch in the face that rocked his head back and left him with a bleeding nose.

Then, just as the light was beginning to fade from the room's curtained window, there was a change in the atmosphere of the place. A sense that something was going to happen.

Doyle held his breath and listened. At first there was only silence. Then there was the tread of careful footsteps down the hall, and the whispering of voices. He strained to hear what they were saying, but he couldn't even tell if they were speaking Arab, French, or English. There was more silence, then an explosion of sound rocked the flat.

There was a bang, shouting, and the chatter of small arms fire. Doyle's heart began to race and his breathing came fast and shallow as he tried to sort out what was going on. It had to be a rescue attempt. It had to.

He listened as there was more gunfire, more shouting. Listened as booted feet stomped through the flat. He didn't make a sound himself. He didn't want to remind his captors that there was a prisoner who could be held hostage, who could be eliminated. He flinched when two bullets punched through the door and struck the wall near his head, nearly cutting off his air as the rope tightened briefly around his throat. Mostly he listened. And waited.

Gradually the noise faded. The gunfire stopped, to be replaced by voices shouting commands in French. Doyle hadn't let himself hope for anything since he'd been captured, but now he allowed himself to believe the nightmare was over.

And then he heard one thing that took the tiny spark of hope he'd retained and stirred it into a firestorm: Bodie. Bodie's voice, shouting his name.

Then he did yell. Yelled past the gag until his throat ached. Until Bodie heard, and kicked down the door, and cut the ropes from his wrists, his ankles, his throat. Yelled as Bodie pulled the tape off his mouth, checked him for injuries, and then wrapped his arms around him. Yelled until he felt Bodie's hand cradling the back of his head, until he heard Bodie's voice whispering in his ear, telling him it was over, he was alive, Cluzet was alive, it was okay, and he was safe.

Safe.

Bodie had always been his safety, since their first op together, since the first time he'd been shot, since the first time they'd slept together. Since forever.

If he was lost, Bodie would find him. If he was in danger, Bodie would save him. Just as he'd find Bodie, just as he'd save Bodie.

It was what they did. It was who they were. It was what had brought them together and would keep them together through anything Cowley and the world could throw at them.

Comments

[przed.livejournal.com]

The ease of moving them from canon friendship into slash is one of the many things that makes B/D just so much fun. I'm so glad you enjoyed this version of that. And of course I shan't take out the sleeping together reference!

Thank you.