I November

Bodie was very still, sitting on the squeaking chair that had certainly seen better days. He still had the mug held between his hands, though the tea had long gone cold and bitter. He shifted his eyes up from staring down into the brown, uninviting liquid, and looked at Doyle, again. Doyle was still, too. Standing in front of the window, carefully hidden behind the laced old trims of the curtains, binoculars held in position, attention focused on the windows opposite across the street. Bodie stood up, breathing slowly into the cold morning air--not yet half past six--and went to the sink of the derelict kitchen, to wash the mugs and put the kettle on again. He cleaned up the area, then went to stand a couple of steps away from Doyle. "It's my turn. Made you a cuppa."

Doyle turned towards him, and Bodie moved easily aside to make room for him as his partner walked to the table in the middle of the room. Doyle had left the binoculars on the windowsill, and Bodie lifted them, took position and didn't move, as if he didn't exist at all, for the following two hours. Doyle slept a bit, lying still and chilly on the blankets they had put down in one corner. Bodie had chosen the corner: the one less exposed to the cold drifts of wind trying to regain possession of the territory, invaded two days ago by the two CI5 agents. When Doyle woke, he made more tea and put together a couple of sandwiches, tuna and cheese. As he put the plate on the sill, his voice broke the silence abruptly. "Hope Murphy will remember to bring us some food."

"He will," Bodie said.

Doyle went to the bog, washed a bit, sniffed his own T-shirt and decided it would do for another day, before changing. Murphy wouldn't remember to bring over a change of clothes for them. He went back to the kitchen. Bodie was devouring his sandwich--in two, no, three fast, hungry bites. Doyle filled a mug with the still steaming tea and brought it over to him, depositing it on the windowsill, just as he had done with the binoculars. Then he went to sit on the blankets again, his back against the wall, knees up against his chest. He dozed on and off for a while, until Bodie spoke again. "Need the bog, mate." Dutifully, Doyle snapped awake and slid carefully past Bodie, the observation position near the window left alone for no more than a handful of seconds. The binoculars were on the windowsill again, ready to be taken up by Doyle.

The hours stretched endlessly, silently. Bodie was yet again at the window. Murphy had quickly come and gone, with more food, and bad news. They were on stakeout until further orders, and that could mean for quite a while, he had said, given how the obbo was shaping up. "Will bring you clean socks," he had said before leaving.

Doyle stared at the fading light outside the window, until it was so dark he couldn't distinguish where the walls of the house across the street started and the sky ended. His eyes then lingered on Bodie, all stiff back and cramped legs, a darker outline against the dark sky.

"Want to rest?" Doyle didn't know he was going to ask.

"No," Bodie answered. "Ta," he added softly after a while.

Doyle wrapped a blanket around his shoulders, and went to sit at the table, on the same chair Bodie had sat on that morning.

For a long time, everything stood still, their breathing and some shifting of feet the only occasional sounds in the room. Doyle studied the odd lines and circles that marked the table's surface, mute witnesses of a life, of many lives, of breakfasts and lunches and dinners, kids playing and chattering on their hurried way to school, families sitting together to discuss family matters...all long gone.

The big house was empty, now.

"Bodie...."

"Yeah?"

Both their voices were quiet, maybe because of the greater silence that surrounded them as the snow was beginning to fall outside: isolated, slow flakes lost in the darkness. Not cold enough to last, Doyle thought, wishing he could go near the window and sneak a look at the street, now faintly lit by a couple of street lamps.

"Still love you, mate." Doyle said it very, very quietly. He stared at Bodie's profile, saw him swallowing, twice. Everything was very still and very silent. Doyle shivered in his blanket, and tried to tighten it around him a bit more. His words floated in the cold air, slowly, slowly, and melted, insubstantial, into nothing.

Bodie opened his mouth, as if to speak, and then closed it. Doyle could vaguely see his expression, the light of the small lamp too faint to reach to the window.

"Bit too late, isn't it, Ray?" Bodie said just as quietly, without turning.

Doyle didn't say anything. He sat still, wrapped in his blanket, silent. A couple of hours later, near midnight, he offered again to relieve Bodie from the window, and Bodie accepted. Before going to sleep in the same corner Doyle had slept earlier on, Bodie made them some more tea and sandwiches. Then he collapsed on the floor, rolled himself face towards the wall, and pretended to sleep for the rest of the night.

---

II

The woman was crying incessantly, in the background. The sobs and muttered words verged on hysterics, strident out-of-tune notes that threatened to pierce their hearing, but then, of their own accord, the sounds receded to a lower tone, only to start again after a couple of minutes. Bodie turned to look at her, slumped down the steps of the house, blouse and skirt dirty with soil and blood.

Doyle, a few steps away, surveyed the stretcher on which Murphy was being taken away by the paramedics. Murphy attempted a half smile at Doyle, who answered in kind and gently squeezed the hand he was offered.

"I'll check on you at the hospital," Doyle said, offering reassurance. The wound was not serious, they both knew it, but still....

Cowley was barking something in the background, his sharp voice intertwined with the sobs of the woman on the steps. The paramedics urged Doyle aside, put the stretcher inside the ambulance and closed its doors, taking Murphy away from Doyle's view. The ambulance started to move, slowly, in between the policemen and the debris and the narrow passageway created by the yellow police stripes; the latter keeping curious passers-by away from the site of the shooting and bombing.

Doyle watched the ambulance going away, the last of many; then passed his fingers through his hair, too late remembering how much blood was smeared on his hands, as his mouth twisted with disgust. He shivered in the cold afternoon, and glanced around to see if his help was needed. Susan and Cowley seemed to have everything under control. Jax and Lucas were with the bomb squad, gone inside the building to check it out for any more unpleasant surprises. The cops too had their part of the job under control, or so it seemed. Doyle could feel their eyes pointed on his back, as he turned towards Bodie. A burning sensation, something akin to distaste mixed with envy, and a couple of drops of praise. Maybe.

The noises were still loud, cars coming and going, the forensics teams crawling around in search of evidence, calling to each other every time they found another bullet or one more splash of blood. Doyle walked unsteadily behind the nearest car, knelt down, and threw up. Holding his stomach, he saw Bodie's brown trainers stopping near him, and after a short while, a clean white handkerchief appeared under his nose. Doyle took it and used it to wipe his mouth, and when he felt able to, he got back on his feet, steadying himself with a hand on the smooth metal surface of the car.

Bodie looked at him, intent on something.

Doyle stared back, silent.

Someone banged a door inside the building, loudly. A crash was heard from the inside, another piece of wall tumbling down in a sea of dust and broken bricks. The woman on the steps was crying louder now, hiccupping amongst the sobs that were becoming harsher and harsher.

"You're okay?" Bodie asked him. Doyle examined his partner, the grim streaking of dirt on his face, the grey-blue line of beard already showing, the lips whitish and compressed.

"What d'you think?" he snapped. He suddenly remembered that Bodie had been the one closest when the bomb had exploded, the luckiest one, intuition saving his life, flying for cover, running as fast as he could, grabbing the shocked woman on his way out, saving her life and his own. Blessed be his reflexes and training, was Doyle's unconscious, unspoken prayer.

Bodie ignored him, a flicker of expression passing on his features, too quick for Doyle to really understand what it was. "Sorry," Doyle offered to his partner, in his quietest voice. Maybe the noise around was too loud and confusing for Bodie to hear him, though. "You okay?" Doyle asked, louder. He knew Bodie was not wounded.

Bodie turned his back to him, and looked again at the woman. "No one's looking after her," he said.

Doyle looked at her, too, then stepped forward, leaving his safe hold on the car. He stifled a curse; he must have strained something in his ankle, not enough to limp, but painful all the same. He glanced quickly at his partner, his profile so close and so...carefully contained. Doyle moved forward without talking, walked until he was close to the woman, and sat on the steps near her.

Bodie watched him talking gently to her, an arm around her shoulder, soft words offered to soothe the soul and body warmth used to push away the fear. She turned her face against Doyle's shoulder, and he hugged her closely, gently. Bodie looked for Cowley, saw him standing and talking with the police officer in charge, and moved to reach him, walking steadily and unhurriedly, avoiding carefully the small puddles of melting snow and the mud.

If only the noises would recede a bit, Bodie wished--both the worldly ones, the people, the policemen, the cars; and the noise inside, the loud buzzing in his ears, the echo of the explosion in his soul.

---

It was pitch dark and very, very late when finally Cowley let them go. They were due in at lunchtime, though, the next day, because there was so much paperwork: reports to write and compile, and so many big names to calm down with offers of explanation and results. Cowley needed their reports, and so they would be back sooner than usual after such a bloody mess, with the vague promise of half-days off in the near future.

Doyle slouched heavily in the car seat, ready to fall asleep. Bodie drove gently for once, too tired himself, eyes barely open. They'd been on this operation for the last two weeks, and the final result wasn't too impressive, nor was it exactly the one they had planned. The terrorists had moved before they were really ready for them, and everything had happened so fast in the last thirty-six hours--the mad chase, the hostages, the shooting, the bomb. Bodie forced the thoughts out of his mind. At least it was warm inside the car. He glanced sideways, checking on Doyle. Doyle was sleeping, exhausted, his hands trapped between his thighs. His mouth was slightly open, lips parted in soft, heavy breathing. Bodie clenched his hands on the steering wheel, and pressed his foot on the accelerator.

He stopped the car in front of Doyle's latest flat, turned off the engine and waited. Doyle stirred, sensing the change in motion, and opened his eyes, opaque and spent. They sat quietly for a while.

"Bad day," Doyle said, staring at his second-floor windows. He had left the bathroom light on.

"Yeah," Bodie agreed.

"Susan called from the hospital while you were in Files. Murph will be up in no time."

"Good." Bodie stared at a stray cat, thin and awkward, carefully crossing the road, checking like a human being if cars were coming from one way or the other of the street.

"Bodie...."

"What?"

Doyle grabbed the handle of the car door. He opened it, hesitated, then the words rushed out of his mouth, almost unwillingly. "Just thought you could come up and have a drink." He was still sitting, the car door opened; the wind, not strong, but definitely cold and unpleasant, whirling slowly inside, chasing the warmth away.

Bodie kept looking straight in front of him. "Nah. Too tired."

"I'd sleep on the sofa," Doyle added, hastily, then biting his lips.

Bodie turned to look at him, and saw him. Whatever Bodie intended to say, he stopped, and adjusted his posture to a more comfortable position. Then, still watching Doyle: "Ray, it's your flat. Your place, your bed."

"I know you don't like sleeping on my sofa. Used to wake up stiff and grumbling."

"Can't you give up?" Bodie's question seemed to freeze Doyle on the spot. A car passed by, roaring. Then another stopped, a few yards from them; it was parked and then a couple walked to their door, fumbling for the keys and muffling giggles and words.

"No," Doyle answered, ignoring the passing of time between the question and the answer itself. "Won't."

"Don't push me."

"Why?"

Bodie shifted in his seat again, positioning himself for driving, and turned the key into the ignition. The engine started with a low rumble.

"You won't like it," Bodie growled.

Now it was Doyle's turn to shift on his seat, the car door forgotten, the air gone chilly inside the car. "Look at me." Bodie obeyed. They stared at each other. At length. "Say that again."

Bodie's eyes danced on Doyle's appearance, beard stubble dark on his chin, eyes red and swollen with tiredness, the scarf for once tight around his neck.

