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kat_lair***
Title: Feline Fine (Eventually)
Author:kat_lair,
Fandom: The Professionals
Pairing: Bodie/Doyle
Tags: Fluff, Influenza, Common Cold, Illnesses, Hurt/Comfort, Domestic Fluff, Getting Together, Pets, Accidental Cat Acquisition
Rating: T
Word count: 8,196
Summary: In which Bodie gets a terrible cold and a terrible cat. In the same week.
Author notes: I picked this pinch-hit from![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
epidemfic because at least I knew the fandom even if I haven't written a lot in it! But, I had two Pros fandom olds (I mean that respectfully, please don't swat me with a rolled-up newspaper!) in my corner: moth2fic and pushkin666 are to be thanked for making sure the end result isn't wildly anarchronistic! claire_cz's prompt of 'taking care of a cat together' (loved it!) and combined that with domestic fluff and relatively mild illness as requested.
Feline Fine (Eventually) on AO3
On Monday Bodie wakes up to someone banging on his door. It matches the banging inside his head almost perfectly, the backs of his eyes throbbing to the rhythm, little spots of colour dancing across his vision. It’s like being in the world’s worst discotheque and he hates it immediately and wholeheartedly.
“Hang on!” he shouts, trying to untangle himself from the quilt and figure out how his legs work because apparently, somewhere between falling asleep on his sofa and waking up to whatever emergency is waiting for him outside his door, he’s forgotten how to stand without his knees buckling and his muscles screaming.
The banging outside the door stops. The banging inside his head tragically does not.
If standing had proven challenging, walking feels like attempting a marathon. On his knees. Whilst wearing scuba diving gear. He’s wobbly and disoriented, sounds all muted and wavering and if he wasn’t one hundred percent certain that he hadn’t actually eaten anything last night, he’d suspect being poisoned.
Bodie makes it to the door, doesn’t even try looking through the peephole – frankly, if some terrorist with a grudge has tracked him down, they are welcome to take a shot and put him out of his misery – and on the third attempt manages to unlock and open it.
On the other side of it he finds Mrs Weston, tears streaming down her face.
A lady in distress is one of those triggers that Bodie is conditioned to react to and even now it’s enough to dispel some of the fog in his brain.
“What’s happened?” he asks, looking behind her in some alarm.
“It’s mum,” Mrs Weston sniffs. “She…” A shaky exhale, fresh tears welling at her eyes. “She passed away over the weekend.”
Mrs Weston’s mum is Mrs Goodwin, Bodie’s next door neighbour. He doesn’t usually stay at one place long enough to even learn people’s names but apparently intelligence had deemed his current digs safe because he’s lived here long enough for Mrs Goodwin to take an interest. She’s – was, fuck – a wiry old lady with a collection of outlandish aprons, several opinions about the world that she hadn’t been shy about sharing, and five grandchildren. Bodie knows all of them by name thanks to the photo parade he had to sit through every time he popped over to help with odd jobs or carry groceries or eat his way through another batch of homemade biscuits. He had genuinely liked the woman so the “I’m sorry to hear that, your mum was a great lady,” is sincere, if a bit congested.
Mrs Weston nods. “She was. We…” She visibly collects herself, blowing her nose on a white hanky. “Anyway. I’m here about Ringo.”
Ringo was Mrs Goodwin’s cat. He was large, orange, and battle-scarred. Whilst he did not care about aprons or biscuits, he too had many, many opinions which he bestowed upon the world via the medium of regular yowling.
Bodie did not much care for Ringo.
“Uhh, what?” His body, which had briefly rallied thanks to the adrenaline spike, feels like a sack of mouldy potatoes once more. The headache is making him squint and wish for sunglasses even in the wan light of the early morning.
“Well, you see,” Mrs Weston wrings her hands, “Joe’s allergic,” she says, referring to her youngest son. “And Bobby,” her brother, Mrs Goodwin’s hotshot doctor son, “can’t take him either. Shiftwork, you know.”
Bodie opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He can see where this is going and if he had his usual wits about him, he’d be able to point out that no matter Dr Robert Goodwin’s shifts, they were nothing compared to his own unpredictable work patterns, but as it is, he’s defenceless.
“Mum always spoke so highly of you. And she told me you adored Ringo.” The first one is probably the truth – Bodie had made himself useful and pleasant, and not just for the biscuits – but the second one was definitely a lie. He and Ringo had mostly avoided each other and Mrs Goodwin had been wise enough not to push either of them on the issue.
“No,” he says, clearing his throat and wincing at the scratchiness. “I don’t think…”
But Mrs Weston is not listening. “She would rest in peace knowing Ringo is well looked after,” she says which is a low blow, but an effective one. “Thank you so much.” Her smile is wobbly as she reaches behind her and hands Bodie a plastic bag full of cat food and… a picnic basket?
“Mum didn’t have a proper cat carrier,” Mrs Weston says apologetically. “We had to improvise. I don’t think he likes it there though.”
The picnic basket Bodie is holding at arms-length is heavy and unbalanced. A low, ominous growl emits from its depths.
Duty dispatched, Mrs Weston doesn’t linger. She promises to let Bodie know about the funeral and then she’s gone, the sharp click of her heels fading down the stairs. With no other options, Bodie shuffles back into the flat and leans against his door to close it. The bag of cat foot tins rattles to the ground but he manages not to drop Ringo’s basket, instead carefully depositing it by the shoe rack while he tries to marshal his thoughts into some kind of order.
Right. Item one. He is probably not dying, even though feels like he is. The muscle ache, the headache, the way he can only breathe in through one nostril and the burning in his throat point toward a cold. Maybe even flu. Brilliant deduction. Move over Sherlock Holmes.
Except maybe not. Maybe Sherlock Holmes can fill in for him today because there is no way on God’s green earth Bodie is going to make it to work today. He gropes around until he finds the phone on the hallway table and makes the call. At least they don’t have an active case right now and Bodie isn’t leaving his partner in the lurch.
That done, he forces his body to keep moving. Eyes half-lidded to minimise the light exposure, Bodie makes a pit stop to the bathroom, avoiding the mirror and blessedly finding some aspirin under the sink and drinking water straight from the tap to swallow it down.
He feels woozy and probably should eat something but he’s pretty sure that there isn’t much that’s edible in the kitchen and going out to the corner shop is an impossibility. Sleep is high on the agenda but first he needs to deal with…
Item two. Mrs Goodwin is dead. And Bodie is genuinely sad about that, he is, enough that he thinks he at least ought to try and keep her cat alive to the best of his ability. Which, admittedly, is not great right now in general, nor when it comes to cats in particular. Still, how hard can it be?
Somewhat shakily, he finds two bowls in the kitchen, fills one with water and another with the dry mix he finds in the bag. The hand-eye coordination needed to operate a tin opener is beyond him right now, so it’ll have to do. There’s no litter tray among Ringo’s things but Bodie remembers Mrs Goodwin letting the cat in and out on the regular basis so he cracks open the bedroom window. There’s a fire-escape. Good enough.
Bodie regards the picnic basket with some trepidation. It’s silent for the time being, and still, but none of that fills him with confidence. Because there is no one here to see him, and because he doesn’t particularly want to be scratched to ribbons and get rabies on top of everything, Bodie snags the umbrella from its hook and uses it to ease the lid open.
Nothing happens.
Cautiously, Bodie nudges the basket with the tip of the umbrella. In response, the basket hisses at him.
“Fine,” he croaks. “Suit yourself.” He leaves the basket in the hallway and goes to pass out on the sofa.
***
Doyle gets back from Manchester – some kind of security tech expo he’d gone to because Macklin had an extra ticket since Towser had to stay behind unexpectedly, and, well the ale up north was good – in the early hours of Tuesday. Technically, he has a day off but practically he’s bored by ten a.m. and also, maybe, missing his partner a bit, so he decides to swing by the headquarters anyway on the pretence of dropping off the fat pile of glossy brochures he’d procured on all the latest in how to spy people or kill people. Fun stuff.
He expects to find Bodie at his desk cursing at the paperwork or in the canteen flirting with the tea ladies or at the firing range in the basement or in Cowley’s office getting briefed because maybe something has come up and…
“He called in sick,” Betty, Cowley’s secretary, says, not looking up from the typewriter.
“Cowley?” Ray asks, somewhat bewildered.
“No, your slightly larger, just as annoying shadow,” Betty answers, pulling a finished letter out with more violence than it strictly speaking needs. “Sounded rough. Didn’t think he was faking it this time to cover for a hangover or a new lady friend.”
Doyle executes a neat heel turn and marches back to his own desk, using the phone there to call Bodie’s home number. He lets it ring for six, ten, fifteen times, then puts the receiver down, dials again and waits for twice as long. Shit. Shit.
By the time he’s driven to Bodie’s, it’s lunchtime. He takes the stairs two at a time and doesn’t bother knocking, just uses his spare key to let himself in. Two things hit him at once: the upturned picnic basket left carelessly by the threshold that tangles itself under his feet until he goes down with a resounding curse, and a pervasive and extremely pungent smell of cat urine.
“What the hell?” Ray asks the universe at large and the carpet under his face. Neither is forthcoming with an answer.
“Bodie?” he calls, scrambling to his feet. “You in, buddy?”
There’s no reply and the five seconds it takes Doyle to round the corner to the lounge is long enough for the cold pit of fear open up at the bottom of his stomach. ‘Sick’ being a cover for ‘I’m being held at gunpoint by criminals’ or, possibly, ‘actively bleeding out from being shot’ is not very likely even in their line of work, Doyle can recognise that, like with his rational thinking hat on. However, it’s not impossible either and right now, several days without having laid eyes or hands on his partner, Ray is perhaps jumping to the worst conclusions more readily.
To his relief, he finds Bodie on the sofa, the signs of life immediate and obvious in form of wet snoring. It sounds objectively disgusting, but Doyle can’t be anything but happy about it. And if his fingers land on the pulse point by the side of Bodie’s neck as he’s gently shaking his partner awake by the shoulder, then that’s nobody’s business but his.
“Hey, hey, wake up mate.” Normally, Ray would think twice about waking Bodie unexpectedly, certainly from a punching distance, but right now it’s obvious that the ‘I’m sick’ call had been nothing but the truth. The man looks flushed, sweat beading up in his hairlines, skin unnaturally warm against Doyle’s hand.
And when he finally does return to consciousness it’s with a pitiful whine and squinted eyes.
“Son of a… Ray? That you? What…?”
