?

Log in

the_safehouse

Fic: Decrescendo (Pros/Apparitions crossover)

« previous entry | next entry »
1 February 2009 | 09:26
posted by: erushi in the_safehouse

Even though this is technically a crossover of sorts with The Professionals and Apparitions, no working knowledge is required of the latter series for one to understand the fic. Just assume that Doyle had one day for reasons unknown upped and joined the RC priesthood.


Title: Decrescendo (Pros/Apparitions crossover)
Author: Erushi
Format: Short story (2,539 words).
Circuit Archive / Pros-Lib: Yes, please.
Slash/Gen: Slash
Warnings: As the warning is spoiler-ish in nature, I have placed it under the second lj-cut at the end of the fic. Click as you will, though I'd rather you didn't, really.
Summary: In which Doyle decides to join the RC priesthood, and the events both before and after.
Disclaimer: The lads aren't mine, alas.



7.

 

 In November he thought he saw Bodie’s shade at his ordination.

 

The man was standing beneath one of the many arched windows which lined the oratory, head bowed and fingers clasped in a perfect picture of prayer, skin at knuckles and joints pressed white and blue capillaries prominent beneath translucent eyelids. When he closed his eyes Doyle discovered that his ex-partner had stamped himself onto the backs of his eyelids, a figure painted red and blue and yellow and green as the early winter sun allowed itself to be filtered through stained lead glass.

 

He would not be found though, later, as Doyle sought him in the press of clergy cloth and murmured congratulations. For a moment Doyle fancied that the hollowness in his chest and at the back of his throat was disappointment, and he found that it tasted bitter, the rising of bile. Then he decided that it wasn’t so much of grief as of relief, and that was quite alright, really.

 

 

 

 

 

6.

 

August slipped in quietly at the heels of a gradually departing July, its days warm and sunny though beginning to cool at the edges. One Thursday he found himself marvelling at how his life had settled into a pattern, the normalcy of it all: the lines of black print marching like the Lord’s Army across crisp white pages as tired eyes read them late into the night, the careful shapings of now-familiar hymns and prayers by lips both rounded and pursed, the rosary beads worn smooth and shiny under the tips of fervent fingers.

 

And then there were the good days. Doyle thought he looked forward to them.

 

Bodie was waiting for him at the foot of the their usual tree, jacket-clothed back pressed against the rough brown and grey and green of moss-coated bark and black lashes kissing cheekbones in post-lunch slumber. These black lashes twitched upwards as Doyle flung himself onto the slightly damp ground (it had rained in the morning, and the sun was no longer as good at drying things as it had been two months ago), books tumbling beside him in a careless heap.

 

(They would spend most of the afternoon like this, sprawled on grass and under trees, elbows and knees touching and thighs brushing, the prickly edges of grass digging through trousers of denim and moleskin and making themselves known to flesh. Conversation would drift desultorily from Doyle’s lessons for the day, theories about the book of Genesis, of Revelations, to the delegation from Rome which had arrived only on Wednesday, Met this bloke, Vincenzio, said I had the potential.

 

Potential, eh? What kind?

 

Dunno. Never did say, did he.)

 

At four o’clock black-painted wrought iron gates swung on well-oiled hinges as they left the grounds of the seminary; Bodie had claimed that he felt like taking in Mother Nature, the nearby park, and Doyle had been more than glad to oblige. For a while they were content to wander, left arm threaded through right and feet tripping over one another, over one another’s footsteps, over an invisible path neither of them could quite see.

 

At half past seven the sun began streaking the sky with shades of salmon, of amber, with a child’s paintbrush. Eventually they paused at an ornamental fountain, perching on its flared rim and dipping their fingers into the bubbling water as they studied a trio of nymphs cavorting in marble, shoulders, elbows, knees. The marble was cool to touch even through their trousers, the water cold. They remained there until eight and it became just a little too dark to see one another, hands dangling beneath a ripple-etched mirror of the evening August sky and chasing the remaining silvers of sunlight darting in the blue-grey depths, transcendental goldfish. Doyle watched in fascination as Bodie flapped his wrist and lunged after his fingers, limb fish-belly-pale as it swam through the water with a strange aquatic grace, distorted. Bodie’s fingers were warm even through the chilly slickness of water. When they finally braceleted his wrist Doyle was careful to slide his hand two inches up and the right side about, the pads of calloused palms brushing and fingers tangling into a tight knot.

