![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
kiwisue.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
ci5hqApologies for a late posting, but RL got away with me earlier in the week.
This was a DIALJ Christmas story a few years ago. As is far, far too often the case, I finished it in a rush. Someone was able to beta it for me at the last minute, thankfully. However after I got my beta's comments back I did tinker a lot - I moved whole sections around, for one thing - and have tinkered some more recently *g*.
I do tend to write very plot-heavy stories. This time, although I started out with a case and an action sequence, I was trying for something different, something more intimate. One of the things I wanted to do is portray conflict in a believable way. I find this sort of thing hard - I'm not conflict averse myself, but I'm pretty much a "come, let us reason together" kind of person. Trying to write 'difficult' emotions; misunderstandings, arguments, and people behaving illogically because they feel strongly is quite difficult for me.
So I'm mostly interested in whether the relationship parts work, although all comments are welcome - I expect there will be summat about abuse of tenses, grammar, punctuation etc. *g*
BODIE: You scared?
DOYLE: Yeah. You?
BODIE: Yeah, all the time.
("Mixed Doubles")
Yesterday had been just another day. They'd wound up the Michalski case with only one casualty – Michalski himself. The Cow was pleased. Like many other ordinary days in CI5, however, this one had had its moments. Two of them, one after the other...
They were about to put a collar on Sammy, an East End wide boy who'd set Michalski up with a bunch of contacts within the black economy and who'd raked in a cut of the money afterwards as a reward for silence. Sammy was the nervous type – careful, not violent. All they needed to do was corner him, then go after Michalski.
They struck a lucky double. Michalski had been tracked to Sammy's 'office', the front room of a rotten old house in Canning Town. Doyle picked the lock on the back door, opening it carefully, and they slipped through into the hallway. They heard voices coming from the front room and crept silently towards the door - until Bodie stepped on a loose floorboard. The board creaked, there was a second of silence from the room ahead, then sounds of hasty movement, of chairs thrown back, footsteps racing. Leaving aside caution, they charged into the room in time to see Sammy departing rapidly through the French windows at the front and Michalski a full half-dozen yards ahead of him.
Doyle was quickest off the mark. He headed after Sammy, tackling him before the front gate. Bodie used Doyle's shoulder as a prop, leaping over the two men struggling on the path. Outside, Helen Tippett, Michalski's tail, ran towards him. Bodie yelled a warning, sending her to assist Doyle while he ran after the other man.
Michalski fled across the road into a lane between a row of new houses and a fenced off vacant lot and Bodie saw him turn right at the end of the row. The lane led down to the canal. Following, he found a footpath alongthe bank: it went as far as he could see, bordered by the backs of houses and high brick walls. Michalski had disappeared. Cursing, Bodie drew his gun and moved on, more slowly now, searching for gaps and hiding-places. There was a bridge across the canal about a hundred yards ahead. Reaching it, he saw an opening where drainage pipes led from the road above to the canal. He entered the narrow passage. There was little chance that Michalski had managed to conceal himself there but he needed to check. A few steps into the cut he decided it was a waste of time. He turned, only to see Michalski in front of him, gun in hand, aiming at him. He heard a shot, tensed in anticipation of the hit, but it was Michalski who dropped like a stone.
He took a deep breath, sloughing off the quick adrenaline panic and moved to inspect the body. Dead – a chest shot, entrance wound, no exit. Then Doyle was standing beside him and Bodie rose to his feet, wondering at how quiet Doyle seemed.
"Thanks." How many times had he said that to Doyle? Or Doyle to him?
Doyle's face was grave and he regarded Bodie with cool eyes. But there was something else in the look, something that was warm, that drew Bodie in.
"Reckon you owe me," Doyle said lightly, matter-of-factly, like he'd say it if Bodie owed him a beer, or a couple of quid for lunch. As he moved past to look at Michalski, his hand brushed Bodie's hip.
"Reckon I do," Bodie answered, too quickly, before the touch and the look registered fully. Then his RT squawked – Tippett had called it in and their back-up was on its way.
He wanted a drink, but it wasn't to be. They'd no sooner returned to headquarters and given a verbal report than Cowley had sent them out again. Hobbes and McAlister had got themselves into a stand-off with a terrorist cell they'd been working on breaking. The agents were bunkered down inside a warehouse while half a dozen men took pot-shots from the mezzanine level without success. A police tactical unit arrived and was deployed around the perimeter with strict instructions not to fire unless ordered. A negotiator was brought in, and the team settled down to wait. For hours. At eleven thirty four they heard gunfire inside the warehouse - Hobbes radioed afterwards that there had been an argument and one of the terrorists had been shot by his own side. More waiting. At ten past two the siege broke and the terrorists came out, hands on heads. Mission over.
Bodie was exhausted. They both were. Doyle was whiskery and bleary-eyed, but he roused enough to make an invitation.
"Wanna do a pub crawl tomorrow night?"
"Yeah. Give me a call." Days off at last. And a night out with Doyle tomorrow. He couldn't think of anything better. He crawled into bed at four o'clock and, despite one startlingly vivid dream, he didn't stir until well into the afternoon.
**********
In his dream he was riding, riding fast, on a dapple horse the shades of morning mist over deep water. Moon and stars above whirled out of alignment, their silent music discordant. His mount was deep-chested, sure-footed: the road shimmered with frost and reflected, sharply, the pounding gallop of hooves.
He felt a scratching of unfamiliar fabric at his wrists, his neck. Clothes of another age; of highwaymen, cavaliers, King's men and outlaws. Who was he? Fragments of lines learned in childhood taunted him. The stanzas eluded him, confused him;
"I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three... Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon… And he raced him down the mountain like a torrent down its bed…"
Over the sound of hooves, of breath blowing, saddle creaking and heart thumping, an echo rose. A shadow drew close, riding, riding with him, gaining on him. Fear struck through him; he glanced over his shoulder at his pursuer. A figure made of darkness; black horse, black cloak, stark against the glistering night. Iron-clad hooves beat the ground raising sparks; hot breath snorting from nostrils like smoke from a fire. He urged his mount on, forward, faster, wanting only to run from the devil at his side. His dream unravelled its seeming reality and bound him with time slowed to a crawl.
A shot cracked through the night – he felt a hit, a hard knock that threw him gasping onto the high pommel of his saddle. His horse plunged onwards, shaking him with every stride. He gripped the saddle, tried to stay upright but felt himself falling away. Before he fell, strong hands grasped him, held him steady. They rode on, shoulder against shoulder, together, as the dream faded into the blackness of deep slumber.
**********
They started out at the Imperial Arms in Fulham Road with a vague plan of heading towards South Kensington, maybe Knightsbridge even. The beer was fair, the company low-end Sloane Rangerish and the service quick – Richard-at-the-bar was a livewire who made insults sound like compliments and compliments like insults, and who managed to squeeze in a sentence or two about his planned trip to Australia between pouring drinks and clearing glasses.
"I'm taking my cousin – dozy sod's never been more than fifty miles from Rickmansworth… hello luv, you're looking good tonight," (this to a standard-issue blonde with a Princess Di look-alike cut, like half the women in the pub), "…you ever travelled?"
"A bit," Bodie answered, "Europe, Africa…" but his reply was mostly lost on the barman, who took it in with a nod of recognition and acknowledgement – here we are, men of the world – and went on to serve new customers. They moved away from the serving area and Bodie turned to Doyle.
"So… how did it go, Ray? Really?"
"Ah… Helen was good. Yelled at him like a fishwife and he went quiet. Got him in handcuffs, then I came after you. That's it."
"Yeah." Then simple, like an afterthought, "Glad you did, mate."
Doyle's eyes drifted over Bodie and he smiled, affectionately. "What I'm here for isn't it? That …and the next round. We staying or going after this?"
It was a good start to the evening. They refused a second round and made their way outside into the crisp air, full of the tang of winter – of gas fires, stoves in kitchens, and the reek of over-used fat in deep-fryers. They had a brief discussion about where to go next, with Doyle wanting to head off for a meal at Dragon Palace and Bodie arguing that he didn't feel like walking a mile to mix in with a bunch of homesick, drunk Aussies. In the end Doyle won and they walked up Redcliffe Gardens to Earls Court, where they had a halfway decent meal and Doyle regaled him with the latest story in the never-ending saga of his motorcycle rebuild.
"So he had the sump covers in a box on the top shelf, only he didn't use the ladder, he just reached up for them: the whole shelf came down and he got hit on the head by a piece of exhaust pipe. I had to bandage him up and everything. Know the worst part?"
"No – what?"
"He still wouldn't give me a discount!"
