You Dancin'?


Doyle was not used to Bodie's arm across his windpipe and the fridge handle digging in his back.

"Fucking 'ow', Bodie!"

"Stop it."

Thoughts of kneeing him in the balls held off at how quietly Bodie had spoken. And at how intensely those blue eyes were boring into his.

"Stop what, you bloody maniac?"

Bodie's arm relaxed and Doyle moved off the handle. Still had a wall of solid partner in front of him, mind.

"Stop dancing that arse of yours across my eyeline, sunshine."

Doyle blinked. Bodie's expression hadn't changed, but only fingertips on his chest were holding him now. He could escape.

"Or what?" He chose to say instead, putting his own hand out.

He didn't need it.

"Or I'll stop it for you."

That was better. Much better. Doyle licked his lips and got an answering head tilt. Tough to tease in a heartbeat, that was Bodie.

"You and whose army?"

"Don't need an army."

Two strong hands went around Doyle's back, slid lower, and proved his point.

"Not dancing now, are you?"

One broken fruit bowl later, together with a kitchen table that apparently could take their weight, and Doyle doubted he'd ever dance again.

-- THE END --

March 2008

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