The Professionals Circuit Archive

In Love Alone

If I don't like the way things are, I've no one but myself to blame. I started it, you see. Not that I meant to. Well, not at first, but later. Thinking it might be preferable to a thumping. Oh, bloody hell, who knows what I was thinking. It was after this op, you know. Not a big op. Just a little one that turned sour. It was just the sort of mess that the Controller loathed. After Cowley went up one side of me and down the other side of Bodie, my partner and I did what we always do to take the edge off such a terrific day and the sting out of an undeserved bollocking -- we headed to the pub to bird hunt...

Doyle leaned back in his chair, silently sipping the most current in a string of gin and tonics that he had sloshed down his throat this evening. Although well over the legal limit, he knew himself to be far more sober than he wanted to be. He slanted an appraising glance at his partner. To Doyle's experienced eye, Bodie was teetering on the edge of explosion, despite, or perhaps because of having consumed no more than a full pint of lager. There was a tautness about the handsome features that bespoke the violence lurking just beneath the surface. It didn't take Doyle's knowledge to see it either.

It was nearly closing time. Doyle's observation moved from his brooding partner to the two birds they had been plying with liquor and small talk for the better part of two hours. Bodie had bought the booze, and Doyle had done the talking.

They weren't going to come across. Doyle could hardly blame them. If he had been soft and small and weak, he wouldn't want to get within a mile of the glowering menace sitting beside him either. There were times when he wished he worked solo.

The barmaid called time, and their tablemates began making good-night noises. Doyle's hand flashed out and wrapped around Bodie's wrist in a punishing grip before the explosion could ignite.

"Night, darlin's. It's been a pleasure," Doyle told the women who had no idea how close they were to becoming victims. Bodied needed, and sometimes he forgot where the jungle ended.

The women took the hint and scampered, leaving Doyle free to turn his full attention to his partner.

Bodie snatched his arm free and glared. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"You'd hate yourself in the morning, mate," Doyle replied mildly, lifting his glass and draining the last watered sip of his drink, gaze locked with Bodie's resentful stare. "Remember, you're on the side of the angels now. No rape or ravishment allowed."

Bodie growled. Rumbling low in his throat, the sound was a barely audible acknowledgement of his frustration. "You're not my bloody keeper."

"No?" Doyle asked, pushing to his feet. He dug in his pocket for his keys and tossed them to Bodie. "Here, you're driving. I'm over the limit." True, even if he didn't feel it. Still, even were he stone cold sober, he would force Bodie to drive. Bodie needed it.

A little dizzy and slightly nauseated after careering through the streets with a runaway maniac, Doyle acknowledged relief when they finally reached his flat. He sat very still, savouring the peaceful motionlessness for a few moments.

"Get out, then," Bodie demanded.

So much for peace. Doyle slipped sideways in the seat for another appraisal of his friend. Better, but far from fit to stalk the streets. Even the mean streets. "My car," he reminded mildly.

"Your flat," Bodie countered.

Doyle shrugged and waited for Bodie to accept. He knew he was only fostering Bodie's feeling of helplessness, but there was nothing he could do about that out here in public. He needed to get Bodie as drunk as possible and put him down as gently as possible, then seek his own release.

Eventually, Bodie rammed the shift into first, cut the engine and yanked the keys from the ignition. The transfer from car to flat, the normality of locking car doors, and unlocking and locking the flat door were made in a speaking silence. Once inside, Doyle went directly to his store of booze, grabbed up a bottle and brought it back to where his partner slouched in a chair. He thrust the bottle into the outstretched hand, shed his jacket and holster, then began methodically moving every breakable in the sitting room into a safer location.

When Doyle turned back to Bodie, it was to discover that his partner had set the bottle aside. Damn. "Come on, Bodie," he coaxed. "You don't really want to murder me." Even he had no chance against the big man if he were completely sober. Doyle needed the deadly reflexes dulled at least a little. Bodie knew his style far too well.

The bottle remained on the floor and both of Bodie's potentially lethal hands curled around the chair arms in a white-knuckled grip. The dark head dropped back against the padding wearily. "Hate fighting you," slipped gently between barely parted lips.

Surprise jolted through Doyle. This was out of sequence. This was Bodie waking up the next morning, hungover and sincerely contrite for the night before. Had Bodie finally, after all these years and virtually unnoticed, slipped back into civilization? The blue eyes opened then, darkened nearly to black by the dangerous mood. Not quite civilized yet, no, but perhaps attempting to claw a few rungs up the ladder at least.

Where the idea came from then, Doyle was never sure, but it was suddenly in his mind and he was acting on it before it was even fully born, certainly before he thought it all the way through to it inevitable repercussions.

Doyle's hands lifted away from his sides, but instead of attempting to goad violence from his partner or defend himself from it, he began to strip. Steady fingers slipped buttons free from their holes, tugged his shirt free and slid it from his shoulders. Beneath Bodie's glittering stare, he heeled off boots, peeled off socks and cast them aside. Without pause, the snap at his waist was pulled free and the zipper tugged down to the accompaniment of a hissing gasp from the man on the chair. Tight jeans were shimmied out of and kicked aside along with the scrap of pants. Naked, cock beginning to swell and rise, he took one step closer to the watcher and held out his hands, not in entreaty or submission, but invitation.

Bodie came out of the chair and across half the distance between them in one smooth pounce. Doyle didn't flinch, just waited patiently but expectantly to weather the storm. The silence closed in around them as Bodie began to circle, stalking carefully around behind. A small shiver traced his spine as Doyle felt the heat of an almost touch glide along the silver scar of an old knife wound low on the left side of his back.

"Don't want to fight you," Bodie repeated from behind, hand still outstretched, but still a hair's breadth from touching.

"Then don't," Doyle invited.

The first touch, when it came, nearly jolted Doyle across the room. The cool wash of Bodie's breath, then the warm press of heated lips to the nape of his neck was so far from the opening move he had expected, Doyle felt himself melting, unconcerned by, perhaps even grateful for, the arms that drew him back against the rub and rasp of the fully clothed man behind him. He moaned his disappointment with the barriers that remained between them.

Bodie never seemed to notice. Lips parted where they rested on Doyle's nape, then slid down over his shoulder, sucking, licking, nipping, while the two hands diverged, one travelling up to run through his chest hair and tease his nipples and the other journeying downward to catch at his pubic hair and eagerly grasp his cock. The sexual heat that had been smoldering since the first bullet sang past him flared into flame as the cloth covered heat of Bodie's cock pressed demandingly against his buttocks.

"Get 'em off," Doyle demanded, his hands reaching back to tug ineffectively at Bodie's tight cords.

"No," Bodie growled, pulling Doyle tighter against him. Grinding his hard cock against Doyle's arse, he set a rhythm matched by tweaking fingers and stroking fist until Doyle writhed helplessly.

"Come for me, Ray," Bodie demanded hoarsely, teeth latching onto an earlobe.

As if he had been waiting all his life for that command, Doyle shuddered into that moment of immobility just before the tidal wave of orgasm descended and swept him out into Bodie's hands. He felt the pulse and ease of his own release echoed by the throbbing heat of Bodie's climax pressed against his arse.

The same hands that had demanded his release now offered their support, easing him down to the floor where he sprawled, half sitting, between Bodie's spread thighs. He leaned against a chest that was heaving almost as badly as his own, feeling his racing heart echoed in the body pressed to his back.

"Christ. You never even got your clothes off," Doyle said when he finally got his breath back under control.

