1.
"You're a tosser."

Doyle runs after him, tries to grab his shoulder, and is shook firmly off for his trouble. He sighs and follows him, contented for the moment to talk to Bodie's back.

"Oh, come on, mate, you can't blame this one on me, can you?" He chuckles, even though there's a little warning siren going off in the back of his head. "I mean, it's not my fault you were-"

Bodie whirls abruptly, making Doyle stop up short so as not to crash into his nose, and fixes him with a glare that could probably freeze hell right over. "I was what?"

Doyle--never a coward, but not really in the mood for having his face rearranged, either--keeps his smile in check. Pushing his hands innocently into his back pockets, he takes a casual step back, out of range.

"Well... It's not my fault your were... an hour early."

"I was not an hour early." Bodie very rarely gets hot under the collar--Doyle suspects this is probably part of the blessing that comes with having absolutely no shame. Either way, to see him... blushing, is quite an sight.

Doyle tilts his head. "Then why're you cross?"

"My watch was an hour early, all right. Now, shut up because... Look, just shut it, Ray."

And with that, he storms off. Doyle lets the smile go and follows him... Bodie doesn't really look him in the eye until, a week later, he finds a brand new watch--plastic, emblazoned with a cartoon, and clearly for someone 20-odd years younger than him--in the pocket of his jacket.

2.
He's already cleaned his entire flat from top to bottom. He's washed all his bedding, and every single item of clothing he posesses (which was less than he thought, now he thought about it). He's restocked his cupboards--a very quick trip, just in case--and he has even (though he'll never admit it to no one) finished all his paperwork... Some of it went back months, and he'll tell himself in the future it just needed doing.

Now Bodie sits in the chair, staring blankly at whatever war film is on--these film folk really don't know what they're talking about, but that's okay because he's not really watching anyway. He sighs, and stretches his back, wondering vaguely at how much it's tensed up.

There's a knock at the door and he nearly seperates his shoulders jumping out of his chair and running to answer it. Manly running, mind. He flings the door over and is met with that glorious half-smile.

"Bit keen, aren't we?"

Bodie shrugs and, letting the door close, saunters back into the living room, ignoring him.

"Whatever, mate. Whatever."

3.
"Come on, mate. Don't piss me about, alright?"

His mumbled words echo across the quiet, clean little room, ripping through the still air. The room he is sick of the sight of, the smell of it making the skin across his back crawl across his front. He shivers, and then looks around to make sure no one saw.

But he's alone. Still. Just as he's been for days, now. Because he just won't wake up, will he?

"Open those big eyes, you stupid sod. You hear me?"

Bodie fiddles awkwardly with the itchy hospital sheets, glaring at the spotless fabric, taking his time to smooth the wrinkles across the nearest leg. He doesn't look up at the face he knows will still be as bruised as it was the last time he looked. Stupid bastard: maybe a house falling on his head'll teach him to be so fucking... stupid.

"Hurry up, will you? I'm bored stiff here, Sunshine. You're no more interesting asleep than you were awake."

It shouldn't matter, because he's been alone before: for years on end, without needing anyone... But this is different. Because now he's alone and waiting until he doesn't have to be anymore. Waiting until this one person--this stupid prick of a person--wakes up so he doesn't have to be anymore.

"You bastard, Ray."

4.
It was all just a waiting game, really. A game of chance and skill, entirely unreliable with rules that were never the same... But it was a game that Bodie had gotten really rather good at over the past few months.

The trick was to get Doyle drunk. Easy, one might think: a few too many of his beloved gin, but it wasn't as simple as all that, and Bodie had discovered this to his peril more than once. Doyle was a difficult drunk, either obnoxiously ambivalent or dangerously sad, and Bodie needed to gauge his mood before the game began. He needed him not so drunk that he started talking about his father--moody at the best of times, Doyle had a tendency to get loose-lipped and maudlin when he had a certain amount of drink in him, and Bodie needed to avoid this at all costs. He hated hearing about Doyle's childhood more than anything. All that misery and hatred that came gushing out of his partner almost at will. Bodie knows from experience that there's a reason the past is kept behind a person; that's why you'll never catch him recounting events of his life. It's not worth the pain.

No, Bodie didn't want that. But he does need Doyle at least a little drunk... Actually, not a little: enough that he forgets himself. Enough that he lets Bodie kiss him. And it's finding that balance that's the key to this whole twisted dance: that pivotal moment in an evening when Doyle is bleary enough that he might not punch Bodie for loving him.

5.
His hands are everywhere, and he knows that's not appreciated but he actually physically cannot help himself.

He's always been bad for taking what he wants--food, birds, fame, money... No matter what the cost, if Bodie wants, Bodie gets. And he's not going to let some stupid thing like mental or physical exhaustion one finds at the end of a 72 hour shift get in the way of the thing he wants the most.

"Gerroff me!"

Doyle sounds a bit like a wet cat when he yowls like that, lashing out and clawing Bodie's hands away from his person.

Bodie grins evilly, and wraps his arms firmly around his partner's denim-clad waist, crushing Doyle's arse against his chest and powering them both up the rest of the stairs.

"Not a sodding chance, sunshine."

-- THE END --

July 2007