He had no business being here. Nevertheless, Doyle turned the key in the lock and opened the door just far enough to slip inside. Bodie's present opinion of him had been amply demonstrated by the thrust of the FN rifle to his chest. It was for that reason as much as any expectation of finding Bodie here that Doyle had come. He could not be with Bodie right now as he wanted to be, so he would have to content himself with being in Bodie's home.

The first thing he noticed when he had dealt with the locks and turned on the light was Bodie's boots. Expensive leather, they were the only footwear Bodie would wear with jeans the occasional time he condescended to don such attire. Doyle bent and straightened the tumbled boots into military tidiness, letting his touch linger for just a moment on the cool, smooth leather before leaving them standing as if waiting patiently for their owner's return. And, of course, Bodie would be back. He would never leave those boots behind.

Feeling ever so slightly reassured, Doyle moved on to the lounge. He looked around, feeling Bodie's presence in the sheer lack of personal accoutrements. A book sitting on the coffee table caught his attention and he moved across the room to pick it up. He sat down on the sofa and studied the lurid cover of the latest tawdry Harold Robbins bestseller indulgently. You just never could tell what Bodie might read next. The man could quote the classic poets one minute, and the next fill his mind with trash that did not even possess the saving grace of being grammatically correct.

Opening the book to where it was marked, Doyle once again smiled as he realised that the marker itself was an evidence receipt. Dozy sod, he thought affectionately. Bodie knew these receipts were supposed to be filed appropriately and here he was using it as a tatty old bookmark.

Chapter twenty-one. Doyle let his fingers rifle the edges of the few pages remaining to the end of the book. He wondered if Bodie had read it at all since Marikka had reappeared so unexpectedly in his life. Doyle didn't think so, but he knew Bodie would remember that he had not finished it yet. Never started something he didn't finish, did Bodie.

Doyle laid the book back down, lining its edges up precisely with the edges of the table. He would have to remember to ask Bodie if he could borrow it when Bodie came home.

He wondered how long Bodie would go to ground. Be off in one of his bolt holes licking his wounds for a bit, Doyle knew. Be mad at the world and feeling betrayed. But the ex-merc didn't lack for grey matter as much as Doyle liked to tease him otherwise. Might take him a few days, but Bodie would think it all through. Then he'd come home.

And when he did, Doyle thought, heaving himself up off the sofa and heading for the kitchen, it would be nice if he didn't have to face sour milk and other assorted nastiness. Swinging the refrigerator door open, Doyle couldn't suppress a small laugh as he beheld the sight of half a chocolate cake sitting there in solitary splendour. Doyle drew the platter out. How like Bodie this was. Not a speck of decent food in the flat, but this monstrosity of cholesterol and sugar sat awaiting the glutton's return. No way would Bodie leave this behind.

Carefully, Doyle covered the cake in tinfoil and returned it to the refrigerator. He bet Bodie would devour it just as soon as he returned. Probably eat it right off the platter.

Doyle returned to the lounge. He should leave, but he really couldn't. Not yet. He'd just take a turn around the rest of the flat. Who knew, maybe Willis' boys had done more than sit outside. Wouldn't do for Bodie to return and find he was the victim of an MI5 B&E.

Doyle made his way to the bedroom, stopping in his tracks as he found the switch, and light flooded the room. He couldn't believe Bodie would leave his bed in such a state. Be mortified, he would, if anyone else saw it. Doyle reached out, intending to neaten the disordered linens, but found himself instead sinking down onto the firm surface, his hands clutching at the rumpled sheets. A miasma of scents surrounded him - faded cologne, soap, shampoo. Beneath those aromas, woven amongst and amid the esoteric that could change with the whim of their user dwelt the one constant, the rich, male Bodie-scent he knew so well.

How could he have been such a fool, Doyle chided himself. He, who spent so much time thinking, analysing, categorizing. How could he have come to this self knowledge so late? Too late? He gripped the sheets fiercely at the thought. Surely not too late. Bodie would return. Bodie would forgive and then Doyle would... his grip eased and he gently smoothed the material between his fingers as he completed the promise... and then he would tell his friend of the discoveries he had made today.

No, Bodie couldn't really be gone. He had to come back so Doyle could tell him that he was loved.

Doyle tidied the bed then, leaving it smooth and undisturbed for Bodie to find on his return. Telling himself that in a few days Bodie would no longer be gone and everything would be fine, Doyle let himself out of the flat.

-- THE END --

Originally published in Motet Opus 4 in B and D, Keynote Press, November 2000