The Professionals Circuit Archive - Born of Fire	 Born of Fire

 

by Ashlea

  
 "Want to talk about it?"

Murphy shoved a coffee under Bodie's nose, as the older man sat pensively
in the corner of the Ops room.

Bodie glanced up as he accepted and sighed inwardly. He had chosen this
particular place at this particular time because it afforded the best
refuge from the usual bustle of the rest of the headquarters block; he
might just as well have gone to Piccadilly Circus.

Murphy dragged up a chair, spun it on one leg and swung astride it, so
that he could lean over the back.

"Something's been bothering you a lot lately. I've noticed. Mac noticed --
you can bet your life Ray's noticed."

"It's nothing," Bodie replied quietly, touched by the concern that had
prompted the other man's action. He met Murph's piercing blue gaze and
managed a credible smile. "I just want to be alone for a while, think
things out..."

The other agent hesitated a moment before nodding and getting to his feet.
He punched Bodie lightly on the arm.

"If you need to talk, you know where I am, mate."

Bodie raised his cup in salute.

"Thanks, Murph."

******

Bodie drove home to his flat and let himself in slowly, thinking about --
things. Christ, he thought, Murph would never have -- I must be slipping
if McCabe has noticed. The worst of it was that he DID need to talk to
someone. Desperately. Someone who understood what an agent went through
daily in the course of their work; somebody who could appreciate what life
in the firing-line was like, who would listen and then impart unbiased
advice. Trouble was, the only people Bodie trusted enough were Cowley and
his partner. He shied at approaching the Controller: it was too private to
involve the Old Man.

Because Doyle was the problem.

Bodie went straight to the drinks cabinet and poured himself a measure of
whisky. He was doing that more frequently these days, he found, but he
felt so miserable, he didn't really care. He tossed the first one straight
off, and took a second glass to the sofa with him, where he threw himself
on the cushions and heaved a heart-felt sigh. Yeah, Ray Doyle was a
problem and Bodie couldn't even begin to solve it.

Sipping slowly, he thought back...

He couldn't say when it had started -- this awareness of Doyle as more
than a friend. Their relationship had been long in the making, tried and
tested in life-or-death situations, tempered by wit. Bodie supposed it
must happen in all teams to a certain degree; spending so much time with
just one person was apt to bring you close to them...but how many of
Cowley's other operatives had landed themselves a partner like Ray
Doyle...From wary beginnings, Bodie had progressed through friendship
until he regarded his colleague as family -- Doyle's very presence was a
form of security and comfort in a life that had had precious little of
either. And then, that night, when he and Ray had gone drinking...They had
wound up on Doyle's sofa -- strong arms, crushing embraces, beer-flavoured
kisses... Bodie had been woken the following morning by his partner's soft
lips against his clammy forehead. He knew he should've laughed it off,
knocked Doyle flat, walked away from it, but the seeds had been sown long
before, and he responded to the gentle touch...

Since then, he and Doyle had gone to each other's flats for drinks and
meals, as usual; but now, they held one another, kissed...And that was
all. Bodie had broached the subject of sex with Doyle several times,
wanting to take their relationship further -- wanting to bed with Doyle,
make love with him...

"It's a hell of a step to take, Bodie, and I'm not sure I could -- I'm
happy with the way things are."

And Bodie had to go along with that, because NOT doing so would cost him
the little piece of Doyle's affection he HAD managed to win, but it hurt
him all the same. It was as if the trust they had developed in their years
together had reached a dead-end, and Bodie didn't know what to do next. He
was confused, needing time to sort out his feelings for his partner...

He took a mouthful of whisky, and closed his eyes.

******

Cowley collared Murphy before the agent went off shift and called him into
the office.

"What's wrong with 3.7?"

"Sir?"

"Och, don't play games, Murphy," snorted Cowley. "Next to 4.5, you're his
closest friend. What wrong with him?"

Murphy met the older man's penetrating look.

"I don't know, sir. I tried to tackle him earlier, but he wouldn't speak
to me. Said he needed some time to sort things out."

"He's put in for leave at the end of this week. I want you to go with him
-- get him to talk..."

"With respect, sir," Murphy began. "I think Doyle would be better at
following him..

"Not following, 6.2, accompanying...and I've got an assignment for Doyle
here in London. Get Bodie out of the city for a few days..

"Yes, sir," replied Murphy, his mind already working on where he could
take his colleague for a long weekend.

******

Bodie felt miserable the following day, and it wasn't all due to the
amount of alcohol he'd drunk the previous night. Doyle hadn't come over,
hadn't called, and Bodie had spent the evening getting steadily tipsier.
He had one more day to work, then -- off for an extra-long weekend. He had
no special plans -- just stay home, and get drunk, he supposed, or wait
until Ray came around.

Bodie was in the car park at the end of his shift when Murphy hailed him
and came sauntering across. Bodie groaned inwardly; he wasn't in the mood
to discuss anything with anyone. The blue eyes that regarded him were
guileless -- Bodie still couldn't reconcile the innocent expression with
the ruthless agent.

"Bodie-mate, I'm off Thursday to do a bit of climbing up in Wales. Mac's
just told me you're on leave, too -- d'you fancy sharing a ledge or two?"

Bodie considered for a moment. Four days in Snowdonia...away from the
city, the squad -- from Doyle...He didn't think he could bear that...

"Thanks, Murph, but I haven't climbed in years. I wouldn't be good
company."

"I wouldn't've asked you if I hadn't wanted you there," smiled the other
man. "Think about it anyway. If you change your mind..."

"I won't," Bodie sighed. "Thanks for the offer

He slid behind the wheel of the Capri and closed the door, his mind on his
partner and what Doyle would say when he found out Bodie had swanned off
without him...

******

Doyle arrived at seven-thirty, barrelling in cheerfully with a bottle of
whisky. He affected not to notice the dark smudges under Bodie's eyes, or
the less-than-scintillating conversation in place of the usual repartee.
The evening ended with them slightly drunk, lying full stretch on the
sofa, their arms around one another. Doyle snuffled into his partner's
neck, warm and sated. Bodie's hand wandered low over his back, sliding to
his buttocks, circling gently.

"Mmmm's nice," murmured Doyle sleepily.

"You like it, then?" purred Bodie, turning his head to kiss the curly mop.
"Could take our clothes off... touch each other properly," he suggested
hopefully.

Doyle's head jerked up and Bodie took one look at the expression on his
partner's face.

"And then you'd take me to bed, right? I told you -- I thought I made it
clear enough for you to understand -- NO!' Doyle pushed himself free of
the firm embrace. "It's getting late -- I'd better go."

He scrambled off the sofa, stood hastily, tucking his shirt into his
jeans, and finger-combing his hair. Bodie followed him to the door in
silence. They didn't even kiss good-night; Bodie felt he'd ruined any
chance he'd had.

He threw himself back on the couch and stared up at the ceiling, searching
for inspiration. Finally, he reached for the phone, and dialled a local
number. The voice that answered was wide-awake and depressingly cheerful.

"Look, Murph, you know that trip over to Wales..."

******

Half-past three Wednesday afternoon, Doyle was called into the
controller's office for a briefing on his next assignment, thereby missing
his partner's early departure with Murphy. By the time he emerged, two
hours later, both men were long gone, out past the city limits on the
motor-way, north and westward-bound in Murph's black Capri.

