Reunions
A Sentinel/Professionals/The Chief crossover by Brenda Antrim. Rated NC17 for adult situations, violence and homoeroticism. No copyright infringement intended. This story is a completely revised and much expanded version of my Intersections, separate and distinct from the story of that name. Special thanks to Carole for motivating me to tell the rest of the story. Previously published in Love & Guns 2 (a Sentinel zine).
CAST:
From The Sentinel:
Detective James Ellison, an officer with the Major Crimes division of the Cascade (WA) Police Department, a genetic throwback with enhanced senses.
Blair Sandburg, a doctoral student in anthropology who is Jim's Guide and who is writing his dissertation on Sentinels (nickname : Chief). They are partners, friends, and in this universe, lovers.
Naomi Sandburg, Blair's mother.
Captain Simon Banks, Det. Ellison's boss and friend, head of the Major Crimes division.
From The Professionals:
W.A.P. Bodie, ex-CI5 member, now bodyguard in private security work.
Ray Doyle, his partner, best friend, and (in this universe) lover while in CI5.
Colin Murphy, once an A Squad member with Bodie and Doyle, now Controller of CI5.
George Cowley, the original Controller of CI5 (now deceased).
Jax and Mac (McCabe), senior CI5 agents who were active A squad members with Bodie and Doyle.
From The Chief:
Chief Constable Alan Cade, head of the Eastland Constabulary (rank : Chief).Other characters original to the author:
Wes Morton, the Deputy Chief Constable.
Inspector Rose Penfold, a member of Cade's personal staff.
Diana, his secretary.
Elena Belinsky, his daughter, a student at Cambridge.
Yvonne Belinsky, her mother, residing in Canada.
The Honorable Pietro Donati (deceased), an Italian judge famous for his tough stance against organized crime who was assassinated while in Eastland speaking at a law enforcement conference.
Blair Sandburg shifted the loaded backpack to a more comfortable position and tromped happily along behind his partner as the larger man forged a path through the crowded SeaTac International airport. He'd had to practically barter his soul and he now owed favors to half the teaching fellows in the anthropology department, but the two weeks he'd managed to carve out of his teaching schedule had been well worth it. He hadn't had the opportunity to see Seattle yet, and here he was, courtesy of the Cascade P.D., settling in for a week of observing the international creme de la creme of the law enforcement world followed by nights of discovering one of the most romantic cities in North America with the love of his life. And after that, another week camping in the Olympic National Park, stretching his Sentinel's abilities to their utmost in the wilds of the rain forest. He couldn't wait to get started.
Three paces ahead, concentrating on dialing down his senses so that the crowd didn't overwhelm him, the object of Blair's affections was caught by the accelerated heartbeat coming from behind him. Knowing Sandburg's natural reaction to new places and new people, coupled with his anticipation of the things to come in the next few days, the quickened pulse didn't overly concern him. When the younger man's breathing began to get a little ragged, he slowed and glanced down behind himself. A slight flush had settled along the high cheekbones and the full lips were moist where Blair had been licking them. Jim glanced back to follow his Guide's fixed gaze and realized where those big blue eyes were fastened. He flushed himself and cleared his throat, fighting his own instinctive reaction to his partner's arousal. The eyes widened even more, but they did at least turn from slightly south of Jim's belt level in the back to the detective's profile. Blair bit his lip to keep from laughing. Speaking in a whisper, knowing Sentinel hearing could pick it up when no one else could, he murmured, "Sorry, big guy, but you know what those jeans do to me. I can't wait to get you to the hotel, man." Laughter and lechery fought for ascendancy in the promise.
Ellison fought back his own grin and glared down at his partner, not scaring him in the least. "Save it, Chief. We've got work to do, first. I want to be ready for that Pacific Rim panel--"
Blair raised his hands in mock self defense. "Okay, okay, okay, man, I should've known better than stand in the way of the details! We'll get to the hotel, register, get our ton and a half of paperwork, find out what panels we're supposed to be at and when we're supposed to be where--" He shook his head and grinned, glancing up and sideways at his lover through long dark curls. "Work before pleasure, the Ellison Credo, I hear that." Ignoring the muffled chuckle coming from the man at his side, he scuttled closer to the big, warm body and muttered, "But when the work is done, your butt is mine, baby."
Clearing customs went with fewer snags than he had anticipated. Watching the executive assistant hand over the appropriate forms to make sure the Browning never left his side, William Andrew Philip Bodie scanned the crowds milling by the international reception area like a hawk scanning for field rats. His current boss was a man with many enemies, and a number of highly efficient criminal organizations both within his native Italy and in a handful of other countries would pay a high bounty for his head on a plate. Or even just a bullet between the eyes. Bodie was one of the professionals there to prevent that from happening. A very small corner in the back of his mind recognized the homesickness inherent in his position, his wish, never expressed, for his partner to guard his back, a constant underlying desire to return home. But that wasn't in his cards, hadn't been for eight years, and wouldn't be until the scum who had caused him to go into hiding could, themselves, be forced into the daylight and eradicated. Until then, he would stay in foreign lands, guarding foreign treasures, and he would wait. Patience had never been his strong suit, but he was learning. He'd had to.
His eye settled momentarily on his current charge. The Honorable Eduardo Cimbrone was a national treasure, or so the beleaguered Carabinieri claimed. Bodie hadn't been in Italy long enough himself to see the judge in action on the bench, having only taken on this position the previous month. But he did his homework, especially on a job that paid as well as this one did. And it was a damned good thing. There had been three assassination attempts and one attempted kidnapping in the past three weeks, and that was on his home turf. True, a convention of coppers was probably the last place an assassin might be expected to be found, but with any crowd as large as this one it was too easy for the possibility of a slip-up. Bodie had seen too many people die too easily to let his guard down. Flexing his gun hand unconsciously and slipping past the small ring of officious people gathered around his charge, he deftly inserted himself in the small space next to the judge and touched his sleeve to gain his attention.
"Time to go, sir," he suggested quietly, the words more an order than either man would admit. Cimbrone smiled sweetly at the professionally pleasant young man handing him back his papers and nodded just as quietly. Four minutes later they were safely in a nondescript navy blue sedan rumbling through the dark tunnels under the airport toward the Four Seasons Olympic Hotel. Forty seven minutes later they were comfortably ensconced in the best suite in the most elegant hotel in the city, and Bodie finally relaxed. As he unclipped the shoulder holster and rolled his tensed neck muscles, trying to ease the strain and wishfully remembering strong fingers rubbing out the stiffness, he sighed. It was going to be a very long week, and he was tired before it even began.
Paperwork. It felt like the last five years ... no, nearly the last decade of his life could be summed up in that one nasty word. Chief Constable Alan Cade signed yet another official document, then heard the chime of the warning bell with relief. It had been a very long flight, and a restless night before, and he was exhausted. He had a sinking feeling he would be facing a hostile audience when he got to Seattle, and while he believed fiercely that his program was an important, if radical, idea of how to approach drug traffickers, there were times when he got extremely tired of trying to explain it to people who just didn't want to know. His dual concept of educating the users and targeting the suppliers was far from popular even in his own patch of East Anglia. It was heartening to be invited to present a speech on his program to an international conference on illegal drugs containment strategies ... but a large part of that invitation, he thought cynically, could be laid at the door of the public relations people. It would look good on the reports to the various governments involved, but would he be able to sway any of the people who really mattered? The ones who, like himself, made and carried out the policies at the street level? Or would they shake their heads, as his own Police Authority Board did, as the people of influence in society did, at his wild ideas, and continue to fund only those projects that sounded tough and were completely ineffective, while more young people died and the hemorrhaging of the nations' lifeblood continued? Aware that even in his own thoughts he was beginning to sound like The Grand Pontificator, he stifled the urge to laugh at himself and shuffled his papers into his briefcase. He'd concentrate on the basics, now, get into Seattle, settle into the hotel, try to make up for the previous night's restlessness ... and think about tomorrow when he had to -- tomorrow. He had a week to try to make a difference. And if this attempt was as futile as the last several had been, he might just chuck the whole bloody business and retire to someplace remote in the Brecon Beacons to raise rabbits.
That thought brought another immediately to mind, and he tried to stifle it as thoroughly as he had his laughter, with lamentably less success. When he had tamped the loneliness and the need back into the darkest recesses of his mind once more, he took a deep breath. No laughter, no light. No love. Above all, no remembering and no wanting what he could not have. Vaguely, he wondered when the last time had been that he had actually felt alive, but he feared the answer too much to consciously formulate the question. Carefully blanking his mind as completely as his expression, he tightened his lap belt and prepared for landing. It was going to be a difficult week and he could do without the distractions that memories of the past invariably brought.
The lines were just as bad as he'd expected them to be. Used to stakeouts and, further back, standing at attention for mind-numbingly long periods of time, Ellison let his thoughts drift back to the previous night. His lover had been his usual inventive self, with the added buzz of the unusual surroundings spurring him on to even greater heights of ingenuity. The pleasant ache in his hamstrings and the heaviness coiled low, spreading from the small of his back down the crease of his buttocks and centering around his well-exercised opening brought a reminiscent smile to his sculptured mouth. It wasn't often Sandburg let himself get that wild. Yeah, he wasn't the restrained type, but he didn't usually pound his partner through the floor like he had last night. God, that had been incredible.
Keeping up unconsciously with the flow of bodies around him, trying to distract himself from the nearly overpowering odor of so many human beings packed in like sardines, he shuffled forward another inch and settled back down to his memories. Maybe if he turned his scent dial all the way down, he'd be able to get their conference packets and get back to their room without getting a splitting headache. He most certainly didn't want to tell Blair 'no thanks, honey, my head hurts' -- the younger man would try to dose him with witch doctor potions, and he wasn't in the mood for drinking anything with twigs floating along the top. On the other hand, solicitous sex was a wonderful cure for the headache. His mind drifted, helplessly, back to the previous night once more.
They had barely cleared the door when Blair had unceremoniously dumped his backpack on the floor by the table and pounced on him. He'd known it was coming and made no effort to evade his amorous partner's advance. Strong hands caught him around the waist and a solid body hit him in the middle of the back, with just enough force to take him off his feet and land them both on the bed. Sandburg ended on top, and wasting no time with preliminaries, he immediately attacked the buttons straining across the front of Jim's jeans.
"Enough is enough, man, and this is just too much. You've been flashing that hind end of yours in front of my face for hours, and my tolerance is at an end. I am so ready for this I'm about to explode and I haven't even gotten my hands on you. Yet." Jim was laughing too hard to fight back by this point, and Blair had his jeans, underwear, socks and shoes stripped off him before he could regain his breath. Running long, elegant fingers down the buttons on the front of the green cotton oxford shirt, the wild haired imp grinned wickedly up into Jim's face, then flicked each button open. Skin extraordinarily sensitized, he could do no more than gasp at the sensation as those clever fingers finished the job of stripping him naked. Suddenly realizing that his Guide was severely overdressed for the occasion, he gathered enough of his mind together to remedy the situation.
Pulling his tormentor away from his nipples, groaning at the loss of contact, he managed to grunt out, "Naked." Blair nodded encouragingly and reached for his groin. He stifled the urge to just give in and be ravished, and was able to grind out, "You!"
"Oh!" The teasing note was back, full force. "You trying to tell me you want company at this little party, here, Jim?" But at least he got the message, inarticulate as it had been, and stripped himself as quickly as he had stripped Jim moments before. The Sentinel moaned aloud as the softly furred, muscular chest came down gently across his own, each springy curl seeming to raise a spark as it skimmed across his skin. He was a triangle of fire from his nipples to his navel, and the much-anticipated torture was just beginning.
Blair treated him to a full body workover, running questing hands along his muscles, scraping his nails with a feather light touch on all the places that turned Jim to quivering jelly. By the time the young dervish took pity on him, he was unable to make a single coherent noise. He just raised himself to his knees, pillowed his forehead on his crossed wrists, clenched the spread until his knuckles turned white, and whimpered. Blair responded well to the unspoken invitation, working him with tongue, fingers and finally cock until both men had exploded and neither could move. When they eventually came back to themselves they'd barely had energy to cuddle together, but he had a distinct memory of his Guide stroking his chest and turning his head to place a single kiss at the hollow at the base of his throat before he drifted off.
As his mind drifted, he moved forward another inch, then another. Finally a sound impinged on his mind. Even with enhanced hearing, the low, accented voice had to repeat his name three times before he registered it.
"It is Jim Ellison, isn't it?"
Turning to meet the voice, a wide smile split his face, bracketing his eyes with deep laugh lines. "I'll be damned! Sergeant Bodie!" He thrust out his hand to take the offered handshake, eyes sweeping over the elegant, fit man before him. The years had been kind to his one-time special forces instructor. The ebony hair was silvered, but the pale, handsome face was still smooth, and the solid build was in excellent shape. His handshake was just as firm, and the gun calluses were still hard, so he was active in the business, in some manner. The only real indication of his age were the shadows in his deep blue eyes. They had always been a distance there, walls up to keep intruders out, but now there was an underlying hint of pain that he didn't remember seeing there before.
A white-toothed smile answered his greeting. "Not sergeant any more, lad. Just Bodie." The handclasp was brief, but warm. They'd not been close friends, fifteen years ago when they'd known one another, but they had respected one another's abilities, and something about the younger man had struck a responsive chord in the older one.
"Don't tell me you're a cop, now," Jim responded. Bodie's disdain for the police force had been very evident even years before. It hadn't changed much, given the instinctive wrinkle of his nose.
"No, doing a bit of minding. Private security." Jim nodded. That sounded more like what he'd expect. It paid well, and Bodie had always had a taste for the finer things in life. The older man gestured casually at the controlled chaos swirling around them. "Had to pick up some papers for my guv'nor."
A not-particularly-polite jostle reminded Jim that they were holding up the line, and he cast an apologetic smile at his old acquaintance. "Any chance of taking a break and getting together later? I'm here with my partner and I think he'd like to meet you." Would he ever, the detective grinned to himself. Sandburg would get an adrenaline rush just from meeting a part of Ellison's closely held past, and maybe the garrulous anthropologist could get Bodie to open up a bit about his own. It would make for a fascinating dinner, he'd bet. Blair could get a clam to talk, so Bodie didn't stand a chance.
"I'd like that," Bodie answered, and it sounded as if he meant it. "I've some time later this evening, after the last of the presentations are over. How about 1930?"
Ellison nodded assent. "That'd be great." Another ungentle shove interrupted him, and he threw Bodie a helpless glance. "See you then!"
The Englishman grinned back at him, tossed him a casual salute, and disappeared into his own line. Jim found himself at the table, staring down at a myriad of folders and colored papers presided over by a harried looking clerk, and settled in to figure out what he needed so that he could get it, escape, and pay Blair back for the previous night.
The resulting mental images brought such a wicked smile to his face the clerk dropped her folders and, dazed, smiled back, hoping to get lucky. Unfortunately for her, the lucky one was already upstairs waiting. The man standing behind Jim in line was repaid for his impatient jostling by having to deal with a very grumpy and sadly disappointed clerk.
The preliminary panel on opening day had gone well, Alan thought, but the proof would be in the second day's presentation. He was scheduled to be the keynote speaker on the alternative approach panel, and he was feeling somewhat nervous. He'd championed unpopular causes in the past -- often -- but never in such a high-visibility international arena. He hoped the changes in his appearance, along with his official biography, title and name, would be enough to carry him through the experience unscathed. Staring moodily through the window at the sunset painting the sky in vivid rose and deep purple, his undisciplined thoughts were interrupted by the chirp of the telephone. Settling into the floral patterned armchair next to the small end table, he caught up the handset by the second ring.
"Cade."
"Chief Constable Alan Cade?" He murmured an affirmative, trying and failing to place the lightly accented voice. "My name is Eduardo Cimbrone."
His mind instantly supplied a face and a sketchy background to the name. Highly placed, highly regarded Italian judge, uncompromising in his sentencing no matter the clout of the criminal in question, with many enemies who would be more than happy to see him dead. "It's an honor, sir. What can I do for you?"
"It is rather what I might do for you, Chief Cade. We shared a good friend, Pietro Donati."
Memories flashed behind his eyes, of a good man dying by treachery in what should have been a safe place, of his own abortive attempt to protect him and the bullet through the left wrist he had suffered as a result. "He was a good man. I'm sorry." Gruff words, laden with pain both from losing a friend and failing in his duty.
"As am I. Please, do not blame yourself , Chief Cade. What was done was beyond anyone's control to avoid, even the unfortunate guard used so badly. He himself was only attempting to protect his family. It is a confusing and saddening place, this world we live in. But there are good people in it as well. Pietro spoke very fondly of you, with great respect. I was one of the executors of his will, and he left you a small bequest."
Cade was unable to stifle his sound of surprise. Cimbrone politely ignored it and continued.
"It is a personal journal, containing delicate and potentially volatile information, and he left instructions that I should give it to you in person, not to allow it to leave my possession except to place it in your hands. Would you be available to meet with me?"
Swallowing past the lump in his throat at the thought of his late friend and with his mind rapidly turning over the possible ramifications of the information in the book, Cade made a quick decision. "I'd be honored, sir. Where would you like to meet? And when would be convenient?"
A rustle of papers in the background caused Cade to cast a rueful glance at his own stack of paperwork. He had a pile of it to go through before he could meet with the honorable judge. He was looking forward to the meeting, however. He needed something to take his mind off the next day's efforts, and he was intensely curious to discover what Donati had left for him.
"It is a fine night, and I am feeling cramped in this room. Perhaps the verandah of the hotel restaurant, after dinner this evening? At, oh, eight o'clock?" The hesitancy in the older man's voice was underlined with anticipation. He undoubtedly wanted to rid himself of the journal as soon as possible. Considering the myriad threats against him, it really wasn't much of a surprise that he should wish to rid himself of at least one potentially dangerous cache of information.
"I look forward to it, sir." A sincere "until later" and he cradled the receiver thoughtfully and picked up the room service menu. If he was going to spend as much time as he would like to talking with Cimbrone, he'd better get the rest of his work done. Bearding the lions in the den was one thing ... bearding them unprepared was enough to make his palms sweat.
Part of him felt a little apprehensive about leaving the judge with the night shift, but the old man had assured him that he would be settled in his room for the rest of the evening, so Bodie ignored the little voice in the back of his mind that was cautioning him to stay close. With one last round of instructions to the night shift he left the suite to meet Ellison and his partner for dinner.
He told himself he was over-reacting -- he'd been on-duty for nearly three weeks without a single day off, and the strain was beginning to show. A man could only stay alert for so long, getting by on nights of half-alert sleep, before his reflexes gave. And he wasn't getting any younger -- he'd admit that, if only to himself. He'd always been relentlessly honest with himself about his own abilities, even as he'd lied -- or at least embellished greatly -- to others around him. Kept them on their toes.
All except Doyle. Ray'd known better. After the first two weeks he hadn't been able to slip a single lie past his partner, and after a month he hadn't wanted to. By the time three months had passed he was too busy trying to keep Doyle's back covered during the day and get into his bed at night to keep up the facade. After the fourth month he'd been too shagged out from both bed and back-up to worry about the fact that his golli could (and did) read him like a book. They'd had eleven years. More than some marriages. It had been eight since they'd been forced to split. He had fought his heart and his memories every single day of the full eight years.
Before he could sink into the melancholy he felt lapping at his thoughts, he caught sight of Ellison, forging across the crowded restaurant. Just to his side and half a step at his heels trailed a young man who, for some reason Bodie couldn't identify, made his breath catch in his throat. As they drew closer and he stood to greet them, he isolated his reaction and tried to analyze it. True, the young man was a beauty, and he wasn't so bloody old he couldn't appreciate lustrous sable curls and huge blue eyes fringed with thick dark lashes, or broad shoulders topping a strong, gorgeous body. The relatively diminutive stature couldn't hide the strength inherent in the sturdy frame. Strong thighs, narrow waist leading to a surprisingly broad chest and wide shoulders, all perfectly proportioned, topped by a stunningly beautiful face, all high cheekbones, large eyes and succulent mouth. But it wasn't the beauty of the man, or even the nearly visible energy surrounding him as he practically bounced across the room. Something ... indefinable was catching Bodie's interest, arousing him and interesting him in a way he couldn't remember being caught in a very, very long time.
By the time he realized how turned on he was, Ellison had come to a stop by his table and was staring at him intently, a frown in the crystal blue eyes. Bodie managed to stop himself from looking down at his groin to see if he was giving himself away, and cocked his head encouragingly. He concentrated on trying to look friendly, not as if he wanted to jump on the young stranger and fuck him senseless.
"Bodie, this is my partner," Ellison stressed the word oddly, and Bodie caught the meaning immediately. A fair warning -- this one was taken. "Blair Sandburg. Blair, this is Bodie, an old friend from the army." From the hard edge in the detective's voice, the friendship, such as it was, was close to being forfeited. Bodie blanked his face and banked the fire running through his system, more than a little astonished at his own reaction. He couldn't blame Ellison for getting territorial. He hadn't been this immediately randy in ages.
Sandburg reached out to shake Bodie's hand, shooting Jim a questioning, concerned glance as he did. The younger man sensed the unexpected tension, and instinctively tried to ease it. "Mr. Bodie, it's nice to meet you. I'd like to say I've heard a lot about you, but you know Jim, he is so not into talking about the past. Mister motormouth he is not. Actions speak louder than words, you know how it goes."
Bodie found himself grinning at Blair's cheerful exuberance. Feeling his pulse start to slow and the tightness in his groin fade to a manageable level, he was relieved to see Ellison relax fractionally and ease up on the glare. This was supposed to be a friendly dinner, and he'd have to watch his own unexpected desire to spread young Sandburg across the table and treat him like the buffet if he wanted it to stay friendly. Shaking his head slightly to rid himself of the lingering daze of lust, he put himself out to be charming.
No one could out-charm Bodie when he made a real effort.
After the initial rocky start, conversation flowed freely. Sandburg unobtrusively led the conversation, telling some raucous and far-fetched tales of his unusual experiences with various field expeditions into South American jungles. Bodie responded in kind, sharing some of his own experiences in Africa, keeping to the funnier side of the past and avoiding the harsher episodes. Jim listened intently, enjoying the exchange of adventure stories, and offering a few of his own from his time in Peru. An hour into dinner, stuffed prawns and cheese rolls out of the way and the first delicious bottle of wine nearly emptied, the trio was tucking into their main course when a sudden disturbance out on the verandah made Ellison stand abruptly and focus through the French doors. Bodie broke off in the middle of tale about a Nganguela priest speaking to the ancestors of a village man and instinctively reached for his gun. Blair immediately diverted his attention to his Sentinel, asking calmly, in an unusually gentle but very direct voice, what it was that Jim saw. Before the big man could answer, someone threw open the doors and the sound of the action outside made it quite clear.
Gunshots. Men swearing, loudly, threatening in a mixture of English, Italian and German. High pitched squeals, not all of them feminine, from the surrounding bystanders. The distinctive wet muffled thud of bullets tearing into human flesh, and the corresponding rustling thump of bodies hitting pavement. Bodie was around the table and at the doors in a heartbeat. He was one step behind Ellison and right on the heels of Sandburg, who moved together as if they were choreographed. The detective drew his weapon with one hand and displayed his shield with the other, bellowing, "Police! Drop your weapons!" while simultaneously managing to shield his partner from possible return fire. Bodie slipped around the side of the duo and cursed, filthily and at length, at the scene that met his eyes.
Three men were down, another half dozen wounded, four seriously. He recognized Judge Cimbrone's minder among the dead. Two men in dark colored business suits were being thrust forcefully into the back of a wagon of some sort, one of the four wheel drive off-road vehicles so favored in the Pacific Northwest, a muted tan job with a swing-out door that easily accommodated the old man and the unidentified man being stuffed into it. Bodie managed to draw a bead on one of the bastards kidnapping the judge, unexpectedly aided by a sideways kick from the second kidnapping victim, but it wasn't enough. By the time he got another clear shot the door swung shut and the wagon veered off into the traffic, causing several other cars to swerve and collide with one another. For an instant, under the adrenaline pounding in his head, Bodie thought he recognized something familiar in the long legs ruthlessly kicking at the abductors. Then the press of people surrounded him and the all-too-familiar routine of the police at the scene of a crime boxed him in.
Staring at the lax body of the guard who had been killed in the abduction, he listened to the excited chatter around him and took a deep breath. Now would be a good time to draw on those old unilateral CI5 powers ... if he still had them ... and if they were in Britain ... which they most definitely were not. As it was, he looked up to see Ellison approaching with a subdued Blair at his side and took another deep breath. It was going to be a long night of questions, answers, more questions, wasted time and breath and energy. And while the useless questions were being asked over and over again, the bastards who'd stolen his charge out from under his nose would be getting further and further away. This would be a political hot potato and, seeing the local representatives of the Federal Bureau of Investigation who were in town for the conference begin rounding up witnesses, he knew it wouldn't be long before he would be completely out of the loop. God help the poor bastard who'd been snatched along with the judge. Eduardo Cimbrone was not long for this world, and whoever'd had the bad luck to be standing next to him was a walking dead man.
Or a kicking one, he thought on a note of black humor, before two FBI agents zeroed in on him and began to bark questions at him. Pulling out the papers that allowed him to carry the gun he had discharged and identifying himself as an off duty bodyguard of the judge's, he began to answer questions. So much for a nice relaxing dinner with an old acquaintance. At least he had an alibi. Not that he needed one ... but it never hurt to be prepared.
Three hours later he was drained dry, officially not under suspicion, and bone tired. But something was nagging at him, and he couldn't put his finger on it. Watching from the sidelines as the FBI agents asked the same questions from the same witnesses and got the same answers for the fifth time, Bodie turned around slowly and headed for the restaurant. As he entered the dining room he leaned against the door frame and glanced around the room. Ellison and Sandburg, who had been questioned and given leave to go two hours earlier, were hunched over coffee at one of the side tables, whispering fiercely to one another. Bodie's left eyebrow slowly arched and he peered measuringly at the two men. He wasn't one to give up, and his professional pride was dented that the judge had been taken from practically under his nose. It pissed him off royally. Besides, there was something about the Kicker that was really nagging at his brain.
Ellison was a copper. Maybe he'd have some ideas. He shifted himself from his near-sprawl in the doorway and went over to join the others.
As usual, Jim was non-verbally beating himself over the head for not responding fast enough to a crisis, and equally the norm, Blair was talking a mile a minute to try to pull his partner out of the trough of the guilts he had dropped into. Even knowing that the only things that would help were time and objective distance didn't stop the ritual dance. After three years, neither of them expected it would. In a strange way it was reassuring to go through the motions, add some normalcy to the situation. Or at least as much normalcy as they usually had in any given situation, which wasn't a hell of a lot.
Finally managing to pinpoint the one weird moment that stood out over all the other weird moments in a violently weird evening, Ellison laid a gentle finger across the rapidly moving lips of his Guide. Blair stilled immediately, lapis eyes fixed unwaveringly on the man attached to the finger.
"His scent," the detective finally said, with no small measure of satisfaction.
Blair stared at him a moment longer, then caused him to lose his train of thought completely by opening his full lips and closing them around the finger, lightly bathing the captive with his tongue. Jim managed not to moan out loud, even tried his best to glare at his unrepentant lover, but it didn't do any good. Eventually, when it felt as if every nerve in his body had been alerted to the gentle suckling of his fingertip and every neural pathway in his brain was cross-wired, Blair took pity on him.
Letting the finger slip from his mouth, he cocked his head slightly and stared at Jim. "Whose scent? What about a scent? You're not making a whole lot of sense here, big guy."
And whose fault was that? He stared at the younger man, trying to remember how to talk. When they got alone Sandburg was going to pay for that little stunt. Ruthlessly suppressing his body's natural reaction to plans of just how he would make his lover pay, Ellison ground out, "The kidnapping victim. The one who was kicking, not the judge. He ... his scent was familiar."
Bright interest sparked the eyes holding his, and Blair's curls practically quivered. "You recognized his scent? With that little bit of time you actually had and such little exposure, over the combined scents of, what, like forty or fifty people all wearing perfume or cologne or whatever, and you could pick this one guy out? Incredible, man, just incredible." The mobile face went completely still as the possibilities sifted through the anthropologist's busy mind, then what Jim privately thought of as Blair's Darwin-look pulled the generous features into a serious mask. Taking a deep breath, Blair started to shoot questions at him. Before the stream had a chance to build into a flood and wash them both away, Jim held up both hands in an 'I surrender' gesture and broke in firmly.
"I recognized it." He was certain he had, but he couldn't for the life of him place it.
"So, you've smelled it before. This is great, Jim, we could really use this. Was it a particular kind of aftershave, maybe, or deodorant or-"
"His scent," Jim interrupted absently. "It was his natural scent, Chief. I don't know where I've smelled it before, but it was definitely familiar."
"That's even better, Jim. Listen, that means you can use his scent to track him. It won't fade over time, like the gunpowder did that time when you were tracking the gun, and it won't wash off him like an artificial scent applied topically would with sweat or water or whatever. No matter how long these guys have him, you'll still be able to track him! Now we just have to figure out a way to get included in the investigation, so you can get in there and do your stuff. It's not like it's gonna wear off. As long as there's life, there's hope, or in this case, smell, right?"
"There won't be for very long," a cool English voice broke in. Both men looked up to see Bodie standing at Sandburg's shoulder, looking exhausted and frustrated.
"What do you mean?" Jim got in, before Blair could chime in with something to try to cover their previous conversation. Ellison's Sentinel abilities were a very well kept secret. "Did you recognize the men involved in the kidnapping?" It might at least give them a starting point.
"No, not specifically. But I know the sort of enemies Eduardo Cimbrone has. They don't want a ransom. They want him dead. If they ransom him he'll just go right back to the bench, and that's not the kind of message they want to send out. They want fear, not money. They want to intimidate, not extort. They want to send a message to the rest of the lawmakers that they are capable of eliminating anyone who stands in their way. And the other man is a witness. He can't be left alive." He visibly gathered himself before going on. "Those men will be dead very soon."
"Not if we find them first," Jim answered before he even realized he was going to say anything. Two pairs of sapphire eyes pinned him to his chair, and he shrugged helplessly. "We have to try."
"Bit out of your jurisdiction, my son," Bodie said slowly, staring at his one-time student. "And I don't have any, anywhere. Not anymore."
Jim stared back at him for a moment, then swiveled to search Blair's face. The calm certainty he saw there confirmed that this was the right course of action, and that he would have all the back-up he would ever need. "Anyone can make a citizen's arrest." Without another word being spoken, it was decided.
