ci5hq | The Start of the Story Game - a fic game for Thursday

byslantedlight.livejournal.com posting in

ci5hq

msmoat posted a fic guessing game last night, which reminded me too of the Fic Quotes Games

noblesentiments used to post in the

discoveredinalj Christmas challenges, and I thought it might be fun to have one here today too, in lieu of a Reading Room discussion, so...

Can you guess these fics, titles and authors, from the beginning paragraphs I've posted below? They're all pretty classic Pros stories, by classic Pros writers - if you adore Pros fic then the odds are high that you will have read them! As MsMoat did at her lj, I won't edit the answers into the post in case late-comers want to play - but I will add in the names of the first people to guess each one!

And no cheating with search engines, as Brownie would say - Now that's not nice...! *g*

One - half-guessed by

kiwisue and half by

shooting2kill!
It was six months after they first made love when he realised that it was not going to be enough.

Commitment, trust and a desperate attempt to suppress his darker desires counted for nothing. Cursing himself he persevered, fucking with Bodie was, after all, one of the more fulfilling experiences of his life. Yet even when Bodie took him hard and fast, the seized pleasure spiralling through both of them, he lay afterwards and ached for what might have been.

"Love you Bodie." Doyle spoke into the sweat scented darkness.

"Love you too." Bodie was almost asleep, snuffling into herb scented curls.

Love you, want you, need you.

But I'm a greedy bastard and I want it all. He shivered in the encircling warmth of Bodie's arms, rousing the almost sleeping man.

"Alright?"

"Yeah, goose walked over my grave."

"Must've 'ad bloody big feet." Bodie settled back, perfectly relaxed, content to just hold for a while.

"Yeah."

"Come on sunshine, relax." Bodie rubbed a firm hand over Doyle's bony back, contouring ribs, shoulders, spine. "Go to sleep." Purring catlike into Doyle's ear he made the lithe body in his arms wriggle with laughter.

"Okay, Okay, pussycat."

"Miaow ...... wait till morning and we'll see who's the pussycat."

"Promises ..... Promises ...."

Without really registering the answer, Bodie slipped gently into sleep.

o0o

Two - half-guessed by

lukadreaming, and half by

jaycat92!
The field was full of workers toiling in the warm September sunshine, reaping a good harvest of ripe, golden corn. Late summer, though the heat was tempered with a seasonal haze which told of cooler autumn days waiting in the wings for their turn to perform.

The first sheaves were already beginning to appear, marching soldier-like across the field. To the casual observer it must appear idyllic, I thought, this unhurried gathering of the summer's bounty. And so it had seemed - to me, a mere visitor - when offered the chance to participate. The reality, of course, was hard, unrelenting slog and I soon joined the other workers in discarding my shirt, regretting for once the length of my hair, as curls clung, wet with perspiration, to the back of my neck.

As the morning drew to a close, the shout went up. "Time to eat lads!" And I went all too willingly.

The throng was gravitating towards a corner of the field and I duly followed. The farmer's wife had set up a trestle table which was groaning with a superb spread; all kinds of meat, crusty brown bread and cheese strong enough to make your eyes water. All to be eaten with homemade pickle and apples picked that morning from adjacent orchards. A veritable feast in fact, traditionally washed down with vast quantities of the local cider. It was strong stuff - despite its innocuous appearance - and after eating well I was soon pleasantly drowsy from the potent brew.

I lay back in the hay, snoozing quietly, with those of a like mind, though it was quickly apparent that others were disappearing for more earthy pursuits.

After a while, nature called and dragging myself, somewhat reluctantly, to my feet I made my way to a haystack some distance away. The far side of this was hidden from view with several tall sheaves stacked to one side.

As I made my unwary approach, my leg was suddenly grasped in an iron grip and I landed unceremoniously into the hay.

"What the...!" I yelled, taken completely off-guard.

"Shhhh!"

He was about my age, darkly handsome with deep blue eyes - the kind inclined to make you dwell on secrets shared under cover of the darkest night.