"We're both tired," Bodie said, an indirect apology that Doyle accepted with a ghost of a nod.

"I deserve a second chance," Doyle said. His voice was not quite steady, but not quite trembling either. "You know I do."

"I don't know."

"Well, then..." Doyle glanced down, urgently, as if he had lost something on the car floor and was looking for it. "...think about it," he muttered, finally moving, finally getting out of the car, slamming the door and walking towards his front door, without looking back. He was inserting the keys in the door lock when he heard the change in the car engine; the gear shifted, and Bodie drove off. Doyle entered the building and bounded up the steps three at a time, reaching the safety of his flat, door and locks opened and closed in no time.

Time to go to bed.

Time to sleep off the horrendous day.

Time to be alone.

---

III December

Bodie crouched as low as he could, knees protesting against the posture, muscles stiffened by the cold. The rough wall scratched his back, in spite of his thick jacket. He rested his head against the irregular surface, the tension and concentration making him breathe carefully and slowly, small puffs visible in the cold air. His eyes searched through the dim light, across the vast abandoned dockyard he could barely see on his left. He held his gun tightly with both leather-gloved hands, the barrel near his right ear. His gaze finally locked with Jax's, crawling snake-like in the mud beyond a small pile of rusted pipes, on the other side of the yard. Jax reached his position and crouched, like Bodie. Jax's eyes went in search of Bodie's. Then, his head turned on his left, and he signalled with his left hand to Anson and Doyle beside him. Bodie, first man on the line of the attack, couldn't see exactly where Doyle was.

Bodie silently counted to three, his fingers up in the cold, thin air, and then he started running towards the back door of the small toolshed in the middle of the yard. The other agents started running, too. Then the bullets came flying, roaring. One man yelled and tumbled down. Bodie crashed gracelessly against the rotten wooden door, left shoulder first. He rolled on the floor, twice, coming up on his knees, aiming at surprised targets. Jax jumped in through the front door, yelling: "Freeze!" at the top of his lungs. There was a sudden stillness inside the room. Outside, there was more yelling, shooting and running. Anson appeared in the door, framed by it like a picture.

"Two jumped over the wire fence." He stopped to regain breath. "Doyle's after them." Bodie's eyes registered the blood slowly soaking Anson's dark green cords. Jax addressed the silent men in the room with his gun. They moved to the far corner, hands raised, while Jax took his r/t and called for backup and ambulance. Anson slid to the floor, pale but conscious, his gun perfectly aimed.

Bodie was out of the cabin and running in the increasing darkness. A couple of shots echoed loudly, in the general direction of a nearby hangar. Bodie ran faster and jumped over a low wire fence, breathless. He tripped over some bundled metal junk, fell awkwardly and rolled, then started running again, limping slightly whenever his left foot touched the ground.

Another shot resounded in the darkness. A man yelled in pain. Bodie veered abruptly, following the sound. He was panting hard by now, his breath coming out in whitish, quivering puffs in the darkness. He fell again, and again he stood up, trousers wet with cold mud. Another shot came from the hangar.

Bodie's run became frantic, knees pushing up in rhythm, forcing him ahead. The ambulance's siren was nearer each passing second. Something obscured Bodie's vision as he neared the hangar's main entrance. He scrubbed the back of his hand over his eyes, slowing his pace. It was wet. Cold. Bodie lifted his head to the sky.

Snow. The first daring flakes of snow, slowly falling. He breathed deeply, twice, then entered the dark, huge hangar. His hands were tight around his gun, palms sweating inside the leather, trigger finger slightly trembling. A movement, there, in the corner of his eye, behind those crates, sleeping monsters in the darkness. Bodie whirled and aimed, ready to shoot. Doyle was slumped on the floor, his back against the wall. Bodie lifted his gun, Doyle safely out of trajectory. Eyes slowly adjusting, Bodie took in the two men lying on the concrete floor, and the darker puddles blossoming under them.

Still cautious, his breath irregular, he moved towards Doyle. Doyle's eyes were closed. "Doyle?" Bodie called, kicking the guns far from the bodies, then making sure they were in fact dead.

"Ray?" Bodie's voice was a little louder. A little harsher.

Doyle opened his eyes, and pushed himself upwards, using the wall as support. He stared down, putting his gun away in its holster and zipping up the leather jacket he was wearing. He shivered. "Clean up, will you?" he threw at his partner, walking slowly towards the door. He passed a mere two inches from Bodie.

Bodie's hand, still holding the gun, thumped him forcefully on the shoulder. "What were you thinking, hey? Going in there all alone, what the bloody hell were you thinking?" The words left Bodie's mouth quickly, his tone unmistakable.

Doyle staggered, his balance uneven, then turned and eyed Bodie. He seemed to restrain himself. Bodie didn't flinch. Doyle took a good look at his partner, then hunched even more in his jacket, the furry collar around his neck useless against the cold gusts of wind from outside. Shaking his head, Doyle turned his back on Bodie and began walking towards the exit again. Voices could be heard outside; backup had arrived. Bodie reached out with his left hand and grabbed Doyle's shoulder. Doyle freed himself, pivoting around swiftly.

"Don't touch me," he hissed. "Don't you touch me, Bodie."

"You are supposed to wait for backup before entering an unknown place. Especially if you're following armed men." Bodie was holstering his own gun. His words were aimed at Doyle just as his gun had been only a few minutes before.

"So what? I'm the unreliable one, remember?" Doyle spat back Bodie's own words of only a few days before. Another argument, between them, just one of many. Words thrown and too carefully picked up and thrown back; well-aimed, those, too. Not a particularly nasty fight, even. Accusations, recriminations: there had been worse than that. Much worse.

Bodie didn't say anything. For a long while, his still-ragged breath was the only sound in the place. They kept looking at each other, staring, in silence. The voices outside were growing nearer, an engine starting in the distance, the sounds of a successful operation muffled by the hangar walls. Bodie could see the hangar's entrance, behind Doyle's shoulders, a dark rectangle showing a darkness only a shade lighter. The snow was falling heavily now, large handsful spread over the ground, covering everything with a thick layer of frost. Man-like shapes were approaching.

"Come home with me tonight," Doyle said, hastily.

"No," Bodie replied, just as quickly.

"What? Refusing a free fuck, Bodie? Not your style, could ruin your reputation, this."

Bodie ignored the small, cold smile painted on Doyle's lips. "Don't play your games with me, Ray," he said slowly.

"How many times have I told you? I'm not playing, Bodie. You're blowing things out of proportion, as usual."

"Blowing, eh...I'd be careful to use that expression, mate. On your lips, it does sound like an offer."

"Oh, very droll. Took lessons, did you? But you wouldn't take me up on this offer for all the gold in the world, now, would you? I think you like to play the victim too much, mate."

Bodie's eyes went to the entrance of the hangar, again. Their fellow agents were very close now. The snow was a white bridal veil in the sky, a soft carpet on the ground. Bodie saw how the flakes impacted blindly on the ground and were dispersed, absorbed with all the others. Maybe this time the snow would stick. Jax entered the hangar, asking them if everything was all right. Doyle turned to talk with him.

Bodie went outside, walking without really seeing the others, answering their questions with automatic ease, making his brief report to Cowley via r/t, tidying up things neatly in his usual style. He walked around the site, limping a little, Doyle's eyes following him all the while, until everything was settled and they could go home.

Separately.

---

IV

Christmas party at CI5 Headquarters. Quite an event. Doyle wandered around, glass always in hand, and always full. It was the first time he and Bodie had come separately. In fact, Bodie had not even arrived yet. Doyle moved from one corner to the other, answering when addressed, otherwise silent. A burst of laughter from a nearby group, then Murphy detached himself from the friendly arms of a pretty blonde the grapevine indicated as his latest interest. The music, something popular and loud, thundered in the background. The largest group was gathered around the bar, of course, and most of the rest were dancing away the night, tables and chairs casually pushed against the far walls. Murphy saw Doyle standing beside the tall window overlooking the car park, and bravely faced the wild dancers to reach him. It took Murphy almost ten minutes to make his way to the window. He stood near Doyle, shoulder to shoulder, for a while. Then, bored by the not-so-panoramic scene outside, Murphy turned and leaned on the wall, looking at the ongoing party. Doyle sipped his drink, slowly. Murphy glanced at him quickly.

"How's it going?"

"Fine." Doyle sipped again, swishing the liquid around his mouth with his tongue, for the sheer pleasure of it. "The scotch's great." He was still looking outside the window, in the dark.

"What?" Murphy asked against the pounding music. "They only care if it's loud enough, don't they?"

"Yeah." Doyle turned towards Murphy, suddenly, grinning. He said, louder, "Got no taste, this mob. Just as long as it has a beat...."

"Yeah," Murphy agreed. "Anything'd do for them. What about Bodie?"

Doyle turned to look outside. The sky was clouded. The weather forecast predicted cold and possibly more snow very soon. Doyle's reply was louder than before, fighting the drums and guitar battling in the background. "He's got no taste, either," Doyle said matter-of-factly.

Murphy chuckled, and thumped Doyle's shoulder with a friendly fist. "Wasn't talking about music. Besides, he works with you, that accounts for his bad taste. Where is he?"

Doyle acknowledged Murphy's humour with another grimace. He took one more sip, tasting the liquid against his tongue again, playing with the liquor, waiting for the violent, burning sensation to slide down his throat, into the emptiness of his stomach.

"Don't know. Stopped changing his nappies, didn't I?"

Murphy opened his eyes in mock surprise. "No? Really?" He stole Doyle's glass and emptied it with one rapid swallow. "You're a monster, Doyle." He smiled happily, gave Doyle his glass back, patted him again on the shoulder and dived into the dancing crowd.

Doyle stood still, the empty glass held with both hands. He looked down into it. "Oh, yeah?" he asked no one, softly.

He turned to give another quick look outside, then moved carefully along the wall, avoiding the dancers, choosing the long way to the bar. Jax bumped against the wall in front of him, pushed by a wild Susan. Laughing madly, both went back to their dance without a second thought. Doyle followed them briefly with his eyes, then continued on his path. There was a vast array of bottles on the bar counter and on a couple of nearby tables, the barman having long ago lost any hope of managing the crowd properly. Doyle lingered near the bottles, looking over the wine labels. He picked one bottle up, poured some wine in his glass, and drank it all. Then, he repeated the action, tasting the different types of liquor, drinking one glass after another, in time with the even louder rhythm. Jax was again thrown out of the dance floor, landing neatly at Doyle's feet. Doyle reached out with his right hand and brought him to his feet.

"Nicely done," he said laughingly. "Want a drink?"

"Yeah, thanks." Jax waited patiently, his arms crossed on his chest, breathing heavily. When Doyle handed him a glass full of ruby-coloured liquid, Jax sniffed it cautiously. "Good," he decided, and drank it all. "Very good," he said, licking his lips. "What're you having?" he asked, looking at Doyle's amber-filled glass.

"Mmm...." Doyle looked pensively at the glass, holding it high up against the light of the chandelier. The ice cubes inside the glass clinked one against the other. "Don't know." He grinned mischievously.

"Lost track, eh?"

"You can say that."

"And it still tastes good?"

"What do you mean?" Doyle looked at Jax, blinking.

A flash of black in the corner of his eyes, and Doyle quickly turned around to check. Cowley, all dressed up, going away first, as usual--leaving his men and women their well-deserved freedom. Suddenly the music stopped, and a wild chorus of protests followed immediately, more deafening than the music itself.

