People in glass houses shouldn't throw stones. And how many black friends did he have, anyroad?

There was Jax.

But was he a friend? Really?

Facing facts, he had to admit that he could count his friends, of any colour, on the fingers of one hand. How many of the old crowd did he still call on? And after a day with Murph and Anson and the rest, how many would he have a meal with or watch the match with?

Bodie. Just the one. So if he's so bloody racist, why spend every free minute with him? Why not just tell him where to stuff it and be done with him?

Because he's your partner, he answered himself, getting out a glass. Because a little of that same intolerance had kept them both alive more times than he could count. Because he's a right to be racist after Africa, doesn't he? Maybe not a right, but he could understand, couldn't he? Yeah, he could, because he knew what it was like, fighting not to sink beneath the shit in Liverpool, and he knew enough to know it was a miracle that Bodie survived to be the man he was, as good as he was, and not out killing blokes in pub brawls... killing them for Queen and Country instead....

And that was it, wasn't it? The job made it acceptable.... Because you didn't get to pick him, and now you're his, for better or worse, and if the worst of it is a few hateful remarks about flash cars and spades, you can bloody well live with that.

Because face it, Raymond, you can't live without him at this point, can you?

He shook his head, reaching for the scotch and setting it down again, unpoured. None of those were reason enough to drink, except for the last, and he wanted to figure that one out while he was still sober.

Because I can't live without him. 'Cause it's true. Watches my back, doesn't he?

And if he didn't, someone else would. Professional courtesy and Cowley's law. Look out for your own, imperfect though they may be.

He laughed, bitterly, picking the scotch back up again and pouring out a double. Imperfect, hell. Because you love him.

Fuck it, he decided, refusing to follow that line of thought any further while sober, not at all surprised that it led there, in the end, as most of his contemplations of Bodie did.

Bodie and his failings were best considered while thoroughly smashed, if they were to be considered at all. And his assets? Best not considered at all, drunk or sober.

Slugging down the first glass, then the second, he made a point of not looking at his reflection in the window of the flat. It was dark tonight, wet and cold and the perfect bloody end to a perfect bloody ordinary day in London.

Ordinary save for their being off for the weekend, and not even on standby, because Bodie had to recuperate, didn't he?

And what better medicine than your own private nurse tending to you?

He poured another, his fourth by his count, and it wouldn't be his last tonight.

Bodie's assets were best not considered at all, drunk or sober, but he already knew that in another drink, maybe two, he'd be considering them at length -- about six inches, if he could get it up after this much booze.

Fucking clich. Glass houses. What the hell did that mean to someone who made a living killing people and then masturbating alone in his partner's flat?

Bringing the bottle with him to the bedroom, he caught his own image in the darkened glass, a small remote figure weaving slightly, slightly grotesque with the water sliding behind it.

Looking past himself, he stared out at the street for a minute before he realised that he was waiting

-- hoping -- for Bodie to pull up to the building. But Bodie was probably well on his way to getting a leg over with the black nurse.

Too complicated, that was, and he didn't have the heart to figure Bodie out when he couldn't even figure himself out.

Setting the glass on the side table he picked up the bottle and drank directly from it, realising suddenly that his plans for the evening no longer included even his own hand. They were both fucked up. Deserved each other, didn't they? Cowley was right. Their own mobile ghetto was a bit too close for anyone to throw a stone without hitting the other square between the eyes.

On that thought, he slid down onto the bed -- Bodie's bed -- listening to the rain outside coming down harder now, with the occasional flash of lighting brightening the room. Closing his eyes, he was asleep long before Bodie's car pulled up outside, and he was too drunk to be awakened by Bodie's quiet knock, or the metal clatter of keys in the door as Bodie let himself in and settled onto the sofa.

---

He woke to the sound of the shower running, and for a moment he thought it was the rain, still coming down. Then the door swung open and Bodie was standing there wearing only a towel and a huge grin, smug and damp and dangerously gorgeous.

Ray moaned softly, pulling up the ugly fur spread and wishing him away. When he next opened his eyes, Bodie was still there, having brought his damp, pale body closer, sitting wetly on the side of the bed and pulling at the bed cover until Ray had to look up and face him.

"Ta very much for leaving me the sofa."

"Sod off," Ray answered, not in the mood.

"Didn't get much sleep. Had a night of it. She was a real raver."

Ray didn't respond, sure it wouldn't matter if he did or didn't care to hear the details of Bodie's latest conquest.

