Raymond Doyle was a worried man. He was the first to admit, of course, that this emotional state was not exactly alien to him. Agonising for England, according to his partner, came naturally. War, famine, the state of the NHS, the neighbour's sick gerbil - it was all the same to Doyle. All equal in his eyes and all treated by him with the same reverence. Worrying was serious business.

This however, was different. The problem was Bodie and therefore worthy of special attention. There was no-one he felt he knew better and at times, no-one he felt he knew less. And this was one of those times. He was all too aware that his partner allowed the world at large to see only what he wanted it to see. Part of Bodie, the real Bodie, was hidden and would stay hidden until the man himself was ready. Doyle had always known that. Had happily accepted it in fact, in the confident knowledge that when the time came his partner would confide whatever secrets he kept, to him alone - his best mate.

So why did he feel so edgy? Why this feeling that things were somehow not right? He wasn't being given the cold shoulder, conversation was as always - easy - and their working relationship went, as usual, like clockwork. To all intents and purposes, things were normal. Except that they weren't.

The first couple of times that Doyle had his offer of an after work drink turned down, he had hardly batted an eyelid. So what? He probably had a bird on the back-burner, randy sod.

The third time, it slipped like a cat burglar into Doyle's consciousness and stole his peace of mind. What was going on? Bodie always told him about his girls, gloated over them in fact. He tried to remember who his partner was seeing at the moment and drew a blank. So she was a secret. Married? Probably not. For all his posturing Bodie was surprisingly moral in many respects. Forbidden territory? Again probably not. After the Marika business, several years ago, he was sure the man had learned his lesson. So what was it about her that was causing his best friend to keep silent? Doyle was stumped.

The end of the week approached and as they left the CI5 building he felt it was time to try again. "Bloody awful week. Come on, let's go and drown our sorrows."

"Uh. Not just now, Ray. Got a few things to see to."

"Okay. Later, then? I'll pick you up about nine."

"Uh, actually I can't manage it at all tonight. Sorry."

"Going somewhere nice?"

"Uh. Nowhere special, just - you know." Bodie shrugged.

Evasive was the word which lodged itself firmly in Doyle's mind... bordering on shifty. "She must be pretty special?"

The direct approach had been known to work, on occasion.

Bodie frowned at him. "Who?"

It seemed to Doyle that Bodie was genuinely mystified, unless he'd lost the ability to read him. "Whoever's taking up all your time," he snapped back, more harshly than he'd intended.

"All my time?"

"Yeah. Every time I ask you're too busy!"

Flinching inwardly Doyle wished he could retract the words or the tone he'd used. Even to himself he sounded like an abandoned lover. It was no use hoping his observant partner would fail to notice either. Doyle was also observant and had noticed the flicker of curiosity that had flashed momentarily across the other man's face.

Damn.

"What I mean is," he tried again, attempting to save face, "we used to spend a lot of time together and now we don't."

Worse was not the word here, the hole he was digging for himself was growing big enough to take Manchester. Not only that, Bodie was giving him his undivided attention when he wished he'd direct that infuriating twinkle somewhere else.

"Look." Bodie appeared to be biting the inside of his lip. "I've just been a bit busy lately, no great mystery, no great romance, just busy. Okay? I'll call you Sunday."

"Please yourself," Doyle spat. "Wouldn't want you to strain yourself!"

"Oh, now don't be like that. Oi! Come on, Ray..."

"Gotta go." Totally confused at the lump lodged securely in his throat, all he wanted to do was make a quick exit.

"Ray."

"See you sometime."

Ignoring Bodie's pleas, he left him standing on the pavement and drove off.

Doyle sat in his flat, staring into space. Well, that had been a pretty scene. What was he playing at? No wonder Bodie was laughing at him. He'd have laughed too in his position. He got up and paced around the room. The man must have thought he was going barmy; acting like some prima donna not getting enough attention.

He picked up his sketch-pad and flicked through, smiling at the memories the drawings there evoked. Sailing - poor Bodie had been as sick as a dog - you'd have thought an ex-merchant seaman would have had excellent sea-legs. Doyle had ribbed him mercilessly for weeks and Bodie as always had taken the persecution in his usual stoical manner. A day out riding. Sheer bliss. It was one the of the best days Doyle could ever remember. Doyle studied the picture and decided that his technique with horses left a lot to be desired but that the image of Bodie was spot on. What was the expression he'd captured there? He couldn't quite decide. His partner looked - what was it - proud? Odd, but there it was. And then there was this one of him half-cut after some long forgotten celebration; and this, laughing at one of Doyle's inane jokes. Come to think of it his partner was the only one who ever did laugh...

