The Professionals Circuit Archive - One With No Sail and One With No
Rudder	     One With No Sail and One With No Rudder

 

by Michelle Christian

  
 Ray Doyle hated ducks. He had never realised that fact before, but the
longer he sat in the pub, the more he hated them. They were everywhere:
stuffed ducks and brass ducks; ducks painted on the drinking glasses, and
framed pictures of ducks on the walls. There were even ducks printed on
the wallpaper. And after spending the last couple of hours there, he was
about ready to go hunting.

There was a reason he'd spent two hours sitting on the uncomfortable bar
stool: Doyle was in love with his partner. He knew it and admitted it.
That wasn't the problem. The problem was whether or not he was going to do
anything about it. His track record with women was not the greatest. No
matter how much he wanted a relationship to work, it never did. Granted,
Bodie wasn't a woman and he already knew the demands of the job, but Doyle
doubted if that would make things any better, considering how much they
clashed all the time. But that really wasn't the reason, either. He still
believed that if they loved one another enough (and he was pretty certain
that Bodie loved him), all of those things would work themselves out. The
real problem was that he wasn't certain he deserved any of that love--or
if Bodie deserved the curse of his loving him back.

"I hate ducks."

Doyle glanced over his shoulder as the stranger took the vacant stool next
to him. The man was just slightly taller than Doyle, but more solidly
built, though not as muscular as Bodie. (That was another side effect to
being in love with his partner: Doyle constantly compared everyone to
Bodie. Of course he wasn't sure he hadn't always done that.) His face was
rough but still handsome, showing the vestiges of a life that had not
always been easy. And Doyle wasn't sure, but he thought there was more
than a little bitterness in the man's brown eyes.

And he was a Yank. It would have been obvious even if the accent hadn't
sounded like something out of a movie. It was in the way he walked and the
way he sat in his seat. It was in how easily he had talked to Doyle and
shared a look of sardonic wit. Yanks were easy to spot. In Doyle's
experience, there were few people who were more friendly; and even fewer
more easily arrogant.

"Dempsey," the stranger said, after taking a sip of the beer he had
ordered from the barkeeper. He smacked his lips together and said,
"There's one thing I've gotta say about you Brits, you sure know how to
make a beer with some kick. Takes some getting used to, but it's good
stuff."

Doyle had to smile at that, sharing the majority of Britons' opinion that
American lager was too watered down. "I don't bottle it myself, but
thanks." On impulse, he offered his hand. "Doyle."

Dempsey shook his hand briefly. "Is it my imagination," he said, looking
around, "or did Daffy Duck explode in here?"

"I'm a Donald Duck man, myself," Doyle replied.

The two men sat in silence a moment, nursing their drinks and lost in
their own thoughts. Finally, Dempsey looked over at his companion. "You
look like a man with a problem."

"Yeah."

When nothing more followed, Dempsey tried again. "Tell you what, I'll tell
you my problems if you tell me yours. One of us is bound to feel better
since the other would have a worse story."

"Do you always go up to strange men in pubs and ask them personal
questions?" Doyle asked, slightly amused.

"Don't worry, friend, you're not my type," Dempsey said, with a twist to
his mouth that Doyle was beginning to recognise as a smile. "Seriously,
though, you're supposed to be able to tell strangers your entire life
story in a bar. Don't you watch the movies? Of course, usually the
customer tells his sorrows to the barkeep, but I don't think that's going
to happen."

Doyle had to agree, looking down the bar and watching the man who hadn't
glanced at them since bringing Dempsey his drink. He was currently peering
down the blouse of a rather voluptuous woman he was serving a tall, frosty
drink to.

"All right," Ray finally agreed. "But one question, first. What are you
doing here? You don't exactly look the Tower of London type and this pub
isn't exactly along the normal tourist routes."

The bitterness in the brown eyes seemed to intensify for a moment. "Let's
just say some friends thought a trip would be good for my health," he
answered, with more than a little sarcasm in his voice. "But that's not
the problem I was talking about. I think I'm in love with my partner."

It was a good thing, Doyle decided, that he had already swallowed the last
sip he'd taken, otherwise he would have probably spewed it over the entire
bar. "*Pardon* me?"

"No, no, my partner's a woman," Dempsey quickly explained, thinking that
was what had surprised his companion. "Detective Lady Harriet Makepeace."

*Maybe Bodie and she should get together*, Doyle thought. *Both got those
regal-sounding names.*

"She's beautiful. Alabaster skin, deep blue eyes, pale blonde hair. I bet
her hair looks great when it's long."

*I bet yours would, too, Bodie. Just get it long enough for that curl in
it to grow in.*

"She's been a great friend. And no one could ask for a better partner--"

*Yes, they could. No one's got as good a partner as I do.*

"--I just don't know if what I'm feeling is love. Or if she could love me
back--"

*That's not our problem, is it, mate? I know you could love me. The way
you coddle me, you probably always have. More like whether you could
survive loving me.*

"--The chief tried to tell me once that that was why she left the Met, but
I always thought that it was more burn-out than anything else. Everyone
gets scared of watching friends get hurt--"

*I'm sick of it all the time, Bodie. Every time you get stabbed or shot, I
lose it. How much more is it going to hurt if I let you into my life
completely?*

"--I don't think I've ever been in love, really in love, before, so how
can I be sure that's what I'm feeling now?"

*We've already told each other everything, haven't we, sunshine? All the
important things, anyway.*

"--And she listens! All right, she's not always the most understanding
person, but I'm not always the easiest person to understand. And she's
always honest with me, no matter what--"

*That's one thing we're not short on: truthfulness when it comes to how we
feel about the things we've done. Well, I've never had a problem with
that, anyway.*

"--But she accepts me for the most part. Maybe that's what love is when it
comes down to it. Just caring about somebody as they are, warts and all--"

*I do that, Bodie, and I know not many have done that for you. And I know
you love me and no one has ever accepted me without trying to change who I
am. Is that all it takes?*

"--I think she does love me. She hasn't been getting on me as much about
not following procedure. She's even stopped calling me 'leftenant,' except
when she's trying to get me to--"

*Do I have the right to take your love? But do I have the right to deny
you mine when it's what will make you happy?*

"Damn!" Dempsey said suddenly, "I'm late. I was supposed to pick Harry up
about five minutes ago." The American got off his stool and threw down
some money for the beer he'd had. He looked at Doyle with a much happier
version of the grin he'd given him half an hour earlier. "You think
telling her I love her will stop Harry from killing me for us being late
to the orchestra?"

Doyle smiled back, a little happier, himself. "It might help, mate, but I
wouldn't bet on it."

"You're probably right," Dempsey sighed, not seeming too worried. "Nice to
know love doesn't change everything." The American was at the door before
he seemed to remember something. "Hey, you never told me your problem."

Doyle shrugged. "That's okay. It wasn't much different from yours."

With a nod and a roguish smile, Dempsey was gone.

Doyle stood up and paid for his own drink and as he was leaving, two
thoughts dominated his mind. The first one was that he had better go tell
Bodie that he loved him immediately, before he talked himself out of it.
The second was much more mundane: he *still* hated ducks.

-- THE END --

*Originally published in *Chalk and Cheese 11*, Whatever You Do, Don't
Press! (Agent With Style), 1992*

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