In the morning, Bodie couldn't recall all the details of the disaster. He had been far too drunk. Perhaps if he hadn't been so out of it, nothing would have happened. He certainly hadn't planned for anything to happen. But here he sat, head in hands, sick, aching, and utterly convinced that he had destroyed the best friendship he had ever had.

Last night started out like many other nights. At loose ends after finishing an op, no plans, no girlfriends to hand, he and Doyle wound up getting take-away and going to Bodie's flat to watch the box. Nothing special about that. After eating, they attacked Bodie's liquor supply, and that could hardly be described as unusual, either. So how did the trouble start?

It started with Doyle's jeans, for one thing. Bodie often wondered how Ray got his body to squeeze into denim stretched so tight you could bounce a fifty-pence coin off it, and still have room for the important bits. All evening long Bodie found his gaze straying to Doyle's crotch, where the cloth outlined everything nicely, or to his arse whenever Doyle got up to go to the liquor cabinet, each movement accentuating the perfectly formed cheeks. And when he wasn't admiring Doyle's most intriguing assets, he was drawn to other appealing views, thanks to Doyle's shirt, which had been unbuttoned enough to show off tantalizing glimpses of nipples and chest hair. Doyle seemed completely unconscious of his effect on Bodie, serenely unaware of how each ripple of green cotton cloth across his torso drew Bodie further into the depths of desire.

Bodie tried to do the sensible thing, tried to close off his emotions. But either the whiskey proved stronger than usual, or Doyle's sensuality wove too intricate a lure, for in the end, nothing could keep the fire banked down. They spent all evening side by side on the sofa, thighs casually brushing, shoulders rubbing, heads drowsily lolling. How could he ignore so much intimacy? Every time Doyle made a comment on the action movie they were watching, he turned towards Bodie, leaning in close, his warm breath teasing Bodie's neck, his twinkling eyes caressing his face, his soft laughter playing intoxicating riffs through his very soul.

By the time the movie credits rolled, Doyle lay completely relaxed against Bodie, using him as a giant pillow, head on Bodie's shoulder, and one arm lying across his thigh. Maybe he should have viewed this as simple affection, one fairly sloshed mate to another, and then nothing would have happened. But Bodie knew Ray Doyle well, had spent years working and playing alongside him, had often lazed away an unplanned evening with him on very similar sofas, watching very similar movies, and never, in all those years, had Doyle put his hand so near to Bodie's crotch, and then left it there. To Bodie, there couldn't have been a clearer sign that it was time to make a move.

So he did.

As the credits finished and the station went into its late-night sign-off, Bodie snaked a hand behind Doyle, twined his fingers through a mass of auburn curls, and tilted Doyle's head just so. As Doyle's sleepy eyes blinked open, and as his lips twitched into a half-smile, Bodie kissed him.

Doyle recoiled so fast it was a wonder his neck didn't snap. That was Bodie's last coherent observation before Doyle's fist shot out to connect with his jaw.

The punch packed enough force to knock him off the sofa; his hip banged into the coffee table as he fell hard to the floor. He groggily looked up to see Doyle storming for the door, snatching jacket and keys on the way.

"Ray, wait--"

Doyle didn't stop, didn't look back, didn't say a word.

As the front door slammed shut, Bodie stared blankly at the sofa, where his fantasy had collided head-on with stark reality. He rubbed his jaw, as if that would help ease the pain. In one split-second, everything about the evening had turned ugly.

He crawled back onto the sofa, grabbed a bottle of whiskey off the coffee table, and drank until he couldn't drink anymore. He never bothered to turn off the box and its off-air fuzz filled his mind until mercifully blotting out all his anxious thoughts.

Too bad the station began broadcasting again in the morning.

He woke to the early newscast. Groggy and sore, his hip aching nearly as much as his jaw, Bodie sat on the sofa, holding his head, aware he would have to get ready for work, go into HQ, and face his partner. What the hell could he say to make things right again?

Nothing readily came to mind.

---

The bland corridors of CI5 had never seemed so menacing. Each time he turned a corner without seeing his partner, Bodie let out a small sigh of relief. Each time a door opened, he froze, waiting to see who came out, and when Doyle failed to appear, he started breathing again.