He manages to sit up with Ray’s help, if somewhat unsteadily. “I feel like shit,” he says.
“I’m not gonna lie, mate,” Doyle says, “you also look like it.” He presses the back of his hand to Bodie’s forehead. “You’re running a fever,” he announces. “Have you taken anything? And also,” because the topic is entirely unavoidable, “why does your flat stink of cat piss?”
Bodie blinks at him. “Does it? I don’t really…” He tries to take a deep breath through his nose but very clearly doesn’t manage it.
“Unexpected silver lining,” Doyle mutters. “Hey, where are you…?”
Bodie has suddenly lurched to his feet, grasping Ray’s shoulder almost painfully hard in an effort not to fall flat on his face immediately.
“Piss,” he announces. “You said piss and I realised I really, really got to.”
A few minutes later, Bodie is back. “I figured out the source of the smell,” he says despondently. His socks are wet.
After some discussion, Doyle manages to convince his stubborn ass partner that whilst one can, technically, tough it out when this ill, one really, really shouldn’t unless they want to be tied to the bed and spoon-fed some soup. Bodie tries to make a lewd joke about it, but even he can’t pull off seductive with a runny nose and corpse-like pallor. With a sigh of what is probably meant to sound like frustration but seems more like relief, he settles back onto the sofa while Ray deals with the bathroom situation. In truth, he takes one look at the bathroom mat and puts it straight into a binbag, before scrubbing the floor.
Afterwards he makes Bodie drink orange juice “For the vitamins!” and take some paracetamol, both of which Doyle had to go to the corner shop for.
“The state of your cupboards is a disgrace,” he comments while he makes Bodie two slices of toast with jam, both of which – you guessed it – he had to also buy from the corner shop. The kitchen itself is immaculately tidy and clean, there’s just not much in the way of food in it. “Man can’t live on mustard and instant coffee alone.”
The fact that Bodie doesn’t argue back is discouraging. Doyle cuts the toast into small triangles and tries not to worry. It’s just flu.
But still, seeing Bodie like this is…
It’s not great. The memories it evokes, of Bodie bleeding, of Bodie in the hospital bed… Not great.
The butterknife in his hand bends, somewhat mangling the toast in the process.
Bodie doesn’t comment on the aesthetics of his snack. Possibly because he’s not paying that much attention to it, and certainly shows no indication of putting it into his mouth.
“If you don’t eat that,” Doyle threatens, “I’m calling one of the docs CI5 has on its list.”
Bodie makes a face but takes a bite. Chewing looks like an effort, but Ray would bet good money his partner hasn’t eaten anything for a while, and as much as being sick kills the appetite, getting weak from hunger, even if unfelt, won’t help with the recovery.
“Thank you,” Ray says, because he knows for a fact Bodie is only eating his food to stop him from worrying. It doesn’t work of course, Doyle still worries, just… maybe a little bit less.
Time to change the topic. “Well, your cat—”
“It’s not my cat,” Bodie mumbles around a mouthful of bread.
“—the cat is moderately considerate,” Ray continues smoothly. “It could’ve pissed in your bed or shoes, but I’ve checked, and every other room seems intact.”
Bodie gives a sardonic thumbs up at the news.
“Anyway. Since when do you have a cat?” Ray asks.
“I don’t have a—”
“Why is there a cat in your flat?” Doyle rephrases with an eyeroll.
Bodie explains.
“Right,” Doyle says. He thinks about biting down on the smile that’s trying to steal over his face but in the end doesn’t bother. “We’ve established that you are a soft touch when it comes to damsels and felines in distress.”
Bodie huffs.
“Just one question though,” Ray continues. “Where is it?”
***
Bodie finds Ringo on Wednesday morning around five thirty. He wakes up – from his bed this time around because Doyle had gently bullied him into it last night – to the sound of scratching and plaintive meowing outside the window. It takes him a few tries to fumble the light on and himself upright. His body still feels like he’s been a few rounds with Macklin and the room sways a little before settling when he stands up. Being fed and watered yesterday by his mother hen of a partner, however, makes it easier to conquer the momentous task of walking up to his window and sticking his head through the crack.
It's late enough in the spring that the pale morning light provides good enough visibility to find his windowsill, and the fire-escape next to it, empty. Bodie shivers in the chilly air, confused. Then another indignant meow draws his attention. Stretching his upper body out of the window, he can see Ringo sitting on the sill outside Mrs Goodwin’s bedroom window on the other side of the fire escape, scratching to be let in.
There’s no one home to do that anymore.
“Oh mate,” Bodie sighs. “I miss her too.” And he does, the loss settling in as the initial shock and fugue of his illness has cleared at least a little bit. He hasn’t lived in one place long enough to get to know the neighbours often, and Mrs Goodwin was a good woman, kind in a way Bodie hasn’t experienced much in his life
Ringo spares him a glance and continues trying to claw his way through the familiar window.
Bodie considers climbing out into the fire escape to physically get him but the fever hasn’t burned out quite all of his braincells no matter what his partner claims. The sad truth is that he’s not at all sure he’s up to the task even if Ringo were to just jump into his arms purring. Which Bodie very much suspects would not be the case.
There’s a sound of bedroom door opening as Doyle walks in.
“What are you doing?” he demands in that weird shouty whispering people use when they’d quite like to be yelling at you but think they shouldn’t. “Do you want to get even sicker? You’re not even wearing a pyjama top!”
And it’s true, Bodie is shirtless. But in his defence, he’d been sweating his fever out most of the night. And also… “I don’t think I even own a pyjama top. Or bottoms for that matter.” He’s currently wearing briefs and nothing else. It may be a little chilly.
“Get into bed right now,” Doyle orders.
Bodie is kind of sad that he’s too ill to properly enjoy hearing that particular command in that particular tone from this particular man. Well, he still enjoys it. Just in a more theoretical sense.
“Damn, sunshine,” he mutters, shuffling back toward the comfort of his mattress, “at least buy me dinner first.”
“Cold meds are the extent of romancing until you can breathe through your nose again,” Doyle replies, not missing a beat.
Bodie thinks about asking if he’s serious but decides he’s too fragile to hear the inevitable denial tonight so settles for hugging his pillow.
“Why were you up?” Ray asks.
“The cat.” Bodie gestures vaguely at the window and on cue Ringo lets out another mournful wail.
Ray sticks his head out of the window too to see. “Aww, the poor bastard,” he says once back in.
“I know. Should we get him?”
Ray shakes his head. “I’ve got a better idea.” He leaves and comes back after ten minutes with a bowlful of cat food which he sets out onto the windowsill, and two cups of chamomile tea, one of which he hands to Bodie. Then he too climbs into the bed.
Bodie blinks at him. The exhaustion is starting to creep up again which is probably good because it makes it easier not to freak out about the whole thing.
“My sofa not good enough for you?” he asks, taking a sip.
“Well, I got to leave the window open for one cat to get in,” Doyle says, “but at the same time I don’t want the other cat sneaking out in the night.” He pats Bodie’s bare thigh absentmindedly before proceeding to drink his tea as if this was completely normal.
And maybe it is. Or maybe Bodie is currently in the midst of an intense fever hallucination. Either way, he decides to just go with it for now.
***
The next time Bodie wakes up, it’s much later in the day. His bed is empty, Doyle’s side not even warm anymore. The cat food has vanished from the bowl and Ringo is crouched on top of his wardrobe, staring at Bodie unblinkingly.
“Good morning,” Bodie croaks. His throat is still scratchy but the fever seems to have broken fully, thank fuck.
From his perch, Ringo lets out a low noise, not quite a growl, not quite a meow, but something in between.
“Couldn’t have said it better myself,” Bodie agrees and starts the slow process of heaving his smelly carcass into the shower.
***
Doyle has to work, which isn’t a chore usually. Doyle likes his job even with the risks – hell probably because of the risks, there isn’t an agent among them who isn’t at least a little bit of an adrenaline junkie and he and Bodie aren’t even the worst – so normally he finds days off more difficult to handle than the days spent doing what he’s good at. But normally, he’s not doing that on his own and stuck behind a desk.
Cowley’s got something lined up for them but apparently it’s not urgent enough to send him in alone or with unfamiliar and untested backup so until Bodie is back on his feet, Ray is kicking his heels by catching up with paperwork and writing a report on the conference he’d attended. He’s bored and he’s worried about his partner, all of which make him less than pleasant to be around, everyone giving him a wide berth after the third irritated grunt they receive in response to an innocent greeting. Doyle feels a little guilty, enough that he’ll probably end up buying cream cakes for everyone next week when he has Bodie to carry them – and he will, because this is just a nasty-cold-maybe-flu and Bodie will be fine – but mostly he feels relieved.
It means that when he finally caves around two in the afternoon and snatches up the desk phone to call Bodie’s number, there is no one near enough to listen in.
The line rings six times before it’s picked up and Ray is half-way into his jacket, ready to sprint out of the door if necessary.
“Hello?”
“Hey,” Ray says and sits his ass back on the creaky office chair. “Just checking that you’re alive.”
“Ray.” Bodie’s voice still sounds rough. “Don’t you have work to do?”
“Nope.” Doyle pops the p just to be annoying. And maybe to hide the relief in his voice. If Bodie is well enough to snark at him, he’s probably okay. Almost. Soon. “Are you resting? Have you eaten? I left the pills in the bathroom, have you taken any?”
“Ray.” Ah, there it is, fond irritation, Doyle’s favourite response to coax out of his partner. One of them, at least. “Go back to work.”
Ray grins. “I’ll see you later,” he says.
Bodie doesn’t argue the point. Instead, he tells Ray to, “Bring some more cat food,” and hangs up.
Doyle dutifully jots it down onto the little shopping list he’s got going, underneath ‘food with actual nutrients in’ and ‘lozenges’.
***
By Thursday Bodie feels merely weak and wrung-out, which is several degrees better than the active aching misery of the first half of the week. He still doesn’t wake up when Doyle gets up, only half-rousing to the feel of a warm palm soothing over his hair and cupping his face briefly, the quiet murmur of “See you later, partner” merging into the hazy dream he’s having, the kind where he remembers no details later, only the soft, unreal feeling of contentment.
The pillow next to his is cold by the time Bodie wakes up properly. Neither of them had addressed the sleeping arrangements out loud last night, but Bodie had left the spare duvet in his bed and his bedroom door open when he’d turned in, lying awake despite the exhaustion until he’d heard the TV turn off and felt the dip of the mattress when Ray had silently climbed next to him.
