Noblesentiments: favourite quotes from Pros slash

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......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

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This is to let people know that callistosh65 has just finished reading Kate Maclean's Redemption and has posted some interesting comments.

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A few more quotes about guns and the part they play in the life and relationship of Bodie and Doyle. The quotes and their possible significance were kindly provided by other people:

From callistosh65

The gun as confessor/truth teller:

Doyle raised his brows. "What's the wager?" There was something elementally satisfying about a shootout involving cans lined up on a fence.

"Simple enough. Seven cans, farthest fence. You shoot until you miss, then it's my turn."

"And the forfeit?"

Bodie looked at him. "You give me an honest answer to any question I ask."

Doyle narrowed his eyes, but he held Bodie's look. "And what if you miss?"

Bodie grinned and, inevitably, Doyle's stomach turned over. "You get a kiss." There was such absurdly optimistic hope in Bodie's voice that Doyle had to turn away to hide his expression. Daft sod. Playing with fire wasn't the half of it.

I love the scene that then develops, as the gunplay forces to the surface what they want, feel, etc.

Changes Change: PFL


From miwahni:

The gun as talisman - symbolic protection against everything the world can throw at them, and not just in their working life.

Ray sat up and scrubbed his hands over his face, twinges and aches attesting to the activities of the past hours. He welcomed their presence, since every sensation was overlaid with the spine-softening lethargy of the well-loved. They both had the next day off and Ray had been looking forward to a nice lie-in, but with Bodie running around loose in the flat, he knew he wouldn't be able to sleep until he'd found--and rooted out--the source of Bodie's unease.

The scent of gun oil hit him as he belted his dressing gown but it gave him no insight into the sometimes labyrinthine workings of his partner's mind. Stepping over discarded clothing and still damp towels, he followed his nose until reaching the kitchen threshold, then leaned a shoulder against the door frame to take in the picture before him. Two guns sat glistening in the sickly cast of the overhead light, both of them resting on squares of dull orange chamois. Aluminium rods and stacks of cloth patches were neatly lined up beside bore brushes and a large bottle of Hoppe's, a pile of oily rags cast off to one side. Both guns were Ray's, the larger calibre his usual weapon for the job and the smaller calibre he kept at home for backup.

Barefoot and bare-chested, dressed in a pair of brown cords, Bodie was diligently cleaning Ray's third gun, the .25 he strapped to his ankle on occasion. Ray had cleaned all three guns only the day before, right beside Bodie as he'd cleaned his own, so they both knew there was no reason for Bodie to be so absorbed in the task at 4:00 am.

Bodie's weapons were not to be seen.

Such Different Wants: Veronica


From byslantedlight

The gun as substitute for Bodie.

Doyle still looked dubious, but his right hand had already made his mind up for him; these days it was dreaming about holding a gun, feeling the weight and texture for days after the reality had been signed back in. It wanted one of its own, that would never be used by anyone else.

On his next day off, Doyle went into the station and had an interview with the Firearms Officer that was a sociable formality. Tony was gracious in victory the next time they bumped into one another on the range. There was no immediate difference in Doyle’s performance, but there was a satisfaction in ownership he hadn’t expected. Everything about his weapon was beautiful to him, down to the slim, foam-padded aluminium case that he locked conscientiously, and kept in the cover of a gutted dictionary on the bottom shelf of a bookcase - in his extensive experience burglars were rarely that thorough............................

As the shooting competition drew nearer, he started spending nearly all his free time at the range. He hadn’t worked this hard for a very long time. He was getting to know his gun. At times he thought of it as if it were alive; when he caught himself doing this he was amused and not worried. He didn’t give it a name, but he felt real affection for it.

Heat-Trace: Helen Raven

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!

............with about 70 pages to go, and despite dragging it out for as long as possible, the inevitable is rearing its ugly head as I approach the final section of Kate Maclean's Redemption. I feel so lucky and privileged to have been given the chance to read yet another Pros classic, one which I shall return to again and again..... but how to deal with the bereavement process? With the feelings of emptiness which always come after finishing an unforgettable story? With the conviction that nothing else will *ever* compare or satisfy? Maybe I should read it again *before* I finish it? Hmmmmm.....bit perverse that, even for me. Hope and pray that she'll write *more*.....? Form a Kate Maclean Survivors' Group? Any joiners? Any fellow addicts out there? Free Membership.......


Doyle was the second man to appear, shades in place, a stranger again in a well-cut dark suit..............

It took him just a moment to understand, and then he looked away from her to the helicopter and what she'd been staring at..... The Governor had still to disembark and Doyle was standing in place. And all his attention, it seemed, was fixed on Bodie.

Bodie couldn't see any emotion on his face, the shades seeme to mask more than his eyes, but they were turned toward him.

Bodie's eyes darted back to Sylvie and he found she was looking at Doyle again. And when Bodie looked compulsively back to the same place, Doyle was still looking at him......