Bodie watched the other vehicles flick by as the other agent put his foot
down and the car got into her stride. His mind was miles away, back in
London, where a quick-tempered ex-copper named Doyle was probably fuming
at his partner's absence.

Behind the wheel, Murphy was aware of the tension and unhappiness in his
companion, but until Bodie chose to speak about it, he could do nothing
except offer silent support. Murphy had his suspicions, of course, but...

******

Murphy glanced at his watch before he looked down to monitor Bodie's
progress. The other man was climbing steadily towards the ledge where
Murph waited, his face showing concentration, his worries seemingly far
behind him.

The younger man wrinkled his nose, looked up and round. Mountain and sky
coloured his vision, and he filled his lungs with sweet air, remembering
how it had felt to be this free all those years ago on his very first Alp.
Bodie would have loved it, he knew -- appreciated the utter majesty, the
grandeur, the savage peace of it all...Murphy could never put into words
that feeling of love, of oneness, BELONGING to the mountain, but his heart
leapt with joy every time he came to these solitary silent high places
that only wind and eagles haunted...

Bodie levered himself over the edge and came to join his mate. He looked
winded but less preoccupied than he had the previous evening when they
arrived. With a grin, Murphy offered him a piece of chocolate, which was
declined in favour of a few deep breaths.

"Not far now," Murphy promised cheerfully. "How d'you feel?"

"I need a psychiatrist!" grumbled Bodie. "A dozen different climbs, and
you choose THIS one..."

"We'll go back if you want," offered Murphy, having no such intention, and
knowing that Bodie knew it.

Bodie grunted and began to prepare the ropes for the next stage.

They were both ascending steadily, with Murphy leading, when it happened.
Bodie reached for a grip with his hand, and somehow lost his toehold.
There was a brief moment of fear, before anger took its place. Both
useless emotions, he thought philosophically, as he plunged to the limit
of the rope.

"MURPH!" he yelled instinctively.

He felt a thud against his helmet, and a jerk as his descent was checked
sharply. He was left dangling in space, facing up the mountainside,
swaying like a pendulum in the breeze.

"BODIE! BODIE-MATE!"

There was a note of desperation in the other man's voice. Bodie thought
rapidly. I'm too heavy for him to pull me up, and he can't rope off and
get down to me -- I've put him into a no-win situation...didn't want to,
never meant to hurt him -- good mate is our Murph...To Bodie's mind, which
was going into shock, the only thing he could do was sacrifice his own
life to save his partner's...

He slipped the pocket knife into his hand and looked up. Even across the
distance, Bodie could read the other man's expression perfectly, and he
smiled, suddenly calm in the face of his decision. There was only one
thing he needed of Murphy.

"Murph," he called. "'s okay. Do me a favour?"

"ANYTHING!" Murphy was puzzled and paused while he made ready to go down
after his mate.

"Tell Ray -- " Hell, it didn't matter now. " -- tell Ray, I didn't mean to
hurt him. Tell him I love him -- " "BODIE!"

But Bodie extended the blade, smiled up at his friend and cut the rope.
The last thing he heard as he fell was Murph's agonised scream.

"Bodie, NO!"

******

Murphy watched as Bodie fell, not believing his colleague could he so
stupid. He gritted his teeth, and retrieved the severed life-line, before
preparing to go down. Of all the crazy things Bodie had ever done, this
last act had to rank as the most senseless...God only knew what Cowley
would say...Talk to him? They'd hardly spoken since leaving London -- all
Murphy had to go on was supposition, and the dying man's last words --
'tell Ray I love him' -- Murphy put such thoughts aside as he reached the
ledge. He leaned over, scanning the ground below. There was a blue anorak.
. .Bodie's body lay unmoving, the helmet missing...Murphy was honour-bound
to go down, check him over, then fetch a rescue party to recover the body.
Anxious, upset, Murphy abseiled down the rock-face, missed his footing the
last five feet and landed heavily.

"Took your bleedin' time!"

The voice made him jump, and he scrambled to Bodie's side, incredulous.

"Bodie?"

"Don't shout, I've got a headache," snorted Bodie, who hadn't moved. His
eyes were closed.

"Jesus, mate, I thought you'd had it!" breathed Murphy. "What the hell did
you do that for?"

One dark eyebrow twitched as Murph pried back the lids.

"Seemed like a good idea at the time. Whatcha doin'?"

Murphy was running his hands round Bodie's head, checking for damage. "You
must be one of the luckiest bastards alive," he murmured, when his probing
failed to reveal any injury to Bodie's skull.

"You touchin' me up?" Bodie asked.

"'s right, mate. Any objections?"

Murphy was feeling his arms, before opening the anorak to check his
ribcage.

"'s nice..." Bodie smiled, heaving a contented sigh.

Murphy frowned. This was not like the man at all. He usually shied from
physical contact and here he was ENJOYING the examination -- Murphy
thought again of brain-damage. He carried on.

"Feel that?" he asked, as he ran his hands down Bodie's right thigh.

Bodie giggled.

"Tickles -- keep going..

"Christ," cursed the other agent, "it's a wonder Ray puts up with you if
you carry on like this..." He stopped, noting the change of expression on
the pale features. Inadvertently, he'd struck a raw nerve. He shuffled up
to sit beside his companion's head.

"It'll take a while for the rescue party to get up to us. Plenty of time
to talk, Bodie..." He took off his jacket and laid if over Bodie's chest.
"You need to tell someone, mate -- " "Sod off," Bodie protested weakly.
"None of your business." "It's to do with Ray, isn't it?" Murph pressed.
"Come on, Bodie-mate." Bodie swallowed audibly. "He'll kill me if he ever
finds out I told you..."

******

Doyle emerged from the duty-room scowling. Nobody had thought to tell him
that his partner had booked leave -- they just assumed that he would know.
It annoyed him even more to find that a certain Greg Murphy was also
absent, and he couldn't help the nagging suspicion that his so-called
other half had gone off with him. It was ridiculous; Bodie and Murph were
good friends -- Murph made friends with everyone, from the janitor up --
and they had several interests in common...why shouldn't they be away
together...

Because Bodie always keeps me informed as to where he is, and who he's
with, and this time he hasn't, and I'm annoyed. And, face it, Doyle, he
told himself, you're jealous; jealous of the fact that Murphy is with
Bodie, and they're probably having a good time together, and -- would he?
Doyle swallowed, fighting the sudden image of the two of them laughing
with each other, touching, kissing -- writhing together, two beautiful
dark-haired men, their bodies twining and twisting in bed, as they made
love...The thought sent a jolt of rage searing through him, and Doyle's
fist closed on the coffee cup in his hand, splitting the plastic and
sending sticky liquid over the lino in the corridor. He glanced down,
cursed, and dropping the remains of his drink into a nearby bin before
trotting off to the gent's for a cloth to mop the mess. Today, he decided,
was not going to be a good day.

The assignment he'd drawn was a low-key bodyguard duty on a visiting
American. Sam Hilton was a first generation Yank returned to the land of
his forefathers for a working vacation. A strong rumour, fed to them from
MI6 suggested he might be a possible target for assassination...so while
Bodie and Murph were whooping it up, Doyle found himself baby-sitting an
American businessman.