If Bodie wasn’t still sick enough that his brain feels like congealed oatmeal, he thinks he would be experiencing a much more intense calibre of panic about the whole thing. On principle alone. Then again, if he wasn’t sick, the said thing would never have even occurred. His partner has a heart that’s too soft for his own good, and he’s just worried. That’s all it is.
Probably.
With a groan, Bodie sits up and immediate comes face to face with Ringo. This morning he’s sitting on the dresser, still staring at Bodie in a slightly creepy way.
“Have you just been watching me sleep?” Bodie asks.
The cat’s ears twitch. So does his tail. The little beast has probably been waiting for Bodie to die in the night so he could eat his body.
“Do you want breakfast?” Bodie asks eventually. He feels like an idiot, talking to a cat, but there’s no one around to witness it so… “Ray got you what looks like the most expensive cat food available.”
Ringo gets up, jumps to the floor and stretches, sticking his arse up and in Bodie’s general direction.
“Charming,” Bodie comments, but follows the cat to the kitchen. He’s sort of, almost, hungry himself.
***
Turns out the posh cat food is too rich for Ringo’s stomach, used as it is to supermarket brand, kitchen scraps and whatever vermin he manages to catch on his nightly forays. By the time Doyle comes back from work, Bodie has cleaned up three separate puddles of cat vomit and both he and Ringo are exhausted.
Doyle stands on the doorway, hands on his hips, and surveys the scene with the keen observational focus of a trained agent.
“I see you’ve made friends finally,” he drawls.
Bodie wouldn’t go quite that far, but – like comrades in arms who find affinity through mutual hardship – they are sharing space at least, peacefully if not quite happily; Bodie curled up in one end of the sofa and Ringo in the other, in a sad little ball, his nose tucked under his tail.
Cautiously, Doyle inches closer and strokes a careful finger over Ringo’s head, and then, when that doesn’t result in an instant maiming, he runs the flat of his palm over his back. After a few repeats, a rattly sound, like a rusted tractor engine sputtering to life, emanates from Ringo’s chest.
“Aww,” Doyle coos.
Bodie is, ridiculously, jealous, though he’s not sure if it is of Doyle for getting Ringo to purr or of the cat for getting Doyle’s attention. He makes a grumbly noise himself, just to, you know, remind his partner that he’s here too.
“What happened?” Doyle asks. “Ringo got the flu too?”
Bodie shares their tale of digestive misery and, to his credit, Doyle winces in apology. “I’ll go get more of the cheaper stuff,” he promises. “But why don’t I make dinner first?”
“We can just order a curry or something,” Bodie offers, not because he particularly wants take-away but because this is the third night in a row that Doyle is feeding him and he doesn’t want to get used to it.
“Out of the question,” Doyle says, crossing his arms, “I already bought the ingredients to make you a healthy soup.”
That doesn’t sound especially appetising either, if Bodie is completely honest, but it does come with the bonus of Doyle cooking. Bodie has been too ill to enjoy that before but he’s determined not to miss out anymore.
“I can help,” he says.
Doyle’s raised eyebrows are not exactly flattering but Bodie stares him down. He’s not an invalid! Well. Not anymore.
“Fine,” Ray relents. “You can measure some spices. I’m not trusting you with a knife yet.”
Bodie pouts about it but considering how weak he still feels decides not to argue the point.
Turns out he made the right call. Ray upends a veritable herb garden onto the table in front of him and Bodie measures two teaspoons of this and three of that, according to the instructions Ray tells him. He doesn’t look at a recipe or anything, either having memorised it or just winging it as he goes, tasting the broth he’s got bubbling on the stove regularly. Bodie bets it’s the latter, his partner’s creative side coming through in the culinary arts too.
The upside of not having insisted on cutting up vegetables is getting to watch Doyle do it instead, his hands steady on the knife as he slices carrots and celery and potatoes and other things Bodie would probably know the name of if he cared enough. As it is, he’s fully distracted by the shifting muscles in Doyle’s forearms, the line of his veins disappearing under the sleeves, pushed up to the elbow.
“You falling asleep there partner?” Doyle’s voice is teasing and soft, and even though the sickness still pulls at his body, Bodie feels nothing but warm and safe here in his kitchen, Ray watching him, and watching over him.
“Dreaming of your cooking,” Bodie answers. It’s true. Just. Not all of it.
Doyle hums and swipes bowl of herbs from the table, dropping the contents into the pan.
The soup is delicious. They sleep in the same bed again, Bodie on his side, propped up by several extra pillows to make breathing easier, and Ray curled up behind him, his knuckles pressing against the knobs of Bodie’s spine, steady little points of pressure and presence, reminding Bodie that he’s not alone.
***
By Friday, Bodie is well enough to be bored. He calls Ray at work no less than five times.
First it is to inform him that he’s woken up to find Ringo asleep on the bed.
“That’s good,” Rays says fighting to keep his voice normal and turning his chair so that he’s facing the wall rather than rest of the office. It wouldn’t do for anyone to see the absolutely sappy smile on his face right now. “Where is he now?”
“Still on the bed,” Bodie says. “He let me stroke him!”
Ray stuffs a fist into his mouth so as not to coo out loud. After a couple of minutes listening to Bodie comment on the stage of Ringo’s fur, he manages to compose himself enough to promise to pop by a pet store and get a brush on his way home. He hangs up, turns around, and almost has a heart attack, finding Betty standing by his desk with a thick folder in her hands.
“Jesus Christ!” Doyle exclaims. “How are you so silent on those heels?”
Betty smiles serenely but doesn’t answer. She also doesn’t comment on Doyle using work time to have what was very clearly a non-work-related conversation with his partner, even though she clearly heard most of it, which is somehow worse than any reprimand or teasing she could’ve dished out.
“Uh,” Ray clears his throat, heart still jackrabbiting in his chest, “What can I do for you?”
“Read these,” Betty says and unceremoniously dumps the file onto the desk in front of Ray. “Cowley wants a plan A by the end of the day, and plans B to…” She tilts her head, considering, “…let’s say at least to plan F, by Monday morning. Do you think Agent 3.7 will be able to join you by then for a proper briefing?”
“Yeah,” Ray says, nodding with confidence he doesn’t necessarily feel, “Yes. He should be… We’ll be there.”
“Excellent. Carry on then.” Betty turns on his – impressive – heels and walks off, somehow still eerily silent.
Bodie calls again less than thirty minutes later.
“He’s not eating.”
Doyle does not need to ask who Bodie is referring to.
“Did you give him the food he’s familiar with?” As promised, he’d gone out after the dinner to buy more of the cat food Ringo was used to.
“Yes, but he just sniffed at it and walked away.” Bodie sounds worried.
“Maybe he’s not hungry yet,” Doyle suggests.
“I can’t let Mrs Goodwin’s cat starve! What if never eats again? What if I poisoned him for good and he’ll just waste away and Mrs Goodwin is going to like, haunt me, in revenge?”
Doyle pinches the bridge of his nose in exasperation, which, whilst strong, is still not enough to best the overwhelming wave of affection he feels hearing his tough as nails partner fret about a cat.
“He was sick to his stomach yesterday,” Doyle reminds him gently. “You don’t feel like a big meal after throwing up either, do you?”
After a few more reassurances, Bodie reluctantly hangs up and Ray gets back to the papers Betty had left.
Two hours later, Bodie calls again, to triumphantly inform Doyle that both he and Ringo are enjoying their lunches. Apparently, Ray’s soup is even better heated up and – Ray suspects – now that Bodie’s nose has mostly unblocked and he can taste it more.
The next break between calls is long enough for Ray to grab a sandwich himself and get almost halfway through the file. He has a notebook full of scribbles and some ideas, but nothing very concrete yet. So ,when Bodie calls again, he’s actually pleased about the distraction. And the help.
“Okay,” he says, “if you’re bored enough to harass me, you’re well enough to use that big brain of yours.”
“It’s not the size that matters,” Bodie answers on cue, “it’s what you do with it.”
Ray rolls his eyes at the worn joke. “Well, right now I’d like your take on our next case.”
He can almost see the way Bodie straightens up at the other end of the line. “Lay it on me, partner,” he says, sounding more alert than he has in days.
Ray does. He keeps it broad strokes, not mentioning any details or names, even though they are on a secure line, and they hash out plans for a good half an hour until he can hear the exhaustion creeping back into Bodie’s voice.
“Go take a nap,” he suggests finally, pleased with the progress they’ve done. “I’ve got to type some of this up ready for Cowley anyway.”
Bodie yawns. “Ringo’s on the bed again,” he complains.
“So?” Doyle laughs. “Pretty sure he’ll let you share. Or take the sofa if you don’t want to risk rejection.” He hangs up while Bodie is still spluttering about not caring about opinions of a cat, which is such a blatant lie it doesn’t even warrant a rebuke.
The meeting with Cowley runs over the allocated time by another hour, and it’s almost six by the time Ray finally escapes his office. The building is mostly empty, those working the desk like him this week having already scattered to homes and pubs around the capital and those on the field… Well, presumably still working. He’s just pulling on his jacket when the desk phone rings, and Doyle snatches the receiver up.
“Doyle?” Bodie’s voice is tight with worry that warms Ray up from the inside.
“Yeah, mate,” he reassures, “I’m just leaving. The Cow was taking his time chewing over all the implication and what ifs of the new case.”
“Okay, I was just… Uh, calling because we’re out of milk.”
Not ‘I’m out of milk’ but ‘we’re out of milk’. The two of them. It’s the stupidest thing, doesn’t even mean anything, just a slip of the tongue since Ray has been staying over for the week, but it still catches him hard, like an elbow jab to the chest.
“I’ll get some on the way,” Ray says automatically, hoping his voice doesn’t waver quite as badly as his thoughts are.
It’s not until he’s in the shop he remembers that he had brought in two pints last night so unless Bodie has been guzzling it down all day, Bodie had been reaching for an excuse and grabbed one that wouldn’t hold water. Or milk.
He buys more anyway, just a small one though, and puts it in the fridge next to the other two bottles, without a comment.
He also eats the takeaway Bodie has ordered with nothing but a quiet thanks. Normally, they’d be down at a pub by now, talking each other into finding a club to hit later, but Ray finds that he doesn’t really miss it, sitting side by side on the sofa, shoulders pressed together while the BBC news drowns on in the background and Ringo tries to steal a piece of chicken from the discarded food container.