His apprehension, however, eventually turned to puzzlement. Doyle wasn't in the rest room. He hadn't been in the briefing room or the computer room, and even though they were due in Cowley's office at nine sharp, Doyle hadn't been seen anywhere about. A quick check of the car park failed to turn up Doyle's Escort. His concern over facing Doyle turned to worry over his whereabouts. At 8:59, Bodie walked into Cowley's office, eyes darting to every corner. No Doyle.

"Sit down." Cowley waved him towards a chair.

Bodie hovered near it, but remained standing. "Have you seen Doyle, sir?"

"Isn't he with you?"

"No, sir. I haven't seen him since last night."

Cowley instantly reached for his intercom. "Raise 4.5," he barked into it.

They waited in uncomfortable silence. Five minutes passed before the intercom crackled. "There's no response, sir."

Bodie clenched his teeth, fighting back a churning sensation in the pit of his stomach. Christ, where had the idiot gone? He wouldn't have done anything stupid simply because of the pass Bodie had made. Doyle wasn't the bolting type. No, Ray would just go home and worry over it, would endlessly turn over the problem in his mind, but he wouldn't run off.

"Where and when did you last see Doyle?" Cowley asked.

"My flat, around one a.m." Bodie paused. "We'd had quite a bit to drink." God, had Doyle gotten in an accident? Surely they would have heard long before this, though. "I assumed he went straight home."

Cowley got on the intercom again, rattling off instructions for an all-out search.

Bodie strode to the door, his concern for Doyle's safety outweighing all else. "I'll check his flat." He was out the door before Cowley could reply.

---

This time, as he moved through Doyle's flat, Bodie desperately wanted to see him. He didn't care if Ray still hated him over that damn kiss; he only wanted to know that he was safe.

Each empty room hit him hard; each piece of evidence that Doyle had not come home tore like bullets through his heart.

The bed looked far too neatly made. The shower stall stood dry, all the towels folded, unused. The clothes Doyle had been wearing were not in his wardrobe. No sign in the kitchen of morning coffee preparations. And his car was not on any of the nearby streets outside. Doyle had not been here last night; he had never come home after storming out of Bodie's flat. He was gone.

But where? The knot which had formed in Bodie's gut as soon as Cowley failed to raise Doyle on the radio suddenly twisted. If Doyle had bolted, he would have come back here first, would have taken, at the very least, more clothes with him, his shaving gear, something of his own. But everything was in place; everything was as it should be. Which left only one possibility.

Ray had not come home because he couldn't.

Bodie radio'ed in to HQ with the news.

"The hospital check was negative," Cowley told him. "Nor has anyone phoned in with a ransom demand. But someone must have gotten to him."

"Yes, sir. I suggest we run checks on recent prison releases." Perhaps it was someone Ray had put away in the past, someone bent on revenge.

"Aye, I did think of that, 3.7. You get on your bike to all of Doyle's usual haunts, and nose around. We'll find him."

Oh, yeah, Bodie thought as he signed off. I'll find him. Just one crucial question.

Will I find him alive?

---

Seven days.

In CI5, a week could seem like mere hours when they were busy, when hectic ops took up their time, when every waking moment was a rush from one chaotic scene to another.

Or a week could feel like months when things were dragging, when nothing but watching and waiting were on the agenda, when no leads panned out, when every hour ticked by without progress.

The seven days Bodie spent searching for Ray Doyle seemed like an eternity.

No one had seen him since that night. His car had been found parked outside a pub located halfway between their two flats, but no one who worked at the pub, nor any of the customers, remembered seeing him. The car yielded only the thinnest of clues--Doyle's R/T in the glove box, and one small bloodstain on the driver side door, along its top edge. The forensics man had a theory about that.

"If he'd been getting in or out of the car," he had told Bodie, "and he had the door open, and was standing between it and the inside of the car, and someone came up to hit him from behind, knocking him out, then he could have hit his head on the top of the door as he collapsed. The sharp edge could have resulted in a bleeding cut."

If, Bodie repeated endlessly throughout the week. If he were only knocked out, and not dead. If his attacker wanted him alive, at least for a while. But why no note, no message? If someone wanted to ransom Doyle, that someone was being far too quiet.

He snatched little pieces of sleep here and there. And he spent every waking hour scouring the streets, talking to people, to every friend or acquaintance ever to enter Doyle's life, some so ancient they barely recalled his name. He searched through every neighborhood Doyle ever had a flat, talking to neighbors, landlords, store clerks, restaurant and pub workers, everyone he could find. He tracked down old girlfriends by the dozens, using the address book in Doyle's flat to find every bird he'd only known by first name before. He spoke with Doyle's former colleagues at the Met, from every patch he ever walked.

