1969

"Decide what you want most of all," Miss Flickwater had said. "Then be prepared to fight for it." But that was back in the world of grammar school, when choices were easy, Bodie thought and ducked another bullet which came whistling towards him. He had run away not long after that lesson. Sweet Miss Flickwater was probably a disillusioned missus by now, fat with kids and a drinking husband.

Bodie aimed and shot, hitting the jeep the bandits were hiding behind. The front window broke with a satisfying rain of glass particles, and the rest of his bullets pinged holes in the side, at least a couple hitting the petrol tank, a satisfying boom was proof. He rewarded himself a congratulatory grin, loading his gun anew.

"Back, back, back!" his lieutenant yelled behind him, and Bodie turned and ran without thought. This was not the time and place to fight either for his beliefs or his life.

Later, lying on his cot in the barracks, machine gun and uniform close by, Bodie couldn't let the intrusion from his past go. What was he willing to fight for? What did he want most of all?

Once he had found the answer easy: love; independence. He had gained his hard-earned independence when he left home after that last, gigantic fight; and a bloody good thing it was too.

But now? Fighting someone else's wars, helping someone else to gain independence -- often at the cost of some other poor sods' downfall and enslavement -- was this all? He was damned tired of fighting other folks' wars. Tired of the heat, the vastness that was Africa. Maybe it was time to go home. England.

A dump crash and the smattering of bullets stopped his sentimental wallow. Bodie jumped up with the others around him, chucking on his dirty khakis, grabbing his gun, and running towards the door.

Outside was chaos; death and mayhem, covered with billowing smoke. He ran for cover; aim -- shoot, aim -- shoot, aim -- shoot.

---

Bodie woke to angry voices and couldn't figure out why. But yes -- they were speaking English; one with a heavy, local accent, the other with a strong Scottish lilt. What now? He kept his eyes closed, prudence had taught him there was no need to open them too early and alert his guards that it was time for a new round of abuse. How much more could his body take? The end would be welcomed as a mercy.

Metal against metal; his cell door was jerked open.

"MacLaren?"

His cellmate, then. Bodie quelled the groan that threatened when he moved his head towards MacLaren's cot.

"You've come for me, sir?" MacLaren sat up; he was in marginally better shape than Bodie. Not that it mattered much; they were both at the end of their tether. But MacLaren was regular army, not a mercenary like himself, and stood a better chance of being missed and negotiated free.

"Ai, lad. We're here to get you out."

So that was the angry, Scottish voice he had heard outside his cell window, then. MacLaren's rescuer, apparently. Lucky guy. Piercing blue eyes under a wave of pale hair -- what a change -- turned his way. The Scot's uniform was smooth and clean, straight from the hanger.

"Ach. Who have we here?"

"Bodie, sir." He was proud of how he managed to keep most of the shaking out of his voice. The dignity of his body was long gone, but he was damned if he would give away his words, too.

Cool fingers ghosted over Bodie's cheek, along his wounds, and touched his improvised bandages.

"You need a lift home, lad?"

Bodie was certain he could be excused for only nodding under the circumstances.

---

Later, back in London, pint in hand, Bodie closed his eyes. He could still see the white square of the envelope in his mind, crisp and official looking. Tomorrow then. He would do it. He opened his eyes again and tugged the envelope securely back into the inside pocket of his jacket. Major Cowley, now MI5 operative, had written him a letter of recommendation for the British Army. He might even become a Paratrooper with it.

What shook him most was that Cowley had done it. Nobody had bothered before. To be honest he hadn't wished for it either. Independence. One of his main goals.

"Lad?" Cowley eased himself down in the chair opposite Bodie. His leg must be aching today.

Bodie wondered, not for the first time, what Cowley's price was. Everybody had a price on their services.

"Just wondering, sir, what your price is." Bodie snapped his mouth shut. Why could he never keep his gob closed around Cowley? The hurt -- quickly hid in those baby blues, didn't help his bout of bad conscience. "Sorry, sir. Didn't mean it that way."

What way did you mean it, then, Bodie?" Cowley raised one pale, elegant hand and sipped his whisky.

"I am in your debt -- and make no mistake, I am damned grateful for the reason behind it. But everybody has their price. Nothing comes for free. That's my experience, at least." He stared defiantly into Cowley's eyes; not a mean feat at all. "I was wondering what yours were."

