Doyle sat, fuming. Whatever Neanderthal mind had invented the practical joke back in the dim dark ages before the memory of modern man could not have known that there would one day exist Bodie. The absolute horror of the mere idea of such a thing in his hands would have had anyone with two brain cells to rub against each other jumping off a cliff before risking leaving that legacy for the future. He took another sip of tea from the cup he held. "Gaah!" he said, expressing his disgust with an economical terseness at odds with the freely flowing invective he had used only moments before. He scrubbed his handkerchief over his mouth again, as if the cloth could remove the foul amalgam of flavours which yet lingered upon his taste buds. His loon of a partner was giggling to himself over there in the driver's seat, a smirk of surpassing smugness on his face.

Still sniggering, Bodie reached out a long arm and took the handkerchief away from him. "Here. Missed a spot," he said, holding Doyle's head steady with one hand under his chin while he dabbed at the corner of his mouth with the cloth. There was the faintest tremor in the hand cupped around Doyle's jaw; must take everything Bodie could muster not to fall out of the car door and roll around on the ground, laughing. "C'mon, Ray, admit it. Sheer brilliance, that was."

"Yeah. Right. The National Brain Trust'll be coming round recruiting you any day now. 'Put mustard in a cream-filled pastry, he did,' they'll say. 'What a mind,' they'll say. They'll be falling over themselves in awe."

This was met with nothing more satisfactory than a renewed widening of Bodie's grin. Doyle gave up; Bodie wasn't going to allow himself to be deprived of one second of the gloating he considered his due. Taking another swig of tea, Doyle wondered just how long it was going to take to wash the taste from his mouth. Not that Doyle didn't care for mustard--in its place--but that wasn't in the centre of a pastry which ought to hold smooth, creamy custard. One bite had been one more than enough: he'd spat the sticky yellow mess back out into the paper bag the pastry had been in and grabbed for something to wash out his mouth, spluttering and swearing. Bodie was ahead on points now, there was no disputing it, which meant that now Doyle had to devise some form of retribution fiendish enough to even the score.

He'd had a couple of ideas floating around in the back of his head for some time now, in reserve as it were, but neither of them would be adequate for his purposes now. They didn't have the scope he needed, the imagination and unexpectedness it'd take to rock Bodie back on his heels and take him down a peg. To mix a metaphor or two. He couldn't let his standards slip now. That last one he'd pulled on Bodie--the memory of the look on his partner's face was almost worth the disgusting taste in Doyle's mouth.

Standing in front of his locker at Headquarters, after a very long day spent in a too-hot car under a relentless July sun, Bodie had been sprucing himself up a bit in the five minutes he had to spare before he was to go pick up Cindy in Records for the date he'd been rubbing Doyle's face in for the previous two days. Peering at himself in the small round mirror stuck to the inside of the locker door, Bodie'd run a comb through his hair, smoothing it--scarcely necessary, as short as it was--and leaned closer, inspecting a smut on his cheek just below one blue eye. He'd licked his index finger and swiped at the mark, then nodded, satisfied. He'd picked up the bottle which held his cologne, splashed a bit on his palms, and slapped it briskly on his cheeks and neck. Then he'd stopped, curled that long upper lip of his, and sniffed: first, suspiciously, at the inside of his locker, then at his hands, then he'd craned his head round like a grooming pigeon and sniffed at his own neck as best he could.

By that time, Doyle had been on the far side of the room, on his way out the door at his best top speed. There came a point where enjoyment of one's partner's discomfiture ended and reckless endangerment of one's own life and limb began. Besides, it didn't take much imagination to picture the coming scenes, as the gentle aroma of garlic grew and strengthened: the way the scent would billow in fragrant clouds around Bodie as it warmed through with his body heat, the way Cindy, who couldn't abide garlic in any shape or form, would greet Bodie, who would by that time be reeking of it. Ahh, the stuff of fantasies, there.

The best part had been that Doyle had known that Bodie'd have no time to try to clean himself up. He'd already been late or had to cancel a date with Cindy too many times before. Doyle grinned reminiscently, and then noticed Bodie watching him, his own wide smile damped down just a fraction. Not bad. Getting Bodie worried was an excellent beginning for whatever he ended up doing to him. Doyle let his head tip back against the headrest and whistled a few notes. If Bodie recognised the tune, so much to the good. Anything you can do, I can do better...

The tune trailed off as Doyle noticed the man leaving the building they were watching. In his mid-thirties, slightly above medium height, skinny, it seemed that everything about him drooped. The dispirited slump of his posture set the theme, followed faithfully by the limp mouse-coloured hair flopping over his forehead, the rumpled jacket, baggy trousers, and even the shoelaces of his distinctly in-need-of-a-shine shoes. He walked a short distance down the pavement, unlocked the door of a grey Ford, placed the carton he was carrying on the rear seat of the car and then seated himself behind the wheel.

"'Ardly know by looking at him that he spends his days dreaming up ways for us to drop bombs on them, would you?" Doyle said.

"Dunno," Bodie replied. "Always reckoned those blokes had to have something twisty about them to work in that line."

"Twisty?"

"Well, look at him," Bodie said, starting the car and moving smoothly out into the stream of traffic to follow their quarry. "No one's that unimpressive without a reason. Wouldn't stand out from the crowd if he were all alone on a beach, that one. Stands to reason there's something in him that made him decide to be so ordinary, something he's hiding. Something twisty."

"So, just because our Mr. Sanders looks so harmless, he isn't?" Doyle asked. "Paranoia, Bodie."

"No." Bodie shook his head. "I'm alive today."