 

There were laugh lines at the corners of Bodie’s eyes, deeper than he remembered, and the impression of a thousand past furrows between Bodie’s brows, and he thought that Bodie had grown old, that they’d both grown old, that the past year had aged them. For a moment they drifted, until Bodie began to chuckle, incongruous sounds of boyish delight, and Doyle smiled too.

 

 

 

 

 

 

5.

 

The bad days always came without a whisper of a warning, indoors, in his room, while he studied, as he slept. They invariably led to the same things: Bodie’s grin slick against his spine, a hot mouth pressed on the insides of his thighs, a raspy tongue on the underside of his cock, clever fingers fitting into the grooves of hipbones and of shoulder blades as the fingers of a lover should, splaying him open, fuckfuckfuck Bodie we can’t oh God.

 

(In the morning Doyle would wake up to sticky smears on his stomach and between his thighs. He would brush his teeth whilst staring into the flecked mirror perched above the chipped porcelain sink. There would be breakfast with his fellow students in the refectory, toast and marmalade and eggs and tea, and there would be his morning classes. In the afternoon he would find Bodie waiting for him beneath their usual tree, and Bodie would smile as though glad to see him, as though it were their first meeting, as though he hadn’t spent a goodly portion of the previous night with his lips stretched around Doyle’s cock.)

 

One night he was inexplicably reminded of a telephone call, of the shattered fragments of a mug, and he began to shudder. Bodie, whose fingers were no longer tangled with his buttonholes, gathered him towards his chest and fitted his cheek in the joint between neck and shoulder. For a while Doyle snuggled, a lover’s prerogative, listening to the staccato of rapid breaths and the allegro ma non troppo beats of Bodie’s heart some inches beneath his ear, taking comfort from them. Then he realised that the breaths were his, that the realisation had made each rush of cold air down a hoarse throat and into overly heated lungs hurt, and he had to get up, stand up, for a drink of water from the jug on his dresser. The sudden coolness of night air on bare skin was refreshing.

 

It took him two tries to fill the glass: his hand had shaken the first time, a fit or a sudden tremor, and the water splashed on the worn wooden surface instead, dripping onto the uncarpeted flour in a series of silvered plinks which stabbed tiny needles behind his eyes and through his ears and into the base of his skull.

 

Bodie was still regarding him when he turned around, and so he made himself ask: “What do you want, Bodie?”

 

“You, sunshine.”

 

“Yes, yes.” He sighed. “But what do you want?”

 

“I want you to be happy.”

 

Bodie’s smile was guileless and entreating, the sort of smile which had shattered a thousand hearts in the man’s youth; Doyle felt something shatter in him too. He raised his hand, started to rake his curls, realised what he was doing, stopped, poured a third glass of water, drank.

 

“Get thee behind me, Bodie.”

 

It occurred to him a while later that Bodie might have had said more, only the room was empty now, and Doyle had turned away.

 

 

 

 

 

4.

 

Things took a while to fall into place again, as they were wont, and he found himself glad of it.

 

 

 

 

 

3.

 

The day of Bodie’s service it rained, dark and wet on a huddled group of black-clad mourners and on a sullen cluster of wreaths, lily petals waxy white curls. Like something out of a bloody novel, he thought, Bodie would have appreciated it, ha ha ha. Doyle did not attend.

 

In the weeks that followed he grew strangely superstitious. There were auguries in the sky, words to be read in the dregs of his tea. Days took on meanings, and months: Mondays hopeful and Fridays ominous and Wednesdays days in which anything could happen, anything, March bleeding into April into May. He found himself looking forward to crossing out the last date on each page, to flipping the fingerprint-smudged glossy pages of the calendar, certain that each new month cupped at its breast the promise of change, maybe.

 

(Remember the day you caught him marking out your birthday with a red felt-tip marker and a heart? How the two of you had laughed and laughed, his lips soft and his breath stinging on your chin and his hand down the front of your trousers, your fly mysteriously undone.)

 

He let his hair grow shaggy, certain of dire things were he to cut it; it would be November again, or maybe December, before the morning winter chill would steal his last memory of sleep-warm kisses pressed butterfly-soft to his nape. The walks were a daily habit now, feet grinding denial beneath them for mile upon mile of London street. Every morning he curled his fingers around the key he had taken to wearing about his neck for luck, the one Bodie had given him to his last flat, the one he had never returned. When he donned scarves they were always of cotton, never of wool, because wool stuck to things, like smells.

