Not a proper fic, cos this is just a bit of scribbling that happened when I thought of the lads first thing in the morning whilst feeling tired and slightly grumpy and didn't want to get out of bed, but I thought I could at least post it to my own journal.  Because really - who does want to get up in the morning?  Definitely not Doyle...

 

Doyle slammed his hand down on the buzzing alarm clock and fumbled for his glasses on the bedside table.  Peering at the clock, he groaned as the blinking digits  slowly came into focus.

 

5.30.

 

5 bloody 30!

 

On a Monday morning!  

 

He snuggled back down into the pillows and rubbed his eyes.  He was too sodding old for this now – the five-thirty starts, the shiny leather briefcase, suit starched to within an inch of its life.  Trying to save the world every day from behind an office desk.  God knows how the Cow managed it. 

 

He risked another glance at the clock. 

 

5.33.  5.34.  5.35.

 

Stupid bloody clock. 

 

Doyle flicked the bedside lamp on and squeezed his eyes shut against the invading light..  Five more minutes in bed, then a quick shower and breakfast.  Out the door at 6.30, on the tube by 6.42 and behind his desk and checking his emails by 7.39.  Doyle flinched at the thought.  One hundred and twenty-seven emails yesterday, ranging from an urgent summons from Downing Street to discuss the current political situation in the middle east to an irate message from Jo in Accounts and Finances demanding to know who used the last of the milk. 

 

Doyle scowled as the numbers on the clock clicked and whirred from 5.39 to 5.40.  His first meeting of the day was with Jo from Accounts and Finances, at 9.30 sharp.  Apparently he’d been overspending on security and under-spending on office stationery. 

 

Bu then in fairness to Jo and her priorities, he’d been pissed off about the milk as well. 

 

Doyle turned his back on the blinking clock and shuffled down towards the middle of the bed, pulling the covers tightly over his head.  The world would just have to cope without him for five more minutes.

 

From downstairs, he heard the kitchen radio blare into life followed by a slightly off-key voice singing along to an indistinct 1980’s power ballad.  There was the crashing of pans, a string of expletives and then the unmistakeable smell of fried bacon drifted into the bedroom.  Doyle inhaled greedily.  Bodie was right, he had to admit – there really was nothing like a bacon butty to get you going in the morning. 

 

Doyle grinned and rolled back over to his own side of the bed as Bodie appeared in the doorway, a fresh cup of tea in each hand. 

 

Some things were worth getting up for, after all. 

 

Tags: pros fic