"Be quiet, you!" Anson yelled, busy choosing new music to feed the equipment. Doyle turned around and half sat, half leaned on the edge of the table.

"Well, you know, after a while," came Jax's belated answer, "if you mix the flavours, don't they all taste the same? I'll stick to this one, meself. Persistent, that's me." Jax reached behind Doyle to take the bottle Doyle had poured Jax's drink from. While reading the label, he asked absent-mindedly: "Where's Bodie?"

Doyle's mouth opened to answer, but immediately snapped shut as Bodie's voice came from the door.

"Oi! No music? What kind of party is it, then? A party without music? Have to teach you everything!" A round of whistling and catcalls welcomed Bodie and his mocking tone, Bodie already busy ducking party paper napkins and paper cups being thrown at him.

"If this is the best you can do with your aim, Murphy, you'll end up...." The rest of Bodie's words were lost amidst the sudden wave of music and the joyful cheers and applause to Anson.

"Speak of the devil..." Jax said, and left the table and Doyle, going back to dance. Doyle nodded, his eyes fixed on Bodie.

Devil, indeed.

Bodie had an arm around Murphy's neck, and was whispering something in his ear that was giving the man fits of hysterical laughter.

Doyle jumped off the table and went to fix himself another drink, turning his back to the room. He reached for the vodka, the strongest drink on the table, and knocked the bottle over. "Shit," he muttered, trying to clean the mess, mopping around with a red paper napkin.

"Tsk tsk." The warm, low voice was right beside him. A hand appeared in Doyle's field of vision, grabbing the vodka bottle and saving what was left of the liquor inside. "That's what happens when you mess with the enemy, sunshine."

Doyle turned his face and stared at Bodie, eyes fixed on Bodie's eyes.

"Enjoying yourself, are you?" Bodie asked him, sustaining Doyle's glare.

"Yeah. Much."

"Good. Nice party, is it?"

"Better than last year's."

"I see." Bodie poured himself a drink.

"You're late," Doyle observed with an indifferent tone. His eyes were still fixed on Bodie. Their last shouting match still echoed in his ears. Bodie adamant, Doyle persistent; same old, same old.

"Had to pick her up." Bodie pointed a thumb over his shoulder, knowing that Doyle would spot the unfamiliar face in no time. "You know how women are. You with company?" Bodie's question was smooth on his lips, as he turned and toasted Doyle. Then he drank slowly and carefully, looking at his partner over the rim of the glass, waiting for his answer.

"No," Doyle said, after a brief pause. "But don't think it's something to do with you, mate." Frowning, he passed his hand through his curls.

"Wouldn't dream of it, sunshine," Bodie said politely, each word distinct and separate, heavy. "Besides--" and Bodie moved slightly, inching forward towards Doyle, a breath away from him "--you wouldn't lie to me, now, would you?" Without waiting for an answer, Bodie walked away from the table, plunging into the middle of the small group besieging his girlfriend.

Doyle watched him for a while, then turned his attention to the table, surveying the disarray of bottles and glasses, clean and dirty all mixed together. He stood around a little longer, chatting sporadically with colleagues, drinking some more, then slipped away, out the door, quietly.

Bodie was dancing cheek to cheek with his girlfriend. His eyes followed Doyle until he disappeared in the corridor.

"Bodie, you're hurting me," she complained, her lips soft against his neck.

"Sorry," he murmured, and loosened his hold on her.

"That's better," she said. He bent his head and whispered in her ear. She smiled at him. "So soon?" she asked.

"It's already too late," he answered, with a gleam in his eyes.

"Oh, you always know what you want, don't you?" They moved through the crowd, Bodie guiding her gently with a hand on her back.

"Yes, always." He helped her into her coat. She turned round and asked: "And you always get what you want, right?" But there was no resentment in her words. Bodie cast a quick glance round the room, where the party was reaching a historical peak that was surely going to be talked about for months and months after, well into the next year. The CI5 mob had to keep up its reputation with the other departments, after all. The music was still loud and still roaring. It was going to go till dawn, for sure.

"No. Not always, no," Bodie answered her question, closing his eyes briefly. Then, he turned his back to the room and walked out with her.

---

V January

"...and I hope I've been clear enough. Dismissed, both of you. And don't forget your reports, on my table, tomorrow, by seven sharp."

Doyle closed the door after himself, getting a last glimpse of Cowley's severe stare, and followed Bodie into the agents' room. Bodie went right away to close the window; the room was uncomfortably chilly. Then he sat down at the small table near the window, put a sheet of paper in the typewriter, and started typing. Doyle went to fetch the kettle, and rummaged around the shelves, first to find their mugs, then sugar and teabags. The water started to boil. The uncoordinated click-and-clack of Bodie's typing was the only other sound in the room. Doyle poured the water, and held his hands briefly in the column of steam rising from the kettle. The backs of his hands were paler than usual, the skin dry from the unusually prolonged cold weather. Doyle stared at his hands, wriggling his fingers, clenching and unclenching them into fists. Then he took Bodie's mug and put it on the table near the typewriter. Bodie lifted his head and followed Doyle's back with his eyes, as his partner took his own steaming mug, and sat on the sofa near the door, on the other side of the room. As soon as Doyle was seated, Bodie's head lowered again, apparently intent on the report. Long minutes stretched to a silent hour, and Doyle made some more tea. He put the mug on the same place on the table, but didn't walk away this time. He stood for a while, looking out the window. The light was fading and dim, spent, the short afternoon of wintertime already vanished. And it was snowing, again, harder. Bodie started to cough, once, then twice, then again, one hand against his mouth, the sound low and rasping.

"You're coming down with something?" Doyle asked, quietly. Bodie took a long swallow of tea. He lifted his head, his eyes intent on Doyle, on his dark coat and worn-out boots.

"You lost your scarf," Bodie said, instead of answering Doyle's question.

Doyle's eyes darted low and behind his back, to look at the sofa. "Seems so," he said. He turned his attention to the dark window again. "You know I care, don't you?"

The snowflakes whirled in lazy circles, outside, intent in a secret game of their own. Doyle tried to follow one until it touched the ground, but lost it soon. They all looked alike. It was confusing.

Bodie sighed, and stopped typing. He kept looking at the sheet of paper in front of him, at the ink that, black on white, represented his words and his view of the mess of the previous days. He stretched back on the chair, his hands grabbing the edge of the table. "I know," Bodie said, eyes fixed on the rough surface of the table. "But...."

Doyle interrupted him, harshly, without turning. Sharp. "Don't 'but' me, Bodie. You could have died, today. You were--" Doyle's thumb and index finger neared each other, up in mid-air "--this far from being laid out stone cold."

Bodie pushed back his chair, loudly, and in two fast strides reached the sofa and threw himself down on it. One hand rested on his knee, the other massaged his face, fingers splayed and forcefully pressed on his closed eyes. "I know," he repeated.

Doyle turned his back to the window, to the cold outside. He shivered and his eyes checked that the heat was turned on, voice colder and words well aimed. "You know. Of course. You know everything. You've tried everything. King of the world. I forgot."

Bodie's head snapped up, eyes wide open. He stared at Doyle, the muscles of his jaws visibly tightening. "Don't start again. We can't afford to go through all of that crap another time."

Doyle's eyes stared back at him. "It was not crap. Not for me, mate."

"Oh, yeah? Funny way to show it, then, you had." Bodie laughed, shortly.

Doyle looked at his partner, and spoke again, very quietly, very slowly. Maybe even gently. "I didn't...know it was that serious, for you."

Bodie snorted. "You told me that before. What's bloody different, now, eh?" All the light in his eyes had gone dark. "What the hell is--" He pointed his finger at Doyle, and in doing so, his elbow connected with the mug Doyle had left sitting precariously on the sofa's arm. "Shit!" Bodie said loudly as the half-empty mug crashed to the floor. He got up, snatched a rag from a corner of the room and knelt, busying himself with the cleaning up.

"Here, let me help." Doyle was standing near him. Bodie turned abruptly and found himself facing Doyle's jeans-clad groin. He whipped his head around and mopped the floor, thumping hard on the surface.

"No, thanks. Besides, can't remember a single time you volunteered for the dirty work, mate."

Doyle stepped back, quickly. Then he went for the door, but stopped first and let the words out, fast and louder than necessary. "You're all in one piece, eh, Bodie? Yeah, so cool. I..." Doyle's voice trembled For not more than half a second, maybe, but Bodie could hear it clearly. "...was bloody scared for you," Doyle finished.

Bodie was up and near Doyle in a second, his fingers grabbing Doyle's forearm. Doyle winced. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Ray, for everything," Bodie said, as fast as Doyle had, but not loud, not at all. Doyle looked at him, breathing evenly, his eyes clear, clear. Then he moved closer to Bodie, one step only, and keeping his hands firmly in his coat's pockets, tilted his head and softly, barely brushing Bodie's lips with his own, kissed him. Bodie's hand left Doyle's arm, instantly, and Bodie stepped back.

"You're still playing with me, aren't you?"

Doyle could see the blurring confusion in Bodie's eyes. "No," he said, slowly. "No, I'm not."

Bodie didn't say anything, and Doyle left the room, closing the door after himself. He walked slowly along the corridor, one foot after the other, one hand absentmindedly brushing along the wall. In the distance, muffled by walls and door, the furious click-clack of the typewriter broke the silence. Doyle's steps became faster. He reached the main hall, and stopped briefly to check the board for next day's assignments. Jax arrived from downstairs, saw Doyle, and went near him.

"Anson's coming back tomorrow. It'll be light duty for him, for a while," he said to Doyle.

"Good," was the laconic answer.

"I heard Bodie had a close call today." Jax looked at the other agent, shifting from one foot to the other.

"You heard right." Doyle barely moved his lips to answer. Jax inhaled deeply and went closer to Doyle.

"Okay, listen, it's none of my business, right? I know it. It's just that, well...things haven't been so good lately for you two, right? So I thought, maybe, if you want to talk...."

"Look, mate, as you said, it's none of your business." Doyle spoke evenly, his face turned towards the board.

"It will be, mate--" and Jax's voice was heavy on the friendly term "--if we go in together in a joint operation and you start going wild, running off on your own. We were...curious, you know, about where you were exactly, today, when someone was firing bullets at Bodie."

Doyle moved a couple of steps, until he was breathing right in Jax's face. He stood there, mute, eyes flashing. Jax shrugged uneasily and stepped backwards. There was a long silence. Downstairs, someone entered and then went down to the armoury, steps and voices dampened by the even quieter silence outside.

"Any more questions?" Doyle asked, and his face was very serious.

"No." Jax looked aside, uncomfortable.

"Of course not." Doyle bared his teeth briefly, then turned on his heels and strode towards the lift, steering for the stairs at the last possible moment. His footsteps resonated loudly, until the front door banged loudly after him.

It was late, a cold night with a full moon. The snow was thick under Doyle's boots. He looked around the car park, and then headed decidedly for the entrance gate and the nearby park. In the unnatural silence born out of the snow even the few cars passing him by went unnoticed, nothing more than an annoying presence. His footsteps were rhythmical, the sound they originated made of a thousand small, soft cracks, crystal dust crying despair. Doyle's breath was a series of white puffs in the air, fast and short, one hand tucked deeply in the pocket of his dark coat, the other under his chin, keeping the coat closed, trying to prevent the cold from getting inside. He walked, faster and faster, until abruptly he broke into a blind run and then, as abruptly, stopped dead amidst the trees and bushes covered in snow.

