Companion piece is Dark Alleys and Nameless Faces


Bodie has a little black book. In it are lots of names with phone numbers. Just first names, although some have notes beside them to distinguish between Julie and Julia, the two Mels -- because one is Melanie and the other Melvin, and it would be embarrassing to get those muddled up -- and the three Susies that he has listed. He doesn't bother with last names. Generally speaking, they don't hang about for long enough. They fall for the devilishly handsome face, the muscled body and smooth banter, but when he has to cancel yet another date because he's working late, they quickly lose interest and move on to someone more reliable.

The man that Bodie is currently screwing into the mattress is indexed under 'J' for 'Jerry'. He's an old friend, a good friend, but right now, with his back towards Bodie and making incoherent noises into the pillow, he could be anyone.

Even Ray Doyle.

Doyle. His best friend. His work partner. The man he trusts to watch his back and keep him alive. The man whose back he watches and who he keeps alive. The man he wants and knows he can never have.

Bodie has watched Doyle's back for so long that he knows it better than he knows his own. If he closes his eyes now and runs his hands along the back beneath him, he can pretend it belongs to Doyle. He knows where all the scars are; his fingers can map each of them out. Every stab wound, gunshot wound, surgeon's scar -- he's seen them all, either in the making or in the changing rooms after Macklin's workout.

Fingers skim over the chest -- not as furry as Ray's -- and stomach -- not as muscled as Ray's; too much easy living, Jerry, my son.

His probing fingers find their intended target and close around the erect cock, already slick with pre-come. Bodie has no idea if this is what Ray feels like, but imagines Ray surrendering to his caresses, can hear him crying, 'harder!' as he thrusts further and deeper. He drops kisses along the neck and shoulders and winds a strong arm around Ray's waist to keep them both balanced.

Ray comes first, covering Bodie's hand with warm, sticky fluid and Bodie's not far behind, crying out his name, but when he opens his eyes it's Jerry looking back at him, confused and wary.

Bodie isn't really living dangerously. If Cowley finds out, there'll be questions asked, but there's no real security risk. Jerry is Secretary to a Junior Minister and understands the need for discretion -- it works both ways for them. Even so, there will be a day when he has to stop this.

He will. One day.

---

The honk of the horn and flash of the headlights signals Bodie's arrival outside Doyle's latest residence. Bodie leans on the horn longer than is really necessary in the hope it will wake Doyle up. Ray has been a moody little bastard lately, and Bodie finds it good sport to see how far he can wind his partner up before he snaps. Being the good CI5 agent that he is, he always stops just before snapping point for Doyle. He likes his head where it is, thank you very much, it sits nicely on his shoulders.

He's mildly disappointed to see that Ray is already up and waiting for him. Kicking the front door shut behind him Doyle slides his lithe body into the car seat, and flashes a grin by way of greeting. The usual banter is exchanged while Bodie puts the car into gear and the tyres squeal in protest as they pull away into the morning traffic.

"Who was the lucky girl last night then? Lily? Dawn? Or did Air Hostess Annie drop by for a stopover?" See? He can do this. He can chat to Doyle as if he were just another friend, not a potential lover.

"Who says there was a girl?" Doyle's tone is light as he shifts on the seat to get comfortable.

Bodie chuckles. Doyle's tetchiness has gone, which usually means one of two things. Either an op has gone spectacularly right and all the bad guys locked away, or he got his end away last night. As they're not working on anything major at the moment, he knows what he'd put his money on.

But he's okay. He can do this. His urge has been satisfied and he can work with Doyle without needing him; without wanting him, all of him.

Until the next time that Doyle leans in over his shoulder to look at a piece of paperwork, or they have to share a hotel room on assignment because the Cow would rather spend his budget on manpower than what he sees as luxury items. Until the next time strong hands pick him up and dust him down or a knowing glance lingers just a fraction longer than it should.

Until the next time.

-- THE END --

January 2008