"Meaning you wouldn't be if you didn't distrust everyone you meet," Doyle said acidly.

"Trust you, sunshine."

Doyle snorted. Bodie raised his eyebrows at this unsolicited editorial comment. "Besides," he said, "the Cow wouldn't be interested in him if there wasn't something twisty about him." He swerved into the other lane to avoid a suicidal Mini and turned onto a side street, keeping the Ford within view.

"Ah," Doyle said, "Trust the Cow too, then, do you?"

"As far as necessary."

Doyle snorted again. That wasn't paranoia; that was good common sense. The car ahead of them was slowing. Bodie'd noticed, and as the Ford turned into a carpark entrance he found a place for the Capri just around the corner on the next cross-street. Doyle was out of the car before it had quite stopped moving, jogging towards the entrance with economical haste. Five minutes later, he came back into view, moving a little more hurriedly than he had left. Bodie pulled the car back out into the street, pausing only long enough for Doyle to jump in. Seconds later the Ford pulled out of the carpark exit.

"So?" Bodie asked, allowing two cars waiting at the next intersection into the stream of traffic ahead of them. Should Sanders be more observant than they gave him credit for, that would make it less obvious that he was being followed, and with Bodie's skill behind the wheel, they'd be in no danger of losing the Ford.

"Couldn't see much," Doyle said, not taking his eyes from their quarry. "Looked like he was doing something with that carton in the back seat. Didn't meet anyone, or pick anything up or leave anything behind, so far as I could tell."

They followed the Ford for about ten minutes, until it pulled into a parking space on the street. Sanders got out, carrying a good-sized parcel neatly wrapped in brown paper, and headed for the Post Office a short distance away.

"He's going to post it, instead of delivering it in person, then," Doyle observed.

"Suppose we should do something about that?"

"Probably. Reckon Cowley'd approve."

As Sanders had now actually entered the Post Office, Bodie and Doyle made haste to follow, finding him inside, third in line at the window. Bodie strolled up beside him and put out one large hand, laying hold of Sanders' forearm. The man gave a start and tried to pull away, but Doyle was there on his other side.

"Donald Sanders," Doyle said, "you're nicked." He reached to take the parcel; Sanders let it go without any protest, seemingly stunned into unquestioning compliance by the turn of events. Doyle turned the parcel over, curious to see whether the address read France or Germany or somewhere further afield. To his surprise, he found that Sanders had addressed the parcel to himself--at his own home.

"What the--? Bodie, look at this," Doyle exclaimed.

Bodie took a step in his direction, and at his momentary inattention, Sanders snatched at the parcel and darted out the door. Up until then he'd seemed such a subdued, milquetoast sort of personality that the CI5 agents hadn't really expected him either to fight or to bolt. With a curse, Bodie dashed after him, Doyle on his heels.

They caught him not fifty metres down the road; in his panicked haste, he'd been running away from the Ford and hadn't a hope of outpacing men trained to the state of fitness demanded by George Cowley. He hadn't a hope of outfighting them either, but that didn't keep him from trying. Bodie caught him by one arm and hauled him around to face him--and as Sanders came round, swinging the parcel he held as a kind of crude bludgeon, he lost his grip on it and it slipped away from him, prompting a half-winded exclamation from Bodie as it slammed into his midriff.

The corner of the parcel would have hit the ground, had Bodie's left foot not been in the way. As Bodie's face acquired a pained grimace, Sanders made an attempt to twist from his hold, reaching towards the parcel at his feet. He succeeded only in flailing one-handed at the air, for Bodie had not loosened his grip upon him one whit. In the next instant, Doyle had Sanders' other arm in a hold which guaranteed his lack of further resistance. Releasing his grip on Sanders, Bodie stooped to pick up the parcel. The brown paper wrapping, already damaged from its impact with the ground, tore across as Bodie grasped at it, and the parcel tumbled away across the pavement, its lid falling open as the abused latch gave way. Released, the contents of the box spilled across the gritty pavement.

Sanders looked at the wooden box and at the sheaf of magazines and papers spread out next to it. "Oh, God," he said despairingly, and wilted.

Not trusting this passivity, Doyle hauled Sanders back upright. "You all right?" he asked his partner.

"My foot hurts," Bodie said, "but I'll survive." He squatted and scooped the contents of the parcel back into the box, and carrying it, limped back to the Capri with Doyle and Sanders.

At Headquarters three hours later, it was a wry chuckle that Doyle gave as he accompanied his limping partner down the hallway towards the infirmary. "Poor sod. I shouldn't laugh, but it was funny."

"Which part? The way Sanders almost wet himself when he knew we'd seen his little stash of pictures and magazines, or Cowley's face when he saw them all spread out on the table in front of him?" Bodie asked. "Must admit, I haven't seen such a collection of Page Three girls since I was in the Army." He abruptly veered left into the rest room, taking Doyle by surprise.

"Hey!" Doyle protested, stopping where he was, a step or two past the doorway. "Where d'you think you're going?" There was an indistinct reply from his partner. "I know it's the rest room, you contrary sod. Oh." As Doyle entered the rest room to stand beside Bodie, the reason for both his detour and his newly acquired speech defect became clear.

"Thought I smelt food," Bodie said, cramming the rest of a pastry into his mouth, shedding a small avalanche of crumbs down his front. "B'lieve I'll have this one, too," he said, turning to the tea lady, who accepted the crumpled note he offered her. Picking up another pastry from her cart, Bodie brandished it at Doyle. "Cherry-filled."

"I can see that," Doyle said, not tempted in the least to acquire a pastry for himself; the memory of the taste of mustard lingered still. "It's stuck to your teeth."