***
“I can’t keep him,” Bodie sighs.
It’s Saturday morning and they are sitting at the kitchen table, drinking tea and watching Ringo devour his breakfast with the ferocity of a small bear.
“I just… I’m not home enough.” He’s been thinking about it for a while, but this is the first time he says it out loud.
“What are you going to do?” Doyle doesn’t argue against the conclusion, which tells Bodie it’s the correct one.
“I don’t know.”
Ray hesitates, fiddling with the spoon. “Could take him to Battersea,” he suggests tentatively. “I hear they’re really good. He might get rehomed quickly.”
Everything in Bodie recoils at the idea of dropping Ringo at a rescue, no matter how excellent, like an unwanted gift. Which, okay, technically he is, or at least was, but it still feels bad and not just because Bodie’s fear of Mrs Goodwin’s ghosting coming to haunt him is only half in jest.
He’s shaking his head almost before Ray stops talking. “No. Or, at least, not yet.”
“Then what?” His partner gets up to make him another cuppa, spooning in a generous helping of honey – “For your immune system!” – and placing it in front of him with a pointed nudge.
Dutifully, Bodie takes a sip. His throat is much better but the tea is still nice, and the fact that Ray is making it nicer still. The conversation about the Ringo Problem is difficult enough but it’s still miles better than the other one he feels they ought to be having, about how maybe Ray should go back to his own flat because Bodie is quite capable of taking care of himself again. And also because he’s getting dangerously used to having Ray with him all the time.
He just can’t figure out how to say any of that without either saying the whole thing or Doyle thinking he’s sick of his company when the opposite is true.
Better to talk about Ringo.
“You don’t know anyone who would like a cranky old tomcat, do you?” Bodie asks.
In truth, Ringo isn’t even that cranky anymore. He still goes and scratches at Mrs Goodwin’s windows a bit but that’s understandable, and he’s warmed up to both of them enough to allow occasional strokes. There haven’t even been any more smelly puddles anywhere, as Ringo has clearly resumed his usual routine of doing his business outside.
To his credit, Doyle looks like he’s giving the question proper consideration but after a few minutes of silent thinking time he still shakes his head sadly.
They sigh in unison. On the floor, Ringo flips his empty bowl, metal rattling against the floor tiles, bits of cat food flying everywhere.
“You did that on purpose,” Bodie says. It comes out more impressed than accusatory.
Ray laughs. “Think he wants more.” He picks up the bowl, adds more cat food into it and wipes Bodie’s floor clean.
“Wow.” Bodie puts his mug down decisively. “We need to get out of this flat before that cat conditions us into fulltime servitude.”
“Oh?” Doyle looks over his shoulder from where he is rinsing the dishrag at the sink. “Are you sure—?”
“Ray.” Bodie gets up and reaches around Doyle to shut the tap. “Let’s go for a walk.”
***
Bodie’s putting on a good front about being fully recovered, but Doyle can read him like a book – better, in fact – and he can see the way Bodie’s stride shortens long before they are even halfway through their circuit of a nearby park, his posture hunching from very clearly feeling tired, even though the expression on his face doesn’t betray any of it.
Ray says nothing, only slows down and steers them toward the nearest bench. It’s a warm day and the park is packed with families, kids running around, dogs barking, couples strolling here and there. He joins the queue for some ice-cream and returns to Bodie triumphant. It’s definitely not the most nutritious thing for the body, but sometimes the mind needs a little healing too, and the way Bodie’s whole face lights up at the sight of the treat tells Doyle he’d made the right call.
They sit and people watch for much longer than the ice-creams last. Ray is still mentally going through all his acquaintances and distant family, trying to think if any of them would be delighted to offer Ringo a home, so when Bodie finally breaks the silence, he startles a bit.
“You ever want that?” Bodie asks.
“Huh? What?”
Bodie nods subtly toward the left and Ray follows his line of sight to a young family; one kid sitting on dad’s shoulders, the other one in a pram pushed by the mum. They are all smiling, radiant in the sunlight, the perfect family portrait.
Ray shrugs. “I used to. But maybe it was just because that’s what I was expected to want.”
Bodie hums. “You could still have it,” he says, eyes on the scenery rather than on Ray. “It’s not like it’s too late. You could find a nice girl, get a brood of little curly-haired rascals, ask Cowley to switch you to something less dangerous…” He trails off.
“I could,” Ray concedes. He’d be lying if he hadn’t thought of that, on or off over the years. Less so since Bodie joined CI5 though. Less and less every year they’ve spent being partnered together. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t know why that was either. “But I’m not going to.”
It’s almost imperceptible except Ray’s attention is all on Bodie, and he catches the slight relaxation of his shoulders, the way the smile on his face smooths from practiced to genuine.
“You know why?” Doyle asks because fuck it, they’ve been sharing a life for years now and sharing a bed for better part of the week and apparently co-parenting a cat so…
Bodie turns to look at him, something sharp and wary in his eyes, his expression carefully neutral.
“Do tell, sunshine.” His voice is mild, unlike literally everything else about him.
The feeling is the same Doyle gets just before walking into a new op, the same zing of anticipation jolting through him like electricity, the same thump-thump-thump of his heart because you never know if you’re going to be shot down…
“Got everything I need right here, don’t I?” Ray says, and it’s a declaration and a question both.
…or if you’re going to be safe as can be, because the groundwork you and your partner laid down is rock solid, something to trust your life on.
“Yeah,” Bodie breathes out. “Yes. I…” His fingers warm and sticky with ice-cream when he reaches over to squeeze Ray’s hand, quick but strong. Sure. “Me too.”
***
“You’re going to get sick,” Bodie feels obliged to point out once they are back behind the closed doors. Except his fingers are already tangled in Ray’s curls, their breaths already mingling in the barely-there-and-closing-fast distance between their mouths so really, that ship has probably sailed but… “I’m definitely still infectious.”
“Bodie,” Ray murmurs, “I really don’t care.” His hands are sliding under Bodie’s jumper, the touch making him shiver worse, better, than even the flu managed. “I think maybe you are just coming up with excuses not to.” The words are teasing but there’s a kernel of real worry there and Bodie can’t let it stand. “Maybe you don’t—”
Bodie does. A lot. Several times, in fact.
Ringo, who is locked outside the bedroom and its open window, pisses in Bodie’s shoes this time.
***
By Sunday evening, Bodie is feeling almost like himself. Doyle, however, and as predicted, is definitely coming down with a cold-maybe-flu.
“I told you so,” Bodie says because he’s physically incapable of not doing so.
“And I still don’t care,” Doyle answers from under the quilt before sneezing three times in a row. “Come here and keep me warm,” he demands.
“I thought Ringo was doing that?” The cat is curled on Doyle’s lap, kneading at his thighs in a way that would be painful if not for the thick woolly cover over them.
“Warmer than that.”
Obediently, Bodie goes to curl around Doyle since his lap is occupied.
***
Doyle expects some kind of backlash, at least a disappointed sigh, when he calls sick on Monday, but Betty only tells them both to stay away until they are fully germ free, Cowley’s orders.
It’s not exactly a holiday since Doyle is very decidedly sick and Bodie is still recovering himself, but there’s comfort in it nonetheless, being able to spend a few more days just the two of them – sorry, three – and cement the new normal.
When they finally return to work, the slow-burner of a case has apparently reached a boiling point and Cowley wants them both in Glasgow within a day.
Bodie and Doyle look at each other.
“Gentlemen,” Cowley says in tones that suggest that he does not, in fact, consider either of them to be a gentleman, “Is there a problem?”
“Uhhh… Yes. Just a small one,” Doyle says, then reconsiders. “Well, medium-to-large I guess. Sort of… chunky, really, this problem.”
Cowley glares at him, patience clearly waning
Bodie hastily jumps in to intervene, throwing Cowley his most winning smile, even though it hasn’t, to this day, won a lot with their boss. “Sir,” he says, “by any chance… Are you allergic to cats?”
Cowley is not. He is, however, apparently desperate enough to get his best agents on this particular case to accept temporary custody of their adopted furry son.
“Please stop referring to Ringo like that,” Doyle hisses as they are leaving.
“Sure,” Bodie promises, “when it stops being funny.”
Doyle sighs. But importantly, he laughs too, which just goes to prove Bodie’s point.
***
Three weeks later, they are back from the assignment – a bit bloodied but mostly intact – and Bodie saunters into Cowley’s office to enquire as to when he should come and collect Ringo.
“Ah,” Cowley says, leafing through the papers on his desk. “I’ve actually got another case here for you and your partner. Once you’ve taken a day or two to rest up.” He casts a piercing glance at Bodie from above his glasses. “It might be better if Ringo stays where he is, for the time being. Environmental stability is important to feline wellbeing.”
Bodie stops himself from silently mouthing ‘environmental stability’ but it’s a near thing. “Uhh,” he says instead, intelligently, and then, because it’s an answer that’s gotten him out of immediate trouble more than once in his life, “Yes, sir.”
He’s not hundred percent happy about it, he has to admit, he’s kind of the missed the little orange bugger. And he’s pretty sure Ray has already stocked up on cat food. He’ll be disappointed. Possibly even pout a bit, which is devastating to Bodie’s state of mind at the best of times.
Cowley is watching him with something that could be a wry smile if such a thing had the requisite security clearance to appear on his face.
“However,” he continues, “next month I have an unavoidable trip abroad. Ringo will need somewhere to stay.” Cowley raises a meaningful and somewhat bushy eyebrow at him.
“Yes, sir,” Bodie repeats, this time more cheerfully. “I’ll let Ray… I mean, Agent 4.5 and I will see to it. Sir.”
“Very good.” He stares at Bodie for a beat or two before raising the other eyebrow at him as well. “Dismissed, agent.”
“Ah, yes,” Bodie says. “Goodnight, sir.” He executes a neat heel turn and walks out.
He’s got to go tell Doyle now that they won’t be seeing whisker or tail of Ringo for a little while yet, but on the plus side… He gets to go home to tell him that, because that’s where Ray will be, in Bodie’s flat, quite likely with a dinner waiting. And then later, he’ll be in Bodie’s bed, all warm skin and wicked smirks.
And no cat to scratch at the bedroom door, demanding to be let in at the most inconvenient times either.
Bodie brightens and his pace picks up, a jaunty whistle replacing the earlier frown. Perhaps this shared custody system comes with some perks after all, once that he will just have to explain to his partner. Thoroughly.
Possibly with a practical demonstration.
