The Professionals Circuit Archive - Catch a Fallen Star	Catch a
Fallen Star

 

by Rosemary 

 
 
   

 *For Tyger Tiger with love*

 *Chapter One*

 *He has to be alive...has to be alive.…*

 The litany had become so much a part of William Bodie's existence during
the past six months that even now when the desperate prayer could at last
be discarded, it ran unconsciously through his mind.

 Only six months. George Cowley's fierce morality and C.I.5 itself seemed
years behind him. As he slipped down the Genevan back alley, Bodie felt
that he'd always lived like this: skulking in shadows, looking over his
shoulder, his hand hovering over his weapon, always one breath away from
death. Once again, hiding from the law was second nature to him.

 Bodie grimaced as the falling snow caught in his eyelashes, their
reflexive twitch a black sweep against the blue-veined, sleep-starved skin
beneath them. He shifted the heavy attaché case. His grip was steady,
despite the night's cold. Fat snowflakes drifted lazily downward through
the hushed stillness around him, as if in no hurry to meet the ground.
Even with the accumulation on his shoulders and the persistent cling of
flakes to the rough wool of his black coat, he stood out against the
unnatural brightness of the night, each breath a misty cloud spotlighting
his location. That irked him for he had dressed for concealment. The snow
was, however, keeping the local constabulary and criminal element indoors,
for which he was grateful.

 A last turn brought him to the warehouse. The ex-C.I.5 agent paused and
automatically scanned the area. Aside from the blackened slush path
leading from the direction of the larger thoroughfare which Bodie had
taken pains to avoid, there was nothing to distinguish this particular
building from the blocks of squalid look-a-likes he'd circumnavigated to
get here. This warehouse was equally dilapidated. Its white paint had long
gone greyish black; over half of the windows were shattered; and the outer
wooden staircase was so rickety it looked like a prop from an old horror
movie. There were clusters of similar abandoned structures in every city
the well-travelled man had visited. It would take a very astute observer,
indeed, to isolate this building from its brethren.

 But his former boss trained nothing other than astute observers. Like
Sherlock Holmes' Watson, a man of Cowley's might fail to properly
interpret his data, but never would he fail to notice it.

 The footprints were a dead giveaway of something being amiss about this
out of the way derelict. The green and white paint of the snow glazed sign
above the stairway proclaiming OBERSTEIN'S IMPORTS was far brighter than
the faded remnants sported by its neighbours and even the door itself was
peculiar. Its wood might be as ancient as the surrounding building, but
the shiny, well-oiled hinges were visible even in the half-light from
Bodie’s snowy vantage point. Up closer he knew he would see the camera
lens concealed in the sign’s "O", but from here it was invisible. 

 His eyes caught the orange glow of lantern light that peeked through the
grime of half a pane of remaining glass. Like fairy light, it danced
eerily through the flakes fluttering between his vantage point and
destination, lending the alleyway a hushed, haunted feel. Definitely not
the run of the mill rat and wino haven. No, something far more sinister
was transpiring within. If the appearance of the warehouse didn't testify
to that, its aura certainly did.

 Shaking off the apprehension creeping up his spine, Bodie stepped from
his observation point. Untrodden snow crunched softly underfoot until his
shoe sank into the more travelled mush carpeting the approach to the
stairs. He slushed his way up the uncertain structure, shivering on the
landing until the door clicked open and swung soundlessly inward before
him.

 So, Bodie thought, this is what a modern-day slave market looked like.

 The man waiting in the corridor on the other side of the door was twice
as broad as Bodie, all of it muscle, from what he could judge in the dim
light.

 "You're late," the man said, his faded blue eyes regarding Bodie
suspiciously.

 Bodie shrugged, as if undisturbed by the threatening tone. For this
particular auction, they'd wait for him.

 "Brought the money?"

 "Of course." Bodie lifted the case fractionally, trying to feign
indifference. He’d sold his soul and his future for its contents. But it
would get Ray back, and that was all that mattered to him

 With a noncommittal nod, the muscle man led the way down a gloomy
passage.

 Bodie’s attitude toward the contents of his case was nowhere near as
nonchalant as he let on. It was hard to be blasé about one hundred and
fifty thousand pounds. And that was only the half he was carrying. There
was another hundred and fifty sitting in the trunk of the Volvo he’d
parked a few blocks away. He hadn’t wanted to walk in with everything,
just in case this was a set-up. But his instincts were telling him this
was the real thing. The auction was as genuine as the cash he carried. 

 Never in his life had he possessed so much, or been so disinterested in
spending it. Ill-gotten gains, his former boss would have called it.
Bodie, too, for that matter.

 But...Cowley had failed him, where gunrunning had not. Ray was still
alive and Bodie was about to prove it. After that – once his partner was
shipped safely home, there would be more than enough time for the outlawed
Englishman to make his choices. For the last six months, all plans had
terminated at this hour. The haze of unreality that clouded his mind when
he tried to imagine any point beyond the next few minutes was unnerving,
almost as though his quest would not end here, as if he were forever
destined to search and fail, as if Ray were really dead like Cowley
claimed.

 Bodie cut that thought off cold. There could be no doubting, no second
thoughts. He’d given up far too much to turn back now. He was more
committed than he’d ever been in his life.

 His contact had said that a C.I.5 agent was going up for sale tonight.
Bodie had to believe that was true. 

 Yet, the fears still lingered. So much was at stake here, his sanity if
nothing else. He knew that even if Hans were right, there was always the
chance that the captive C.I.5 agent mightn’t be Ray Doyle. Wallace had
been missing for eighteen months now and Lindstrom had disappeared in the
North Country nine months ago; it could be either of them. But Hans'
description of a young buck who'd given the distributors their share of
trouble didn't seem to fit either of the other missing agents, whereas
Ray...

 Bodie’s ruminations were abruptly cut off as his environment started to
change from the dreary hall to more promising entryways. This was
certainly not the right time to be second-guessing himself. He’d been told
a C.I.5 agent was here. Until proven otherwise, he had to believe it was
Ray. If it turned out to be Lindstrom or Wallace, he was equally obliged
to secure their freedom. They’d been mates as well; though, nowhere near
as close to him as Doyle. He’d get them out of here, ship them back to
Cowley, and then…and then he’d begin his search again.

 The narrow corridor coughed them out into the cavernous hollow of the
warehouse's main room. His eyes automatically searched the area for escape
routes. Bodie temporarily ignored the island of light at the far end of
the building, concentrating instead on the obscure perimeters to his left
and right as his guide led him across the dust-filled space. 

 Vague half-light filtered through the remains of the tiny windows, a gift
of the snow-bright night. Rotted and easy to break through as the window
frames doubtless were, they'd still be little help to him as far escape
went. Positioned a good fifteen feet above the floor, they were beyond
reach. There was no other indication of a break in the wall, no fire door
or freight entrance. Only way out, then, was the way in, and whatever lay
up ahead.

 Closer now, Bodie allowed his attention to fix on the sole source of
light in the place, mystified by what appeared to be the set of a school
play or one of those dreadful, avant-garde amateur productions which Doyle
occasionally hauled him to see. The front wall was dominated by a hastily
constructed platform. The pungent scent of fresh cedar from the naked
blond wood overpowered even the stirred dust in this section of the
warehouse. The stage had a curtain, like any good production hall, but
this one would never compete with the red velvet draping the Royal Albert.
The tattered grey material looked more like a blanket draped over a
banister or a rug hung out for a good beating than a theatre curtain.

 As with every amateur acting company Bodie had seen, audience
accommodation was given minor attention. A group of thirty or so metal
folding chairs had been lined up before the primitive platform. The only
thing missing was some pimply kid ushering them to their seats and trying
to sell them crisps.

 Bodie was relieved to see that most of the other buyers had disdained the
near-comic set-up. He silently joined the group of hard-faced men waiting
in the shadows furthest from the lanterns.

 Curious, he scanned their features, wondering what a procurer of human
flesh looked like. Not all of them were here to buy kidnapped scientists
and political VIPs, Bodie knew. Some were just here for the information
this group also peddled and were relatively harmless. But which were
which?

 His suspicions as to who was here for the human auction tended toward the
blunt, wide-faced Slavs. That physicist Ray had been guarding the night
both Doyle and his charge disappeared had, after all, resurfaced behind
the Iron Curtain. Bodie tried not to dwell on what Ray's fate would have
been were Dr. Russell not rescued; the Cow had refused to lift the
'missing, presumed dead' label from Doyle's file, but Russell's story had
given Bodie the will to keep searching.

 Cowley's reasons for not reopening the case made perfect sense. No one
would go to the trouble of keeping a bodyguard alive that long, much less
try to auction him off. But old George's men were far more than mere
muscle. There were a dozen well-funded terrorist groups that would pay a
mint to get their hands on the inside security information a C.I.5 or MI6
agent could provide. The two British representatives conversing in hushed
whispers across from him reaffirmed Bodie's belief that a C.I.5 operative
might be worth something to England's criminal element.

 The subdued conversations halted as a thin man stepped from between the
grey drapes. Beneath a cap of unimpressive, mousy hair, the man's facial
features were as bland and commonplace as the dark suit he wore. Were it
not for the eyes, one might lose him in a second in the noonday lunch
crowds at Whitechapel. The ferocity in that gaze would, however, never be
lost in the sea of tranquil blue or overstressed brown which flooded the
pubs and restaurants of home at midday. The small black eyes lent the
tall, enigmatic figure a dangerous air as they glistened like a cornered
rat's in the lamplight.

 "Welcome, gentleman. Now that we are all assembled, we will begin
tonight's proceedings. The first item will be the plans to a certain
missile base in.…"

 Bodie tuned out the carefully modulated voice, suppressing a shiver. Odd,
under different circumstances that deep voice might be pleasant, but
something in its tonal quality touched off an unreasoning fear deep within
him. This could be the voice of Death – candy-coated, its sweetness
covering the devouring greed beneath.

 His gaze restlessly roamed the warehouse while Bodie waited out the
auction for the one item of interest to him. The missile base plans were
finally sold to a short, bespectacled man with a thick German accent. Part
of the tension seeped from Bodie's frame as the little man nervously
claimed his merchandise at the far side of the platform, where a short
flight of stairs no doubt led from the stage to the ground. After paying
for his purchase, the German quickly left the auction.

 At least they wouldn't have to hang around and wait for the proceedings
to be completed, Bodie thought, trying to ignore the nagging of his
conscience. Old habits died hard. He’d spent seven years collecting this
kind of trash for Cowley. Bodie was all too aware that with every moment
he delayed, another villain walked free.

 Interpol, and every government in Western Europe, were hunting these
bastards. Upon his escape from England, Bodie had sworn that all he would
do was get Ray back. He owed nothing to Cowley anymore and as for the
other agencies...the ex-C.I.5 agent had never had much love for
bureaucrats. His efforts to get help finding Doyle had done nothing to
change that attitude. To a one, they’d all found it easier to file Ray as
missing, presumed dead, than to continue the search. They’d all left Doyle
for dead and actively interfered with Bodie’s efforts to find his missing
partner. He owed them nothing. What did it matter if ten or a thousand
villains went free here tonight? It was the authorities’ problem, let them
handle it. His only concern was his partner. 

 Only . . . .

 There was a fundamental malevolence to the auctioneer that raised the
hackles on Bodie's spine. Without being able to say how he knew, Bodie
sensed that the dark clad man was the centre of more than just the
operation's stage show. The flair with which he conducted the proceedings
was akin to that of a man who'd worked extremely hard and was relishing
the final stages of his task to the fullest. The air of sadism which clung
to the piercing-eyed figure mid-stage made Bodie want to ensure that the
kidnapper was brought to justice. But that would mean involving one form
of police or another, which he was still loath to do.

 Weighing his dilemma, Bodie waited out the information sale. Over a third
of the audience was gone by the time the last document was sold. Bodie
checked out those who lingered – one of the Englishmen, a pair of subdued
Orientals standing almost unnoticed beside a wooden post, three
coffee-skinned men with mid-Eastern characteristics, a fellow with a
wide-brimmed fedora covering a shock of ridiculously pure blonde hair,
whom Bodie took to be an American from the few words the man had uttered,
some obvious criminals like the Brit Black Willie – a few Bodie recognized
from C.I.5 files – one or two other nationalities he couldn't place, and
the rest . . . Eastern block sorts with a definite Moscovian flavour. A
grim and dangerous assembly. Bodie could almost smell the gun oil in the
concealed hardware around him.

 Ill at ease at being spotlighted in such company with nothing more stable
at his back than a roomful of shadows, Bodie silently urged the completion
of the auction.

 He wondered how they'd work the actual sale. Earlier, he'd thought that
such a thing would be handled in a more civilized fashion, perhaps by
passing photos and bio-sheet to the interested buyers, but the melodrama
colouring the previous portion of the auction had dispelled any such
illusions. The auctioneer would probably parade the poor sods in front of
this bunch of vampires the way old Vlad had dangled the missile plans
before them earlier, Bodie thought during the tense intermission which
followed the completion of the information auction. This entire set-up
disgusted him.

 His attention snapped instantly to full alertness as the master of
ceremonies stepped from behind the curtains once again. Bodie’s body
tensed, ready for anything.

 The auctioneer’s feral, glittering eyes raked over the audience. 

 Bodie couldn’t help but note that a visible shudder passed through each
man whom that gaze settled upon. Even Black Willie seemed to shift under
the unrefined malevolence of that spooky observation, Bodie noted, and it
was said that Old Willie had faced down a hit team of eight armed
assassins once, killed every last one of them without batting an eye or
breaking a sweat.

 Bodie steeled his own body to remain still when his turn to be under that
baleful gaze came. He met the unnerving stare with his own particular
brand of stubbornness. No one could be that evil, he told himself; it was
all the gimmickry – the flickering lamplight, the bizarre setting,
highlighted in the utter blackness of their cathedral-like surroundings.
Put the auctioneer in a pair of khakis and he'd be just another killer.

 Yet, there was something more to this man's wickedness. Attempting to
outstare the near-hypnotic gaze, Bodie realized what the underlying terror
was. Some men possessed an inherent ability to command the obedience of
others. George Cowley had it, so did the auctioneer. But where one looked
into the Scotsman's eyes and saw the good at the core of Cowley’s
hardness, so one found the evil lurking in these inky depths.

 Bodie withstood the glare, just barely. When it finally released him, his
entire body seemed to sag with relief, as if a tremendous weight had just
been lifted from overstrained muscles. 

 On a mental level, he knew that his physical reaction was completely out
of proportion to the stimulus. He’d weathered gunfights without getting
the shakes like this. But he’d been living on nerves and hope for so long
that his normal, professional cool was shot to hell. He was a raw, open
nerve, reacting on an animal level.

 As the sweat evaporated from his brow, Bodie wondered if it were possible
that he were no longer entirely sane. But, it was a vague, distant
concern, nowhere near as overpowering as his instinctive reaction to the
loathsome individual commanding this performance.

 Abruptly aware that the auctioneer had once again begun to speak, Bodie's
attention riveted on the man's latest spiel.

 " . . . member of a little publicized British crime stopping
organization. Not of our usual calibre, it was nevertheless thought that
this item would be of interest to certain members of our audience. We will
begin bids at 5,000 pounds.." A long-fingered hand gestured at the dingy
curtain as a reluctant figure was thrust forward from behind.

 Bodie stared at the unkempt creature, experiencing a sinking sense of
anti-climax. Not Ray, then, or any of C.I.5's other missing operatives.
The poor sod was probably an MI6 agent or maybe ISS. Hans had said there
would only be one Brit up for sale tonight, Bodie remembered with a
sinking heart. He'd have to wait until the next auction or . . . or
finally accept that his partner was truly dead. 

 Maybe it was time. How often had he known Cowley to be wrong about a
thing like that and why . . . ? 

 On stage, the *item's* lowered head raised. 

 Bodie's heart contracted as the flickering lamplight shimmered across
gaunt features, seeming to highlight the unmistakable lump on the man’s
right cheekbone. It was the hair that had thrown him off. In the
flickering lamplight, the prisoner’s hair had looked almost black. It was
far too long to have been readily recognized as Doyle’s. Unwashed it hung
heavily without curls, falling almost to the man's shoulders, but the face
it framed . . . .

 "Ray . . . . " the gasp was torn from him in a sibilant exhalation that
went unnoticed. The cold sweat was back, dripping down his spine in large,
chilly drops. Stunned, Bodie gaped at the man whom he'd failed to
recognize as his partner.

 Everything about Ray seemed changed. Superficially, there was the longer,
lank hair and slighter build. Ugly purple and green bruises mottled
Doyle’s familiar facial features. The man on stage looked as if he'd been
used as a punching bag by someone the size of the behemoth who'd escorted
Bodie in. But, beyond the visible changes, there was a fundamental
difference in the way Doyle presented himself that had caused his
partner's failure of recognition.

 It was Ray’s stance that was so different, Bodie realized. Despite his
penchant for analysis, Doyle was pre-eminently a physical entity. Ray’s
moods and attitudes were always unconsciously revealed by his body. In
motion, the only thing Bodie had ever seen to rival Ray's grace and innate
sensuality was a hunting leopard – careful of step, its fluid, effortless
motion seemed to bring it to its fleeing prey as if by sheer willpower
alone. 

 Much of that same feline superiority had characterized his partner's
attitude. Even when still, Ray possessed a certain cat-like intensity that
made an observer instantly and physically aware of his presence. Proud and
conscious of his attractiveness, Doyle broadcast his confidence and
desirability with his every movement. Ray was so self-aware that he was
capable of destroying another's equanimity with a seductive flash of his
eyes. Instinctive and unalterable, that seductiveness was as much a part
of Doyle's character as his unpredictable mood shifts. 

 Or so Bodie had fancied. The slouched figure on stage revealed no trace
of that engaging, infuriating arrogance. Standing motionless under the
audience's eye with his baggy jeans and too-big plaid shirt hanging from
his wasted frame, Doyle looked as if his entire sense of self had been
forcibly ripped from him or . . . . 

 Ray appeared drugged. The dull-eyed, near-unblinking stare might be so
explained.

 His blood igniting to liquid fire at what had been done to his partner,
Bodie turned his gaze to the auctioneer, merciless murder brewing within.
Something slow and excruciating; something Krivas would approve of.

 Bodie ruthlessly clamped down on those thoughts and the satisfyingly
gruesome pictures accompanying them. His instincts already had him
twitching to draw his gun. Tempting as it was to just blow the auctioneer
away, Bodie knew that he couldn’t risk it. Ray was unarmed and drugged out
of his mind. A move like that could get them both killed. Besides, Bodie
doubted if the worst revenge he could imagine could possibly recompense
his partner.

 "Ten thousand," the bid from Black Willie beside him brought Bodie out of
his shock.

 "Fifteen," this bid came from one of the Arabs.

 With a tenuous rein on his patience, Bodie listened to the two bid their
way up to fifty thousand. There, the Arab hesitated, leaving Black Willie
dangling with the last bid.

 Eyes fixed on his partner; Bodie spoke clearly into the pause that
followed, "One- hundred and fifty."

 "Would you repeat that, please?" the request from the stage shattered the
hushed silence.

 Bodie spoke again, disappointment tingeing his reply, "I said,
one-hundred and fifty-thousand." 

 He'd hoped Ray would show some reaction to the sound of his voice, but
his friend seemed utterly oblivious to all.

 "Sod it, Iron George himself ain’t worth half that," Black Willie
declared, regarding Bodie from beneath shaggy, coal black brows as though
Bodie were completely unhinged. "What ya want him for?"

 Bodie ignored the question, stiff with apprehension. If he'd gambled
wrong and anyone were to outbid him, he hadn't the cash on him to contest
it. A quick trip to the car would remedy that, but now that he’d found
Ray, he was unwilling to let his partner out of his sight. 

 His heart was pounding an anxious tattoo in the silence that followed his
insane bid, but Bodie’s strategy proved sound. No one seemed inclined to
challenge a man who bid in hundred-thousand pound increments.

 "One-hundred and fifty-thousand is the final bid. Will the buyer please
come to the concierge?" the auctioneer requested.

 Numbly, Bodie stood and walked to the side of the platform where he'd
seen the other buyers go. A pudgy, nervous man with washed out, whisky
reddened blue eyes sat behind a card table at the platform's steps, the
huge doorman positioned at his side.

 Bodie handed over his attaché case, standing silently while its contents
were counted.

 Running a hand through wispy grey hair, the cashier nodded.

 "It's all there, boss," the guard called to the platform.

 For fear of what his face might reveal, Bodie tried to keep his attention
focused on the perspiring money-counter, but at Ray’s first uncertain
shuffle, he found his gaze inexorably drawn upwards. As the auctioneer led
his partner slowly toward him, Bodie watched Doyle's face, searching for
any sign of recognition. 

 The usually expressive features were unnaturally still, the black-ringed
eyes clouded in an unfocused daze.

 "Down the steps," the auctioneer ordered, as if Doyle might walk straight
off the platform if not so instructed.

 Ray's foot dangled over the top step for a full minute, as if over a drop
that was perhaps too high for safety's sake, then descended the eight
inches or so with agonizing slowness.

 "Wait," the auctioneer's voice barked out.

 Doyle froze mid-step, turning with uncharacteristic meekness to stare up
at the auctioneer.

 The crazed-eyed stranger stepped down the stairs. The curtains put them
out of sight of most of the audience.

 "I’ll miss you, my pretty one," the auctioneer practically crooned.

 Stunned, Bodie watched the man in black grab hold of Doyle's hair with
his left hand, yanking his partner's head toward him with a painful pull.
The right shot up to Doyle's jaw, forcing Ray’s mouth open. Then, before
Bodie’s unbelieving eyes, the auctioneer's head lowered to take Doyle in a
plundering, open-mouthed kiss.

 Paralysed with shock, Bodie was certain at that moment that he was insane
or dreaming. This simply could not be happening. 

 When the image didn't waver and he didn’t wake up screaming, a berserker
fury blasted away the numbness.

 Bodie was on the stairs before his sluggish mind registered motion. The
black-clad auctioneer's body flipped through the air like an empty grain
sack as Bodie ripped the sadist off his partner. For a second, Bodie gazed
into the unfazed, unfocused green of Doyle’s eyes. Nobody at home. There
was nothing there in the red rimmed, bloodshot eyes. No reaction to that
fiendish, obscene kiss, no reaction to the sight of his partner, no moves
to protect himself from the violence erupting around him, nothing. 

 Horrified by the absence of intelligence, Bodie turned back to the
auctioneer, moving in for the kill.

 The slick black barrel of a Magnum stared up at him from the floor.

 Conscious of Doyle's proximity, Bodie froze, standing absolutely
motionless in his crouch as the giant bodyguard climbed the creaking
staircase. 

 "He's mine," Bodie hissed, ready to dare the gun once the man-mountain
stepped between Ray and the bullet's path. Few would have recognized
Cowley's suave, cultured agent in the wild, gleaming-eyed predator
kneeling on that dusty wood floor. Bodie’s panther-coiled muscles were set
to strike; irrational, the killer instinct had claimed him entirely.

 That there was an answering madness in the auctioneer’s burning black
gaze behind the trigger disturbed Bodie not at all.

 "He's right, you know, boss. Money's been accepted. The item's his." This
unexpected burst of reason came, surprisingly enough, from the oversized
bodyguard. The huge man lumbered between the blood-crazed combatants with
a nonchalance that approached imbecility.

 As the meaning of the muscle man’s words penetrated the red haze blazing
through Bodie’s senses, a chill, like cold, mountain melt-water iced
through in their wake. His own proprietary statement rose up to haunt him.
*He's mine*, like Ray was just so much meat to be argued over. Doyle
didn't seem aware of his surroundings, but Bodie feared his partner’s
reaction when memory called forth Bodie’s savage response at some future
date.

 "Give the money back," the auctioneer snapped. 

 The curt order snapped Bodie out of his guilt. 

 Menacing madness still flamed black heat in the auctioneer’s too-wild
gaze.

 "You want’ta hand back one-hundred and fifty-thousand pounds?" the
incredulous question burst from the mountain of muscle still separating
Bodie from his opponent. There was something in the bodyguard's face,
though – a touch of cunning – that told the ex-C.I.5 agent of the man’s
expertise in handling his irrational employer. "For that little one? Boss,
this entire lot will barely bring that in."

 Bodie glanced in the direction at which the powerful hand gestured. Four
other oversized guards, none as big as the one before him, created a
living barrier between the platform steps and a huddle of prisoners. Ten,
maybe twelve, peaked faces stared out of the shadowed stage wings at
Bodie. Their wide-eyed gazes were all as beseeching as frightened
children, each seeming to silently beg him for help. But, although all
appeared drugged, none seemed to have been physically abused to the degree
his partner had.

 Hardening himself to the hostages' plight, Bodie turned back to the
madman running the show. 

 Bodie recognized that he’d allowed his emotions to jeopardize everything.
The first private conversation he’d ever had with Ray Doyle came back to
haunt him, reminding him of how he’d bragged to his new partner about his
ability to stay cool at all times. He’d put Doyle down that night for
being a hothead, but even at his most irrational, his emotional partner
had never jeopardized a mission the way Bodie had just done.

 Brutally thrusting aside both his feelings for Doyle and his hatred for
this degenerate who had destroyed his friend, Bodie reclaimed the veneer
of the cold professional. The change was instantaneous. His facial muscles
tightened into the challenging sneer, for which the larger member of
Cowley's top team was infamous. The wildness temporarily left Bodie. He
could feel it being replaced by an icy resolve that was possibly more
dangerous in the cruelty of its cold promise. 

 "Yeah, give the money back, why don't you?" Bodie mouthed off, playing
his role as though it were a stranger standing there instead of Ray Doyle.
"My boss must be mad. It’d be easier and cheaper to find our own informant
than to muck around with your leavings."

 The auctioneer climbed to his feet and carefully dusted off his suit.
Bodie unconsciously held his breath, watching the war of avarice and
insanity turn the auctioneer’s commonplace features as horrid as the
hellish gaze. The man looked once in the direction of the audience, as if
to reassure himself that what had transpired was completely out of sight
before turning back to Bodie.

 Most times Bodie would have been unworried about an opponent's response.
He knew how the condescending tone he used at such instances tended to
make the villains play right into his hands. But this nutter was
unpredictable, crazy enough to hand over the fortune from spite – or kill
him and keep both Doyle and the money.

 That had always been a possibility; he'd known that coming in. Bodie
tensed all over, his mind playing out that morbid scenario, until he
recalled the buyers who lingered on the other side of that moth-eaten
curtain. Realizing how close the other auction participants were, Bodie’s
new worry faded. There was no silencer on the Magnum that had been pointed
at him moments before. Bodie didn't think even this nutter would be stupid
enough to jeopardize a dozen sales for temper's sake.

 "Deal's been made," the auctioneer finally spat. "Get them the hell out
of here, Miller."

 Miller took hold of Bodie’s arm and led him quickly to the steps.
Snagging an oblivious Doyle with the other, Miller marched them to the
table.

 Once the auctioneer had returned to the stage, Bodie shook free of the
hold. 

 "Your boss is one mad bugger," he remarked with affected casualness. Even
now he was still fighting the urge to blow the bastard away, his eyes
straying to Doyle to try to determine just how much damage had been done. 

 That foul kiss…although there were rocket scientists for sale here
tonight, it didn’t take someone of their IQ to determine that there had
been a lot more to Ray’s abuse than a single kiss. 

 "It's not the boss' fault, really. The stubborn sod here drove him to it.
I'll be glad to see the back of this one. Though, in all honesty, he's not
even worth the minimum bid anymore," Miller said in a conspiratorial
aside.

 "What's wrong with him?" Bodie asked, trying to sound simply curious and
not concerned. The darkness of the vault-like warehouse helped. With the
lights of the auction block falling further behind with every step, the
sombre spectre walking silently on the other side of their guard could be
anybody in the dusty murkiness. 

 "Boss likes to know what grade of information he's sellin’, so he'll know
how to price the merchandise. This one sort of became an . . . obsession
with him."

 "Why?"

 "Wouldn't talk, didn't scare. Was the damnedest thing. Usually, you can
beat the information out of most of our items real quick. But this one was
different than the rest. Wouldn't give up a single word of info. He got up
the boss' nose somethin' awful with that tongue of his. So, the boss . . .
tried other means, you know?"

 Bodie knew. He was fully aware of how hunger, sleep deprivation and other
methods that he couldn't think about in context to Doyle and remain sane
could loosen a man's tongue. 

 "Why are you telling me this?" Bodie asked, tensed for treachery.

 Up ahead, he could see the lessening of the dark that marked the exit of
the slightly brighter passage leading to the door through which Bodie had
entered the warehouse.

 Bodie felt the big man shrug. "Just figured you should know what you're
getting. Boss might've broken this one, but he didn't crack him. Doubt if
you will either."

 "Not my problem. I'm just a delivery boy," Bodie lied, relieved to enter
the claustrophobically close passage that led to the front door. 

 In the small space, his nostrils twitched at the reek that rose from his
unwashed partner. Ray smelt like he hadn't bathed since his capture, which
was hardly surprising. Bodie remembered going for two months himself
without a bath in that Congo prison.

 Finally, the door came into sight.

 Miller threw the bolt and stepped aside to let Bodie and his new
acquisition pass. The grim-faced guard nodded once to Bodie in parting,
then quickly closed the door behind them.

 The relieved release of his captured breath dissipated in the falling
snow in a misty white cloud. Hardly daring to believe that he'd actually
pulled it off, Bodie turned to his partner. 

 "Ray?" he asked with uncharacteristic gentleness.

 Doyle remained silent, staring off over Bodie's right shoulder as if he
hadn't heard.

 Bodie stepped closer until his face completely blocked his partner's line
of vision, "Ray? It's Bodie. Don't you recognize me?" 

 He tried to keep his face calm, tried to offer only the reassuring
presence of a friend, but the catch in his voice probably revealed the
desperation raging within. The loneliness and isolation of his six-month
search made Bodie crave some sign of recognition. 

 No longer totally rational, Bodie was, himself, in need of comfort.

 Doyle’s huge eyes stared blankly through Bodie as though he were
invisible, a wall or one of Ray's captors.

 Bodie's hand settled lightly on the left side of Doyle's face, which was
less bruised than the other. Someone had shaved him recently, and done a
bad job of it. The razor nicks distributed among the green and purple
discolourations mottling the soft, hot skin brought a thick, choking lump
to Bodie’s throat.

 Silently, Bodie took stock of his ravaged mate. His quaking fingers
touched the lank, filthy hair, running its oily length to land lightly on
a bony shoulder. Half-hoping for a flinch or any other sign of awareness,
Bodie let his hand linger there. At first he thought there was nothing,
that Doyle was totally, completely oblivious to the outside world, but
then Bodie felt the muscles in Doyle's neck tense, as an unnatural
rigidity claimed the gaunt figure.

 The emptiness in Ray's eyes gave way to an expression of resigned horror,
as if Doyle had been using the oblivion to numb himself to the situation,
only to find its haven too fragile to cushion him from the hideous
reality. 

 At first, Bodie couldn’t fathom what was so terrible about what he was
doing

 Abruptly, the obscene spectacle of the auctioneer's kiss flashed in
Bodie's mind. With his hand's gripping Doyle's shoulder and his face
looming so close, physically, he presented a similar threat, but surely
Doyle would know that Bodie would never use him like that? Unless . . . .

 "Ray, it's me, Bodie. Don't you . . . ."

 The growing panic in the pinched features at the sound of his raised
voice answered his question. 

 No, Doyle didn't know him. Not right now. With all the drugs that had no
doubt been pumped into him to keep him this docile, it was entirely
possible that Ray didn’t know his own name at the moment. 

 Before he could release Doyle or dispel his fears, Ray gasped as if in
terror. As the deeper breath of the gasp flooded his lungs, Doyle erupted
into a fit of deep, wracking coughing.

 Bodie could hear how filled his partner’s lungs were with congestion. Now
that they were outside in the night’s quiet and he was actively listening
for it, Bodie could also hear his partner’s laboured breathing.

 Shocked by the raucous explosion, Bodie held his friend erect as the
cough threatened to topple his unstable partner into the snow at their
feet. 

 "It's all right," Bodie soothed. "I'm not going to hurt you. Please, Ray,
calm down."

 Gradually, the coughing stilled to a noisy wheeze, and then finally to
the shallow, careful breathing that had hidden the infirmity.

 "Better now?" Bodie checked.

 He didn’t receive a response, but at least the tearing eyes regarding him
suspiciously were no longer blank. Bodie released Doyle's shoulders and
took a step back from him.

 Only then did he notice the snow that was collecting in the long hair and
soaking through the worn fabric of Doyle’s filthy plaid cotton shirt. The
wind had picked up since Bodie had entered the warehouse. Earlier the
snowflakes had fallen so gently, but now the wind was hurling them against
bare skin in stinging pricks. The unbruised portions of Doyle's face were
turning a bright pink and a shiny stream of moisture dripped from a
nostril caked with dried blood. As Bodie became conscious of their exposed
position at the top of the old wooden staircase, a shudder convulsed his
under-dressed partner.

 The car was six blocks away, Doyle looked frozen after only a few moments
exposure. Bodie realized that his partner would never make it to the car
dressed as he was.

 "Catch your death this way," Bodie commented, shrugging out of his coat.
He held it out for Ray to slip into, but Ray remained rooted in the pile
of snow collecting around him, once again treating Bodie to that blank
stare. 

 Cursing whatever drugs were responsible, the taller man mumbled, "'s not
a bloody matador's cape. In you go, mate." 

 With a light grip, he guided one drastically thin arm and then the other
into the coat sleeves. He was almost relieved to feel Doyle flinch at his
touch, glad that the silent man was at least that much aware of his
surroundings.

 Always, Bodie's full length coats were big on his partner, the extra few
inches in width that separated them making the garment that much longer.
Tonight, Doyle was all but lost in the voluminous folds of the warm
material.

 Bodie swallowed hard, trying to block out the bruised face and emaciated
figure that belonged more to some refugee from an internment camp than to
his partner. His Doyle was still in there, hidden somewhere behind the
dead eyes and wounded flesh. As he bent to button the coat that was
flapping wildly about with each gust of wind, Bodie realized it was going
to take some effort to locate that lost man.

 A shiver gripped him as the latest wind pelted his bare face with
ice-like pellets of snow. His black polo was totally inadequate for this
kind of weather. Knowing that they both had to get indoors as soon as
possible, he took hold of Doyle's arm, part of him hoping for some show of
resistance. 

 It was the drugs, Bodie told himself, trying not to be disheartened by
the meek acquiescence as Doyle allowed himself to be guided like a blind
man through the confusing maze of deserted alleys to the car. 

 The wind ripped through the narrow spaces between darkened warehouses
with a ferocious might, ripping savagely at their faces and stinging
unprotected eyes until they stumbled almost blindly through the hostile
night.

 At last, Bodie spotted his Volvo, its battered black frame almost
invisible under the white mounds. The snow coating the lock on the door
felt almost warm to his frozen senses as he brushed it away. Hastily,
Bodie installed his damaged charge in the passenger seat. He leaned over
Doyle to clumsily turn on the motor, affecting not to notice how Ray
flinched far back into the unyeilding leather seat at Bodie’s nearness.
Hauling back out, he switched on the heater and defroster, then slammed
the door securely behind him. 

 Walking quickly to the boot, Bodie brushed off the deep mound of snow
that had accumulated on top of it, then opened the boot to extract the
small snow shovel stowed within. Working rapidly, he shovelled out the
car.

 Bodie’s face was tight and numb by the time he was through, his shirt and
trousers soaked straight through with ice water. Never so grateful for
warmth, Bodie climbed into the driver’s side. 

 Doyle paid no attention to him as he claimed his seat behind the steering
wheel.

 Brisk rubbing returned some sensation to his frozen fingers, all of it
agonizing. Once Bodie could bend them around the cold leather of the
wheel, he cautiously inched the car forward. 

 Apparently, his efforts had been sufficient to free the car. A small bump
and they were crunching their way out of the desolate neighbourhood.

 Leaving the warehouse district was akin to surfacing from a nightmare.
The gloom of the narrow back alleys gradually lessened, the streets
widening and brightening with each block they put behind them. Though
equally deserted on such a bitterly cold night, the picturesque shops and
quaint buildings lining the empty avenues cheered him, marking as they did
a return to normality.

 Glancing at his chillingly silent mate, Bodie amended that thought to
returning to civilization. That dull-eyed stare would never be normal for
Doyle, or so he prayed.

 Paused for a red light, his gaze fell upon a call box on the corner. This
intersection was as deserted as the last dozen, with nothing but snow
blowing across it. The freezing white downpour was accumulating in
dune-like mounds by buildings and parked cars like sand in the Sahara.

 Unable to ignore his smarting conscience a moment longer, Bodie shifted
into park and stepped back out into the frigid wind. Doyle's complete lack
of interest at their unannounced delay fuelled his resolve as he dug some
change out of his pocket and made his way to the telephone.

 The question of whom to call temporarily defeated him. The police were
his first thought. But even if his German – picked up in Amsterdam and
nurtured to the point where he could order from a menu or bid on an arms
shipment – were sufficient to the task, he sincerely doubted his ability
to convince a bored desk sergeant of the truth of his outlandish tale.

 No, it had to be someone already familiar with the situation. They were
few in number, for the security blackout surrounding the disappearances
was unbreached.

 About to give up, the faces of the other captives flashed through his
mind. Bodie was under no illusions as to their fate, should he not follow
through. Doyle could well have been one of them. They’d all be sold to a
hostile bidder for whatever information they were unlucky enough to carry
locked in their heads, and once the information was extracted, they’d be
expendable. That was if they were lucky. It was possible that some
wouldn’t sell and they’d be bound to that sadistic madman indefinitely.
Bodie couldn’t allow that to happen, yet he didn’t know whom he could
contact to prevent it. 

 Who knew about the auction that was in a position to help? Cowley was
out, as was the British Consulate. That left only locals and . . . .

 Schueller. The name flashed out of nowhere, leaving Bodie to uneasily
consider it as he shuffled from foot to foot in six inches of very wet
snow. 

 The more he thought of the efficient Interpol agent, the less Bodie liked
the idea. Wanted fugitives did not usually go around ringing up
international police forces, not those interested in retaining their
freedom at least. He considered his situation. His liberation from
Cowley's ‘protective custody’, i.e., house arrest, was perforce of
circumstances unsanctioned. Doubtless, he was still a very wanted man in
his homeland. 

 But as for the rest of the world? Were it to come to light, his
involvement in the gun running operation that had financed Doyle's rescue
would elevate him to the level of international criminal, but Bodie
thought that an unlikely happenstance. Marty knew how to keep his mouth
shut. Only those directly involved in the deal were aware of Bodie’s
complicity and they couldn’t speak about it without incriminating
themselves.

 For now, he was probably safe. Cowley was a great believer in cleaning
his own doorstep. All of C.I.5 and the other law enforcement agencies at
his former boss' disposal were undoubtedly still on the lookout for the
errant C.I.5 agent, but that would be as far as it went. Aside from
exiting the country without a passport and losing his temper with the
infuriating Scotsman, he'd committed no crimes within the U.K., nothing of
which Interpol would be aware.

 Bodie raised the telephone receiver to his ear, the chill of the cold
black plastic smarting through his bright red hand. 

 Memory was a funny thing, he thought, dialling the little-used number. If
his life depended upon it, Bodie doubted if he'd be able to cull up the
number and address of his last flat – Doyle's, maybe, but never his own.
Yet here he was, able to recall on an instant's notice a number used a
maximum of six times a year. Probably because it was learned for the Cow.
If you learned something for Cowley, you learned it for keeps.

 The phone was answered on the second ring. "Schueller, bon soir, avec
vous?" a familiar gruff voice demanded.

 "Bodie, C.I.5." Trying to sound official, Bodie did his best to keep the
shiver and nervousness out of his voice.

 "Ah, monsieur Bodie, we do not hear from you in a long time," Schueller
greeted, switching to English. His tone lightened to as cheerful a sound
as possible for such a deep-voiced man to attain, "Your monsieurs Murphy
and Jax are . . . how do you say . . . efficient men, but not so charming
as my good friend Mr. Bodie."

 Bodie's mouth twitched toward a grin. The last time Scheuller had spoken
to 'his good friend Mr. Bodie,’ the conversation had degenerated into a
long distance shouting match. Ignoring the sarcasm, Bodie proceeded as
though the last six months had never happened, "I've got a gift for you,
Schueller. You might even wrangle a promotion out of it if you get your
boys moving fast enough. Our information has it that that kidnapping ring
that bagged Rogers and Perot are holding another garage sale."

 "When?" all humour had left the heavily accented voice.

 "Right now." Bodie supplied what details he could, hoping not to sound
over-informed. The hatred in his heart made him long to be in on the bust,
but explanations would be too awkward. He'd have to content himself with
reading the details in the morning news.

 His approach must have been just right, for Schueller rang off after an
abrupt thanks, without asking any embarrassing questions. 

 Bodie slowly replaced the receiver and returned to the car. Doyle did not
look at him as he reclaimed his seat, but Bodie smiled at him as if he
had, leaning forward to warm his hands by the heater.

 The journey to Jacque's hotel was conducted in a silence as impenetrable
as that of the icy night. Bodie wondered as the car passed through the
empty streets if the quiet were as laden with thought as it felt to him or
if it were his own imagination. Tension seemed to crackle through the
Volvo's close quarters, priming his overstretched nerves with its sense of
expectancy. 

 His partner had always had a way of silently projecting his emotions so
that the very environment seemed to crackle with them. The phenomenon was
different from simple mood shifts. Bodie had dealt with many a moody
bastard in his time, some of them blood-crazed mercenaries who'd knife a
fellow for looking at them the wrong way, but none had Doyle's dubious
talent for emoting hostility. There were times when Ray's emotions were
almost a tangible presence, times when Doyle would walk into a room and
everyone present therein, from Bodie, who was most familiar with him and
therefore possibly more easily influenced, right on up to Cowley would
shift uneasily at Ray’s entrance, all hit with the deluge of raw emotion.
Usually, it was anger Doyle communicated most fiercely. Tonight it was
apprehension, a fear so powerful that Bodie thought he could reach out and
touch its cold presence.

 Yet, no sign of it showed outwardly. Each furtive glance Doyle's way
revealed the same stony profile. Lit by the green glow from the dashboard,
the pallor in the sparse unbruised areas of Doyle's left cheek seemed
downright ghostly. The unseeing stare, focused on the windshield with its
noisy sweep of wipers, unnerved Bodie totally, so discordant was it from
the vehement emotional bombardment.

 He sighed with relief as Jacque's street came into sight. His old
friend's hotel stood out amongst the rows of neat, old homes. Not because
Gypsy's Rest was any newer than its neighbours, but because its bright
green paint insisted upon recognition amongst the dignified, white-washed
dwellings surrounding it. A character and warmth imbued the inn that was
greatly reflective of its peculiar owner.

 The relationship that existed between Bodie and Jacques Dupres had been a
curious one from the start. By rights, Bodie should have detested the
older man on first meeting in Angola. With the appearance and enthusiasms
of a befuddled English lit professor, Dupres should have been out of his
depth when dealing with the crude mercenaries with which his supply
operation brought him into contact. 

 But that geeky weakness was only appearance, as Bodie had learned quite
early. Dupres’ easy charm and ridiculously out of place, genteel
mannerisms masked a core of steel and a lust for adventure that possibly
eclipsed his own. Even Krivas dealt straight with Dupres. That, Bodie had
never understood; respect simply wasn't in that cutthroat’s makeup. Yet
the mercenary leader had always treated the somewhat dotty pilot – whose
most offensive act in Bodie's opinion had been the loan of a particularly
bad book of poetry – as though Dupres were an object to be feared.

 The solution to the mystery hadn't surfaced until six months after Bodie
had quit Krivas' mob. The group Bodie had been running with then, headed
by a less-than-brilliant tactician named Banner, had come across the
downed pilot and his plane's wreckage in the war-ravaged desert wastelands
of North Africa. Banner's squad had held a grudge against Dupres since his
untimely shipment of ammo had allowed the remnants of General Uttaba's
army to break through Banner's siege of their stronghold. Bodie could
still recall the fierce courage exhibited on that blazing afternoon when,
surrounded by Banner's pack of bloodthirsty strong men, Dupres, already
weakened from his injuries, attempted to make a stand against the lot of
them with nothing more than a small knife for defence. To this day, Bodie
could till hear Jacque's outraged warning for Bodie to mind his own
business when he'd attempted to even the odds a little. His intervention
had gotten them both stranded in the middle of a very arid nowhere, but at
least they'd both been alive.

 The gruelling trek back to civilization had been the turning point of
Bodie's life. During that three-week ordeal, Dupres had convinced Bodie
that mercenary life wasn't really for him. No easy task, Bodie knew, when
dealing with someone as stubborn and arrogant as the youth he'd been then.
His mistake had been recognized that first night in camp when the savage
realities of the career he'd chosen had ripped all romantic illusions and
most of his dignity from him, but correcting the error required a courage
Bodie had thought beyond him. At less than twenty-one, Bodie had believed
his life over, his bridges all burned behind him. What, after all, was
there to go back to? At least in Angola he had a place, something he was
good at doing.

 Dupres had opened his mind to the possibilities he'd been ignoring. Not
with emotional appeals and the "if I were you, sonny, I'd get out of this
shit," lectures the few veterans who'd taken an interest in him doled out,
but through a remarkably devious form of manipulation that made each
change seem Bodie’s own idea. Even the paras had been Dupres’ suggestion.
Bodie knew that alone, he never would have thought of bringing his dubious
expertise to the special branches.

 Yes, he owed a lot to Jacques Dupres, but the older man had never seen it
that way. Jacques regarded himself as beholden to Bodie for saving his
life. 

 That Bodie’s attempted rescue had resulted from disgust with his comrades
as much as from any unlikely Good Samaritan impulses had never shadowed
Dupres' affections, try as Bodie would to discourage him at first. In
time, their unlikely friendship became one of the few stable points in
Bodie’s life. 

 Distance hadn't diminished their bond. Whether it be Amsterdam, Angola,
London or Switzerland, Bodie knew he would always find a home wherever
Jacques Dupres was laying his hat at the time. An occasional letter or
post card had been enough to keep them in touch through the years, and on
the rare instances Bodie did manage to lose track of his vagabond mentor,
there was always the fail-safe contact point of Dupres' sister, who lived
in an eagle's nest on some godforsaken peak in the Swiss Alps.

 Fortunately, such drastic measures hadn't been needed to contact Jacques
this time. For better or worse, the former pilot had finally settled down
to collect books, antiques, curios, knickknacks, and straying tourists in
a rapidly shrinking hotel in Geneva. It had been sheer luck that the
auction which had turned Bodie rogue was taking place in the same town in
which Dupres lived. It was actually the only bit of good fortune Bodie'd
had since the start of this nightmare.

 The Volvo coasted to a stop before the hotel, settling into the unbroken
snow with a subdued crunch. 

 "Here we are, Ray," Bodie announced to his catatonic passenger. "Never
told you about Old Jacques, but I think you'll like'm." 

