(The Seasons Series - Fall)

Slapping the motor's reluctant heater, Ray Doyle scowled at the misty outside world, then snuggled deeper into his fur- lined jacket. His tired, red-streaked eyes stared miserably out through the smudged glass at the bar across the street. Fog settled into the London air. Cold rain dripped on city streets. Pedestrians huddled beneath umbrellas, cowering within their overcoats. Buses splashed through muddy puddles. The world was terrifying normal, and yet nothing seemed right.

Licking at dry lips he thought hopelessly of a large flagon of ale, and sighed dramatically. Beside him, McCabe squirmed in the driver's seat, rubbing at the back of his neck, then checking - yet again - his wristwatch.

"Only been five minutes since the last time you looked," Doyle said nastily. He didn't like the sound of his voice, but he liked this situation even less.

McCabe gifted him with a look of sheer disgust.

"Not my fault the Cow assigned Bodie to that diplomatic conference in the States, so don't take it out on me just because you're feeling....frustrated!" The sneer in that voice sent Doyle's temper flying. The sparks in his green eyes could have set the rain-soaked streets on fire.

"Why don't you shut your bleedin' mouth for five minutes," Doyle retorted.

"Oy, and why should I? Considering you 'aven't said a word in the last two hours. Worse than a bear with a sore tooth, you are."

"And you're stupider than a...a blind elephant." Blind elephant? Good grief Raymond, Doyle thought, you're losing it - and fast.

Luckily McCabe was already lost, evidenced by his reaction to the fumbling insult.

"Oh - and look who's talking. Just can't manage without your partner to 'old your 'and, can you, Doyle. Poor little boy..."

And that was that.

No one - and Doyle meant no one - ever got away with impugning his abilities, much less his masculinity. Whatever his relationship with his partner might be, he was still the toughest, fastest, meanest agent this side of Hong Kong. And he demonstrated so with a sharp left hook straight for McCabe's jaw. Pain lanced up his arm as his knuckles struck bone.

"DOYLE!"

The so-named agent cringed mentally beneath his boss' ire. Cowley on a rampage was enough to scare anyone, even one of the most fearless men in all of the British Isles. And Doyle wasn't that man. Not right now, perhaps not ever.

"Sorry sir?" he mumbled.

Cowley glared.

Doyle cringed physically. His shoulders slumped, and he cast a sheepish look up from under heavy eyelids.

"I'm sorry I hit McCabe. Really. He just....well..." Doyle stumbled to a halt, struggling to find a way to avoid the necessary. He had absolutely no desire to admit the cause of his explosion to anyone, much less Cowley. It was bad enough that he and Bodie'd had to admit their relationship to the CI5 controller; there was no way he was going to discuss the specifics.

"Oh aye...and whatever he did, you still shouldna've hit him." Despite the tough words, Cowley's ire suddenly fled and he eased back painfully in his chair. With a jolt, Doyle realized how tired Cowley appeared. The lines of travail on his face seemed deeper now than they had ever been, and his eyes were sunk into deep caverns.

"Are you all right, sir?" Doyle asked abruptly.

That surprised Cowley; he looked up sharply, then half-smiled wryly.

"Aye, man, I'm fine. Just tired. And I know you are as well. It's been a busy year."

Doyle nodded agreement. The caseload appeared to have nearly doubled in the past few months. The heat wave of the past summer had thrown the entire populace on edge causing tempers to flare at a moment's notice. The slide into a wet and chilly autumn had only made matters worse. The Organization had flared up again, as had a rash of terrorist activity. Corruption flourished in the nation's police forces, and the Home Office was no better off. CI5 had been run ragged all year, and the strain was beginning to tell.

Cowley took a deep breath, the glint of decision flashing in his bloodshot blue eyes.

"Well, there's no use ye sitting around here. McCabe and Lewis can handle the rest of the stakeout on Richtman. Ye'd better get packing."

"Packing?" Doyle questioned, confused, feeling as though the conversation had just left him behind. Talking to Cowley could do that to you sometimes, but usually Doyle was able to keep up. And between him and Bodie....but that thought was like pulling a sore tooth. He missed his partner, missed the ease of his company, the sense of not having to always speak his mind because it would be understood without having been said aloud. And knowing that when he did - and he often did - want to have his say, Bodie would listen. He might not agree, but he would care to listen.

