Pros Slash Proliferation, Day 4
So today I'd thought I'd offer a tribute to writers who make me work for my supper - writers who make me think. I'm a re-reader, and assuming I like the basic story - meaning, in fanfic, that it's a good slash love story - I appreciate stories and writing that don't offer everything up on first reading, that continue to give me more, to yield more, each time I revisit them. I don't want this all the time - sometimes I want easy and light, and the stories I'm talking about are often tough and anxiety-provoking to read until I figure them out. But I do love it. To me it can be immensely satisfying to...figure it out, to fit the pieces the author gives me together and have "aha!" moments. Like putting a puzzle together; I'm a more active participant, and it makes the whole reading experience more rewarding to me. Yes, it's "work" in a way, and this is supposed to be fun, but...I've used this analogy before: it's like running on a treadmill versus riding Bodie or Griggs.  Both require effort, exertion, but the first feels like exercise; the second, while no less work, is unalloyed pleasure and feels great - before, during, and after. 

But this is only effective in the hands of a skilled writer. There's a difference between depth and complexity, carefully revealed hints and clues, a carefully unfolding structure, on the one hand; and true murky obscurity, confusion and frustration with no satisfaction at the end of it, on the other. And also, I for one don't have to work, to read between the lines, to see the relationship, the love - I am not interested anymore in slash as subtext! *g*

So here are a few of my favorite stories - or really, authors - who make you work for it a bit, but reward that work exponentially.

1) Almost all PFL's stories take a little bit of work to really get; this is one of her hallmarks. But they're incredibly, masterfully constructed; every single clue is there, and right where it should be, where it needs to be. When you re-read you discover links - like repeated words and phrases, which could be accidental but aren't; they're quite conscious. You have to trust this author: everything has a purpose, everything has a place, everything belongs exactly where it is and nowhere else - it's up to you to figure out why. It's all exceptionally well thought out, and the more you read the more you will discover, the more the structure and pattern will become apparent to you - and when it comes to structure, she has few equals.

It's quite difficult to pick an exerpt to illustrate this; you really need context, but in keeping with the theme, because she is, really, a Master Gardener herself, here's a bit of the lads discovering the true extent - or what they think to be the true extent - of their master's manoeuvrings:

"What're you so busy thinking about?"

"Wasn't thinking, sunshine." Doyle raised himself to his knees straddling Bodie.

"Were too," Bodie insisted, spreading his thighs and groaning as Doyle's hand reached his cock. "Stop evading the issue." Whatever Bodie's intentions, the statement came out as a sigh.

Doyle lightly fingered Bodie's cock, watching and feeling it beginning to grow. He slanted a look at his partner, noting the closing eyes and the relaxing mouth. "What were you doing when Harris had his gun on me?" He watched as Bodie jerked, and his eyes snapped opened. "Just waiting for him to pull the trigger, were you?" Doyle's hand left Bodie's cock.

They stared at each other. "Would you've been happier if I'd killed him?" Bodie demanded.

"No. But you would have done if he'd pulled that trigger."

Bodie's mouth flattened. "Yeah."

Doyle brushed a finger along that mouth. "It didn't happen."

Turning his head, Bodie evaded the touch, and his hands moved knowingly over Doyle, in a blatant attempt at distraction. Doyle resolutely ignored his body's response. What else was there, then? He thought back: Cowley.

"Why'd Cowley choose me for Rostov?" Bull's-eye, Doyle thought, as Bodie twitched beneath his hands, going taut. Time for some answers. "What aren't you telling me, Bodie?"

"Ray. Leave it."

Ignoring that, Doyle pondered, thinking out loud. "Cowley put me on Rostov, told me you were out of it, then sent you to follow me. Why?"

In answer, Bodie pulled Doyle down on top of him, and kissed his mouth fiercely. It was the desperation underlying the kiss that allowed Doyle to break it, to pull back far enough to read the expression in Bodie's eyes, and in his mouth. He saw rebellion and resignation, and he saw the emotion there, that same emotion that had shone in Bodie's eyes for years now. Always there, under anger or fear or laughter or even the lust that clouded them regularly. Trust Cowley to have seen the vulnerability. Doyle thought of that love in Bodie's eyes as he sighted a rifle's scope.

