For all the times he'd said the words--dozens--Bodie had never believed Doyle would consent.

Fantasized? Oh, yes. Hoped? God, every time. Believed?

Never.

On this particular night, when he stopped in Doyle's kitchen doorway and asked, "Come to bed with me, Ray?" as the all but automatic preface to finding his coat and his keys and taking himself home, he was, as always, hoping. But he wasn't exactly holding his breath.

"If I do," Doyle began, damn near stopping his partner's heart. "Bodie...if I do...."

"Go on," prompted Bodie, when the contrary bastard looked like stalling there forever. He wasn't at all certain he'd heard correctly. "If you do, then--what?"

"If I...go to bed with you," Doyle continued with maddening slowness, "there'd be...conditions."

Bodie closed his eyes briefly, while his heart, which had climbed into his throat, plopped back down in its accustomed place and ached dully.

Trust bloody Doyle. Hold out his heart's desire with one hand; snatch it back, likely as not, with the other.

He opened his eyes and scowled at the perverse article he put up with every day. "Conditions?"

Doyle made a vaguely affirmative gesture involving his entire body. "Yeah. You know--rules, like?"

Rules.

Bodie closed his eyes again, ground his teeth, and castigated himself for hanging onto that thin, persisting, painful thread of hope.

He could guess the rules, every damn one of them.

Don't think this means anything, Bodie, it's physical, is all. Doesn't mean a thing to me.

Just this one time, Bodie. No strings. Only doing this to shut you up, really, like tossing a bone to a dog that won't stop yapping. Don't want to hear the words 'Come to bed with me, Ray' ever again, got that?

And watch what you say, Bodie; heaven forbid you tell me something I don't want to know.

When he risked a look, Doyle was leaning against the worktop, arms folded, ankles crossed, face expressionless and aloof. He should tell the cold-hearted bastard to go to hell. He knew that, damn it. If he had any sense, common or self-preserving, he'd tell his shuttered, standoffish partner to go fuck himself. Then he'd walk out of Doyle's flat and keep right on walking.

"I know what conditions are, for Christ's sake." Aah, he needed his head read. He had no sense, common or otherwise, when it came to Doyle. "Let's hear 'em."

"You'd...." Doyle sucked in a quick shallow breath. "You'd have to stay."

Bodie was dumbfounded. What the hell kind of rule was that? "What, y'mean all night?"

"Yes, all bloody night!" snapped Doyle. "Is that such a hardship?"

"No," said Bodie in haste. "No hardship."

"You can't just have me and then fuck off happily home, Bodie. I'm your partner, not some easy lay you can pick up and put down whenever you bloody please. If you think--"

Easy? That was a laugh. Nothing with Doyle was ever easy. "I'll stay."

"--you can damn well--" Doyle broke off in mid-harangue, blinking. "You will?"

"I don't mind where I sleep, Doyle. Next?"

"What? Oh." Doyle swallowed, unfolded his arms, rubbed his hands down the legs of his jeans. "It couldn't be just the one time. Three times, say...as a minimum?"

Bodie, steeled and confidently expecting to hear 'once' and 'maximum', couldn't hide his astonishment. "You're joking," he said blankly, and could have kicked himself when Doyle coloured and glanced away.

"Never...you know, with a bloke. Well, not really. I mightn't be very good at it." Doyle shifted his weight, looking anywhere and everywhere but at his partner. "The first time or two, that is. So I figured...."

"Practice makes perfect?" What did the elusive sod mean, 'not really'? He willed Doyle to meet his eyes. Nothing doing. "Third time's the charm?"

"Yeah." Doyle cleared his throat. He wiped his palms on his jeans again. "Something like that." He shoved his hands into his pockets, tugged them out, tucked his arms back into a tight fold.

A case of nerves, it finally dawned on Bodie, who was immediately charmed. He'd've recognized Doyle's agitation earlier, he realized, if he weren't acutely apprehensive himself. And so hopeful suddenly. And if his stomach weren't full of Navy butterflies on three-day shore leave.

"I just...well...." Doyle's colour deepened. Angry embarrassment heated his voice. "Want it to be good for you, that's all. Something wrong with that?"

No, certainly not. "I imagine I can wedge three nights into my social calendar, Doyle. At minimum. Anything else?"

"Yeah. It can't...we can't let this affect the partnership. That's the most important condition, to me. I need--I can't lose us."

Bodie felt a jolt run through him, a low-voltage current. "Most important thing for me, too. We won't lose us. I swear."

Doyle hesitated. His eyes held Bodie's. He said a trifle huskily, "Yes, then."

"Right. Next?"

Doyle shrugged, shook his head.

"That's it?" Those were Doyle's rules? Nearly, so very nearly, everything he'd been longing for? Maybe his heart's desire wouldn't be snatched away after all.

He took an extra breath. "Then.... Come to bed with me, please, Ray?"

"Oh God," said Doyle.

They met in the centre of the room, in a kiss that was first hesitant, then clumsy, then hungry and heated.

One of them was trembling, Bodie thought, an indeterminate time later. He couldn't tell which. "I'll make it good for you," he muttered, holding Doyle so tight his bones creaked. "Make you come so hard you'll think you've never come before."

"You silver-tongued devil." Doyle's hands clenched on him. "Does that line work on all the fellas?"

"Not in the kitchen." Bodie kept an arm around his partner, shuffled his feet, nudging him toward the door. "C'mon, sunshine. We can make it as far as the bedroom."

Doyle, who had been cooperating beautifully to that point, stopped in his tracks. "One more thing."

Hell.

He wasn't even all that surprised. On some level, he'd known this heady freefall must end in a resounding thud.

"No pet names. No Golly, no Goldilocks. And no bloody Angelfish. You hear me, Bodie?"

Several emotions fought for dominance. Oddly--very damn oddly, Bodie thought--hurt feelings ended uppermost. "Huh. Always thought you sort of liked...."

"Well, I do. But if you call me those names in bed--"

Doyle's hands, one teasing down his nape, one getting acquainted with his erection through his trousers, powerfully distracted him. He redoubled his efforts to listen. Doyle smelled like...mmm, what was that? Nice, whatever it was.

"--then how am I supposed to concentrate when you use 'em on the job? I could get us both killed, mate. And my jeans'll be hellish tight."

"Your jeans are--oh, for fuck's sake," Bodie groaned, despairing. "I can't. Look, Angelfish--Doyle--" Doyle leaned in close, all soft lips and hard heat, and mouthed his way along the line of Bodie's jaw. His hair smelled like...rosemary? Yeah, that was it. And citrus.

Bodie shuddered. "Can't promise not to...damn. Look, let's negotiate--"

"Nah." One-handed, Doyle tussled with his zip. "Forget it."

"What? No. Doyle--"

"I mean, you can call me what you like." Doyle hooked his arm round Bodie's neck, held him still for a kiss. His head got light long before Doyle released him. "Doesn't really matter what we call each other, right?"

"Eh?" Yes, it damn well did matter. He caught hold of Doyle's shoulders: held him off, though not too far. "Have a rule of my own."

Doyle cocked his head, studied him from half-lidded eyes. "Fair enough. Let's hear it, love."

"Oh," said Bodie. His heart turned right over, he felt it go, then picked up a giddy rhythm. "Well, never mind, then. Bed?"

"Bed. You have to sleep on the left."

"Done," said Bodie. "You have to kiss me--"

"Was planning on it, actually."

"Often."

"Shouldn't be a problem," Doyle said.

-- THE END --

April 2001