The hunt was on.
It had all blown up around them so quickly, Cade hadn't had a chance to defend himself, much less the elderly gentleman who had just moments before been reminiscing quietly about absent friends. He'd been somewhat taken aback by the absence of obvious bodyguards, but his sharp eye had picked up a hulking shape looming protectively in the shadows and he'd relaxed slightly. They'd spoken for a little while, Cimbrone had handed him the small, cloth bound book, which he'd placed carefully in his inner jacket pocket, and they had lingered for a moment, enjoying the temperate breezes lightening the evening.
Then hell had erupted around them.
At the squeal of tires and sound of semiautomatic gunfire he'd instinctively pushed the judge down, hand scrabbling for a shoulder holster he no longer wore, fingers clawing for a gun he hadn't carried in years. The instincts, which had saved his life so many times in the past, failed him this time, costing him precious seconds in which he could have raised more of an alarm. Or so he castigated himself, much later. At the time, there was no chance to think, only react.
The bodyguard fell first, but not before taking down one of the attackers. Cade took another down with a lethal chop to the throat, kicking out in a desperate attempt to keep the others from surrounding the judge. He failed. Someone barked out a sharp order in Italian, countered by another bark in what sounded like German, and he found himself pinned by two bruisers who must've been weaned on steroids. Dizzy from a blow to the jaw and with his arms twisted behind his back, he was unable to counter the swift punches to his midsection that drove the breath from his body and turned his vision black. Disorientation hit as he was lifted bodily and shoved into some sort of truck or wagon, managing to land only one more vicious kick before something hard bashed into the side of his skull and he sank unwillingly into darkness.
When the light came back, it brought throbbing pain with it. Bile surged in his throat, and his stomach felt as if it was bashed inside out. When he tried to open his eyes vertigo struck, leaving him whimpering softly, unable to stifle the sound completely. A small part of his brain, still functioning somewhat objectively, cataloged the symptoms of shock and concussion, then a booted foot connected with his bruised ribs and he gasped in pain.
At least the room stopped spinning. Turning his head cautiously to look at his captors, he decided that that wasn't much of an improvement. Darkness might just be preferable. At least then he wouldn't see the bullet coming.
A tall, swarthy man in ratty blue jeans and a well-worn sweatshirt was pointing a Walther at his head. Cade took a shallow breath, the best he could manage in the fetal position he found himself in, and stared up into his would-be executor's eyes. What he saw there chilled him completely. No warmth. Not even the warmth of hatred, or rage. Just ice. If there had ever been a soul in the man, it had withered and died years before. Cade swallowed dryly and tried to relax his muscles. He wouldn't give the bastard the satisfaction of seeing him beg.
As the man's forefinger began to curl around the trigger, someone spat a sharp order at him. He immediately eased off the trigger, looking down at his captive for a long moment with no expression, before turning and heading away from him. Cade took a moment to close his eyes and thank Whoever was watching over him for the mercy of sparing his life, then gingerly turned his head until he could see what was happening in the adjoining room. His head throbbed alarmingly, but his vision was clearing.
What he saw made him feel sick all over again.
Cimbrone was strapped to a chair, blood flowing freely from numerous scrapes and cuts along his face, chest and arms. He had obviously been beaten, thoroughly and methodically. Opposite from the chair sat a videocamera on a tripod, and a harsh light mounted on a collapsible pole threw the evidences of mistreatment into sharp relief. Cimbrone was saying something, his words trembling and his voice breaking at times. Just out of the harsh spotlight a man, dressed similarly to the thug who had been standing over Cade when he awoke, watched Cimbrone closely. Eventually, the old man's voice stumbled to a stop. Someone behind the camera rapped out a question, and his head fell forward for a moment before he straightened his spine. The effort to sit proudly showed in the white tension of his face, but the quiet dignity of his bearing was unimpaired. As Cade watched the calm profile, nearly holding his breath from the tension in the air, the silence was broken by a single word.
"No." There was no quaver in the judge's voice now.
Cimbrone's lips had scarcely closed over the word before the man in the shadows extended his arm, placed the barrel of the handgun less than an inch from the side of the old man's skull, and pulled the trigger.
Cade closed his eyes involuntarily, but not quickly enough to avoid seeing the shower of blood, bone and brain matter that sprayed into the doorway. Forcing himself to open his eyes again, he saw the ruined head slump forward onto the gaunt chest. Then the spotlight blinked out, leaving afterimages on his corneas that made it hard to focus until they faded. By the time he could see clearly again, two of the men had cut through the ropes and allowed the corpse to fall ungracefully to the floor. Cade found himself staring helplessly, unable to fight or escape, trussed as he was. Two men, one the man who had been standing over him when he woke and the other hidden in the shadows behind him, came forward.
The gunman pulled his pistol out and calmly aimed directly between Cade's eyes. The Chief found himself unable to look away from the end of the barrel, which suddenly looked three inches across. The would-be killer queried the man behind him, his voice harsh in the stillness, something in Italian Cade couldn't make out over the rushing of blood in his ears. He was surprised, then, by the unequivocal negative the man in the background returned. It was enough to tear his attention away from the gun pointed at his head. When the second man stepped from the shadows, he felt the world tilt sideways on its axis again.
"Hello, Mister Doyle."
Bad had just gone from worse to worst.
"My name is Alan Cade," he managed to force out past constricted throat muscles. "I'm the Chief Constable of Eastlan-"
Before he could finish the sentence, the criminal struck like a snake. Kneeling swiftly beside him, he yanked the back of Cade's collar into one clenched fist, pulling Cade's torso up from the floor sharply. The threat of strangulation and the pain in his ribs from the awkward position cut off the rest of the Chief's words. As he gasped for breath, the other man slowly ran one hand up his throat, spanning it, gripping his jaw and tipping his face up to the light. He leaned his face in toward his captive, staring into the defiant emerald eyes, before brushing a feather-light kiss over the slight rise of the implant in Cade's right cheek.
"Raymond."
Cade looked up into the dark gray eyes above him and suddenly recognized who was holding him. The years had not been kind to the terrorist. Still, he kept silent, forcing himself into an unnatural patience, waiting to see what would happen next. A smile carved the spare features so close to his own, and his eyes widened of their own accord.
"Of course, I may be mistaken," the voice continued, a faint German accent adding a slight emphasis to the consonants. "You might be a ghost. You may be a doppelganger for a dead man. In which case, Chief Constable Alan Cade, I have no use for you, and I will allow Antonio here to put a bullet in your brain." Staring up into the black ice above him, Cade knew that he would do it without a qualm. "If, however, you happen to be one former CI5 agent by the name of Raymond Doyle, who disappeared eight years ago when the majority of my people were arrested in an effort to save his miserable, worthless life from just retribution from the rest of my group, then I will have some further use for you."
As he spoke, the other man had moved closer, until their faces were only centimeters apart. Wide green eyes met hazy gray for what felt like eons, but could only have been a few moments. Finally, Cade lowered his eyelids and wet his lips. Opening them again, he felt the carefully constructed facade crumble, and the terrorist smiled again, triumphantly.
"Hello, Hofnan," Doyle growled up at him.
"Hello, Raymond," the other man crooned softly. "This is an unexpected pleasure. It is going to be such fun."
It wasn't.
The party had to divide before the main entertainment began, at least as far as the German was concerned. The men he had been assisting, for a fee, had obtained their objective when they had executed Judge Cimbrone, with the videotape to prove it. They were anxious to leave the vicinity, and he was equally anxious to go somewhere more ... private for his own little discussion with Ray Doyle. He directed Antonio to place the still-restrained ex-agent, now-Chief, into a nondescript sedan stolen earlier to provide his escape after the assassination. They drove until he found a place that looked deserted enough for his purposes.
The area between Seattle and Tacoma was a welter of tiny lakes and patches of woodland, with small communities in isolated pockets along the southeastern edge of the Sound. As they pulled off the main highway onto a twisting mass of side roads, Doyle was jolted out of the painful doze he had fallen into as his head bounced against the side window. He curled his hands into tight fists, digging his nails into his palms to force himself to stay alert. His chances for escape were slim to none, but his chance of survival if he stayed under Hofnan's control was nil. And he'd never been a quitter. So he'd have to try his damnedest to find a chance and take it.
From past experience, Jim Ellison knew better than to waste time getting the local officials to listen to him. In a situation like this, with the Seattle PD, the FBI, and representatives of half the law enforcement agencies in the free world milling around, it was too insane to even try. He didn't even know who was in charge. He didn't think any of the people who thought they were in charge knew who was in charge.
Stopping just long enough to pick up extra ammunition for his gun and all the loose cash he had, plus two extra books of traveler's checks, he, Blair and Bodie were in a rental car within twenty minutes. Blessing the concierge's eagerness to please and slipping easily through the confusion of bodies still milling about, they set out into the darkness to find the missing men.
"Do you have any idea where we're going," Bodie's slightly sardonic question floated over from the back seat, "or are we just heading nowhere in particular and hoping we get lucky?"
Blair risked a quick look backward, but before he could come up with an acceptable explanation, or at least one with a modicum of a chance at being bought, Jim surprised him by answering.
"Just putting some of those tracking skills you taught me to good use, Sarge." A snort from behind them was the only answer. Ellison began to follow in the direction he had seen the wagon leave, then stopped at the corner and focused his eyes, picking up an irregular series of burnt rubber patches on the pavement that were only discernible to Sentinel vision. Softly, he murmured, "Stay with me, Chief," then pulled out to follow the phantom trail.
Sandburg responded immediately. Too low for Bodie to hear, he began to murmur encouragement and guidance. His deep, calm tones kept the detective from zoning out on the faint burn marks, keeping him aware enough of the early morning traffic to be able to navigate it safely, and allowing him the freedom to concentrate the majority of his attention on tracking the kidnappers without losing himself in the hunt. The younger man was invaluable as a Guide, and had saved Ellison's life more times than either man could count with his anchoring presence. The magic of Sentinel and Guide worked once more, and it was just a little over an hour before they pulled up in front of a small track house. By the time the burnt marks had faded, Jim had memorized the tread mark, and was able to follow it through the light film of road grease the rain had brought to the surface of the street. He silently thanked his partners in the hunt for getting them on the trail so quickly, before the tracks had had a chance to fade.
Bodie had stayed remarkably silent throughout the drive. Peering from one profile to the other, he was caught by the intensity of concentration and the almost palpable link between the two men. Ellison's eyes never left the road, and Sandburg's eyes never left Ellison. The younger man was talking continuously, but he couldn't make out what he was saying. It was all very intriguing.
He'd seen many different types of partnerships in his life. He'd even shared a special link with a mate in all senses of the word, had lived with one for years, in a partnership with a man who could practically read his mind, as he could read the other's. But there was something different at work here.
As he watched, an errant memory rose to the surface of his memory. In the bush in Angola, watching a tribe of Ovimbundu prepare for a battle, waiting on the sidelines for his own part in the local war. Two men crouched together off to the side of the main gathering, one a warrior, one a priest. The priest spoke softly, too low for other tribesmen to hear, as the Protector and his Shaman decided which way to pursue their enemies. The way Blair spoke to Jim now, the strange intensity in Jim's manner, the nearly visible connection between them, were all eerily familiar. He'd heard tales of Protectors with some of the tribes, mythical men who could do things no ordinary humans could do. He'd seen too much to dismiss it out of hand, choosing instead to use whatever advantages he could find, wherever he could find them. If his erstwhile student had somehow managed to harness some of this strange power, he was more than willing to sit back and let him lead the way.
Ellison cut the lights before turning into the side street, and cut the engine a moment later to glide silently to a stop in from of the house. Reaching up to turn off the dome light, he stared at the house for a long moment before nodding to the others. There was a stillness about the building that spoke of abandonment, but all three men approached cautiously, sliding from the car and closing the doors gently. Bodie signaled once and Ellison nodded, keeping Sandburg to his side with one hand against his forearm.
As the older man disappeared around the side of the building, the Sentinel focused his hearing and his smell. There was no sound of movement within the house, no heartbeats, no sound of breathing. But something violent had happened here, very recently. The coppery tang of blood along with the putrid scent of burned flesh was strong in the air.
Motioning his partner behind him, Jim scanned the front area through the narrow window beside the door. Focusing his vision, he saw a body on the floor, crumpled in an untidy heap, the top portion of it covered with dark blood. The dark stain spread out from under the head in a wide pool. There was no indication of any other occupants, so he lowered his shoulder and jammed the door open. At the same time both men heard the sound of glass breaking, and the back door squeaked open shortly afterward. All three men came into the house with every sense on alert, until a thorough and rapid reconnaissance of the building showed them to be alone with the corpse.
Bodie's face was grim as he examined what remained of his employer. Blair stood back slightly from the crime scene, looking faintly ill, and kept his eyes glued on his partner. Ellison prowled around the perimeter of the room, stopping here to stare at a faint indentation in the carpet, there to reach out and hold his hand a few inches above the puddle of blood under the remains of Cimbrone's skull. A pulse beat in his jaw at the evidence of sudden death and the wanton violence of the murder.
Blair took a steadying breath and inched around the body to stop at Jim's side. Swallowing heavily, he managed to ask, "What is it, big guy?"
"It hasn't been long," Ellison answered. "The blood's still warm."
"Well, the body isn't," Bodie cut in with disgust, wrapping three fingers around an outflung arm. "But something's missing."
"Yeah, half his head." Blair responded, staring at the corpse in sick fascination and taking shallow breaths through his mouth to try to calm his stomach.
"Not that," Bodie gestured toward the empty front room. "The other man."
Ellison immediately scanned the room again, paying closer attention to the carpet. With a muffled exclamation, he turned and hurried into the foyer, stopping by the doorway. Kneeling next to some small splashes of dried brown fluid on the floor, he ran his fingertips delicately over the carpet fibers, turning up his sense of touch and mapping the contours of the crushed material. To Bodie and Sandburg, he appeared to be reading the carpet in Braille. He found a few dark hairs, the imprint of a body curled into a tight ball, and the dried blood in a deeper indentation marking where the back of the victim's head had lain.
"Well, he's not dead. At least, he wasn't killed here," the detective finally decided.
"Not enough blood," Bodie agreed. He gave Ellison, then Sandburg, a searching glance. The bigger man didn't notice, caught up in feeling the impressions on the carpet. Blair gave him such an incredibly innocent look from those big blue eyes that Bodie knew not only was he not going to tell him anything, the boy was going to adamantly deny there was anything to tell. Bodie gave a mental shrug and tried to gather his tired thoughts enough to figure out what to do next. They'd all been up at least twenty four hours straight, and none of them had had much quality sleep in the days before that. Staring at Sandburg who was staring at Ellison who was staring at the carpet, he came to a decision.
"He'll keep."
The detective looked up from the pile under his fingers, forcing his attention toward Bodie. Blair turned to look at Bodie and his eye was caught by the corpse behind the older man. He had a somewhat harder time tearing his eyes from the bloody mess that had once been a judge, but he managed, swallowing several times to keep his dinner on his stomach. Licking his lips, he asked, "Why? I mean, this is not real encouraging, man. These guys are so not into the sanctity of human life, obviously, so what makes you think they're not going to waste the other guy?" There was a distinct wobble in his voice, but his gaze was determinedly steady.
"They didn't yet, and none of us are in any shape to keep looking. We need a few hours rest. And we need to figure out why this other man is important enough to keep alive. It's not like they needed a witness, for an assassination. Damnit, I wish I knew who the bloody hell this guy is!" Bodie was showing his fatigue, the words starting to slur together slightly.
Blair looked over at his partner, who was practically zoning on the texture of the carpet, and had to agree with the need for a break. Tracking and concentrating so fiercely for such a long period of time without lessening the focus had been draining to his Sentinel. He nodded agreement. "You think you can pick up his scent again, Jim, if we give it a rest for a couple hours?"
The soft question penetrated Ellison's haze of concentration, and he looked up to meet worried, slightly distraught sapphire eyes. That snapped him back to the present, and he took a deep breath. "Yeah, maybe, I don't know." Aware of how disconnected he sounded, he shook his head hard, trying to gather his fragmenting thoughts. "We may have to risk it, but first things first." Two pairs of dark blue eyes connected with his and he pointed to the body. Blair automatically followed the pointing finger and choked back a gag. Jim winced, automatically muttering an apology at him, but remained insistent. "We have to call it in."
"Yeah, but Jim," protested Blair, "if we do that then we'll be sitting here answering questions for the next three days instead of getting the bad guys, man! And whoever the other guy is, he'll be dead long before we get to him."
"He's right," Bodie chimed in. "Too many explanations, too much time lost."
"Hey, how about an anonymous tip? You know, like with the car jacking you told me about, when I was off driving the truck and you were with the other two and the guy had the heart attack and you stayed there and called 911?" Sandburg looked happy to find a compromise between hunting the kidnappers and doing his civic duty. Hopefully his by-the-book partner would run with the idea. A pursed lip, raised brows and pleading eyes added to the persuasion. Blair didn't care, at this point, how they did it, but he wanted to get away from that corpse. It was really starting to freak him out. Bodie nodded, and Jim reluctantly agreed.
A phone call to 911 from the car as they left to find a motel, and the judge was covered. Jim was careful to give the bare minimum in detail, and he severed the connection as quickly as possible. Blair had a point -- if they were going to rescue the second victim, they couldn't take the time to hand over the crime scene properly. But first things first, too, and that was to get a little shut eye before they all collapsed.
The car jolted across a gravel road and pulled to a stop in front of what looked like a summer cabin of some sort. Details were difficult to make out in the dim early morning light, but the sense of isolation from civilization -- with its hope of rescue, fading rapidly -- sent a shiver running down Doyle's spine. Antonio turned off the ignition and, with permission signaled from Hofnan, exited the car for a quick but thorough reconnaissance. Nodding the all clear to his boss, he raised his leg and planted a hard, focused blow at the side of the lock in the back door. The jamb broke cleanly.
Doyle's field of vision abruptly narrowed to nothing as Hofnan opened the door and pulled him from the car. Concentrating on finding an opening, thankful that at least the throbbing headache had calmed during the night, he was dismayed when Antonio returned and hoisted him over one broad shoulder. With his arms tied behind his back at elbow and wrist, and his ankles tied together, one of Antonio's arms bracing his knees and Hofnan's gun in the back of his neck, he didn't have a chance to do a damned thing but breathe steadily through his nose and try not to black out again.
Doyle's luck was running evenly that night -- bad from beginning to end. The absent owner was a fitness enthusiast, and he had a chin-up bar on a free standing, heavy iron frame in the back room, with a matching sit-up toe bar across the bottom of the frame. The whole contraption was bolted to the floor, making a perfect strap up cage for a prisoner. Hofnan actually laughed aloud when he saw it. Complimenting Antonio on his excellent, well furnished choice of a hideaway, he watched, gun ready, as his henchman dumped Doyle beside the frame. Before he could react and even try to roll out of the way, or get his feet into position to kick out again, Antonio casually batted the back of his head against the wooden floor, hard, stunning him once more.
He felt the bonds on his wrists loosen, but before he could shake off the effects of the most recent blow to his head he was propped against the frame and efficiently tied to the crossbar, arms spread above his head, a wrist at each corner. Grasping at the rope, trying to get leverage to bring his feet up for a kick, he was soundly cuffed again. Determinedly trying to shake off the effects, not sure whether to pass out or throw up, he felt the restraints on his ankles give way. His legs were roughly yanked apart and each ankle was tied securely to the bottom corners of the frame. When his vision finally cleared, the tears slowly stopped leaking from the corners of his eyes, and his stomach stopped trying to crawl out his throat, he tugged experimentally.
He wasn't going anywhere any time soon.
Managing to turn his head enough to see his captor, Doyle was chilled to the bone at the stark enjoyment on the man's face. Antonio turned to Hofnan and demanded of him, in broken German, to be paid so that he could take his leave. The older man nodded, then gestured toward the front of the house with his chin. As Antonio turned to go out to the car, Hofnan took a Sig Sauer P229 from a belt holster at the small of his back. Without hesitation, he shot his erstwhile helper cleanly, through the back of the head. As the large body fell to the floor, Hofnan gave it a disinterested look, shoving it aside with one foot and walking further into the room, eyes intent on his hostage. Doyle forced himself to meet those cold gray eyes again, and then found himself wishing he hadn't. This wasn't about information, or hatred, or even solely about revenge. It was about power. He had none, and Hofnan ... well, Hofnan had a knife.
Albert Hofnan was very good with a blade. He didn't leave a mark on Doyle's skin as he cut away every stitch of clothing. With meticulous attention, Hofnan continued until Doyle was completely nude, even stripping off his shoes and socks. When the finely tailored suit jacket fell away, it gave a dull thud as it impacted with the floor. Intent on his task, Hofnan didn't hear it, and Doyle drew a shaky sigh of relief. Even if he didn't survive this, the evidence would, and from what he had been able to see in the brief time before the kidnapping, it was imperative that the journal get into the right hands. Of course, it would do a hell of a lot more good for him personally if he was alive to reap the benefits. At the moment, given his past history with Hofnan and the bastard's known proclivity to kill for the sheer pleasure of it, that was not a particularly hopeful prospect.
Hofnan stood for several heartbeats, watching his victim, enjoying the anticipation, building the fear. He tapped the flat of the knife blade gently along Doyle's limbs, solid little thumps, as if testing the firmness of the flesh and muscle, a butcher testing the stock to decide where to begin his task. Doyle kept his eyes on Hofnan's hands until the terrorist stepped close to him. He could feel the other man's breath against his chest, but bound as he was he had no way to shy away from him. He forced himself to breathe steadily, recognizing how badly Hofnan wanted him to panic, needed to see his terror. He had fought his way to an unsteady calm when he saw the muscles in Hofnan's shoulder move.
The first cut took his breath away. It curved along the lower edge of his rib cage, over the fresh bruises, and at first he didn't feel the slice through the other, deeper pain of the contusions. Then the stinging began, and with every breath it got worse. He held himself as still as he could. It didn't help.
The second cut followed the line of his hip. The third, a trail of fire along his sternum, carefully skirting the old scars from surgery to remove bullets from his heart so long ago. The fourth blazed over his shoulder to his back, as his tormentor moved slowly around him, whistling under his breath, enjoying his work. The fifth scored across the midpoint of his spine, a little deeper than the ones before, flirting with the idea of crippling him. The sixth cut across the top of his buttocks, a lighter touch again. The blade lingered there, the point slipping teasingly into the top of the cleft between his buttocks, scratching across the delicate skin, not quite breaking it.
He whimpered, unable to keep back the small sound of pain and protest that was tearing at his throat. His mind mapped the pain and supplied images of what he could not see, and he was incapable of completely stifling his moan.
The blade stopped.
Slowly, obscenely, he felt fingertips trace through the blood running freely now over his shoulder, chest, back, across his ass down onto the top of his thighs. They pressed at irregular intervals, the fire from the wounds igniting with each unexpected touch. Caught up in a skein of fear and anticipation, not knowing when the slicing would begin again, he didn't realize Hofnan had stepped back until he heard a whistling noise cut through the air. Not having enough warning of the change in the form of his torment, he was unprepared for the first blow.
It felt like some sort of leather strap or belt. The first lancing pain of contact was across his shoulder blades, where the skin was thin and sensitive, and he arched away from it, feeling the blood drip stickily from the cuts in that area. With greater rapidity, the blows began, crisscrossing his back, buttocks and thighs with careful precision. The cadence was deliberate, and he found himself timing the blows in order to be able to take a clear breath. When the strap lashed across the backs of his knees, the scream that had been clawing at his chest ripped free. The sound acted as a catalyst for the terrorist, who sped up the blows until the sound of leather slapping against flesh was a nearly constant tattoo, reversing his direction and overlaying a new set of welts in a cross hatch to the first pattern as he worked his way back up until he reached Doyle's shoulders. By now the screams had died to pained moans, as Doyle's voice gave way. Finally, when he was almost to blessed unconsciousness, the blows stopped. Unaware of the tears streaming down his face, the ex-agent instinctively managed to pull himself as upright as possible, taking some of the strain off his wrists. Then he froze.
The fingers were back, tracing the welts now, painting them with blood. They drew random patterns on his skin, the touch almost tender, if not for the pain in the abused flesh under the wandering fingertips. Doyle shivered uncontrollably as Hofnan stepped very close to his back and began to whisper into his ear.
"You did more than destroy my operation, did you know that, Raymond? I was stupid, I admit, and I trusted you, and that mercenary partner of yours. That was my mistake. But you made a mistake as well, Raymond." The fingers dipped, digging into his hips, causing him to cry out in pain as they dug into fresh welts and open cuts. "You did not kill me when you killed Terrell, and Frederick, and the rest. You should have killed us all."
"I tried." He didn't recognize his own voice in the rasp that answered. For a scant second he wondered at his instincts, wondered when he'd lost his sanity, to be baiting the mad bastard like this. Vaguely, his mind catalogued the names, and put faces to them. Terrell he remembered -- he'd pulled the trigger on that son of a bitch himself. But Frederick ... Hofnan was wrong about that one. He'd wriggled through the net and escaped. Frederick, and Julia, and another he couldn't bring to mind in his present state of pain and confusion. But Julia he remembered. She and Hofnan had been close. The mad general and his most trusted lieutenant. The fingers tightened further, yanking him painfully back to the present, and he moaned in response to the vises on his flesh.
"You failed." The hands pulled backwards, and he yelped at the searing pain of rough material against his abused back as Hofnan pulled their bodies tightly together. "You betrayed me." One hand slid around his hip and grasped his genitals, squeezing tightly. This time, Doyle couldn't wrap his mind around any words to protest. And trying to stay calm was a waste of effort. He froze in fear. "You humiliated me." The other hand, the one with the knife, curved around the opposite side of his waist. He felt his eyes go huge with panic. "You destroyed me."
"No," he managed to whisper past fear-frozen lips. "No, I -- we didn't -- we had to run -- had to hide -- you won --" Anything, anything to get that bloody knife away from his balls. As the flat of the blade slid slowly under the weight of his scrotum, he sobbed, once, then froze again, afraid to move. Instinctively spreading his thighs as far as he was able, desperately trying to move away from the sharp edge of the blade, he found himself whimpering, "no, no, no, no, no" over and over again. The hand holding his penis suddenly dropped the heavy flesh, and Doyle screamed as his own weight obeyed gravity's command and pushed his sac against the edge of the knife. The hand that had been holding him buried itself in the thick hair at the crown of his head and pulled his head back viciously, so that panic-stricken green eyes stared helplessly up into the German's face.
The bastard was laughing.
Doyle lost his breath as the hard face came down to meet his own, lips forcing his mouth open, a thick tongue forging its way past his teeth. Suddenly he aware that he was choking, unable to breathe for the tears running down his face, his nose clogged, his throat filled with his enemy's tongue. He felt warm liquid running down the inside of his thigh, and he began a gasping cry, small uncontrollable hiccoughs of fear and rage and helplessness. As he suffered the rape of his mouth, he felt the knife move. The hand between his thighs turned slightly and he felt the flat of the knife trace the bulge of his sac, before running lightly along his penis. It tapped, twice, against the head, then traced its way back upward until it parted his pubic hair.
Unable to move, blind to what was being done to him, aware only of the fire in his back, the pain in his skull, the fear that he had been gelded and the desperate need to breathe, Doyle began to lose consciousness. With one last bite at his upper lip, Hofnan broke contact. Dizzy, sick, and scared half to death, Doyle hung, not knowing whether he was going to faint or regain full consciousness, and not sure which to hope for. Praying that this was a nightmare and knowing that he wasn't going to wake up.
"Where is Bodie?" The hissed question broke through the haze of pain and slipped under his defenses. Unable to think of a convincing lie, not knowing if Hofnan knew or only guessed that Bodie was still alive, Ray stared at him in mute agony. The terrorist yanked his head further back, bowing his spine, taking him to the edge of sanity before releasing him with an oath.
The pressure at his back finally eased, and his head dropped forward in relief. Then he whispered, "please, no!" as the knife found its way unerringly to his back again. Feet still widespread, he was open to anything Hofnan chose to inflict. The flat of the knife was a cold line of pressure up the inside of his thigh, along his perineum, nudging at the back of his sac. He fancied, for a moment, that he could literally feel his balls trying to curl up into his body. Then the knife reversed course, heading for his anus. He held his breath again, hoping against hope that this time he really would pass out.
No one was listening to his silent pleas.
"You will tell me, you know." Cold metal circled on flinching flesh, and he whimpered deep in his throat. "Easily -- or with difficulty. For yourself. Either way I shall enjoy it."
Doyle tried to say that Bodie was dead, but he couldn't get the words out. Then he tried to mumble that he didn't know, they wouldn't let them see each other, no direct contact allowed, eight years of hell with no Bodie, but thankfully the only sound that rent the air was an incoherent muttering. The clearest word he could still enunciate was "No!"
The knife was suddenly withdrawn, and he heard the snick of metal against leather as it was sheathed. Then the warm metal handle was suddenly running along the wounds across his buttocks. He screamed, shockingly loud in the quiet room, as a rough hand clutched at his cleft, forcefully spreading his buttocks. The long handle, slick with his blood, was thrust without warning into his anus, tearing him slightly, frightening him half out of his mind. To his horror, he felt it being drawn slowly in and out, an inch at a time, as Hofnan fucked him with the hilt of the knife. Dimly, he was aware that the terrorist was talking to him again, but as the knife was forced deeper and deeper into him, the last of his strength gave out and he finally, thankfully fainted, escaping the rest of the nightmare, for a little while at least.
Things at the Convention Center in Seattle had just started to settle down, and the program of events was back on schedule. The air was buzzing with gossip, rumors, theories and ideas when the word filtered down through the grapevine that CNN had received a videotape of the judge reading a prepared statement. Less than an hour later, an announcement was read.
Eduardo Cimbrone had been murdered. The body had been discovered, thanks to an anonymous tip from an untraceable cell phone call, at an abandoned house just north of Tacoma.
A hiatus was held in scheduled programming, and the CNN broadcast was shown on monitors in the main meeting hall of the Center, as well as in hallways and meeting rooms throughout the building. After warning viewers of the graphically violent contents of the tape, the newscaster fell silent and the voice of a translator could be heard. The videotape showed the judge, battered and bruised, reading from a plain white piece of paper. He stumbled over a few words, and the translator stumbled in turn, but the gist of the statement was that Cimbrone had been tried on behalf of those in Italy who would deem their own power to be greater than that of the people. Mutterings in the crowd made it clear what the members of law enforcement thought of these 'people' -- a poor euphemism for crime lords. Then with appalling suddenness, the judge dropped the paper, looked with utter scorn into the lens, and said, "No!" A moment later, the muzzle of a gun appeared from the shadows, the loud report of a shot was heard, and Cimbrone fell sideways out of the frame. The newscast cut back to the anchor, who was pale under her makeup. She announced that a second man had also been kidnapped along with the judge, but that there was no word as yet on his identity or any possible explanation for his abduction.
