"Ray!"

It's more than a gasp, and less than a cry. It's been a long time, and I remember when it used to be yelling and thrashing.

I must have been doing something right, then.

It's half dark, a little light from the street filtering through the curtains. It's been a warm summer. Bodie never liked 'warm'. I guess it came from 'Africa' as with all the other things and little quirks--or big ones--he doesn't care to elaborate upon. Not even with me, which used to be a major cause for fights. I mellowed. A lot. I bark more and bite less. At least, that's what Bodie says.

The sheets are all over the place, very little of them where they are supposed to be, on our bodies. There must have been some thrashing, then. I shuffle closer, not touching, just letting him know that I'm there. Most times, that's more than enough. Bodie reaches for me, however. Is he awake? I don't know. The bastard would lie anyway, if I asked about it later. His hands grab me and pull me against him, hard.

He needs to know I am there.

He hides his face in the curve of my neck. His stubble rasps and scratches on my skin. A little sweat, bittersweet. I smell it on him, and feel the need to lick it off him. Still have it bad, I reckon. Then come the kisses, the need to map me. As if Bodie, in these dreams of his, forgets my shape, my taste.

I move around a bit, finally on my back and his weight is still as solid, as comfortable as it has always been. I think he really is sleeping, this time. His hands are down on my hips, fumbling, lips still on my chest, awakening nipples.

But I am quiet. This is not about sex, not exactly. Not often, anyway. As it happens, sometimes he simply needs to know that I am there, and then he goes back to sleep, me as his pillow. Sometimes it is different, and maybe this is one of those times. I have threatened him with the possibility of me taking a picture of him during one of these particular nights. Well, he is still an obnoxious, arrogant bastard when he wants to. He went all moody, last time I said that. Doesn't he know I wouldn't do it? I hope he does.

I spread my legs a little, to make space for him. Such a solid body, he has. Still muscled, but age has caught up with him a little now. He says he likes me going grey and all, but I know he has a lock of my hair hidden in his desk's right drawer, with his photo album, a few postcards, the grand total of three letters I wrote him, his birth certificate, a handful of passports, a cutting of one of Marikka's romantic films, his perfectly oiled .44.

Such a collection, for such a man.

He is down there, now, curled between my legs, nuzzling me with tongue and lips. Will he go to sleep holding my cock in his mouth? Sometimes he does.

And me?

I'll wait for him to wake up.

---

Bodie stirred the coffee, slowly, continuously. Doyle had left for his morning walk, a quick kiss still lingering on Bodie's lips. The coffee was getting cold. How embarrassing was it, for a man his age, to wake up like that? He couldn't just suck his thumb, could he? No, he had to be special in his quirks and nightmares. It used to be better, when he was younger. He was better at hiding it, then, pretending everything was always under control. Until events such as the King Billy fight turned up. Bodie always expected Doyle to retaliate for being hit in the stomach so hard. Doyle never did. Strangely enough, for the old toad had a vindictive streak a mile long.

Bodie let out a little chuckle and stopped stirring. Sipping with a grimace, he moved to the bedroom, mug in hand, starting his daily routine: making the bed, collecting Doyle's clothes from chair, floor, chest of drawers. A sock was beneath the bed, and Bodie swore. He checked Doyle's pills on the bedside table, the two red ones, the blue capsule, and the precious little white ones for emergences. Though there hadn't been one for a while, now. Thank...whoever. Maybe moving had been the right choice, after all. After the operation, Doyle had seemed so...ready, to let it go. To let all go. The new house had been a good idea, lots of green around, a few challenges. But they were both survivors, weren't they? And Bodie had made sure Doyle would survive, this last time. Would take his pills, do his routine checks. He had laid it out very clearly, in words of one syllable. It was two lives, not one. Not just one, not anymore.

That had been one hell of a fight.

Laundry taken care of, Bodie made himself some more coffee, sitting at the breakfast table, jotting down on a scrap of paper a list of groceries and other necessities. He wasn't due at the shooting range until the afternoon, so there was time enough to catch up with a few household chores. Doyle would probably be down in the garage 'til late, as usual. It was due time to check out the local amenities in proper detail, and there was a little Italian restaurant calling to them. Add some spice to domesticity. Bodie still liked cheerful company and good food, and the fights seemed to have quietened down.

At least until after his new two wheels acquisition was to be safely and finally parked in the garage.

Pocketing the car keys, whistling, Bodie let himself out, looking forward to the day ahead.

-- THE END --

August 2003