AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story is an alternate ending, of sorts, to NIGHT MOVES , written to satisfy the readers who told me they felt cheated out of a 'kinkier' sex scene in the original story.

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Bodie's expression was carved out of ice as he came out of the bathroom and tossed a tube into Doyle's hands. "Use plenty. Coogan is not a considerate man."

Doyle looked down at the tube of lubricant and then at the hustler. "You want me to use it now?"

"Now or never. I told you, Big John doesn't bother with preliminaries. Unless you prefer to be torn apart, of course."

Bodie's attitude was bitter, but Doyle could scarcely object to the man's resentment of the situation. And he couldn't expect him to understand the importance of stopping John Coogan. He sighed and turned the silver tube round and round in his palm.

"You don't have to go through with this. Tell Cowley something, anything."

Bodie's voice was close behind him, the light scent of his expensive aftershave touching the air between them. "I don't want to go through another session with Coogan. I told you what that bastard's like. He's sick, Doyle, and getting worse all the time." He paused and Doyle felt Bodie's arms slowly enfold him, pressing him back against the hustler's naked chest. "I don't want you to go through that. Please, Ray, get us out of it."

Warm lips brushed the side of his neck in a gentle caress that made Doyle bit his lip to keep from moaning. He fought the impulse to return the embrace, wondering again at the intense attraction between them. He took a deep breath and pulled away. "You better get dressed. We have to leave soon."

He sensed the renewed tension in Bodie without even looking at him.

"I hope your damn job is worth the cost." Doyle didn't answer as he walked towards the bathroom, still turning the small tube between his hands.

He pulled up the zip of his beige moleskin trousers, feeling the slickness of the lubricant in his body. It felt strangely erotic. He wondered inconsequentially if it would stain his pants, he'd used too much of it.

Bodie came into the bedroom, dressed in navy blue cashmere jumper and matching cords. He reached into his wardrobe and removed a white trenchcoat. "It's drizzling outside," was all he said as he left the room.

Quickly putting on his red t-shirt and leather jacket, Doyle checked the lining to be sure the miniature camera was still hidden there. He would have a problem retrieving it if Coogan forced them to strip right away. He would just have to get it somehow.

Checking his appearance in the mirror with a shake of his head, he went out to the lounge, avoiding Bodie's gaze. "Let's go," he said, leading the way out the door.

The silver blue Porsche slid to a halt in the driveway of the elegant mansion.

Bodie turned off the ignition but made no move to get out.

"Ray, we can still back out of this. Just tell Cowley that Coogan changed his mind. Please."

"This is the reason for my assignment. I have to get into that safe."

Doyle was nervous. His stomach was in knots. He didn't want to spend a night in John Coogan's bed anymore than Bodie. But he had a job to do. And he couldn't forget Rob Stuart, a good agent and friend; the man forfeited his life in order to get the combination to Coogan's safe. Nor could Doyle forget the desolate faces of the kids who stood on street corners trying to sell themselves to pay for a fix. Coogan was responsible. He murdered Rob and he was making a fortune off the lives of kids who bought drugs from his pushers and tricked for his pimps. Children, barely into adolescence, were ending up on morgue slabs while Coogan played his own twisted games in his big, fancy house. Smug and confident that the law couldn't touch him.

Yet, Doyle hated using Bodie like a pawn.

He looked over at his companion, not knowing how to explain the depth of his ambivalent feelings. "I don't want to do it, Bodie. I have to. I'm sorry."

"You don't know how sorry you're going to be before this night is over." The dark head lowered, pale face in shadow. A moment later, Bodie pushed open the car door and headed up the path to the mansion.

As they stood on the doorstep, Bodie's finger poised over the bell, Doyle grabbed his wrist, leaned over and kissed him quickly.

Then, he pressed the bell.

The butler gave them a sweeping look as he showed them in. He didn't bother with their names. "Mr. Coogan is waiting for you in the drawing room. Follow me."

Doyle glanced at Bodie, catching the hustler's puzzled expression, and realized this was not part of the usual routine.

The butler was already leading them across the foyer towards a set of double doors. Opening them, he announced, "Your entertainment has arrived, Mr. Coogan."

Coogan's voice drifted back, smooth and deep. "Show them in, Thompson, then lock up. I won't be needing you for the rest of the night. Tell Frank and Marcus not to disturb me unless it's an emergency, understand?"