 He helped his partner out of the car, guiding him up the stairs and out
of the cold as quickly as possible.

 Bright light and warmth embraced them as they crossed Jacques' threshold.
Sweet smelling smoke from the spruce log flaming on the grill in the
lobby's hearth mingled with the lingering aroma of the Bavarian pastries
baked fresh in the kitchen each morning. The combination was pleasant, a
distinctive fragrance Bodie fondly associated with this place, the same
way he did certain perfumes with the special ladies in his life.

 Beside him, Ray stumbled. Bodie grabbed hold of his arm, steadying the
wide-eyed man against the sensory overload. The Gypsy's Rest was the utter
antithesis of that horrid warehouse in which Ray had been held prisoner.
Bodie figured that after the unrelieved gloom and prison-like cold of that
huge, empty building, the cramped brightness and cheerful disorder of the
hotel reception area would probably be hard for Doyle to get used to.
Though large, the lobby had very little free space.

 A huge mahogany reception desk took up the wall directly to their left.
Gaudy souvenirs from all corners of the earth crowded its counter, barely
allowing space for the huge registration book.

 An enormous fireplace claimed the wall directly in front of them for its
own. A large fire blazed its welcome in the oversized hearth, flicking
orange light erratically across the row of pictures on the mantle and
adding a certain threatening aspect to the thunderbird depicted in the
red, burnt orange, black and white threads of the Navajo blanket hanging
above it.

 Oil paintings, wall hangings, and other patches of mysterious objects
d'art dotted the white walls with bright blazes of colour. The effect
wasn't bad now – firelight lent a gentle glow to the haphazard collection,
muting its intensity – but when the curtains veiling the huge dormer
windows in the south wall were drawn apart and sunlight flooded the area,
the conglomeration could be quite overpowering to the unprepared.

 Not to be outdone by the decorations, Jacque's furniture also appeared to
strive to overpower. The behemoth Victorian pieces all matched each other,
amazingly enough. Plush, royal blue velvet covered sinfully soft down
cushions. The wood of the furniture was dark with a rich lacquer that was
only beginning to show the effects of their daily dose of sunlight. 

 The only stand organization had made in the chaos of the lobby was the
bookcase built into the right wall. From ceiling to floor, row upon row of
neat leather-bound tomes turned their spines to the reigning disorder. But
even here, mayhem had penetrated. Those books might look orderly, but
Bodie had learned that there was no system to their arrangement, Jacques
seemed to just dump a book where he could easily get at it or where the
colour of its binding best blended with its neighbours. The most
frustrating part of the insane system, even more so than having to search
every shelf for a desired book, was the fact that their owner could
invariably put his hands upon a desired book the instant Bodie was forced
to seek assistance.

 The chaotic cheer of Gypsy's Rest seemed to embrace him, its familiarity
lulling away nervous tension the same way the hearth's warmth diminished
the chill in his overexposed body. Two nights' anticipation had robbed him
of sleep. Whether it was the effects of insomnia, the trauma of the past
few hours, or the return of normal body temperature, Bodie suddenly felt
utterly exhausted. One look at his companion revealed an even more
advanced state of exhaustion. The poor sod looked like he could barely
manage to place one foot in front of the other.

 "Bodie, lad, it went all right, then?" a relieved voice sounded from the
entrance to Jacques’ office at the end of the reception desk.

 He and Doyle both jumped like thieves at the abrupt interruption. Bodie
turned to greet their host, somehow not very surprised that the notorious
early riser had waited up almost to his usual waking hour for their
return.

 "We got him back."

 Doyle tensed beside him at Jacque's approach.

 Though normally an incessant talker, given to generous, sweeping
welcomes, Dupres stepped slowly toward them, advancing with the care one
would use with a frightened puppy. Concern overcame curiosity in the
friendly grey eyes as they took in Doyle's condition. Bodie shot his old
friend a grateful look.

 "Ray," Bodie gently explained to his mute partner, "this is an old mate
of mine, Jacques Dupres. Jacques, my partner, Ray Doyle."

 Doyle turned toward Bodie at the mention of his surname, his attention
pricking up as though the name *Ray* did not refer to him. 

 Wondering about the reaction, Bodie continued, "Ray's not feeling quite
himself this evening."

 Dupres’ silver head nodded understandingly. "You're most welcome here,
Ray. Bodie, take your friend upstairs and make him comfortable. You both
look as if you could use something hot inside you."

 "Thanks, Jacques," Bodie said, taking hold of Doyle's elbow to guide him
toward the wooden staircase near the kitchen. "Oh, nothing alcoholic, all
right? Don't know what he's pumped full of."

 "Right."

 In his room, Bodie sat his charge at the small breakfast table in front
of the lace-curtained window.

 One look at the crisp white sheets on the double bed sent him in to draw
a tub full of hot water. Perhaps Doyle's primary need was rest, but Bodie
suspected his habitually fastidious partner would feel better once he was
clean again, so Bodie moved to the bathroom to fill the old claw foot tub.


 Jacque's soft rap was answered before a second could sound. Mindful of
the nervous tension that seemed to cloak his partner like his oversized
coat, Bodie took the small tray from Jacque’s hands with subdued thanks;
although Doyle paid no more attention to it than he had to Bodie's busy
bustling to prepare the bath.

 The ticklish scent of warm cinnamon wafted from the steaming mugs placed
before Doyle. Bodie tentatively took the seat opposite and sipped at his
cider, silently willing his partner to take the initiative and lift up his
cup. 

 "Cider's getting cold, mate," he remarked. "Come on, Ray, have a sip.
You'll feel better."

 His words fell into the quiet that was interrupted only by the soft
wheeze of Doyle's breathing. With all his imaginings of what it would be
like once Ray was rescued, nothing like this had ever occurred to Bodie.

 Unable to stand waiting any longer, Bodie raised the drastically cooled
cup to Doyle's mouth, doing his best to avoid the healing scabs that
marred Ray’s full lips. One sip only was taken, a small instinctive gulp
before the lips clamped wilfully shut. 

 "Damn," Bodie swore as the rest of the mouthful sloshed down Ray's
bruised chin and jaw. "Now you really need that wash-up. Come on, then,"
he said, pretending that Doyle's compliance came more from the gentle
instruction than the guiding hand.

 Doyle’s face twisted as Bodie eased the coat off him. 

 "I'll be glad when this stuff works its way out of your system," Bodie
commented on the way to the loo, thinking that normal conversation might
help lull Doyle out of the grip of the drugs.

 Inside the steamy bathroom, Doyle's attitude was no different. The
frighteningly blank gaze continued to stare straight through Bodie as the
taller man stooped over the streaming froth of the tub to turn off the
taps. Slumped against the doorjamb, Ray looked as if he didn't have the
energy left to cross the few feet to the ancient tub. 

 Bodie preferred his exhaustion excuse to the inner voice, which kept
suggesting that there was more than tiredness and drugs behind Doyle's
condition. The more he was subjected to the sometimes vague, sometimes
wary, green gaze, the more he grew to believe that his closest mate had no
true concept of whom Bodie was.

 "All right, then," he said when it became apparent that Doyle was not
about to move of his own accord. "We'd best get those things off. Lord
knows, they could do with a cleaning too, but right now you need it more."

 Part of him prayed that Doyle would bolt at his touch, knock his hand
away to do the job himself, or give any indication that the drugs were
beginning to wear off. But aside from an unnatural stillness and rock-hard
muscle rigidity, his partner remained as much an automaton during the
disrobement as under the auctioneer's kiss.

 Bodie's jaw clenched tight as he peeled open the ragged, filthy shirt. He
tried to harden himself to what he'd find, but the violent colours of the
contusions spotting Doyle's torso all but eclipsed the horrible scars left
from the assassin, Mai Li's bullets. Carefully, he probed a particularly
wicked-looking bruise over the right ribs.

 That earned Bodie his first true reaction. 

 Doyle whimpered, pulling back from his tormentor with a suddenness that
spurred his cough into action. Once again, Bodie braced his friend against
the seizure, trying to soothe the panic from wide, terrified eyes with
soft, apologetic words.

 "It's all right, Ray. Didn't mean to hurt you. Didn't know the ribs were
cracked, mate." Guiltily, he recalled how Doyle had flinched when he'd put
the coat on him in the alley. Not just fear then.

 Determined to be more careful, he cautiously eased the shirt off. It was
only as the threadbare garment touched the floor that Bodie was able to
see his partner’s wrists. His stomach lurched at the ugly bands of
skinless flesh that ringed Ray’s wrists like bracelets. The flesh above
and below the shiny raw wounds, the parts that still had an intact
epidermis, were bruised with vivid purple and black marks. Bodie cringed
at the thought of how those injuries had occurred. It was clear Ray had
pulled at his restraints until he’d mangled his wrists, like a fox in a
trap that would gnaw through its own foot to regain freedom.

 Steeling himself, Bodie continued with the task at hand and unbuttoned
Doyle’s too-baggy jeans. They slipped down the wasted frame without
incident, halting only at the obstacle of wet trainers. Bodie slid them
off and tossed the entire foul wardrobe behind the door.

 Turning back, a gasp was torn from him as he caught sight of Ray's back
and lower body. Ray still carried the scars from the time that Asian bird
had shot him. Light pink scar tissue from the bullet's exit wounds and
what had once been smooth, white flesh were now criss-crossed with angry
red welts. Whip lashes, Bodie sickly recognized. Not an inch of the broad
shoulders and back were unmarred.

 "Sadistic bastards," Bodie spat. As his gaze dropped lower, his entire
frame shook with contained fury. Save for some black and blue marks, none
of the damage looked recent. Most had already hardened into scar tissue.
The sheer extent of it appalled Bodie. The pain must have been phenomenal.
Even the contusions that remained had to hurt like hell, and Ray had never
been particularly insensitive to pain.

 Catching a glimpse of Doyle's eyes, Bodie realized what his own face must
be revealing. His murderous rage was apparently being misinterpreted. His
partner obviously believed himself to be its focus. In view of what had
been done to Doyle in the past, it would probably come as no surprise to
the drugged-up Ray to be misused now.

 Calming his fury, Bodie collected himself, resolving to give Doyle no
further cause for panic. With a shaky smile, he guided his friend into the
water. 

 Bodie waited for some sign of independent action, but Doyle just sat
there in the water, staring blankly into the middle distance as if
purposefully tuning out the bath and room around him. 

 "Come on, Ray. Wash up. It’s late and we’re both done in," Bodie urged.

 Doyle continued to sit there in the darkening water, oblivious as a
potato.

 Realizing that there was nothing for it, but to wash his friend himself,
Bodie grabbed the soap and a clean flannel from the nearby towel rack.
He’d never given anyone a bath in his life. He hadn’t a clue as to the
proper etiquette. Not that Ray seemed especially attuned to such niceties
at the moment.

 "Make you feel better, this will," Bodie promised, covering his own
awkwardness as he rolled up his sleeves to begin the intimate service of
washing his partner. 

 It took courage to even touch Ray. After all that Doyle had been through,
it looked to Bodie as though even the gentle brush of the flannel would
hurt.

 Deciding to start at the head and work his way down, Bodie retreated to
the bedroom to snag the white plastic ice bucket to use to wet down the
filthy mat of hair.

 Kneeling beside the tub, Bodie gave his partner an encouraging smile.
After six months of frantic worry, he could hardly believe Ray was safe
again. 

 "Okay, Ray. We’re going to get you washed up and then you can sleep. I’m
just going to wet your hair down and shampoo it," Bodie explained, wary of
making any sudden moves in the slippery bath. 

 Doyle didn’t even blink when Bodie tilted his chin up prior to dumping
the bucket of water over his head. Bodie did his best to ignore the eerie
blankness of the familiar eyes as he went about the strange task of
bathing a fully-grown man.

 The hair was a nest of tangles that retained water and shampoo with the
tenacity of a dry sponge. Bodie tackled it gently, attempting to coax the
snarls out as painlessly as possible with pretty words and judicious
combing. He ached to cut the overgrown locks to a more manageable length,
but the liberties taken with Doyle's body over the last few months
restrained him. If Ray wanted the damn thing trimmed, he'd say so in time.

 Finally achieving a decent lather, he massaged vigorously, working the
accumulated oil and dirt out with thorough care. Difficult as it was to
manage, the long, wet strands had a sleek softness to them that was
incredibly sensual as they ran through his carding fingers. When satisfied
that the soap-filled hair was returned to its usual squeaky cleanliness,
Bodie dumped another bucket of water over Ray’s head. It had next to no
effect. 

 Recognizing that they were going to be here all night if he didn’t speed
the rinse cycle up, Bodie placed a supportive hand around the back of
Doyle's neck and gently guided the suddenly stiff body backwards with the
other. "Come on, let’s get that soap out."

 Confused by the alarm flashing through watchful sea-green eyes, he was
even more befuddled when something like resignation replaced it. It wasn't
until he started to rinse the suds free and surprise took Doyle’s eyes
that Bodie understood his partner's interpretation of his intent. That
first expression had looked like Ray expected him to drown him, but far
more disturbing was Ray’s obvious decision to allow him to do it.

 Shaken to the core, Bodie hastily rubbed the shampoo free and eased his
friend back into a sitting position.

 Doyle's attitude seemed to change after that incident. All traces of
haziness vanished. A suspicious, near-unblinking stare followed Bodie’s
every move with feline intensity thereafter. 

 It was unnerving. As far as Bodie could tell, he’d made no threatening
moves, but the fear radiating from the tub was now a tangible presence.

 Bodie gathered the soap and flannel and began to work on the rest of
Doyle, doing his best to ignore the unnerving gaze. He tried to keep
Doyle's skinless wrists out of the water as he worked to prevent
infection. 

 Before long the bath water turned a murky grey, bespeckled by oily slicks
and soap scum. Half of Doyle's epidermis seemed to melt under the warm
soapy caresses, the stark, pale flesh revealed standing out between
bruises in vivid contrast. Despite extreme caution, a few telltale
flinches revealed the hurt that Bodie was unavoidably inflicting. But
aside from these, Doyle bore his ministrations stoically, with only some
twitching and tautening of muscles when Bodie awkwardly cleansed Ray's
most intimate regions.

 Finally finished, Bodie sat back on his haunches, tired from the day's
rigors and the strain of prolonged bending over the tub. He wiped sweat
and steam from his brow and tried for a reassuring smile. "All done. What
d’ya say to some ham-fisted doctoring."

 Not surprisingly, Doyle said nothing. Bodie was almost getting used to
that silence now.

 Bodie helped his partner from the tub, keeping a firm grasp on a
slippery, wiry arm to guard against falling. Doyle stood motionless as
Bodie dried him, moving only in response to a directing nudge. The fluffy
softness of the towel Bodie used absorbed the beaded moisture with a
minimum of pressure.

 Turning back from depositing the saturated towel on the door rack, Bodie
was perplexed to find Ray frozen in a strange position, half bent over the
high side of the antique tub with his legs spread far apart. 

 "Okay, we're through, Ray. What're you . . . ?"

 His voice died as the significance of what Doyle's position would
facilitate penetrated. A tight knot of revulsion clutched at his guts,
followed fast by a bone-melting wave of sympathy for what his friend must
have suffered.

 In his heart, Bodie had known back in the auction. That foul kiss had
left very little to the imagination. Yet, there was a part of Bodie that
had futilely prayed the kiss was a final gesture of insult, as opposed to
an on-going perk. But Doyle’s silent offer of himself left very little
room for doubt. Ray had been raped, often enough to condition the abused
man to offer himself, rather than wait to be forcibly taken. 

 Swallowing the bile that rose to his choked throat, Bodie studiously
wiped all emotion clear of his face. Acting as if nothing out of the
ordinary had occurred, he took hold of Doyle’s bony elbows and wordlessly
stood his partner straight on his feet. Then, Bodie turned hastily toward
the medicine cabinet to hide the moisture that veiled his eyes at the
shocked expression on Ray's face. 

 Every sense he owned focused on the mute man behind him, Bodie hunted for
the gauze and adhesive tape last used on his gunrunning stint. Seeing a
tube of antiseptic cream lying beside them, Bodie took that, too, figuring
that the skin breakages could do with some disinfecting.

 Carefully not thinking about what had been done to his partner, Bodie set
to work easing the hurts he could heal. 

 First, he coated and bound up Doyle’s mangled wrists. The wounds there
were so deep that Bodie was afraid his friend might have suffered
permanent nerve damage.

 Half a tube of cream was used on Ray’s back alone. It seemed that no
matter how much he spread the ointment with a feather-light touch, there
was still another welt or scratch requiring treatment. When his partner's
back, buttocks and thighs were as dotted with gobs of goop as one the
white-out speckled reports handed to Cowley when they both failed to charm
some poor lass from the typing pool into doing their work for them, Bodie
shifted his attention to the front.

 Stoicism was his refuge as he eased the pain of nasty lacerations. Only
when he reached Doyle's chest did it fail him utterly. There were long,
thread-like scratches everywhere. Undoubtedly, they were the legacy of
untrimmed nails. Someone had scratched at Ray like an animal sharpening
its claws. Aghast, Bodie took in the condition of the flat breasts. The
area around both nipples was darkly discoloured. At first, Bodie took this
to be the result of the blows which had fallen on toes, testicles and head
with equal disregard, but closer examination proved him wrong. Each nipple
was ringed with a mouth-sized black and purple oval which encircled a
smaller, flattened one that was speckled with wicked-looking tiny oblongs
of darker bruising – teeth marks, the outraged ex-C.I.5 agent recognized.
A mouth had savaged the tender flesh, brutally sucking the skin until
uniformly black and blue, then biting to leave behind those bruises.

 Doyle’s nipples were in a disgraceful state, the scabs of healing rips
showing on each. As the meaning of the damage slowly penetrated, Bodie’s
heart pounded thunderously loud in his ears. 

 Christ, it was bad enough that they’d raped Doyle. This was something he
hadn’t even encountered in Angolan merc camps, where Bodie had thought
he’d seen every depravity one man could inflict upon another.

 It was all Bodie could do to keep his hand steady as he dabbed the
soothing cream on. No longer was he bewildered by Doyle's invitation to
rape. Ravaged as Doyle was, acquiescence was probably the only way to
ensure survival.

 Done at last, he closed the tube and wound gauze around Ray's chest.
After tightly binding the mummy-wrapped chest with adhesive, Bodie slipped
Doyle into his own blue towelling-cloth robe that hung on back the door.
He gently tied the belt about the narrow waist, feeling Doyle's watchful
stare burning into his face all the while.

 Snagging a dry towel from the rack he led Ray back to his chair in the
bedroom and set to work drying the still-wet hair.

 "Come in," Bodie said, when a soft tap sounded several minutes later.
Seeing Jacques, Bodie immediately ducked his head to hide the telltale
warming of his cheeks. Not that there was a trace of mockery to the wide
smile Jacques bestowed upon him. The uncharacteristic activity in which he
was engaged just made Bodie feel somewhat self-conscious.

 "How is he?" Jacques asked, taking the chair in front of Bodie's empty
mug.

 Bodie shrugged. "Cleaner. There're a couple of hurt ribs – cracked, I
think. He’s got more cuts and bruises than I can count. Whatever poison
they pumped him full of is still working, and . . . " he finished, the
raspy wheeze Doyle was obviously too tired to conceal reminding him of the
last and possibly most serious affliction, " . . . he's got a whopper of a
chest cold."

 Jacques lent forward and peered into Doyle's eyes. Worry clouding his
usually happy-go-lucky features, Dupres settled back into his chair and
then said, "I think you should take him to a doctor. Pneumonia is nothing
to fiddle with. In his condition, he wouldn't have the strength to fight
it off."

 Bodie nodded, in no way surprised to have his fears confirmed. 

 "First thing in the morning. Any recommendation?" Bodie asked, none too
hopefully. To his knowledge, aside from a single visit to receive the
spectrum of inoculations mandatory before visiting the section of the
globe they met in, Dupres had never even had cause to check in with the
camp medic.

 "Not personal, but Eva was raving about some youngster in the new clinic
near the bank. I'll get his name off her in the morning, if you like."

 "Thanks," Bodie acknowledged.

 A comfortable silence fell between them. Bodie's attention was absorbed
by the lulling routine of his steadily massaging hands as he worked the
water out of Ray’s hair with a thick white towel.

 Dupres appeared equally intent upon the picture the partners presented.

 "He's very important to you, isn't he, lad?" Jacques asked at last.

 The question might have seemed ridiculous, considering the lengths to
which he'd gone to rescue Doyle. But Bodie recognized it for what it was.
Dupres, like most fighting men, understood the special bond that was
forged between two men in the heat of battle. The loyalty from that
attachment, short-lived as the relationship might be, was of a stronger
ilk and lasted years longer than most friendships formed in the ‘real
world.’ What Bodie had done in the King Billy case to hunt down the biker
that murdered his old mate, Keith Williams, years after they'd last seen
each other might have seemed bizarre in civilized society, but passed as
expected behaviour in the jungle. In that wilderness, a man's only
protection was often the loyalty of his companions. Jacques, who also
lived by this strange code, had thought nothing unusual in the
ex-mercenary's quest to free his partner.

 Bodie knew that what Jacques was asking now was if their relationship
were more than the usual camp camaraderie. A man could feel compelled to
avenge or liberate a companion he felt nothing for, simply on the basis of
their peculiar code. That his attachment to Doyle had always fallen
outside of that code, into places and emotions Bodie couldn't comprehend
himself, made explanation near impossible.

 Bodie looked down at the bent head he was still rubbing the towel over.
Now that the accumulation of natural oils and dirt that had been weighing
the hair down in that unattractive rat's nest had been removed, a spring
had returned to the drying locks, gentle, loose ringlets curling the long
ends. Bodie concentrated on his task, absently patting a baby-soft strand
back into place as he answered, "Doyle's been my partner for the last
eight years. I wouldn't want another."

 Thankfully, Dupres didn't press that point any further, asking instead
the question that Bodie's overburdened mind had been scrupulously
avoiding. "What are you going to do now?"

 "Take him to the doctor first thing in the morning and see what our
options are," Bodie evaded the issue; although deep down he admitted
Doyle's condition changed everything. His original plan – free his partner
and ship him back to England on the first available plane – had never had
much chance of success. For starters, Ray was too stubborn by half in his
usual state. Like this . . . shipping Ray back alone would be the utmost
form of abandonment.

 Ross and her sadistic cronies would have a field day with the poor sod,
poking and probing, never letting wounds heal. Bodie didn't know exactly
what was going to cure his partner, but his instincts told him that
clinical psychological vivisection wasn't the answer.

 The alternatives were daunting, though. Providing Doyle didn't need
hospitalisation for his injuries, which Bodie doubted in view of Ray’s
mobility, Doyle would require more care and attention than Bodie's
military background had prepared him to offer. He’d spent his entire life
killing. What did he know of healing?

 Yet the idea of leaving Doyle with strangers when his partner was
defenceless like this was unthinkable. 

 Just thinking about it made Bodie’s brain ache.

 But all this couldn't be settled tonight. What they needed now was rest.
Tomorrow would be time enough to regroup their forces.

 Jacques didn't seem disturbed by his evasion. A warm smile lit the grey
eyes, its cheer spilling over to encompass the oblivious Doyle as Dupres’
gaze moved that way. "Just so you know, you're both welcome here as long
as you need the place."

 "Thanks, mate. Don't know how we could ever repay . . . ."

 "None needed," Dupres cut him off, looking intensely uncomfortable. "Just
get this lad of yours well enough to sample some of the fine brew I stock
this place with. I’ve got a story or two to tell him about his partner
that can only be best appreciated after a few steins of good German beer."

 Bodie grinned in anticipation. Unlike most of his other acquaintances
from his mercenary days, Jacques was someone he wouldn't mind Ray getting
to know.

 "Well, I'd best be letting you youngsters get some rest. I’ll get that
doctor's address off Eva when she starts the pastries. Will you be needing
another room?" Jacques asked, glancing toward the double bed as he bent to
reclaim the cider mugs.

 "No, I'll stick close. The easy chair will do fine," Bodie answered. Even
if Ray hadn’t been so incapacitated, he wouldn’t have been able to let Ray
out of his sight after their prolonged separation.

 Dupres nodded, then left with a soft, "Good night."

 Alone with his silent companion once again, Bodie crossed to the bed and
turned the covers back. When he came to escort his charge over, Doyle
reluctantly followed, the only protest the by-now familiar tension.
Wondering how long it would be before nerves brought his friend to a state
of complete collapse, Bodie decided to forego removing Doyle's robe,
unwilling to escalate the already overstrained panic threshold.

 Doyle sat stiffly in the bed's edge, immobile as the ancient stone
gargoyles squatting atop the downtown courthouse.

 Bodie waited a moment and then gently assisted when no motion seemed
imminent. The response to his hands gripping Doyle's shoulders to urge him
downwards was immediate. Like a small child about to take that first
terrifying plunge in a roller coaster, the translucent eyelids snapped
shut with dread, Ray’s strained features blanching to an even more sickly
pallor.

 The shockwaves of repulsion emanating from Ray’s rigid figure were
astounding. Bodie snatched his hands clear as though Doyle's body had just
burned him, feeling a trembling start deep within him.

 Ray was so hurt. Bodie didn’t know if his partner would ever be whole
again and, selfish as it was, he needed Ray to be whole. All that they’d
been through would be worth nothing if he couldn’t bring Ray back to
himself.

 Doyle's eyes shot open again as Bodie tugged the covers up to his neck
and tucked them in under his chin.

 "Laid out like a proper corpse, you are. Do us a favour and get some
rest. Maybe things will be clearer to you in the morning. I'll be right
here if you need me," Bodie assured, before turning to prepare his own
sleeping arrangements. Sharing a bed was now forever outside his rights.

 Knowing that it would be the last thing required of him for the day made
moving the leaden weight of the cushioned wing-back chair from its
customary spot beside the window over to Ray’s bedside somewhat easier. 

 Doyle didn't quite jump as Bodie's feet settled next to his at the bottom
of the bed. 

 Sighing deeply, Bodie settled back into the velvety blueness of the down
cushions. Every muscle he owned ached as though he'd been worked over as
thoroughly as Doyle.

 Exhausted and numb from his emotional reaction to Doyle's condition,
Bodie desperately sought sleep. Several things prevented the achievement
of his goal.

 First, his mind was running on overdrive, ceaselessly churning over
Jacques' disturbing question about what he’d do next. What was in their
future, he wondered morosely. Ray frightened him like this. He felt
helpless and useless against this speechless acquiescence to defeat. What
he could do to bring Doyle around, if anything, was beyond his ken at the
moment. 

 It was weird, but Bodie found himself desperately longing for Cowley. Not
that he'd ever be willing to turn his partner over to anyone else's care
while Ray was in this defenceless state, even if so ordered, but right now
Bodie could use a dose of the Scot's dauntless certainty to bolster his
own battered morale.

 Finding no answer to his worries, years of training instilled their
control and ever so slowly the kinetic jumble of thoughts stilled. 

 He was on the verge of sleep when a new uneasiness penetrated.
Jungle-honed instincts were not easily dulled, especially after six months
of intensive cultivation. The heightened perceptions, which could make him
uncomfortably aware of being scrutinized by unseen eyes while standing
atop a watchtower in a supposedly secure section of British countryside,
made it damn near impossible to achieve any kind of relaxation while being
subjected to a nearby glare.

 Bodie forced his tired eyes open, fixing them immediately upon his
examiner. 

 Doyle’s strange stare was unnerving. The confused, probing gaze gave him
the disturbing feeling that Ray was lying there trying to figure him out. 

 "I'm Bodie, your partner," he reiterated, suspecting any reassurance
useless, but nevertheless feeling compelled to offer it. "No one's going
to hurt you again, Ray, not while I'm around. Please try to get some
rest."

 There was no reaction, not even so much as a blink. Bodie might as well
have been speaking Afrikaans for all the attention Doyle paid him. He
endured the scrutiny a few minutes longer, experiencing equal measures of
unease and hope from the lucidity in the emerald-clear irises. Recognizing
that he had as much chance of out-staring the sphinx as his partner, Bodie
at last reached out to switch off the bedside lamp. He'd thought to leave
it on for whatever reassurance it might offer his friend, but altered his
plans in the hope that the surrounding darkness would court healing rest.

 A demure grey twilight filtered through the lace curtains, casting weird,
web-like designs across Doyle's bruise-mottled face. Closing his eyes
against the burgeoning dawn and persistent stare, he contemplated the
ironies of the situation. 

 Months of anxious prayer to a God he only half-believed in had
miraculously been granted. Ray had been returned to him, alive as
requested. Never once had it occurred to Bodie to amend his prayer to
‘alive and all right.’ Now, he had his partner back, but with Doyle a mere
hand’s reach away, he couldn't touch Ray or offer comfort for fear of
terrifying.

 Feeling betrayed and terribly isolated, he lay there numbing his
perceptions to the gaze still boring into him from the darkness. Slowly,
sleep stole over him. His cramped muscles gradually relaxed to the
accompaniment of the steady, wheezy, breathing from the bed, and Bodie
finally slept.

 ******

*Chapter Two*

 There was a chip of paint missing from the closed door's finish. The
small tan spot of bare wood stood out sharply against the luxurious
lacquer, looking as raw and blatant as one of the puckered red welts on
Doyle's back.

 The wooden chair was hard and confining against Bodie's tensed muscles.
Bodie willed himself to remain seated, to keep out of the examination
room. The battle to give Ray his privacy was straining what little nerves
he'd had left after last night's ordeal. As far as he could tell, his
partner hadn't closed his eyes all night.

 Now Bodie's gaze was equally intense. Oblivious to the diplomas, shelves
of medical books and other accoutrements that all sought to convince a
patient's worried family members of their doctor's expertise, Bodie's
stare remained stubbornly fixed on the door to the examination room. 

 For his own part, Bodie didn't need any further convincing. There was an
air of competence surrounding the crisp, young doctor that transcended the
man's meagre collection of years. Quick brown eyes had surveyed Doyle
wordlessly and then turned suspiciously Bodie's way. Bodie's tale of
robbery and beating had been grudgingly accepted as the fable it was. The
physician had whisked Doyle into the examination room with a speed that
impressed the ex-mercenary. It was refreshing to encounter a doctor whose
foremost concern was his patient's welfare and not the form filling ritual
that generally preceded all encounters with the medical profession.

 Although Bodie did not particularly relish the confrontation inevitable
after the examination, he wished an end to the wait. Common sense had kept
him from following Ray inside. He hadn't wanted to give his bewildered
mate the impression he was being ganged up on, but now Bodie wished he had
gone in. All he had to do out here was sit and breathe in that medicinal
air that brought back far too many memories of the endless days he'd
waited outside Ray's intensive care unit after Mai Li had shot him,
waiting to see if his partner would live.

 The antiseptic smell of the clinic permeated everything. Being jumpy from
the start, the foul fumes from each breath strung his nerves further out
like the caffeine boost from a cup of coffee. 

 At least if he were inside, he'd know what was happening. Out here he was
in the dark once again, and he couldn't shake the disturbing impression
that Ray had wanted him in there. 

 Nothing had been said, of course. Doyle had just paused by his chair on
the way in, the hesitation so slight that the doctor hadn't noticed it,
but the beseeching look in Ray's eyes had haunted Bodie since the blasted
door had closed behind doctor and patient. Doyle had looked at him as
though he were handing Ray over to some other sadistic bastard, Bodie
thought, savagely cursing the impulse that had kept him outside.

 Finally, the door swung open. The first sight of Doyle's gaunt face
vanquished the paranoia that had been gnawing at him since Ray left his
side. Bodie had experienced this horrible fear that if he let Doyle out of
his sight for much longer than the few moments needed for a quick stop in
the loo, fate would once again snatch his partner away, perhaps forever
beyond reach. Or that he'd wake up and find that the rescue was a dream
and that Ray was still dead.

 That single glance at Ray's face reassured him that nothing untoward had
happened behind the closed door. Doyle was perhaps a bit paler, the lines
of stress and bags beneath his eyes slightly more pronounced, but that
could be credited to a sleepless night as easily as to the examination.

 There was, however, no mistaking the change in Dr. Warner. The
white-frocked man of medicine guided Doyle into his chair, every movement
the essence of protectiveness and compassionate consideration. Once Doyle
was safely seated, the handsome, brown-haired doctor reclaimed his own
chair behind the big desk, swinging toward Bodie like a matinee lawman
about to make his final stand against a silver screen heavy.

 Bodie withstood the white-lipped glare with apparent equanimity. A firm
believer in the American sportsmen's philosophy concerning the best form
of defence, he met the doctor's fury with the expression Doyle had always
claimed to be the quintessence of condescension and blandly asked, "How is
he, doctor?"

 "Brutally sinned against, in my opinion. Your companion shows every
indication of having undergone long term physical and sexual abuse," Dr.
Warner's tone left little doubt as to whom he considered responsible.

 "Is the damage permanent?" Bodie asked, tiring of provoking the man. It
wasn't the doctor's fault Doyle's condition outraged him. Any normal man
would be appalled by such barbarism.

 "The patient exhibits a remarkable resiliency. Contusions which would
have killed another man are well on their way to healing. His cracked ribs
are still tender and will give him some pain for the next few weeks, but
if he receives the rest he requires, they, too, should heal," Dr. Warner
reported.

 "And the cough? Is it pneumonia?"

 His naked concern seemed to startle the doctor, changing Warner's reply
from his previous antagonistic recital to a more muted answer.

 "No, it's influenza."

 "Not lethal then," Bodie whispered, his body sagging with relief.

 "Make no mistake, sir, influenza is nothing to trifle with. The epidemic
of 1917 claimed over eight million lives before it ran its course. For a
man in his weakened condition, influenza could be just as deadly as
pneumonia," the doctor warned.

 "I see," Bodie nodded.

 "What really concerns me is your companion's mental condition. He appears
almost totally unresponsive to outside stimuli," Warner said.

 "Not totally," Bodie protested.

 "No, you're correct. He does exhibit symptoms of extreme terror."

 Bodie bristled at the blatant accusation, just managing to keep a tenuous
grasp on his anger. 

 "What would you advise, doctor?" he asked in a deadly calm tone.

 "Treatment. There are skilled professionals trained to guide a patient
through such traumas. There is an excellent sanatorium outside of..."

 "You mean put him away?" Bodie broke in, his overstressed anger quotient
snapping at the casual suggestion. Part of him suspected that the young
doctor's delivery was not quite as casual as it appeared. The physician
probably hoped that if the suggestion were given in a matter-of-fact
manner, there was every possibility of it being accepted in kind.

 "I mean get him the help he needs. Your . . . companion is one step away
from complete catatonia. In my opinion, he has suffered an hysterical
reaction to the considerable trauma he's undergone. This cannot be cured
overnight or through one visit to a general practitioner. This man needs
almost constant attention," Dr. Warner explained.

 "He'll get it. Don't concern yourself with it any further. Now about this
influenza . . . ."

 Bodie's attitude had the same effect it usually had on the job. The
doctor's patience snapped, his brown eyes blazing with fury as he
demanded, "Do you really believe that a man with a gun can supply the
quality of care he requires?" 

 "Sharp, very sharp," Bodie admitted, surprised by the perception. His
coat totally covered his holster. Detection was usually beyond most
observers. Most people were blind to the nearly imperceptible difference
in the way the coat or jacket of a man wearing a shoulder holster hung.

 Warner nearly begged, "You must have some concern for his welfare or you
never would have brought him here. I'm not asking you the particulars of
what happened to him. I'm not even sure I want to know. All that I'm
asking is that you consider what is best for him. He won't recover if you
take him away. Please, leave him here with me now. I'm affiliated with an
institution that can see to his needs. It is a good place, sir. Clean,
well staffed. My own mother recuperated from a stroke there last summer.
I'll see that he gets into that sanatorium. No one will question where he
came from if I sign him in. You'll be safe from the authorities. Leave now
. . . ."

 The impassioned plea, made as though the doctor believed Bodie the man
responsible for these atrocities, shattered his controls. With no
conscious thought, Bodie found himself springing to his feet, ready to
fend off any and all attacks.

 Out of the corner of his eye he caught a motion from Doyle that stopped
him cold. At the doctor's request that he go, Doyle had reached hesitantly
out for Bodie, as if to stop Bodie from leaving. Then, as if Doyle
realized the scope of what he was asking by the gesture, his hand fell
lifelessly to his side, that dead, hopeless look returning once again to
Ray's eyes.

 "Damn it," Bodie swore, cursing his own impatience. "Come on, mate, we're
getting out of here." But it was already too late. Bodie knew it, even as
he strove to assure his partner that he wasn't about to abandon him.
Whatever attempt Ray had been making to reach out, Bodie had been too slow
to intercept.

 "You can't," Dr. Warner objected, also rising.

 "Don't," Bodie advised. He made no overt threat, but the man he was
dealing with was perceptive enough to respond to the seemingly accidental
exposure of his holstered weapon the way a more obdurate man would to his
drawing it. Without removing his eyes from the increasingly frustrated
brown gaze, Bodie peeled an overly generous number of bills from his
billfold and placed them on the desk. "Thank you for your concern, Dr.
Warner, but it is unnecessary. He will be cared for."

 Doyle rose at his prodding.

 Before Bodie could get them safely through the door to the waiting room,
a determined voice stopped them, "Wait, please."

 Half expecting to meet the bore of a revolver or other desk drawer
security, Bodie turned slowly back. 

 "Yes?" he asked guardedly upon finding both of the doctor's capable
looking hands planted firmly on the desktop.

 "I had a feeling this would be your answer. Please take these with you."

 "What are they?" Bodie asked, suspiciously regarding the three plastic
vials Warner fished from the pocket of his white smock.

 "This is a potent antibiotic. It won't do much for the influenza itself,
but it will prevent secondary infections from setting in and keep those
wounds uninfected. Give him one every four hours. Do not allow him any
dairy products while he's taking this. The blue pill should help clear up
the congestion. He should have one of the blue pills three times daily,
after meals."

 "And the last?" Bodie quizzed, pointing to the smallest vial.

 "A pain killer. Three times a day, with meals, or as needed. Don't give
it to him less than four hours apart and don't exceed five a day."

 "Thanks. I rather expected you'd wait for the authorities to return him
to you before you began treatment," Bodie wryly admitted.

 The doctor started, the calm of a man brave man prepared to die stilling
his features.

 "There is always the possibility you will evade them," Dr. Warner said
levelly, betraying no hint of fear.

 Bodie hated having a man he respected as much as he did this brave doctor
holding him in contempt. He wished circumstances were different, that he
could take Warner into his confidence and explain that he wasn't the one
who'd inflicted these hideous hurts upon Doyle, but that wasn't a
possibility here. Bodie knew he was still a wanted felon. Explaining
anything to Warner would make the man an accomplice after the fact. For
Warner's safety, it was better he remain ignorant.

 "A distinct one," the ex-C.I.5 operative agreed with more confidence than
he actually felt. "I'd appreciate it if you would promise to stay off that
phone for twenty minutes or so."

 "I'm afraid I can't do that," Warner quietly denied, his slender body
going very still.

 This was one consequence of getting Ray to a doctor that Bodie had not
foreseen. Had his mind been clearer, he might have been able to predict
that any decent physician would want to see Doyle safely ensconced in
hospital. He knew that the moment he stepped out of this office with Ray
at his side, that Warner would be on the phone with the police. But even
if he'd had the foresight, Bodie could see no way he could have prevented
Warner from turning them in, short of the homicide the young doctor was so
obviously anticipating. 

 He could see it in the doctor's strained face that the man was just
waiting to be shot.

 Tiring of terrorizing a good man, who'd done nothing but help them, Bodie
softly said, "You're a good man, Warner." 

 Standing up, Bodie turned to gently help Ray to his feet. 

 "I haven't made you any promises, sir," Warner stated as Bodie steered
his partner toward the door.

 Bodie nodded. 

 "I know. Thanks for your help, doctor. I give you my word, he'll be well
cared for," Bodie promised before ducking through the door to guide his
bewildered partner as quickly as possible past the receptionist in the
crowded waiting room and out into the coldness of a suddenly hot Geneva.
He was glad he'd had the sense to park the Volvo around the corner. Even
as he hustled Ray down the street, he could feel eyes peering out at him
from the window in the doctor's office.

 The car was just where he'd left it, between two banks of shovelled,
lumpy snow. After just one night, guiding Doyle shouldn't have felt like
an old habit, but he had his partner safely buckled in the passenger seat
and the car on the road before Warner could have even reached a desk
sergeant at the local constabulary. 

 Wishing for the incontestable sanctuary of a safe house, he sped the
Volvo off the block at a dangerous speed, disappearing around the corner
before anyone could have followed them from the doctor's office to take
note of his plates.

 ******

"Sanctuary, more like bloody banishment," Bodie muttered under his breath
as he circumnavigated yet another sharp turn that had more in common with
a perilously shortened paper clip than the proverbial hairpin. He would
have revised his estimation of the eagle's nest he'd supposed Jacque's
sister to inhabit, were he able to think of something that could live
higher up.

 The view was pretty, he had to admit. Before the light had faded, the
snow-blanketed alpine meadows with their high reaching spruce trees had
repeatedly pulled his eyes from the road with their breathtaking lure.
Even now, with the crescent moon and endless stretch of stars casting down
their light, it was appealing. But lonely. They hadn't passed the lights
of a hamlet or even a solitary dwelling for well over an hour now. The
highway was unlit out here. A mixture of spruce and skeletal aspen lined
the road and cut out all celestial illumination. The shadows on these
uninhabited stretches were thick and impenetrable as creosote.

 Abruptly conscious of a bleak sense of isolation, Bodie glanced over at
his partner, not very hopeful of respite from that quarter. So far, Ray
had been only a little less responsive than a three-day dead trout,
staring past the stunning scenery with a blank disregard of the view and
popping ears.

 This time Bodie was met with something other than the back of Doyle's
head.

 At least Ray hadn't forgotten how to sleep, Bodie observed, overcome by a
fierce surge of protectiveness. He'd had Ray back for almost twenty-four
hours now. This was the first time Doyle had given in to necessity and
slept. Not that Ray looked all that comfortable. With his legs pulled up
on the seat, knees clasped tight to his chest, body crammed into the
corner formed by the safely locked door and passenger seat, and his head
resting on the inadequate pillow of the bunched up brown parka Bodie had
dressed him in, Doyle looked positively cramped. The position alone must
have been hell on his cracked ribs. But Ray was relaxed enough to sleep .
. . as far away from Bodie as possible, the disheartened driver noted.

 Ray looked like a kid in hand-me-downs, Bodie decided. Even in his
present contorted position, the navy blue tracksuit trousers were too
large on him. They were the only thing Bodie possessed that even came
close to fitting, though. The rest of the outfit, save socks and
undergarments, which were Bodie's own, had been culled from Jacques'
wardrobe. Without exception, all of the shirts that Bodie had acquired
since he'd fled Britain with nothing but the clothes on his back were of
the convenient, pullover, roll-neck style he favoured. The tight fitting
garments were fine for a healthy man, but excruciating to don or remove
for a man with cracked ribs. So Jacques had supplied a soft, cotton,
button-down shirt and warm black cardigan jumper. These were also too big
on Doyle, but at least they were comfortable. About the only thing that
was a perfect fit was Jacques' size nine trainers. They were inadequate
protection in this weather, but when Bodie had borrowed the shoes for the
trip to Warner's office, he hadn't anticipated immediate long-distance
travel. 

 As it turned out, his oversight had given them barely enough time to pick
up their possessions from the Gypsy's Rest and clear out of Geneva before
the police started their search. Bodie had heard the squeal of sirens as
the Volvo had left Dupres' neighbourhood

 Bodie's eyes lingered on the sleeping man an instant longer than
necessary, his worried mind searching his own reactions to the sight for
hints of trouble. Doyle was so vulnerable now that it frightened him. He
wished . . . he wished that things were simple again, that he could look
at Ray with matey concern and nothing more, but it had been years since
Bodie's life had been that uncomplicated.

 As they sped through the empty mountain roads, another night ride was
heavy on Bodie's thoughts, the ride that had altered Bodie's reality
forever. He let memory wash over him as they drove along the winding Swiss
highway, reliving the sensations.

 That particular evening Bodie's nerves had been strung out, the action
not enough to appease the adrenaline rush that had come from knowing Doyle
was out there alone with his cover blown, with only a handgun for
protection, playing a deadly game of hide and seek on foot across the
countryside of Surrey. The police corruption complaint they'd been
investigating was even more widespread than Cowley had suspected,
influencing eight villages in the area. Not knowing whom he could trust,
but aware that Lander's mob had a plant in each of the local law
enforcement agencies and doubtless a watch on the roads, Doyle had tried
to make his way clear by cutting across the surrounding farmland. Ray had
been on the run for over eight hours before a missed check-in had alerted
C.I.5 that anything was amiss. Then, it had been another fourteen hours
before a chance, rushed phone call from a temporarily empty farmhouse had
given C.I.5 Doyle's location.

 Bodie could still recall the sense of relief he'd felt on first laying
eyes upon his shagged-out mate. With his clothes soiled with mud and
soaked with sweat and morning dew, Doyle had looked a sight as Ray
delivered his verbal report to Cowley before stumbling into the passenger
side of the Capri with hardly enough energy left to close the door behind
him and issue a terse command to be taken home. Within seconds, Doyle had
been asleep, curled into a cat-like ball with his uplifted butt resting
uncomfortably close to the gear stick.

 Bodie had driven in silence that night, a strange, twitchy feeling
curling through his guts. His gaze had kept straying to his sleeping
partner, his nostrils flaring to catch the subtle scent of a salty, damp
Doyle. Unnerved by the baseless tension, Bodie had done his best to ignore
his growing unease, but it was like trying to ignore the fact that there
was a poisonous snake sharing your sleeping bag.

 It wasn't until they'd hit the motorway that he recognized the source of
his discomfort. Reaching out to shift gears, his hand had accidentally
bumped into Doyle's rump. The brief contact his knuckles had with the
velvety softness of the mud-splattered black cords shot a tingle of pure
carnal lust through Bodie's unsuspecting system that drew a gasp from him
and melted his twitchy innards to quicksilver. Panicked, Bodie had glanced
his partner's way, sure that the unbridled yearning blazing less than a
foot away would have jolted Doyle into wakefulness. But Ray slept on,
undisturbed.

 In that fleeting instant, Bodie had lost his soul to the unconscious
ragamuffin, snared not by the conscious sensuality that was so much a part
of the wakeful Doyle, but rather by the innocent desirability of the
sleep-parted lips.

 From that moment on, Bodie's life had not been the same. The rampant
sensuality that he'd formerly viewed with fond acceptance became his own
private hell. Days were when he couldn't bear the bittersweet torment a
second longer. Still, he somehow managed, masochistically hoarding away
the hurtful pleasures of now-insufficient intimacies, to vent steam on the
unsuspecting females he dated.

 The years passed in that limbo of misery were the best and worst of his
life. Doyle allowed him liberties that he bore from no other person,
including lovers. The ruffling of rebellious curls, the surreptitious
touch to the irresistible backside as Ray climbed a flight of stairs ahead
of him, the frequent contact necessary solely to Bodie's own starved soul
– Doyle tolerated all of it under the guise of joking. Bodie never cared
to consider what would occur were he to offer those same caresses in all
seriousness. It was safe to play the clown, but if Ray were ever to
suspect how Bodie truly felt about him . . . his life would be sheer hell.