Bodie chuckled, feeling warm inside. Cosy this, just the two of them, the way he'd hoped it would be. It had been weeks since they'd had a good night out together. He wondered, a little fretfully, if they'd end up splitting up at the end of it. They were headed for bird-hunting territory now, although Doyle hadn't said anything about trying to pick up – and he usually dropped a hint or two, just to make sure Bodie knew. With some luck, though, they'd wind up back at his flat for a nightcap, like they had the last time, full of booze and so relaxed that it had seemed completely natural to wrap his arms around Doyle, let him slump against his chest so that they'd been entwined together on the settee. That night Doyle had said something that had challenged Bodie's kissing ability and he'd retaliated by giving him a demonstration which had turned into a full-on snog, tongues included, but by then they'd both been well past the point of getting turned on by it. In the end he must have fallen asleep because next morning he was still lying on the settee with a blanket over him and Doyle was curled up in his bed like Goldilocks. Yet Doyle hadn't said a single word about any of it after he woke.
Maybe he doesn't remember, Bodie thought, watching Doyle dig his share of the bill out of his wallet, lips pursed in concentration. Maybe he's too embarrassed to talk about it – and he almost laughed, because he knew he was ten times more likely than Doyle to keep a thing like that under wraps, just as he had done. And a good thing too. Tonight was sweetened by possibilities unread by anyone other than himself.
He stood back, allowing his companion to go through the restaurant doors first, taking the opportunity for a good look at Doyle's assets along the way. It was inclined to drive him a little crazy these days, imagining what it would be like to have his hands on that arse without the barrier of clothing between them, maybe slide his fingers into the crevice between those rounded cheeks. He wasn't sure if he'd get that far, but it was intensely arousing to dwell on it sometimes, with Doyle so completely unaware of what Bodie was thinking. He wondered how far he could push Doyle, how much Doyle would let him get away with, given the chance.
A couple of pubs later they were both in a grand mood, amicably jostling each other at the bar then locking arms to wedge their way through the mid-evening crowd, drinks held high. As Doyle sipped slowly at his beer, Bodie realised there was little chance of him getting trashed - in fact he recalled that Doyle had only had one glass from the bottle of wine they'd shared over dinner. He supposed Doyle didn't have to invite a hangover he didn't want, although he'd been counting on him being more than a little squiffy by the end of the night. At least he didn't seem to be looking for female company – they'd both had looks from attractive girls and even the odd comment or two, which Doyle had fended off with a smile and a bit of backchat. Bodie was still feeling confident. He had a bottle of very good Scotch back at his flat and he didn't think Doyle would refuse a nightcap.
When Doyle bypassed several lively looking venues and searched out the quiet Nag's Head in Belgravia with less than an hour to go before last orders, curiosity got the better of Bodie.
"D'you want to go on from here? We've time for another place if you drink up."
Doyle shook his head. "Thought we'd stay here. It's nice, innit?" It was a small pub, all wood grain and hanging brass.
"Not bad. All the same to me, mate. What then?"
"Go back to your flat."
Now that was what he'd been hoping to hear. "And then, Raymond? You planning to drink my fifteen-year old Scotch and crash out, is that it?"
Doyle hesitated. "Thought we might take up where we left off last time."
Bodie felt his stomach tighten and for a minute he held himself very still. "I...see." It felt, suddenly, like he couldn't breathe. "And when did this thought occur to you, then? Eh?"
"Yesterday. By the canal." Doyle rubbed at a temple with two fingers, nervous as a cat.
"When you saved me," he said flatly, remembering.
"Yeah" Doyle looked at him, as he'd looked at him at the canal. "When you forgot every rule in the fucking book and didn't check your flank, I saved you. I do remember what happened, you know."
"So payment's due, is it? I owe you?" Anger flared, freeing up the constriction he'd felt in his throat.
"That wasn't what I meant, Bodie!" Doyle looked stunned. "That had nothing to do with it!"
He was in shock – he could feel the crawling chill of it. Everything was wrong. The only way out was to stop things here, now. The warmth, the camaraderie of the previous hours was completely gone.
He rose, swallowed the last of his pint and set the glass down on the table, carefully. It took all of his self-control to find something to say calmly, something that wouldn't completely wreck the evening, wreck them. "Find someone else to do, if that's what you fancy. I'll see you Monday."
He strode out the door. He heard Doyle behind him, felt his hand on his arm. "Bodie! It's not what you think, listen to me!" He ignored him and stalked out into the night.
Doyle was following, he knew, but he blocked him out and concentrated on finding a pub, one that didn't look pricey. Down the King's Road he found one, went in and ordered a whisky, any kind. He got Johnny Walker Red and was glad of it, tossing the glass back as soon as he had it in his hand. At his side he heard Doyle, urgently whispering, but he didn't listen, concentrating on the burn in his throat and the warmth blossoming in his stomach.
Out into the night again, Doyle doggedly tailing behind. Another pub, same drink. Same Doyle, silent this time, just standing there, watching him as the scotch slid down and the feelings churned his gut along with the booze. Then Doyle turned on his heel and left, and Bodie was alone.
He left that pub behind and started the long walk home, taking a winding route through side streets. Now Doyle was gone some of the tension in his gut ebbed away and he was able to think. What had happened? The night had been good, the connection perfect. He'd started to believe that it was really going to happen between the two of them. But Doyle coming out with it, blatantly, just like that was nothing that he'd expected. What had gone wrong?
He couldn't help feeling that he'd just fucked up royally, perhaps even permanently. Why? Because it had seemed a shabby thing that Doyle had said, insinuating that he expected a little gratitude? Under the cold street-lighting he wasn't sure of that at all. Doyle hadn't said anything about the shooting except in response to Bodie himself: he'd been all warm affection earlier in the evening and if he'd seemed a little diffident in the Nag's Head... well, he'd been working up to propositioning his best mate, hadn't he?
The snarly chill of winter burrowed in as he walked, making itself at home in his bones. He'd been thinking about the last time often over the past few weeks, how it would go, how he would trip Doyle. So Doyle had just tried to trip him instead, and it had all turned topsy-turvy, inside out. He'd panicked - and how stupid was he to do that anyway.
Doyle would understand, he'd have to. He'd call Doyle in the morning (and do what, the voice in his head mocked, explain that he’d run away from his partner because he was terrified of him?). No, he argued with himself, Doyle would forgive him, it would be alright.
He realised he was almost home only when he saw the light at the entrance to his block of flats and the figure slouching against the door. Doyle was waiting for him, looking cold and very grumpy. As Bodie got his keys out and went to open the door, he spoke in a low voice.
"About time you got here. Thought you might have decided to walk to Scotland."
Bodie sighed, shoved the door open. “Suppose you’d better come in.”
Doyle didn’t say anything, just pushed himself off the brickwork and followed Bodie. Once securely inside, door shut, however, he launched his attack.
“What the hell do you think you’re playing at, you bloody idiot? If you weren’t interested you didn’t need to rub my face in it, you know. A simple no would’ve been enough. And what’s this about you owing me anyway – when have we ever had that, eh?”
Bodie swallowed, dry-mouthed. “I remembered from the canal. ‘Reckon you owe me one’, you said.”
“I said…,” and Doyle raised his eyebrows, as the light began to dawn. “You dumb crud. I owe you my life more than… more than I can count up to, I guess. It wasn’t that I was thinking about… “
He slumped onto the settee, looking miserable. Bodie sat down at the other end, not knowing what to say. There wasn't anything he could think of that would take that look of obvious hurt away from Doyle, no magic that could be worked to put everything back the way it had been an hour ago.
"I wanted to do it again, after the last time." Doyle wasn't looking at him; he was staring at the floor as he spoke. "I couldn't tell you how many drinks I'd had, but I remember every single moment of you kissing me. Then when you never said a fucking word about it, not even a joke, I thought there's no chance. Didn't stop me thinking about it, though. And then you almost got yourself killed yesterday and I made my mind up that I was going to try it on anyway, first chance I got. But I wasn't going to use that against you. I wouldn't do that to you, Bodie, I swear." Now his eyes were on Bodie, wide open, searching.
"I'm sorry, Ray." It was surprisingly easy to say it. "I panicked. I thought I had it all worked out and then you came along and stole the ball. That put the pressure on. I'm not used to it, not normally."
"You mean with girls." Doyle was watching him intently.
"Yeah. Or the occasional bloke… very occasional, OK?" Doyle looked disbelieving. "It's true. Watch for the signals, if the light's green, go for it. Only you weren't giving out any signals. I got the worst case of cold feet I'd ever had in my life. I'm sorry."