"Didn't dare," Bodie admitted, still panting. The strength that had let him support his partner seemed to have deserted him, and he lay back weakly against the sofa, head resting on the cushioned seat. "Would've fucked you into the floor."

Doyle shuddered at the bitter self-knowledge in the low voice. "But you didn't." He kept his voice soft, reassuring, the way he would talk to a wild dog and gently stroked the arms still wrapped around him.

"Don't ever want to hurt you, Ray."

So what's so bad, you might ask? Inadvertent as it was, I'd stumbled onto what appeared to be the perfect solution for both of us for those moods that sometimes overcame us. No more beating Bodie's devils into submission when he couldn't find a willing bird, then wankin' in the loo to subdue my own demons.

That first night, after a bit of the pause that refreshes, we went at it again for most of the night. I finally got Bodie out of his clothes, and we finally got to bed. We woke the next morning, no hangovers, not all that much the worse for wear, and both with far sunnier dispositions. Not a bad result for something I gave all of five seconds' consideration.

Oh yes, the problem, you wanted to know. The problem is, of course, Bodie. Give that lad an inch and he'll park a fucking lorry in it! All the time I'm thinking how perfect the situation is -- just a bit of hard shagging when we're both too wild to risk turning it loose on a bit of fluff -- while all the time Bodie, that big dumb crud, is deciding he's in love with me!

Now, I ask you! Who'd have expected hearts and flowers from Bodie, for Chrissake?

All right. I admit I'm exaggerating there a bit. I mean, he hasn't started spouting poetry or anything, at least not any more than usual. And no, he hasn't said he loves me. We are talking about Bodie here, remember. Hasn't pestered me to change my plans for him or come across if I'm not in the mood. Though he's always plenty ready enough to hop in the sack if I give him the idea I want to.

So how do I know? Well, it's the eyes for one thing. Those big, sapphire pools with those ridiculous lashes. Sometimes they're just so soft and tender that I can feel myself falling into them and wondering if I'll drown and thinking what a way to go. Now, if we were in bed at the time, would be one thing, but when he's just asking if I'd like a cuppa? I'm surprised nobody, especially Cowley, has sussed us yet. Although after today, I don't know if he hasn't. The Cow doesn't miss much no matter how subtle, and outright insubordination is about as subtle as an Uzi. Bodie's in there with the old man now, and despite the fact Ojuka is safe, he's probably getting the hide sliced right off his back.

I knew it was the biggest mistake of my life when Doyle started stripping that night and I didn't start running and keep on running until I found a nice obscure little war somewhere to lose myself in. Instead, I just sat there and let the little head do the thinking. And do you know the true irony of it all? Doyle thinks I fell in love with him that night. Rich, that. Just goes to show how the little sod never truly looks past the end of that perfect bloody nose of his. Truth is, it wasn't sitting there watching him get his kit off then hold out those beautiful hands, his cock rising and the full power of that incredible sensuality turned on me that brought me to this sorry state. No, was a hundred mornings of picking the miserable bastard up for work and listening to him nark all the way in. Was another hundred stakeouts when he was bored to tears and decided to take the piss out of me for the hell of it. Was seeing him beaten down to the ground and dragging himself up time after time after bloody time because his pride wouldn't let him stay down and he believed too much in what he was fighting for.

So you see, don't you, that it was being his partner? I've been solitary all my life. Might hook up with a bloke in the mercs for as long as the arrangement was mutually beneficial. Ah, get your mind out of the gutter. I'm not talking about sex here. As for the paras or SAS, well, you might be part of a team, might even be paired off for a mission. But no partners. No day to day, live in each other's pockets, trust him with your life, partners. Never had to deal with anything like this until CI5. That's why, I reckon, when you come right down to it, it's all Cowley's fault.

"So you've nothing to say for yourself, Bodie?"

"No, sir," Bodie answered, standing at attention, gaze locked on a spot on the wall well above his boss' sandy head.

"I want to be perfectly clear about this, Bodie," Cowley warned. "You disobeyed my direct orders because Doyle was at risk and you felt you had to save him."

It was not a question, but Bodie replied with a crisp "Yes, sir," nonetheless.

Cowley noted that Bodie did not offer the respectful 'Sorry, sir,' as he had so often in the past. He took off his glasses and leaned back in his chair with an irritated sigh. "I was warned about this," he admitted, "when I began teaming agents. Every psychologist told me there comes a point where the partnership becomes more important than the job."

"Yes, sir," Bodie admitted in his turn, then had to add his own further truth. "I think it's gone a bit further here, sir. The partner's more important than the partnership."

Once again no automatic 'Sorry, sir,' was forthcoming, Cowley noted. Bodie might recognize the situation, but he neither regretted nor was he willing to forswear it.

"The non-fraternization rule. It's a good one, sir," Bodie allowed. "But I don't see how it can work when partners have to know each other so well that they can, well, read each other's minds."

"Doyle doesn't feel this way." For the first time, Cowley saw a flicker of something -- sorrow? regret? -- in the controlled features, but it was gone so quickly, he could never be sure.

"Yes, sir." Bodie's expression became introspective for a moment. "But you wouldn't expect him to, would you, sir? He's had a partner before, and lost one too. Knows how to keep himself...a bit separate, if you know what I mean."

Finally all the pieces were falling into place and Cowley was beginning to see the entire picture. Big, dumb, faithful Bodie. Only Bodie was only ever as dumb as he wished to be and only gave his faith where, in the end, it was deserved. Could Doyle really be as uninvolved as Bodie believed?

"So what am I to do with you now, Bodie? The way you are, you're useless to me," Cowley accused harshly.

For the first time, Bodie let his eyes meet the mock ferocity of Cowley's. "I know that, sir. And I can't see any way to change the situation. I expect you've no choice but to turf me off the squad and give Doyle to someone else, sir."

"Is that what I did, Bodie, gave him to you? Is that how you saw my teaming the pair of you?" Cowley asked curiously.

"Seems that way to me."

"You think Doyle could be teamed with someone else?"

"Ray? Yeah, he'd adapt. You might want to keep them off the streets for a bit though," Bodie added as a thoughtful proviso to his cool assessment.

"So I'm to lose my be...two very expensive and useful agents because of your lack of self-control?" Cowley demanded, no longer feigning his anger.

"You'll still have Doyle, but, yes sir, I think it's time I moved on."

"All right," Cowley snapped, disappointed to find no shock cross for even a brief moment on the stoic mask. Surely there had to be some way to salvage this situation. He just needed a little time to come up with it. "You're suspended for two weeks. I'll make my final decision after that."

"Yes, sir," Bodie replied. "Is that all?"

Once again, Cowley was disappointed when a more typical reaction was not forthcoming. "Go on, get out of here."

When I came out of Cowley's office, I was surprised to find Doyle waiting for me. He hadn't even gone and had his wrists seen to. Not smart that. Burns infect like a bugger sometimes. He was not best pleased when I dragged him down to the infirmary, but, from the look on his face, I knew I had little to lose. He didn't even have all the facts yet, and I could tell he planned on reaming me out a new arsehole as soon as we got back to his flat. When he heard it all... Well, let's just say we'd be entertaining the neighbours tonight.

It took every ounce of willpower Doyle had to keep his mouth shut until the door of his flat was closed and locked behind them. By that time, he was so furious that when he did swing around to confront Bodie, he could do little more than sputter. And Bodie helped not at all by shrugging out of his jacket, helping himself to a drink, and then planting himself on the sofa as if he intended to grow roots.

Doyle finally managed to string together an entire coherent sentence and delivered it in a full-throated bellow. "What the hell did you think you were playing at?"

