Alan/Boyce

NC-17

In desperation, as I don't have E4 and am missing my Green Wing fix so much, I have written a short, silly story about my beloved OTP Alan/Boyce.

Warning - it is a bit rude and it is the result of my fevered imagination, so I apologise in advance to Boyce/Alan lovers if anyone feels I have desecrated something beautiful :-D

Inspired by lyrics from “Destiny” by Zero 7

Boyce was at a loss. This was something that almost never happened to him, usually so cool and so in control. All the ladies love Boyce; those blue, blue eyes, easy humour and chat usually worked to charm the pants off everyone. So why was he sat in the dark, in this hotel room far from home, on the run to all intents and purposes? Suddenly feeling foolish, he reached for his phone, and made to call Kim. And put the phone down again. He might be feeling like a fool, but at least he was being honest. This might seem like running, but at least he knew what was going on and that was a start.
Calling Kim would not be honest. She was as hot as hell, and he knew that phone sex would be something she would offer as readily as he could wish for, but he didn’t wish. Instead he paced the room for a bit, feeling like the world’s biggest cliché. “Plonker”, he muttered scornfully to himself and picked up the phone again. Kim answered on the 2nd ring. Keen as mustard that one, but then who could seriously resist Boyce? He was immediately at a loss for words and could only stutter in a very uncool un-Boyce-like fashion. What could he say to her that would be honest? He envisaged her reaction, if he were to say, “Kim, talk dirty to me, make me feel normal again”.

“Oh shit Kim, sorry - doorbell – I’ll call you back later sexy, alright?” he said instead and hung up, before she could say something seductive. He knew she would.

“I’ll have a bath” he thought, and undressed, putting on the big fluffy white robe. Well, if you’re going to stay in a posh hotel for no reason whatsoever; you’ve got to make use of everything haven’t you? The bed was enormous and chintzy. It made him think of Alan’s bed. Well, correction – it was nothing like Alan’s bed, but for some reason, everything made him think of Alan’s bed these days, ever since the night of the slave auction.

And therein lay Boyce’s big dilemma and with it, the reason why he felt the need to run away from home. He needed time to think and remember. At home was normal Boycey, the guy who could shag a girl as soon as look at her, and did. The Boyce who made the guys at the hospital fall around laughing and who was mostly at home with a beer. However, recent events had led him to believe that there was another Boyce, and he really couldn’t ignore him anymore. This one apparently drank white wine, and for some inexplicable reason woke up one day to find himself snuggled up in bed with the last person on earth he could imagine – Alan Statham. Boyce shuddered with embarrassment and shame. If only he could remember anything at all between getting out of a cab at Alan’s house and waking up in the morning, with his finger in Alan’s mouth!!! He shuddered with embarrassment again, and wondered if this new, weird Boyce was actually just hiding from the normal one out of understandable and honourable shame!
“What the fuck happened to me??” he cried out loud. Could there be any bigger joke at the hospital, than Alan; Head of Radiology and of being a prize prick? And yet, he remembered sitting in that near empty restaurant dining a deux and Alan waving a bread stick while he declaimed about something or other and feeling his heart warming. If he stripped away the preconceptions he had about him, he had to admit that they had laughed pretty much all evening, from the point at which they had emptied the second bottle of wine, admittedly out of desperation, to the point at which his memory gave out.
Oh god. Suddenly something came back to him and he laughed hysterically. There was no point in denying it to himself – he now remembered him and Alan in the back of the cab, singing songs from Bugsey Malone. Then, “Oh My GOD!!” it was all coming back to him now – he remembered Alan slipping off the backseat into the footwell, giggling all the time, and then, he, himself, cool Boyce, giggling too, and letting himself slide off the seat too, and – and this is the crucial bit – on top of Alan. Deliberately – “And don’t even try and say it was a pile-on mate”, Boyce muttered fiercely to himself. They had lain there, all the way back to Alan’s, giggling and occasionally trying to heave themselves back onto the seat amid further fits of laughter.

Boyce grinned broadly and lay back on the bed. So what if it was Alan, it had been a real laugh. Suddenly, an image of the world’s least sexy pants heaved into view. “WAH!” he yelled as he remembered where he had seen them. No, not at the hospital, when he gave them back to Alan, to the amusement of all. Nor even the morning after, when he saw them on Alan, as he bashfully sidled out of the door. Let’s face it, Boyce remembered them from when he had removed Alan’s slave skirt thing and in doing so, had fallen to his knees in front of him. Now everything came flooding back. He remembered sliding the pants down, and seeing a pretty impressive erection, which said that Alan wasn’t going to let the small matter of a couple of bottles stand in the way of whatever he was feeling. Feeling rather bemused himself, Boyce had instinctively and without thinking about it, slid his mouth around it and done what every confused, drunk, “ALAN LOVING, weird, sick!” Boyce would do. He rolled over and pummelled his head, moaning in anguish.

Now it was all back, he remembered, a while later, standing up, swaying slightly and grinning at Alan, and Alan taking his face in his hands and saying huskily “Ice blue eyes”, before kissing him. Gently at first and then passionately, god who would have thought that the moustache would feel so sexy against his mouth – or that Alan Statham would be such a good snog? As they kissed, Alan had put one arm tenderly around Boyce’s waist and pulled him down to the bed. Boyce remembered the lump in his throat and the way his heart raced, in anticipation of what was to follow. Alan leaned over him and kissed him, while running his hand over his body, coming to rest at his crotch. Short work was made of the zip, and in fact, Boyce thought shamefacedly, rather short work was made of the hard-on within.

“Fact is, I liked it. In fact, the thought of it is making me randy as hell right this minute, and I might as well face it.”

And then

"I’m a 21st Century guy; open-minded, cool about ‘stuff’ and all that stuff.”

With that thought, he picked up his phone again and dialled directory enquiries. “Alan Statham, please” he asked the operator, his heart in his mouth at the enormity of what he was about to do.