Do you really think I can let you get away with what you did? Do you have any idea what a .38 in the lung, the heart, even the kidneys could do? It doesn't have to be quick. You could linger. The blood leaking from you in drips, slow, painful, until it's all over. You know.

You're a selfish bastard, Ray Doyle. Think of everyone you'd leave behind. How would they like it? Do you have any idea what you've done to me? Of course not. I swear to god, if you ever charge in without backup again, without me, I will kill you myself. King Billy'll be nothing.

We both know that I'll never say this to you, except maybe for a quick shout in the heat of the moment. I'm not good with words. Not out loud. Read? Write? Quote you up a storm. Yeah, I can do that. I write to you something silly, even though you'll never read it. You've got your painting, your books--and I write to you. All the things I can't tell you.

Like now. Like how I'm going to kill you slowly, from the inside out, if you ever do that to me again. I'd have to, because I can't stand it any more. I can't stand the way my heart comes to a complete stop when I realize what you're about to do, a split second too late to do anything about it. I can actually feel it slam to a halt you know, and it feels like there's not enough oxygen in the world to get it going again. And it's like my innards fall out, just drop right through me. Burning in my lungs, and suddenly I'm hollowed out, nothing left. You know you're all I live for. I've told you enough times. Here.

I used to think Cowley and the job were important, but now neither of them mean much when I'm on my own . Used to be I could do anything on my own. Never planned on having a partner of any kind. Not my thing. But suddenly I don't mind facing one of the Cow's tirades when you're there--behind me, beside me, across the room from me. I can feel you, see you getting all hot and bothered, and I can focus on what to say to calm you down. I can catch your eye and know, just know that whatever bloody cock up it is, isn't worth anything compared to having you.

Shame I don't have you.

Stupid bastard. You can't see what's in front of your eyes, unless it's sneaking around in the shadows, up to something not quite kosher. When I realized how blind you were I used to try touch instead. Remember when Murphy caught me wrestling you on the couch in the break room? I nearly had a heart attack, especially when you started going on about him protecting your virtue--he'd caught on, you see, even if you hadn't. Good bloke, Murph, he never did say anything. I don't do that anymore. It's not worth it, you don't notice, and it just makes me ache. I know that you love me now, know that you'd die for me, like I would for you. We think together most times. We practically breathe together. Except it's not that kind of closeness that I want. We're breathing parallel, when I want to be your breath.

---

Bodie was playing with matches over the sink when Ray arrived, flames licking around a roll of paper, reaching higher and higher to his fingers. Black smoke coiled to the ceiling. "Landlady's gonna love you," he said, crinkling his nose at the acrid stench of it, then grinned widely. "Old flame, is it?"

Bodie stared at him.

"Old flame?" Doyle rolled his eyes in disgust at his partner's blank face, "Get it? You've heard of a pun, haven't you?"

Bodie looked away, turned on the tap and sent the cinders wetly down the drain.

"Nah," he said. "Not very good with words, me."

-- THE END --

October 2005