Doyle’s voice rose a tone or three. “You had cold feet! How d'you think I felt!” But he regarded Bodie with an exasperated fondness. “I never said anything, did I? Never gave you any warning – no wonder you jumped.”
A bubble of joy was starting to form inside Bodie. “Well, I do prefer a more subtle approach.” He smirked. It was as much to reassure Doyle as it was a reflection of his restored buoyant mood, but it got the desired reaction –laughter. When Doyle stopped chuckling, he said;
“Never, ever change, mate. You’re bloody perfect the way you are. Shuddup.” He held up a hand, forestalling any response. “Now, what do you want to do? Your flat, your rules.”
"And when it's your place?" He was almost home, he could feel it.
Doyle smiled. "My rules – maybe. Expect we'll work something out between us, don't you?"
Doyle was still sitting on the far side of the settee. The closest part of him was at least six inches away. He looked wonderful, and Bodie realised that he finally knew exactly what to do. He scooted over and wrapped his arms around Doyle, who leaned into him, relaxing with a sigh.
“How about,” he said, nuzzling Doyle ear, “we start again where we left off?”
They did.
END
Title: Devils on Horseback
Author: KWS
Story is: Slash, Bodie/Doyle
Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing.
This was a DIALJ Christmas story a few years ago. As is far, far too often the case, I finished it in a rush. Someone was able to beta it for me at the last minute, thankfully. However after I got my beta's comments back I did tinker a lot - I moved whole sections around, for one thing - and have tinkered some more recently *g*.
I do tend to write very plot-heavy stories. This time, although I started out with a case and an action sequence, I was trying for something different, something more intimate. One of the things I wanted to do is portray conflict in a believable way. I find this sort of thing hard - I'm not conflict averse myself, but I'm pretty much a "come, let us reason together" kind of person. Trying to write 'difficult' emotions; misunderstandings, arguments, and people behaving illogically because they feel strongly is quite difficult for me.
So I'm mostly interested in whether the relationship parts work, although all comments are welcome - I expect there will be summat about abuse of tenses, grammar, punctuation etc. *g*
BODIE: You scared?
DOYLE: Yeah. You?
BODIE: Yeah, all the time.
("Mixed Doubles")
Yesterday had been just another day. They'd wound up the Michalski case with only one casualty – Michalski himself. The Cow was pleased. Like many other ordinary days in CI5, however, this one had had its moments. Two of them, one after the other...
They were about to put a collar on Sammy, an East End wide boy who'd set Michalski up with a bunch of contacts within the black economy and who'd raked in a cut of the money afterwards as a reward for silence. Sammy was the nervous type – careful, not violent. All they needed to do was corner him, then go after Michalski.
They struck a lucky double. Michalski had been tracked to Sammy's 'office', the front room of a rotten old house in Canning Town. Doyle picked the lock on the back door, opening it carefully, and they slipped through into the hallway. They heard voices coming from the front room and crept silently towards the door - until Bodie stepped on a loose floorboard. The board creaked, there was a second of silence from the room ahead, then sounds of hasty movement, of chairs thrown back, footsteps racing. Leaving aside caution, they charged into the room in time to see Sammy departing rapidly through the French windows at the front and Michalski a full half-dozen yards ahead of him.
Doyle was quickest off the mark. He headed after Sammy, tackling him before the front gate. Bodie used Doyle's shoulder as a prop, leaping over the two men struggling on the path. Outside, Helen Tippett, Michalski's tail, ran towards him. Bodie yelled a warning, sending her to assist Doyle while he ran after the other man.
Michalski fled across the road into a lane between a row of new houses and a fenced off vacant lot and Bodie saw him turn right at the end of the row. The lane led down to the canal. Following, he found a footpath alongthe bank: it went as far as he could see, bordered by the backs of houses and high brick walls. Michalski had disappeared. Cursing, Bodie drew his gun and moved on, more slowly now, searching for gaps and hiding-places. There was a bridge across the canal about a hundred yards ahead. Reaching it, he saw an opening where drainage pipes led from the road above to the canal. He entered the narrow passage. There was little chance that Michalski had managed to conceal himself there but he needed to check. A few steps into the cut he decided it was a waste of time. He turned, only to see Michalski in front of him, gun in hand, aiming at him. He heard a shot, tensed in anticipation of the hit, but it was Michalski who dropped like a stone.
He took a deep breath, sloughing off the quick adrenaline panic and moved to inspect the body. Dead – a chest shot, entrance wound, no exit. Then Doyle was standing beside him and Bodie rose to his feet, wondering at how quiet Doyle seemed.
"Thanks." How many times had he said that to Doyle? Or Doyle to him?
Doyle's face was grave and he regarded Bodie with cool eyes. But there was something else in the look, something that was warm, that drew Bodie in.
"Reckon you owe me," Doyle said lightly, matter-of-factly, like he'd say it if Bodie owed him a beer, or a couple of quid for lunch. As he moved past to look at Michalski, his hand brushed Bodie's hip.
"Reckon I do," Bodie answered, too quickly, before the touch and the look registered fully. Then his RT squawked – Tippett had called it in and their back-up was on its way.
He wanted a drink, but it wasn't to be. They'd no sooner returned to headquarters and given a verbal report than Cowley had sent them out again. Hobbes and McAlister had got themselves into a stand-off with a terrorist cell they'd been working on breaking. The agents were bunkered down inside a warehouse while half a dozen men took pot-shots from the mezzanine level without success. A police tactical unit arrived and was deployed around the perimeter with strict instructions not to fire unless ordered. A negotiator was brought in, and the team settled down to wait. For hours. At eleven thirty four they heard gunfire inside the warehouse - Hobbes radioed afterwards that there had been an argument and one of the terrorists had been shot by his own side. More waiting. At ten past two the siege broke and the terrorists came out, hands on heads. Mission over.
Bodie was exhausted. They both were. Doyle was whiskery and bleary-eyed, but he roused enough to make an invitation.
"Wanna do a pub crawl tomorrow night?"
"Yeah. Give me a call." Days off at last. And a night out with Doyle tomorrow. He couldn't think of anything better. He crawled into bed at four o'clock and, despite one startlingly vivid dream, he didn't stir until well into the afternoon.
**********
In his dream he was riding, riding fast, on a dapple horse the shades of morning mist over deep water. Moon and stars above whirled out of alignment, their silent music discordant. His mount was deep-chested, sure-footed: the road shimmered with frost and reflected, sharply, the pounding gallop of hooves.
He felt a scratching of unfamiliar fabric at his wrists, his neck. Clothes of another age; of highwaymen, cavaliers, King's men and outlaws. Who was he? Fragments of lines learned in childhood taunted him. The stanzas eluded him, confused him;
"I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three... Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon… And he raced him down the mountain like a torrent down its bed…"
Over the sound of hooves, of breath blowing, saddle creaking and heart thumping, an echo rose. A shadow drew close, riding, riding with him, gaining on him. Fear struck through him; he glanced over his shoulder at his pursuer. A figure made of darkness; black horse, black cloak, stark against the glistering night. Iron-clad hooves beat the ground raising sparks; hot breath snorting from nostrils like smoke from a fire. He urged his mount on, forward, faster, wanting only to run from the devil at his side. His dream unravelled its seeming reality and bound him with time slowed to a crawl.
A shot cracked through the night – he felt a hit, a hard knock that threw him gasping onto the high pommel of his saddle. His horse plunged onwards, shaking him with every stride. He gripped the saddle, tried to stay upright but felt himself falling away. Before he fell, strong hands grasped him, held him steady. They rode on, shoulder against shoulder, together, as the dream faded into the blackness of deep slumber.
**********
They started out at the Imperial Arms in Fulham Road with a vague plan of heading towards South Kensington, maybe Knightsbridge even. The beer was fair, the company low-end Sloane Rangerish and the service quick – Richard-at-the-bar was a livewire who made insults sound like compliments and compliments like insults, and who managed to squeeze in a sentence or two about his planned trip to Australia between pouring drinks and clearing glasses.
"I'm taking my cousin – dozy sod's never been more than fifty miles from Rickmansworth… hello luv, you're looking good tonight," (this to a standard-issue blonde with a Princess Di look-alike cut, like half the women in the pub), "…you ever travelled?"
"A bit," Bodie answered, "Europe, Africa…" but his reply was mostly lost on the barman, who took it in with a nod of recognition and acknowledgement – here we are, men of the world – and went on to serve new customers. They moved away from the serving area and Bodie turned to Doyle.
"So… how did it go, Ray? Really?"
