A jigsaw puzzle, Bodie?

What the hell do you mean, a jigsaw puzzle? Just let me at him and I'll make fucking mincemeat of him!

God, I hate getting punched in the nose. The blood's dripping down my lip and it hurts like hell.

The humiliation is the worst part of it, though.

I mean, I just stood there like a right berk and let 'im hit me. Forgot Macklin's motto, didn't I? The one he nicked from the Boy Scouts: be prepared. He'd laugh his socks off if he'd seen that little performance. Then he'd take me away and flay me alive--very slowly.

And I'd deserve it!

One of CI5's so-called finest sitting on the floor bleeding like a stuck pig 'cause it never occurred to me that that bastard might actually hit me over a fucking game of bowls.

How stupid can you get? And I hate being stupid even more than I hate getting punched in the nose. I think I'm madder at me than I am at him, really.

And I'm going to get mad at someone else too in a minute.

Yeah, you, Bodie!

Wrapped around me like a boa constrictor, you are. Practically sitting on me, hissing in my ear about not blowing our cover. Stupid about some things I may be, but I'm not the complete cretin you seem to think I am. I'm the one who's the expert on stakeouts, remember? I'm the one who told you we're supposed to fade into the wallpaper. Okay, maybe I am doing a lousy job of that at the moment, but I never was much good at turning the other cheek. I don't really need you to tell me I have to forego the pleasure of taking 'im apart.

I can always dream, though.

Will you gerroff me, you great lump!

And another thing--will you stop patting me like that for Christ's sake? You'll get me going in a whole different way if I'm not careful, and these jeans are too tight for that sort of thing. I'll do meself a mischief, not to mention giving a whole new meaning to the word 'conspicuous'.

You know what your trouble is mate?

You can be incredibly thick about certain things at times. You don't really have a clue about the way you turn me on, do you?

Be different if I were a bird. Know all about it then you would. You're such a womaniser, Bodie, a real Casanova. You turn that charm of yours on and off like a tap, and they love it. Fall all over them selves, they do, and you lap it up like a big cat with a gallon of cream. Two birds a night and three on Sundays if you're to be believed--although, having seen you in action I don't really think you exaggerate all that much.

Wonder what would happen if you found out how I feel about you?

Probably do your nut!

Although...maybe...

All those birds don't really mean anything to you, do they? 'Tisn't even love-'em-and-leave-'em with you, it's more like use-'em-and-leave-'em most of the time. Gives the impression you're searching for something but can't find it, maybe even getting a bit desperate.

Like I was.

Till you came along.

When I first realised what was happening to me I asked myself where the hell my brains had got to. Me, who'd never even remotely considered another bloke in that way, fancying you--of all people--like it was something that had gone out of fashion and I had just rediscovered it.

Crazy, huh?

I mean, on the face of it, you're not even all that likeable, are you?

Arrogant, big-headed, self-interested, seen-it-all, done-it-all, know-it-all; and then, just to top it off, there's that vicious streak, half a mile wide, that makes you one of the most dangerous men I know when you get angry.

Mr Hard-as-nails, I-don't-give-a-damn-about-anything Bodie.

What was it you told me, the first time we met? "You can't afford to care. If you care, you're dead."

And I believed you. Because you got up my nose something rotten at first, I took you at face value and I swallowed the act hook, line and sinker.

But that's what it is, isn't it, Bodie?

An act.

A faade.

A line of defence, keeping the world at bay.

Oh, don't get me wrong--you do a marvellous job. You deceive ninety-nine per cent of the people one hundred per cent of the time.

Not me, though. You don't fool me any longer.

You slip up now and then, do you know that? Not often, and only in little ways, many of them so small most people fail to notice and even you don't realise it has happened, but when you do you cover up so fast it makes my head spin. You're very good at that: covering up. You've obviously had years of practice at concealing the softer centre inside that hard shell.

What happened to you, Bodie?

What--or who--hurt you so badly that you were forced to retreat inside a fortress of cynicism and unfeeling? Something-or someone--did, I'm certain.

Good job Cowley doesn't believe in the act either. If he did, he wouldn't have you around the place and I would never have met you. Never have got to know you and never been daft enough to fall in love with you.

That's what this is, you know.

Love.