Bodie drained his glass and shrugged. "My job," he replied mildly.

"Your job? Your job is to do whatever the bloody hell Cowley tells you to do," Doyle countered, his own volume totally unaffected by Bodie's soft tone. He stalked across the room to stand towering over his seated partner.

"My job is to watch your back." Although Bodie's voice remained mild, a layer of steel had entered the deep tone.

"Christ, I hope you didn't say that to Cowley. He'll have you down in records so long you'll be drawing your pension before you see the light of day again."

Doyle took the glass out of Bodie's hand, refilled it from the bottle on the table beside them and swallowed half of the liquor in one go, all without moving from his position of intimidation.

"Suspended, actually," Bodie shrugged, something very sad flitting across his face before being submerged beneath the bland mask he so often presented to the world. "I expect it's about time I moved on."

Doyle found himself abruptly seated on the coffee table as if Bodie's calm statement had somehow sapped the strength right out of his legs. "Move on?" he echoed stupidly. "You'd leave...?" He nearly gagged on the 'me' that seemed determined to attach itself to that question.

Bodie sat forward until they were eye to eye, barely a foot of space between them, before he laid his irrevocable truth between them to be accepted or rejected as Doyle saw fit.

"Ray, if right this minute I had to chose between your life and bloody Queen Elizabeth's, Her Majesty wouldn't be seeing Christmas. Cowley knows that. If someone snatched you and demanded Cowley in exchange, I'd hand his carcass over gift wrapped if it meant getting you back. I'm useless to him now."

"You son of a bitch!" Doyle roared. "Why'd you have to go and fall in..." Once again a small word nearly clogged Doyle's throat, refusing to be dislodged or to be given validation by being spoken aloud.

For a second time, the weary sadness took up brief residence on Bodie's face before he schooled his features to calm neutrality. He shrugged his shoulders. "Fall in love with you?" he finished the sentence Doyle would not. "It's not like I planned it, you know. You think I'd chose to fall in love with an evil-tempered, self-righteous, aggravating little sod like you if I could help it."

"Thanks so much," Doyle growled. "If I'm such a bad bargain, why me?"

Bodie shook his head. "What does it matter?" he asked, leaning back and resting his head against the cushion.

"What does it matter?" Doyle echoed incredulously. "It's breaking up the partnership."

Bodie closed his eyes and sighed softly. "If living in your pocket all these years hasn't cured me, I don't think there's much hope."

"So you love me so bloody much you're going to leave me? And do what? Another tour or two in Northern Ireland? Start jumping out of airplanes again? Or maybe you'll just slither back into those jungles you're always talking about?" Doyle demanded.

Opening his eyes, Bodie stared into Doyle's. "I don't know what I'll do. Haven't given it much thought, you know, in the hour or so since I left Cowley's office. Whether I stay around here," he shrugged his shoulders, "that's up to you."

I should have known the black-hearted coward would try to foist it all onto me. Up to me, indeed. Twasn't me who turned a bit of convenient shagging into the love story of the century. Twasn't me who'd fucked up on the job. And it definitely wasn't me who opened his big mouth to Cowley and got himself kicked off the squad. Well, perhaps not quite yet, but it would come to that in the end. Cowley wouldn't give a fiddler's fart that there were two men involved with each other on his squad. Never met a man less prejudiced about that sort of thing in my life. Involved agents, involved partners, that was another kettle of fish altogether. Bodie'd be off the A-squad for sure come the end of his suspension, though I do think Cowley values the stupid crud enough to find him something else to do.

But you'll be wanting to do know what I said to Bodie. Well, I was all but blind with rage at the time, so I told him to hop it. Here's you hat, there's the door, I don't want to look at your ugly mug right now. And that's what he did. Sort of gathered himself together a bit while I sat there glaring at him, then he just walked out. Didn't slam the door and didn't even try to get in the last word. I'm ashamed to admit it now, but neither one of those very uncharacteristic facts occurred to me until much, much later. Bodie blusters, you see, except when he's deadly serious. But I was too busy being furious to notice. And after that, well, I started worrying about what Cowley would be throwing my way come Monday morning.

"Refresher," was the first word out of Cowley's mouth when Doyle reported to his office bright and early Monday morning.

For once, Doyle kept his big mouth shut, resisting the urge to protest about the unfairness of it, or object by so much as the flicker of an eyelash.

His forebearence earned him the barest of nods of acknowledgement from Cowley and a bit more information.

"You'll go through the partner training with both Crane and Macklin," Cowley explained. "And see Ross as well."

It sounded more like the annual physical, but Doyle again kept his opinion to himself. "Partnered with who, sir?" he asked meekly.

His expression revealing that it would be a cold day in Hades before a bit of uncharacteristic amiability would pull the wool over his eyes, Cowley nevertheless withheld any comment he might had had. "Jax."

Doyle breathed a nearly audible sigh of relief. At least he was being reteamed with an experienced agent rather than some new, penny-bright virgin who would likely get them both killed.

"For now," Cowley qualified. "We'll see how your scores are."

Doyle nodded, gritting his teeth as the anger he had spent all weekend firmly bottling up began to leak out around its cork. Bodie was lucky he was on two weeks' suspension. If the stupid sod had the brains that God gave a tick, he would stay clear of Doyle till then.

"What are you waiting for, man? On your bike," Cowley barked.

"Yes, sir," Doyle said and got out of there as fast as he could, just barely resisting the urge to add Bodie's infuriating 'running all the way, sir,' as he left.

A suspension, Bodie discovered on Monday morning, did not feel a bit like sick leave or paid holidays. You could have a lie in, a leisurely breakfast and a long soak in the bath, but all the time, in the back of your mind, was the knowledge that you ought to be working. Worse was the little gremlin of conscience that made you feel like a five year old sat in the corner for not working and playing well with others.

Bodie didn't like the feeling at all. For most of his life, Bodie had barely been on speaking terms with his conscience and he was not best pleased to find that Cowley, along with his partner, had managed to reintroduce him to that inconvenient part of his psyche.

As for Doyle's rejection, Bodie really did believe everything he had told Cowley, so Doyle's attitude had come as no real surprise. Doyle liked him well enough, trusted and respected him on the job and even enjoyed the sex since he was such a sensual little bugger at heart. Bodie had been aware all along, however, that he was falling in love alone, but he just hadn't been able to help himself. He did hope that once Doyle's initial anger had a chance to work itself out, they might, in the end, remain friends.

In the meantime, however, Bodie had to see about making a living. Therefore, after his long, self-indulgent soak, Bodie got out a seldom-used black book. Half a dozen disconnected messages later, he dialed a more familiar number which was answered on the first ring.

"Hello," said a neutral male voice, neither welcoming nor rejecting.

"Martel, it's Bodie. Need a meet."

"I'm not doing business with that mob of yours again," Martel stated, obviously not having liked the grilling Cowley had subjected him to over the American 180 rifle.

"It's personal," Bodie said.

"Oh?" Martel's voice warmed considerably on the one syllable.

Bodie grimaced, shifted in his chair and switched the phone to the other ear before replying. "Personal business."

"Disappointing, but I'll meet you anyway. Same place as last time. One hour?" Martel suggested.

"I'll be there," Bodie agreed and rang off. He sat for a moment, fingers tapping the receiver while he considered, then he picked up again, flipped through his book and dialed.

"Major Nairn's office."

"This is Sgt William Bodie, presently seconded to CI5. I'd like to make an appointment with Major Nairn for whenever he is next available," Bodie explained politely.

"One moment, please."