"Perfectly, sir." The butler turned to them with a glimmer of a smile and left the room.

John Coogan was standing by an elaborate drinks cabinet, dressed in a thin white linen shirt and snug black pants that emphasized his boxer's physique. "You're punctual. I like that." He raised a heavy crystal decanter in salute and poured a measure into three tumblers. "I've been looking forward to this." he took a large swallow of the liquid, then handed them their drinks. "C'mon, join me. This stuff's the best. I only buy the best." He laughed a little, his pale blue eyes appraising them slowly. "I wasn't sure you'd show up, Bodie."

"I'm surprised you're bothering with social amenities, Big John. Time is money, isn't that what you used to say?"

Coogan laughed again. "My time, my money. I'll do what I want with them. In a hurry, are you?" There was sudden, hard edge to his voice, belying the smile.

Bodie didn't answer, merely sipped at his drink.

Coogan turned to Doyle, the smile still curling his lips. "Well, Duncan, you look very pretty tonight."

Doyle tasted the pure malt scotch in his glass. It was, indeed, the best he'd ever had. Cowley would have enjoyed it. He gazed up from under his lashes as the bigger man's hand molded over his groin. The hand circled around and cupped his right buttock, squeezing hard.

"Thank you, Mr. Coogan," he replied, wincing at the pressure of the strong fingers on his arse. He was now Ray Duncan, a submissive young man with hope of making a lucrative career in Bodie's line of business.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Bodie gulping down the remainder of his scotch and turning his back on the scene.

Coogan released Doyle with a sharp slap on his buttocks. "I like your attitude, Duncan, and your arse. Nice and tight, innit?" He grinned in Bodie's direction. "You fucked him today, Bodie?"

The hustler answered without turning. "No."

"You let him fuck you?"

"No," Bodie lied.

"Why not?"

"Not his scene."

Coogan snickered. "Time to go upstairs." He grabbed Doyle by the hair and shoved him towards the door.

Doyle's glass shattered on the polished parquet floor as he was jerked forward. It was all he could do not to strike out at Coogan. In that instant, he wanted very much to kill the man.

The bedroom was huge, with a heavy mahogany bed dominating the room. Persian carpets covered the dark wood floors and the walls were covered with paintings.

Doyle wasn't sure what he had been expecting, something along the lines of a medieval torture chamber perhaps.

He scanned the walls unobtrusively until he spotted the small oil painting of a hunting scene, a deer dying of its wounds. According to Stuart's last report, the safe was behind it.

"Strip." Coogan's voice cut the silence. Doyle tried to visualize Rob Stuart's face. He kept the image in his mind as he began to remove his clothes. As he tossed his last piece of clothing to the floor, he looked over at Bodie, and was surprised to see him still standing near the door, fully dressed. He was swaying slightly, hands rubbing at his forehead and temples.

"Don't worry about him, he'll be fine. Just fine."

Coogan's silky assurance sent a chill through Doyle.

"In a few minutes, he'll be more than ready to join the party."

"You...you gave him something," stated Doyle with depressing certainty.

"I've always felt that Bodie wasn't fully involved in the spirit of our...meetings. He's an arrogant little whore, but he only ever remembers the 'arrogant' part." Coogan circled Bodie casually, giving him a push towards the center of the room. "Maybe that's what I find so interesting about him. Whores should never be arrogant."

"Was there something in my drink, too?" Doyle asked, his eyes on Bodie.

Coogan stopped behind the hustler and began pulling off his cashmere sweater. Bodie looked disoriented, grimacing as the jumper was yanked up and over his head. His dark hair was mussed, a thick wave falling down across his forehead.

"No, it was just something special in Bodie's glass," answered Coogan. "Besides, you know your place, don't you, boy?"

Swallowing his anger, Doyle managed to nod. "Will he be all right?"

Coogan snorted. "He'll give me my money's worth this time." He unbuckled Bodie's belt and slid down the zip. "Take it off," he ordered.

The hustler complied as if in a daze.

"Will he be all right?" Doyle repeated, knowing his tone held little of Ray Duncan in it.

Coogan glanced at him curiously. "Worried about him, boy?"

"He's my friend."