"Shoulda seen her, sunshine. All..." Bodie made a curving gesture over the bed and continued, his smug smile broadening, his eyes going to slits as he told the tale. "Had a nice arse, she did. Let me put it... eh, you still asleep?"

Ray opened his eyes again at the elbow digging into his ribs, knowing there was no fighting it. "How was she then?" he prompted, grudgingly

Bodie nodded, smile back again. "She was brilliant. Fantastic."

"Seeing her again?"

"'aven't decided. Might save her for special occasions. Need a piece of dark meat -- ow! What was that in aid of?"

"If you haven't -- look, I don't have to listen to it and I won't listen to it. She's a person, not an animal."

"She's a bird," Bodie said blithely, as if that settled the matter. Then he added, as if for good measure, "Didn't see her in bed, did you?"

Ray looked at Bodie, really looked at him, and he realised that he was right -- he didn't need to listen to this. And he didn't need to drink himself to sleep to make this palatable. Wasn't good for either of them.

"You'll have the bed tonight. The flat to yourself." He shoved Bodie aside and got out of bed, heading for the bath.

"Eh, where you going to sleep then?"

"Rather get a room than listen to you go on."

Bodie blinked and then his eyes went hard and Ray looked away. "Like that, is it?"

"Yeah. It is," Ray agreed, not sure he knew how it was, but sure now that he needed some time away from his partner before he said something irrevocable, in hate or love or something between those things.

In the shower, washing away the stink of booze and sweat and bad temper, he could taste the words he couldn't say to Bodie -- daren't say -- and they were bitter on his tongue.

---

"Right, sir. Four-thirty. Got that. Yes. Yeah. Nothing so far."

So far. And nothing likely tomorrow, or the next day. An obbo was bad enough, but this one was threatening to go on for the whole week and Cowley might as well've put two of the B squad on it for all the action they were likely to see.

He shut off his r/t with a sigh and sat down heavily on the sagging bed. Bodie was in the corner chair, one hand holding onto his headphones, the other peeling at a bit of paper that left a yellow trail of glue behind on the bare wall. The bedsit was clean, at least, but the bed was a narrow double with barely enough room for one to sleep comfortably, and certainly not enough for himself and Bodie, who liked to sleep with his arms flung out to either side of his bulk, not caring who his bedpartner was.

No, Bodie was probably just doing it to get up his nose. Was probably a gentleman if his bedpartner was a bird. Probably kept his hands to himself in that case.

And his stories, which were getting progressively dirtier the longer they stayed here, and which Ray was finding it harder not to laugh at, despite being angry still at Bodie for being... well, for being Bodie.

He shook his head, deciding that was the problem right there. Bodie was Bodie, and he was still not sure how he felt about that. It'd be easier if he could bring himself to stay angry and righteous, but he couldn't. Even the Cow didn't have the energy or will it took to ignore Bodie when he poured on the charm.

Bodie was a paradox, all right. A moron at the best of times. And the worst? Ray looked around the dingy room, trying to decide if this ranked as the worst. Bodie'd told his last story and they were waiting for someone to bring 'round the take away. Ray knew Bodie had gone silent for the last half hour as some test, to see if he'd pick up the double act. But he held his tongue, not ready to give in just yet. Let Bodie do all the work tonight. And tomorrow. He'd get the picture, if you filled in enough of the lines. He was a paradox, but not an idiot.

Bodie sneezed and snuffled quietly, not quite suffering in silence. Normally, he was a right bear when he was sick with the 'flu. He'd sneeze on you and then say, "Oh, sorry about that. Could you get me a cuppa?" all innocence as he crumpled up tissues all over your flat.

But he was on his best behaviour since Ray'd taken his kit and moved to a room rather than listen to him talk rubbish. Now he was sulking when he wasn't being paid attention to, but not whingeing about it. Yeah, he was intolerable if you didn't have endless reserves of patience, which Ray had to admit he did not.

But, he considered, Bodie could also be the best person to have around when your wallet was empty and you needed a pint. And yeah, he was a racist, but he was also the bloke who poured you into a car at the end of the night, regaling you with stories that would make a Marine blush. He was ugly if you got too close and knew too much about him, but he was bloody gorgeous when he had a mind to be.

Not that he was gorgeous now. The beating he'd taken had left him weaker than he'd admit to, and he'd been out of hospital only a week when the cold took hold. His nose was a bit red at the end, his eyes a little teary, and he was paler than usual.