Nothing. It was as if Ray Doyle barely existed anymore, as if he were some phantom which Bodie would chase forever, catching a glimpse of here or there but never quite grabbing hold. He almost didn't know what would be worse--finding Doyle's body in some makeshift grave, or going through the rest of his life never finding anything, never knowing what had happened.

At the end of seven days of ceaseless worry, of being in utter darkness, exhausted, sick, and angry at the world, Bodie knew that he needed an answer. One way or another, good or bad, he had to know. Otherwise, he would go mad.

Early on the eighth day, at an hour when no sane person who didn't have to be awake would be up, at an hour when Bodie restlessly paced his living room, the phone call came.

"Charlie Cole," Cowley said. "Released from Her Majesty's confinement one week prior to Doyle's disappearance. Doyle put him away during his last year on the Met, a major drugs case. He had worked undercover on it for nearly six months, and had become good friends with Cole as part of that cover. Apparently when Cole found out Doyle had betrayed him, that he was a cop, he went berserk--vowed to pay Doyle back when he got out."

"Wouldn't a few years inside change his mind?" Bodie asked, trying to be logical, though he wanted more than anything to believe they had found a valid lead at last. "I mean, once he got out, wouldn't he want to stay out? And not jeopardize that?"

"According to the prison psychiatrist, no. Cole had very little to look forward to--no immediate family, no friends left, no work prospects, no life. He doesn't care what happens to him. All he cares about is making the man who put him in prison suffer."

Bodie swallowed hard. If this bastard really had gotten Doyle at the pub car park, then he had had a solid week in which to make Doyle suffer. The pictures forming in Bodie's mind were not pleasant ones. "How do we find him?"

"I've had his local address checked out," Cowley replied. "No luck. We've started on other leads now--old hangouts, mostly, and records on the family, what's left of it. I'm told there's an uncle somewhere. We're tracking him down."

"He could have Doyle anywhere." Christ, they could search all of London and not find him. Until it was far too late.

"I know that." Cowley's voice sounded tired.

"I'm coming down." Bodie didn't know what he could do to help, but he had to do something.

It wasn't until he actually got into his car and began driving through the streets that Bodie realized, as he glanced at the dashboard clock flashing 5:41, that he no longer knew if it were evening or morning.

---

He wound up in records, pawing through endless files, and that was where he found it.

Charlie Cole's uncle had property up north, a remote cottage in Yorkshire. He found the uncle's phone number and called. A very old voice told him that no one had been to the property in years, but also told him that young Charlie had been very fond of the cottage as a child. The perfect place for a hide-out.

Cowley, however, had his doubts when he told him. "The best hiding spots are in the city," he said. "Anonymous places that no one would look twice at. Remember the Bieberman snatch? That's where he's most likely to run. To a perfectly ordinary flat right here in London."

"Only if he's smart," Bodie replied. "And I looked over his psychiatric profile. Cole is dim as a post, sir. And single-minded. I think he's taken Doyle up there, because it's the first place, and probably the only place, he would think of if he wanted to hide."

"I never said we wouldn't check it out," Cowley replied. "I take it you want the job?"

Bodie had a feeling about this, which he would have called psychic if he believed in such things. "Yes, sir."

"Then take whatever backup you need, and get moving."

Bodie moved.

---

Bodie crept silently along the side of the cottage, moving towards the front door. He and the other agents he had brought along--Murphy, Stuart, and Peters--knew they were in business the instant they first spotted the place. A car stood in the drive, one Bodie recognized from the files. Charlie Cole's car. And there was a light on inside the cottage.

He sent Stuart and Peters into the cover of the nearby woods, to make their way to the back side. Then he and Murphy split up to take the front, each slowly edging in from either side. The plan wasn't complex--simply to burst in when everyone was in position, and hope to take Cole by surprise.

It might have worked, too, if Stuart had been a little more familiar with the potential hazards of the outdoors.

The scream came just as Bodie reached the porch. He whipped out his R/T, adrenalin surging through him. "Report!"

Peters responded. "It's Stuart--stepped on a rabbit trap."

Damn. Even as he signalled to Murphy that he was going in, Bodie could hear scuffling sounds from inside the cottage. They couldn't have given away their approach more thoroughly if they had tried.