"Ah… Helen was good. Yelled at him like a fishwife and he went quiet. Got him in handcuffs, then I came after you. That's it."
"Yeah." Then simple, like an afterthought, "Glad you did, mate."
Doyle's eyes drifted over Bodie and he smiled, affectionately. "What I'm here for isn't it? That …and the next round. We staying or going after this?"
It was a good start to the evening. They refused a second round and made their way outside into the crisp air, full of the tang of winter – of gas fires, stoves in kitchens, and the reek of over-used fat in deep-fryers. They had a brief discussion about where to go next, with Doyle wanting to head off for a meal at Dragon Palace and Bodie arguing that he didn't feel like walking a mile to mix in with a bunch of homesick, drunk Aussies. In the end Doyle won and they walked up Redcliffe Gardens to Earls Court, where they had a halfway decent meal and Doyle regaled him with the latest story in the never-ending saga of his motorcycle rebuild.
"So he had the sump covers in a box on the top shelf, only he didn't use the ladder, he just reached up for them: the whole shelf came down and he got hit on the head by a piece of exhaust pipe. I had to bandage him up and everything. Know the worst part?"
"No – what?"
"He still wouldn't give me a discount!"
Bodie chuckled, feeling warm inside. Cosy this, just the two of them, the way he'd hoped it would be. It had been weeks since they'd had a good night out together. He wondered, a little fretfully, if they'd end up splitting up at the end of it. They were headed for bird-hunting territory now, although Doyle hadn't said anything about trying to pick up – and he usually dropped a hint or two, just to make sure Bodie knew. With some luck, though, they'd wind up back at his flat for a nightcap, like they had the last time, full of booze and so relaxed that it had seemed completely natural to wrap his arms around Doyle, let him slump against his chest so that they'd been entwined together on the settee. That night Doyle had said something that had challenged Bodie's kissing ability and he'd retaliated by giving him a demonstration which had turned into a full-on snog, tongues included, but by then they'd both been well past the point of getting turned on by it. In the end he must have fallen asleep because next morning he was still lying on the settee with a blanket over him and Doyle was curled up in his bed like Goldilocks. Yet Doyle hadn't said a single word about any of it after he woke.
Maybe he doesn't remember, Bodie thought, watching Doyle dig his share of the bill out of his wallet, lips pursed in concentration. Maybe he's too embarrassed to talk about it – and he almost laughed, because he knew he was ten times more likely than Doyle to keep a thing like that under wraps, just as he had done. And a good thing too. Tonight was sweetened by possibilities unread by anyone other than himself.
He stood back, allowing his companion to go through the restaurant doors first, taking the opportunity for a good look at Doyle's assets along the way. It was inclined to drive him a little crazy these days, imagining what it would be like to have his hands on that arse without the barrier of clothing between them, maybe slide his fingers into the crevice between those rounded cheeks. He wasn't sure if he'd get that far, but it was intensely arousing to dwell on it sometimes, with Doyle so completely unaware of what Bodie was thinking. He wondered how far he could push Doyle, how much Doyle would let him get away with, given the chance.
A couple of pubs later they were both in a grand mood, amicably jostling each other at the bar then locking arms to wedge their way through the mid-evening crowd, drinks held high. As Doyle sipped slowly at his beer, Bodie realised there was little chance of him getting trashed - in fact he recalled that Doyle had only had one glass from the bottle of wine they'd shared over dinner. He supposed Doyle didn't have to invite a hangover he didn't want, although he'd been counting on him being more than a little squiffy by the end of the night. At least he didn't seem to be looking for female company – they'd both had looks from attractive girls and even the odd comment or two, which Doyle had fended off with a smile and a bit of backchat. Bodie was still feeling confident. He had a bottle of very good Scotch back at his flat and he didn't think Doyle would refuse a nightcap.
When Doyle bypassed several lively looking venues and searched out the quiet Nag's Head in Belgravia with less than an hour to go before last orders, curiosity got the better of Bodie.
"D'you want to go on from here? We've time for another place if you drink up."
Doyle shook his head. "Thought we'd stay here. It's nice, innit?" It was a small pub, all wood grain and hanging brass.
"Not bad. All the same to me, mate. What then?"
"Go back to your flat."
Now that was what he'd been hoping to hear. "And then, Raymond? You planning to drink my fifteen-year old Scotch and crash out, is that it?"
Doyle hesitated. "Thought we might take up where we left off last time."
Bodie felt his stomach tighten and for a minute he held himself very still. "I...see." It felt, suddenly, like he couldn't breathe. "And when did this thought occur to you, then? Eh?"
"Yesterday. By the canal." Doyle rubbed at a temple with two fingers, nervous as a cat.
"When you saved me," he said flatly, remembering.
"Yeah" Doyle looked at him, as he'd looked at him at the canal. "When you forgot every rule in the fucking book and didn't check your flank, I saved you. I do remember what happened, you know."
"So payment's due, is it? I owe you?" Anger flared, freeing up the constriction he'd felt in his throat.
"That wasn't what I meant, Bodie!" Doyle looked stunned. "That had nothing to do with it!"
He was in shock – he could feel the crawling chill of it. Everything was wrong. The only way out was to stop things here, now. The warmth, the camaraderie of the previous hours was completely gone.
He rose, swallowed the last of his pint and set the glass down on the table, carefully. It took all of his self-control to find something to say calmly, something that wouldn't completely wreck the evening, wreck them. "Find someone else to do, if that's what you fancy. I'll see you Monday."
He strode out the door. He heard Doyle behind him, felt his hand on his arm. "Bodie! It's not what you think, listen to me!" He ignored him and stalked out into the night.
Doyle was following, he knew, but he blocked him out and concentrated on finding a pub, one that didn't look pricey. Down the King's Road he found one, went in and ordered a whisky, any kind. He got Johnny Walker Red and was glad of it, tossing the glass back as soon as he had it in his hand. At his side he heard Doyle, urgently whispering, but he didn't listen, concentrating on the burn in his throat and the warmth blossoming in his stomach.
Out into the night again, Doyle doggedly tailing behind. Another pub, same drink. Same Doyle, silent this time, just standing there, watching him as the scotch slid down and the feelings churned his gut along with the booze. Then Doyle turned on his heel and left, and Bodie was alone.
He left that pub behind and started the long walk home, taking a winding route through side streets. Now Doyle was gone some of the tension in his gut ebbed away and he was able to think. What had happened? The night had been good, the connection perfect. He'd started to believe that it was really going to happen between the two of them. But Doyle coming out with it, blatantly, just like that was nothing that he'd expected. What had gone wrong?
He couldn't help feeling that he'd just fucked up royally, perhaps even permanently. Why? Because it had seemed a shabby thing that Doyle had said, insinuating that he expected a little gratitude? Under the cold street-lighting he wasn't sure of that at all. Doyle hadn't said anything about the shooting except in response to Bodie himself: he'd been all warm affection earlier in the evening and if he'd seemed a little diffident in the Nag's Head... well, he'd been working up to propositioning his best mate, hadn't he?
The snarly chill of winter burrowed in as he walked, making itself at home in his bones. He'd been thinking about the last time often over the past few weeks, how it would go, how he would trip Doyle. So Doyle had just tried to trip him instead, and it had all turned topsy-turvy, inside out. He'd panicked - and how stupid was he to do that anyway.
Doyle would understand, he'd have to. He'd call Doyle in the morning (and do what, the voice in his head mocked, explain that he’d run away from his partner because he was terrified of him?). No, he argued with himself, Doyle would forgive him, it would be alright.
He realised he was almost home only when he saw the light at the entrance to his block of flats and the figure slouching against the door. Doyle was waiting for him, looking cold and very grumpy. As Bodie got his keys out and went to open the door, he spoke in a low voice.
"About time you got here. Thought you might have decided to walk to Scotland."
Bodie sighed, shoved the door open. “Suppose you’d better come in.”
Doyle didn’t say anything, just pushed himself off the brickwork and followed Bodie. Once securely inside, door shut, however, he launched his attack.
“What the hell do you think you’re playing at, you bloody idiot? If you weren’t interested you didn’t need to rub my face in it, you know. A simple no would’ve been enough. And what’s this about you owing me anyway – when have we ever had that, eh?”
Bodie swallowed, dry-mouthed. “I remembered from the canal. ‘Reckon you owe me one’, you said.”
“I said…,” and Doyle raised his eyebrows, as the light began to dawn. “You dumb crud. I owe you my life more than… more than I can count up to, I guess. It wasn’t that I was thinking about… “
He slumped onto the settee, looking miserable. Bodie sat down at the other end, not knowing what to say. There wasn't anything he could think of that would take that look of obvious hurt away from Doyle, no magic that could be worked to put everything back the way it had been an hour ago.