 

He made his decision to go to the seminary on the silver toss of a coin.

 

That afternoon his pen stuttered as it skimmed the regularly uneven surface of a dotted line, his fingers still unused to the lines and curls of his new name. The ‘J’ was barely tolerable, the ‘M’ a hair’s breadth away from being obliterated by two ink blots, splatters, and Doyle fancied that he was suffering from an out-of-body experience. He found it vaguely disconcerting.

 

Bodie, he imagined, would have had something to say about it, about all of it. But Bodie was dead, and Raymond Doyle was dead too, so Jacob Myers carefully handed the stack of forms to the smiling Sister behind the desk with a smile of his own.

 

 

 

 

 

2.

 

The call came between the last bite of the morning’s toast and the first word of the morning’s paper.

 

Cowley’s voice sounded tinny through the plastic headset, his tone dry, practiced. Doyle, who had spent the previous night staring at the cracks of the ceiling above his bed and pretending he saw shapes in them, found himself quite calm, thank you. Bodie was dead. Suicide, by the looks of it. No note, but he would have wanted it that way. Invalid from legs down, what active man wouldn’t? He was always prone to sudden dark moods after all.

 

(Is, was, present tense, past.)

 

How did he die, sir?

 

Shot himself in his head, with his service revolver. Och, I’m sorry, lad.

 

Somewhere on the street below an engine backfired; in the relative quiet of the room it bore an eerie resemblance to a gun fired at close range. It made his bones rattle, his teeth ache, and Doyle tangled nerveless fingers into the twists and coils of the telephone wire as he marked time and the silence which stretched on both ends of the line to the rushed rhythm of inhales and exhales, one, two, three, four, five.

 

His service would be held next Tuesday. It would be better for all if you didn’t come.

 

I understand, sir. And thank you.

 

Afterwards the flat seemed too small, the bed too large and too cold. The clanging of the pipes in the walls were too loud, and the edges of the worn floorboards too real as they pressed into the soles of his feet, too painful, stifling. Two shots of whisky (or three, or four, he wasn’t keeping count, not really) were consumed before he began clearing the now-discarded breakfast things with a trained efficiency, toast crumbs and the congealed fat of bacon, a half-eaten egg.

 

One hour later he slipped out of his flat, for a walk, he told himself, just a walk. Hyde Park, perhaps, or St James’s. He would take in the fresh air, he would feed the birds, he would walk, he would not think about the mug a misplaced elbow had sent tumbling to the floorboards in a scatter of milky tea puddles and broken china eggshells, the mug which Bodie had given him last Christmas with a kiss to his lips and a palm cupping his arse, and he would not cry.

 

 

 

 

 

1.

 

It was four o’clock on a Monday afternoon when Doyle came to Bodie’s flat.

 

Inside it was stuffy, the windows firmly shut and the cheap cotton curtains drawn, a dozen presents from various well-wishers lying unopened in a dusty heap, the click-whirr of a wheelchair. Bodie regarded him for all of twenty seconds before he told him that he shouldn’t be here.

 

“You shouldn’t be here,” was what he said, mouth twisted in something which might have been a smile but which looked closer to a grimace. For a moment Doyle found himself experiencing a slight vertigo, until he looked down, down, down. “Cowley will – ”

 

“Fuck Cowley.”

 

“The witness programme – ”

 

“Fuck that too.”

 

“It’s for your safety, Doyle. Only it’s no longer Doyle now, is it? It’s Myers, or have you forgotten? Would you prefer Jacob instead?”

 

“Damn it, Bodie, I – ”

 

“And what’re you going to offer me, eh? A sympathy shag?” Quieter now. “I can never return to CI5 now, Doyle. (Neither can you, come to think about it.) Can’t watch your back. Can’t be with you. Not like this, mate: never like this. Can’t live.”

 

There was silence for a while, the stillness of the room and of the street outside, and the squeaking of wheels on varnish-flaked floorboards which they hid their ears from and winced, winced.

 

“Sometimes I think I might like to end it all,” he said, and laughed, and Doyle imagined that the laugh had everything to do with madness and nothing to do with hilarity, and he shuddered. They remained as they were, for a bit, until he coaxed the other man into the living room, C’mon, sunshine, to sit, Let us sit, just sit, for a while, for a while.