Doyle stood still, panting, a lonely dark figure, a small point in the vast white, in the cold night. A small, solitary thing...seen from above, lost.

---

VI

Bodie--his head resting on his hand, elbow propped up on the pillow--ran the palm of his other hand along her back, slowly, and then rested it on the naked curve of her flank. The woman murmured in her sleep, and curled closer to him. Bodie bent his head to kiss her repeatedly, on her hair, along the line of her neck, on the tender skin of her bare shoulders. Slow, sensuous kisses. In the half-dark room, she murmured again, then turned her head, searching his mouth with her lips, finding his neck, then the line of his jaw. She turned to lie on her back, one hand reaching up to Bodie's face, feeling the coarse stubble with her fingertips.

"Can't sleep again?" she asked, drowsily.

Bodie didn't answer. After another lazy caress to her belly, he turned to lie on his back as well, his eyes wide open in the half-darkness.

"Want me to go?" she whispered after a while.

"'s not your fault."

"Always been a restless sleeper?" she asked, her voice a soft murmur, barely louder than his.

Bodie took his time answering. "Just recently. Something...on the job. Don't worry."

The woman turned to her right side, trying to see his face. The only thing she could see was his profile: only a shape with no visible expression.

"It's good here. Warm," she said after a while. "Do you think the snow will stick this time?"

"What? Polite weather-talk, now?" Bodie laughed quietly. "Am I so boring?"

"You, boring? Quite the opposite. In fact, since we're both awake now--" she moved closer to him, still talking, her left hand sneaking low under the heavy bedspread "--and since I'm going away for three long weeks tomorrow--" she buried her head against his neck, placing a small kiss, then a gentle bite, between every few words "--and since it's so cold outside, and so warm and hot down here--" Bodie slipped his arm around her, his mouth and lips searching for hers "--I thought we could play a little game," she finished whispering in his ear.

Bodie rested his head on the pillow, pushing her head down beside him. "A game, uh?" He smiled against her cheek. "Like...."

The phone rang.

"Oh, no." She sighed, rolling on her back, giving Bodie a mock-tender cuff on his chest. "I hate your job, your secrets and all of your colleagues." Bodie reached for the phone handset on his bedside; his hand stopped in mid-air, then he grabbed the handset. The alarm clock ticked 3.25 am.

"Bodie." He waited for the person at the other end of the line to speak. "Look, I'm not very patient," he said, as he hauled himself up to sit on the edge of the bed. "Fine, I'm hanging up now."

"Wait...."

"Ray? Ray, it's the middle of the night. Something wrong?"

"No. Just wanted to talk to you."

Bodie lifted his eyes, from the carpet to the curtained windows. He shivered, and stood up, reaching for his tracksuit bottoms, folded--not so neatly--on the chair near his bed. He kept the handset in his hand the whole time, gripping it as he clumsily put them on.

"Bodie?" Doyle's voice came through the microphone.

"Bodie?" The woman echoed from the bed. "Do you have to go?"

"No." Bodie turned towards her. "Go back to sleep, love. I've got to talk. I'll take the other line." He put down the handset and walked out of the bedroom, closing the door carefully after him. Passing by the kitchen, he grabbed a glass and the bottle of scotch from the shelves, then sat down on the sofa, picking up the other phone on the nearby table, switching on the small, useful device near the phone.

"Ray?"

"Here. Scrambled?"

"Of course."

Bodie waited in silence. In the meantime, holding the bottle tightly between his knees, he opened it one-handed and poured himself a generous glass of scotch. The first sip burned his tongue and all the way down his throat. He rested his head back on the sofa, eyes closed, playing with the glass in his hand, listening to Doyle's soft, regular breathing on the phone. The silence stretched without interruption. Bodie finished his drink and reached blindly down, to put the glass on the floor. He shivered, the room being chilly, and curled up on the sofa, one arm around himself, the handset still cradled against his ear.

"You've got a bird, or a bloke?" Finally, Doyle's voice came out the phone, small and distant, distorted by the device.

"Makes no difference, does it?" Bodie answered.

"No, I guess it doesn't," Doyle said, after a short pause. He let go a small chuckle. "Didn't think it was going to be so bloody messy, did I?"

There was another long silence. Bodie shivered again, his skin rebelling against the creeping cold with wild goosebumps all over him. "I didn't either," he said, slowly.

"What, your rules don't suit you anymore?" Doyle asked, his question sharpened by the microphone. "Is that a crack I see in your shining armour?"

Bodie jumped up from the sofa, and went to stand facing the wall in front of the sofa, as far as the phone wire would reach. "What the hell do you want, Doyle? Talk or fight? Because if you want a fight, it's fine with me, you understand?" Bodie's words had been fast, and he stood still, breathing hard in the dark.

"I want to fuck you, don't I?' Doyle replied, too fast.

"You've got a nerve, mate, you really have. You have--" Bodie growled the words "--fucked me. And half the nation, in the meantime, if I recall correctly." There was another silence, broken suddenly by Bodie, sneezing.

"You're coming down with something," Doyle stated, quietly. "Maybe you should give me a good beating, you know, get it out of your system," he added.

Bodie's mouth opened and stayed open. He went to sit again, and then to curl on the still warm cushions on the sofa. He didn't say anything.

"For the job, you know?" Doyle said.

Bodie spoke slowly. "There's nothing wrong with the job."

"Oh, sure. I can watch your back, mate, but I can't avoid you doing stupid things. I don't want you to die because of me."

Bodie laughed, turning to lie on his back. "Placing yourself a bit high on my scale, Ray, aren't you?"

"I don't know. I'm just saying."

Bodie sneezed again.

"Should do something about that cold, mate. Take a couple of days off...."

"I can handle myself, Doyle, ta very much," Bodie snapped. He sneaked his feet under a cushion, searching for warmth.

"Yeah. Yeah, I know you do."

The line went quiet. Bodie waited, staring at the ceiling. "You still there?" he asked. "Ray?" Softer. Gentler. "Talk to me?"

"About what?" Doyle sounded distant. Distracted. Bodie rolled on his side, facing the back of the sofa, seeking some kind of respite, some warmth.

"Whatever. Just...talk to me." Bodie accommodated the handset on his ear, one arm bent under himself, and closed his eyes, listening to Doyle. There was another silence, then Doyle started to talk, facts and episodes they both knew well, the latest gossip from the typist pool, comments and half jokes about the job, their colleagues, the whole of London, the world and their life. Doyle's voice was quiet, a slow flowing of sound that was lulling Bodie into oblivion. Doyle's voice melted into a dream, slowly, slowly, and Bodie fell asleep there, half naked on the sofa. Doyle talked, and kept on talking, listening to the regular, heavy breathing of his partner.

---

VII February

It had been another of those weeks.

Muddy and cold, early February weather inclement like no other. A bomb threat under close investigation; a gun-running ring suddenly vanished in the maze of the London suburbs--much to Cowley's angry scorn; half the squad sequestered on another neverending stakeout, the other half busy and bored in Files and taking turns bodyguarding a small Arab delegation from one unofficial meeting to another.

And the snow, falling fast and thick one moment, turning into polluted water on the streets the moment after, unforeseeable, making everything more difficult, more dirty.

Bodie walked into the rest room, soaking wet. He dropped his jacket on the back of a chair, his holster next, carefully placed on the table. He looked around, taking in the solitary bathrobe hanging from the pegs on the wall, and the late-night quiet and silence in the nearby corridors and rooms. After a brief hesitation, he entered the adjacent room, recently renovated and turned into an extra shower-stall with two cubicles, small but functional. Bodie checked for shampoo and soap, and let the water run in the first stall. Shivering, he went back to the rest room, took his shoes off, and then his black pullover. His head was just clear of the garment, the pullover still held in his hands, when Doyle entered, followed by Murphy.

"Oh. Nice to see you," Doyle greeted him. The smile in his voice didn't reach his eyes. Murphy grumbled something that vaguely resembled a civil greeting, and headed straight for the shower-room, grabbing the bathrobe on his way, slamming the door after him. Bodie stood still, under Doyle's clear gaze. Until Doyle moved, walked past him--almost touching him but not quite--discarded his own coat and sprawled himself on the sofa.

"Next shift on the stakeout is yours, mate. Tomorrow morning at six, Anson will pick you up, as per Cowley's orders." Doyle paused, surveyed Bodie once again, Bodie standing still in the middle of the room, naked from the waist up. "What, cat got your tongue? Or did my blessed sight turn you into a bloody pillar of salt?"

Bodie fumbled with his pullover, quickly re-dressing himself. Then, fists closed and aggressively resting on his flanks, he looked at Doyle. "Why did you ask the Cow to change your shift, eh?"

Doyle shrugged, closing his eyes, adjusting his position, stretching his legs more comfortably.

"What is it, now? Not in your bed, not by your side? This your latest mood, then?" A brief pause, enough for Bodie to breathe deeply and start again, much louder. "Look, I'm sick and tired of your games, and if you--"

"If I what, Bodie, if I what?" Doyle had jumped up from the sofa, in no time, reaching Bodie, standing face to face with him. "Do you want everyone around here to know our petty, sordid business, mate? Do you want Murphy to hear your precious, well-chosen words of wisdom?"

"I...." Bodie hesitated; his eyes shifted down, then aside. "I'm tired, Ray," he said, his voice considerably lower.

"Me too, after twelve straight hours sitting on me bum observing the most uneventful place in the world," Doyle said, and moved away a little, placing said bum on the corner of the table. He crossed his arms over his chest, and lifted his head to defiantly look at Bodie. Bodie opened his mouth to talk, instead sneezed twice, and searched his pockets for a handkerchief; one was presented under his nose, and he took it and used it.

"Oi!" he said after, examining it closely. "This is mine." He looked at Doyle, half surprised. His expression faded slowly, faced with the clear, intense green of Doyle's eyes, still staring at him. There was a long silence, both men breathing carefully, quietly.

"Don't look like that," Bodie murmured. "Don't look like that, Ray. Please."

"Can't help it," Doyle answered, in a similar murmur. He lifted his right hand, the sleeve tightening around his shoulder, his biceps. His fingertips touched Bodie's dark head, rested on his hair, still wet, followed a water drop, sliding over Bodie's brows, his cheek, one fingertip moving further down, reaching chin, then naked neck, to stop right against the black woollen edge of the pullover.

"Take it off," he whispered. "Take it off, let me look at you."

Bodie couldn't take his eyes off Doyle. "Murphy..." he murmured.

"He's in the shower. You know how long it takes him. You know it." Doyle put both his hands around Bodie's neck, rubbing his palms against it, his thumbs marking the contours of Bodie's lips, back and forth, back and forth. "Bodie. Bodie," he whispered, again, pulling Bodie near him, pulling Bodie's head down, towards his own face, his own lips.

And Bodie, stumbling on his own feet, hands pushing against Doyle's chest, head shaking, mutely, denying. Calling, warning. "Ray. Someone could come--" The rest of his words dying against Doyle's lips, Doyle's mouth, Doyle's tongue. Melting, Bodie, against Doyle, all over Doyle, and Doyle, one hand now on the back of Bodie's head, not letting go, the other hand wandering down, down, over panting chest, over rising nipples, down, sliding around, over strong back, down, along Bodie's thigh, then up and around again, aiming for the hardness between Bodie's legs, Doyle's hand moulding itself around Bodie's cock, pressing it through the thick cords, rubbing and teasing.