 That Doyle bore him some affection, he did not doubt. Though sometimes
cactus-prickly, Ray was one of the most loyal creatures Bodie had ever
encountered. Even in the early days when antagonism was rife between them,
Doyle would still cover for the ex-mercenary, distasteful army-type Cowley
had saddled him with, defending a man he purportedly disliked even against
sympathetic colleagues. Bodie had overheard it more than once, some
disgruntled co-worker, miffed at Bodie's lack of diplomacy, sounding off
to Doyle sympathetically . . . only to have their head handed to them with
Doyle's vicious 'Bodie's all right. Put a cork in it.' Then, as often as
not, Ray would come to him and give Bodie the same grief over the
situation that had so upset the outsider, but that was fine with Bodie.
For the most part, he liked everything out in the open. Except his past,
of course, and these strange desires he felt for Ray . . . they were the
only things he'd ever hidden from Doyle, because he knew how his moral
partner would respond to either.

 Yet, when that Mathers bitch had revealed more of Bodie's past then the
ex-merc generally liked people knowing, Ray hadn't asked him a thing about
it. Bodie had been tempted to come clean and tell all to Ray then, but;
although he knew that Doyle's feelings toward him had expanded over the
years, Bodie was still uncertain of their depth. 

 Nightly, he'd consider the idea of sounding out his unquestionably
heterosexual partner on the possibility of their giving it a fling in bed,
and just as inevitably Bodie would reject the thought. 

 There were only three responses Doyle could have to such a proposition:
the first, and most probable response was an outright 'no'. Once a blunder
of that nature were committed, their partnership would never be free of
its shadow. The second possibility frightened Bodie even more than the
first – the possibility that Doyle might go along with the idea for his
sake, humouring his partner's aberration out of loyalty and friendship. It
wouldn't be pity, but it would be too damn close for Bodie's pride to
swallow it. The last option was more fantasy than anything else – Doyle
melting in his embrace and entering the relationship wholeheartedly. That
last was totally unrealistic, of course, but it made for nice daydreams. 

 And daydream it was. Bodie was uncomfortably conscious of Doyle's
sexuality, very much aware of his partner's lack of inhibitions. Had Ray
wanted him, Doyle would have done something about it long ago.

 Now, years after his painful discovery, driving through the cold alpine
night with his ravaged partner asleep at his side, Bodie searched for
remnants of the lust that might pose a threat to Ray in his abused
condition. He looked hard at the defenceless figure, letting his gaze
linger on the battered mouth and exposed neck, waiting for the yearning to
swamp him as it had that night so many years ago.

 Startled, Bodie recognized only an overpowering urge to safeguard the
sleeper from further harm and the warmth of a gentler emotion that could
only be love. He had no desire to ravish his partner in this condition, no
interest in the wasted body besides seeing it sound and whole again. Oh,
he knew he could get turned on if he thought about Ray long enough, but it
wasn't the Doyle that cringed at his every touch and stumbled about with
such heartbreaking clumsiness that he'd be thinking about. It was Doyle as
he had been that turned him on, that cruel, arrogant seducer that would
rip his heart out if Ray ever got whiff of his weakness.

 This Doyle was safe. There was nothing the least bit appealing in this
scarred shell of the man Ray had been.

 Satisfied that his partner was safe from his unhealthy appetites, Bodie
concentrated on more immediate worries, like the reception they would
receive at Jacques' sister's lodge. 

 A ski resort hardly seemed the proper place for someone in Doyle's state,
and as much as Jacques assured him that his sister would welcome them,
Bodie was still uncertain. He decided that even if they couldn't hide out
there for long, at the very least, it would be a convenient stopover. If
necessary, they could be back on the road by morning.

 Sometime later a wooden sign shaped like an arrow came into sight. Bodie
peered at the neatly painted black letters of its inscription, compared it
to the directions Jacques had given him and then turned onto a narrow
pathway that seemed to be composed of more ice than road.

 Thirty-four minutes and any number of treacherous turns later, the near
vertical road tapered out into a relatively level area. Bodie blinked in
surprise at the sight of the structure that stood amongst a copse of tall,
snow laced blue spruce, much as an explorer might upon reaching the North
Pole only to discover that Santa Claus really did have a workshop there.

 The place was an engaging mixture of stone and wood. Irregularly sized,
round grey stones that looked like granite walled the building from the
snow-piled earth to the windows of the ground floor. The front door stood
a good ten feet above the car . . . so that the door wouldn't be blocked
by snow piles, Bodie realized as he took in the stairs that led to the
door. 

 From the ground floor up, the walls were constructed of wood that was
painted a pristine white that seemed to sparkle brighter than the starlit
snow. Dormer windows capped the top floor, lending the enormous lodge a
vaguely antique dignity. What appealed most to Bodie was the wooden porch
that gartered the house. The bare, blond-wood construction looked like it
would be more at home in the American old west, but was somehow not out of
place in this distant wilderness. Perhaps it was the fact that its colour
matched that of the roof's shingles almost perfectly or maybe its
ruggedness was just in keeping with the untamed mountaintop. Whatever the
case, Bodie liked it immediately.

 No sooner had he stopped the car in the car park than the front door
opened, an inverted skinny trapezoid of warm light spilling out into the
darkness. A small feminine figure appeared silhouetted in the doorway. 

 "Is that you, Bodie?" an unfamiliar voice called in English as good as
Jacques'.

 Doyle started awake at the sound, staring about in confused alarm.

 "It's okay, mate. Just a friend," Bodie explained, placing what he hoped
was a reassuring hand on Ray's broad, bony shoulder. "Yes, ma'am, it's
us," he answered the stranger in a louder voice.

 The woman, whom he took to be Jacques' sister, scooted down the stairs
with childish vigour. Bodie got out of the vehicle as she approached the
car, his slightly above average height dwarfing her by over a foot. Dazed
from the tiring drive, he stood immobilized with shock as the petite woman
collected him into a surprisingly strong embrace.

 "We've been waiting for hours. We'd begun to worry. The roads up here
aren't good in the best of weather," she said.

 "I'd noticed," he agreed, muffling the words in a warm woollen shoulder.
Released at last, he asked, "You are Marie?"

 A grin broke across her round, laugh-lined face, its brightness
immediately identifying her as a former Dupres. Her eyes sparkled with a
girlish delight that belied her age, which had to be close to sixty. "Who
else would be mauling you in a freezing car park? Jacques has told us so
much about you that we feel we know you. This is my husband, Wilhelm
Gruber."

 Hoping his blush was lost in the darkness, Bodie offered his hand to the
lanky man now standing behind Marie, too overwhelmed by her reception to
wonder how she'd noticed her husband's silent approach with her face
buried in Bodie's coat.

 "Welcome," Gruber greeted, his soft voice thick with a regional accent
that could have passed for Swiss, German or both.

 "Would you take the boys' bags inside, dear?" Marie asked her husband.
Then, as she peered into the car, the cheer left her voice, replaced by
worry. "Is this the friend that Jacques' mentioned?"

 Not sure exactly what Dupres would have told her, he nodded. "Yes, my
partner, Ray Doyle. He's had a . . . bit of an accident and needs
someplace quiet to recover."

 "Well, we'd best get him inside out of this cold," Marie said, clucking
over the mute convalescent.

 Bodie bundled his partner out of the car, snagging the attaché out of the
back seat on the way.

 Entering the lobby of Gruber's lodge was reassuringly less traumatizing
than that of the Gypsy's Rest. Though both travellers blinked at the
brightness, their senses were not overwhelmed by the decor. Firelight
danced across a cosily furnished sitting room. The walls were bare save
for a few oil renditions of majestic alpine scenes.

 A rack behind the reception desk overloaded with skis and the sounds of
music and laughter erupting from the closed doors to their right bespoke
the lodge's success.

 "The public room," Marie explained upon noticing his glance. "Don't
worry, we'll set you up far away from it, though sometimes the next
mountain over doesn't seem like it would be quite far enough."

 "We don't want to impose on your hospitality," Bodie expressed upon
finding himself led though a STAFF ONLY door. The doors lining that
particular wing were unnumbered and, from the view he obtained through the
few that stood open, seemed to be the proprietors and employees' rooms. 

 "It's no imposition," Marie assured, looking like she meant the words.

 "Jacques had mentioned a cabin," Bodie tentatively said.

 "The chalet," Marie agreed. "We only rent it out to long-term customers,
and even then only once the main house is filled up. Jacques is very
particular about his things. The place is empty now, but there are no
linen or groceries in. I'm afraid my brother didn't give us very much time
to prepare for you."

 "We had to leave Geneva rather unexpectedly," Bodie explained. "If it's
put you out at all, Ray and I could always . . . ."

 Could always what? They were standing on a remote Alp. There weren't any
other hotels for miles. If they weren't welcome here, Ray and he would be
sleeping in the car.

 "Put us out?" Marie seemed shocked. "Nonsense, we're glad to have you.
Jacques speaks of you quite often. Are even half the things he tells us
true?"

 Bodie smiled. "Probably not."

 A hearty chuckle that seemed to read through his lie met his reply as
Marie translated, "Which no doubt means all we've gotten is a very diluted
version."

 Marie turned into the open door at the end of the corridor, leading the
group into a small, comfortable room. "This is our son Robert's room. He's
away at school now. We thought we'd put Ray in here. It's warm and quiet.
Just what he needs now. There's an adjoining door to the room Jacques
usually uses when he's up for only a few days. We thought you might . . .
."

 "Thank you. It's perfect," Bodie replied, more than a little overwhelmed
by the Grubers' thoughtfulness.

 "Have you eaten?" Marie asked, all motherly concern. The family
resemblance between the petite woman and the ex-pilot was small. There was
some insinuation of their relationship in the overall facial shape that
was reinforced by the flash of a smile, but on the whole there were more
dissimilarities than likenesses. Where Jacques was on the small side, his
weight was composed of stocky muscle that made him seem larger than he
was. Marie consisted of plump padding that somehow lent her a smaller
appearance. The premature white of his old friend's hair had graciously
skipped the female member of his family. Though streaked with grey, there
were still more blond strands than silver in the short curls. The eyes,
too, were no mirror of her brother's slate coloured gaze. Marie's clear,
merry blue eyes embraced everything with a warmth and vivacity that Bodie
felt to the depths of his disillusioned soul.

 "Yes, ma'am. We stopped along the road." The less said about that stop,
the better, Bodie thought. Not wanting to embarrass his partner in a
public restaurant on their lunch stop, Bodie had brought the food out to
the car. Ray had behaved as though he believed Bodie meant to poison him
with the ham sandwich, struggling like a child resisting a particularly
odious tasting medicine.

 "Some tea then?" Marie asked.

 "That would hit the spot," Bodie admitted.

 "I will go for it," Gruber offered, leaving Bodie's suitcase beside the
chest of drawers.

 "Come along, Ray," Marie said, taking hold of Doyle's arm. "Let's get you
settled."

 Before Bodie's amazed eyes, Doyle went with Jacque's sister. When Doyle
made no move to undress, Marie bustled over to help. Doyle stood at ease
as she removed his parka and jumper, displaying none of the panic under a
stranger's touch that his partner of eight years had inspired. 

 Totally dispirited, Bodie sank down onto the chair beside a small table,
shooting bolt upright again as an outraged "Rrrowwurl" yowled from beneath
him. "What

 the . . . "

 "Oh, that's Cleo, Robert's cat. She haunts his room while he's away,"
explained Marie, depositing Doyle onto the other chair. "I can remove her
if you like."

 About to agree, Bodie paused, watching in fascination as the grey and
black ball of fluff gave the clumsy interloper who'd nearly sat on her one
last glare before leaping up onto the table. Her pink nose sniffed at
Doyle's hands as they lay lifelessly on the table, then the small cat
wholeheartedly rubbed its ears against Doyle's bony wrist.

 Doyle stared down at the busy creature for a moment, then the hand not
being assaulted by the rubbing rose to hesitantly touch the silky pelt.
Even across the table Bodie could hear the cat's ecstatic purr at Doyle's
encouragement.

 His spirit buoyed beyond measure by this small indication that Doyle
wasn't completely cut off from the real world, Bodie shook his head and
slowly said, "No, she's fine where she is."

 A pretty girl, whom Bodie took to be a chambermaid, entered with a tray a
few moments later and said something in rapid French to Marie. 

 "Oh, dear, not again," their hostess laughed after dismissing the girl.
"That makes three times this week that poor Will has had to pull Mr.
Williams out of a snowdrift. Come, Bodie, have some tea," Marie
instructed, pouring the rich coloured, fragrantly steaming brew into
old-fashioned teacups.

 Careful to check the chair for unseen occupants this time before lowering
himself down onto it, Bodie reclaimed his seat. Without conscious thought,
Bodie prepared two cups of tea, one to Doyle's liking. He placed the one
with less sugar beside the purring cat, having little hope of its being
accepted or even noticed by his partner.

 "Aren't you thirsty after your long drive, Ray?" Marie asked when it
became apparent Doyle wasn't going to touch the cup of his own volition.

 Hopeful that perhaps his partner's response to Marie's influence would
extend into the vocal range, Bodie waited until the silence became acute
before making explanation. "Ray hasn't spoken since I got him back."

 "Back?" Marie asked, her confusion obvious.

 Remembering his 'accident' spiel in the car park and still uncertain of
what Dupres would have told his family, Bodie asked, "What did Jacques
tell you about us?"

 "Just that Bodie would be coming to stay at the chalet for a while with a
sick companion and that we – meaning I – were not to bother you with
awkward questions."

 Bodie considered keeping his mouth shut, then realized that Marie's
helping him would make her as much of an accomplice as it would have the
good doctor. With that in mind, he gave her the unadorned truth, "I see.
Jacques was trying to protect me. Ray and I are . . . we were British law
enforcement agents. Ray was captured by a particularly nasty nutter while
on guard duty. That was six months ago. I only got him back yesterday. He
. . . he doesn't seem to recognize me." Some of the emotion he felt must
have seeped out through the brittle explanation, for Marie's eyes softened
as they settled upon him.

 "You poor boy. You've been searching for your friend all this time?"

 He nodded. "The government had listed Ray as missing, presumed dead. I
knew he wasn't." After a pause for consideration, Bodie decided to plough
ahead. For all Jacques' believing that the Grubers' ignorance would
protect them, Bodie felt that Marie should know what she was getting her
family into by harbouring them. "I must warn you that several nations are
now actively seeking me. If you allow me to stay here, it could result in
trouble for you and your loved ones. I wouldn't want that."

 "Why are they looking for you?" It was a sensible question, with not a
hint of panic in Marie's compassionate blue gaze.

 "Mostly for illegal entry or egress. I . . . didn't have a passport when
I left England. My search for Ray did, however, necessitate some
questionable activities, which some governments might view as major
felonies."

 "The same type of activities you were engaged in when you met my
brother?" Marie asked.

 Although Jacques had been the gunrunner back then and he a slightly more
respectable mercenary, Bodie saw no point in disagreeing with the woman.
"Similar."

 "Jacques says you're a good lad. I can see that's true. He says you're
family to him, that makes you our family, too. They'll be no question of
your going outside this valley until your friend is better. We'll get you
set up in the chalet tomorrow. It's very secluded. No one from the outside
will ever discover that you're there. Once the locals know that you're a
permanent guest of ours, they'll be as close-mouthed about your presence
as they are about everything else," Marie assured.

 Bodie gulped back the rising lump in his throat. "Thank you, ma'am. I
really don't know what to say."

 "Try calling me Marie for starters. 'Ma'am' sounds so ancient."

 "Hardly that," Bodie protested, leaning forward to brush a chaste kiss
onto her rapidly reddening cheek.

 "Let's see if we can't get something warm into your friend here," Marie
suggested, filling a clean cup with fresh hot tea and allowing Bodie to
add the condiments. "Please, Ray, lamb, have a little sip?" she soon was
reduced to pleading.

 "Here, let me have a go," Bodie said, annoyed by Doyle's seemingly
heartless ignoring of their hostess. He lifted the cup to the stubbornly
set mouth, doing his best to remind himself that Doyle's refusal wasn't
intentional. In his oblivious state, Ray probably wasn't even aware of his
actions. Still, it took every bit of his imagination to convince himself
that it wasn't defiance hardening Doyle's introverted gaze.

 At first Bodie pleadings echoed the ridiculously childish nonsense Marie
had been crooning at the sick man. His patience tired of that quickly,
snapping entirely when Ray moved his chin to tilt half the hot milky
contents of the cup over Bodie's sleeve. 

 "That's it," Bodie declared, with heartfelt fierceness. "Stop being such
a difficult bugger and drink your bleeding tea. Now." As in the car this
afternoon when the limits of Bodie's patience's had been exceeded, terror
reclaimed Doyle's gaze and he took a hasty sip. 

 "Good. Now, swallow your bloody medicine," the ex-C.I.5 agent ordered, 

 placing one of the quickly retrieved pills to the bruised lips and
offering the tea once again to wash it down. "That's fine, mate," Bodie
approved once the last of the tea had been downed.

 At Marie's curious look, Bodie held up the plastic pill vial.
"Antibiotics. I'm afraid he's caught a touch of the flu."

 "Maybe some rest will help. You both look like you could use it," Marie
observed.

 "It has been a trying day," Bodie admitted. "I'd like to thank you and
your husband for taking us in like you have. We'll try not to be a
bother."

 "Don't try too hard, please. Since my son Robert left for school I've
been desperate for a baby chick to look after. Hobbies don't quite manage,
you know?"

 Bodie nodded, the last six months having given him a bitter lesson in
loneliness. "I've heard my partner described as many things before, ma'am,
but that's the first time anyone's called him a baby chick. Though, with
all that hair he looks more like a sheepdog pup," Bodie reflected, wishing
his words would get a rise out of Ray, who continued to stare at the cat
beneath his stilled fingers as though Bodie and Marie had ceased to exist.
"Well, I'd better get our sheepdog settled for the night."

 "He doesn't do anything for himself, then?" Marie asked softly.

 "They . . . worked him over pretty bad. Ray just needs some time to get
himself sorted out." The desperation behind that hope must have shown. The
sympathy shining in their hostess' kind eyes almost finished him. It was
very similar to the look her brother had given Bodie when he related the
morning's mishaps at the doctor's office. Jacques had not once suggested
that he abandon Ray to the chancy mercies of strangers, but the
compassionate sorrow in his eyes had seemed to suggest that Bodie had
taken on more than he could manage. The incidents at the rest stop and
getting Marie's tea into Doyle were beginning to justify those unvoiced
fears.

 "Of course, he does," Marie rushed to reassure. "Why don't you finish
your tea while I get him settled?"

 "I really should . . . . "

 "It's been a long drive here. You look almost as exhausted as your
friend. Please let me help."

 Bodie capitulated gracefully, watching as the capable woman took charge
of his mate. There was little hesitation in Doyle's response to her
instructions and not a trace of the paralysing tension that gripped Ray
whenever Bodie attempted to remove or adjust any of his charge's clothing.

 Perhaps Dr. Warner had been right after all, Bodie thought. His partner
obviously perceived no threat in the woman's maternal ministrations;
whereas Bodie's presence was unquestionably upsetting. Maybe a hospital
was what Ray needed, after all.

 Disturbed by the unsettling doubts, Bodie munched half-heartedly on a tea
biscuit and listened to the water running in the bathroom.

 Marie's head popped out the loo door. "Where are his pyjamas?"

 "He doesn't have any. Last night he slept in a towelling robe."

 "Ahh, boys," she laughed. "I'll be back in a minute.

 Scooting out the bathroom door, Jacques' sister was back in even less
time with an armload of flannel. "These are Robbie's old things. They'll
do for Ray, but I'm afraid you'll have to stick to towelling robes. My men
aren't broad enough for their clothes to fit you."

 Bodie smiled, unable to recall the last time he'd used pyjamas. Ray
habitually slept in a pair of loose pyjama bottoms for some unfathomable
reason, but he himself normally slept in bare skin or his clothes on
nights when he was too exhausted or inebriated to be rid of them. "Quite
all right."

 Bodie blinked as Marie and Doyle stepped from the bathroom. The green and
white checked flannel nightwear gave his friend a very young appearance.
Were it not for the ugly mottling on his face, Ray would look as though he
should be dragging an overstuffed teddy bear behind him. 

 Odd, Bodie thought. In all the years he'd known his partner, only rarely
had Doyle stuck him as looking youthfully innocent. His view of Doyle
generally fell into one of three categories – exotic, sexy as hell, or
downright menacing. Innocent wasn't an adjective Bodie ever associated
with this competent partner. Ray was one of the most streetwise coppers
Bodie had ever met. But now in a single day, he'd twice made this
observation. Figuring it must be due to Doyle's uncharacteristically
vulnerable state, Bodie watched Marie settle his mate beneath a daunting
pile of blankets.

 The cat bounced from her perch on the table to claim the space besides
Ray's feet.

 Thinking that the hard wood chair from Robert's worktable would be a much
less comfortable bed than Jacques easy chair that he'd slept in last
night, Bodie began to pull it toward the bedside.

 "Oh, no you don't," Marie said, placing a hand on the chair back. "Your
bed is next door."

 "I think I should be here in case Ray needs anything or gets up."

 "He's not going anywhere. Look how tired he is," she pointed out,
motioning toward the sleepy green slits that looked like they were being
forced open by sheer strength of will. "As soon as we leave he'll be out
like a light. And if he should go wandering, Cleo here will be sure to let
us all know."

 "'ey?" Bodie asked, not understanding.

 "As soon as he sets foot out of that bed, she'll be howling for her
breakfast. Wakes the whole house up, Cleo does," Marie laughed.

 Still reluctant, Bodie hovered.

 "Come on, we'll leave the lamp on. You can leave both your doors open if
you're still worried," Marie said.

 On these conditions, Bodie agreed. Looking back from the threshold, he
noticed that Ray's eyes did droop shut the moment they were at the door.

 Reassured that Ray was finally getting some comfortable rest, Bodie
allowed himself to be led to the room next door. He was so exhausted that
he barely took in much more of the comfortable furnishings, except for
noting that the room had a bed, dresser and nightstand. 

 A quick trip to the loo, then Bodie was testing out the softness of the
goose down pillows. He was deeply asleep before he'd even fully stretched
out.

 ******

The melodious song of an unfamiliar bird penetrated his sleepy
consciousness, its sweetness drastically at odds with the desolate
environments in which the last six months had accustomed him to waking.
Bodie started fully awake, jerking upright in the bed to stare about the
grey-lit room

 Looking around the cosy bedroom, the memories returned. They were at
Jacques' sister's hotel, with Ray safe in the next room. From the distant
kitchen he could just catch the clatter of pans and, when he listened
especially closely, a voice he took to be Marie's in brisk speech.

 Bodie pulled himself from the comfortable bed. Dragging on his robe, he
padded barefoot across the floor to the open door of the adjoining room.

 This room was situated in the corner of the ski lodge. It had windows on
both the eastern and southern ends of the room. The rising sun hit the
window on the far end of Doyle's room. Bright golden light splashed across
the foot of the bed, its warm band growing as the sun edged further up
into the sky.

 Bodie stood motionless in the doorway, soaking up the sight.

 Doyle was still soundly asleep, curled on his side, facing the door.
During the night, the cat had moved, perhaps to escape the heat of the
rising sun, perhaps to be closer to Ray. Cleo now lay beside Doyle's neck,
her small, valentine-shaped head pillowed in Ray's fingers that covered
her front paws. They looked for all the world as though they'd both fallen
asleep while Doyle was petting her.

 Standing there, forever an observer, Bodie knew a moment of irrational
anger that Doyle could show acceptance to a dumb animal and an absolute
stranger. Right then, he felt very closed out. He longed for some
reassurance that he was not the ogre his partner's cringes made him out to
be.

 But, then, maybe he was, his conscience cruelly suggested, recalling a
throwaway comment Ray had once made when he’d called him a 'priapismic
monster.' Bodie’s assurances in the car that Ray was safe from his desire
while in this state might be no more than self-delusions. It was entirely
possible that his partner had read his heart and feared the want buried
there.

 Or, it might be more impersonal than that. After being brutalized by men
for so many months, Doyle might fear him simply because of his gender.
Marie and the blasted cat couldn't rape him, so Doyle would let them
closer to him because they presented no threat.

 Or so Bodie tried to tell himself, unable to shake the chill that the
former possibility cast on his soul. Pushing all envy aside, he strode
back into his own room to prepare for the day.

 When he returned less than thirty minutes later, his partner was already
awake with Marie perched on the edge of the bed trying to tempt Doyle with
a spoonful of completely unappetizing gruel. Bodie paused in the doorway,
listening with amusement as their hostess tried to mimic his own tone of
last night. 

 "Eat, now." Unfortunately, her version was interspersed with totally
unintimidating, "Please, Ray, lamb, do it for me," and the like that Doyle
was meeting with an unimpressed stare of basilisk staunchness.

 Ray’s expression changed as Bodie took over the task. Bodie’s look of
simmering rage that quelled most witnesses' reluctance was equally
effective on Ray's appetite. The oatmeal and toast were grudgingly
consumed, followed by a chaser of pills and tea.

 That task done, he started to herd his unenthusiastic friend toward the
bathroom.

 "Would you like some help?" Marie asked, almost palpably sympathetic to
Ray's plight.

 Bodie paused, wanting nothing more than to hand his partner over to her
unthreatening care. But patterns were too easily established. Convenient
as it would be to accept the help Marie was only too happy to offer,
fairness mandated he refuse. It wouldn't be right to allow Ray to become
accustomed to another's presence, only to rip Doyle free when he'd begun
to trust. The sooner Doyle got used to him, the better.

 Searching for the words to explain this to the approaching woman, Bodie
spun back to his partner as the surprising click of the bathroom door
sounded. His hand wavered over the doorknob, wondering if he should
intrude.

 At last, Marie and he ended up staring uncertainly at each other. Finally
her face broke into a smile. "Well, I guess that settles that."

 Not knowing whether to be pleased or not by Doyle's choosing to emerge
from his limbo rather than endure his touch, Bodie settled nervously on
one of the straight back chairs by the worktable.

 "You worry too much," Marie scolded gently.

 "He's . . . I'm not used to him being so helpless."

 "Ray seems to be doing all right for himself at the moment."

 Bodie snorted. "Only because he fears me. I'm beginning to think that
maybe the doctor was right. He might be better off in a convalescent
home."

 "No," there was no doubt in Marie's firm denial, "you care for him. He is
best with you."

 "But the doctors would be able to help him better. He can't even talk or
feed himself as he is now. How am I going to repair that?" Bodie fell
silent, shocked that he'd allowed his fears to slip out like that. Never
had he been one to seek reassurance from others. Sometimes, he'd accept it
from Ray when Doyle offered it, but even then he never actively sought
reassurance, much less bluntly demanded it.

 "I think you use the wrong verb," Marie said calmly.

 "How so?"

 "You say you believe he *can't* speak, *can't *eat without you spooning
the food into his mouth for him. From what I've seen of your friend, I'd
say Ray *won't* eat or speak."

 "Won't?" Bodie asked, almost feeling his ears pricking attentively
forward like a hunting hound's to his master's horn.

 "Tell me, Bodie, since you recovered your friend, has Ray . . .soiled
himself or required your help to use the toilet?"

 Flushing at the bizarre question, Bodie shook his head. "No. Why do you
ask?"

 "Because it seems to me that if he were as bad off as you believe him, he
wouldn't be able to attend to bodily functions either."

 Flabbergasted, Bodie recognized the truth of what she was saying. Even
yesterday on the drive when Doyle was little more than a drugged up
zombie, Ray had still staggered into the loo at the petrol station under
his own steam. 

 "But why would he . . .?" Even as he asked, he knew. Ray wouldn’t talk,
at first the silence had probably been due to his reluctance to betray
information and later because of the abuse he'd received. His refusal to
eat was more easily explained, much to Bodie's horror. Physical evidence
and his brief sampling of the temperament of Doyle's captors had shown
Bodie that there was little to encourage his partner to live. With hope of
rescue dashed or forgotten, death by starvation might have seemed the only
means of escape.

 "I don't know why he should wish to starve himself," Marie answered his
unfinished question. "The more important question is, has he the will to
accomplish it?"

 "Raymond Doyle is the most stubborn man I've ever met."

 "Then you can't leave him. Whether it be fear or something else, Ray
responds to you. If I'd tried all day, I don't think I could have
persuaded him to swallow one spoonful of that oatmeal. I doubt if a nurse
would do much better or would have the time to coax him with a ward full
of other patients to see to. They’d have to force feed him with a feeding
tube, which in itself can be something of a torture. For what it's worth,
I think you've made the right decision."

 "Thank you." Although made for selfish reasons, it was nonetheless
comforting to find another who felt he'd done the right thing.

 "Has he clothes in there?" Marie asked once the water had stopped running
and Doyle still did not emerge.

 "Ah, no." Bodie hastily gathered up the discarded tracksuit trousers and
shirt from last night and made a quick forage through his suitcase for
clean underwear.

 "Wait a second," Marie said, heading toward the room's closet. A stack of
folded blue jeans and shirts were pulled from a box on its top shelf.
"Robbie hasn't touched these in years. They're not fancy, but they might
do Ray for a while."

 Bodie accepted the clothes with thanks. "I'll get him into these," he
said, picking out a pair of jeans and a soft red corduroy button-down that
showed only a little wear at the elbows.

 "Once he's ready I could show you over to the chalet, if you'd like."

 Agreeing, Bodie knocked on the bathroom door, waited a moment and then
entered.

 ******

The load just wasn't going to fit, Bodie despaired sometime later as he
attempted to arrange his belongings and the abundant wardrobe Marie had
donated to Ray into his compact suitcase. He shuddered to think about the
number of steamer trunks it must have required to haul Robert's things to
university if these were just his discards. 

 Finally, Bodie figured out the logistics of the thing, poked the corner
of yet another jumper back in, deposited his not inconsiderable weight
atop the gaping end before the suitcase could surmise his intent and find
some new way to thwart his efforts. Bodie weathered the wobbling which
threatened to dump both rider and bag from the bed, and at last snapped
the recalcitrant clamps shut. 

 His triumphant shout was ignored by his partner, who had watched the
proceedings from his seat at the table with nearly the same degree of
interest a rubber chicken would have paid him. Bodie, who would have
gladly traded a year of his life for a single, "ride 'em cowboy" taunt or
even a mischievous push to overbalance the suitcase while he'd been upon
it, contented himself with the knowledge that Ray at least hadn't cringed
at his shout.

 By now accustomed to the frequent bouts of coughing, Bodie did his best
not to hover as he waited for the latest onslaught to subside. Marie had
given Doyle a box of tissues, which his partner now clutched like a teddy
bear to his chest.

 Suitcase in hand, Bodie stood beside his partner until Ray at last raised
a watery eyed gaze up to him, as if to ask Bodie’s bidding. 

 "Marie's going to take us over to the chalet," Bodie reminded, almost
convincing himself that it was his explanation and not the guiding hand on
his elbow that motivated Doyle.

 Without warning, Ray froze, to stand rooted between Robert's worktable
and his recently vacated chair like some great evergreen trapped in a
glacier's transparent, eternal grip.

 Wondering what sordid connotations a guiding hand to an elbow had taken
on in the last few minutes, Bodie turned irritably back toward his
partner. This was the same kind of freeze-up that occurred whenever Bodie
tried to help Doyle undress or whenever any other sexual overtones entered
dealings. But this time Bodie was innocent; he'd done and said nothing to
inspire such a reaction. Unless, of course, Ray had recovered his
reasoning abilities and realized that going to the chalet meant they'd
soon be alone together.

 The expression on Doyle's face drove all thought from his mind. In the
past, he'd seen Doyle frightened of death. On those few occasions where
Ray had found himself powerless at the end of an opponent's cocked weapon,
a strange, ethereal expression would still his features and a wildness
would enter his eyes as Ray anticipated the inevitable. But although his
partner's face held remnants of that expression, this was different than
those near fatal brushes. Never had Bodie beheld such a look of stark
terror. 

 As he watched, all traces of colour had drained from Doyle's flesh, even
his bruised lips appearing white as he stared unblinking over Bodie's
right shoulder.

 Unwilling to move, lest he add to the unreasoning fear, Bodie frantically
searched his own actions for its cause. Nothing, no word or gesture or . .
.

 A sound broke the nerve-rending silence. Shocked, he realized that the
tiny, childlike whimper was coming from Dole. It was the strangled cry of
someone too frightened to voice the scream Bodie could see building in
Ray's eyes. 

 Abruptly, those eyes darted to Bodie's face, begging him as he'd never
seen his partner plead before. 

 Quick as a tiger's pounce, Doyle moved. Almost jumping behind Bodie, both
his hands clutched the taller man's arm. The beseeching expression in the
panicked green gaze seemed to promise Bodie anything if he'd just . . .

 Just what?

 Frantic himself now, Bodie peered around the room. When his gaze swept to
the door, the ex-C.I.5 agent found his answer. Just for the barest instant
he beheld what had so unnerved his partner. A tall, black-clad man with
wispy blond hair and eyes burning black with intent filled the doorway.
Bodie’s free hand closed around the hilt of his holstered weapon as he
took in the auctioneer's spectre.

 Then, the ghost moved further into the room. Morning sunlight touched the
shadowed face, picking out furrows and points in the aquiline features
where smooth, malicious hardness should have been. Instead, the light cast
warmth into the dark eyes until they shone a confused, soft brown.

 "Gruber," Bodie breathed in relief, releasing the gun to take Ray in a
rough embrace. "It's all right, mate. You remember Marie's husband,
Wilhelm? We met him last night," Bodie murmured, as much for his own
reassurance as Doyle's.

 Oddly enough, Ray didn't shake free of his hold, seeming to draw
unconscious strength from the loose hug. Bodie held on until he felt
Doyle's breathing steady and the wild racing of the heart thundering so
close to his own chest still to a near-normal beat. Only then did he
release Doyle.

 Ray stared at their host, sanity fast returning.

 Still stunned himself, Bodie's gaze was transfixed on his partner. Even
as he watched, Doyle began to inch away from him in movement so gradual as
to be almost unnoticeable.

 Doyle paused, as if realizing his withdrawal was not unobserved.

 Bodie's face cracked into a wide, encouraging grin of almost imbecilic
proportions. He knew it was foolish – Doyle's reaction probably didn't
mean anything at all – but the fact that Ray had turned to him for
protection buoyed his spirit up as nothing else had.

 The Doyle he had found in that murky warehouse two nights ago would have
remained rooted with terror, allowing the auctioneer to take his kiss or
whatever else he desired without protest or thought of flight. Hard as it
was to see, some degree of healing must have transpired in these last two
days. Maybe Doyle wasn't up to fighting, but he now at least sought
escape. However slight Ray's trust in him, that one show of confidence had
done wonders for Bodie's morale. 

 Maybe it had only been a choice of the lesser of two evils, Bodie thought
as the proposition inherent in Ray’s desperate gaze returned to mind, but
at least it indicated that Doyle saw a difference between Bodie and his
former captors.

 "Your friend, he is all right?" Gruber asked, still framed within the
doorway.

 Bodie thought Gruber's hesitation was caused as much by his own
instinctive grab for his weapon as Doyle's distress. "It takes Ray a
little while to get used to people, that's all."

 "My Marie said I should take your bags to the car," Gruber explained,
appropriating the now cumbersome suitcase.

 With his partner in tow, Bodie followed their reticent host through the
hall. 

 "You and your wife have been very kind to us," he said awkwardly, trying
to breach the silence. Marie, Bodie was sure of, but Gruber's feelings
toward his intrusive houseguests were a mystery.

 "Is family," Gruber explained, a shy smile gentling his hawk-like
features.

 "Family?"

 "Jacques, he says you are the son he never had and my Marie would very
much like to. . .how do you say. . .to adopt your friend."

 Bodie laughed at that notion. "Ah, our Ray of sunshine is a good deal
more than your sweet Marie can handle, I think."

 "Perhaps," Gruber agreed, falling back into silence.

 But this time the ex-C.I.5 agent was comfortable with the quiet,
contentedly following their host out to the car park.

 Hidden behind a pair of dark sunglasses, Marie waited there at the wheel
of a jeep that looked as though it would be more at home in the African
bush than Western Europe were it not for its bright blue colour and the
odd ploughing device affixed to its front. The gleaming slickness of the
royal blue paint would never blend in with the subdued greens and tans of
the bush lands.

 Bodie grinned at the incongruous picture their tiny hostess presented
behind the controls of the oversized land rover.

 "Have everything?" she asked in the tone of voice Bodie had always
imagined a concerned mother would possess.

 "Everything that would fit," Bodie replied, opening the boot so that
Gruber could fit the dangerously overstuffed suitcase within. Bodie tucked
the attaché case he carried in beside it and firmly locked the trunk. The
remainder of his ill-gotten gains still made him very self-conscious. He’d
never had this much money in his entire life. 

 When Marie made no move to join them, he glanced questioningly over at
her. 

 "I thought it best if I rode up ahead of you. That way no one would have
to drive me back down. Besides, this monster will cut a trail you should
be able to follow."

 "Cut a trail?" Bodie asked, not liking the sound of this.

 "The chalet's been empty for the last three weeks. We've had five storms
since then. There is bound to be a bit of snow on the road."

 Not knowing what else to say, he contented himself to an inadequate,
"oh," and settled his partner in the Volvo.

 Giving a wave to Gruber, who had all but disappeared into a flock of
ski-laden, luggage-toting new arrivals, Bodie followed Marie's jeep past
the lodge. He tried not to show alarm as she ignored the ice covered road
that led up from the main highway and headed directly toward a high mound
of snow in the centre of the patch of blue spruces to the left of the
lodge. 

 Her land rover plunged lustily into the sparkling snow pile, spewing a
steady stream of flung snow to either side and leaving a car-sized path
behind it. Bodie reluctantly left the shovelled, paved drive behind to
turn into the snow packed trail she had blazed. He drove between the tall
banks, doing his best to keep his wheels on the tracks left by the rover's
thicker treads.

 The day cold and clear, bright sunlight splashed down at them out of a
brilliant blue sky. Bodie admired the bright colour of the endless stretch
of blue above and tried to recall a time he'd seen a more vivid sky. 

 England's summers, memorable for those rare, totally cloudless days,
didn't quite match. Home had a special quality to its beauty, part
nostalgia, part that indefinable blend of riotous colours of flower
gardens and lush green grass against a backdrop of blue. England's sky was
pretty, but never remembered solely for its own colour. 

 He thought of Africa. That sky sometimes came close on days when there
was no dust. During the rainy season, before the sun had scorched the land
brown and dry, one might catch a sky this blue. But the days Bodie had
spent there were hard ones, with little time for such distractions. 

 Finally his mind lit on the memory he'd been searching for. The Aegean
Sea. There had been a day when a pitifully young man had sat alone on the
deck atop a boatload of contraband machine guns. For miles upon countless
miles nothing else had shown in the water. Sea and sky, sky and sea, for
as far as the eye could see, not even the white cap of a wave to relieve
the loneliness, all of it tinted a blue so blinding that it hurt to look
at it. That had rivalled the vividness of this painfully bright day.

 Abruptly, Bodie realized that it wasn't only that the sky was so bright.
His eyes had settled into a tight squint, instinctive protection against
the blinding white of the snow that rose almost as high as the car door on
both sides and capped every evergreen and bare limbed bush or tree they
passed. A glance at Doyle revealed an even greater discomfort. Ray's eyes
were narrow slits, his face contorted as if in severe pain. 

 Probably did hurt like hell, Bodie thought, observing how Ray's grimace
stretched scab-covered cuts and wrinkled bruised flesh.

 Why his partner didn't just curl up and go back to sleep as he'd done on
yesterday's drive, Bodie couldn't imagine. Until he realized how strange
this must seem to Ray. Doyle's squint was fixed on the rover up ahead,
occasionally darting to the high banks on either side or to the rear
window. Whenever Doyle would look back at the safety of the receding
lodge, his lips would purse almost resignedly and a peculiar expression of
trepidation would flicker across his features. 

 Bodie could almost read his partner’s thoughts. Ray was probably telling
himself that last night was too good to be true. Doyle probably had no
idea as to where they were going or why, Bodie thought sympathetically.
And, it was entirely possible Ray had never seen this much snow before. 

 "We’re still in Switzerland, Ray," Bodie softly explained, not wanting to
startle his already nervous companion. Absorbed in the intricacies of
uphill driving, Bodie did his best to explain their destination. His words
fell into the silence like ten pence into a pond, leaving no impression of
their passage. 

 Ray didn't even look his way as Bodie spoke. Yet, the gesture seemed to
have some effect for, although Doyle watched as intently as ever, the
invisible current of anxiety seemed to ease somewhat.

 The going was slow, mostly because of the depth of snow. In the places
where the route would curve and Bodie could see where Marie went before
she got to it, there was no indication of a road. To his untrained eye,
they seemed to travel over an increasingly steepening hillside, the ground
they covered no different from that of twenty feet away. Still, they hit
none of the rocks and boulders he knew had to be there, so he assumed they
were indeed following a hidden road.

 Often the rover would have to veer off the trail it was ploughing to
unload its accumulated burden at the side in great grey and white piles
that towered above the banks. The first time Marie paused to clear the
plough, Bodie almost drove up her tail, thinking it just another curve in
the serpentine road.

 The distance they were covering surprised him. Although he hadn't been
told so, Bodie had thought the chalet close, at most half a mile away.
They crawled past the slopes dotted with specks of garishly clad skiers
who flowed down the mountainside like raindrops down a pane of glass.
Bodie observed the lift machinery curiously as they passed under a chair
lift, amused by the awkward weaving of ski-shod feet overhead. Then they
left the ski slopes behind, cutting their way through what looked like
untouched wilderness.

 Here the timber thickened to a more than decent forest and Bodie’s
trained eye could tell where the road was. Some might mistake the gaping
slash of empty snow between the knotted trunks of towering pines as just
another clearing, but Bodie, who’d spent years searching the African bush
for just such openings between thickets, recognized the road for what it
was.

 He was grateful for the tall, skinny trees. Although their shadows were
thick and chillingly cold, they cut the irritating glare of the snow down
to a manageable level. He turned up the heater and smiled reassuringly at
an apparently oblivious Ray.

 Once they reached the timberline, the road began to climb in earnest,
swinging up and around to the far side of the mountain in wide, snakelike
curves that were treacherous. The turns were nearly 180-degree angles;
gradual enough to lull a driver into a false sense of security that lasted
until he hit a patch of ice at a speed he'd never be doing on a more
sudden turn. Bodie didn't want to dwell on the results of such a skid,
preferring to concentrate on the slow moving vehicle that was clearing the
way for them.

 Gradually, the forest thinned. Gnarled short scrub pines took the place
of the regal spruces. Naked rock climbed high on the driver's side of the
car, threatening a messy stop should their car spin out to the left. The
alternative on the right wasn't much better. Bodie estimated that they
were at least 13,000 feet up. 

 The drop Doyle was currently staring impassively out over didn't go
straight down. First they’d have to break through the flimsy snow bank
walling that side of the road, then they'd bounce around for a couple of
thousand feet before reaching a nice cosy ledge, or, if extremely unlucky,
tumbled all the way back down to the timberline.

 Marie pulled perilously close to the cliff to disgorge her snowy burden.
Instead of moving immediately on this time, the jeep came to a complete
stop. The rover 's door opened and Jacques' sister approached them. 

 Bodie watched her carefully choose her footing.

 He rolled down his window, letting in a wall of icy air.

 "We're making good time," Marie announced, astounding Bodie who would
have thought six miles in 45 minutes slow going for a three-footed
tortoise. "We should be there in about ten minutes. For this next stretch,
floor the accelerator. You're going to need your momentum to make it up
that hill. Hold back on the gas and you'll probably slide back down."

 "All right," Bodie agreed, hoping they wouldn't end up the rover's
exhaust pipe. Their former boss had had some incredibly voluminously
voiced regrets following an order to 'step on it.'

 As if reading his mind, Marie said, "Wait until I've cleared the way
first. There's a sharp turn to the left that gives way to a fairly level
stretch."

 "The top?" Bodie asked hopefully.

 "As close to it as we can get without climbing gear." She laughed. "I'll
plough right through to the down hill grade. Once I've got it clear, I'll
sound the horn and you can start up. Remember, go fast."

 "Thanks."

 Bodie hastily rolled up the window as she walked back to her rover.

 He watched as Marie shot forward, barrelling up the steep slope like a
proverbial bat out of the Norse version of Hel. She almost didn't make it.

 Bodie gritted his teeth, the breath catching in his chest as he watched
Marie’s hair-raising start gradually slowed under the weight of the snow
the plough was accumulating. Just as he was about to manoeuvre their own
car out to block the existing road against the rover's inevitable
backwards slide that would take their hostess off the cliff at the very
next curve, the rover jutted forward as if thrown into overdrive. A
moment's more of nerve-racking climb and it disappeared around the bend in
a streak of blue. 

 Bodie breathed a sigh of relief and settled back to wait. He was finding
country living a bit more exciting than he'd anticipated.

 A horn's blare hooted through the stillness. Giving a quick thought to
avalanches, his foot eased down onto the accelerator and they started to
move forward with an ever-quickening pace.

 He reached out to tug Ray back from his imminent impact with the
windshield, and then devoted both hands to steering.

 The Volvo's tires dug into the tracks left by the jeep, spewing a mad
spray of snow in its wake. Three quarters of the way up the slope, Bodie
felt their climb begin to slow. He jammed the already floored pedal down
as far as it would go. The motor gave them a minuscule push, just enough
sent them the rest of the way up the difficult grade.

 As promised the ground levelled, surprisingly fast. Judicious application
of the brakes brought them to a reluctant stop, a mere six inches from the
rover's tailgate.

 His muscles tight as at the end of a dangerous op, Bodie took a moment to
relax and stretch out.

 At least their hideout was secluded, he reflected, unable to imagine many
lawmen determined enough to tackle that road mid-winter. The spring thaw
would, of course, bring better roads, but by that time any police report
the doctor might have filed on Ray would be ancient history.

 Marie started forward again. Bodie automatically followed her.

 The road sloped downhill in gentle, lazy curves. Descending should have
been easier than the climb up, but Bodie found himself constantly gaining
on the slower moving vehicle. His fingers aching from clenching the wheel,
he did his best to avoid ruining the Volvo's grillwork.

 A left turn brought them to another steep cliff. Bodie gaped at the view
afforded from this side of the mountain. 

 A seemingly endless stretch of pine-dotted, snow-capped mountains filled
the land clear to the horizon. The lack of skiable slopes on this, the
southern side, lent the place a wild, untouched splendour. The walls here
were composed of jagged peaks and stony ledges, perfect for climbing but
little else.