Sighing, he put the pad back on the table. 'No big mystery' he'd said, 'no big romance'.... what then? And where was he going tonight that he wasn't prepared to tell Doyle? Coming quickly to a decision, he grabbed his coat and left.

Doyle parked the car where he was hopeful of not being observed and waited for Bodie to emerge from his flat. He had about half an hour to wait and when he did come out he had a slim leather case tucked under his arm. He waited for him to get into his car and move off before starting his own engine and following him.

After about twenty minutes, Bodie pulled in. A very ordinary street of 1930's semis made up their surroundings and Doyle was none the wiser. His partner got out, case in hand, opened the gate to one of the neat and orderly gardens, walked up the path and rang the door-bell.

Bodie was the first. After that they came in all shapes and sizes, varying ages but all female and all clutching a bag of some description. About a dozen all told, congregating, or so it seemed, in an ordinary suburban house.

It put Doyle in mind of something. He struggled to remember, searching the canyons of his cluttered brain.

Oh God. Never. Not in million years. Not Bodie. He couldn't have. But what other explanation was there? Bodie had become a Jehovah's Witness.

Doyle started the car and made his way home. He only narrowly arrived back with life and limb intact, his own and that of two OAPs who'd had the temerity to be using a zebra-crossing. Pouring himself an extremely stiff drink he slumped into his favourite chair, stunned. This simply could not be. Bodie? Knocking on people's doors and asking them if they thought they might like to live with God in paradise? Foisting copies of the Watch Tower onto people? Despite himself he grinned, heaven help anyone who refused to take it. He could just imagine him grabbing them by the throat and snarling "Whadaya mean, you don't want one!"

He leaned his head against the back of the chair and sighed. This was not the time to panic, it wasn't necessarily the end of life as he knew it. People found religion and still managed to lead perfectly ordinary lives. He stared into his drink. Did they approve of alcohol? He couldn't remember. What about sex? And where had that thought come from?

He shook his head, guiltily sweeping away unbidden images and turned instead to childhood memories. Back then if Jehovah's Witnesses had knocked on the door his Mum insisted they all hid behind the settee. You needed to keep your head down because they sometimes came and looked in the window if they actually thought you were inside. He'd had many a clipped ear for standing up too soon.

Was this his best mate's future, one of being shunned or laughed at behind his back? He picked up the abandoned sketch pad once again and stared forlornly at his drawings. He made a good subject, Bodie. Which of course was the only reason Doyle drew him so frequently. A very expressive face, those deep, almost navy-blue eyes, framed by eyelashes a French tart would be proud of. And that mouth; so many varied smiles in his repertoire, one to suit every mood and Doyle aimed to capture every one. Beautiful he was really...

Doyle closed the pad abruptly and stood up. This was ridiculous, agonising like this. He reached for his drink, found it empty and refilled it. He knew it was stupid to drink away his pain but he did it anyway.

---

"Want some?"

"No thanks."

Bodie bit enthusiastically into a large chocolate eclair, licking his lips and using his fingers to remove cream clinging lovingly to his mouth.

"What the hell's the matter, Doyle? You seem to be in a permanent strop these days."

He took another bite, chomping away cheerfully beside his morose partner.

"Nothing's the matter for christ sakes. Stop whining." He looked, disgusted, at the partly devoured pastry. "What is it? Your birthday or something? Oh, no... forgot... your lot don't celebrate birthdays do they?"

Bodie frowned at him between mouthfuls. "Eh? What lot?"

Doyle remembered he wasn't supposed to know. "Nothing. When you've finished stuffing your face can we get on? I'd like to get home at a reasonable hour tonight. Daresay you've got a few converts to make too."

"Converts? What bloody converts? You know, I think you ought to see someone. I'm getting a bit worried about you."

"Shuddup, Bodie and drive. And wipe your hands first! I don't want you leaving your sticky finger marks all over the wheel."

Bodie sighed and made a great play of wiping his face and hands with a tissue.

"Is that okay, Mum? Can I go out to play now?"

Doyle stared stonily ahead, refusing to rise to the bait. They drove back in complete silence but as they parked in the CI5 car park Bodie spoke.