 

Later that night he left the spongy sofa, for a bit, for a bit, wandering across the room and around it until he paused at the writing desk. The smell of gun-oil was stronger now, tickling the back of his nose and making his eyes water as he leaned over and reached under a cleaning rag scrawled with black smears like the line-work of a map gone horribly, horribly wrong.

 

Bodie did not wake when Doyle kissed him, on cheek and temple and on chin. He did not wake when Doyle wrapped his fingers around the gun, nor did he wake when Doyle fitted its muzzle between his lips. He did not wake when Doyle pulled the trigger.

 








Warning: Major character death. But I'm sure you guessed.
Tags:

Link | R/T open | Share

Comments {31}

Hambel

(no subject)

from: hambelandjemima
date: 1 February 2009 10:23 (UTC)
Link

Ohhhhhhhhhh.

Well this was obviously never going to be a happy-ever-after fic and while I suspected things weren't as they seemed (no, I didn't look at the warning - aren't I good?), I was most definitely not expecting the last paragraph.

You've taken my breath away with this. I want to cry for Doyle, I want to rewind time and give them a happy ending, but most of all I want to read this again, because it's so bloody good. Leaving aside the subject matter, the imagery is so perfect and the way it's written in reverse means that each section brings another question. Cowley says, His service would be held next Tuesday. It would be better for all if you didn’t come. And I thought, Why? And you answered in the next section.

While I don't normally like death!fic as a genre, this is one that I will definitely come back to.

Just one thing - in the last paragraph you say, He did wake up when Doyle wrapped his fingers around the gun. Should that read, did not?

Reply | Thread

erushi

(no subject)

from: erushi
date: 1 February 2009 10:35 (UTC)
Link

Ack, ack! I'm blushing very, very hard now. To be honest, I was feeling very unsure about how this fic would be received, so I'm chuffed to bits that it's managed to work for you. I swear I wanted to give them a happy ending, I really did. I wanted Bodie to stride into the chapel, and for there to be a passionate reunion. But the more I watched, the more I couldn't, so...

Thank you for reading, and for your lovely comment!


And well-spotted, eep! I can't believe I missed that. I was obviously in too much of a hurry to finish this. *sheepish grin* Cheers!

Reply | Parent | Thread

byslantedlight

(no subject)

from: byslantedlight
date: 1 February 2009 10:40 (UTC)
Link

Oh this is gorgeous... gorgeously tragic and the saddest thing, but sometimes it's good to be sad, and this is one of those times... I love that it's not a gratuitous deathfic, there's reason and meaning behind everything that's happened, and I adore the blackness of the contrast between what Doyle did for Bodie, and the fact that he's now a priest - and how it fits in with the hints about a dark past for Father Jacob in the actual eps... I've really got to be convinced about what happened to B/D for a crossover like this to work, and you've done it brilliantly, I reckon! *g*

Reply | Thread

erushi

(no subject)

from: erushi
date: 2 February 2009 21:26 (UTC)
Link

Stop it, you're making me blush! *g* I'm really glad this worked for you. When I posted this, all I could think about was that various stones were having my name scrawled onto them, not just because I wrote death fic, but because of how this death was achieved. But I definitely had fun working in as many Apparitions and biblical motifs as I could into this fic, and as I was saying, I've always felt that it had to be something very, very bad for Doyle to become a priest, so... hee!

Reply | Parent | Thread

msmoat

(no subject)

from: msmoat
date: 1 February 2009 14:27 (UTC)
Link

Well, that's interesting, and told in a very interesting way. Moody as hell, of course--which seems appropriate. *g* Mind you, I can buy what Doyle did for Bodie much more easily than Doyle becoming Father Jacob... *g* But nicely done and emotionally effective. Thank you!

Reply | Thread

erushi

(no subject)

from: erushi
date: 2 February 2009 21:20 (UTC)
Link

Mind you, I can buy what Doyle did for Bodie much more easily than Doyle becoming Father Jacob...

You have no idea how immensely relieved I am to hear that. I was less worried about how believable the idea of Doyle becoming Father Jacob was, what with the whole kerfuffle about Father Jacob being an older Doyle when Apparitions was first shown. I personally felt that something extreme was needed in order for such a change to happen, but feared that my take on events would be too extreme, and that'd I'd find pitchfork-wielding Pros fans in my yard. *g* Glad to know this worked for you!