 The sheer stone wall the road had been hugging for the last mile or so
dipped inward to form an enormous, crater-like ledge. Looking at the
depression, Bodie had the absurd notion that something had taken a
generous bite out of this side of the mountain. The grey stone walls rose
endlessly up on all sides of the level ground they'd paused on and seemed
to stoop over at their tops to shield much of the ledge. A large village
or several sports arenas could have fit comfortably on it.

 As it was, a large natural field had developed on the ledge. Bodie
deduced the existence of healthy soil from the abundance of spruce trees
that fringed the walls of the elliptical hollow. The centre of the ledge
looked to be open ground beneath its deep carpet of snow. The
winter-darkened tips of hidden vegetation that were probably shrubs and
thorn bushes poked their way through the cold white mantle at various
parts of the field.

 The only man-made constructions stood at the far end of the hollow amidst
a pleasant grouping of green spruces and slender, bare limbed trees. The
smaller of the two structures was a garage or tool shack of some
nondescript and uninteresting sort.

 The other odd building claimed Bodie's full attention. On first sight the
chalet – or so Bodie presumed it to be, as their hostess was heading
straight toward it – looked like an arrow with a shortened trunk and
elongated tips. Triangular in shape, the sides of the roof tapered
downwards almost to the ground.

 The red wood building stood two levels high. An enormous rectangular
window dominated the front of the house, its size encompassing the four
smaller, lace draped windows on the floor directly above it. The entrance
was a door of darker wood, placed to the right of the huge window. Another
tiny window, shaped like a half moon and paned with bright stained glass,
twinkled merrily above the doorway, seeming to offer a welcoming red and
blue sparkle even from the distance.

 The land rover ploughed a path clear to the garage doors, and then veered
to the left to dump its load of snow.

 Bodie pulled in beside the rover and glanced at Ray. 

 Outwardly unperturbed by the trip up, Doyle was staring out at the
chalet. If there was no curiosity in his friend's gaze, Bodie was relieved
to find that at least the blankness was also missing.

 "We're here," he announced unnecessarily, rubbing his hands together with
a false animation that was totally wasted on his mate. For all the notice
Ray took of him, he might just as well have broken down and sobbed at
their safe arrival. He couldn't decide which was worse, being totally
ignored or cringed away from in terror.

 Seeing their hostess crunching her way toward them, Bodie belatedly
opened the car door. Instantly, he regretted his action. There was a
coldness to the dry, clear air that he would not have believed possible.
The rush of it inward from the open door leeched all warmth away at its
very touch. A moment's exposure had Bodie wishing for a snowsuit and
balaclava. Recalling Doyle's flu, he hastily closed the car door behind
him as he popped out to meet their hostess.

 "We made good time," Marie declared, flashing a blinding smile. "The pass
wasn't nearly as bad as I expected."

 "Cynic," he chided lightly, not really wanting to experience what she
considered bad.

 Seeing the bulging cardboard boxes piled in back of the rover and fearing
the remainder of the absent Robert's wardrobe to be packed within, Bodie
asked, "What’s all that?"

 "Food, linens, towels, and other essentials. It's a bit of a hike to the
nearest off-hour."

 Bodie laughed and took hold of the largest of the boxes. Following Marie
toward the front door, he stopped to look uncertainly back at the tousled,
longhaired head just visible through the moisture condensing on the
passenger window. He felt strange leaving Ray sitting somewhere to wait
his return like a tied up pooch.

 "He's warmer in there than he'll be inside until we get the heat
working," Marie assured him, trapping a box between her hip and the
doorjamb as she searched her pockets for the key.

 Bodie awkwardly collected the box from her and held it atop his own
weight burden while she struggled with the cold lock. At last, it gave
way.

 Marie led him quickly through a large room that left him with the
fleeting impression of light and space. Sitting room, he guessed as they
passed through the doorway situated directly opposite the front door to a
small dark hallway with two open doors and an arched doorless entrance.

 The room to the left was a tiny bathroom; the glimpse he caught of the
furnishings through the half open door to the right led him to believe it
a study. Something in the jumbled assortment of books crowded on the wall
shelf behind a huge desk brought Jacques immediately to mind.

 The archway led to a surprisingly modern kitchen. It lacked so much as a
hint of the rustic simplicity the wildness of the trip up had led him to
expect. Not a sign of a hand pump, he happily noticed, placing his burden
on a heavy oak table.

 "Furnace is this way," Marie said, leading him from sunny cheer of the
yellow kitchen to a staircase by the back door that led to the basement.

 Once the intricacies of the heating system had been mastered, the boxes
cleared from the rover, and Ray and their cases collected from the car,
Marie took them on the grand tour of the chalet.

 There were few surprises on the ground floor. C.I.5’s training had
conditioned Bodie to automatically note the positions of stairs, doors and
windows, even if only on an unconscious level. 

 Bodie did, however, take the time to appreciate the beauty of the
dwelling that was so generously offered to them. He’d always wanted a
place with a fireplace, he thought, admiring the stone hearth that took up
the entire left wall.

 There was none of the elegance of Jacques' usual furnishings here. The
sofa was huge and the armchairs down-stuffed to capacity for maximum
comfort, but they weren't antiques. 

 The tables and bookcases were not constructed from expensive mahogany or
cherry wood. The wood furniture was plain old, utilitarian cedar, but the
colour of their rich, dark finishes matched that of the doorways and
moulding boards almost to perfection.

 An unassuming ivory paint covered the sitting room walls, its simplicity
unmarred by the frenzy of artwork that accumulated seemingly by
spontaneous generation on any empty wall space where Jacques Dupres
resided for more than a week. Only one painting hung in the sitting room,
a rectangular oil almost as long as the couch beneath it, depicting a stag
who'd just risen from drinking at a mountain stream. The portrayal was
strikingly lifelike. The tense poise and forward pricking of pointed ears
suggested the buck’s drinking had been interrupted, the alert glint in the
widened brown eyes seeming to fix on the observer as through he were the
interloper. The detail was incredible, the fuzz on the five rack antlers
so vivid one could almost stroke its velvety smoothness.

 In another setting the oversized painting might have been intimidating,
but situated as it was across from the scenic window that claimed the
whole length of the opposing wall, its size did not seem quite so
imposing. 

 The view from the window, bordered as it was with towering mountains and
snow-laden valleys, ripped one’s breath away – so overwhelming was its
unreal splendour. Even Doyle, who'd exhibited no more interest in the
house than he had the dashboard of the car or his hapless keeper, paused
to gaze almost thoughtfully out over the picture window’s awesome
panorama.

 Bodie took an immediate liking to the picture window and the cosy comfort
of the room it lighted.

 All surprises were presented by the chalet's upper level. Due to the
triangular construction of the house, the upper four rooms were all oddly
shaped. The bare-beamed ceiling sloped gradually from the highest point
right inside the door to the very floor at the far end. Two small windows
jutted out like square crystal jewels into the roof's steep grade from
each room.

 Just right of the staircase was the large, sun warmed master bedroom with
its huge bed, soft woodsy hues and private bath. Bodie decided immediately
that this would be Ray's room. The small windows looked out over the same
view that had whetted Doyle's interest on the ground floor. Bodie hoped it
would speed his recovery.

 The remaining two rooms were of equal size. One was decorated in a
spectrum of pastels that ran the gamut from pink to aqua, and accentuated
with frills and lace that made the ex-mercenary intensely uncomfortable. 

 Perplexed, Bodie stared at a vase that held a bouquet of peacock
feathers. The room was so intensely frilly and feminine that Bodie
couldn’t credit it being in a house of Jacques’. Though always a bit more
cultured than the typical desert rat, there had never been anything the
least bit soft about Dupres.

 Marie seemed to sense the questions burning in his mind as Bodie stared
at the pastel room, for she softly supplied, "Robert and my Anna used to
come stay with Jacques when he visited. I’m afraid her uncle spoiled her
terribly. He let her decorate the room herself."

 "I didn’t know you had a daughter," Bodie commented. All he’d heard about
was Robert, who was off at university.

 "I don’t, not anymore. She died of a fever when she was nine," Marie
answered.

 Bodie bit his lip, regretful of his casual prying. "I’m sorry."

 Marie nodded and seemed to pull herself together with an effort.

 More subdued, they went to investigate the remaining room. It was painted
ambiguous beige. Furnished with only a single bed, chest of drawers and
bare nightstand, the austerity of this last room seemed stark as a prison
cell when compared to the comfort of the other two. Bodie decided to stow
his own gear here, relieved by its unassuming decor.

 "This chalet belongs to Jacques?" Bodie questioned as Marie led them back
into the sitting room.

 Doyle, who had trailed after them with a disturbing lack of interest,
stopped just within the doorway. The stillness of his posture suggested
that he was consciously trying to deflect attention from himself. Bodie,
who'd noticed everything down to how frequently his partner blinked,
casually snagged Ray's arm in passing and settled him on the sofa beside
him. Pale with strain, Doyle looked as though he could use the rest.

 "By rights the chalet, lodge, and practically the entire mountain belong
to my brother. It was our parents' and their parents’ before them." Once
again Marie seemed to hear his unvoiced question, for she explained, "They
did not approve of my Wilhelm, so they left everything to my brother."

 "But he said. . ."

 "Jacques never cared much for mountains living. It’s too desolate for
him. He deeded everything but the chalet over to us as a belated wedding
present – he was lost somewhere that year. You know how he is, just as
you're about to have him declared dead he shows up laden with presents and
a tale that would bug out a potato's eyes."

 Bodie laughed, but was forced to agree with her. 

 "You look like you could use some hot tea," Marie said, jumping to her
feet.

 "Marie, you don’t have to . . ."

 "Sit down. Next time I visit, you can serve me. Okay?"

 Smiling at her infectious vivacity, Bodie said, "You better tell Wilhelm
that if he doesn’t keep you happy, I’m going to steal you away."

 "Careful there, lad. I might just let you, at least for a week or two,"
Marie chuckled before ducking into the kitchen, blushing like a
schoolgirl. 

 As he settled back into the sofa, he looked over at Ray, whose gaze was
focused on the picture window with unmistakable interest. Glad to see
anything taking Doyle’s attention outside of himself, Bodie relaxed, a
peaceful comfort settling over him. Almost, he could believe that there
was an end to their troubles in sight.

 ******

*Chapter Three*

 Four nights later, that yearned-for end was still as distant as the
horizon.

 Doyle's scream penetrated the sepulchral stillness, reverberating through
the small snow-bound chalet as through a hollow cave. Bodie shot straight
up in his bed, searching through the night black surroundings in confusion
until he remembered.

 Should be getting used to this, he thought, as he ran barefoot across the
cold floor to the master bedroom. For three nights now Doyle had wakened
him this way. It was more than his silent partner's unconsciousness giving
vent to the unvoiced fears of the day. When Ray let loose like that, he
sounded like a soul subjected to all the horrors of hell. Or close to all
of them, Bodie thought. He needed nothing more than the physical mementos
of Doyle's captivity to guess the content of his partner's dreams.

 Worse than the nerve rending noise was the knowledge that there was
nothing Bodie could do to ease the torment. How could a man unable to
utter a word or bear human touch unburden himself of the trauma behind
such nightmares?

 Bodie's first attempt at comfort on their second night in the chalet when
Doyle's sleep was originally disturbed had almost sent his unbalanced mate
over the edge. Like tonight, Bodie had awoken to ceaseless screams. Never
would Bodie forget the horrid noise, half-sob, half-whimper that had
replaced those cries once he'd gathered the tight ball of locked muscle
and fear that Ray had become into his arms to offer solace. The closer he
hugged, the more frantic the cries had come until at last he'd been forced
to abandon Doyle, a fetal ball whimpering alone in the centre of the
enormous bed.

 That memory had been so vivid that last night Bodie had been afraid to
touch him. Unwilling to intensify Ray's terror, he'd stood helpless at the
bedside, gawking down at the suffering man like a child at a zoo exhibit.
Only, unlike the zoo observer, Bodie had shared every second of that
agony, hurting all the more for his impotency.

 Tonight, Bodie was determined to help. How, he didn't know. 

 As he switched on the overhead light and saw Doyle balled up in a tangle
of white sheets, still crying out in his sleep, he was once again besieged
by that feeling of utter uselessness.

 His hesitation vanished at a pathetically pleading cry. Maybe he wasn't
capable of doing much more than startling his friend to wakefulness, but
at least that would temporarily vanquish Doyle's demons.

 "Ray," he called, as he approached the bed, the name a soft reassurance
in itself.

 He received no response until his hand gently squeezed a bony shoulder.
That galvanized his partner into immediate, panicked consciousness, the
fetal ball tightening protectively.

 "It's just me, Ray," the quiet words, almost crooning, came with
surprising ease. He couldn't see the tears with Ray's face buried between
his blanket and curved arms, but he knew they were there. Bodie released
his grip on the shoulder and eased onto the edge of the bed. Disdaining
the bedside chair in which he'd spent the past nights. "'s only a
nightmare, mate. You're safe here. Take a look around for yourself and
see, no bogeymen."

 It took some time, but gradually Doyle uncoiled.

 Bodie's breath caught in his chest as the dishevelled curls popped up and
Ray gazed about. Tears streamed down Ray's face in a steady stream.
Doyle's lower lip was clenched tight between his teeth as if to trap all
sound.

 "It's over now," Bodie assured, although Doyle's unshaven face, torn with
emotion as it was, looked as though it had been ravaged only moments ago. 

 "No one will ever hurt you again like that," Bodie promised, the
solemnity all but lost on Doyle.

 He could see that Ray needed some form of physical comfort; the brimming
eyes fairly begged for a pair of arms to sob their pain out in, but
Bodie's one move to offer it was checked by the now instinctive flinch.
The need to hold his partner now a tangible ache, Bodie tried to content
himself with the knowledge that he for once had Doyle's full attention. 

 If he couldn't touch, at least he could talk. Sensing that his words were
finally getting through on some level, Bodie nattered on, "Almost forgot.
'm male, makes it off limits, don't it? That's okay. Don't want you ta
think I'm after that anyway, sunshine. Only wish you'd let me help you."

 He fell quiet, silenced by the intensity of Ray's tear reddened stare. 

 Dark with fear, Doyle's irises were very green at the moment, the body of
them lush as the fuzzy moss that grew thick on streambed stones, striated
with tiny lines of a gentler, jade colour that might pass for grey.

 That compelling gaze fixed on Bodie, seeming to demand that he either
justify or ease the fear.

 "Tell you what," Bodie said, startling them both with his suddenness,
"Why don't you take hold of my hand for a while, just until the jitters
pass." He held his right hand over where both of Doyle's were clenched
together. "The rest of me will stay right here. I won't move until you let
go, then I'll go right back to my chair." He indicated the uncomfortable
armchair he'd finished the last two nights in.

 Doyle stared through him for the longest time, showing no sign that he'd
understood Bodie's words. Then confusion entered his eyes, as if Bodie had
just given Ray orders in a language he couldn't understand or offered him
something he was unprepared to deal with.

 Slowly, as if expecting the action to initiate a barrage of unforeseen
violence, Doyle's right hand raised to clasp Bodie's open, offered palm.

 Ray's skin felt cold, somewhat sweaty. Bodie's hand tightened around it,
just enough to make him feel welcomed, but not entrapped.

 Doyle continued to watch him intently, but when nothing threatening
followed Ray's acceptance of the meagre solace, his eyelashes dropped
closed as if to block out the sight of his partner. A tremendous shudder
heaved through the slender body, followed by what sounded like a choked
off sob. 

 The spring of tears flowed anew, but this time the sight of them didn't
bring a cold touch to the bottom of Bodie's stomach. Instead, his own eyes
stung with the effort to contain a similar flood.

 "It's all right," Bodie gently soothed, afraid to so much as twitch a
muscle in his hand for fear of shattering the fragile trust offered him. 

 The pressure Ray was applying gradually increased to a painful squeeze.
After several moments Doyle's other hand blindly joined his other,
clutching Bodie's hand tight as to a lifeline.

 Still as stone, Bodie kept his promise to offer no more than his hand.
Breathing in the salty scent of tears and subtle body musk, he let Ray
cry, watching as the skin of his captured hand reddened to the same bright
colour as Doyle's emotion flooded cheeks.

 Eventually, the outburst stilled to ragged breathing that was punctuated
by irregular, convulsive sobs. He expected his hand to be abruptly
rejected, but Ray clutched it tight to his chest until sleep overtook him
again. Only then did the vise-like hold gradually loosen.

 Bodie cautiously withdrew his bloodless limb, the slight disturbance
causing no more than a tiny whimper.

 Rubbing sensation back into his crushed fingers, he pulled the bedclothes
up over his sleeping partner then eased off the bed to settle into the
nearby armchair to wait out the night.

 Tomorrow, Bodie decided, he'd move one of the army cots that were folded
in a basement corner up here. That way he wouldn't have nearly as far to
travel when Doyle's nightly disturbances started.

 Pleased by tonight's breakthrough, he sank into an uneasy doze.

 ******

*Chapter Four*

 "Come on. Chew the damn thing and swallow it," Bodie ordered, lowering
the fork and knife to rest beside the melted cheese sandwich. Three
quarters of the oozing sandwich were now congealing on the plate. The
corner ingested, in the time it would have taken him to force a
three-course meal into his partner four weeks ago, was still trapped in
Doyle's mouth unswallowed. Or so Bodie assumed from the bulging cheeks

 Doyle glared at him, fully as furious and rebellious as Bodie had ever
seen him.

 "Come on, get rid of it so you can finish the rest of the soddin'
sandwich," Bodie cajoled, his patience spent weeks ago.

 He raw his tone seemed to register.

 The pupils in the wells of enraged green flared wider in near
incandescent anger, and then, the unthinkable happened. Like Vesuvius
erupting, the entire soggy mouthful spewed forth into Bodie's unsuspecting
face. All anger left Doyle's eyes immediately, replaced by a smug slant
that seemed to say, 'you told me to get rid of it'.

 Something in Bodie snapped at the nasty action. He'd never been meant to
be a nurse. His patience was long gone. There was nothing left inside him
but frustration and fury. 

 Bodie's left hand shot out to snag Doyle's collar, pulling the smaller
man forward across the table as his right fist rose chinward in
instinctive response. It would be so easy to just to smash that goading
face and give the bugger what he'd been asking for for the last month.

 Mid-delivery, he paused, stopped dead by the expression of satisfied
anticipation that replaced Doyle's smugness. 

 "Damn you," Bodie sputtered, propelling Doyle back into his seat as
though Ray were the most revolting thing he'd ever laid hands on. "You
can't let it rest, can you?"

 Snatching up a napkin, he wiped the unchewed goop from his face. His body
was still shaking – from rage and from fear of how close he'd come to
fulfilling Doyle's expectations.

 "You don't want to eat, fine. You can sleep instead." Without waiting for
a reaction, he hauled Ray none too gently to his feet and all but dragged
him up the stairs.

 Disappointment over his failure had long since vanished from Doyle's
face, trepidation replacing it as he was rough-handled into the bedroom. 

 Bodie caught the fear. His anger was fully justified, he knew, but Doyle
was still the one who was mentally unstable here. As satisfying as
thrashing the aggravating bugger might be, Bodie was loathe to do anything
to justify Doyle's fear of him, even when more than provoked.

 Doing his best to curb the white-hot fury still coursing through his
blood, he plopped Ray onto the bed. 

 "Take your nap," he said, not ungently. "I'll be back later."

 With that, he fled the room, horrified by how close he'd come to actually
hurting Ray.

 None of it made any sense. That first night when Ray had taken his hand,
he'd been so sure Doyle was on his way to recovery. Trust had been
restored, or so it seemed then. But as he'd learned the next morn, any
advances at night were paid for by ruthless withdrawals the next morning.
It was almost as though Doyle were punishing one of them for his own
weakness; though, which of them, Bodie couldn't decide. 

 At times he was certain Doyle's hostility was motivated by hate. He'd
look into that venomous glare and know that the very sight of him revolted
his partner. But, then, there were the days when he was equally sure Ray
was testing him, that the twisted little sod was pushing him, trying to
force him to reveal himself to be the treacherous monster Doyle's fears
painted him. He knew Ray was trying to force him to somehow justify
Doyle's continued withholding of trust. Which he'd come very close to
doing today, Bodie reflected, disgusted by his own lack of control.

 His aimless wander led him to Jacques' study, the only room in the house
that reflected its owner's personality. For the last week this room had
been his refuge, the place to which he escaped while Ray was napping. A
few poems, several chapters of an adventure novel or simply a quiet hour
of a snatched doze usually did wonders to bolster Bodie's sinking stamina.

 Today Bodie ignored the overstuffed chair, the disorderly book stacks,
and attention grabbing knickknacks that were haphazardly strewn about the
room, homing in on the window instead. 

 The view was bleak when compared to that of the sitting room's scenic
window. The jagged peaks of the hollow the chalet nestled in dominated the
view. The thin cluster of spruce huddled at its foot only slightly gentled
its harshness. Not a pretty picture, even with the mad rush of snow
dancing between, but Bodie was not in a pretty mood. His soul felt as hard
and cold and grey as the rock out back.

 Despite what Marie insisted on during her frequent visits, Doyle was not
improving. The flu might have worked its way out of his system and most of
the physical damage healed or faded, but mentally, Bodie could see no
change. If he was not forced, Ray would not eat; Doyle had yet to utter a
word, and Bodie was quite convinced that if he didn't go in there and
practically haul his partner physically out of bed in the morning, that
Ray would just lay there until he starved to death. 

 What strength Doyle did regain seemed to be extended in resisting his
meals. Three weeks ago, it took twenty minutes to feed Ray dinner, now it
was fully an hour and a half before Bodie could start on his own cold
food. 

 These battles drained Bodie more than his recuperating partner, who
managed to acquire boundless energy for swivelling his mouth away and lock
jaw on demand. Only now was Bodie beginning to understand the true meaning
of nurse-maiding.

 This last struggle had all but sapped his will. He was tired of forcing
Ray to do things. Up until now, Doyle's compliance with his regime was
based solely on fear. But, Bodie's intimidation factor was gone. He'd
comforted Ray far too much during his night terrors to be considered a
threat anymore. Deep down, Doyle knew that Bodie was not going to hurt
him, which was why Ray felt free to mistreat him as he had. Short of
beating Ray silly, Bodie could think of no way to regain that lost
respect.

 Anyway, he was sick of being a bully. He wouldn't want that fear back
even if he could have it. Doyle might be behaving like an obnoxious,
spiteful brat, but at least he was choosing to act that way, not following
orders like a bloody automaton. How that was any better then the former
apathy when Doyle still wasn't feeding himself, Bodie couldn't see.

 Overwhelmed by his troubles, Bodie's forehead touched the ice-cold pane.
Perhaps it was time to admit defeat. Cowley could be contacted by a mere
phone call. Ray could be shipped home for proper care, and he . . . well,
he could fade back into the shadows.

 ******

The house was filled with a disturbing quiet. The absence of sound hung
heavy in the air, a tangible presence that seeped through every empty room
and sank through one's skin to twitching nerve endings like syrup through
hot cakes. The unnatural silence made every chance sound ring louder, the
occasional 'shuwump' of snow falling through the pine branches outside the
window, the irregular drip of water leaking from the sink in the master
bath, the occasional bang of a shutter as the wind played games with it,
all echoed eerily through the still room.

 Most disturbing of all was the waning light. A dim, grey twilight oozed
sluggishly through the window that had been ablaze with daylight only a
short while ago.

 Something was wrong. The stranger who called himself Bodie should have
come for him hours ago.

 His taskmaster's daily routine was regular as clockwork and as invariable
as the course of the sun. His keeper roused him when the light had just
begun to peek through the right corner of his window, put him down for a
rest after the midday meal, came back for him when the shadow from the
dresser just hit the bed's footboard and brought him back for the night
sometime after sunset. 

 The bureau's telling shadow had slunk past the bed long ago, gobbled up
soon after by the denser darkness that now held dominion over the room.

 Goosebumps prickled across Doyle's flesh in an icy shiver as he recalled
the act that had banished him here so early. The mere memory roused the
nagging discomfort that had plagued him too often of late. 

 Guilt. Somehow he knew it was not a new emotion, but something he had
often worn close to his heart; although why that should be so, he had no
conception.

 As he'd done for the last month, he tried to shrug off the unwanted
burden. What was it to him if his captor bruised easily? The man had
bought him in an auction and hauled him up here to the top of the world
for god knew what purpose. He owed Bodie nothing.

 Usually, that was enough of a balm for his troubled conscience. Today it
did not work so easily. Another, more insistent part of his mind kept
batting back the awkward truths underlying each of his justifications as
ruthlessly as a tennis pro would an opponent's ball.

 It was true the man had bought him in auction for an unspecified purpose,
but it was equally true that Bodie's motives weren't the expected ones. In
all the days Bodie had had him isolated up here, there had been no request
for information. Bodie asked a slew of questions – enough to tire a man
out just listening to, let alone, answering – but they were all of the
'how're you feeling today, mate? That rib catchin' you up again?' variety.
No relentless probes into incomprehensible subjects. Nothing that Bodie
demanded made Doyle have to sink further into that buffering well of
silence he'd discovered within himself.

 Which was why he clasped that distancing mantle so firmly around him,
turning away from even the most innocent enquiries, lest his trust be
betrayed. The puzzled hurt on the other man's face following such a
rejection might rip right through him, but wasn't that better than being
destroyed again?

 On some level, he suspected that Bodie's benevolence was all just a
front. Doyle feared that the instant he responded, verbally or
emotionally, the sweet demeanour would drop and he'd once again be naked
before a tormentor.

 Yet, the longer he was with the man, the harder he found it to nurture
such doubts. If Bodie's concern were an act, it was a near faultless one.
More protector than captor, the other man guarded him with the fierce
devotion with which a lioness would tend her injured cub, worrying over
things that even the overprotective Marie shrugged off. For all the
implied threat in his keeper's mealtime attitude, Bodie had yet to lift a
finger to force him to do anything against his will – a fact upon which
he'd shamelessly capitalized. Most importantly, the other man had shown
absolutely no interest in his body, beyond getting it healed.

 This last enigma had him totally puzzled. He could see where his muteness
might discourage interrogation, but it did nothing to prohibit
intercourse. In fact, his former captors had taken malicious delight in
encouraging sound through rough usage. That type of sadism might not be
part of this man Bodie's character, but he had to have had some reason for
buying him, some reason for stoically enduring the aggravation Doyle threw
at him.

 Unless, what Bodie had claimed that first night were true. The details
were hazy, fuzzed by fear, drugs, and the stupor of sickness. Partners,
that was what Bodie had said they were when he'd bought him back to that
white-haired man's house. Several times since their arrival here Bodie had
referred to him as 'partner'. 

 What it meant, Doyle didn't know. There were times when he'd catch an
expression in Bodie's creamy skinned face that stirred something deep
inside himself that might be recognition, but it was ever elusive, always
lost before he could properly grasp hold of it. Somehow, in protecting
whatever it was that must not be told to his former captors, he'd lost the
rest of what he was.

 Tired of staring at the doorway of the darkening room, and more and more
aware of the increasing pressure on his bladder, Doyle rose from the bed
and crossed to the bathroom. The blackness was thickest in the smaller
room, but he didn't bother with the light.

 That stress relieved, he reviewed his alternatives. He could go back to
bed. Bodie had left him there, making it more than clear that he'd had
enough of him for the day. After the stunt he'd pulled, Doyle couldn't
honestly blame him. In retrospect, all that surprised him was the other
man's restraint. Bodie probably wouldn't want to see him for a long while.
Best stay here until the anger cooled.

 Which might take forever.

 The white linen striping the top of the empty cot on the other side of
the room caught his eye, being the only thing he could distinguish clearly
through the gloom. Its gaping vacancy glared accusation at him, reminding
Doyle of the cruelty of his act and bringing home its consequences.

 Tonight, when the dreams came, as they inevitably would, there would be
no strong hand to drag him from their depths, no motionless body to curl
himself around while he sought the comfort of the embrace his fear denied
him.

 Only now was the tender patience, lavished on him with such casual
generosity, appreciated. How man people could offer what Bodie gave each
night? It couldn't be very easy, sitting there while a sobbing heap curled
itself around him like an octopus' tentacle, while Bodie was bound by a
promise to limit his own contact to a bloody handshake. Not many could do
it. Even Marie, who had been present during one Doyle's rare daylight
naptime attacks, trapped him like a vise, adding fuel to his panic. Bodie
alone soothed him without binding him, letting the reassurance of his
presence chase away his dream horror.

 The calculated cruelty with which he repaid his rescuer now weighed
heavily upon him. From his refusal of the badly cooked, well-intentioned
meals to his complete ignorance of anything Bodie said to him, every barb
struck its target with merciless accuracy. Wounded, Bodie didn't seem to
see how he salivated for the culinary disasters or how Doyle's ears almost
pricked forward at Bodie's slightest sound, not missing a single word or
nuance. Usually all the hurts he inflicted were accepted, wordlessly, the
pain showing only in confused, increasingly haunted blue eyes. But today
he had pushed too far, beyond amends perhaps.

 Knowing only one way to ascertain the extent of the damage he'd knowingly
wrought, Doyle slipped through the door into the long, shadowy hall. No
light shone up from below, no muffled music, not even the telltale crackle
of a fire in the hearth could be detected as he strained his senses to
pinpoint the other man's location. A fast-cast glance on the chance that
Bodie had reappropriated the beige room showed that empty.

 He crept down the stairs, soundless as a shadow's passing. The sitting
room was also vacant, the huge scenic window providing its only
illumination and that light, too, was ebbing.

 His breathing sounded harsh in his ears, his heart beating wildly. The
strained silence spoke of desolate lifelessness, of long abandonment.
Alone in the darkling rooms, he had the hideous fear that Bodie had left
him here.

 Ridiculous, Doyle knew, sure that the car engine would have wakened him.

 The now-dark kitchen looked equally unpromising. That left only the
basement and the book-lined room he'd never had cause to enter. The latter
seemed more probable, considering the number of half-read books that had
been appearing around the place lately.

 Unsure of his welcome, he paused at the partially open door. Bodie might
not wish to see him after what he'd done.

 Filled with reservations, Doyle edged the door silently open to the point
where he could see within. Just a look to reassure himself that the other
man was still here, then he'd go back to bed without disturbing Bodie.

 A tall silhouette blackened the darkening grey rectangle of the window.
Bodie was still here then.

 About to withdraw, Doyle was suddenly struck by the strangeness of the
scene. Bodie's head, usually held so straight and high in the natural
arrogance of the man's perfect posture, was bent, the broad shoulders
slumped and hunching in toward Bodie's chin. But it was more than the
bowed head that was disturbing about the abnormally still figure. There
was an undercurrent of dejection, intense, and bitterly moving, seeping
from his usually cheerful keeper. 

 Utterly lost, Doyle could only watch as Bodie's hands, oddly pale in the
fading light, appeared on both shoulders, clutching the material of his
shirt as he hugged himself. The wide back began to vibrate in abrupt,
shudder-like motions. It was only when a small, choked sound reached him
that he understood what was happening.

 Bodie was crying, more silently and strictly controlled than Doyle would
have thought possible, but crying nonetheless. And he and his cruelty were
no doubt the cause of those tears.

 Even admitting his own responsibility, Doyle might still have been able
to retreat - were the tears open and dramatic as his own nightly traumas.
But they weren't. Bodie was standing there, looking as though he'd been
fighting against the breakdown for hours; still trying to contain the
sorrow that had defeated him. There was something all the more pathetic in
that. Alone here, Bodie should have felt free to sob out his grief. Yet,
every shudder looked as though it had ripped though a solid wall of
resisting muscle.

 He wavered a moment before approaching. Bodie might not want him here.
But who else had the other man to turn to?

 Bodie's grief was the only thing of substance in this room of shadows.
Bleak and miserable, Doyle had never seen a man so alone. . .or could
recall seeing none in the scope of his meagre memories.

 Bodie jumped like a startled buck when Doyle's hand settled hesitantly on
a tense elbow.

 "Ray?"

 It was the name he liked, the short one that had replaced the whip snap,
*Doyle*, when Bodie had bought him. *Ray* was usually filled with kindness
and concern or occasionally tinged with exasperation, never uttered with
lust or malice as *Doyle*, had been. Tonight, it was a whisper of
disbelief, the tone to question a midnight wraith.

 Doyle left his hand where it was, watched as Bodie's free hand shot up to
knock off the tears that still flowed.

 There was no unwelcome in the grief-stained face, no trace of Bodie's
former anger. Upon seeing Doyle, the tremor running through the tense form
increased. Doyle could feel the tight-held emotion penned in the
stone-like muscles. He rubbed his hand gently up toward the shoulder,
attempting to relax the too-hard flesh.

 That one small motion seemed to overload Bodie's struggling controls.
With a choked sob, Bodie pulled him forward to pin him in a vice-like
embrace.

 Doyle's instinctive struggle stilled, defeated by the convulsive shudder
wracking the man wrapped so close around him. There was no menace in this
embrace; Bodie only sought support while he cried.

 The face buried in the hollow of his neck was cool, the tears hot
splashes against Doyle's skin. He wondered how long Bodie had stood here
with his head pressed to the cold pane of glass to allow that much warmth
to be leeched from his skin, then, gave up wondering, to hesitantly stroke
what he could reach of the broad back. So long held apart by his own fear,
Doyle felt inadequate at offering this sort of comfort.

 His intentions must have been enough, for Bodie drew a shuddery breath
and murmured, "You're the answer to a prayer, mate. Never thought to see
you up and around again, least ways, not on your own."

 Gradually, Bodie's shaking calmed to a near-imperceptible tremble. The
arms loosened their hold as Bodie stepped back a bit, still maintaining a
light, non-confining touch on Doyle's elbows.

 The joy contained in the exhausted features was unsettling. Bodie was
acting as if he'd been given a fortune, when all Doyle had done was walk
down a flight of stairs on his own.

 Doyle was so hard put to deny the eagerness in the red-rimmed eyes that
he had no notion of how his own expression softened. He longed to respond,
to tell the worried man that he was feeling better and that no, he was no
longer intent on killing himself, but mistrust still lingered.

 This could yet be a ruse enacted by an expert. Get his trust, get him
talking, and then, get the information stronger measures had failed to
secure. Improbable, perhaps. Instinct told him Bodie's concern was
genuine, but Doyle had no idea where those instincts came from. Until he
remembered what it was everyone had been intent on learning from him,
Doyle thought it best to maintain his fiction. 

 Those same instincts assured him that Bodie would forgive him even that
deception, too.

 His continued silence did not seem to thwart Bodie's restored humour. A
delighted smile quirked across his features as Bodie answered his own
question, "'Of course, you're feelin' better."

 The wind chose that moment to pitch a gustful of snow and sleet against
the window. They both started at the pebble-like rain of sound, shivering
at the subsequent draft.

 "Let's get us a fire going to warm this place up and set about dinner."
Bodie's happiness crumpled at his own mention of food, the shadow of
today's incident dimming the cheer in his eyes. It was obvious that he
dreaded a repeat performance.

 Guilt-struck, Doyle searched for a means of reassuring. Speech already
disqualified as a possibility, he tried the only thing left to him, a
gesture not attempted since he awakened without a past. The smile sat
strangely on his face, pulling at solemn features accustomed to a frown or
blank freeze until Doyle thought the muscles would crack after long
disuse.

 The response the simple act elicited was humbling. Bodie gasped as though
the breath were torn right out of him, the oh-so-efficient man seeming to
melt under its onslaught. Doyle stared at his visibly stunned companion,
noting how the recently dried gaze had filled up again with a liquid
brightness. 

 Struck by the tenderness in the unguarded expression, Doyle came to an
astounding realization. He knew, had he deigned to speak, that anything he
asked for would have been granted at that moment. Doyle had the unsettling
impression that even without speaking that that one insignificant gesture
had won him the other man's soul.

 What the hell had he been to Bodie that a mere smile could so undo him?

 Puzzling out that enigma, he followed his keeper to the kitchen.

 Doyle took his customary seat in the corner, watching as the other man
set about heating a casserole left by Marie and fixing a small salad.
Bodie's movements were awkward here, seemingly overshadowed by the number
of charred, smoking catastrophes these efforts invariably produced. But
this evening, Bodie was approaching the task with a certain flourish that
was not lost on the watcher. 

 Any doubts Doyle might have harboured about the wisdom of his decision to
trust, if ever so marginally, were dispelled by Bodie's glowing
enthusiasm. He had not realized how heavily the pain he'd been causing his
caretaker had weighed upon himself until now that it was lifted.
Light-headed with relief – or hunger – Doyle leaned back against the wall,
for once relaxed.

 As expected, the portion of casserole placed on his plate was browned
around the edges, looking uncooked in the middle. The food wasn't so
burned that it failed to set his mouth watering, and, Doyle conceded, the
salad looked quite appetizing.

 Bodie filled only one plate, placing it before Doyle like a timid lion
feeder.

 An expression of grim determination paled the merry glow that had lit
Bodie's face throughout the meal's preparation as he took a seat beside
Doyle. Apparently resigned to the struggle, Bodie lifted a fork. The vivid
eyes did not even blink as Doyle intercepted the hand, but something
seemed to die in their clear blue depths. 

 Hope, Doyle realized. Bodie's gaze dropped as Doyle tried to pry loose
the fork.

 Realizing the struggle futile – he'd yet to win a single utensil from
that Herculean grip – Doyle willed Bodie's eyes to lift again to end the
battle.

 Several moments passed before Bodie realized Doyle's resistance had
ceased. Then, the questioning gaze rose slowly to meet his own.

 Doyle schooled all rebellion from his features, entreating trust with his
widened eyes.

 As if bewitched, Bodie's grip gradually loosened from the fork. Doyle
took it from unresisting fingers, not missing the look of utter defeat
that darkened Bodie's bright eyes.

 Bodie's defeated expression turned to incredulous wonder as Doyle's fork
continued on its original path, dipped deep into the half-cooked casserole
and shovelled a heaping loadful to Doyle's waiting mouth. Not
surprisingly, it was cold. But even half-cooked, Marie's meals were
delicious. Doyle continued to shovel the food down long after his appetite
had been appeased, determined to finish the dishful for Bodie's sake.

 He had his reward when he was done. 

 Bodie was simply sitting there, smiling at Doyle as if the entire world
had been handed to him. It made no sense, but Bodie's unmistakable joy did
make Doyle feel happy. Hoping he wasn't making the mistake of his life,
Doyle reached for the salad bowl.

 ******

The first muffled cry had him off his cot and at his partner's bedside
before the sound faded. Bodie snapped the lamp on and eased down onto the
empty bed edge. As always, Ray was a huddled heap of blankets and
fear-soaked flesh in its centre.

 "Come on, Ray, wake up. It's just a dream." he called gently, almost
choking on the last understatement. Doyle nightmares were 'just' dreams,
the way a tsunami was 'just' a wave.

 Fortunately for Ray, although the ferocity of the night terrors didn't
seem to be abating any, his reaction to them was improving. Once awake and
aware that it was Bodie at his side, his friend would calm. But sleep did
not come easily afterwards.

 Bodie had all but talked himself hoarse with inanities these last few
weeks while trying to dispel Ray's residual anxiety to the point where
Doyle could once again rest. What he spoke of, on these long nights, Bodie
could hardly remember. At first, he knew he had stuck solely to himself,
relating exaggerated accounts of childhood adventures. Those had seemed
less likely to add any fuel to Doyle's dreams or jeopardize the
semi-miraculous trust he'd recently won. 

 But lately, the topics more and more had been amusing anecdotes of the
years they'd spent in each other's company. Bodie couldn't tell what
effect his stories were having on his partner, if any. Sometimes he got
the feeling that he started the day talking to himself and finished it the
same way, that it had always been so and would ever remain unchanged. He'd
all but forgotten what Ray's voice sounded like, but at least Doyle was
listening to him now. As long as that was true, he'd keep right on
chattering away.

 "Ray, snap out of it, mate. You're safe, here in your own bed."

 The firm tone seemed to penetrate. Doyle's eyes shot open to stare wildly
around, the burgeoning cry muffled to a gasp as the startled green gaze
came to rest on his own reassuring blue.

 Bodie grasped the hand that reached for him, prepared for the odd,
one-way embrace that usually followed. The way Doyle curled around him at
such times came close to breaking his heart. The craving for comfort was
heart wrenching, Doyle's denial of it even more so. Ray seemed to use
Bodie's body to hide from whatever it was terrorizing him in his dreams,
his entire body hugging Bodie in a tight boomerang curve with Doyle's face
buried between the blankets and Bodie's left thigh, his legs pressed tight
down the outside of Bodie's right thigh and his lower body acting as a
warm backrest for the bigger man. 

 Generally, Bodie would sit still and let Ray sob out his hurt, offering
an occasional pat or gentling murmur, but nothing more physical than that.

 Tonight was different, however. There was no burst of tears upon
recognition. Doyle heaved an unsteady sigh. But aside from tightening his
grip and an occasional shudder, Ray betrayed no sign of the internal
turmoil Bodie could see reflected so clearly in the over-wide eyes. That
too, subsided, to be replaced by a rueful glint and unsteady, sheepish
pull at the corners of the full mouth.

 Unsure if this were progress or a set back, Bodie returned the handclasp
uncertainly. "Bad one tonight, hey, sunshine?"

 Remarkably, Doyle gave a slight, unconscious nod.

 Bodie's muscles tensed. Intentional or not, this was the first actual
response he'd received to a direct question. Over the past few weeks,
Doyle had been doing better – signifying approval with a smile or ready
compliance, but nothing this concrete.

 The grin which split Bodie's own features was unplanned. Its radiance
seemed to burn the remaining shadows from Doyle's gaze, turning that tiny,
self-conscious quirk of lips into a full-fledged smile.

 Bodie drew in a shaky breath at the sight. He felt the corners of his own
smile drop a little in helpless response, but forced them back into place.
He had the peculiar impression that Doyle was somehow basking in his grin,
as if using Bodie's good humour to dispel the lingering fear.

 "Let's straighten these covers out and get you settled," Bodie suggested
once the moment passed. "Then maybe we could try another story. You know,
we should get a stereo. That way we could put on some of that highbrow
stuff you like so much. You know what they say about music soothing the
savage breast, maybe it'd tame a savage nightmare or two," he said,
patting the covers into place. 

 The spark of interest in the sea-green eyes decided him. Next stop in the
village a phonograph and Mozart would top their shopping list.

 Doyle's hand halted Bodie's move to his customary spot at the foot of the
bed. Usually, he shivered there under a teepee of blankets, blithering on
about inconsequentials until Ray's eyelids dropped closed again. 

 "What's up, mate?" Bodie asked, eyeing the hand. Under the best of
circumstances, Ray wasn't a toucher. Since Doyle's rescue, it was
practically a phobia; although that, too, was improving.

 Doyle scooted over to the far side of the bed, lifting the covers up in
clear invitation. Bodie hesitated, unwilling to offer a rejection but more
than slightly stunned by the show of trust. "You want me there?"

 The nod came again, accompanied by a slight tug at his captured wrist.

 Bodie allowed himself to be pulled down. Senses numbed with shock, he
watched his partner and tried to figure out why he was wanted here. Some
of his uncertainty must have shown, for Ray gifted him with another sunny
smile. Then, Doyle tugged the covers up to his chin and turned away from
Bodie to face the wall.

 Mystified, Bodie lay staring up at the ceiling, thinking that the lamp
was still on. He resisted the impulse to turn it off, unsure if the light
were offering Ray some added security.

 So, after years of longing, he'd finally found himself in Ray Doyle's
bed. 

 An ironic smile twisted his lips at the bizarre quirks of fate. Two years
ago he'd have bloody well died for such an opportunity. Now, all he could
do was long for the haven of his narrow cot.

 Not that Ray was in any danger from him. The promise he'd made himself
driving up here was still inviolate. This meek, psychologically scarred
Doyle offered no carnal temptation.

 What he feared was that Ray would forget his invitation when he awoke and
fear him again. Why he was wanted here was beyond Bodie. Surely, it
couldn't be for his own well-being. Though no longer intentionally hurting
him, Ray was not yet recovered to the point of being particularly
concerned over Bodie's health.

 Even though he wasn't touching Ray, Bodie felt his partner's previously
relaxed body give a sudden jerk and then tense over. A stifled gasp told
him Doyle was awake again.

 Bodie instantly understood. Who didn't know that terrifying sensation of
falling which often overtook an anxiety-laden mind on the very verge of
sleep? Awakened by the frightening lurch of seemingly every muscle one
owned and the roar of a racing heart, a man could lay there for hours
trying to get back to sleep. 

 A disturbing explanation occurred for the number of times the dawn had
awakened Bodie to find a surprisingly alert Doyle watching him sleep.
About to offer whatever solace he could, he stopped as Doyle rolled over
to face him.

 Feigning sleep, he waited to see what Ray would do. He willed his muscles
not to betray him as a hand settled lightly upon his upper arm. A warm
stream of expelled breath ruffled the hair above his right ear as Doyle
settled down close to him.

 "Everything all right, Ray?" Bodie asked at last, opening his eyes to
find the nearby green gaze resting on his face. "Ready for that story
now?"

 A soft, almost indulgent smile met his offer. Doyle's hand left his arm
and reached up to brush his eyelids closed before returning to its former
resting place.

 Taking that for his answer, Bodie's doubts subsided. Maybe after
everything they'd been through these past months, Doyle might find his
presence comforting. Or so Bodie hoped as he covered Doyle's hand with his
own and allowed sleep to again overtake him.

 ******

*Chapter Five*

 Winter that year was an unending ordeal. The snow fell and fell until it
seemed the mountain would crumble to the ground under the weight of just
one more flake. Then, when the Englishmen had abandoned all hope of ever
seeing a patch of blue sky or sprig of green that wasn't conifer again, an
amazing event occurred. The white, fluffy precipitation changed to clear,
cold water. 

 The rain fell with equal vengeance, but no grudge could be held against
it, for it battered the mounds of accumulated snow first into a
hole-filled, pliant covering and then finally into mud. Not contented with
this meagre victory, the rain continued its assault, melting snow and
overfilling streams until flash floods became as much a danger as winter's
avalanches. Then, as eventually must happen, the rain, too, lost its
vehemence and the sun at last broke through the cloud cover and burned
down until the mud was replaced by springy new grass and a riotous display
of wild flowers.

 Doyle bent to claim a purple and white bud from amongst its bright
neighbours. His gaze wandered appreciatively over the meadow, still not
quite able to believe all this beauty had survived a season beneath an icy
pile of snow as high as himself. 

 The sun beat down upon him with fanatic vigour, warming the elevated
mountain peaks to an uncomfortable level. Stripped down to his shirt
already, Doyle popped a few more buttons open, wound the arms of his
burdensome jumper around his waist, rolled up his shirt sleeves, and
trotted on to catch up with Bodie.

 His friend was making good time – Bodie always did when they were on
their way to one of Marie's delectable dinners, Doyle reflected wryly, not
at all slighted by his companion's helpless appreciation of a good cook. 

 Though, to be fair, Bodie was equally generous with his praise of Doyle's
own endeavours, even if the efforts were motivated more by
self-preservation rather than any true culinary love. 

