Set at the end of 'Fugitive'


Bodie had run hard and fast, as if his life depended on it. It wasn't bravery or heroics or courage, just common sense. He knew that he was and had always been expendable; knew that with explosives strapped to his chest he had to get as far away as he could from the others, from Doyle, as fast as he could.

Doyle had run hard and fast because his life depended on it. It wasn't bravery or heroics or courage, just instinct. He knew what Bodie was trying to do; knew that he couldn't let it happen, that he had to get the explosives away from Bodie's chest, from the others, as fast as he could.

Doyle was leaner, lighter, faster than Bodie and, unencumbered, made the ground up easily. What Bodie lacked in speed, hands tied behind his back, he made up in determination and Doyle knew he had one chance to fell his partner or they would both be blown sky high. He leapt forward seizing Bodie at the knees and the bigger man plunged headlong into the grass which barely cushioned his bulk.

'Get off!' Bodie struggling: struggling to make sense of what was happening, struggling physically to get away from the senseless inevitability of them both becoming widely scattered barbeque meat within the next few seconds.

'Maniac' Doyle desperate, struggling to keep Bodie still, hands already freeing the webbing straps from his partner's neck.

'Throw it' quite unnecessary when the bag was already soaring heavenwards, but Bodie had to feel that he was still in control. Then the noise as the explosion ripped through the air above them (causing them to duck their heads towards the ground as if there was cover) followed by an incongruous silence and in the stillness a fleeting look that passed between them.

Thanks

'S okay

Then Doyle's hands were working at the ropes around Bodie's wrists, helping him up and the moment was gone, forgotten, no more significant than the silent offer of tea, gratefully accepted, later when they were writing their reports. Much later they had bought drinks at their favourite watering hole without Bodie's customary perfunctory protestations about whose round it wasn't. They had exchanged only feeble comments about the barmaid's singular attributes, more from habit than desire, and failed to notice the two girls at the next table trying unsubtly to attract their attention. They talked about Cowley, how they hated writing reports, what tricks other agents had employed in the past to delay the task. They talked about anything to fill the silence in their usual easy way but, as if by prior agreement, avoided any reference to the day's events. After a couple of drinks they agreed it had been a long day and they parted at the door calling their 'goodnights' behind them. All seemed normal, usual and tomorrow would no doubt bring more of the same.



Bodie woke sometime after 1am with a feeling that something was wrong. He laid in the dark for a while trying to focus his sleep-blurred mind on what it might be. Eventually he decided it was no good trying to think about anything on an empty stomach. He padded to the kitchen wrapped against the chill in a towelling robe. He rubbed his hands vigorously through his sleep-ruffled hair, as if it would help to get his brain working, and waited for the kettle to boil. While his tea brewed he surveyed the contents of his fridge -- 3 cold sausages. He couldn't quite remember when he'd cooked them, but they smelled okay, looked okay and he figured he'd survived worse. Yawning, he took his tea and sausages through to the lounge and sank deep into his favourite armchair staring into the darkness. When alone at night he rarely bothered with lights, reasoning that the dark honed his senses. Still, something kept gnawing at him -- he'd survived worse. Something about today was bothering him. He went over it again piece by piece as he had in his report. There was nothing tangibly different. It had been like so many operations before, ending with lives lost and lives saved. By his own count he'd had more than a feline nine lives; maybe each one over nine took him closer to the abyss. No it wasn't that. Whatever it was was there, hovering in the gloom, just out of reach like an itch he couldn't quite scratch. He rested his head back. Maybe, he reasoned, if he thought of something else, whatever it was would go away and let him get some much needed sleep.



Doyle had never made it to bed, he felt too restless. He had taken a long bath to help him relax and changed into a tracksuit. He had cooked dinner and opened a bottle of wine. All rituals that usually had the desired effect. The dinner now lay cold and untouched on his plate and the wine bottle was half empty. He felt no more relaxed. He laid full length on the sofa with his left arm crooked behind his head and the wine glass grasped in his right, Mahler whispering from the stereo. He was the very image of relaxation, but appearances were deceiving. He stared at the pattern on the ceiling as if it held the answer to life itself. It didn't and despite all his efforts Doyle couldn't fathom what was wrong. After any operation it took time to come down, to get the adrenalin out of his system, especially one where things came so close to the wire. That wasn't it; this felt different. How did he feel? He felt like there was something urgent, desperate that he had to do, but he couldn't quite grasp what it was.

He sat round on the sofa in a sudden move. Putting his glass on the coffee table he rubbed hard at his temples with his fingertips and exhaled noisily through clenched teeth. His head was still pounding and he could feel the likelihood of the sleep he needed slipping further away from him. He had one last option -- a run would calm him, use up the adrenalin buzzing through his veins. He slipped on his running shoes, reached for his keys and headed off into the calm peace of the night.



