Beta Central - Pictures At An Exhibition
Mar. 13th, 2012 12:00 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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ci5hqWell, this is something I wrote as a characterization (that again!) exercise.
Not sure it quite goes anywhere, much less where it needs to - and maybe that's part of the feedback I'm looking for. (And no Brit check, sorry.)
It didn't make sense to strictly follow Mussorgsky's pictures. But I think the title still fits.
Pictures At An Exhibition
Disclaimery things: Not my characters, etc; just flattering through imitation. Looking for a good time, sailor?
Word count: 1454 a few minutes agoa moose once bit my sister
Pairing: B/D
Doyle was up, sheets pooling in his lap, the cool air of the room pushing him towards full wakefulness. It was just dawn: light enough for him to make out the dresser, the chair, the clothes thrown about haphazardly. So, just a dream. More than understandable, given yesterday’s obbo gone horribly wrong: a stakeout which had devolved into a shootout that not even a D-notice could completely suppress. There’d been that second in which he’d thought Bodie had been hit, and the ground had wanted to drop from beneath his feet; but no, the other man had stridden over, whole, healthy, grim with someone else’s blood on his clothes. After the cleanup was underway and they’d been dismissed by Alpha One, they’d gone to the local for a bit; then, unable to tolerate the stench of blissful ignorance around them, had stopped at the off-license and gone back home to erase the images. Well into the second bottle he’d looked at Bodie, really looked, and Bodie had looked back, and –
Oh, no.
Because the dresser wasn’t his dresser, and the window wasn’t his window, and he now began to notice other things: the sock on one foot, the itchy crust on his belly, the soft snuffling sounding from the bed, where he realized he’d felt a presence.
He turned to it.
And it was Bodie, apparently with just as much clothing on as he had: namely, none.
“Just get up now, won’t I,” he whispered, and slipped out of the bed, picking up scattered items of clothing as he headed to the shower.
Now was not the time to think too deeply, but this was not good. Not good at all. Things like this ruined partnerships, and he would never ruin the partnership.
Bodie’s head snapped up as his partner entered their closet-cum-office. Wary, searching, he gave Doyle a quick once-over, looking for warning signs in his partner's bearing.
Doyle looked back in return, then looked down at his desk, towards the files stacked there. “Catch up on your beauty sleep, then?” he led off, picking up the topmost folder.
“No need to; I’m always at my peak, son.”
“Yeah, dream on, sunshine, dream on.” Doyle pulled his chair away from his desk, sliding into it.
Bodie bent down to his own stack of papers, relieved. Good, then whatever happened hasn’t affected the partnership. Wouldn’t know what to do if that were to happen.
And things settled back into the usual pattern: assignments, obbos, stakeouts, report writing, takeaways and the game on the telly.
Bodie was sure to boast about his next evening out to the rest room mob; to describe the following bird to Murphy in full, explicit detail as they were all down at the pub; and to announce the imminent arrival of the third as he and Doyle packed up for the day.
“If you don’t slow down, you’re going to wear out body parts, you know.”
“Don’t worry, Doyle; there’s more than enough for everyone to share. You just have to pace yerself. Of course, I can give you some tips if you’re having problems in that department.”
Doyle snorted derisively, then laughed his full-throated laugh. “Don’t have the least bit of trouble with the birds, sunshine; don’t worry yourself over that at all.”
Bodie grinned back as he picked up his jacket. They lived in a world of tough men, with none of the situational conveniences to be found in Africa. Truthfully, Bodie felt constitutionally unable to commit to anyone, bird or bloke. But Doyle was his closest mate. As close as they were, he felt more for his partner than he did to any of the birds he'd tried it on with.
“What’s this, then?” Bodie twisted a large sketch pad around in his hands.
They were in Doyle’s newest flat, courtesy of CI5’s most recent round of relocations. A rare Saturday off gave them just enough time to put Doyle’s effects to rights, and of course Bodie had gone straight to a box that had yielded some of Doyle’s art school efforts. He knelt on the floor, the sketch pad open across his lap.
“The Vetruvian Man.”
“Vetruvi-what?”
