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White Marble
I do not own these characters nor claim any right to do so
This fanfic is purely for entertainment purposes only
The pain must be dreadful.
I sense the stifled moan he thinks he’s hidden from me and I leave off examining the room to crouch down by his side. He’s panting softly, each exhalation a ghostly fog in the cold air but the shock seems to be wearing off slightly. His hand is pressed to his side and I pry his fingers away to examine the wound. The scent of the old straw is strong but the overlaying smell of blood is stronger. Bodie shifts restlessly against my ministrations.
“Easy Sunshine.”
Moonlight spills into the room from high barred windows, full on my face and I tilt my head, better to see what I’m doing. The bullet has gone through, leaving a jagged rent of flesh in its wake. It’s not a bad wound, all things considered but it hasn’t stopped bleeding, the bullet has nicked something, a vein perhaps. Bodie’s face is in darkness but the moon leaves a path of pure silver across his bare chest and it’s like one of those statues at the museum, the ones made of white marble, all defined smooth muscles but cold and hard to the touch. Unalive. The thought is abruptly unsettling, although the rapid rise and fall of chest assures me he’s still breathing. For now. My own ruined T shirt, held against his side with his belt, is soaked through and I begin to rip up his shirt to use for extra bandaging. He complains it’s his favourite, Italian or something. At least he’s complaining.
The remnants of the stun grenades are still tickling and I clear my throat as I work. They’d caught us out good and proper, staging an accident that looked genuine and we’d had the windows open in the warm afternoon. It hadn’t taken long, my last memory was falling out on to the road and then nothing before winding up here, jacket and weapon gone, the warm afternoon sunshine replaced by an intense frigidity. I feel a faint quiver over my own skin, and Bodie feels as cold as the marble he resembles.
There had been three or four of them, that I could see when I’d finally come round, two of them wearing our jackets and holsters, the Capri appropriated to complete the masquerade. They looked nothing like us, nothing like the pictures on our ID. But arriving at the expected time on a dark night?….a glance at Bodie confirmed he’d come to the same conclusion.
They’d wanted the safehouse location. I’d laughed at them. Bodie always did say I never knew when to keep my mouth shut.
“You will tell us eventually.”
They’d been right. I did tell them. Not at first, not when they’d used their fists on me, not even when they used the riding crop on my back, the pain unlike anything I’d ever experienced.
“Where is it?”
My arms held high, rope tight around my wrists, each demand accompanied by a lash from the crop.
“Where is it?”
I’d pressed my face into the wood of the stall against the pain, aware of Bodie fidgeting restlessly, face cold and hard, not liking the situation but knowing, as did I, that Hans Shneider was far too valuable to risk for a few welts and bruises.
“Your last chance, where is it?”
The shot had been loud and startling. But not half as startling as the red stain spreading over that fancy Italian shirt. Horrified I’d gazed at my partner, saw him glance down as though confused before all the colour left his face and he sagged against the men holding him.
“Next will be the kneecap. Where is it?”
And I’d told them. Oh, not the real location, I’d had wits enough not to blurt that out. I’d given them a dummy one, an active army barracks, hoping that someone bright enough would see that the faces in the Capri didn’t match the ID’s, that the terrorists wearing our jackets were impostors. I’d had no idea what they were planning, I’d just wanted to prevent Bodie from losing a knee and get the hell out of here.
“That is better. Secure them.”
Hadn’t counted on a guard though.
I press Bodie’s shirt on top of mine over the wound. He gives a little moan and I look at him, his eyes dark pools in the shadows. The bullet is now the least of my worries. It’s shock or loss of blood. Or both. “We’re going to have to chance it.”
“It’s a long shot mate,” he whispers. “He may not fall for it.”
“There’s no choice” I hiss back, abruptly furious, knowing that it’s the only shot if Bodie is to live If the doubles come back empty handed, we’re as good as dead. “Not if we’re going to get out of here.”
I rise to my feet, trying to ignore the cold, the smarting across my back, the dank smell of straw and the silver path of the moon, glowing on Bodie’s marble white skin. He’s very still, his powerful frame strangely subdued and it boosts my fury. He always says I have a lousy temper, but in this case I think I’m justified. It might be a long shot, but it’s the only shot. Not wasting any more time, I move to the door and I see him struggling to shift himself to a better position before subsiding again with a small moan.
“Open up. My partner…something’s wrong. Open up.”
Nothing but I don’t give up. Another glance at Bodie and the black stain of blood over one flank drives me over the edge. I kick at the door, again and again. It’s holding but I feel a slight give. Bodie shifts again, trying to gear himself up to help. I know he can’t.