Bodie growled, deep down in his chest, devouring Doyle now, his legs slightly apart, his groin hot and wanting, pushing against Doyle's hand. Bodie's own hands left Doyle's chest, moved up, taking Doyle's face, keeping Doyle still under Bodie's kisses, a hundred--a thousand--hungry kisses, placed on mouth and nose and cheeks by worshipping lips. Doyle's hands went, mindlessly, to work on unbuckling Bodie's belt. A door slammed loudly somewhere, and suddenly a phone started ringing, someone answering in another room, the sound of the water in the next room reduced to a quiet dripping, and Murphy, already fully dressed, opening the door and stepping in, voice muffled by the towel wrapped around his head, asking: "You two still here? Doyle? What about a nice cuppa, hey?"

"Yeah, sure. Right away." Doyle's voice, slightly muffled, coming from somewhere near the window, Doyle himself rapidly moving towards the sink along the opposite wall, his back carefully to the door. Murphy's head emerged from under the towel, hair spiking in all directions, directing his gaze at Bodie, finding him sitting on the sofa in a lazy sprawl, legs well apart, big hands resting casually on his lap.

"Took your time, eh," Bodie said accusingly.

"Uh, mate," Murphy said. "You really look as cross as a wet cat." He grinned smugly. "I was first. But there's plenty of hot water left. On second thought, Doyle, leave the tea. I hate having to put dirty clothes back on. I'll go home and change. Unless one of you two has a pair of spare trousers...?"

"Nope." Bodie from the sofa, Doyle from the other side of the room.

"Oh, nice. Could start a CI5 Sunday chorus. Well, it takes two, don't they say?" Murphy dropped the towel in Bodie's lap. "Make good use of it, my friend. See you." He blinked, and in long strides went out of the room.

Bodie waited a few seconds, then rushed to close the door. "See what you've done? He knows, he's seen us--"

"Sod off, Bodie. He couldn't have, with that towel all over his head." Doyle's rebuke sounded angry; his face was still flushed. "Calm down. Murphy's a big loaf, he likes to pretend he's the smartest arse around."

Bodie looked at Doyle, who was resting against the wall, arms crossed. Doyle's swollen sex was evident now he was facing him. Bodie swallowed. "We must be crazy," he muttered, brusquely retrieving his shoes from under the table and putting them on.

"What are you doing?"

"What do you think?" Bodie reached for his holster, started donning it.

"Oh yeah. Forgot again. It's gotta be cool, right? Big butch Bodie can go home as if nothing happened."

"What the hell do you want me to say? That you turn me on? That you can get me out of my clothes and under you in no time? That I jerk off thinking of you twice a day? Is that your point?" Bodie stepped forward, hands on his flanks. "You know that. You bloody well know that, you bastard."

"My point is--" and now was Doyle's turn to step forward, meeting Bodie halfway, looking pointedly at the swollen cock equally evident under Bodie's clothes and then back up to stare into dark-blue anger "--that I did say I was sorry. That I did say I was wrong. D'you know what you're doing to us? D'you really know it?"

The longest silence.

"No one. Fucks. Me. Twice." That special quietness of Bodie's that Doyle knew so well.

Doyle smiled, then, inclined his head forward just so, a little charming smile just for Bodie, his lips barely curving, white teeth barely showing. Doyle the Enchanter. Delivering his blow with careful aim. "Oh. Sorry. I'm not Saint Marikka, am I? The only one allowed to make a double fool of y--" Doyle bent in two, holding himself, eyes closing tightly, waiting for the second blow. He went down on his knees, then, hard, crouching on himself, resting his head on the floor. Gasping for breath. Bodie loomed over him, for a moment. Doyle heard his footsteps, the quiet creaking of the door, opening, then the soft click when it was closed. "Fuck," he murmured. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

---

Bodie drove home. Once inside his flat--locks carefully set and double-checked, curtains drawn--he efficiently undressed and took a shower. He wanked under the cooling water, using his left hand, since the right was still hurting thanks to Doyle's jaw. Short strokes, very fast, his fingers tight around his cock, it didn't take long. After going to bed, Bodie set the alarm clock for 5.30 and, in the full darkness, wide-eyed, he waited for sleep to come. He turned and turned, and after a while he threw the pillow on the floor, fastidiously wiping his face with the sheets. The first light of dawn found him still wide-awake. His hands found his cock again, and he came shortly after, the alarm clock ringing in the background, ignored.

---

VIII

Doyle came out of the briefing room, hunched in his heavy winter coat. He glanced quickly around, waiting for Murphy to join him.

"You wanna drive?"

"Nah." Doyle started to walk along the corridor, Murphy easily taking him in his stride. Doyle dug the car keys out of his pocket and threw them in the air. Murphy grabbed them in his fist.

"Thought you'd like the chance to sit behind the steering wheel. You'd think a simple cold couldn't take the man down like that. Bodie'll never live it down. The lads are already planning for his return. Daft of him, getting sick like that, don't you think?"

Doyle reached for the door to the parking space of the carpool, swung it open and walked through, leaving Murphy behind to cope with it.

"I think it's damned good timing," Doyle muttered through his teeth.

Murphy stood near the door, his fingers protectively cupping his nose. He stared at Doyle striding towards the Capri. Doyle got to the passenger side of the car, turned around and stared back.

"Whatever it is, Doyle, I'd like you to leave it here. Now."

Doyle bent his head, as if listening to some distant sound, and breathed deeply a couple of times. "Let's go. George is going to be really happy if we don't turn up on time for the pick-up, isn't he?" And with that, he opened the car door and sat down.

Murphy took his place behind the steering wheel, and they were soon on their way.

---

"I'm in position. Murph?"

"Ready to go when you say the word, 4.5. Over."

Doyle adjusted the coat around himself, shivering. The trees around him were dark giants, their leafless peaks pointing at the grey sky. The ground creaked under the soles of his shoes, dead leaves and twigs frozen and broken by the long-lasting cold snap. Doyle saw the car coming from a distance. It was just a small dark dot on the isolated road, then it reached nearer and nearer, and finally stopped at a reasonable distance. Doyle glanced quickly at his left. Murphy was close enough to cover him, and hidden enough not to be instantly conspicuous. Doyle's r/t bleeped. "Yeah?"

"At your right. Movement."

Doyle moved back one step, allowing himself a wider angle of observation. His eyes moved back and forth from the two men approaching him from the now-empty car to the trees on his right. "Can't see a thing, Murph. You sure?"

"No. Hope the Cow's source was--"

"Later. They're here." Doyle put the r/t in the right pocket of his coat. The two men were still, just a few steps from him. One of them moved forward, looking at Doyle. He carried a leather bag, the surface scratched and worn. After a brief hesitation, the man reached out, the bag-handle in his hand, offering the bag to Doyle. Doyle reached out in turn with his left hand. There was a loud crack in the woods at his right. Doyle's fingers curled around the bag-handle, his right hand reached for his gun, and his whole body started to crouch and turn at the same moment. The second man turned towards the woods as well, while Murphy started to shout. The second man flew backwards, lifted and pushed and twisted in mid-air. His body convulsed for a few seconds then stilled, frozen in death on the frozen ground. Doyle aimed a gust of shots towards the trees, then rolled twice on the ground. Murphy was somewhere behind him, still covered by the trees.

"Stay down!"

Doyle flattened himself, the bag firmly held against his body. A gust of bullets sounded above his head, then another, and still more.

"Now!"

Doyle broke into a run, heading for the cover of the trees. He reached a tree, threw the bag down and whipped around, shooting blindly to cover Murphy's retreat. "Where's the other one?"

Murphy threw himself down near Doyle, reloading, panting. "Running for the car, last time I saw him."

A strangled yell resonated through the trees. Sudden silence followed, Doyle moved cautiously, using the trees for cover. Murphy grabbed the leather bag, and moved silently in the opposite direction.

Doyle clicked the r/t on. "Anything?"

"Nothing," Murphy whispered back.

The two agents walked slowly in opposite directions, carefully, from tree to tree. Doyle saw the body of the first man sprawled in the middle of the road, face down against the earth. He was just a handful of feet from the car. An engine came to life from within the woods and roared for a while, quickly fading away.

Doyle sighed and stepped out of the trees. Nothing happened. His r/t bleeped. "What?"

"Should have warned me you were coming out. I'm not Bodie, I don't fucking read your mind, Doyle! Over."

Doyle walked till he was close to the corpse of the first man. Murphy came out of the trees, too, and went to check the other man on the ground. Doyle clicked the r/t on again.

"4.5 to Control, over."

"What's on, 4.5?"

"Patch me through to Alpha One, over."

"Stand by. Over."

Doyle waited, observing the sky. Murphy reached him from behind.

"That one's dead."

"You had any doubts?" Doyle's sarcasm didn't go unnoticed.

Murphy lifted the leather bag in his hand, showing it to Doyle. Two nice round holes provided a new air-circulation system inside it. "You were lucky, Doyle."

"Or they were very bad shooters."

"Yeah."

"Yeah."

"It was just a pick-up," Murphy said aloud, not even watching Doyle. Doyle turned his eyes away from the corpse lying at his feet, glancing at the bag.

"Hope it was worth it."

Murphy didn't answer him.

The two men stood in silence, side by side, waiting for instructions under the grey, looming sky.

---

IX

Bodie opened the door and stood in the way, looking at Doyle. Doyle lifted his arms and showed him the bulging brown paper and plastic bags he was carrying. "Supplies."

Bodie sighed and stepped aside, relocking after Doyle entered. Doyle went directly to the kitchen, put the bags on the table, sorted through the stuff and started placing it in the proper places: shelves, cabinets or fridge, accordingly, without hesitation. Bodie followed him and sat at the table, sneezing miserably into a dirty handkerchief. Doyle turned around, watched him intently for a couple of minutes, then turned again to the sink, filling the kettle. "Had any sleep?"

"Dot really."

Doyle smiled, putting the kettle on and moving around to take two cups, teaspoons and sugar. "Dot really, hey? Taken anything?"

"Yeah." Bodie pointed vaguely at a bunch of small bottles on the table. "Take your pick."

Doyle glanced quickly at them, then sat at the other side of the table. "You look terrible, mate."

Bodie looked at him, in silence. Staring. "You too. Bad day?"

"Yeah. Rather not talk about it, really." Doyle got up quickly, turning his back to Bodie, busy tea-making.

"You cad get out of your coat, you dow? You're dripping all over." Bodie sneezed again.

Doyle handed him a clean handkerchief. "Here. Blow." Bodie obeyed.

"Bloody snow." Doyle shrugged out of his coat, and hesitated, holding it in his hands.

Bodie got up. "Here, give. Want a tracksuit to change into?"

Doyle eyed him. "You telling me you've got any clean ones left?" He pointed at Bodie, dressed in a worse-for-wear dark blue tracksuit, zipped top half open, wide chest naked underneath.

Bodie made a face at him, and went out of the kitchen. Doyle poured the tea into the cups, then followed him into the bedroom. Bodie was laying out a pair of tracksuit bottoms for him, and a jumper. "These suit you?"

"Yeah." Doyle's hands went to unzip his jeans, and then rested mid-way. Doyle lifted his head, meeting Bodie's eyes. They looked at each other. And looked. Then Bodie sneezed, and Doyle stepped back and around, sat on the bed, and heeled his boots off.