"Mmm." Bodie's face assumed an astonishing variety of expressions as he sucked red goo from his incisors.

"Cowley's going to be checking the infirmary records, you know. After last time," Doyle said.

"Just take me a minute," Bodie said, taking a huge bite from his second pastry.

"I'll wait." Doyle waved a hand at the rest of the room. "H'lo, Jax, Turner. Did you have a chance to get something for yourselves before the human dustbin 'ere got stuck into it?"

"Yeah," Jax said, his teeth gleaming as he smiled. "Heard you brought back some interesting evidence with that last collar of yours."

Doyle held the door open as the tea lady pushed her cart out through the doorway and then closed it behind her as she trundled down the hall. "Uh-huh. You should have seen Cowley's face when he saw what we'd brought him."

"Think he'll be wanting anyone to help him classify the evidence?" Turner asked hopefully.

"No need for you to start drooling," Bodie said. "Wasn't anything an enterprising schoolboy couldn't buy at a news-stand." He brushed at his chest, sending crumbs flying.

"Man with your discriminatin' tastes wouldn't think them worth his time," Doyle said. "I've seen those videos you show at parties, Turner."

"Poor Sanders acted like he thought the stuff in that box was worth a lot to him, though," Bodie said.

"Think what was important to him was that his mother didn't find out he had it," Doyle said. "Have to feel sorry for him, in a way."

"Why?" asked Jax. "He's off the hook for the security flap now, isn't he?"

"Yeah. Cowley's satisfied there's nothing in all those pictures but pictures. No secret messages, no microdots; just a lot of bared bosoms and such. But Sanders is such a pathetic little git. No social life. Lives with his mum, at his age. She was all set to do her spring cleaning, so he picks up his collection of magazines and takes 'em to work with him--just in time to find out that there's going to be a security sweep there. Panics, and decides to post them off to himself to keep them safe."

"He what?" Turner said incredulously, with the well-justified doubt of one who had seen too many parcels entrusted to the Post Office go astray.

"He said that sending the box through the mails was the safest thing he could think of. Seems that while his mum would think nothing of going through everything in his bedroom while doin' the spring cleaning, she wouldn't think of opening up his mail for him. Of course that didn't help him this time; he still ended up having to explain everything to Cowley."

Jax winced. "That's worth some sympathy, I'll admit. But he ought to have known that keeping those magazines around meant that someone might find out he had 'em. He should've taken steps--so he'd have been ready to deal with the consequences."

"Mmm." Bodie cocked his head. "You sayin' that anyone with a secret ought to be prepared for it to be found out?"

"It's not a bad idea," Turner offered.

"Yeah, but what about secrets that'd ruin a person's life if they got out? Can't prepare for that," Doyle said, argumentative just for the sake of it.

Bodie raised his eyebrows. "You speaking from experience, sunshine? D'you have hereditary insanity in your family, maybe, or are you hiding a rubber fetish?"

Doyle snorted. "Can't see that either of those would ruin my life if it got out in this company." He took a breath, meaning to elaborate on the insult, but stopped short as an idea, a wonderful, fiendish idea bloomed into existence in his mind. Oh, the scope of it, the splendour. He straightened his features, hoping that none of his glee had been apparent there, and cleared his throat. "You done yet, Bodie? You do have an appointment with Dr. Miller. He'll be wondering where you are."

"Mmm-hmmm." Bodie limped over to the other side of the room and drank down a cup of water, then came back and nudged Doyle. "Any time you're ready."

"Any time I'm ready?" Doyle raised long-suffering eyes to the heavens. "Come on, you."

The floors had been freshly waxed; the soles of Doyle's new trainers squeaked most satisfactorily as he walked along, adjusting his pace to Bodie's hobbling gait. Looking over at his partner, he grinned inwardly, then reached to brush gently at the front of Bodie's rollneck. "Crumbs," he said, when the other looked a question at him. "Here we are." He opened the door into the infirmary office, waving Bodie inside.

Mmmm. He'd heard about Miller's new assistant. Typing, filing, and testing CI5 personnel for cardiovascular fitness. The male ones, anyway. Bristols that would have had Sanders hyperventilating, legs up to her armpits, a cloud of blonde hair insufficiently restrained by a couple of hairpins, and a mouth which promised paradise without uttering a word. Doyle took a deep breath and suppressed his natural reactions. "My partner here's supposed to see Dr. Miller. Bodie, 3.7."

"We wondered where you were," she said. The name on her badge was Cheryl Owens. Doyle resolutely kept his eyes above the level of that badge, and smiled pleasantly at her, trying to use the same expression he would have done with Miller's old assistant, who had been a motherly soul with an air of fresh-baked pies and clean laundry about her.

"Got held up along the way," Bodie explained.

She smiled at him. "Well, as you're here now, I'll tell Dr. Miller. Go on through to the treatment room, would you?"

Bodie nodded. "I know where it is." He limped across the room. Doyle got there before him, and opened the door for him, following him inside the treatment room and watching as he sat himself down on the end of the examination couch. Bodie gave him a faintly quizzical look which Doyle met with apparent equanimity.

The door opened, and Dr. Miller came in. A tallish man, with thinning brown hair, he had a relaxed manner which seemed to serve him well whether he was dealing with broken ribs, a cut needing stitches, a minor gunshot wound, or a sprained ankle. The few times Doyle had seen him at work on anything more serious--usually just before the agent in question was hauled off to hospital--he'd seemed just as relaxed, but his hands always worked with a sureness which made a bloke trust him. He examined Bodie's foot, wiggling it this way and that, pressing at the discoloured swelling and watching Bodie's hands and not his face to see where it hurt.