And who could blame him?

I’ve never been much attracted to stories which feature Doyle or Bodie as ‘prostitute’ – they seem to stretch my imagination just a bit too far - but Courtney Gray’s own particular treatment of this theme makes Night Moves an exception to the rule and it‘s a story I love and can return to again and again. In her capable hands the scenario of Bodie as a kind of hard-bitten ‘high paid whore’ coerced into tutoring Doyle on the technicalities of male sex for a Ci5 operation is completely plausible; while Doyle’s (initial) reluctance but willingness to act as the necessary ‘hook' for the task, borders on the heroic:

Doyle fanned the pages in his hands, not really reading. "What do you want me...." His voice faltered as he met Cowley's gaze.
"I want to set you up with a hustler, one that Coogan knows...............Cowley drew off his glasses and tapped them against the blotter. "That way we'll have the information we need to topple his organisation from the inside out."
Doyle sagged a little in his chair and brushed long fingers through his curls. He seemed to be considering everything that Cowley had left unspoken. "I've never done a cover like that, even with the Special Unit at the Yard," he said softly.

Did I say reluctance?

"I like the taste of you," Doyle told him much later, the first words spoken between them that morning. "I didn't think I would, but I do."
Bodie just blinked at him, his body light as air.
"I want us to spend the day in bed. I want to feel what it's like to put my cock inside you. I want you to fuck me again. No poppers, no drugs this time. I want to do it every way there is."
Bodie was too stunned to speak. When he found his voice, he said the first thing he could think of. "I--I've appointments today."
"Cancel them." Big green eyes held him, still shining with sexual heat.

And then there are the lines where you almost forget to breathe:

To feel that someone has become an essential part of you was an exquisite kind of addiction. Bodie was hooked.
"Could you live without me?" he asked Doyle, no flippancy in the question.
The answer came immediately, hushed and sincere. "I could exist."

NB: There is an alternate ending to this story which is called Kink and both are available at all good high street booksellers, failing that, The Circuit Archive:

http://www.thecircuitarchive.com/tca/archive/1/nightmoves.html
http://www.thecircuitarchive.com/tca/archive/1/kink.html

This is a sweet, gentle story which I feel great affection for every time I read it. Through Doyle's eyes we are introduced to the enigma that is 'soldier', the man who helps save Doyle's life and who Doyle - in his vulnerable state in a foreign land - becomes in turn emotionally attached to, then fascinated by this man of mystery.

He thought about Soldier when most of his brief time in Africa had faded. When he dreamed at all, he dreamed about the hard hands rescuing him, brisk and efficient. In all the horror the hands would keep him safe.

......and yet, 'Soldier' can still manage to get under Doyle's skin, Bodie style:

So, how's it going old son?" Soldier asked.

"My name is Ray Doyle," Ray snapped, irritated by the hot darkness and the biting insects and the lack of milk in his tea.

"So, how's it going Ray Doyle?" Soldier repeated solemnly. Ray hid his smile within his tea mug and ignored the question.

'Centurian' Bodie: the tall, dark, handsome guardian, always there for Doyle - just how I imagine Bodie:

.......I'll keep guard just like always, no big bad monsters'll get you while I'm around," and a hard and capable hand brushed his curls very gently and Ray felt himself being tucked in like he was a child again, then blessed darkness, cool as moss. Drowsily, the last thing he noticed was Bodie stretching out beside him on top of the covers, laid out like a Crusader in a church, hands folded and legs crossed at the ankle. Keeping guard just like always.

And without revealing too much more about the story I will just say how much I love the following lines and how beautifully they express what they're feeling about each other:

"………………How long have I scared you, tell me the truth."

"Since this morning, since I dragged you out of that Mission and you threw up over me, since a day by the river and I noticed your hair was the colour of autumn, since that night in the bowling alley, since the morning you came back from the wedding--

*Please* go read (if you haven't already):

http://hatstand.slashcity.net/gloria/onguard.html
http://www.thecircuitarchive.com/tca/archive/3/onguard.html

Yet another fine piece of writing which I’m ashamed to admit that I’ve only just discovered. Can’t quite put my finger on exactly the *how* or the *why* I was so impressed with this story, probably because there were so many things *to* impress me: the fact that I thought it was beautifully written goes without saying; I found it to be an intelligent read - never obvious - and one which made me think (apparently that‘s good for you, so I’ll go along with it), and it made me question my first assumptions enough to reread certain passages; I loved the adult way the author portrayed their relationship and the complications within that relationship, successfully creating two characters who are undergoing all kinds of emotional turmoil in their struggle to deal with the fast-disappearing fine line which divides a close and emotional working partnership, from a close, emotional and sexually-charged relationship.