Bodie drummed his fingers on the table while he listened to papers rustle.

"The Major has one-half hour free on Thursday of next week at 11:00 o'clock."

"That will be fine."

Once again, Bodie rang off and, glancing at his watch, went to collect holster, jacket and keys. Cowley had, of course, demanded his CI5 gun and the authority that allowed him to carry it. Bodie possessed, however, an extensive arms collection of his own and had long ago obtained permits to carry them.

Starting up the car, he automatically stomped on the gas, but immediately eased off, reminding himself that he no longer had his warrant card to hold between himself and some zelous traffic cop.

As a result of his unchracteristic adherence to the rules of the road, Bodie was five minutes late for the meet with Martel. He knew the arms dealer was watching from the derelict warehouse as he got out of the car and locked it. Casually, as if he had all the time in the world, which at the moment he did, Bodie strolled across the litter-strewn, cracked tarmac of the deserted dock area to the building where he had previously met Martel. As expected, Martel was waiting impatiently.

"Charming," Bodie echoed his original assessment of their filthy surroundings. "You ought to go back to the ferry."

"You're late," Martel complained.

Bodie grinned unrepentantly, which Martel echoed with his own reluctant smile. It was an expression that Bodie had never once, in all the years he had known him, see extend past the thin lips. The dark eyes remained cold and never quite met Bodie's.

"You said personal business," Martel prompted.

"I might be interested in getting back into the business. Know anyone who's looking for a partner?" Bodie replied, getting right to the point.

"Me?" Martel countered immediately.

Bodie laughed shortly. "Not you, Artie. You couldn't resist trying it on eventually and then I'd have to kill you."

Martel accepted the accuracy of Bodie's assessment with a resigned shrug. "I did tell you that you'd find defending the realm deadly dull after a while."

Which, Bodie reflected, was true. Between the adrenaline-flooded actions were long, boring stretches of stakeout, and research, and reports ad nauseam. With Doyle to share them, however, Bodie had learned to endure. He definitely didn't need to start thinking about Doyle now.

"Something like that," he agreed with Martel's assessment.

"I'll have to ask around." Martel paused a moment to give Bodie the once over from expensive shoes to even more expensive leather jacket. "You have the funds to buy into a partnership, or just your considerable expertise?"

Bodie shrugged. "I can put my hands on a few bob if I need to."

"I'll call you in a day or two then."

Doyle knew that a partnership between himself and Jax was never going to work. He liked and respected the senior agent well enough and knew the feelings were mutual. It no longer even mattered that their police backgrounds were too similar. They had been A-squad agents long enough to have acquired other skills. The problem was Jax's personality. Although he could be tough when he needed to be, on the whole, Jax was far too amiable a man to give Doyle the good swift kick in the arse -- both literally and figuratively -- that he often needed.

As a temporary partner, however, Jax would do just fine. At least until the mess with Bodie's misdirected emotions was sorted out. After five days of Jack Crane's fun and games and only hours away from Macklin's school of hard knocks, that was how Doyle had come to look at the situation. Bodie wasn't really in love with him, just suffering a temporary emotional/mental abberation. Two weeks of cooling his heels ought to convince the ever-restless ex-soldier of the errors of his ways.

Doyle, however, knew that, upon occasion, he was a master of self-delusion and feared that that was exactly what he was doing now. Deluding himself that everything would be back to business as usual once Bodie's suspension was over. Now that Crane had run the rage right out of him, any other outcome was unthinkable.

"Hey, mate. You better drink up," Jax advised.

Doyle snapped out of his introspection at the sound of the other agent's voice. He lifted his half-consumed pint from the table and glanced around the pub, discovering that almost all the lunchtime trade had departed. In a few minutes, the barmaid would be calling time and he would have to willingly submit himself to Macklin's torture chamber.

"May be the last one I ever get," he quipped as he brought the glass to his lips and drained it.

"You ready for this?" Jax asked as they collected their jackets and carryalls and headed for the door.

"If we were ready for it, mate, we wouldn't have to do it," Doyle reminded him.

"Ah, the things we do for Queen and Cowley," Jax sighed.

Bodie sat at the very back of the rundown pub, as deep in the filthy shadows as possible. He had arrived early and ordered a pint, most of which still sat in front of him. Although he had often bragged that he had a cast-iron stomach, Bodie was not about to eat, or even drink more than he had to. This was the kind of place that had no regular clientele. It's custom was itinerant, lingering only long enough to make connections with other equally elusive customers. It was the perfect place, however, from which Bodie could, as Doyle so eloquently put it, slither back into the jungle if he chose to.

Although fighting someone else's wars held far less appeal than it once had, and though he had never played baseball in his life, Bodie was a firm believer in covering all his bases. Martel had yet to contact him and he still had a week before his appointment with Nairn, so Bodie was spending the evening base covering.

Looking up as a group of noisy, dangerous-looking men crowded through the doors, Bodie scanned the faces as he had every customer who had come through the door since his arrival. As the hours had passed, he had begun to wonder if he had been too long away from his old trade. Had all of the men he had fought with and beside either died or had enough sense to move along as he had? He was almost ready to give it up as a waste of time before this latest group arrived.

His perseverance paid off, however, as he spotted a familiar face among the newcomers. The passing years had not been kind to Tony Baldwin -- Baldy to friends and enemies alike -- but Bodie recognized him nevertheless. What little hair he had possessed when Bodie knew him had been lost somewhere during the passage of time and the bald pate was criss-crossed by scars and freckled with spots from the equitorial sun he so often dwelt under. The face beneath had fared no better, the ravages of hard living and harder drinking having etched their testimony onto the seamed countenance. If Bodie was any judge, however, the body beneath the ill-fitting dockmen's clothing was every bit as lean and battle-ready as it ever had been.

Leaning back further in his chair into the obscuring shadows, Bodie waited while the quartet of men collected their watered beer and adjourned to a table. Once they were settled, Bodie signalled the lone waitress over to him and whispered low-voiced instructions in her dirty ear. He slipped her a note whose value was far in excess of the liquor he had ordered and, with one of his most charming smiles, assured her he would not be requiring the change.

As the woman hurried away to do his bidding, Bodie once again relaxed against the hard wooden back of the chair to see what would develop. He didn't have long to wait.

As soon as the glass of amber whisky was placed on the scarred surface of the table before him, Baldwin began scanning the room. His black eyes skipped restlessly from man to man seeking either friend or foe. Bodie waited until Baldwin had scanned the room twice before he leaned forward into the dim light and saw, after a few moments, recognition dawn on Baldwin's ugly mug.

Bodie watched the other man's approach, a smirk firmly affixed to his lips, his expert eye judging whether each and every bulge beneath the baggy clothing concealed a weapon. He judged the man to be essentially unarmed, at least not carrying anything deadly enough to challenge his own fully loaded weapon, which hung comfortingly beneath his arm.

"If it ain't Billy the Kid," Baldwin drawled when he had gained the table, his American accent, although softened by decades away from his native New York, still harsh upon Bodie's ear.

"Wasn't a kid then, I'm not now," Bodie corrected mildly. He kicked at the leg of the chair across the table from him, skidding it outwards. "Take a load off," he invited.

Baldwin sank into the chair, placing both mug and tumbler on the grimy table. Wariness stuck out all over the man, but whether that was because of Bodie or, more simply, having his back to the room, Bodie didn't bother to speculate.

"Heard you joined the army," Baldwin said, his gaze taking in what parts of Bodie he could see, obviously cataloguing his state of fitness just as Bodie had done before revealing his presence.

