Noblesentiments: favourite quotes from Pros (mainly) slash

01:16 pm - A Matter of Survival by ci5mates

It’s been a while since I’ve felt inspired enough to mention any story here but I think I’ve just found one which I wanted to share with the rest of you. I don’t know much about labels, the author, ci5mates, describes A Matter of Survival as ‘gen’ and I’m never that clear what the difference is between ‘gen’ and ‘het’. Anyway, it’s a damn good read which at times had me on the edge of my seat with no more nail left to bite off my already bitten-down nails. It reads like an episode but with the added bonus of having the time to know and absorb the characters’ thoughts and anxieties in a typically hair-raising CI5 situation. At times I felt almost beside myself with the plight and anguish of the respective characters - even Cowley (don’t want to give the game away) and the whole story just swept me away. And, and, and........apart from everything I’ve just mentioned, this was a *first* story from the writer. Amazing.

And for those of you who can’t bear the idea of a non-slash Bodie and Doyle story I’d argue there’s more than enough here to suggest a very close relationship. With lines like this, need I say more?

Bodie was family to both of them. No one else could understand, only those who were part of a team like theirs could ever hope to understand the bond between them. They worked together, socialised together and made life and death decisions knowing that they could rely on each other in any crisis and in Doyle’s mind this made them ‘family’.

And I love the idea of ‘Ray’s seat’ in Bodie's car – who else has the right to sit in his seat?

Pavlo got into the front passenger’s seat, Ray’s seat

Go on, spoil yourself!

Part l:
A Matter of Survival

Part 2:
A Matter of Survival

[Image courtesy of Tauna @ http://slashden.com/prosP.html]

11:12 pm - Bullet with your name by JGL

......and falling in love again with Bodie, Doyle, a new writer and some very nice writing.

So..... exactly what was it that I liked so much about this story? Apart from the fluent, clear, sure-footed and eloquent writing and the ability of the writer to bring to life – to allow me to visualise - every scene she describes? Apart from the way the writer manages to retain the 'true' voice of Pros - the canon - keeping our lads as 'blokes' while allowing them to fall in love? OK, then, some specifics.....

Hmmmm.....where to start? I suppose the beginning isn’t a bad place… The first thing I loved was the portrayal of Doyle’s bravery in the face of a good kicking. Literally. I’m always a sucker for heroism – in my view one of the most romantic and seductive of emotions - especially when one partner displays a heroism beyond the call of duty on behalf of the other:

"Who are you working with?" Billy yelled again, and kicked Doyle in his belly. Doyle curled up protectively, and groaned from deep in his guts.

"No one," he got out on a broken gasp. Billy hauled him up by the lapels of his checked shirt, shook him like a rag doll and then hurled him back to the floor. He kicked him in the back over the kidneys, and this time Doyle didn't even try to get out of the way.

Not once did he look at Bodie.

And magenta_blue has just reminded me of this wonderful passage, also about heroism:

And Bodie, who knew that courage was all about how you functioned when you were afraid, and not about the absence of fear -- and who was still young enough to prize bravery nearly above all else -- felt something change inside him. He held onto Doyle's thin, strong hand -- and Doyle let him."

And in the face of adversity, the inimical Bodie and Doyle deadpan humour:

Carefully, he shifted his partner onto his side, positioning the nearest limp arm at a right angle. And about that time Doyle fluttered his lashes and opened dazed eyes. His pupils were black and huge. He unglued his mouth and croaked, "That went well."

"Cowley will be pleased," agreed Bodie.

And their slow discovery of each other as something other than working partners - their falling in love - is *sweet*. Not the saccharine flavoured, slushy sweetness of heart-shaped Valentine cards, but a more gentle, whimsical, plausible and envy-inducing sweetness which slots into the story naturally - at the right time and place - and not something which has been lobbed in unexpectedly like a misplaced grenade taking the reader completely by surprise:

Doyle turned his untidy head on the crisp snowy pillow. Weird how young and quiet he looked without the power of those eyes.