Not everyone will read it in the same way, but I loved the various ambiguities contained within the story (which is divided into episode-related insights into their relationship and narrated by Bodie or Doyle); the beginning is ambiguous in the sense that the reader (well, *this* reader at any rate) isn't quite sure whether they *are* sexually involved or not and that the way they think about each and communicate their feelings could apply as much to 'best mates' as to lovers. I liked that it kept me guessing, curious to discover more. And (I think) Doyle himself is a study in ambiguity, unable or unwilling to admit to himself, let alone to Bodie – maybe even unable to *know* himself - what his feelings for his Ci5 partner actually are. I might have completely misinterpreted how the author views Doyle's feelings towards his partner, but if I had to choose one line which sums up what *I* think is going on in Doyle's subconscious in this story - a Doyle-in-denial - it would be the following:

It shouldn't hurt so much not to love somebody

And then there were the lines I loved so much, for no particular reason, which I had to read again and again:

If you close your eyes now, you can see him more clearly than any light would allow. The taste of sweat intensifies the sensory memory of a more muscular body. He tastes so good. Just as you knew he would.

With a snap he demands his pen back, and if there's a lingering brush of fingers, neither of us would comment on it.

Lingering brush of fingers

...........beautiful.

And just when you think there *are* no more good scenes to be had in any given story, that all the beautiful/poetic writing *must* have been written by now, along comes a writer who manages to come up with the following - a beautifully written scene which contains very powerful imagery - where Doyle, helping Bodie in gun practice, literally ends up encircling him:

From the entrance I can see that Bodie is the only one there. Part of his profile is obscured by shadows, but I can tell the killer is just below the surface today. All his sleek grace, all his casual elegance is wiped off his face by a cold scowl.

I walk back to the safe zone, cover my ears and wait for him to finish his clip. Watching as he misses three more times, I come to a decision. Time for a lesson in trust for both of us.

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.

For awhile we keep on dry firing and I have no problem leaning against Bodie's back close as we are. Pressing my head in between his shoulderblades I take deep, gulping breaths. "I'm sorry." I'm not sure he can hear my muffled sentence, but I know he feels my hands slipping from his grip on the pistol. In my arms he turns, pressing the warm gun between our chests and wearing that lopsided grin I missed so much. Both of us lean forward, foreheads almost touching and--it's done. I have my partner back. Just like that.

"10 out of 10." He mouths. I smile back.

I was wrong, you know. There is serenity in a perfect shot. A serenity nobody can share. Except for us.

There is serenity in a perfect shot. A serenity nobody can share.

I think that whole scene is a study in perfection, and that last line in particular is just beautiful and somehow serves to symbolise *them* and what they have, so perfectly (not to mention the eroticism of a 'warm gun' and together, 'emptying the clip')

Go on, I invite you to spoil yourself!

Can be read at the usual places:

http://hatstand.slashcity.net/marrie/altruism.html
http://www.thecircuitarchive.com/tca/archive/15/altruism.html

Yeah.........stand still while this writer almost breaks your heart with the sheer beauty and thoughtfulness of her work. Like a lot of my favourite writing – especially the shorter pieces – the beauty (for me) lies in the writer’s ability to handle the words, to manipulate or play with them and to place them together within an unusual context e.g. springtime determination - it's not just clever writing but it's also sweet and seductive; or, the flat was fresh and full of promise. And I loved the flow of her writing; the use of the present tense and the almost poetic quality to a lot of it:

The breeze that wafts through the small flat is fresh and full of promise. It drifts through each room of musty flat with a certain springtime determination to make everything seem that much brighter, that much more rejuvenated.

A beautiful beginning which immediately has the desired effect of drawing me in, at least in my imagination, which is all I can ask of any writer.

And I think the thoughtfulness of the writing lies in her great powers of observation, whether that observation is centred on the characters themselves or on the details which surround them. Details which could so easily become tedious, which I might have glossed over because they *were* mere details, but in her skilled hands become part of the poetry and so, I too, like Bodie, stand back in fascination, mesmerised by the vision of Doyle’s ‘lifting curls’:

The breeze lifts a curl from Doyle's forehead, toys with it for a second, before setting it back down the wrong way. Bodie automatically brushes it back into place, before patting the curls flat and watching in vague delight as they spring back to attention when he lifts his hand. Just like Doyle, the locks are dead set in their ways. Inordinately amused by this, Bodie does it again, and again, and each time the soft, copper strands snap back into curls, no matter how hard he presses.

I mean, I've never been so fascinated by curls before! Great observation which the writer successfully translates onto paper.......Is this one of the things which makes average writing, *very good* writing? Must be, surely......

And Bodie’s permanent state of restlessness, another example of how good the writer is at drawing out and expanding upon the unremarkable, making interesting some of the less noticeable features of B & D, but features, nonetheless, which go a long way to explain who they are and maybe what it is about each of them which attracts the other:

The bright sunshine draws his eye out at the world; even London's rooftops shine under a spring sun, and Bodie shifts in his chair, itching to get out and explore. They could do anything, today, could go anywhere and be anyone they wanted. And no one, not any of their mob, not even The Cow himself, would be any the wiser for being left behind and forgotten about, for just a day. Just one day, just them lost in the wide world.

