Bodie pulled again at the ropes and felt another layer of skin scrape away. He sucked a breath and the lines between his brow deepened. His wrists were raw -- had been for a long time now, but something deep inside him wouldn't let him give up. So -- taking a deep gulp of air, he bit his lip and pulled again. Nothing. Not a god damned-bloody-fuckin-fraction-of-an-inch. Infuriated, he kicked with bound feet at the boards to one side then hunched when the rackety shelter collapsed a little more.

Momentarily defeated, he lay back, a grubby, dirty-covered figure on half a blanket, and licked at his cracked mouth. There was no water -- even if he'd have had hands free to reach for it -- no food, and one more freezing night like the last would probably kill him.

What a way to go, he thought with a trace of macabre humor, Consumption. Like a Victorian heroine.

The ropes held his arms to the stone wall, but his feet, though tied together, were not locked in place. He'd made a point of exercising as much as possible the first two days, but now he was too weak, too stiff from the beating Simmons and his men had ruthlessly administered, too damn tired to care.

He felt a warm trickle into his left palm and knew his wrists were bleeding again. Well, it hardly mattered. Not now. Even if he got loose, he was too weak and battered to run, and Simmons' men still guarded the leanto. On Monday he might have battled his way out -- today....

Wearily he closed his eyes, the straight dark lashes brushing at the grime on his pale cheeks. Visions of Doyle, of Cowley, of Murphy, and the others filled his mind, and he tried to concentrate on each of their faces separately.

Murphy, with his quiet humor and patience, pleasant eyes and pure steel on the inside. Murphy was a good agent, a good man, a good friend.

Cowley, blond and craggy, fiercely caring -- the closest thing he'd ever had to a father. Bodie knew he'd follow Cowley into hell, and blinked -- wasn't that what he'd just done? Cowley said to do it...though somehow he didn't think this was QUITE what the Cow had in mind.

Cramp began to set in once again, and he hurriedly flexed his foot to fight the pain. It was no use; his calf muscles knotted, and he groaned, setting his teeth to prevent the audible moan from escaping. He wasn't about to give the two men on the other side of the wall the satisfaction.

It seemed to go on and on, and he jerked his wrists in a frustrated attempt to cause a greater pain. There was no escape -- from the pain, the hunger, the humiliation of lying in his own urine....

There. The bunched muscles relaxed, and he half-sobbed in relief and forced himself to stay loose.

Doyle. Think about Doyle. His partner. Or better yet, the man who had taught him what being a partner was all about. Ray, who was laid up in London with a broken foot and wasn't around to guard his partner's back. Instead, Stuart was dead, bloody fool for playing hero, and Cowley wouldn't have the faintest idea where to sent help.

For the first time since he'd been tossed in the hut, Bodie began to think he just might not make it out alive. Always at the back of his mind had been the half-formed idea that somehow Doyle would come bursting in at the last minutes, just like the cavalry, his .38 blasting away, his weird green eyes blazing with excitement.

Bodie felt the sigh ripple through him. He'd give anything to see those eyes right now.

So -- was this it? The small patch of sunlight he told time by was red and slanting. It would be dark soon and the creeping chill would begin....

Somehow it had never occurred to him death would be quite like this...this...slow. A bullet, a car, an unopened chute -- they could all be fatal, but at least they were QUICK and fairly clean. This creeping paralysis of mind and body wasn't supposed to happen to the good guys.

Good guys, hell!

He'd done enough killing in this life to be barred from the pearly gates for the next thirty -- if he had faith in such things.

Vaguely he wondered when he'd stopped believing in some all-powerful being. Was it the first time he'd killed a man? Seen a village firebombed, with the leftover mangled, half-burned bodies of the women and children who'd done nothing more than be in the wrong place at the wrong time?

Or was it when Mom had died leaving just a note saying 'I'm sorry'? Cowley believed in God. And so did Doyle. Ray....

How many times had Doyle said, 'your reward will be in heaven, my son'?

Bodie found himself trying to actually count the scenes and moved sharply, breaking the thought pattern.

For God's sake, Ray...help me....

---

It was almost dawn when the sleepy quiet of the countryside was shattered. Bullets sprayed the clearing, killing the two men by the fire before they could do more than pull their weapons. Inside the leanto, Bodie stirred, half conscious, and was not in the least surprised to find his partner leaning over him.

He opened his mouth, not knowing what he would say, but it didn't matter anyhow. No sound emerged, and when his arms were free he settled for weakly returning the warm clasp on long fingers, barely hearing a familiar Scottish voice urgently asking silly questions.

Of course he was all right. Now that Ray held him firmly, he was fine....

Bodie relaxed when he was told to and warm blankets covered him. He was lifted, there were bright lights and lots of discordant noise, Murphy somewhere in the background, and he was moving. None of it mattered as long as the anchor of the hand that held his remained intact.

Briefly his consciousness sharpened as Cowley called out, and he very clearly heard Ray's reply.

"No way. I'm staying with Bodie."

Absofuckinlutely, Bodie agreed silently, and passed out as they lifted him into the waiting ambulance.