"You better drink your tea while it's hot," he said tersely, busy sliding the jeans down his legs, not watching Bodie.

"Yes, mum." Bodie's nasal tone didn't give away anything.

"And put some honey into it. It's on the second shelf on the left...."

Doyle's instructions followed Bodie to the kitchen.

---

Bodie yawned widely and loudly. Doyle finished putting away the cutlery, and brushing the last toast crumbs off the table. He stopped in the middle of the kitchen, looking at Bodie, again. Bodie sneezed into his handkerchief and, as if knowing Doyle was looking at him, turned sideways on his chair, to look back. Doyle's eyes moved aside, then down, and he bit his lip.

"Off you go. To bed." His voice sounded rough. Bodie paled slightly, but, with just a hint of hesitancy, he got up and headed for the bathroom.

Doyle waited in the bedroom, pacing up and down in front of the window, staring at the darkness outside. Snow. Falling freely, copious, huge snowflakes, virgin flowers drifting aimlessly from the sky above; silent, covering everything in sight, cars and streets and people. A thick, cold blanket. A heavy layer of something so unsubstantial....

Doyle shivered, and suddenly stood still; his fingers and knuckles, just as white as the snowflakes, gripping the edges of the window curtains. The flush of water echoing from the bathroom announced Bodie's arrival; Doyle closed the curtains with a firm, fluid movement, and Bodie entered the room. Without talking, he quickly undressed and slipped into bed, setting two pillows under his head to breathe better. He fussed around with the duvet, adjusted the pillows again, then pulled a couple of clean handkerchiefs from the bedside drawer. All the while, he kept avoiding looking at Doyle.

"You settled?"

Bodie almost jumped, seeing Doyle close to his side of the bed, hearing him talking with that low, rough voice.

Bodie glanced up. "I'm fine. Thanks for minding me." The invitation to go home was clear between them, like a sign in mid-air, though not voiced aloud.

The bed dipped at Bodie's side, Doyle sitting down, sighing, one hand lifting up to brush against Bodie's forehead. Bodie swallowed loudly. Doyle's hand rested on him for a little while.

"You're not as hot. Pills are working, then."

"Yeah."

"Bodie--"

"Ray--"

At the same time.

Bodie lowered his head, watching how his fingers were playing with the hem of the sheets, only then seeing Doyle's hand resting on the bed, a red, nasty scratch going from knuckles to wrist. On impulse, Bodie's hand took Doyle's, fingers firmly tight around Doyle's wrist. "What's this?"

"Nothing."

"You hurt yourself."

"Just a scratch, Bodie. Don't fuss."

"'m not fussing. Can't leave you alone for a minute, can I?" Bodie was almost smiling.

"Then don't. Leave me." Doyle was so very close, at that moment, his uneven breath a caress on Bodie's face.

"'m sorry I hit you the other day." Bodie closed his eyes, the half smile aborted and forgotten.

"Don't be."

Bodie's grip was still firm around Doyle's wrist. "That's supposed to be my line, ain't it?" He shook the wrist, a little, following the tiny movements of reaction along the forearm.

"I deserved it." Doyle turned his hand around, gripping Bodie's hand in his, easily, holding it tight.

Bodie looked up at him, staring into the clear, limpid gaze that was Doyle's most honest, and most rare. He opened his mouth to speak, but sneezed instead. "Sorry."

"Here. Wipe your nose."

Bodie obeyed again, letting both hands drop in his lap once finished, the handkerchief abandoned on the floor. Doyle inhaled deeply, then bent over Bodie, his hands holding the other man's face, eyes wide open, intent, full of purpose, and brushed his lips against Bodie's, once, and then again, and again. Almost chaste kisses, dry and brief, yet Bodie seemed to be melting against the pillows, involuntarily backing away. Doyle closed his eyes, his head resting against Bodie's, his nose slowly rubbing against Bodie's nose, his lips moving against Bodie's lips. "I know why you do it, why you don't want me anymore. But just once more, Bodie, let me love you. Just once more. Let me show you."

"Ray, I...."

"Shh. Close your eyes, Bodie. Trust me."

"I don't know if...don't do this to me, Ray. I'm a possessive bastard, you know that. And you...can't chain you down, can I? It's not gonna work. We tried."

Doyle kissed Bodie again, his lips more assertive, arrogant on Bodie's mouth. Bodie responded to the kiss, keeping his hands still, though, and his mouth closed.

"Just once more, Bodie." Doyle's mouth was on Bodie's neck, on the tender skin behind the ear, where Doyle knew Bodie was sensitive.

"And you'll drop it?" Blue eyes staring upward, mouth slightly open, breathless already.

"Promise." Doyle's hands on Bodie's chest, rubbing gently on the nipples, small kisses placed on both, alternatively, Doyle's eyes closed, a cat lapping his milk.

"Your word?" And Bodie's eyes were closed now, head thrown back, his hands searching for Doyle's skin, pushing clothes aside and half off Doyle's shoulders.

Doyle straddled Bodie's body, raising on his knees, hands resting on his thighs. He was panting a little, with a hazy, too-bright light in his eyes. He stared at Bodie, and Bodie looked down, to where Doyle's right-hand thumb and index finger were rubbing convulsively, continuously, one against and around the other, two parts of the same hand, fighting their personal war, joined forever at the palm unless a blade cut one out. Bodie surged under Doyle, suddenly, powerfully, his arms around the other man, rolling over, on top of him.

Doyle was passive under Bodie, and watched as Bodie started to undress him, then helped him with hips and limbs to take off the borrowed tracksuit and jumper. When Doyle was finally lying naked on the sheets, thighs and nipples and cock and balls all available to sight and touch, with one swift movement Bodie took off his own underwear. For a moment, he stood over Doyle, silent and dark, then shifted sideways, trying to reach the light switch on the wall.

"Don't." Doyle grabbed his hand, rapidly changing the grip into a caress of the forearm, his hand sliding up to the shoulder, brushing the white skin up there. "Want to see all of you." Doyle's eyes darted down, where Bodie's cock was, hard and hungry.

"Tomorrow will be different." Low and tense, Bodie's voice, words rolling out of lips that barely moved.

Doyle raised both his arms, hands on Bodie's waist, and pulled him down, over himself, heavy and fever-hot. "Got till then." And all the while, his lips were parting for Bodie, making space for him.

Bodie kissed him, then. Opened his mouth, and searched for Doyle's tongue with his own, pushing inside. Doyle let him, not fighting back, opening his mouth wider, sucking Bodie's tongue inside, the slurping sounds echoing in the room. They started a slow movement, a powerful wave crashing on the beach, each hard against the other's hardness. The hug became painful, suffocating, the muscles under the skin of both men tensing and bulging with strain.

"Wait." Doyle was gasping.

"What?" Bodie barely lifted his head, his eyes glazed, out of focus.

"Slow down. Want to do it properly." Doyle pushed Bodie to rest on his side.

Bodie took Doyle's hand, and placed it on his cock. "Keep it warm, then." Doyle's fingers curved gently around the flesh. He smiled, just a small twist of his lips, and Bodie put his fingertips on them, tracing the fullness, the contours on them. "You're so beautiful when you smile like this." It was just a whisper, and then it was Bodie's tongue tracing Doyle's lips, claiming entrance, again. They kissed for a while, Doyle steadily stroking Bodie's cock, Bodie's hands a firm pressure on Doyle's buttocks.

"Ray...." Bodie pulled back, swallowing, looking down at himself, held in Doyle's hands. "I'm...too close. It's been so long since you...." His words trailed off, his attention mesmerised on the blurring movement going on at his groin. Doyle tightened his grip, glancing quickly from Bodie's face to Bodie's cock, waiting for the moment when the pleasure would turn into pain, and gently stopping, just then.

Bodie closed his eyes, a long, deep sigh escaping him. "Only you can get away with this, you know," he said, very slowly.

"And you love it," Doyle said, sliding slowly down and along Bodie's body, making a caress of the movement, skin on skin, body on body, every inch well cared for, with hands and lips and tongue. He reached Bodie's groin, and buried his nose against it, his chin rubbing on tender, hairy skin.

"If you only put your mouth on me, I'll come so fast you'll drown."

Doyle chuckled, between one small lick and the other on the balls cupped by his hands. "Not very poetic, Bodie."

Bodie was pulling him up, manhandling him on his back, pushing his thighs apart with his knees. "Can't do poetic with my balls in knots, can I?" he growled in Doyle's ear, then bit him, hard, and tickled him on his ribs, and Doyle started to laugh.

"Oh, God, Bodie. Bodie! Stop...."

Bodie made him laugh hard, and harder, then hugged him, suddenly, hiding his face against Doyle's shoulder, not quite trembling. Doyle went quiet, and his arms went around the other man's torso, holding him tight.

"C'mon, mate." Doyle gave a little push upwards with his hips. His cock found Bodie's, foreskins completely pushed back, both wet with sweat and precum. Bodie didn't answer or turn, but his right hand sneaked in between their bodies, taking both cocks in his grip, holding them together. Doyle's in-drawn breath was loud, and that made Bodie turn his head and shift his weight, till he knelt between Doyle's widespread legs and could look at him. Slowly, deliberately, Bodie bent over Doyle, and Doyle closed his eyes, his cock fully inside Bodie's mouth now, his hands pushing relentlessly on the dark head, his heart leaping out of his chest. Bodie licked Doyle's cock carefully, thoroughly, slowly, deliciously, wetting it; then sucked on the swollen head, hard, really hard, milking it, keeping in his mouth the slick, salty precum. Doyle moaned louder when Bodie's mouth left his cock and his legs were lifted higher, and louder still when the wet mouth kissed him between the cheeks of his arse. Doyle's hands shifted under his own knees, pulling them wider, higher, exposing his arse to Bodie's tongue. Bodie used his own hands to spread the arse further, and his tongue to wet Doyle's arsehole as far and as deep as he could. Doyle bit his lips, drawing blood, trying to keep still and quiet. His hips pushed higher, offering himself to Bodie's tongue and lips, Bodie's grip on his flesh bruising him, Bodie's thumbs marking the tender skin on the inner back of the thighs. The rimming went on for a long while, Bodie hungry for Doyle's arse, biting and licking and making him tremble more and more. Doyle panted and gulped and moaned, his balls so tight against him, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, not seeing anything, concentrating on the inner chant only he could hear.

Bodie pushed his tongue inside Doyle's arsehole, flicked the tip of his tongue all over it, kissed it with his lips and licked it repeatedly, then started all over again. And again.

"Bodie...." Doyle gasped through his teeth, another long moan escaping from deep inside him. Bodie's thumbs stretched him wide, wider, allowing Bodie to push his tongue deep, and deeper, slowly at first, then faster, rhythmically, tongue-fucking Doyle, Bodie's mouth wide open on Doyle's arsehole, owning it.

"Bodie...." Just a whisper, and then Doyle closed his eyes, head back against the pillow, whole body violently shivering and surging and pushing upward, cock trembling, erect and still over his groin, untouched, yet consumed, spilling his cum in long, convulsing gushes, once, twice, and again, and shaking, all the time, waves of clenching muscles rippling all over him, taking his breath away, leaving him to groan his pleasure with barely a whisper of a voice, again and again and again.