Doyle was quick to appraise Hilton as an opinionated bastard; his first
encounter with the man was a disaster, and it got steadily worse.

"I don't need you, Doyle. I've got my own security guards."

"May I remind you, sir," Doyle said with icy politeness, "that your people
are breaking the laws of this country by carrying firearms." He demanded
-- and eventually been given -- the Americans' armoury. Magnums, designed
for maximum effect.

Hilton wasn't pleased.

"You'd better be as good as my men, or I'll nail your arse to a tree!"
Doyle smiled nastily and assured the businessman that his anatomy was
perfectly safe. All the same, though, he'd've felt better if Bodie had
been with him.

Thursday, Doyle trailed round in the American's wake until six o'clock,
when Jax took over as his relief. His face told the West Indian agent
exactly what Doyle thought of the job, and Jax could only sympathise,
praying his colleague was wrong.

Doyle made for his own flat, intent on a quiet night. He changed his mind
as the traffic lights turned red ahead of him.

Hell, he'd see if Bodie was home, and they could spend the evening
together; after one day away from him, Doyle had to admit, albeit
grudgingly, he missed the arrogant sod.

The lights flashed green, and he turned the car into the warren of side-
streets, making for his partner's flat. He skidded outside, and parked his
Capri behind Bodie's. Doyle took it as a good sign, and strode up to the
door confidently to buzz at the intercom. There was no answer. He waited,
buzzed again... In all, he waited ten minutes, and gradually his temper
unravelled enough for him to decide Bodie wasn't worth the effort. He
would go out on the town by himself, pull a bird, and take her home for a
good old-fashioned screw.

Two hours later, sitting in a bar in Islington, Doyle had to face the fact
that it wasn't a woman he wanted, it was Bodie. A woman was just a body, a
pleasant acquaintance, and sex was a mere biological function.

Bodie was a friend, a partner, his mate -- someone he could share
with...and when Bodie decided he'd had enough, was tired of Doyle and
turned to someone else...

That thought had haunted Doyle from the moment he and Bodie had first
kissed; Doyle feared it more than anything. To lose his partner to a woman
would be bad; to lose him to another man would destroy him. The fear kept
him from taking the final step because if he went to bed with Bodie, the
end would come that much sooner, their partnership would be dissolved, and
Doyle didn't want his friendship with Bodie to end -- ever.

Admit it, he told himself as he sipped his pint, you've bloody well gone
and fallen for him, and what happens every time you think you've found
your one and only? Something, someone, comes along and takes them away,
and you get left behind -- and every time that happens, it hurts just a
little bit more, until you are afraid to go out and try...So you want
Bodie, want to keep him for yourself... but you know he's a free spirit,
and he'll soon tire of you, soon move on, so you keep him hanging on. And
all the time, it's just hurting you both more and more. You want him, but
you're terrified of losing him...So, if you're going to lose him anyway,
why don't you take what you can while you can get it? The thought of
holding all that strength and beauty to him was arousing him, and Doyle
willed himself to subside. He heaved a broken sigh that went unnoticed
among the pub's patrons. Anonymous man, impersonal company -- you could be
anyone hiding anything, in here, going unremarked in the crowd...As if on
cue, the press around the bar disintegrated, and Doyle had to do a
double-take.

Bodie was carrying two halves towards a table in the corner of the lounge.
He hadn't even noticed his partner, which annoyed Doyle. Two drinks -- a
bird, or Murph -- Doyle intended finding out. He rose, clasping the
remainder of his pint, and edged towards the table across the crowded
room. He stopped well short of his target when he realised that something
was undefinably wrong. Bodie's face was a mask of barely suppressed anger
-- he seemed to have aged ten years since Tuesday night. What bothered him
more was his partner's companion, a little oriental man dressed in a dark
sweatshirt and jeans. Doyle was familiar with most of Bodie's contacts, by
sight or description: this one was new to him. There was a sense of
furtiveness about them, the Chinese gesturing to Bodie, instructions,
Doyle guessed. He was too far to hear and couldn't follow their
lip-movements. Something about over the top? Overlooking? And Bodie
nodded. Doyle shook himself mentally; it could even be the weekend's
football tactics at Crystal Palace, though he doubted that...

The two men stood, and Bodie inclined his head once more in response to
his companion's words. The oriental gave him an appraising look, then
vanished into the crowd. Bodie was slower. He finished his beer and
surveyed the room. Some instinct made Doyle draw back, and when he looked
again, his partner had crossed to the door.

Doyle latched onto his partner's trail, determined to have a word as soon
as they were alone. Bodie was heading up towards the Islington station,
striding purposefully. It was all Doyle could do to keep him in sight.
Once inside the entrance hall, it became apparent that Bodie wasn't going
home, and for the first time, Doyle's brain engaged and started to work on
the anomaly; Bodie -- on leave -- meeting with a stranger -- could mean
almost anything, from a casual acquaintance to...Bodie, meeting a courier,
or an agent from a foreign power. No -- he may be crazy, Doyle thought,
but he's no traitor. The fact that he wasn't going directly home was
significant.. Cowley had had them working separately for a few days now...
Bodie could be undercover on his own, while Doyle got that effing
loudmouth, Hilton. It was the most logical solution -- the mystery solved,
Doyle was free to worry about his personal concerns. Obviously, he
couldn't talk to his partner now, but he would make a point of taking the
first available opportunity to sit down with Bodie and have a proper
discussion about their relationship. Afterwards...Doyle closed his mind to
the probable future; he would have Bodie to himself for a little while at
least...And, looking on the bright side, if he was working undercover,
Bodie wouldn't have time to fool around with anyone else...

Doyle abandoned his partner at the station and went to find a bus home.

******

Friday morning at Headquarters, Doyle decided to do a bit of detective
work, attempting to discover what his partner was engaged on. The duty
board still said he was on leave, as was Murphy, and when he questioned
other agents casually, they knew of nothing dangerous or untoward that
Bodie might be involved in. It was McCabe who suggested that it could be
an Operation Susie. The thought made Doyle's blood run cold: his partner,
out on his own, with no official sanction, no back-up -- just his wits to
keep him alive...Doyle was outside Cowley's office, ready to take the
controller to pieces for risking Bodie's neck without telling him...

Cowley opened the door, on his way somewhere in a hurry, his face dark as
a thunder-cloud.

"Sir, I -- " "You're supposed to be with Hilton. What are you doing here,
4.5?" "About Bodie -- " "Never mind him. Get over to the hotel.
IMMEDIATELY!" Cowley barked. Doyle had no choice but to obey.

******

The American was less than pleased to see him, said as much to his face,
which didn't bother Doyle, and re-scheduled his day, which did. They spent
the morning in the City, Hilton busy with his financiers, and returned to
the hotel for lunch. Doyle ate with the security men, while Hilton
transacted another deal over the phone in the bedroom.

Doyle listened with half an ear as he sat in the lounge, sipping coffee.
The only good thing about the whole job, he reflected, was the food; Bodie
should be... "...docklands. I'll be there," promised Hilton.

Doyle's ears went up; the American was going slumming?

