Bodie watched as one by one the cars pulled out of their parking spaces and headed off down the esplanade. He knew the route -- left at the traffic lights, down to the roundabout, then off along the ring road to join the motorway. Back to London and civilisation. A couple of hours' drive and he could be in his flat, where he could unwind and get a grip on his feelings before he needed to face his partner again.

"Fancy going back tonight?" He turned to Doyle who had opened the Capri's tailgate and was rummaging in the luggage space.

"You what?" Doyle straightened up, a hammer in one hand, screwdriver in the other. "Knew you'd have something I could use. What d'you keep this in 'ere for?" He waved the hammer in Bodie's direction.

"Kneecapping," Bodie replied automatically. "I said, d'you want to go back tonight?"

Doyle seemed to consider for a moment, fixing the other man with an almost predatory look. His eyes glittered, and Bodie recognised the signs. Each of them had his own way of winding down. He knew how he wanted to do it, had a snowflake's chance in hell of achieving his desires. A fast drive up the motorway might not be the answer but it would relieve some of his tension.

"Nah," Doyle decided. "The Cow doesn't want us till tomorrow afternoon. We've got time in the morning. The hotel's got endless hot water and the room's booked for another night. Let's make the most of it."

If only. Bodie shrugged. "Okay but I want food." And you want a fuck. He wondered if Doyle would find an accommodating body out here in the sticks who'd be happy with a one-night stand.

Doyle pointed the screwdriver in the direction of the seafront. "There's a fish and chip place at the far end and an off-licence two doors down. You get the food while I fix the headlight."

"It's your turn to pay," Bodie reminded him. "Cough up."

Doyle put down the tool and felt around in his jacket pockets till he came up with a few crumpled notes. "And don't put anything on my chips."

"I know," said Bodie, taking the money. "You remind me every time."



He came back to find Doyle had finished the repair and was sitting on the esplanade wall, examining the scuff marks on his boots.

"Two plaice and chips, one without vinegar and salt, and two lagers," Bodie announced, adding in a plummy voice, "as sir requested."

"Pillock," said Doyle, without heat.

Bodie took this as a sign that his partner was beginning to unwind. He put the food between them on the wall and sat down, undoing the newspaper outer wrapping. Glancing at page three, he commented, "Nice pair of knockers," and stuffed a chip into his mouth.

Doyle leaned over, balancing himself against Bodie's shoulder. "Silicone," he decided, studying the photograph critically. "Fine if that's what turns you on. Not my scene, mate."

Bodie turned his head, meeting Doyle's unfathomable gaze. Looked away. You know only too well what turns me on.

They finished the food in silence. Bodie drank the last bit of his lager, then dropped the ring pull back in the can. Gathering up the wrappers, he deposited them in the nearest bin before sitting down again beside his partner. He wondered if the meal had taken the edge off Doyle's feral mood completely, or whether his partner would now be on the prowl. If so, he would be hunting on his own.

"I can't go on like this."

Bodie wondered for a moment if he'd spoken his thoughts aloud but it was Doyle talking to him.

"Don't think you can either. We can go on pretending till one of us fucks up because we can't keep our minds on the job, or we can do something about it." Doyle gave him a twisted grin. "Moment of truth, Bodie." Putting his arm over Bodie's shoulder, he turned, leaned forward and kissed his partner on the mouth. A long, slow kiss.

Bodie forced himself not to grab the other man and crush him till he gasped for breath, not to thrust his tongue into Doyle's mouth the way he wanted to, the way his body was demanding he should.

"You like chancing your arm, Doyle. What if the locals object? Two blokes snogging on the sea wall isn't your everyday scene."

"I'll plead drunk and disorderly." Doyle's gaze swept him from head to foot, his eyes assessing, missing nothing. "Madness of the moment. You weren't exactly co-operative."

Refusing to be drawn, Bodie said, "You're high as a kite still. What you need is a mindless fuck. Find a willing body; this one's not playing along." He could see Doyle tense at the words, his eyes closing. It took all of Bodie's self-control not to touch him.

"You're wrong." Doyle's voice was raspy. "We could be great together. Fuckin' fantastic. You want me as much as I want you. Stop pretending."

Bodie looked down at his clenched hands, then across at his partner. "You're clever with words, even believe them when you say them. At this minute you'd swear black was white just to get what you want. I'm not going to screw up our partnership because you're feeling randy and there's no-one but me available. I'm not your sex toy, Doyle."

With a grimace, Doyle removed his arm from around Bodie's shoulder, and got up, stretching his legs. "Bad timing on my part. How do I convince you about us when you won't give me a chance?" He opened the door of the Capri and slid into the passenger seat.

I'd give us a couple of weeks before you'd be looking for a new thrill. Bodie stood up, went to the driver's side and got in. Thrusting the key into the ignition, he stared at it for a moment. Yeah, I want you, sunshine, more than you can imagine. But it isn't the same for you, is it? Just another experience to chalk up on the board. He started the engine.

"You want to go back to the hotel?" he asked wearily.

"Yeah." Doyle settled back in his seat. "I want a long hot shower and a comfortable bed."

Bodie put the Capri in gear. "Your bed. Try getting into mine and I'll knock you into next week." He was aware of the other man watching him.

"Okay, you're safe in your bed -- tonight." Doyle reached over and patted Bodie's knee. "But you'll see I'm right. Opposites attract."

Bodie gritted his teeth, and drove.

-- THE END --

May 2000.
Published in Discovered in a Letterbox 17, Spring 2001