There had been rain at some point in the evening and the city streets sparkled in a reflected halogen glow. Doyle liked the city best this way: it seemed new and shiny and the air smelled fresh, no hint of the grime they dealt with every day. Tonight the beauty went unnoticed as he ran, his mind focussed on nothing at all except the movement of his body. He failed to notice the puddles that he splashed through soaking his feet and legs. He was unaware of the route he took running down by the embankment heading west then curving in a loop back towards... Back towards where? He was standing at the door with his key in his hand when his consciousness suddenly realised that it wasn't his door. It was Bodie's door. He placed both hands on the doorframe and leaned forward to ease his breathing. It was gone two in the morning, what the hell was he doing here?



Bodie, his senses keened by the darkness, heard a sound. It was brief, faint, like something scratching at his lock, and then it was gone. He eased out of his chair and crept silently in the darkness along the hallway to the front door. He peered through the peephole, fully expecting that his sleep-deprived imagination was working overtime, only to be confronted by the top of his partner's head, the usually buoyant curls flattened by sweat and drizzle. He smiled warmly to himself and with a hurried ease pulled the door open to face a startled Doyle.

"I...", but Doyle had no explanation. It didn't matter: Bodie hadn't waited for one. Instead he padded down the hall, turning lights on as he went, as if Doyle on his doorstep at 3am was an everyday occurrence. Doyle shut the door behind him and was immediately assaulted by a flying towel.

"And you might want to slip your shoes off before you drip all over the parquet!" Doyle heeled his shoes off as he rubbed at his hair and face with the towel, only then becoming aware of just how cold he felt. Bodie reappeared clutching a tumbler of whisky in each hand and handed one to him.

"I...couldn't sleep -- went for a run." Doyle tried again, stumbling over his words, unable to give an explanation he didn't have. Bodie turned silently and disappeared back into the lounge, leaving Doyle dripping in the hallway feeling like a nervous teenager on a first date.

Odd analogy, thought Doyle and downed the whisky feeling its fiery bite warm his insides. Towel in one hand, glass in the other, he traipsed after Bodie looking far less fortified than he felt.

"Bodie, I..." arms akimbo, determined to have his say, Doyle planted himself firmly in front of his partner and stopped dead in his tracks, taken aback by a Bodie who sat in his chair smirking like a Cheshire cat.



The thing that had eluded Bodie all night had come hurtling at him out of the darkness the instant he saw his partner's tousled head through the spy hole and the relief of it had almost made him laugh out loud. The puzzlement on Doyle's face made his sudden realisation all the more enjoyable. He was certain Doyle was running in the middle of the night for the same reason he was eating cold sausages in the dark, only he had worked it out first. Now he was trying to decide: tell him, or let him work it out for himself?

"Bodie? What?" an irritated Doyle quizzed him, but Bodie just carried on grinning smugly.

"Haven't you worked it out yet professor?"

"Worked what out?"

"Why you're here at 3am?"

"Adrenalin -- kept me awake." Doyle began to feel uncomfortable, uncertain where this was going.

"Sure?" Bodie pressed on. "Wasn't something else keeping you awake? See, I've had this niggling feeling all evening. Something about today I just couldn't quite work out, and I'm willing to bet you could say the same."

"Bodie, I..." Bodie rose and took the empty glass from Doyle's hand.

"Another? Not like you to be lost for words Sunshine."

"Bodie, will you tell me what the hell is going on?" Doyle's anger jabbed at him. He was cold and tired and wet and in no mood to play games. Up to that point Bodie had had an unswerving confidence that he was right. It was the only thing that made sense. If Doyle couldn't work it out for himself then he'd either have to tell him or let it go. He handed back a generously topped up glass and stood inches from his partner. For the first time since the previous morning he looked him directly in the eye. Doyle, in slow motion (as Bodie later recalled), downed his large whisky in one and took a deep breath.

"I'm in love with you." A bald statement of fact, the most unromantic declaration a usually silver-tongued Doyle had ever made. Still, it hung between them like a primed grenade and he waited for the explosion. The words were easy to say when they weren't true or didn't matter: he'd said them hundreds of times before to dozens of girls without a thought. Now he'd laid his true feelings bare and whatever the response there was no going back. The moment seemed like an eternity as he waited, dry-mouthed, unblinking, for some response.

"'Course you are mate, what's not to love?" Bodie's smile widened.

Doyle was confused. Bodie joking now? Had Bodie finally pushed him to say it out loud only to laugh at him? Had he misjudged him so badly? Why would he be so cruel? Couldn't he understand how serious this was for them both?

Lost in his internal debate, Bodie's kiss had come as a shock: a strong, passionate, urgent kiss that nearly knocked an unprepared Doyle from his feet.

"Just doesn't explain why I love you though!" From the twinkle in those blue eyes, Doyle suddenly knew that it would be okay.

-- THE END --

August 2007