And the clever use of his 'restlessness' as a symbol for the shortness of their lives, their time together and the need to savour what they have:

He wants to reach out and grab hold of the day by the throat, shake the life out of it and have it as his own. Before everything that could have been is lost forever. There'd be nothing he could do about it, and Bodie hates that feeling. Tomorrow, he could be dead; sitting inside while the sun is blazing and time is rushing by outside seems like madness. He wants to be out there, chasing the sunshine.

What a beautiful, Bodie-like expression chasing the sun - from now on I'll always think of that phrase when I think of Bodie.

And just what is it about the back of necks which, to borrow from byslantedlight, is so 'throat-catching' - I've never felt quite the same way about them since seeing Bodie trying to kiss Marika's in Fall Girl:

Familiar lips brush across the back of his neck; Bodie, startled out of his stare, shivers and turns round. Doyle has somehow managed to cross the room without making a sound, and snuck up on him. He hits Bodie the side of the head with his book.

And, finally, it's writing with a heart:

And he leans down and kisses Bodie; a quick, tender press of the lips, as warm as the sun streaming in through the window. His fingers brush lightly across Bodie's cheek, as light as the breeze, and Bodie leans into the touch without even realising, completely disarmed, as always.

Is it *just* me who melts at the thought of a rough and tough Bodie being emotionally disarmed by his partner?

I think it was callistosh65 who said this story was a very fine Pros debut and I'd have to agree with that. Thank you, Ailcia.

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

Oh, my. There's nothing quite like finding another good new writer (well, new to me, at least) and I was so impressed with the writing in this short piece that I thought I'd mention it here.

So many things to enjoy: I loved the way Lozalang managed to include a host of emotions to good effect in a very short space: fear, blind panic, relief-inspired-anger, humour and love.

I loved the use of the present tense here, making me feel almost as though we (me, Bodie and Doyle) were in real time, as though I was there in the room with them - not quite a part of the story - but there watching what was happening to them - a voyeur in the nicest possible meaning of the word - and this made it feel very real, achieving almost a 3D effect in the process.

He hopes that Bodie hasn't annoyed them. When it was Doyle's turn he
stayed quiet, got slapped around a little for his insolence but at
least he didn't cheek them...

.... Doyle's love for Bodie expressed in his unbelievable fear for him:

the feeling of blind panic is so unfamiliar that it takes Doyle a few seconds to even recognise it.......

He wants to shout and scream......

And the characterisation is spot on e.g. despite the gravity of their situation, the writer manages to retain their humour, the humour which gets them through any number of life and death situations and thus which binds them together (reminds me of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid):

Eventually, Bodie mutters, "Assume you've been
thinking through our options?"

"Yeah."

"And?"

"We haven't got any," Doyle sighs....

.......the way the writer manages to demonstrate their love is done so subtly - I just love this kind of writing:

So Doyle isn't surprised, not really, when Bodie's knuckles brush gently against his cheek and trace the line of a cut, the worn skin just above it. He turns his face into it - towards Bodie.....

And I wonder, just what is it in the simple action of a man brushing his fingers against the cheek of another man which can make me go weak at the knees? So sweet and very gently erotic.

Yup. Definitely my kind of story.

Found at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/proslib/message/1515

Oh, this is terrible – I love this little gem so much that in choosing my favourite passages I’m in danger of quoting the whole piece (it *is* quite short). If you do choose to read it, please accept my apologies now for being so free and easy with the quotes, but just about everything the author writes *is* quotable.

So, why *is* this piece of writing one of my favourites? I really *hate* the word but in the absence of anything better I’m forced to use it: the author hits one of my ‘kinks’ perfectly, time and time again, and that is, the kink which involves being able to put into words or being able to describe so eloquently, the almost invisible - but very real - chemistry/spark/sexual attraction which exists between these two very attractive men. It’s in the air. Heavy in the atmosphere. Floating around in the pub. The connection between them is so strong that even when they’re apart they’re together, with everything they do and say intended for the other. The term ‘soulmates’ is a bit too corny for me, a bit light, a bit overused, a bit hetero, a bit normal, two people who exist alongside each other but are essentially separate; whereas Bodie and Doyle’s bondedness or connection is more akin to two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle which are essential for each other - each incomplete and meaningless without the other. That’s it, I think I've got it.......... they each have no meaning or reason for being without the other. And it’s this connection which leaves me feeling jealous, wistful, bereft, envious and just half a person compared to either of them.

As the two men's eyes remained locked, it seemed to Cowley that no one else existed for them just then. There was an exclusiveness between them that he almost envied..........