Hastily, he scrambled to his feet, only to fold even more quickly as his
knees gave way under him.

"What the hell -- " The burly bodyguards grabbed him by the wrists and
ankles and lifted him to the couch.

"You -- what've you done to me?" Doyle yelled, his voice beginning to
slur. "Bastards!"

Hilton came out to look at him. He was carrying his jacket over one arm,
and he wore a shoulder holster.

"Like I said, I don't need your help. Just stay here like a good boy. I'll
be back and wake you in time to go home."

"B'stard!" Doyle gasped, trying to swing an ineffectual fist at the two
Americans standing before him. Hilton laughed unpleasantly. "Sweet dreams,
Doyle."

Enraged, Doyle closed his eyes and passed out.

******

He didn't know how long he'd lain there, but Doyle managed to rally enough
to get to the lounge telephone. He contacted reception and found Hilton
had left ten minutes before, by taxi and he had taken his bodyguards.

Doyle stumbled to the bathroom where he stuck his head under a cold tap.
The water shocked him back to his senses in part -- his anger did the
rest. He checked his gun -- they'd left that at least -- and went down to
the lobby.

Hilton was heading for a little place in Wapping. The doorman had
overheard the address as Hilton got into the taxi. Doyle made for his car,
and set off, tyres squealing, for the rendezvous.

Doyle used the back-streets, praying fervently that he would beat the
Americans, but knowing deep down it would be hopeless. He radioed Central,
appraising them of the situation, furious with himself for getting caught
out, for allowing Hilton to get away and for missing out on Bodie's op...

The gold Capri skidded to a halt on the wharf-side. Doyle scrambled out,
gun drawn. Where the hell were they? He raced forward, keeping to the
shadow of the buildings until he spotted one of the bodyguards by an open
doorway -- keeping watch, he figured, as he flattened himself against the
warehouse wall. Inching towards him, Doyle focussed on the scene ahead.

Presently, two men appeared. Hilton was following a little man in a blue
suit. As they came into full sunlight, Doyle noticed two things --
firstly, the smaller man was Bodie's companion from the pub, and more
importantly, the bodyguard was drawing his weapon, about to kill him.

"Hold it!"

It was too late, even as Doyle shouted. The oriental was dead, and Hilton
was falling, punching back by a shot that echoed round the pier. The next
took the security man, and Doyle ducked instinctively, before rushing to
the three bodies.

The Chinese had a crater in his chest the size of a fist, the others each
had a neat round hole in the forehead; despite the carnage, Doyle had to
admire the skill involved. A fourth shot reverberated, and the guard's
body jerked as the bullet struck him. Too close -- the bastard was still
shooting, and Doyle was the target... He dived for cover behind the
corpses, then rolled into the shadow of the wall, where another bullet
tore a chip from the door frame.

Up high -- rifle -- Class A marksman -- he catalogued his assailants
attributes. He wished that Bodie were with him; one would draw the fire,
the other would circle and come up behind the sniper...But Bodie was
God-alone-knew-where, and Doyle had only a hand-gun for protection against
a deadly enemy.

The gunman was between him and the Capri -- Doyle would have to make a run
for it. He gathered himself and sprang from the warehouse, zig-zagging to
his next bit of cover. Two more shots and he became aware that the
approaching sirens were actually closing in on the wharf. With a sigh of
relief, Doyle crouched behind a stack of tarpaulin-draped crates and
caught his breath.

The sound of running feet attracted his attention and cautiously he peered
over the edge of his sanctuary. A tall man, dressed in black was sprinting
along the iron-clad stairway. There was no sign of the rifle -- Doyle was
after him in a second.

Up, and along they raced, further from the newly-arrived Met and CI5
units, desperation and fury firing them. His quarry was swift, sure-footed
as if he'd been born to this particular jungle...Doyle found himself
flagging, but went on gamely. He loosed a couple of shots that went wide,
not entirely deliberately, but still the sniper ran.

They reached the roof-tops -- they were running out of ground though, and
in a brief glimpse towards the pier below, Doyle could see cars moving
into position. He slithered to a halt.

"Give it up, mate!" he yelled. "You're surrounded."

The assassin ducked round a corner ahead and Doyle, whose finger was
already tightening on the trigger, gasped as he recognised the profile.
Bodie fled upwards as his partner's bullet smacked into the wall barely an
inch from his head.

"Bodie, for God's sake, wait!"

But Bodie had already disappeared. Wearily, Doyle set off after him,
confident that he would not be harmed, no matter what had happened at the
warehouse below. A bullet clipped past his ear, and he stopped dead.

"Stay back -- " Bodie's voice was angry, almost unrecognisable.
"Bodie-mate -- " "I have no quarrel with you, but I'll kill you if I have
to."

"Bodie, listen, mate," Doyle thought fast. "I'm coming over, unarmed." He
tossed his gun within easy reach. "We've got to talk, Bodie. I don't care
about the Yank -- Cowley must've had his reasons to set us up this way --
God knows, he's done it before...Bodie, if we go down together now..."

"No." Bodie was adamant. "I'm not going anywhere with anyone."

"You're backed in a corner, mate," Doyle protested. "There's nowhere else
you can go. Cowley's got marksmen surrounding this place. Where could you
run? Bodie!"

Doyle moved forward cautiously. One step, another, he bent to retrieve his
gun, and made towards his partner's last position. There was nothing, no
trace whatsoever that he'd been there; Bodie had quite simply vanished.

Slowly, Doyle made his way down to the pier, his feet leaden from
exertion, and the after-effects of the drug. He made it to the ground
level before his knees subsided under him again, and for the second time
that afternoon, he passed out.

******

He opened his eyes to a sunny room and the concerned face of the
controller. He licked dried lips.

"How long've I been out?"

"About two hours. What happened, Doyle?" The younger (man) struggled to
sit up.

"Hilton's bodyguard killed the Chinese bloke and the sniper got the
others."

"You gave chase -- did you get a description?" Doyle's eyes dropped.

"Didn't need to, sir." He met Cowley's anxious gaze levelly. "It was
Bodie."

"Are you sure?" The revelation shook the older man.

"I've worked with him for three and a half years, sir. I'd know him
anywhere." He couldn't keep the hurt out of his voice. "You could've told
me, sir."

Cowley looked at him blankly.

"Told you, 4.5?"

"Bodie -- undercover -- " then, seeing the expression on the craggy face,
he plunged on, damning both his partner and himself. "Bodie met the
Chinese bloke in the pub last night. I happened to see him. I thought you
had him on an Operation Susie -- you might've told me," he repeated
bitterly.

"Doyle, Bodie was not acting under my orders today. The Americans wanted
Hilton granted extra protection because he's one of their top agents. He
had a lot of useful contacts... There'll be hell to pay after this..."

Doyle swallowed; Bodie going maverick, turning rogue...

"Bodie wouldn't -- I just can't believe he'd..." he was murmuring to
himself. "There has to be an explanation..." Even though he had seen with
his own eyes...

"I'll issue a general alert to all police and security forces... I'm
sorry, Doyle."

