Discovered in the Wassail Bowl - 5th December - A CI5 Christmas Truce by Ali15son
Posting on behalf of 
ali15son
A CI5 CHRISTMAS TRUCE
byali15son
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The pale light of christmas morning struggled to pierce the grey London haze, the pavement opposite Doyle's flat glistened in the early morning frost. Inside the small flat Bodie sprawled on the sofa. He hadn't bothered to remove his jacket, which was still stiff with the grime of the night. The only indication that he was resting and not simply waiting for the next order, was the rhythmic, shallow breathing that spoke of complete, bone-deep exhaustion. It was seven oclock, christmas morning. The preceding twenty four hours had been a blur of freezing rooftops, close-quarter combat in a dockyard warehouse and a frantic, high-speed chase through the West End, all to stop a highly motivated faction of foreign agents from leaving the country. Cowley, in his usual seasonal spirit, had deemed it a 'minor distraction'.
Raymond Doyle moved with the quiet efficiency of a man running on pure adreniline and sheer obstinance. He was standing by the small christmas tree, perched in the corner, it's flickering fairy lights giving a warm ambience to the room and that christmas feel that was very much needed.. Doyle, looking marginally more civilized in a freshly laundered t-shirt and jeans, was nursing a mug of tea, the heat radiating through his hands. He watched Bodie for a moment, the ghost of a smile touching his lips. "Don't you dare leave oil stains on my upholstery, you great lump," Doyle muttered, low enough that he knew Bodie would hear it, but too tired to truly mean it. A grunt was the only reply. Doyle carefully side-stepped Bodie's discarded r/t and a crumpled packet of bourbon biscuits to reach the thermostat. He cranked up the heating, ignoring the faint clicking protest.
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ali15sonby
ali15son*********************
The pale light of christmas morning struggled to pierce the grey London haze, the pavement opposite Doyle's flat glistened in the early morning frost. Inside the small flat Bodie sprawled on the sofa. He hadn't bothered to remove his jacket, which was still stiff with the grime of the night. The only indication that he was resting and not simply waiting for the next order, was the rhythmic, shallow breathing that spoke of complete, bone-deep exhaustion. It was seven oclock, christmas morning. The preceding twenty four hours had been a blur of freezing rooftops, close-quarter combat in a dockyard warehouse and a frantic, high-speed chase through the West End, all to stop a highly motivated faction of foreign agents from leaving the country. Cowley, in his usual seasonal spirit, had deemed it a 'minor distraction'.
Raymond Doyle moved with the quiet efficiency of a man running on pure adreniline and sheer obstinance. He was standing by the small christmas tree, perched in the corner, it's flickering fairy lights giving a warm ambience to the room and that christmas feel that was very much needed.. Doyle, looking marginally more civilized in a freshly laundered t-shirt and jeans, was nursing a mug of tea, the heat radiating through his hands. He watched Bodie for a moment, the ghost of a smile touching his lips. "Don't you dare leave oil stains on my upholstery, you great lump," Doyle muttered, low enough that he knew Bodie would hear it, but too tired to truly mean it. A grunt was the only reply. Doyle carefully side-stepped Bodie's discarded r/t and a crumpled packet of bourbon biscuits to reach the thermostat. He cranked up the heating, ignoring the faint clicking protest.
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