"Eyes as cool and light as Lake Tanganyika, and a sexy mouth"


"Time's it?"
"Half-eleven. Why don't you rest a bit, Ray?"
"Yeh. In a bit," he agreed almost easily. "You'll be taking off any minute, I s'ppose."
Careful not to make it a question, but Bodie read him. He could guess how it would feel to spend never-ending Stygian hours waiting for the light of day -- wondering if you were ever going to see the light of day again.
"Here for the duration," Bodie informed him. "Got special dispensation from the dragon on duty. We can exchange our girlish confidences all through the long night," he added in a posh falsetto.
Doyle laughed and threw out a hand -- his direction slightly off, which touched Bodie in some strange way. "Thanks, mate."
"Anytime." Bodie grinned, letting Doyle hear it in his voice. He gripped Doyle's hand, feeling hard bone and hard tendon and hard muscle, despite the deceptive slenderness.
"Thanks," Doyle repeated, a little huskily.

Bodie's thumb brushed the other's pulse point and he could feel it hammering away. Doyle was about as terrified as a man could be, but he was holding it together, talking and laughing and not giving into it.

And Bodie, who knew that courage was all about how you functioned when you were afraid, and not about the absence of fear -- and who was still young enough to prize bravery nearly above all else -- felt something change inside him. He held onto Doyle's thin, strong hand -- and Doyle let him.

"Get some sleep, buttercup," he said a little roughly................

If Doyle was blind -- even if the vision in just one eye was seriously impaired -- that was the end of them. The end of this team, and Bodie was startled to realize how much it mattered to him that they continued, that the team continued. He'd never had a better partner, and already the word around CI5 was that they were top dog, shaping up to be the best, Cowley's favorites. Bodie wanted that, knew Doyle wanted it just as badly. And beyond that, beyond the ambition and ego, Bodie knew that he would miss Doyle like hell.

Absently, he ran the edge of his thumb along the bony knuckles, stroked the pulse point in the fine-boned wrist lightly, and he felt Doyle's heart slowing, calming. He didn't let go of Bodie, though, and Bodie didn't let go of him.

Even when Doyle finally drifted off into an exhausted sleep, he hung on -- and so did Bodie.

And there's even pace to the story, tension and excitement - elements which are guaranteed in canon but pretty rare in pros fiction... so, yet another bonus:

His mind on Doyle, on his hot hungry mouth and the taste of his skin and the smell of his hair -- and the quiet tension that Bodie felt as keenly as if it were his own -- he watched the wind-blown progress of a slight figure in an ill-fitting mac as it pushed through the gate of the house across the street.
Early for callers on a Sunday morning -- and the mob across the street were not churchgoers.
Something familiar about that bowed figure and the guilty glance the sandy little man threw over his shoulder...
"You have got to be fucking kidding me!" Bodie straightened from the telescope; the blanket fell from his shoulders.
Anson snapped to alertness. "What is it? What's wrong?"
"Doyle's cover is blown. We're pulling the plug --" He was already running for the doorway and the stairs......

And a lovely quote from callistosh65:

Studying him, Bodie's chest tightened with unfamiliar emotion. What the hell was that? Love? Surely not. Unexpected and unwelcome. Like a thump between the shoulder blades, like a bullet out of the darkness.

A highly enjoyable, satisfying read which can be found here:

http://www.thecircuitarchive.com/tca/archive/18/bulletwith.html

06:38 am - Guns, guns, and ..........more guns.

Wandering around online the other day I rediscovered the little gem,
Gun Practice, by Goodnight Lady (I'd first come across it at paris7am's fascinating post on guns and holsters: http://paris7am.livejournal.com/70605.html) which then got me thinking a bit more about the place and significance of guns in the lives of Bodie and Doyle. Well, it’s now about 5 days later, 5 days of sitting and staring into space, waiting for inspiration, waiting for Godot, waiting for some (any) profound or eloquent thoughts to enter the bit of my anatomy which rests above my neck, but, as you can probably guess, it's not happening. I seem to have a cluster of concepts and thoughts all competing for my attention and understanding, thoughts which I'm trying to draw together and make some sense out of, but I'm really not sure I'm up to the task. So...... rather than waste everything, I'm going to bung them all down here and hope it makes some kind of sense to anyone who reads this.