Oh God, he missed Bodie.

And Cowley's words flew past him until one got stuck in his ear.

Washington.

"What?" he questioned, jerking his head forward like a bloodhound seizing a scent.

"Don't you ever pay attention, 4.5?" Cowley demanded. But before Doyle could give the requisite apology, the Controller picked up a small envelope on his desk and tossed it at him.

"Here are your tickets and your itinerary. Your plane for Washington leaves in four hours. I suggest you go pack at once. You and Bodie are to take a full week's vacation. I do not expect to see hide nor hair of you for at least seven days. That's on Dr. Ross' orders."

"Uhh, yes sir!" The concept finally sunk in, and Doyle's entire face lit up. "Yes, sir, thank you sir!"

"Oh aye, Doyle," Cowley waved his hand through the air, then pointed towards the door. "Get going with ye now."

"Yes sir. Thank you sir!" Doyle repeated. Turning on his heels, he fled out the door as fast as his weary feet could take him.

There was little that could make a transatlantic flight bearable. Doyle shifted uncomfortably in his seat for the thousandth time, then turned to stare out the tiny window at the empty stretch of sky. Then he shut his eyes, and focused on the memory of his partner's face. He'd barely had time to leave a message at Bodie's hotel to tell him he was on his way. By the time he'd thrown some clothes in a suitcase, found his passport, and driven rapidly to Heathrow, he'd had to run to make his flight.

But now the rush of energy had spent itself, and he was exhausted. Too tired to sleep, especially in an airplane seat. A steady ache throbbed between his shoulderblades, and his right foot was falling asleep again. The only thing that kept him from hitting something in frustration was the thought of a whole week alone with Bodie without work to distract them.

That brought a fleeting, but quirky-sweet smile to his mobile lips. His eyes shut as he slipped into a daydream. Perhaps they'd go to Florida and sun themselves on the beach. Or up north to rent a log cabin with a large fireplace and a big bed. Yes, the light would flicker on Bodie's neat cap of ebony hair, glow on his perfect skin. Their bodies would warm each other, sharing the heat of the burning logs. The wind would whistle through the trees outside. The air would smell clean and fresh, full of life.

Doyle could do some painting. Maybe he'd even manage to get Bodie to pose for him. The smile lingering on his mouth widened as he began to position his model. On a soft rug before the fireplace. Naked as the day he was born, long legs stretched out. One knee should be drawn up, though not enough to hide Bodie's best attributes. Just enough to throw the right angle of shadow to tantalize the viewer. One muscular arm supporting his head, the neck tilted to the side. The blue eyes half-hidden by heavy eyelashes. A smile, or not. No, a serious look, with that mouth in full concentrated pout. Just thinking about that mouth made the would-be artist squirm in his seat.

Closing his eyes, and arching his back to relieve an ounce of pressure, he didn't notice the hungry look sent in his direction by the passing stewardess.

They'd had to settle for an shabby, inexpensive hotel room in the mountains, Cowley had paid for the plane tickets - the rest of the vacation was out of their own meager savings. But just the promise of the entire week to themselves was more than Bodie and Doyle could have hoped for. The first night in New York had been full of excitement, Bodie meeting his partner at the airport with a clever gleam in his dark blue eyes. Sweeping up his jet- lagged lover, he'd hustled them both back to his hotel room and dumped them into his bed.

It was a good thing that New York hotels used solid bedframes, for this one took a beating. Bodie teased Doyle by considering the idea of offering to do a commercial for it, like the ones he'd seen on American TV for the Timex watches. Doyle gave him a dirty look, then stole the shower - for at least five whole minutes before his partner jumped him.

The shower stall took a beating too.

The Blue Ridge Parkway arched up through the Appalachian mountains, a long windy stretch of brightly colored asphalt. The autumn leaves flamed above their heads, a canopy of reds and oranges and yellows and browns and purples rippling in the breeze. The sun shone through the breaks in the foliage, offering spots of warmth within the autumn chill.