***
Title: Feline Fine (Eventually)
Author:
kat_lair, Fandom: The Professionals
Pairing: Bodie/Doyle
Tags: Fluff, Influenza, Common Cold, Illnesses, Hurt/Comfort, Domestic Fluff, Getting Together, Pets, Accidental Cat Acquisition
Rating: T
Word count: 8,196
Summary: In which Bodie gets a terrible cold and a terrible cat. In the same week.
Author notes: I picked this pinch-hit from
epidemfic because at least I knew the fandom even if I haven't written a lot in it! But, I had two Pros fandom olds (I mean that respectfully, please don't swat me with a rolled-up newspaper!) in my corner: moth2fic and pushkin666 are to be thanked for making sure the end result isn't wildly anarchronistic! claire_cz's prompt of 'taking care of a cat together' (loved it!) and combined that with domestic fluff and relatively mild illness as requested. Feline Fine (Eventually) on AO3
On Monday Bodie wakes up to someone banging on his door. It matches the banging inside his head almost perfectly, the backs of his eyes throbbing to the rhythm, little spots of colour dancing across his vision. It’s like being in the world’s worst discotheque and he hates it immediately and wholeheartedly.
“Hang on!” he shouts, trying to untangle himself from the quilt and figure out how his legs work because apparently, somewhere between falling asleep on his sofa and waking up to whatever emergency is waiting for him outside his door, he’s forgotten how to stand without his knees buckling and his muscles screaming.
The banging outside the door stops. The banging inside his head tragically does not.
If standing had proven challenging, walking feels like attempting a marathon. On his knees. Whilst wearing scuba diving gear. He’s wobbly and disoriented, sounds all muted and wavering and if he wasn’t one hundred percent certain that he hadn’t actually eaten anything last night, he’d suspect being poisoned.
Bodie makes it to the door, doesn’t even try looking through the peephole – frankly, if some terrorist with a grudge has tracked him down, they are welcome to take a shot and put him out of his misery – and on the third attempt manages to unlock and open it.
On the other side of it he finds Mrs Weston, tears streaming down her face.
A lady in distress is one of those triggers that Bodie is conditioned to react to and even now it’s enough to dispel some of the fog in his brain.
“What’s happened?” he asks, looking behind her in some alarm.
“It’s mum,” Mrs Weston sniffs. “She…” A shaky exhale, fresh tears welling at her eyes. “She passed away over the weekend.”
Mrs Weston’s mum is Mrs Goodwin, Bodie’s next door neighbour. He doesn’t usually stay at one place long enough to even learn people’s names but apparently intelligence had deemed his current digs safe because he’s lived here long enough for Mrs Goodwin to take an interest. She’s – was, fuck – a wiry old lady with a collection of outlandish aprons, several opinions about the world that she hadn’t been shy about sharing, and five grandchildren. Bodie knows all of them by name thanks to the photo parade he had to sit through every time he popped over to help with odd jobs or carry groceries or eat his way through another batch of homemade biscuits. He had genuinely liked the woman so the “I’m sorry to hear that, your mum was a great lady,” is sincere, if a bit congested.
Mrs Weston nods. “She was. We…” She visibly collects herself, blowing her nose on a white hanky. “Anyway. I’m here about Ringo.”
Ringo was Mrs Goodwin’s cat. He was large, orange, and battle-scarred. Whilst he did not care about aprons or biscuits, he too had many, many opinions which he bestowed upon the world via the medium of regular yowling.
Bodie did not much care for Ringo.
“Uhh, what?” His body, which had briefly rallied thanks to the adrenaline spike, feels like a sack of mouldy potatoes once more. The headache is making him squint and wish for sunglasses even in the wan light of the early morning.
“Well, you see,” Mrs Weston wrings her hands, “Joe’s allergic,” she says, referring to her youngest son. “And Bobby,” her brother, Mrs Goodwin’s hotshot doctor son, “can’t take him either. Shiftwork, you know.”
Bodie opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He can see where this is going and if he had his usual wits about him, he’d be able to point out that no matter Dr Robert Goodwin’s shifts, they were nothing compared to his own unpredictable work patterns, but as it is, he’s defenceless.
“Mum always spoke so highly of you. And she told me you adored Ringo.” The first one is probably the truth – Bodie had made himself useful and pleasant, and not just for the biscuits – but the second one was definitely a lie. He and Ringo had mostly avoided each other and Mrs Goodwin had been wise enough not to push either of them on the issue.
“No,” he says, clearing his throat and wincing at the scratchiness. “I don’t think…”
But Mrs Weston is not listening. “She would rest in peace knowing Ringo is well looked after,” she says which is a low blow, but an effective one. “Thank you so much.” Her smile is wobbly as she reaches behind her and hands Bodie a plastic bag full of cat food and… a picnic basket?
“Mum didn’t have a proper cat carrier,” Mrs Weston says apologetically. “We had to improvise. I don’t think he likes it there though.”
The picnic basket Bodie is holding at arms-length is heavy and unbalanced. A low, ominous growl emits from its depths.
Duty dispatched, Mrs Weston doesn’t linger. She promises to let Bodie know about the funeral and then she’s gone, the sharp click of her heels fading down the stairs. With no other options, Bodie shuffles back into the flat and leans against his door to close it. The bag of cat foot tins rattles to the ground but he manages not to drop Ringo’s basket, instead carefully depositing it by the shoe rack while he tries to marshal his thoughts into some kind of order.
Right. Item one. He is probably not dying, even though feels like he is. The muscle ache, the headache, the way he can only breathe in through one nostril and the burning in his throat point toward a cold. Maybe even flu. Brilliant deduction. Move over Sherlock Holmes.
Except maybe not. Maybe Sherlock Holmes can fill in for him today because there is no way on God’s green earth Bodie is going to make it to work today. He gropes around until he finds the phone on the hallway table and makes the call. At least they don’t have an active case right now and Bodie isn’t leaving his partner in the lurch.
That done, he forces his body to keep moving. Eyes half-lidded to minimise the light exposure, Bodie makes a pit stop to the bathroom, avoiding the mirror and blessedly finding some aspirin under the sink and drinking water straight from the tap to swallow it down.
He feels woozy and probably should eat something but he’s pretty sure that there isn’t much that’s edible in the kitchen and going out to the corner shop is an impossibility. Sleep is high on the agenda but first he needs to deal with…
Item two. Mrs Goodwin is dead. And Bodie is genuinely sad about that, he is, enough that he thinks he at least ought to try and keep her cat alive to the best of his ability. Which, admittedly, is not great right now in general, nor when it comes to cats in particular. Still, how hard can it be?
Somewhat shakily, he finds two bowls in the kitchen, fills one with water and another with the dry mix he finds in the bag. The hand-eye coordination needed to operate a tin opener is beyond him right now, so it’ll have to do. There’s no litter tray among Ringo’s things but Bodie remembers Mrs Goodwin letting the cat in and out on the regular basis so he cracks open the bedroom window. There’s a fire-escape. Good enough.
Bodie regards the picnic basket with some trepidation. It’s silent for the time being, and still, but none of that fills him with confidence. Because there is no one here to see him, and because he doesn’t particularly want to be scratched to ribbons and get rabies on top of everything, Bodie snags the umbrella from its hook and uses it to ease the lid open.
Nothing happens.
Cautiously, Bodie nudges the basket with the tip of the umbrella. In response, the basket hisses at him.
“Fine,” he croaks. “Suit yourself.” He leaves the basket in the hallway and goes to pass out on the sofa.
***
Doyle gets back from Manchester – some kind of security tech expo he’d gone to because Macklin had an extra ticket since Towser had to stay behind unexpectedly, and, well the ale up north was good – in the early hours of Tuesday. Technically, he has a day off but practically he’s bored by ten a.m. and also, maybe, missing his partner a bit, so he decides to swing by the headquarters anyway on the pretence of dropping off the fat pile of glossy brochures he’d procured on all the latest in how to spy people or kill people. Fun stuff.
He expects to find Bodie at his desk cursing at the paperwork or in the canteen flirting with the tea ladies or at the firing range in the basement or in Cowley’s office getting briefed because maybe something has come up and…
“He called in sick,” Betty, Cowley’s secretary, says, not looking up from the typewriter.
“Cowley?” Ray asks, somewhat bewildered.
“No, your slightly larger, just as annoying shadow,” Betty answers, pulling a finished letter out with more violence than it strictly speaking needs. “Sounded rough. Didn’t think he was faking it this time to cover for a hangover or a new lady friend.”
Doyle executes a neat heel turn and marches back to his own desk, using the phone there to call Bodie’s home number. He lets it ring for six, ten, fifteen times, then puts the receiver down, dials again and waits for twice as long. Shit. Shit.
By the time he’s driven to Bodie’s, it’s lunchtime. He takes the stairs two at a time and doesn’t bother knocking, just uses his spare key to let himself in. Two things hit him at once: the upturned picnic basket left carelessly by the threshold that tangles itself under his feet until he goes down with a resounding curse, and a pervasive and extremely pungent smell of cat urine.
“What the hell?” Ray asks the universe at large and the carpet under his face. Neither is forthcoming with an answer.
“Bodie?” he calls, scrambling to his feet. “You in, buddy?”
There’s no reply and the five seconds it takes Doyle to round the corner to the lounge is long enough for the cold pit of fear open up at the bottom of his stomach. ‘Sick’ being a cover for ‘I’m being held at gunpoint by criminals’ or, possibly, ‘actively bleeding out from being shot’ is not very likely even in their line of work, Doyle can recognise that, like with his rational thinking hat on. However, it’s not impossible either and right now, several days without having laid eyes or hands on his partner, Ray is perhaps jumping to the worst conclusions more readily.
To his relief, he finds Bodie on the sofa, the signs of life immediate and obvious in form of wet snoring. It sounds objectively disgusting, but Doyle can’t be anything but happy about it. And if his fingers land on the pulse point by the side of Bodie’s neck as he’s gently shaking his partner awake by the shoulder, then that’s nobody’s business but his.
“Hey, hey, wake up mate.” Normally, Ray would think twice about waking Bodie unexpectedly, certainly from a punching distance, but right now it’s obvious that the ‘I’m sick’ call had been nothing but the truth. The man looks flushed, sweat beading up in his hairlines, skin unnaturally warm against Doyle’s hand.
And when he finally does return to consciousness it’s with a pitiful whine and squinted eyes.
“Son of a… Ray? That you? What…?”