But Doyle hardly had the strength to acknowledge him. He knew -- oh, HOW
he knew -- what would happen now. The wharf-side would be sealed off. The
police and the squad could systematically search the area, brick by brick
if necessary.s All the airports, ferry terminals would be alerted -- a
man, armed and dangerous, trained killer, professional assassin.. Where
could Bodie go? He was being hunted like a criminal -- Doyle refused to
think of him as a murderer -- and he had nowhere to run...Doyle had turned
his back on his partner on Tuesday night -- it seemed like an eternity ago
-- and now Bodie had done the same to him, only it could cost him his
life.

"If you know anything, Doyle -- " Cowley broke in on his reverie. "I want
him taken alive."

A sudden thought struck Doyle.

"The other bodyguard?"

"Gone to ground. I don't want this to end up as a fire-fight between Bodie
and the CIA, but if we can't find them..."s

Doyle closed his eyes, feeling thoroughly sick and heavy-hearted. Only
three days ago...

"You're off until Monday. I'll expect a full report on this case for the
Minister. You'll be in here tonight for observation."

Doyle's eyes snapped open.

"If Bodie tries to contact me, he won't know -- " "Your flat is under
surveillance, there's a tap on your line -- " Then, in an uncharacteristic
move, Cowley squeezed Doyle's shoulder, conveying more than words in that
touch.

"It's hard for me to believe as well, lad. I blame myself -- should've
spoken to him sooner..."

"Can't be helped," Doyle gritted his teeth. "Always said he was crazy...
never thought it was true, till now."

Cowley's hand dropped.

"I'll see you first thing Monday, 4.5."

As the old man turned to leave, Doyle reached out.

"If you find him -- I have to talk to him, sir..."

Cowley nodded.

"I'll do what I can."

******

Doyle was on his way over to his partner's flat when the call came over
the radio.

"9.6 to Alpha I. Priority call. We've got him, sir. He' s in a disused
warehouse in Wapping."

No need for Doyle to ask who -- he glanced at his watch as he pulled the
car round. It was three o'clock, Saturday afternoon -- Bodie had been
loose for a mere twenty-four hours. Doyle was aware of a sense of
disappointment. His partner, jungle-trained, SAS-honed, had been classed
as the best by everyone, including Cowley. He could've slipped by the
cordon, could've gotten away -- if he'd wanted to. Nobody could hold Bodie
-- not even me, Doyle reflected sadly. It's my fault. I should've noticed
something was wrong -- that it wasn't only my refusing to give him what he
wanted...Perhaps, that's why he turned to me, because he needed...I let
him down badly...If only I'd...

He was heading for Wapping, drawn by the desperate urge to be with Bodie
again, to understand why he had done what he had -- to hold him again, to
touch him once more before they took him away...

"Alpha 1 to 4.5. Doyle, where are you?"

"I'm -- " Oh, hell the Old Man knew him too well to think he'd stay away.
"I'm on my way to Wapping, sir."

"What's your ETA?"

Doyle checked his watch and pressed his foot harder on the accelerator.

"Twelve minutes, sir."

"Report directly to me when you get here. Out."

Cowley was going to keep his word -- he would be able to speak to Bodie. A
thousand things crammed his head, all of them too personal for the
situation -- too painful. He wanted to tell Bodie he was sorry, he had
been selfish, not wanting to be hurt by a probable rejection in the
future. He had to say those words -- I'm in love with you -- but with half
the squad, the Metropolitan Police Force and Cowley watching...If he
could've turned the clock back to Tuesday night, he would have gladly done
so.

He swung the gold Capri in behind the police patrol cars that formed the
outer limits of the cordon, and flashed his ID card as he leapt out. A
uniformed bobby had been waiting for him, and pointed out Cowley's
position. Doyle ran across, his eyes searching the clutter of buildings
ahead. He could detect no movement anywhere, and even the sounds of the
police radio seemed muted.

Cowley was bending over the bonnet of a squad car pouring over a plan of
the area with the divisional commander. He glanced up as his agent
arrived.

"Where is he, sir?" Doyle asked breathlessly.

Cowley nodded at the commander, who said, "Upper right, we THINK. There
was some movement on the ground floor. Looks like he's barricaded himself
in."

"Ten minutes, Doyle, then we move," Cowley warned. "I want him alive, if
possible," he told the policeman.

"My men have their orders, sir. They know what to do."

Cowley nodded tersely and Doyle swallowed the lump in his throat. Bodie
would be taken, dead or alive, but he would be taken. He was probably the
only person who could talk his nutter of a partner into surrendering and
right at the moment, he had grave misgivings about his abilities. He
started away when Cowley called him sharply.

"Flak jacket, 4.5. Bodie's already shot at you. He might not miss this
time."

"He's my partner," Doyle reminded him obstinately, "and if he could take
the Yanks with head shots, I'm a sitting duck."

"FLAK JACKET," Cowley repeated.

The kevlar vest was thrust into his hands and Doyle put it on under his
lumber jacket, his eyes locked with Cowley's.

"Clear the way," Doyle ordered. "I'm going in!"

The metal barriers, usually aired on demonstrations were dragged
protesting over the fretted concrete of the wharf. The police and squad
members watched in silence as Doyle began the longest walk of his life
towards the old warehouse. He looked up at the building, its glassless
windows watching as the blind watch, without seeing. The tiniest hint of
movement, and a rain of bullets spattered the cement ahead of him.

"That's far enough. What d'you want?"

"Bodie-mate, I've come to talk. Let me in."

Behind the lines, Cowley groaned.

"There's nothing to say. Go back!"

"BODIE!" Doyle couldn't keep the pain out of his voice this time. "Give it
up! You can't win! You're surrounded!"

"So what?"

Doyle's temper flared.

"All right, you stubborn git! At least tell me WHY -- you owe me THAT
much!"

Bodie laughed unpleasantly.

"You mean they didn't tell you?"

"Hilton was CIA --"

"He was a dealer!"

"Jesus!" breathed Doyle. "How the hell d'you know?" he bawled.

"I've spent the last eight years of my life trailing him," Bodie replied
angrily.

Doyle gulped and started to speak again but Cowley's voice carried over
the gulf between them.

"Time's up, Doyle!"

"Bodie, please, mate -- "

"DOYLE, get back here -- "

"Do it," Bodie snapped, "or I might -- "

His voice broke off as a muffled thud sounded inside the building. Bodie
loosed a couple of rounds at his partner, causing Doyle to leap back
towards the cordon, where Cowley was waiting for him.

Behind, he was aware that a group of marksman was shifting into position.
Bodie had signed his own death warrant, and Doyle's heart was sinking
fast. He had pinned his hopes on a peaceful surrender, but Bodie seemed to
have developed some kind of death-wish...A rifle was shoved into his
hands, and he came to, to find Cowley watching him. For one moment, the
mask slipped to reveal an anguish that almost matched his own, then the
older man's expression hardened.

"Get into position, 4.5. A good clean shot -- " His words were interrupted
by the dull roar of an explosion, and flames suddenly belched from the
eyeless building where Bodie was besieged.

"My God..." breathed Cowley.

Two figures broke clear of the inferno, their clothes ablaze. The first
was screaming unintelligibly and Doyle thought he recognised Hilton's
second guard. Bodie was racing after him, but he man was already dead, and
fell; a heap of charred and burning flesh.