Ray almost felt sorry for him, but not sorry enough. Bodie was not sorry enough. Was bloody well unrepentant, in fact. Said as much to Cowley -- that you could call a spade a black man, but it didn't make him any lighter, did it? Had said it belligerently, and had meant it.

And Ray'd kept quiet, had left it to Cowley to disapprove and hadn't brought it up again, had even played along when Bodie'd mimed the Cow's stern chiding. But it was wearing at him, and he knew it would come to blows if this kept up.

An explosive sigh, followed by another snuffle broke his reverie and he looked up to find Bodie'd set down his headphones. "Your turn being the eyes and ears of England."

He checked his watch and got up, switching places with Bodie, who took the bed with a thump that threatened the short life of the springs. The bed creaked a few more times behind him and he didn't look back to see if Bodie had fallen asleep until he'd been at the window recording no movement for fifteen minutes and the scintillating fact that the bloke across the way was watching a black and white film on the telly that Ray had seen but couldn't remember the name of. He turned to ask Bodie if he knew it, but stopped when Bodie caught his eye and grinned at him, reminding him that he was angry with him and not planning on encouraging idle chatter that might let Bodie think all was well.

But, with the movie winding down and still unable to remember its name, he finally gave in. "Oi."

"Hmm?"

"Bogie and Edward G. Robinson."

"Hurricanes?"

"Maybe. It's raining. And Lauren Bacall."

"Key Largo."

"'s what I thought," he said, not having thought anything of the kind. He hadn't even been sure that it had been Bacall, as she'd had only a few lines toward the end of the film.

"Was a good one. Still on, is it?"

"Nah. Just ended."

"Like the bit at the end when the Coast Guard patches 'im through and she thinks he's dead."

Ray nodded, raising the field glasses again and seeing that the lights had gone out. He listened quietly and heard the telly shut off and then soft snores following. He sighed, deciding that this was the worst obbo ever. The subject, if he was a terrorist, seemed intent on catching up on kip every other hour. Earlier, Bodie'd mused that the bloke probably had sleeping sickness.

Ray was yawning in sympathy when the doorbell rang. The food arrived and he set up the card table, unpacking foil trays and napkins and handing the larger ones off to Bodie.

Looking up over his lo mein, Ray finally couldn't resist. "Sad, the way the Indians thought her father'd betrayed them."

"Wot?"

"At the end, they were shot -- ?"

"Fugitives," Bodie mumbled, around a mouthful of food.

"Shot for a crime they didn't commit."

"Escaped from prison, didn't they? Did something wrong, an' they paid for it."

Ray shrugged, not having paid enough attention to the plot to argue, and finding himself surprised that Bodie didn't rise to the bait. He was bored and irritable and sick of dancing 'round it. "Still," he added, meaningfully.

"Still what?"

"Still, the copper had it in for them for being Indian."

"You trying to say something?"

"Just making conversation."

"Talk about something else then."

"Right."

But he didn't, eating quickly and tossing out the remainder in the bin. He looked around, checking his watch and finding it was just past six and the relief wasn't due till eight. He pulled out a pack of cards, setting them up on the table and starting a game of Patience, keeping his back to Bodie and not looking back again until he heard the laboured snores. Then, taking his eyes off the flat where their mark slept, he looked at Bodie, taking in the long lashes fluttering against pale cheeks, the blanket pulled up over his chin, the large mound of blanket rising and falling as Bodie took deep breaths through his mouth, his nose too congested now to do him much good. He got up and straightened the blanket out, careful not to wake the man and too aware of his own tender feelings toward him to be comfortable with the gesture. Two more hours and he could go home to his own flat, the burst pipe now mended. Alone to his own bed, for eight hours, then back here again.

But the two hours passed quickly and when Murphy knocked at the door, waking Bodie, their eyes met and he realised he'd been watching him sleep the whole time.

---

"Two more bloody days of this and I'll be ready to tuck him in myself."

Ray nearly laughed. Another day nearly over and they'd already turned on the standard lamps. He hadn't expected the Cow had any good news, but apparently Bodie still lived in hope of a reprieve. Two days were just as likely to turn into three, then four more. The narcoleptic had taken in a guest, this one an insomniac gun-runner who liked to stay up late reading romances and drinking what looked like expensive scotch. Ray had taken to tracking the man's reading for want of anything else to do. He was on chapter five of the latest Barbara Cartland. The narcoleptic and the insomniac rarely talked, but the Cow had decided that this might be something big, though he wouldn't relay how or why he knew that, only insisting that they keep their ears open.