“Vetruvian Man. Based on a sketch thought to be by da Vinci. Believe you’ve heard of him.” Bodie curled his lip at the comment. “It’s meant to demonstrate the harmonious proportions of the male figure, and thus the entire universe. Look – I’m sure you’re seen the drawing before –“
“Ah, that one. Now that you mention it, I can see what you were aiming for. Harmonious proportions, you say? And here I thought that you artists types just liked drawing naughty dangly bits.”
“Har-dee-har, Bodie. Lack of appreciation for the human form, is your problem. Here, hand it over.” Doyle reached out for the pad.
Bodie took one last look, then turned over the topic of conversation to Doyle, who was settled in front of several boxes yet to be unpacked.
“Looks a bit like you, it does.”
“Bollocks, Bodie. S'most likely done from a cadaver.”
“No – ‘struth. Good looking bloke, probably pulled all the birds. Give it a bit more curl, color the eyes blue-green, and our Mr. V suddenly becomes Mr. D.”
“And I suppose you see yerself as David, then?”
“No, not modest enough. Wouldn’t see me wandering around starkers like that, would you?”
Doyle let out a full, deep belly laugh, although he couldn’t say if it were because of the implied compliment or the goofy smile across Bodie’s face. Or at the closeness he felt just then.
“Bodie, you half-Irish son of a bitch. What'd you wanna go and do that for?”
Doyle again recalled the words he’d choked out at his partner as the stretcher slid out of sight beyond the hospital corridor’s doors.
Bodie was down, and Doyle was devastated. Because he couldn’t envision a world – a life – without the man now lying silently on the hospital bed. They were a pack, a unit, and they relied on each other. Each other. That’s why they covered each others’ backs.
What had the dumb crud been thinking by going off without backup?
Doyle ran his hands through his curls several times in frustration. What would he do without Bodie? And what if he never had the chance to tell Bodie about how important he was to Doyle? Birds went on about “communication” all the time, but that was different. Thoughts like that led to humanizing the enemy, and they had far too many enemies to do that.
But if Bodie were gone... Had Bodie ever known how Doyle felt? Had that one slip-up left any impression?
“Bodie, you idiot, if you leave me here alone, I’ll kill you myself.”
“Doyle.”
“Yes?” The other man, vigilant in watching the building across the street for signs of life, sounded - well, was distracted.
Bodie didn’t say anything, just looked at the other man’s profile for a bit. Snarky, acerbic, gave as good as he got – but still had a little tenderness in him, could feel things where Bodie’d already turned to stone. He was beginning to see the pluses in that.
Half of what made them Cowley's best team.
“Don't worry - I'd never leave. Not on purpose.” Whispered, just below audible range.
“What’s that?” Doyle’s attention was more across the street than in the room with them.
"'m hungry. What if I pop downstairs for a takeaway?"
"Christ, Bodie - where do you put it? We ate not three hours ago."
"Wouldn't be me if I didn't eat, now would I? Anyway, what harm will a bit of Swiss roll do. The girlish figure will stay intact."
Doyle turned from the binoculars just look enough to give Bodie an incredulous look. "Right, mate. And next time you get the late shift."
"Doyle!" Bode began to pout, but broke into a laugh instead. "Okay, and I'll bring you something obnoxiously healthy as well." He pulled himself up from the lumpy chair and exited the room.
's perfect, he thought. Never have to do or say anything. Because he'll always be there.
Not sure it quite goes anywhere, much less where it needs to - and maybe that's part of the feedback I'm looking for. (And no Brit check, sorry.)
It didn't make sense to strictly follow Mussorgsky's pictures. But I think the title still fits.
Pictures At An Exhibition
Disclaimery things: Not my characters, etc; just flattering through imitation. Looking for a good time, sailor?
Word count: 1454 a few minutes ago
Pairing: B/D
The air is filled with blood and violence, streaking across his vision: shots firing, Cowley bellowing from the R/T, the smell of cordite heavy in his nostrils. And blood, blood everywhere. Doyle turns to locate Bodie, a knot in his stomach; they’ve been separated in the action, and he hasn’t been able to watch the other man’s back.
He glances to the side and sees a prone figure that looks too familiar. Bodie – Bodie lay at his feet, bloodied, injured somewhere on his body that Doyle can’t find, whispering, “Ray, Ray.” The knot becomes a full twist, threatening to make him double over with the pain.