Cowley was shouting at Doyle, who stood rooted to the spot as his partner
ran towards him, burning to death.

"For Christ-sake, Doyle, KILL HIM!"

But Doyle couldn't move, transfixed by the horror of the moment. Rough
hands snatched the rifle and brought it to bear. A single shot rang out --
Bodie jerked mid-flight and hit the deck, body still blazing like a torch.
The police on both sides rushed forward with blankets to smother the
flames, and Cowley lowered the rifle, handing it to the divisional
commander who had been at his side throughout the siege.

For a moment, Doyle stood gazing at the police who covered the remains of
his partner, then he walked forward, unseeing, his mind still locked in
the previous few minutes. Should've tried harder -- should've gone in to
him -- told him why I couldn't -- wouldn't do what he wanted...Nothing
matters now -- I've lost him forever.

He broke into a run, skidding to a halt beside the small tableau. One of
the young P.C.'s was crying, as he stood aside, letting Doyle take his
place.

Doyle folded down onto the concrete, ignorant of the cold, and leaned
forward to peel back the edge of the blanket. Bodie's face was pink where
he'd been scorched -- it looked like a bad case of sunburn -- and his
blue-grey eyes were half-closed. There was a tidy hole in his forehead
where Cowley's bullet had hit, and his expression was one of pain. The
sickening smell of seared flesh and charred material assailed his
nostrils...

"Oh, Bodie-mate, I'm so sorry -- so very sorry!"

Behind the lines, the divisional commander was organising the clearing of
the vehicles -- his own and CI5's, and the ambulancemen were making their
way through to pick up the grisly remains.

Cowley stood back, allowing the police to work unhindered, lost in his own
bitter thoughts. He regretted having to hunt down one of his own -- that
it should be Bodie, for whom he felt no small measure of affection, was
doubly saddening. The reasons for his recent behaviour had now become
clear. Knowing that he would be committing a crime under their very noses,
he was obviously torn between his loyalty to the squad and whatever had
motivated him to kill the Americans. Cowley was fairly certain that Bodie
hadn't even confided in his partner, which went in part towards
exonerating Doyle. The whole business was a shambles, his attempt to use
Murphy, an entire waste of time.

As if summoned, the jet black Capri came gliding to a halt beyond the
fringe of the police cars. Murphy got out swiftly, and even across the
distance between them, Cowley could see his frown.

The lanky agent wove his way to the controller's side. Further away, Murph
had spotted Doyle, kneeling on the ground by a blanket-covered mound. Two
ambulance men were hovering nearby, but he seemed oblivious to them.

"What's going on, sir?" Murphy asked. "I radioed to find Doyle, and they
said there was a siege situation -- one of OURS..."

The controller's expression hardened.

"You were supposed to be with 3.7. Instead, I find you out of contact, and
Bodie waging a one-man war against the CIA!" The older man had raised his
voice and those squad members closest flinched in silent sympathy with the
luckless agent and sidled off, knowing they had more urgent business to
deal with.

"With respect, sir," Murphy prepared to defend his rope-mate and himself,
"we were stranded on a mountain on Thursday. By the time the rescue party
got to us, Bodie was in -- " "You can vouch for his whereabouts on
Thursday evening?" Cowley demanded.

"Bodie was never out of my sight from Wednesday afternoon until he was
taken into the local hospital on Thursday -- " "Bodie, in hospital? Which
one, man?"

"Caernavon, sir." Murphy was becoming more mystified by the minute.
"What's happened?"

Cowley ignored the question and pursued his own inquiry.

"Where is he now?"

Murphy jerked his thumb towards his car, where his passenger was
struggling to get out. Cowley darted between the jumble of vehicles with a
speed which belied his age. He hardly dared to believe...The gauche figure
resolved his problem, ended balanced on one leg, holding the door and roof
of the car as props. Bodie looked tired and very pale. As he followed the
controller, Murph wondered whether Cowley would speak aloud what was so
evident on his face, but there was a heavy hint of annoyance in the older
man's words, as he greeted his operative.

"Well, 3.7, I hope you have an explanation."

Bodie eyed Murphy nervously, hoping that his mate hadn't filled in all the
details. Behind Cowley's back, Murph gave him a reassuring smile.

"I -- er, fell off the mountain," Bodie replied sheepishly.

Cowley glared at the pristine white cast that encased Bodie's left leg
from the knee down.

"Accidents will happen, sir, even to the best of us," Murphy chipped in
helpfully. Nobody else would ever know how miraculous it was that Bodie
had escaped serious injury. Cowley's eyes raked the agent from head to
foot.

"And you haven't been near London since Wednesday?"

Bodie and Murphy shook their heads.

Without taking his eyes off Bodie, Cowley ordered Murphy to fetch Doyle.
Gratefully, Murph obeyed.

He found the other man kneeling in the middle of the wharf, by the place
where the assassin had fallen. It took a few minutes to get through to
him. When Doyle finally responded, he looked up at Murph with dull and
listless eyes.

"Bodie's gone..." he announced in a husky whisper. "The Old Man shot
him..."

Murph didn't begin to understand what was going on, but he could hear the
pain behind the simple statement.

"Bodie's all right, mate," Murphy told him softly. He slid a hand beneath
the smaller man's arm, and Doyle allowed himself to be helped to his feet.

"I wanted to go with him," Doyle continued. "They wouldn't let me."

"It's all right, Ray," Murphy soothed, realising that his companion was in
shock. "I'll take you to him."

Doyle nodded dumbly and moved out of his reach.

"My car's up behind the police cordon -- the Old Man's up there now."

Doyle went on ahead, walking as if he were in a dream...

Cowley was still standing beside the open door of the black Capri when
Doyle arrived. The older man took in the dishevelled appearance, the pale
face, the blank eyes.

"Doyle, the man I shot -- you were mistaken, it wasn't Bodie." Doyle
simply looked at him, unable to react to the words. "Doyle -- " "Ray,"
Murphy interrupted, "Bodie's been with me since Wednesday." Doyle switched
his glassy gaze to the taller man. "I wanted to go with him..." he
repeated.

Cowley nodded to someone standing behind both the agents -- Murphy didn't
have to look to know who -- "Sunshine?" Bodie's voice was husky. "What's
this about me shooting some Yank... ?"

Doyle turned slowly, beyond comprehension for a moment. Bodie was staring
at him, a quizzical expression on his face.

"B-BODIE?"

Doyle's eyes filled with tears and he took one tentative step towards the
phantom before his knees gave way. He was dimly aware of two strong arms
catching him, lowering him gently, and then unconsciousness claimed him...

******

*EPILOGUE*

Bodie's eyes opened and he found himself gazing at Doyle's bedside radio-
alarm. It was six-forty, Monday morning. He took a deep breath and smiled.
No work for a month while his ankle stayed in plaster. He wished he could
spend it all with his partner.

The smile became a grin as he turned his head on the pillow. Doyle was
stuck to his back, his breath tickling Bodie's shoulder, his arms locked
about Bodie's waist and his cock still buried in Bodie's backside, soft
now after he'd spent himself so generously the night before. Bodie bent
his arm so he could stroke Doyle's stringy flank, half-afraid that he
might be dreaming...