Bodie reached out with one hand, scooping up as much of Doyle's cum as he could, from flat stomach and still heaving hips; then he straightened, his hand rubbing all the sticky liquid onto his own cock, all the while manoeuvring Doyle's legs onto his shoulders. He paused just for a second, staring straight at Doyle, the head of his cock weeping miserably, pressed against Doyle's body's entrance. Doyle stared back, breathless, and his hands reached down and around Bodie, one hand on Bodie's hips, the other on his buttocks, forcing Bodie down on him. Bodie pushed, his cock knowing its way into Doyle only too well, penetrating him till his balls were crushed against Doyle's skin.

"'m gonna hurt you." Bodie spoke to Doyle's ear, his head once again hidden on Doyle's shoulder.

"Don't be stupid...." Doyle tensed, his body already rocking back and forth under Bodie's thrusts.

"Want to...hurt...." Bodie stopped slamming into Doyle, raising over him, his weight now all on Doyle's thighs and on his own arms, hands placed beside Doyle's head. He spread his legs wider, penetration even deeper, then started a slow sideways movement, rolling his hips around, his cock trying to make contact with each and every inch of the living flesh that was Doyle, stretching the arsehole, mapping the territory.

Doyle wiped a handful of sweating curls from his face, wordless.

"I'll make you limp...for a week. You won't...be...able to fuck around, you hear me?" Bodie dipped his head against Doyle's chest, first wiping his own sweat against it, then sucking the drops from the nipples, hard, Doyle catching his own breath, his hips adjusting to Bodie's, pressing back against him. "You hear me?" Bodie bit a nipple, and Doyle grunted, loudly. Bodie raised himself on his arms again. Drops falling on Doyle's skin, splashing thickly on his chest and throat.

"Bodie...Bodie." Doyle's hands searched for Bodie's face, forcing it up, fingertips checking, eyes widening. Bodie jerked his head free from Doyle's hands, and slammed into him, suddenly, withdrawing his cock, then slamming it up Doyle's arse once again. Bodie started giving it to him, really hard and fast, faster, Doyle watching him all the time, trying to watch downwards, where their bodies were joining, where Bodie's cock was impaling him mercilessly, where it was starting to burn and ache. Doyle gasped, closing his eyes, flinching, his fingers clenched on the sheets at his side, holding onto the soaked, crumpled linen. Another forceful thrust, and another, and again, then everything stopped. Bodie withdrew his cock, still rock hard, until only the head was inside Doyle, the ring of muscle tight around it. Doyle clenched his teeth, waiting, and soon after Bodie slammed into him, again, Doyle's sob overwhelmed by the slapping of flesh on flesh. Furious fucking, then, pounding and slamming of cock into arsehole, fast and slow and fast again, only sweat and silence and slapping hard.... Bodie stilled and swore loudly, incoherently. His arms were trembling and he looked down, where his cock was joined to Doyle's body. He withdrew it again, slowly, watching it, too hot and too hard and too hungry.

Doyle opened his eyes, to find Bodie's looking down at him, pale, very pale. Still and silent, both of them, only the uneven, wild rhythm of their breathing between them. Bodie spread his knees a little more, shifting part of his weight on them, bent his head and placed his lips on Doyle's, softly, feather-like. Doyle's arms went around Bodie, palms massaging up and down the tense back, gently, slowly, soothing.

"I...can't...." Whispered words, brushing Doyle's lips.

"Yes, you can."

"Not like this. No. No." Shaking his head, Bodie, moving backwards, shifting Doyle's legs from his shoulders.

Doyle wrapped his thighs around Bodie's waist. "It's okay, mate." His left hand cupped Bodie's neck, pulling him down, mouth and tongue and lips ready to kiss. Bodie lost himself in the kiss, and after a while Doyle started to rock gently under him, and Bodie fucked Doyle then, just as gently, moving in and out of him, carefully, kissing him and holding him tight against himself, then trembling and finally coming, shaking so hard, shaking inside Doyle, mute, oh for so long.

---

Doyle finished dressing beside the closed window, his back to the bed. When he turned and slowly headed towards the door, he looked at the bed. Bodie was lying still, pillows doubled behind his back, hands resting on his chest. Not looking at him. Doyle hesitated, and swallowed. He started to move near the bed, and stopped again.

"It's for the best," Bodie said, suddenly, lifting his head up, startling Doyle. "It's for the best." Louder. And then: "You promised." Lower. But his eyes kept looking at Doyle as Doyle nodded. Bodie's eyes stared at Doyle's back until he left the room. And when Doyle reappeared minutes later, donning his coat, Bodie's eyes were still on him, dark-blue staring, keeping track of every tiny movement--the shift of Doyle's shoulders under the thick fabric, a curl sticking out awkwardly, head turning sideways, neck's tendons abruptly sticking out under the skin, tensing, then disappearing again, feet shuffling on the floor. And Bodie, still looking. Still mute.

"It's goodbye, then." Doyle had that small, tense smile of his, the one that didn't show his teeth.

Bodie nodded.

"Lock after I'm gone."

Bodie nodded again.

Doyle went away.

Bodie waited until there were no sounds, until the engine's disturbing noise faded away in the distance. He waited a bit more, then slowly, slowly, got out of bed, feet naked on the floor. He stood near the bed, looking down at it: pillows, the sheets, all disarranged, and the handkerchief crumpled on the floor. He stood there, still and naked, for a long time, near the empty bed. Then, he lifted his head, looked around himself, watched the window, then the chest of drawers, then the other wall, and back to the chair on which Doyle had left jumper and tracksuit bottoms, preferring his own, almost dried, clothes. Bodie looked at the bed again.

Then, he dragged himself to the hall, and to the door, and double-locked himself inside the empty walls of his temporary CI5 placement.

---

X

"Hey, Doyle. How's Bodie?"

"He's looking for someone to wipe his nose." Doyle closed the file and put it on the pile of similar folders at his right. He stared at the pile at his left, and his hands went up to cover his face, palms rubbing and pressing on his eyes.

"Feeling lonely without Butch, diddums?"

Lucas started sniggering at Anson's words. Murphy looked at Jax. Jax looked back at him, and moved quietly behind Doyle, who was sitting still and not answering.

"Hey, Anson, I heard Susan put you down on the mat in five minutes flat, yesterday." Murphy offered a steaming paper cup to Lucas, and another to Anson.

"Nah, I let her win," Anson muttered, slurping his coffee.

"Yeah, sure." Lucas made a face and put his tongue out. "Murph, what the fuck is this?"

"Coffee, CI5 Special Selection, just for the best." Murphy was already near the door.

"'s more like you trying to poison us," Lucas spluttered, and threw the paper cup in the waste bin. Jax put a hand on Doyle's shoulder, squeezing gently, then walked to stand by Murphy.

"I like it." Anson was looking into his cup. "What's wrong with it?"

"Anson, you've got no taste, as we all well know. C'mon, the last to the pub pays the first two rounds," Lucas threw behind his back. There was the predictable rush, all of them trying to pass the door first.

Murphy let the others go, and advanced two steps towards Doyle. "You're not coming?" There were no other sounds in the room, apart from both men's breathing.

"What does it look like?" Doyle opened another file. Against the window, his profile was as sharp as his tone. His fingers deftly flicked through the first pages, found the pictures and rested on them for a while.

Murphy cleared his voice. "Bodie rang earlier. Asked for you, but you were stuck with Cowley and Sally, so...."

Doyle sighed. "What do you want, Murph?" He didn't turn to look at the other agent. Another folder was added to the pile at his right. The desk was full of empty mugs and scattered papers. Doyle took another file and opened it.

"Nothing. Just...things haven't been as usual, between you two, and you know how it is, especially around here. Rumours are faster than lightning."

"And what do the rumours say?" Doyle turned on his seat to face Murphy, his movement so abrupt that some pages fell on the floor, along with a much chewed-on pencil.

"That you asked to be re-teamed. That Cowley has suspended Bodie. That Bodie has asked to be re-teamed...." Murphy counted on his fingers. "That you two are fighting over a woman. That Bodie has an incurable disease...look, I've finished this hand, you want me to go on with the other? There are all sorts of things being said about you two. It's been going on for months, Ray. And what Anson just said, well, 's just a joke, just teasing, but...."

Doyle snorted. "Hah! Don't worry about my virtue, mate. My last cherry is quite safe." He turned towards the window, staring out. Lying was so easy. Too easy.

"I heard Bodie's coming back tomorrow." Murphy leaned against the wall.

"So?" Doyle kept looking out of the window.

"You're going to work together, aren't you?"

"Curiosity killed the cat, Murph. Bloody hell, of course we're going to work together, and now stop harassing me, and sod off!"

Murphy grinned, ducking to avoid the pencil that was flying at him, aimed for his head. "I see. You're the butch one around here!" And with that, he sneaked out the door, the crash of the mug echoing after him.

Doyle considered the fragments on the floor, and the papers near his feet. He bent to pick up the latter, ignoring the former. The file ended on the pile at his right, but he didn't take another one. He turned again to look outside, at the snow, falling down quietly. Falling down.

---

Sally put her head inside the room, and almost retreated. Then stopped, and looked more closely. The room was dark, and the only light was that coming in from the open window: pale and cold light reflected by the snow outside, lighted by the street lamps. Sally shivered and walked inside the room. "Doyle?"

Doyle was just a shadow near the curtains. He moved abruptly, closing the window, standing there. Sally lifted an arm to switch the light on. She surveyed Doyle carefully. Doyle squeezed his eyes closed, twice, blinded by the sudden light. Sally looked at the broken pottery near her feet, then at him. "I've got a lead on the Wilkins case. Informer call; I think it's reliable. I'm going to check it out. You're all mine till tomorrow am, so...you coming?"

Doyle picked up his coat from the seatback, and walking past Sally out of the room, said, talking low: "You should be so lucky, love."

She slapped him on the shoulder, hard enough to force a half grunt, half laugh from him. Before closing the door after her, she reached to switch the light off again. She looked again at the shards on the floor, and glanced back at the frozen room, and shivered. Light turned off, door closed, the rest room was empty and silent.

---

XI

Bodie entered the CI5 building, flicking his ID at the guard. Murphy was trotting down the stairs. He jumped off the last two steps and saw Bodie.

"Hey. Fallen out of bed?"

"Kicked out, I'd say. What's on?"

Murphy rotated his shoulders and neck, bones cracking loud. "I'm stiff as a board. We're on a priority call, as of now. Doyle and Sally tripped on a snakes' nest, it seems. Debriefing in two minutes, video room."

Bodie started up the stairs while Murphy was still talking. "Oi, how's your cold?" Murphy shouted after him.

"Don't need my nose to shoot straight, do I?" came the answer from the second flight of stairs.

---

The room was darkened, all eyes fixed on the screen on the far wall. The film finished rolling, and Anson switched the light on. Cowley went to stand in front of his men and women.

"Last communication from agents 4.5 and 6.1 came through at 21.00 yesterday evening. Control routed 4.5's call to my personal line. Listen...." The recorder on the table clicked on, the sound of the tape running filling the room. Doyle's voice was barely audible, Cowley's sharper tones and questions acting in counterpoint to Doyle's terse description of faces and places. The recorder quieted suddenly after some unidentified noises and a resounding click. Cowley turned to the wall at the left of the door, where a map was hanging, unevenly tilted to one side. "That's the area where the gun runners were hiding. Back-up teams reached the site shortly after 22.00, and you've just seen what they found. 6.1 is just out from surgery, but she's unconscious. No signs of Doyle. They could be anywhere. It's been snowing heavily since last night. Forensics have been through the site, but there's no substantial evidence as to what happened." Cowley paused. Bodie's chair screeched loudly when he pushed it back and stood up. Cowley looked at him.