Coogan threw back his head and laughed. "You whores amaze me. Don't you realized a piece of meat has no friends? You're a piece of meat, that's all. I've paid for you and I can do anything I want to you." He paused. "I can kill you and no one would give a damn. Bodie prices himself high, but that just makes him a prime cut. That's the best you can hope for, boy."

Bodie was stripping off the last of his clothes, swaying where he stood.

Doyle took a step towards him.

"No, Duncan, over here." Coogan crooked a finger at him. "Your 'friend' will be back to his old self in a few hours, aside from a little wear and tear. Over here, boy." Coogan walked to an ornately carved armoire and opened the doors, removing something from one of the shelves.

Recognizing the object and fighting not to show his revulsion, Doyle did as he was told. He forced himself to remain passive as the studded leather collar was snapped shut around his neck and Big John attached a long leash to the loop in front. Some of Doyle's hair was caught inside the collar and Coogan flipped the curls free with a fingertip, pausing to wind a thick strand and tug it painfully.

"Suits you, Duncan." Coogan turned his attention to Bodie, snapping his fingers. "Come to me, Bodie."

The hustler wiped at his forehead with his palm, squinting at the big man. Coogan snapped his fingers again, and Bodie's lips tightened, but he crossed the room towards them.

Bodie's cock was semi-erect.

"Getting nicely turned on, eh?" Coogan taunted. He reached into the armoire and brought out another collar, only this one was a more elaborate arrangement of leather strips, like an animal harness. He buckled it around Bodie's neck and shoulders. A strip ran down his back, connecting with another that snapped around his waist and thighs. There were small loops at the base of the harness to which Coogan attached a pair of cuffs, securing Bodie's wrists behind his back.

The hustler gritted his teeth, unable to stifle a groan as Coogan took hold of his cock and rubbed it to full erection. "That's more like it. I bet you'd like to put that tool of yours into something tight and hot, eh, Bodie-boy?" Coogan shoved the hustler off balance, making him stumble and fall to his knees. "Well, you just think about it for a while, whore. Think about it and want it."

Bodie's head was bowed, the shiny mass of dark hair hiding his eyes. But Doyle could still hear the hustler's soft whimper.

"Inflicting sexual pain, sexual pleasure, now that's exquisite power. It's a mind game, too. It's control. Like money, just depends on how you want to use it. Did you know that, Duncan? No, you don't understand, do you? You're just a dumb little hooker." Coogan smiled. "But I think you like it. Yeh, you like the rough treatment. Makes something click inside you, doesn't it, boy? Something deep inside your head. Not like Bodie there. He fights it, every step of the way. Never lets it take his mind. Yeh, beautiful, the two of you. Beautiful." Coogan rubbed his groin, the bulge considerable under the snug black pants. "You're hungry for some proper training, Duncan. I mean to broaden your horizons."

Coogan walked around him slowly. He reached out and pressed the pad of his index finger against Doyle's left nipple, then the right. "We'll start with these." He jerked on the leash, pulling Doyle closer to the armoire.

The CI5 agent blanked his expression as Coogan took two very small rubber-tipped clamps from a shelf in the armoire. The big man's pale blue eyes had a gleam in them as he closed his fist over the objects and crossed the room to the cabinet near the oil painting that hid the wall safe. He reached in and scooped up an ice cube.

He was smiling as he walked back to Doyle. He pressed the ice against each nipple, making Doyle jump at the contact. The melting ice dribbled down his chest, his nipples instantly hard and erect. Coogan let the cube melt against Doyle's skin. He pinched a nipple between forefinger and thumb and attached the small clamps, first to the left nipple, then the right.

The sudden, shooting pain made Doyle cry out and he raised his hand automatically to pull the clamps off. An iron grip fastened onto his wrist, stopping him.

"No, Duncan, that's not how the game is played," the smooth voice told him.

Doyle closed his eyes. The pain in his nipples was unlike anything he'd ever experienced.

Coogan moved behind him, pulling his arms back. "Interesting pain, isn't it? Such a small area of contact really, but the pain spreads all through your body, doesn't it, like ripples in a pond. From just two, tiny points of flesh. Amazing, isn't it?"

Doyle bit down on his lip, Coogan's words almost a crooning in his brain. Abruptly, the pain seemed to recede to almost a bearable level. It hurt, but not with the intense sharpness of the initial pressure of the clamps.

