Bodie's eyes widened in disbelief. Cowley'd outdone himself this time. The entire Scottish race would take years to live him down, and even then he'd be a story passed through the ages to scare parents into handing over pocket money, husbands into splurging out an extra pound or two. The Old Man was so tight, they'd say, you don't want to end up like him do you?

If this were a room in someone's house, he thought, leaning disconsolately against the doorframe, it wouldn't even be graced with the epithet "box". It was a twin room insofar as there were two beds -- with maybe an inch between them and barely six between the far bed and the window, so that the incongruously thick and boldly flowered curtains actually brushed the bedspread.

At the foot of each bed was a metal frame on which to rest a suitcase, and the far corner boasted a tiny washbasin with plastic cups resting in a toothbrush holder. Apart from that? Nothing. Not even a kettle. And this was their home for the duration.

Somewhere downstairs a door slammed. Bodie closed his eyes, the better to gather his strength. He was going to be in this room for the next three days. With Doyle. Footsteps on the stairs. He thought back to another hotel room, how Doyle had been the one reassuring him about the state of it, about sharing with another bloke, laughing with him at the echoing sounds of the railway outside. Wasn't going to happen tonight. Not when Doyle'd been stuck out in the rain all day and Bodie'd been the one on cosy obs just three doors down the hallway. He wished he'd thought to check their room before now, before they were both knackered and hungry and...

"Bloody 'ell!"

Yup. Bad tempered.

"You've got to be kidding."

Bodie heaved their bags into the room, took a deep breath, and turned to face his partner. Doyle's lips were pursed disapprovingly, his eyes dark, every muscle taut and ready to rage. He was trying to hold himself in check, was all but counting to one hundred.

Gently, gently, catchee monkey, Bodie thought and managed to pull Doyle's gaze to his own. He allowed a wry smile to twist his lips and raised his eyebrows, their own conspiracy against Cowley. For a moment Doyle just stared back, hard as nails, and then Bodie could practically see the tension melt away, his body become fluid again, as he relaxed into the situation. Finally Doyle stepped across the threshold and closed the door behind them, even managed a smile of his own in return.

"Bloody Cowley."

"We could always go and keep the lads company if we feel the need to swing a cat."

Doyle snorted. "And spend the next few days reeking of Anson's bloody smoke? I'd rather kip outside."

Bodie became aware of other, far more aromatic smells emanating from the carrier bags in Doyle's hands. "You bought dinner? We not going out then?"

"In this?" Doyle gestured at the grey light half-hidden by net curtains. "You've not been standing in it all day. All I wanted to do was get inside. Mind you," he glanced around the room again, "If I'd realised..." He dropped the bags onto one of the beds and pulled off his donkey jacket and the jumper he wore underneath, finally covering his head with one of the hotel's threadbare towels and rubbing at it briskly.

Bodie watched, helpless. Doyle's t-shirt was damp enough to cling even more than usual to every twist of movement. "How the 'ell did you get wet through to your skin?" he asked as Doyle's face finally emerged again, the towel draped around his neck. "Take time off for a quick dip, did you?"

"You try working in a coat two sizes too big for you, mate." Doyle plucked disgustedly at the t-shirt and then peeled that off as well.

Abruptly Bodie busied himself with the food, dividing chicken and chips as Doyle ran the towel down his body, then rummaged in his bag for dry clothes. This was stupid, he told himself. It's not like he hadn't seen Doyle completely naked before. It was just... if only the room was just a bit bigger, so that every stretch of arm and sway of cloth didn't waft that... that awareness of Doyle through every sense he had. He opened the second carrier, discovering not only beer but a bottle of brandy as well. Poor sod must've been freezing.

He pulled back the tabs on the beer, and held them in safety as Doyle -- decently clad once more -- bounced down onto the bed. For a while there was silence, but for the rustling of paper, the odd crunch of chips, and the sucking of juices from fingers. Keeping his eyes decently lowered to his meal, Bodie managed not to watch as each finger disappeared into Doyle's mouth, sliding slowly out again to be replaced by the next. Managed not to imagine that they were his fingers, or that it was his mouth, or...

"Penny for 'em?"

"Eh?"

"You're either thinking about something too hard, or all this grease has finally done yer 'eart in. Knew I should've tried the Chinese next door."

"Just wondering when this bloody weather's going to change," Bodie muttered, a poor recovery, but one that set Doyle off again and was therefore distraction enough.

"You're wondering? You're not the one out grafting in it all day, an' then coming home to this. Next time you get to be the navvy. Bloody rain..."

"Well, 's hardly rain. More... a thick mist. Light drizzle. Now for real rain you want..."

Ray groaned and closed his eyes in anguish. "Lemme guess -- Ireland? Senegal? The Congo? Nah, not exotic enough..."

"Bombay." Bodie managed a smug grin. "Took out entire streets the day we were there."

"When were you in India?" Doyle shot him a suspicious glance, gathering up wrappers and stuffing them into the bags.

Bodie cracked another beer each, pulled up a pillow, and leaned against a worn bedhead. This was better. Talk, have a laugh, forget it all. "Ship got a bit lost on the way to Yemen." He closed his eyes, settled himself to being enigmatic, to ribbing Doyle who had barely been over to France on a day trip.

"Yemen?" Doyle's voice was very satisfyingly pitched, and Bodie looked up just enough to see him poised, hands on canted hips, staring in his direction. Bodie allowed himself a smirk, and Doyle tossed his hands in the air and shook his head. "I give up," he said, stretching out on the other bed. "Bloody Yemen. So is there anywhere you haven't been?"

Bodie pretended to consider. "Australia," he suggested, "Canada. New Zealand." The tamer, calmer worlds where it was harder to lose yourself in the rush and the fight. "And Manchester, obviously."

There was a gratifying chuckle beside him, followed by the unmistakable glug of an upended bottle. "Planning a good night, are we?"

"Medicinal purposes only."

"I'm feeling a bit throat-y myself..."

Doyle passed the bottle. "So after all that you end up back 'ere."

"I end up back here." Bodie agreed.

"Why?"

"Eh?"

"Why the 'ell would you come back here? Not," Doyle added hurriedly, "That I'm not glad you did, but... well, why not move somewhere a bit... brighter?"

They both turned and stared out the window. A streetlamp had come on while they were eating, bathing them in a kind of light. It outlined the jagged paths of water covering the pane, turned grey to orange. It poured across Ray's face and softened away the cold and exhaustion of the day, set his hair to glinting red. It was almost cheerful.

Bodie considered the question, let images of sun flick their way through his mind, and then let his gaze slide down Doyle's body, softened too by the folds of his old grey tracksuit.

"Nah mate," he said softly, seeing and not seeing Doyle turn back towards him. "Nowhere else I'd rather be."

-- THE END --

March 2006