The other half of the double act stood at the bar making small talk with Benny. Cowley bet with himself that, even with his back to the room, Doyle knew exactly where his partner was and what he was doing. Never before had he encountered two people more aware of each other on every
level. They had taken a working partnership and created a remarkable team...........

He looked up, and eyes made straightaway for Doyle's, winning Cowley's second private bet for him - the awareness worked both ways...........

Neither acknowledged the other's presence, but it was as if invisible threads that had been stretched during the separation were now easing back into place. Cowley wouldn't have been surprised to see electric sparks arcing between the two men...........

And another kink (I hadn’t realized I had so many): the attraction and eroticism of mens’ arms, made even more erotic by the image of Bodie touching Doyle’s bare arm. Oh, my. (and does anyone remember Bodie’s beautiful ‘greased’ arms when mending the car in Weekend in the Country? I do):

Cowley watched Bodie watch Doyle; watched as Doyle posed for the dark blue eyes he knew were fastened on him. Bodie surreptiously brushed the back of his hand down Doyle's bare arm, ending the charade of being ignored and claiming the attention that was his due

And not only is this wonderful writing which involves the writer never wasting a word or using it just for the sake of using it.......... I think, through the eyes of Cowley, that the writer is also an acute observer of people i.e. Bodie and Doyle - pinpointing and articulating on my behalf what I feel but find hard to express i.e. the magic which exists between them (even when they didn’t know it themselves):

Cowley wondered if they ever turned down the level of intensity he saw on the job, or even if they realized the heat they generated between them. Half of every conversation between the two was carried on silently in looks and gestures - if you only heard their words, you missed half their meaning.

And, I love the sexy, erotic images cleverly achieved by the writer, without the two having to remove a stitch of clothing:

Cowley continued to watch as they left. Bodie held the door open and pressed his hand into the small of Doyle's back. It was as innocent and as sexual a public act as Cowley had ever seen, both possessive and protective. It might have told him nothing, but it told him everything.

That’s it in a nutshell, a perfect piece of writing which can be found on the CD and at The Circuit Archive.

Just to let everyone know there's a good discussion going on about Freezing at Pros Lit - but what I want to know is why the hell people don't post their comments *here* Don't they realise how dispiriting it is for someone to take the time and trouble to post something and have virtually no feedback save that from a few very loyal supporters? Ironically, I regret the decline in list-activity in favour of live journals, but it would be very nice if people did comment HERE as well!!!! (And it doesn't have to be a positive comment, just something which promotes a good discussion) Bah.

[Vague spoilers]

A typical, psychologically-driven story from one of my very favourite writers. I’ve never found it easy to explain *why* I love Helen Raven’s writing so much (apart from the obvious reason that I think she’s a damn good writer) and why, for me, it’s quite different to/from the writings of other people. I think it’s partly to do with things like: the very definite mood she creates (as opposed to atmosphere), a mood which is often sad, depressed, melancholy, introspective, low-key and tentative. A mood which is never boring and never predicable.. A mood where I feel I’m reading each line with ‘bated breath’ as though I can’t wait to get to the end of it in order to get onto the next line. And within this mood there’s the important ingredient of sexual tension – a tension which is subtle, understated and very effective. Thus she manages to create more sexual vibes with one simple, innocent touch, than many other writers manage with a full blown sex scene:

Doyle took the cup and threw it away on his walk to the coffee machine. When he came back he sat on the back of the battered old sofa, almost behind Bodie’s head, with one foot propped on the threadbare arm. He leaned over to look at the newspaper, but he wasn’t really following the continuing conversation.
His upraised knee was just touching Bodie’s shoulder, which was clad in the same jacket as on Friday night. Suddenly, strongly, Doyle wanted to touch Bodie’s skin. Sitting here, he could simply reach forward and slide a hand under Bodie’s collar, cup his palm around the moist neck, rest his fingers on the ledge of the collar-bone.
But he wouldn’t, even if they were alone in his flat. The risk was too great. He knew his Bodie, knew what pathetic, desperate pleasure he would get from that touch, how his face would light up. Just imagining Bodie’s reaction caused a sharp, restless pain deep inside Doyle, which made it a simple thing for him to fight these gentle impulses. He sat and waited for the day’s work to begin, knowing from experience that the impulse would weaken once they were in action........