"I wanted to do it again, after the last time." Doyle wasn't looking at him; he was staring at the floor as he spoke. "I couldn't tell you how many drinks I'd had, but I remember every single moment of you kissing me. Then when you never said a fucking word about it, not even a joke, I thought there's no chance. Didn't stop me thinking about it, though. And then you almost got yourself killed yesterday and I made my mind up that I was going to try it on anyway, first chance I got. But I wasn't going to use that against you. I wouldn't do that to you, Bodie, I swear." Now his eyes were on Bodie, wide open, searching.
"I'm sorry, Ray." It was surprisingly easy to say it. "I panicked. I thought I had it all worked out and then you came along and stole the ball. That put the pressure on. I'm not used to it, not normally."
"You mean with girls." Doyle was watching him intently.
"Yeah. Or the occasional bloke… very occasional, OK?" Doyle looked disbelieving. "It's true. Watch for the signals, if the light's green, go for it. Only you weren't giving out any signals. I got the worst case of cold feet I'd ever had in my life. I'm sorry."
Doyle’s voice rose a tone or three. “You had cold feet! How d'you think I felt!” But he regarded Bodie with an exasperated fondness. “I never said anything, did I? Never gave you any warning – no wonder you jumped.”
A bubble of joy was starting to form inside Bodie. “Well, I do prefer a more subtle approach.” He smirked. It was as much to reassure Doyle as it was a reflection of his restored buoyant mood, but it got the desired reaction –laughter. When Doyle stopped chuckling, he said;
“Never, ever change, mate. You’re bloody perfect the way you are. Shuddup.” He held up a hand, forestalling any response. “Now, what do you want to do? Your flat, your rules.”
"And when it's your place?" He was almost home, he could feel it.
Doyle smiled. "My rules – maybe. Expect we'll work something out between us, don't you?"
Doyle was still sitting on the far side of the settee. The closest part of him was at least six inches away. He looked wonderful, and Bodie realised that he finally knew exactly what to do. He scooted over and wrapped his arms around Doyle, who leaned into him, relaxing with a sigh.
“How about,” he said, nuzzling Doyle ear, “we start again where we left off?”
They did.
END
Title: Devils on Horseback
Author: KWS
Story is: Slash, Bodie/Doyle
Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2012-01-24 09:07 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-24 09:18 pm (UTC)Story tense
I'm pretty sure you know I'm going to say this, but - you've started with past perfect tense and a flashback! That's 2/2 Beta Central stories so far - I hold to my claim that this kind of beginning is getting
way toomore common! *g* And for me, it's a sluggish start to a story, which I think is the exact opposite effect that authors are hoping for. The idea is to throw us into the action, into something dramatic, to perhaps get past the irritating explanation that's needed before we get to the part that an author really wants to write... But we can tell! It's the unwanted part of the story pushed up to the front to get it out of the way, and we can tell.Then we have a dream flashback - so we're still not up to speed with now, and we're two pages in.
Then, hurrah - the story! *g* We're off... for a page...
...until we get to the bottom of page 3 where we slide back into past perfect again - That night Doyle had said something that... and he'd retaliated... which had turned...but by then they'd both been... Yet Doyle hadn't said.... Not only that, but this is a bloody vital piece of the story! More about this, please! Not only for general hotness, but for all those gorgeous emotional details (not the soppy ones) - you tell us what happened, when I want to feel that kiss with Bodie. And I could feel it alot more strongly if it wasn't in past perfect tense! *g*
Oh, and there's some gorgeous bits in here too, that make it well worth livening up the ppt passages, imho! The paragraph He stood back, allowing his companion to go through... *g* and of course Doyle's hand brushing Bodie's hip earlier... *g*
Off we go again... story story story drama tension oh no what's going to happen... back to ppt. What had happened? The night had been good... He'd started to believe...Doyle hadn't...he'd been warm...he'd been working on a proposition...he'd been thinking about...Doyle had just tried... it had all turned.... Bodie's deliberately reflecting on things as he walks of course, and I might not have thought anything of it if we hadn't had (hah! *g*) so much ppt already. Even so, there's definitely wording here that could be made more immediate. Because it had seemed a shabby thing that Doyle had said..., for instance, could just as well be Because it was a shabby thing Doyle had said.... Bodie's thinking it now after all, it's only just happened, so he's not reflecting on a long time ago - presumably he still thinks that what Doyle said was "shabby".
And then we're back in the story again, and we stay there all the way to the end. *g*
We need past perfect tense sometimes - but I really do think it's something to be done in small doses, because when there's alot of it the action is deadened and you're making us work in the dull kind of way for our story. As readers we like to work - we like to figure things out, and understand them, and feel clever and satisfied that we understand the author's cleverness too - we're close to the author that way, and it's part of the reward of a story (utterly subconsciously!). But having to read large chunks of ppt is a different kind of work - we have to put our brains in gear to make sure we're following what happened when and how it affects what's happening now, to make sure we understand enough that we don't get lost in the next section... and if we struggle to place it all in time we feel a bit stupid, because the author obviously knows what's happening, and we're not as good, we can't keep up... again, subconsciously... *g*
So... well, that's my take on ppt anyway - no doubt others will disagree! But I would go so far as to say that the Pros writers held in highest esteem for their writing (if not their story plots) - Sebastian, M.Fae Glasgow, Helen Raven, Rhiannon, Kate Maclean for instance - use ppt very sparingly indeed, if at all... *g*
no subject
Date: 2012-01-26 07:04 am (UTC)And for me, it's a sluggish start to a story, which I think is the exact opposite effect that authors are hoping for.
You should have seen the first version! It started with the dream, then the flashback to yesterday (as now, written in past perfect - although I didn't know then what that was), then the pub crawl, complete with flashback. The feedback I got was that it wasn't clear what relevance it had to the rest of the story. At the time I'd thought it made more sense to put it within the body of the story, after that instant of Bodie being in jeopardy & Doyle saving him. Now I'm wondering if that was in fact an improvement, & I needed to do something else to make the connection clear.
But what you're saying is that you'd prefer something more linear, so that would be - the case (in your bog standard simple past, hints that something's going on between them, something that the threat to Bodie stirs up, the dream, the pub crawl - oh, hang on, there's those other bits that are a worry - the argument and resolution...
I'm not sure what you're suggesting about that last flashback, actually - do you mean make it simple past, but indicate somehow that it occurred before anything else in the story?
well, that's my take on ppt anyway
Hee! Point taken - especially about it having a kind of flattening effect. Not that I was thinking too much about that at the time. I think I was just trying to put Bodie into a reflective mood (and that can be a wee bit tricky, you know ;)
PS there's a rather gorgeous doodle on http://www.google.com.au/ today, you should take a look.
no subject
Date: 2012-01-25 02:04 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-25 08:56 am (UTC)The other thing that tangled me a little in the story was the point of view. I'm not someone who thinks that pov has to be a tight tight thing and cannot be varied, but... *g* This story is quite tightly Bodie's pov, and that works really well - except that as a reader I don't know that until about halfway down the first page, so that I'm swimming a little bit, I'm a long way away from what's going on. I will be drawn closer in, and it'll be great, so my suggestion is to make it great for me right from the start... *g* Let me know that I'm with Bodie - just a quick sentence or mention would do (which is how I find out later on with Bodie saw him turn right). You know I think I might blame the lack of pov on the past perfect tense in those first paragraphs too... *g*
Then on page 3 when they're in the pub - which I really like, I could feel the place - I feel a bit like Bodie's suddenly abandoned me. Bodie turned to Doyle. "So... how did it go, Ray? Really?" and they have a conversation about it, and the very fact that Bodie asked the question suggests that there's something about it preying on his mind - but we don't quite know what, he doesn't let us into his thoughts, which he does in the rest of the story! So it feels a bit as if he's suddenly frozen us out.
A similar thing happens when he's thinking back to their first kiss. Such an important moment, surely the pivotal moment in fact, the moment of hope that the whole story is based around for Bodie, and all we get is an explanation of what happened. It's a memory, of course - but I think there's usually a bit more to memory than that. If we're remembering something that was hugely important to us, our thoughts run emotionally as well as just in a visual flashback. And because it's such a pivotal moment, it's more the emotional aspect of it that I'm interested in - surely Bodie remembers the way it felt rather than just what happened. Doyle's lips against his, the urgency of wanting to do it then, even though they'd both had too much to drink, the feeling that finally it was happening (because you let us know that Bodie's been wanting it for a while). Surely, even, whilst he's thinking about it in the pub he's feeling a bit more than that? I love the last sentence of the paragraph Tonight was sweetened by possibilities unread by anyone other than himself. but I do feel that you could have given us a little more. Surely Bodie's heart sped up thinking about it again, or he felt a surge of lust, or... something? Not alot - I also very much like that you don't go overboard in describing their emotions, but just a touch now and then gives the reader extra promise, too - helps us to feel what Bodie's feeling...
no subject
Date: 2012-01-25 08:57 am (UTC)"When you saved me," he said flatly, remembering.