"Paras," Bodie corrected, lips barely moving.

"What you doin' here? Slummin'?" Baldwin pursued. He picked up the tumbler and poured half of its contents down his throat.

"Something like that," Bodie agreed. "You must admit, I'd be hard pressed to find any place slummier."

"In this country anyway," Baldwin confirmed.

For a brief moment, their eyes met as memories of places any sane man would call hell conjured between them.

"Managed to keep your pretty face, I see Billyboy," Baldwin went on, severing the fragile thread of mutual experience.

"And you're uglier than ever," Bodie countered.

Baldwin held up his hands in mock surrender. "No contest," he conceded. "So what are ya doin' down here, Billy?"

"Pays to keep current," Bodied evaded. "Any of the old mates still around?"

Baldwin finished his whisky while his brow creased in thought. "Not many you'd've known. Davis, Gordon, Schandle all bought it in Angola. Krivas cut bait and left them hanging. Somebody told me Krivas himself is a guest of the government right here in England."

Bodie feigned surprise, too wise to admit to this man that he had been largely responsible for the invitation.

"If you're lookin' to get back in, me and the boys..." A backward tip of his head indicated the men remaining at Baldwin's table. "...are putting together a unit for Iran."

"I'll think about it," Bodie replied. "Give me a number to contact you."

Baldwin fished around in his pocket and came up with a crumpled candy wrapper. Bodie handed him a pen and the mercenary scribbled down a number. Bodie accepted the scrap and tucked it away.

"Wanna join us, Billy?" Baldwin invited. "Hear about the job?"

"Not tonight," Bodie declined, pushing to his feet and making sure his jacket sagged open to reveal his gun. There was no sense in letting this land shark think he might be an easy mark. "Couple more stops to make."

Bodie left the pub and, half a dozen paces down the broken curb, he pulled the scrap of paper from his pocket, methodically tore it into bits and tossed it into the gutter. He told himself that he would rather go back to jumping out of airplanes then ever put up with being called Billy again. Eyes wary, senses alert to the hidden dangers around him, Bodie left that part of his past behind him.

Ray Doyle was well beyond thought now. Right eye blinded by the pain of a blow to his damaged cheekbone and his head ringing from the same punch, Doyle was running on primal instinct now. Instinct that drove him to climb to his feet one more time for fear his opponent would put the boot in and he would be done for. Finally, driven by Macklin's relentless pounding, reeling as the last of his reserves were called upon, he heeded the final cry of survival -- find succour. A place of safety where he could shelter while his strength returned. Doyle turned to his last, best hope of refuge.

"He's not there to protect you, Doyle," Macklin taunted, dancing behind the agent who could barely stay on his feet. "Have to fight your own battles now."

Gasping for breath, Doyle stared stupidly at Jax where the black man stood, grim-faced, on the sidelines, waiting for his turn to be pounded to pulp by the second most hated man in CI5. Slowly, coherent thought returned and silently, not wasting precious oxygen, Doyle cursed Macklin, Cowley, and most of all, his absent partner. Reaching down deep into a well within himself that was sheer, bloody-minded stubbornness, Doyle turned back to face his tormentor.

A tense hand landed on his shoulder and pulled him back as Jax stepped forward.

"Enough, mate," Doyle's temporary partner advised. "My turn."

Sinking to the mat, Doyle focused everything he had left on gathering his strength and blocking his need for Bodie out of his mind.

Cowley sighed as he finished reading the report and tossed it onto the desk in front of him. He slipped off his glasses and tapped the arm against pursed lips as he studied the report's author.

"Three to six months, you say?" he asked.

"Certainly no longer than that," Kate Ross confirmed. "Provided he isn't killed sooner, of course."

"So I'm to lose them both," Cowley growled. "Agents are very expensive, and this is all very inconvenient.

"I did warn you," Ross reminded him. "Well over a year ago, I told you that Bodie was in love with Doyle."

"Aye, you did. Just as your predecessor warned of just this sort of thing before I began teaming agents," Cowley conceded.

"Actually, you've bucked the odds quite well. This has only happened in one other teaming and Mathison and King continued to work quite well together after their personal relationship developed. Their deaths were not a result of being lovers."

"True. Perhaps it was only to be expected with 4.5 and 3.7. The probability of difficulties being directly proportional to their value to me," Cowley hypothesized sourly.

A slight smile played around Ross' lips. "I do not believe Bodie fell in love strictly to inconvenience you. In fact, he is likely finding it dreadfully inconvenient himself. He certainly fought acknowledging the emotion long enough, despite the fact that he is basically not a self-deluding personality."

"Any suggestions for keeping Doyle alive and on the payroll?" Cowley asked briskly.

"Keep Bodie in CI5," Ross replied simply.

"What good with that do?"

"Doyle is very close to accepting and admitting his own emotions," Ross revealed. "I believe that as long as he knows Bodie is still within his grasp, he will continue the process to its inevitable conclusion."

"Again, what good will that do?" Cowley repeated. "I cannot have an agent on the street who admits he would put the life of his partner ahead of all other considerations."

"Bodie's over protectiveness of Doyle is a result of having no other outlet for his emotions," Ross reminded the Controller of what was written clearly in her report.

"You said you were sure they were lovers."

"I inaccurately expressed myself. Bodie is Doyle's lover. However, Doyle is only Bodie's sex partner. In fact, I believe that it is this imbalance that triggered Bodie's excessive protectiveness. Once the balance of their relationship is restored -- Bodie being loved as much as he loves, if you will -- so too will the balance be restored to their partnership."

"Interesting."

"Whether you wish to make the investment of time and inconvenience is, of course, up to you."

"But..." Cowley prompted.

"But I believe in the end you will possess an even more valuable asset. At least for as long as they are both alive."

"Thank you, Dr. Ross. I will consider it."

I didn't realize until I dragged my half-dead carcass into Cowley's office this morning that Cowley might not know the whole of the story. Don't know now what Bodie told him. Just assumed it was the lot, you know? You'd think if I'd learned nothing else from Cowley in all these years, I'd've learned not to assume. Anyway, I got the distinct impression from Cowley that he didn't know Bodie and I'd been having it off, thought the whole mess was Bodie's fault and was pleased enough with the scores Jax and I racked up. Looks like my job's safe and I'm still A-squad anyway.

Suppose I ought to be feeling like the reprieved convict, but I don't, and Macklin-inflicted injuries aren't the only reason I'm in no mood to turn hand springs. Learned something going through the meat grinder with Jax. Learned I could partner with someone else if I need to, but it's never going to mean the same. I'm never going to enjoy it the same, without Bodie. I think about chucking this job about every other fortnight or so. It's always been Bodie who keeps me at it until the mood passes.

Learned something else, too. Not that I've had a lot of time to think about it, what with refresher fun and games, but I miss Bodie off the job as well. He's a good mate, is Bodie. Easy to be with most of the time. Keep him fed and he's pretty undemanding. And passionate. I've tried not to think about that at all, but my mind keeps coming back to it. All that smooth, creamy skin. All that eager tenderness to please. Can get hard just thinking about taking him to bed. What I need is to get back to the birds, but will need to wait a few days till the bruises heal. That's another thing about making it with Bodie -- no pretense. He's had enough of his own sore spots to go careful of mine. Why couldn't the dumb curd have left well alone?

Bodie came to his feet, stiffening to attention and snapping off a salute as Major Nairn came out of his office to greet him.

Nairn returned the salute smartly. "At ease, Sergeant," he commanded and then smiled. "Bodie, it's good to see you. Come in."