"You're lucky. You could've broken a bone or two in that foot, but it looks like it's just badly bruised. Stay off it as much as possible for the next three days, keep it elevated if you can, and come back and see me on Monday." He stood up.

"What, no bandage?" Doyle said.

Miller looked at him and smiled placidly. "I could put one on now, and it'd stay on just until Bodie was out of my sight, wouldn't it?"

"Hey--I'm still here," Bodie pointed out indignantly. "You're talking about me as if I'm not."

"My sincerest apologies, Mr. Bodie," Miller said, an amused light in his eyes.

"That's just Bodie, and you know it. Oh, hell. Thanks, Doc. C'mon, Doyle."

In the outer office, Bodie stepped up to the desk and had a brief conversation with Cheryl Owens while Doyle stood by and eavesdropped politely. When the details of Bodie's next visit had been sorted out--subject to change without notice at CI5's convenience, as always--Bodie turned and went across the room to the door, only to find Doyle there before him. Going obligingly through the door as Doyle held it open, Bodie gave him a mildly perplexed glance as they went down the hallway.

"Wouldn't have thought you'd be slow about trying to make time with that one," he said. "Could have had a perfect opportunity while I was tied up with Miller."

Doyle looked over at him, and shrugged. "Her?" he said. "Reckon I could, at that." And perhaps he would still have a chance at her, later, when it wouldn't spoil his plans. "Didn't see you chattin' her up, either, an' you could've played the situation for sympathy and had a built-in reason for staying indoors. Sure it's just your foot that took a knock?"

Bodie stopped in his tracks, put his hands on his hips and gave Doyle a look of scorn. "Take more than a little weasel like Sanders to put me off my stride."

Doyle struggled to control himself, but the snigger escaped him despite his best efforts, ripening into outright laughter as he saw the offended look on his partner's face. "Off your stride?"

"All right, maybe I didn't phrase that too well," Bodie admitted.

"Mmm." Doyle reined in his audible amusement, though a grin still stretched his mouth wide. "Okay, Sanders didn't do anything more than bash your foot; I'll take your word on it. I still didn't hear you making any plans to spend the evening with--ahh--Cheryl. You got something else on tonight?"

"No. Alone and palely loitering, that's me."

"Oh." Doyle held open the door to the office they were using at the moment and waved his partner through. "Sit down; I'll get the forms you're going to need to bring in for the doc on Monday."

"Ta." Bodie sat at his desk and watched as Doyle went to the filing cabinet in the corner of the room. "There some reason you're interested in my social life, then?"

"Oh, just wondered," Doyle said. He waited a moment, then added, as if it had just occurred to him, "You want to come by my place? If you've nothing else on? We could leave now and do our report there, if you like--or perhaps better yet, at your place, if that suits you. Would be more convenient, seeing as you're probably not up to the Long March at present." He dropped some papers on the desk in front of Bodie and went over to pick up the long, hook-ended pole which stood tipped against the wall by the door.

Bodie rotated his ankle cautiously, something more insubstantial than a wince tightening his face for an instant. "Might be better that way, I'll admit. Bloke who laid out that block of flats you're in must've been an exercise fanatic, and last you told me, the lift was still hors de combat. Can we get something to eat on the way?"

"Chicken? Or Chinese?" Doyle asked, stretching and using the pole to close and latch the transom window. "Or we could get a curry."

"Making sure we get our Vitamin C?" Bodie asked, watching Doyle's efforts with absent interest.

"You're a regular Ronnie Corbett today," Doyle said, swearing under his breath as he tried to coax the reluctant latch into place. "You planning a second career as a comedian?"

"Nah. Wouldn't catch me standing up in front of a crowd of people and making a fool of myself." Bodie nodded towards the still recalcitrant latch. "Needs a drop of oil, that."

"Tell me something I don't know." The latch finally snicked into place. "That's done it. C'mon then." Doyle replaced the pole in its customary spot and held the door open for his partner to exit the room.

Bodie picked up the papers and limped over to the door. As he passed Doyle, he paused for a moment. "What's all this tender solicitude, Doyle? Not like you to be holdin' doors open for me at every verse end."

Doyle shrugged. "You're not usually hobbling around like a duck with corns, either. Just call me tender-hearted." He could almost see the retort, soft-headed, trembling on Bodie's lips, but self-interest must have kept it in check.

"Mmm. If you say so." Bodie checked to see that the doorlatch had caught behind them. "Chicken, then?"

Doyle grinned. "That's foul, that is."

The later part of the journey to Bodie's flat seemed much longer than the first; the scent of the chicken rose redolently from the greasy cartons resting at Bodie's feet. Doyle drove, hunger taking up some of his consciousness; plotting and scheming took up the rest. Had to ease into it gradually, be underhanded about it. Try to take it too quickly and Bodie's suspicions would ruffle up like the hair on the back of a cat facing a mastiff, and Doyle's plan would be scuttled before it was fairly launched. And that would be a pity, indeed.

Unlocking the door and dealing with the alarm systems while Bodie juggled the cartons, Doyle nodded to himself. Sneaky. That would be his watchword. "Here, let me take those," he said, scooping the cartons from Bodie's grasp. "You want to eat in the kitchen, or in here?"

"Well..." Bodie said.

"Never mind. I know what you'll say; you always were one to like the lap of luxury," Doyle said, setting the food on the table in front of the sofa. "Just let me get a couple of plates and something for us to drink. I'll be right back." He was as good as his word, setting a plate and a can of beer in front of his partner almost before he'd got himself settled on the sofa. Doyle took a look at the way Bodie had disposed himself, with his legs stretched out to occupy nearly the entire length of the sofa cushions, and raised his eyebrows. Bodie gave a little shrug.