The mood of the gathering was subdued. After the initial broadcast, meetings were back on, and men and women were chatting quietly amongst themselves, speculating on the events of the previous night. In one large meeting room, a panel and an packed audience waited impatiently for the keynote speaker to arrive. Fifteen minutes passed, then twenty. When the speaker didn't answer his page, and the telephone in his room went unanswered, a gopher was dispatched to bring the man down personally. The young man reported back that there was no sign of Chief Constable Alan Cade in his room, and no one reported seeing him at all that morning. He had not been in the dining room for breakfast and no room service had been requested. Further questioning brought forth the information that none of the panel participants, or anyone else for that matter, could remember seeing him all morning.
After a minor flurry of activity, someone finally thought to check the internal phone logs. Upon receiving the information that Chief Cade had gotten a room to room call from Judge Cimbrone the previous evening and that the Chief hadn't been seen since dinner, a connection was finally made, and the second victim had a name and a face.
Sandburg and Bodie stayed in the car as Ellison went into the Motel 6 and asked for two rooms. The disinterested desk clerk spared a thought for how handsome the big bruiser was, counted back his change, handed over the keys, and went back to the latest Amanda Quick novel. Lost in the joy of well written Regency romance, she paid no further attention to the car full of tired men who fell into adjoining rooms and slammed the doors behind them.
Neither room had a working television set, since a recent windstorm had taken out the cable and no one had bothered to call the problem in. Bodie took just enough time to lay his clothes neatly across the back of the single chair before falling naked into bed. He was asleep almost before his head hit the pillow. It had been a long, tiring three weeks and he needed to recharge. He wouldn't have seen the news broadcast even if the television had been working.
Next door, Jim lay across one of the double beds with Blair curled up beside him, long sable curls nestled into the juncture of Jim's thighs as Blair lay with his head in the bigger man's lap. Long fingers carded through the curls, giving Blair a scalp massage, trying to bleed some of the tension out of the Guide's body. It had been a tough night. So much for their anticipated night out in Romantic Seattle.
Sandburg tossed the remote onto the unused bed with disgust. Not even anything on the tube to watch, to replace the grotesque visions that kept playing across his mind with something mindless and bright and repetitive. "What I wouldn't give for the cartoon channel, man, just something loud and crazy. I'm feeling loony tunes anyway, so I might as well have company." The teasing grumble in his voice didn't quite disguise the residual shakiness.
Knowing how Blair felt about guns, and how the gruesome murder must have affected him, Jim set about distracting his partner. The smaller man felt it immediately, in the purposeful way the fingers in his hair changed motion. From strong, mind-soothing strokes to lighter, teasing swirls, Jim's fingers telegraphed his intent. More than happy to be distracted, especially if that distraction came in the form of seduction, Blair squirmed slightly and rubbed the back of his head against the incipient erection he found there. Yes. Indeed. That was the way to put his mind on other things. Or at least stop him from thinking all together. Couldn't brood if he couldn't think.
Closing his eyes, the better to enjoy the sensations, Blair felt the strong fingers slide from his hair down the side of his neck, framing his jaw. He sensed rather than felt the approach as Jim lowered his face until their mouths met in an upside down kiss. Blair immediately relaxed his jaw, opening his lips for his lover to explore, enjoying the feeling of possession as Jim proceeded to stroke every surface of his mouth, lapping at his teeth, twining around his tongue, thrusting into his throat. When the need to breathe finally broke them apart, the urgency of arousal was strong on both of them. Forcing his heavy eyelids to open, he looked up into a sight he would never tire of seeing -- Jim Ellison, caught in the throes of arousal, a wild, wanting look in crystal blue eyes, a flush staining the high cheekbones, the sensitive mouth parted with need. Knowing that his lover could smell and hear and feel every evidence of his own arousal merely notched Blair's need even higher.
Reaching up with one arm to pull that face back down again, Blair murmured a protest when Jim shook his head and put both hands under Blair's armpits, pulling the slighter man into a better position against the pillows. Silently, as was his wont, the Sentinel proceeded to uncover his love, one button at a time, covering every tidbit of skin with tiny licks and bites as it was bared. Clenching his fists in the cover, trying to cooperate, trying to reciprocate, Blair was steadily driven out of his mind with lust as Jim used every one of his senses to ascertain Blair's most vulnerable spots and exploit them. With one last try at coherent thought, before he gave up thinking as a lost cause, Blair decided that Jim was determined to drive out all the bad thoughts by simply causing every neuron in his brain to fire randomly from pure excitement. Deciding that this was not a bad thing at all, he stopped thinking and sank into sensation.
Nimble fingers pulled the rest of the intrusive clothing off and piled it alongside the bed. Jim and Blair worked perfectly together in this as in everything else, ignoring the occasional fumble, going around the occasional blockage, until they were nude and breathless, twined around one another. Jim turned them both until Blair was sprawled against the pillows, open to his touch, ready for anything and everything the Sentinel would do to him. Faced with a feast, Jim decided to go with the urgency. Take the edge off. They were both too tired and too strung out to be able to handle any kind of extended foreplay. They did need rest, but first they needed to rid themselves of the horror they'd seen earlier. Burning it from their minds with lovemaking was as close to spiritual cleansing as either could imagine.
Running large hands along the velvet fur on Blair's chest, pausing only slightly to tease at the curve of a pectoral muscle, pluck at a nipple, dip into the navel, Jim headed directly for his partner's erection and swallowed it. Blair came up off the bed with a satisfying moan, words spilling out in no understandable order, a mixed plea to 'stop' or he'd come and 'it was so not fair to do that without any warning man' and 'oh god whatever you do please don't stop.' Jim let that voice wash over him like a benediction, carrying them both away to a place of their own making, inviolate by anything destructive or painful. Wrapping large hands around his partner's hips, kneading the soft flesh and hard muscle, he settled in to a strong suckling rhythm. Blair didn't have a chance, the need and its fulfillment wracking him, tearing him from his moorings, tossing him up in the air and shattering him in his lover's arms. The climax caught him by surprise, but not Jim, who had felt it coming in the change in pulse and body temperature under his hands. When the initial explosion subsided, Blair tried to pull his partner up where he could reach him to kiss him, but the most he could manage was to run his fingertips over the soft cropped hair and over the fine bones of Jim's face.
"Please, babe. I need to ... I gotta ..." I have to remember how to talk, Blair thought with an inward chuckle, as soon as I remember how to think. And breathe.
As always, Jim seemed to read his mind, following the mandate in those trailing fingers. His own breathing erratic, his need unfilled, he lowered his body over the smaller body of his lover and kissed him deeply, sharing the sweet taste with the source. As Blair spread his legs, relaxed, offering whatever Jim wanted to take, the Sentinel contented himself with settling between those muscular thighs. Running his palms along the outside of Blair's hips, he pushed in gently but firmly, creating a channel between his Guide's legs for him to plumb. As he pumped in and out, he felt the soft sticky weight of Blair's genitals cradled against his pelvis, the springy force of his inner thigh muscles contracting to create friction for his own thrusts, and his partner's strong arms wrapped as far around his own broad back as they could reach. One long arm slipped lower, curving down into his cleft, seeking and finding the hidden heat. A finger slipped in, probed, sought and found, rubbing the small bump of Jim's prostate and driving him even higher. Losing himself in the scent and feel of his lover, Blair murmuring encouragement and love in his ear and urging him on with his hands, Jim sought his own oblivion and lost himself in his Guide. Reaching completion with a soft moan, he retained consciousness long enough to roll to the side and pull his Blair up against him, nuzzling his face into the soft curls, and falling into sleep.
Blair snuggled contentedly against his sleeping Sentinel, hands wrapped possessively around his flanks, content to have the nightmares held at bay once more. Tomorrow would be soon enough to face the real world again.
Doyle's short respite didn't last. Sharp slaps alternating between each side of his face roused him, and he gasped as full consciousness returned. Part of Doyle had hoped that by now Hofnan was tired of playing, but it didn't look like the power games were quite over yet. Perhaps that wasn't such a bad thing. As badly as he hurt, at least he was still alive. When the fun of hurting him was no longer enough to keep Hofnan's interest, he would be dead. He knew this with a certainty that chilled the blood in his veins. He had to escape. Had to, had to. No one was going to help him. No one was looking for him. No one left, no one there. Gritting his teeth and wrenching his mind away from the self-defeating thoughts, he swallowed painfully and took stock of his situation.
Experimentally, keeping his eyes locked on the bastard in front of him, he lightly clenched his buttocks, biting the inside of his cheek at the pain. The lack of obstruction gave him some relief. At least that goddamned knife was gone.
Unfortunately, Hofnan was only mildly distracted. Sometime while Doyle was out of it, the terrorist had found Donati's journal. He had been using it to slap Doyle back into alertness. Now he flicked through the pages, stopping to read a page every once in awhile. His face darkened as he read, and Doyle was dismayed to see that the rage, barely banked before, was back, stronger than ever.
"The old son of a bitch. Where did he get this information?" He looked up from the book and glared at Doyle. The utter lack of sanity in his expression compounded Ray's feeling of hopelessness. No one knew where he was. No one would be looking. He was a dead man. Screaming at himself in the privacy of his own mind, he knew he had to fight back. Somehow. Psychologically, if no other way. At least he wouldn't go without planting some thorns of his own in Hofnan's mind.
"It's evidence," he croaked out, his voice broken from screaming and dry from the remnants of his fear. "On you, and the few of your gang that managed to escape. He'd been collecting it for me."
A spark of interest flickered over the harsh planes of the other man's face, and he moved closer, waggling the book in front of Doyle's nose, running the spine down the side of his cheek and jaw. "Why? Why would he do such a thing, risk himself like that, for you?"
Ray cleared his throat painfully. "Donati was an old friend of my father's. He knew me from when I was a lad, and he hated that I had to go into the witness protection program to get away from something like you."
His head snapped back as Hofnan clouted him across the cheek with the spine of the book. Shaking his head to try to clear it, he ground out, "It's not the only copy. He gave the original copy to Cimbrone, and put second copy in a safe place. If Cimbrone wasn't able to get this one to me, or I couldn't act on the information, the second copy goes straight to CI5. 'Cause Donati knew the only way either of us would fail is if we were dead. And if that was true, then Murphy would take the case and whatever way it went, you'd be dead." His voice broke completely, and he hacked, unable to stop the muscles of his throat from spasming. The whole story was a fabrication, of course, but Hofnan had no way of knowing that. And with the only copy of the evidence now in his enemy's hands, Doyle found a slow burning anger start in his gut and spread up toward his heart.
This was not how it was supposed to end. Hofnan had no need to keep him alive anymore, other than as a plaything, to torture, to make him pay for breaking up the gang. And time was running out, even on that diversion. Hofnan would have to leave soon, which meant that Doyle would have to die. Leaving Hofnan free to roam, free to find Elena, when Doyle could no longer protect her. Free to keep looking, now that he knew Doyle had survived, until he found Bodie, and free to kill him, with no Doyle to give warning. His anger spread as his focus shifted from his own survival to that of his loved ones. Some of his strength began to seep back, a last desperate surge of adrenaline, and with it came an insane plan.
Hofnan stared at the journal, weighing what he'd heard. Doyle watched him, through a growing red haze, trying to fight back the animal urge to kill that was slowly destroying his ability to reason. He had to keep a cool head. He had to escape. Had to warn Bodie. Had to protect his daughter. So many things he had to do, and he could do none of them if he was dead. Emerald eyes locked on the madman holding his life in his hands, Doyle found himself doing something he hadn't done in years, playing his last card, preying on the only weakness he could remember Hofnan ever showing. The man was a predator, with a weakness for dominating others. Physically, emotionally, sexually, any way he could. Drawing the last reserves of his strength, relying on his rage to help see him through it, he went into action.
His slowly relaxed his body, until he was almost slouched in the restraints. His head fell back and slightly to the side, baring the expanse of his throat. Ignoring the burning pain in his wrists and his bleeding skin, he arched his chest, throwing his hips and groin into sharp relief. Every inch of him screamed silent submission, the beta wolf baring his throat to the alpha wolf. Hofnan couldn't miss the invitation. Dark gray eyes lifted suddenly, alerted by the subtle movements in his captive, and locked on the man posing for him in the soft light through the window. The terrorist's entire body went rigid.
"Are you asking for something, Raymond?" he managed to ask disbelievingly, smiling icily, moving forward. Interested in spite of himself.
Using his eyes to best effect, parting his full mouth as invitingly as he could under the circumstances, Doyle responded roughly, "Will it get me anywhere?" Invitation was painted in every line of his body. Watching closely, he saw capitulation and anticipation in the cold face of his enemy. Tossing the journal carelessly onto the pile of clothing he'd cut away from Doyle earlier, Hofnan moved closer still, framing the rounded face with his hands, running his fingers through the short hair at Doyle's temples, cupping his chin and raising it to the light. Ray stayed completely still, telegraphing acceptance with his expression and his stance, waiting for any kind of an opening.
Closing his mind completely to what he was doing, acting on survival and protective instincts stronger than any he had ever felt, he allowed Hofnan to tilt his head to the side and kiss him, relaxing his mouth to allow the bastard full access. At the same time, he pulled against the restraints on his ankle, running his right knee as far as he could up and down the outside of Hofnan's thigh, doing his best impression of a bitch in heat. Somewhat to his surprise, the ruse worked.
Hofnan drew back just far enough to see Doyle's face, seemingly satisfied with what he found there. "You always were a whore, Raymond!"
Refusing to answer, Doyle simply dropped his head further back, and rubbed a little harder with his knee. Unfortunately he couldn't will an erection to go along with the rest of the pantomime, but judging from the prominent ridge of flesh Hofnan was pressing into his belly, the kidnapper had more than enough excitement for both of them. Hofnan chuckled, the sound grating on Doyle's ears, and lowered his left hand long enough to slice through the rope binding Doyle's right ankle. Sliding his hand back up the abused skin on the back of the knee and thigh, he pressed deliberately, enjoying the flinch of pain on Doyle's face. When he got to the softly rounded buttocks, he traced the welts there, clawing at the broken skin as he lowered his face into the bend of Doyle's shoulder and bit deeply at the side of his neck.
Doyle gasped at the sharp pain, and reflexively curled his right leg around Hofnan's hips, fighting his own instincts in order to pull the terrorist closer. Hofnan jerked in pleased response and ground his erection into Doyle's groin, bruising the soft genitals there. Doyle ignored the pain as well as he was able and concentrated on shifting his weight. The timing had to be perfect, and he would only get one chance. Swallowing hard and forcing the words out, he rasped, "Let me touch you." He nearly vomited, but he articulated his demand clearly enough. The only immediate response was an increase on the force of Hofnan's humping into his groin, and a deeper bite along his neck, drawing blood this time. Then the terrorist stopped, pulled back, and looked at him consideringly. A cruel smile curved his mouth as he slid the point of his knife along the underside of Doyle's arm, tracing his biceps, across the tender skin at the inside of his elbow and along his forearm, leaving a thin trail of blood in its wake. When it arrived at the wrist, it flicked sideways, and Doyle's left arm was free. It fell, deadened from bearing Doyle's body weight for hours, and Hofnan began to massage it roughly, smearing the blood along the skin as if it was lotion.
As the feeling returned, the pain intensified, until it felt like his whole arm was on fire. Doyle closed his eyes against it, fighting to hold on, then jolted and yelped with pain when sharp teeth bit him on the outside of the wrist. He instinctively tried to escape the bite, writhing away from the pain, but Hofnan held him fast. As his yelp died away into gasping pants, he felt his captor nip the full length of his arm, along his shoulder, up the side of his throat, over his jaw, until his lips were caught again. Haplessly allowing the tongue to force its way into his mouth, Doyle nearly vomited again at the taste of his own blood, gathered on the trip up his arm. He felt himself spinning away into blackness as Hofnan reached down between their bodies, and forced himself desperately to remain conscious. Bodie's face, and Elena's, floated in front of his closed eyelids, and he willed himself back to alertness. It wouldn't be long, now. One way or another, it would all be over soon.
The sound of a zipper rasping down was accompanied by a sweaty hand clutching at his penis. He felt the slimy heat of Hofnan's erection forced against his own flaccid length, and made himself curl his face down into Hofnan's shoulder, biting gently. The added caress broke the terrorist's control, and he began to thrust hard against Doyle's body, jerking him in his bonds, causing the iron frame to sway against its bolts. With a bitten-off oath, he climaxed, grinding himself hard against Doyle, clenching his arms around the bound man's body in a grotesque parody of a lover's embrace. It was exactly what Ray had been hoping for, the one opportunity he wouldn't waste.
Lifting his right heel and bringing his leg forcefully around the back of the German's knees, he simultaneously wrapped his left arm around Hofnan's neck and clutched his chin with his left hand. Pulling opposite directions with his arm and leg, he took advantage of the momentary relaxation of orgasm and snapped Hofnan's neck in an instant. As the terrorist's body seized, then slowly slid down his own, he screamed at the agony of a hundred and eighty pounds of dying man pulling against every cut and welt on his body. The pain, on top of what he had already suffered, nearly made him lose consciousness again, but his panic and need to escape held the darkness at bay. Ripping at his bonds with fingernails and teeth like a wild animal, he finally succeeded in getting first his right wrist, then his left leg free.
Panting from the effort, exhausted from the beatings and lightheaded from the concussion and the stress, he slid to the floor in an ungainly heap and tried to collect himself. He knew, in the back of his mind, that he had to get up. Had to find clothing, a telephone, some help from somewhere. But the urgency was muted, now that the immediate threat was past. The strain of the previous day and his accumulated injuries, as well as the relief of killing Hofnan after eight years of hiding from him, caught up with him and he slumped over, unconscious.
It wasn't his usual nightmare, more like a combination of several. Bodie tossed in the rumpled bed, trying to escape, half afraid to wake up. This dream started like the others, Ray being shipped off to France, his own departure for New York, no time for as much as a good-bye in private, their eyes having to say what their words could not. A foreign land, again, a foreign name, again, a new life, but for once, soul deep pain at leaving the old one behind. They'd resisted being separated, fought the bureaucrats who had insisted, until three CI5 agents had lost their lives in attempts on them. Attempts that they knew were linked to the Hofnan gang, but couldn't prove that linkage, and couldn't catch the bastards behind the bombs. Then the news from Canada -- someone was stalking Yvonne Belinsky and her teenage daughter Elena. At the pain in Doyle's eyes, Bodie felt his resolve crumble. Too many losses, too many threatened, for them to insist on staying together. Cowley had put his foot down.
In his nightmares, he relived that loss, over and over. Scant contact through triple blinds routed through a dozen different networks and relayed through faceless agents at switchboards in nameless places. When Cowley's heart finally gave out and Murphy, his hand-picked successor, had taken the reins, the contacts continued, but it wasn't enough. They needed to see one another, hear one another's voice. Touch. And they couldn't. Bodie's dreams grew darker, the fears he wouldn't consciously admit taking over his nighttime hours, breaking his rest with visions of shadow figures killing his Ray while he was thousands of miles away, unable to cover his back. As always, they were shadows with no discernible face or form, nothing to strike back against. And as always, this one felt real. There was a force to the fear, an urgency that pulled him from his sleep and brought him to wakefulness covered in sweat, heart racing with adrenaline, fingers clawing under the pillow for his gun.
Finding himself in a darkened hotel room, heart racing, mind fully alert, not in the middle of a crisis situation, he fell back against the pillows and tried to regroup. Staring at the ceiling, he knew that it would be useless to attempt to get any more rest. He was awake, he was primed, and he was ready to hunt. Might as well get on the trail. God knew the poor bastard they were trying to find didn't have much time to spare. Feeling marginally better for the sleep he had managed to snatch, in spite of the nightmares, he dressed, armed himself, and went to pound on the door to Ellison's room.
Within a few moments, a sleepy looking Sandburg peered out, looking rather like a hedgehog dragged backward through a bush, barely out of hibernation. Bodie nodded at him and pushed in, one glance taking in the single mussed bed and the detective poised in the doorway to the washroom.
"Good, you're up," he stated approvingly. Not giving either man time to ask questions, he continued, "Since we're all up and about, let's hit the road. Can you track him?"
Jim looked at Blair, and some sub-verbal communication took place, then Jim nodded and reached for his pants. Not wasting time on any further conversation, each man feeling urgency pulling him on, they packed the car quickly and headed out. Within five minutes the key was dropped off at the office window and the rental car was on the road.
Easing onto the side road where the house sat that they'd found the judge's body in earlier, Ellison stared at the surrounding area. He'd seen tracks leading out the side door on their first visit, and had traced them until they disappeared at the tarmac, but had lost them at the main road. As he watched and concentrated, Blair began to ask him questions, clarifying his impressions of what he saw, how it had changed, if he could pick anything out. Rolling down the window, he leaned forward slightly and listened. Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing useful. A breeze tickled at his nose, and carried with it a myriad of early morning smells, and he remembered what he'd told Sandburg about the scent of the kidnapped man. He mentioned it to his Guide, and the tenor of the questions changed. With some assistance in filtering out the distracting odors, and holding that deep, calm voice as his anchor, he separated the scents carried on the breeze from the house. He finally identified three that seemed to be wound together ... the kidnapped man's scent, the tang of blood, and fine grained leather, like that used for gloves, or weapon sheaths.
Following the scents, attention split between keeping a bead on the faint trail and holding on to the sound of Sandburg's voice, ignoring the tense, silent presence of Bodie in the back seat, balanced on a thin thread between concentration and zone-out, the Sentinel went on the hunt. There were a several false starts, and three times he had to stop to regain his bearings, but eventually, he met with success. He had a raging headache and was dizzy from focusing so hard for so long, but he found his man.
The smell of blood was strong even to non-Sentinel enhanced noses, long before they got the door open. Blair made an involuntary retching noise at the sight of another man with half his skull blown off, lying in a heap, most of his face missing from the exit wound. The sound was echoed by a growl from inside. The three men entered the foyer and froze, Ellison at point, at the tableau that met their eyes.
Past the dead man, into the main room, a naked, blood streaked man with short dark hair and feral green eyes crouched next to a second corpse. The head on the second body was at an odd, unnatural angle to the shoulders, indicating a broken neck. There was blood smeared around its mouth. Its hands were curled into claws and streaked with blood, and its trousers were open. Flaccid genitals covered with semen and blood lay against the dark material. The surviving man held a knife expertly in one reddened hand, directed at the newcomers in a defensive posture. His body was covered with welts and cuts, with the occasional bite mark on his neck and chest. Rope burn marks around his wrists and ankles plainly showed where he had been tied to something, most likely the metal rack behind him. The mixture of sweat, still-dripping blood from the knife wounds, and semen splashed across his abdomen made detailed explanations unnecessary. But it was the eyes, and the mouth, twisted into a snarl of hatred, that caught Bodie's full attention.
Shaking off Ellison's instinctive, restraining hand, he eased forward past the first corpse, eyes intent on the man with the knife. As he neared, he slowed, bending his knees until he stopped, resting on his knees in front of the survivor. Reaching out his hand with excruciating slowness to take the knife, he asked, gently, "Ray? Ray-mate? You in there, love?"
The wildness began to fade, and some of the tension in the figure went with it. With a visible effort, the dazed eyes focused on the dark man kneeling so close to him. Doyle blinked, then blinked again, and the snarl softened into a hesitant smile. "Bo-die?" The two syllables stretched out and died away, as the knife fell to the floor with a clatter. Ray closed his eyes and fell forward, trusting his partner to catch him.
In the doorway, transfixed by the action, Blair was barely aware of Ellison pulling out his cell phone and dialing 911 yet again. This time, he gave details. And requested an ambulance.
The scene at the hospital was barely controlled chaos. Sandburg and Ellison were perfectly content to stay out of the way, leaving it to Bodie to bully everyone in sight until Doyle, or Cade, as the doctors insisted on calling him, was given the level of attention he deemed the man deserved. Not that he had to bully very much. As soon as the ambulance had pulled up at the emergency room entrance, Ellison's rental car right on its bumper, a swarm of activity had surrounded the stretcher. As the Sentinel and his Guide watched from a safe distance out of the traffic flow, Jim gathered Blair up against him, chest to back, and wrapped his arms around him. The scent from Blair's hair tickled Jim's nose, and he tensed. Blair felt it immediately.
"What's the matter, big guy? Something bugging you?"
"Yeah, Chief," he answered, distracted. Lost in his thoughts, he didn't immediately follow up the affirmative with an explanation. Blair got antsy.
"Well, don't leave me hanging, man, you know I'm no good at this mind reading gig." He snuggled further into the larger man's embrace, straining to look up over his shoulder into the intent face behind him.
Crystal eyes met his and warmed, gradually pulling back from what had distracted the detective, and he smiled, happy to have solved at least one mystery. "I figured out why that man's scent was so familiar. It's a lot like yours." At Blair's completely blank look, Jim's grin broadened. "Yeah. He smells enough like you to be your brother. Or your father," he finished, considering the age difference and the possibility of Naomi wandering through England in the early seventies. Leaving his Guide to chew the suggestion over, he uncurled himself from around the younger man and went to check on Bodie.
Left behind, leaning against the wall, Blair turned over this newest chunk of information, trying to make some sense of it, make it tie in with the rest of his research. If the Sentinel said he and Doyle were related, then he'd be willing to bet money on it. For a grad student on a limited income, that was the ultimate vote of confidence. Watching the goings-on around the nurses' station with a calculating eye, he spied an older woman wearing a white jacket, with an air of authority, and pulled out his wallet. Taking out his Cascade PD identification badge and clipping it to his shirt, he made his way over to the desk.
Five minutes of famed Sandburg charm, two discreet flashes of official ID (held far enough away so that she couldn't see the fine print) and a heavy layer of double talk later, a genetic screening was added to the battery of tests already scheduled for one Alan Cade, AKA Ray Doyle. Following a friendly young technician into a small side room, he rolled up his sleeve and winced as the cannula was inserted into his arm. Maybe there'd be an unexpected side bonus to this little adventure. Any opportunity for research was a plus, he told himself, careful not to get too excited about any other possible discoveries that might be tied to the unexpected similarity.
Bodie refused to leave his ex-partner's side, so after a short and futile attempt to get him to leave, the doctors worked around him. He could do an uncanny impression of a brick wall when he needed to, and he felt the need, so no one was in too great a hurry to try to shift him. X rays, stitches, and an IV later, he found himself sitting beside the bed, staring into the battered, unconscious face of his best friend. Pulling a cell phone from his jacket pocket, he dialed a set of numbers from memory and waited for the series of clicks that assured him he was on a secured line.
A pleasant female voice answered on the first ring, and he growled, "3.7 reporting in, priority one. Contingency echo bravo oscar. Hotel spotted, contact terminal. Patch me through to Alpha."
The woman repeated his code words exactly, and a second series of whirrs and clicks sounded. A tenor voice with a few remnants of sleepiness, fast disappearing, came over the line.
"Must be nasty for you to call for an emergency beam out, Spock," the voice teased lightly. Bodie easily read the concern underlying the friendly tone.
"Damned nasty, Murph. We're blown so far out of the closet we may as well be dancin' naked in the middle of main street under a spotlight."
"Details, 3.7," the controller demanded.
In concise, terse sentences Bodie recapped the last two day's activities. Finishing with an update on Doyle's condition, he awaited further instructions.
"I'll arrange air transport back to England as soon as he's able to travel. You're both reactivated as of now. You'll come directly back to London, and we'll put you in CI5 protective custody. I'll arrange for protection for his daughter as well."
"Elena's in England?" Bodie hadn't realized that. This made the threat both immediate and high risk, if the remnants of Hofnan's gang were still in Europe, and close at hand.
"Yeah," Murphy responded, "at Cambridge. We'll watch over her--"
The rest of the words were lost as a bruised hand reached out and tugged the receiver away from Bodie. Looking down at the determined, if slightly fuzzy, expression on his partner's face, Bodie didn't fight too hard to keep it away from him.
"Murph?" An interrogative squawk sounded from the receiver. "Yeah, it's Doyle. Lissen, there's somthin' you don' know yet. Shu' up for a sec' and lissen." The pain medication in the IV was kicking in and Doyle's voice was starting to slur. He forged on, trying to get it out before he went under. "Donati lef' me a notebook with information in it 'bout Hofnan's gang. 'S with the body at the house. Gotta make sure you get it -- got info in there 'bout where to find the res' of the bast'rds." His eyelids closed of their own volition, and Bodie rescued the telephone, patting Ray's split knuckles gently.
"I'll make sure we get the book, Murph. We'll bring it back with us." After receiving an affirmative from his new boss, he folded the phone and slipped it back into his pocket. Looking up, he spied Ellison standing quietly in the doorway.
"Jim?"
The big man moved silently into the room. "What's up, Sarge?" They pitched their voices low so as not to disturb the sleeping patient.
"Could you see about getting a book that Doyle was carrying with him from the evidence lock-up? It's got information in it we'll need to track the rest of the mongrels down."
The detective nodded. "I'll see what I can do. It should be returned to him along with the rest of his stuff, but I'll go along and id it just to make sure."
"Thanks, mate, I appreciate it." Ellison smiled gently and turned to go. "And, Jim?" He turned back to look at Bodie, waiting patiently. "Thank you. For finding him. And, well, and everything."
The two men stared at one another for a long moment, dark and lighter blue holding, reading many things that would never be put into words. Finally, Ellison shook his head. "No thanks needed, buddy." Gesturing to the figure on the bed, he added, "Take care of yourself, and look after him," then turned and left.
"Oh, I intend to," Bodie whispered. Giving in at last to the need to rest, holding Ray's hand tightly in his own, Bodie laid his head down on the sheet next to their joined hands and fell asleep.
By the next morning, Doyle had had quite enough of the hospital. He wanted out, and he didn't care who knew it. Bodie knew better than try to stop him, and the doctors gave up after losing one too many shouting matches. Doyle had been a lousy patient as a young man, and age had not improved him in that regard.
Two men in their late twenties with unusual credentials to go with their British accents showed up and, after giving specific pre-coordinated passwords, were allowed to escort Bodie and Doyle to the airport. Bodie was able to call Jim once, but the conversation was necessarily brief. It wasn't until the partners were on the airplane heading home that Bodie was able to fill Doyle in on the men who had helped save his life.