 Doyle couldn't help grinning as he recalled the day he'd taken over the
kitchen duties from his hapless mate. Bodie, his sweaty face streaked
black from the burnt onions he'd been attempting to sauté, had still been
labouring to save an already dead meal. 

 Unaware of where the knowledge came from, Doyle had instinctively known
that each of the desperate moves Bodie was making was doomed to failure.
More butter would not resuscitate charred onions, any more than the flour
coating those chops would resist adhering to the pan they were sizzling
away on. 

 Unable to bear the pathetic efforts a moment longer, Doyle had stepped up
to the stove and silently brushed the floundering cook aside, too busy
salvaging the meat for Bodie's open astonishment to register any more than
peripherally. 

 But Bodie's euphoria had been unmistakable. Throughout that meal and many
after it, his companion's renewed enthusiasm showed clear, bubbling forth
in his endless tales and every chance glance. For some unknown reason,
Bodie's good spirits had warmed him, filling him with a sense of pride and
accomplishment.

 Now, Doyle loped over to the other man. Impulsively, he held out the
flower, grinning like an idiot.

 "So that's where you got to," Bodie declared, accepting the gift
nonchalantly in the spirit it was offered. "Better be careful. You'll get
chiggers, if you don't get frostbite first. For God's sake, Ray, it's
hardly May yet."

 Doyle smiled all the wider. The words themselves might be nagging, but
there was a happy glow to Bodie's eyes that made him feel very content.

 Side by side, they continued up the trail. Since the weather had broken,
they hiked over to Marie's almost every afternoon. By car, the ski lodge
was over nine miles away, but travelling by the more direct mountain
paths, they cut the mileage down to a manageable six. Once there, they
feasted on truly sumptuous dinners and helped out with whatever chores
needed doing. Currently, they were in the midst of painting the shed that
housed the snowmobiles and rented skis during the summer months.

 "Do you remember the time we saved all of London?" Bodie asked as they
passed a sleepy pond. The clear water reflected back the rich blue sky and
cottony clouds dotting it with mirror-like accuracy.

 At Doyle's sceptical look Bodie continued. "'s truth, I swear it. We were
in your back yard practicing on some aluminium cans and larger bottles
when Cowley comes by. He tells us a man jumped out the window at this huge
drug manufacturer, I don't remember the company's name, but they did some
research on germ warfare too, if I'm not mistaken. Anyway, I tell the Old
Man it's the dead bloke's business; then he tells us . . . ."

 Doyle listened as his companion rambled on. As with most of Bodie's
stories, this one was pretty fantastic. Half the time Doyle didn't know
whether to believe him or not, but Bodie's tales always had the ring of
truth to them, regardless of how improbable the contents. 

 The very way Bodie presented them to him tended to support their
veracity. Whatever else his friend was, Doyle had learned that Bodie was
no actor. Oh, he could try to con Marie or him into something with those
beseeching, puppy-dog glances, but his caretaker inevitably overplayed his
hand at such times, Bodie's ploys dolefully transparent.

 There was never anything assumed about the desperation behind even
Bodie's lightest anecdotes. The other man was obviously wracking his mind
searching for the magical key that would unlock Doyle's forgotten
memories. 

 Doyle himself was nearly convinced that no such trigger existed, that
whatever he'd been was lost for good. But he did enjoy Bodie's stories,
unlikely as they were.

 A tinny sound of bells clanking filled the mountain meadow, followed
almost immediately by discordant "blaahhing" and bleating. Both men
glanced toward the mountain lake.

 A white, horned head peered out from behind a large boulder near the top
of the trail heading east on the far side of the lake. The small goat
scampered to the water, followed soon after by several others.

 The instinctive assumption of battle-pose eased from Bodie's tensed form
as his alert blue eyes recognized the harmless intruders. The dark-haired
man took up his story as though no interruption had occurred, "Then you
gave Cowley one of those irritatin' grins of yours and said 'whatever we
are, you made us.' Thought the Cow was goin' to . . . ."

 Doyle, whose interest in everything around him for the past month had
been nearly obsessive, had continued to watch the goats out of the corner
of his eye. Now, a human figure came into sight, hurrying after its errant
charges. The girl looked no older than ten. Her thick golden curls were
caught back from her face in a small red ribbon. The dark blue dress she
wore was embroidered with intricate, bright patterns whose attractiveness
clashed unstintingly with the patched hose bagging about her skinny legs.
Casting an uncertain smile the hikers' way, the goat-herder called out to
her flock in a language Doyle didn't understand.

 Struck by the strangeness of the scene, Doyle stopped dead in his tracks.
He might be uncertain of where he came from, but he was willing to wager
that Heidi-like goat-herders weren't common there either. 

 "Bodie, where are we?" he demanded into the other man's unending tale.

 Bodie froze beside him, his expression running blank with shock. Then a
wild joy lit his friend's eyes. 

 "You...spoke. By god, you spoke!" Giving a triumphant whoop, Bodie swept
Doyle up in a fierce bear hug and spun him around, gibbering those two
words over and over again like a madman.

 Two months ago, Bodie's exuberance would have driven him into catatonia. 

 Overwhelmed, but in no way frightened by the reaction, Doyle merely
waited him out. At last, the shouting stopped and Bodie deposited him on
his feet. The hands kept a firm grip on his upper arms, as if unable to
let him go, Bodie's twinkling eyes never leaving his face. 

 "You can speak," Bodie repeated, more calmly.

 Doyle smiled, catching sight of girl and goats disappearing over the
ridge behind Bodie's broad back.

 "Yes," he admitted.

 "You called me by name. You remember me, then?"

 The eager plea troubled him. Bodie wanted it so badly, and yet all he had
to offer was the frustrating blankness that had clouded his mind since
before Bodie's bought him. "You rescued me, brought me here, and took care
of me. The rest . . . what you've told me feels right, but...I've no real
memory of it."

 Bodie nodded, accepting the limitation and apparently undisturbed by it.
"You can talk, anyway, and that's a fine start. The rest will come back to
you soon enough, you'll see." 

 The certainty sounded unshakable. Doyle kept his own fears to himself,
unwilling to disillusion the optimist. 

 "Ray," Bodie asked in a tentative tone after a prolonged pause, "why
haven't you spoken before this?"

 Doyle studied the crushed grass beneath his trainers, unable to face the
hurt and loneliness visible in the strangely accusing gaze. 

 "Van Cleef was the stick. I figured maybe you were the carrot," he said
at last, casting an apprehensive glance toward Bodie's face. The guilt and
sympathy warring in a peculiar mixture there held him firm.

 "And now?" Bodie asked softly.

 "Doesn't matter now."

 It was perhaps too much to hope that Bodie would drop the topic there.
"How so?"

 Doyle shifted uncomfortably, and then blurted out the truth. "Whatever
you wanted to know, I'd probably tell you . . . if I could remember it."
Doyle's head bowed in shame. 

 It was the ultimate surrender. The other man had won; whatever it was
he'd just betrayed would be Bodie's for the taking. Its price – a little
gentleness.

 If this weren't some elaborate gambit and Bodie proved to truly be the
partner he claimed, he'd have probably earned his disgust. Doyle consoled
himself with the knowledge that at least the charades would end here. One
way or the other, he'd know for sure. Either way, Bodie would probably be
lost – the devious super-agent when he realized Doyle's information was
irretrievably gone or the steadfast partner when he recognized that his
loyalties had been wasted on a traitor.

 "Aw, sunshine, don't take on so," Bodie soothed, gathering him close
again. After a moment, he drew back, and lifted Doyle's chin with a hooked
forefinger. "Now listen good, Ray." The stern tone was belied by a
suspicious brightening of the clear blue eyes. "I'm your partner. There's
nothing I want from you – not information, not sex, not even good humour.
I know you're confused. You don't remember me at all, do you. But . . .
you've got to try to trust me, okay?"

 The question in itself was so serious that all Doyle could do was nod. He
felt ridiculous for suspecting for even a second that Bodie was capable of
such duplicity.

 "Do you want to sit down, rest for a while?" Bodie asked, leading the way
over to the pond without awaiting a response.

 Bodie perched on a boulder. Taking his place on the lush, slightly damp
grass, Doyle watched his friend pick up a handful of pebbles. One by one,
they plopped into the pond, shattering its glassy surface. Bodie was
seemingly fascinated by the spreading concentric circles the disruptive
stones caused, but Doyle could see the swarm of unasked questions penned
behind the mask of absorption.

 After months of silence between them, it was only natural Bodie would
have questions. How much Doyle remembered no doubt uppermost among them.
Yet, there he sat, chucking stones into the pond with inhuman restraint.

 Overwhelmed by a wave of tenderness, Doyle could only marvel at his
companion's patience. Bodie obviously felt bound by his declaration to
leave Doyle complete privacy. Such consideration would be in keeping with
what he had observed of the other man's character.

 "Have I a family?" Doyle asked at last, figuring the best way to answer
the unvoiced queries was to detail his own memory gaps.

 The hand reaching for the next pebble toss stopped. 

 "Family?" Bodie repeated, his neutral tone matching his expression.

 "No wife and kiddies hopefully waitin' my return?" he asked lightly, to
cover his own discomfort at the necessity of having to ask such a thing.

 "No. No wife and kiddies."

 Doyle's forehead crinkled in confusion as his ears picked up on something
amiss in the font-of-all-anecdotes Bodie's uncharacteristic laconic reply.
Perhaps it was merely his imagination, but the response had sounded awful
defensive, almost reluctant. 

 "How 'bout parents then? Brothers? Sisters?" Doyle questioned.

 That scored a definite hit. Bodie shifted on his boulder, his eyes
lowering to stare at the somewhat crushed bloom Doyle had presented to
him. "You never spoke much about your family, Ray."

 Both admission and evasion. He knew instantly that it was the truth, but
there was something more which Bodie obviously didn't want to tell him. 

 "Well, what exactly did I say on those occasions I wasn't speaking much?"

 Bodie sighed, the bowed head slowly rising to meet his gaze. Doyle was
almost surprised at the lack of anger. The proud features were set in
resignation, but Doyle still sensed support beneath them. 

 "You only spoke of them once, when I pressed you about it," Bodie
answered. "What you said was that your family used to move around a lot
when you were a kid, and that when you were seventeen they just moved on
without you."

 Stunned, Doyle fell quiet, not knowing what to say to such a thing and
extremely conscious of Bodie's worried gaze resting upon him. 

 "Any reason why?" he managed.

 Guilt-stricken, Bodie shook his head. "I didn't ask."

 "You didn't . . . ." Doyle bit back the interrogative. He could press the
point, but instinct told him that Bodie wasn't withholding anything. The
very phrasing of the thing felt like his own wording. Unsure if it were
memory or imagination working, Doyle thought he could almost see himself
throwing the words out in anger, using his own pain to hurt the other man.
Little wonder Bodie hadn't pursued the issue.

 Trying very hard not to think about what such behaviour told him about
his own character, Doyle pulled a sprig of tender grass from the ground
and absently nibbled its end.

 "They were fools, Ray. You were well rid of them."

 Hearing the scathing bitterness, Doyle looked up. 

 "How do you know that? Did you ever meet them?" Doyle asked mildly,
touched by the vehemence.

 "No, but I met you didn't I? 'sides, what kind of family'd go off and
leave a kid on his own like that?"

 Bodie obviously did not see the other side of that argument, mainly, what
kind of kid would drive a family away. Doyle kept the thought to himself.
"So, we've eliminated wife and kin, what about girlfriends?"

 Bodie's face lit up. "Oh, plenty of birds. Sometimes you pull juggling
acts that amazed even me, though not often. I'm still ahead of you on
that, mate, I'm afraid."

 Doyle allowed himself a small smile that soon vanished. "No one steady,
then?"

 "Steady?" Bodie repeated, visibly troubled by the question. "No, no one
in particular. Very democratic, you are, like to spread it around."

 Ray nodded, expecting nothing else. "No wife, no family, no lover, no one
to even care that 'm gone. Just what did I have back there, Bodie?"

 Bodie finally appeared to comprehend what he was getting at. The
thoughtful frown was oddly endearing, Doyle sensing how hard the other man
was struggling to find just the right answer.

 "By God, what a face! It couldn't be as bad as all that," he rushed to
the rescue, realizing the uncomfortable position he'd put Bodie in.

 "Lots of people cared . . . care about you, Ray. Your life wasn't empty,"
Bodie assured. "It's just that, well, the job takes a lot out of a man. It
doesn't leave much time for a wife and kids. And you, you were the most
conscientious bugger Cowley ever saddled a man with. You were always
taking the job home with you, agonizing over things that had to be done
long after everyone else had laid the ghosts to rest."

 Doyle smiled, a sunny, provocative response to the note of patient,
long-suffering in Bodie's defence. "Real pain, hah?"

 Bodie shook his head, seeming to have difficulty finding his voice. "No,
you had your reasons."

 The moment he heard it, Doyle knew that Bodie had never understood his
reasons, if he'd known them at all. "So, what else beside the job?"

 Bodie looked heard-pressed for an answer. "You – you ran a self-defence
class on Saturday mornings for ghetto kids. You liked to play racquet
ball, darts and all the other things; were good at them, too," Bodie
groped lamely, and then finally conceded defeat. "Guess it doesn't sound
like much, put that way. Sorry, Ray, 'm not too good at this sort of
thing."

 "Don't be sorry. 's not your fault. You could hardly be blamed for my
life. 'sides, you left the most important part out, didn't you?" At
Bodie's look of confusion, he continued, "I had you, didn't I? Couldn't've
been all that empty."

 Bodie positively beamed at that, then, seemingly humbled, he answered in
a carefully level voice, "You always had me, Ray. 's no big deal."

 "No? You were the only one who cared enough to come looking for me."

 "Everyone else thought you were dead," Bodie protested.

 "You didn't."

 "I couldn't afford to," Bodie replied.

 Catching something indefinable in the tone, Doyle quizzed, "How so?"

 "If you were dead, there'd be nothing left."

 "Nothing left?" Doyle asked gently, having the feeling that Bodie had
told him more than he intended.

 The averted face justified his suspicion. Bodie was embarrassed. "It took
me seven years to train you right, sunshine. I don't think I could bear it
a second time around."

 As no doubt intended, the light comment side-tracked him. "You trained
me?"

 "Taught you everything you know, me boy," Bodie bragged shamelessly.

 The over-earnestness convinced Doyle he was being had. "Which is no
wonder why I've got ask you all these stupid questions. Go on," Doyle
snorted, "own up, you didn't train me, did you?"

 The uncertainty he allowed to creep into his last question had its
intended effect. Bodie's instant capitulation and his own lack of surprise
at it, seemed to prove a theory he'd been testing out these last few
weeks. Deep down, Doyle was convinced that he had the instinctive ability
to play on the other man's emotions. Up to now, it had been something he'd
done without thinking, knowing by the "feel" of each situation how best to
act to achieve desired results. This was the first time he consciously
tried it.

 "No, I didn't. You were on the force for . . . ."

 "The force?"

 "The police force. You were a detective constable, then later undercover
on the drugs squad. Real good undercover, you are, the best man Cowley's
got."

 Doyle absorbed the information, trying desperately to add substance to
dry fact. He didn't think for a minute that Bodie was lying. There was an
unmistakable hint of pride in Bodie's tone that cheered him, yet, when he
tried to picture the uniform that he must have worn, or a particular case,
all he drew was that same maddening blank. Bodie's stories stood clear in
his mind, but vivid as they were, the characters involved still seemed
more like the heroes in a thriller rather than Bodie and himself.
Confused, he asked, "We were coppers, then? From the stories you been
tellin' I thought we were spies."

 "We were pretty much whatever Cowley wanted is to be at that particular
moment. C.I.5 is a special task force with a nebulous brief. The old man
had free reign to use whatever means were necessary to combat internal
crime. Mostly, we were rubbish collectors, picking up human trash."

 "Is that how I got . . . lost? 'Collectin' trash'?" Bringing his
disjointed memories together into a coherent whole was no easy task.
Bodie's information only seemed to cloud the emptiness with complexities,
but how he'd ended up in that sick bastard's clutches was one question he
needed an answer to, regardless of how Bodie's response might further
confuse him.

 He saw Bodie's face darken before his head lowered, leaving Doyle nothing
but the top of a head to stare at. Absently, he noticed how red Bodie's
shiny hair looked in bright sunshine.

 "You don't remember what happened then?"

 Doyle shook his head, an action that went totally unnoticed by the
still-lowered gaze. "No."

 "What do you remember?" Bodie asked.

 Although the sun blazed down on them hot as before, Doyle felt a cold
sweat break out all over his skin as he considered. "Not much. I just woke
up one morning in this cold room – smelt awful, it did. Knew that there'd
been something that . . . they wanted to know. I couldn't remember what it
was, though, or even how I'd gotten to be there." 

 The means his captors had taken to spur his flagging memory were all too
vivid, however.

 From his position on the grass, he could hear Bodie's gulp. When he
looked up, the blue gaze was once again fixed on him. He had the strange
impression that those eyes had found him unwillingly, almost as though
Bodie were incapable of turning away from Doyle's pain. 

 Doyle smiled weakly, trying to show that he was all right now, saw his
effort only add to the worry. "It's not your fault, Bodie. No need for you
to look so gloomy."

 The lush gaze flickered downwards again, then swept back up to his face,
determination setting the features. "It was, you know – my fault."

 "Yours? How?" Doyle demanded, disbelief making his tone harder than
anticipated. He mightn't remember a thing about his past, but he knew
Bodie. The man would die before he'd allow harm to befall him, Doyle was
sure of that, if nothing else. Whatever had happened, it couldn't have
been Bodie's fault.

 Bodie flinched as if struck, but his gaze didn't falter. "It was my job
to guard your back. If I'd been there . . . ."

 Doyle rose to his knees and made his way over to Bodie's rock. 

 "Tell me what happened," he ordered softly, taking his place at Bodie's
feet.

 His proximity seemed to ruffle the other man's composure, almost as
though Bodie expected physical retaliation for his imaginary shortcomings.
Then, the broad shoulders shrugged and Bodie began talking, "We were
ordered to protect this think-tank physicist. Rogers had a small country
house in Oxford. Real picturesque, but pure hell to defend with all those
trees and bloody topiary. The second night out, there was a noise out
back. We figured it was one of Rogers' damn cats knocking over another
flowerpot, but I went out to check it anyway. I really cocked up, Ray,"
the tone was near pleading, but Doyle had the impression it wasn't
understanding that Bodie was asking for. "They hit me from behind before I
even knew they were there. Next thing I knew, Cowley was glaring down at
me and you and Rogers were gone."

 Doyle winced in sympathy, Bodie's tales telling how accepting their
employer was of anything less than perfection. 

 "Knew it couldn't have been your fault," Doyle decreed once the
confession had wound down to a halt.

 "It doesn't bother you, what happened because of me?" Bodie demanded,
face torn with suppressed emotion.

 Was this what had kept Bodie beside him all this time, Doyle wondered,
guilt?

 "Of course, it bothers me," Doyle shot back, inexplicably hurt by his
discovery. Realizing the effect hasty words might have on his companion,
he quickly tempered rejection-born anger with truth. "But, 's strange. I
don't remember any of that. Your telling me 'bout it, it's like it all
happened to someone else. Anyway, you thick-skulled half-wit, none of it
was your fault."

 "I could've . . . ."

 "You could have what?" Doyle interrupted. "Had eyes in the back of your
head? You did what you could then and more than anyone else would later.
Less you've forgot, if it weren't for you, I'd still be a prisoner."

 Bodie, seemingly discomforted by his open show of gratitude, returned to
his study of the wilting bloom.

 Doyle considered their situation. Finally, he voiced a question which had
been troubling him for some time now, "Bodie, were we rich back where we
come from?"

 The taller man burst into laughter at that, almost losing his seat on he
stone in the process. "Hardly. To hear you talk we'd be on the bread lines
next week."

 "Hundred fifty thousand pounds 's a lot of money, isn't it?"

 "Bloody fortune, mate. Why do you ask?" Before Doyle could answer, the
shadow of comprehension flickered through Bodie's eyes.

 "Where'd the money you . . ." there was only one way to say it,
distasteful as it was, ". . . bought me with come from? Was it real?"

 "Of course it was real," Bodie snapped back. "I could hardly risk passing
queer bills on that lot. They were sharp, Ray. It took me over three weeks
just to wrangle an invite to that affair."

 Everything about Bodie's attitude told Doyle he didn't want to talk about
this, but his determination more than matched Bodie's reluctance. "So
where'd the money come from, mate?"

 "Is it important?"

 "Yes. 'm trying to fit things together in my head. You say we weren't
rich, yet you pay a bloody fortune to Van Cleef to get me back. The money
you keep forcing on Marie for this place is no bedsit rental and what you
paid for that fancy stereo you bought me last month'd keep the whole
village fed for a year. From what you've told me, we used to work our
tails off and risk our skins for a quid, yet neither of us've worked in
months. The money had to come from somewhere, so where?"

 "Guess it doesn't make much sense put like that," Bodie agreed. "Ray, I'm
no front-man. There's no faceless organization backin' me, waitin' for you
to spill whatever it is you think I want from you. I'm no carrot and there
isn't any stick hiding around here. I swear it."

 "I know that." For a second, he wondered if this were a purposeful ploy
to divert him from his original topic, but Bodie seemed sincerely worried
that he didn't trust him.

 The doubt didn't leave the blue eyes at the reassurance. "Don't know why
you should. I wouldn't if I were you. But, there's nothing sinister in
where the money comes from."

 "I never thought there was, least not lately," Doyle amended.

 "It's just . . . personal. If you don't mind, I'd rather keep it that
way. Okay?" Bodie was almost pleading, obviously trying desperately hard
not to offend.

 Confused, Doyle could only nod. This was, after all, the first thing
Bodie had ever asked for himself. Doyle knew if he'd wanted to, he could
push and get his answers, but that wouldn't have been right. Bodie
deserved the same privacy he gave him.

 Unsure of what to ask next, if anything, Doyle fell to watching a
long-legged bug skim its way across the pond surface. Intrigued by its
oddly graceful motion and the tiny ripples its passage made, he lost track
of time. Relaxing, he relished the feel of the sun upon hi skin, the
refreshing spruce-scented breeze and cool cushion of living grass.

 "Damn it!"

 Doyle started at the frustrated exclamation. "What's wrong?"

 "Ray, I don't want you to . . . distrust me. I don't want any secrets . .
. I just don't want you to start hating me again."

 "Hate you?" Doyle repeated, thoroughly confused. "What makes you think
I'd hate you?"

 "You would if you were yourself," Bodie explained, looking away.

 "Why?" Doyle asked, not believing a word of it.

 "Right and wrong were always very important to you. What I did to get the
money to get you back, well, it wasn't legal. You-you wouldn't approve of
it."

 "What did you do, Bodie?" he probed softly, prepared for almost anything.
The memory of this man ready to take on the host of his captors unarmed
was vivid in his mind, as was Bodie's grandstanding with the Genevan
doctor. Doyle doubted if the latter had ever been in any true danger from
Bodie, but he knew with unshakable certainty that his former kidnappers
would have died to a man were it not for Doyle's unarmed presence among
them.

 "I needed money, a lot of money. You wouldn't believe the price our
friends behind the Iron Curtain paid for Rogers."

 "How did you find out?"

 "One of our operatives recognized Rogers. He liberated him, at great
personal risk. When Rogers was debriefed, we found out about the auction,"
Bodie explained.

 "That's how you tracked me down, through Rogers?"

 "No. Rogers hadn't seen you since the night you were nabbed. All he could
confirm was that you'd been taken alive. Cowley was of the opinion that
your body had just been dumped elsewhere. He…he wouldn't sanction my
looking for you." Bodie's hurt and betrayal over their employer's lack of
support shone through.

 "There wasn't any reason for him to assume anything else," Doyle pointed
out, unsure why he felt compelled to defend a man he couldn't even
remember. Perhaps it was Bodie's stories – the affection his friend held
for that crusty old gent had flavoured even the most exasperating of them;
it didn't take much detective ability to see how the destruction of that
emotion had unbalanced his companion.

 Bodie bristled, then, seeming to catch sight of the worry in Doyle's
gaze, calmed down again. "Guess you're right. Anyway, I had to resort to
my own contacts. That took time and money. In a way, it was lucky for us
that it took that nutter – what did you say his name was, Van Cleef? – so
long to tire of you. It gave me time to get me funds together and track
you down."

 "You were going to tell me where these funds came from," Doyle reminded.

 Bodie nodded in resignation. "So I was. Before Cowley's squad and the
paras put some . . . morals in me, I used to traffic in contraband
materials." At Doyle's look of astonishment – drugs was one thing he'd
never anticipated – Bodie hastened to explain. "Rifles, armalites, ammo –
that sort of thing, Ray. Back then, wasn't really much more than a game.
Supply some shooters to both sides; a couple of fools blow each other up
playing soldier; and there it ended. But, things have changed a lot in
that part of Africa since then. The penalty on gun runnin's death, without
exception, as it should be. And the political situation – well, it's very
unstable these days. An acquaintance of ours who deals in that kind of
product had a large shipment to deliver, and no one fool enough to run it
in for him. I'd made that particular run for Marty years ago. Even with
the added security, I knew a way to get in, and more importantly, back out
again. The pay was astronomical, mostly because old Marty figured I
wouldn't be around to collect it. I survived, and, well, you pretty much
know the rest," Bodie fell quiet, not watching him anymore.

 Looking up at the shuttered expression, Doyle could tell how nervous his
friend was beneath the impenetrable exterior. Once again, Doyle wondered
what kind of man he'd been, that his closest mate would fear rejection at
a sacrifice of that proportion made in his behalf. "I think you're wrong
about me, Bodie. I don't know if I could ever hold somethin' like that
against you."

 Bodie's gaze shot back to him, sharp and penetrating. "You would, if you
were yourself."

 "Why?" Doyle questioned, intrigued as to why Bodie would have gone to
such trouble to rescue him if he thought that badly of him.

 "The guns . . . ."

 "Would have found their way there in spite of you."

 "But . . . ."

 "I'd be dead or worse if it weren't for you. You gave up everything you
owned to come find me, risked your life to get the money to buy me back .
. . how could I ever hate you for that?"

 "You'd have done the same for me," Bodie dismissed the enormity of his
sacrifice, visibly twitching with discomfort under Doyle's grateful gaze.

 Despite the certainty of Bodie's claim, Doyle wasn't sure he would have.
From all reports, he'd been considered almost certainly dead. To abandon
all, without proof of his existence – that took a peculiar brand of
courage or a desperation so intense it bordered on insanity. What had
driven Bodie to keep searching, when all others were devoid of hope, was
something he still did not fully understand. But he could appreciate it
and perhaps make up for the losses.

 Doyle grinned, a wide, accepting show of white enamel amid a sunburnt
face. The force of his smile seemed to dispel his companion's lingering
doubts, finally forcing out an answering smile.

 "There, that's better," Doyle proclaimed, rising to his haunches. "Race
you down the hill!" he challenged. Before Bodie had the presence of mind
to refuse or even answer, he reached out and toppled the unsuspecting man
onto the soft grass. Then he took off down the mountainside as though the
hounds of hell were nipping at his heels, laughing till he was out of
breath as Bodie's plaintive howl of "That's cheating!" resounded through
the valley.

 ******

*Chapter Six*

 Spring rushed by at an accelerated pace. Long walks and runs along the
trails to Marie's toned Doyle's body back into shape, as his talks with
Bodie had similar effects on his mind.

 He still remembered nothing of the past, but he had a clearer idea now of
what he'd lost. And, sometime during these carefree weeks, Doyle made a
stunning discovery. Regaining that lost past was no longer paramount on
his list of priorities in life. Listening to Bodie's charitable
descriptions of the moody, ill-tempered man he'd been was like hearing
about a stranger's exploits – a stranger he had no desire to know. It
wasn't that Bodie ever spoke badly of him. The answers to his own
questions which he had to almost bully out of his reticent friend had
shown him the number of times he had let Bodie down or wounded him with
thoughtlessness – unintentionally done, Doyle was sure, unable to believe
that he'd ever consciously injure Bodie.

 He'd learned that Bodie was very private about his hurts. Doyle was
certain that his partner had probably never let his pain show; even now he
would not admit how certain incidents had affected him. But his feelings
were there for anyone to find, in Bodie's silences and expressive eyes.
Doubtless, he'd been too self-absorbed to notice it at the time.

 So, he concentrated on trying to make up for a past he didn't even
remember. Making Bodie happy was absurdly simple, for the most part no
more difficult that appearing so himself. Bodie also seemed to fund
contentment in helping him – whatever he needed, the other man supplied
unstintingly, whether it was answering his endless barrage of questions or
holding him after a particularly traumatic dream.

 That last was perhaps one of the most important breakthroughs for them
both. Still new, Doyle found that healing embrace the cornerstone of his
returning emotional balance.

 The night he'd woke with a choked-back cry had been no different from the
rest, save in the intensity of the dream. That night he could almost smell
the stink of his own bruised body and the nauseating musk of Van Cleef as
he mounted him yet again. He could feel everything – the cruel fingers
pinching his raw nipples, the suffocating mouth clamped over his own, its
insidious tongue almost making him choke with loathing as it probed deep
as the cock pounding in and out of him, and, worst of all, the knowledge
that there were others waiting for a go at him, and nothing he could do to
escape any of them.

 He'd awoken with a gasp to darkness, and the warm heat of a body snuggled
close by. His instinctive withdrawal had awoken his bedmate.

 "Ray?" Bodie's hopelessly sleep-fogged tone had ripped through growing
panic before it had a change to take firm hold.

 A deep breath taken as the lamp was snapped on brought only the scent of
freshly laundered sheets and his clean, sleepy friend. Without thinking
about the act, he took hold of the hand offered to him.

 "My god, mate, you're shakin' like a leaf. Bad one, this time, was it?"
Bodie observed, clutching his sweaty, cold hand between the dry warmth of
his own.

 He nodded, and tried vainly to take an even breath. He knew Bodie did not
miss the shudder that jittered through it.

 "Want to talk about it, Ray? It might help." Bodie's encouragement was
sincere, but the resolved set of the mobile mouth and shadows lingering in
normally bright blue eyes spoke of his friend's apprehension.

 "Can't," he whispered shakily. Bodie knew it all, everything that had
happened to him, the story told not by Doyle's lips, but by the scars on
his body. That Bodie didn't hold it against him was a miracle in its own
right. The bile churned in Doyle's stomach whenever he recalled the
humiliating kiss Bodie had witnessed on the auction block. 

 Foolish as he knew it to be, Doyle felt soiled by what had been done to
him. The less Bodie knew of it, the better. Besides, his companion's
reaction to that one kiss made Doyle suspect that a more vivid description
would only hurt Bodie.

 "All right," Bodie accepted. "Least move a bit closer, mate, hey?"

 Doyle squirmed nearer. Bodie's left hand released him so that their
clasped hands lay between them. After a while, Bodie turned on his side,
to face him, his free arm banding Doyle's chest. 

 The tension which instantly tightened his frame was reminiscent of his
first reactions to his very male partner. Struck by the intimacy of their
physical closeness in the huge bed, he lay stone still, panicked by the
warm, regular stream of expelled breath that teased the damp, long curls
plastered down his neck. 

 Bodie appeared unbothered by their proximity, aware only of Doyle's
nervousness.

 "Relax, Ray, you know I'm not after that. I told you before, no one's
ever going to hurt you like that again. Never me. If you want, I'll go
back to my cot. I just thought, well, 's silly to lay there shakin' alone
like you've got no one in the world, while I'm right here."

 Doyle smiled slightly at the rush of colour in Bodie's cheeks, sensing
that the open avowals that were given to him so freely were completely
opposed to the image Bodie strove so hard to project.

 As the arm slung across his chest moved to release him, Doyle caught hold
of it. "Stay," he ordered with false courage. "I know that you . . .
wouldn't, you great

 clown. 's just that . . . I don't like to feel . . . trapped, you know?"

 "Yeah." Something in the tight syllable told Doyle that Bodie did
understand, perhaps even from personal experience. Although nothing that
Bodie had ever said hinted at such an attack, the vocal quality brought to
mind other nebulously related happenstances that had emotionally scarred
his companion.

 After a moment, Doyle gave the firm chest a gentle push. "Lay back."

 Bodie obeyed his command as though it were perfectly normal for him to do
so, releasing Doyle completely to watch him curiously.

 Overcome by awkwardness, Doyle hesitantly reversed their positions. With
his arm resting across the white cotton undershirt hugging Bodie's chest
he did not feel quite so intimidated by their closeness. Even when Bodie's
right arm had snaked under his neck to rest loosely over his back after
having drawn still closer and urged his head onto a nearby shoulder. Doyle
still felt very relaxed.

 Sleep had returned that night and all succeeding nights without music or
reading, and mercifully, without prolonged wait. The sound of Bodie's
breathing and the steady rise and fall of the chest so close to his cheek
seemed a lulling and familiar rhythm.

 His dreams had lessened in intensity after that – Bodie seemingly correct
in his views on not facing them alone. Doyle was encouraged by his current
record. Four nights now he had slept soundly straight through till morning
on his own side of the bed. As a result, he felt incredibly refreshed and
lively, practically bounding into the mundane chores which they performed
for Marie with what Bodie tagged "maniacal enthusiasm."

 Currently, he was enduring an enforced rest period. Marie, restless with
him underfoot, had shooed him upstairs to amuse himself in her attic hobby
room.

 The long room was a hobbyists' dream. A long table was laden with all
manner of craftwork and their various apparatus. Macramé, sewing machine,
looms, sketchpads, boxes of yarn and material, and even a small potter's
wheel vied for dominance in the limited table space.

 The three large dormer windows overlooked a mountain view nearly as
stupendous as their chalet's. In front of them, three large canvases
patiently waited on their stands. The first two were unfinished – one was
a nicely progressing enlargement of the family photograph that stood on
the reception desk, the other was a rough sketch of the view. The last
canvas was untouched.

 Drawn as though by a magnet, Doyle crossed to stand before the empty
pallet, haunted by an eerie sensation of familiarity. Without knowing how,
he recognized the sharp tang in the air as paint remover.

 Then, he gasped as a vivid mental scene all but blacked out his present
surroundings.

 The room he saw was long as this one, but much wider. Its sides were
lined with canvases on stands, each with a very young artist. 

 In his mind's eye, he saw himself rushing into the room, his heavy
motorcycle boots clicking loudly on the parquet floors. The other students
ignored, no, shunned him as he took his place, almost cringing away from
him. 

 His left hand slipped under the right shoulder of his jacket, unsnapping
a peculiar holster or sheath. The fluid motion was well practiced, made to
look like he was scratching himself. Then, the jacket and its lethal
contents were smoothly removed and carefully placed on a nearby stool. The
colourful emblem expertly stitched on the jacket's back – depicting a
fire-breathing dragon and the anagram DRAGONS OF DEATH – was incongruous
in this scholarly setting. 

 Stripped of his awkward status symbols, he rolled up his sleeves and
pushed a scraggly wisp of unruly curl back from his newly broken face.
Ignoring the near palpable waves of hostility washing over him from his
fellow students, he reached for a brush and tube of paint and set to work.

 "So, you did manage to find it," a pleased voice exclaimed from behind.

 Doyle jumped at the sound, body crouched low as he turned on a startled
Marie. Recognizing her, he calmed himself, bewildered as to where all the
barely bridled fury he suddenly felt came from. Belatedly, he recognized
it as a holdover from the . . . memory. That young man has been consumed
with hatred and unfocused anger.

 "Are you all right, dear?" Marie asked, her concern obvious as she came
to lightly touch his arm.

 "Ah, I'm fine," he answered, but he was shaking, trembling as hard as he
would after one of those bloody nightmares.

 Marie searched his face, apparently deciding to accept the lie. "Would
you care to try your hand at it?" She asked cheerfully, gesturing to the
empty canvas.

 "Yes, thank you. I would," he accepted before he could think better of
it. He didn't really want to dredge up any more memories, not if they were
the sort to leave him so that he was ready to jump Marie for startling
him, but there was an unfamiliar yearning pulling at him, an aching that
had to do with the canvas and brushes.

 "There, you're all set," Marie declared several minutes later. "I'll call
you for dinner when it's ready. Come down if you get bored." 

 With that she left him to his hobby, no doubt gratified to have found
something to keep him from underfoot during the rest period Bodie still
insisted he take.

 Doyle's brush hovered uncertainly above the canvas, as if reluctant to
despoil its purity. At last, its tip contacted the surface, leaving an
ugly brown smear in its wake.

 What did he know about art after all, Doyle wondered. A disjointed
memory, almost hallucinatory in its strangeness, was nothing to go by. He
doubted it could be a true recollection. What would a street punk like
that – he still refused to equate himself with the youth – even be doing
in an art class? Maybe his subconscious was starting daylight broadcasts
now that Bodie had pre-empted all nighttime performances.

 Still absorbed in his mental puzzling, his hand reached out, brush tip
softly caressing the pallet. Surprised, he stared at the result. The
second stroke, joining the first with unplanned grace, sort of suggested
the form of a tree.

 Less self-conscious now, he let his hand work from impulse, each touch
gaining in confidence.

 Half an hour later, a stream of stinging perspiration dripped into his
eyes, forcing them shut. He paused, only then realizing the sauna-like
state of the room. The heat from the kitchen and pipes seemed to
accumulate in the attic, making it insufferable this time of the year –
probably why Marie had abandoned it for the open-air occupation of
gardening.

 Opening the three windows helped some, but not enough. In desperation, he
pushed his sleeves up even higher and undid three of his shirt buttons.
The breeze flapped the unbuttoned shirt sides quite pleasurably, soon
cooling the sheen of sweat glossing his skin. Abruptly aware that the bulk
of his irritation was being caused by the heavy tangle of curls draping
his shoulders, Doyle nicked a small length of blue yarn from one of
Marie's boxes and bound back the wild mass. Then, slightly more
comfortably, he returned to work.

 "Ray, what're you doin' way up here. Marie's been calling you these last
ten minutes. supper's ready and . . . ." The plaintive rush of noise died
as Bodie stepped through the door.

 Concerned by the sudden cessation of what had promised to be a very long,
self-sorry complaint, Doyle peered at his dumbfounded partner.

 Bodie was rooted inside the door, appearing as though he'd just had his
breath physically knocked out of him.

 Doyle had no idea how he looked to his partner at that moment. The
backdrop of bright windows highlighted him. He stood before the
half-finished canvas, paint brush in hand, long hair pulled back in
Renaissance fashion, no doubt a wild, bohemian figure. The simplicity of
his clothes did not detract from the fanciful image. His plain white,
over-long, cotton shirt stood stark against his tanned flesh, bunching
around the waist of his tight jeans to suggest and older style of clothes.

 Bodie gaped a moment longer, then swallowed in a gulp audible to Doyle
from where he stood.

 "Bodie, you all right, mate?"

 Seeming to shake himself back into reality, Bodie approached, his voice
carefully casual. "What're you up to, then?"

 Doyle grinned, waved his brush at him. "Buildin' a ship in a bottle,
aren't I?"

 Bodie froze as he got a good look at what Doyle was working on. "God,
Ray, it's fantastic!"

 Doyle felt his cheeks warm at the heartfelt proclamation.

 "'s nothing special," he denied, somehow knowing that the moonlit snow
scene, though good, was not his best.

 "Nothin' special – it's as good as anything in the National Gallery.
Looks like you could just walk into our little chalet there, all snug and
cosy in that lonely snow."

 Shocked, Doyle realized his partner was completely serious. "You did know
I could draw, didn't you?" he questioned uncertainly, unable to understand
how Bodie could be so surprised.

 Bodie nodded. "You went to art school. All I could ever ask about was the
naked models. You said you had no real talent." The last was more than
slightly accusatory.

 Doyle shrugged. "I probably don't. You're just prejudiced."

 "No, you're damn good. Ask Marie when she comes up if you won't believe
me."

 "Come on, let's get these brushes washed off and get to dinner."

 Three hours later with a mouth-watering roast lamb resting in their
bellies they set off along the twilit path back to their chalet.

 Doyle felt oddly content, spirit buoyed by the heartfelt satisfaction
which came from doing something one truly enjoyed. 

 He cast a speculative glance at his silent companion. The rush that
followed Bodie's praise still tingled along his nerves, inspiring him with
the self-confidence to broach a topic that had been troubling him more and
more over the last few weeks. He was still not certain he wanted to hear
Bodie's answer and was frankly reluctant to jeopardize their newfound
stability, but his thirst for the truth was unquenchable. Tomorrow, the
courage to ask might once again be beyond him.

 "Bodie." He spoke so normally into the post-sunset hush that the tone
itself should have been a warning. "Were we lovers?" 

 Doyle held his breath, anticipating the disaster he had so brazenly
invited.

 To his credit, Bodie didn't even break stride. However, the absolute
blanking of all emotion from his face told its own story. Bodie smoothly
returned the verbal grenade to Doyle's own court. "Why do you ask?"

 Bodie wasn't as cool as he looked, Doyle realized, hearing the
nervousness and –was it guilt? – lurking below the imperturbable surface.
"Some of the things you did for me after you got me back, well . . . not
many'd do it for another bloke," Doyle explained, almost managing to
suppress the resultant blush.

 "You're not just another bloke, Ray. You're my partner," Bodie reminded,
visibly relieved. "And, to answer your question, no, we were not lovers."

 Curiosity guided his mouth before common sense could intercede. "Why
not?"

 "Ey?" Never had he seen Bodie so utterly flabbergasted.

 "I said why weren't we? You've gone out of your way these past months to
remind me how close we were. Look at yourself now, standin' closer than me
bloody shadow, and me, not thinkin' anything of it! Are you lyin' to me?
Tellin' me what you think I want to hear? Cause if you are . . . ."
Doyle's tirade deflated like a breached helium balloon. 

 What would he do if Bodie were lying – berate the man for attempting to
spare his feelings?

 "I'm not lyin'!" Bodie protested, backing away from him, the trapped
desperation in his eyes prelude to flight.

 What the hell was he doing anyway, Doyle wondered, seeing the state he'd
brought them to in such a few, short minutes. He took a deep breath and
tried to master the perplexing blaze of emotions. "No, I shouldn't have
said that, but . . . can't you see, we just don't make any sense?"

 Fawn-wary, Bodie remained distant, stationed in the off-trail underbrush,
where his retreat had brought him. "What do you mean we don't make sense?"

 Doyle flinched at the cold demand, wondering if he'd finally managed to
alienate his long-suffering mate. "Just look at yourself . . . you're not
the kind of man easily given to nurse-maiding. And me, well, I'm not
exactly the sweet-natured type that'd inspire such loyalty, am I. There
had to be a reason for all this. For Christ's sake, you gave up your whole
soddin' life to come find me. And don't tell me it's coz we're such good
mates," he forestalled before Bodie could even draw breath to say it.

 "We weren't lovers," Bodie repeated.

 "Once again, why not?" Absurd, but he discovered he was shaking with
fury.

 "Because I don't like to get involved and you never let anyone get that
close to you," Bodie spat. "You satisfied now?"

 Doyle dismissed the first portion for the malarkey it was. No one who so
blithely tossed everything they cared for away could claim
non-involvement, especially to the object of its sacrifice. But that last,
it had the bewildered ring of truth.

 Stunned, Doyle gaped at the other man, wishing to God he'd had the good
sense to remain silent on this subject. Why else besides love would anyone
do what Bodie had done?

 His acceptance of the other man's physical nearness had led Doyle to
suspect that they'd shared a sexual relationship. Why he'd wanted it
confirmed so badly, he was still unsure. Perspective perhaps, although the
emotions inside suggested something else entirely.

 Guilt was uppermost now, burdened as he was with the secret Bodie had so
unwittingly revealed. 

 Somehow, he felt it would have been easier had Bodie verified his
suspicions. Had they been lovers, relations might have been awkward, but
this . . . he felt he'd been handed the other man's pride in an
eggshell-frail container.

 'Never let anyone get that close to you,' meaning Bodie had tried to or
had seen rejection as a foregone conclusion. Probably the last, Doyle
decided, drawing on his knowledge of Bodie's character.

 That instinctive familiarity and his inexplicable lack of concern at what
should have been an alarming revelation made Doyle realize something else
– none of this was new to him. Before his . . . capture he must have known
how Bodie felt about him – and having known, not acted upon it. He did not
care to consider what that said about his character.

 How this awareness would affect their relationship now, Doyle was
uncertain. Guilty as he felt, he knew his emotional state would not permit
him to tackle it openly. He was simply not ready to deal with such a
problem. Sex – with anyone, male or female – was beyond him right now, and
might always remain so.

 He searched Bodie's face, hunting for a threat, but found only the
defensiveness of one unjustly accused. Panic made him want to push the man
away, cut all bonds before . . . .

 Before what, Doyle wondered. 

 What Bodie felt for him couldn't be just lust. Sexual obsession might
force a man to extremes, might even make him risk all he knew to satisfy
his compulsion, but once the object of his obsession was within his grasp,
he wouldn't be able to hold back. Van Cleef had shown him that such
consuming drives left no room for concern for the object. Yet, he'd been
Bodie's for the taking since that snowy night in Geneva and his partner
had yet to touch him sexually. Doyle knew Bodie wouldn't have had to rape
him to achieve his goal. Pliable as he's been those first weeks, an order
would have been sufficient. With a gentler approach and a minimum of fear,
Bodie could have guaranteed himself a docile sex slave. Aside from
withdrawing inward – which never seemed to detract from his users'
enjoyment of a good fuck – there was nothing he could have done to prevent
his partner from moulding him into anything Bodie desired. 

 But instead of turning him into a docile sex slave, Bodie had chosen to
rebuild his shattered self-confidence, restore him to the point where he
could once again ignore his friend's passions.

 That wasn't lust. That was love, in its purest form.

 He wasn't about to make Bodie suffer for it anymore than he was already.

 Whatever he did in the future, Doyle knew he couldn't simply cut Bodie
out of his life, nor could he let on that he'd discovered Bodie's secret.
Were that to be known, he suspected Bodie would be gone before Doyle could
blink – to protect him, no doubt. 

 So, Doyle put on his most aggravating, aggressive expression and answered
Bodie's question. "Yeah, I'm satisfied. Are you going to stand in the
shrubbery all night?"

 Bodie glared at him before rejoining the trail, the essence of offended
dignity. Doyle had to hurry to keep up with Bodie's stride.

 When the unnatural silence became too much to bear, Doyle asked mildly,
"You mad at me, mate?"

 Bodie swung around, explosion imminent in action-taut muscles. Blue eyes
blazed a fury too strong for words.

 Doyle wondered if fistfights were commonplace in their partnership. Fear
should have been his own response, but he found himself straightening,
preparing to meet the outburst.

 Bodie's eyes widened as they took in his reaction, then, amazingly, a
sparkle of amusement replaced the cold anger. "Haven't changed a bit, have
you? Still like to push till it breaks."

 Doyle relaxed at the open affection. "You’re not angry with me, then? I
thought I'd blown it for sure."

 "No, 'm not mad, not much, anyway," Bodie qualified before asking, "What
brought all that on, Ray?"