Bodie arched his neck back once, then opened his eyes and turned towards Doyle. Doyle had seen him like this once before, had seen how that bleak courage lifted him into the high, spartan area of beauty. It had lifted them both, and now Doyle, grown used to the thin, fine air, could barely remember why he’d been so frightened of it

And I think one of Helen Raven’s greatest strengths is that she treats her readers as adults, people who don’t need a constant, running monologue to explain the obvious. Instead she allows us to see what is happening, to puzzle for ourselves what is really going on between the conflicted Bodie and Doyle So my very, favourite quote is from Doyle – a Doyle who throughout the story is emotionally paralysed and tortured by his inability to assume responsibility for his real feelings for Bodie and ‘by the knowledge that he would let Bodie down’; a Doyle who is so terrified and paranoid that this love might not succeed he is prepared to delude himself into thinking that Bodie is having an affair with someone else. And the turmoil within Doyle appears to be *so* hopeless that when he finally and unconsciously articulates his own feelings for Bodie and, in his own way, admits his love for him, even though you've got a lump in your throat, the relief makes you want to cheer:

Doyle gave a weak laugh. Very weak. “Took me a while to figure out what was happening. Must have surprised you too, eh? Turn up one Monday morning and there he is. Easy as that.” He was talking very quickly.
“And ... I’ve seen enough of him ... of the two of you ... at work - without the curries and the films and everything ... Well, I’ve seen enough to know that he’ll make you happy. The way he looks at you. It’s obvious. I see him sometimes ... He’s noticed the way your hair curls just after it’s been washed. The way the smell of you changes as the day goes on. Hasn’t he? Everything. And he tells you. Can’t help himself. Though it’s obvious, anyway, that he thinks about you all the time.
“And when he tells you ... he watches you so carefully. Doesn’t he? D’you know why? D’you know what he’s storing away for the daytime? He’s in love with the way every line of your face softens, and your mouth falls open like your lungs need more than air, and your eyes seem to be seeing ... something else. And the way you don’t even know that it’s happening. You think you’re just smiling. Sometimes I see him look at you, and I know ... he’s remembering.
“It doesn’t frighten him, you see. For him it’s ... it’s wonderful. He wants it. He likes feeling his heart ... turn over. Doesn’t frighten him. Not at all. You see, he knows what you know - that it’s all going to work out. No need to rush, even. He’ll keep you happy. Always. And he knows it. s’ ...” A loud swallow. “You’ll always ... soften when he ... Always think you’re just smiling. He’ll always be what you want. What you need.
“I’m -” His throat jerked. “I’m glad for you. Will you ... tell me when you move in together? Or whatever. I’d like to know. Like to ... get you a present, or something. Thank him for - Will you?”

Wonderful writing.

Well, I *was* going to play it cool and not post for a while (I don't want you all taking me for granted), but, even though I've only read about 15 pages or so (I like to savour good stories) I'm so enjoying this long, cosy read that I thought I must mention it - I can't remember the last time I *have* enjoyed a long story quite as much. Thank you Ellis Ward for being Ellis Ward and writing some wonderful stories. And I think the remarks of my good friend byslantedlight that Legacy of Temptation ..... which is almost a whole fic of gorgeous foreplay is spot on. I think I *like* stories which are sexy, romantic and erotic throughout - ones which allow some scope for my fevered imagination - perhaps even more than one off steamy sex scenes (though I do like both), but if I *had* to choose between one or the other then the subtle eroticism of this kind of writing would win every time:

Doyle gave off waves of cosmopolitan indifference that attracted Bodie like a hummingbird to nectar (Legacy of Temptation)

And more of the same from Sunshine after Rain by Elspeth Leigh

fingers touching accidentally..................twenty years of partnership both personal and professional telegraphed cross-continent, meaning and intent precisely sent and received. One mind grown of one heart. Intuition. Acclimation. A blending...............................
And when Bodie replied, Doyle could picture him as clearly as if they were facing one other, breath warm on the other, bodies electric with the proximity................................
Doyle closed his eyes. Bodie took a sip of whisky and rolled it across his tongue. Passing it to Doyle. Mouths open, interlocking. Was that so long ago?

Right, I want to thank callistosh65 very much for reminding me of The Yellow Brick Road by Kate Maclean, one of my all-time favourite Pros stories and one of the few zines which I’ve actually bought new from Sara Slinn at Gryphon (so it must be good!) And she has very kindly allowed me to copy some of the observations and quotes she has made (elsewhere). (Callistosh, in case of ‘spoilers’ I’ve removed a couple of sentences).

And I must apologise for breaking one of my own rules which is that I previously stated I wouldn’t quote from stories which aren’t online, but I can't help myself as this is such a wonderful story and hopefully anyone who looks at this post will either have read the story or will be inspired enough to buy it! Coincidentally paris7am has just linked this story to the episode it begins with: Private Madness, Public Danger at http://www.hard-facts.net/

callistosh65 wrote:

".. my God how I love Bodie and ache for him in this. Even when he's breaking Doyle into a zillion pieces, you never turn against him, mainly because Kate is a genius at setting up glimpses that let us see light.

My point is that we *see* the *real* Bodie, as it were, all those feelings that he's battening down and denying, how badly the events of DIAG have affected him, and all the many ways it's screwing him up. Even his vicious denials and taunts speak of pain rather than cruelty - as Doyle says after being pushed away from trying to kiss him. "You sad, deluded bastard."...............................