Shifting slightly in the padded seat, still in quite a lot of pain from the stitches and the bruising along his back and legs, Doyle watched his Bodie and tried to figure out what the next move was likely to be. "I'd've liked to've met them."
"You'd've liked 'em, I think," Bodie returned, not paying attention to his words. He was too busy staring back at Doyle.
"I feel like a right idiot," the other man finally muttered, grinning at the fact that they were sitting there staring at one another like a couple of loons. "Thought of all the things I wanted to say to you if I ever got the chance, and now that I actually have the opportunity there's not a thought in my head. Except, maybe, thinking you're going to disappear and I'm going to wake up in bed in Norwich wondering how the hell I came up with this one."
Bodie grinned back, quirking one eyebrow and shaking his head slightly. "If it's an hallucination, mate, count me in on it." Abruptly, he lost the grin. "Are you sure you're all right, Ray?"
Doyle licked his lips and took a deep breath. "Yeah. Maybe. I'm not sure, Bodie. There's so many things changed so fast -- hell, Elena doesn't even know what's happened yet, I'm holding off on telling her until I can do it in person -- and with everything that's happened I'm not even sure where I stand with you."
"Right next to me, sunshine," Bodie immediately answered. "We can sort out the details later. But I have to know ..." He took a deep breath of his own, trying to figure out the best way to phrase the question. "I know what I saw when we busted in. And I read the doc's reports on you. They mentioned -- there were some indications -- they said that you'd --"
"He didn't rape me, Bodie," Doyle cut in softly. Bodie stopped, tongue tied, staring at him, waiting for the rest, unable to ask. "He knocked me about, cut me up some, and ..." His face closed, and he glanced around the cabin. "When we get home, mate. I'll tell you, I promise. Not here. Then."
When I can hold you, Bodie thought but didn't say. Instead, he nodded, and brushed his fingers reassuringly over the fist that Doyle had clenched on the armrest between them. "Later."
The rest of the flight passed in silence, full of promise, and easy with long practice, but with new and unsettling crosscurrents that they would have to deal with. As Bodie had promised, later.
The mailroom personnel, along with the majority of the support staff at the Cascade PD, were aware of the civilian observer in Major Crimes. All three of the women working in the mailroom had, at one time or another, wondered what the pocket Adonis who hung around the cops upstairs would be like in bed, until one of them had seen the way that the gorgeous young man watched his detective partner. Then the wondering turned wistful, hope fading into might-have-beens. But the admiration remained. So when a manila envelope from a community hospital in Tacoma came through addressed to Detective Blair Sandburg, it was automatically delivered with the rest of Jim Ellison's mail.
Blair saw the envelope as soon as he came into the bullpen. Thankfully skipping ahead when Simon pulled Jim aside to grill him about the paperwork on a recent case, he snatched up the yellow envelope. Quickly tucking it in with his papers in his bulging backpack, he settled down in his customary seat at the side of Jim's desk and set up his laptop. By the time his partner sat down beside him, he was engrossed in paperwork of his own. Jim gave him an inquisitive glance, which he answered with a sunny smile, staring up at him over the top rims of his glasses. With a little shrug, Ellison settled down to his neglected reports, and Blair stared at the screen for a few more moments. Finally his curiosity got the better of him, and he drew the envelope out.
Licking his lips to wash away the sudden dryness, laughing at himself for his nerves, he slit the flap open and pulled out the lab reports. One fast skim and one thorough read-through later, he was surprised to realize his hands were shaking. Lowering the sheets, he looked up to see Jim staring at him, concern flaring in his eyes. Without thinking, he rushed to reassure his partner.
"I'm okay, man, just got knocked a little off kilter there for a minute, you know?" A raised brow and a slight tilt to the other man's head indicated that no, he didn't know, and he'd appreciate an explanation. Blair swallowed heavily and continued with some difficulty, stumbling over a word or two. "I got to thinking, about the scent, and the similarity you noticed between Doyle's natural scent and mine. It was just too much of a coincidence that two unrelated people should be so, well, so alike in such a weird way. So while they had Doyle under the needle, I sort of added a test or two to the ones already on the slate." He paused for breath, and to gather his thoughts.
"Impersonating doctors seems to be a rare talent of yours, Chief," Jim interposed dryly.
"No, no way, man, I didn't draw the blood -- Yeesh!" He spared a brief glare at his teasing friend before continuing. "No, I convinced one of the doctors there that we needed a genetic screening for the benefit of the investigation, and that we would use my own blood as a control sample. Fed her some stuff about looking for genetic markers from the crime scene and a double blind." Jim stared at him in disbelief. "Hey, big guy, don't look at me like that -- it worked! Anyway, I had them send the results to me here and, well, here are the results." He stared blindly at the papers for a long moment, until a gentle nudge from a blunt finger to his elbow jolted him back into the present. "Yeah. Wow. I need to talk to Naomi."
Ellison leaned toward his partner, reaching out to lay a hand on his shoulder. Blair leaned into the warm grip slightly. "You okay, Chief?"
"Yeah, I guess. I just didn't think this would ever happen, man. This is so outside the realm of possibilities that it never even occurred to me that it might actually be the truth."
"What, Blair?" The gentle question centered his scattering thoughts, and he looked up to meet his partner's eyes.
"He's my dad, Jim. I finally found my dad." The two men stared at one another in stark disbelief for several moments. "Heck of a way to find out, huh?"
Jim slid his grip from Blair's shoulder to the back of his neck, and pulled him in for a hug, ignoring the stares from the people around them. They should be used to public displays of affection between them by now, and if they weren't, well, too darned bad. Blair needed a hug. "What are you going to do now, Chief?"
The answer was muffled against Jim's chest, but still quite definite. "Call my mom."
Murphy met Bodie and Doyle at the airport, a fact which impressed their two young bodyguards no end. When the warm handshakes gave way to hard, fast hugs between the old colleagues, the younger agents were rendered speechless. Time had been kind to Colin Murphy, and he wore his responsibilities well, with a natural dignity and quiet strength that no doubt came in handy when he went to Whitehall to argue budget figures. After a night's sleep and a very thorough debriefing at CI5 headquarters, which included formal reinstitution of the former agents to active status, Murph, Bodie, Doyle and a tall Amazon named Alison drove down to Eastland to put out some public relations fires -- and start a few more.
The executive secretary at the Eastland Constabulary Headquarters looked up from her desk guarding the Chief's private domain to see her Chief Cade himself come in, surrounded by three vaguely threatening looking persons. She barely had a chance to stand and say, "We're so glad you're safe, sir," before he stopped at her side. Touching her shoulder gently, a rare personal contact from such a reserved man, he smiled sweetly at her.
"Thank you, Diane. I appreciate that. Please contact as many members of the Police Authority Board as you can round up and have them come here. We're having an emergency meeting in my conference room at 2 pm. Also, get DCC Morton and Inspector Penfold to meet me here now. Pull them off of whatever they're on -- this has priority." Flashing her another smile, he swept into his office, the other three trailing along behind him like twigs caught in a strong current. She stared at the now closed door bemusedly for a scant moment, then reached for the telephone.
Chief Cade was back, and chaos reined once more.
Blair Sandburg shifted on the couch cushions, holding Jim's hand in one of his and keeping the telephone handset to his ear with the other. After explaining who he was looking for to three different youngsters at the Hawaiian mountain retreat headquarters, he waited patiently while they ran down his mother and brought her to the phone. Idly weaving his hand through the long fingers, his head pillowed against Jim's chest as they sat leaning against one another on the couch, he wondered what she would have to say about his most recent discovery. He didn't have long to wait.
"Hi, sweetie!" She never varied. Thank god. Always so full of energy.
"Hi, Mom. How's the retreat going?"
"It's amazing, Blair. The air is so clear, and the trees ... it's just incredible. I feel so close to my center here, without any strain at all. I can really hear the voices, you know?" Not waiting for an answer, she changed the subject abruptly. "What's wrong, sweetie? Are you okay? Is Jim okay? You wouldn't go to the trouble of finding me in the middle of Kalaupapa if it wasn't something important. What is it, honey?"
Giving up on ever keeping anything from his mother, Blair twined his fingers strongly with Jim's and forced a note of light interest into his voice. "Have you ever been to England, Naomi?"
Dead silence greeted the question. Hearing his answer in the soft breathing coming over the line, he coaxed gently, "Tell me about it?"
"How did you know?" No accusation in the question, just honest curiosity.
"We -- Jim and I -- saved him from some kidnappers. He's fine, and he's back in England with his lover chasing down more bad guys. So tell me, Mom ... how'd you get hooked up with a cop?" The affectionate teasing in his question worked, and she responded immediately.
"It was an accident! No, really, honey, it was. I was visiting some friends in London, and there was a protest going on, it was, let me see, 1969. Uhm-hm. Or was it 1968? I think it was '69."
"I was born in 1969, Mom," Blair reminded her dryly.
"Oh, it was definitely '68 then. Anyway, the pigs were out in full force, and there were some rocks thrown, not that I threw any. You know how I feel about violence, sweetie. Anyhow, one of them started beating up poor Lynda and I had to do something, so I was trying to pull him off, and one of the other pigs started hitting me, and next thing I knew this lovely young thing with all these brown curls and the biggest green eyes stops the pig from beating on me.
"Of course, it took me a minute to realize he was a pig himself, but he had the prettiest eyes. He pulled me away from the big riot that was really starting right about then, and said his name was Ray, and what was my name? And one thing sort of led to another, and that was the rest of the summer. I didn't hear from him again, well, it wasn't his fault, I never told him my last name, or that I was pregnant or anything. And you know when I first saw you with your hair long like that, so 60's, for a minute there you really reminded me of him. And you have his mouth. But you've got my eyes. Your chin's a bit like his too.
"You say he's okay? Is he still a pi-- cop? Someone Jim works with or something? In a way I'm sorry I never told you about him, but it wouldn't have done much good. I never learned his last name either."
Blair waited for the torrent of words to stop before trying to say anything. "He's in CI5, Naomi. Sort of super-pigs." The chest under his head rumbled with Jim's laughter, but he ignored it and concentrated on his flighty parent. "Jim and I helped his partner get him away from some terrorists. Everybody's okay --" he hurried on to forestall any questions, skipping over the corpses he'd seen in the course of the rescue. "I was just wondering if, well, I should, like, say anything to him about the fact that he's a dad. My dad."
Both ends of the line were silent after that question. Finally, Naomi offered, "You say he has a lover? You think she'd be jealous if I got in touch with him? It has been so many years, and I wouldn't be making any claims or anything. Just an introduction. Not that I'm too sure I want you in any closer contact with even more pigs. Especially super-pigs. No matter how pretty their eyes are."
He chuckled at that. "No, I don't think his lover would be jealous of you, Mom. He's pretty secure." A startled "oh!" interrupted him, but she didn't add anything, so he went on. "Jim and I still have a couple weeks vacation left. We were thinking of seeing what London looks like in the summer."
"You do that, sweetie," she answered. "I'll make a call. We'll see what happens. Love you!"
"I love you, too, Mom. Oh, and Mom?" He grinned at the phone, secure in the knowledge that she couldn't see him and trying to keep his voice steady. "His last name's Doyle."
"Oh! Thanks, honey! That's right, I'll need that, won't I. Okay, I'll take care of it. Bye, sweetie!"
Listening to the dial tone, he slowly replaced the handset and leaned back against his partner. "This could be interesting, big guy. Naomi's gonna call Doyle." The chest under him shifted again.
"Think I should call Bodie and warn him?"
A wicked smile split Blair's face, and he pulled away to share the look with Jim. After a moment, an answering grin curved the older man's mouth. "Nah," they said in unison. "Let her be a surprise," Blair added, ducking his head to bury his smile in the warm skin at the base of his lover's throat.
The meeting with Rose and Wes was private, between Doyle and his trusted staff. He explained the situation, apologized for not being able to tell them the truth beforehand, and thanked them for their help and their friendship. He also told them he didn't know when or even if he would be allowed to continue as Chief, but that it was his sincere wish to be able to do so. It was a short, quiet, and very painful meeting for everyone involved.
The convening of the Police Authority Board, on the other hand, was long, noisy, and painful for everyone in it as well, for utterly different reasons. It began with a briefing, degenerated into a shouting match, and ended up with an ultimatum. But the ride along the way was the interesting part.
The eyes watching the doorway when Doyle entered the conference room ranged from friendly curiosity to hostile antipathy. All of them widened at the sight of the stocky, lethal looking man in casual clothes, the tall, distinguished man in the Saville Row suit, and the racehorse of a woman in flats and a shoulder holster who followed him in. The three men took their places at the table while the woman stood, relaxed but watchful, on guard duty by the door.
"Thank you for coming in on such short notice-" Doyle began, only to be immediately interrupted by one of his enemies on the board, a smarmy politician who had tried in the past to shoot him in the back, metaphorically speaking.
"It's not as if we were given much choice, Cade! What the devil do you mean by this? Of course, we're all quite happy that you were returned to us in one piece," this was patently untrue, "but what on earth--"
"I'll explain if you'll give me a moment, sir!" The impatient snap silenced not only the speaker, but all sound in the room. This was Cade as they had never seen him, without a single ounce of hesitation, as if he honestly didn't care who he pissed off. He'd never been one for diplomacy, but he usually at least attempted to appear as if he was being tactful and diplomatic. Just now, he didn't even try. He just barked, and they all stared at him in complete disbelief, even those he could count as allies if not friends. The lethal looking man behind him smothered a grin, but no one on the Board noticed. They were all too busy staring at Cade.
Taking a deep breath, he continued. "I've brought a gentleman with me who will make the situation as clear as possible. Please give him your full attention." A few of the board members started to bristle, but he glared them into submission. "This is Mr. Colin Murphy, the Controller of CI5. He has information to share with you. The information is confidential in nature and is not to leave this room. Before we adjourn, we will have a statement for the press-" A throat was cleared preparatory to protest, but Doyle raised his voice and easily defeated the minor rebellion. "-which will be agreed to by the members present and which will be the only statement made on my leave of absence."
Several people started to mumble quietly at this unexpected news, but Doyle's sharp voice silenced them once more. "Mr. Murphy, if you please, sir." His respectful deference to the tall, well dressed man whetted their curiosity, and they focused on him, one or two still shooting sideways glances at Cade as he sat down at the table next to the lethal looking one.
Murphy stood and surveyed the table for a moment, ensuring that he had everyone's attention. Then he smiled, a gentle smile with a hint of sharp teeth behind it. "I will tell you the background of the situation first. No doubt you will have questions. Save them, please, until the end of this short briefing. At that time I will answer those questions which I may, within the context of this situation.
"Eight years ago CI5 mounted an all out operation against a gang of terrorists led by one Albert Hofnan. During the course of that operation, CI5's two finest agents were assigned to infiltrate the gang, collect information, and arrange the final meeting that would lead to the arrests of the gang members. It was an extremely dangerous undercover mission. The two men, Agents Bodie and Doyle, did an outstanding job, resulting in the complete breakup of the gang and several arrests or terminations of gang members. However, in the course of the final confrontation between CI5 and the gang, four of the terrorists, although wounded, managed to escape. These included Hofnan himself, who swore vengeance for the destruction of his criminal empire.
"Within the month following the close of this operation, three CI5 agents were assassinated in attempts to kill Bodie and Doyle. Then word came through that family members of the agents were also being targeted. In an attempt to stop the slaughter before it extended to innocent dependents, Bodie and Doyle entered into witness protection. They were given new identities in places far from Britain. Bodie went to the United States and worked in private security. Doyle went to France, and utilizing his actual background as a member of the Metropolitan Police, became Alan Cade."
Several shocked gasps and an involuntary outcry or two met this revelation. Stares were split between the man holding them sway with his astonishing story and the still, silent form of the Chief Constable they thought they had known. Cade, or Doyle as they now knew him to be, stared patiently up at Murphy, waiting for the end of the story. Or, perhaps, the continuation.
When the momentary furor died down, Murphy continued placidly. "Based on current intelligence on the terrorist situation and ongoing investigations, CI5 and the protection program determined that there was acceptable risk in allowing Doyle to return to Britain when the Eastland position became available. He was allowed to apply for the position, as Cade, and no attempt was made in any way to influence the results of the application procedure. He won the position on his own merits."
"His past history was fraudulent!" expostulated the politician, going somewhat red in the face from the force of his indignation. Doyle shot him a bored look then returned his gaze to Murphy.
"No, it was not," Murphy answered calmly. "Some dates were changed. His service in CI5 was translated into a service record with the Met, true -- but none of his qualifications were falsified. His early training with the Police Force was all completely true." Abruptly, his manner became much less friendly, as he pinned the politician with a steely glare. "You do realize, of course, that any contract of employment entered into with a person under the witness protection program is legal and valid even when that person is removed from witness protection, I trust. Any sundering of that contract would be both illegal and unethical."
The politician clammed up immediately.
Murphy's manner softened slightly. "Now onto the current status of events. Doyle was kidnapped by Hofnan while in the United States doing his official duty as Alan Cade. Bodie, with local assistance, was able to find him, by which point Doyle had managed to terminate Hofnan, at considerable cost to himself." By this time, the board members' eyes were swinging back and forth from Murphy to Cade as if they were spectators at a tennis match. Bodie was getting dizzy watching them. Doyle just kept his eyes on Murphy.
"As a result of Hofnan's death and the expectation that the remainder of the gang is aware that Doyle and Bodie were responsible, witness protection was deemed no longer sufficient cover for the agents. They were returned from the United States to England under CI5 protection, where they will remain until the threat from the last of the original terrorists, along with any new associates, is neutralized. Both Bodie and Doyle have been reactivated as current CI5 members. They are on assignment in London until such time as they are no longer in danger from the remainder of the Hofnan gang. At that time, they will be given the option of returning to the professions they have been practicing for the last eight years. In Mr. Doyle's case, this means that, by law, he has the right to return, as Alan Cade, to Eastland Constabulary, as Chief Constable. It is up to us, ladies and gentlemen, to create a cover story that will explain his absence in such a way as to allow that to happen.
"Are there any questions?"
Dead silence met his query. The majority of the Board looked stunned, with the exception of the politician, who looked as if he'd swallowed his tongue. Finally, at the point when Bodie was about to lose his fragile hold on his composure and actually burst out laughing, a tall Indian gentleman, the Police Liaison for the Board and one of Cade's few friends on it, cleared his throat.
"Perhaps a health problem related to his kidnapping, for which he must go to London for treatment? The length of which is not yet known?" The deep, melodious voice was hesitant, but his wish to help and support for Cade were clear. Doyle flashed him a grateful smile, which was returned in full measure.
"Surely you don't mean to go along with this farce?" The aggrieved exclamation came from the local representative of the Home Office, another opportunist who had, at one time, planned to use Cade as his way to a knighthood, over Cade's broken career, if necessary.
"Yes," interposed a cool feminine voice. The nearly-feuding members quieted and looked at the Chair of the Board. "We will, because we have no legal recourse to do otherwise, and because Chief Cade, pardon me, Mr. Doyle, came to us under no false pretense of his own. He has done his duty to this constabulary to the best of his ability and current circumstances are not of his making." Murphy nodded approvingly at her, and she frowned back at him. He was not the least abashed by her reaction. She took a deep breath and continued. "When the current threat passes, we shall have to re-evaluate the Board's position on Mr. Doyle's capacity to act as Chief. Until then, we have no choice but to abide by Mr. Murphy's outlined course of action."
The room erupted.
Within moments the veneer of civility wore off, and all the petty rivalries and fierce disagreements over Cade that had been brewing over the last turbulent four years boiled out into the open. Murphy subsided into his chair, staring with sick fascination as the Board turned into a vitriolic free-for-all. Bodie stared raptly at the Cade supporters and the Cade detractors who were very nearly screaming at one another. Under cover of the din, he leaned sideways and whispered into a resigned-looking Doyle's ear, "Looks like you still know how to charm 'em, sweetheart."
If looks could kill he'd've had green daggers through his chest. He couldn't help it. He rested his head on Doyle's shoulder and quietly, helplessly, laughed himself hoarse.
He wasn't laughing three hours later, in a small study room, confronting the vivacious young brunette Doyle introduced as "My daughter, Elena."
Murphy and Alison were introduced, then excused themselves to quietly arrange for security and leave father, lover, and daughter to talk. Elena Belinsky was a petite spitfire of a woman, with Doyle's smile and his temper. The growling match between the two of them was impressive, underlaced with stubbornness and love, but Doyle's sincere fear for her safety finally convinced her to accept protection. She was adamant that she would not leave her studies, and he was equally adamant that she not be unguarded. A compromise was eventually reached, and she chose a female bodyguard, whom she would introduce to her friends as her new girlfriend.
"My bisexuality is a known fact, Dad," she asserted pragmatically, then shot a measuring glance at Bodie, standing silently at the side of the room. "Not like yours, kept under wraps for fear of what society might say."
Doyle bristled at that. "Bull, Elena. The only reason I haven't proclaimed to all and sundry that I'm bi is because the only man I'm in love with is Bodie. And if I couldn't have him I didn't want anyone! Besides, it's nobody else's business."
A pleased smile split Bodie's face. It faded when she responded, "Didn't leave the women out, though, did it? What about Maria Romero? And that Frenchwoman?" She didn't say her name -- her father's one long-term relationship had been with a snotty French businesswoman who'd done her best to make Elena feel like a Colonial farm girl, and she hadn't warmed to her at all. "Or that publicity woman?"
Doyle snorted with exasperation. "So I got lonely. I'm human, aren't I?" He spun around and grabbed hold of Bodie's wrist, pulling him forward. "This is Bodie. We're together. We're gonna stay together. All right?" He glared at Elena.
She stifled a grin and nodded, then winked at Bodie. "It's all right with me, if it's all right with him."
"It is," Doyle answered for him, and Bodie gave them both a bemused smile. "And you'll have a bodyguard until this is all cleared up, and no more argument. Right?" It wasn't a question. She sighed, finally giving in.
"Right," she muttered. "But she better be able to keep up."
As she nodded politely to Bodie, hugged Doyle briefly but fiercely, and swept out to inform Murphy of her choice, both men turned and watched. Feeling as if he'd just been struck by a small tornado, Bodie mused, "She's a Doyle, that's a sure thing."
Doyle just glared at him.
The ride back to London was a quiet one. Doyle had a splitting headache from the confrontation with his daughter, all the papers he'd had to sign and all the Board members he'd had to keep from ripping one another apart in Eastland. Bodie was fatigued, not yet having caught up on his rest from the trying times in Italy. Murphy was preoccupied with coming up with a strategy to lure the rest of the terrorists out of hiding, preferably without making either Bodie or Doyle a dead sacrificial goat. Alison was just naturally quiet. When they arrived at headquarters, they split for the night, Bodie and Doyle heading to their flat, Murphy to his office, and his minder off to get some sleep.
There had been a few questions raised when they first got rooms together, but Murphy merely approved the housing request and went on with the business at hand -- tracking down terrorists. His squad followed his lead, and no further questions were asked. CI5, thanks to George Cowley's practice of hiring the best and protecting them fiercely, had been the first government security agency to make gender orientation a non-issue, so Bodie and Doyle's living arrangements were not uncommon. Privacy, on the other hand, was scarce.
Deciding to ignore the surveillance for once, and just get on with it, Doyle led Bodie into the bedroom and crawled under the duvet with him. Allowing himself to be cuddled, basking in the warmth and security of his partner's embrace, he forced his mind away from the recent events in Eastland and made himself relive the hours that Hofnan had held him. The words came in fits and starts, but eventually Bodie knew everything. It was silent and tense in the room when Doyle finally ground to a stop.
Unsure of his mate's reaction, damning himself now for ever telling him everything, Doyle was caught by surprise when Bodie reached down and began to kiss his throat, right where Hofnan had bitten him. Holding completely still, barely daring to breathe, he waited to see what Bodie would do next. He didn't have long to wait.
Throwing off the duvet, flicking on the bedside lamp in order to see what he was doing, Bodie began at Doyle's knees and proceeded to trace every one of the fading marks with his lips, laying gentle kisses along the path Hofnan had abused with strap and knife. He lingered over the healing welts on wrists and pelvis, kissing sweetly along the scar lining Doyle's ribcage, over his shoulder, along the inside of his left arm. Still silent, concentrating in the dim light, he turned Doyle over onto his stomach and journeyed down the remnants of marks crisscrossing his back. By the time he reached the swell of Ray's buttocks, the other man was breathing heavily and moving rhythmically, trying to ease a growing erection. Splaying one hand on the small of his back, Bodie stopped the movement, easing the tensed thighs apart, and moving to kneel between the spread legs. Placing soft kisses on the marks around each ankle, he leaned up and nudged Doyle's relaxing thighs further apart.
He traced the thin scar on the underside of Doyle's scrotum with one fingertip, causing an involuntary moan of pure arousal with the caress. Lying down fully between the splayed knees, Bodie carefully licked from the base of Doyle's sac backward, replacing the memory of Hofnan's blade with the heat of his own tongue. Doyle began to quiver, his skin drawing up in goosebumps at the light touch. Ignoring for the moment the erection digging into the mattress, Bodie laved the entire area between Ray's thighs thoroughly, taking his time. He licked again, more firmly this time, grazing gently at the sac with his teeth and the tip of his tongue, then nibbling along the perineum until he arrived at the lower curve of Doyle's buttocks. Easing back slightly, he raised his hands and gently parted Ray's buttocks, easing his tongue up the length of the cleft now exposed.
At the first rough slick of tongue over his anus, Doyle yelped and buried his face in the pillow. It had been so very long since he had had anyone do this to him, and he'd forgotten just how incredibly sensitive he was to that particular caress. As Bodie continued the delicious torture, he forgot Hofnan, forgot the knife, forgot the invasion of his body by the hilt held by the madman. All that was left was Bodie, all he had room for in what was left of his mind was the wave after wave of wanting that was leaving him trembling. He found himself pleading, now, incoherent begging words, asking Bodie to 'stop it, damn it, don't you dare, please, fuck me, please love me, please' ... as the words died off into moans, unable to move his tongue to form the words any longer, he felt the welcome weight of his partner slide up the length of his back, easing the pain as he went. Careful as Bodie was to keep his full weight off Doyle, there was still enough skin touching skin to provide the reassurance Ray needed. With the first touch of Bodie's erection at his entrance, Doyle screamed "Yes!"
It was all the reassurance the other man needed. Warm silk wrapped around iron eased into him, filling him, stretching him past the point of pain and into mind-twisting pleasure. The last remnants of memory faded, as the knife was displaced in his mind by the hot weight of Bodie filling him, easing from him, and filling him again. He felt as if the thrusts were reaching all the way through his body and battering at his heart, as if he was filled to the throat, as if he would never be empty, never be alone in his skin again. It felt as though it went on forever, or maybe he just wished it had, when the thrusts increased. A strong, square hand eased around his hip to grasp his erection, and the combined sensation ripped him apart. Stifling a scream in the pillow below his face, he thrust into that hand as hard as he could, feeling his penis clench and the echoing spasm in his channel, wrenching an answering orgasm from Bodie. Sharp teeth bit into his shoulder, and the hand holding him clamped down hard, wringing the last of his seed from him. As the heavy body collapsed onto him, pressing against the burning skin of his back and pushing him into the soft mattress, he had time to unclench one fist from the bed sheet and close it over the fingers still encircling his penis, before falling into sleep, completely content. Home, and safe.
Bodie managed to shift himself off his smaller mate, determined not to hurt him in any way, and realized that Doyle had grabbed his hand before dropping off. Leaving their sticky fingers entwined, he snagged the duvet with his free hand and dragged it over the two of them. Curling his body protectively around his partner, he took a deep breath and relaxed as well. As blackness claimed him, his last thought was that whatever happened now, they would face it together, as they should have been all along.
Three o'clock in the morning, and the telephone rang. Both men, long accustomed to broken sleep and emergency call-outs, woke immediately, although not without a great deal of grumbling. Bodie beat Doyle to the handset, not that the older man tried that hard to get there first. Doyle subsided into the pillows, one eye half opened to gauge Bodie's reaction and thereby see if he had to wake up the rest of the way. Bodie glowered at his mate and growled into the phone. The chiming feminine voice that filled his ear took him aback.
"Ray? Is that you, Ray? It certainly doesn't sound like you. I mean, of course, it has been a long time, but I clearly remember that you were a baritone. I'm sure men's voices don't go a tone higher after they've hit puberty. Do they? Of course not, not unless they go through it twice, and who would ever willingly go through that twice? Once is bad enough. Are you there, Ray?"
Bodie pulled the receiver away from his head, stared at it for a moment, shook his head to clear it, and returned it to his ear. The voice was still talking.
"Oh, my dear, I completely forgot about the time difference, it must be, what, early morning for you, isn't it? Or is that early evening? I never can keep it straight. Perhaps I should call back. Well, no sense in that, you're up already. Aren't you? After all, you did pick up the phone. Ray? Are you still a grumpy bear in the morning? Is it morning yet?""
By now Bodie had finally managed to get his tongue in working order, and recognizing a break in the torrent of words, he dove in.
"Hallo. This isn't Ray, this is Bodie, perhaps I can help you?" His most charming tone. Whoever this bird was, she knew his Ray, and it might prove very interesting to find out just how she knew him.
"Bodie? OH!" Pleasure filled her voice, making it, if possible, even chirpier than it had originally been. "You must be Ray's lover! Oh, how karmic. I was hoping we'd get a chance to talk. I knew, even when he was still a pig, not that he was ever as bad as some of them were, well, most of them really, that I met-"
"Hm, my impression of the most of them, as well," he cut in quickly.
"Oh, yes! I just knew he'd find someone who appreciated that there was more to him than what was just on the surface. He always put on such an attitude, you know? But it was all a put on, really, he was so sweet under all that tough guy swagger. Of course he'd end up with someone who could see through the screen, you know, someone who could see into the beauty of his center. He has a beautiful soul, that's one of the things that drew me to him from the first. Well, that, and he has the prettiest green eyes. At least, he did then, I assume he still does-"
"Yes," Bodie cut in again, enjoying himself tremendously by this point. Doyle had both eyes open now, and was frowning at him, confusion gathering in his face. "Absolutely stunning eyes he has. And the rest of him isn't bad!"
"Oh, my, no, anything but," the happy voice continued. She, whoever she was, dropped her tone to a confidential whisper. "I've always enjoyed a nice broad chest on a man, don't you? All that lovely soft fur, too. Fingertip fur, I always called it."