Reply | Parent | Thread

shooting2kill

(no subject)

from: shooting2kill
date: 1 February 2009 14:38 (UTC)
Link

I think I'm just about lost for words....this was very beautiful and terrible(-ly) sad but the kind of sadness you've sometimes *got* to experience in life, like reading The Same River - almost too much for the reader to tolerate. Reading it I felt a mixture of emotions: anger, sadness, confusion and envy (yes, even envy at what they had). I feel this is the kind of story and the kind of (powerful) writing which will stay in my head for a long, long time. Thank you so much for this impressive piece.

Edited at 2009-02-01 14:50 (UTC)

Reply | Thread

erushi

(no subject)

from: erushi
date: 2 February 2009 21:50 (UTC)
Link

*blushes very, very hard*

I think your comment may have just made my day. Thank you so, so much. Writing this was an interesting experience. I wrote most of it in a day, simply because I was forcing myself to think like Doyle, and it wasn't a happy experience which warranted being dragged on for any longer than necessary!.

Reply | Parent | Thread

shooting2kill

(no subject)

from: shooting2kill
date: 2 February 2009 23:16 (UTC)
Link

I wrote most of it in a day, simply because I was forcing myself to think like Doyle, and it wasn't a happy experience which warranted being dragged on for any longer than necessary!.

And I can imagine it would be almost impossibly hard to break off the level of intensity and concentration required for this kind of writing and then simply to pick it up again the next day, feeling the same way?

Reply | Parent | Thread

erushi

(no subject)

from: erushi
date: 2 February 2009 23:25 (UTC)
Link

In a way, it was. The day I did most of the writing, I kept thinking about it even while I was seeing to other chores (e.g. cleaning fish), working phrases out in my mind, trying this line and that. Only two parts were written on a different day - Part 1, and Part 5.

Part 1 contains a Doyle who thinks differently from the other parts, because everything hasn't started yet, so it was in fact easier for me to write that bit the next day. I had problems doing that bit the night of the rest.

As for Part 5... I fear the reason isn't as profound. *g* I delayed it simply because I always find bedroom scenes harder to write. *sheepish laugh* Bedroom scenes and proper dialogue - the two things which cause me more trouble than most, save action-y scenes. And now that I think about it, Parts 1 and 5 are the only ones with proper dialogue bits marked with inverted commas. However, the second part of Part 5, the dialogue bit, not the bedroom bit, I had actually written the day before with the rest of the fic too. Which does seem to suggest the need for a certain level of intenstity and concentration to be mantained...

Never really did think that deeply about my writing process before. Hm! *g*

Reply | Parent | Thread

shooting2kill

(no subject)

from: shooting2kill
date: 3 February 2009 21:31 (UTC)
Link

Thank you so much for taking the time to put me in the picture! I love reading about the various writing processes of different people and the context in which stories come to be written.

Reply | Parent | Thread

snail

(no subject)

from: snailbones
date: 1 February 2009 15:08 (UTC)
Link


OMG - so beautiful and so sad. I feel all twisted inside now.

I love everything about it - the reverse order, the rich descriptions, the motives and reasoning; and I can imagine that Doyle becoming a priest.

I'm a total wimp, and almost never read death fic, but this I really love. Thank you.

Reply | Thread

erushi

(no subject)

from: erushi
date: 2 February 2009 21:33 (UTC)
Link

I feel incredibly honoured that you read this even though you almost never read death fic. Thank you.

This was an interesting and nerve-wrecking fic to write. Interesting, because I had to make it believeable to me too. I couldn't imagine Doyle choosing to be a priest post-CI5, just because. It had to be something drastic. (Also, it was fun playing around with various Apparitions and biblical motifs, and working them in.) Nerve-wrecking because I was afraid that my take on drastic would be too drastic. I'm glad it worked for you. Thank you for reading, and for your lovely comment!

Reply | Parent | Thread

snail

(no subject)

from: snailbones
date: 2 February 2009 22:22 (UTC)
Link



You made the motivation behind Doyle becoming Jacob so believable - it shows that it had to work for you... and a day later I'm still thinking about it and rolling it around in my head, and I'll probably be haunted by it for days to come. *g*

Thanks again for sharing such a fabulous story.