"I'm free for a drink tonight if you fancy one?"

"Oh, fit me in at last, can you? Well, that's very nice of you I'm sure. I can't even begin to express how 'umble and grateful I am but I've got something on tonight..."

"So bugger off," Bodie finished for him.

"Yeah. Something like that." Doyle opened the door to get out of the car. As he turned to close it, Bodie, staring straight ahead, spoke.

"Ray."

"What?"

"You're a ratty, unlovable bastard at times, d'you know that? Sometimes I can't even manage to like you."

It cut through Doyle like a knife. Unable to reply he simply walked away.

---

Doyle stood in a small newsagents the next morning, waiting to pay for his paper. He wasn't even sure where he was, or how he'd got there, only that he'd woken early, got into the car, and driven around the silent streets trying to clear his head.

And there was much junk to clear. What was he playing at? Trying to alienate the one good friend he had? Why? The only answer he had wasn't pretty. He thought perhaps that out of fear of losing him to some other power, his subconscious had decided to get in first. Reject him before he had a chance to reject Doyle. Such an attractive character trait - deviousness. Doyle hated himself. And by the sound of it, so did Bodie.

As he got to the head of the queue the woman serving smiled at him. Made a change that. Friendly service. Usually all you got was a scowl from some teenager who thought serving customers was an unnecessary and uncalled for interruption to her conversation with her friend on the other till. So he smiled back.

"It's Mr. Doyle isn't it?"

Life was full of surprises. And one of them was how this nice comfortable looking woman in her fifties, came to know his name.

"Bodie's friend?"

Oh Christ, not one of his religious cronies. Doyle answered her warily.

"Well, yes... as a matter of fact, but how did you know? We haven't met have we?"

She twinkled at him, there was no other word for it.

"Will you be seeing him today? Only his magazine is in, perhaps you can give it to him?"

Doyle felt like he was trying to swim in custard. What the hell was she going to hand him? Bible Studies For Ex-Mercs? Do-It-Yourself Worship For Sinners Who Repent? No. The World Of Needlecraft. The custard had set and turned to blancmange.

As he stared at the magazine he'd been handed, a bubble of hysteria welled up inside. Taking a deep breath - it was the world that had gone mad not him - he controlled himself and treated her to a grand piano grin expressing confidence he was far from feeling.

"I think there must be some mistake."

"No, I don't think so, dear. The other one - Stitches - doesn't come out until next week."

Dear. She'd called him 'dear'. Few individuals tried that and remained upright. Did he look that vulnerable? He felt it. Lost and alone, clutching an embroidery magazine for his hard as nails ex-merc, ex-army, ex-SAS partner.

She was speaking again. It seemed sensible to listen somehow.

"You can either pay me now, or Bodie can let me have the money when I see him later in the week."

Doyle reached into his inside pocket, brought out his wallet and handed her a fiver.

He was half-way home before he realised she'd not told him how it was she'd recognised him.

---

Tired after a long, frustrating day nurse-maiding with Murph, Doyle plonked down in the chair. It wasn't that he disliked the tall, rangy operative, far from it, they'd shared more than one dissipated night out. He just wasn't Bodie. Had his partner requested a few days breathing space, away from him? He could hardly be blamed could he? Even solid, unflappable old Murph had kept his counsel today, sensing perhaps that Doyle was best left to fight his demons in peace.

The magazine lay on the table where he'd left it this morning, beside his sketch-pad. He hauled himself to his feet and went over to stare at it, uncomprehending. This had to be a set-up. Bodie's daft idea of a joke. But how would he know that Doyle would end up at that particular newsagent when Doyle had no idea himself? It was time to sort this out once and for all.

Bodie was out. Bugger it. Trust the stupid sod to be out when Doyle desperately needed to talk. Coming quickly to a decision he sauntered around to the back entrance, vaulted the gate and stood at Bodie's back door. He looked around. Now where did he keep that spare key? Ah yes. Under the third Geranium on the left. He lifted the pot away, used a penknife to prise up the slate and found the key embedded in the soil underneath.

Inside at last and feeling only slightly guilty... well he was Bodie's partner and best mate wasn't he... he looked around. His partner was as neat as a pin and everything looked much as he knew it should.