"Yeah" Doyle looked at him, as he'd looked at him at the canal. "When you forgot every rule in the fucking book and didn't check your flank, I saved you. I do remember what happened, you know."
He was in shock – he could feel the crawling chill of it. Everything was wrong. The only way out was to stop things here, now. The warmth, the camaraderie of the previous hours was completely gone.
"So payment's due, is it? I owe you?" Anger flared, freeing up the constriction he'd felt in his throat.
"That wasn't what I meant, Bodie!" Doyle looked stunned. "That had nothing to do with it!"
Bodie rose, swallowed the last of his pint and set the glass down on the table, carefully. It took all of his self-control to find something to say calmly, something that wouldn't completely wreck the evening, wreck them. "Find someone else to do, if that's what you fancy. I'll see you Monday."
I think that just moving that one paragraph up a bit would mean that we're feeling that shock with Bodie as soon as Doyle confirms what he meant - as soon as Bodie feels it we feel it too, rather than watching him from over there for another moment or two, and then feeling it. Keep us as close to our Bodie as possible, the whole time... *g*
And that'll no doubt be enough from me, for now... *g* (Especially as it turned out to be too much for one comment box!)
no subject
Date: 2012-01-25 11:09 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-27 03:01 pm (UTC)"When you saved me," he said flatly, remembering.
"Yeah" Doyle looked at him, as he'd looked at him at the canal. "When you forgot every rule in the fucking book and didn't check your flank, I saved you. I do remember what happened, you know."
He was in shock – he could feel the crawling chill of it. Everything was wrong. The only way out was to stop things here, now. The warmth, the camaraderie of the previous hours was completely gone.
"So payment's due, is it? I owe you?" Anger flared, freeing up the constriction he'd felt in his throat.
He rose, swallowed the last of his pint and set the glass down on the table, carefully. It took all of his self-control to find something to say calmly, something that wouldn't completely wreck the evening, wreck them. "Find someone else to do, if that's what you fancy. I'll see you Monday."
"That wasn't what I meant, Bodie!" Doyle looked stunned. "That had nothing to do with it!"
He strode out the door. He heard Doyle behind him, felt his hand on his arm. "Bodie! It's not what you think, listen to me!" He ignored him and stalked out into the night.
(Oh - "strode to the door", or "strode out of" (depending on how far he gets!)
no subject
Date: 2012-01-29 09:24 pm (UTC)I'm going to go away & do some edits, then sit on it for a bit & see how it looks in a week or so, but I think this has been a very helpful process.
no subject
Date: 2012-01-25 09:42 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-25 12:31 pm (UTC)My general comments, though, were that overall I really enjoyed the story. You swept me along enough on the first reading that I was with you and very willing to overlook the niggles I picked up later. And, by the way, the niggles were commented on because this is the purpose of this group, not because I was feeling like Disgruntled of Cheltenham. There are quite a few pieces of fic on LJ etc that I start and don't finish, and this would not at all qualify for that treatment. It was urgent and passionate and full of misunderstandings that then were resolved - bliss!
Okay, off to post more.
no subject
Date: 2012-01-26 07:05 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-25 12:32 pm (UTC)I liked the way you used short, snappy sentences in the action pieces. This made them more immediate and gave me a sense of speed.
Like BSL, the flashback start didn’t work as well for me. I have a simple mind, and I need to know where we are first.
The dream was beautiful – but it didn’t work for me in this piece here. I couldn’t relate it to the plot – perhaps it needs a tie-back later?
no subject
Date: 2012-01-26 07:08 am (UTC)Yes, that seems to be a sticking point - I did get feedback on it from my original beta (see comment to BSL up the page), and I don't think I completely addressed the heart of the problem by the changes I made.
no subject
Date: 2012-01-25 12:36 pm (UTC)Some things that didn’t really work for me, but I’m not entirely sure why:
'Put a collar on' – perhaps just use the word ‘collar’?
'They struck a lucky double' – alluding to finding Michalski and Sammy in the same place? Can't think of an alternative (useless!) but I had to think twice about the meaning.
Bodie using Doyle’s shoulder as a prop as he leapt over them – wouldn’t this have put Doyle off?
Oh, and a very odd one – is Michalski a real name? It just seemed a bit… not quite right, really! (Apologies to anyone who really is called Michalski.)
Phrases I loved:
“the company low-end Sloane-Ranger-ish” - oh, I remember these people! Such a good description of the wannabe Lady Di-s!
"Tonight was sweetened by possibilities unread by anyone other than himself." Beautiful description of the secret snuggle that you treat yourself to because no one else knows what you're thinking and therefore no one can tell you otherwise.
"The snarly chill of winter" - oh yes.
no subject
Date: 2012-01-27 12:20 pm (UTC)I reckon it's fab that you are telling me about them anyway :)
If I know that something made someone (you) pause, despite enjoying the rest of it I need to at least consider making a change. I've usually read the darned thing over many times, to the point where I lose the ability to detect sour notes - that's what fresh eyes are for :)
They're good points, thank you. Re. Michalski, having almost make the mistake of calling a character "Jack O'Neill" when Stargate SG-1 was at its height. I tend to search out surnames using embassy and university sites, then change the forename if required so it doesn't match anybody famous that I can find on Google. That's a long way of saying it is a real name!
(and thank you for the compliments too!)
no subject
Date: 2012-01-25 12:38 pm (UTC)This worked really well for me! I think you got the relationship between them just right. There was enough banter and allusion in their conversation to show the depth of their relationship. You specifically asked about the conflict scenario, and I think you did this very well. Given that they are late 70s/early 80s English blokes, feelings are not discussed readily. The misunderstanding and the subsequent actions are clearly described and seem very real to me. The reactions and feelings of both lads and the way you describe their body language and their actions work very well, so more of this, please!
no subject
Date: 2012-01-25 01:34 pm (UTC)First of all, I loved it. Now to the beta comments.
The first section doesn't need to be a flashback. If you remover/rewrite the very first paragraph the rest is simply the first part of the story (in normal' simple past/narrative tense) and leads comfortably into the second. I think this would keep everything as you wrote it but satisfy those of us who are iffy about flashbacks.(That includes me.) Then you only have the one flashback, to their previous 'snogging' session, and that's already seamlessly inserted into the story.
One typo spotted: he found a footpath alongthe bank
I loved the dream sequence, even though I'm not usually a fan of large chunks of italics. I thought it worked beautifully.
The conflict worked for me, too. You caught the way people hear only part or only one angle of a conversation, always an interesting thing and indicative of character traits.
Very little work needed!
no subject
Date: 2012-01-26 08:28 am (UTC)The first section doesn't need to be a flashback.
Yes, I'm convinced I need to do something there - not 100% sure what that will be, yet, but the feedback & discussions are invaluable.
Thanks for catching the typo!
no subject
Date: 2012-01-27 02:49 pm (UTC)Hmm, "put a collar?" murphybabe is right. Either "put the cuffs on" or "about to collar" perhaps?
This does mean you lose the "only one casualty - Michaelski himself" line, which was a great intro, because at the time, I had no idea whether they were supposed to be finding him or babysitting him, so I wasn't quite sure whether the "just another day" had been a good one or a bad one, and it was a great hook.
Argh, I am talking myself out of deleting it now, but you can always keep that line for another time!
no subject
Date: 2012-01-25 06:29 pm (UTC)Typos
Already well proof-read I would suggest. I didn’t find any!
Grammar
I’ll leave to those much more able to comment. Taking into account the comments I’ll post separately, the story does read slightly oddly and I think it’s this tense issue, coupled with the point of view issue. BSL’s comments (sorry BSL) rather go over my head, but I’m not an author and haven’t had time to properly absorb what she’s saying. I am sure, however, that it is all very plausible and helpful.
I love:
“He still wouldn’t give me a discount!”
no subject
Date: 2012-01-25 06:30 pm (UTC)“within the black economy”
I don’t think this was a term used then. It would more likely be “in or on the black market” which is an expression left over from the Second World War, but happy to be corrected.