Doyle was up, sheets pooling in his lap, the cool air of the room pushing him towards full wakefulness. It was just dawn: light enough for him to make out the dresser, the chair, the clothes thrown about haphazardly. So, just a dream. More than understandable, given yesterday’s obbo gone horribly wrong: a stakeout which had devolved into a shootout that not even a D-notice could completely suppress. There’d been that second in which he’d thought Bodie had been hit, and the ground had wanted to drop from beneath his feet; but no, the other man had stridden over, whole, healthy, grim with someone else’s blood on his clothes. After the cleanup was underway and they’d been dismissed by Alpha One, they’d gone to the local for a bit; then, unable to tolerate the stench of blissful ignorance around them, had stopped at the off-license and gone back home to erase the images. Well into the second bottle he’d looked at Bodie, really looked, and Bodie had looked back, and –
Oh, no.
Because the dresser wasn’t his dresser, and the window wasn’t his window, and he now began to notice other things: the sock on one foot, the itchy crust on his belly, the soft snuffling sounding from the bed, where he realized he’d felt a presence.
He turned to it.
And it was Bodie, apparently with just as much clothing on as he had: namely, none.
“Just get up now, won’t I,” he whispered, and slipped out of the bed, picking up scattered items of clothing as he headed to the shower.
Now was not the time to think too deeply, but this was not good. Not good at all. Things like this ruined partnerships, and he would never ruin the partnership.
Bodie’s head snapped up as his partner entered their closet-cum-office. Wary, searching, he gave Doyle a quick once-over, looking for warning signs in his partner's bearing.
Doyle looked back in return, then looked down at his desk, towards the files stacked there. “Catch up on your beauty sleep, then?” he led off, picking up the topmost folder.
“No need to; I’m always at my peak, son.”
“Yeah, dream on, sunshine, dream on.” Doyle pulled his chair away from his desk, sliding into it.
Bodie bent down to his own stack of papers, relieved. Good, then whatever happened hasn’t affected the partnership. Wouldn’t know what to do if that were to happen.
And things settled back into the usual pattern: assignments, obbos, stakeouts, report writing, takeaways and the game on the telly.
Bodie was sure to boast about his next evening out to the rest room mob; to describe the following bird to Murphy in full, explicit detail as they were all down at the pub; and to announce the imminent arrival of the third as he and Doyle packed up for the day.
“If you don’t slow down, you’re going to wear out body parts, you know.”
“Don’t worry, Doyle; there’s more than enough for everyone to share. You just have to pace yerself. Of course, I can give you some tips if you’re having problems in that department.”
Doyle snorted derisively, then laughed his full-throated laugh. “Don’t have the least bit of trouble with the birds, sunshine; don’t worry yourself over that at all.”
Bodie grinned back as he picked up his jacket. They lived in a world of tough men, with none of the situational conveniences to be found in Africa. Truthfully, Bodie felt constitutionally unable to commit to anyone, bird or bloke. But Doyle was his closest mate. As close as they were, he felt more for his partner than he did to any of the birds he'd tried it on with.
“What’s this, then?” Bodie twisted a large sketch pad around in his hands.
They were in Doyle’s newest flat, courtesy of CI5’s most recent round of relocations. A rare Saturday off gave them just enough time to put Doyle’s effects to rights, and of course Bodie had gone straight to a box that had yielded some of Doyle’s art school efforts. He knelt on the floor, the sketch pad open across his lap.
“The Vetruvian Man.”
“Vetruvi-what?”
“Vetruvian Man. Based on a sketch thought to be by da Vinci. Believe you’ve heard of him.” Bodie curled his lip at the comment. “It’s meant to demonstrate the harmonious proportions of the male figure, and thus the entire universe. Look – I’m sure you’re seen the drawing before –“
“Ah, that one. Now that you mention it, I can see what you were aiming for. Harmonious proportions, you say? And here I thought that you artists types just liked drawing naughty dangly bits.”
“Har-dee-har, Bodie. Lack of appreciation for the human form, is your problem. Here, hand it over.” Doyle reached out for the pad.
Bodie took one last look, then turned over the topic of conversation to Doyle, who was settled in front of several boxes yet to be unpacked.
“Looks a bit like you, it does.”
“Bollocks, Bodie. S'most likely done from a cadaver.”
“No – ‘struth. Good looking bloke, probably pulled all the birds. Give it a bit more curl, color the eyes blue-green, and our Mr. V suddenly becomes Mr. D.”
