The Beginning. God created Monday and Writers took the Hint....

Monday had been a very long, weary day and Raymond Doyle, CI5 agent extraordinaire, was more than a bit glad to be done with it.

Eighteen hours of straight, by-the-book observation detail were certainly more than a little dull, and were not at all improved by his partner's restive, increasingly ratty mood. Bodie, in a bad humour was best avoided altogether; in this instance, unfortunately, Doyle was unable to obey this wise maxim.

He didn't know the specific cause of his partner's unease and moodiness, only that it appeared to be connected with himself. It seemed that recently Bodie was only in a bad humour around Doyle. Bodie was as affable as could be with Murphy, Mathison, King, Epstein, Logan, Perry, or any of the other two dozen or so other operatives who, in varying numbers, would show up on any given secondary-character stretch of duty.

Once home, Doyle headed for his kitchen, where he popped one of his famous, prize winning, all natural, all vegetarian casseroles into the oven. It was soon sending delicious, all natural, vegetable smells throughout the rather old-fashioned, high-ceilined (yet very nice) flat he was occupying this quarter. That done, he took a brisk shower, and--alone at last, and without anybody else about, he could (because he was by himself) relax in his favourite manner.

He turned himself into a budgie.

---

Bodie prowled restlessly round his flat. It had been another wretchedly long day. On the one hand, it was bad enough being stuck on fruitless and unending observation detail. He hated that at the best of times. On the other hand, it was even worse being confined in too-close quarters with a partner he found all too disturbing at any distance.

It was getting more and more difficult to hide his feelings. The strain of keeping his true emotions out of sight at all times, coupled with a strong desire that Doyle never realize what was actually going on, resulted in increasingly bad moods. It would have been nice to finally bring it all out in the open, but Bodie feared doing so would also bring an end to their friendship. Half a loaf was better than none at all.

And what are my true feelings? This was not an easy question to answer, or face. It would have been much easier if he could simply sweep Doyle into his arms, kiss him passionately, look deep into his sea-turtle green eyes, and say, "I love you madly, I want to fuck you through the floor, and by the way--I sometimes turn into a leopard."

---

The Middle. The Writers sometimes lose the way, but god is Greatly Amused....

The timer signaled that his casserole had reached bubbly, vegetarian perfection, and roused Doyle from energetically grooming his tail feathers. Time to change back.

In human form again, he went into the kitchen and dished up his dinner. Once more, Doyle felt thankful that his mother, despite her many faults (limbo dancing and an unfortunate proclivity to list to the right during driving exams being among her worst), had insisted he learn cookery. It came in so readily as a plot device, and he never lacked something creative to do with his hands when the writers were waffling for time.

While he ate, Doyle pondered his latest problem situation, trying to find a workable solution. It was getting more and more difficult to work with Bodie. Not really because of his bad moods (though that was unpleasant, certainly), but more because, as far as Doyle knew, Bodie was as straight as they came. Doyle was decidedly democratic in his sexual preferences. And those decidedly democratic tendencies had boiled over into a very real attraction to and fancy of his erstwhile partner. But how did he get that across to Bodie without wrecking their partnership, and/or getting his face neatly rearranged? Or, worse still, what if Bodie yelled at him? Doyle shuddered and nearly choked on a large slice of tomato.

When his vision cleared, he finished his meal, reflecting sadly how much better it would be if he were not afraid to simply toss himself into Bodie's arms, kiss him passionately, and say, "I love you madly, I want to fuck you through the floor, and by the way--how do you feel about animals?" Something, Doyle reflected gloomily, would have to be done. Soon. And if he knew his emotionally courageous Bodie, the "doer" would have to be himself.

---

The Ending. The Writers Propose, The Characters Dispose, and, as Always, god Gets The Last Laugh....

Bodie had taken his ruminations on the inequities of life into the bath with him, and he was still in his bath, up to his splendidly determined chin in bubbles, when the door buzzer went off very loudly. He was predisposed to ignore its imperious summons, then thought better of it. Just two plots and several novellas ago, not answering the door in just such circumstances had doomed him to a long storyline spent in Doyle's brain. And he had no desire to repeat the rather horrifying experience.

He got out of the bath, wrapped a towel about his waist and went to answer the door.

Doyle lounged against the doorframe, looking devastating in skintight bluejeans, which left absolutely nothing to the imagination. He was wearing a soft, forest green sweatshirt that did marvelous things for his eyes. His hair was a casually sensuous tumble of amber curls.

Bodie took two steps back, wished he was wearing something more substantial than a towel, then gulped. "Hello," he said. Doyle bore the appearance of trouble trying to happen, but it wasn't the kind of trouble Bodie would attempt to get away from.

"Hello." Doyle returned the greeting, then walked past Bodie. There were two potted palms in the small entryway. Both went to rigid attention, then passed out cold and fell over.

Doyle stopped, casting a lingering glance over his shoulder. His mind was made up. He'd decided over the last of his dinner--he'd make this one attempt at showing his partner just which way the wind could blow, so to speak. If the appearance of Bodie's towel was a good indicator, then his approach was working.

"Er, what can I do for you?"

Doyle's glance heated up a notch or two. "I like a man who comes straight to the point."

Bodie blushed and motioned towards the lounge. "Have a seat. I'll be right back." He began edging away, intent on crossing the lounge and reaching the relative safety of his bedroom and clothing.

Doyle was a fast-moving blur. He had Bodie in the bedroom, divested of towel, himself divested of sweatshirt and jeans unzipped, locked in a passionate clinch, on the bed, before Bodie could figure out what was happening.

He gave up the effort as Doyle looked deeply into his eyes, kissed him passionately, stroked his hair with one hand, and said, "I love you madly, I want to fuck you through the floor--and by the way...I also turn into a budgie on occasion. Will that bother you?"

Bodie stared up at his friend. A bird. Of all things, he turns into a bloody bird. "Er," he said aloud, somewhat breathlessly, "I don't mind, if you don't mind the fact that I just as occasionally turn into a leopard."

A leopard. A bloody cat. Well, Doyle thought. Why not? It takes all kinds. He said, "I could learn to live with that. How do you feel about wearing a bell?" He punctuated his words by moving his hand down to get busy giving some thorough attention to Bodie's cock.

Bodie's eyes closed and he thought, Never mind about the bell. We'll adjust.

After all, had they not once overcome having to spend a weekend in Niagara Falls with Starsky and Hutch? Had they not once overcome an entire zine in which not one intelligent plot line could be found (not even in the Table of Contents)?

Doyle's mouth and tongue replaced his hand, doing even more interesting and welcome things. Bodie gave up thinking. It was something he had to do sooner or later in almost every story.

Tomorrow was another day. Tuesday. They'd manage.

-- THE END --