Hard to do, as Bodie seemed to have recovered from his cold in record time and was now filling in a stack of crosswords and bothering him for all the clues he couldn't get himself.

"You what?" He'd missed the last clue, stopping to scribble down a name and address. "Hang on." He called it into HQ and left the message, then turned back to Bodie.

"I said, 'Makes mountains out of molehills.' Three letters and it's not C-O-W."

"Ant."

"No -- Oh. Right, then." Bodie erased a line and scribbled the word in. Ray shook his head. Bodie could quote lines of Hamlet off the top of his head and couldn't finish a crossword by himself. "Any action?"

"Sleepy lost a bet to the other and is trying to double it. Hang on.... He's not having any of it. Fifty -- fifty pounds. Christ. All on a horse."

"Christ on a horse," Bodie repeated, picking up his eraser and rubbing at the paper again.

"Now Wakey is putting on the tea. One -- no, two sugars for Sleepy, an' one for himself. Think I should make a note of that?"

"Yeah. Do. We can serve 'em properly in interrogation."

"If we pick them up."

"Oh, we'll nab them. And then...." Bodie set his paper down, stretching out on the bed and grabbing another biscuit from the tin. They'd had dinner an hour ago, but Bodie was still and always hungry, or maybe just bored.

"Then what?"

"Then, I'm going to pull a bird so hard 'er feathers'll stand on end."

"Going to call on the nurse?"

Bodie looked at him warily, then smiled. "Might at that. Took it up the --"

"Now Sleepy's pouring out a second cuppa."

"Jealous, Raymond?" Bodie said, trailing biscuit crumbs down his shirtfront.

He didn't answer, scribbling down the licence of a car that had just pulled up. The sky was clear and the moon made it startlingly bright outside, so he only had to squint a little to see the numbers. "Company."

Bodie got up off the bed and stood behind him at the window. They both watched as a tall black man carrying what might've been a gun case rang the doorbell. Sleepy answered and they both stepped inside. Ray listened as the two men exchanged pleasantries and then moved into the kitchen where Wakey turned the topic to the bet Sleepy had lost. After ten minutes of an argument about the merits of betting on long shots, Ray handed the headphones to Bodie and stepped back to the bed, picking up a half-filled crossword and an eraser.

"Curiouser and curiouser," Bodie murmured.

"Somethin' interesting?"

"Now what's a black man doing with Michael Reading and Jack Kilhearne?"

"Talking 'bout the horses?"

"Are they?"

Ray looked up, setting down the papers. "They -- fuck!"

"Exactly, old son." And then Bodie was on the line with HQ, feeding Cowley a long list of names and numbers that could've been a racing form, but which, in the proper order, when fed into the mainframe, would return something else. It was a pattern, and Bodie had cracked it. A regular idiot savant.

"Right sir. Thank you, sir. We'll be ready." Bodie hung up, clearly pleased with himself. "Drugs."

"That what he say?"

"Not yet. But it's likely. The spade's John Pierce."

Ray nodded, too wrapped up in what that might mean to bother correcting Bodie now. A high man on the drug hierarchy talking horses with two suspected IRA members. Drugs, guns, and a list of names and numbers.

"Might not be drugs. Could be a hit."

Bodie shook his head. "Why's Pierce there, then?"

"Mebbe he's branching out. Wouldn't be the first."

Bodie nodded and pointed to the window as Pierce and Kilhearne came within sight of the first floor window facing the street. Ray got up and watched them stand by the front window, framed by the parted drapery, still talking. "Reading's in the kitchen washing up." He'd left his Cartland novel open on the chair.

"What're they --" Ray swallowed his question as he watched Pierce lean in toward Kilhearne and, even without the aid of Bodie's field glasses, he could see the two men were no longer discussing the races, and if this were a plot on the side, it was clearly developed past the point of discussion. He suddenly felt he should look away, the intimate moment broken when Bodie swore under his breath, setting the field glasses down on the window seat with a hard thump. Ray reached for them, bringing them up to his face before he could stop himself. The two men were still kissing, lit by a nearby lamp, the room behind them falling into shadows. Of course they were still kissing, what had felt like minutes had only been a few stunned seconds, hadn't they?