Cursing, Bodie kicked open the door and dropped to one knee, gun drawn. He took in the scene in a flash. Cole, standing near the far wall, with a gun to Doyle's head, an arm locked round his neck. Ray was alive. That was the main thing. Relief flooded through him, despite the tension of the stand-off. Now he just had to keep him alive.

He heard Murphy behind him. "Stay back." Murphy hovered on the porch, waiting.

Cole looked wild-eyed, shaky. Doyle's face, at least what he could see it around what must be a week's growth of beard, looked ashen. Bodie couldn't see any signs of major injury, but that meant very little. He looked weak, and in pain. His clothes were ragged and filthy, his hair tangled and matted, his eyes hollow. What had the bastard done to him?

"Drop the gun," Bodie commanded, keeping his own weapon aimed at Cole's chest. "You've got nowhere to run anymore."

"No." A bead of sweat trickled down Cole's forehead. "You drop the gun! And get everybody out of my way." He shoved the gun barrel against Doyle's temple. "Or I'll blow his fucking brains out."

He would do it, too. Bodie could sense that. He lowered his gun, though not by much. "There's no place to hide, Charlie. Give it up."

"Not until I'm good and ready, you fuckers." He started to move, pushing Doyle ahead of him. But at that precise moment, Doyle suddenly collapsed, sagging against Cole's side.

In the fraction of a second that Cole was off-balance, Bodie aimed and fired. The bullet slammed into Cole's chest. He staggered, gasped once, and crumpled to the floor.

Bodie rushed to Doyle's side. "Ray--" He broke off, abruptly gagged by the reek of urine and excrement.

Murphy was there, kneeling by Cole's body.

"Leave off that," Bodie choked out. "Get medical help here, fast."

As he watched Murphy leave, Bodie felt Ray's hand clutch his arm.

"I'm okay--" Doyle struggled to rise.

Bodie refused to let him, cradling him in his arms, mentally shutting down his reaction to everything but Doyle's needs. "The hell you are."

Doyle coughed. "He didn't hurt me much..." He nodded towards an open cupboard door. "Just kept me in there."

"Jesus." Bodie stared at the tiny space--no more than two by two feet square, maybe six feet high--enough to hold a man upright, and no more. A new rage engulfed him, rage at the dead bastard lying beside him, who had kept Doyle locked away in that place for over seven days. He held Doyle close, and brushed a hand across his forehead.

"...said he wanted me to know what it was like. Being in prison..." Doyle coughed again, and then turned his face into Bodie's shoulder, holding on to him.

"Shh." Bodie caressed his back. "It's all right; just stay quiet. We'll get you to hospital, get you away from here."

"Okay." Doyle kept his face buried against Bodie, and he held tightly to his jacket.

Bodie waited for help to come, and as Doyle pressed against him, he knew that no matter what had happened between them earlier, somehow, everything was going to be all right.

But he couldn't have been more wrong.

---

When he was finally allowed to visit Doyle in the ward, Bodie didn't quite know what to do. He wanted to just take Doyle in his arms and hug him, but settled for sitting in the chair and smiling vacantly.

The doctor wanted Doyle to stay for a day or two, mainly to keep an eye on him. There was no major damage--he was suffering from digestive problems caused by the restricted diet, and had a lot of muscle pain from the cramped quarters of his imprisonment. And there was a small bump on the back of his head, but no complications.

He lay propped up on two pillows, his face pale, his arms a bit skinny--he had lost a full stone in weight from his ordeal. At least someone had washed and combed out his hair. He smiled back at Bodie. "You bring me any grapes?"

"Nah. Doctor wouldn't let me. Gotta keep you on a strict diet until your system gets back in proper working order."

Doyle rolled his eyes. "I feel fine."

"Oh, sure you do." Bodie gave him a hard look, daring him to argue.

"Well...okay," Doyle confessed, "maybe I feel a bit done in." He sighed. "But I'd rather recover at home, in me own bed. Don't think this ruddy hospital bed is going to do my aching muscles much good."

"Tomorrow," Bodie promised. "Maybe not 'til evening, but I'll get them to let you out tomorrow. All right?"

Doyle nodded. "You'll come get me?"

"'Course I will." A surge of warmth flowed through Bodie, knowing that Doyle wanted his friendship, still needed him. What had happened between them could be left behind now. He reached out to pat Doyle's hand, needing some kind of contact, however brief. "You had me pretty worried there, mate." Keep it simple, and it will be okay. He took his hand away.