Reply | Parent | Thread

erushi

(no subject)

from: erushi
date: 2 February 2009 23:28 (UTC)
Link

I think you've just handed me the highest praise an amateur writer can receive. Thank you. I'll just grin the entire night away, shall I? ♥

Reply | Parent | Thread

mistry89

(no subject)

from: mistry89
date: 1 February 2009 16:00 (UTC)
Link

I didn't read the warning (which is more startling to me than you can imagine) and despite bracing myself in anticipation of Something Bad, I didn't expect that last bit.
Not a death!fic reader usually, but that was beautiful and inevitable and so very very sad. FJ arising from RD seems such a viable thing here.

Thank you - I'm very glad I read this.

Reply | Thread

erushi

(no subject)

from: erushi
date: 2 February 2009 21:36 (UTC)
Link

I feel incredibly honoured that you read this even though you almost never read death fic. Thank you.

I'm glad the Doyle -> Jacob progression seemed viable to you. For me, despite agreeing with the "Jacob is older Doyle" kerfuffle when Apparitions first came out, I couldn't imagine Doyle becoming a priest on a whim. It just didn't seem logical, unless Something Bad happened. Thank you for reading, and for your lovely comment.

Reply | Parent | Thread

firlefanzine

(no subject)

from: firlefanzine
date: 1 February 2009 16:45 (UTC)
Link

Thank you for the warning!!!

Reply | Thread

erushi

(no subject)

from: erushi
date: 2 February 2009 21:12 (UTC)
Link

You're welcome. :)

Reply | Parent | Thread

kiwisue

(no subject)

from: kiwisue
date: 1 February 2009 21:33 (UTC)
Link

Ohhhhh! *sniffs* You did the progression just right and kept the whammy until the end - a neat piece of writing, m'dear!

It's very hard for me to imagine Doyle ever becoming FJ, but if it happened, it was probably something like this. Very moving.

Reply | Thread

erushi

(no subject)

from: erushi
date: 2 February 2009 21:23 (UTC)
Link

For me, it was important that it'd be something extreme for Doyle to become a priest. A security guard or a private investigator, maybe, but not a priest. Nothing else would warrant so drastic a career change. I'm glad it seemed acceptable to you though. I was quite worried about the reception I'd receive for making Doyle do what he did to Bodie.

Thank you for reading, and for your lovely comment! I'm glad this worked for you. :)

Reply | Parent | Thread

robeau

(no subject)

from: robeau
date: 2 February 2009 00:58 (UTC)
Link

Wow! Not at all where I thought it was headed. Great suspense!

Reply | Thread

erushi

(no subject)

from: erushi
date: 2 February 2009 21:12 (UTC)
Link

Glad you thought so. Thanks for reading! *g*

Reply | Parent | Thread

diegina

(no subject)

from: diegina
date: 7 February 2009 14:20 (UTC)
Link

I've read it twice: first the way it was posted and then backwards, from 1 to 7. I still don't know what is more sad: the beginning or the end. It is also quite believable. I can imagine Doyle doing both things - mercy kill and joining priesthood - the way you presented it in your story. What I can't accept is Bodie wanting to die just because he can't walk anymore. I see Bodie as a fighter, not a quitter, but I can accept various things I perceive as OOCs when a story is good. And this story IS good. (I wanted to add an encouraging smiley behind the previous sentence, but the story is so sad and tragic on so many levels, that I couldn't make myself to do it in the end, it would feel too morbid.)

Reply | Thread

erushi

(no subject)

from: erushi
date: 7 February 2009 15:03 (UTC)
Link

To be honest, I wanted the bit about whether Bodie did actually want to die to be ambiguous, just as how whether Doyle was actually seeing Bodie to be something left open for interpretation. The fact that Bodie hadn't done killed himself yet when Doyle came around his flat said something, I felt. (Why he was cleaning his gun is, well, something for the reader to decide.) I was very much taken by the whole "unreliable narrator" theme which ran through Apparitions - Jacob talking to Michael, only we see when the camera pans out that he's talking to thin air - and adopted this for the fic too. Doyle imagines that the laugh is everything of madness and nothing of hilarity, but that's Doyle, and I was hoping that it'd be obvious by then that he's an unreliable narrator after an unspecified Terrible Thing which left Bodie paralysed and Doyle shunted into a witness programme. In a way, when Doyle thanks Cowley at the end of the telephone conversation in part 2, he isn't just thanking Cowley for telling him that Bodie'd died (though he was, too) - he was also thanking Cowley for confirming that Bodie would have wanted to go too, because I imagined that Doyle would have continuously questioned his one decision even after the act was done.