"Make yourself comfortable, mate," Doyle said, going over and seating himself in the armchair. "Don't worry about me; I can manage anywhere."

"Just following doctor's orders."

"Mmm-hmm. Eat your chicken. And try not to get grease all over those report forms if you can help it. Remember what Betty threatened us with last time?" Doyle tilted the carton of chicken, catching several pieces of chicken deftly upon his plate, and began to eat.

"Me? Think you have us confused, there. Wasn't me who spilt that whisky on the photos from the Anderson op!"

"Was your fault, though."

"Oh?"

"Yeah," Doyle's tone was close to belligerent, but he moderated it quickly. Couldn't let an opening like this go begging. "If you hadn't poked me just as I was raisin' my glass, it wouldn't have happened."

"You mean, if you weren't so ticklish right under your ribs, it wouldn't, don't you?" Bodie said, responding more or less as Doyle had expected he would.

"I--oh, never mind," Doyle turned his head away and took a short drink from his beer.

"Doyle?"

"I said, never mind. Eat your chicken before it gets cold."

"But I like cold chicken."

Doyle shook his head. "I know. You like chicken any way, so long as it isn't still clucking!"

"Didn't much go for the way Angela fixed it that time, with that brown muck over it. Gourmet! Hah. This's much better."

"Mmm. Can't fault you there; don't think much of the idea of chocolate sauce over chicken, myself, no matter what fancy name you give it."

Bodie's taste for cold chicken was not put to the test that evening; between them, he and Doyle had eaten every scrap before it had a chance to get cold. It hadn't been difficult for Doyle to ensure that Bodie ate most of it; simply refraining from exerting himself to obtain a fair portion was sufficient. Watching as his partner raised his can of beer to drain the last drops from it, Doyle sighed.

"You want another?" he asked.

"Yeah," Bodie said, starting to swing his legs around and off the sofa.

"Stay there," Doyle said, rising from the armchair. "I'll get it." As he went out to the kitchen, he smiled to himself. It was going well. Curiously, Doyle found that he was enjoying coddling his partner, and not just because of the goal he was anticipating. There was a kind of satisfaction in saving Bodie from having to hobble around on his sore foot. It wasn't a matter of life and death; it was just a matter of his partner's comfort--and in a way, the same genuine affection which caused Doyle to wish to save Bodie as much discomfort as possible was the same driving force which urged him to gull him, for it wouldn't have been nearly as enjoyable to play a trick on someone who couldn't be expected to share the joke with Doyle--eventually. Doyle grinned evilly, and took the beer back out to his partner.

"Here you are." Doyle handed the beer to Bodie, then picked up the pad of paper and the biro which stood ready on the small table next to his chair. "I'll start in on our report, shall I?"

Bodie gave him a look. "Not like you to want to dive into the paperwork without putting it off as long as possible. What's up?"

Doyle scribbled busily on the paper for a minute before he replied, not looking up from his work, "Just wanted to get this done. Reckoned you'd have enough to do filling out those forms for Miller."

"Won't take me that long," Bodie protested. "It's not like I've never seen them before. Could nearly fill them out in my sleep by now, I should think."

Doyle took a breath, then let it out. "Yeah," he said shortly, then went back to his scribbling. He could feel Bodie looking at him intently. After a minute, Doyle set the pad down and rose, leaving the room without a word. The dictionary was in the bookcase in Bodie's bedroom; it took Doyle no time at all to find it, sandwiched between the atlas of the world and a volume of poetry by Yeats, but after extracting the dictionary from the shelf, Doyle deliberately stood there for a good two minutes, waiting, before going back out to the lounge. He sat down in his chair, being careful not to settle in too comfortably, and flipped open the dictionary to a likely page. Mumbling under his breath, he closed the book and picked up his pad of paper once more. He wrote a few more lines, then looked up at his partner. "Bodie? You think a hot compress'd help your foot? Or maybe a cold one?" He rose from his seat. "Yeah, a cold one. I'll go and make one up for you."

"Doyle--?" Bodie's query followed him towards the kitchen.

After much rattling about in the kitchen, Doyle returned with an ice pack, neatly wrapped in a plastic bag. "I know Doc Miller didn't say that you needed to pack your foot, but that's probably just because he didn't expect that you would. It'll help, I know it will." He reached across the back of the sofa, ice pack in hand. "Here."

Bodie reached out--and grabbed Doyle's wrist, instead of the ice pack. Swinging his legs around and off the sofa, he towed Doyle around the arm of the sofa and plunked him down on the cushions beside him. "What," he demanded, "is going on with you?"

"With me?" Doyle said weakly.

"Yeah, you. You've been hopping about like a flea in a fit."

"I'm sorry."

Bodie made an exasperated noise. "I don't want an apology. I want an explanation."

"I--" Doyle looked down to where Bodie's hand was still clasped around his wrist. He grimaced and pulled himself free, dropping the ice pack on the table in front of him as an afterthought.

Bodie took a sharp breath and sat up a little straighter. "Am I the problem, then? Or would you just rather be somewhere else--or with someone else?"

Doyle rubbed his hands over his face. "No," he said. "Invited myself here, didn't I? It's just--" he let his voice trail off, putting as much misery into it as he could.

Bodie bit. "Just what?" he said, reaching out to clasp Doyle's shoulders, turning Doyle to face him. "C'mon, mate. You can tell me. Whatever it is, I reckon you'll feel better with it off your chest. And you know you can trust me, don't you? You've told me things before, and I've never made you wish you hadn't, have I?"