Some minutes later he was still none the wiser. Then he moved an armchair away from a corner and found a wicker container. This was new. At least he thought so. Gingerly lifting the lid and peeping in, he was taken completely by surprise. It was a very odd feeling to find yourself staring back at you. He reached inside and lifted the object out. He was holding a wooden frame, across which was stretched taut a piece of white material. It was almost all covered in embroidery; thousands of small crosses which, added together, made a picture.

"It's you."

Doyle nearly jumped out of his skin. Caught. He turned to face the music but Bodie spoke first.

"Had to pop out. Ran out of 3047. "

"What?"

Bodie stood in the middle of the room. He opened his hand and Doyle saw a skein of greenish-brown thread nestling there. Suddenly it all seemed too ridiculous for words; this big bear of a man, standing in the middle of the room clutching embroidery thread in his huge hand. That hysteria was bubbling again.

"DMC 3047, " Bodie explained.

"Muddy-green? What's that for?"

"Your eyes."

"Oh."

Bodie was looking more vulnerable than Doyle could ever remember and he had to fight the urge to walk over, cup his face in his hand and kiss the end of his turned up nose; the one he'd spent so long trying to get right in his drawings.

"So this is what you've been up to? The big secret?"

"Yeah. Caught the cross-stitch bug. Bit embarrassed about it."

The man was staring down at the thread, avoiding Doyle's gaze.

"You'd better have this then."

He reached inside his jacket and pulled out the magazine.

"The new issue! Where did you get it?" Bodie's eyes lit up.

"A woman called me 'dear' and asked me to give it to you. Think she must have seen this." He held the portrait up.

"Oh yeah, June. Runs the cross-stitch group."

Doyle nodded slowly. "Not a Jehovah's Witness gathering then?"

Bodie snorted very loudly. "What!"

"Thought you were abandoning me in favour of God and not getting rat-arsed at Christmas."

His partner blew a very loud raspberry. "Doyle!"

Doyle was realising how very thick a person can be. He looked once again at the stitched portrayal of himself.

"My Dad used to say sewing was like housework... only for women and poofters."

"Obviously never met June's husband," Bodie replied. "Does both, would have run your Dad over in his JCB before cementing him into a motorway flyover if he'd heard him say that."

Doyle grinned. "Doesn't exactly sound like anyone's idea of a big girl's blouse."

"Put it this way," Bodie informed him, "suggest it and he'll find a very new and imaginative use for his tapestry frame."

Doyle studied the needlework again more closely. "Neat. What are you doing, making it up as you go along?"

"No, I had a chart done... send in a photo and they do it for you... you get the threads and follow the chart."

"Photo?"

"Yeah. It's one of those I took when we went riding. Remember?"

Doyle remembered.

"Why me?" The sixty-four thousand dollar question. The one he now knew he'd come here to ask.

A long silence. The other man swallowed. So much there in his eyes; need, hunger, hope but most of all - fear.

At last. "Poofter."

"What?"

"Me. I'm queer, pansy, cream-puff - call it whatever you like. Time comes when you have face up to these things and stop pissing about with smoke-screens and such. Wanted to stitch something - someone - who meant a lot to me."

Doyle had no idea that relief could be such a potent, heady mixture. It took his breath away and robbed him of the ability to think rationally. His legs took him unbidden to Bodie's side where he cupped his beautiful face and kissed not only his upturned nose but the mouth he had long worshipped, never realising that he was consumed by love for this man of so many contradictions.

"Think I'd better show you my sketches." He murmured, his nose resting against Bodie's cheek.

"Oh yeah? Been drawing my assets have you?" Bodie smirked.

"Only the ones on public display. Course... things change." Doyle let his hand run over the backside he now knew he had also lusted after, enclosed in the softest, tightest cords. "Would they convert a picture of your arse so's you could stitch it for me as a pressie?" he asked, eyebrows hoisted high.

"Naked or clothed?"

"Mmm, both I think. Like a before and after picture. And I think it's possible that I might feel obliged to learn how to draw cocks."

"In the interests of art, like?" Bodie asked.

"'sright. Well, us poofs are supposed to be more in touch with our feminine side aren't we?"

"One thing."

"What?"

"I'm not going in for flower arranging." Bodie warned.

"What?" Doyle teased. "Not even gonna twiddle with your Pennisetums?"

Bodie sniggered. "You swallowed a gardening manual for breakfast or something?" He was suddenly serious "We've got a lot to talk about."

"We certainly have," Doyle agreed. "For instance, you don't really think this is the right colour for my eyes do you?....."

-- THE END --