Bodie murmured an affirmative, staring lustfully at the chest in question. Doyle followed the stare to look down at himself, completely confused by now.
"And his legs. Oh, but that man had an incredible pair of legs."
"Still does. And a real peach of an arse," Bodie solemnly agreed, a grin splitting his face at her enthusiastic agreement in his ear. By this time Doyle was sitting up, staring at Bodie in complete disbelief.
"Does he still make that lovely little moaning sound in the back of his throat when you bite the side of his neck?" she asked, genuine curiosity coloring her voice.
"Yes!" Bodie nearly crowed. Doyle made a swipe for the receiver and Bodie twisted out of reach, determined to continue the conversation. "And he gurgles when you lick the hollow at the base of his throat!" Doyle lunged full force for the phone at this point, and Bodie relinquished hold of it, her "Oh, my, yes, I certainly remember that!" ringing clearly from the handset as Doyle scurried to the side of the bed, curling his body protectively around the phone, glaring at Bodie and daring him to try to take it back. Bodie didn't even attempt it, just fell over on his side and giggled uncontrollably.
Doyle gave him an utterly disgusted look and growled into the phone. "Who is this?"
"Ray?" He didn't recognize the bright, clear voice.
"This is Doyle, now who the hell is this?" The growl got stronger.
"Oh, good, you are still a baritone. Your Bodie really took me by surprise."
A faint memory teased at the back of Doyle's mind, and with it, a horrible suspicion began to arise. "Please. Who are you?" The growl faded and entreaty took its place.
"That's more like my sweet Ray. This is Naomi. How are things with you, dear?"
The memory crystallized. Doyle looked at his helplessly giggling lover, and closed his eyes. It was much too early in the morning to deal with this.
"Hello, Naomi. It's been a long time. I'm fine, how are you?" He felt like he was trapped in an episode of the Twilight Zone.
"Oh, I'm doing just great, you know me, free and calm, keeping my center. But you're the reason I'm calling, dear. I know it has been a long time, and things were, well, really casual between us. Not that I didn't love you, you know I loved you, but it was a summer kind of love, and it was the time for it after all. Nineteen sixty-eight and we were both just kids, really. Who knew it would end up like this?"
"Like what, Naomi?" He concentrated hard, remembering now why they'd spent so much time kissing when they were going out together. It was the only sure way to shut her up. Bodie was somewhat recovered from his laughing fit by this time, and was nibbling the outside of Doyle's thigh, devilish blue eyes daring him to do anything about it. Doyle glared at him and tuned back into the uninterrupted flow of words that was assaulting him from the telephone receiver.
"So, of course, I told him I'd call you and let you know, so it wouldn't be a complete surprise. I mean, of course it had to be a surprise, after all, I didn't know your last name, and it's not as if I could have told you at the time. Or even would have, really, we weren't at a place where it would have been a good thing for either of us for me to lay that load on you then, but now it's another matter-"
"What, Naomi?" Doyle demanded, jerking his leg away from Bodie and sitting upright on the edge of the bed. He had a feeling he'd missed something important.
"Well, Blair, of course, dear. One of the men who rescued you, along with his partner, Jim Ellison."
"Blair?" He was completely lost. Bodie sat up behind him, resting his chin on Doyle's shoulder, reacting to the sudden tension in the slender body.
"He's your son, Ray. Haven't you been listening?" There was a very mild censure in her voice, as if he was a naughty child to be remonstrated with love.
"Bodie distracted me," he whispered in response, shock making his entire body go rigid. Bodie reacted instinctively, wrapping his arms around his waist, leaning his torso against Doyle's back, supporting him.
"Well, that's not really surprising, I remember how often we made love. There's just something so elemental about you, dear. It's no wonder he can't keep his hands to himself. Anyway, Blair will be coming over in a week or so, he has some research he needs to do, he's really amazingly smart, and such a beautiful boy. He has your chin, I think, but he's got my eyes. So, now you know, and you two can have such a wonderful time bonding, as friends, really. I'll let you go now, I don't doubt Bodie's anxious for a little quality time, now that you're both awake and everything. It was wonderful talking with you, Ray. I may see you soon, I don't know. The past is something you leave with no regrets and no anchors but I can hear it calling to me. I think I'll call Blair now and let him know we talked. It's been awhile since I was in England, and I have some Druid friends I haven't seen since Solstice when they were here in, what, '87? I don't remember. I'll give them a call while I'm at it. This really was inevitable, a circle closing upon itself. I'll come along with Blair and Jim. I just have to let them know that. See you soon!"
The dial tone rang in his ear for almost ten seconds before Bodie took it from his hand, listened briefly to ascertain that the call had indeed ended, and cradled it gently on the stand. Moving around to sit next to Doyle, he slipped an arm around his waist and put a finger under his chin, tipping it so that their eyes could meet.
"What's up, mate?" Worry had displaced the laughter by this point. Doyle looked blankly at him, green eyes dazed.
"You know Blair Sandburg?" His voice sounded rusty.
"Yeah, Ellison's lover. Good man, a little green in the field, but then he's an anthropologist, so I guess dead bodies aren't an everyday thing for him. At least not fresh ones. Brainy beauty, too." His teasing didn't seem to penetrate Doyle's fog. When the silence had gone on long enough that he was seriously considering shaking Doyle, his mate finally shook his head and focused on Bodie.
"He's my son."
It was Bodie's turn to freeze. Without conscious volition, his mouth opened and words fell out. "So that's why I wanted to nail him to the table as soon as I saw him."
Doyle apologized very nicely for Bodie's resultant black eye.
An ocean and a continent away, Jim Ellison knocked briefly on his captain's door and asked permission for a private talk. Simon Banks waved him in, an inquiring look on his broad face, and motioned for him to close the door behind him.
"What's up, Jim?"
Ellison gave his boss, and friend, a half grin. "Never thought I'd be saying this again, Simon."
A look of consternation flashed in the deep brown eyes, and he raised a brow, staring at his detective. "Tell me your senses aren't going whacko, Jim. Please. I don't think I wanna hear it this early in the morning, before I've had my coffee!"
"No," Jim laughed in return. "Nothing like that, I promise. It's just, well ... I need to take the rest of my vacation. I need to go to England."
"Is this related to that kidnapping case you handled in Seattle? Speaking of which, the Feds want to talk to you about that. They were chasing off following a lead in the University District while you were hightailing it down to Tacoma. They want to know what your source was. If it is about that, then it would be official business. We could arrange for the time if we call it liaison work with those guys at CI5."
Ellison thought about it for a moment, then shook his head. "I don't know if I'd be comfortable classifying this as official business, Simon. Yeah, I'm going to see Doyle, the man who was kidnapped, but not in any official capacity."
"Then why the trip? Got this sudden urge to see if their weather is just as bad as ours is?" The grumpy tone didn't hide the real curiosity. It was taking Ellison forever to spit it out.
"No," Jim grinned unwillingly. "It's -- I'm -- he's -- oh, hell. I guess I'd have to say it's to meet my in-laws."
Simon looked at him in disbelief. "Naomi's in England?"
"Not yet, but soon. And Doyle is," the other man corrected him. "He didn't get a chance to meet Blair, not really. He was out of his head or unconscious most of the time, and by the time Blair found out that Doyle was his father, we were back here again."
Simon nearly dropped his cigar. "His ... father?"
"Yeah, his dad." There was a certain tenderness in Jim's angular face, seldom seen and usually directed at Blair Sandburg. "He's finally found out who his father is, and he'd like the chance to get to know him."
His boss stared at him for a long moment, then chuckled softly. "In that case, you take all the time you need." Jim smiled his thanks at him and started to leave. Simon's voice caught up with him at the door. "Try to keep it to two weeks, okay? We're short handed. And don't get in any shoot-outs or blow anything up, please. Transatlantic paperwork's a bitch."
Jim tried to keep a straight face but it was a futile effort. He was laughing as he left the bullpen in search of his partner to give him the news that they'd be on their way to England as soon as they could pin down Naomi.
Stepping off the plane at the Gatwick airport, Jim, Blair and Naomi were surprised to see a cute brunette, about Blair's height, standing in the reception area beyond Customs holding a gaily decorated cardboard sign that said 'Sandburg' on it. Naomi cocked her head to one side and teased her son, "You didn't tell me he'd had a sex change, sweetie. And wherever he's gone to get those age-reversal treatments, it certainly worked!"
Blair rolled his eyes at his mother and ignored the smothered laughter from his lover. He hadn't been too sure about her coming along on this trip to begin with, but trying to say 'No' to Naomi was pretty much like trying to hold back the tide. You just ended up with no voice, sucked into the undertow and taken along for the ride. Shouldering his backpack and taking a deep breath, he reached back with one hand and snagged Jim's jacket pocket, pulling gently on it. He needed his Sentinel at his side. He didn't believe how incredibly nervous he was feeling, now that he was actually here.
Ellison felt the increase in body temperature and could hear the rush of Blair's pulse as it accelerated. He'd been aware of the increase in tension in his partner's body throughout the long airplane trip, but since landing it had increased tenfold. His Blair was scared to death, and determined not to show it. Placing one hand reassuringly in the small of the younger man's back, he leaned forward and whispered, just above the noise of the crowd around them, "Hey, there, Chief. Hang on, it's gonna be okay."
Grateful lapis eyes glanced up at him, then fixed on the young woman staring with utter delight at his mother. Naomi's mouth was going a mile a minute, and the woman appeared to be charmed by her. "Better go rescue the messenger, huh, Jim?" he muttered back, then cut through the crowd to stand at his mother's side. Ellison followed directly behind, trying to convince himself that he was just standing close by in order to not lose Blair in the crowd, not that he was hovering protectively. Although what was a Blessed Protector to do, if not hover? Especially when the Blessed Protectee was shaking in his boots.
By the time the men caught up with Naomi, she had taken one of the multicolored silk scarves from around her neck and was holding it against the young woman's blouse, exclaiming at the 'confluence of colors' and the obvious need for her to wear it, since the two matched so well and there was a harmonic going on that was not to be denied. Blair stopped beside them, Jim at his back, as Naomi gently twined the scarf around the other woman's neck, trailing the ends over her shoulder and complimenting her on her coloring. Laughing dark eyes bounced between the three as she thanked Naomi, her accent alike and yet subtly different from the myriad British accents around them.
"You must be Blair," she said finally, turning to hold out her hand toward him to be shaken. As he took it in both of his and gave her a sparkling smile, she couldn't help but grin back. "I'm Elena, and now I know you're my brother -- your smile is just like mine -- not to mention the build!"
It was Naomi's turn to be speechless. Blair's eyes widened, and he spluttered, "Sister?" as a large hand extended itself over his shoulder and he finally dropped Elena's so she could take it.
"Hi," Jim rumbled softly. "I'm Jim Ellison, Blair's partner."
Her entire face glowed. "It is such a pleasure to meet both of you. I so wanted to thank you both for saving Dad's life. And to think," she grinned mischievously at the three of them in turn, "you didn't even know he was your Dad!" Looking around the crowded reception area, she tucked the placard under her arm and rubbed her hands together briskly. "There are much better places to get acquainted than here, I think. Let's go collect the luggage and find ourselves a bite to eat. Are you hungry?" She was competently shepherding them through the busy aisles as she talked.
"Is Doyle all right?" Jim had to ask, since neither Naomi nor Blair seemed to want to bring it up.
"Oh, yes," she returned reassuringly. "He and Bodie are tied up at headquarters pursuing some lead or other. They called and asked us to meet you, and I jumped at the chance to get to meet my little brother." She tossed him a mischievous look as she said this, and Blair finally began to relax. Ellison felt the easing of tension in his partner's frame and found himself relaxing as well.
"Us?" Blair asked, making a show of checking her pocket with one teasing finger.
"Kim," Elena looked around, and a young woman whom only Jim had noticed materialized at her side. "This is Kim Chen. She's, er, watching me until all this mess with the terrorists is cleared up." Chen was a lovely Asian woman, slightly taller than Elena, with a competent look about her. She smiled greetings at the party, but her eyes were never still, fanning the crowd constantly. Jim nodded to her and Blair chipped in with, "Hey, Kim," and a smile for her. Naomi, on the other hand, looked faintly disturbed.
"Is there a threat?" she asked, direct for once in her concern for her son and for this sweet young woman with the bright aura.
"A slight one," Chen replied matter-of-factly. "But protective measures are in place, and it shouldn't be for much longer."
"Good to hear." Jim fell behind to provide flank coverage automatically, and Chen instinctively took point, with Blair, Naomi and Elena is a protected clump between them. The three chattered easily all the way to the baggage claim, quietly protected by those chosen by fate and Murphy to do so.
At HQ-CI5, things were tense. There had been some initial jockeying for position between the newer agents, for whom the illustrious 4.5 and 3.7 were either legends or has-beens, and the agents in question, who were not only in the shape to whip the youngsters at their own game but were definitely in the mood for it. The third time they were left out of the information loop and got to the scene just as a suspect slipped through the younger men's hands, Doyle blew his stack.
Bodie watched from the sidelines, glowering blackly enough to scare off anything with any native intelligence, as Doyle verbally tore strips off the agent in charge of the operation, one Mike Howard. When the younger man was foolhardy enough to shoot back that Doyle had been out of the field so long he was useless in the real world, Doyle reacted instinctively and set him on his back before the younger agent even saw the kick. One fist in the young man's collar brought the stunned agent to eye level with the enraged Doyle, and he blanched at the look in the feral green eyes.
"It's my hide, and my partner's, and my family's that's at stake here, you stupid arsed son of a bitch," he snarled into the startled face slowly purpling above his clenched fingers. "We've been in this up to our necks since it started, goddamnit. We've got experience up the arse and you're too fucking stupid to take advantage of it." Contemptuously, he thrust the agent away, to land in a heap on the cement floor. "Don't make me go above your head. And don't make me have to kick your arse again. Next time, we're in it from the beginning, or I take it out of your hide!"
His voice neither rose nor wavered, and the agent in charge of the investigation revised his opinion of the older man. Perhaps he wasn't quite as out of shape as he'd believed ... especially if the bastard could take him out so easily. Looking around, Howard saw that Bodie had managed to freeze all the other agents in their tracks, leaving him to deal with a royally pissed off Doyle all on his own. Gathering his composure, he pulled himself to his feet, wincing at the pain in his bruised ribs where Doyle had taken him down.
"Yes, I'm sorry, I will," he choked out, then picked up his R/T and cell phone from where he'd dropped them and limped out the door.
Doyle swept the onlookers with a look hot enough to blister lead, and they all suddenly found pressing tasks that just had to be taken care of immediately, elsewhere. Bodie waited until the room had cleared, then grinned at his mate.
"Got your point across quite smartly, there, didn't you, Sunshine?"
"This is absolutely asinine, Bodie!" Doyle groused back. "They've been following this damned trail for the last eight years, there's more activity now than any time since we first busted the bastards, and they lose them. Not once, but three times! Bloody incompetents!!" He rubbed at a strained shoulder muscle from where he'd slugged Howard. Bodie saw the movement and came up beside him, massaging the muscle for him. With a sigh of relief, he sank into the soothing movements of strong hands digging into the knots there.
"Besides," Bodie put in quietly, "you missed meeting Blair at the airport because of another tip that turned up bad."
"Yeah," Doyle responded absently, head falling forward as Bodie's fingers continued to work their magic. "And it's too late to see them tonight. Have to leave it for tomorrow."
"Every cloud has a silver lining," Bodie said dryly. Doyle's head shot up to stare at him accusingly.
"And what's that supposed to mean?" A harsh question, a defensive reaction Doyle usually got when he felt vaguely guilty about something. Bodie dropped his hands and took a step back, crossing his arms over his chest and fixing his mate with a plain look.
"You know precisely what it means. You've been antsier than a cat walking across hot tar about this meeting ever since Naomi called."
Ray was unable to control his wince at the name. Bodie's eyebrow shot up, and he gave a sudden lopsided grin. "That's it!" he crowed. "It's not that you're afraid to meet Blair-"
"What's another child I didn't get a chance to know growing up?" Doyle growled in an undertone. Bodie ignored him and continued.
"- it's her! Naomi! You don't want me to meet the chatterbox! What is it, you afraid she'll spill a secret or two? C'mon, Ray, it's not like I don't know you inside out. What could she possibly say about you that you don't want me to hear?" He was circling his partner now, watching his face intently, unable to curb the smile threatening to split his face in two. Doyle glared at him with mock-dislike.
"It was almost thirty years ago. It was just a single summer. I just don't fancy the thought of what that bubble brain might say to you, that's all. She can be," he paused for a moment, considering his word choice. "Extremely embarrassing," he finally finished.
Both Bodie's brows wiggled at this. Doyle closed his eyes and heaved a disgusted sigh. "I can see I'm not going to get out of this unscathed." Turning and heading for the door, he tossed over his shoulder, "Let's go home. There's not a bloody thing we can do here, and I'm tired."
"Not for long," Bodie caroled, and followed his mate out the door.
Kim checked with Control and discovered that Doyle had just left headquarters with Bodie, following up on a lead. Finding that out effectively put the kibosh on them all getting together that night, so they headed for a friendly pub Elena knew and proceeded to thoroughly enjoy their evening. Blair and his sister had a great deal in common, and spent most of the evening comparing and contrasting political and social structures of various societies they'd both studied, arguing cheerfully about everything from situational ethics to Canadian football versus American football. When they got to the sports, Jim put in his two cents, and when, after several rounds, they started getting philosophic, Naomi and Blair ganged up on Jim and Elena. It was a congenial, relaxing evening, and everyone felt his (or her) nerves finally begin to relax. As Naomi and Jim got into the merits of beer versus lager, and light versus dark, and chilled versus warm, Blair leaned close to Elena.
"Thanks, sis."
Bright dark eyes met his, and he saw understanding as well as humor lurking there. "Bit nervous about all this, were you?" she asked gently.
"Just a bit." He played with his glass, drawing circles within circles on the dark wood of the table top. "I didn't know ... when we found him, he was in pretty bad shape."
Her fingers touched his lightly. "He won't talk about it," she admitted. "But I'd like to know. For myself. What he went through. To understand."
"I know where you're coming from," he replied. "Jim's the same way. He is so not into talking about the pain, you know? But he's getting a little better, with me at least."
He was quiet for a moment, reliving the scene he'd found when they'd burst in and seen Doyle, naked and bleeding, crouched over Hofnan's dead body. "He was hurt. I don't know what all that guy did to him, but man, he was messed up. He'd been tied up and that maniac had cut him up with a knife, beaten him up a bit, too, from the looks of the bruises." He didn't mention the semen, not wanting to upset Elena any further. She had grown gradually paler as he'd talked. "He probably can't open up about it, you know? Partly the generation, partly the social acculturation, partly that need to protect. Being who and what he is, he'd find it very hard to open up to anyone who wasn't in the same circumstances, and sharing that kind of pain with someone he sees as being under his protection is so not his scene. Maybe Ray's got that kind of communication with Bodie, you think?"
She shook her head, smiling affectionately. "I'm still not used to Bodie actually being here. Dad would send me these letters, and he'd go on and on about his partner, what a great guy he was and how he'd pulled him out of the fire, or whatever. I had an inkling they were a little more than best friends. But I'm glad to see them back together. I always did think he should have stuck with Bodie." Peering intently at the foam clinging to the side of her glass, her thoughts on her father's recent romantic history, she announced, "He has the worst taste in women."
Her words fell into a small pool of silence, sounding unnaturally loud, and she cast a startled look around the table. "Present company excluded, of course!" she hastened to add, and Naomi started laughing.
"Good save!" Jim approved, and Elena gave up her attempt at tact and hid her face against Blair's shoulder.
Naomi took pity on her and glanced at her watch, smothering a yawn as she did so. "Oh, my, I think I left myself behind somewhere. And it's catching up to me now!" Smiling at the other four, three slumped over from too much food and too much beer and one just as crisp and watchful as she had been three hours earlier, she began to gather up her scarves and bag. "I'll tell you what, children. It has been an absolutely wonderful evening, but I admit I'm beginning to get a bit tired. I need to process for awhile, so I think I'll head for the hotel and settle in, meditate a little while, calm my center. I am so happy to have met you, Elena. You have a lot of your father in you, and you have a brilliant aura all your own. I look forward to getting to know you better, but right now it's time to crash and recharge."
"Thank you, Naomi," Elena smiled back at her. Glancing over at Blair, she asked, "Do you want to rest up as well, little brother?"
He mocked-glared back at her. "Enough of the little-stuff, sis, I'm almost a full inch taller than you. So there." She stuck her tongue out at him playfully and he couldn't help but laugh at her. "Nah, I'm fine. Jim?" He looked over at his very mellow partner. Ellison was feeling the effects of a very fine dark lager and was more relaxed than Blair had seen him in some time, but he didn't look tired. Far from it. For a moment, the mental image of just what he could do to his pliable partner filled his mind, and he opened his mouth to suggest that a sojourn to a nice, private hotel room might not be a bad idea, when Elena beat him to the punch.
"If you're not tired, perhaps we could get Naomi settled in, then head over to Dad's flat? He gave me the combination to get in, Kim can let the watchers over at headquarters know so they don't sound the alarm and send the cavalry in." Chen nodded and dug her R/T out, preparing to do just that. "And that way we can all have a little time together before I have to head back to school."
"What? You have to leave already?" Blair's cry of protest brought a shy grin from her.
"Yes, class in the morning, I'm afraid. But if it might make it easier, first time and all that, I'd love to introduce you to him properly. Naomi?" she invited, not wanting to exclude the other woman from the reunion.
Naomi looked at her thoughtfully. "I think you're right. I'm not in the right place to see Ray yet, too drained, my energy's not right for that tonight. There are going to be all sorts of cross currents with Bodie there, past and present intersecting, it could really throw the balance off. Better if Blair meets Ray without me. I'll come along tomorrow." She smiled sweetly at Elena. "Thank you for this evening, sweetie. It was a lot of fun!"
Blair recognized an exit line when he heard one, and shelved the lecherous ideas he'd been entertaining about Jim until another time. In the bustle of gathering everything up preparatory to leaving, he unconsciously moved a little closer to his lover, seeking the comfort of his physical presence, needing a little reassurance before going to face the stranger who was his father. Jim responded to the physiological changes he sensed once again, and instinctively reached out to touch his Blair, running his hand soothingly up and down his back between his shoulder blades. Elena saw the loving touch and smiled to herself. Looked like her brother had gotten lucky in choosing a mate as well as her dad. Maybe one of these days she'd have some luck. When she did, she hoped he was as supportive, and as drop dead gorgeous, as Jim Ellison.
Half an hour after taking his frustrations out on the idiot who had once again let the terrorists slip through his fingers, Doyle found himself being thoroughly pampered back at his flat. Bodie was in a surprisingly light mood, teasing him, feeding him, stripping him and seducing him. The first time they didn't even make it to the bedroom, Bodie tempting him to the point where he lost all control. Tugging the poloneck off over Bodie's head, throwing it into the corner and attacking the dark slacks, he didn't even get his lover's shoes off before he bent him over the arm of the couch and thrust into him.
Pants around his ankles, face into the cushions, holding on for dear life, Bodie was helpless to do anything but submit as his Doyle reamed him into the middle of next week. Both of them were insane for it, and it was over all too quickly, Ray folding over Bodie's back with a whispered apology for being so rough. Panting heavily, wincing a little as Doyle's weight drove genitals still sensitive from recent orgasm into the rough weave of the couch, Bodie tried to gather enough of his shattered wits to assure Doyle that it was perfectly all right, and to feel free to toss him on his face and ravish him whenever the urge struck. All he could manage was a very satisfied groan.
Doyle took that for forgiveness and pulled himself up away from his poor crushed Bodie's back, slipping from him and scattering butterfly kisses all along his backbone, from the nape of his neck to his buttocks. By the time he got to the firm mounds of muscle he was on his knees between Bodie's legs, crouching on the pants that still trapped his lover's feet. Taking advantage of Bodie's residual weakness, he took his time and tasted as much of the sweet silken skin as he could reach. He traced one hand along the muscular thighs, brushing the sensitive skin until it quivered under his touch. With the other hand, he gently spread the buttocks he's recently been pounding with his groin, and lapped at the fluid seeping from the reddened opening. The muffled groaning coming from the general vicinity of the couch cushions altered from satiation to anticipation at his actions. Encouraged, he probed more deeply, following the liquid to the source, soothing the tender skin with his lips and tongue.
He brought both hands up to spread the tensing thighs as far apart as he could reach, aided by Bodie's involuntary thrust back and upward into his hands. He slipped his right hand along the hot skin from anus to scrotum, massaging the bundled nerves in the perineum with his fingertips, causing a stronger thrusting motion from his partner. Sliding the hand further forward he began to roll Bodie's sac from side to side, playing with his testicles in the rough silk pouch. The groans mutated into strangled pleas. He ignored them.
As his hand roamed firmly from balls to shaft, quickly hardening under his ministrations, he continued his oral explorations. Gently keeping the cheeks spread with his left hand, he buried his face in the exposed cleft and proceeded to lap it clean, savoring the taste of his own semen and Bodie's sweat. Finally reaching his target, when all the surrounding skin was clean, wet, flinching under the rough stroke of his tongue, he concentrated his efforts on the bud in the center of the cleft. It was opening and closing rhythmically now, making his mouth water at the raw need Bodie was showing him. Circling it with the tip of his tongue, he was vaguely aware that the pleas were gaining strength and volume, urging him on. Needing no encouragement, aware of how far he could push the pleasure before it started to hurt, he thrust his tongue as far into the hot ring of muscle as he could, then drew it out and repeated the action. Again and again he tongue-fucked the small opening, searching into the slick passage behind it, and pumping Bodie's erection in counter rhythm to his tongue. Bodie was humping his hand blindly now, thrusting forward into the milking fingers then backward against the tormenting mouth.
Seeking to drive him further still, Doyle drew back and slid his left hand down. Positioning his fingers, he pressed his index finger firmly against Bodie's anus, then slipped it in, then out, replacing it with his tongue. Alternating invasions between his mouth and his finger, keeping up a continuous milking motion with his right hand on Bodie's cock, it wasn't long before the combined stimulation wrenched a second strong climax from his lover. Bodie screamed as he came, bucking hard between the tongue buried in his ass and the hands clenched around the head of his penis. When it finally subsided, he collapsed bonelessly over the arm of the couch, Doyle's hands still holding him securely.
Feeling the last of the spasms subside, Doyle withdrew, carefully drawing Bodie back into his arms. Guiding the supine body off the couch and carefully laying him on his back on the floor, he proceeded to lick the spilled semen first from his own hand, then from Bodie's groin and abdomen. Bodie moaned once, and whispered, "No joy there, my son," and Doyle grinned up at him.
"Mouth's still in working order, I see." He lowered his saliva-slick hand to his own rampant erection and pumped it a few times, shuddering at how hard he was. "Up to a little more than talking with it, blue eyes?"
Bodie cracked one eye, saw the nearly purple cock Doyle was curled around, and licked his lips. "C'mere, you." Doyle straddled him with alacrity, one knee by either ear, and returned to his tonguing clean up job on Bodie's groin. At the first touch of that talented mouth on his erection, he buried his face in the now licked-clean warmth of Bodie's thighs and began to thrust. He tried to keep it gentle, but he was incredibly aroused by Bodie's previous reaction to his lovemaking, and it didn't take long before he was thrusting uncontrollably into the wet warmth of Bodie's mouth. His lover made no complaint, simply relaxed and wrapped his arms around Doyle's flanks to control the depth of the thrusts so he didn't choke. Soon, he was swallowing Ray's semen with the same enthusiasm Doyle had shown with his. Rolling limply to the side after the mind-blowing session of lovemaking finally wound to a stop, the two men stared at one another in mild amazement at living through it.
"Bed?" Bodie finally managed.
"Yeah," Doyle responded, drawling it out until the one word was several syllables long. It took them two tries to actually get off the floor, and they had to lean on one another to weave through the hall before collapsing in one another's arms atop the duvet. Making a mental note to clean up the mess before visitors came the next day, Doyle faded into sleep moments after Bodie.
Two hours later, Bodie woke first. He awoke Doyle with a sharp nip at the side of his neck, and grinned at the small yelp his lover gave as he was jolted awake, already half aroused. Green eyes looked incredulously from the whirlwind caressing him from nipples to knees, to the erection he thought it would take hours to regain.
"You're some kind of miracle potion, mate!" he got out before those roving lips latched onto his own mouth, silencing anything further he might want to say. By the time he could breathe again he could no longer think, and he happily gave himself up into Bodie's more than capable hands.
Kim cleared their entrance into Doyle's flat with Control, and Elena demonstrated her recently gained knowledge of CI5 locks and keypads. As she ushered them into the front room, Jim came to a dead halt. Blair, looking over his shoulder to answer some remark from his sister, ran into him, bounced off, and nearly landed on his behind in the hallway. Kim shut the door behind them and reset the locks as Elena helped Blair to his feet.
"Hey, what was that for, big guy? Decide to do your best impression of a wall all the sudden?" The Sentinel's stillness caught his attention, and his manner changed abruptly. Dropping immediately into Guide-mode, he asked quietly, "What is it, Jim? Do you hear something? Is there a danger here?"
Reacting to Blair's reaction, Kim tugged Elena behind her and drew her weapon. Elena caught her breath. Jim turned, a distracted look on his face.
"I don't think now is a good time for this, Chief," he announced quietly, a blush starting to color his cheekbones. Two sets of eyes met his incredulously. The third was scanning the flat for possible threats. At just that moment, they all heard the same noise.
"Booooo-die!" It was either a moan or a scream, or maybe both. As Blair and Elena leaned to look around Jim to see why Doyle was mourning his lover, Kim brought her weapon to bear on the shadowed hall from whence the cry had come. Jim's blush deepened, and his eyes closed with embarrassment. Before anyone could make a move, the cry was followed by a lush moan in a slightly deeper voice, then a short, sharp, "Oh! God! YES!"
Everyone froze in place. Elena and Blair echoed Jim's blush. Kim sighed, flipped the safety back on, and reholstered her handgun.
After what felt like an eon, Elena cleared her throat. "Well," she said a little too brightly, "Anyone else for a drink?" She headed for the small bar next to the couch, and stumbled over something. Leaning over, she picked up a crumpled pair of trousers. Silently, she stared from the pants dangling from her hand to the arm of the couch, an arrested look on her face. Her eyes lit up, and she hastily dropped the slacks over the arm, turning to the bottles lined up along the top of the bar. "I need one!" she announced, and reached for the nearest decanter, only her shaking shoulders betraying the laughter she was trying so hard to stifle.