Bodie followed the SAS commander into the spacious office and accepted the offered chair which sat before the desk while Nairn orbited the massive antique and sank into his own chair.

"You're looking fit," Nairn complimented after a quick once-over Bodie's sturdy fame.

"Cowley's got a couple of sadists that make your sergeant-majors look like nancy boys. It's fit or dead with that mob, sir," Bodie replied.

"Yes, I know Crane and I've heard Macklin can make a saint curse," Nairn observed.

"You haven't heard wrong," Bodie confirmed ruefully.

Pleasantries seen to, Nairn leaned back in his chair, folded his hands across his middle and fixed a gaze on Bodie that was almost as penetrating as Cowley's. "Why are you here, Sergeant?"

"I'd think that would be obvious, sir?"

"You want to return to the unit?" Nairn ventured.

Bodie shifted in his seat, then forced himself to be still. "Unit's gone now except for me. But, yes, I am considering applying for return. Not sure that I'm not a bit long in the tooth for it, but..."

"Nonsense," Nairn cut in. "Cowley wouldn't have you if you weren't in top form. And you've gained a weath of experience that could be a tremendous asset to me. Northern Ireland is not one whit quieter now than it was when you left."

The thought of visiting that ravaged country again didn't thrill Bodie, but he realized as he looked into Nairn's direct gaze, working with this man did hold a certain appeal. When Cowley had first tried to recruit him into CI5, it had been his respect for Nairn as a commander that had made Bodie consider and reconsider his decision several times before making the move.

"Then you'd consider it if I applied?" he finally asked.

"Definitely, though I hate to think of the grief old George would give me if I stole you away. Same as I gave him, I expect. Never mind. I'd need to know why, of course. Whether it's a case of wanting back into the SAS or out of CI5," Nairn qualified his enthusiasm.

Bodie's lips twitched, but he wasn't about to reveal more than he had to until he had to. "I'll include it in my application then, sir."

Nairn rose to his feet and Bodie did the same, following as the Major lead the way out of the office. A young man who had been waiting snapped to attention as they entered the anteroom.

"Corporal Fitzhugh," Nairn acknowledged the salute, then turned to indicated Bodie. "Corporal, this is Sergeant William Bodie."

To Bodie's surprise, Fitzhugh's mouth dropped open in shock. The CI5 agent looked to his former commander for an explanation, only to find the Major grinning slyly.

"Something wrong, Corporal?" Nairn prompted without acknowledging Bodie's silent inquery.

Fitzhugh closed his mouth, a red tide beginning to creep up his neck from beneath the collar of his tunic. "No, sir," he managed, then turned a speculative glance on Bodie. "We all just never thought you were real, sir."

Nairn laughed. "Seems Sergeant-Major O'Brien has decided to hold you up as the ideal for the new recruits, Bodie. No one faster, smarter, stronger. That sort of rot."

Bodie nodded sagely, but secretly he was tickled pink. It was just the balm his ego needed to find out that he was something of a lengend in his own time.

Bodie sat up, punched his pillow into submission and then lay down again. This had to be the twentieth time he had gone through the routine since he had climbed into bed, but still here he lay staring at the ceiling and no closer to sleep. At this rate, he would show up in Cowley's office tomorrow morning looking like the sixth day of a five day drunk. That was not how he wanted to be remembered.

Before climbing into bed, Bodie had appeased his empty belly with a Chinese takeaway, had a long soak in the bath and sipped a soothing splash of scotch. A routine he had hoped would lull him to sleep. Yet here he lay staring, had there been any light, at the cracked ceiling of his bedroom.

There was one last, sure-fire method for relaxation he had yet to try, but he wasn't so sure he wanted to indulge. He had no objection to the practice of self-pleasuring. Even in the year that he and Doyle had been making love off and on, he had occasionally found himself with desire and no partner, but he had felt no need for it since his suspension. He didn't try to delude himself over his sudden lack of interest in sex, nor over the identity of the person who would fill his fantasies should he give in and take matters into his own hands. His cock was already beginning to fill, lolling lazily against his thigh, at just the suggestion.

With a resigned sigh, Bodie unlocked his fingers from behind his head and sent both hands travelling down beneath the blankets until they met at his groin, filling them with his genitals. Eyes seeking out the dim outlines of the furniture in the room, Bodie tried to keep it impersonal, making his touch firm but clinical. Little sluts that they were, his cock and balls were more than willing to go along with the terms of engagement. His mind had other ideas. Even the split second it took for him to blink was enough for that determined organ to feed him pictures of Doyle.

Doyle propped like a low-class rent boy in a doorway. Doyle, shirtless, stretching with the dedication of a cat until every sinew and muscle was outlined in taut relief, leading Bodie's eyes to the denim prison at the juncture of slim thighs. And last, but not least, Doyle naked, green eyes heavy lidded, sensual lips wet and swollen, as he carefully settled himself between Bodie's parted thighs.

With a groan, Bodie gave in and closed his eyes, letting the fantasy consume him as Doyle's weight settled on him, their hard cocks trapped in the warm, moist security between their bellies. He arched into the heat, thighs parting eagerly, hands moving faster as Doyle rubbed the soft/scratchy fur on his chest against Bodie's hairless flesh. An open, seeking mouth sought his throat, the broken tooth scraping as a path of sucking, lapping kisses was trailed along his shoulder, the soft rumble of Doyle's indecipherable mutterings reaching his ears.

So good. Always so good when Ray turned his considerable expertise to making Bodie believe he could fly. Busy hands and a busier mouth as Ray pleasured him, climbing all over him to reach all the most sensitive bits and offering his own body in return. Bodie's mouth watered as the remembered flavour of his partner's hard cock filled his mouth. Hands that were wrapped around his own cock squeezed deliciously, feeling instead the lush curves of the arse he could devote his life to worshipping.

Close. So very close now and Ray knew it. He returned to the cradle Bodie made of his arms and legs, rocking equisitely as they both sought out every ounce of pleasure they could share. Ray's mouth next to his ear now. Telling him he was beautiful. Telling him he was wanted. Telling him he was loved.

Christ, Ray. I love you. The declaration was made silently as Bodie reached for his phantom lover and his body arched. Beneath the covers, his cock spewed, hot and wet against his belly as his arms closed around nothing at all and his eyes flew open to confirm his solitary pleasure.

Giving one choked-off curse, Bodie rolled over and buried his face in the pillow. Before his heart even returned to its normal rhythm, the oblivion of sleep overtook him, letting him dream that his fantasy had been real after all.

When he had set out for the club tonight, Doyle had been determined to have fun. He'd picked up on a promising bird two steps inside the door, had plied her with liquor and small talk and had danced her around the floor while she snuggled into his arms and stepped on his feet. Unless he missed his guess, he'd be more than welcome to accompany her home whenever he chose to suggest they leave.

He was not, quite patently, having any fun. But it wasn't until he caught himself tracking the progress of a black clad, well built, dark haired man from door to bar that he realised why the evening had been so joyless. Subconsciously, he had come to a club that he and Bodie frequented quite regularly, and he had been waiting all night for his partner to show up.

Typically, Doyle refused to accept the implications of the realisation and leaned closer to his bird of choice for the evening.

"Let's go back to your place," he suggested/demanded, gentlemanly veneer stripped away by self-knowledge.