"They're shutting off the blood flow, numbing your tits. Doesn't feel so bad now, does it, boy?" The smooth voice whispered into his ear, the grip on his arms lessening a fraction. "Ah, but you wait, after a little while, they'll become more and more uncomfortable, and you won't be able to think of anything else except those small bits of metal on your tits, squeezing and biting into your flesh. And when I take them off and the blood starts rushing back, ah, then the pain will be unforgettable. It'll burn in your mind forever, Duncan. Forever."

Doyle told himself he had to hold on. He couldn't break cover and run. Bodie had warned him how it would be. Doyle had known what to expect. He knew it would be bad, very bad.

But it was Coogan that chilled him. The man himself. The dark passion in the soft voice. The intense need to dominate radiated from the man like hypnotic waves.

Doyle didn't want to listen to him.

"Not quite complete," he heard the deep voice murmur. "Don't move. Don't touch yourself."

Doyle's mouth was dry. A few moments later, he heard a light, jingling, metallic sound. He looked down at his chest, at the clamps that tortured his nipples into throbbing, red-brown peaks. Big John was attaching two small rings made up of loose gold flecks to the tiny hooks on the tip of each clamp. The flecks tinkled like bells and sparkled against his skin as Doyle shifted from one foot to the other.

A hand cupped his chin and raised his face. "Sweet sound, isn't it?" Coogan's crystal blue eyes stared into his. "You won't be able to hear a sound like that again without remembering the pain."

Coogan's hand trailed down his neck to the studded collar and then inched lower along the leather leash. "Lick your lips. Slow."

Doyle just stared back, trying to absorb the words.

"You heard me."

Doyle felt a sharp tug on the leash. He was acutely aware of his own breathing as he slowly ran his tongue across his upper lip, then the lower.

"That's a good little whore. Makes your mouth wet and shiny. Let's see what else we can think of for that mouth of yours to do." Coogan yanked the leash again. "Get down on your knees and lick my cock."

The throbbing in his nipples was growing more and more painful. Doyle closed his eyes for a moment and sank down to his knees.

Coogan was still wearing his white linen shirt and black trousers. The bulge at his crotch was impressive. Doyle leaned forward and put his mouth on Coogan's groin. He could feel the heat and the pulse of Coogan's growing erection through the smooth black cotton.

"Lick the zipper."

Doyle drew back slightly pushing aside the flap of material cover the zip, and hesitantly traced the metal teeth with the tip of his tongue. The bulge seemed to grow even larger.

"That's it, Duncan. You like it. Yeh, you belong on your knees in front of a man, or on your belly under him."

A tremor of rage coursed through Doyle's body. He wished he could kill Coogan. An insidious whisper rose in a corner of his mind; was there truth in Big John's words. The accusing thought, wild and unexpected as it was, made him hate Coogan even more.

He heard a half-cry, half-sob from somewhere behind him and tried to turn his head, but Coogan's fingers knotted in his hair, forcing his mouth back against the man's crotch.

"Don't worry, Bodie, I haven't forgotten about you," he heard Coogan say.

Big John stepped away abruptly, pulling on the leash, making him gasp at the sudden twist of the collar. He staggered to his feet after Coogan. A faint bell-like tinkling enveloped him as he moved.

Bodie was crouched on the floor. He seemed to be shivering, yet his pale skin shimmered with perspiration. He was breathing heavily. His cock, flushed and rockhard, bobbed against his belly.

Coogan dragged Doyle towards the bed, taking something from the armoire as they passed it. Doyle was thrown, head first, onto the duvet. He screamed as his nipples pressed against the mattress.

Coogan walked over to Bodie, grabbing him by the hair and forcing the hustler to kneel a few feet from the bed, on the Persian rug.

"You're almost ready to beg for it, aren't you, Bodie? Yeh, you're bloody ready to burst. Well, let's just see what we can do for you, eh?"

Bodie was muttering, his head tossing back and forth. He was vainly trying to free his bound hands. "Let 'm go...bastard...crazy...no..."

Coogan's unpleasant laughter filled the room. The bed dipped as he sat on the edge of the mattress, facing Bodie.

Doyle was seized by the shoulders and flung across Coogan's lap. "Let's take a good look at the goods, shall we?"