"Me, too," Jim agreed, coming to stand next to her and pulling out the bottle of Glenfiddich.
Blair carefully avoided both their eyes and sank down on the far end of the couch from the trousers. "Me, three, please." He looked over at Kim, who shook her head and addressed Elena.
"I'll wait for you out in the car," she said with commendable composure. "I have some things I need to see to. Just beep me when you're ready to go to the station." Elena nodded her thanks, still not trusting her voice. As the door closed behind her and they heard the locks click into place from the other side, all three found seats for themselves, conspicuously avoiding the end of the couch where the pants lay. None of them could think of a thing to say, and they didn't dare look at one another for fear that once the laughter started they wouldn't be able to stop, so they sat in silence and drank their scotch.
An interminable amount of time later, a bedraggled, satiated and well-loved Ray Doyle half-staggered through his living room, on the way to the kitchen to put the kettle on. Half awake, mind loved into oblivion, it was several seconds after the water began running that he realized He Was Not Alone. Abandoning the kettle to the sink, barely remembering to shut the tap off before slinking back into the living room, he stared with great confusion at his daughter and two vaguely familiar faces, all of whom were looking anywhere but at him. Clearing his throat, twice, he managed to form coherent words. Not many, but it was a good effort, under the circumstances.
"Hello? Elena? How'd you ..." he ran out of steam at that point and looked helplessly from his daughter to the strangers. The big one with the buzz cut was standing at what looked suspiciously like parade rest, staring hard at the far wall. The smaller one with the curls perched on the far end of the couch finally looked up and met his eyes. A mouth that looked very familiar was quivering, fighting hard not to break into a grin.
"Hi, Dad."
Green eyes widened to an impossible bug-eyed width, and the quivering mouth lost the battle. Faced with a replica of the Doyle grin he'd seen on himself and his relatives all his life, he couldn't deny the truth. This was his son, all right. Curls and all. He leaned weakly against the doorjamb.
"Blair?" he squeaked out. At the affirmative nod, he closed his eyes and let the blush rise from his chest to his hairline. Struggling for some sort of composure, he managed a strangled, "Been here long?"
"Not that long," the laughter-filled voice assured him. "Just a little while, man, keep your hair on. We're all friends here, right?" He forced his eyes open and pinned the boy with a glare, which bounced right off with no perceptible impact. Bright blue eyes he remembered all too well from Naomi gleamed at him. Reluctantly, he gave into the smile that was fighting its way onto his own lips.
"Family, lad." He gathered the edges of his silk robe around him in a futile attempt at some sort of decorum, then gave it up as a bad deal with a shrug. As he crossed the room toward his son, he stuck out his hand to shake. Blair bounced to his feet and, ignoring the outstretched hand, caught him up in a fierce hug. After the first startled moment, he returned the hug, first tentatively, then wholeheartedly, as he felt the acceptance and need for reassurance in the strong figure holding onto him. The kid had been just as nervous about this as he had. He leaned into the hug, allowing his son to take the lead. When Blair's grip loosened, he stepped back and looked into the bright eyes, right at level with his own. "I didn't get a chance to thank you," he said softly. Looking past his son to the big man standing so quietly by the wall, he added, "Both of you. You saved my life."
Blair stepped back a pace, and Ellison came up beside him. As the detective held out a big paw for the older man to shake, Blair gestured between them. "Ray, this is Jim, Jim, you know Ray, and one of these days we'll get to see you with your clothes on, Dad."
Elena's startled splutter of laughter chimed in with Doyle's own involuntary chuckle at the crack, and Jim rolled his eyes. As they were sorting themselves out, Bodie wandered in from the bedroom and leaned against the doorjamb leading into the hallway.
"I was going to ask about the cuppa," he drawled lazily, "but I see what the hold up is." Not evincing a shred of embarrassment, he meandered into the room, stopping to give Elena a sideways hug on the way. She grinned up at him and squeezed him back. "Hallo, Jim, Blair, I see you made it to England in one piece." Making a show of looking around, he settled on the couch, shifting his trousers out of the way and staring blandly at the group in the middle of the room. "Where's Naomi?"
At the innocent question, Doyle's blush started all over again, and he looked past Ellison with a panicked look on his face. Blair laughed out loud at his expression, and hastened to reassure him. "She's at the hotel, she was wiped from the trip over. She'll be by tomorrow," he added with an evil grin. Doyle shivered, and threw himself in the armchair, gesturing as he did so for Jim and Blair to get comfortable.
Blair plopped down on the couch next to Bodie, and Jim settled on the end next to Blair. Snaking a proprietary arm around his partner, Jim pulled Blair up against his side, and Bodie snorted.
"Got my own, now, don't I, Ellison. No need to go getting territorial." Doyle shook his head and grinned at his lover. Jim didn't relax his grip.
"Instinct," he replied to Bodie's teasing. Blair sighed, deeply, and turned to his father.
"How are you doing? I mean, with getting through the effects of the kidnapping?" Honest concern colored his voice. Doyle swallowed, hard, then met his eyes.
"Pretty well, I think. It helps, being able to do something about it. Tracking down the rest of them."
"Eliminating the threat," Jim put in, and Doyle nodded.
"Yeah." He looked over at Elena, concern evident in his eyes. "None of us are safe until they're all put away."
"They've proven in the past that it doesn't bother them at all to take out innocent targets," Bodie added. "We're getting closer, managed to snag one of them, so far."
"And reports indicate that one of the other two died in Greece a few months ago." Doyle took up the mini-briefing. "The newer members of the gang have splintered off. They had no loyalty to Hofnan, and with him dead, they've gone back to their own agenda."
"And it's centered in Germany, not here," Bodie continued. "So there's not much to fear from them."
"Then why the guards, still?" Elena queried.
"There's one left," Ray informed them solemnly. "One of the nastier ones, at that. Name of Julia Moltkje. Explosives expert, and not a bad sniper either. She won't quit."
No," Bodie agreed in a hard voice. "She was Hofnan's woman, so his death makes it extremely personal for her. Also, she was wounded in the shoot-out eight years ago, and last reports were she was crippled. Has to wear a leg brace of some sort. She's kept well underground, but no one has seen or heard a thing of her in the last month or so."
"You think she's heard about Hofnan and now she's coming after you?" Jim asked, all his protective instincts screaming at him. Bad time to bring Blair to England, he thought gloomily. Walking target. These guys like to take out innocents, and there was a harpy on the loose with a need for vengeance ... against Blair's own father. Very bad time to meet the in-laws. Doyle's voice broke into his internal monologue.
"I don't think it, I know it," Doyle asserted. "I studied her, when we went undercover. She was devoted, not to the 'cause' per se, but to Hofnan himself. She'll be out for blood. Mine," he grimaced, "and anyone who's close to me." He glanced over at Elena. "So Kim stays, until the black widow is dead, right?"
She gave him a twisted smile in return. "Right," she sighed. Looking down at her watch, she made a slight exclamation. "Speaking of whom, I'd better get cracking or I'll miss the last train." She jumped up, whirled over and hugged each man in turn, giving Blair an extra squeeze. "Come down to Cambridge when you can, little brother. There are some books in the library there I think you just might be interested in seeing." Pressing the beeper at her belt twice, she kissed her father good-bye, and bade Bodie look after him. Ignoring Doyle's laughing protest that he was a big boy and quite capable of looking after himself, she told Jim the same thing about Blair. Father and son shared a helpless glance behind her back, and she swept out the door into Kim's care.
Bodie got up to set the locks after her and glanced at the others. "I'm for making some tea. Anyone for a cuppa?" At the general assent, he walked into the kitchen and began to fill the kettle. Over the sound of running water, Bodie heard his mate ask his newfound son to tell him about himself.
One way or another, it was going to be all right.
Depending on which clock one used, it was either very early in the morning or mid-afternoon by the time Jim and Blair made it back to their hotel. Riding the lift up to the third floor to their room, Jim risked a quick hug, which Blair immediately took advantage of to snuggle into his side. He gave up any attempt to be discreet and dropped a kiss on top of his lover's curls. Lifting his head, he met the slightly scandalized glance of a proper-looking matron. Giving her the most innocent look he could muster, echoing Blair's friendly smile, he led his half-asleep Guide through the door and into bed. Neither of them paid any attention to the stern eye that followed their progress until the door shut, or heard the disapproving (but exceedingly genteel) snort behind their backs.
Having successfully attained the target area -- the bedroom -- Jim set about keeping Blair awake long enough to get them both stripped and into bed. Not getting a lot of help from his partner, he finally got exasperated and decided to try shock tactics. Tugging the dress shirt off Blair's arms, he tossed it over his shoulder and vigorously attacked the smaller man's pants, tickling every inch of exposed skin he found along the way. Blair's pulse jumped, his muscles tensed, and he jerked upright to stare at the madman ripping his jeans off.
"Jim?" His voice wavered as the jeans followed his boots somewhere off to the side of the bed and those long fingers headed for the waistband of his boxers. "Babe? You okay, there, big guy? This hit you sort of sudden, didn't it, man?" His voice broke completely on the last word, as the boxers flew away and disappeared from view and he suddenly found himself flat on his back in the middle of the bed. Jim surveyed his conquest with some satisfaction. This was the way to have Sandburg. Naked, shivering, speechless and, yes, totally turned on. His grin widened as he took in the sight of an impressive erection, and he swooped down over Blair to kiss him thoroughly. By the time he finished mapping the terrain of his Guide's mouth, neither one of them had the breath to make any noise, although Blair was trying his best.
"Ji--uh, Jim?, mm, J-uhm...?" The man in question completely derailed the questioner's thinking process by the simple method of licking across his chest from one beaded nipple to the other. The attempted query died away into rambling mutters, and neither man paid the slightest attention, all concentration focused on the delicious friction of skin on skin.
Ellison had been simmering since they'd first walked into Doyle's apartment. The unmistakable, heavy musk in the air, coupled with the faint sounds of skin and material sliding against one another and the nearly silent moans and slaps of flesh had drawn a number of highly erotic pictures in his head. Knowing what Bodie and Doyle were doing had led inexorably to his never particularly well-controlled desire to do the same sort of thing to Blair, often, and with multiple variations. Trying to keep his mind on the conversation got tougher and tougher as the time passed. The scent of recent sex filling his head every time either Doyle or Bodie moved had stoked the banked arousal until he'd had to clench his fists and bite his lip. By the time they finally got to their room, he was nearly ready to explode. He was by nature a gentle man, and his protective feelings toward his smaller, more physically vulnerable lover ensured that he would never knowingly hurt him, but he also knew that Blair was strong enough to take (and enjoy) those few times when the need for him became feral. The instinct to take was as strong as the instinct to give, and he surrendered to both with his Guide.
His hands were everywhere, shaping, kneading, soothing, teasing. Particularly sensitive spots got special attention, the hollow at the base of Blair's throat, the nape of his neck. The inner curve of his elbow. The thin skin along his pelvic bone, and the ticklish spot just below his navel. Tiny tugs at the glittering nipple ring, an answering moan rewarding each tug. The rounded bump at the end of his collar bone. The hint of a cleft in his chin. The lower edge of his rib cage, and the tracery of veins on the inside of his wrist. By the time he finished with tasting and relearning every hot spot on Blair's body, the younger man was moaning continuously, thrusting up helplessly, legs spread, demanding to be taken.
Of course, by this time, the 'take' was beginning to overpower the 'give' from Ellison's perspective. Sinking his fingers between the thighs being parted so demandingly, he found his target and sank deeply, twisting as he thrust. Blair rewarded him with a strangled "Yes!!" that sounded remarkably familiar to Doyle's cry earlier in the evening. For some reason that thought ripped away the last of Jim's control, and he quickly withdrew his fingers to palm the back of Blair's thighs and shift them upward. Resting Blair's calves on his shoulders, he parted the sturdy buttocks with one hand and guided himself home with the other.
As he settled firmly into his lover, Jim felt his entire universe contract to the point of joining between their bodies. As sensory overload threatened to swamp him, he dialed everything down, then gradually opened his senses up one at a time as he began to pump in and out. Opening his eyes, he say Blair spread out underneath him, hair wild on the pillows as his head thrashed from side to side, eyes squeezed shut, his face glowing from exertion and passion, his mouth open to gasp for air. His Guide's strong hands clutched at his shoulders, and Blair thrust up to meet each of his downward strokes. Caught between them, aching and swollen, Blair's erection was a slash of heat against his abdomen. He could feel the blood pulsing there, as his lover strained closer and closer to orgasm. Relaxing his control, he allowed himself the pleasure of nearly zoning on the sounds of their lovemaking -- the harsh rasp of air in labored lungs, the wet slap of skin against skin -- and deeper still, the near whisper of Blair calling his name under his breath, over and over and over, and the thunder of their combined heartbeats, in perfect synchronization as they moved together.
As sight and sound and sensation crashed over him and he felt the beginning of Blair's climax start deep in the balls hitting the sensitized skin of his groin, he thrust as deeply as he could into his Blair and held on. One of his lover's hands slid from his shoulder to wrap around the neglected erection and pump, once, hard. The splash of Blair's semen against his skin branded him with fire, and the clench of the spasming muscle around the root of his cock tore his orgasm from him. He cried out, sharply, unaware, as he threw his head back and spurted into the hot channel holding him like a vise.
Some time later, he was aware that Blair was wriggling somewhat frantically under him. Finding enough of his brain functioning to make out what the younger man was whispering to him was a major achievement, and he was complimenting himself on that when he realized what Blair actually was whispering. "Ouch" and "squished" came through pretty clearly, and with a groan he managed to heave himself off his flattened love.
Rolling on to his back, unsure if he'd ever be able to move again, he ran one lazy hand through the mess on his abdomen and chest. Blair had certainly gotten his out of it all. It felt like there was a quart of semen spread all over him. A heavy head flopped onto his shoulder, and strong arms wrapped around his torso, trapping his hand. One long leg slid over his thighs, effectively trapping his legs. Looking down at the octopus currently wrapped around his body, he smiled affectionately and settled down to sleep. It had been a long, but good, day. And he had a hunch everything was going to work out just fine with his newfound in-laws.
There were a few formalities at the front desk of CI5 headquarters, but the instructions Murphy had left were very clear. Upon display of proper identification, James Ellison and Blair Sandburg were to be issued visitor's identification passes and escorted to the Controller's office.
"Ya know, Jim, it was a heck of a lot easier to get visitor id here than it was at Cascade PD. Fewer forms, and I didn't even have to, you know," he made a gesture descriptive of peeing in a bottle. "And best of all -- no fundamentalist right wing militia led by insane megalomaniacs taking the building hostage!" The duty officer at the desk gave him an exceedingly strange look, which he shrugged off as the norm. Jim just shook his head at him. Within moments, Alison showed up to identify them in person and lead them to Murphy's office. Behind them, the duty officer, a man with thirty years on the job, watched the younger man walk away and wondered why he should look so familiar. Sure it would come to him eventually, he turned to his papers and dismissed it from his mind.
Murphy met them at the door and waved them in. Bodie and Doyle were already there, reports and file folders scattered around them in controlled chaos. After greetings all around, Murphy settled into his chair and looked over at Jim and Blair.
"Doyle has reported to me what he remembers of the kidnapping and subsequent events. Bodie has already given me a report on Doyle's kidnapping and your tracking him down. What I don't understand is ... how?"
Looking into the piercing eyes of the CI5 controller, Jim found himself unable to answer. Without thought, he turned to Blair and said plaintively, "Chief?"
Two voices answered him in stereo, Blair to his right and Doyle to his left. Father and son stared at each other, then at Jim, in some confusion for a moment, before Doyle recollected precisely where he was at.
"Sorry 'bout that," he apologized quickly. "After the last four years of being addressed as 'Chief' it has become second nature to answer to it. But, why Chief for Blair?"
Jim shrugged and grinned. "Just a nickname. It seemed to fit."
Blair fixed Doyle with an unblinking stare. "This is amazing, man. Reciprocity. Genetic mirroring. How much is determined by environment and how much is hardwired in the womb? Can't have been upbringing. According to information from primary sources, Bodie, Naomi, Elena, we are so much alike it's frightening when you think about it -- love of motion, attitudes toward race and cultural difference, adrenaline junkies, bookworms. Yet in so many ways we are polar opposites." Before he could get a good head of steam up, Murphy interjected.
"That's fascinating, Blair. Not least because it was one of the most ingenious attempts I've seen yet to change the subject. Not that it worked." Blair licked his lips and looked innocent. Doyle smiled to himself and went back to his files. Jim took a deep breath and decided to come clean.
"What I have to say doesn't leave the room. Okay?" Blair looked at him with consternation. "It's okay, Chief." Doyle jerked, but managed to stifle the instinctive response. "Bodie knows, and he had to tell Murphy. That's how it works. But I don't work here, I won't be staying here, and what I tell him can't be used to hold me here."
Blair still seemed worried, but he burrowed back into his chair and nodded agreement. They had to tell them something, anyway, and he was fresh out of believable scenarios. Well, believable ones that these guys would buy, anyway.
"I have unusual sensory perception. I can see and smell things other people can't." He kept it as simple as possible, and Blair nodded his approval. Only tell them what they need to hear, don't offer anything past what you had to. A good rule to live by. "I was able to follow them initially because I could trace the tire tracks in the road grease."
Doyle and Bodie had given up on the files at this point and were staring at Jim with fascination. So was Murphy, but he was hiding it a little better.
"After we'd had some rest and I was able to concentrate again, I tracked them by scent." There was a short exclamation from the side of the room, but he ignored it and continued. "Doyle's scent was familiar to me, because it's very similar to Blair's. So I focused on that, and with Blair to guide me so I didn't focus so hard I lost touch with reality, I was able to track it to the house where they were holding him."
"What did I tell you?" Blair asked rhetorically. "It's in the genetic code. That's how I got the idea that we might be related, too, Ray."
Before either Doyle or Murphy could respond to this amazing tale, there was a loud commotion from the front hall. Instinctively drawing their guns, Alison, Doyle, Bodie and Murphy headed for the reception desk, with Jim, pushing Blair behind him, on their heels. Muttering to himself about the curse of being too damned short and never being able to see what the heck was going on, Blair followed his cadre of armed CI5 agents and one large Blessed Protector out into the hallway to see what all the shouting was about.
When they cleared the offices, he realized he didn't have to see it. He could hear it. Swallowing a sigh, he began to push his way through the large bodies in his way to get to the front and see what Naomi had gotten herself into this time.
"I am letting this go. I am LETTING this GO." There was almost a growl in the soft voice. "My son is here, I am going to see him, your attitude is not constructive in the least, and I AM LETTING THIS GO."
The guard who had previously processed their paperwork was clinging to his desk like the last defender holding the battlements before the invading hordes. The single slender woman in the flame red dress and floating umber scarf didn't look that threatening, but looks could be deceiving. The harried look on the guard's face was matched by the distinct whine in his voice.
"NO! The last time a red headed woman got past me and into the halls of CI5 was fifteen years ago, and it damn near cost me my job, lady. It's not going to happen again!" Picking Doyle out from the crowd that was beginning to gather, he pointed an accusatory finger at the agent. "She was one of yours then, too!"
Naomi turned to follow the finger, and her face lit up.
"Ray!" Completely ignoring the several weapons that were trained on her by various hard faced agents who were used to danger wearing a pretty face, she swept over to Doyle and enveloped him in a hug. For once quite speechless, Doyle's face matched Naomi's dress. Not giving him a chance to respond, as was her wont, she burbled on. "You look absolutely wonderful, sweetie! But what did you do to your hair? It's lost all its curl. But the color looks stunning on you -- I love the temples! So distinguished. So did you get the chance to talk to Blair? Isn't he a wonder?"
From somewhere to the back of the crowd, accompanied by small grunts of expelled air as a sharp elbow hit rib cages to clear a pathway, came a muffled, "Yes, Mom, we met!"
By this time, Naomi had finished hugging Doyle to within an inch of his life, and turned to subject Bodie to her visual inspection. "You must be Bodie. You just look like a Bodie." Ignoring Ray's muttered, "What the hell does a bodie look like?" she placed one hand under Bodie's chin and tipped his face up to the light. "Oh, my stars! What incredible blue eyes you have!" Tossing the comment over her shoulder she assured Doyle, "He's absolutely delicious, darling, your taste is excellent as always!" Doyle blushed again and rolled his eyes, but Bodie just grinned and accepted the accolade as his due. "You take very good care of him, don't you?" It sounded more like a command than a question, and Bodie nodded enthusiastically.
Bending forward, his comment for Naomi's ears only, he whispered, "His neck's still his weak spot." She gurgled with laughter at the remark, and threw Doyle a wicked smile.
"We must find some time for a private conversation later," she told Bodie, and Doyle groaned aloud.
"No, you must not!" he nearly howled.
Before the scene could completely disintegrate, Murphy decided to reassert his authority and add some order to the milling herd. "All right, everyone," he called out in a distinctive 'command voice'. "Floor show's over. If you don't have anything better to do than to hang about in the halls then I'm certain I can find something for you to do."
The agents scattered like a flock of geese, guns hastily stuffed into holsters, eyes everywhere except on their controller for fear they'd catch his attention and end up in the file room doing dusty duty. Satisfied with the effect of his words, he turned his stern eye on Naomi.
She was not impressed ... not with the sternness, anyway. An arrested look came over her mobile features, and her eyes widened. No one heard Jim's murmured, "Uh-oh!" as she seemed to glide away from Bodie to settle in front of Murphy.
"And who is this divine man?" she breathed, all glowing eyes and inviting smile. "Aren't you just beautiful. I haven't seen walking classical beauty like this since I don't know when. And your aura is as clear as the sky in the Colorado high country at dawn. Let me see your eyes." One long-fingered hand curved around his chin, handily closing the jaw that had dropped open and preventing him from either speaking or escaping. "Ooooooh, yes," she crooned. "You're quite Gaelic, aren't you. It just shines from you. I'm getting the most amazingly calming vibes from you. Are you always this centered?"
From the pole-axed look on Murphy's face, he wasn't going to answer any time soon, so Blair stepped in to fill the breach. "He's Ray and Bodie's boss, Naomi. Kind of like Simon, you know?"
Eyes still locked with Murphy's, she shook her head in a decisive negative. "Nothing like Simon, sweetie, nothing at all like Simon." Murphy blinked, trying to clear his head. It didn't work. She moved a step closer. He watched her, mesmerized as a rabbit in front of a python.
Blair sighed. "I meant the job, Mom. Anyway, he's the head of CI5 and his name's Colin Murphy-"
"Colin!" She seemed delighted by the name. From the gradually warming but still mesmerized look on the Controller's face, he rather liked the way she said it, too. Still without saying a word to her, he carefully curved his hand around her upper arm and turned them both, leading her in the direction of his office. As they disappeared down the hallway, they heard her murmuring softly to him about old souls and circles. By the time the door shut securely behind them, Murphy had managed to force out a semi-articulate "um-hm" but Naomi was in full spate.
In the silence left by her departure, the guard slumped into his chair. "Red headed women. The bane of my life is red headed women."
Blair, Jim, Bodie and Doyle exchanged glances. Without saying a word, they turned as one and headed in the opposite direction from Murphy's office. Once in the sunlight on the walkway outside headquarters, they stopped and looked around. Doyle looked over at Blair.
"He's dead meat."
Blair nodded. "Totally toast, man."
Bodie looked at Jim, who nodded agreement. It was the last straw for Bodie, and he started cracking up completely. Swinging around to face Doyle, he grinned, "I see your taste has always been a bit on the wild side, Ray-mate!" Before Doyle could respond, the air was split by the single crack of a high-powered rifle. Reacting instinctively, Jim pulled Blair down under him on the cement. Ray crouched and pulled his gun.
Bodie fell.
The news had filtered to her in the usual ways of the underground. A whisper here, a snatch of hurried conversation there. Albert had gone to the United States looking for funding. There were always idealists there with money, who were willing to send pots of it to far away lands if they were painted a rosy enough picture by a smooth talker. And her Albert had always been a smooth talker.
Once.
Now he was dead.
And it was that little bastard Doyle's fault.
They had hunted Doyle and his mercenary lover as long as they could, before the rats went to ground and the hunting became too risky. Too many of their cell were dead, and the remnants might as well have been radioactive from the way the other freedom fighters treated them.
That's how she'd always thought of herself, as a freedom fighter. She had grown up with the advantages of a middle class home, with middle class parents and middle class aspirations in a stifling middle class atmosphere. She'd known that something was wrong, she just hadn't known what it was. Labeled a troublemaker from an early age, always reaching for something that was just out of her grasp, it had taken a young man with fire in his mind to show her what she had been missing.
Others called Albert Hofnan a terrorist. She knew better. He was her fire. He led her as she had wanted and needed to be led the whole of her life. Even when the authoritarian fascists had broken their cell and killed so many of her fellow freedom fighters, he had escaped, as she had. Forced to hide, to rebuild, slowly, painfully, in the shadows where they both felt most comfortable, it had been a difficult time. But the fire remained. Only now it was more personally directed. No longer targeting the edifices of social order that were so representative of the stagnant, decayed world they sought to change, but personal, centered around two men who had destroyed a dream.
There had been new comrades, drawn by the fire, or by the reputation, past deeds glorified by small minds. But they had not understood the need that drove the fire now, and they had drifted away. Until, eventually, all that remained were the four original members who had survived the initial destruction. She, Albert, Frederick and Thomas. Now Frederick was dead and Thomas was held prisoner, to be tried and judged by those who had no concept of true justice and no right to hold judgment on them. And Albert ...
It had been difficult slipping into Britain. Other freedom fighters in a local cell of the IRA had helped her, in repayment for assistance they had been rendered in past conflicts. But once in, she was on her own. Truly alone as she had not been alone for twenty years. Thanks to one man.
She hated Ray Doyle with all of the fire that had been quenched when he had murdered her Albert.
Knowing that her time was limited, she wasted none of it. Before returning she had researched this 'Alan Cade' pseudonym he had been hiding behind. There was a daughter. He could be hurt through the child. But the child was shadowed by a yellow guard with eyes that didn't rest. Even with the changes she had made in her appearance, some things could not be changed. The brace that ran from her knee to the ball of her foot, keeping her twisted leg straight so that she could walk, could not be disguised completely. The scar along her chin that pulled the corner of her mouth slightly to the side could be covered with makeup, but the mouth itself could not be significantly altered. So she dared not let the guard see her, for fear that the primary target would be missed when she sacrificed herself trying for the secondary target.
But the child had been useful after all. She had led her to the bastard himself. The guard had been outside the flat, and she'd not been able to reconnoiter the area well enough to make an attempt where the wariness would be most relaxed -- in his home. So she had followed him, trusting the fire to guide her as it had for so many years. She had patience coupled with her hatred, and such a strong need to see Raymond Doyle dead that she felt invincible. It was fate, that she should take the life of the one who had taken her fire from her.
Nearly five hours after finding a comfortable spot atop a roof across from the nondescript doorway that Doyle had entered so early that morning, she got her chance.
Four men exited the building. A tall man and a short one with long hair, young, she didn't know them. They were unimportant. The mercenary, looking healthy and strong, sending a rush of hatred through her that he should be so vital when her Albert was dead. Then the murderer himself, laughing, his face lit up, no cares in the world. Sighting along the barrel, she brought his face into focus and was caught by the love in his expression. Following his line of sight, she realized it was the mercenary he was looking at with such light in his eyes. Smiling with a feral joy that she could hurt him as he had hurt her, determined to extinguish that light, she took careful aim and fired.
Doyle brought his gun up as he saw Bodie crumple into the pavement. For a moment the entire world went still, and everything froze. Then with a crash of noise and confusion, time began again. Waving Jim and Blair away, he carefully turned his mate over, blanching at the blood flowing freely from the exit wound in his chest.
"Ray? What-" Before Blair could finish the question, Doyle cut in.
"I've got him," he barked, ripping off his jacket and fashioning a crude pressure bandage with it, stuffing it against the chest wound. "Follow the sniper!"
Jim took off immediately, eyes scanning the area, giving the impression that he was sniffing the air. Blair shot one last concerned glance at his father's lover, then followed his Sentinel at a trot. People were coming down the steps now, and Doyle bellowed for someone to call an ambulance. A soothing voice replied that one had been called immediately upon hearing the shot, that the whole thing had been seen from one of the upper floor windows.
Desperately pressing the jacket against Bodie, watching helplessly as it rapidly soaked through with blood, Ray began to mutter a mixture of prayers and exhortations to his mate, threatening to kill him if he died on him.
The ambulance was there in less than three minutes.
From his position on the sidewalk, covering Blair, Jim had looked up in the direction from which the bullet had come. Using his Sentinel sight, he zeroed in on a pale face surrounded by lank, short brown hair. As she was hastily disappearing over the edge of the roof, he saw something else -- in her hands, she carried the black length of a sniper rifle with the cylindrical bulk of a long range sight.
Seeing that Doyle had started emergency medical procedures on Bodie, he waited just long enough for Blair to catch up, then went on the hunt. He could smell the lingering stench of cordite over the fresh copper smell of Bodie's blood and the lingering weight of exhaust fumes in the street. Taking off at a steady jog, his Guide right behind him, he began to track the cordite. It was fading quickly.
As they left the busier streets and penetrated into the tree-filled park area, avoiding the office workers enjoying lunch in St. James's Park and tracking further through the trees into Green Park, the smell faded completely. But something else had been tickling at his mind. With his senses in full hunt alert, it took only a moment to register, and when it did he switched his tracking focus from smell to hearing. The sniper had an uneven gait, and there was the faintest rhythmic squeak accompanying her running footsteps. When the squeak stopped, so would Ellison, waiting, concentrating, touching Blair's arm or wrist at regular intervals to keep himself from zoning out. Sandburg kept silent and kept pace, as deeply into the hunt as his Sentinel was. When the squeaking began again, so would the tracking.
It grew louder, although still too faint to be picked out from the ambient noise by anything less acute than Sentinel hearing. Finally, the distance was closed enough for a rush, and Jim crouched low, gently pushing Blair behind a nearby tree. Moving forward with silent feet, well learned in his time both in the army and in the jungle, he closed the gap between himself and his prey. The squeaking had stopped completely, and he concentrated on heartbeats, filtering out his own and his Guide's, trying to single out the sniper. As he came up for a final pounce, he was shocked into stillness by the cold snub of a gun barrel behind his ear.
"You know you are a dead man?" There was no life to her voice at all, simply cool composure. Ellison swallowed heavily. Before he could reply, could try to talk her out of pulling the trigger, there was a sharp snap behind them and to their left.