It wasn't really cold, and both men were quite comfortable in windbreakers and sweaters. And even when the weather broke and rain poured down from a darkened sky, it was a far sight better than the London damp. Somehow, here, it didn't creep into the bones and ice the spirit. Here, it left room for curling up in a large bed with mugs of hot cocoa, and making love long into the daylight hours.

Doyle woke to see strands of sunlight fighting the rain, seeping through the window and he turned over to snuggle up against Bodie's bulk. His partner groaned and shifted in his sleep, responding unconsciously to Doyle's closeness. Smiling at the sleek expanse of flesh before him, Doyle began to lick at the velvety skin.

"Mmmm," he murmured, tracing the long line of the spine with his tongue.

The man now laying beneath him shivered in his sleep. The thick muscles in his shoulders bunched then relaxed. An involuntary groan passed his lips, even as he sank deeper into the mattress.

Doyle leaned over further, and added his hands to the exploration of Bodie's so familiar body. He knew every inch of his flesh, where to touch to stir the maximum response, how to tease and to excite. And it worked, as he had known it would.

With a sudden burst of motion, the sleeping tiger beneath him exploded. Doyle was shoved up and over. He gasped as a heavy weight fell down upon his chest, pinning him to the mattress. Green eyes blinked upwards, and meshed with sparkling blue. Bodie's mouth was wide with mirth, and his deep chuckle sent welcome shivers racing downward into Doyle's groin. His hips arched upward in reply, only to be shoved back downwards by Bodie's own body.

Laughing aloud, Doyle rocked upwards again, delighted to see the burst of desire in those baby blues. His own fires flamed into life; his own groan was swallowed into Bodie's mouth. Their tongues tangled in a familiar play of sensation, each drinking deep of the essence of the other.

Long arms stretched and bunched, hands reaching, fighting, aiding each other in a game of shared dominance. They ended up even, as they always did, mingling their needs into one single pursuit of ecstasy, reading each other's desires without conscious effort or speech. Twisting sideways, Bodie pulled Doyle into his mouth, then screamed aloud, a rush of heated air across painfully engorged skin, as his partner returned the favor.

That sent Doyle bursting into release, his mind shrieking with the sensations flooding his body. However many times they did this, each time seemed as precious as the first, as necessary as the last. And, as they often did, his powerful, vocal response sent Bodie flying over the edge to join him. They shook together, hands digging into flesh, thrusting into welcoming heat, then sliding into blessed satiation.

Bodie righted himself, and shared the taste of himself and Doyle, letting the mingled tastes settle on their tongues. He suckled on Doyle's lips, then drew his partner's lanky form into his side and closed his eyes.

Like a well-fed housecat, he curled up around Doyle and slept. Enclosed in those arms, his face nestled against Bodie's broad chest, Doyle stayed awake. The rain fell in a steady pitter-patter on the roof, a rhythmic counterpart to the steady beat of Bodie's heart. The sound of that organ was a sweet music to Doyle's ear and he let himself drift to that living drum. He closed his own long arms around the length of Bodie's closing his elegant hands over Bodie's muscled forearms. Knowing only too well how fleeting such moments could be, he savored this one, locking it down in his well-trained memory.

Life on the edge left little room for such precious instants of joy, yet that only made them all the more special. That understanding was one of the greatest gifts Bodie had given his melancholy, broody partner -- the ability to seize each offered moment of joy and experience it to the utmost, then hold it in a secret compartment in your soul. Then when the world broke in shattered, bloody fragments around you, those secreted moments could be brought forward, turned over in the memory like shimmering diamonds. Apparently fragile, yet stronger than steel. And in the light of those memories, the pain could recede, just far enough to be borne until another such moment could be created and added to the private store.

It was a very Bodie philosophy, but one that had slowly crept up on Doyle until it was as much a part of him as his partner was. He'd still brood; he'd still question; he'd still fight his doubts and uncertainties about himself and the path he'd chosen. But the one thing he'd never question, never doubt, never regret, was the act of fate that tied his life and soul to that of this man who now held him enclosed in a sleepy embrace.

It might not last until tomorrow, but he'd have it forever. For a part of Bodie was sealed within Doyle's soul, and he could feel the piece of himself he'd given in exchange, singing in synchrony with the beat of Bodie's heart and the rhythm of the autumn rain.

-- THE END --