"Why?" I asked stupidly. The cider had a lot to answer for.

"Watch."

o0o

Three - guessed by

kiwisue!
“OK. We got everything?”

Doyle nodded, abstracted. He’d lain awake most of the night, his brain churning with the problem of Bodie. He was desperate to ask if they were going to see each other again, but had not yet found the necessary courage - scared that the answer might be no, and possibly even more scared that the answer might be yes. But how long did he have before it was too late? The time it would take for them to walk down the gangplank, find a main road, and for Bodie to give him the taxi fare to his police station?

That gangplank, which had seemed like the more-difficult face of Everest when he had struggled up it, supported by Bodie, was now inconveniently short. They headed for the main road. Doyle felt sick. He opened his mouth -

“Ray, I expect you’re keen to get back to your station and let them know that you’re OK...” Doyle, a buzzing in his ears, thought he shook his head, and did not notice the uncertain note in Bodie’s voice. “... but do you mind if we have a talk first? There’s a decent caff down the street. I don’t know about you, but I could murder a cup of tea.”

“OK.” Doyle could not imagine anything good being announced with “Can we have a talk?” Was Bodie going to coach him in some story to explain how he’d got back from Africa completely without the help of a mercenary whose face was on file in every police station in the country?

The café was empty. Bodie ordered bacon sandwiches and tea for the two of them, and they took the table furthest from the counter. There was silence while they waited to be served.

Doyle prodded his sandwich, not convinced he would be able to keep it down if he tried to eat it. He closed his eyes briefly.

“What’s the matter?”

He opened his eyes and shook his head, trying to smile. “Just not hungry after all, I guess. Can you get landsickness?”

Bodie shrugged. “I can’t imagine feeling too ill to want a bacon sarnie.” He looked at his with a lustful expression. “I have been dreaming about these things while I’ve been away. Next time I’ll insist on a Bacon Deprivation Allowance when I’m sent to a Muslim country.” He crammed the sandwich into his blissful smile, washed it down with a mouthful of tea, and then looked pleadingly at Doyle’s rejected breakfast.

o0o

Four - guessed by

lukadreaming!
"We'll take the coach to Rome," Doyle had said, and after half a litre of red wine it had sounded like a brilliant idea, a storming idea, quite possibly the best idea Ray Doyle had ever had in a lifetime of good ideas: sun, splendour, Ray Doyle, all in one cheap and cheerful package.

Bodie couldn't remember actually giving the journey itself any consideration at all: taking a bus to Rome. Of course he had realised that, as journeys go, it would hardly be on a par with, say, the tube to Shepherd's Bush. But then again, neither would it be on the scale of a donkey trek through the Hindu Kush. In his mind's eye he had seen a road: and, at the end of it, Rome.

After the first twenty-two hours on the coach, Bodie remembered the tube: such a neat idea, and only seconds between stops.

Meanwhile the road went on: and Rome was not yet in sight. The scenery rose, flattened, rose again. Incomprehensible road signs sprang up out of nowhere, then vanished too quickly for Bodie to get a grip on the sense of them. And another inch of the map crawled by.

Only ten more inches to go till the bottom of page 31. And then they could progress to page 36! Bodie was looking forward to page 36. They had been on page 31 a long, long time. The man from CI5 was hot, tired, bored, sweaty, uncomfortable, and he already hated all the other passengers, who ranged from about 82 right down to the youngsters of 65. Oh, not forgetting--the child. The one three seats behind. The one whose voice was pitched so exactly at the frequency of a chainsaw.