Lifting his head from his awkward position, Doyle was able to see the object Coogan had taken from the cabinet. It was laying on the duvet. It was just as Bodie had described it: a fine leather riding crop with a long, smooth handle of inlaid ivory.

"Oh, god, no." The whisper escape him before he realized it.

Coogan's hands were touching his buttocks, skimming over his flesh in light, circular motions.

Doyle squirmed, trying to avoid pressing his chest against Coogan's leg. The soft tinkling of the gold circlets was maddening. His head was hanging down, his arms pinned underneath him, his arse raised high on Coogan's lap.

"Look, Bodie."

Doyle's thighs were push apart as Coogan traced his crack with the edge of his thumb. Back and forth, from the base of his genitals to the top of his buttocks. Back and forth.

"I see that you came well prepared, Duncan, like a regular boy scout. All oiled and ready for fucking, aren't you?" A fingertip pushed just inside the ring of his anus, feeling the lubricant. "And very tight, yeh, you'd give a man a good ride, boytoy."

"Can you see, Bodie? His hot little arse is twitching, waiting for a man's cock to shove into him."

Like a slow-motion movie, Doyle watched Coogan's hand move towards the riding crop, lift it up and out of his line of vision. He remembered what Bodie had told him, the mind image making his shudder.

He felt a sharp stinging on the back of his thighs as Big John flicked the crop with obvious expertise. Doyle tensed, preparing himself for more. Nothing happened. Suddenly, the riding crop was inches from his face.

"Beautiful workmanship, wouldn't you say, Duncan? Hand-carved, got it from a...special dealer. Comes from a museum in Calcutta. They're probably still trying to figure out what happened to it. Quite old, this. Used to belong to a maharajah. I often wonder if he enjoyed using it as much as I do."

The ivory was almost translucent, smoothed to a polish, yet carved within the elongated oval handle was a scene of remarkable artistry: exotically shaped vines draped the central figure of a nude, erect male. The vines pulled the figure's arms heavenward, while others twined through his legs, binding him to the earth.

"Kiss it."

The cool ivory brushed against his lips.

"I said, kiss it."

Doyle felt dizzy, the burning in his nipples making it even more difficult to think. His mind seemed to be closing in on itself, giving way to the sensations sweeping his body.

He touched his mouth to the smooth ivory in a semblance of a kiss. Somewhere, he thought he heard Bodie's voice calling his name. The riding crop was taken away from his lips.

His buttocks were stretch apart and he felt something cold and hard nudge against his opening. He knew it was the carved handle, knew it as Coogan pushed it slowly, slowly into his arse.

Doyle began to whimper as the thing filled him.

"That's it. Take it all. You'd like this to be your cock, wouldn't you, Bodie? I bet your tool is hurting. You look like it's hurting, all right. You want him, Bodie? Do you?"

Coogan removed the ivory handle from his body and pushed it all the way in again, twisting it deliberately.

"Mine...don't...touch him!"

"My, my, Bodie, getting emotional? Not like you at all." Coogan shook with laughter.

"Want him...let me...bastard..."

Coogan's reply was very low and quiet, but the power was undeniable. "You'll do whatever I say, when I say. That's how we play it, boy. Now, say 'please' and I might let you fuck him."

Doyle couldn't see Bodie but he heard his sob. The sound jarred him more profoundly than the obscene bells. "Please, Big John, let him fuck me," Doyle called out, his voice shaky with effort.

Coogan kept laughing, ignoring Doyle's please altogether, but removing the handle and slapping his buttocks hard. "Say it, Bodie, like a good little boy, and this hole is yours."

"Please. Pleasepleaseplease..." Bodie's voice trailed away miserably.

Coogan grabbed Doyle by the waist and stood up, dragging him passed Bodie's huddled form. "Good behaviour has its rewards. I'll let you have him. Right here, up against the wall."

"Untie...m-my...h-hands."

"You're not asking properly."

"P-please!"

Coogan let go of Doyle and walked over to the hustler. He took hold of the leather harness at Bodie's shoulder and hauled him to his feet. "That should be all you need. A pro like you can manage. That hungry cock of yours will take care of the rest, even with your hands tied, eh?"