Everything seemed to happen at once.
The terrorist responded to the unexpected sound by jerking slightly, and glancing wildly behind her. Blair added to the distraction of the broken branch by shouting, loudly, "Yo! You with the gun in your hand! Look this way!" It was the best he could come up with on short notice. The sight of his Jim with a loaded gun that close to his skull, in the hands of a madwoman, tended to short circuit his creative energies. Ellison reacted to Moltkje's distraction by twisting smoothly away and to the side, so when she pulled the trigger by reflex the bullet buried itself harmlessly in a nearby tree. Before she could recover, he yanked the gun out of her hand, shoved her hand behind her back and up between her shoulder blades, and frog-marched her out of the park. As they passed a shaking Blair, he gave his partner a blinding smile.
"Great timing, Chief! Thanks for the back-up!"
Blair managed a somewhat sick smile in return, gathered what remained of his composure, and followed Jim and their prisoner out of the park.
Doyle hated hospitals. Whether it was as an inmate or a visitor, the helpless feeling was the same, and he loathed feeling helpless. The doctors were quick, efficient, and surprisingly kind, but that was still his Bodie in surgery back there. Staring moodily at the doors blocking his access to his mate, he didn't react immediately when the nurse called his name.
"Mr. Doyle?"
By the second repetition it dawned on him that he was Mr. Doyle. It had been years since anyone had called him that on a regular basis, and he was finding it a little hard to adjust to not being 'Cade' anymore. Giving the young woman an expression that might pass for a smile in bad light and to a sympathetic audience, he nodded briefly when she told him that he had a phone call at the nurses' station. Abandoning his post by the critical care unit doors, he strode to the station and picked up the receiver, nodding his thanks to the nurse.
"Doyle."
"Ray, this is Jax. How's Bodie doing?" The warm voice of his old friend and fellow agent was a welcome sound. He'd seen a few of the senior agents in the halls in the last few days, but had been too busy to get together with any of them.
"He's in surgery now. It was a clean one, though, bullet went right through. He was conscious on the way in, in the ambulance, so I think he's gonna be all right." He'd damned well better be all right, was left unsaid, but clearly heard.
"He's a strong one, mate. He'll pull through." Doyle made a noncommittal noise, and Jax continued. "Good going on the part of that Yank you had visiting. He tracked down the sniper and brought her in."
"Her?" Doyle queried sharply. If it was Julia Moltkje ...
"Last of the bad bunch," Jax affirmed, without going into details on an open line. Doyle heaved a sigh of relief.
"Ta, mate, I appreciate the news," he thanked Jax sincerely.
"Thought you'd like to know. Give my best to Bodie when he wakes up. Mac and I'll be by later with the grapes."
"I'll let you know when he's awake enough to appreciate them, Jax. And I'll even bring the chocolates." An appreciative chuckle met his weak attempt at a joke, and Doyle's smile was somewhat more genuine than it had been earlier. The young nurse responded automatically to the smile with a bright one of her own, and Ray wandered back down the corridor to take up his position outside the doors and wait.
He didn't know how long it was before he felt a presence by his side. Looking up, he saw flame red cotton swirling gently around a tall, slender figure. For once, Naomi was silent. Searching her eyes, he saw affection and concern. Still without a word, she reached out to enfold him in a hug, and he found himself holding on to her like a drowning man clinging to a spar. She held him close, petting his back, running her hand soothingly over his hair, and rocking him slightly. They stood there for some time, holding on to one another, until the doctor finally found them, and gave them the good news.
"He came through very well. The blood loss was minimized by quick action on the scene and the timely arrival of the medics, and the wound itself was very clean. Glanced off the rib cage, angled up, missed the heart and lung and came out the front. Your Mr. Bodie is a very lucky man. A nice, strong, healthy one, too. With no complications, he should be up and about in a week or so." The doctor was all brisk concern. "He's stabilized. They've got him in post-op now, they should have him in a room in awhile, but you'll not be able to see him until he's settled. Why don't you get some dinner and come back afterward? By that time he'll be all set up, and should be coming 'round from under the anesthesia."
Doyle nodded his thanks, and Naomi took his hand as the doctor hurried off. "I'm getting very good vibes about this, Ray. It was meant to be, the two of you, and this is just a karmic hiccup." She tugged him away from the doors, toward the elevators. "You must be hungry. Or if you're not, you should be. Are you still vegetarian? I'm vegan myself. Let's go see what they have to offer that we can actually eat."
Doyle stared bemusedly at her all the way down to the dining room, suddenly very tired. He was getting too old for this kind of excitement.
And when Bodie came round, he would tell him so.
Jim caused a bit of a sensation as he marched his prisoner toward CI5 headquarters. Blair managed to pull off a certain innocent insouciance, trailing behind carrying the sniper's rifle slung over his shoulder, deliberately not meeting any of the astonished glances heading his way. True, over the years he and Jim had been together, he had gotten a little blas about finding himself in strange situations, but that was on his home turf. London was a different story altogether.
They made it to headquarters with no one actually stopping them, although a few people had stopped to stare at them. Marching in single file up the steps and through the door, they managed to render the desk guard speechless for the second time that day.
Within moments, the well-oiled machinery that was CI5 sprang into action. The prisoner was removed, along with her armament, Moltkje being taken to an interrogation room and the guns vanishing into the evidence hold.
Murphy came up to them for a moment before disappearing to question the terrorist. "This is Jax," he gestured to a slender black man in his forties with the same lethally competent look that all CI5 agents seemed to have. Jim and Blair nodded greetings. "He's agent in charge of the Hofnan investigation. Please brief him on the capture." He paused long enough to beam at Jim. "Good work!"
"If it hadn't been for Sandburg. I'd be dead," Jim responded. Murphy and Jax exchanged startled looks, then stared at the student, who shrugged, palms up, denying any great heroics.
"Just distracted her a little, man. She was way too intent on keeping that gun on you, Jim. Worked out well in the end though, and that's what matters. Bad guys, or gals, or whatever, are put away, good guys are all in one piece." He stared hard at Murphy. "They are all in one piece, aren't they? I mean, Bodie's gonna be okay, isn't he?" There was a plea for reassurance buried under the confident words. Murphy stared back at him solemnly.
"I don't know yet, Blair. He was still in surgery when I checked." He reached out and thumped the younger man gently on the shoulder. "As soon as we know more, we'll let you know." He glanced over in the direction of the interrogation rooms. "Please excuse me. I have duties I must attend to." Another quick nod and he was on his way.
Jax stared at the two Americans in a friendly manner. "Tell you what," he invited, gesturing for them to follow him into the cubbyhole that served as his office. "You brief me on the capture and as soon as I have something I can tell Ray, I'll call the hospital. Set his mind at rest and get an update on Bodie's condition. Sound good?"
"Very", Jim replied, and Blair nodded distractedly as he sprawled in one of the two chairs stuffed into the little room. Jim looked at his partner, concern evident in crystal eyes. "You okay, Chief?"
"Yeah, I guess, I dunno." He stared at the floor for a long moment, then raised darkened eyes to stare up at Jim. "What is it with us, man? It is so not normal to be running into crazed chicks with rifles and maniacs with bombs and psychos behind every rock, but that seems to be so us. Some kind of bad karma left over from a previous life or something?"
"I don't know, Sandburg." Jim settled against the wall next to Blair's chair. "Maybe you were right in what you were saying earlier, and it's in the genes."
A wry smile twisted the younger man's mouth. "Could be, big guy. Could be." The smile disappeared and he looked over at Jax, then back up at Jim. "I'm worried about Bodie. And about my dad. Did you see the look on his face when he was bent over Bodie trying like crazy to stop the bleeding?"
"Yeah, Blair." Jim reached down and ran his forefinger through a loose curl, tugging on it gently. "I saw."
The younger man sat up, deliberately shaking off the depression that had settled over him, briefly leaning into Jim's hand before turning to Jax in a business-like manner. "So. What did you need to know?"
The briefing was concise, to the point, and left out several major elements of fact, all of them pertaining to Jim's sentinel abilities. Covering by saying he'd sighted her at the scene of the shooting and gotten on her trail while she was still in visual range, he was able to tell the rest of the story without getting in to how he could hear her leg brace. Giving full credit to Blair for his timely intervention, Jim wound up the briefing and waited for Jax to finish typing on his keyboard. After ensuring that Sandburg had nothing left to add to the report, Jax punched the 'print' button and reached for his phone.
"Let's see how Bodie's doing."
The news was reassuring. After checking the report and signing off on it, Jim and Blair asked after Murphy. Hearing that he was in with the prisoner and was expected to be interrogating her for some time, they headed to the hospital to see how Doyle was doing. Blair stopped at the reception desk on his way out the door. The guard looked at him with trepidation.
"Yes?" What now, was plainly clear in his expression. It had been a tough day.
"I was just wondering, you remember Naomi Sandburg, she was here this morning-"
"The red head!" the guard interjected, looking even unhappier.
"Yeah, well," Blair fought back a laugh. His mother did have a tendency to make a strong impression, one way or another. "Did she happen to tell you where she was going when she left?"
"The hospital. Poor Doyle," the guard continued morosely. "Hey, kid, tell me -- you know what lavender meadowsweat is? She was saying something about how I should get me some as she was walking out. What was she talking about?" He fixed Blair with a suspicious glare.
Blair swallowed hard to keep from laughing out loud. Not able to control the bright grin, he explained, "Lavender and meadowsweet are herbs that promote peace and harmony, man. She was just saying you need to calm down a little, take it easy."
As he and Jim continued out the door, muttered imprecations about red headed women and the impossibility of staying calm around them followed them into the street.
The hospital was surprisingly quiet, and they found their way to Bodie's room with no trouble. Naomi was sitting against the wall outside the room in the lotus position, head tipped slightly back, eyes closed. Staff walked around her, giving her a wide berth and an incredulous look or two, but no one bothered her. As Jim and Blair came to a stop next to her, she opened her eyes and smiled sweetly up at them.
"Ray's in there," she said quietly. "Bodie just woke up a little while ago. He's going to be fine. His life force is incredibly strong, and it's woven so tightly with Ray's that they're almost one energy field. A lot of darkness in them, but it's infused with light in places you'd least expect it. They've been through a lot, but I think the worst is over. Those two are soul mates." She thought for a moment, staring at her son and his lover, a light deep in her eyes. "Like the two of you are. I never would have thought it would be so, when I first met you, Jim. But you two belong together." She cocked her head, listening to something only she could hear. "Go into your father, sweetie. Lend him some of your strength. This whole thing has shaken him more than he will admit." With that, she closed her eyes again and sank back into her meditation. Blair gave her an affectionate smile, caught hold of Jim's sleeve, and tugged him into the room.
Once inside, he stopped as though he had run into a brick wall. The intensity he had expected -- the anger, he had not.
"What's going on, guys?" he asked as he stepped hesitantly to Bodie's bedside. Ray's face looked like a thundercloud, and Bodie looked, well, sulky was the only word that really fit the outthrust lip and the closed expression. Jim stayed back by the wall, keeping to the sidelines, ready to step in if Blair should need him. It looked like there was going to be an explosion.
There wasn't much of a wait. Doyle fired the first volley. "I'm going back to Eastland. For all the crap that you have to put up with at least it's safer than here."
"That's bullshit, Doyle," Bodie shot back, voice slightly hoarse from the anesthesia but still forceful. "Julia's in custody, the last of the Hofnan gang's dead or in lock-up. Murph's offered us a damned good deal, and what's the worst that could happen in training, eh? Some wet-behind-the-ears brat might get a lucky punch in, that's it. And since when have you been so bloody concerned about being safe?"
"Since everyone I care about has been walking about with a frigging bull's eye pasted on their back, Bodie, that's since when! Hofnan was the worst of it, yeah, but he wasn't the only old enemy we've got. Bastards'll be coming out of the woodwork for all we know, and then where will we be? Not that you give a shit, been putting your arse in the line of fire every day for the past eight years, haven't you. What is it with you, you got a death wish or something?"
"No, damnit, Ray, I bloody well do not! But I'm good at it, and if I don't take that trainer job then I will go back to it. What the hell else am I going to do? Follow you to the back of bloody beyond and live in bucolic bliss in Norwich? And do what, pray tell? Teach English?" Bodie's voice nearly broke in outrage by the end of his little speech. Doyle, next to him, was staring at him with something close to dislike in his face, eyes bright with a combination of disgust and distress.
"I'm doing something worthwhile there, Bodie! I know it don't seem like much to you, considering your opinion of coppers, but it is worth something, and I can't just pack it in. Not that easily. It means something, damnit! I don't know how we'll work it out, but we can if we try. Doesn't seem like you're all that willing to try!"
"Why should I?" Bodie roared back. "You're not listening! What's the try for, anyway? A good fuck? That's about all there is to it, at this point, if you won't even listen to a bloody thing I say!"
By this point Blair had backed up until he was leaning his back against Jim's chest, trying his best to become invisible. This was not what he had expected. At Bodie's words, Doyle had blanched white, staring at him in pained disbelief. Blair had to strain to hear his next words, and even Jim had to dial his hearing back up, having turned it down earlier so the shouting wouldn't hurt his ears.
"Is that all it was, then, Bodie? Eight years apart, two weeks back together, the shine's off already. Got it off, then, and nothing left beyond that?" The stark pain in the husky rasp was echoed by the pain in Bodie's deeply shadowed eyes, but neither man seemed capable of backing down. As Doyle turned and started to walk away, Bodie raised one hand as if to reach for him. Doyle didn't see it. Blair did. That was all the younger man could take.
Coming away from Jim, sweeping an arm back to shove his partner into the doorway to block Doyle's escape, he planted himself in front of his father and stopped him by the simple expedient of a full body hug. Doyle began to react instinctively, and knock his arms away, then looked past the curls falling into his face to the set face of the big detective standing between himself and the door. A crystal clear memory of that same big body standing in the doorway in Seattle, representing rescue and relief, stopped him in his tracks.
A voice was hissing fiercely in his ear. Taking a deep breath, forcing his attention past the pounding of his pulse in his ears, he concentrated on the words. "Think, man. Just think about it for a minute. You got a second chance. You know how few people get a second chance in this world? It is so rare. Don't you go throwing it away. You beat the odds, Ray, you got your chance, and you're going to walk away from that? Don't you dare. Don't you walk away from him, now, 'cause if you do you won't get the chance to walk back. You can only say no so many times."
Doyle dropped his head onto his son's shoulder and returned the hug. As the anger began to die down, the reaction set in, and he started to shake. The younger man led him over to the single chair next to the bed, and settled him on the hard cushion. Leaning in for one last word, he whispered, "Don't blow it just 'cause you're scared right now, Ray."
Bodie reached out from the bed and caught the hand Doyle extended blindly in his direction. Blair backed away, watching their intent faces as Bodie and Doyle stared at one another. Making a quick decision and throwing a prayer up to whatever Deities watched over difficult lovers, he gathered Jim up and they slipped out the door.
When he could speak again, Doyle said the only thing he could think of. "Sorry, luv."
He had a lot more he needed to say, apologize for his rotten temper, admit that he covered his concern with anger, and he'd exploded because he had been too well reminded how easy it was to lose his lover once again. But there would be time for that. Somewhere private, when Bodie had his strength back again, and they had a little distance from recent events. For now, rest and recuperation, for both of them, were the orders of the day.
Bodie tugged gently on their entwined fingers. Not particularly caring what anyone thought of it, and not giving a tinker's damn if anyone walked in and saw them, Doyle reached over and caught Bodie's mouth in a long, tender kiss. For now, it would be enough. They'd thrash through the rest of it when they got home.
The cab ride back to the hotel was strained. Naomi was blissfully certain that everything was going to go just perfectly for Ray and Bodie. Blair didn't tell her about the scene in Bodie's hospital room, partly because he didn't want to upset her and partly because he didn't understand just what had transpired. Jim waited, and watched, concerned about his Blair's mental and emotional turmoil. When they arrived in the lobby, Naomi hugged them both and smiled serenely at them.
"I may be going to visit some friends in Avebury for a few days, sweetie. Are you going to stay in London or take Elena up on her invitation?"
Blair glanced up at Jim, who signaled that it was his decision. Still upset by the angry confrontation he'd witnessed, and needing time and space, he replied, "We'll be going down to Cambridge, I think, Mom. We've got a week, and there is some research I'd like to do while I'm there."
She cupped his face with her hands and bussed him. "Take some time to play, while you're at it, sweetie. All work and no play, you know how that goes." She gave Jim a mock-stern look. "Take his nose out of his books at regular intervals, please." He smiled back at her and nodded. Turning back to her son, she gave him a serious look. "Trust me on this one, please, Blair? It really is going to work out. I can feel it." She waited until he gave her a grudging nod of agreement, then patted his cheek and fluttered toward the elevator. Blair watched her go, and sighed.
"I don't know how she can be so sure, Jim. I mean, did you see those two go at each other? It was so not what you'd expect from two people who are supposed to love each other."
Jim put his arm around Blair's shoulders and steered him toward the elevators in Naomi's wake. "Yeah, Chief, you have a point. But I think your Mom does, too."
Blair gazed up at him inquisitively. "What do you mean, big guy?"
"She said there was a lot of darkness between them," Jim continued, pressing the button for their floor then pulling Blair back up against him. The smaller man went willingly enough, settling himself into Jim's embrace. They had the car to themselves, and were comfortable about speaking freely. "They're both opinionated, strong men who aren't used to explaining themselves. Maybe, in the past, they were in close enough synch that they could get away with it. But they've been apart for awhile, they've changed and they're not able to read each other the way they used to."
The chime rang as the doors opened on their floor, and they made their way into their room. Relaxing on the side of the bed, absently undressing, Jim continued his theorizing.
"Maybe they expect to still be able to read each other, and when they can't it leads to misunderstandings and arguments. Doesn't mean the feelings aren't still there, they just have to learn each other again, so they can stop hurting each other."
"Makes sense, Jim," Blair admitted, pulling off his own clothes and settling back against the pillows with a sigh of relief. It had been a long, hard, demanding day, emotionally and physically. He was glad to get horizontal. "I just hope they figure out what they're doing to each other, and why they're doing it, before they rip each other to shreds."
Jim settled down beside him and pulled him into a loose embrace, carding his fingers through Blair's curls and massaging his scalp gently. Blair gave a noise that closely approximated a purr, and Jim smiled down into his contented face. "I hope so, too, Chief, but nobody can figure it out for them. They have to do it for themselves."
"I guess," Blair replied, snuggling into Jim's chest and closing his eyes, relishing the feeling of being cherished that was spreading through his body, originating with the fingertips against his skull and reinforced by the warm skin touching him from his temple to his feet. "Just hope it's sometime this century, man."
Jim rumbled his agreement, and cuddled his partner some more. Feeling the need to distract the younger man from his bleak thoughts, he initiated some very light foreplay, just a touch here, and a caress there. Blair melted over him in complete relaxation after several minutes of this, and Jim realized that unless he wanted to try to make love to an unconscious Blair, he'd probably have to be a little less subtle.
Blair was just slipping into sleep when he felt the first firm touch of Jim's fingers between his thighs. Naturally acquiescent to his lover's touch, he obligingly parted his legs for easier access. By the time that touch began to slide in a determined pattern from the base of his cock to his opening, he suddenly decided that he wasn't as worn out as he'd thought he was. Reacting to the teeth nibbling at the side of his throat and the hands that were turning his backbone into jelly, he began a tactile exploration of his own. Smooth skin over hard muscle flowed under his palms, and he gave himself up to the pure sensual pleasure of mapping his Jim's body with his hands. Small, encouraging noises let to a variety of pressures, ranging from kneading to stroking, and before long he couldn't tell where his body ended and Jim's began. They were one person in two skins, and they moved continuously, driving the fever higher and higher.
Hooking one leg over his larger partner's thighs, he managed to turn them over until he was on top. Lowering his head, he swept his curls in circular patterns over Jim's chest, moving slowly toward his groin, knowing that his Sentinel could feel each individual hair like a finger caressing his skin. Jim was a quiet lover, but the unsteady writhing of his entire body under Blair's caress made his approval crystal clear. When he got to Jim's pelvis and the erection there, Blair carefully rubbed his chin along the straining flesh, knowing the slight stubble from his evening beard coming in would be exquisite torture for Jim. Alternating sliding the roughened skin along the shaft with soothing tongue baths, he soon had Jim thrusting helplessly up to him. Closing one hand around the base of the shaft, holding the swollen sac carefully with the other, he took a deep breath and did his best to swallow Jim whole.
The sudden suction all along the length of his erection tore his control from him, and with a protesting grunt, Jim exploded. Blair swallowed as fast as he could, but wasn't able to keep up with the flow, and the excess ejaculate dripped down across his chin. Milking the last of Jim's orgasm from him, careful not to over-stimulate the tender flesh, he snaked his way up Jim's torso and kissed him. Jim brought his arms around Blair, holding him tightly, or at least as tightly as he could with muscles that felt like melted butter. Blair leaned back slightly and moaned his pleasure as Jim lapped the spillage up, licking his face clean with all the delicacy and thorough attention of a cat at a bowl of cream. His own erection bumped into Jim's thigh, and hazy cerulean eyes opened to stare blearily up at him.
"In me?" It was the best Jim could manage. His tongue was also mush, along with the majority of his brain cells. Blair grinned cheekily at him and fumbled, one handed, through the open traveler's kit on the side table, not breaking contact with his satiated love. Shaving cream, deodorant, Jim's watch, Blair's necklace all hit the floor before his fingers clamped around the familiar shape of the tube of lubricant. Thankfully, it was a flip top, because he was losing fine motor control rapidly.
Warming the slick stuff in his palm, he reached up to kiss Jim thoroughly before nudging the bigger man onto his side. Pushing the strong thighs apart with his knee, he reached down and prepared the way, slicking lubricant all over Jim's crease, his own erection, onto Jim's thighs, and the sheets. He'd gotten a little carried away in his enthusiasm when he'd squeezed the tube. Putting petty concerns aside, all his attention centered on the gorgeous ass under his hands, Blair eased himself into the tight channel. It felt like coming home.
The content lasted only a heartbeat, before Jim started pushing back against him and he found himself compelled to move. Close to bursting already from the long build-up, Jim's extended foreplay and the sheer erotic pleasure of having Jim shatter under his hands and mouth, Blair didn't last long. Jim, sated from his own orgasm, concentrated on his partner's pleasure, massaging Blair with his internal muscles, squeezing and relaxing until Blair lost all semblance of rhythm and began to thrust uncontrollably into him. One last hard muscular contraction proved to be one too many, and Blair screamed as he came, burying his face in Jim's warm back and nearly blacking out from the intensity of the orgasm.
With a shaky breath, he slipped from his lover's body and fell back against the pillows, too drained to even move. Jim turned, carefully, and shifted them both so he wouldn't have to sleep in the wet spot -- again. Making a mental note to talk to Blair about proper application of lubrication without turning the whole bed into a grease pit, Jim gathered his exhausted love against him, tucked Blair's head under his chin, and fell asleep.
Across town, a disgruntled guard glared at an oblivious Naomi. She sat patiently, meditating quietly, waiting for Murphy to finish his interrogation of Julia Moltkje. The discouraging tone as the guard told her it could be hours yet didn't cause a ripple in her cheerful mien. Smiling at him, she said simply, "Hours will pass whether I'm here or elsewhere. Please let me know when he's available." Then she had folded herself up on the bench and closed her eyes. That had been over two hours earlier. If it hadn't been for the slight rise and fall of her admittedly stunning bosom, he could have sworn she'd died in that position.
Voices sounding down the hall roused him from his unwilling fascination with the bosom in question. Clearing his throat and putting on his best 'I am alert and watchful, always' expression, he was even more put out by the friendly look Mr. Murphy turned on the irritating woman.
She opened her eyes as the voices drew near, and returned his smile with interest. Taking his outstretched hand and escorting her through the door, he told the guard on the way that he was heading home for the evening. Watching the two, as Mr. Murphy settled both of them into the back seat of his car and nodded for the driver to pull away, the guard scratched his head and grumbled to himself. "Red headed women. Whatcha gonna do."
In the semi-private back of the armored car that was the normal mode of transport for government officials in danger of being targeted by criminals, Colin Murphy stared at the sparkling woman beside him. It had been a good day, all told -- Bodie was going to be all right, the last of the Hofnan gang was captured, and interrogation led him to believe that the threat from that quarter was finally neutralized after too many years of hard work and frustration. And somehow, in the middle of all that, this ... this .... he wasn't quite sure how to describe her. Sprite felt right, but didn't have the connotation of quiet dignity that was evident under the bubbling exterior. Deciding that Naomi was simply not going to fit in any convenient category, he allowed himself to relax and enjoy her company.
"If you're tired, my driver can give you a lift back to your hotel, but I'd like the chance to get to know you better. Would you like to come up to my flat for a nightcap?" he asked quietly.
She considered him, head tilted to one side, an irrepressible smile on her generous mouth. "I didn't wait in the hallway because it was a promising confluence of universal harmonics, Colin," she replied, just as quietly. "I've never been one to overlook an opportunity to explore a new and interesting relationship. You interest me. A lot."
Smiling in response to her frankness, preceded as it had been by something New Age he didn't begin to understand, he took that for a yes. When the car pulled up to the entrance to his building, he dismissed his driver and opened the door for Naomi. As the last of the locks clicked in and the flat was secure, he turned to find her standing close enough to touch.
So he did.
Thoroughly.
For the rest of the night.
And for many nights after that.
Bodie beat the doctor's estimates by a good two days, finding himself (gratefully) released after five days incarceration in the clutches of the ghouls. Or at least that was how he described it to Doyle, carefully hiding his relief that his erstwhile partner had shown up that evening to take him home. It had been a strange week of tiptoeing around subjects, backing up mid-conversation and carefully spelling things out. Neither man was used to taking such care with the other, and the strain was beginning to tell.
The ride back to the flat was odd. On the surface, the banter was normal, but the undercurrents were disturbingly strange. Doyle carried Bodie's kit upstairs, a reversal of their usual roles, but Bodie wasn't about to argue. He still felt a little shaky, and with Ray being as skittish as he had been lately he wasn't going to risk a blow-up over something as trivial as who carried the luggage.
When he was securely in the flat, locks set, settled into the corner of the couch with a cuppa in his hand and his shoes off, feet tucked happily in Doyle's lap, he cleared his throat.
"Ray-mate?" He hated his own hesitancy. "We have to talk."
Doyle just reached over the ankles crossed comfortably on his thighs and picked up his own cup. Taking a slug, Bodie was startled to notice that even the usual noisy slurping was subdued. One strong hand settled on his ankles, long fingers absently massaging the tendons there, as Doyle stared into his cup.
"Yeah," he sighed, not sounding the least bit happy about it. "We do." A quick glance through thick lashes showed Bodie a pair of sad, worried green eyes. "Don't quite know where to start," he admitted in a low tone.
"You know me, I'm not that high on the talking it out bit," Bodie began. "But what about we start with the important stuff first." He took a deep breath and steeled himself to ask the question he had been afraid to voice since the row in his hospital room "You still want to make a go of it? Here, with me, I mean?" He tried to keep the question objective, completely unaware of the mute misery written all over his face.
Doyle took a deep breath of his own, his heart going out to his mate. "Christ, yes, Bodie. Love you, really, I do. It's just --" he wasn't quite sure how to say it without causing any more pain than he already had. "It's not the 'you' that's the problem, not really. It's the 'here' that trips me up."
Bodie brightened at the reprieve. "You do want me, then." It wasn't quite what he meant to say, but it was at the heart of his feelings of uncertainty.
"Always," Doyle shot back immediately. "But it's not just about sex."
Bodie started to tease him, but stopped at the serious look on his partner's face. Teasing could wait. This was too important to muck up. "What do you see it as being about, then?"
"We don't read each other any more, Bodie-mate. Not like we used to." Sadness tinged the rough voice. It was a hard thing to admit. "And talking has never been our strong suit."
"We'll just have to work on it, then, Ray. Look at it this way," he started to lean forward to emphasize his words, and though better of it when the stitches pulled across his chest. "We know what we want -- each other. We just have to concentrate on not forgetting that in all the day to day crap that gets in the way." It was relatively straightforward from where Bodie was sitting. Doyle stared at him.
"There are a few details, Bodie, that we need to figure out, aren't there." It was not a question. "Like what you and I are going to do with the rest of our lives and how the bloody hell we're going to be able to do it together."
"We'll find a way," Bodie responded confidently. When Doyle started to splutter an argument, he held up a hand to stop him. "We have to, if we're going to. If we really want to make it work, and we both do, then we'll find away."
"It's not that easy!" Ray protested.
"Not saying it will be, sunshine," Bodie returned stoically. "Nothing ever is, not for us. Never has been. Prob'ly never will be. But no one else is gonna do it for us, so we have to do it for ourselves. Like always." Carefully placing his cup on the side table, he eased his feet out from under Doyle's hands. "That feels wonderful, mate, but I'm for bed."
Doyle hastily put his own cup down and gave Bodie a steadying hand up off the couch. "Not getting any younger, and it's getting harder to take the punches and roll back up," he remarked.
Bodie shot him a rueful look. "Don't I know it." A yawn ambushed him, and Doyle grinned at his jaw-breaking stretch.
"Let's get you to bed, love. We can talk some more in the morning."
Nodding sleepy agreement, Bodie gave no resistance and little assistance as Doyle stripped him off and tucked him under the duvet. In minutes, he was sound asleep.
Doyle sat silently on the side of the bed, watching the lines of fatigue in the pale face smooth out as Bodie relaxed into sleep. There were a lot of things to left talk about, but he had quite a bit of thinking to do before any talking would resolve anything. Wandering out into the living room, he gathered up their tea things and took them into the kitchen to wash up later. Pouring himself a fresh cup, he wandered back into the bedroom and took up a vigil in the overstuffed armchair, watching his Bodie sleep. Watching, and thinking, and sorting things through. If Bodie was awake he would accuse him of brooding, but that wasn't the case. Not this time. He was at a crossroads, and he had to get clear in his mind just what was waiting for him down either fork in the road.
Kicking his shoes off and curling his feet up under him, he allowed himself the luxury of a long, searching, loving examination of his best friend and partner. Bodie had been both to him for so long. Then they had been parted, and he ruthlessly grilled himself about the changes in his attitude during that separation.
Had loving Bodie become a habit, found more in form than in feeling? He took the concept out and examined it from all sides. True, the physical aspect was as intense as it had ever been, perhaps surprisingly so considering the fact that they were at an age when the urges shouldn't have been as mind-destroying as they had been fifteen years ago. But they were. On that evidence alone, it was clear that loving Bodie was less a habit than an obsession. So the physical intensity, the pure need for one another, to lose themselves in one another, was as strong as before they had parted. But as he'd told Bodie, it was more than just the sex.