“And I suppose you see yerself as David, then?”
“No, not modest enough. Wouldn’t see me wandering around starkers like that, would you?”
Doyle let out a full, deep belly laugh, although he couldn’t say if it were because of the implied compliment or the goofy smile across Bodie’s face. Or at the closeness he felt just then.
“Bodie, you half-Irish son of a bitch. What'd you wanna go and do that for?”
Doyle again recalled the words he’d choked out at his partner as the stretcher slid out of sight beyond the hospital corridor’s doors.
Bodie was down, and Doyle was devastated. Because he couldn’t envision a world – a life – without the man now lying silently on the hospital bed. They were a pack, a unit, and they relied on each other. Each other. That’s why they covered each others’ backs.
What had the dumb crud been thinking by going off without backup?
Doyle ran his hands through his curls several times in frustration. What would he do without Bodie? And what if he never had the chance to tell Bodie about how important he was to Doyle? Birds went on about “communication” all the time, but that was different. Thoughts like that led to humanizing the enemy, and they had far too many enemies to do that.
But if Bodie were gone... Had Bodie ever known how Doyle felt? Had that one slip-up left any impression?
“Bodie, you idiot, if you leave me here alone, I’ll kill you myself.”
“Doyle.”
“Yes?” The other man, vigilant in watching the building across the street for signs of life, sounded - well, was distracted.
Bodie didn’t say anything, just looked at the other man’s profile for a bit. Snarky, acerbic, gave as good as he got – but still had a little tenderness in him, could feel things where Bodie’d already turned to stone. He was beginning to see the pluses in that.
Half of what made them Cowley's best team.
“Don't worry - I'd never leave. Not on purpose.” Whispered, just below audible range.
“What’s that?” Doyle’s attention was more across the street than in the room with them.
"'m hungry. What if I pop downstairs for a takeaway?"
"Christ, Bodie - where do you put it? We ate not three hours ago."
"Wouldn't be me if I didn't eat, now would I? Anyway, what harm will a bit of Swiss roll do. The girlish figure will stay intact."
Doyle turned from the binoculars just look enough to give Bodie an incredulous look. "Right, mate. And next time you get the late shift."
"Doyle!" Bode began to pout, but broke into a laugh instead. "Okay, and I'll bring you something obnoxiously healthy as well." He pulled himself up from the lumpy chair and exited the room.
's perfect, he thought. Never have to do or say anything. Because he'll always be there.
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no subject
Date: 2012-03-13 08:33 am (UTC)(And a dresser belongs in the kitchen, or dining room, with crockery on it... a dressing table would go in the bedroom).
(And "locals" belong to someone - there wouldn't be a random "the" local near the shooting, because when you say "my local" it means the pub closest to your house, the one you've chosen to frequent as "your" place. So "The Swan" might be Bodie's local, even though "The Dragon" is just across the road, because they serve better beer at the Swan, or he just likes it better for some reason. So "they'd stopped at Bodie's/Doyle's local" rather than "they’d gone to the local for a bit" would read better...)
(And the "itchy crust on his belly" just made me go ew ew ew, and wonder who in the world that happens to... never in all my puff have I... come across... a crust of anything in that kind of situation... bearing in mind that "crust" to me conjures quite a thick layer of something, whereas... well, I shall get all coy here, and say surely not? *g*)
(I'm not sure whose pov we're in, in the second section... I think it's supposed to be Doyle's still, but I'm never quite sure who's saying/thinking what. Eg: Bodie bent down to his own stack of papers, relieved. Good, then whatever happened hasn’t affected the partnership. Wouldn’t know what to do if that were to happen. - Someone's thinking that last part, and since the paragraph begins with Bodie bending to his own stack of papers, relieved, I assume it's him? So then I re-read the section again, and actually it starts with Bodie thinking about his partner, so it is Bodie's pov... but I can hear Bodie saying "No need to; I’m always at my peak, son.” much more than I can hear Doyle saying it, which throws the pov in my head... And then the next paragraph is “Yeah, dream on, sunshine, dream on.” Doyle pulled his chair away from his desk, sliding into it., which sounds like it's Doyle's line as well, since it's coupled with his action, but if it was Doyle it shouldn't be on a separate line, but if it's Bodie then Doyle's action should be on a separate line, so... I'm confused again! And then the final paragraph is Bodie's thoughts again, which doesn't help clear it up for me at all! I don't actually need something to be a "tight" single-person pov, but I do need to be absolutely sure who's saying or thinking what all the time... it's not just different people's speech that needs new lines, their actions need to be separated as well...)