It wasn't as if he'd never seen two men kiss before, but never like this, in the open, in front of a window.... And one of them black, his mind supplied. They didn't know they were being watched. With the glasses, he could see their open mouths pressed together, dark against pale. He looked away, finally, turning toward Bodie, who was watching him, had been watching him ogle the two men at the window.

"That turn you on, does it?" Bodie said, his face hard, his lips pulled into an unattractive smile.

Ray blinked at him, realising with a start that hell, yes, it had turned him on. The two men were both handsome enough, their hands on each other's hips, shoulders, and in the background the clatter of water rushing over dirty dishes as the third man, Reading, washed up. Did he know? Did it matter?

It might, at that. This could be relevant to the op, but now he could only think about the other question, the one that seemed to hang between himself and Bodie, still unanswered -- that ugly expression still twisting Bodie's face into a scowl.

"An' what if it does?" he answered, finally, his voice a bit too rough, still not in control of it.

"It's sick, that's what."

He stared hard at Bodie, wanting to know what he meant, but suddenly not wanting to ask. Was it two men or the black man with his hands -- his lips on the other man, his tongue invading Kilhearne's mouth, his dark fingers tangled in red hair.... Pierce. His name was John Pierce.

"Bothers you, does it? Always thought you mercs were broad-minded about such things."

"Bloody hell, Ray, it does turn you on, dunnit!" Bodie said, sounding surprised, his pale face colouring a bit.

"Seen men kiss before," Ray answered, feeling defensive, suddenly, and not sure how this had turned round to be about him. It was Bodie who was the racist, making a fuss about this. Mountains out of molehills.

Bodie got up and walked toward him and Ray took a step backwards, stopping when his booted heel hit the wall. With one eye on the window, reminding himself guiltily that the conversation across the street was being recorded, he put his attention back to his partner, who was standing close to him now, in his space, deliberate.

"Have you?" Bodie's voice was soft, threatening, the tone he got when he was angry, really bloody furious, the voice that made men step away if they knew what was good for them.

Ray faced him, not following the conversation any more. "No different than a man and a woman," he said, not convinced of that, really. It would be different, wouldn't it, if he closed the distance, reached out and pulled Bodie toward him, sealing his mouth over the fine line of his partner's mouth, prying open his lips and sucking in his tongue.

He gasped in a bit more air, breaking away from Bodie's stare to look out the window again, seeing Pierce getting into his car.

"We have a tail on him," Bodie said, absently.

Kilhearne had gone back to the living room and turned on the telly, and Ray, distracted, could hear the sounds of a travel programme filter through the headphones resting on the window seat beside him.

"You fucked her. She had her mouth all over you, didn't she?"

He didn't say who, and Bodie didn't answer him, picking up the r/t and notifying HQ that Pierce had left the building. The call was late, the tail already following him. Bodie set the r/t down again and cleared his throat.

"Don't try tellin' me you can't see the difference between that and -- and -- this," Bodie responded as if they hadn't been interrupted, waving his hand toward the window as if the two men were still there, in plain sight, hands and mouths engaged.

"Kilhearne's got better taste." The words slipped out and Bodie stepped back and before Ray could prepare, the blow came hard at his belly, and he was stunned for a second, leaning back and holding onto the window frame, trying not to sink to his knees, trying to force the air back in his lungs. Then he was up and landed a blow to Bodie's much softer belly, grinning a bit madly when he heard Bodie groan, unconcerned when Bodie didn't fall and took another swing at him.

He got in close, risking it because Bodie's blows were dampened at close range, when he couldn't throw his full weight behind them. Landing a cutting left to Bodie's face, he felt the wet warmth of blood as Bodie's lower lip split against his teeth, and he followed Bodie to the bed as he fell, the momentum of his swing bringing him down on top of Bodie.

Before he could scramble off again, he was trapped in a bear hug by Bodie, who pulled him closer, bringing him down, and Ray had just enough time to see that Bodie's eyes were wide, his pupils dilated, his breath coming in harsh pants, and then he was tasting blood on his tongue, Bodie's mouth hard against his own, devouring him.

He pushed back down against him, struggling to get out of Bodie's hold, not relaxing a bit into that kiss although he knew that Bodie would let go of him if he did. Instead, he continued to struggle, moaning as his hips ground against Bodie's, feeling their erections coming together and then he heaved, digging his elbow into Bodie's side and then he was free, Bodie's arms letting go of him, surprising him.