Eek, sorry for the writer-ly ramble. But I just wanted to say that yes, I am actually very glad that you questioned Bodie's desire for death because I wrote this fully conscious of how its various bits may be construed. And to know that someone actually responded to it beyond the first tier of interpretation is just... I'm grinning now, actually, which should tell you how pleased I am, despite the darkness of the subject matter. Thank you for reading, and for your lovely comment. I'm happy you found the story good.

Reply | Parent | Thread

vic

(no subject)

from: saintvic
date: 8 February 2009 02:46 (UTC)
Link

Well this is very painful, utterly devastating, and superbly written. I knew it wasn't going to be a happy piece and the depth of emotion and despair was tangible here. The way you set this out worked very well, presenting us with a unchangeable situation and gradually revealing why kept us reading. I also thought having the death at the end was done well, it was an ending and also a beginning both stylistically and in the story. Thank you.

Reply | Thread

erushi

(no subject)

from: erushi
date: 9 February 2009 01:47 (UTC)
Link

Ooh, I'm glad this worked for you! It was fun being stylistically pretentious, even if my heart kept breaking for our lads as I wrote. I'm terribly fond of the whole "Father Jacob is older!Doyle" theory, but I also find it a difficult thing to link the two up, mainly because Pros and Apparitions are two vastly different things (as they should be), so exploring this aspect in all its dark and morbid guises became something of a must. Thank you for reading, and for your lovely comment!

Reply | Parent | Thread

Strike while the irony is hot

(no subject)

from: draycevixen
date: 21 February 2009 15:29 (UTC)
Link


So I thought well, I'm feeling pretty good this morning and I'm pretty sure that the story you wrote for ND will be a happy one, so I'll read this one with a happy Erushi story waiting in the wings... Very good planning I think.

I haven't been able to write the bridge in a straight *cough* way between Pros and Apparitions because I knew it would have to be something very extreme to send Doyle into the priesthood. Yes, he has character traits that could be moulded in that direction but moulded by what exactly? That's why it's only happened in dream sequences in my stories and only from a POV of Doyle trying to process something.

Sorry, ramble... but my point and I do have one, is this I believe. Totally. Although my little fangirly heart wants me to say "take it back, he wouldn't kill Bodie" it needs that extra edge to push Doyle in to this chain of events, well that combined with a chain of events that has left Doyle in hiding. While I assumed early on in this that Bodie died on duty and that perhaps Doyle was guilty, feeling that he should have saved him, I still don't think that would have been enough.

It's so beautifully done and telling it in reverse order, starting with Jacob's relief was a master stroke.

Thank you, Petal. ♥ *scurries off to read the happy fic*

Reply | Thread

erushi

(no subject)

from: erushi
date: 22 February 2009 12:27 (UTC)
Link

I really need to stop blushing at your comments to my fics. It is most unbecoming. *g*

But yes - thank you! ♥ I'm glad this worked for you. As I've remarked in my other replies, I did need something extreme to shake Doyle up too, only I feared my version would have been too extreme. It was a fun fic to write, I admit, layering and double layering everything with hidden meanings. *g*

Thanks for reading, and I hope the happy fic does the trick!

Reply | Parent | Thread

shayheyred

(no subject)

from: shayheyred
date: 15 August 2012 20:42 (UTC)
Link

Wow. How did I miss this? Thank crack van for pointing it out.
I am one of those folks who don't dislike death fics, if they're well written. And this one is extraordinary. Beautiful and harsh, with a tremendous payoff at the end.

Reply | Thread

Morgan Stuart

(no subject)

from: morganstuart
date: 20 February 2014 22:03 (UTC)
Link

I am horribly late, but I just discovered this treasure, and I had to say thank you for sharing it. I really admire your wonderful restraint here. I love how much you trust the reader, leaving it up to him/her to decide whether or not Bodie wanted this and why Jacob is still seeing (and experiencing) Bodie. It fits beautifully with how we're presented with Jacob in Apparitions. He's strong, courageous, and committed -- but then again, we're seeing it from his perspective, and it's equally possible he may simply be all kinds of insane. That rings very true for me as a kind of latter-day Doyle scenario, and Bodie's death (suicide by Doyle? mercy killing? murder?) rings true as the catalyst that could push Doyle into the arms of the Church. Every word here is well chosen. I keep reading it over and over, feeling its impact. Masterfully done.

Edited at 2014-02-20 22:04 (UTC)

Reply | Thread