And then there was Ray Doyle, in the window seat (of course) though from Bodie's observations he had not yet looked out once. Instead his eyes behind the Armani shades were closed in bliss, his head nodding and his foot tapping as he absorbed the bassy emanations from the Walkman clamped to his ears. Ray too was scruffy, sweaty, and unkempt--but that style suited Ray Doyle, from the stubble on his chin to the well-worn look of his jeans and the light drifting odour of his sweat: While Bodie, in creased cords, mouth like a vulture's crotch, felt rank and bristly. He had in fact many complaints, and from time to time he would list them all in his head, a little entertainment for himself. For example: they had left home at seven this morning--correction, yesterday morning--and it was now five AM the next morning. They had been travelling 22 hours: they would not arrive at their destination until seven tonight. He wanted a shower. He needed a beer. He had never needed a beer more. There was of course no beer, but instead the grumpy driver's assistant would arrive by each seat every five hours offering cups of boiling water, brownish in hue, which he called coffee: he would then take fifty pence from you and slop the drink into your lap. Bodie felt the man could learn a lot from air hostesses--

"Let's fly next time, Doyle," Bodie said aloud.

"Me wings get too tired," came the mumbled reply.

o0o

Five - guessed by

msmoat!
Without doubt he was in his own way - which was about the only way he would allow - quite extraordinary and quite unique. But as much as she loved him and the friendship which had grown between them, there were times when he had an odd ability to scare her. Like today.

Oh, he did it quite deliberately, she knew - even as she knew he wasn't trying to scare her exactly, but the others in the training room; the new recruits who had signed on to test themselves against the highest expectations of any unit of its kind in the country. He certainly scared them - and with cause. But her fear grew from other issues, things the men and women in this room would never see in those blue eyes, a history that was quite beyond them and of which they would remain ignorant until the day they died.

But Kate Ross was the holder of secrets, as his friend, his associate - and the only person alive who had ever got close enough to him to know. She was not unaware of the unique position she had in his life, nor insensitive to how easily she could loose it if she said the wrong thing, pushed him in the wrong direction - or found some other way to betray the fragile trust he'd placed in her. Bodie was not a man to forgive lightly - if at all.

As he stood before the recruits and gave his first introduction speech as the new Controller of CI5, Kate remained in the background, leaning against the wall beside Jack Dean, head of training. She held her slim briefcase against her stomach, both hands lightly gripping it, doing her best to ignore the faint warnings edging her awareness. Even though she knew the cause. Even though she knew there was no cure.

It was her job to know - to be on the watch for things like this. Especially in the eyes of a man who had so much power in his hands.

Bodie spoke well in front of his audience, his voice firm, laced with his often assumed cultured accent. His words were chosen without much deliberate attention - but that was largely because he knew his subject so well; preparation was not really an issue with a man of Bodie's experience. His tall frame and faintly arrogant bearing dominated a room already filled with self-made men who could handle themselves in any situation. But as tough as they were, she could see each subconsciously wondering if they could measure up against him.

Bodie, of course, was deliberately behaving in such a way as to make them ask themselves exactly that question.

Many years of practice kept the smile from her face as she watched him. He was so very good at this, a born natural. Back in the days when he'd been an operative agent in the squad under George Cowley, he had always had an essence of idle intimidation. It was a cloak he wore when those around him bored or threatened him. When he was relaxed, he gave the distinct impression of being little more than a cuddly bear, with a big soft heart.

Both images were false and perhaps the saddest thing of all was the simple fact that Kate was possibly the only person in the world who knew.

However, for all that, Bodie was unquestionably the second most dangerous man she had ever met. The most dangerous was long dead now.

o0o

Six - guessed by

kiwisue
"I'm homosexual."

The admission, in keeping with the general tone of conversation thus far, was followed by a sharp laugh, and Doyle glanced up, a piece of chocolate held inches from his mouth, forgotten. "You what?"

Bodie grinned, taking another pull from the bottle he was cradling like a newborn. "Queer as a three-pound note. As in not straight, gay, a fairy, an uncrowned queen, a pansy, poofter, bugger, sodomite, and campier 'n a row of tents," a tight smile and a pause for breath as it seemed to occur to Bodie that they were, in fact, in a tent, then, "Not to put too fine a point on it, the love that dare not speak its name, or, as the Yanks would say, a faggot."