no subject
Date: 2012-03-13 08:41 am (UTC)For instance, I can't hear Doyle saying “Just get up now, won’t I,” partly because the speech pattern is all wrong - problem is, trying to describe why it sounds all wrong to me... I think it's because they tend to have more staccato-ish speech patterns, whereas just get up now, won't I, is more lyrical in its rhythm - there's almost a Welsh lyricism to it... If you just listened to an ep, though, without being distracted by watching it too, I don't think you'd hear anything like it in the late '70s/early '80s London they're in, and certainly not from either of the lads (*waits patiently for someone to give me an example proving me wrong*)
"No need to; I’m always at my peak, son." sounds much more like something Bodie would say, to me - but I think it's Doyle's come-back, here? Bodie tends to make fun by saying how good he is - "tall dark and handsome", "named after all the princes", and so on - and that's why the lads giggle over "and incredibly modest, of course" in Mixed Doubles, because that's not the character that Bodie plays - he's clearly a bit famous for not being modest (but he's not immodest seriously - I never get the impression that he really thinks he's better/more handsome than anyone else, it's just something he plays on. So that line, to me, sounds very Bodie. I don't think we hear Doyle talking the same way - he's a bit more self-deprecating, perfectly happy to say that he went to bed with a good book, that he borrowed a suit from Bodie and "There's a first time for everything, y'know.", in Long Shot he admits that he's lost again when playing squash... I think he'd be more likely to say something like "We don't all need it," rather than "I'm always the best" - that's kind of Bodie's joke (maybe Doyle's actually a bit too serious to joke like that, in fact? Oh this is interesting, trying to think it through!)
“Har-dee-har, Bodie. Lack of appreciation for the human form, is your problem. Here, hand it over.”
I can hear Doyle saying this - all except the first "Har-dee-har"... again, he doesn't tend to speak like that in the eps (nor does Bodie) - they're more speaking looks (as alot of older Pros fic describes it) when the other has made a dubious joke... So when something like that's included in a fic, it throws me completely... The lads might use a simple and sarcastic "ha-ha", but they tend to keep their jokes brief and dry, rather than heavily verbally sarcastic...
I suspect I'm running out of comment box, so I'll shut up and let someone else play for a bit, and hope the above makes sense... *g* (Hah - turned out I ran out of room ages before - sorry! But it let me split into character vs other, so...)
no subject
Date: 2012-03-13 10:03 am (UTC)It seems like a lot of the things you're picking up on are Brit speak, though (which will be hard for me to get right), with some voice confusion and "definitely not Doyle"-ism (which I can definitely work on). Is that a fair interpretation?
Thanks for starting off!
no subject
Date: 2012-03-13 10:32 am (UTC)For the pov thing, I'd suggest:
Bodie’s head snapped up as his partner entered their closet-cum-office. Wary, searching, he gave Doyle a quick once-over, looking for warning signs in his partner's bearing.
Doyle looked back in return, then looked down at his desk, towards the files stacked there. “Catch up on your beauty sleep, then?”
“No need to; I’m always at my peak, son.”
Splitting their actions from the first paragraph would make the pov much clearer, imnsho...
no subject
Date: 2012-03-13 10:55 am (UTC)Speech patterns I'd group under Brit speak to a certain degree, though it's not exactly the same thing. However, I think I understand what you're getting at - what they say *does* speak volumes about who they are, although maybe I haven't considered that enough in the past - and a series rewatch wouldn't be unwarranted.
(This would probably also significantly benefit from me not being bogged down at work, and not very awake anymore, but not going to happen right now.)
I think this fic also suffers from starting off in one direction, and switching gears after a bit.
But I *did* run into a picture of the Vitruvian Man and think, "wow! that kind of looks like Doyle." :)
no subject
Date: 2012-03-14 09:59 am (UTC)Something that threw me in the first section was the change in tense. I know it gives more immediacy to the dream but, like I say, it just made me hesitate at the beginning of the story, but that’s probably just me:)