"Sorry." Doyle rubbed at his eyes. "Didn't mean to go and get kidnapped." He paused, frowning. "Just wish I could remember what the hell happened, so I don't make the same mistake again."

At those words, Bodie felt an ice-cold chill form in his gut. He didn't remember... "You don't know how you got captured?"

"No." Doyle slowly shook his head. "Don't remember anything...there's this big blank spot...last thing I recall, we'd just finished up the Stanton op, and you and me walked out of HQ heading for your car. That's it. Everything else from that evening is gone." He turned quizzical eyes on Bodie. "What did we do that night?"

Oh, Christ. Oh bloody hell. Bodie closed his eyes for a moment, wishing this could all go away, wishing they could go back in time and start over. He didn't remember that night. Doyle didn't remember about the kiss--fucking hell. The last thing he wanted was to jog Doyle's memory for him. And from the look of sheer confusion on his friend's face, it was the most important thing on Doyle's mind right now.

Bodie took a deep breath and said carefully, "Well, we went to the Scarsdale Arms and had a pint. Then we got some food, and went to my place to watch the box. We had a lot more to drink there...it's all a bit hazy to me, too. I think you left around one in the morning." He waited, hoping nothing in what he had said would suddenly bring the memories flooding back for Doyle.

"Doesn't ring any bells," Doyle said.

Bodie shrugged. "No reason why it should. Typical night, all in all." He tried to sound nonchalant, despite the anxiety churning through him.

"What the hell was I doing at that other pub, then?" Doyle asked. "Cowley said my car was there--place called the Brass Tankard."

"I don't know, mate. Was on your way home, I reckon. Maybe you realized you weren't driving straight, and wanted to get some coffee. You must have been getting out the car when Cole came up from behind and hit you on the head."

"Too careless--"

"No, don't start that," Bodie cut him off short. "You're not going to blame yourself for this mess, you hear me? Cole probably kept tabs on you all week long, and was waiting for the best moment to make his move. You were drunk, Ray, that's all--it's not a crime. You can't keep your guard up a hundred percent of the time and stay sane, and you can't deny yourself some fun just on the off chance some crazy bastard will take advantage--"

Doyle laughed. "You can stop ranting anytime, Bodie. I take the point."

Bodie started to protest, then gave up and grinned. "Well, you do get on these guilt trips, sunshine."

"Yeah, I know."

"You couldn't have avoided that bastard. He was one determined sonofabitch."

Doyle reached out to him, put his hand on Bodie's knee and gave it a light squeeze. "I feel pretty lucky. That's what kept me going, knowing that you'd keep looking for me, no matter how long it took."

Bodie, the warmth returning, put his hand on Doyle's. "You just work on getting better." Best to leave now, before this got too maudlin. "I'll come by tomorrow, okay?" He stood. "You want anything?"

"Grapes," Doyle said.

"You got 'em," Bodie replied, and then he quickly walked away.

---

Bodie slowed his pace to let Doyle catch him up. They were near the end of their early evening jog through Battersea Park.

"You okay?" he asked as Doyle trotted up alongside, puffing a bit harder than normal. But then, it had only been two days since Doyle's release from hospital. He must still be feeling the strain.

"Yeah," Doyle panted. "Feels like I'm almost there. Couple more days of this and I'll be ready for a real workout."

They slowed to a walk. "Even for Macklin?"

Doyle laughed. "I'm never ready for that bastard."

"Who is?"

They strolled quietly for a while. They never needed to chat nonstop to be comfortable together; it was an aspect of their friendship which Bodie valued. Often, especially after a tense op, he simply needed to be with someone who understood, yet didn't need to talk about it. Having Doyle around was always comforting, no matter what they did or didn't do.

Bodie was glad everything seemed so right again, after the harrowing week they'd both gone through. He wanted Doyle's companionship more than anything, and provided Doyle never remembered the kiss, their friendship would go on as always. Other than the questions at the hospital, Doyle hadn't brought up that night again. Which was fine. Bodie hoped it would stay forever lost in Doyle's damaged memory.

He might have known that as soon as the hope struck him, Doyle would choose to shatter it.

"Oi," he said as they neared the end of their walk, "I've been having a long think."

Bodie smiled. "Careful, might hurt yourself."

"Yeah?" Doyle instantly retaliated. "How do you know what might 'appen if you've never tried it?" He grinned, and Bodie let him get away with the retort, just on the strength of that smile alone. Anything to see Doyle in a good mood.