The string of words had come out so quickly, and stopped so suddenly on that foreign one -- faggot -- slurred by the bottle of scotch they'd shared, that Ray found himself silenced, completely at a loss. He grabbed the bottle back from Bodie and looked at the piece of chocolate melting in his palm. Then shrugging, he put it in his mouth, following it down with another mouthful of scotch and tasting neither.

Ray could only stare hard at Bodie until he came back into focus again, then he found his voice, "You saying you're bent?"

Bodie's answer was to blink owlishly at him, then fall back onto his sleeping bag, clutching at his belly and gasping. "Ah, s-sunshine. Quick on the -- uptake -- you are. Christ. Hang on." Bodie's laughter finally subsided to a low chuckle and he sat up again after a minute, face flushed from laughter and scotch. "Aw bloody hell, give us the bottle, mate."

Ray handed it off, glad he'd taken it from him before Bodie'd collapsed with mirth. Could've had good scotch all over the tent, leaving it in that worthy's hands. Bodie grinned, seeming almost recovered, taking a draught of scotch and still chuffing with laughter every time he looked Doyle's way.

Ray considered Bodie's flushed cheeks, and the other, already emptied bottle of scotch leaned up against the two glasses, long ago discarded in favour of direct pulls from the bottle. Then he looked back at Bodie again, still trying to put two and two together, until finally he'd worked it all out. Nodding to himself in agreement, he took another drink and shared his new insight. Bodie was clearly wrong. "You, old son, are bishexual."

"'Gay's what I am," Bodie spat out at once, sounding as if he were offended at the very idea of bisexuality, his lower lip jutting out in a pout. Ray noted absently that he tended to sulk more when drunk.

"Nah," Ray reiterated again for Bodie's benefit, "bishexual. Definit-ively."

"Bisexual with an essss," Bodie echoed.

"Presh-prec - " his tongue was thick in his mouth, so he swallowed and tried again. "Right. Said as much, din't I? Swing both ways, you do." And Ray nodded to himself again, glad Bodie'd caught on at last. Gay, he snorted to himself. Not bloody likely.

o0o

Seven
"There's plenty of money to be made, Bodie. Fact is, I've got a choice one lined up. Two weeks work, five thousand easy. Slam, bam, sweet as a good arse fuck. I can sign you on right here. It'll be like the old days. What do you say?"

Bodie glanced quickly at Doyle's silent profile before he answered. "Sorry, Miller, I'm not in that game anymore. I like it right where I am."

"What, playing Army boy?" The big man sneered. "You've gone soft. You had a lot of promise, Bodie. You could've been the best of the best if you'd stuck it out."

"King of the jungle, you mean? No thanks. I've developed a taste for using utensils. And I'm not in the Army anymore."

The man laughed, his thick jaw working, the sound a rough bellow. "Yeh? I heard rumour you've become a copper." His laugh filled the air again. "That's funnier than the Army." The man turned slightly, his heavy, muscular frame rippling beneath the dark cotton t-shirt and cords he wore. His face looked as hard as his body, his dark eyes settling on Doyle. "Maybe you've finally developed other interests too, eh? Who's your 'friend'? He's a nice-looking piece. I could arrange to have you bring him along, if you wouldn't mind sharing."

Doyle took a step forward, his fists balling at his sides, but Bodie stopped him with an outstretched arm. "You owe my partner an apology."

"Partner, is it?" The man repeated, amused and unfazed by the anger in Bodie's eyes, and Doyle's.

"This is Ray Doyle and we work together. You've been in the jungle too long. And I'm waiting for that apology."

The man's teeth gleamed white against his deeply tanned skin and his dark, pomade-slick hair. "My, my, how sensitive you've become, Bodie-lad. I was just trying to be friendly. What the fuck, no offense intended," he added with a semblance of regret and a playful punch to Bodie's bicep. "Thought you might have broadened your tastes a bit. Nothing like a rough tumble and a tight arsehole to fill."

"Got out just in time," returned Bodie tersely.

"You don't know what you're missing, son." The man eyed Doyle again with a twitch of his lips. "Shall I give your regards to Kingsford and Moran?"