He turned back to Doyle with a predatory smile and moved to the wall, leaning back against it. "You wanna help your 'friend,' Duncan? Well, c'mon then."

Doyle realized what Coogan intended to do. "No, let me kneel down."

But Coogan was already taking hold of his wrists, pulling him into a grinding embrace. The clamps bit deeply into his nipples as he was pressed against the boxer's broad, muscular chest and Coogan kicked his feet wide apart.

Doyle felt like his upper body was in a vise. He groaned, and then screamed.

Fingers tangled in his curls and massaged his scalp in a caress that contrasted sharply with the pain assailing his tits.

A few moments later, Coogan's big hands left his hair and his back and moved down to palm his buttocks. His cheeks were spread apart, exposing his opening.

"C'mon, Bodie, time for dessert."

Humiliation mingled with pain and hatred as Doyle fought to retain some small sense of himself.

He felt a weight fall against his back, felt the studs on Bodie's leather harness raking over his flesh. Bodie's gasping breath was on the nape of his neck. He was sweating and trembling.

Suddenly, Doyle felt the hustler's erection stab against his right buttock, and heard Coogan's taunting voice.

"No, no, no, boy. Over-anxious by half, you are. C'mon, c'mon. Must be all that hair in your eyes, Bodie. Have another go. C'mon." Bodie was whimpering and falling against him as he tried to position himself.

"All right, boy, looks like I'll have to help you again."

Coogan's arms tightened around Doyle as he extended one hand and gripped Bodie's cock. Seconds later, the hard shaft was guided down the length of his crack to his anus. Immediately, with a wild moan, Bodie shoved into him. The hustler began bucking against him as though he couldn't get in deep enough, as though he wanted to devour Doyle completely with his cock.

Doyle arched with the shock of Bodie's entry and dropped his head back, gulping air. Tears of pain rolled down his face.

In that instant, his eyes met Coogan's. Bodie's cock, frantically pounding into his arse, the crushing torture of the clamps on his tits, all that seemed to recede in the intensity of the pure, sadistic pleasure he saw in John Coogan's cold blue eyes. They were feeding on his pain and Bodie's, reveling in their complete subjugation. This was Big John's sexual high.

Bodie went rigid against his back, his cock beginning to spasm in climax. Suddenly, the hustler was thrown backwards to the floor and Doyle cried out as Bodie's cock ripped away from his body.

He realized Coogan had pushed Bodie. Then, the big man shoved Doyle to one side and began tearing off his own clothing.

Doyle lay panting on the rug and looked over at Bodie. The hustler was on his back, his face a grimace. Semen leaked from his shaft.

Doyle wanted to crawl over to him, take him in his arms. They were trapped in a nightmare, made worse by the fact that Doyle knew he could have prevented it.

Coogan loomed over them. His chest was covered in thick dark hair, his muscles well-defined and steel hard. The size of his erection made Doyle queasy.

"Now I'll show you little boy-whores how a real man fucks."

---

The ride back to Bodie's flat was a very long and very silent one. Doyle sat with his fists in the pockets of his leather jacket, one hand constantly tapping the place where the miniature camera lay hidden in the lining. Its presence reassured him. It was his justification for a nightmare.

It took him more than half the ride to work up the courage to glance at Bodie.

The hustler's face was like a statue, his eyes hardly blinking. The bruises along his mouth and jaw were darkening in the early morning light. There was a trickle of dried blood on his puffy lower lip. But it was Bodie's hands on the steering wheel that belied the outer calmness. They were gripping with such white-knuckled force that Doyle thought the wheel might actually bend.

When they arrived at the flat, Bodie parked the car and headed for the door, leaving Doyle to do what he wished. Doyle followed quickly, uncertain if the door would be slammed in his face. It wasn't, and when they were inside, Bodie disappeared into the bedroom.

Doyle decided to do what was easiest. He went to the lounge and called HQ. His report was as brief as he could make it, merely to say that he had the film. A pickup was arranged and he hung up.

As soon as his hand left the receiver, he felt oppressively tired. His body ached. Even the light brush of the cotton t-shirt against his nipples produced a constant, gnawing pain. His muscles were sore, and his arse. It would take days for the bruises on his buttocks, thighs and arms to fade. They were easy scars.