******

Murphy had caught Doyle as he fainted, and laid him carefully on the
ground before demanded to know what was going on. Bodie slid to the
concrete to sit with his partner, while Cowley briefed them about the
previous days' events.

Doyle was taken off to the hospital in the second ambulance, accompanied
by Bodie. He woke once during the journey, slipping his trembling hand
into his partner's, before passing out again.

The doctor who had tended him the day before shook his head.

"I told him not to overdo it...The drugs will take time to clear his
system. What was Cowley playing at, ordering him on duty? I'm signing him
off for the rest of the week, and I want to see him Wednesday morning."

"Can I see him?" Bodie asked.

"You can have him," the doctor answered. "Just make sure he takes it easy.
What've you done, Bodie?"

Bodie glanced disparagingly at the cast. "Oh, fell off a mountain -- "
"Very clever. Should've tried landing on your head -- would've done less
damage," snorted the doctor, who wasn't particularly fond of him.

Bodie gave him a knobs-to-you smile, and said, "If you show me ho....."

The doctor glared at him. "Get out of here."

Bodie got.

******

Murphy drove them to Doyle's flat where they put their fellow agent to
bed. Bodie elected to stay on and keep him company. He busied himself
around the place getting used to manoeuvring on crutches, and when he
finally went into the bedroom, he found Doyle awake and looking
self-conscious.

"I made a prat of myself, passing out like that, didn't I?"

"Don't worry about it. The doctor put it down to the drug yesterday -- "
Bodie parked himself on the edge of the mattress.

"I owe you an apology for Tuesday night -- walking out the way I did."
Doyle looked uncomfortable.

"Well?" Bodie waited.

"I was scared," Doyle said simply. "If we start sleeping together, how
long will it be until you -- " he closed his eyes, " -- walk out on me and
find someone else? I've seen what you're like with your women -- dating
Claire, and seeing Fiona on the side, then phoning Mandy when they aren't
free. I don't want to be just another notch on your bedpost -- " "If I
could get a word in," Bodie was trying not to smile, and succeeded in
sounding indignant.

Doyle shut up, afraid that he'd ruined it already.

"First off, I'll admit that I like to leave my options open when it comes
to girls -- I'm just filling in time, and it's nice to have a change now
and again. Second, I don't know where you got the idea I'm sleeping my way
into the Guinness Book of Records, because I don't keep scores." And
forestalling any interruption, he added, "You'll never see me making it
with another bloke, either." He leaned over and ruffled the tangled
fringe. "In case you hadn't noticed, you've been Number One in my life for
quite a while now, and I'd like to keep it that way. I'm happy with you.
Yes, I want to go to bed with you, but if it means ruining our partnership
-- wrecking friendship -- " "I just need to know you aren't going to dump
me for some bird with big tits and a university degree," Doyle
interjected. "Or a bloke who's got a big -- " Bodie's mouth descended on
his and effectively silenced him for a minute.

When they finally surfaced for air, Bodie was frowning.

"Should've asked the doctor to clean your ears out. I told you, I'm happy
with you. For God's sake, Ray," he laughed suddenly, "I love you."

Doyle gulped, speechless.

Bodie shunted further onto the bed.

"I realised when I was falling that I should've said something sooner --
might have made a difference...I asked Murph to tell you for me, 'cos I
wasn't sure I'd survive after I cut the rope -- " Bodie found himself
seized in a painful grip.

"You did WHAT?" demanded Doyle. "You CUT the rope? For God's sake, you
weren't trying to --" Bodie snorted.

"Suicide? No, if I hadn't, I'd've pulled Murph down with me. Can't do that
to a mate -- " "So you cut this rope and fell down the mountain?" Doyle
wanted to be absolutely sure about the sequence of events.

Bodie nodded, ignoring the pain where his partner gripped him.

"Wouldn't've been hurt, but I forgot to keep my legs together when I
landed and rolled. That's how I broke my ankle..."

Doyle couldn't help it. His shoulders began to heave and he burst out
laughing, despite the seriousness of the situation.

Bodie pouted. "Glad you think it was funny..."

Doyle tried to control himself.

"I'm sorry, mate, but I was thinking -- when I knew you and Murph were
both off -- that you would -- what if you and he were -- that'll teach you
to keep your legs together when you're on holiday with strange men -- "
and he started again, chuckling filthily.

Bodie had to admit he hadn't looked at it QUITE that way, and the thought
tickled his sense of humour, too. Soon they were clinging to each other,
giggling helplessly.

"D'you know, Ray," gasped Bodie, "I don't think that even crossed Murphy's
mind."

"Good," snorted Doyle, "'cos I'm not sharing you with anyone. I decided on
Thursday that you were a bastard, but I wanted you. Then yesterday, when
Hilton was shot, and I thought it was you, I realised I'd do anything to
save you, even if it meant breaking the law. When Cowley shot him -- and
it was too late."

Bodie freed himself from Doyle's grasp and slipped an arm round the bony
shoulders, cuddling gently.

"Don't think about it, Ray. It's over. We're both alive, and that's what
matters."

Doyle shook his head.

"I can't help it. I keep seeing him burning -- all I could think was that
I would never get the chance to make love to you -- " "Do you want to?"
Bodie's voice was husky with desire. Doyle swallowed and nodded.

With a grin, Bodie dropped a tiny kiss on the curly head. "Give a man some
room, Ray..."

******

They spent Saturday night exploring each other's bodies, touching and
teasing, Doyle was in a hurry to learn all he could about his partner.

"If I lost you tomorrow -- " 'You won't," Bodie assured him, laying back
and letting Doyle find his sensitive areas.

Neither of them slept much, Doyle kept coming awake, haunted by memories
of the day, so that, eventually, Bodie spread his legs and made Doyle lie
on top of him where he could feel Bodie's heart beating. Bodie, himself
dozed fitfully through the night, and was finally woken by the instant
erection jabbing into his belly...

Doyle had proved an adept student, and there was nothing he wouldn't try,
although the plaster cast made some things a little difficult. He had
allowed Bodie to penetrate him -- Doyle straddling his partner -- and they
had come together, Bodie pumping his seed into the tight channel, Doyle
spilling his over the hot, sticky body beneath him. Afterwards, they lay
quietly, holding each other close, contentedly dozing...

Eager to repay his lover in kind, Bodie had presented himself, lying on
his side. It was sweet, he remembered -- Doyle entering him so slowly, it
seemed to take forever. Once inside, he had driven Bodie to a powerful
climax, hauling his partner close, whispering soft words without realising
what he was saying.. They had fallen asleep, still joined....

Bodie pried himself free, first of the encircling arms, then the softening
cock. He eased out of bed, making his way carefully, without crutches to
the lounge, where he gingerly sat on the couch, and reached. for the
phone. Mentally crossing his fingers, he dialled a familiar number. Murphy
answered on the first ring.

"We ARE eager this morning, 3.7," he teased. "How's Ray?"

"He's -- " Bodie couldn't help the dopey grin on his face, " -- fine. Any
news yet?"

"Interpol's been busy all weekend. Nothing on the assassin at the moment,
but the Chinese bloke -- Lee Wei Yu -- is a member of the Hong Kong
Narcotics squad, and THEY have been after our American friend for years,
but couldn't prove anything. I will call you, soon as we've got anything
definite on our gun-man..."