Cowley surprised him again. "Apply yourself, lad. Do your best. That's my price." Cowley looked exceedingly pleased with himself, sipping again at his Scotch. "And..."

Here comes the catch. Bodie gulped down half of his pint.

"...sometime, when you are ready, I may ask for your services. I know you now, Bodie. You're a resourceful man. A good man."

Blue eyes pierced his again and Bodie knew what kind of services he wanted to give Cowley. Freely. Preferably on his knees or in a soft bed. He blinked and searched his pint for answers. No need to scare the old man; he was skilled at reading faces.

"Thank you, sir. I'll do my best." Bodie looked up, winked, and grinned at Cowley. "I am the best." At what, he didn't reveal -- not yet in any case.

"You will be when I recruit you," Cowley said and patted Bodie's hand. Bodie suppressed the urge to grab that hand and hold on. He wanted never to wash that hand; like a teenager touched by a rock star.

There would be time to follow those wants later. He had seen how Cowley, when he thought Bodie wasn't aware, had ogled both his arse and his crotch. There was potential in that ogling. He grinned at himself. Yes, indeed.

---

1975

"Bodie?"

"It's sergeant Bodie now, sir." Bodie grinned into the phone.

"Sergeant Bodie." And wasn't it bloody marvellous to hear Cowley's sharp voice utter those two words? It made his nerves sizzle.

"I am in need of your services."

"Oh...sir?" Expectation curled in his belly.

"Yes, Bodie. Of the official kind. Meet me at The Swan ten sharp next Saturday."

"Uh, sir. I am in Belfast."

"You will be in London by the next weekend. There's a leave waiting for you. Make sure you make it. Wear civilian clothes."

What could he say to that? "Yes, sir. Confirmed."

---

"I have had words with your superiors," Cowley started their conversation, even before he had lifted his cutlery to dig into his roast beef. "They are amenable to my suggestions."

I bet they are, Bodie thought. You old fox. You've probably got something on all of them.

"Rest assured, Bodie." Cowley's sharp eyes homed in on him, piercing his, as usual. "They have only the best to say about your performance. You are an expert marksman, show initiative and courage. Intelligent. A bit rash sometimes, but always land on your feet. The list is endless." Cowley tapped the table with his knife. "I would expect no less from you, Bodie."

Bodie felt like blushing, but... "Of course."

He raised an eyebrow. Cowley never handed out praise like that without an intention behind it. The devious git.

"You are familiar with the new organisation I am building; CI5."

Bodie nodded. He had heard of nothing else the last few months.

"I want you to join me." For an impossible moment Bodie thought he meant something entirely different. His heart skipped a beat. But no, of course not. He doubted that Cowley would even admit to himself more than bodily relief.

"You will make an excellent agent," Cowley continued. "If I am right, and I often am, you will be among the best."

Cowley looked at him, the conceived bastard. Always right. The worst was, he wasn't lying.

"What do you say, Bodie?"

A rhetorical question if Bodie had ever heard one. As if there was a choice in Cowley's commands.

"I'll think about it. Sir." The surprise in the older man's eyes was fun -- for a moment. But Bodie didn't want the surprise to turn into hurt. "Okay. I have conferred with my inner adviser. The answer is... yes." He didn't smile.

The relief in Cowley's expression was quickly hidden by a brisk, matter-of-fact mine. "Good. I have found a temporary partner for you. He is a lone wolf, but I am certain I can persuade him to show you the ropes."

Bodie nodded. If Cowley approved and wanted him partnered, who was he to object? After all, he would gain one of his ambitions -- to be closer to Cowley. The old bugger. Therefore Cowley's next words struck him the wrong way.

"You do understand, Bodie, that our, err, illicit dalliances have to stop?" The red spots in Cowley's lined cheeks told Bodie how much it cost the old git to say this.

Bodie leaned back in his chair, watched the old man -- his lover for the lack of a better word. What could he say to that? Not on your nelly?

Bodie had already fought for what he wanted most, and he would continue to do so. For as long as it would take. No way was he giving up what they had, even if it was conducted behind closed doors and at odd times.

He nodded to Cowley. "For now." He picked up his pint, "Cheers mate!"

"Bodie!" The relief in the old man's voice was painful to hear. "Ach! You know I abhor that expression!"

"Yeah," Bodie smiled. "I know."

-- THE END --

June 2008