OK, guns then....Guns and Bodie and Doyle. The relationship between guns and our heroes is intriguing not *just* for the phallic/erotic symbolism contained in the object of the gun itself, but for what it tells us about *them* as individuals, and, probably more interesting, about their relationship. The many paradoxes raised by the existence and use of guns: the gun as mirror-image of B & D themselves: 'noble' defenders of life and liberty vs. cynical killing machines; the gun as an instrument of gratuitous terror vs. one of lawful necessity. And then you've got the aethestics of the gun: the perfect, beautiful, sleek, contoured lines of the gun as an extension of the man who holds it, accentuating the beauty of a longfingered hand, slender wrist and muscled arm, and the sheer sexyness and maleness of the holder.

(I *told* you it was muddled but I just wanted to draw peoples' attention to some of the great scenes in pros fic which feature guns and to *try* and voice some of my feelings about guns and Bodie and Doyle).

Before I proceed a couple of apologies are in order: to people who are already familiar with some of the quotes; and to people who are specifically Doyle-lovers, for not manging to find enough quotes featuring him......I don't know *why* I didn't, I wanted to but I just couldn't find them......

Right, saddle up:

Guns as part of their very being - integral to them - an extension, like an arm or a leg; poetry in motion:

He liked seeing the gun in Bodie’s hands. He liked to see the intent stare with which Bodie pinned his target, the decisive way he pulled the trigger. Doyle enjoyed learning from an expert. The gun seemed an extension of Bodie himself, his masculine character, his directedness, his determination..............
(Bodie) “Something Shusai said. He’s my martial arts instructor. *The target is the bullet. The bullet is the gun. The gun is the marksman. All are one, all are the same. You are gun, and bullet, and target, and motion, together*.”

Forever True: Elizabeth Holden


The gun as discipline: a mechanism and a constant bringing order to shattered nerves and lives:

By 21:00, Bodie had cleaned and oiled every gun in his flat. The Browning first, then the Colt, then the Ingram. After that, he had started in on the older rifles and handguns--the Lee-Enfield, the Webley, and the Luger. And found he still hadn't settled, so he went for the silver, wrapped and buried deep in the trunk at the foot of his bed.

He set the pieces out on the kitchen worktop, lined them up with meticulous care, then found an old cloth and an even older pot of silver polish. Setting to with a will, he scrubbed at the tarnish covering the saltcellar.

He had learned the trick of it from Cookson in Angola. The night before battle and Cookson had ordered him to peel potatoes. Bodie had been clumsy and impatient but there had been no getting out of it. By the tenth potato he'd got the hang of it; by the thirtieth his mind had cleared and settled. Attained focus. The fact that they never got a chance to eat the promised stew was immaterial. Lesson learned.

"Whatever it is you must do, you must find a way to do it," Shusai had told him. He must find a way through the complications and divided loyalties. Find a way to act. Clarity in action had always come easily to him, had always been his advantage. He would set his objective, plan his tactics, and execute. Distraction was unaccepted, unallowed………………
Motive and action are one. Practice.

Rules by PFL


The gun as arbiter in a man's fate:

His spirits were good. He was close now and the anticipation of the kill beat in his blood.

The recessed doorways and alcoves of the old style architecture provided perfect concealment as he studied the ancient building across the way. It was just coming on six and yellow light poured from two dozen or so windows that faced the street. Focusing his sight on one particular third floor window, he reached inside his leather jacket and retrieved the Browning Highpower. His other hand secured the suppressor from a hidden pocket in his jacket sleeve and with a soft click the weapon was ready. He didn't really expect his target to appear for several hours yet, but in his line of work one always anticipated the unexpected.

Settling the gun snugly inside the special sling built into the lining of his jacket, he flattened further against the wall, prepared to wait..............

The exact moment to move would be when George Cowley was most vulnerable--when he had one hand on the car door latch and the other filled with the ever present briefcase.

Heart slamming against his chest, he took the last step just as Cowley's hand touched the car door. Shock registered on the older man's face, but it was too late.

The sensation of victory filled him as a vision of Cowley already dead on the ground flashed before his eyes. Then the door to the back room of his mind opened onto hell. It compelled him to step into the light, flip the Browning around his trigger finger and offer it, butt first, to George Cowley.

"Name's Bodie," he said, "I want to work for you."