“Open the door, or I swear I’ll kick it down, he needs a doctor.”
“Stand back. You stand back away from the door on the far side so I can see you.”
Finally. I do as he says, but ready myself to attack. I don’t know what will happen, don’t know if I’ll be fast enough and I can’t rely on Bodie’s strength. I don’t even know if he’s conscious. The door opens and the terrorist points his gun at me before glancing down at my partner, sprawled in the filthy straw as though dead. But he’s not, at least not yet and he suddenly surges off the floor grappling at the terrorist’s knees in a move that costs him, judging by the anguished cry that accompanies it. I dart across and smash my fist across the German’s right hand just as the gun discharges, the bullet meant for Bodie going wide. My rage spends itself in blows to his face and body and he quickly drops, limp as a rag doll.
Bodie is panting, biting back pain and I cross to him, the moon silvering the contours of his chest, highlighting the rise and fall of it.
“I’m all right,” he says, waving me away. “Go find a way out of here.”
Lying through his bloody teeth, I decide, checking his side. It’s bleeding profusely from his clumsy attempt to take out the terrorist and there is nothing left to staunch it. I decide the best course of action is to take his advice and get him to a hospital. I give him the gun, pressing it into his lax hand and closing his cold fingers around the butt. He leans on his good side and points the weapon at the unconscious German, eyes open and glittering. I hesitate but he seems ok for the moment.
Emerging outside, the full moon obligingly illuminates the landscape with an eerie silver light. We are in a stable, although the lingering odour of horse and manure had already informed us of that, some sort of weekend pony club. There is no vehicle, telling me in no uncertain terms that the terrorists will return to collect their mate, so the sooner we go the better. I walk quickly around the stable block and see the neon lights of a small town in the distance. It’s depressingly far away and I bite my lip anxiously. Too far for someone in Bodie’s condition. Another long shot.
Bodie jumps as I bend back down to him, and I realise that the loss of blood is starting to take its toll. “Time to go.”
His voice slurs, doubling my anxiety. “Where? How?”
I don’t bother answering, concentrating on getting him to his feet, taking his arm across my shoulders. His skin is icy, white marble. He leans heavily on me, on the welts across my back and I inhale against the sudden sting. Repentant, he angles his arm away from the damage, and moves away, as if to stand under his own power, but fails and it’s so strange having him so helpless, when he’s normally barging into danger with all the force and subtlety of an armoured tank. We stagger to the door, and out into the night.
Bodie stops, swaying against me. “Where the hell are we?”
“I dunno, but look over there.” I urge him to look at the distant lights but he’s typically unimpressed.
“How do we get there? The 7.15 bus?”
A loud snort behind us and he jumps. I follow his gaze and see a horse standing at the fenced paddock, dark eyes regarding us curiously.
Bodie reads my face as easily as ever. “Oh no.”
“All there is mate.” I pat his arm reassuringly, mind already made up. Better than walking no matter how you look at it. “You’ll be right, can’t stay here and we’ve got to let Cowley know about our doubles.”
I go off to find some tack, leaving him leaning unsteadily against the wall, staring bemusedly at the horse, his hand pressed to his side. The search proves futile, I only find a half broken bridle and some rope hanging in one of the stalls. It’ll have to do. My worry for my partner is increasing with his vagueness, and I hurry back. He’s where I left him, standing as still and pale as a Greek statue.
“There’s no saddle, I could only find this and that’s because it’s had it. They must take all the equipment away with them. It’s bareback, mate.”
I don’t give him time to protest, knowing that Bodie isn’t that comfortable on a horse, although he can ride one. A motorbike is more Bodie’s scene. The horse watches my approach calmly; large liquid eyes interested and makes no protest as I slide the bit between the teeth. I tighten the straps that aren’t broken and lead it along the fence and through the gate. Bodie gives a distrusting look at my cupped hands.
“Come on Bodie,” I urge and am relieved when he obeys, placing his foot in my hands to be boosted up on to the back. At first I thought he would slide right off again and obviously so did the horse, stepping skittishly sideways. I calm it down, stroking the velvet nose, whispering endearments into the twitching ears. Bodie clings to the mane, obviously in considerable pain judging by his grim silence. I start to walk, eager to put distance between us and the stables, before the terrorists return. The road beckons but we both know they’ll return that way.
I glance uncertainly up at Bodie, judging his condition. “We can go cross country?”
He doesn’t tell me to go without him, he knows me too well. He just gazes at me, with eyes dark pools of black against that alabaster skin. “Then you’d better get up here and put some distance between us and here. Before I pass out.”
I use the fence to climb up, settling myself in front of him in order to guide the horse. “All right?”