"Point taken," he said, grinning back. He gave Doyle's shoulder a light punch. "All right, Sherlock, what's on that brilliant mind of yours?"

"Something I should have thought of before. It's so obvious. What do we do whenever we want to solve a mystery?"

Bodie, unsure where this was heading, shrugged. "Round up the usual suspects and frighten 'em to death?"

Doyle rolled his eyes. "No, not that, you berk. I mean the bit where we try to recreate what happened. Reconstruct the crime and all."

"Oh." Still lost, Bodie paused near a fork in the path. "Long way back to the car, or short way?"

"Short." Doyle headed off. "I've got a plan to put into action."

Bodie trotted alongside as Doyle's pace picked up. "You mind cluing me in, or are you going to keep me in riddles all evening?"

"I need to know what happened that night. We're going to recreate it."

Bodie came to a dead halt. Bloody hell. "You what?"

Doyle turned back, an eyebrow raised. "We recreate the events of that evening, that's all. The last thing I remember is leaving HQ, right about this time of day. So we're going to take up from there, go over it all again, do whatever we did, until something clicks. Just thinking about it or talking about it isn't enough. Maybe if I physically go through it, step by step, that will trigger my memories."

Bodie hoped he didn't look as petrified as he felt. "But we didn't really do anything, Ray. We grabbed some takeaway and had a few drinks at my place. I told you already."

"Yeah, so is there something wrong with trying it anyway?"

Just about everything. "We could never recreate the evening exactly," he hedged. "We mostly just watched the box, there was some stupid action movie on. I don't even know what it was--"

"Doesn't matter." Doyle had that determined look about him which was dangerous to cross. "It's Friday--there's always some dumb action film on Friday night. We'll just get as close to recreating it as we can." He paused, his expression changing, no longer forceful. He simply looked confused. "Look, it's important to me, Bodie. I need to know what happened. How would you feel if you were missing a chunk out of your life? It scares me, mate. I don't like being in the dark."

You might wish you had stayed there. Bodie fought the urge to say it aloud. He had no defense against Doyle's vulnerability--and when Doyle was confused, he was vulnerable. At such moments, Bodie would give him anything, would say or do anything, to get back the confident, self-assured Ray Doyle, the one who always resurfaced after any qualms subsided.

"We went from HQ to the Golden Wok," he replied. "I got sweet'n'sour pork and you had chicken chow mein."

Doyle smiled. "Great. You feeling hungry?"

---

After showering and changing at the CI5 gym, they retraced their route, starting from the HQ car park. They picked up their takeaway meal, then drove to Bodie's flat. Not much of a "recreation" so far, Bodie thought as he climbed the stairs and opened the door, waving Doyle in past him. But just wait until they hit the high point of the evening.

He kept hold of a faint hope that disaster could still be avoided. All they really had to do was watch the box, eat their food, have a few drinks, and then he could announce the end of the experiment. No real need to go into details as to why Doyle left when he did, was there? He could say Ray left because the film had ended. Simple.

Except for the unpleasant knowledge that he'd be telling a lie. Doyle wanted desperately to get his memories back, and by leaving out the crucial encounter on the sofa, he'd be as good as a thief, stealing away any real chance for Ray to remember. Did he have any right to be so selfish?

"What next?" Doyle said, abruptly cutting into his thoughts.

"Hm?" Bodie shut and locked the door. "Oh, we went to the sofa and ate."

"Which side did I sit on?"

Details...Doyle was a stickler for 'em. "You were on the left." Bodie put his takeaway bag on the coffee table and crossed to the liquor cabinet, just as he had that night. "I fixed us whiskeys, and you played with the telly remote."

When Bodie returned to the sofa with their drinks, Doyle was dutifully flipping through all four channels with that determined gaze again. He paused at a darts match, frowning. "Hey, this seems familiar."

"Different match, mate," Bodie said as he sank down beside him. "But you're right. We did watch darts for a while before the movie started." Maybe he wouldn't need to worry about his dilemma after all. Maybe Doyle's memories would return of their own accord. Having the decision taken out of his hands wouldn't really make him any happier, though. Not if the end result were the same.

Doyle relaxed against the sofa cushions, nibbling at his food and sipping at his drink. "Did we talk much, or just watch?"

"Idle chatter," Bodie said. "Until the movie came on. Then we had a field day cracking jokes--pretty unrealistic film."