"No. But I never told you anything like this." Doyle stared into Bodie's eyes, then looked down at his hands. "I...you remember what we were talking about in the rest room this afternoon?"

"What? Sanders' collection of pictures? Pastries?" Bodie paused, and then said, "You do have a thing for rubber, then?" The words could have been teasing had they been uttered in a different manner, but as Bodie spoke them they held the promise of acceptance, and carried the weight of their friendship.

Like takin' candy.... Doyle blinked, then mumbled, "'S not rubber. It's you."

"Me?" The word was flatly incredulous.

"You." Doyle reached out and laid his hand against Bodie's cheek, feeling the stubble of his beard prickling palm and fingers. He pulled his hand back. "Don't worry. I'm not going to make a big thing out of it; you needn't think you're going to have to keep your back to the wall from now on. It needn't make a difference, or much of one, anyway. But now you know, if--? Just once? Please? Won't ask you again, I promise." Doyle put his hands on either side of Bodie's face, and pulled him gently closer. Pay off time. He tilted his head and pressed his mouth against his partner's.

There was a brief, stunned, lack of reaction from Bodie. Doyle was hard-pressed not to burst out laughing, but he didn't want to end the joke before he'd reaped its full potential. He let his lips open against Bodie's--and then found himself shocked into immobility as Bodie's mouth moved against his, and Bodie's arms came around him, and Bodie's weight pressed him back against the arm of the sofa. Doyle swore inwardly and resigned himself to the failure of another promising practical joke. Ought to have known that Bodie'd be too canny to be taken in by this, no matter how slyly Doyle had gone about setting it up. He drew back a little, bending his back into an uncomfortable curve across the arm of the sofa, ready to concede defeat and let his partner have the pleasure of rubbing it in--but Bodie snaked a hand up into his hair and drew him close again, his other arm around Doyle and his hand kneading steadily just below his shoulderblade, and Doyle was unable to say a word, for his mouth was occupied by Bodie's tongue.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Doyle felt panic wash through him, and not without good reason: he couldn't sense anything in his partner to indicate that Bodie was other than completely serious about this. Bodie wasn't turning the tables on Doyle to force him to admit the joke; he was kissing him like he meant it--as if he'd never stop--and what ought to have been a joke had become something which might be the end of their friendship and their partnership. What could Doyle do? Explain that he hadn't been serious? That the only reason he'd put his mouth on Bodie's had been to take the piss out of him? Doyle gasped for breath as Bodie shifted the focus of his attention to Doyle's neck, nuzzling and nibbling. It wouldn't do. Even if Bodie's eagerness sprang largely from the lamentable state of his social life for the past month, he would not have been expressing it in this way if Doyle hadn't given him reason to expect that it would be welcome. No matter that Bodie'd never given Doyle reason to believe that he'd welcome an advance of this nature, no matter that Doyle wouldn't have dreamed of seriously offering such an advance to anyone, having happily and enthusiastically pursued the joys of heterosexuality since he'd achieved puberty; if he were to stop now, prick-tease would be the kindest thing Bodie could call him. Worse, given the intensity of Bodie's response, the urgency of his hands and mouth, Doyle suspected that it wasn't simply randiness which drove him, and if that was so, telling him the truth now would be worse than unkind--Bodie'd be hurt, and he'd close himself up, and things would never be the same between them again.

Idiot. Things would never be the same between them, no matter what. How could they go back to the way they'd been, after this? A little frisson of shivers danced up Doyle's spine as the moist swab of Bodie's tongue traced up and behind his ear. He looped his arms around Bodie, his palms flat on the muscular back, hoping to gain a few seconds to think if only he could keep Bodie from realising that all was not as he thought it was. If Bodie found out the truth, he'd never trust Doyle again. It was one thing to play a prank on a mate; it was quite another to betray him. Made no difference that Doyle had thought this nothing more than a practical joke; the betrayal lay in the fact that he hadn't taken care to ensure that the joke was one Bodie could share. He hadn't wanted Bodie to hurt himself by hobbling around on a sore foot? What did it say about him that he was willing to do this to him?

No. Doyle made a decision--hasty, but the best he could come up with, given what he knew. No matter what he'd thought was the basis of his friendship with his partner, no matter what he'd just found to the contrary, that friendship was worth keeping. And if keeping it meant that Doyle had to put aside what he'd believed to be true of himself, and of his sexuality, then he could and would do so. Heterosexual, bisexual, homosexual: what the hell difference did it make? He'd still be the same, wouldn't he?

Bodie pulled back from his oral investigation of the intricacies of Doyle's ear. "Ray?" he said, more vulnerability in his voice than Doyle was comfortable hearing.

"Mmmm?" Doyle said, gathering his courage together and getting ready to dive in at the deep end. No use starting something if one didn't intend to take it all the way. He took a brief instant to hope that he'd be able to carry through with what would be necessary, and then placed one hand on Bodie's face, his thumb gliding delicately across Bodie's mouth, and laid the other hand square on the swelling at the front of Bodie's trousers. He moved a finger down the heat of him, root to tip, and Bodie jumped. "For me? Doyle said.

"All of it," Bodie said, sounding breathless. His hands were busily burrowing under Doyle's T-shirt, and Doyle was thankful to discover that their touch did not tickle. He ducked his head to allow the shirt to be drawn off, and when Bodie seemed disinclined to move after that--staring at him with dilated eyes, the shirt dangling, forgotten, from one hand--Doyle took the garment from him and tossed it on the floor, then took a deep breath and ran his own hands over Bodie's chest. He tugged at the fabric of the rollneck, pulling it loose from the waistband of Bodie's trousers, then slipped his hands inside to meet warm, smooth skin. When his fingers slid across Bodie's nipples, his partner's eyes closed, and his head tipped back as he gave a little gasp.