His hands gripped Bodie's arms, hard. "I didn't know."

Bodie sighed, and his lashes fell to cover the too-revealing blue eyes. "No."

Doyle drew his breath in sharply. "Did you think--"

Bodie's eyes opened and his hand went to Doyle's face, cupping his cheek. "I wondered."

It was the acceptance of it that shook Doyle--no anger, just a willingness to be the good soldier. And he'd thought Doyle would expect that from him, want it even. "Christ. You bastard."

A smile chased the grim look from Bodie's face. "No, just wrong. And stupid with it."

Doyle felt his throat tighten, but he pushed the words out. "We're getting out, mate. He's not using you like that. Nor me."

Bodie's fingers stroked Doyle's chest. "Should be used to it by now."

Doyle scowled. "How long? How long have I been blind to it?" How long have you accepted it, he thought, but couldn't say. Didn't want to know.

Bodie shook his head, then kissed Doyle between his eyes, trailing his tongue down his nose, to reach his mouth once again. "It wasn't like that; didn't think about it. I never put words to it until today. Not until I had Harris in my sights and waited to pull that fucking trigger. Realised then what Cowley meant when he said I was backup."

Doyle sighed, and lowered his forehead to Bodie's neck. "Backup to the op, not to me."

"Fail safe," Bodie confirmed, levelly.

--From Master Gardener, by PFL

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2) I must admit that Rimy is sometime too...oblique, even for me (though she can also be eminently accessible). I don't always get what she's doing. But I think her Werewolves of London is absolutely, stunningly brilliant. This is a story that requires careful reading and benefits from multiple re-readings; not until you've finished it can you even understand the basic structure, which is essential, really to appreciate the story.  She has very carefully chosen when things should be disclosed to the reader, how the story should unfold; it's not linear, but it's logical and effective.  nellhowell described this really well, so I'll quote her:  "each new revelation leads us to keep altering our perceptions, to fit in more pieces, until finally we have the full picture" - if we're willing to work for it. At times Rimy leaves the reader a bit in the starry twilight, leaves things a bit obscure and unspoken. She sketches things, hints at them - and then she almost twists away, twists and flickers and then throws another barrage of wonderful, witty, totally original prose or dialogue at you - prose or dialogue that almost certainly means more than you think upon first reading it, that is there for a reason and not just because it's looks good (though it definitely does do that).

Again in keeping with our theme: here's a bit of Bodie having his own revelation...

"I watch your back just like you watch mine. The same way, Bodie."

Yeah, so what. By the slight drop of his shoulders, the way his weight shifted without his having moved, the gentled line of his mouth, Doyle had revealed something extraordinary, something enormous. Bodie didn't see how. They covered each other, they'd done that for years.

Bodie waited, but Doyle didn't offer to expand on his declaration. He seemed content to let silence drift between them, overlaying and gradually muffling the traffic noise that beat on Bodie's awareness like distant surf. The expression on his face--he puzzled through a final few seconds' blissful ignorance, dredging up the memory of when and where he'd seen that look of Doyle's before, then pitched off the crumbling edge of all that was sure and comfortable. A spike of pure panic drove into him, set his heart pounding, his blood roaring in his ears. An ominous fear assailed him, that this moment would live on in his head, forever lurking and waiting for sunshine after rain or the scent of damp air laden with the stink of car exhaust to summon up afresh the shock of acquiring knowledge he couldn't unlearn. It was his own fault. He'd broken a cardinal rule of lovers' quarrels and dealing with Doyle: Don't ask the question unless you can handle knowing the answer.

Doyle, never much for touching, put out a hand; he fended it away. "Fuck, Doyle. What--fuck."

"Sorry."

"You never--" He broke off, having no idea what to say, which way to go to get out of this. Too late to pretend ignorance, he'd missed his moment, and very likely too late to deny he bent that way. Events had spun too quickly out of control--out of his control, he acknowledged, suspecting Doyle of absolute confidence and running rings around him. He wasn't prepared for this eventuality. He'd always pictured Doyle angry, repulsed; because it was beyond the realm of the possible, he'd never seriously considered what he'd feel if Doyle wanted him.