"Hope we can find something similar." Doyle picked up the Radio Times from the table. "Ah. Here we go. Two-hour American movie called The Spy With My Face. Sounds awful."

They settled in for an evening of bad telly, and Doyle proved right about the film. It gave them both great material to play off of, and the laughs, along with the drinks, made Bodie relax the same way he had done before. It felt so good to be here with Ray, close on the sofa, sharing the fun of a cozy, lazy, and slightly silly evening.

He couldn't recall exactly how many drinks they'd had during their earlier encounter, but Bodie didn't think it really mattered. As long as they achieved the same level of tipsiness--pleasantly drunk, but not so sloshed as to be legless. A sort of hazy state where even bad American action flicks were entertaining, takeaway food tasted like a five-star gourmet meal, and where somehow it seemed only natural to shift closer and closer together.

Halfway through the film Bodie realized they were in nearly the same position as before, Doyle relaxed against his body, his head on Bodie's shoulder. And every time Doyle turned his head slightly towards him to make a comment on the movie, his warm breath tickled Bodie's cheek. It was happening all over again. How could he resist? He gazed down at Doyle's tight jeans, his open-necked shirt, and felt that same desire forming, the same need to touch, to hold, to love Doyle. But he couldn't, he couldn't...

He wanted to keep things the way they were right now, with he and Doyle on good terms, good mates as always. If he acted on his desires again, everything would be ruined. Doyle would punch him and walk out; he might never want to speak to Bodie again. Was it worth it? Was it really worth taking that risk just so Doyle could have a chance to fix his "blank spot"? Would it really be so awful to hold back, to keep the truth to himself? Would it really be disastrous if Doyle never got his memory back?

Bodie tried hard to focus on the telly, and not on Doyle. But it wasn't easy. Doyle's thigh brushed against his, Doyle's hand occasionally wandered over, giving his leg light touches. Bodie felt heat rising within, felt the arousal growing. No. He fought the sensations. I don't want this. I want to love him, but I don't want to lose him.

As the movie's plot began wrapping up, a surge of panic hit Bodie. This was when it had happened before. When the credits rolled, he had turned to kiss Doyle. What the hell was he going to do now? If only he knew that Doyle wouldn't react violently, if only it could be different this time.

Bodie looked at the man snuggled beside him. Doyle was staring intently at the telly, frowning. Oh, christ. Was it coming back? Was he about to remember what had happened when the movie ended?

What should I do?

The last scene faded out and the credits started to roll.

Doyle tilted his face up to Bodie's, a curious expression in his eyes. "Bodie?" The tone of soft pleading, of need, wrenched Bodie to the core. "There's something missing," Doyle went on, confused. "Something that happened..." He frowned again, waiting.

Bodie closed his eyes. If only he hadn't asked. He could have kept the lie going if Doyle hadn't asked for the truth. He could lie to himself forever about that night, but he couldn't lie to Ray Doyle, not about anything. Maybe that was why he loved him.

He opened his eyes. "Yes," he said, putting his finger under Doyle's chin. "This happened." And then he kissed Doyle's lips.

There came a brief flicker of response, and then Doyle abruptly pulled away. Bodie flinched, steeling himself for the punch.

But Doyle didn't hit him.

Instead, he stared at Bodie for the longest time. Then he said simply, "I punched you."

But not this time. Did that mean it was going to be all right, that they could still be friends? Bodie nodded. He could feel his heart pounding. Please let it be okay. "Knocked me right off the sofa. Got a nasty bruise on my hip." He paused to take a calming breath. "Has it all come back, then?"

Doyle had not stopped staring at him; Bodie found the gaze unnerving. "More or less," Doyle replied. "It's still vague, what happened after I... after I left here. Remember that I wanted to get drunker."

Bodie, wanting to avoid having to answer hard questions himself as long as possible, leapt on the chance to turn the tables. "Why?" he asked. "Why did you run away?"

Doyle started. "I--" He shook his head. "I don't know. I was angry."

"Why?" Bodie pressed.

"I don't know!" Doyle finally broke his penetrating stare, to look down at his own hands. He clenched his fists. "I don't know," he said more quietly. "Maybe I wasn't angry with you. Maybe I was angry with me."

It was Bodie's turn to be startled. "What, for hitting me?"

"No. Yes. I mean--" Doyle sighed. "Christ, this is so bloody confusing." He looked at Bodie, searching his face. "Why did you kiss me?"