The only unsatisfying thing for me was that I wanted to go up the stairs and home with them again, for another scorching sex session.*g* I just didn't want it to end.

Because she keeps such a tight hold on our observations of Bodie, because he *does* batten everything down, what may be perceived as 'little gestures' have a HUGE impact on the reader. And so it is for me, with that "I said. I meant. Your place" and the tentative hand on the knee? Wow. In any other fic, so what? But here, their significance is monumental and *so* touching. That whole last scene, in the car is vivid, and a scene I've read over and over. Leaves me with a grin as large as Doyle's every time.............................................

And may I also say what a nice line in conversation she has - the word 'banter' is overused at times, it wasn't quick and sharp always between them, a lot of the time it was just pieces and moments of conversation and that's what she nails beautifully. It frequently has a canon feel to it, which I love. Something simple, but very compelling is this moment, after Doyle's temple's been grazed.

"Fussed over! Who was bloody fussing?"
"You were. No alcohol," Doyle mimicked, "'Ave you taken your pills like a good boy?"
Silence, then, "Well, have you?"
"Bodie!" But Bodie's smile was enough to defuse Doyle's temper again. he smiled helplessly back.
"All right, Florence. You bloody win."
Bodie mocked outrage, and they grinned at each other again.

Just perfect.

And I too loved this story for so many reasons: she writes the lads with great accuracy, has their constant bickering and mutual winding up drawn perfectly and yet, beneath all the spats and mud-slinging there’s the undeniable sexual attraction and fascination which they both obviously have for each other and which leads them to become unlikely but successful bedmates and Ci5 partners:

They grinned at each other for a second, in perfect tune, then Bodie turned his attention back to the road ahead and Doyle looked out the side window, happy for the moment. He’d never got on as well with anyone in his life. Got on most of the time, at least. But then, he’d known almost from the first that Bodie would complement him, that Bodie fascinated him, even as Bodie was writing him off as some pretty imbecile.
That still bugged him, and thrilled him at the same time.
Bodie hadn’t rated him at first basically because because he’d fancied him, that was what he’d got out of what Bodie had said. But now he did. Trust him, that was. He still heard a voice of sanity, *If any of it was true of course*……… But he wanted it to be true, annoying as it was, because he wanted to believe Bodie thought of him as sexy and gorgeous and now a worthy partner as well.
But he really had no idea what went on in Bodie’s head.
It had been twenty-nine days since Bodie had come to his flat. And they’d had that sensational session of frottage and then they’d laid beside each other and Bodie’d got up eventually, stroked Doyle’s curls once and gone home without a word.

And, as callistosh65 points out, while we’re never permitted to look inside Bodie’s head, Kate Maclean still manages to present us with a complete and rounded portrait of Bodie – a Bodie whose pain, confusion and anger is almost palpable. I feel very much for this Bodie and I can even understand his relationship with Murphy because *this* relationship is really unimportant compared to what he has with Doyle, but it's necessary because it helps us to appreciate (and experience) the very real depth of Doyle's jealousy over Bodie; and it serves as a buffer against Doyle and cocoons Bodie from the reality that he would rather confront a dozen bullets than face the fact of his passion for Doyle. And it *is* a passion which he feels – nothing more or less and *that’s* why he’s so terrified of it. And who *wouldn’t* feel passion for Doyle?

A very fine story.

This is muddled and all over the place but I wanted to bung it down here because....well, I just wanted to.

There was an interesting article in The Guardian Review on Saturday about writers and writing:
http://books.guardian.co.uk/departments/generalfiction/story/0,,1989004,00.html#article_continue. I can't pretend to have understood it all but I found certain bits of it fascinating because the author of the article, Zadie Smith, viewed the process of writing as a "two-way street" in that not only does "ideal" writing have certain duties towards the readership: "the duty to express accurately their way of being in the world" but equally the "ideal reader", just as much, needs to work at *their* end of the process, to have a certain talent of their own.......to be the type of reader who is open enough to allow into their own mind a picture of human consciousness so radically different from their own as to be almost offensive to reason. The ideal reader steps up to the plate of the writer's style so that together writer and reader might hit the ball out of the park - I like to think this means something along the lines that (ideally) the reader should possess a literary imagination which is equal to that of the writer.

And she articulates very well what I feel: that although a novel might be technically perfect it may still lack that certain something.......that indefinable something which means it's failed in the attempt to be a good novel, let alone a great novel. I haven’t really worked out yet quite what her conclusion *is* about what makes a good novel or good writing, *good* - it might be what she refers to as the soul, the self, being true to one’s self, having the ring of truth, authenticity; as opposed to ‘fiction as the playground of language, being independent of its originator’ and I hope this is a kind of intellectual, roundabout way of agreeing with what I am feeling, that while a piece of writing might be technically or grammatically perfect, it still may still not possess any affecting qualities i.e. qualities which help to engage or involve me in the writing, which convince me, which make me care about it or which pulls at my heartstrings. In short, writing which *moves* me emotionally.