"You mean those bastards are still alive? Yeh, why don't you give them my worst."

The big man finished off his whisky and waved to the barman for another. "I'll be in town for a few more days. If you change your mind, you can always leave a message for me here or at The Whistle Stop."

"Not bloody likely."

"Come on, Bodie, they'll always be a merc inside you. You can't ever shake it completely."

"Well, it won't be for lack of trying, I promise you."

o0o

Eight - guessed by

lukadreaming!
Feet jogging lightly over the churned up grass and mud, face flushed and streaked in a pattern that complemented the dirty brown skid marks and fingerprints over the rest of his body, Doyle was acutely conscious of tiredness and newly-earned aches and stiff muscles. That pervasive discomfort, however, was overlaid with a glowing sense of well-being and relaxation and not a little relief at knowing the rough, tough, energetic game was over.

Glancing to his right, he could see Bodie through the melee of running, dawdling, hobbling and equally filthy players making their weary way off-pitch. As tousled and muddy as Doyle, Bodie was nonetheless running easily, energy levels not quite depleted, back straight, the dirty, wet ball held competently under one well-muscled arm.

Doyle sniffed, loudly, the chilly air at odds with his high body heat, and rubbed a tired hand across grubby brow.

With three minutes of kick-off, he'd know it had been a mistake to agree to take part in the game. But he hadn't been able to refuse, really. Pride wouldn't let him and anyway he'd thought it'd just be an enjoyable Saturday afternoon scramble. After all, from what he'd seen in the past of Bodie's old mob, they were pretty good at whatever sport they cared to try their hands at. So he'd accepted the invitation to play scrum half, thus filling a very important gap in Bodie's team. The fact that it was odd they'd asked a complete stranger to the team and one that wasn't as familiar with the game as he might have been, and to join them in an important position at that, didn't occur till later.

He admitted now, with grim amusement, that he'd thought his last hour had arrived as he'd placed the ball in position ready for the scrum. Instead of waiting for him to get clear, a dozen or more had descended on him and in the confusion he'd thought a broken arm or dislocated shoulder would be the result. Until, that was, a stealthy hand passed swift appraisal across his raised buttocks. And another had ruffled his hair so enthusiastically his head had nearly been pushed right into the mud. But it was the third that caused him so much indignation. It smoothed slyly over one lean cheek, then slid down for a rapid reconnoitre of his genitals, its huge, ham-like proportions squeezing his vulnerable softness through the satiny shorts.

He had immediately heaved up in an effort to break free but by then they were all clustered around him, shoulder to interlaced shoulder, heads down and feet kicking, and he'd considered himself lucky to have avoided several hefty boots. Suddenly the hand left him, the ball shot away between the many legs and the scrum broke up. Doyle was left looking impotently after the fast retreating backs, wondering just who had been the owner of that obnoxiously adventurous hand, fists clenched in a helpless desire to part its owner's head from his body.

It hadn't been an isolated incident, either. During more than one offside, though legal, battle, in which he always seemed to be centred, for all his efforts at getting rid of the stupid ball, hands had been all over him. If he'd ever thought himself experienced and streetwise in male behaviour - well, he had learnt a thing or two more that afternoon. But it was the speed and persistence of them all that had taken his breath away, together with his dignity.

o0o

Nine - guessed by

kiwisue!
Christmas celebrations at CI5 are always rather incestuous affairs.

For obvious reasons, active agents like Bodie and me aren't encouraged to gather all together in one place at a prearranged time outside HQ, and security limits the number of visitors allowed within the hallowed precincts. Probably ashamed to have anyone see the Victorian dump we have to work in, if the truth be known.

Call me slow if you like but I didn't realise until I actually got to the party my second Christmas with the squad that the unfortunate events of last year's do had not been forgotten. That first year the party had included typists, tea-ladies, the lot; this year the powers-that-be (read George Cowley) had decreed the agents were to have our own, separate binge.

I can't think why.