Whisper of a kill: Lois Welling


The gun as erotic tool – used to arouse *and* humiliate:

The gun slid down his cheek in an obscene caress. Doyle's heart thumped against his ribs, his temples throbbing so hard he thought he would burst a blood vessel. "Always knew you were crazy," he sneered. "Seems you're perverted as well."
Bodie shifted behind him, his hand sliding across Doyle's chest into his armpit. "Not the only one. You could have knocked me back any time the last few minutes, but you're still standing there." His breath gusted hot on Doyle's face. "Too late now, Doyle."
"I swear, Bodie, you better hope they make you kill me, 'cause if they don't, you'll wish you had. I'm going to take you apart."
"Might be fun," Bodie said, and nuzzled his ear.

Ambush: by Thomas


......or just to arouse - The gun as unapologetic phallic symbol:

It wasn't a kiss per se. It was more a joining of...hunger. Teeth clashed and Doyle felt blood, his tongue going to swipe it from Bodie's lips. He was unsure of whom it belonged to. Not that it mattered. Tongues battled for purchase, thrusting against each other, and Doyle felt his hips move in time, sympat Then it was there. The gun. Inches of cold metal, warm only where Bodie's hand clutched it proficiently enough to do some serious damage. But there was nothing but trust shining in murky green eyes, the colour almost swallowed by the dilation of his pupils. There, running over his inside thigh, pressing and pushing, scraping over his jeans and the sensitive flesh beneath.

Gun Practice: Goodnight Lady


The Gun as part of their beauty:

And then Bodie's smile, creeping across his face, dissolved away the air of danger about him as if it had never existed.: Doyle breathed again, slowly settling back. Bodie was adding, "Not easy sometimes, the birds you land yourself with." He was stripping off his clothes now, leaving, like Doyle, only a T-shirt, black, tight, his muscular arms shrugging off his gun and holster: a manhunter.

Wonderful Tonight: Sebastian


The Gun as an instrument of gratuitous torture:

Suddenly all business Bodie spun his gun in automatic reflex, knelt down by the man's side.

"We've got to go now. But thank you for having us."

The mouth of the gun, still warm, just touched the clammy skin, then settled in there, ready, rocksteady.

Doyle came to stand nearby looking down, playtime over, absolutely cold: "That's it, mate: this is where it all ends for you."

"Unless there's a hell, anyway," Bodie said, and let that get home, sick horror twisting blackly in their victim's eyes, before he shot him in the head.

Shooting to kill: Sebastian

And just when you’re starting to think, hey! This *is* all about Bodie:

The second man took his place. He drew and dry-fired once, twice, three times. His draw was unorthodox, but he was fast. Like a gunfighter in a Wild West film.

He was using one of those new IMI/MRI Desert Eagles, handling it like it was part of his arm. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up, and the extended wrist was slender, but the hand was right at home on that big gun, and the hand was in proportion to the rest of the man. More finely built than his partner, he was whippy, all lean, effective muscle and bone with no extra flesh on him. What you might call deceptive.... I knew the type. A man you might take for an easy mark in a fight, say, only to find you'd bitten off a tougher slice than you could chew.

There'd been some controversy, in shooting circles, about the retool of the Desert Eagle; I'd been itching to get my hands on one. This fellow was having fun with it, and he was lovely to watch. He loaded and reholstered it, then drew and pointed and fired, the heavy gun surging in his hand. Three rounds, quick as could be, and the gun whisked back in
the holster. Then he did it all again.

Handy, Pandy, Out goes the Rat: Rimy


The possessor of The Gun and the fine line drawn between ordinary and extraordinary citizen:

It might even be worth it. There was Ray Doyle, disrespectfully leaning on the door with his arms folded, legs crossed. Jeans, a scruffy linen shirt, cuffs folded back, one thin silver circlet drooping down his left forearm, he looked about as tough as you could get, on high alert, on line to whip out his gun and anything that tried to get past him, and yet there was something unusual about him, something exotic, fey perhaps. The contrast was fascinating

Wonderful Tonight: Sebastian

And,

Doyle wandered into the Quiet Room and stood for a moment watching Cowley and Bodie at work. His hand was wrapped around a mug of tea, from which he took an occasional sip. He was wearing a cream linen shirt casually unpoppered to midchest, its sleeves rolled up to mid-forearm, his gun in place. Tight, faded jeans and white leather Kickers completed the picture of a scruffy young tough, selfconfident, prone to violence, and very very fast on the draw.