He looked towards the bedroom, not knowing what to do. He took his jacket off carefully, wincing as the material pressed against his chest. He looked down and noticed the two small stains on the red cotton. His nipples must have been bleeding.

"Do you want me to call a doctor?"

Bodie stood in the doorway, barefoot and wearing a long, thick robe. Besides the marks on his face, Doyle could see the dark chafing bruises around his wrists and his neck. He could imagine the other marks.

He managed to shake his head.

"Are you sure? I have a doctor friend who doesn't ask any questions."

Bodie's concern hurt Doyle worse than his physical pain. The young cop threw up his hands and yelled. "Why don't you hit me?"

Bodie waited a moment, tilting his head to one side. "Do you want me to?"

The air seem to shrivel in his lungs as Doyle sensed the dark implication beneath the simple question. "Dear god, no. No. I-I meant you have every right to hate me."

"I don't have the strength right now. Maybe tomorrow." Bodie's jaw tightened as he looked towards pale gray dawn beyond the windows. "Are you leaving? The job's finished, isn't it?"

"Damn it, how can you be so bloody placid?"

Bodie walked into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water from the sink. At the continued silence, Doyle followed after him. The hustler was drinking the water, his back turned.

Doyle rubbed at his eyes. "I have to stay a while to keep up the cover. Someone is picking up the film today. By next week, Coogan will be well on his way to the Scrubs for good."

"How nice. Well done, officer."

If Bodie's tone hadn't been so flat, Doyle would have felt better.

"I wanted to kill him, Bodie. If I had had my gun, I would have."

Bodie turned and hurled the drinking glass at the wall. It shattered in a spray of glass. "Too bad you hadn't thought to bring it with you."

Doyle looked at the small shards glistening on the lino and then at the hustler. "Yeh, too bad."

The blue eyes closed as Bodie drew a shaky breath. He rolled his head back as if to work out a kink and walked away. Doyle heard him fiddling with the answering machine. There seemed to be several messages and as the voices droned on, Doyle just stared at the broken glass, realizing he was too exhausted to try and talk anything out with Bodie. His brain wasn't functioning. He didn't want to think.

He knew he wanted to be clean and he wanted to sleep. Murphy would be by later to pick up the film. At least that gave him enough time to wash and change and maybe get a little rest.

He wandered out to the bedroom and pulled off his shoes and socks. He sat down on the edge of the bed and began to remove his t-shirt. As he pulled the cotton up over his chest and shoulders, twin jolts of pain shot through him. He cried out, falling back onto the duvet, his arms up around his head, the shirt bunching over his face and neck.

He was waiting for the pain to subside and the room to stop swirling when he felt the bed dip and heard Bodie's voice. "Let me help you get this off."

Hands gently pulled away the t-shirt and Doyle found himself looking into Bodie's blue eyes. Eyes that were so unlike John Coogan's, deep, midnight blue where Coogan's were pale and thin, warm where the other man's had been ice cold. For one terrible moment, Doyle felt he was going to burst into tears. He ground his teeth together, willing the emotion back inside himself.

"I have some salve you can use for your chest. I'll get it."

But Doyle put an arm around Bodie's neck. "Wait. Please. Kiss me first."

The hustler frowned, hesitating, looking away. "Your nipples are bleeding."

"Please, Bodie."

He waited, not moving, until Bodie slowly leaned forward, his full bruised lips brushing Doyle's in a soft, tender touch.

The feeling in that brief contact conveyed more than hours of talking ever could.

There was more than comfort in the kiss. There was hope, too.

Suddenly, Doyle knew he wanted to try very hard to salvage something of their fragile relationship, even if that meant confronting some unpleasant truths about himself. John Coogan had shown him the brutal and ugly side of sex and he would have to deal with the effects of that encounter for a long time to come. Despite all the doubts and the dark questions, Doyle was sure of one thing--no one would ever know him like Bodie.

He wasn't sure if the hustler would even want to maintain a relationship, but for the first time in his life, Doyle knew that Bodie was the one person he couldn't walk away from, someone he was willing to need.

It was time to start putting the nightmare behind them.

Just as the thought eased into his mind, the antique clock on Bodie's bureau began to chime the hour. The sound was like the tinkling of small golden bells.

A shiver began at the nape of Doyle's neck and slowly rippled down his body, over his nipples, right down to his groin.

-- THE END --