"Like that, do you?" Doyle asked, rubbing across the little nubs.

"Mmmm, yeah," Bodie sighed. "Don't stop there."

"D'you mind if I do? Just for a minute?"

"Eh?"

Puzzled disappointment was plain on his partner's face; unwilling to have it remain there, Doyle leaned forward and planted a kiss on the pouting lips. "Gonna be cramped as anything on the sofa, aren't we? Have you changed your sheets lately?"

"Uhh--"

"You mind havin' to change 'em again?"

Bodie smiled broadly and kissed him hard. "Not at all. Be in a good cause, won't it?" He unfolded himself and got to his feet beside the sofa, then put out a hand to Doyle. "C'mon."

Walking to the bedroom, and to the bed, seemed to take a lifetime; Doyle had more than ample time to debate with himself the wisdom or foolishness of this course, and to decide the argument in three different ways before he was standing by the bedside, Bodie's fingers patting gently at his bum. Trying to ignore the feeling that he was stepping off a cliff, Doyle pulled back the blankets, turned and sat himself down on the bed with a bounce. With Bodie's trousers so conveniently at hand, his next option seemed obvious. Reaching out, he brushed the backs of his fingers along Bodie's skin, just above the waistband, then twitched the fastener open and slid the zip carefully down past the impatient bulge.

"That better?" he asked, the more brashly because of the uncertainty he felt.

Bodie looked down at him and smiled. "Yeah. But what about you?" He stripped off his rollneck with one quick motion, leaving a tuft of hair sticking up over his left ear. He caught Doyle's hand in his and tugged him to his feet. "Easier standin' up." He knelt, favouring his left foot, and unfastened Doyle's jeans and drew them down, his hands grazing over Doyle's skin in a long caress, hip to thigh to calf. "Too easy to get yourself caught up in something, otherwise, and ruin the mood. Step out of 'em, sunshine. That's right." He stroked a finger across the front of Doyle's pants. "Mmm. Left you behind, have I? Soon put that right."

The next moment, Doyle found himself on the bed, lying on his back, with Bodie's hands and mouth making a meticulous survey of his body. Somehow, he'd lost the initiative, but it seemed that Bodie knew well enough what he wanted. Doyle took a sharp breath as Bodie pressed his mouth to the cloth covering his groin and blew; the hot breath felt as though it would scorch him. The heat felt--Doyle squirmed restlessly.

"Thought you'd like that. Shall we get these off, too?" Bodie suited action to words, and tossed Doyle's pants towards the foot of the bed, wriggling out of his own underwear in the next instant and flinging it after.

There was the claustrophobic warmth of Bodie all along Doyle's side and looming over him. Doyle closed his eyes and tried to catch his breath; the cotton of the sheet was dry and cool under his damp palm. Bodie leaned closer, and Doyle opened his eyes, wanting to know what was coming next no matter how apprehensive he might be. Doyle's eyes crossed as he watched Bodie approach--and then drop a little kiss on the tip of his nose. Doyle couldn't help it: he laughed.

"That's better," Bodie said. "Understandable you'd be a bit nervy, but it doesn't say much for my technique, does it? Relax, mate. It's meant to be enjoyed." He cocked an eyebrow at Doyle.

"Mmmm. Yeah," Doyle said, his nervousness evaporating away. Bodie was still Bodie, was still the partner he knew and trusted. What was there to worry about? They'd worked well together in any number of endeavours; it stood to reason that they'd work well together here, too. "So, let's get on with the enjoyment, shall we?" He pulled Bodie down closer to him and kissed him.

It was surprisingly simple. A kiss was still a kiss--a snatch of the theme from Casablanca wound itself through Doyle's thoughts--a touch was still a touch. Bodie was shaped differently from Doyle's prior sexual partners, but his mouth tasted as good as any of them, his skin was as good to touch, his response to a caress as gratifying. Doyle shivered as deft fingers sought him out and persuaded him to pleasure. Maybe better.

"That nice, is it?"

"You know it is," Doyle answered, and returned the favour. Co-operation was even better than persuasion, and soon they were pursuing their shared objective with vigorous enthusiasm, rolling back and forth on the bed until they found a position which suited both them and their goal. Doyle lay on his back, pushing upward to drive himself against his partner, who surged against him with lusty need. Sweat was slick upon both their bodies as they built the heat between them, smelting desire into unalloyed pleasure, until the white-hot crescendo of completion swept over them both.

Doyle lay there, panting, as the aftershocks of climax jolted through him with each brush of his skin against his partner's. Bodie had slid off him to lie next to him, but his arm was still draped across Doyle's midriff. His head was turned to face Doyle, and the warmth in his eyes and in his sated smile prompted Doyle to reach out and touch him, despite the fact that his bones seemed to have turned to indiarubber.

"Quite a thing," Doyle said.

"Yeah. Isn't it." Bodie raised a hand and covered Doyle's where it lay against his face. "You're something too, sunshine."

"Mmm. An' you ought to come with a health warning." Doyle yawned. "I'm knackered."

Bodie chuckled. "Was just going to ask you if you'd mind if I had a bit of a zizz."

"Good idea." Doyle rubbed his thumb across the stubbled cheek his hand rested upon, and was asleep almost before he'd had a chance to close his eyes.