 Doyle shifted uncomfortably and then started to walk again, finding it
easier to offer the truth while minding his footing rather than the
watchful, too perceptive, eyes. "I remembered something while I was
paintin' that . . . was unsettling."

 "Something I did?" Bodie cautious query was rife with guilt.

 Doyle shook his head, his bound hair swinging heavily behind him. "No,
you weren't there. I don't think I even knew you then. It was weird. I was
in some kind of art class, only, I was wearin' colours."

 "Colours?"

 "You know, like gangs wear. I had the gaudiest dragon stitched on me
jacket, with Dragons of Death written under it."

 Bodie snorted. "Classy."

 Doyle shrugged, and then made his dark confession. "I had a knife up my
sleeve like any two-bit street punk."

 Bodie didn't seem the least surprised. "You were always good with a
blade. Not as sensational as some I've known, but better than most. Only,
you don't like to use a knife."

 The last piece was reluctantly delivered, Bodie obviously wanting to shy
away from it while at the same time seemingly compelled to reassure him.
Doyle decided to press the issue. "Why not?"

 "Once, when I asked you why you became a copper, you told me that you'd
carved a kid up pretty bad when you were just a kid yourself. You never
said, but I always figured that had something to do with it."

 "Oh." That effectively silenced anything he might've wanted to say.

 Bodie, apparently understanding his need to brood, walked wordlessly
beside him until they were almost home. 

 A mile out, Bodie commented into the gathering gloom, "None of that
answered my question, Ray. What brought all that . . . other stuff up?"

 Bodie was still nervous about what he might've given away, Doyle
realized. Wanting to banish any lingering awkwardness, Doyle grinned his
most winsome smile. "I wondered when you'd twig onto that," he admitted,
growing serious. "You don't scare me the way you should Bodie, and like I
said before, bein' close to me and doin' things for me doesn't seem to
bother you the way it would most fellers. I've been thinkin' that maybe
there was a reason for that. I just got the nerve to ask tonight. I didn't
intend to . . . sorry, if it took you by surprise."

 "No problem, mate. 'm used to you throwing me curves by now."

 Which did not prove entirely true, Doyle reflected hours later, when
Bodie halted mid-path from bathroom to bed, frozen as though Doyle had
pulled a gun on him.

 "What's up?" Doyle asked, the abrupt stop drawing his attention from the
mystery he was reading.

 "Ahh . . . if you feel more comfortable, I could sleep on the cot or move
back to the other room."

 "What, the brown study?" Doyle joked, knowing how Bodie deplored the
bland room with its tiny bed. "Nah, I'd break me neck tryin' to get there
when your clumsy carcass goes bump in the night. I told you before, Bodie,
you don't scare me. I just wanted to know. Now, get into bed before your
toes take root." Doyle lifted the covers on Bodie's side, privately
pleased by the chastened expression and speed with which Bodie fulfilled
his command.

 "'nite, Ray," Bodie muttered sheepishly, turning his burning face to the
wall."

 "Good night, you loon," Doyle answered. Snapping off the lamp, he settled
down into the darkness, sure that definite progress had been made today.

 ******

"Come on, Doyle. You can do better than that!" the voice taunted. "Use
your foot. Aim high. That's the way. Now, try it for real."

 Doyle did as directed, only when he did, the older man was no longer
there. A leg that had to be made of rubber to bend at that angle shot out
and neatly snagged the ankle that was supporting Doyle’s weight stork-like
while he finished the motion of his last kick. 

 "Oh, damn," Doyle gasped in the microsecond he was suspended midair
before he toppled. "Give a guy a chance, will you, Barry? I’ve got an
appointment tonight. Can't show up in a plaster cast again, now, can I?"
he demanded from the floor, afraid to move for fear of bringing further
'instruction' upon himself.

 "'nother art class, lad? More fruit and vases?" the affectionate chuckle
told Doyle that the training session was over, for now.

 "A little less of the fruit, if you would," Doyle requested with grave
dignity as he lurched into an unsteady sit.

 "Come on, partner. I'll give you a lift. Go grab your paints and bonnet."

 A strong hand hauled him to his feet, and then propelled him toward the
locker room. He grinned at Martin's infectious bonhomie, unable to stay
mad, despite his bruises.

 The scene abruptly changed around Doyle. The mats and punching bags of
the gym were gone, replaced by the lumber piles and huge crates of a
sun-drenched dock.

 That same face was there, changed very little: a few more lines, a touch
of grey in the hair, nothing major. Except the expression. Grim
determination hardened Barry Martin’s tired gaze. Unused to seeing
anything but laughter and affection shining there, Doyle stared, his gun a
heavy weight in his hand. 

 He hurt - from head to foot. He felt bruised and beaten. Ray’s numbed,
equally battered mind was unable to accept what he had to do with the
bloody gun. It was pointed right at Barry . . . . 

 "Shoot him, Doyle! Shoot him!" the voice, familiar as that of his own
thoughts, shouted, sounding strangely panicked. His glance at Bodie
mutated into a gape as he absorbed the long-handled knife jutting from
Bodie's right shoulder. An ugly red stain seeped from its base, growing at
an alarming rate. The owner of the hand that had put that knife into Bodie
was under the bead of Doyle’s gun. All he need do was squeeze the trigger,
as his partner was so frantically pleading for him to do.

 The sight of Bodie's blood made him want to do it, but . . . that was
Barry.

 Torn to the point of insanity, he struggled to find the strength. One
squeeze 

 and . . . . 

 Martin's eyes widened in disbelief as he stared down at the hole in his
chest, the wound far bigger than any Doyle’s handgun could have made from
this distance. 

 With an odd sense of unreality, Ray recognized the report of the rifle
blast that was dying in the still air. 

 A gull screeched and dove down into the muddy Thames as Martin's knees
buckled under him, his body sagging silently to the ground.

 "I didn't do it," even to Doyle’s own ears, his voice sounded numb with
shock. He looked to his partner, begging to be believed, and was just in
time to see Bodie slump to the quay as well . . . . 

 "Bodie!" Doyle gasped, shooting straight up in the bed. 

 Completely disoriented, he stared around. No dock, no dead mentor, no
bloody partner. Only slowly did Ray recognize the eerily lit room as their
own bedroom. 

 The grey light of dawn seeped half-heartedly through the open window, a
breeze gently ruffling the curtains.

 Beside him, Bodie slept soundly. The weak-spirited light cast a sickly
pallor over his partner's smooth skin. Clad only in his briefs, Bodie lay
trustingly beside Ray, blissfully oblivious of the scrutiny he was
undergoing. Unable to see the rise and fall of the sleek chest and needing
that reassurance after the peculiar nightmare, Doyle leant closer.

 There, steady as always, the rhythm lulled his fears. Bodie's warm breath
brushed his cheek in an oddly intimate caress.

 A strange nightmare, if that was what it were. Both phases of the dream
had more in common with those flashbacks Doyle was experiencing than the
all-too familiar night terrors. 

 If those incidents weren't imagination, if they'd really occurred, what
did they mean? During that last bit he'd been more concerned about the man
who'd just knifed his partner than his bleeding friend. Had he betrayed
his mate, then? His country? Was that how he'd ended up in Van Cleef's
power?

 Guilt lanced through him as he recalled Bodie's blood, the knife stuck in
his shoulder. Doyle’s green eyes searched his companion’s alabaster flesh
in the pale dawning light. Bodie's chest was unmarred . . . save for a
tiny pinkish scar below the right collarbone . . . right where that knife
had struck in Ray’s dream.

 Bitter bile rose in his throat. It was real, then, a memory, not fantasy.

 Doyle stared at the grim verification, trying to comprehend Bodie's
steadfast devotion to a man who could stand by and let that happen.

 But . . . Bodie wasn’t the kind of man who could let a betrayal of that
magnitude pass.

 All Doyle had learned of his friend these past months told him that Bodie
wouldn't put up with it. If he'd betrayed the cautious agent in any way,
shown himself capable of such monumental treachery, not only would he have
lost his partner's trust, Doyle very well might have forfeited his life in
payment. No, whatever had caused that bizarre showdown, Bodie must have
understood Ray’s reasoning for not killing the bastard, and forgiven him.

 Lacking a plane of reference, Doyle found it difficult to be similarly
generous.

 Seemingly of its own volition, his index finger reached out to lightly
trace the mark.

 Bodie gave a soft gasp at the touch, his eyes instantly snapping open.

 "Ray?" Bodie breathed.

 " 's me," Doyle reassured, shaken by the vulnerable expression in the
unguarded, sleepy gaze. He wondered if Bodie had any idea of what his face
revealed at such times. Open to him, the wide eyes seemed to promise Doyle
anything he wanted.

 His withdrawal should have been instantaneous. Still, Ray hovered,
trapped by the yearning as though it were his own. His blood drummed in
his ears, breath becoming a fluttery, elusive creature.

 Awareness slowly filtered into Bodie's eyes. Doyle read the exact instant
that the half-light and their circumstances penetrated his partner's
sleep-confused mind in the guilt that shuttered the magnetic features.
"Dreams again?"

 Doyle nodded, unwilling to trust his voice.

 "Bad?"

 "So-so."

 The strong arms closed around him, drawing him close without hesitation.
Nor did Bodie's body betray what Doyle believed he'd seen in his eyes,
save perhaps in a slightly tenser muscle set.

 For his own part, Ray lay like a coiled spring. His cheek pressed against
the bare chest. Each breath brought with it the scent particular to his
partner - now disturbing. Restless, Doyle waited until the encircling arms
became lax with sleep before he reclaimed his side of the bed.

 ******

*Chapter Seven*

 "Stop twitching."

 Bodie jumped guiltily at the terse command. "Couple of sales and he turns
into a slave driver. My leg itches, Ray. Can't I scratch it?"

 Irritated jade fire gave way to amusement. "Not a couple. Seven sales. Go
ahead and scratch, for Christ's sake."

 Bodie savagely attacked the leg in question, half listening to the
good-humoured string of complaints that ended with, "What kind of model
are you anyway?"

 "A reluctant one," he reminded, still unnerved by the intense scrutiny of
the artist at work.

 Bodie cursed his own bluntness as doubt shadowed Doyle’s piquant
features. He was proud of the advances Ray had made in the past few
months. Painting had become more than just a therapeutic hobby. The sales
Marie's neighbour had arranged to a Lucerne gallery had bolstered his
partner's confidence astronomically. 

 To Bodie's relief, their relationship had returned to the point of
good-natured squabbling. Doyle seemed more himself, though nowhere near as
prickly as he’d been before his kidnapping. The quick comebacks Doyle used
now lacked the sting Bodie had grown accustomed to over the years. A part
of him would not be convinced of Ray's recovery until the other man
verbally lashed into him and mercilessly took him apart with the
unthinking ease at which his partner was a master. Though enjoyable, this
sweet creature was not his Ray Doyle.

 Still, Bodie would tolerate no setbacks. A charming Doyle was far
preferable to a catatonic one. So, Bodie smiled his brightest smile and
cast one of the self-satisfied looks he excelled at his partner’s way.
"But a handsome one, you've got to admit."

 Doyle gulped and ran a hand though his preposterously long curls.
"Modest, to boot. Go on and have a stretch, that's what you'll be crying
for next."

 Bodie gratefully leaped at the chance of free movement after hours of
containment. "When can I look?"

 "When I say so."

 As he'd expected no other answer, Bodie wasn't disappointed. His
curiosity was getting the better of him, however. This morning he'd caught
himself seriously contemplating sneaking down for a peek in the pre-dawn
light. Only Ray's wakefulness had stopped him.

 Which brought to mind their newest problem, as yet undiscussed. Bodie had
lost count of the number of times he'd awoken in the last month to find
Doyle wide-awake and staring at the ceiling or, even more unnervingly,
directly at him. The cause wasn't the nightmares that had plagued their
earlier nights. Those had receded to one every two or three weeks - no
more than what they could expect while working on the squad.

 He knew that Ray was beginning to remember his past; although how much
was coming back, Bodie was still unsure. Doyle had become very secretive
about his flashbacks after the first few. He supposed his partner could be
trying to fit the disjointed memories together to attain some type of
perspective on his past, but suspected the restlessness was a bit more
than that. Bodie's instincts kept telling him that he was a part of
whatever was troubling his mate.

 "Want to call it quits for the day?" he asked the artist. "You look
knackered."

 "Not getting out of it that easy, mate. You said you'd pose in the bad
weather, and . . ." Doyle’s laughter bright eyes darted to the dismal
window and back again, 

 " . . . it's still rainin'."

 "How you arranged that I'll never know," Bodie mumbled, grumpily
reclaiming his seat. The fact of the matter was that since he'd given that
half-witted promise three days ago it had done nothing but pour. Not just
rain storms, but bloody torrents that had the disconcerting habit of
turning to hail showers with no forewarning. Trapped three days with the
conscientious artist, Bodie had no choice but to honour his word.

 "Friends in high places," Doyle explained with an enigmatic wink as he
lifted his paintbrush.

 "Can't I at least read? 's all right for you sittin' here for hours. You
get to admire my beautiful puss. All I get to look at is the back of the
canvas."

 Doyle gravely considered his complaint, obviously uncertain how far he
could push Bodie's forbearance. "Okay, but just for a while. And keep your
head up."

 Surprised by the capitulation, Bodie grabbed the first thing that came to
hand - a two-week-old Genevan newspaper filched from the hotel. He leaped
half-heartedly through it, not quite able to keep his head up as ordered
and read at the same time, especially in French.

 About to despair at the effort, he froze upon seeing a familiar face in a
small article in the back of the paper. Even now the malicious, burning
eyes sent a shiver down his spine. Van Cleef. Rapidly, he picked his way
through the story, his meagre store of French barely up to the task.
Basically, it told of a prisoner shot attempting to escape - the body as
yet unfound after the dragging of the river.

 Christ, what a cock up! Van Cleef on the loose again. Ray would . . . . 

 "What the hell's happened? You look like you've just seen a ghost, mate."

 Bodie jerked the paper closed and snapped to attention. It wasn't his
ghost.

 He debated telling Ray, but to what purpose?

 They were as remote as they could be short of taking up residence on an
uncharted island. The chance of Van Cleef finding them was virtually nil.
If he'd be looking at all. Of the many things Bodie thought the sadist, a
fool was not one of them. If Van Cleef were still alive, he'd be
concentrating on avoiding the law - just like gunrunners.

 The only thing he really need worry about was Doyle's reaction to finding
out about the escape-death. Two weeks had already elapsed without Ray's
knowing. Isolated as they were, there was little chance of Doyle finding
out on his own - they hadn't a telly, newspapers were as infrequent as
winning lottery tickets, and the only station their little radio could
pick up was a German one from three villages over.

 Uncomfortably aware of the ire with which his partner would respond to
such a cavalier decision on his part when well, Bodie nevertheless chose
to spare Ray the upsetment. 

 "Nothin'," Bodie lied sweetly, tossing the paper at the sitting room
coffee table with assumed ease. "Everything's in French."

 "Ah," the absorbed artist sympathized - not hearing a word he'd said,
Bodie was willing to wager.

 Van Cleef occupied Bodie’s thoughts for some time after that as he
watched the play of emotions on Doyle's concentrating face. Bodie didn't
like to consider how close the bastard had come to destroying his friend,
any more than he cared to recognize the murderous thirst for vengeance
that fired his own soul. That night in Geneva, Ray had been his only
concern. Justice had to be left to the less-thorough authorities. Bodie
wished that he'd been able to do the job himself. If Van Cleef had been
left in his hands, that article would never have been written. Corpses
rarely escaped.

 "Think that's enough for one day," Doyle finally announced.

 Bodie glanced out the window in confusion. There were at least three
hours of daylight left. 

 "You all right?" Bodie asked, his gaze lighting on the shadows webbing
the skin under Doyle's eyes.

 "Yeah. Tired is all. Think I'll catch a kip before dinner."

 "Here," Bodie said, taking the paintbrushes from his partner. "I'll clean
these. Go ahead and get some rest."

 "You won't peek?"

 "Nah, I'll wait for the grand unveiling. Get away with you."

 Doyle gave him a wary smile and climbed the stairs to their room.

 Brushes in hand, Bodie gave the mysterious canvas a last glower before
leaving the sitting room. Some weeks had passed since the large white room
qualified strictly as such. It had more the look of a busy studio these
days, what with Ray's art supplies and half-finished creations spread
haphazardly about. Bodie supposed he could have said no when asked, but he
could no more refuse Ray the use of the huge picture window than he could
intentionally dash the eager light from those dancing eyes. 

 Besides, Bodie admitted, messy was it was, he liked the room this way.
Reeking of paint and turpentine, there was a lived-in quality to the place
that couldn't be denied. One had just to look at it to see Doyle's
presence stamped into every nook and cranny. Signs of his own inhabitation
were far subtler, glanced only here and there in orderly corners where the
rampant disorganization would otherwise have reigned.

 Brushes cleaned, he returned to the sitting room to remove the offending
paper. Fortunately, what with the high altitude, even the hottest of
summer days required a fire after sunset and it was already well into
September. Another month, and they’d have snow. The dampness brought by
the current storm made a fire almost imperative. Bodie knew he’d have no
trouble dealing with the offending evidence.

 Half an hour later, Bodie sat ensconced before the hearth in one of the
huge enveloping armchairs. The mystery that had been quite enthralling
last night and a lulling cup of hot tea were thoroughly ignored, his blue
eyes intent on the curling wads of paper being consumed by the crackling
orange flames.

 He felt as if he were committing a crime of some sort. Odd, that. When
he'd been running that arms shipment into Africa nine months ago -- an act
that was indisputably criminal and rightfully punishable by death -- there
hadn't been half the guilt. Probably because that was merely a means to an
end. Anything that would help get Ray back, he'd do without hesitation.
Not an easy self-discovery, but one Bodie had no choice but to accept,
despite his delusions of being beyond certain actions at this point in his
life.

 This was different. Purposefully concealing something from his partner
made him uncomfortable, even if such a deception were in Ray's best
interest.

 Long after the paper turned to grey ashes, Bodie sat brooding his
decision.

 His head jerked up suddenly. His hearing, always more sensitive than
most, detected a distinctive rumble beneath the rhythm of the latest
downpour. Faint as yet, the car was still fairly far down the road,
probably not even visible.

 But they didn't get traffic up here. There were two homesteads between
Marie's hotel and their tiny chalet. Both were too far down the mountain
for even the echoes of their car motors to reach way up here.

 Thoughts of Van Cleef uppermost on his mind, Bodie was up the stairs and
searching through the drawers of the dresser in the little brown room
before he'd consciously decided to move. His Browning was there, swaddled
amongst his long johns, just where he'd left it. Months had passed since
he'd actually held the automatic.

 It felt cold and heavy in his hand.

 But not too foreign. He was inserting a fresh ammo clip before the
unusual sensations fully penetrated. He slipped the holster on and secured
his weapon, then descended the stairs to take up a defensive position
behind the sitting room drapes.

 The picture window gave him a clear, if rain-obscured, view of the road.
He expected the car to stop before the bend so that their attackers could
proceed more silently on foot to the house. The vehicle never even slowed.

 Damn sure of themselves, Bodie thought, as the sturdy black Mercedes came
into sight. Or maybe they knew his defensive strength, knew all they'd be
up against was a handgun and a few spare clips. Christ, but he wished he'd
brought a rifle. 

 Even so, it wouldn't be easy for them. There was no way in hell Bodie was
going to stand by and see Ray fall into that nutter's clutches again. If
he couldn't take Van Cleef out, he'd be sure to take Doyle with him.

 Common sense slowly stilled some of his paranoia. Van Cleef simply could
not know where they were. He hadn't even known Bodie's real name for the
sale. There was no way the villain could have traced them here.

 But what else beside vengeance could drive a man to tackle these
treacherous mountain roads in the midst of such a storm?

 His answer came several minutes later when the Merc came to a sedate halt
before their front door. Behind the rain-sluiced windshield, its two
passengers were little more than faceless silhouettes - clear targets.

 Bodie gave some thought to there being more than just the two men. While
his attention was on the car any number of assailants could be making
their way through the copse of spruce trees to take them from behind.
Finally, the passenger door opened and all thought died in Bodie’s mind as
his eyes fixed upon a figure he'd never thought to see again. 

 Cloaked in a heavy raincoat and wide brimmed hat, the man's face was
hidden as their visitor tried to shelter it from the driving rain. But the
limp and proud carriage were unmistakable. George Cowley in the flesh,
outside of his beloved England.

 Bodie slumped with relief and holstered his gun. He should have known.
Few villains could match the Cow's steely determination.

 He opened the door before the rain-drenched man could knock.

 "Bodie!" an exuberant Murphy shouted and grabbed him into a bear hug that
nearly lifted him off his feet. "'s good to see you again! Where's your
loo, mate?"

 Bodie grinned, genuinely happy to see the affable man. "Some priorities
you've got there."

 "Least you came first. Ahhh . . . . " Murphy answered, in obvious
distress.

 "Through the sitting room, first door on the left. The kitchen's right
behind it if you want to put on the kettle," Bodie said.

 The big agent snorted and made a dash for the facilities.

 The easier greeting aside, Bodie turned back to his former employer. Not
since he was a child had he felt so at a loss for words.

 The head of C.I.5 stood just within the threshold, dripping water onto
the carpet, his ever-present briefcase clutched to his chest. That
penetrating stare hadn't lost any of its power, even if the surrounding
face did seem to have aged more than the twelve months that had passed
since Bodie had last seen it. The old man looked tired and truly old to
Bodie for the first time in their nine-year acquaintanceship.

 "Sir," Bodie warily greeted, fully expecting a blast of condemnation for
his desertion. Absently, he wondered if Switzerland's neutrality could
keep him from being hauled off in leg irons, and if he'd even bother to
resist.

 "It's been some time, Bodie." Mere acknowledgment. Cowley’s gruff burr
betrayed no emotion.

 "Let me take your coat for you," he offered. Relieving his visitor of the
soggy garment and hat, Bodie was almost physically aware of Cowley's
displeasure.

 "Is there a place we can speak in private?" George Cowley questioned.

 Bodie glanced at the returning Murphy. 

 "The study?" Bodie suggested, dreading the interview, but seeing no way
to avoid it short of drawing his Browning and ordering them off the
mountain. Anyway, he was privately convinced that steel-blue glare would
melt the gun in his hand. "Make yourself at home, Murph. If you'll come
this way, sir."

 "Ta, mate. Will do." Murphy’s friendly blue eyes were warm with sympathy.

 "A drink, sir? Your usual?" Bodie asked, once the study's heavy wood door
clicked closed behind them. Anything to postpone the inevitable.

 Two doubles in hand, he turned back toward his guest. Cowley had assumed
the seat behind the desk, leaving Bodie the choice of applicant’s chair or
awkwardly hovering before the seated Buddha. With another, Bodie would
have remained standing – intimidation though height – but such puerile
tactics were useless against the man who had pioneered them all. Round one
to the old devil.

 Bodie handed over the scotch and took the free chair.

 "You're a hard man to locate these days, Bodie," Cowley commented,
sipping his drink appreciatively.

 "I would like to know how you managed that, sir. I thought we were pretty
well hidden myself."

 "And so you were. C.I.5 had thoroughly lost track of you until you so
thoughtfully contacted Interpol in Geneva last December. The follow-up
investigation of that call eventually brought us to your Mr. Dupres and
his Gypsy's Rest," Cowley said.

 "Jacques didn’t tell you a thing," Bodie made it clear he wouldn’t fall
for that tactic.

 "No, you're right. He was most uncooperative. One of his neighbours was,
however, very helpful. She recalled your driving habits most vividly.
After that, it was merely a matter of time."

 "I see." The chalet and property were under Jacques' name. Once that
connection was made, it was inevitable that Cowley would find them.

 Fervently, Bodie wished he had his partner's habit for double thinking.
The silence that followed their matter of fact discussion was
nerve-wracking. Unable to bear it a second longer, he bluntly asked the
question uppermost on his mind, "Am I under arrest, sir?"

 "This is somewhat outside my jurisdiction," the Scot dryly replied.

 Which didn't answer his question, Bodie realized. "Local authorities have
always been more than willing to assist C.I.5 with extradition," he
pointed out.

 "South Africa can do its own dirty work."

 "You know about that?" Despite his confession, he hadn't even disclosed
the destination of the arms shipment to Ray.

 "That one month after your . . . disappearance from England, a man
fitting your description and travelling under a falsified -- by C.I.5, no
less -- passport, arrived on a French plane at the Johannesburg airport?
Yes, I know that much."

 "Then why didn't you have me apprehended there?" Bodie asked.

 "That man never flew back out of Johannesburg. In fact, all traces of him
disappear at that point."

 "But the authorities . . . ."

 Cowley grimaced. "Could have created a most embarrassing international
incident were an active British operative to be associated with . . . the
business that brought you to Africa."

 Bodie didn't know whether to be grateful or appalled. "It's just to be
overlooked, then?"

 "For the record, yes. By me, no. You've disappointed me, Bodie."

 Bodie’s eyes dropped to the knickknack-cluttered desktop. That subdued
admission troubled him more than an impassioned tirade would have done.
His respect for this man's opinion was seconded only to that of his
partner. "That was never my intent, sir. It-it was the only way to get the
cash I needed quickly."

 "The only way?"

 Bodie met the disapproving stare squarely. "The only way I'd even
consider. I never strayed that far." When there was no reaction to that,
save perhaps the slightest increase in scepticism, he went on. "So, what
brings you here now, sir, if it's not to arrest me?"

 "Two matters. First, I'd like your report," Cowley stated with his usual
crisp efficiency.

 "My what?" Bodie blinked, certain that he’d misheard.

 "You were assigned that kidnapping case before your unscheduled hiatus .
. . ."

 "Hiatus? I bloody well quit!" Bodie exploded.

 "No resignation was ever tendered by either yourself or 4.5."

 "4.5 -- you had him declared dead!" All the betrayal Bodie had felt at
that time spilled over into his voice.

 "Aye, lad, that was precipitous on my part. But there was no reason to
believe they would keep a bodyguard alive. Remember, we had no idea of the
scope of the operation at that time."

 "I told you he wasn't dead," Bodie reminded.

 "A purely subjective belief that fortunately proved true. Now, I want
your report. Start with your escape from England. You never cleared
customs - on any passport. We had an agent at every exit point two minutes
after you went missing."

 "A little bird brought me," Bodie evaded. He had no intention of bringing
up the smuggler's boat and its stormy Channel crossing. He owed the
reluctant Brownie that much.

 "Bodie, I'm warning you . . . ."

 "That information is confidential. I won't incriminate anyone other than
myself. Certainly not one of the few who would help me in such desperate
straits," Bodie stubbornly insisted.

 He fully expected Cowley to twist to conversation until he was
inadvertently tricked into revealing the information. Surprisingly,
something very like respect entered the intent gaze. "I suppose this
D-notice applies to your arms friend as well?" Apparently accepting
Bodie’s stony silence as assent, C.I.5’s controller continued, "All right,
for the present we will accept that as privileged information. Now, the
events leading to Doyle's rescue?"

 About to tell the interfering egotist what he could do with his
acceptance, Bodie was suddenly struck by the humour of the situation. Only
George Cowley would have the arrogance to speak to a man who'd escaped his
authority over a year ago as though he were still a paid lackey - and only
the Cow would command the respect to get away with it. 

 Bodie tried to stifle his smile. "You're really something, sir. Come all
this way to have me satisfy your curiosity, did you?"

 "Partly," Cowley replied. "Now about that set up . . . ."

 Laughing outright, Bodie began to detail his infiltration of Van Cleef's
operation. Some time passed as he recited events, evaded disclosing his
contacts’ true names and detailed how he’d acquired the small fortune
spent to pave his way into that auction. Behind it all, Bodie’s terror
rang clear, the solitary agony he'd endured under the strain of waiting
for the day Ray would finally come on the block.

 In the quiet that followed his tale, he tried to remember how to breathe
around the heavy lump lodged in his oesophagus. Bodie hadn't expected the
mere telling of it to so shake him. And he hadn't even covered the truly
disturbing part of it - the effect of the captivity upon his partner. His
narrative had halted after a much-edited report of the sale and the
subsequent notification of Interpol.

 "You did well, lad," Cowley's gruff voice eventually ended the stillness.


 Bodie knew he was probably imagining things, but there seemed to be a
catch in Cowley's voice as well.

 "I didn't expect you to approve, sir," Bodie stated with characteristic
frankness.

 "Not approve of a solo operation handled with all the efficiency of a
C.I.5 op? You even financed yourself," Cowley, notoriously hounded by
budget cuts, sounded utterly amazed by his feat. "You did me proud, lad."

 Bewildered by the abrupt switch in attitude, Bodie struggled to make
sense of the situation. "But I disobeyed you. Took off without even . . .
."

 "Aye, but you've done that before, Bodie - always for the same reason.
It's become part of your character. I was as responsible for your . . .
dereliction of duty as you were. Perhaps more so. Knowing your history, I
should have taken more stringent precautions."

 Had Cowley's precautions been any more stringent, Bodie knew he'd still
be cooling his heels in a C.I.5 holding cell. "I don't believe I
understand you correctly, sir. In the past you've always been quite
adamant about your orders being carried out to the very last letter."

 "Indeed." Cowley agreed, then quizzed, "And when I formed your team, what
did I tell you was each team member's primary function?"

 First lesson, drilled into thick skulls until it reverberated in their
sleep. "Your primary function is to guard your partner's back at all times
during an operation," Bodie quoted. "You are responsible . . . ."

 "That will do. I can hardly fault you for practicing what I preached, now
can I? Even if such disobedience does occasionally conflict with my
present wishes," it was a rueful admission, one that sounded hard learned.

 "But you said you were disappointed with me, sir," Bodie reminded.

 "And so I am. Once Doyle was found, it was your duty to bring him home to
England. That is the second matter which brought me here on this hideous
day."

 "Ray is . . . . " Bodie began, only to be cut off by Cowley.

 "This is the report filed with the Genevan police by a Dr. Warner. The
doctor is a very competent individual, most cooperative. He seems to have
taken something of a dislike to you."

 "I'll just bet he did," Bodie agreed icily. With an apprehension
approaching dread, Bodie accepted the offered sheet. He slowly read its
contents, doing his best to keep all emotions blanked from his face as he
read the details about the sexually abused, near catatonic patient that
was brought to Warner’s practice by an armed thug. Despite the severity of
the report, Bodie couldn’t fault the good doctor. Warner had only reported
what he’d seen. The doctor had acted in Ray’s best interests. 

 'A cow looks after its young,' the old man was fond of quoting. No words
were ever truer. George Cowley would move heaven and earth to protect one
of his own. Cowley might decide to toss them into the fire, but God help
the outsider who dared do the same. If Cowley were going by Warner's
report, he was in for trouble. 

 Taking a deep breath, Bodie quietly said, "I can explain, sir."

 "I believe you should, now. In detail," there was nothing the least bit
welcoming in Cowley’s eyes. 

 Not just disappointed, the man looked sick at heart, Bodie thought, which
was understandable in light of the grim prognosis Dr. Warner had given
Doyle’s chances of recovery. Taking a deep breath, Bodie began to talk,
trying to ignore the sweat he could feel beading on his brow.

 ******

Shadows had crowded the room when Doyle finally rolled over. The window
was a sheet of grey. The wind was tossing pellets of rain against its
fragile surface and whipping the boughs of the neighbouring spruce in an
alarming frenzy.

 Shivering more from his emotional response than any real chill, Ray
sought the reassurance of his sleeping partner.

 It had been some time since he'd awoken to an empty expanse of bed. The
sheets didn't even hold a lingering trace of Bodie's warmth. Where . . . ?

 Ray caught sight of his shirtsleeve and remembered his nap. This was dusk
then, not dawn.

 Wondering what could have possessed the daft sod to let him sleep this
long, Doyle climbed groggily from the bed. At this rate, it'd be dark
before they ate.

 "Bodie, why didn't you . . . ?" Ray started to sharply demand of the
brown haired man bent over a book and comfortably sprawled on the sitting
room couch, whom he naturally enough assumed to be Bodie. Doyle stopped
dead in his tracks as a stranger's face lifted.

 The man, a full head taller than Bodie and built like a huge grizzly
bear, jumped to his feet. Unfeigned delight illuminated his friendly
features. 

 "Ray! Good God, man, we thought you dead! When the Cow . . . ." The
stranger halted his approach, visibly disconcerted by Doyle's reaction –
or lack of one. "Ray, are you all right?"

 Trying not to be physically intimidated by this enormous man who seemed
to know him and hopefully intended no harm, Doyle nodded. Ray’s worried
eyes searched the room for Bodie, a frown crinkling his features when he
failed to locate his friend amongst the easels and furniture. "Where's
Bodie?"

 Perhaps not the most polite of greetings, it nonetheless seemed to
satisfy the man. "In the frying pan, from the sound of it. The Cow's
working him over for the scare he gave us all." The explanation, offered
in a light tone and apparently intended as a joke, did nothing to quell
Doyle's worry.

 The stranger’s face was familiar in the way Bodie's had been before
Doyle’s sketchy memories had started to return. But unlike with his
partner, his recognition of every pore and angle wasn't instinctive with
this man. The newcomer must have been an acquaintance, maybe even a
friend, but not a close one. Doyle could find no name to tag to the
grinning face. Whereas, the mention of Cowley's name brought to mind a
very definite, if blurry, image.

 As he watched, the man's smile faltered. "Ray . . . you don't know who I
am, do you?"

 The confusion was genuine. Doyle could sense the concern behind the man’s
hesitant question. "No. I know I ought to, but . . . things have been a
little confused lately."

 Eyes, a paler blue than Bodie's, softened. "With good reason. My name's
Murphy, Pat Murphy. We work together and you usually call me Murph."

 Doyle accepted the hand offered to him, warming immediately to the man. 

 " . . . pleasure." Ray mumbled, a little overwhelmed by the hearty shake.

 Murphy laughed. "Not as much as seeing you again, mate. Figured next time
I laid eyes on you, you'd be posin' on a cloudbank, harp in hand and wings
a draggin' after you."

 "Wrong scenario, I think," Doyle chuckled.

 "Yeah, knowing you, you'd probably follow that fire drake of yours to
warmer climes."

 "Speaking of which . . . . " Doyle returned to his original topic.

 "The old man asked for privacy," Murphy informed him. From the tone,
Doyle would have thought lightning had carved the order into a stone
tablet.

 "Did he now?"

 A raised voice – Bodie's – saying, "Ray's my partner, damn it, my
responsibility. Not some bloody hospital's," rumbled from behind the
closed study door. The defensive anger in the familiar tone pricked up
Doyle's protective instincts more thoroughly than a cry for help would
have done.

 "Excuse me," Doyle said and made to move around the big agent.

 "Ray . . . ." Murphy laid a hesitant hand on his shoulder.

 His job's to stop me, Doyle thought, measuring up the other agent. He was
definitely outclassed here. Murphy's not inconsiderable bulk hadn't
diminished any in the last few minutes. In fact, up close, he seemed even
larger. Quite unconsciously, Doyle’s eyes and muscles hardened in a very
feline preparation to pounce.

 "You really going to fight me over it, mate?" Murphy asked.

 "If you don't get out of my way." Level and calm, Doyle wondered where
this confidence was coming from. What was even more astounding was that it
wasn't bluff. He really meant it. Even knowing he hadn't a chance in a
million of beating this wall of muscle in a fight, Bodie's need made it
imperative that Ray get to the other side of that door.

 Amazingly, a huge smile covered Murphy's round face. "You know, Ray, I
never had a partner, but I'm beginning to understand why Bodie was willing
to fight dragons to get you back."

 "You going to let me by, then?" Doyle tested, not really understanding.

 "If you're bound and determined to get chewed up in the lion's den, far
be it from me to restrain you," Murphy laughed and stepped aside.

 Once outside the door, Doyle hesitated in the gloomy hallway. Should he
just storm in or knock?

 Cowley’s voice continued from within, "Yes, we've heard much about your
wants. But did you ever stop to consider what was best for your partner?
Read the report, man. The last thing that lad needed was to be thrown into
another threatening situation." 

 Even through the heavy oak door, Doyle could hear the anger in the
Scottish burr.

 "What do you mean by 'threatening'?" he heard Bodie challenge.

 "Your motives for keeping Doyle. Your true feelings for 4.5, though
hardly public knowledge, were no secret to me. Since I knew, I would
assume Doyle did as well. After what Doyle had been through with Van
Cleef, do you believe it was healthy to expose him to similar . . . . "

 Thawed from his frozen state, Doyle moved. He didn't know if it were
possible to slam open a door, but his entrance gave that effect. Two pairs
of startled blue eyes flew to his face, Bodie’s more familiar eyes
drowning in guilt, the second pair merely widening in surprise.

 "There was nothing similar. I don't know who the hell you are that you
think you can speak to him like that – or why he should just sit there and
take it – but . . . . " Like a grassfire started by a carelessly thrown
match, Doyle’s cold fury exploded into a full-fledged tirade as he
defended his partner.

 ******

Bodie gaped at the wildcat let loose in their midst. Absolutely never had
he seen Ray put on such a display. Livid with fury didn't half cover Doyle
at the moment. Berserker rage came close, save that this wasn't physical –
except in the way Ray had planted himself between Cowley and his partner.
Bodie had always known Doyle to be a fiercely loyal individual, but this
ferocious defence from a man he'd considered an emotional cripple left
Bodie speechless.

 Cowley, as well, Bodie realized, taking in his former employer’s
spellbound face.

 There was something undeniably fascinating about this font of fury. The
blaze of iridescent green, flushed cheeks, and untamed mane of curls had
the same paralysing effect as that of a charging lion. Bodie, who had been
at the other end of the true feline's attack, thought a bloke might have a
better chance with the lion.

 The verbal blast stilled, Doyle's chest heaving for breath - preparatory
to another outburst, no doubt.

 Bodie tentatively laid his hand on a cotton-clad shoulder before the
coiled spring could be sprung again, half-expecting the force of the
explosion to be turned against himself. "That's enough, Ray."

 Wide, bottomless eyes turned his way, pinning him with their concern.
Doyle seemed too furious to even speak for a moment before he stuttered
out, "He –" 

 "Is only interested in your welfare," Bodie defended.

 "Thank you, Bodie," Cowley seemed genuinely surprised by his support.
"Dr. Warner's report led me to believe that you were suffering from a
severe shock. Mute, nearly catatonic, and likely to remain so unless
supplied with proper treatment was how the doctor phrased it. I'm glad to
see he was mistaken, Doyle."

 Doyle glared at Cowley, visibly unmollified by the sweet words and as
mistrusting as one forest-born.

 "Ray," Bodie cautioned. For all his gratitude at Ray’s defence, he was
unwilling to allow Doyle to berate someone who had travelled so far on
Doyle's behalf. "Please sit down. Mr. Cowley's not the enemy."

 Doyle turned that same probing gaze on him and then reluctantly pulled
over a small armchair – doing so, Bodie knew, only because he asked it.
Every well-defined line of Ray’s body and the taut set of his features
spoke of rebellion.

 Cowley’s smooth voice quickly assured, "Indeed, I am not the enemy, and I
would like to apologize for coming down with such a heavy hand. We truly
believed you dead, lad, and then when we did learn of your survival, the
severity of your condition was greatly exaggerated."

 Not knowing what to say, Bodie remained silent. On the fingers of one
hand he could count the times he'd heard George Cowley apologize, and,
then, never to him.

 Doyle, however, found his voice. Apparently appeased by their visitor's
sincerity, Doyle’s attitude altered a bit, the fire leaving his eyes as he
said, "The report wasn't exaggerated . . . sir." Ray looked to him,
seemingly for confirmation of his form of address. At Bodie's nod of
approval, Doyle continued, "I was as bad as that and worse before Bodie
put me back together."

 "Then we've much to be grateful to him for," Cowley concurred, obviously
still attempting to make amends for his earlier error.

 Bodie tried not to appear as uncomfortable as he felt. Doyle's candour
especially troubled him, for only he himself knew how justified the old
man's concerns had been.

 Bodie jumped as a hand gently squeezed his elbow. He tried to shy away
from the affection warming the green gaze.

 "Ey, come back to us, dreamer," Doyle's voice was pitched for his ears
only.

 *Don't trust me so*, Bodie wanted to shout. *Cowley's right – in
everything he's right.*

 Puzzlement creased Doyle’s quirky face, as though Bodie’s warning had
been spoken aloud. 

 "It's all right," Ray assured, the whisper convincing Bodie that he had
indeed spoken . . . except that even now the lump clogged in his throat
was too big to get around.

 "What . . . is?" Bodie rasped out at last, painfully aware of the
too-perceptive third party observing them.

 "Whatever's got you lookin' so grim. Cheer up, mate, I'm here to look
after you," Ray promised.

 And Doyle meant it, too. That last was thrown Cowley's way as a warning.

 Cowley brought their attention back to him with a timely throat clearing.
"Doyle, before you mentioned not knowing who I am. Dr. Warner's report
hinted that there could well be some psychological side effects to your
ordeal – hysterical amnesia only one of them. Is your memory loss complete
then?" 

 Bodie winced at his former boss’ candour. Though he knew everything
Cowley said to be true, he would never have phrased it quite so bluntly
himself.

 "For all practical purposes, it’s complete. I remember . . . your face
and your voice. When I think very hard," here Doyle's eyes closed in
concentration, "I get scattered images; most of them aren't very clear."

 "Most, but not all?" Cowley pounced on the information.

 Doyle's eyes opened to slowly focus on the older man. 

 "I remember yelling at you and then slapping some kind of wallet and gun
down on your desk," Ray confessed in a confused tone.

 "Jesus, but you've got a knack for pickin' them!" Bodie commented. At
Ray's raised eyebrow, he continued, "You were spittin' fire at us both
that day for invadin' your privacy."

 Odd, that the only thing Doyle recalled of the drama-fraught case was
that particular incident and not the girl or even poor Benny.

 "Were you?" Doyle questioned of Bodie, Ray’s mood hard to judge.

 There was no lying to that level verdant gaze now, anymore than there was
back when the Holly case had forced him to shadow his own partner. 

 "Yes," Bodie admitted, wondering what he was letting himself in for.

 "Under my orders," the older man defended.

 A year ago, Ray would have gone off at Bodie’s admission and challenged
the necessity of the trespass, but tonight Ray just nodded, his brow
creased with concentration, as though he were attempting to force his
memories.

 Somehow, Bodie sensed that Doyle's calm acceptance had nothing to do with
Cowley's unsought support. 

 "What are your plans now?" Cowley’s comment brought their attention back
to the Controller. 

 "Plans?" Doyle repeated, looking to his partner as though for a
definition of the word.

 "We hadn't any immediate plans. We're rather comfortable here," Bodie
supplied.

 "So I see," Cowley enigmatically agreed. "Doyle's amnesia could no doubt
be aided by proper treatment at home. Have you given that any thought,
Bodie?"

 Despite the spider-to-the-fly sweetness of Cowley's tone, the words
stung. Guilt upon guilt pummelled at Bodie’s conscience, with his own
selfish decision to keep Ray near him at the bottom of it all. Unable to
meet Cowley’s relentless, convicting eyes, he lowered his gaze to his lap.

 What could he say? Of course, he'd known . . . and failed to act upon it.

 Bodie’s down-bent gaze flew to Ray when Doyle’s hand landed so naturally
upon the forearm that lay rigidly along his wooden chair's right arm.
Ray's gesture seemed automatic, almost unconscious, as was the soft
squeeze of encouragement Bodie’s lucky limb received.

 When Bodie dared a peek at his partner, Doyle's profile was stony once
again, but this time the anger was held in check. 

 "Of course, he thought about it," Ray answered for him. "He didn't have a
bloody passport that would get him back into the country legally now, did
he? Me either, for that matter. Far as the world's concerned, I still
don't exist. I sort of like it that way, Mr. Cowley. If you take my
meaning."

 There was safety in anonymity, as Bodie well knew.

 Cowley, however, was not to be deterred. "But your memory . . . ."

 "Will come back on its own. Besides, the previews I've been gettin'
haven't left me all that keen on the show. If it comes, it comes. I'm not
about to force it," Doyle said, shocking both Cowley and his partner into
silence.

 "I see," the old man said after a minute. "You must admit, it is a rather
peculiar attitude to hold about one's own past. I would think you would do
your utmost to regain what was lost to you."

 "What the hell would you know about it . . . sir!" Bodie demanded, tiring
of the cross-examination. Cowley mightn't be being judgmental, but his
curiosity was obviously disturbing Ray. Doyle's pale face had the
strained, almost pinched look to it that Bodie hadn't seen in over a year,
not since they were last on the job together.

 Ray’s hand had yet to release his forearm. It squeezed Bodie again, as if
silently beseeching his patience.

 "This is between Doyle and me," Cowley warned.

 Bodie bristled, but backed off, as Ray obviously wanted.

 "Well, lad?" Cowley prompted. "Are you trying to tell me you don't want
to remember?"

 "I didn't say that," came Doyle’s quick response.

 *But you meant it*, Bodie realized, reading the unsaid as easily as the
Cow. The shock of that discovery had yet to settle when he felt Cowley’s
hawk-blue eyes probing his own reaction. 

 Though his bewilderment over Doyle's attitude felt very much like
betrayal, Bodie carefully blanked his features. Ray would have his
support, whatever the circumstances.

 "No, you didn't say it," Cowley agreed, "but that was your meaning. Why?"

 Bodie was almost grateful to the old man for voicing the question loyalty
prohibited Bodie himself from asking. Out of the corner of his eye, he
watched Doyle's reaction.

 First, the expressive eyes dropped and for the longest moment Bodie was
certain his partner was going to ignore the question. Then, Ray's gaze
swept almost surreptitiously his way, darting quickly back to his lap.
Ray's hand left its hold on Bodie's arm to settle in a calm-looking, but
tension-locked clasp on his knees.

 The significance of the gesture escaped Bodie. All he was aware of was
how isolated and alone Ray abruptly appeared.

 Damning his own curiosity, Bodie interceded, "I think that's enough, sir.
Ray's had too much excitement for one day. We don't get many visitors up
this way."

 Before the ire in Cowley's glare could reach his pursed lips, Doyle's
deep voice interrupted, its quiet authority unchallengeable, "No, he has a
right to know, Bodie, so do you. I'm not especially eager to remember
because most of what I've gotten back I don't like much."

 As ever, Doyle was unstintingly honest. Now it was Bodie's turn to look
away. Ever the moralist, his partner was always at odds with the
expediencies their profession forced upon them. This Doyle would be
repulsed by some of the memories of what they’d done.

 "So, you've made this judgement on a few, disjointed remembrances. That's
very unlike you, Doyle, to prejudge a situation without all the facts,"
Cowley reprimanded.

 "I . . . . " Doyle stammered.

 "You've already indicated that you don't fully remember me, and if that's
the case, you've no true grasp of the service you performed. You and your
partner, and men like you, are necessary. You use your strength to protect
those weaker than you. If you were in full possession of your faculties,
you would know this to be so."

 "I don't think I ever knew that," Doyle said.

 Ray's certainty chilled Bodie.

 "You're not a man easily led," Cowley countered. "If you didn't believe
in what you were doing, why do you think you stayed?"