He stood up, stepping back from the bed, stunned and wincing still at his injuries. Bodie'd not pulled his punches, and he could feel that he had narrowly missed cracking a rib. He wiped a hand across his mouth and it came away bloody. He stared at the bed, at Bodie, who was still lying on his back, breathing hard, who wasn't looking at him but continued to stare up at the ceiling.

"Fuck. Christ."

"On a bleedin' horse," Bodie agreed, quietly, so that Ray almost missed it.

"On a horse," he repeated, wonderingly, too aroused to be angry, too confused to say anything more. "Fuck."

They were on duty. They should've been at the window, listening, watching, not fucking around -- Almost fucking.

Cowley would throw them off the mob if he found out, Ray thought, inanely, not sure whether that wasn't the last thing to be worrying over right now, with Bodie still on the bed, both of them still hard, as if their bodies didn't yet know that it -- whatever that had almost been -- was well over now.

Not here. He shook his head to clear it. Not fucking here, on the job, in the middle of a bloody op. Not here and not like this. As if he had a choice. As if he was God or the Cow, who could decide when the hell this happened. If it happened. He moaned, holding his arm across his front as if that alone could ease the ache in his gut, the pain that was higher, like his heart was in a vise, the air still being squeezed out of him by Bodie's strong, unyielding arms.

Fuck him. Fucking fucking racist fuck. Oh, it was happening. Too late to stop it now, wasn't it? He checked his watch. An hour to go. An hour till their relief came. He walked to the window, not saying anything, not trusting himself to say anything.

Bodie complied, keeping his mouth shut for once, and they waited each other out, the seconds ticking by, only the sound of Reading turning his bloody book to the next chapter, until finally, Murphy knocked at the door, his eyes widening slightly as he took in their dishevelment and the blood on Bodie's shirtfront. But he wisely didn't comment and they slipped by him. As Bodie started down the stairs, Murphy tapped his shoulder, opening his mouth, but Ray shook his head, and Murph nodded, heading for the windowseat and picking up his r/t to call in his first report.

Ray started down the stairs, meeting Bodie at his car, wishing they'd taken separate cars, getting in quietly and not protesting when Bodie turned the car sharply onto the road with a squeal that was too loud and might've brought their target to the window. Fucked up the op already, didn't we?

He sighed, eyes locked forward, ignoring the man beside him as best he could, hanging on as they took the corners too fast.

They were too soon pulling up in front of his flat, and he wasn't at all surprised when he heard Bodie's car door open and shut, nor the sharp click of Bodie's shoes behind him on the stairs.

---

It was only when he heard the door shut behind him, heard Bodie keying in the locks, that he turned around to glance at his partner, noting the tense set of his shoulders, the way he was pulled up and ready as if anticipating another round of blows.

Too tired. Too bloody tired for that, mate, he thought, heading to the cabinet and pouring out two large drinks, taking his own to the window and leaving the other on the table for Bodie to take or leave.

"Don't like me much, do you?"

Ah, no, mate. Like you far too much is the problem.

"Don't have to, though."

"'Course, always knew you were too good for this mob. Got it all figured out, don't you. But you don't know what you want, that it? Don't know whether to fuck me or read me my rights, eh copper?" Bodie sneered the last word, making it a curse, making it sound worse than a spade or a whore, and he steeled himself, reminding himself that this was almost over.

"That the best you can do?" He didn't turn 'round to face Bodie, not biting this time. No. He'd had time now to think this through, the whole ride home, and he was sure of one thing, now. Bodie had a lot to answer for, and he wasn't going to let Bodie do this to him. Bad enough what happened. Bad enough that the partnership may as well be over now. Too bloody pointless is what this was.

"Go home, Bodie."

But in the window he could see that Bodie was not leaving, was, in fact, taking off his jacket, his fingers hovering at his chest. He could see Bodie look down at his stained shirt, then shrug, unbuttoning it quickly. He paused then, as if not sure, but, eyes now up and fixed on the window, so that Ray felt as if they were on him now, Bodie pulled off his shirt, sliding it down his arms. In reflection, Bodie's body seemed as white as the shirt, pale as milk, and Ray swallowed, feeling the pain return, a dull throb in his chest, behind his ribs. He took another drink, waiting for the fire of the booze to ease past his tightening throat. When it didn't, he turned around.