Following the creaking floorboard …
I think you need to have the villains actually check the creaking floorboard before leaping through the windows, etc, and running off. It could have simply been the wind blowing a creaking window frame. They seem to assume they’ve been rumbled and run off too quickly for my liking.
French windows
I’m not sure a “rotten old house in CanningTown” would have French windows? I did a quick search on CanningTown, not having any useful knowledge of London, and according to Wikipedia the 1930s housing was replaced with high rise blocks. I would guess therefore, that any houses remaining would most likely be Victorian and have a bay window or simply a front window. (This is me being picky!)
“… tackling him before ….”
I suggest adding “… tackling him before he reached/got to the front gate …”
I was slightly thrown by the reference to “Helen Tippett” even though you explain her role immediately. It’s not a huge problem, but I know that other authors use the names of other characters in the programme to reference extra members of the team. I can’t recall a Helen!
“vacant lot”
Apologies, but this is an American expression to me. Areas where there is no development or where a building has been demolished, etc, would be referred to as derelict/neglected/disused.
“Yeah. Give me a call”
Insert a paragraph after this. Then add “A couple of …” before “Days off. I don’t like sentences starting with “And”, but I’m sure other players will have suggestions about that – it was one of those things you’re taught at school and just can’t get out of your head!
The dream is good. I immediately had to research the Robert Browning poem and I love to be inspired to do this. The reference to poetry and Bodie’s interest in poetry fits well too.
In the pub … would Bodie admit to having travelled to Europe, Africa? He’s tended to be close-mouthed about his past in both canon and fanon. I think he’d probably just say “A bit … here and there.”
When Doyle and Bodie start talking …. “So .. how did it go, Ray Really?” I got a bit lost and didn’t know what Bodie was talking about. I think a bit more of a lead in would help. Whether as dialogue or narrative, but just to get to the reader back on track.
“They refused a second round … “ – the word “refused” seems oddly negative. Perhaps “they decided against a second round”.
The sentence with “… the full tang of winter ..”. Can you smell gas fires? Stoves should be cookers, but this whole sentence may need re-jigging.
“… all wood grain and hanging brass …” Not sure about “wood grain”, perhaps wood panelling?
“When you saved me” – Mmm, not sure. “When you saved my life – again.”
“Find someone else to do …” You suggest that Bodie is trying to “find something that wouldn’t completely wreck the evening ..”, but I think Bodie would still be cross, angry and upset. Although his character is renowned for keeping an outward calm, he has lost his temper. This just doesn’t read right to me. See comment above about point of view and tenses.
Apologies, I didn't really have time to give this justice - hopefully, though, my initial thoughts will help the discussion along.
no subject
Date: 2012-01-26 08:45 am (UTC)'Black market' is a term I am familiar with from childhood but it was on its way out by the 60s and in any case, the black economy has a slightly different meaning. Keep it as it is!
Victorian houses often have/had French windows put in at the back - leading into the yard or garden. I don't see why the ones in Canning Town would be any different.
A vacant lot is quite different from a disused/derelict one. It's merely between owners and might have a 'for sale' sign. The word 'vacant' isn't transatlantic. Before someone had the bright idea that we can't read and need little coloured red and green things, public lavatories always used to have door signs that read 'vacant' (i.e. unoccupied) or 'engaged'... Using 'vacant' tells us there were no neighbours to watch/get involved, but doesn't give a picture of overgrown weeds etc. The runner is heading for an area that isn't overlooked, not one that is 'derelict'.
Starting a sentence with 'And'. Authors do it legitimately all the time. The grammar rules we learn in school should always be accompanied by a warning: these rules were made to be broken but you have to know them well to know when it's appropriate to break them. At least, that's what I always told my students. The best/best known example of 'And' at the beginning that I could come up with in a hurry is the first line of Blake's Jerusalem.
We all had stoves in my day - no new-fangled cookers. Just saying...
Wood grain and wood panelling are miles apart; quite different descriptions. I like the wood grain. I imagine it applying to the bar, the tables, the doors etc, gleaming. Wood panelling would be unlikely in a London pub at that time.
So - different readers, different reactions! But it's always useful to learn how things impact on other people! And (!) how vocabulary/usage alters imperceptibly even during one's lifetime.
no subject
Date: 2012-01-26 11:48 am (UTC)"Starting a sentence with 'And'. Authors do it legitimately all the time.:
I do agree here. Starting with 'and' gives the sentence a different feel and I think there is a good way to use it. Of course, not overuse it helps. And gives the sentence an emphasis that might be needed in a particular place.
no subject
Date: 2012-01-26 12:08 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-27 03:28 am (UTC)"They seem to assume they’ve been rumbled and run off too quickly for my liking." Good point, I'll have a think about how to address that (that earlier section is up for an overhaul anyway).
French windows There was a reason for this - although it may have simply been so the villains could get out easily. A scan of real estate agents today shows a few houses from the 30's and before - mostly ones with bay windows, and more Plaistow or West Ham than Canning Town proper, admittedly. OK, I liked the sound of 'Canning Town'!
“… tackling him before ….” that's a miss, definitely need to fix.
“Helen Tippett” is the name of the blonde agent in the car in "Blood Sports" - I try to include female characters as often as I can, but I mix them up so they aren't always Ruth/Susan/Sally.
“vacant lot” - pings other people as American too - I should swap it for something else, even if it was used in Britain in the 70's. What I wanted to portray was an empty lot that is empty probably because the building on it was bomb damaged and later demolished, and no-one has done any redevelopment in that particular area.
"And" - I agree with the others - unless it's gratuitous use, or it interferes with rhythm or sense.
Glad you liked the poem - it's one of my favourites.
"would Bodie admit to having travelled to Europe, Africa" - well, he tells tall tales to Claire in Man Without a Past and I'm pretty sure there are a couple of other examples - I think he wouldn't be shy about it, necessarily. Short on certain details, though, I can definitely go with.
"I think a bit more of a lead in would help. " Good point, as is your one about "the word “refused” seems oddly negative".
" Stoves should be cookers" - to me this looks like it might be an example of something people will disagree on, depending on what they're used to using, where they're from, etc. I did get "stove" as British when I googled. OTOH, were coal fired stoves still used in London in the late 70's of did the Clean Air Acts end that? Were electric stoves (oven + cooking elements) called cookers rather than stoves (I associate cookers with Aga's actually, but that may just be the influence of Larton & its fans)?
“wood grain” - I was thinking of polished wood, not panelling.
“When you saved my life – again.” Hmmm - will have a think about that. And "I think Bodie would still be cross, angry and upset" - I'll definitely come back to, because this is exactly the sort of feedback I wanted! So - I'm not shrugging this off, I want to come back in another comment when I don't have the other points to address.
Thank you so much! That was a lot of detail, and even though I won't use all of it, it's very useful.
no subject
Date: 2012-01-27 08:24 am (UTC)Eta - that said, "cookers in kitchens" gives a very different feel to the sentence, and is perhaps a bit distracting compared to "stoves in kitchens" so you might be best off *not* using it! (Sorry, on train and phone...)
no subject
Date: 2012-01-27 08:36 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-27 12:04 pm (UTC)I'm quoting BSL here on the grounds that she's probably tracking this *g* and I agree that 'cookers in kitchens' is too distinctive sounding and distracting, and that's quite as important as 100% factual accuracy - especially when it seems as though there's a choice - read on...
'Cookers', I think, came in with the 80s and a more general use of of electric ones.
I had a brainwave and did a search of what terms people use on the 2007 version of the CD. Who said what? (known Brit authors only unless I've made a mistake, taking out historicals, crofts in Scotland and primus/spirit stoves):
Stove - EOS, ET, Derry, Angelfish Archivist, Jane Carnall, Meridian, Russ, Tarot.
Cooker - ET, Glen Fiddich, Gui Mauve, Helen Raven, HG, I.M. Adine O'saur, Kitty Fisher, O Yardley, Rob, Tarot
Interestingly, Tarot uses both words in 'Masquerade', for exactly the same appliance! As 'Masquerade' is a very early 80's story, that could be in a small way indicative of a shift in the language around that time. I rather think that blokes will continue to call kitchen things by the names their mothers used, unless they become interested in domesticity, or work in the business, neither of which really applies to Bodie *g*
no subject
Date: 2012-01-26 01:14 am (UTC)The story starts in flashback mode “yesterday had been just another day” but trying to make a full section of a story flashback like that doesn’t always work and can be distancing for the reader. Then the section moves away from past perfect tense and as a result comes across much better and we get a better picture of whose pov the story is from. I’d suggest not having it as flashback at all. In fact I’d suggest taking out the first paragraph and have the second as the start of the story from Bodie's pov.