 Bodie silently blessed Cowley for his unemotional common sense, until
Ray’s telling green gaze strayed his way again. Although the glance was
withdrawn immediately, Doyle’s answer had been given.

 Bodie gulped, unable to repudiate the wordless claim and unable to accept
the weight of this responsibility.

 Absolution came from an unexpected quarter as Cowley gently corrected,
"No, lad, you might want to believe that the reason, but we all know that
isn't so. It wasn't Bodie that kept you in C.I.5, although the reverse
might've been true."

 Bodie’s head snapped up at the causal revelation, disbelieving that even
their perceptive boss could have been privy to his close-guarded secret.

 "You're a fiercely idealistic individual, Doyle, highly independent and
motivated. Had you disapproved of C.I.5 as strongly as you imagine, you
would have left, sure in the knowledge that your partner would follow."

 "Pretty sure of yourself, aren't you?' Doyle practically sneered,
white-faced over Cowley's presumption.

 Bodie, who knew the words to be no presumption, but merely the statement
of fact, remained silent. Pride demanded he make some rebuttal, but what
could he say? He'd given up his world to find Ray - all three of them knew
it. Even if that hadn't been the case, to deny Cowley's claim would be
tantamount to denying his commitment to Ray and, amazing as this
unexpected show of confidence on Doyle's part was, that was one risk he
was unwilling to take. He'd rather have Doyle smug in his assurance of his
place in his life than doubting him.

 "I know my men," Cowley told Bodie's fuming partner," and, had you any
true memory of me, you would understand how sorely one of them retaining a
stronger loyalty grates on me."

 Bodie saw Doyle close his mouth on whatever he'd been about to say, his
eyes darkening with consideration. "Yes, I can see where that would
rankle. What – what do you want of us? Have you come here to get Bodie
back?"

 After Cowley's announcement, Bodie was convinced that he'd been left
naked, without a single pretence to mask his one vulnerable spot. Yet,
Doyle's tone as he voiced that last question was tremulous, as though he
truly believed Cowley had the power to lure Bodie away.

 "If possible," C.I.5's controller admitted. "What I really came for was
you, Doyle. You haven't given yourself a chance here. Come back to
England, accept what help the doctors have to offer."

 For the first time that night, Doyle appeared threatened. "He can't make
me go, can he, Bodie?"

 There were any number of ways that Cowley could force them back, if he so
desired. That knowledge silently passed between Bodie and his former
employer in the quiet that followed the question. But the fear in Doyle’s
atypical, child-like plea could not be ignored. So much in Ray’s life this
past year had been beyond his control. Bodie would give him what little
stability he could offer. 

 "You don't have to go anywhere you don't want to, Ray," Bodie promised.

 A speculative light entered Cowley's eyes at the warning. "And you're
ready to back that up, are you, laddie?"

 Not for the first time Bodie found himself admiring the old man's
tactics. *Laddie*, that one word, uttered in Cowley’s humouring,
near-affectionate burr made Bodie feel like a wayward schoolboy. But Bodie
didn’t allow his reaction to show, delivering his words in his most
dangerous tone, "If necessary."

 "Och, man, don't take that tone with me. I'm the one who taught it to
you. Doyle, you're being very foolish and you, Bodie . . . this
irresponsibility ill becomes you," Cowley reprimanded.

 "Irres . . . why you old bastard. I told you he was alive a year ago. I
had to find him and take care of him on my own and now that he's near
well, you waltz in here and want to whisk him away! Well, he doesn't need
you or your bloody doctors now. Ray's doing just fine on his own. Anyway,
can't see why you're so determined to have him back. You know Ray's no use
to you now. You'd never let him back in the field – and I won't work
without him. So you're wastin' your time here. Why don't you just go . . .
?"

 "Bodie," Ray’s stern tone was belied by the soft touch to his arm. Bodie
turned that blaze of anger on his partner. Doyle's wounded expression only
exacerbated his fury at the old man. Cowley had come in here and made his
demands with no thought to Ray's reaction.

 "Please, stop," Ray pleaded.

 Because Ray asked it, Bodie shut his mouth to sink back in his chair in
sullen silence.

 "What Bodie is trying to say, sir, is that we don't want to go back,"
Doyle began, picking each word with obvious care.

 "I had managed to absorb that fact, thank you," Cowley answered with
characteristic sarcasm. But as he continued to look at Doyle, Bodie
noticed the hardness seep from the proud features. "You might not believe
this, but I thought to act only on your behalf."

 "I do believe you, sir, and your concern is appreciated, but . . . I'm
happy here. I have my painting to keep me occupied and good friends close
by," Doyle said.

 "I am relieved to see you so content," Cowley answered, his pleasant tone
instantly putting Bodie on his guard. Doyle, however, seemed oblivious to
its portent. Cowley's next questions took Ray completely off guard. "But
what of Bodie?"

 "Bodie?" Doyle echoed.

 "Bodie is no painter. Have you given no thought to his future? He has
trained his entire like to do a specific job – one he can't do hiding out
in these hills, lad. Is it fair to keep him here?" Cowley questioned.

 And once again, Bodie watched his partner’s world fall apart around him.

 Stricken eyes fixed on him. Bodie could see in their lost depths that
Cowley's words had shaken Ray to the very core.

 "No one's *kept* me here," Bodie’s words were calm, for to lose that icy
distance would risk loosing the lethal rage simmering within him. "I'm a
grown man. I'm here because that's where I want to be – nowhere else." The
last he directed to Doyle, although it did nothing to relieve the burden
of guilt visible in the clear depths of the emerald gaze. "If what you're
saying was true, I could've put Doyle back on a plane to England anytime I
wanted. So stop trying to manipulate him with guilt. It's unworthy of you
and unfair to Ray."

 "Is it now?" Cowley tested, and then shook his head. "Perhaps you're
right, Bodie. My apologies, Doyle."

 But the seed had been planted. Bodie could see it in Ray’s slumped
shoulders and troubled visage.

 "Well, I've taken up enough of your time. I'd best be on my way. If you
need assistance – of any kind – you need only call," Cowley said.

 Doyle’s head shot up from its down-bent position as Cowley’s announcement
disrupted his troubled reverie. "You can’t go, not tonight, sir. You'll
never make it down the mountain in this downpour." 

 Doyle nodded to the voracious storm raging outside the dark window.

 "Dinna worry, lad. Murphy . . . ." Cowley began to dismiss.

 "Ray's right, sir," Bodie interrupted, common sense and lingering loyalty
winning out over hostility. "It's foolhardy to risk the roads on a night
like this. The pass washes out at least once a month. We've plenty of room
here and we'd be honoured to have you." The graciousness of his invitation
seemed to startle even Doyle.

 "Yes. There are two vacant rooms upstairs and there's more than enough
food. If you've got to be back tomorrow, you can leave at first light.
That will give you plenty of time to catch the afternoon flight from
Geneva," Doyle added.

 The normally resolute Scot wavered, exhaustion and the unfriendly weather
weakening even Cowley's iron determination.

 "That's fine, then, sir," Doyle said, acting upon the temporary
indecision before their former boss' stubbornness could assert itself.
"I'll tell Murphy you're staying and lay on some extra grub. Behave
yourself, sunshine."

 The jaunty wink Doyle threw his way left Bodie staring in befuddlement
after his departing partner.

 "Most reassuring," Cowley commented once the door had closed behind
Doyle.

 "Ey, sir?" Bodie started at the reminder he was not alone.

 "Dr. Warner's report had led me to expect . . . something quite
different. Doyle appears to be recovering remarkably well."

 "The mountains seem to agree with him," Bodie said, and then added in a
lower, more confiding tone, "I wouldn't have kept Ray here if he'd shown
no improvement, sir."

 "No, of course you wouldn't, Bodie," Cowley concurred with astonishing
sincerity.

 "But you said . . . ."

 "Your concern for your partner was never in question." Cowley said. "I
merely doubted your judgment and, after speaking with Doyle, I can see you
were sound in that as well."

 "Then why did you grill us like that?" Bodie demanded.

 "There was always the chance you could be persuaded to return home,"
Cowley admitted.

 "You crafty devil, you haven't changed a bit, have you?" Bodie chuckled,
somehow unable to take offence at such outright effrontery.

 "No, nor will I, God willing." Cowley's eyes sparkled with good humour.
"There is a thing I hesitated to mention before your partner." The older
man continued, all levity blanking from his abruptly hardened features.

 "Which was?" Instantly on the alert, Bodie tried to relax.

 "You have heard the news of Van Cleef's escape?"

 "Just this afternoon."

 "It has been an eventful day for you, Bodie. The information I bring you
may be more happily received, however."

 "How so?"

 "A body has been recovered. Although badly mutilated from its time in the
water, identification is almost positive. A man matching Van Cleef's
weight and height drowned, following gunshot wounds two weeks ago."

 "The bullets matched?" Bodie's paranoia forced him to ask. Cowley seemed
certain that Van Cleef was dead, but the ever-doubtful part of Bodie’s
mind couldn't help but remind him that Cowley had been equally assured of
Ray's death a year ago.

 Though well masked, Bodie nevertheless picked up on Cowley's uneasiness.
"Unfortunately, it was impossible to determine. The calibre of the bullet
used was the same. The slug passed through the right thigh, severing an
artery. Death was attributed to drowning, no doubt brought on by weakness
due to blood loss."

 "I see," Bodie said, digesting the information. "Do you think it's Van
Cleef, sir?"

 "It does seem a likely probability," Cowley said.

 "Wary to commit yourself?" Bodie questioned, his tone the most irritating
lilt at the controller's caution. He had the suspicion that Cowley had
read his thoughts earlier about presuming Doyle dead and was hesitant
about making a similar error.

 "No harm will come from waiting the coroner's outcome; although, I am
almost certain it's Van Cleef," Cowley allowed.

 "How would you feel about a second scotch, sir?" Bodie asked, noticing
his guest's empty glass.

 "Somewhat more positive."

 Bodie grinned and passed the bottle.

 The next hour passed in what Bodie would have considered idle chatting,
had it not occurred to him halfway through the conversation that his wily
ex-commander was drawing a highly detailed report on Ray's recuperation
with his seemingly innocuous questions. Murphy's announcement that dinner
was ready came as a welcome interruption.

 How Doyle had managed to concoct such a sumptuous repast in the limited
time was a marvel to him. The spaghetti and meatball dinner for four
looked like it had been planned for days. As he took a seat across from
his partner, Bodie found his mouth watering from the aromatic sauces that
teased his senses.

 After several heartfelt compliments from both their guests and Bodie
himself, the four hungry men set upon the dinner like ravenous wolves upon
an injured elk.

 ******

"Great spread, mate. Really hit the spot," Murphy praised, leaning his
chair back from the table.

 "Sure you don't want another helping?" Doyle asked the big agent before
he recalled there wasn't a single strand of pasta left to offer. So far,
Murphy and Bodie were equal at three helpings apiece – conservatively.
Doyle wouldn't be surprised if he'd missed a serving or two. Their elder
guest had displayed gracious manners, halting after a very dignified
second helping.

 "Ta anyway," Murphy declined, patting an incongruously trim belly.

 "I'm glad to see some restraint, Murphy. I was afraid I'd have to send
you off on one of Brian's refresher courses just to work off the effects
of this feast," Cowley said to his suddenly alarmed operative. "That was
quite a meal. My compliments, Doyle."

 Doyle had barely mouthed his thanks when a pathetically hopeful voice
asked, "You going to finish that, Ray?"

 Doyle looked down at the food he'd been pushing around his plate for the
last twenty minutes. 

 "'s cold," Ray warned his partner.

 's good. Come on, give over," Bodie grinned.

 With a shrug, Doyle passed the plate to his partner.

 "Hey," Bodie said once he'd explored his new acquisition, "you barely
touched this. You feelin' all right?"

 "Fine," Ray lied. "Just saving space for dessert." 

 Which Doyle rose to fetch before further comment could be made.

 Dessert was only three quarters of one of Marie's apple strudels left
over from Friday night's visit. Being Monday night, the pastry had
definitely seen better days. It was nevertheless readily accepted by those
eating tonight.

 His appetite not particularly keen, Doyle sipped his tea and tried not to
feel left out. The steady stream of anecdotes made him feel a stranger;
although, to be fair, all three of the others did their best to include
him.

 Bored with the conversation, Doyle took to studying his partner.

 When Doyle had stepped into the study, the first thing that had struck
him was the holstered gun Bodie was wearing above his tight black roll
neck. The weapon was utterly alien to their environment, endowing his
partner with an uncompromisingly menacing aspect. And, yet, the gun suited
Bodie, looking as natural on him as the clothes he wore or his
close-cropped haircut. The automatic had since been removed – hidden away
again, no doubt – but its memory lingered, tinting his friend a disturbing
hue Doyle hardly recognized, despite its having been there all along.

 With some degree of alarm, Ray realized that the sleek and handsome man
who shared his home and his bed was a predator, accustomed to both danger
and violence. Bodie had told him as much. Still, Doyle had found it
impossible to conform that image to the gentle rescuer who had wiped his
nose and spoon-fed him with such painstaking devotion.

 Until this afternoon, that was. Listening to Bodie relate to their two
guests, he was no longer finding it quite so difficult. A toughness and
macho bravado that Doyle had only seen hints of in the last six months now
ran rampant through his friend's attitude. Though always lively and
talkative, his partner was far more animated this evening, practically
bubbling with vitality as he relived old memories.

 "We have missed you," Murphy declared into a temporary lull in their trip
down memory lane. "When will you and Ray be coming back, mate?"

 Doyle watched his partner carefully. Whereas with Cowley only angry
denials had met that same question, the very unexpectedness of the query
in the middle to an obviously enjoyable discussion brought forth a true
reaction from Bodie. A sweep of translucent lids sought to conceal it once
Bodie saw him looking his way, but Doyle had already caught the flash of
loss that shadowed the animated depths of his partner’s eyes.

 "Bodie and Doyle will not be returning to England, at least, not
immediately," Cowley supplied into the awkward pause which followed.

 "I – see," Murphy said slowly in the tone of a chastened child who had
asked an indelicate question at the dinner table and was still unsure of
the nature of his transgression or the severity of his reproof.

 "As you are planning on remaining in Switzerland, there is something I
must ask of you, Bodie," Cowley said.

 "What's that, sir?" his partner asked absently, his attention focused on
the completely unprepossessing – to Doyle, at least – strudel.

 "Do you remember Lord William?" Cowley asked Bodie.

 "You mean Mohammed?" Bodie grinned.

 "Mohammed?" Doyle asked stupidly of the three smiling faces.

 Bodie's smile softened with understanding. "Lord William's the minister
C.I.5 answers to, Ray. He always said George Cowley was the mountain
Mohammed must travel to."

 Understanding no more now than before, Doyle nodded knowledgeably, "Oh."

 "Former minister," Cowley corrected. "Lord William has since retired from
active service, which brings me to my present request."

 "Which is?" Bodie's caution was obvious.

 "Private business will bring Lord William to a series of economic
conferences in Geneva. The first is scheduled for the end of the month. It
is a three-day affair that will draw attendants from all nations west of
the eastern block. I am dissatisfied with the security there and have been
asked to recommend someone to supervise. Already there have been vague
rumours and threats. The Swiss are most anxious to avoid any . . .
unpleasant incidents. As it is my privilege to count Lord William amongst
my personal friends, I am equally interested in preventing any such
unpleasantness. I would take it as a personal favour if you would oversee
the security of these events, Bodie. A man of your qualifications could
make all the difference."

 Doyle gulped at the appeal, recognizing that it was as close to
deferential as the lordly Scot could ever be. Something inside Ray died at
the unconscious leap of excitement in Bodie's eyes. The interest was
masked with admirable speed once his partner recalled his ball and chain.

 Doyle cursed himself for a fool. From that first night in Geneva, Bodie's
physical presence had intimidated him. His instincts had recognized Bodie
as a man of action. Doyle had known from the start that his partner could
never be content with domesticity. What had made him think that could
change? But, these last few months . . . Bodie had seemed happy, at peace
or, Doyle wondered, had he been so blinded by his own contentment that
he'd missed all the signs of Bodie’s restlessness.

 "I'm afraid that would be impossible, sir," Bodie refused, just as soon
as Cowley had stopped speaking. There was genuine regret in his tone.
Obviously turning down a personal favour for Cowley did not come easily.

 "Why would it be 'impossible'?" Doyle, not Cowley, demanded. The eager
greed with which his soul had greeted Bodie's prompt rejection singed his
conscience, forcing such a reaction, though Ray knew it went against his
own best interests.

 "What d'you mean, 'why', Ray? I'm needed here," Bodie answered.

 Careful here. The internal warning did not go unheeded. Doyle saw how
easily the ready denial which sprang to his lips could turn Bodie's hurt
puzzlement into legitimate pain. 

 "It's only a couple of weekends," Doyle said reasonably.

 "Indeed," Cowley added, "leave Wednesday night and you could be back the
following Monday. If nothing else, it would be a brief change of scenery."

 Or a taste of excitement to get Bodie hooked on action again, Doyle
translated, uncertain if he'd been manipulated into supporting Cowley's
plan.

 "You want me to go, Ray?" Bodie asked.

 The steady gaze demanded honestly. 

 Ray took a moment to answer. "I don't want you to refuse on my account.
If it's my being on my own that's got you worried, I can always stay with
Marie. If you want to go, don't let me stop you."

 The indecision which followed his words cinched it. Bodie wanted to go.
Doyle bit his lower lip, too aware that it was his own hand that had
opened the cage door. How far his friend would fly, only the future would
tell. The flight could last no longer than the series of weekends
mentioned by Cowley or they could very well find themselves on a plane
back to London in a month's time. 

 That offering freedom was the only decision Doyle could have made didn’t
make its acceptance any easier. 

 "Do you need an answer right away?" Bodie asked their former employer.

 "Take some time to think it over, sleep on it. You can give me your
answer in the morning," Cowley said.

 ******

*Chapter Eight*

 *Give me your answer in the morning*.

 Easy enough said, Bodie thought gloomily as he waited for Ray to return
from the bathroom so that he could turn out the lights. Their guests were
comfortably installed in the two rooms across the hall – Cowley in the
infamous brown study and Murphy in the frilly pastel nightmare. Bodie had
until dawn to come to a decision.

 The door to the master bathroom clicked open. Bodie glanced up casually
as his partner entered. The cold hand of desire squeezed his vitals,
shooting a shiver of irrepressible want though his long-denied system. His
attention unwillingly riveted on the half-naked man, Bodie watched his
mate approach the bed and forced himself to remember to breathe.

 Annoyed at his body's reaction, Bodie tried to channel his anger against
his partner, anything to try and turn himself off, but the effort was
futile.

 Although the lithe motion might wreck havoc on Bodie's libido, the
unconscious sensuality was just one more sign of Ray's returning good
health. It sure as hell beat that agonizing, self-conscious shamble that
had marked their early days in the chalet together.

 Doyle could no more be held accountable for his sensuality than he could
for breathing. This was just something Bodie was going to have to inure
himself against again, he realized.

 Besides, Doyle could hardly be blamed. He was dressed chastely enough in
pale blue pyjama bottoms. Was it Ray's fault they were slung low on his
hips and that the light pierced their semi-translucent fabric to cast
tantalizing shadows of the firm musculature beneath with every slight
movement?

 Such thoughts were not aiding his plight, Bodie conceded wryly as he
forced his reluctant gaze upwards to purer regions. Fortunately, the white
towel thrown across Doyle's shoulders spared him the temptation of most of
the chest. The sight of naked nipples he could most certainly do without;
although, the downy triangle trailing to Doyle's naval was equally
distracting. Looking close, he could almost see where it joined with a
thicker thatch below the elastic waistband.

 ENOUGH! The mental shout jarred Bodie back to his senses, reminding him
of the danger of such thoughts. Stupid crud, he berated himself, what was
he trying to do, put Ray back in a mental ward? Eyes front and definitely
above centre. Concentrate on the dripping curls. There was little danger
there.

 The closed-in expression on Ray's face gave him the chilling fear that
his partner had read his lecherous thoughts. Closer inspection revealed it
to be the same abstraction that had plagued his friend throughout dinner.
Looking at the foreboding, moody exterior, Bodie could almost imagine he
was observing C.I.5's Ray Doyle, so threatening was Ray’s aspect.

 Doyle plopped unceremoniously down on his side of the bed and turned to
face the wall.

 "Hey, your mop's still drippin' wet," Bodie remarked, poking an
unresponsive shoulder.

 "So?" his partner challenged, sounding as snarky and argumentative as
only the old Ray Doyle could.

 "So you don't want pneumonia again, do you?" Bodie matched the tone,
trying to conceal his bewilderment.

 Ray sat and began mauling the long locks with a vengeful towel.

 "You'll never get the tangles out if you keep up like that," Bodie
cautioned.

 All movement stopped. A baleful green gaze glared out from beneath the
terrycloth. "You could do better, I suppose?"

 "Couldn't do much worse," Bodie grinned, pure brass, enjoying the spirit
behind that glare. Six months ago, Doyle wouldn’t have had the courage to
meet his eyes, let alone mouth off at him.

 "Since it bothers you so much, you dry it," Doyle demanded, shoving the
damp towel at him. The broad back turned his way as Ray's legs swung over
the side of the bed.

 Bodie could feel his grin fade from his face, so shocked was he. Touching
Doyle hadn’t been in his game plan. But to refuse would make too big a
deal of the issue.

 Damning his argumentative impulse, Bodie fetched the comb from the night
table and knelt behind Doyle’s tense figure. Though inside he quivered in
a conflicting mass of confusion and desire, outwardly Bodie knew himself
to be the essence of calm as he worked the comb through the mass of
chestnut snarls with painstaking care.

 Doyle had obviously belatedly realized the avenue of revenge he had
unthinkingly offered by giving Bodie the towel and comb. Ray's body had
gone bow-taut at his first touch, apparently anticipating the worst. That
cat-wary distrust was so characteristic of Raymond Doyle of C.I.5 that it
temporarily threw Bodie, who hadn't seen it displayed, especially toward
himself, in over a year. Mystified by what he'd done to merit it, he
continued to concentrate on untangling the ill-used hair.

 The gleaming strands really were over-long, Bodie admitted. On another
the past-the-shoulder burst of curls might be deemed effeminate, but Ray
was too masculine for such a label to ever be considered. The
red-highlighted fall of hair gave his partner an artistic, vaguely
piratical air, he decided. Rarely, was Bodie given opportunity to freely
touch Doyle's curls, so despite Ray's anger, he lavished in the sensation.
Instead of roughhousing the water out of the now-tamed length, Bodie used
the fluffy material of the towel to blot the moisture out, pressing it
against the length wound around his hand.

 Slowly he felt the tension melt from Doyle’s coiled form, as if assuaged
by his unexpected gentleness. Doyle's head eased back into the scalp
massage he was giving, a contented sigh escaping Ray’s parted lips. 

 "Feels good," Ray murmured, rubbing his temple against Bodie's nearby
wrist in a totally feline gesture that brought the smile back to Bodie’s
lips.

 "It's supposed to," Bodie answered lazily, willing to continue for the
rest of the night if Ray so desired.

 His senses were flooded with an aching awareness of Ray: the damp curls
and skin, silken soft beneath his fingertips, the way the lamplight
touched off the golden-red highlights in Doyle's hair and tinted tanned
flesh a warm honey colour, the relaxed sound of Ray's breathing and the
over-loud noise made by even slight position adjustments and, above all
else, there was the smell of him, the shampoo-rich, soap-scented, clean
bouquet that threatened to drive Bodie over the edge with every breath.
Ray's natural perfume seeped though Bodie’s defences, overwhelming starved
yearnings with the promise of more.

 With each gentle stroke of the towel across trapped hair, Bodie found
himself leaning closer, breathing deeper. Relaxed in a euphoric sensation
that was nearly intoxication, Bodie did not see trouble coming until it
turned around and looked him in the eye.

 The green gaze that peered over a shoulder at him held no warning of what
was to come. Otherwise, Ray's casual question might not have hit him so
hard.

 "You really think I'm useless, then?" Doyle asked out of the blue.

 "Huh?" Bodie stammered, dropping the towel. Here, then, was the cause of
Doyle's moodiness.

 "Before, you told Cowley I was useless. Is that what you think?" Ray
reminded, the wounded green pools straying before Bodie could take full
measure of the depth of the injury.

 Bodie had a vague memory of saying some such thing to Cowley in anger,
but what was his exact wording?

 "No, of course, that's not what I think. What I said was that you’d be
'no use to him,' wasn't it?" Bodie corrected, relieved that Ray's
preoccupation had such a simple cause and not the sinister basis he'd been
imagining. For a minute there, he’d thought Doyle was on to him.

 "There's a difference?" Doyle whispered, facing away.

 Bodie gripped the bare shoulders of the back turned so eloquently his
way. 

 "A world of difference," Bodie replied in a calm, almost bored tone. "Do
you want me to lie to you and say that you'd make the grade if tested
now?" The negative headshake sent a tingling bunch of hair across his
gripping hands. "I thought not. If you can't remember your enemies,
sunshine, you can't perform at peak efficiency and George Cowley will
accept nothing less. That's all I meant by that stupid comment."

 Kneeling behind him as Bodie was, Doyle had to tilt his head back and
upwards to meet his gaze. 

 "Truth?" Doyle asked, tossing a boyish grin his way.

 Their faces were inches apart. Bodie swallowed hard. He was too aware of
his partner and of the invitation inherent in Doyle's position to do any
more than nod.

 The smooth skin on Ray's shoulders scorched his sweaty palms. Hypnotized
by the shades of green in the compelling gaze, Bodie struggled for breath,
only to have each gulp of supposedly calming air further his predicament
with the heady scent it carried. 

 Lord, but Ray's head was tilted just perfectly for a kiss, the arched
length of him just pleading for tactile investigation. It would be so
simple to just . . . . 

 Ray's eyes narrowed in confusion and then sharpened with sudden
understanding.

 Impaled on those piercing green crystals, Bodie fought to pull back. His
escape was impeded by a firm hand gripping his shoulder. 

 "Ray, I . . . ." he stammered, struggling to explain the inexcusable.

 God in heaven, what had he been thinking! To get turned on by Ray after
promising his abused partner safety! Bodie knew that he might just as well
have tied Doyle to the bed and raped him for the degree of betrayal he’d
committed. He’d promised Ray that he was safe with him, that he’d never
ask that of him, and here he was . . . .

 "It's all right, Bodie," Doyle soothed, an unnerving warmth softening his
features.

 "You don't understand, Ray, I . . . . " 

 *I what*, Bodie wondered – *wanted to rape you like the others*? Some
excuse.

 "I know," came the chilling acceptance. "I think I've always known."

 The low, intimate tone trembled through his blood. But Doyle could not
mean what Bodie had heard, or thought he’d heard. 

 "Known what?" Bodie tested, gambling that Ray could not be as certain as
he appeared.

 His bluff was called with appalling bluntness. "That you want me."

 And then Ray was closing the distance between them. Bodie was shaking so
badly that the first tender brush of dry, hot lips was all but lost to
him. Instinct stepped in where senses failed. His lips clung to the full
mouth with a desperation born of years of hopeless yearning. Bodie felt
the warm pads twist into a smile as Doyle drew a fraction away for air.

 "They're trembling." Ray's voice was soft with wonder. Two fingers rose
to brush Bodie's mouth as if to reaffirm what his sensitive lips had
detected.

 Bared of all pretence, Bodie kissed the investigators. A slender index
finger traced the crack between his lips. Bodie parted them, allowing the
digit to slip inside.

 Doyle gasped as his finger was sucked into the hot recess, a visible
shudder claiming his slim figure. Never had Bodie seen those eyes so wide
or so transfixed, seemingly enraptured by the sensation of Bodie’s tongue
playing along the artist's finger. There wasn't an inch of Ray that Bodie
wouldn't be willing to pay similar service to; although the lump clogging
his throat restricted any such avowal.

 All too soon, the finger left him to explore his facial features. Never
sensitive there before, Bodie nonetheless found himself quivering as the
damp digit trailed down the bridge of his nose. 

 With a start, he realized that it had been almost a year since he'd last
been touched. That might explain his over-sensitivity, but he suspected
that it was the fact that it was Ray doing the touching that was
responsible for the tingling lightning bolts of ecstasy ripping through
him. Like brittle reeds, he buckled under the white-hot flow of lava,
consigning himself totally to Ray's tender mercies.

 Made bold by Doyle's exploration, Bodie carded his fingers through the
damp curls, sighing at their silken passage. To his every sense, Ray was
perfect. 

 Leaning forward, Bodie nuzzled the pale skin above Ray’s long neck bone,
the velvety stretch as touchable as a newborn babe's skin.

 His right hand dropped down over Doyle's shoulder, to lightly skim the
chest. Even here Ray’s body hair was soft as peach down. Bodie moved
tenderly over the scars from May Li’s assassination attempt, loving the
disfigured flesh as much as the healthy areas.

 Although previous contact on those horror-ridden nights had proven Ray's
chest hair not to be as wiry as Bodie had presumed, he'd never once
imagined it to feel this good, this out right sensual. The hard scar
material railroad-tracking it only accentuated the chest hair’s lushness. 

 At last Bodie’s searching fingers located Doyle's left nipple. He lightly
flicked a finger over it, feeling the soft nub harden and peak in a firm
bump. A sharp, indrawn breath rewarded his effort as Doyle's body tensed
in anticipation.

 Needing the contact of another kiss, Bodie's hands reclaimed the loose
length of chestnut curls, capturing his partner's head between his grip.
Closing his eyes to savour the sensation, Bodie bent forward.

 Doyle's lips were just as wonderful as he recalled. Putting every ounce
of tenderness his soul possessed into the gesture, Bodie paid worship to
the yielding flesh.

 Ray's lips parted at the first brush of his tongue. Bodie eagerly
explored the moist interior, slightly awed by Doyle's generosity. His
partner seemed perfectly willing to let him keep the lead, allowing him to
explore every accessible millimetre in the sheerest, most exhilarating
kiss Bodie had ever shared with a lover. 

 His mouth worked frantically against Doyle's open lips. Bodie sampled
everything from the sharp, pearl teeth to the soft inner lining, hard roof
and as close to the tonsils as he could reach - Ray all the while not
impeding with playful volleys of his own or pleas for breath. Never had
Bodie experienced such an intense union before, or desired to, for that
matter. There weren't many people he'd ever wanted to get intimate enough
to share saliva with – until Ray. If possible, Bodie would willingly make
them one organism, inseparable.

 Finally, longing to be touched himself, Bodie pulled back, giving Doyle's
tongue a playful, inviting swab as he passed over it.

 Contrary to expectation, Doyle's tongue did not dart in after him. Bodie
tried again, tickling softly with his tongue tip in open invitation . . .
but Doyle's remained as motionless and inanimate as a pickled cow's tongue
in a deli jar.

 Abruptly conscious of Doyle's utter stillness throughout his oral
exploration, the lack of sighs, squirms or even giggles and the absolute
surrender he'd been granted, Bodie's eyes snapped open. 

 One glance showed Ray’s features to be completely immobile. The dull
glaze in the green eyes was as close to lifeless as Bodie ever wanted to
see.

 Bodie ripped his mouth free. Doyle's jaw hung slack like a toy soldier
nutcracker's. Shock, Bodie recognized, horrified by what he’d done. He’d
caused this, scared Ray so bad that the light had left his eyes again!

 His shaky hand gently pushed Doyle’s chin up, closing the hanging jaw.

 "R-Ray?" Bodie called, mortified by what he'd done.

 The visions of hell called forth by Bodie's action poured through Ray’s
expressive eyes. Bodie pulled back as though scalded, waiting until the
memories cleared and the confused gaze sought him out. Strangely enough,
there was no accusation to be found there.

 "Bo-Bodie?" Doyle asked, as though unsure.

 And how could he be, Bodie commiserated. For all the attention he'd paid
to Ray's plight, he might just as well have been Van Cleef. Christ, but
Doyle was shaking, as though convulsed with fever.

 Bodie eased his partner back against the pillows, trying hard not to
flinch at the wide-eyed terror that was turned his way as he temporarily
towered over his supine partner.

 Recognizing him, could Ray really still believe he meant to abuse him?

 Why shouldn't he, the cynic in Bodie challenged, reminding him how close
he'd come to doing just that.

 "It’s okay, Ray. I’m sorry, I-I’m just sorry. It won’t happen again.
Ever. I promise. Just relax, okay? You’re safe. No one’s going to hurt
you, ‘specially not me."

 Bodie pulled the covers up around Ray's neck.

 "Bodie, I-I'm sorry," Doyle stammered.

 "Don't be," Bodie snapped. Then, before his controls broke totally, he
fled the scene of the crime. The closing door sounded very loud behind him
in the quiet house –almost loud enough to drown out the muffled sobs from
the bed.

 ******

Eventually, his body stopped shuddering. Doyle raised his anguished face
from the damp bedclothes to peer around the lonely room.

 No Bodie. Not that he could blame him. Who in their right mind would want
Van Cleef's leavings?

 Things had been going so well, too, Doyle reflected morosely, until . . .
until Bodie had trapped his head in that kiss – an unconscious parody of
Van Cleef's final, obscene plundering. 

 Bodie had witnessed that degradation, Doyle recalled, humiliated by the
memory. He'd seen those same images play through his partner’s vivid blue
eyes before Bodie had flung him away like a rotting corpse. A more
accurate picture of revulsion, Doyle could not imagine.

 It was a pity, for if Bodie had kept his eyes closed for just a moment
longer, Doyle was sure he could have rallied from his body's instinctive
response to an aroused male. After all, he'd wanted this man.

 But for a moment there, despite his undeniable attraction to his partner,
it was as though the last six months had ceased to exist. His body had
reacted as though he were back in that cold, dark room being brutalized by
strangers. There had been no logic behind that paralysing terror, nothing
but instinctive withdrawal. Poor Bodie, once again he'd taken the brunt of
his moods.

 Reminded of what he had been to so many men, what man would want to
continue, Doyle thought as he dragged himself from the bed and headed
toward the loo.

 He'd been counting on Bodie's love to carry them through, forgetting all
along that it was another Ray Doyle that his partner wanted. Bodie wasn’t
in love with him. It was the hardened killer who'd been lost in the mental
shuffle that Bodie longed for. That Doyle wouldn't have frozen . . . or
thawed in the first place, jealousy unkindly supplied. He'd seen that
Doyle in his memories, heard Cowley talk about him tonight. That Doyle
would never have cared enough about Bodie to respond to a kiss. Cool and
removed, that was what that former Doyle was. 

 The current Ray Doyle didn’t find either of those traits especially
attractive, but, by the same token, that former Doyle wasn't unclean. Pure
as the driven snow and just as untouchable, or so Ray had gathered from
the information his partner unconsciously supplied in his harmless
anecdotes. Why Bodie would be so devoted to such a cold creature, Doyle
still couldn't fathom.

 Just when he had begun thinking of himself as two individuals, Doyle
wasn't sure. Probably when he started remembering his former, unsavoury
existence, if he were to be honest. Somehow, he'd emerged changed from his
experiences with Van Cleef.

 Changed for the worse, if his partner were to be any judge, for Bodie
plainly preferred the old Doyle. Tonight, the first instance Doyle could
recall being intentionally abusive and argumentative, also marked the
first time Bodie had revealed his physical desire for him. There had to be
some connection. Add that to the fact that Bodie's interest had dropped
the instant his own aggressive pose had, and the proof seemed
incontestable.

 Well, he couldn't help being what he was. And, as he'd told Cowley
earlier, he wasn't sure he'd go back to being what he'd been if given the
chance. Bodie was going to have to accept those facts.

 And if he didn't?

 The tear-streaked face staring out of the dim bathroom mirror at him had
a scared, feral slant to it that Doyle hardly recognized. 

 Answer enough. If Bodie couldn't love him for who he was now? Well, then,
he’d just have to find a way to be that former Doyle again.

 Ice cold water helped erase some of the night's ravages. Donning a warm
robe, Ray slipped quietly into the hallway to find his friend.

 As on another emotion-wrought night, Doyle's search eventually led him to
the study. The door opened soundlessly. 

 Bodie stood a substantial shadow in a roomful of darkness. Back-lit by
the stormy window, his partner was a foreboding figure, more apt to
haunting a bleak moorland than their cosy chalet.

 Doyle snapped on the overhead light. 

 He was temporarily baffled by Bodie's peculiar outfit. The grey training
suit shirt ill-suited the brown slacks, though both complimented Bodie's
muscular build separately. Bodie was also barefoot. 

 Only after a moment’s puzzling did Ray realize what must have happened.
Bodie had stalked away clad only in his briefs. Obviously, this was the
best Bodie could manage from yesterday's wash-load.

 "Are you always this predictable when you're run to ground?" Doyle asked,
taking the offensive, since that was how his partner seemed for prefer
him.

 Bodie blinked at him a few seconds longer, apparently startled by his
presence. "Ray?"

 "Very good. Eyes still work, recognized me straight off, you did." Doyle
closed the door carefully behind him, and then crossed the study to ease
himself casually onto the desk corner closest to his mate, no small feat
considering the bulky towelling robe he was wearing and the number of
bric-a-brac cluttered there. Fortunately, none fell to demolish the
effect. Ray claimed the eight inches of available space with a cat-like
grace, so studied that it almost managed to blot out his awareness of
Bodie's observation. His partner was watching his approach as one would
that of a venomous reptile.

 Bodie’s aggression was all bluff where he was concerned, Doyle realized,
wondering if it had always been so.

 "What do you want?" Bodie's barriers were near impenetrable. The cold
tone would have discouraged almost anyone, except Ray Doyle, who had never
known any better than to go sticking his hand down a lion's throat. 

 There was an excitement to this hard-line, a knowing flirtation with fire
that could more than consume him, Doyle acknowledged. He could easily see
where one could become addicted to this aggressive interplay, scoring the
points off each tiny victory. Except, unlike that other Doyle, he could
not completely ignore the vulnerability prompting Bodie's stand. Their
bedroom debacle had wounded Bodie far more deeply than himself it seemed.

 "I wanted you a little while ago, 'fore you ran out on me," Doyle offered
smoothly, knowing instinctively that he had to keep Bodie dancing on the
knife-edge to dispel the guilt so clear in those haunted eyes.

 Statue-like, the pale face just stared at him. "Don't please . . . . "

 How often had this man asked anything of him? 

 Hardening his heart, Doyle ignored the whispered entreaty, "I don't blame
you, of course." He needed truth now, not well-intentioned cop-outs.
"Wouldn't be all that eager for Van Cleef's leftovers myself."

 An angry flush of colour rewarded his gamble. 

 Bodie instantly denied, "Don't be a moron. That wasn't the reason . . .
."

 "Sorry, sunshine, I saw your eyes. You dropped me like the proverbial hot
potato when you remembered." Score that one to Bodie, Doyle conceded. The
hurt wasn't supposed to show.

 Bafflement forced some of the defensiveness from Bodie’s guarded eyes. 

 "You froze," Bodie stated, too gently for the accusation it should have
been to keep within the rules of the peculiar fencing that fit so
naturally between them.

 "I'd've thawed."

 His curt rejoinder earned him a sceptical snort. "You'd have freaked in
another minute."

 "Sure of that – are you?" Ray challenged.

 "Yes."

 Bodie's answer the embodiment of utter certitude, Doyle found no argument
that could circumvent the emotional wreck he had been when Bodie had left
him. Having no defence, he remained silent.

 "It's best this way, Ray," Bodie lamely offered, as if uncomfortable
under his gaze. The blue eyes strayed nervously away to fix on Doyle's
reflection in the mirror-like, slick, black windowpane.

 Unsure of what to say, Doyle stayed quiet, not realizing how silence
could work for him until he saw the taut figure before him squirm under
his penetrating gaze.

 "Don't know why you'd want to anyway – after what happened to you," Bodie
said.

 Doyle wasn't sure if that was meant as a legitimate question, sensing
instead that it was something Bodie might have been asking himself. 

 "Told you before – I wanted you," Ray repeated. "It has nothing to do
with anything that happened before." 

 Or shouldn't, Ray thought, if he could just persuade his body.

 "Why?" Bodie sounded almost as if he were in pain.

 "Why what?"

 "You never . . . felt that way before. Why now, after I was . . .
careless?"

 "Why do you think?" Ray’s tongue countered before thought could counsel.
This hard image came too easily, Doyle decided, seeing Bodie's entire body
flinch as if a sharp barb had just gouged out a piece of his flesh.
Bodie’s heart, no doubt, for his partner truly looked as though he'd lost
something that dear.

 "Gratitude," Bodie hollowly suggested, sounding as if it were the worst
possible reason.

 "You're not very bright sometimes," Doyle said around the emotion that
was threatening to choke him. He rose from the desk and came to stand
beside Bodie’s tense figure. His index finger hooked the down-bent chin,
forcing his partner’s reluctant gaze to meet his own. "It'd be a lie to
tell you I'm not grateful. There's nothing I could ever do that could even
begin to make up for all you've done for me – and nothing you'd expect me
to, if I'm not mistaken," Doyle added hastily, seeing from the pain-filled
gaze that Bodie was taking his words as confirmation of his suspicions.
"But that's not the reason."

 "Why, then?" Bodie spat out. His strained features revealed that he was
tortured by even Doyle’s light touch to his chin. "Why should you want
me?"

 Could Bodie really consider himself that undesirable? With those perfect
looks?

 "For this," Ray said, running his hand through the soft, almost
militarily, short hair. "And for the way these," he touched both corner of
Bodie's eyes, "sparkle and dance like sapphires in the sun when you laugh,
and the way you look down your nose at me when I'm being impossible, but
mostly for what's in here," Doyle admitted, patting the poly-cotton blend
above Bodie's heart.

 It was frightening how susceptible Bodie was to his touch. Doyle could
actually see the quiver that coursed along the full length of Bodie's
frame. 

 Bodie's Adams apple gulped up and down, the sound absurdly loud in the
closeness. Then, the dark-haired man stepped away from him.

 "That was good, Ray. Almost had me convinced." The compliment might have
been genuine had Bodie’s desolate gaze been hidden. 

 As it was, the expression seared Doyle as though he'd been purposely
cruel.

 "Wh-what?" he stammered.

 "Do you really expect me to believe that someone who'd been – put through
what Van Cleef did to you would be admiring another bloke's anatomy? I
mightn't be terribly bright, but I'm not completely stupid."

 "Damn close to it," Ray countered, infuriated by the arrogant delivery.
"It wasn't the wrapping I was talking about, Einstein." Seeing Bodie’s
unrelenting disbelief, he struck out in the only way left to him. "Well,
what the hell else have I had to admire for the last six months" he spewed
venomously, stung by this second rejection. "You took me to the top of a
bleedin' mountain, for Christ's sake, not the Riviera. After six months,
even you began to look good."

 Bodie retreated from Doyle’s outburst – all two steps back, until Bodie
was cornered against the window, his back flat against the glass.

 God, what was he doing? Was this how it had been between them before he’d
lost his memory?

 Doyle sank back onto the desk. Not so careful this time, a grass-skirted
Hawaiian ceramic figure crashed to the rug. Never so utterly dejected,
Doyle hugged his arms around his chest and stared at the shattered
figurine. 

 His worst fears were true after all. Bodie didn't want him on any terms,
just the other Doyle. Though how he could be more like that Doyle than he
had in the last few minutes without getting himself killed, Ray couldn't
imagine.

 "I didn't mean that," Ray said at last, directing his apology to the
statue shards.

 "Doesn't matter."

 "No, it wouldn't. It wasn't me you wanted in the first place, was it?"
Doyle asked dejectedly. "Sorry, mate, I just don't know how to be him."

 "Him? Who him?" Bodie asked after a long enough period had passed for the
sense of Doyle’s words, which Bodie obviously hadn’t really listened to,
to penetrate. 

 What more was there left for either of them to say, other than goodbye,
Doyle wondered. 

 "The other Doyle," even to his own ears, he sounded like a petulant
child.

 "What other Doyle? What are you talking about, Ray?"

 "Me – before Van Cleef. I was a different person back then, wasn't I?
You'd've gone for him."

 "I still don't understand what you're on about," Bodie said, regarding
him as though this were a trick.

 "All of this – " Doyle made a gesture encompassing the chalet, himself
and Bodie, " – it was for him, not me, so's you could get him back." 

 There was no reason to feel so betrayed, Ray told himself. Facts were
facts.

 "You are Raymond Doyle," Bodie said firmly. "There's no 'him'."

 "Yeah? You said yourself, I'm not the same."

 "And you weren't the same after that Chinese bird put a bullet through
you or after that Coogan kid went and croaked on us. You've had a shock,
Ray. It's going to take you time to recover, that's all."

 Doyle snorted and looked away, hugging himself all the tighter.

 "This – this is crazy, Ray." Bodie stepped close, Doyle's need seeming to
beckon like a planet's gravity field to its moon. Ray noted the phenomenon
with interest, knowing that his nervous partner did not really desire to
get any closer to him, yet Bodie appeared incapable of ignoring his
isolation. "There's only ever been one of you. Lord knows, one's enough to
handle. It just seems different this time, cause you can't remember;
that's all."

 "That's all?" Doyle repeated sarcastically. "Then if you don't agree with
me, how come you only turned on when I acted like him?"

 "This is getting weird, mate."

 "Answer me," Doyle demanded, refusing to be distracted by Bodie's
desperate play to lighten the situation with understatement. To Doyle's
mind, their predicament had passed weird hours ago.

 "For Christ's sake, you were there. Nobody else, just you – acting
irritating as only you can!"

 "See, even you admit it." There was no victory in being proven right in
this.

 "Admit what?" Never had he seen Bodie look more flabbergasted.

 "That I was actin' like him."

 Bodie’s distinctive jaw dropped open, then slowly closed. "You're serious
'bout this, aren't you?"

 Doyle nodded, still unwilling to meet Bodie's eyes, lest they see the
extent the rejection had hurt him.

 "Look, sunshine, I don't understand a lot of this. Why don't you explain
. . . what makes you think they're two yous."

 "Damn it, don't look at me like that. I 'm not schizophrenic. I know that
there's just one of me; it's just inside, I'm different than the man you
knew. He was harder than me." That seemed the least offensive description.
Although Doyle would have liked to be completely honest, he really didn't
think Bodie would care to hear his heart's love slandered.

 "Memories of your past might seem to make you out to be a harder man than
you are right now, but, remember, Ray, you weren’t recovering from a
vicious attack back then. 's only natural that a little of your
self-confidence would be shaken. Of course," Bodie continued somewhat
confidingly, "I never thought it rattled quite this much. You're you,
Doyle, the one and only."

 "Your one and only?"

 Bodie's eyes dropped for a second, embarrassment tingeing every aspect of
his features. "If there were ever any doubt of that, it's been made more
than obvious today. Make what you want of it."

 "I can't," Doyle confessed, charmed by the belligerent acknowledgment,
"you won't let me."

 Bodie’s uncompromising glare didn't last long. Eventually, an
exasperated, slightly sheepish smile replaced it. "Try the patience of a
saint, you would. And, in case you hadn't noticed, I haven't got a halo.
What am I going to do with you?"