They couldn't rely on that near-telepathic communication that they had, at one time, shared. It wasn't completely gone -- he could still read Bodie better than anyone else, and the same was true where he was concerned -- Bodie read him like a book. They wouldn't have been able to pussyfoot around each other so well the last week if it hadn't still been there, at least enough to be able to read and avoid the danger signs. But there had to be more to it than just placating one another. They had each changed in the time apart, and he wasn't sure how to bring those changes into line with a shared relationship. He just knew that somehow he would have to, or he would lose Bodie again. And he wasn't sure he would survive that a second time, especially if it was his own rotten temper and inability to communicate that caused it. The strength of his desire to avoid another parting reassured him that loving Bodie wasn't an emotional habit, either, but the thriving heart of his emotional existence.
All right, he thought determinedly, what's in the way? Their jobs, was the first thing that popped into his head. So he took that out, next, and examined it just as closely.
Bodie was perfectly happy to take the position Murph had offered, training the recruits and retraining the old hands at everything from tactics to recon to personal minding duties. It was interesting, for Bodie, and he was a natural trainer, finding it easy to relay his experience to others. His own interests lay in other areas. His four years as Chief Constable had given him a taste for operational autonomy that had been growing throughout his years as an A Squad agent.
Perhaps even more dear to his heart, the reforms he had been working so hard on were where he felt the future lay. The need to educate, the need to reform the system, the need to clean up what could be cleaned up and create something better burned strongly in him. He couldn't see routing that out, or ignoring it, and not eventually coming to resent the lost opportunities. He had a healthy enough self knowledge to know that he would not only resent them, he'd take it out on Bodie. And Bodie would only take that so long before there would be an explosion, and he'd either end up thumped or out on his ear. Or both.
So, he had to resolve that need, not ignore it. Continuing to be ruthlessly honest with himself, he began to reflect on particular incidents over the past few years. True, he had tried for the past four years to implement a radical new way of dealing with drug abuse, to educate the users instead of punishing them, and to target the dealers and importers of the poison. He had even been in Seattle to discuss just that, with others who might be able to implement similar programs on their own turf.
Had his program been a success?
Well, no. Not really. Because it was never given the chance to prove itself. The Police Authority Board, the prominent citizens, even his own superiors on the Force hated the idea. Every step forward brought two backward. He forced himself to remember each and every time he'd been hissed down or lost funding or had to explain himself yet again to the skeptical or downright hostile representative of the home office. Even on the airplane to Seattle, he'd thought that the only reason he was invited to speak on his alternative program was for PR, not because it might actually make a difference. He'd been pounding his head against a brick wall for years, and all he'd gotten from it were a rotten headache and an even worse reputation.
He remembered a vacation, the first he'd had in two years, and the urge to chuck it all he'd felt so strongly when he found out that the local media were throwing muck by the bucketsful at him in the papers. At the time, he'd been convinced by a man he respected that there were too few liberals in positions of power, that he had to keep trying, keep his hand in, keep his shoulder to the wheel. But it hadn't helped. In the two years since that time he'd seen every one of his more radical proposals get their funding cut time and again. He found himself more often than not on the side of the protesters instead of the police, forced to defend actions he privately castigated his officers for, forced to plead for closed minded people to think, just once, of the future.
It just wasn't happening. And he was getting bloody tired of ramming his head into that brick wall.
Shifting from the job to that feeling, he poked at it, prodded it, turned it over and peered closely at it. Was he just tired, then? Did he just need a break, to take some time to get to know his Bodie all over again, find some energy to expend on his own concerns for a little while? Then, recharged, be ready to re-enter the fray? Maybe. Perhaps. He wasn't sure. The only thing he did know for certain was that, one way or another, he needed to have Bodie in his life.
Which led to another logical question. Say he did rest up, got the fire back, was ready to beard the dragons in their dens once more. What of Bodie? He'd had a point, in the middle of that flaming row. What was there for Bodie in Eastland? A mental image of a grieving father and a teen suicide sprang immediately to mind. He was already in for a review when he did go back, and considering the number of people on the Board who were looking for any excuse they could find to get rid of him, his chances for reinstatement on the basis of review were probably not good. If he was reinstated, he would have to be on his best behavior, because he would be watched constantly by those who wanted him gone. While they couldn't actually fire him for being involved in a homosexual relationship, it would certainly factor into their review, and would be one more black mark against him in the 'societal standards' column.
He could just visit Bodie in London, he presumed, but there were two reasons against that. First, and foremost, he was not going to hide his relationship any longer. He'd lived without love and light in his life too damned long to lie about it and act like he was somehow ashamed of it. He wasn't, and he wasn't about to hurt Bodie by pretending that he was. The second major drawback to a London-based affair was in scheduling. He couldn't go for days without seeing Bodie, and once he was back on the treadmill that constituted being the Chief, it would be insane trying to find time to get away. The one time he had carried on a love affair, with a public relations woman he had sincerely liked, they'd practically had to have their secretaries coordinate their schedules -- and she had been living in Norwich!
No, a long distance relationship was not an option. He needed a daily fix of Bodie. Seeing him when he happened to have a free four hours shoehorned into his schedule was not going to work.
So. He didn't like the conclusion he reached, but he didn't see any way around it. While his lover would never make this demand, the plain truth was that it was a choice between Eastland and Bodie. Much as he saw so much left undone, he was not willing to give up the man sleeping so peacefully in front of him in order to carry other people's banners into battle. He was laying down his arms on that particular front, partly for his own sake, because he was bone weary of fighting, and partly for Bodie's sake, because his lover was more important to him than any job. He would take Murph up on the offer to act as CI5 liaison with other law enforcement agencies, and act as his deputy in field operations, along with McCabe. And in his spare time, when he wasn't loving the daylights out of Bodie, he would do a little freelance writing. After all, if the media could be used to throw mud at alternative ideas and solutions, why not use it to shine a light on them as well? And this way he could be passionate without having to worry about being so bloody diplomatic.
Content with the decisions he had made, at peace with himself for the first time in a very long time, Doyle slipped silently out of his clothes and tucked himself in bed next to Bodie. The other man reacted instinctively to his warmth, reaching out in his sleep and wrapping himself around Doyle. Hugging him close, determined to do whatever he had to do to make sure they got that second chance Blair had been so fierce about, he snuggled into Bodie's arms and settled down to sleep.
POSTSCRIPT: CASCADE
Jim sat in the center of the cleared living room, an odd array of objects scattered around him. He was blindfolded, sitting cross-legged with his hands resting loosely on his knees and a slight smile on his lips. Blair stalked around him, picking up an object seemingly at random, but actually in carefully selected order, and lightly stroked some part of Jim's skin with it.
The first object was easy for Jim to identify. A peacock feather, lightly tracing across his chin. "Feather, Chief. C'mon, give me a tough one."
"All in good time, O Sentinel Mine, all in good time," Blair laughed back at him. The next object was one of Naomi's scarves, left behind from a visit. He trailed it, whisper soft, over Jim's shoulder. The big man shivered in reaction to the sensual touch.
"Scarf," he rapped out, controlling the shiver with an effort. "Silk. No, chiffon. Light purple."
"Hey," Blair protested. "I thought you said that blindfold was secure?"
"It is," the seated man assured him. "But there's no way I could fail to recognize that particular scarf, Sandburg. Not after the last time you tied me up with it. That fiber pattern is registered so deep under my skin I could recognize it if I was half dead."
Blair stopped the test for a moment, running the scarf through his fingers over and over, caught up in the memory of that particular lazy Sunday afternoon. The sound of the chiffon running over the pads of his fingers began to get to Jim, who cleared his throat meaningfully. "Uh, Chief, either get on with it or make a move, 'cause that wispy sound you're making is giving me all sorts of ideas."
Dropping the scarf back on the floor, making a mental note to get back to that later, Blair continued. "Can't have that, Jim. It's hard enough to get you to sit still long enough for a test any more without any distractions." Before his lover could give voice to the indignation gathering in his face, Blair picked up a third object and began to trail it in linear patterns over a muscular thigh. "Okay, now, what's this one?"
It was a macram key chain one of his students had given him, that he hadn't had time to show to Jim yet. The Sentinel concentrated, slowly filtering out all other sensory distraction, until he could build an image in his mind based on the tactile information he was getting from the stroking threads. "It's ... some kind of woven thing ... an inch wide, maybe a little wider, really thin, has a fringe on the end ... it's not stiff, there's some give there ... but it feels like ... knots? A little knotted fringey thing?" He couldn't pin it down.
Blair grinned in triumph at how well Jim had described the key chain. "That's great, man!"
"Great?" snorted Jim, unconvinced. "I can't figure out what the hell it is and you think that's great? Thanks, Sandburg, didn't realize your expectations were so low."
"No, no, no," Blair reassured him. "You haven't ever seen this before, but you were able to describe it incredibly well, giving accurate dimensions and descriptive details based solely on tactile impression, and on an area of your body that is not considered a primary sensory zone! That is so cool! You're really getting a good handle on the visualization gig."
Before Jim could figure out an intelligent way to say 'huh?' the phone rang.
"Don't lose that thought, man!" Blair instructed him, then reached over and picked up the cordless phone from the coffee table.
"H'lo? Mom! Hi. No, we were just doing some testing. NO, Naomi, that was not a euphemism. Sheesh."
Using the distraction of the call as a handy excuse, Jim lifted the blindfold and took a peek at the 'little knotted fringey thing' Blair was flipping against the side of his leg. Then he took a longer look, finally taking it from Blair's nervous fingers and examining it from all sides. While he recognized the metal ring at one end as the kind that one put keys on, he still couldn't figure out what the mini-rug attached to it was supposed to be. With a sigh, he realized that 'little knotted fringey thing' was probably the best name he could have given it even if he had been able to see it. Blair's exclamation into the phone receiver brought his attention back to the present and, throwing good manners to the wind, he turned up his hearing so he could eavesdrop on the whole conversation.
"Well, you know I never quite made it to Avebury," Naomi was saying to her son. "I mean, I adore prehistoric sites and there is an incredible feel to ancient sacred places, but there's a lot to be said for living sacred spaces too and Colin was born to personify that description."
Jim stifled a laugh and settled against the front of the couch, making himself comfortable. Snagging Blair's belt loop, he tugged until his partner got the message and scootched back to lean beside him, settling himself comfortably against Jim's shoulder.
"So you skipped the tour, then?" Blair put in, and Naomi was off and running again. Between day trips all over the United Kingdom with various Pagan friends and weekends locked up snugly with Murphy in his flat, his mother was having a wonderful time. They listened for some time, with an encouraging noise inserted here and there in appropriate places from Blair, until she finally burbled to a close. With one final injunction to 'Enjoy your testing!' she was off.
Blair stared at the phone with resigned affection. "You know, of course, that she thinks our tests are all just a fancy way of saying 'new ways to make love', don't you?"
"Works for me, Chief," Jim put in lazily, drawing imaginary lines and circles on every part of Blair's skin he could reach with the end of the bedraggled peacock feather. Batting his hand away, a mock-tussle ensued for possession of the feather. By the time the battle ended, Blair had the somewhat squashed eye and Jim had the rest of it, and little bits of feather fluff floated in the air all around them. When the giggles finally subsided, Blair draped himself over Jim's lap, absently straightening and smoothing the poor plucked eye.
"It's weird, don't you think?" he said thoughtfully, spreading the eye over Jim's knee and admiring the fit.
Jim, distracted by the play of muscles in the buttocks under the denim jeans that were so temptingly displayed across his lap, wasn't in any state to think at all. Blair continued musing aloud, unaware of how close he was to being tipped onto his back and thoroughly ravished.
"I mean, for as far back as I can remember, it was just me and Naomi. Nobody else ever really got the chance to get over the wall, you know? Oh, they might be invited in for a little while, bee getting a chance at the flower, love 'em and move on. But they never really were part of us."
Caught by the serious tone in his partner's voice, Jim allowed himself to be swayed from his rapt contemplation of Blair's ass. The younger man very seldom spoke of his past. For all that he gave the impression of being open and garrulous, it was always directed outward, and he gave very little away. Jim wasn't about to miss to opportunity to learn more about his Blair's childhood, if the younger man was in the mood to talk. Making an encouraging sound in his throat, he began to lightly stroke one hand down Blair's back, knowing how this relaxed him, and waited, hoping that the confidences would continue.
"Naomi fell in love as often as the moon changed, man, always on the move. Never tied down, not to a place, not to a person. I thought I was like her, but now I think maybe I just didn't know anything else. 'Cause look at me now. It's so different. I have Naomi, but now I have you." He dropped the piece of feather and rubbed Jim's kneecap, the most easily accessible part of him, given their relative positions. "And I can't imagine ever leaving you. It'd be like opening my chest and ripping my heart out while it was still beating. Not conducive to continued existence. And then there's Ray. I never thought I'd even know who my Dad was, and not only do I know him -- I like him. And with Ray, there's Bodie, two halves of the whole, so not what you would expect from a couple of ex-super cops." Jim laughed a little at this, but Blair wasn't finished. "And Elena. I can't believe how well we clicked. Connecting at so many levels, as siblings, as scholars, as friends. Then there's Stephen, expanding the circle from your side. I never thought he'd be so cool about us, but he's so happy to have you back he'd accept a yak in drag if it made you happy."
That image really cracked Jim up, and it was several moments before he regained his composure enough to protest, "He likes you for yourself, Blair. I know that, and so should you."
"Yeah, I do, it's just a shock, knowing where the two of you originally came from. It's incredible enough, given your social conditioning, that you were able to accept loving me --"
"Embraced it, Chief."
"-but it's even more incredible that he did, relatively easily, too." Blair dropped a kiss on Jim's knee and went on. "It's so strange, man. From a completely independent universe of two, to a family of seven, interdependent on one another in ways I didn't even know existed when I was growing up."
"Do you ever feel trapped, Blair?" This was something Jim worried about more often than he cared to admit. Prior to beginning their relationship Blair had been such a free spirit, used to moving from place to place, never settling anywhere more than a year or two at most. He was half-scared that he might inadvertently stifle that bright, questing spirit, and he checked every once in awhile, to reassure himself that it wasn't happening.
"No," his lover responded with certainty. "I've never had a home, before you, Jim, so I didn't know that I could relate to permanency. Believe me, big guy, living with you provides all the excitement I will ever need."
"Yeah," Jim responded dryly. "We seem to be involved in a shoot-out or an explosion just about every week."
"And they always seem to be shooting at me," Blair groused, then turned in Jim's grip so that he was face up in his lap, grinning up at the angular face staring down at him so hungrily. "Wonder why that is? You got any ideas on that one, Detective?"
Jim responded to his teasing with raised brows. "Dunno, Chief. Maybe 'cause you scream better than I do?"
As Blair opened his mouth to deny that false calumny, Jim saw his chance and swooped down to cover the open lips with his own. When he finally allowed Blair to breathe again, they were both panting.
"We still have a test to finish," Blair protested weakly.
Jim leaned over him, shifting them both so that Blair lay splayed on the rug and he towered over him. "I can think of any number of ways to test my sense of touch, Professor Sandburg." With one hand, he reached over and snagged the blindfold. "But we need a control for a legitimate test, now, don't we?" With deft movements, he pulled Blair's hands above his head and tied them snugly together, looping the material behind the leg of the couch.
Blair tugged, but he was securely caught. Licking his lips, beginning to writhe under Jim's body weight, he bucked up, bumping his burgeoning erection against his partner's. "You have me at your mercy," he growled playfully, getting into the spirit of the fun. "But how does this advance my research?"
Jim grinned wickedly at him. "Gives me so many different things to touch, Professor. You can let me know how well I do."
By the time his jeans were unbuttoned, he already knew his Sentinel would pass this particular test with flying colors.
When his tee shirt gave up the battle, ripped in two and bunched up around his wrists, he was well on his way to awarding extra credit points.
As Jim's mouth closed around his helplessly thrusting cock, the bonus went out the window along with his higher reasoning, and he gave himself up to sensation, willing to concede that no one, but no one, could touch like a Sentinel.
Jim stared at the sweating, sprawled body under his hands and tried to control his breathing. Blair never held anything back, and he was constantly amazed at the depths of sensuality in the man. Bending the relaxed knees back to the heaving chest, he carefully lowered himself onto and into his Guide. Even though he'd just had a body-convulsing climax, Blair did his best to participate. The fact that the most he could do was hook a heavy hand around Jim's neck and draw him down into a kiss bothered neither man.
He took his time, resting when he was fully ensheathed, allowing Blair time to adjust. Not that there was any resistance -- the best thing about taking Blair right after orgasm was the utter relaxation throughout his body. It would take some time to rouse him again, and Jim was up to the challenge. As he slowly withdrew then sank back in, a little deeper with each push, he supported himself with one hand. With the other, he roved freely over Blair's skin. Nipples responded well to gentle pulling and rubbing, peaking nicely. Goosebumps broke out over smooth skin as fingertips blazed a trail down the inside of his thigh were it lay pushed up against Jim's chest. Kneecaps just had to be kissed, and that throat, arched back as arousal began to soar again, demanded to be nipped.
By the time he had mapped Blair from hairline to ankle, thrusting steadily the entire time, the younger man was hard and aching again. Pre-ejaculate wept from the tip of his erection, blending with the remnants of his previous orgasm. A hand snaked from its death grip on Jim's shoulder to ease the ache, only to be intercepted and turned back by Jim's other hand.
"Hold on, Chief," he rasped, giving Blair no choice. Jim wrapped his broad hand around Blair's straining cock and began to milk it, squeezing and pulling in time to his deepest thrusts.
Having come once already, Blair was able to withstand the imperative toward orgasm somewhat longer, holding on determinedly to make it last as long as he could. Jim was beginning to lose his own control now, the heat and tightness gripping him combining with the slick silk under his hands to overload his senses. Just as determined to make Blair join him in that loss of control as Blair was to maintain it, Jim changed his angle of entry and targeted the small gland that he knew would make Blair lose his sanity. Each stroke now rubbed his glans against Blair's prostate, and that, combined with Jim's renewed efforts at his cock, was enough to tip him over the edge.
Moaning Jim's name, thrashing forward into his hand and backward to impale himself on the heat invading him, Blair came apart with a flash of fire, feeling himself taken and torn into a million fragments, reformed in the aftermath and found again in the safety of Jim's arms. The spasming muscles had given Jim his own relief, shoving him over the edge with his lover, his own short cry lost in Blair's moan. When they came to themselves, they were holding one another tightly, Jim's fists clenched in Blair's hair, Blair's fingers leaving bruises on Jim's back. Slowly, they relaxed, a muscle at a time, feeling the beginning of cramp set in but too needful of the close proximity with one another to voluntarily leave it.
As awareness returned, Jim slowly backed out and off of his smaller partner, helping him straighten his legs, long fingers massaging out the knotted muscles. At a particularly sharp little yelp, he gave Blair a concerned look.
"What is it, Chief? Did I hurt you?" He visually scanned Blair's front, but other than a bite mark or three and the occasional handprint, he looked okay. Blair gave him a rueful look.
"Remind me again about the bed upstairs, Babe." Pulling himself to his feet, using Jim's shoulder to steady himself, he turned around and presented his back side to his lover, peering down to stare at the small of his back with a resigned sigh. "Rug burn. Again."
Jim leaned forward and kissed the reddened spot. "I'll get the Cortaid. Again."
Sharing laughing glances, quite certain there would be more rug burns and more lotion in their future, they joined hands and went up the stairs. Together. Always. Sentinel and Guide. Best friends. Lovers.
It was worth the occasional rug burn.
POSTSCRIPT: LONDON / NORWICH
It had been four hard months of adjustments. Doyle was getting much better at thinking before he spoke in his relationship with Bodie, and Bodie was getting much better at speaking up. As the days turned into weeks, more and more of their old ability to finish one another's thoughts and speak without words came back.
It hadn't worked out quite the way they had expected. Doyle had returned to Eastland to tie things up and hand in his formal resignation, only to find himself asked to stay by many of the same people who had once stood so firmly against his efforts. Somehow the cachet of having an ex-CI5 man heading their constabulary mitigated some of the stigma of his being a liberal. Wondering how far he could push the envelope, he had given a few conditions to his return.
The first was that he would not be Chief Constable. Wes Morton was doing an excellent job and would continue right where he was at. Doyle would sign on as a consultant, and his duties would revolve around the anti-drug enforcement duties of the Constabulary. He would be liaison with the various agencies coordinating activities, to ensure that cooperation instead of confusion resulted on shared operations. He would also spearhead the education efforts in the alternative program to stop drug use at its source, thereby eventually cutting off the demand. He would spend half his time in Eastland and half in London. It was non-negotiable.
They bought it.
He would bring Bodie with him. That was also non-negotiable.
After a brief but profound moment of shock followed by a great deal of throat clearing and general tut-tutting, they bought that too.
Bodie liked the idea.
That sold it for both of them.
As a former wharf rat and sailor, Bodie had a great time exploring from the Broads to the North Sea. He went with Doyle on his trips to the rougher parts of town, partly to watch his back and partly to interact with the kids. To his surprise, but not his partner's, Bodie discovered that he was a natural with the kids. To their complete surprise, Bodie won over the local gentry with a few well-placed hints for home and estate security, leading to a lucrative sideline for him installing and testing security systems. So while part of his time was spent encouraging the kids not to fall into a life of crime, another part was spent ensuring if they did they wouldn't get very far. It tickled Bodie's sense of the ridiculous, and kept him gainfully employed whilst not playing about on the water or lying in wait to tussle his partner to the floor.
The press initially had a field day with the revelation that their very own Chief Cade was actually a daring CI5 agent, in deep cover to root out a nasty terrorist villain, whom he had finally cornered in the wilds of someplace over the pond and brought to a deservedly final end. Very little of it had anything to do with reality, but it was close enough that no one bothered trying to correct any of it. The general populace ate it up, and it was all a three day wonder. Buried somewhere under all the hype it was reported that, oh, by the way, the former-Chief-now-Special-Consultant was queer as a three quid note, but those who actually saw it shrugged it off. Considering his record on so many things, from promiscuous youth to dope-heads to teenage gays, well, they knew all along he was bent. No one who actually saw Bodie believed a word of it. They just figured the big bruiser in black was just Cade, er, Doyle's bodyguard, not his boyfriend.
They had no clue just how close to the truth they came, or how closely Bodie guarded that body. Could even say he worshipped it. Nightly.
And many times in the middle of the day, too.
Things settled surprisingly well for the pair in London, as well.
Bodie was one of a cadre of trainers, and his schedule was both regular and light. He and Doyle acted unofficially as back-up to McCabe, the Deputy Operations officer, and went into the field occasionally. Doyle stepped in on odd days with some training of his own, when he wasn't explaining CI5 operational procedures to other law enforcement agencies to ease cooperative ventures, or trying to explain Met procedures to a skeptical Murphy. One way or another, Bodie and Doyle managed to spend nearly every hour of every day together.
They either had to get their understanding back in good working order between them, or they would have killed one another. Happily, between the two of them they had enough of a sense of humor and purpose to make it through the rougher patches in one piece. On a quiet Friday night at their CI5 flat in Hampstead, they were relaxing watching a football match when the telephone rang. They exchanged resigned glances, consigning another free evening to the devil. Bodie made no attempt to pick it up, a stubborn set to his mouth, and Doyle stretched across him in order to get to the phone.
"Doyle," he barked, not willing to sound encouraging for a moment. Let them work for it if they wanted him to come in. Upon hearing his daughter's voice on the other end of the line, he softened his tone considerably.
"Elena! Hello, luv, sorry about that. Thought it was Murph. What's up?" Sprawled across the couch, he made himself comfortable stretched over Bodie's lap. Bodie eyed the tight little rump presenting itself so unselfconsciously, and one wicked eyebrow slowly rose. Giving in to temptation, he leaned forward and put his lager down and picked a small plastic jar up. Ignoring the conversation, catching the odd word or two and figuring it had something to do with yet another protest that Elena was organizing and wanted her Dad's input on, he very slowly leaned back against the cushions. Shifting, he moved slightly, until he had aligned their groins perfectly. Then, an evil smile on his face, he uncorked the jar and started to tease.
Keeping one ear cocked for any tell-tale changes in respiration or voice pitch, he rested one hand between Doyle's shoulder blades, firmly anchoring him. He got a green-eyed glare over one rounded shoulder, but he just turned the full force of that wicked smile on his lover and continued with his sensual assault. Doyle rested his forehead against the arm of the couch and resigned himself to a bout of torture. He concentrated fiercely on his daughter's voice and tried to ignore what his partner was doing to him.
Bodie made that as difficult as possible. He began to run his hands all along Ray's upper thighs, around the outside of his buttocks and along the sides of his ribcage. His victim squirmed, but there was no sign yet of a real loss of composure. He was going to have to work harder.
Not displeased with the idea, he broadened the scope of his activities. Cupping first one cheek then the other, he ran his fingers firmly along the seam separating the two and traced it from belt to inseam. He was rewarded with a slight hitch in Ray's breathing. Time to move to Phase Two.
Hollowing out his stomach, he slipped his hand, palm up, between their groins. Carefully, ignoring Doyle's futile attempts to bat him away and still keep up his half of the phone conversation at least semi-coherent, he unbuttoned and unzipped the jeans. Doyle was beginning to respond to his teasing, already half hard. His voice was starting to waver on the low notes, too. Grasping the denims firmly at seat and fly, unusually thankful that his partner no longer wore them so tight they were nearly painted on, Bodie hoisted the jeans to Doyle's knees, taking his shorts with them. Without losing a second, he dipped the first two fingers of his right hand into the jar.
Doyle squeaked. Shooting another glare over his shoulder, eyes widening when he saw the greased fingers poised over his defenseless arse, he gulped.
"Can I call you back, luv? No, no, everything's all right-"
Bodie dove. One hand gently spread the flinching buttocks and the other slid firmly all the way down to his balls.
"-Ohmygod. Oh. No, Elena, everything's fine-" His voice broke on the last word as Bodie's hand slid back up the way it had come and a blunt finger insinuated itself into the
clenching hole. Doyle moaned and dropped the phone, half laughing, half cursing under his breath, bucking against Bodie's intrusive hand as far as he was able. Bodie couldn't tell for certain if Doyle was trying to get away or bury that tormenting finger deeper. Either way, it was time to rescue his phone and reassure his daughter. Doyle certainly couldn't do it. He was too busy burying his head in the cushions. Biting them too, from the looks of it.
Continuing to have his wicked way with his mate's tender hind end, Bodie fished the phone out from behind the cushion where it had fallen from Doyle's lax grip and brought it to his ear. Elena was still trying to get her Dad's attention, and halfway to getting irritated that he wasn't answering.
"Hallo, 'Lena," Bodie greeted her happily.
After a moment's silence, she answered.
"You're torturing him again, aren't you, Bodie?" The irritation had disappeared and she sounded as though she was trying hard not to laugh. "You do know when he recovers he's going to thump you, don't you?"
"Yes, my dear, but until he does, I shall thoroughly enjoy myself. Have fun at your rally!"
She rang off with a wry, "Go easy on him, Bodie."
He flipped the phone into the corner and got back to the business at hand. Free now to concentrate his entire attention on making Doyle insane, he angled himself so that his erection was directly across Ray's. Easing the second finger into the tight opening, he began to move his pelvis and his wrist in harmony, pumping down with his fingers, curling them back to rake Ray's gland, humping up with his hips to saw his erection against Doyle's. Helpless to move, all his motion restricted to reacting to Bodie's control of his hips, Doyle clenched his fists into the couch cushions and held on for dear life. It didn't take long. The stimulation from both sides, the utter vulnerability of his position, and the constant movement pressing him first down into the crossbar below his cock then up into the fingers controlling his ass turned him on so far, so fast he couldn't do anything but scream as he came.
Bodie thrust harder as the hot liquid bathed his groin. Doyle's soft flesh caught the full brunt of his climax as he arched and shot, careful to remove his fingers from the clenching channel before he lost control. When he got his breath back, he realized he was squeezing one of Doyle's buttocks so hard it had turned white under his fingers. Murmuring an apology, he smoothed the abused mound with his palm, leaning forward to place a soft kiss on the now bright red flesh.
"You realize, of course," a hoarse voice rose from the depths of the couch cushions, "that I am going to have to kill you. Not to mention the fact that I can never look my daughter in the face again."
"Ah, nonsense, mate, you said that the last time, and the time before that. And all the times before that. She's used to it!" Bodie was feeling remarkably cheerful.
Doyle managed to pull himself into a semi-seated position, wondering when all his bones had melted and who set fire to his right butt cheek. "I'm not going to be able to sit down for a week," he groused, twisting to try to see how badly bruised he was. Knowing Bodie, not that badly, but he would certainly feel it come morning. Straightening himself back around to glare at his partner, he wasn't surprised to see Bodie staring at his chest with rapt concentration.
"You're some kind of Gumby, mate, twisting around like that and never knocking anything out of place. I am impressed." He looked it. Aroused, too. Sneaking a look at his companion's lap, Doyle couldn't hold back a grin.
"Ready for your punishment already, are you?" he asked grimly, fighting hard not to give free rein to the suppressed grin that was making his lips quiver.
"God, yes," Bodie breathed fervently, and Ray lost the battle. Grinning from ear to ear, he hauled his love off the couch and tugged him in the direction of the bedroom.
"Let's get to it, then! You have too many clothes on." Pointing dramatically at the bed, he ordered sternly, "Off with the clothes, and onto the bed with you. You're mine!"
Bodie stripped with alacrity, but paused before throwing himself onto the bed. Reaching up with one hand to trace his Ray's battered cheek, he looked into the malachite eyes and made a promise. "Always, angel fish. In bed, out of it, here, in the middle of nowhere, doesn't matter. Yours, here, now, and always."
Doyle swallowed hard, unused to the tenderness he saw in Bodie's face, but seeing it more and more as their relationship grew easier. Determined to meet the declaration with the same raw honesty he saw in those solemn dark eyes, he put his palm against Bodie's hand, leaning his face into that warm clasp. "Goes both ways, blue eyes. I'm yours, too. Always will be." He pulled the hand away and dropped a kiss in the center of the broad palm, curling the long fingers around the kiss to hold it close. Then, mischief gleaming in his grin, he nodded to the bed. "Payback starts now," he growled.
Bodie was more than happy to oblige.
-- THE END --
Archive Home