"Thanks, mate." Bodie hung up, a pensive look on his face. He turned to
find his partner hovering in the doorway.

"Should you be out of bed?" he asked. Doyle put on a mournful expression.
"Lonely in there on my own..."

Bodie got to his feet, slowly. He could feel the familiar throb of
arousal.

"I'm just coming," he promised.

Doyle stared pointedly at his lover's groin, and chuckled evilly.

******

The noise of the telephone penetrated sleepy brains. Doyle rolled over,
groping haphazardly for the receiver.

"Ullo?" he mumbled drowsily.

"Ray?" Murphy sounded disgustingly bright for the time of day. "Is Bodie
still there?"

"Hang on, I'll find out." Doyle leaned over and poked his lover awake.
"You still here?"

"Nggh! No," grumbled Bodie, snuggling deeper into the pillow. "I've
emigrated."

"He says he's emigrated," Doyle relayed the news, knowing that Murphy had
heard anyway.

"This'll make him sit up," Murph predicted dryly. "We've got a name for
his look-alike."

Doyle slapped Bodie's rump hard, bringing his partner to full awareness.
"His name is Robin Wesley. He's a mercenary, working out of the orient."
"Doyle repeated the name, "Doesn't ring any bells with me -- " He glanced
at his other half, who shook his head. "Nor with Bodie." Bodie sat up,
listening intently.

"Freelances a lot, recently he's been working without a client." Doyle
recalled the gunman's words.

"He's been after Hilton for years..."

"Not without reason," Murph said sadly. "His son was an addict -- died
from an overdose -- he's buried in Hong Kong. Wesley claimed the Yanks had
supplied the stuff, said he knew of people who would testify to CIA
involvement in trafficking but nobody would listen to him..."

"The poor bastard," murmured Doyle. "If he'd surrendered -- Cowley
would've loved a case like that -- " "Cowley's been told to drop it,"
Murph informed them. "He's spoken to the Minister and the Ambassador."

Bodie made a grab for the phone; Doyle fended him off. "And?"

"The Yanks are saying they'll look into it. CIA's equivalent of Internal
Affairs, FBI...who knows?"

"And we're just going to let it go?" Doyle was incredulous.

"'fraid so," sighed Murphy. "The Minister wants us to keep out of the
firing line -- quite literally, this time. Cowley's very unhappy."

"I'll bet," muttered Bodie.

"Gotta go -- " Murphy breathed. "The Old Man's just come back...I'll keep
you posted." The line went dead.

Doyle replaced the receiver and frowned. Bodie knew that expression.

"Ray?"

"All that time -- all those years WASTED," yelled Doyle. "The CIA
investigating! That's like asking Hitler to write (the) history of World
War Two! My god, Bodie -- " He buried one hand in the unruly thatch of his
hair, " -- and we're just gonna let them get away with it!"

Bodie pulled him close. There was no easy answer this time.

"Don't tear yourself up over Wesley, Ray, it's --" Doyle struggled free.

"DON'T YOU CARE? Bodie, the CIA are involved with drug-dealers, and all
you can do is -- "

"Mind my own back-yard," Bodie responded quietly.

Doyle stared at him. "I don't believe this -- you really DON'T care -- "

"Oh, I care," Bodie assured him softly. "I just -- I'm not a crusader,
Ray, I'm not going to take up arms on anyone else's behalf against the
might of the CIA -- we keep our own doorstep clean, and we don't mess with
the Americans' trash." He risked an arm round his lover's shoulders once
more, and wasn't surprised to feel Doyle trembling. "This time, sunshine,
it's not our fight -- let the Yanks sort it out among themselves, or with
MI6 -- they got us into it, after all." He gave Doyle a gentle hug and
brushed his lips against the stubbled cheek.

"Bodie, it's -- I can't -- the INJUSTICE of it. Wesley KNEW that Hilton
was a trafficker -- had witnesses who could've sworn it -- "

"He took the law into his own hands and he paid the price, Ray." "THAT'S
what I mean -- he shouldn't have had to -- he was in the right -- if he'd
surrendered, we could've helped him -- it was such a WASTE of a life --"
Doyle shuddered as he recalled those last few minutes of the assassin's
life. "If I had --"

"Don't!" Bodie whispered, his breath tickling Doyle's face. "You can't
blame yourself for his death. Wesley knew the risks, knew he wouldn't win
-- "

"It's a terrible way to go -- " Doyle buried his face at Bodie's shoulder.

"It's over, love. Don't think about it anymore." Bodie stroked him, trying
to still the trembling.

"I can't NOT think about it. I was watching him die. I had the rifle in my
hands, and I couldn't pull the trigger -- I thought he was YOU, and I
couldn't --"

"But it wasn't me, Ray," Bodie pushed himself upright. "Look at me a
minute." He wriggled round so that he was comfortable and met Doyle's
troubled eyes. "Wesley is dead -- it's happened, and there was nothing you
could do to save him. I doubt that he even WANTED to be saved. He
appointed himself as executioner, and he killed Hilton -- mission
accomplished, the game is over...You can't change the facts -- you just
accept 'em, and learn to live with them." He sighed heavily. "I won't ask
you to forget, because I know you won't -- all I ask is that you stop
blaming yourself for what happened. Let the dead rest in peace and let's
get on with our lives, hey?"

He pulled Doyle into a firm embrace and held on. Give his partner a couple
of weeks and the whole episode with Wesley would be history. They couldn't
afford the luxury of grief for a stranger in their business, they both
knew that, and there were more pressing concerns to occupy them -- not the
least was how they would tell Cowley about their altered relationship. A
sharp poke in the ribs brought him back to the present.

"What, love?"

"I said I love you. Maybe YOU should get your ears cleaned out."

Bodie snorted, and slid down the bed, taking his partner with him. Doyle
settled his head on Bodie's chest, listening to the steady beat of his
heart. He closed his eyes for a moment...

Bodie felt the weight on his chest grow, knew that his lover had fallen
asleep again, and kissed the top of the curly head. He eased his injured
leg so that it was comfortable and gazed up at the ceiling.

Ray was wrong, he thought; Wesley's life hadn't been wasted. Hilton was
dead, and Wesley's son was avenged, which was probably all the mercenary
had wanted, had ever set out to do. Bodie could understand that, and
sympathise with him. If anything happened to Ray, he would be just the
same...

Bodie acknowledged that he owed the man a debt that he could never repay
in person -- Wesley's death had forced Doyle to face the prospect of life
without him, and it had brought them together when Bodie had feared they
would part. Now he had been given the chance, Bodie was determined to make
the most of it. He hugged the wiry body to him, brushing the ragged hair
again with his lips. Doyle murmured softly in his dream and was still once
more.

The only cloud on the horizon was a little Scotsman called Cowley. He had
the power to make or break their relationship. If he sanctioned it -- and
Bodie was aware that he and Doyle were considered CI5's top team -- then
there was nothing to worry about...And even if he didn't, Bodie knew, he
and Doyle would find a way...

Satisfied that he had solved the only problems that ever really mattered,
Bodie smiled at his sleeping lover, closed his eyes, and drifted off...

-- THE END --

*For 'Wes'.*

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