Furious betrayal wouldn't've been his first guess.

"You might have said. Since you knew."

"Bodie--what would I say? It's not just about wanting, not for a long time now, and it's never been just about me. I know how you feel. Dunno what you think about how you feel."

That made a twisted kind of sense. He desperately wished it didn't. "You should have said something," he insisted.

"You needn't let on I've said anything now."

Without the car to prop him up, he might've keeled over at the sheer absurdity of Doyle, an unlikely Pandora, offering to stuff the plague of knowledge back in the box. "I can't just--look, I'll think it over, let you know..."

All eyes, hardened layers of self-protection conspicuous by their absence, Doyle reached out his hand again, drew it back without waiting for him to shy away. "It's up to you, Bodie, has been all along. Nothing's changed, not really."

He wanted to laugh at that, but he was afraid that, if he did, stopping would be a struggle. He was still falling, dropping away from every last one of his certainties, and the prospect of regaining his footing looked bleak, when his best chance lay in the man who'd shattered the bedrock out from under him, the same stranger he'd trusted to break any fall. He was steady enough to step away from the car, though, badly wanting Doyle gone. After a barely perceptible hesitation Doyle got in, wound down the window, looked up and out at him with a vast affection that struck at his belly, not his heart: he wanted to puke, and wouldn't Doyle find that reassuring.

"What makes you think I won't go straight to Cowley?" Rage, betrayal...hurt, with a sick edge to it: he wanted to hit back at Doyle, match him wound for wound. "How d'you know I won't shop you?"

"Ah, mate, I know you won't." Sympathetic, infinitely patient: how maddening, how contrary and how bloody typical, that Doyle's concern would be for how he felt, not for what he might do. Bodie wanted to grab a fistful of hair, drag him out of the car by it and beat the shit out of him. "I trust you, Bodie. Doubt I'd be in love with you if I didn't."

What a terrible thing for Doyle to say. It deflected his fury, left in its place a physical pain so acute Bodie longed to curl up around it, to ease it. By now he should know better than to quarrel with his partner. Every truly bitter flare-up between them ended this way, because he let himself forget that Doyle was more dangerous showing his throat than with a gun in his hands.

--From Werewolves of London, by Rimy

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3) Kate MacLean makes you work in a different way. It's not so much complex structure...with her it's more about absolutely brilliant use of point of view: very tight third, and very unreliable narrator. It's very easy to take her at surface value, to think (in her typical story, which is from Bodie's POV) Doyle's a cold, selfish, unfeeling bastard who does nothing but hurt poor Bodie; to think Bodie's insecure and miserable...and their relationship is nothing but angst and misery. It's very easy to forget that we're seeing the entire thing through Bodie's jaundiced eyes; and what's more, that we're viewing a particularly...fraught period in Bodie's emotional life. You have to read carefully - but if you do, you see the hints the author very carefully and very precisely gives us, through Bodie's eyes, of what's really going on: Bodie can't see it, and sometimes Doyle doesn't even know it, but we can see it - if we're willing to do the work, to look through the surface. And it's not always easy, because this author is good; she's a past master at building tension, and it's not until you've re-read a few times, I think, that you can relax enough to let yourself relax enough to see beyond the feelings she evokes.

Oh, so hard to choose a quote! But here's a bit which might show, just a little, how we can see what Bodie can't, how Bodie just isn't getting it, but it's so easy to be taken in by his despair, to miss the clues...

There was silence. It was, Bodie thought, stunned, the worst thing that could have happened. And what about Doyle: his homosexual passion now exposed? But when Ray turned back to Bodie, his face was calm, and he put a hand to Bodie's cheek.

"Well. Alone at last," he said.

Bodie looked at him, and it was all so clear.

"You set that up." Doyle hesitated, but then he shrugged slightly, smiling a small, sheepish, boys-will-be-boys smile. "You manipulative little bastard."