Doe eyes widened in surprise, but the expression on the pretty face remained willing enough, so Doyle urged her to her feet. Shepherding the woman through the crowded room to the door, Doyle forced himself not to look over his shoulder at the man who had drawn his attention and percipited his hasty depature. He knew it wasn't Bodie. He knew every move, every nuance of the big, familiar body and whoever the man was, he didn't have Bodie's grace. That well-learned, well-disciplined control that Bodie possessed over each and every movement of a body that should have been muscle bound and awkward but never was. Especially in bed. Recognizing that the best of intentions had still lead him directly into thoughts of his absent partner and into a half aroused state, Doyle dragged his mind back to the here and now and the woman whose body he was going to make use of. He tried to remember if she had mentioned her name.

It wasn't far to the woman's flat and Doyle waited patiently as she unlocked the security door, his eyes scanning the tenants' name beside the security intercom.

"Which apartment are you in, luv?" he asked casually as she got the door unlocked and he pulled it open.

"206."

That would make her M. Brady. Marie? Margaret? Marsha? She wasn't high enough in the social structure to be a Millicent. Doyle scanned the post lying on the hall table as she let them into the falt. Ms. Margaret Brady. So would that he Marg, Margaret, Maggie or maybe even Peggy? He decided he better stick with the generic 'luv'.

"Would you like a drink?" M. Brady asked as she lead the way into the lounge.

"Not really, luv," Doyle declined, slipping his arms around her waist and nuzzling into her neck. He turned her willing body and brought his mouth down over hers, feeling the slippery slide of her lip gloss smearing and unable to taste her for the flavour of the cosmetic.

And he still wasn't having any fun.

To be honest, it probably wouldn't have helped much if I had known what to call her. When the moment came, it was Bodie in my head, Bodie I'd been doing it to all along. Still, she seemed happy enough, if her snoring was anything to go by, so I suppose I showed her a better time than I did myself. Odd that. I've been to bed with women since Bodie and I started doing each other and never had that bugger's ghost in bed between us before. If I'm honest, I suppose it was because I always knew he was there waiting. I mean, he had his women, too. At least I think he had. Come to think of it now, though, I'm not all that sure he did.

Now there's a concept to boggle the mind -- Bodie being faithful. Loyal, yes. To me as his partner, his friend, but a faithful lover? I'm beginning to wonder if I ever really knew the man at all.

Beginning to wonder if I ever knew myself, as well. Didn't realise how much I'd grown to hate the job until this week. No Bodie to jolly me along, pull me out of my own circular thoughts. Realised just today that I'm thinking about chucking it in. Though I don't know what I'll do with myself if I do.

Bodie's suspension is up tomorrow and I have no idea what he's going to do. First time in years I haven't known. But then it's the first time in years I've gone this long without seeing him. Two bloody weeks and the bastard hasn't even called. To be fair, since I chucked him out, maybe I should be the one to call. Still, he knows how stubborn I can be.

Cowley closed the manila folder and looked up, finally acknowledging the man who waited patiently at attention before his desk. "Sit down, Bodie," he invited and sat studying the other man at length. Bodie did not squirm, remaining relaxed, if alert, in his chair, and the blue eyes met his without hesitation. It appeared that Bodie had either found some sort of peace within himself or had learned even stricter self-control in the past two weeks.

"I hear you've been looking up some old friends," Cowley offered as an opening gambit.

"One or two," Bodie admitted.

"I see," Cowley replied non-commitally, intentionally not revealing his opinion by tone or expression.

"Thought I'd need to know what possibilities I still had," Bodie explained. His gaze dropped to the surface of the desk for a few moments and Cowley remained silent, waiting him out. Eventually, the blue eyes lifted once more to meet their colder, paler counterparts. "I know I've disappointed you, sir, and for that I am sorry. Never wanted to do that."

"Then you believe your usefulness to me has ended?" Cowley asked. "That CI5 can no longer be one of those possibilities you spoke of?"

Bodie shook his head. "I don't feel any different than when you suspended me, sir. I couldn't promise not to put Doyle's life ahead of any pigeon."

"And you think your only value lies in partnering Doyle? That there might not be other ways in which you could be of service?"

Bodie shrugged. "Wouldn't want another partner. And just assumed you..."

"Ach, man," Cowley cut in. "If you've learned nothing else from me, I would have thought you'd learn not to assume. Do you or don't you want to continue to work for me?"

One more time, Bodie studied the file-strewn desk. This time he didn't raise his head when he answered. "Yes, sir," he mumbled.

"Yes, sir, what?" Cowley prodded.

Bodie's head came up and there was surprise and anger warring in his narrowed eyes. "Yes, sir. I do want to work for you."

"Good," Cowley replied with a great deal of satisfaction. He reached out and drew a small stack of files toward him. "I have a few more 'possibilities' for you right here."

Have you ever opened your mouth and heard pure lunacy leak out? I mean, words that have absolutely no connection to the ones that are in your brain? I knew exactly what I was going to tell that old bastard. Practiced it all weekend, didn't I? So why, when it came to shit or get off the bog, did I tell him I still wanted to work for him? Oh, never mind, I know why. Can't cut myself loose yet, can I? Great bloody sappy idiot that I am, I can't just walk away this time. I've been well and truly caught.

'Possibilities' the old man says and then trots out two. Seems Macklin needs a new partner in mayhem for the next three months or so. When Cowley told me that the bionic golly had broken that sp... (ah, not allowed to say that anymore, am I) ...had broken Towser's arm in two places, I nearly did myself an injury trying not to laugh. Just wish I could've been there to see it. The other possibility? Seems that with my 'unique expertise in armament', I'm just the man to take over supervising the armoury. Not exactly spoiled for choice, am I? Either play kill or be killed with fellow agents every day of the week or put up with the likes of Willis, Jr. or a Plum clone.

You ever heard that song? Something about 'what I did for love'?

God, what a sorry state I've sunk to. And the self-centered little bastard hasn't even called. I've picked up the phone a dozen times, but never dialed. What good would it do me? If I know nothing else about Doyle, I know what a stubborn bastard he can be.

Doyle signaled Jax to follow the rest of the agents out of the general briefing, hanging around until the last man had left the room and Cowley had gathered up his notes. He approached before Cowley could escape the room as well.

"What is it, Doyle?" Cowley asked impatiently.

Three days after Bodie's suspension was supposed to be over and with still not so much as a whisper of his fate in the rumour mill, Doyle was ready to meet impatience with more of the same.

"Want to know what Bodie's doing," he demanded.

Cowley's attention wandered from Doyle to the documents he held and back again. "Jax is your partner now. Is the teaming not working?" he asked mildly.

Unable to bring a civil reply to his lips, Doyle just shrugged.

"Interesting," Cowley went on in a tone that remained mild and yet, at the same time, provoked response. "Bodie lead me to believe that being repartnered would be no hardship for you. I believe 'adaptable' was his choice of description."

Hackles raised by the thought of Bodie and Cowley discussing his future with seeming dispassion, Doyle snapped, "I just wanted to know if Bodie's out of the mob. I didn't say I wanted to be reteamed with him."

"I see," Cowley said. "Just idle curiosity then?"

Doyle barely resisted the urge to slam both hands down on the table, knowing in advance that Cowley would not be impressed by his show of temper. "No. I worked with the man for three years."

Cowley sighed quietly, less than pleased by Doyle's continued stubbornness. "Bodie is replacing Towser."

Doyle's jaw dropped. "Replacing Towser?" he echoed incredulously.

"Like your own situation, 4.5, 3.7's is strictly temporary," Cowley said and exited the briefing room.

"I always thought all you needed for this job was a taste for sadism," Bodie remarked as he closed the cover on the binder Macklin had given him upon arrival which had turned out to be a book of plans. Plans for what Bodie had always believed to be spur of the moment training.