He didn't sleep for long, though when he woke Bodie was still snuffling away beside him despite the fact that the lamp beside the bed was burning brightly. Bodie didn't have a guilty conscience, did he. Doyle eased away from his partner by an inch or two, and stared up at the ceiling, tracing the bumps and irregularities in the plaster with an absent gaze. He'd done it this time. Jumped without looking to see where he'd land. All right; he'd succeeded in keeping Bodie from realising that Doyle's motive in kissing him had been less than straightforward--but in digging himself out of one hole, Doyle had dug himself into a deeper one. Hadn't stopped to consider what he'd do after he'd slept with Bodie.

Sleep with him again? Doyle blinked at the ceiling, and wondered where that idea had come from. Tempting, though, no matter how it would complicate his life.

Bodie snuffled, snorted, then subsided, his breathing now barely audible. Must've turned his head so that he could breathe better. Doyle returned to his cogitations. What was he going to do? Hope Cowley didn't find out, for one. Redefine his sense of himself, for another. It was one thing to decide that sleeping with Bodie wouldn't mean he'd changed; it was another to lie here after sleeping with Bodie and know that he had. The old Doyle had thought of sleeping with his partner as a kind of sacrifice, to be offered up to save the partnership. Doyle shook his head slowly back and forth on the pillow. It had been no sacrifice.

Something out of the corner of his eye--Doyle looked over at Bodie, who was lying there watching him.

"And what's going through that head of yours?" Bodie asked, reaching out and ruffling Doyle's hair.

"Mmm. Just thinking."

"About this? About us?" Bodie said. "You were frowning."

"It's just--what happened wasn't exactly what I expected when I kissed you," Doyle said, knowing that Bodie couldn't possibly appreciate how true that was, "and that changes things."

Bodie laughed. "Can imagine. Thought I'd belt you one, did you? You're braver than I am; I don't think I ever would've had the bottle to let you know what I wanted--what I've wanted for ages. But what's to frown about?"

"The future?" Doyle offered, "Cowley?"

Bodie grimaced. "Point taken."

"Ahh, never mind," Doyle said, regretting puncturing Bodie's buoyant mood. He didn't need to behave like a berk just because Bodie's assessment of his bravery in making the first move had given him a qualm of guilt sufficient to make a sociopath repent his ways. Especially when the outcome of Doyle's insufficiently considered action seemed, however unexpectedly, to be something they both could appreciate. "We'll sort it out. Won't we?"

Bodie turned onto his back and gave a horizontal shrug. "Reckon we will, if we want to badly enough."

"Then we will," Doyle said firmly, determination in every syllable, "because I like the way things have changed. And if you do, too--?"

Bodie turned back towards him and raised himself up on one elbow. "Oh, no. I was all over you because I didn't like it." He stared down at Doyle, a small crease between his brows.

"Now you're frowning," Doyle said, touching the mark, smoothing it with his thumb. "What's wrong?"

"Ohh, was just wondering about a couple of things."

"Such as--?"

"Well," Bodie started slowly, then continued in a rush, "all this is new to you, isn't it. I could tell, when we got in here--and I went ahead and seduced you anyway."

"Seduced me?" Doyle said, astonished. "Who started kissing who, I'd like to know!" He relaxed back into the pillows. "On the other hand, if you like to think you seduced me, go right ahead. And feel free to do so again; I quite enjoyed it."

Bodie was staring at him, mouth agape.

"Or shall I seduce you this time?" Doyle smiled slowly up at his partner. "I'll admit that my experience with blokes begins and ends with you, but I'm a fast learner."

Bodie didn't jump at the opportunity Doyle had given him. Instead, he closed his mouth and drew back a little.

"Now what's causin' you to make faces at me, eh?" Doyle asked. Bodie didn't reply, though his mouth compressed a little, as though he were resisting the urge to say something. "Eh?" Doyle repeated. "C'mon and tell me. How can I help to make it right if I don't know what's wrong?"

"It's not wrong. Not exactly. Was just you saying 'begins and ends' like that."

"Mmm?" Doyle prompted.

"Oh, hell. Least I can do is be as brave as you were earlier." Bodie took a deep breath, then said rapidly, "I want your experience with blokes to end with me. Just me. Birds too. Want you all to myself, don't I!"

"Now there's an idea," Doyle said, understanding what his partner meant despite his tangled syntax, and trying the notion out for size. He looked it up and down, imagining what it'd mean, thinking about how it would shape his life. His life and Bodie's. They'd be sharing a future, after all. "A good idea, I'd say, so long as you don't mind its going the other way, too. Can you give up the birds that easily?"

Bodie's teeth gleamed as he smiled. "Like falling off a log. Just a question of what matters, isn't it!"

"Uh-huh." Doyle found himself filled with a wonderful sense of serenity. What mattered was his partner; he'd decided that earlier. It was sheer serendipity that he'd discovered that they could matter to each other in this way as well. "Shall we get on with the seducin' now, or would you rather wait?"

Bodie eased over onto his back, anticipation written all over him. "Oh, I think I'd rather wait."

Doyle edged himself closer to his partner, reached out, and saw the grin widen Bodie's mouth as Doyle made ready to make him wait--just long enough.

As far as Bodie knew, Doyle never did repay him for the mustard-filled pastry; practical jokes seemed to lose a good deal of their appeal when compared to other pursuits they could share. Doyle sometimes thought, though, that simply making Bodie wait for retribution to strike was punishment enough--especially as Doyle's planned revenge had worked out so well, even if not entirely as he'd expected.

-- THE END --

5/2/97
Originally published in Living Pros, Bovinity Press, 1999