[Earlier in the article she quotes Joyce (I’m assuming it’s James Joyce) describing piers as disappointed bridges I just love that sentence - words being taken out of their usual context and put to an even better use. And I love it because I know what he means, I'm smug and proud because I *get* it - I believe I *know* what *he* was getting at, so in a sense the writing has reached and affected me because I’ve understood his secret code; and, I suppose even more importantly, the imaginative use of the adjective 'disappointed' gave me pleasure because it gave me an instant (informed) image of a dejected, forlon piece of architecture (which, without that vital word, would have been totally forgettable].

More bits I liked and wished I could have written:

That's why writing is the craft that defies craftsmanship: craftsmanship alone will not make a novel great………. . A skilled cabinet-maker will make good cabinets, and a skilled cobbler will mend your shoes, but skilled writers very rarely write good books and almost never write great ones. There is a rogue element somewhere - for convenience's sake we'll call it the self, although, in less metaphysically challenged times, the "soul" would have done just as well................We are repelled by the idea that writing fiction might be, among other things, a question of character. We like to think of fiction as the playground of language, independent of its originator. That's why, in the public imagination, the confession "I did not tell the truth" signifies failure when James Frey says it, and means nothing at all if John Updike says it. I think that fiction writers know different. Though we rarely say it publicly, we know that our fictions are not as disconnected from our selves as you like to imagine and we like to pretend. It is this intimate side of literary failure that is so interesting; the ways in which writers fail on their own terms: private, difficult to express, easy to ridicule, completely unsuited for either the regulatory atmosphere of reviews or the objective interrogation of seminars, and yet, despite all this, true

A writer's personality is his manner of being in the world: his writing style is the unavoidable trace of that manner. When you understand style in these terms, you don't think of it as merely a matter of fanciful syntax, or as the flamboyant icing atop a plain literary cake, nor as the uncontrollable result of some mysterious velocity coiled within language itself. Rather, you see style as a personal necessity, as the only possible expression of a particular human consciousness. Style is a writer's way of telling the truth. Literary success or failure, by this measure, depends not only on the refinement of words on a page, but in the refinement of a consciousness, what Aristotle called the education of the emotions.

See? I told you I didn't understand it all, but it sort of sounds interesting.

Even though I’ve only read her two stories in the Fire Series – Firewalls and Firestorm – plus Sunshine after Rain, I like Elspeth Leigh’s writing very much and feel she’s another writer we don’t hear enough about. And I’ve been torturing myself trying to think how best to describe her work – or at least how best to describe how *I* feel about it – and for some reason the word ‘elegant’ keeps coming up. Not sure why. The story *is* very elegantly written and, even though much of it is centred around the fact that Bodie and Doyle are enjoying a mature and established relationship, it still manages to be very sensuous in style (I just love that word, 'sensuous'). And their relationship, though free of the usual ‘will they, or won’t they’ kind of anxieties, is still a thing of wonder and fascination for both of them, and thus for the reader:

You know, Ray, you caught me up twenty years ago, heart and head, and you still have me, always will. Sometimes I still can't breathe when I look at you -- like right now

And I love the writer’s frequent use of flashbacks – not everyone’s cup of tea and if handled badly could probably drive you crazy – but I think this writer uses them to good effect and keeps the reader on her toes. And thinking a bit more here, maybe this is one of the reasons why I find the story so very elegantly written - it's (partly) the writer's elegant use of flashbacks. There. That feels better.

They danced in stockinged feet, Bodie's hand slipping down Doyle's rear, Ray's arms twined around Bodie's waist, hips moving slowly, pressing and sliding, jeans against cords, marking time and making rhythm. Bodie held a glass of scotch at his side, fingertips cupped around the rim. He raised it and took a sip and then traded the glass into Doyle's near hand and pulled his lover even closer.

There was electricity in the air. Palpable. Jade and cerulean both running hot against the big chill of life. Alternating current converted to direct.

A single reading lamp cast warm shadows on the walls of the lounge and the muted sounds of bluesy harmonies drifted softly from the stereo. A woman's voice, throaty and seductive, coupled with a man's edgy melodies on the disc. It was not Ray's usual selection of music, but something more visceral -- rawly arousing. Its sultry offer had drawn Bodie into the lounge from his desk, half glasses still on his nose, tie pulled loose around his neck, offering a hand in invitation and guiding Ray up from his chair, Doyle's book slipping discarded to the floor.

Bodie nuzzled Ray's hair, breathing in the smell of shampoo and sweat that had become some kind of a lifeline in the 20 years of life together. Odd how scents could call up passions and with them their own kind of window to your soul.......

And the icing on the cake...... there's even a good storyline, elegantly interwoven with our observations of their relationship. So, what are you waiting for?