Bodie stood before him, stripped to the waist, his fine skin pale and unmarked except for a bit of dried blood near his throat and a fine line of black hair that arrowed to his belt. He had, over the years, been fighting his own body's tendency towards softness, and Ray suddenly realised that if they were lucky, if they were really bloody lucky, they'd both live to see Bodie lose that war, go soft and fat and grey. And he felt his heartbeat fast, his throat tighten as his vision blurred a bit, but then he swallowed the start of tears, continuing to watch Bodie carefully, amazed that he would just stand there and be looked at like this, evaluated, and for once his expression wasn't smug or confident.

But neither was it shy. He looked, in fact, like he might never move from this spot unless pushed, and Ray knew that he could push him. The wrong word, and Bodie would go home.

He cleared his throat, preparing to find the right words, but Bodie spoke first, his hands at his sides clenching into fists, "Who the hell are you to judge me?"

He took another drink, draining the glass and walking past Bodie to pour another, coming within inches of him as he passed. Holding the bottle up, he glanced to see that Bodie hadn't yet taken his own glass, so he turned and brought both glasses back with him, holding out Bodie's to him and waiting for Bodie to take it.

The glass held out between them for a few seconds before Bodie raised an eyebrow and took it, not taking a drink, holding it down by his side. Ray took another sip of his own drink, casually leaning up against the doorway to the next room. "Who else is there?"

Bodie sighed, letting out a deep breath and Ray watched as his posture relaxed. Bringing the glass to his still-reddened lips, he took a drink, swallowing. Ray watched his throat move, eyes narrowing to that spot of dried blood marring the skin that was already shadowing with stubble. "I'm going to get cleaned up."

"Right."

Bodie brushed past him, closing the door to the loo and Ray listened to the rushing sound of water as the shower started. Setting his glass down, unfinished, he walked to the bedroom, stripping his clothes off and tossing them in a pile in the corner of the room. He sat down on the bed, feeling numb and not drunk enough. Bodie would come out any minute now and he hadn't the slightest idea how to resolve this.

And then suddenly he tipped back his head and laughed, surprised that he heard no bitterness, felt no bitterness in his own voice. Bloody Bodie. Couldn't let it end, couldn't let him off that easily. Couldn't let him be right, just this once, without mucking it up, making him doubt himself. Racist, he was, and it was ugly, that. But who was he to judge him? Turned on by black on white, turned on by Pierce and by the nurse who let Bodie take her from behind, if you believed him, and yes, Ray found that he had believed him, and had carried that image of Bodie thrusting up into her, and that that turned him on, because she was black, and he shook his head, wondering if Bodie was right, if he had any right to talk.

But no, he did. He did because he was here, his head a muddle that took the edge off his hunger, clouding the need and want, dampening his desire with the home truths he didn't much like to know.

The Sun will never set. He laughed, harder, a bit bitter, this time, but God, what a bloody joke it was. Glass houses with mountains inside them and he looked out the window, his laugh fading to a chuckle as he saw that yes, the sun had set. The night was pitch and the moon had found a home behind the clouds that had started to gather as they drove from the bedsit to his flat.

By the time Bodie got out of the shower, stepping out in a towel, the water glistening over his skin, now clean and slightly pink from scrubbing, it had started to rain outside.

"C'mere."

Bodie walked over to him, stopping a foot away from him, his face serious. Ray reached over and turned on the lamp, wanting to look at him, wanting to see him well enough to catch every imperfection, every flaw.

"Cowley'll kill us, you know."

"If we don't do the job for him first," Bodie answered, a hand coming up and rubbing his injured lip lightly. Then he grinned, wryly." Your left's a bit weak."

"Sod off." Ray scooted up farther onto the bed, resting back against the headboard, aware now that Bodie was smiling again, those blue eyes fixed on him, that he was naked. "Take that off."

Bodie unknotted the towel, which slid off his hips to the floor. A little self-consciously, awkward undressed as he never was in his clothes, Bodie moved to the bed, sitting on the edge of it.

"Closer." Ray motioned with his hand, his voice rough and deep with want, desire flaring up in him, remembering too well the feel of Bodie pressed against him, the familiar smell of him, the taste of him in his mouth, copper and spit and the smooth silk of his lips next to the rough skin of his cheeks.

But Bodie had shaved, his skin now smooth again, and he smelled of Ray's shampoo, his skin drying but the hair at his groin still damp, droplets of water clinging to his black curls there, his foreskin pulling back already and one fine pearl of moisture at the tip of Bodie's cock, thick and hard and standing up against his belly.