“Yeah, just go easy Tonto.”
I laugh, the answer so typical of Bodie that I can almost forget how badly he is hurt. I feel the touch of his hands, fingers cold where they brush against my waist. His thighs lie alongside mine as I press against the horse to start him off but it doesn’t take long before I feel my partner begin to slump, leaning against the welts on my back and I stiffen against the pain, enduring it as the horse picks up pace. There is a trail of some sort up ahead in the direction of the lights and the horse seems to know it, heading off without guidance. The silence is broken only by the soft plod of hooves on leafy ground and the moon begins to falter as we enter a small forest. Bodie is getting heavier against me, his face pressing into my shoulder and it’s a strain to take his weight and keep upright. My back feels on fire. I shift and he begins to slide sideways.
“Bodie!”
I fling an arm behind me, around his waist, keeping him pinned to me as he wakens. He jerks upright suddenly, peeling away from my back like sandpaper and I hiss, arching away from the sting. I sling one leg over the withers of the horse and slide off just in time to support him as he half falls.
“Easy mate.”
He’s shivering violently as I lay him down and check his side. His trousers are soaked with blood, cold and clammy around his hip and thigh and the wetness coats my hands as I undo the belt. I swear viciously. Bodie eyes are glazed, his lean face almost skeletal as he gradually slips into shock. I don’t give up. I press against the wound firmly and it slows grudgingly. Then I begin to gather sticks, as many as I can and start a small fire with the lighter I habitually carry in my back pocket, thanking god that it wasn’t taken along with my gun and ID. Flames lick the wood, brightening the little copse we’ve stopped in and I build it up, desperate for a satisfying warmth to ward off Bodie’s shock. His bare skin lightens in the flames, marble white to pale gold, but his eyes are sunken and his lips bloodless. Quickly I get down behind him, pressing myself close against his clammy back. I start to shiver myself, but refuse to move.
The horse, inquisitive and unafraid of the flames bends down, snuffling at Bodies dark hair. I tuck myself closer and think of a hot shower, of golden haired Jane in a big warm bed, of bright tropical sunshine, anything but this miserably cold night and my possibly dying partner. I think of Cowley’s rage and that warms me slightly. Bodie’s shudders ease and the horse nuzzles his hair with velvet lips.
It’s some time before I feel him waken and I sit up to lean over. He has a gentle smile on his face and I wonder what he is thinking as he lifts a hand to the horse, caressing the nose with a tender touch. Knowing Bodie, probably some bird, his latest, what’s her name? Cindy. I push the horse away and get up to tend the fire, secure that the flames are hidden enough in our little pocket of trees, although I sense Bodie’s disapproval in that direction.
“You’re losing consciousness on and off,” I tell him. “You’ve lost too much blood Bodie, going into shock. I had no other way to warm you.”
Bodie lifts his heavy gaze from the fire to me, then beyond to the horse, patiently waiting with flicking ears and twitching tail, eyes dark and wise. He smiles and I know he’s drifting again.
“I can’t keep you on the horse and ride at the same time.” But I’ve already figured out how to get around it and I’m helping Bodie up, urging him, swearing at him as he resists. I bend to cup my hands and grunt as I boost his weight. Solid muscle my partner, obvious without his shirt and he’s heavy. He manages to stay on the animal but he’s done in, flopping down across the slippery back, clinging to the mane, the moon kissing his fire warmed skin with goosebumps.
I take the rope that I’d found in one of the stalls and loop it around his right wrist. Leaning under the horse’s neck, I tie the other end to his left wrist, effectively binding him to the animal. He’s unaware of anything now, eyes closed against the night, pressed against the warm back of the horse, sculptured in dappled shadow from the canopy above us. Anxious for him, I take the reins and start to walk, hoping the exertion will warm me up. The horse, carrying its precious burden unhesitatingly follows and the world shines silver.
The blood transfusion works. So they say. Bodie doesn’t look much better though, ensconced in white linen that matches his skin but at least he’s in a hospital where he belongs. As predicted Cowley has more than a few words on the incident but then so do I. A surly voice interrupts us.
“Knock it off Doyle.”
I stop arguing with the boss and turn to him, glad to see him finally coming around. “You going to sleep all day?”
His eyes stay closed. “Yes.”
Then suddenly they squint open, a mere slit of dark blue, checking me over, in that way he has, making sure I’m all right. I smile at him.
“Is there anything we can get you?” Cowley asks gruffly.
“Yeah,” his eyes, apparently satisfied with my appearance, slam shut again. “Cindy. Number’s 5523 4537.”
For Pony
A companion piece for Touched Silver.
Jaicen5 2011