He manages to sit up with Ray’s help, if somewhat unsteadily. “I feel like shit,” he says.
“I’m not gonna lie, mate,” Doyle says, “you also look like it.” He presses the back of his hand to Bodie’s forehead. “You’re running a fever,” he announces. “Have you taken anything? And also,” because the topic is entirely unavoidable, “why does your flat stink of cat piss?”
Bodie blinks at him. “Does it? I don’t really…” He tries to take a deep breath through his nose but very clearly doesn’t manage it.
“Unexpected silver lining,” Doyle mutters. “Hey, where are you…?”
Bodie has suddenly lurched to his feet, grasping Ray’s shoulder almost painfully hard in an effort not to fall flat on his face immediately.
“Piss,” he announces. “You said piss and I realised I really, really got to.”
A few minutes later, Bodie is back. “I figured out the source of the smell,” he says despondently. His socks are wet.
After some discussion, Doyle manages to convince his stubborn ass partner that whilst one can, technically, tough it out when this ill, one really, really shouldn’t unless they want to be tied to the bed and spoon-fed some soup. Bodie tries to make a lewd joke about it, but even he can’t pull off seductive with a runny nose and corpse-like pallor. With a sigh of what is probably meant to sound like frustration but seems more like relief, he settles back onto the sofa while Ray deals with the bathroom situation. In truth, he takes one look at the bathroom mat and puts it straight into a binbag, before scrubbing the floor.
Afterwards he makes Bodie drink orange juice “For the vitamins!” and take some paracetamol, both of which Doyle had to go to the corner shop for.
“The state of your cupboards is a disgrace,” he comments while he makes Bodie two slices of toast with jam, both of which – you guessed it – he had to also buy from the corner shop. The kitchen itself is immaculately tidy and clean, there’s just not much in the way of food in it. “Man can’t live on mustard and instant coffee alone.”
The fact that Bodie doesn’t argue back is discouraging. Doyle cuts the toast into small triangles and tries not to worry. It’s just flu.
But still, seeing Bodie like this is…
It’s not great. The memories it evokes, of Bodie bleeding, of Bodie in the hospital bed… Not great.
The butterknife in his hand bends, somewhat mangling the toast in the process.
Bodie doesn’t comment on the aesthetics of his snack. Possibly because he’s not paying that much attention to it, and certainly shows no indication of putting it into his mouth.
“If you don’t eat that,” Doyle threatens, “I’m calling one of the docs CI5 has on its list.”
Bodie makes a face but takes a bite. Chewing looks like an effort, but Ray would bet good money his partner hasn’t eaten anything for a while, and as much as being sick kills the appetite, getting weak from hunger, even if unfelt, won’t help with the recovery.
“Thank you,” Ray says, because he knows for a fact Bodie is only eating his food to stop him from worrying. It doesn’t work of course, Doyle still worries, just… maybe a little bit less.
Time to change the topic. “Well, your cat—”
“It’s not my cat,” Bodie mumbles around a mouthful of bread.
“—the cat is moderately considerate,” Ray continues smoothly. “It could’ve pissed in your bed or shoes, but I’ve checked, and every other room seems intact.”
Bodie gives a sardonic thumbs up at the news.
“Anyway. Since when do you have a cat?” Ray asks.
“I don’t have a—”
“Why is there a cat in your flat?” Doyle rephrases with an eyeroll.
Bodie explains.
“Right,” Doyle says. He thinks about biting down on the smile that’s trying to steal over his face but in the end doesn’t bother. “We’ve established that you are a soft touch when it comes to damsels and felines in distress.”
Bodie huffs.
“Just one question though,” Ray continues. “Where is it?”
***
Bodie finds Ringo on Wednesday morning around five thirty. He wakes up – from his bed this time around because Doyle had gently bullied him into it last night – to the sound of scratching and plaintive meowing outside the window. It takes him a few tries to fumble the light on and himself upright. His body still feels like he’s been a few rounds with Macklin and the room sways a little before settling when he stands up. Being fed and watered yesterday by his mother hen of a partner, however, makes it easier to conquer the momentous task of walking up to his window and sticking his head through the crack.
It's late enough in the spring that the pale morning light provides good enough visibility to find his windowsill, and the fire-escape next to it, empty. Bodie shivers in the chilly air, confused. Then another indignant meow draws his attention. Stretching his upper body out of the window, he can see Ringo sitting on the sill outside Mrs Goodwin’s bedroom window on the other side of the fire escape, scratching to be let in.
There’s no one home to do that anymore.
“Oh mate,” Bodie sighs. “I miss her too.” And he does, the loss settling in as the initial shock and fugue of his illness has cleared at least a little bit. He hasn’t lived in one place long enough to get to know the neighbours often, and Mrs Goodwin was a good woman, kind in a way Bodie hasn’t experienced much in his life
Ringo spares him a glance and continues trying to claw his way through the familiar window.
Bodie considers climbing out into the fire escape to physically get him but the fever hasn’t burned out quite all of his braincells no matter what his partner claims. The sad truth is that he’s not at all sure he’s up to the task even if Ringo were to just jump into his arms purring. Which Bodie very much suspects would not be the case.
There’s a sound of bedroom door opening as Doyle walks in.
“What are you doing?” he demands in that weird shouty whispering people use when they’d quite like to be yelling at you but think they shouldn’t. “Do you want to get even sicker? You’re not even wearing a pyjama top!”
And it’s true, Bodie is shirtless. But in his defence, he’d been sweating his fever out most of the night. And also… “I don’t think I even own a pyjama top. Or bottoms for that matter.” He’s currently wearing briefs and nothing else. It may be a little chilly.
“Get into bed right now,” Doyle orders.
Bodie is kind of sad that he’s too ill to properly enjoy hearing that particular command in that particular tone from this particular man. Well, he still enjoys it. Just in a more theoretical sense.
“Damn, sunshine,” he mutters, shuffling back toward the comfort of his mattress, “at least buy me dinner first.”
“Cold meds are the extent of romancing until you can breathe through your nose again,” Doyle replies, not missing a beat.
Bodie thinks about asking if he’s serious but decides he’s too fragile to hear the inevitable denial tonight so settles for hugging his pillow.
“Why were you up?” Ray asks.
“The cat.” Bodie gestures vaguely at the window and on cue Ringo lets out another mournful wail.
Ray sticks his head out of the window too to see. “Aww, the poor bastard,” he says once back in.
“I know. Should we get him?”
Ray shakes his head. “I’ve got a better idea.” He leaves and comes back after ten minutes with a bowlful of cat food which he sets out onto the windowsill, and two cups of chamomile tea, one of which he hands to Bodie. Then he too climbs into the bed.
Bodie blinks at him. The exhaustion is starting to creep up again which is probably good because it makes it easier not to freak out about the whole thing.
“My sofa not good enough for you?” he asks, taking a sip.
“Well, I got to leave the window open for one cat to get in,” Doyle says, “but at the same time I don’t want the other cat sneaking out in the night.” He pats Bodie’s bare thigh absentmindedly before proceeding to drink his tea as if this was completely normal.
And maybe it is. Or maybe Bodie is currently in the midst of an intense fever hallucination. Either way, he decides to just go with it for now.
***
The next time Bodie wakes up, it’s much later in the day. His bed is empty, Doyle’s side not even warm anymore. The cat food has vanished from the bowl and Ringo is crouched on top of his wardrobe, staring at Bodie unblinkingly.
“Good morning,” Bodie croaks. His throat is still scratchy but the fever seems to have broken fully, thank fuck.
From his perch, Ringo lets out a low noise, not quite a growl, not quite a meow, but something in between.
“Couldn’t have said it better myself,” Bodie agrees and starts the slow process of heaving his smelly carcass into the shower.
***
Doyle has to work, which isn’t a chore usually. Doyle likes his job even with the risks – hell probably because of the risks, there isn’t an agent among them who isn’t at least a little bit of an adrenaline junkie and he and Bodie aren’t even the worst – so normally he finds days off more difficult to handle than the days spent doing what he’s good at. But normally, he’s not doing that on his own and stuck behind a desk.
Cowley’s got something lined up for them but apparently it’s not urgent enough to send him in alone or with unfamiliar and untested backup so until Bodie is back on his feet, Ray is kicking his heels by catching up with paperwork and writing a report on the conference he’d attended. He’s bored and he’s worried about his partner, all of which make him less than pleasant to be around, everyone giving him a wide berth after the third irritated grunt they receive in response to an innocent greeting. Doyle feels a little guilty, enough that he’ll probably end up buying cream cakes for everyone next week when he has Bodie to carry them – and he will, because this is just a nasty-cold-maybe-flu and Bodie will be fine – but mostly he feels relieved.
It means that when he finally caves around two in the afternoon and snatches up the desk phone to call Bodie’s number, there is no one near enough to listen in.
The line rings six times before it’s picked up and Ray is half-way into his jacket, ready to sprint out of the door if necessary.
“Hello?”
“Hey,” Ray says and sits his ass back on the creaky office chair. “Just checking that you’re alive.”
“Ray.” Bodie’s voice still sounds rough. “Don’t you have work to do?”
“Nope.” Doyle pops the p just to be annoying. And maybe to hide the relief in his voice. If Bodie is well enough to snark at him, he’s probably okay. Almost. Soon. “Are you resting? Have you eaten? I left the pills in the bathroom, have you taken any?”
“Ray.” Ah, there it is, fond irritation, Doyle’s favourite response to coax out of his partner. One of them, at least. “Go back to work.”
Ray grins. “I’ll see you later,” he says.
Bodie doesn’t argue the point. Instead, he tells Ray to, “Bring some more cat food,” and hangs up.
Doyle dutifully jots it down onto the little shopping list he’s got going, underneath ‘food with actual nutrients in’ and ‘lozenges’.
***
By Thursday Bodie feels merely weak and wrung-out, which is several degrees better than the active aching misery of the first half of the week. He still doesn’t wake up when Doyle gets up, only half-rousing to the feel of a warm palm soothing over his hair and cupping his face briefly, the quiet murmur of “See you later, partner” merging into the hazy dream he’s having, the kind where he remembers no details later, only the soft, unreal feeling of contentment.
The pillow next to his is cold by the time Bodie wakes up properly. Neither of them had addressed the sleeping arrangements out loud last night, but Bodie had left the spare duvet in his bed and his bedroom door open when he’d turned in, lying awake despite the exhaustion until he’d heard the TV turn off and felt the dip of the mattress when Ray had silently climbed next to him.