"You're fucking beautiful."

"Not unattractive yourself, for a self-righteous golly."

"Don't call me that." He winced, suddenly feeling wrong about that, too, and his easy acceptance of the name.

"Gollywog or self-righteous?" Bodie asked, and Ray blinked, then laughed.

"Both. Either."

"Right, sunshine. Angelfish. Petal."

Ray nodded, pulling Bodie in closer, letting his hands trail across the fine skin, pushing Bodie down roughly onto the bed and then climbing on top of him, letting his hardening cock brush over Bodie's, leaning in to kiss Bodie on the mouth, careful with his torn lip. Bodie deepened the kiss and then pulled away, brushing his lips over Ray's cheeks, lingering on the scarred cheekbone. "I think you're right."

"Hmm." Ray climbed off of Bodie again, sitting beside him and laying kisses starting at his neck. "'m right."

Ray continued his kisses over Bodie's chest, gliding across the thick muscles there, biting down on each nipple. Bodie gasped and then chuckled, "Right. Gollys are -- are -- ow!-- oh -- cuter than you."

Biting down again in answer, Ray sucked apologetically on the reddened nipple then, moving down again, he followed the line of black hair down the soft belly, laying kisses across it then pressing down with his hand into the soft flesh there. Bodie was, he decided, just Bodie. Suave and too gorgeous and knew it, dark and hard, mysterious and dangerous, and large and expansive and generous, and God help the man who thought he could get close to one without ending up with the rest besides.

Continuing to explore, moulding his hands over the hard and soft curves of flesh, the familiar form that lay -- temporarily, he knew -- passive beneath him, he came to the dark curls of hair. He stroked curiously across the triangle of hair, moving down to cup the testicles hanging there, tightening slightly in his hand. He weighed them in his right hand, using his left to grasp the thick cock, pulling and stroking and then leaned down, placing a kiss on the head, tasting and finding Bodie both salty and strangely pleasant, like his first taste of scotch. He held him in his mouth, sucking down the silky head, letting his other hand move back, down between Bodie's legs, over the perineum, and Bodie opened his legs, letting him in.

Bodie moaned loudly as Ray's finger entered him, and Ray only had a moment to thrust in farther, testing the tight ring of muscle there, before he felt Bodie's hands in his hair, forcing him up and off, leading him back up so that they were lying face to face again, and he held himself upon trembling arms, propping himself up over Bodie's body as they kissed again, and then Bodie pulled him down so that he rested with his full weight on Bodie, something he never did with a woman, but Bodie was strong and soft and comfortable beneath him and he knew that whenever he wanted, Bodie could easily throw him off or roll him over.

Beginning to find a rhythm again, they moved against each other a little frantically, and Ray grunted as Bodie's hands bruisingly gripped his arse, cupping him and pressing him down so that their cocks were pressed hard together, and then Bodie broke their kiss, tipping his head back, exposing his throat to Ray's tongue and lips and teeth, and Ray felt the wet plash of come urging him on and he drove his body down and up and down again, grinding against the wet skin and the drag of hair and sobbed in air as his orgasm hit him hard, hard, again and again until he wondered when the hell it would end.

"Been a long time, mate?"

He looked up, exhausted, limp and not seeing the humour in being stuck against his clod of a partner in this state, sure that Bodie'd arranged them both so he would be stuck in the wet spot all night.

"Some of us -- " he began, rearranging their limbs so that Bodie was shifted over, leaving him room and a bit of dry sheet which, he was sure, would be stolen back by dawn, "Some of us --" he tried again, but Bodie interrupted him with a kiss.

"Some of us -"

"...don't get out very often?"

"Sod off."

"Maybe in the morning, love," Bodie said, easing into the bed, flinging out his arms to take up as much of Ray's bed as he could manage without occupying the dead centre of it.

To himself, he muttered, some of us are picky about our bedpartners. But he couldn't say it aloud, and he sighed, knowing that he was not up to the task right now of deciding whether this had been a very good choice at all. The problem with living in glass houses was, come dark, you could find yourself blindly walking into a very hard wall. Yes, he nodded, sleepily, better to live with someone in that house than alone.

And in the morning, they could go about hiding as many of the stones as they could find and hope the rest would work itself out before Cowley authorized another move to new CI5 housing. Glass houses for two could be hard to find, and harder still to keep in this mob.

-- THE END --

Originally published in Motet Opus 3 in B and D, Keynote Press, October 1999