"Bodie, Murphy, Anson, Lucas, you'll go ahead to the site. Find them. Susan, you and...." Cowley's voice echoed in the corridor. Bodie was running down the stairs, two steps at a time, and vaulting over the handrail before disappearing through the garage door. Murphy ran after him.

"See you there!" Lucas yelled after him, and Murphy gestured affirmatively with his hand. He made it through the passenger door just in time; the silver Capri barely waited for him to be inside before roaring full power out of the garage and skidding away through London.

Murphy swallowed and turned his head to observe Bodie.

"What?"

Murphy flinched and stared through the windscreen in front of him. He could still see the knuckles gripping the steering wheel. "We'll find him," he murmured.

Bodie didn't say anything. The car continued its mad run heading outside London, both men silent and tense.

---

"It's getting dark, Bodie. The others will be here soon with the equipment, the whole lot: torches and dogs and all the rest. Oi, Bodie...are you listening? Bodie?" Murphy shivered in his heavy jacket, and eyed the sky. His attention went back to the man standing still in the middle of the small area enclosed among the trees. Tall and erect, Bodie almost looked like another tree, arms like naked branches inert along his sides.

"Bodie!" Murphy called again, and turned quickly to check the others' positions. Lucas was far to his left, checking for more evidence. Anson was standing close to the only clue they had found in the desolated area, playing sentinel to the discarded empty cartridges. A miracle, that discovery. Bodie had immediately taken up the small hill without slowing the pace, leaving Murphy to struggle after him, the snow well up to his calves by now.

Bodie didn't give any sign of hearing Murphy's voice. He was standing, eyes tight-closed against the cold. Standing, like a marble statue. Murphy reached him and waited, seeing the intense concentration painted on the man's features.

"Doyle wouldn't have left Sally. Unless he thought she was dead. Or...unless he couldn't check on her...because...because...."

Murphy strained to hear the low grumbled mutterings. Lucas yelled something, then signalled twice, arms extended and flexed, palms up and down. "There's one of them, there. Two bullets. Upper front thigh, full chest."

Bodie opened his eyes, watching without expression, without really seeing anything. "Doyle. Shoots the legs off them first, they stop for the pain, you move in for the death shot. Surer. Safer. The snow, the cold...frozen fingers.... We're...." He rapidly evaluated the distance they were from the site where Sally had been found. He turned towards Murphy. "Doyle couldn't get to Sally because he was on the opposite side of the courtyard. He was trying to get to them from behind, he always tries to sneak as close as possible, but they come out, because...the second car arrives. They see Sally, they start shooting, she goes down and they start running towards the wood...towards Doyle. So the sod starts running ahead of them, and tries to get them one by one as they proceed towards the wood, and they can't go back, because the car's burning, and there could be others there."

Murphy asked and found the answer quickly. "Why should they run towards...the river!"

"Yes, the river." Bodie's jaw clenched. "Remember the map? There was a bridge, a small bridge...and a fishing shed nearby. Call the helicopter, tell them they're surveying the wrong area." A strong slap on the shoulder, Murphy almost off balance.

"Bodie! Where are you going?"

But Bodie was fast, as fast as the thick snow allowed him to be, already disappearing through the trees on the other side of the enclosure. Murphy brought his r/t to his blue lips, talking rapidly, dispatching information and orders, and slowly started walking towards where Lucas was waiting. He glanced briefly at his shoulders, seeing how Bodie's tracks were neat on the solid snow.

---

Bodie walked as quickly as he could, a continuous stream of low-voiced profanities marking each step, each intense glance at the ground, at the surrounding trees, at the branches that could retain and hold precious information. Vital information. The small hill sloped gently on his right, and Bodie stopped, breathing hard, visibly straining to hear all the little whispers and shuffles that made the woods alive. He turned his head to his left, closing his eyes. Then he turned it to his right. Still. Completely. He seemed to blend in with the trees, just as dark, just as silent. Suddenly, he jolted forward, heading down the slope at his right, the murmur of the river now barely audible.

It was getting darker and darker.

Bodie saw the shape lying half-covered by the snow.

A man, sprawled on his stomach, motionless as only a corpse could be.

Bodie's step altered their rhythm; he almost stumbled and tripped over his own feet, but somehow he managed to keep walking. Once close to the body, he visibly stiffened, but then he knelt beside it, and his movements were fast and relaxed. He turned the man on his back, indifferent to the wide-open eyes fixed on the sky above. He frisked the corpse's pockets, quickly, checked the gun half hidden beneath it, and was up again, the r/t close to his lips, signalling the body's position to Murphy. All the while, his eyes kept scanning the surroundings, eyes the same colour as the sky now. And just as cold.

The corpse was cold, too. Very.

Bodie moved again, his steps slower now, his eyes watching everything, his fingertips brushing all the small, low bushes, searching, searching, endlessly.

Finally, he gave up.

"Ray!" His voice echoed among the trees.

"Ray!" Only the wind answered.

"Ray! Ray!" Bodie kept moving, the river closer and closer.

"Ray!" He couldn't stop calling now, pausing only for breathing, and started again, his voice loud and thundering. He arrived on the river's bank. Trunks and fallen branches were scattered all over, an irregular landscape stretching in the distance to the sharp bend of the river, disappearing in the snowy whiteness.

"Ray!" Bodie's voice was rough, vocal cords stretched to their limits.

"Ray, forchristsake, where are you?" Bodie tripped this time, falling heavily, the big branch almost completely hidden under the snow. He cursed loudly. Eyes closed, head bowed, he rested on his knees and hands, like a dog. "Ray...." His lips barely moved, murmuring the name over and over.

The sound of the helicopter shook him, and he slowly got back to his feet. He looked at the river for a while, then turned on his heels and started to climb up the slope. His eyes glanced around one last time, his chest heaving with each forced breath. He moved his feet forward, through the snow, then stopped. And looked at his left. Squeezing his eyes, trying to see the best he could with the almost completely faded daylight, he searched the bank.

Something. Anything. Bodie gasped. Shaking his head, trying to clear his vision by rubbing his sleeve over his eyes, he started to move slowly towards his left, then faster and faster, trying to run on the thick snow, trying to fly on it, balancing his heavy body as best he could, arms splayed open at his sides, his eyes fixed and focused on one shape, just another mound of snow, maybe, only shaped differently, perhaps by the wind, or perhaps by the big trunk against which it was resting.

Bodie threw himself on the ground. A sharp, short branch protruding from the trunk scratched his left cheek, the drops of blood the only colour on his skin. His hands attacked the snow relentlessly, digging and hoping. He kept pushing the snow away, in silence, slowly discovering a dark coat, a sleeve, a hand, then more, shoulders, chest, groin, legs, head lolling lifeless against his own shoulder as he took the body in his arms, cradling it, before resting it against the trunk again, his r/t pressed against his own lips, giving their location, then swiftly taking off his own jacket and putting it around the man's shoulders, and holding him tight, tight, against his own body.

Bodie worked silently, quickly, checking Doyle for injuries. His questing fingers found a wet spot, blood almost dry from a shoulder wound, not too serious, clean shot, bullet out from the back. He pressed on the wound anyway, then positioned himself against the trunk, Doyle lying against him, enfolded by Bodie's arms and legs, trying to share some warmth.

"C'mon, Ray, let me feel it, hey?" Bodie murmured, checking for a pulse. "What do you want, to become a snowman? White doesn't suit you, mate." Index and forefinger pressed on the tender, exposed neck. "Too virginal, for one." Bodie kept babbling, nonsense words rushing in to fill his mouth, holding the rest inside. "C'mon, Ray, don't make it harder, eh, sunshine?" His fingers stilled on Doyle's neck, and Bodie rested his head on Doyle's, face completely covered and hidden in the wet curls. He closed his eyes, the exhalation from his lungs as painful as the knife he remembered so well. Bodie's arms went round his partner, hugging him gently, but firmly.

The helicopter hovered above them, tracking the site, then disappeared quickly.

"Hold on, Ray. Help's on the way...." Bodie adjusted their position. The trunk was cold and wet against his back. He shivered and shuddered, the thick poloneck he was wearing not protecting him against the cold of the night. He massaged Doyle's body as best as he could, arms and hands and legs.

"C'mon, breathe steadily, okay? 's not difficult, in and out, in and out...."

Now, in the dark, everything seemed quieter. Only Bodie's murmurs didn't stop.

"Don't do this to me, Ray. Okay? Fight a little more. For me? Please? Breathe, slowly, okay?" The body in his arms twitched and trembled. Bodie held on, arranging them so he could see Doyle's face, Doyle's head resting in the crook of his elbow. "Ray...?"

Murphy yelled, somewhere behind the trees. Bodie bellowed in answer, urging them on. His eyes went back to look at Doyle, only to find green, hazy pupils staring back at him. Bodie couldn't speak right away, and had to swallow twice before he could. He was shivering continuously, now. "Ray? Can you hear me?" It was just a whisper. Doyle's eyelids, frail and so pale, lowered once, very slowly.

"You're doing fine, mate. Help is on the way." Bodie devoured with his eyes the face of the man held in his arms, searching for a sign of comprehension.

White lips moved without a sound, then tried again. "...cold...."

"I know, Ray. Won't be for long, okay? Hold on, fight it."

"...no...more...fight...."

"No. No, Ray, no more. No more fights." Doyle's body stiffened and shook violently for a few seconds. "Ray?" Bodie tightened his grip around Doyle. "Ray! Ray! Talk to me. C'mon, talk to me, Ray, please talk to me, please, please Ray please, don't do this to me, mate, Ray, don't do this...." Bodie heard the rescue team moving closer. He called them loudly, giving them directions without taking his eyes off Doyle, rubbing him as hard as he could, the heavy body in his arms so similar to a broken doll.

"Ray...please, don't do this to me...please...." Bodie kept repeating the same words, over and over.

Doyle's eyes opened again. "Don't...go...way...."

"I'm not going anywhere without you, Ray. Where would I go, hey? Listen to me. I am not leaving you, not living without you, you understand? So keep on fighting, okay? Ray? You understand?"

"...not...withou...me...."

"No. Together, Ray. You and I, together. And you know what? I don't care who you fuck, as long as I'm in the picture, too." Bodie's eyes glanced towards the edge of the slope, where finally lights and men and leashed dogs were appearing. "Over here!" he yelled. "Move!" He looked back at Ray, both pale and shivering now, Doyle's skin bluish and grey all over. "Help's here. Hang on, mate."

"...fuck...you...."

"What?" Bodie wasn't sure he had heard correctly.

"...told you...don't wan' any...others...."

They stared intensely at each other. Bodie lifted a hand, shaking fingers cupping Doyle's face. "I never listen to you, do I?" he whispered. "Sorry." Bodie's teeth were by now chattering so loudly that he couldn't hear Doyle's reply. He lowered his head near the trembling lips.

"You dumb...wh...took you so...lo...." Doyle didn't speak anymore. But his lips compressed and for a second, or even less, brushed Bodie's earlobe. Bodie hid his face against Doyle's chest, his arms now firmly locked around Doyle.

The rescue team, Murphy running ahead of the others, reached them.

-- THE END --

Originally published in Roses and Lavender 4, Allamagoosa Press, February 2001