It isn't just me wanting a one-night stand trying out something different. It has nothing to do with my being the randy old toad you often tell me I am. I'll admit it may have started out that way in the beginning, once I'd got over my initial dislike of you, because you have a gorgeous body, mate, and anyone who can't see that or denies it needs his head examined. But it all changed, the more I was around you, the better I got to know you.

I love you, Bodie.

I love you so much it hurts.

Oh, there's still a healthy dose of that animal passion involved. I still lust after you, I wouldn't be human if I didn't, still want to fuck you senseless and have you do the same to me. But surrounding and permeating all of that is love.

I'd die for you.

Anyone trying to hurt you again will have to go through me first.

Soppy, innit? Someone like me loving someone like you like that. Getting all protective over you.

Well, I can't help it. It's the way I feel, the way you've made me feel about you, and I can't do a damn thing about it.

Don't even want to.

All I want, all I need, is for you to love me back in the same way. I know you don't--yet. But I can always hope!

If I don't do something stupid and frighten you off...

If some nutter with a gun doesn't blow one or the other of us away. Maybe on this job, or the next one--or sometime next year...

Because you do care about me, don't you, Bodie? Despite those well-developed, well-honed instincts for self-preservation, I know you have grown to care for me.

It shows, in spite of all your efforts. You watch my back like a bloody hawk when we're on an assignment--and not only because doing so comes with the territory. Oh, I agree it might be explained away as enlightened self-interest: you keep me alive so I can keep you alive, but that story doesn't stand up to closer inspection, sunshine.

It doesn't cover your obvious enjoyment of all the off-duty time we spend together.

It doesn't cover the concern and anger you don't quite succeed in hiding when I get hurt.

It certainly doesn't cover the times you step in to deflect Cowley's annoyance with me onto yourself, nor the pains you take to pull me out of my ill-humour and depression when the job gets to me.

Nor does it cover a dozen other things.

Way I see it, although your actions may not add up to the kind of love I want from you--yet--they certainly make for a hell of a lot of caring.

So I can hope.

And I can wait. For as long as it takes, Bodie.

You know patience has never been my strong point, but for you I'll wait until hell freezes over if necessary, 'cause you're worth waiting for, worth every minute of it.

You're something really special, you know that? Unique, even. You do things to me no one else can do, you make me feel things in a way no one else has ever made me feel anything.

And I want to share those feelings with you, Bodie. I want to breach those defences of yours and heal all the old wounds you've been living with for so long. I want to drive away the hurt and the cynicism, and watch that hard shell melt just for me.

I want you to hold me and I want you to love me, but more than anything else I have ever wanted in my whole life I want you to let me love you.

Oh, God, Doyle, pull yourself together! Soppy isn't the word to describe this. Stop thinking like the sort of lovesick prat Mills 'n' Boon would be proud of, or you'll start acting like one and you'll lose him, even as a partner and a friend.

Don't blow it now, whatever you do.

---

"On stakeouts, Raymond, you are a seven stone weakling. You let other people kick sand in your face."

I don't like the idea, but he's right and I know it. With a reluctant sigh I let most of the tension and anger drain out of me, and the arm slung around my shoulders relaxes slightly.

"I'm a seven stone weakling," I assent wryly.

He half smiles at me, the relief evident in his eyes, pats me on the thigh briskly and stands up. And without missing a beat grabs me by the arm, hauls me to my feet and drags me off to the snack bar, safely out of temptation's way. Knows my temper too well, he does, so he's not taking any chances.

I don't blame him. Just let me get that smug bastard some place less public...

"You okay, mate?"

Half hidden concern hovers on the edge of the casually voiced question.

"'Course I am."

At least the blood has almost stopped dripping, and my nose doesn't hurt half as much now as it did a few minutes ago. The insult to my pride is still much more painful!

There is a brief touch on my shoulder, light and fleeting like a caress and then his hand is withdrawn quickly, almost guiltily. I catch a glimpse of faint puzzlement in his expression before he retreats inside that shell again and turns away from me to order us two Cokes.

Nearly realised what you were doing then, didn't you, Bodie?

Oh, yes...

One of these days it's going to happen.

Maybe even sooner than I think. Or hope.

And when it does, I'll be right here beside you.

Waiting.

-- THE END --