If Bodie wasn’t still sick enough that his brain feels like congealed oatmeal, he thinks he would be experiencing a much more intense calibre of panic about the whole thing. On principle alone. Then again, if he wasn’t sick, the said thing would never have even occurred. His partner has a heart that’s too soft for his own good, and he’s just worried. That’s all it is.
Probably.
With a groan, Bodie sits up and immediate comes face to face with Ringo. This morning he’s sitting on the dresser, still staring at Bodie in a slightly creepy way.
“Have you just been watching me sleep?” Bodie asks.
The cat’s ears twitch. So does his tail. The little beast has probably been waiting for Bodie to die in the night so he could eat his body.
“Do you want breakfast?” Bodie asks eventually. He feels like an idiot, talking to a cat, but there’s no one around to witness it so… “Ray got you what looks like the most expensive cat food available.”
Ringo gets up, jumps to the floor and stretches, sticking his arse up and in Bodie’s general direction.
“Charming,” Bodie comments, but follows the cat to the kitchen. He’s sort of, almost, hungry himself.
***
Turns out the posh cat food is too rich for Ringo’s stomach, used as it is to supermarket brand, kitchen scraps and whatever vermin he manages to catch on his nightly forays. By the time Doyle comes back from work, Bodie has cleaned up three separate puddles of cat vomit and both he and Ringo are exhausted.
Doyle stands on the doorway, hands on his hips, and surveys the scene with the keen observational focus of a trained agent.
“I see you’ve made friends finally,” he drawls.
Bodie wouldn’t go quite that far, but – like comrades in arms who find affinity through mutual hardship – they are sharing space at least, peacefully if not quite happily; Bodie curled up in one end of the sofa and Ringo in the other, in a sad little ball, his nose tucked under his tail.
Cautiously, Doyle inches closer and strokes a careful finger over Ringo’s head, and then, when that doesn’t result in an instant maiming, he runs the flat of his palm over his back. After a few repeats, a rattly sound, like a rusted tractor engine sputtering to life, emanates from Ringo’s chest.
“Aww,” Doyle coos.
Bodie is, ridiculously, jealous, though he’s not sure if it is of Doyle for getting Ringo to purr or of the cat for getting Doyle’s attention. He makes a grumbly noise himself, just to, you know, remind his partner that he’s here too.
“What happened?” Doyle asks. “Ringo got the flu too?”
Bodie shares their tale of digestive misery and, to his credit, Doyle winces in apology. “I’ll go get more of the cheaper stuff,” he promises. “But why don’t I make dinner first?”
“We can just order a curry or something,” Bodie offers, not because he particularly wants take-away but because this is the third night in a row that Doyle is feeding him and he doesn’t want to get used to it.
“Out of the question,” Doyle says, crossing his arms, “I already bought the ingredients to make you a healthy soup.”
That doesn’t sound especially appetising either, if Bodie is completely honest, but it does come with the bonus of Doyle cooking. Bodie has been too ill to enjoy that before but he’s determined not to miss out anymore.
“I can help,” he says.
Doyle’s raised eyebrows are not exactly flattering but Bodie stares him down. He’s not an invalid! Well. Not anymore.
“Fine,” Ray relents. “You can measure some spices. I’m not trusting you with a knife yet.”
Bodie pouts about it but considering how weak he still feels decides not to argue the point.
Turns out he made the right call. Ray upends a veritable herb garden onto the table in front of him and Bodie measures two teaspoons of this and three of that, according to the instructions Ray tells him. He doesn’t look at a recipe or anything, either having memorised it or just winging it as he goes, tasting the broth he’s got bubbling on the stove regularly. Bodie bets it’s the latter, his partner’s creative side coming through in the culinary arts too.
The upside of not having insisted on cutting up vegetables is getting to watch Doyle do it instead, his hands steady on the knife as he slices carrots and celery and potatoes and other things Bodie would probably know the name of if he cared enough. As it is, he’s fully distracted by the shifting muscles in Doyle’s forearms, the line of his veins disappearing under the sleeves, pushed up to the elbow.
“You falling asleep there partner?” Doyle’s voice is teasing and soft, and even though the sickness still pulls at his body, Bodie feels nothing but warm and safe here in his kitchen, Ray watching him, and watching over him.
“Dreaming of your cooking,” Bodie answers. It’s true. Just. Not all of it.
Doyle hums and swipes bowl of herbs from the table, dropping the contents into the pan.
The soup is delicious. They sleep in the same bed again, Bodie on his side, propped up by several extra pillows to make breathing easier, and Ray curled up behind him, his knuckles pressing against the knobs of Bodie’s spine, steady little points of pressure and presence, reminding Bodie that he’s not alone.
***
By Friday, Bodie is well enough to be bored. He calls Ray at work no less than five times.
First it is to inform him that he’s woken up to find Ringo asleep on the bed.
“That’s good,” Rays says fighting to keep his voice normal and turning his chair so that he’s facing the wall rather than rest of the office. It wouldn’t do for anyone to see the absolutely sappy smile on his face right now. “Where is he now?”
“Still on the bed,” Bodie says. “He let me stroke him!”
Ray stuffs a fist into his mouth so as not to coo out loud. After a couple of minutes listening to Bodie comment on the stage of Ringo’s fur, he manages to compose himself enough to promise to pop by a pet store and get a brush on his way home. He hangs up, turns around, and almost has a heart attack, finding Betty standing by his desk with a thick folder in her hands.
“Jesus Christ!” Doyle exclaims. “How are you so silent on those heels?”
Betty smiles serenely but doesn’t answer. She also doesn’t comment on Doyle using work time to have what was very clearly a non-work-related conversation with his partner, even though she clearly heard most of it, which is somehow worse than any reprimand or teasing she could’ve dished out.
“Uh,” Ray clears his throat, heart still jackrabbiting in his chest, “What can I do for you?”
“Read these,” Betty says and unceremoniously dumps the file onto the desk in front of Ray. “Cowley wants a plan A by the end of the day, and plans B to…” She tilts her head, considering, “…let’s say at least to plan F, by Monday morning. Do you think Agent 3.7 will be able to join you by then for a proper briefing?”
“Yeah,” Ray says, nodding with confidence he doesn’t necessarily feel, “Yes. He should be… We’ll be there.”
“Excellent. Carry on then.” Betty turns on his – impressive – heels and walks off, somehow still eerily silent.
Bodie calls again less than thirty minutes later.
“He’s not eating.”
Doyle does not need to ask who Bodie is referring to.
“Did you give him the food he’s familiar with?” As promised, he’d gone out after the dinner to buy more of the cat food Ringo was used to.
“Yes, but he just sniffed at it and walked away.” Bodie sounds worried.
“Maybe he’s not hungry yet,” Doyle suggests.
“I can’t let Mrs Goodwin’s cat starve! What if never eats again? What if I poisoned him for good and he’ll just waste away and Mrs Goodwin is going to like, haunt me, in revenge?”
Doyle pinches the bridge of his nose in exasperation, which, whilst strong, is still not enough to best the overwhelming wave of affection he feels hearing his tough as nails partner fret about a cat.
“He was sick to his stomach yesterday,” Doyle reminds him gently. “You don’t feel like a big meal after throwing up either, do you?”
After a few more reassurances, Bodie reluctantly hangs up and Ray gets back to the papers Betty had left.
Two hours later, Bodie calls again, to triumphantly inform Doyle that both he and Ringo are enjoying their lunches. Apparently, Ray’s soup is even better heated up and – Ray suspects – now that Bodie’s nose has mostly unblocked and he can taste it more.
The next break between calls is long enough for Ray to grab a sandwich himself and get almost halfway through the file. He has a notebook full of scribbles and some ideas, but nothing very concrete yet. So ,when Bodie calls again, he’s actually pleased about the distraction. And the help.
“Okay,” he says, “if you’re bored enough to harass me, you’re well enough to use that big brain of yours.”
“It’s not the size that matters,” Bodie answers on cue, “it’s what you do with it.”
Ray rolls his eyes at the worn joke. “Well, right now I’d like your take on our next case.”
He can almost see the way Bodie straightens up at the other end of the line. “Lay it on me, partner,” he says, sounding more alert than he has in days.
Ray does. He keeps it broad strokes, not mentioning any details or names, even though they are on a secure line, and they hash out plans for a good half an hour until he can hear the exhaustion creeping back into Bodie’s voice.
“Go take a nap,” he suggests finally, pleased with the progress they’ve done. “I’ve got to type some of this up ready for Cowley anyway.”
Bodie yawns. “Ringo’s on the bed again,” he complains.
“So?” Doyle laughs. “Pretty sure he’ll let you share. Or take the sofa if you don’t want to risk rejection.” He hangs up while Bodie is still spluttering about not caring about opinions of a cat, which is such a blatant lie it doesn’t even warrant a rebuke.
The meeting with Cowley runs over the allocated time by another hour, and it’s almost six by the time Ray finally escapes his office. The building is mostly empty, those working the desk like him this week having already scattered to homes and pubs around the capital and those on the field… Well, presumably still working. He’s just pulling on his jacket when the desk phone rings, and Doyle snatches the receiver up.
“Doyle?” Bodie’s voice is tight with worry that warms Ray up from the inside.
“Yeah, mate,” he reassures, “I’m just leaving. The Cow was taking his time chewing over all the implication and what ifs of the new case.”
“Okay, I was just… Uh, calling because we’re out of milk.”
Not ‘I’m out of milk’ but ‘we’re out of milk’. The two of them. It’s the stupidest thing, doesn’t even mean anything, just a slip of the tongue since Ray has been staying over for the week, but it still catches him hard, like an elbow jab to the chest.
“I’ll get some on the way,” Ray says automatically, hoping his voice doesn’t waver quite as badly as his thoughts are.
It’s not until he’s in the shop he remembers that he had brought in two pints last night so unless Bodie has been guzzling it down all day, Bodie had been reaching for an excuse and grabbed one that wouldn’t hold water. Or milk.
He buys more anyway, just a small one though, and puts it in the fridge next to the other two bottles, without a comment.
He also eats the takeaway Bodie has ordered with nothing but a quiet thanks. Normally, they’d be down at a pub by now, talking each other into finding a club to hit later, but Ray finds that he doesn’t really miss it, sitting side by side on the sofa, shoulders pressed together while the BBC news drowns on in the background and Ringo tries to steal a piece of chicken from the discarded food container.