The dream sequence is interesting and speaks to Bodie’s inner feelings but I think there needs to be a reaction from Bodie, an explanation of what he thought or felt consciously about it. As it is it just sort of sits in the story for no real purpose.
I liked the lads tour through the pubs and bars of Kangaroo Court – brings back memories*g*
I agree with Byslantedlight that the make out session in Doyle’s flat should be changed/expanded so that the reader feels and sees the scene rather than have it as a distancing part of Bodie's inner thoughts.
I like how the rest of the story flows and the conflict comes across as very real. Bodie’s confusion and angst because he misunderstands Doyle’s intention is well done and when they finally talk about what they are thinking and feeling you can see their emotions.
The only typo I found, a missing space, was in the fifth paragraph from the beginning: “he found a footpath alongthe bank”
I hope this has made sense to you. I’m not very good with technical explanations of why something isn’t quite right – I work more from instinct than a comprehensive knowledge of grammar:D
no subject
Date: 2012-01-26 03:32 am (UTC)I'm a reader, not a beta - so let me just say that I thought this was very well written. The lads and their chatter were spot on for me.
You asked about the relationship and I think you portrayed it quite well. The lads were both afraid to speak up, then Bodie misunderstands and they both get angry. It all fits with their characters. Sorry this probably hasn't been very helpful, but I wanted to let you know I did read it and I liked it!
no subject
Date: 2012-01-26 06:16 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-26 11:44 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-27 02:20 pm (UTC)First, I loved this, I really did. I agree with some niggles from some people, but not everything. I'm going to chime in on some threads and just put the unmentioned-that-I-can-see-so-far points here. I'll try and bunch the comments by theme.
London buildings. Would you pick the back door lock and end up straight in the hallway, or in a kitchen? French windows surprised me: I would have expected those at the back. And "mezzanine level" in a warehouse struck me as odd: is this like some sort of gallery? (Not too familiar with warehouses, admittedly.) The vacant lot... I am used to thinking of lot as American, but I think it is used like this in British. Or am I thinking of "plot"?
Punctuation question: "Doyle coming out with it, blatently, just like that was nothing..." - should there be another comma after the italicised "just like that"? And should the barman's "here we are, men of the world" demeanour be italicised?
I loved "wide boy" - haven't heard that in an age. Black market as a term was in use in the late 1970s: I remember hearing it on John Craven's Newsround and asking my dad what it meant! Lady Di haircuts. Oh god, yes. Sloanes! Even up in the north we had heard about them (don't think we had any of our own, mind you.)
no subject
Date: 2012-01-27 02:38 pm (UTC)glistering night: I really like this, but I did stop to think about whether a night could glister, or whether only the things it held could glister. Having said that, though, I would keep it, because glistering is cool!
Tonight was sweetened by possibilities unread by anyone other than himself - again, I really like this. Yummy. Is it worth extended the sweetening image a bit, and making the possibilities "untasted", or "unscented", words to do with taste/smell rather than sight? Or even "unanticipated", but that's not so much taste or smell.
Doyle was whiskery: I know he gets heavy five o'clock shadow, but whiskery already, or just stubbly? (I tend to see a difference, but I'm starting to think that that's just me and that they're actually synonymous?
dapple horse: I would tend to think either "dappled" or "dapple grey". But the rest of the sentence I love and it must stay! I do like the dream, but if you pull it out, then I'm glad I had the chance to read it first!
RT: I have seen RT, R/T, R.T., r/t from different authors. Author's choice? (Fine by me.) Or do we have any consensus on this?
no subject
Date: 2012-01-27 04:16 pm (UTC)My comments were prefixed with the suggestion that the following areas could “benefit from a small re-think” which I hoped indicated that my style of beta-ing was to challenge you to re-read and *possibly* consider changing or amending. At no point would I ever expect an author to change something simply on my say so. Margaret_r’s comment that she’s “... not very good with technical explanations of why something isn’t quite right – I work more from instinct than a comprehensive knowledge of grammar ...” rather applies to me, too. If I’m “thrown out” of the story, I question why.
Stove –v- cooker
I, too, am British born and bred and was a teenager/twenty-something in the 70s and 80s. I have lived (apart from one year abroad) in deepest, rural, southern England, and never in London and do not profess to having any intimate knowledge which would relate specifically to The Professionals and their activities. Personally, I have never used the term “stove”, but always “cooker” and this related to the electric cooker in my family home from my earliest childhood memories. An Aga is a different beast altogether [It was in 1922 that blind Nobel Prize-winning physicist Dr Gustaf Dalén invented the world's first heat-storage cooker. Confined to his home after a failed experiment cost him his sight, Dalén was inspired to create a better, more efficient cooker for his wife, Elma, who constantly had to tend to their old-fashioned range. Dalén created a cast-iron cooker capable of every kind of cooking simultaneously, through its two large hotplates and two ovens. The now famous AGA was born and by 1929 manufacturing was under way at the AGA Heat Ltd factory in Smethwick.] and by 1970/80 often heated the hot water for both washing and central heating. Although now very fashionable to have in an “ordinary” home (or at least a modern version of the original – albeit no less expensive!), Agas tended to be restricted to “big” houses, or farm houses [your reference to The Larton Chronicles].
Where you have the reference to stoves in kitchens, it is part of your description of the night – “full of the tang of winter”. BSL’s suggestion to leave the reference to stoves out is probably the right one. I already questioned whether you can smell gas fires – I think you probably need to describe the “tang of winter” using a completely different set of adjectives!
See next comment:
no subject
Date: 2012-01-28 11:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-27 04:16 pm (UTC)Vacant lot
It was the package of “vacant lot” that I questioned, rather than the two words separately and of course “vacant” is well used and well known. The description does give an image of an undeveloped area, but the terminology of “vacant lot” (as a package rather than individual words) sounds American to me and it was that which threw me.
French windows – your original text has the French windows at the front. I would not dispute moth2fic’s assertion that Victorian houses, particularly in the 80s where the redevelopment of a formerly run down area would attract young couples to buy older houses to “do up”, would have a set of French window *put in*. I would still maintain that “a rotten old house in Canning Town”, would not have French windows at the front! Sorry to labour the point, but I did warn participants (and specifically any author who wants me to Beta for them) that I am pedantic!
Wood grain/wood paneling – yes, I agree with moth2fic – very different. But that was my point. “All wood grain and hanging brass”. Again, I do not have any knowledge of London pubs, but they can’t be that different to any other pub in England and the reference to hanging brass suggests wood – wooden beams across the ceiling, wooden dado paneling, wooden tables and chairs, wooden bar. My suggestion would be to leave out “grain” – perhaps “all dark wood and hanging brass”. This then suggests a traditional pub which is easy to visualise.
Thank you so much for being a guinea pig and for allowing us the chance to pick over your work – you are very brave (and confident!) I cannot write anything other than non-fiction and continue to be in awe of the amazing talent of the authors on this site (and elsewhere). Please keep writing!
no subject
Date: 2012-01-28 11:41 pm (UTC)a lane between a row of new houses and a fenced off vacant lot and Bodie saw him turn right at the end of the row.
I do agree with Anna about "vacant lot", the two words together do have more of an American twang than a commonly used Brit feel. That said, they didn't particularly jump out at me here, and I can't think what would fit better, especially considering the way you describe the rest of the area.
I think the thing is that Brits tend not to describe disused land as a "lot", as if it's just waiting to be built on. They're more likely to refer to the land via an aspect of its past rather than it's potential, if that makes sense. But then you've actually described this as an area of new-build houses, so in fact the next fenced-off one, waiting for it's house, is a vacant lot. In the context you've given, I think it fits...
no subject
Date: 2012-01-28 11:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-29 04:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-28 11:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-28 11:49 pm (UTC)In theory I can see the objections to this - can you smell all of things (a tang) when you go outside on a crisp winter's night. I'd also, though, argue that you've very much got the feel of that winter's night here - and that yes, sometimes you can smell those things, especially in the city. You pass a doorway here, and it's a deep fat fryer (agree with deep fat fryer rather than "deep fryer") in someone's flat or a chippie;you pass a doorway there and there's a whiff of gas from a heater newly turned on. It's not all in one place, it's not the overall smell of the night, it's odd wafts of little bits of other people's lives... I'd leave it - it's real and it's evocative...
no subject
Date: 2012-01-29 09:15 pm (UTC)So Thank you!
no subject
Date: 2012-01-30 08:00 pm (UTC)