Wonderful Tonight: Sebastian


The gun as metaphor for Bodie: beautiful killing machine:

There were more loud bangs, some so close that they made my ears hurt, and I found myself staring up the length of a black-clothed arm towards an extended hand. Those fingers were tight around the metallic menace of a gun, and I felt the reverberation of its fire echo up through his shoulder and into my own. He fired again, and then again... and then he rose to his knees above me.......................
I got the sense of power, dark and resolute, black hair matching the ebony of his clothes, and then another round of shots sent him ducking down beside me. He was up in an instant, returning the volley, his hands obscenely steady on his gun.

Welcome to the Jungle: Jennifer Lyon


The Gun as their secret language; or, a (silent) method of communction:

When Bodie reloads the gun, I step behind him, snaking both arms around his waist. I can feel him tense up, but he doesn't force me away. Good. Bodie relaxes into a classical shooting position before me and, pressing myself to his back, I completely copy his stance. With my right hand I grip the Sig, covering his hand and with my left I stabilize his wrists. I try to remain passive, only offering support while Bodie concentrates on the target. I can't see well over his shoulders, but after some delicate adjustments, he seems ready to go. Enhancing the stability of our stance, I move my index finger together with his along the frame onto the trigger. I can feel us breathing in complete union and then, in one smooth rolling motion, we touch the trigger. And again. With both of us stabilizing the gun, the recoil is minimal and we don't even need a new alignment after the first shot. In quick succession we shoot, fully emptying the clip.
……….. There is serenity in a perfect shot. A serenity nobody can share. Except for us.

Altruism: Marrie


The Gun as paradox: preserver or taker of life:

if Bodie could drag him toward the road, where the walls were lower, he might be able to give them some cover, until they were out of sight. If he could find his gun, and if he didn't pass out when he tried to move. They didn't have long; Brady's ex-comrades would be homing in on the sound of the shot. And the scream. "Bodie--"

But Bodie wasn't looking at him. Bodie looked at Brady, and then out at the road. He went over to the corpse and holstered his gun, bent and picked up the dead man's 9mm. He turned to Brady, advancing on him, so that Brady, still not understanding, began backing away toward the road, and as Doyle shouted "Bodie!" Bodie shot him, once, in the stomach, so that he was thrown backward, staggering out of cover, and as Bodie took a step forward, lining up the gun again, a rifle shot cracked from somewhere not far at all and Brady spun and collapsed with the side of his head blown away.

Very slowly, still looking out into the road, Bodie lowered the gun. After a moment, he came back to where Doyle sat, and lowered himself to the ground beside his partner.

Love Lies Bleeding: Shoshanna


The Gun as.....OK, gimme a break, pleeeease........I've included this quote just because I like it:

Bodie can't take his eyes off it. It's an ugly bloody thing after all. It looks…utilitarian. Doesn't have the lines, the curves of an MP5, or even an Uzi. They send death flowing from your hands, but this... this spits and curses at the world. This is no dark beauty.

Doyle joked once: "That's not where you got mine from." Not laughing now. Too close this time.

A rustling and he is back, bandaged. Alive. Here are curves. Here are sweet lines and flowing limbs and a promise of warmth in the night. Bodie can't take his eyes off him.

MAC-10: Slantedlight


The gun as a part of Bodie’s soul because without it he is nothing; or, 'home is where the gun is':

Home. He wanted to go home. It was the only clear thought left to him as he pulled the car away from the kerb, and it was a first. Home? As a kid, he had spent most waking hours figuring out how best to get away from his, and he had never looked back. Home was where you hung up your gun harness. The newness of this feeling shook him to the bone. He had no idea what to do with it, and he therefore just drove, negotiating late-night traffic and the Capri's tricky gearbox without thought.

All These Years: Angelfish

And finally, spoken by Shane, from the film, Shane because I can imagine Bodie saying this.

A gun is a tool, no better or worse than any other tool, an axe, a shovel, or anything. A gun is as good or as bad as the man using it.

All stories with the exception of Gun Practice and Forever True can be found at The Circuit Archive and The Hatstand. I believe Gun Practice is available at The Hatstand and here: http://www.shawstudios.com/Bamf/GunPractice.htm (thanks for the reminder, Kiwisue); and Forever True, unfortunately for the entire world, is a zine and not available online but we can all live in hope. And if you're still reading this, many thanks for hanging in there!