***
“I can’t keep him,” Bodie sighs.
It’s Saturday morning and they are sitting at the kitchen table, drinking tea and watching Ringo devour his breakfast with the ferocity of a small bear.
“I just… I’m not home enough.” He’s been thinking about it for a while, but this is the first time he says it out loud.
“What are you going to do?” Doyle doesn’t argue against the conclusion, which tells Bodie it’s the correct one.
“I don’t know.”
Ray hesitates, fiddling with the spoon. “Could take him to Battersea,” he suggests tentatively. “I hear they’re really good. He might get rehomed quickly.”
Everything in Bodie recoils at the idea of dropping Ringo at a rescue, no matter how excellent, like an unwanted gift. Which, okay, technically he is, or at least was, but it still feels bad and not just because Bodie’s fear of Mrs Goodwin’s ghosting coming to haunt him is only half in jest.
He’s shaking his head almost before Ray stops talking. “No. Or, at least, not yet.”
“Then what?” His partner gets up to make him another cuppa, spooning in a generous helping of honey – “For your immune system!” – and placing it in front of him with a pointed nudge.
Dutifully, Bodie takes a sip. His throat is much better but the tea is still nice, and the fact that Ray is making it nicer still. The conversation about the Ringo Problem is difficult enough but it’s still miles better than the other one he feels they ought to be having, about how maybe Ray should go back to his own flat because Bodie is quite capable of taking care of himself again. And also because he’s getting dangerously used to having Ray with him all the time.
He just can’t figure out how to say any of that without either saying the whole thing or Doyle thinking he’s sick of his company when the opposite is true.
Better to talk about Ringo.
“You don’t know anyone who would like a cranky old tomcat, do you?” Bodie asks.
In truth, Ringo isn’t even that cranky anymore. He still goes and scratches at Mrs Goodwin’s windows a bit but that’s understandable, and he’s warmed up to both of them enough to allow occasional strokes. There haven’t even been any more smelly puddles anywhere, as Ringo has clearly resumed his usual routine of doing his business outside.
To his credit, Doyle looks like he’s giving the question proper consideration but after a few minutes of silent thinking time he still shakes his head sadly.
They sigh in unison. On the floor, Ringo flips his empty bowl, metal rattling against the floor tiles, bits of cat food flying everywhere.
“You did that on purpose,” Bodie says. It comes out more impressed than accusatory.
Ray laughs. “Think he wants more.” He picks up the bowl, adds more cat food into it and wipes Bodie’s floor clean.
“Wow.” Bodie puts his mug down decisively. “We need to get out of this flat before that cat conditions us into fulltime servitude.”
“Oh?” Doyle looks over his shoulder from where he is rinsing the dishrag at the sink. “Are you sure—?”
“Ray.” Bodie gets up and reaches around Doyle to shut the tap. “Let’s go for a walk.”
***
Bodie’s putting on a good front about being fully recovered, but Doyle can read him like a book – better, in fact – and he can see the way Bodie’s stride shortens long before they are even halfway through their circuit of a nearby park, his posture hunching from very clearly feeling tired, even though the expression on his face doesn’t betray any of it.
Ray says nothing, only slows down and steers them toward the nearest bench. It’s a warm day and the park is packed with families, kids running around, dogs barking, couples strolling here and there. He joins the queue for some ice-cream and returns to Bodie triumphant. It’s definitely not the most nutritious thing for the body, but sometimes the mind needs a little healing too, and the way Bodie’s whole face lights up at the sight of the treat tells Doyle he’d made the right call.
They sit and people watch for much longer than the ice-creams last. Ray is still mentally going through all his acquaintances and distant family, trying to think if any of them would be delighted to offer Ringo a home, so when Bodie finally breaks the silence, he startles a bit.
“You ever want that?” Bodie asks.
“Huh? What?”
Bodie nods subtly toward the left and Ray follows his line of sight to a young family; one kid sitting on dad’s shoulders, the other one in a pram pushed by the mum. They are all smiling, radiant in the sunlight, the perfect family portrait.
Ray shrugs. “I used to. But maybe it was just because that’s what I was expected to want.”
Bodie hums. “You could still have it,” he says, eyes on the scenery rather than on Ray. “It’s not like it’s too late. You could find a nice girl, get a brood of little curly-haired rascals, ask Cowley to switch you to something less dangerous…” He trails off.
“I could,” Ray concedes. He’d be lying if he hadn’t thought of that, on or off over the years. Less so since Bodie joined CI5 though. Less and less every year they’ve spent being partnered together. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t know why that was either. “But I’m not going to.”
It’s almost imperceptible except Ray’s attention is all on Bodie, and he catches the slight relaxation of his shoulders, the way the smile on his face smooths from practiced to genuine.
“You know why?” Doyle asks because fuck it, they’ve been sharing a life for years now and sharing a bed for better part of the week and apparently co-parenting a cat so…
Bodie turns to look at him, something sharp and wary in his eyes, his expression carefully neutral.
“Do tell, sunshine.” His voice is mild, unlike literally everything else about him.
The feeling is the same Doyle gets just before walking into a new op, the same zing of anticipation jolting through him like electricity, the same thump-thump-thump of his heart because you never know if you’re going to be shot down…
“Got everything I need right here, don’t I?” Ray says, and it’s a declaration and a question both.
…or if you’re going to be safe as can be, because the groundwork you and your partner laid down is rock solid, something to trust your life on.
“Yeah,” Bodie breathes out. “Yes. I…” His fingers warm and sticky with ice-cream when he reaches over to squeeze Ray’s hand, quick but strong. Sure. “Me too.”
***
“You’re going to get sick,” Bodie feels obliged to point out once they are back behind the closed doors. Except his fingers are already tangled in Ray’s curls, their breaths already mingling in the barely-there-and-closing-fast distance between their mouths so really, that ship has probably sailed but… “I’m definitely still infectious.”
“Bodie,” Ray murmurs, “I really don’t care.” His hands are sliding under Bodie’s jumper, the touch making him shiver worse, better, than even the flu managed. “I think maybe you are just coming up with excuses not to.” The words are teasing but there’s a kernel of real worry there and Bodie can’t let it stand. “Maybe you don’t—”
Bodie does. A lot. Several times, in fact.
Ringo, who is locked outside the bedroom and its open window, pisses in Bodie’s shoes this time.
***
By Sunday evening, Bodie is feeling almost like himself. Doyle, however, and as predicted, is definitely coming down with a cold-maybe-flu.
“I told you so,” Bodie says because he’s physically incapable of not doing so.
“And I still don’t care,” Doyle answers from under the quilt before sneezing three times in a row. “Come here and keep me warm,” he demands.
“I thought Ringo was doing that?” The cat is curled on Doyle’s lap, kneading at his thighs in a way that would be painful if not for the thick woolly cover over them.
“Warmer than that.”
Obediently, Bodie goes to curl around Doyle since his lap is occupied.
***
Doyle expects some kind of backlash, at least a disappointed sigh, when he calls sick on Monday, but Betty only tells them both to stay away until they are fully germ free, Cowley’s orders.
It’s not exactly a holiday since Doyle is very decidedly sick and Bodie is still recovering himself, but there’s comfort in it nonetheless, being able to spend a few more days just the two of them – sorry, three – and cement the new normal.
When they finally return to work, the slow-burner of a case has apparently reached a boiling point and Cowley wants them both in Glasgow within a day.
Bodie and Doyle look at each other.
“Gentlemen,” Cowley says in tones that suggest that he does not, in fact, consider either of them to be a gentleman, “Is there a problem?”
“Uhhh… Yes. Just a small one,” Doyle says, then reconsiders. “Well, medium-to-large I guess. Sort of… chunky, really, this problem.”
Cowley glares at him, patience clearly waning
Bodie hastily jumps in to intervene, throwing Cowley his most winning smile, even though it hasn’t, to this day, won a lot with their boss. “Sir,” he says, “by any chance… Are you allergic to cats?”
Cowley is not. He is, however, apparently desperate enough to get his best agents on this particular case to accept temporary custody of their adopted furry son.
“Please stop referring to Ringo like that,” Doyle hisses as they are leaving.
“Sure,” Bodie promises, “when it stops being funny.”
Doyle sighs. But importantly, he laughs too, which just goes to prove Bodie’s point.
***
Three weeks later, they are back from the assignment – a bit bloodied but mostly intact – and Bodie saunters into Cowley’s office to enquire as to when he should come and collect Ringo.
“Ah,” Cowley says, leafing through the papers on his desk. “I’ve actually got another case here for you and your partner. Once you’ve taken a day or two to rest up.” He casts a piercing glance at Bodie from above his glasses. “It might be better if Ringo stays where he is, for the time being. Environmental stability is important to feline wellbeing.”
Bodie stops himself from silently mouthing ‘environmental stability’ but it’s a near thing. “Uhh,” he says instead, intelligently, and then, because it’s an answer that’s gotten him out of immediate trouble more than once in his life, “Yes, sir.”
He’s not hundred percent happy about it, he has to admit, he’s kind of the missed the little orange bugger. And he’s pretty sure Ray has already stocked up on cat food. He’ll be disappointed. Possibly even pout a bit, which is devastating to Bodie’s state of mind at the best of times.
Cowley is watching him with something that could be a wry smile if such a thing had the requisite security clearance to appear on his face.
“However,” he continues, “next month I have an unavoidable trip abroad. Ringo will need somewhere to stay.” Cowley raises a meaningful and somewhat bushy eyebrow at him.
“Yes, sir,” Bodie repeats, this time more cheerfully. “I’ll let Ray… I mean, Agent 4.5 and I will see to it. Sir.”
“Very good.” He stares at Bodie for a beat or two before raising the other eyebrow at him as well. “Dismissed, agent.”
“Ah, yes,” Bodie says. “Goodnight, sir.” He executes a neat heel turn and walks out.
He’s got to go tell Doyle now that they won’t be seeing whisker or tail of Ringo for a little while yet, but on the plus side… He gets to go home to tell him that, because that’s where Ray will be, in Bodie’s flat, quite likely with a dinner waiting. And then later, he’ll be in Bodie’s bed, all warm skin and wicked smirks.
And no cat to scratch at the bedroom door, demanding to be let in at the most inconvenient times either.
Bodie brightens and his pace picks up, a jaunty whistle replacing the earlier frown. Perhaps this shared custody system comes with some perks after all, once that he will just have to explain to his partner. Thoroughly.
Possibly with a practical demonstration.
***