Professional Dreamer
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Claim: The Professionals – Bodie/Doyle
Title: Professional Dreamer
Author: Pamela Rose
Characters: Bodie+, Doyle+, Cowley+, Ann Holly+, Others
Prompt: 28: Dream
Rating: NC-17
Length: Epic
Brief summary: Okay, this is sort of an AU, but I'm not cheating much, honest. And it's such a perfect match to the prompt… Bodie and Doyle exist as themselves – but only in the books of author W. Phillip Andrew, and the somewhat fevered imagination of one of his readers, librarian Raymond Dibble. Author and reader are, of course, destined to meet and the way Rose contrives this is brilliantly farcical, ironic and of course hugely funny. Ignore the faint Americanisms – it's easy to, really. Rose is another of my favourite authors.
"Bodie! Are you okay?"
Philip's hand stopped in mid-gesture. Bodie? Could be a coincidence, of course. But the name Dibble did ring a bell. Some shithead librarian Cowley was pissing on about who was mad about his books. Cowley was hoping for some big buy, no doubt envisioning all the libraries in England purchasing grosses of hard-bound copies of the entire series. Philip thought it was a load of rubbish, but Cowley had said something about the man wanting an interview. This surely couldn't be the man--or could it?
"You're Dibble, that librarian chap?" he asked cautiously.
A gusting sigh. "Yeah, that's me, Raymond Dibble, have library card will travel. Bodie, will you stop pissin' around."
Shrugging, Philip unlocked the door. At least it shouldn't be boring. "Push."
"Thank you so much," came the sarcastic reply as the door buzzed open.
Three minutes latter came a thunk at the door. Philip opened it and the intruder brushed by him, furious and wet.
"You wanner tell me what that was in aid of? I thought you were in trouble up here. It's not funny, Bodie. We've got trouble here and we don't have a lot of time for your friggin' practical jokes."
"Mr. Dibble, I presume?"
"Oh, bugger off," the other man snapped. "My head is killing me and I ache all over. I'm going to have a hot shower and some clean clothes. We can fill each other in on the details later. Ten minutes, okay?"
Before Philip could do more than open his mouth, the man had located the bathroom and slammed and locked the door. Two seconds later the water sounded and a voice began singing a very flat rendition of Rolling Stones' "Get Off'a My Cloud".
He had never had his bathroom commandeered before and wasn't entirely sure what to do about it. Breaking down the door seemed a tad extreme. Dibble (or whoever he was) couldn't stay in there forever, after all. Just to be on the safe side, he went to the desk and retrieved his faithful Walther PPK. He hadn't used it for more than target practice in four years, but a nutter was a nutter. They usually weren't violent, but one could never tell. Bemused, Philip waited.
Ten minutes later, the man appeared from the steamy bath wearing Philip's dressing gown, his curls dripping water. The green eyes raked over his host without emotion. "Good, you're tooled. Hope you've an extra. They nicked mine when they jumped me. No, don't say it. I know I was lax. But I didn't know they were this close, did I? They must've blown my cover. Cowley'll have my balls on toast. Still, looks as if you're safe. I eyeballed outside for at least an hour and didn't see anything shaky. I think you're still clean, sunshine. Though not for long. If they twigged me, they'll find this place soon enough. We'd better move house."
"Who the hell are you?" Philip finally managed to get in.
Link to the story: Professional Dreamer
Claim: The Professionals – Bodie/Doyle
Title: Professional Dreamer
Author: Pamela Rose
Characters: Bodie+, Doyle+, Cowley+, Ann Holly+, Others
Prompt: 28: Dream
Rating: NC-17
Length: Epic
Brief summary: Okay, this is sort of an AU, but I'm not cheating much, honest. And it's such a perfect match to the prompt… Bodie and Doyle exist as themselves – but only in the books of author W. Phillip Andrew, and the somewhat fevered imagination of one of his readers, librarian Raymond Dibble. Author and reader are, of course, destined to meet and the way Rose contrives this is brilliantly farcical, ironic and of course hugely funny. Ignore the faint Americanisms – it's easy to, really. Rose is another of my favourite authors.
"Bodie! Are you okay?"
Philip's hand stopped in mid-gesture. Bodie? Could be a coincidence, of course. But the name Dibble did ring a bell. Some shithead librarian Cowley was pissing on about who was mad about his books. Cowley was hoping for some big buy, no doubt envisioning all the libraries in England purchasing grosses of hard-bound copies of the entire series. Philip thought it was a load of rubbish, but Cowley had said something about the man wanting an interview. This surely couldn't be the man--or could it?
"You're Dibble, that librarian chap?" he asked cautiously.
A gusting sigh. "Yeah, that's me, Raymond Dibble, have library card will travel. Bodie, will you stop pissin' around."
Shrugging, Philip unlocked the door. At least it shouldn't be boring. "Push."
"Thank you so much," came the sarcastic reply as the door buzzed open.
Three minutes latter came a thunk at the door. Philip opened it and the intruder brushed by him, furious and wet.
"You wanner tell me what that was in aid of? I thought you were in trouble up here. It's not funny, Bodie. We've got trouble here and we don't have a lot of time for your friggin' practical jokes."
"Mr. Dibble, I presume?"
"Oh, bugger off," the other man snapped. "My head is killing me and I ache all over. I'm going to have a hot shower and some clean clothes. We can fill each other in on the details later. Ten minutes, okay?"
Before Philip could do more than open his mouth, the man had located the bathroom and slammed and locked the door. Two seconds later the water sounded and a voice began singing a very flat rendition of Rolling Stones' "Get Off'a My Cloud".
He had never had his bathroom commandeered before and wasn't entirely sure what to do about it. Breaking down the door seemed a tad extreme. Dibble (or whoever he was) couldn't stay in there forever, after all. Just to be on the safe side, he went to the desk and retrieved his faithful Walther PPK. He hadn't used it for more than target practice in four years, but a nutter was a nutter. They usually weren't violent, but one could never tell. Bemused, Philip waited.
Ten minutes later, the man appeared from the steamy bath wearing Philip's dressing gown, his curls dripping water. The green eyes raked over his host without emotion. "Good, you're tooled. Hope you've an extra. They nicked mine when they jumped me. No, don't say it. I know I was lax. But I didn't know they were this close, did I? They must've blown my cover. Cowley'll have my balls on toast. Still, looks as if you're safe. I eyeballed outside for at least an hour and didn't see anything shaky. I think you're still clean, sunshine. Though not for long. If they twigged me, they'll find this place soon enough. We'd better move house."
"Who the hell are you?" Philip finally managed to get in.
Link to the story: Professional Dreamer