"Does," Macklin confirmed. He picked up the binder, one handed, hefting its weighty thickness once or twice before tossing it back on the scared table that served as desk, dining table, et al. "Along with a bit of training, psychology and a mixed bag of experience," he qualified. "I've got ten or twenty years on most of the agents that come through here. If I didn't know what I was doing, they'd wipe the floor with me."

Bodie grunted in agreement. He had never been able to fathom how Macklin did it -- taking on every agent in CI5 at one time or another and, despite the disadvantage of years, beating every one of them into the ground.

"Towser not learn how to read yet?" Bodie asked, referring to the fact that Doyle had bested him.

"Towser...made a mistake," Macklin admitted, eyeing the relaxed sprawl Bodie had assumed.

"What mistake was that?" Bodie asked. He himself had certainly made his share of mistakes with Doyle. Not the least of which was to fall in love with the bastard.

"Forgot that Doyle is like an iceberg. Nine tenths of his strength and all of his motivation is below the surface. That partner of yours," Macklin grinned slyly. "Excuse me, former partner, is a walking time bomb right now. Towser lit the fuse and it exploded in his face."

Bodie stood up and wandered away, pausing beside a bench strewn with knives, clubs, guns and other potentially deadly weapons. He picked up a billy club, stroked its shiny surface as he considered how much to reveal. Doyle, a walking time bomb? Made sense, he supposed. Professionally, they all tended to walk a pretty fine line between sanity and madness. He and Doyle had been providing each other with counterweights for years. Now he was no longer there to provide balance. He had, in fact, as a going away present, tipped the scales onto the side of fury.

"Aren't we all?" he finally said, deciding to keep his own counsel and, incidentally see how far Macklin was going to push.

"Most of you, yes," Macklin agreed. He joined Bodie at the bench, studied the array of potential mayhem before picking up two of the revolvers and moving them to the top of the tall cabinet that stood next to the bench. "Doyle, no. Not usually. Is that why you're here? Did he drive you out of the partnership?"

Dropping the billy club back on the bench, Bodie pivoted to face Macklin, offering a fa�ade utterly free of cracks. "I'm here because Towser broke his arm."

"Still protecting your partner, even when he isn't your partner anymore?" Macklin asked mildly.

"Till death do us part," Bodie quipped, knowing his black humour was and always would be his best/last line of defence.

Macklin shrugged, returned to the table and laid his hand on the binder. "Now I've shown you all my tricks, I'll have to come up with something new the next time you take the refresher."

Bodie smirked, scooped up an armful of weapons and began moving around the room, salting them away where he or Macklin could get their hands on them in a hurry. "Not something you're ever going to have to worry about Mac."

I can't believe I'm doing this. It's him that fucked up everything and on his merry way he goes. From all I hear, he's happy as a lark with Macklin. Should have known, have known all along that Bodie's a mad bastard. It's taken me all these weeks to figure out that he's my mad bastard. And none of the rest of it is worth a damn without him. Not the birds, not the job. Hell, even cooking a meal doesn't mean a thing if he's not there waiting to devour it.

Says he loves me then buggers off and not even a call in all this time. Maybe absence really does make the heart grow fonder or maybe I'm really the thick one. Couldn't see it when he was right there in my hands, but I see it now. So, here I am. Going to crawl to him. Christ, the thought makes me sick. Not so sick that I'm not going to go through with it. Besides, my watch is missing and it could be here. Bloody hell. Who am I trying to kid? I miss the big, dumb crud.

Doyle silently pulled open the small side door to the most current in a long line of decrepit old warehouses that CI5 used as their training facilities. He slipped through the opening, eased it closed behind him and stopped to listen. Hearing the soft impact of flesh on flesh and the louder grunts of reaction, he followed the sounds until he could see where Bodie and a new recruit were dancing around each other. He caught his breath as he watched Bodie move with all the power one would expect from his appearance and all the grace you wouldn't, until his opponent was back peddling in a desperate attempt to escape the barrage of blows. Fascinated, drawn irresistibly, Doyle broke cover, stepping from behind the pile of crates that shielded him.

Pressing his attack, Bodie moved closer to his opponent, eyes reconitouring automatically for any outside threat. When he saw Doyle, his concentration broke, his focus fractured as their eyes met across the scattered mats. He had two seconds to absorb the unguarded welcome in the green eyes before pain exploded in the middle of his face and a star burst wiped Doyle from his sight.

Watching Bodie drop like a rock snapped something civilized within Doyle, leaving only primal instinct to propel him across the room. Hands and feet becoming deadly weapons, and driven by a mind intent upon protecting his mate, Doyle attacked the victorious agent-in-training. He remained oblivious to the damage he inflicted until a pair of hands wrapped themselves around his arms and dragged him away from the body that stirred weakly at his feet.

"Get off, Doyle. For Christ's sake," Macklin roared until the agent's struggles slowly subsided. He gave him a shove away from the scene of battle. "Go look after your partner," he commanded.

Uncaring of the carnage he had left behind him, Doyle staggered to where Bodie was just groaning up to a sitting position with both hands pressed to his face. Doyle dropped to his knees and met the tear-filled blue eyes.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Bodie mumbled through hands still pressed to his nose.

"Here, let's have a look," Doyle said instead of replying to the belligerent demand. He pried Bodie's hands away, his own bleeding fingers gentle as they probed the nose that was already beginning to swell and bruise.

"Going to have a couple of outstanding shiners there, mate, " he pronounced, trying for calm despite the emotions that still raged within him. He heard Macklin help his battered victim to his feet and heard their voices retreat until they were barely a murmur.

"Not broken," he pronounced, his fingers lingering on Bodie's face, his eyes mourning the caution that lived in Bodie's. "Too bad. Would do great things for your mean and menacing look," he tried to joke.

"Just because you can't appreciate true beauty when you see it..." Bodie mumbled, his words trailing off as Doyle's fingers moved to capture his jaw.

"Oh, but I can," Doyle murmured. He tipped the wary face up to his and brought his mouth down on lips that, it seemed to him, parted involuntarily for him. Words never having been their best form of communication, Doyle let the kiss speak for him, investing it with all the tenderness he could while his hands offered gentle apologies to the jaw that slowly eased beneath them.

"Ray?" Bodie asked a hundred questions with just the one word, or perhaps just the most important one.

"Not exactly the place for this, is it?" Doyle said, aware of the echoing chamber around them and the multitude of potential interruptions. "Think you and I need to go home and talk."

"Talk?" Bodie echoed doubtfully.

"Eventually," Doyle acknowledged that they would speak with their bodies first and foremost and, if anything was still left unsaid, they would have to find the words, however difficult that might be. "Need to figure out how to get the Cow to put us back together again."

Contrary little sod that he is, when Ray finally gets around to saying it, he growls it. Teeth barred and all as if 'I love you' was being dragged out of him with hot pinchers. It's not as if I want him to change anyway. Fell in love with a bad tempered git. Wouldn't know what to do with a meek and mild Ray Doyle. Besides, he'd already shown me well and good by then. With hands and mouth and every lovely inch of him.

As for Cowley, well, who knows what he'll do. Could have been double or triple thinking us all along for all we'll ever know. Seems a sacrilege to think of the old bastard now in any case with Ray wrapped around me, and his hands still holding on for dear life as if I might slip away. Glad to know I'm not in love alone anymore, even if Ray did take his own sweet time getting there too. The only thing I know for sure is, it's going to be one helluva ride.

-- THE END --

April 2001