---

"Yeah, well, the worst of it was you stunk to high heavens." Doyle collapsed next to a much improved Bodie and passed him the bottle.

"The Cow told me it was you that twigged where Simmons was hiding out." Bodie dispensed with the glass and took a long satisfying drink straight from the bottle.

Doyle shrugged.

Bodie smiled faintly and glanced at his partner. When Ray looked up, Bodie raised one eyebrow.

Doyle grinned. "You're welcome, mate. Anytime."

Satisfied, Bodie relaxed and eyed his flat with contentment. After three days in the dark and a week in the antiseptic hospital, it was nice to find a happy medium. The miracles of modern medicine, he thought; even his cold was dissipating into nothing more than a red nose and a slight cough. Not a Victorian in sight.

Feeling very relaxed, he stretched his legs out and propped them on the low coffee table next to Ray's. Then, being Bodie, he couldn't resist. "You know, you could've been a little faster."

"Had an appointment with my tailor," Doyle answered promptly prepared for it.

"Aw, well as long as I know it was something important."

They drank silently, not needing words to fill the quiet. Still bothered by occasional cramps, Bodie felt one approaching and bent his foot.

"Still bad?"

"No." Bodie shook his head. "You?"

"Listen, I'm just so glad to get that damn cast off...."

"We're a pair," Bodie began, then, "What are you doing?"

"Massaging your leg, sunshine, and if you kick me, I'll stop."

Bodie opened his mouth to protest, but as Ray's strong fingers found the exact spot and pressed, he found the words forgotten and said instead, "Oh yeh...."

Doyle looked up long enough to smile then bent back to his self-imposed task.

Under the steady grip-and-relax of his partner's hands, Bodie's muscles loosened, and he barely noticed when the touch shifted to his shoulders.

"Stretch out," Ray commanded, "and I'll do it properly."

"Huh? Oh, yeh, sure...."

They pushed the table aside, and Bodie lay full length on the carpet, his head resting on his folded arms. When Doyle tapped his shoulder and motioned, ne obediently pulled off his sweater and returned to position. "D'you charge for your services?"

"Yes." Doyle straddled him and began to rub palms over the muscle-ridged surface of Bodie's back, not elaborating.

His touch was light at first, barely pressured, as if he wanted the feel of the whole area before working on one part. It was a move so typically 'Doyle' that Bodie chuckled.

"What?"

"Nothing. Feels good. Go on."

The steel fingers grew steadily more firm, kneading the taut muscles into complete relaxation -- shoulders, down the spine, off to the flanks. Bodie was half asleep when the soft touch of lips at the base of his neck brought him fully alert. He waited a few seconds, and when it came again, he leaned up on his elbows and looked over his shoulder, not speaking.

Ray looked back at him, and the silence lengthened as they read each other's faces. The desire, the need, the sheer hungry passion of Ray for his partner was clear for Bodie to see. He caught his breath, feeling confused, suddenly excited, and to his surprise, not at all repulsed. He tried to keep his expression bland while he sorted out his emotions, but Ray knew him too well. Doyle waited, half-smiling, not hiding his feelings -- newly discovered and overwhelmingly REAL -- wanting Bodie to read it all.

Slowly Bodie turned until he lay on his back. "Ray?"

"You could have died," Doyle said quietly, and the words seemed to fill the empty spaces in Bodie's soul. He didn't have to say more. They both could die; any day, any time, and Bodie suddenly knew that he wanted Ray just as much as Ray seemed to want him. Tomorrow might be too late....

Doyle lightly ran his fingers over his partner's face, tracing the features one by one, his round face almost serene as he read acceptance in the blue depths of Bodie's eyes. He leaned forwards and pressed his mouth against the throat pulse that beat rapidly under his touch then whispered something in Bodie's ear.

To Bodie, it was no more than a rush of sound, unimportant next to the feelings crowding through him. He turned his head and met Doyle's kiss eagerly, reaching to pull him closer.

It was a new sensation, a different taste, and he heard himself groan deep in his throat. His lips parted for Ray's tongue and he accepted the invitation to return the sensation, feeling his jeans tighten as his body reacted to the incredible feeling.

When they finally broke apart for air, Doyle lifted off him and pulled his own shirt off, then fumbled at his partner's belt, his fingers shaking.

They stripped silently and came back together quickly in an unpracticed embrace. There was a shared erotic sensation of hardness against hardness, then Bodie led the way into the bedroom and shut the door firmly behind them.

The sheets were cool as they stretched out next to each other, lightly touching, gently exploring bodies they had seen a hundred times before but never really looked at, but heat grew with passion, and neither noticed nor cared until much, much later.

Doyle stroked sleep dark hair as Bodie rested contentedly against his chest, teasing the waves into miniature curls. Bodie moved closer, feeling warm and drowsy and satisfied. Ray's hands shifted to his shoulders then encircled him. "You okay?"

Wonderful...terrific...happy...finally complete.... Bodie said softly, "I'm just fine."

-- THE END --