Bodie considered his answer carefully. "Because we'd had a very cozy evening, I was tipsy, your jeans were damned tight, and you had your hand on my thigh. It all made me want you...I mean, well...it seemed like a good idea at the time." He smiled, hoping Doyle understood that this was his chance to toss it all away as a joke.

But Doyle didn't take the bait. "So you were just feeling randy, is that it? And I was the only one around."

"Something like that." Bodie had a vague sense of discomfort. "At least, I think that's what it was. 'm sorry, mate."

"Are you?"

Bodie frowned. Doyle wasn't responding the way he expected, and he didn't understand it. "Yeah, I am sorry. Couldn't think about anything the rest of that night except how badly I'd cocked things up, how you'd like as not never speak to me again. It was a stupid thing to do--"

"Stop it." Doyle abruptly grabbed Bodie's arm.

"Huh? Stop what?"

"Stop trying to play it down. This is too damned important. And besides, I'm not sorry."

It was Bodie's turn to stare. "You what?"

"I'm not sorry you kissed me," Doyle said softly. "I'm sorry I hit you--took me by surprise, I guess." He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, relaxing his grip on Bodie's arm but not letting go entirely. "I'd been thinking about it, about you and me, for some time. About wanting you. Scared the bloody hell out of me, thinking that way about another bloke. So I told myself, it's okay, 'cause there's no way in a million years that Bodie would ever feel that way, too, and so I'm safe. Didn't need to worry about ever facing up to it, ever doing anything about it. Could go on pretending it didn't matter. Made myself a nice wall, and then you went and shattered it."

"Oh." Somehow, Doyle's peculiar logic made sense to him. "And that's why you hit me."

"Yeah. Didn't like you upsetting things." His grip tightened a little. "Told you, it scares me. Still does."

For a moment Bodie wasn't entirely sure this was really happening. Doyle wasn't angry with him. Not only was Doyle not angry, he had just admitted to wanting Bodie the same way. Jesus bloody christ...so now what was he supposed to do? Doyle had abruptly changed everything, and Bodie had no idea how to deal with the new scheme of things. He had never exactly thought through the consequences that first time he'd kissed Doyle, about what might happen if Ray said "yes."

He had never considered that it might be worse than "no."

"You're not the only one who's scared," he said. "What do you want to do about this?"

Doyle sighed. "I don't know. I'll tell you one thing, though. That whole time I was locked up by Cole, wondering if I was going to die, I kept thinking about you, and how much I missed you. And how much I needed you."

"It was mutual." Bodie put his hand on Doyle's. Since it seemed to be confession time, he might as well get it all out. "You know, I was damned relieved when you didn't remember that night. Was just glad to have you back, glad we weren't fighting."

"Yeah?" Doyle looked surprised. "Then why'd you go through with this tonight? If you didn't want my memory coming back?"

Bodie smiled. "You asked me to tell you. And I found out I didn't want to lie to you." He paused. "Not ever." He felt more relaxed now than he had in some time, happy to be able to talk to Ray like this, to simply say what he needed to say.

Doyle squeezed his hand. "Then tell me the truth right now. Do you still want me?"

A tingle shot up Bodie's spine, a shiver of anticipation. "Yeah, I do." But did that mean they ought to act on it? "Although--" He hesitated, torn between desire and fear, made worse by not knowing precisely what it was that scared him so.

Doyle smiled. "What? You worried about what it means?"

"I guess so," Bodie admitted. "Didn't have time to think about it before. Just acted."

"Maybe that's the best way." Doyle stroked Bodie's forearm. "Do whatever we want to do, and don't think too much. Can always do that later."

"You sure?" Another shiver ran up Bodie's spine. He lay his hand on Doyle's thigh; it felt solid and comforting.

"No," Doyle said softly. "I'm not sure." Then he leaned in to kiss Bodie, and Bodie opened to him, letting the exploration linger. He felt the heat, felt it overpowering all his doubts. Maybe Doyle was right. They could worry about the consequences later.

Much, much later.

He broke the kiss. "Bed?"

Doyle nodded, his eyes half-closed, lips still parted, arousal evident. "Bed." He stood, pulling Bodie up with him. "Are you glad I got my memory back?"

Bodie, happy, scared, and aroused all at the same time, followed him down the hall. "I'll let you know," he said.

And then he followed Doyle into the bedroom and shut the door.

-- THE END --