Usual Disclaimer
I don't own the characters of Bodie and Doyle, or any others from the TV series. They belong to Mark One Productions and Brian Clemens.
I borrow them to write fiction for my own (and hopefully your) pleasure, with no financial gain to myself or anyone else.
GROWN MEN CRY
The kitchen table was littered with the detritus of the failed mission. Bloodied cotton wool lay in untidy heaps next to a bowl of water. A bottle of antiseptic stood open, permeating the air with its smell.
Bodie slumped on the chair, pale and sweating, his usual cool demeanour destroyed by pain and fear. His hand was a mess; blood trickled down from his damaged fingers, soaking into the cuff of his cream wool polo neck jumper.
'I can't stand this,' he muttered. He grabbed at Doyle's arm. 'It hurts so much. Doyle, just get the sodding thing out will you?'
Ray Doyle stood over his partner, his composure rattled by Bodie's pleading. He peered at the gaping wound.
'I can't mate – you need someone who knows what they're doing. I could make it much worse if I meddle. I'll go for help.'
Bodie's blue eyes were dulled with dread at what was to come. He gripped the edge of the table and looked imploringly as Doyle left the room. Bodie lay his head on the table – for the first time in years he wanted to cry.
Doyle soon returned, followed by Cora. She took one look at her lover and sat down, She took the injured hand tenderly and turned it over. The palm was deeply split, oozing blood. She looked hard at the wound. Calmly, she picked up a pair of tweezers and with a single motion removed the large splinter of glass from it, before inspecting his fingers and applying small plasters to the other cuts.
'Next time you do the washing up, lover, do the wine glasses separately and wear the Marigolds.'
She cleared the table of Bodie's attempts to staunch his own wound and swept out of the room without so much as a backward glance.
Doyle thought he would never stop laughing.