These Layers of Charnel Air by Slantedlight
Outside the grey clouds had turned to drizzle again, a fine, wetting mist of it that somehow felt worse than real rain, down by the seaside where all should be sun and fun and ice creams. Doyle strode along the prom, hands in pockets, looking straight ahead, stone-faced. Bodie waited until they’d turned the corner at the end of the road, out of the sight of prying woodentops, and then grabbed his arm, pulling him to a stop.
“Bodie, will you fuck off!” Doyle shook him off, left his hands, fists clenched, where Bodie could see the danger in him. Oh, this was more like it.
“Not very grateful, considering I’ve just saved you from being arrested.”
Doyle threw his head back, as he had in the lavs, as if supplicating the heavens for understanding, for patience with fools, and for lightning to smite his enemies, Bodie in particular. He took a deep breath. “Yeah. Thank you. Now fuck off.” He started walking again.
Oh no, not that easily.
“Don’t think so, mate. We had a deal. Thirty quid, back at your place.”
Doyle stopped again, turned to face him. “And will that get you off my back?”
Not in a million years, sunshine. Bodie shrugged. “Sure. You know what it’s like on an op, a little something to release the tension and then everything’s go. You turned up at just the right time.”