"To know me is to love me." The caressing hand fell, and Doyle's smile went with it. He looked tense, waiting. "Had to, Bodie," was the only explanation forthcoming, and Bodie knew his disgust at how easily it had been done showed on his face.

"To stop me getting that job," Bodie said. Doyle shrugged again, a tiny movement. "Oh well done, mate. A beautiful manoeuvre. Now fuck off." He swung away and slammed his hands down hard on the worktop surface.

"Don't," Doyle said, "Don't." Then he said again, "I had to."

"You had to? Oh yeh ... you had to get your own way, didn't you." Bodie swung round again, but he was too tired and bewildered by this seesaw of emotions for real rage.

"No. Bodie, I couldn't let you ..."

"She'll tell Ann, you do realise that?" It was the worst thing Bodie could think of for Ray, but he got no reaction from Doyle other than a small twist of his mouth.

"Yeh. She probably will," he said and reached a hand to Bodie's cheek again. Bodie caught it and squeezed the wrist brutally, wanting badly to hurt him.

"I said, she'll tell Ann. You mad bastard, you'll lose it all again." But Doyle only smiled, unthreatened it seemed by Marion's vengeance or Bodie's anger. He looked into Bodie's eyes.

"Come to bed."

Bodie stared at him, so amazed by Doyle's nerve that he was almost beyond outrage yet Doyle seemed to see nothing of his sense of betrayal or his despair, intent instead on something, some feeling beyond that, inside himself. He dropped Doyle's wrist as if touching it hurt him, and Doyle's smile faded into nothing.

"You're so bloody beautiful, Bodie," he said softly. "Sometimes I look at you ... an' I forget what I was goin' to say ... you know that? You know that, Bodie?"

Bodie was still looking at him, totally thrown. Doyle had never said that, anything like that to him before. He struggled to regain his anger. His mouth was dry.

"Oh, I see. One for the road is it?" He managed derision, but Doyle didn't seem to understand, didn't even seem to hear it.

"Please, Bodie? Forgive me? Let me show you ... touch you ... "

Bodie looked into the other man's face, apparently open to him, saw the pleading and the need, and he knew he wasn't even fooling himself: they both knew he didn't want to resist. But then, resisting Doyle was always the last thing he wanted to do, and that, he acknowledged wearily, had long been his biggest problem. He was just - so fucking tired, and this would be the last time; he'd remember everything clearly, knowing it would never happen again. Who would it harm, after all, except himself?

At last he nodded slowly and Doyle smiled, his face soft and beautiful. They walked into the bedroom, Doyle leading the way as he'd led the way throughout, pulling Bodie behind him, toward the rumpled bed.

Doyle began to haul at his own clothes immediately, buttons popping carelessly, then he pulled off his boots and his jeans as Bodie stood awkwardly by, erection straining again at the front of his robe, allowing Doyle all the moves for this last time.

Finally, Doyle stood in his underpants, looking at him, seductive as sin.

"Let me," Ray said thickly. He moved the small distance between them, and pulled apart the knot in Bodie's robe, pushing it off his shoulders, exposing his body and the rigid, shameless erection. "Ah Christ, mate," he whispered, "Too ... bloody ... lovely ... to let go. Aren't you?"

His hands touched Bodie's ribcage, and slid down to the silky skin on his stomach and sides and Bodie was lost in the old paralysing excitement of being with Ray.

They fell to the bed, Bodie underneath; Doyle a starving lover on top. He felt the exquisite touch of Doyle's swollen cock rubbing against his own, and he thought suddenly, just twenty minutes ago, he'd been in this bed with Marion, ready to fuck her, and now - 'I suppose that isn't for me,' Ray had said, but it bloody well was now. He almost laughed at the craziness of it, but the sadness of it was irresistible too, because he knew he had lost himself again; lost the knack of pretending he'd be fine without Doyle. After this, he knew Ray would go back to Ann, just laugh at anything Marion said, and he'd marry her today because he needed to. Just as he'd needed to prove his ownership of Bodie. But Bodie also knew this had to be it - the goodbye they should have had as friends.

--From Choosing, by Kate MacLean (Unprofessional Conduct 8)