I mean, two pregnancies, four fights, three broken engagements and a divorce isn't much.

Must've bin that broken bottle of Glenfiddich that did it.

Very unforgiving, our George. But we love him just the same.

I think.

Anyway, for some reason Bodie and I were late and when we did arrive we found all the girls had already been booked.

Gonna 'ave to 'ave a word with George about female equality around 'ere. I mean, only one woman for each six to seven blokes is stretchin' 'em a bit thin. I'm surprised his Calvinistic soul doesn't faint at the thought.

Did our best, both of us, but they seemed to think our late arrival was a personal insult. Some of the blokes got a bit stroppy as well. Thought Murph was goin' to crown Bodie at one point when all he did was ask Susan a civil question.

Well, I thought he expressed it civilly.

Mind you, I could've told 'im it wasn't any good -- she'd already told me 'no' rather decisively.

Twice.

Some women have no taste at all.

Made do with each other then. All George's fault, we told each other, linking arms. Mac and Lucas weren't doing too well, either. Not with the birds, I mean. They were doin' OK with each other so far as I could tell.

I'd had my suspicions of those two for a long time. Nudged Bodie, wondering if 'e'd noticed 'em twined in a knot on that sofa. Caught a sort of wistful look in 'is eye. Got worried for a minute, specially when 'is 'and came snaking around my bum an' he started breathin' 'eavy in my ear.

Felt a bit better when he said: "Wouldn't consider a sex change, would you, sunshine? I'm feeling deprived."

o0o

Ten - guessed by

kiwisue
One arm curved around his aching gut Doyle sat up with caution, scarlet with laughter. His breath still catching, he slid down from the open doorway of the small plane he had sabotaged with such success. It would be a while before it would be airborne again and then only under new ownership, he thought with satisfaction. He'd never had any time for the so-called 'Gentlemen of Crime', particularly when they took to murdering nightwatchmen. But the job was over and they were free to go home.

Wiping his face with his hand, he pulled down his rumpled sweatshirt and turned, ready to face the world and his indignant partner. There were times when he wished he carried a camera around with him.

No Bodie.

He gave another involuntary splutter of laughter, reliving the incredulous expression on Bodie's face when he had been led, protesting, away. Teach him to have a shifty look, Doyle thought with glee.

A crest on the side of the plane caught his eye, sobering him as he massaged assorted tender spots about his person. They'd been lucky the cavalry had arrived when it did, the odds stacked against them.

And Bodie hadn't exactly helped matters, he thought, aggrieved afresh as he remembered how Bodie had stood rooted to the spot, like some bloody turnip. Frowning, Doyle kicked out at a strut of the plane. It wasn't until he'd held that blazing rag that he'd realized he risked frying his partner along with the other bastards. Nasty. Very.

It wasn't like Bodie to be so slow on the uptake. It must've been that bloody dog of Armitage's that had shaken him up, Doyle decided, knowing his partner's experiences with man's best friend were of the variety that would make even Barbara Woodhouse think twice.

Fastidious as a cat, Doyle picked his way through the reeking streams of petrol. The next time they encountered a second Hound of the Baskervilles he'd make sure he was the one who took it on. He'd never had rabies.

It couldn't hurt to start carrying some dog biscuits around in the car though; in the absence of any dogs they'd always come in handy to feed Bodie when he got hungry on a stake out.

Recovered enough to take an interest in his surroundings, Doyle stretched, then grimaced. Bloody Armitage. The sooner they were back in London, where they belonged, the better. The small airfield seemed remarkably peaceful now, deserted except for a lone car and some birds in the distance - sadly only the feathered variety.

There was no sign of Bodie.

o0o

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

lukadreaming.livejournal.com

Sneaking a very quick look while I'm at work! No. 2 is by Lizzie, but I can't remember the title. No. 4 is Sebastian's Et In Italia Ego. No. 8 is ET's Scoring a Try.

And some of the others look verrrry familiar!

From:

The Start of the Story Game - a fic game for Thursday

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