 Doyle glanced up almost coquettishly from his perch on the desk.
"Anything you want. Try takin' me back to bed for starters."

 Purposefully seductive as his suggestion had been, Doyle was still a
little startled by its impact. Bodie's face drained of colour and
expression.

 "Please, Ray, stop this. I – don't know how long I can keep sayin' no,
and I won't hurt you. I do want you, but I want you well."

 "I am well. Before, that was only a temporary setback. Things were moving
a little too fast for me, but . . . ."

 "Jesus, you are a stubborn sod," Bodie told him. 

 "I know what I want," Ray countered. He watched the smooth planes of his
partner's handsome face alter, becoming hard and more than slightly
dangerous.

 "You know what you want, do you? And you're sure that's me," Bodie
checked.

 "Totally."

 Bodie moved toward Doyle's perch on the desk corner, stepping so close
that his waist was almost pinned between Doyle's outstretched thighs.

 Doyle's breath caught in his chest at the sudden, provocative proximity.
He looked up at Bodie's supremely towering length until his gaze touched
the chillingly blue, arctic ice that was Bodie’s eyes.

 "This is what you wanted, isn’t it?" Bodie drawled, in a vaguely mocking
tone, his tone as cold as his gaze.

 Before Doyle in his confusion could frame an answer or even suspect his
partner's intent, the dark head swooped to claim Ray’s mouth with brutal
force. No lazy exploration, this. The joining of their mouths was more
akin to an outright attack.

 Through his panic, Doyle struggled to comprehend what was happening. Van
Cleef had used him thus, as had any of his followers with similar
inclinations, but this was Bodie, the partner who had vowed just seconds
ago to safeguard his well-being.

 Before the incipient terror could grip him in its paralysing
stranglehold, Doyle's intellect offered a suggestion. 

 What better way than this to purge any idea of making love to his partner
from Doyle's mind? Bodie knew that Ray would recoil from force faster than
a beam of light could make its way across the airless void of space. Even
so, his partner was taking a terrible gamble, for Bodie had no guarantee
he'd ever be forgiven such a breach of trust.

 Knowing only one way to test his theory, Doyle grabbed hold of the short,
downy hair on both sides of Bodie's head. The lack of resistance in the
strong neck muscles testified to Bodie's willingness to be pushed away.

 If his lips hadn't been otherwise occupied, Doyle would have smiled at
the smooth trap. However, the brilliant plan lacked one major ingredient –
Doyle was no longer afraid of Bodie. Instead of pushing Bodie's head away,
as the other man so obviously expected him to do, Ray clutched his partner
in place, meeting the fierce kiss with an equal fervour.

 Bodie was understandably stunned by his response. In that instant when
Bodie’s ravaging drive temporarily faltered, Doyle took over.

 Ray used the stillness of Bodie’s utter astonishment to temper the
gesture with tenderness, gradually instilling gentleness into the act. His
right hand left its imprisoning hold on Bodie's too-short locks to stroke
down the back of the smooth neck. At the same moment, his tongue flicked
questioningly across swollen lips.

 There was no hesitation. Almost of their own accord those lips opened to
him. Bodie's sole objection was a dismayed whimper.

 After a moist, breathless moment, Doyle drew back. The taste of Bodie was
still fresh on his lips, exciting and strangely comforting.

 Bodie's entire body sagged against him like so much boneless rubber.
Doyle clamped his legs about the standing man and held him close, rubbing
his palms over that powerful back as he felt the tremors running through
his friend. 

 Bodie felt so damn good, and tasted better. All Doyle wanted to do was
plunge in for more as he met his breathless partner's stare.

 His heart was beating wild. He could barely think around its thunderous
tattoo. Stunned, he recognized his own state as active, physical desire.
It had been so long that the entire experience was alien to him. He was
used to curling up into a tight ball, emotionally and literally, to
protect himself when another man moved in this close. Feeling good about
sex was as exhilarating as the idea that he would have to offer emotional
bolstering to a male partner was unthinkable. Yet, here Bodie was, leaning
on him, needing him. It felt good to hold Bodie this way, and better to
know that he had the strength to share. 

 "Yeah," Doyle answered at last, "that's what I wanted."

 Bodie’s head lifted from where it was resting against Doyle’s shoulder.
Bodie's downcast eyelashes fluttered open and the chokingly defenceless
gaze came to rest upon him. 

 "Damn you," Bodie muttered, but the words lacked vehemence, being more an
acknowledgment of defeat.

 But how complete the victory? To test its parameters and also for mere
enjoyment, Doyle reached out to touch Bodie's face. The gesture was not
rejected, neither was the kiss that followed. 

 Ray took his time, savouring Bodie's particular flavour as the last
traces of resistance melted from his partner’s tense muscles. Bodie was a
good kisser. His enthusiasm and responsiveness were as enticing as his
addictive flavour.

 It was strange. Doyle knew that he should be the one who was reluctant,
the one who was freaked out by the idea of getting close to another man,
but kissing Bodie was one of the most natural, sweetest pleasures he’d
ever known; not that he could remember any others, he wryly acknowledged.

 "Come on, let's move this act upstairs," Doyle suggested before things
could get completely out of hand.

 "But – "

 "Sssssh," he silenced whatever new objections Bodie had dredged up.
"Everything will be all right. Come along."

 "Aren't you afraid, Ray?" Bodie asked, taking a step backwards so that
Doyle could slide from his seat on the desk corner.

 Doyle considered the serious tone, trying not to be sidetracked by the
appeal of Bodie’s uncertain expression. One could easily drown in eyes
that blue, he realized, more than a little stunned by the sudden surge of
desire that rocked him. He could feel his insides constricting with a
tightness that wasn’t at all unpleasant.

 Up until this moment Ray’s motives for forcing this issue were unclear
even to himself. In spite of his denial, a large part of his reasons for
wanting to make Bodie happy this way had been gratitude, this being a
means to make up for all the hurts he had unknowingly or intentionally
inflicted upon his partner. But even more than that, there was Ray’s own
need for emotional closeness. He wanted to be loved and held close again,
to be cherished, even if just for a little while – and who better than
Bodie to do that? Man or woman, there would never be anyone who'd love him
this much.

 Was he scared? Hell, yes, there was no way he could help that, not with
his past. To look into another man's eyes and burn . . . that was
something Doyle had never anticipated. 

 In retrospect, Ray recognized that there had been hints of this growing
desire. Finding out Bodie’s secret should have had him on the first plane
out, but it hadn’t frightened him, not the way it should have. That night,
weeks past now, when Bodie had held him close after a bad dream, he'd felt
a vague stirring . . . and ignored it. The resultant restlessness had hung
about until almost this very moment. Unlikely as it seemed, Doyle felt at
peace now, untroubled by what was to come.

 "Ray?"

 Doyle blinked, not comprehending his partner's urgency until he belatedly
recalled that he’d never answered Bodie's question about being afraid
aloud. 

 "You want to know if I’m afraid?" Doyle checked to be certain. At Bodie’s
worried nod, he answered honestly, "Only of the past. And that has nothing
to do with the present." 

 Or so Ray hoped. He was determined not to fail his friend again.

 Bodie nodded. Although his eyes were still shaded with doubt, his partner
was apparently committed – for better or worse.

 They climbed the stairs to their room without speech or touch. 

 Doyle was uncomfortably aware of an underlying current that seemed to be
drawing them together. Each infrequent brush of their bodies on the narrow
stairs ignited a reaction far out of proportion to the accidental contact.
Above all else, he was conscious of Bodie's nervousness. It was almost a
living thing, so fierce and jumpy was its presence.

 Even without seeing those troubled eyes settle on the two closed
guestroom doors, Doyle felt his partner’s apprehension. Bodie's tense
shoulders descried the emotion more boldly than Piccadilly's flashing neon
signs would have done.

 This time Ray allowed his hand to intentionally brush the training suit
shirt clad arm. As he'd gambled, the tension between them worked for him.
Once again he was the centre of Bodie's universe. 

 Doyle gave what he hoped was his most rakish smile and opened the bedroom
door.

 His bravado held out as the door closed behind them, lasting all the way
to the huge bed. There it deserted him completely, leaving only his
resolution to see this through and the fledgling desire that was even now
making butterfly spirals through his insides.

 Walking to the side of the bed, Doyle divested himself of his robe, then
paused to watch Bodie strip down.

 His partner hovered behind the closed door, a portrait of uncertainty.
Looking Doyle's way, a steely determination settled across Bodie's
features, barring doubt from all but his eyes. Without further delay his
partner crossed to the foot of the bed and shrugged his way out of the
grey sweat shirt. 

 The soft golden lamplight highlighted rippling muscles, making Bodie
appear even bigger by the unveiling. The brown trousers were tugged off
next, the action rushed, as if Bodie wanted them off before he could
change his mind.

 Doyle eyed the outcome, trying to be critical, but there was nothing
there to be critical of. Smooth, hairless skin glistened like honey
wherever he looked. The colour was a gift of the lamplight, Doyle knew,
for unlike himself, his partner had no predilection for exposing his flesh
to the sun's burning rays. In reality, Bodie's skin shades varied from bud
pink to alabaster, both equally as pleasing as the light's illusion.

 Bodie's shoulders and chest were square, tapering down in almost classic
perfection. The sculptors of ancient Greece had coveted such bodies for
their models and more. Every limb and muscle spoke of power and sleek
sensuality, Bodie's beauty the awesome appeal of the timber wolf or the
wild stallion. One could struggle to make such beauty one's own – and
suffer the consequences which came to those foolish enough to try to tame
children of the wind.

 Doyle shivered, damning his imagination. Wolves and wild stallions, he
didn't need such fanciful allusions to intimidate him; Bodie's physical
presence was quite daunting enough.

 His gaze dropped to Bodie's briefs, settling on the excited flesh that
was so tautly defined beneath the snowy fabric. That erection was, after
all, what Ray had laboured for.

 "Well?" Bodie asked, nervousness making it a harsh demand. Bodie looked
for all the world as though he expected to be rejected again.

 "Very well, indeed," Doyle answered, drawing on his earlier appreciation
of the pleasing form. That the form in question was bigger than Van Cleef
and stronger than all but Miller, his captor’s main henchman, was
something Ray tried not to dwell upon.

 Despite the encouragement, Bodie remained rooted at the bed's edge. Only
slowly did Doyle realize that the other man would not come to him. If he
wanted Bodie, this was something he was going to have to be sure enough to
initiate.

 The necessary few steps were taken in a numbed daze. In spite of his
resolution, they still fell short of touch by a few feet. The hand Ray
held out to his partner shook almost convulsively.

 Warm strength fast encompassed his unsteady limb. Bodie used the
handclasp to draw him into an embrace as solidly supportive as their
mountain.

 "You don't have to do this, you know. We can stop now," Bodie whispered,
the words shivering down Doyle’s neck in a gust of warm breath.

 Doyle mutely rejected the idea with a fierce shake of his head, his eyes
dropping immediately afterward when they encountered the hunger in Bodie’s
gaze. Ray wished he were stronger, but he was still scared. Even so, the
quivers Bodie’s breath caused on his neck felt so incredible that Doyle
wanted to feel more. He hoped his courage would hold out, that he wouldn’t
end up a gibbering wreck again. 

 Inside, Ray was a roiling mass of conflicting emotions; he was as
frightened as he was aroused . . . and he was aroused as hell, which meant
that he was pretty damned frightened. He was living from moment to moment
now, holding onto his control, hoping it would last long enough to carry
him through, but underneath it, he was uncertain, and scared of failing
Bodie again. 

 His friend didn’t deserve that. Bodie deserved something as fine and
special as he was himself. Not some coward who couldn’t trust enough to
believe in the one person who had never let him down.

 Doyle tensed as Bodie lifted his chin up. 

 "You're scared out of your wits, Ray. If I touched you now, you'd start
screaming," Bodie gently pointed out, knowing him so well that Ray
couldn’t even consider an evasion.

 His mouth clamped tight against just such a possibility, Doyle forced the
words out, "Would not."

 "I wish I understood why this is so all-fired important to you," Bodie
murmured.

 A hand rubbed lightly across Ray’s robe covered back, Bodie seeming
incapable of restraining from touch at such close quarters.

 Doyle shrugged and tried to answer around the distracting touch's effect.
That unthreatening palm felt so good. 

 "I need someone to show me it can still be . . . good." Doyle gulped,
feeling utterly naked before that penetrating stare. "I’d like it to be
you."

 Bodie's gaze dropped. "A bird'd be better for you, easier."

 "Yeah," he agreed, waiting until Bodie's head snapped back up. "Yeah,
she'd be easier, but she'd never be you; would she, sunshine? It's you I'm
after."

 The grip on him changed at that point, locking him tight to Bodie's
chest. Closer than mistletoe vine to hosting oak, they breathed the same
damp air. Bodie's heart thudded beneath Doyle's ear, so loud that Ray
could barely make out the reply when it came. Or was it the curls at his
neck that Bodie's face was buried in which muffled the reply? Either way,
Doyle had to strain to catch the unsteady, breathy, "Why?"

 What did Bodie want – sweet words? Ray had very few of those. Even if
he'd been gifted with a honeyed tongue, it would have failed him at a time
such as this. "'cause you're mine."

 Bodie shivered, withdrawing from the embrace far enough to see his face.
"Yours?"

 "Any objections?" Doyle demanded, perhaps too roughly in view of the
complete lack of rebellion.

 A simple, negative headshake was all Bodie offered him.

 Made brave by his partner’s susceptibility, Doyle dared another kiss.

 The eyes that regarded Ray’s own breathless features as they drew apart
for air were more than a little dazed. 

 "Bed?" Doyle suggested, suspecting in his present preoccupied state that
Bodie would agree just as readily to the dark side of the moon as a
destination, as long as there was more touching involved. 

 Ray could appreciate that. He was feeling pretty much the same way
himself.

 Ignoring his fear, Ray concentrated on the sweet singing in his blood.
That was real. The demons and fear were just spectres of his past. The
touch and feel of Bodie’s skin was intoxicating. His partner’s fresh,
clean scent was making his head reel quite pleasantly. And, although the
hard organ nudging Doyle’s hip was causing some apprehension, it was
nowhere enough to inhibit his pleasure.

 Judging himself the more clear-minded of the pair, Doyle guided his
unresisting mate toward the bed. Locked in the kiss, Bodie followed
docilely.

 His partner surprised him once there. As Doyle made to lower himself onto
the mattress, pulling Bodie down on top of him, an iron grip aborted his
descent.

 "Not that way."

 Doyle froze. The hoarse command called forth the ghost of many an obscene
or nauseating order. 

 His fragile composure shattered as Doyle waited the other man's pleasure.

 Ray frantically assured himself that this didn't necessarily mean what he
was interpreting it to. Bodie was an aggressive male, as he himself had
once been and was trying to be again tonight. It was only natural that in
this charged-up state his partner would be somewhat less than delicate in
voicing his needs. Although, for his sanity's sake, Doyle wished Bodie had
been a little clearer in his desires.

 "How, then?" Ray asked, trembling. Bodie didn't want him face down on the
bed, did he?

 The tight grip on his left elbow loosened. Bodie’s hand rose to his face,
his pinkie tracing Doyle’s cheekbone. The touch was shivery-light, its
inherent tenderness choking Ray's throat with guilt. Such was not the look
of a man about to savage his companion.

 "You on top. We don't want any more . . . misunderstandings, do we?"

 Doyle shook his head, too ashamed to meet Bodie's gaze as his partner
climbed into the bed, pushed the covers and top sheet aside and lay down. 

 Doyle’s eyes travelled over the prone body as it lay before him, the
expectant tingle almost cancelling out his guilt.

 Becoming aware that he was the object of similar scrutiny, Ray flushed
and began to fumble with the belt of his robe, self-conscious about the
amount of time he'd kept his friend waiting. He'd been the one who'd
badgered Bodie into this, yet at every turn his partner had had to coax
and gentle him along. It was a wonder Bodie was still interested,
considering the delays.

 "Don't," Bodie said, catching hold of his suddenly clumsy fingers before
they could undo the robe’s simple tie. "Come get comfortable first. We'll
take care of that later."

 "But . . . . " Only then did he realize Bodie still had his briefs on.

 His partner was stretched out on Doyle's side of the bed, arms lifted in
silent invitation to join him. Forgetting Bodie's preference of having him
on top, Doyle settled on his side in the tiny space left between his
companion and the bed's edge.

 To Doyle's tense mind, Bodie's sigh seemed tinged with exasperation, the
crinkle in the normally smooth brow a frown of displeasure.

 "You haven't changed at all, you know," Bodie offered in a low tone.

 Still a tease? Still untouchable? Doyle wondered, daunted despite his
best intentions. 

 "How's that?" Ray asked, needing to hear it all, even if it would destroy
this first gambit toward healing. 

 He couldn't blame his partner. Bodie had been more patient than Doyle had
a right to expect.

 "You're still the bravest bloke I know."

 Too stunned to restrain his reaction, Doyle laughed, the sound bitter
with self-honesty. "Brave? I'm shakin' like the last leaf of autumn,
mate." 

 To demonstrate, Doyle held out a faintly quivering hand.

 Immediately, it was enfolded by the rock-steady warmth of Bodie's own.

 "Maybe so, but you’re still going through with it, aren't you? Don't know
if I'd be brave enough to do the same in your shoes," Bodie whispered.

 "Bravery's got nothin' to do with it, sunshine. Is pig-headed
stubbornness, tha's all," Doyle chuckled, relaxing and moving closer to
his partner. "Besides, haven't 'gone through with it' yet, have we?" With
that Doyle placed a light kiss on Bodie's nearby shoulder.

 He wasn't sure if his partner's calling him brave had been intended to
bolster his confidence as it had, but Doyle was nevertheless grateful.

 Releasing Doyle's hand, Bodie turned on his side to face him. Face to
face, so close they breathed the same air, Bodie kissed him, long and
leisurely.

 The sensation danced like quicksilver through his veins. There was no air
in the world, just that which he pulled from Bodie’s lungs. Doyle's tongue
slipped into his partner's mouth to sample Bodie's unique flavour. Like
the scent and feel of him, that too coursed through Doyle's blood, its
potency leaving his heart pounding and nerve endings throbbing for more.

 Bodie did not withhold his attentions, any more than Doyle himself did.
Throughout the prolonged union of their mouths, their hands ran aimlessly
up and down bare backs and sides, each seemingly addicted to the silken
feel of heated flesh.

 At last Bodie pulled back. His partner’s feverish blue eyes aglitter in
the dark, Doyle could feel the gaze hungrily assessing him.

 "Ray, can I . . . ?" Bodie whispered, his hand poised above Doyle's
chest.

 "Anything," Ray granted, meaning it in that hazed moment.

 With slow care, Bodie’s hands moved to undo the belt of Ray’s light blue
robe.

 First Doyle was hit by the chill of the room, then the heat of Bodie’s
gaze appraising the uncovered territory. It was like ice water had just
dripped on the revealed skin. Ray shivered and erupted into gooseflesh,
his breath catching in his chest as his partner reached for him.

 He jumped a little as Bodie's index finger swirled around his right
nipple. He'd been afraid that after what had happened with Van Cleef, he'd
be unable to respond sexually to another person ever again. But the
sensation caused by that whisper light finger jolted right through Doyle.
Somewhat stunned, he felt the awareness centre in his groin, only a dull
throbbing as yet, but there and demanding recognition.

 Bodie's head bowed over Ray. The sweat-beaded forehead with its feather
soft bangs pressed against Doyle’s chest as a wet tongue replaced Bodie’s
finger at Doyle’s nipple.

 Despite himself, Doyle tensed. Many a dark head had bent over him this
way. The tender flesh of his nipples had been bitten and chewed as those
other men were carried away by sensation. But Bodie’s mouth only kissed
the hard puckered nipples and sucked on them. Teeth never once so much as
grazed him. The most aggressive act Bodie performed there was that
insistent sucking, and that pleaded to Doyle’s pleasure, rather than hurt
him.

 The gasp that was torn out of Ray as his partner’s skilful mouth turned
this to a once again delightful practice shook Doyle's frame. He felt like
he was being reborn here, like Bodie was taking all the bad memories and
making them right with his loving attention, healing him with love.

 Noting that Bodie seemed completely absorbed in his service, Doyle
allowed his hand to snake down to his pyjama bottoms. Almost with
trepidation, Ray touched the hard organ arching beneath soft cotton.

 A full erection. Doyle couldn't remember the last time he'd experienced
one. Once or twice in the past weeks of feeling better, he'd attempted to
masturbate during his afternoon naps, but his cock had never surpassed a
semi-hard tumescence, wilting under the inevitable shadows. One by one,
Bodie was expelling those nightmare memories.

 Eyes abrim with tears, Doyle closed his arms over the beloved shoulders,
banding Bodie to his chest.

 His partner seemed willing to stay there forever, but eventually the
mouth moved downwards. Bodie trailed the line of chest hair to Doyle’s
navel. Ray shuddered as Bodie's tongue dipped within, warm and wet in its
lapping.

 That was a new sensation. In all his months of captivity, Ray couldn’t
recall any of his attackers touching him there. His guts constricting with
a yearning that seemed to shiver from his groin straight down to his toes,
Doyle gasped in a breath and tried to stay sane.

 Bodie's chin nudged the elastic band of his pyjamas. Doyle waited in
expectation of the moment when the clothes would be pushed aside, but
other than that one accidental push, Bodie didn’t touch him there again.
Instead, Bodie’s head moved back up, the sweet lips eager to reclaim Ray’s
own. 

 Already short of air, Doyle’s senses reeled in an ecstatic swirl, his
mouth kneading against his partner’s in frantic compulsion.

 Bodie's arms locked around his back. A quick, abrupt motion, and Doyle
found himself atop the well-toned body. His shocked gasp was swallowed in
their kiss.

 Every pore of his body was sensitised to Bodie. Bewildered by the
near-sensory overload, he marvelled at the contrasts of sensation. The
skin of his partner's sweat-sheened chest felt smooth and soft beneath his
questing fingertips, yet where Doyle’s weight pressed heaviest against it,
it was hard and firm, rising and falling in a rushed, yet eternally
reassuring rhythm.

 And then, more overwhelming than the awareness of chest, intoxicating
mouth and pleasure-giving fingers, there was Bodie’s iron-hard,
brief-covered bulge trapped beneath Doyle’s own straining organ. The
mental adjustment necessary to assimilate his lack of fear at the
sensation was a strange and over-joying surprise. Positioned as they were
with himself on top, worry never touched Ray.

 Breaking free of the kiss to gulp down some much-needed air, Doyle asked,
"Shouldn't we get rid of these?" To illustrate, he gave a tug to the band
of Bodie's briefs.

 "Ssssh," Bodie soothed. Rubbing flat palms across Doyle’s spine, Bodie
drew him back into the kiss.

 Their hips seemed to know what to do. Without any conscious decision on
his mind’s part, Ray’s groin started rocking and grinding down against his
partner’s. This was so perfect, with so much of their bodies pressing
against each other. The contact was electric, like heat lightning sparking
along a dark horizon at night, the pleasure unexpected and all consuming. 

 Bodie whimpered beneath him. The small sound trickled through Doyle,
touching something deep within.

 This was so different from anything that he'd known while Van Cleef's
captive. From the way his heart was racing at Bodie’s touch to the
innocent joy of the entire encounter, Ray was beginning to wonder if he’d
ever known loving like this. 

 It was entirely possible he hadn’t. Bodie had made it plain that Doyle
had had many girlfriends, but no one steady. This type of tenderness
didn’t normally occur between strangers. It meant something, something
more than the enthusiastic enjoyment of each other’s flesh. What made
every touch so special was the feeling Ray held for his partner, and the
love Bodie had for him. Ray knew that he might have been able to deal with
unthreatening intercourse with some girl he'd just met, but the sex
wouldn't have rocked him the way touching Bodie was doing. Doyle mightn't
know anything about his past, but he knew that much. This was special, to
him now, and to the man he’d been.

 The hands on Ray’s back moved downwards. Bodie’s long fingers reached to
cup the cheeks of Doyle’s ass. Although the touch was gentle, Ray froze as
though Bodie's fingers had dug right through his skin.

 Bodie’s closed eyes snapped open. Passion bright, dazed with hot, honest
need, they searched Doyle’s face. "Trust me, Ray, please?" 

 Raw yearning permeated Bodie’s plea.

 Incapable of rejecting that need, Doyle haltingly reaffirmed his earlier
promise, "Anything, anything you want."

 Doyle told himself that he could deal with the outcome. Had done so many
times before when he'd been taken without permission. At least Bodie would
be gentle.

 "Oh, god," Bodie’s exclamation was almost a sob.

 Doyle felt his concession shake his friend. An actual tremor was running
through Bodie’s body.

 Bodie’s lips strained to meet his own again. Doyle drowned in their
sweetness, fire building despite Bodie's overwhelming tenderness.

 The hands on Rays butt gave a gentle squeeze. 

 Instead of freezing into a motionless mass of terror, Doyle’s body jolted
like he’d stuck his finger into an electric socket. Sizzzzzz, his
supercharged nerve endings screamed as they were buffeted with raw
sensation. It was almost too much to take, as unexpected as it was moving.
Ray gasped as the air rushed out of his lungs, the oxygen forced out by a
constricting, gut-melting blaze of ecstasy. It was so good, too good . . .
.

 Having his backside touched and handled shouldn't feel right, Doyle told
himself as another squeeze sent him spiralling into the stratosphere. But
like so much else he’d learned from this incredible man over the last few
months, Bodie was teaching him how touches there should feel.

 Struggling for every breath, Doyle hardly noticed when the gripping hands
stopped their fire bursts to begin to guide his rhythmic thrusts. Ray
clung to his partner for dear life, or for his sanity, at the very least.
His arms were buried somewhere under Bodie. Ray was almost afraid to let
go, lest the tides of ecstasy ripping through him should tear him away
like driftwood from the shore.

 Despite his unbreakable mooring, the relentless buffeting did just that.
Ray’s reality became a wild tumble of ever-maddening tidal waves of
flaming passion. He'd top one unbearable pleasure crest, only to have an
even greater one splash over him in drowning fury.

 The quicksilver joy brimming through him was so good, so right - perhaps
righter than anything else had ever been. 

 Or maybe he was merely reaping the wages of abstinence. After six months'
inactivity, Doyle knew that he was ultra-sensitive to the slightest
stimuli. And Bodie was hardly slight. Whatever the cause, Ray was helpless
against so overwhelming a feeling.

 Bodie thrust up at him as Doyle’s own hips plunged down. Raging tide to
shore, they met with a resounding splash of pure ecstasy. Not even two
layers of cotton could mute Doyle's reaction to the perfectly timed
thrust. An instant of absolute stillness, and then his whole world
exploded, funnelling outward in a dizzying maelstrom.

 His cock jumped to spurt the inside of his pyjama trousers with hot,
sticky seed. 

 "Boodiee . . . . " he cried, burying his face in the nearby shoulder.

 Bodie's body gave a similar twitch and a matching warm dampness seeped
through the taut briefs to plaster their clothes together. The only sound
that betrayed the dark-haired man's coming was a sharp gasp, as much
relief as ecstasy.

 Deaf to all but the pulse pounding wildly in his ears, Doyle clutched his
lover tight to him, his body still convulsed in shudders.

 "R-Ray?" Rarely had he heard his partner's voice so worried.

 He looked at Bodie, confused to see the handsome face waver blurrily
before him.

 "Ray, are you all right? You're not hurt?" Curled fingers were dabbing at
his wet cheek while Bodie’s other hand swept down Doyle’s spine to his
butt, as though searching for scratches. Ray was sidetracked from his
effort to interpret the frantic whisper by a shiver, his body's automatic
response to the unconsciously sensual caress.

 "I'm sorry, sunshine. I got carried away; didn't mean to frighten you,"
Bodie assured, sounding guilty, of all things.

 The trembling apology and utterly stricken expression rallied Ray’s wits.


 "I’m not scared," Doyle protested. "Just . . . hold me for a bit, will
you?"

 Ray’s request was hardly coherent between the sobs he hadn't even
realized he was emitting. 

 Even so, of the two of them, Doyle was willing to wager his partner
looked the more frightened. The handsome features were so tense, like
Bodie was waiting for his entire world to fall apart.

 Yet Bodie didn’t hesitate in fulfilling his request. Bodie gathered him
even closer, his touch so tentative as to be almost timid.

 "I'm all right," Doyle declared when, after long moments, the tension
gripping the sleek body pillowing him failed to abate.

 "Sure you are. Always sob for nothin', don't you?" 

 The self-reproach Doyle heard in Bodie’s voice outweighed even the
sarcasm.

 Doyle pushed up against Bodie's chest till he could see his partner's
face, which was reflecting only a need of oxygen after Doyle's unexpected
move. He smiled a bit sheepishly as he eased up enough to let Bodie
breathe. Hoping to radiate the contentment pulsing through his sated body,
Ray pointed out, "You must admit, I have been doin' my fair share of
weepin' lately."

 "You had your reasons."

 His partner's automatic defence turned Ray’s tentative effort at a smile
into a full-fledged beam. "And my solace, thank God, and your
stubbornness." 

 Because it was so close and tipped up in an attitude of lofty disbelief,
Doyle kissed the tip of his partner's nose, letting his tongue dart out
across the cooler skin for a second's mischief. Withdrawing, he continued,
"If I have to spell it out for your fetching, but dense, head – you did
not hurt me."

 "Than why –"

 "Didn't expect it to feel so good, did I? You were supposed to turn into
an ogre, not Prince Charming. But then, you never could get your metaphors
straight," Doyle joked.

 His teasing worked where Doyle knew no amount of avowals would have
convinced his doubting friend. 

 Joy sparked through Bodie's intent gaze, fire-bright and sudden. "Me
mixin’ metaphors? It's a frog, not an ogre, mate."

 "That mean I'll get warts?" Doyle quizzed, unable to believe how happy .
. . how loved he felt at this moment.

 "You said I was fetching," Bodie protested, looking up at Doyle through
improbably long lashes with a mock-wounded expression.

 Ray sobered immediately. 

 "You’re devastating," Doyle admitted, squiggling back down into the cosy
embrace. The damp patch on his pyjama front reminded him of the alteration
in their relationship. As much to reinforce his rights to initiate these
intimate privileges as for the sheer enjoyment of it, Doyle kissed the
smooth chest that pillowed his head, marvelling at its hairless
perfection.

 The events of the last hour whirled through his mind. Devastating, he'd
said, and so it had been, for him. But what of Bodie? The other man had
hardly spoken, and suddenly it was important that Doyle know.

 He stretched his neck up for a look, his lips parted to call his lover's
name, and stopped. 

 Bodie's eyes were closed in sleep. The dark fringe of lashes brushing the
skin beneath his eyes and the lingering flush of passion in Bodie’s cheeks
lent a vulnerable air to the man whom Doyle was accustomed to regarding as
ruthlessly competent. 

 Angelic, Ray decided, aware that such a description would fit his friend
at no other time. Bodie’s face was bent down toward him. From the angle,
Doyle realised the reddened mouth must have been brushing the tips of his
curls.

 Doyle was loath to disturb such tranquillity merely to satisfy his own
insecurities. His neck craned the few extra inches necessary for a kiss.
The lightest touch of his lips revealed his feelings. The unconscious care
he took to safeguard his partner’s slumber was as telling as Bodie's
cautious handling of him had been. This was so much more than mere lust.

 With a last foggy thought as to where they were headed, Doyle settled
down against the comfortable chest and abandoned thinking for a while.

 ******

*Chapter Nine*

 His leg hurt. With an irritated moan, Bodie shifted in an attempt to ease
the persistent pressure. It was no use. Whatever had him, it had him good
and tight. Manacles at the very least, he thought numbly, beginning the
reluctant rise from the comfort of sleep.

 About to kick free, Bodie stopped to reconsider. Of all the types of
restraints he'd been subjected to in his colourful life, fabric ones
didn't number among them. Besides, these felt warm, and were it not for
the pins and needles cramping his leg, pleasant.

 His eyes cracked open a fraction. Weak dawning light had barely breached
the curtains. Its feeble attempt cast a dreary grey tone through the
fleeing shadows. Meagre as the illumination was, it was sufficient to
detail his captor.

 Ray's head was pillowed on Bodie's chest just beneath his rib cage. The
uncomfortable lump beneath his back was his partner's right arm, which was
no doubt as cramped as Bodie's leg at the moment. Ray's other arm was
slung across Bodie's waist to complete the hold. As for what was trapping
Bodie's numb leg, that turned out to be both of Doyle's. His left thigh
was clamped between Ray's powerful ones in a death-hold.

 Memories of last night came flooding back: the warmth and smell of his
partner, the exhilarating knowledge that Ray had allowed him to love him.
The reality of it percolated within, struggling to be expressed in a whoop
of delight. He settled for a half-witted grin, knowing that he'd have to
pry Doyle off the ceiling were he to give in to his first impulse while
Ray was sleeping. Lord, but it felt good just to hold Ray, even if his
lower body were losing all sensation.

 The muscles of the forearm beneath Bodie twitched, as Doyle flexed his
fingers. A crinkle creased Ray's peaceful brow. "Uuuaah . . . ."

 The low moan of discomfort preceded a tensing of Doyle's already taut
muscles. Then Ray's eyes snapped open, wide with alarm.

 Not even daring to draw breath, Bodie waited. He hadn't been the one to
initiate last night's events, but by Doyle's own admission, his friend
wasn't himself. It was entirely possible he was about to be blamed for
taking advantage of Ray.

 After a moment of non-reaction, Doyle disengaged from the embrace.
Rolling over onto his back, he even pulled the arm out from under Bodie;
though he did it gently.

 Ray's chiselled profile was blank of expression, but Bodie could sense
the tumult of emotion brewing behind the eyes that were fixed so squarely
on the ceiling. Ray couldn't – or wouldn't – even look at him.

 Bodie tried to gulp down the lump that swelled his throat almost closed,
but couldn't manage as little as a normal swallow.

 Too soon. He'd known it last night, but Ray had been so damned
persistent, so utterly irresistible. 

 That was no excuse, Bodie told himself. After what had happened to him
during his captivity, Doyle was confused about his sexuality and
self-image. Bodie's undemanding friendship had so far helped to restore
some of Ray's damaged self-confidence. In the cold morning light, what
Bodie had allowed to happen between them last night seemed almost criminal
when he considered the destruction it could do to his partner.

 Doyle had grown fond of him during these past months, Bodie knew. The
abused man had even learned to trust him. But having been little more than
a sex toy to Van Cleef for so long, Ray no longer understood that such
feelings of friendship were enough, that he didn't have to trade his body
to retain Bodie's affections. In hindsight, Bodie now realized it had been
his duty to refuse his confused partner's sexual advances. Once again,
he'd failed Ray.

 Now he was about to reap the harvest of that failure. In the cold morning
light Doyle would no doubt see the abuse for what it was.

 Bodie's heart attempted to stop, along with his frozen breathing, as
Doyle's curl-tangled head rose to face him.

 Some people might not find that first morning view of Ray Doyle very
attractive. Long hair awry so that it resembled a tumbleweed bush, and the
blue-black sprinkling of beard stubble darkening his chin, Doyle looked
very unlike the clean-cut man who would emerge from the shower in an hour.
But to Bodie, Ray was perfect first thing, wild and somehow savage – a
warrior of old, exactly the fantasy he'd like to be ravaged by.

 Such fancies passed through his mind on a subliminal level, for his
apprehension claimed his complete attention. Bodie didn't even know what
kind of apology he could offer that would even begin to cover the depth of
his offences. He felt like he'd awoken from a drunk to find he had raped a
child, instead of slept with the willing woman he'd thought he'd gone home
with. His transgression was that much of a nightmare reality, one of those
things that he never thought could happen, because the very idea was
beyond consideration.

 The empty gaze that turned his way was not at all encouraging. Bodie
thought he would welcome even accusation. Then he saw Ray gulp, his
companion seeming less the wild barbarian now and more his unkempt
partner.

 "Good morning," Ray whispered, a hand reaching out to tentatively touch
Bodie's cheek. The greeting sounded like a question, as if Ray were
completely unsure of what type of reaction he could expect this morning.

 And why wouldn't Ray be uncertain? Bodie realized that his own fear had
paralysed him to the point where his wariness might have been
misinterpreted as displeasure. 

 Bodie cursed himself a fool and let his relief shine through in a smile.
No accusation, yet. 

 "Hello." Bodie turned his head a little so that his lips brushed Doyle's
fingers in what might have been a light kiss or an accidental touch.

 The tense figure relaxed, some of Ray's barriers dropping away. 

 "Can I kiss you?" Doyle questioned.

 Bodie didn't even try to work through the tightness gripping his throat. 

 "You can do anything you want with me," Bodie rasped, his good intentions
of not inflicting any further stress upon Ray defeated by the tentative
touch of Doyle's mouth to his own.

 First thing in the morning kisses could never be said to be sweet, but
Bodie found himself drowning in his partner's taste all the same. Ray was
just so . . . Ray, morning breath and all. Their stubbly chins rasped
together as their dry mouths became reacquainted.

 Venting a sigh that sounded relieved, Doyle withdrew after a long,
intimate exploration of Bodie's mouth, to settle his head against Bodie's
chest again.

 "Ray, about last night . . . . " Bodie began hesitantly, finding it far
easier to speak to the top of Doyle's head than to his expressive eyes.

 Doyle's rumpled head rose again, something like abashment colouring his
tanned cheeks. "I know it couldn't have been . . . very exciting for you,
but . . . was it enough?"

 Bodie's faltering apology died on his lips as the sense of the awkwardly
phrased question penetrated. What the hell was he supposed to do now? Tell
Doyle that, yes, it was just fine, but they could never do it again? Ray
would never believe it was for his own sake.

 Compelled by the hurt that was intensifying with each moment's silence,
Bodie spoke the truth. 

 "This would have been enough," Bodie said, indicating their close-held
bodies. "You spoiled me last night, Ray, gave me more than I had any right
to ask for. If I were a true friend, I would have thought of you first and
turned you down, but . . . I just couldn't help myself. That's an
explanation, not an apology. I ought to be sorry it happened, but . . . .
"

 "You're not," Doyle finished in a near-satisfied tone. "And you can stow
that rot. No one ever thought of me as much as you did last night."

 Bodie felt his cheeks warm under the emotion-filled gaze. Doyle was
practically glowing. 

 With love? Hard as Bodie found it to believe, that was the interpretation
his instincts kept giving to his mate's expression. But that couldn't be.
Joy, maybe. 

 Unwilling to foster delusions, Bodie sought escape in humour. "In case
you've forgotten, you've got amnesia. You don't rightly remember anything
else, do you, Ray?"

 The joke fell flat. Doyle took him completely seriously. "No, you're
right. I don't remember anyone else, but I do remember how I felt."

 "Ey?" Bodie prodded, perplexed by the earnestness.

 "You never did ask me last night why I wanted to stay here in the chalet
so badly."

 Not seeing how one applied to the other, Bodie shrugged, bouncing Doyle
up and down in the process. "I figured you liked it here. 's pleasant."

 "True, but that's not the reason. It was you, mate."

 "Huh?"

 "What I remember about the past isn't a lot, Bodie, but it was enough to
let me know one thing. I – I don't think I was ever really happy there."

 "Happy?"

 "You know – content, satisfied. Or have I just forgotten?"

 Bodie thought hard on the question. "You were always a moralist. What we
did never came easy to you, but I wouldn't have said you were actively
unhappy."

 Or would he, Bodie reconsidered once the words were out. He'd never
really thought about Doyle being unhappy. Ray had done all the things that
a bloke did when he was having fun – Doyle had pulled a different bird
every week, done the pub crawls, followed the sports, done all the
superficial window-dressing that spoke of a successful young man enjoying
his life and yet . . . Bodie had never seen Ray more content than when his
partner was painting. And he'd never seen Ray paint until a couple of
months ago. Rack his brain as he would, Bodie couldn't recall seeing so
much as a sketchpad in any of Doyle's flats, let alone an easel. It was
almost like Ray had closed off that part of himself when he joined C.I.5.

 "Was I like I am now?" Doyle challenged, almost as if he'd scented
Bodie's uncertainty.

 Bodie chose his words very carefully, "I'm not agreeing with that two
Doyles stuff you were spouting, but you were right about one thing. You
were harder, more sarcastic, a right hurricane once you got going;
although you were giving a pretty good imitation last night."

 Doyle evaded his gaze, looking down to watch the finger that lazily
trailed across Bodie's collarbone. 

 "I felt . . . threatened last night," Doyle finally mumbled.

 "Threatened? By Cowley and Murph?" Bodie tried for coherency, but the
absentminded touch was playing havoc with his concentration.

 "No, by the past. I had thought it would lure you away from me."

 "'Had thought'; past tense. What about now?" Bodie questioned.

 "Doesn't matter now," Ray said.

 "Why not?" As far as Bodie could see, last night had complicated things
immensely, yet Ray was speaking as though his reasoning were perfectly
obvious.

 "Yesterday, the way Cowley was talking, he made it plain that the other .
. . that I called the shots. You didn't correct him."

 Although voiced as a gentle inquiry, the words pierced Bodie to the core.
Of course, the threat didn't matter to Doyle now. Bodie could once again
hear his partner's voice telling him that he was Doyle's. Bodie had
offered no objection last night when Ray had made that proprietary claim.
Even now when his weakness was being arrogantly lorded over him, Bodie
couldn't refute the truth. 

 "What could I say to you or Cowley? I followed you here, didn't I?
Whither Doyle goeth, Bodie follows." The bitter shame he felt forced him
to look away from Doyle's rising gaze.

 "But not the reverse?" Ray added salt to his open wound. "If you left,
you were never sure I'd follow. You were never even certain enough of your
place in my life to tell me how you felt, were you?"

 Bodie stared at the ceiling, unable to believe this cruelty of his gentle
Ray.

 "Look at me, Bodie," Doyle demanded, then forced compliance by guiding
his chin around. "All that's changed, if it were ever true to begin with.
You're what's made me happy. I – I don't think I ever had anyone I could
call my own before. Cowley's taking you away doesn't frighten me anymore
because wherever you go – England, Timbuktu, wherever – I'll be right
behind you. Understand?"

 Bodie had never seen his partner look so earnest. The love clearly
visible in Ray's eyes was heart-warming and Bodie had no doubt that at
this moment, Doyle truly meant what he was saying. Equally, Bodie had no
doubts that all of this would change once Ray got his memories back. When
that happened . . . Bodie pushed the thought from his mind, resolved to
live only in the present. He was being let off the hook – for now. 

 "Yes, I understand that you enjoyed last night," Bodie said. Much as he'd
like to believe that Ray might feel that much for him, he wasn't fool
enough to imagine such an attitude would last once memory was restored.

 Doyle's eyes flared brilliant green in their anger, but the momentary
spark gave way to something softer; something that was both sad and
humouring. 

 "I guess he . . . I mean *I've* given you reason enough in the past to
doubt me, but it's okay. I'll prove it to you, sunshine," Ray all but
promised, resolution stamped in his every feature.

 Bodie had never loved anyone so much as he did Ray at that moment for
making that promise. But as much as he wanted to believe, the realist
inside him knew he was living on borrowed time here. All he could give Ray
in response was a shaky smile that probably never touched his eyes. Bodie
knew where this was going to end, even if his amnesiac partner were
momentarily smitten with him.

 "Great pair we are," Ray said, shaking his head. Once again Doyle's hand
lightly brushed Bodie's cheek in that oddly tender gesture before he
responded to Bodie's last statement where Bodie had tried to brush off
Doyle's present infatuation as a by-product of last night's sex. "Yeah, I
enjoyed it. There more in our future?"

 The firm denial Bodie had planned came out as a helpless nod of
agreement.

 "One thing, though."

 "What's that?" Bodie finally managed.

 "Do you think we could take our clothes off tonight?" There was no hard
edge under the humorous inquiry. Doyle seemed to be sparkling with
contentment again.

 Buoyed by his mate's good spirits, Bodie gave his friend an exuberant
hug. "That might be arranged."

 Both froze at the sound of a toilet flushing across the hall. What with
one thing and another, they'd all but forgotten about their houseguests.

 Bodie wondered what the other two men might have overheard. Sanity
eventually assured him that, although emotion wrought, the proceedings had
been extremely quiet.

 "Cowley, I'd imagine," Bodie explained at his partner's quirked eyebrow.
"The old man gets up awful early. Better get the coffee on. Murph's like a
bear first thing."

 "Oh."

 Bodie smiled at Ray's unfeigned reluctance. "Time to hit the showers,
sunshine. I'll go first and have breakfast waitin' on you when you get
down." The offer was truly heroic, considering the mountain cold morning.

 "Why don't we go together?" Doyle suggested. "Be fun, showerin' with
you."

 Bodie gaped at the mischievous imp in his arms, paralysed by a sudden
vision of water sluicing down that desirable body. Never would he be able
to restrain himself at such close quarters. "It'd be loud, is what it'd
be."

 "Coward," Doyle laughed.

 "Got it in one." His own chuckle complimented his partner's boisterous
good humour.

 Doyle stopped, gazing at him with sudden seriousness. "You're really
happy, aren't you?"

 "You still have a knack for understatement," Bodie declared, kissing the
space between the far-set eyes. "Yes, I am, but I'd better get moving now
before the old man beats us down."

 "Will you wait for me to get there to tell him you'll do the job?" Ray's
tone revealed nothing of his feelings on the matter.

 Unsure if he were about to blunder blindly into a chasm, Bodie quietly
asked, "Do you want me to?" 

 Bodie wasn't really surprised that Ray had read his mind on the decision.
If last night were any indication, they were more in sync then he'd ever
imagined possible.

 "To wait to tell him? Yes."

 The cryptic reply told Bodie nothing. "That's not what I meant."

 "I know."

 The ghost of a look he hadn't seen since Ann Holly had walked pinched his
partner's features, as though Doyle were once again anticipating the
collapse of his world. It made sense; Bodie understood that he was all
Doyle knew. Bodie tried not to place too much significance on a fleeting
expression, but found his heart aching for his friend. Could he really
mean that much to Ray?

 "Do you have any objections?" Bodie asked, praying his voice conveyed his
willingness to heed Doyle's wishes.

 Doyle's gaze flickered, as if considering evasion, before settling
squarely upon him. 

 "I've got plenty," Ray admitted at last, a rueful smile tweaking his
mouth up at one corner, "but none of 'em valid. 's a question of honour,
isn't it? We owe Cowley."

 "For what? You said you barely remember him," Bodie reminded.

 "You seemed to think we owed it to him last night."

 "And that's enough for you?" Bodie asked.

 Doyle shrugged. "He didn't cart you off in leg irons. He could've. That's
enough for me. We owe him. Besides, it's only a couple of weekends."

 "Right. I'll be back before you have time to miss me," he promised.
Doyle's curls were too long to create complete anarchy anymore, so Bodie
contented himself with displacing the disorderly tangle.

 "I'll have time."

 Lowered lashes veiled all emotion, but Bodie heard the unhappiness. "Hey,
it's just a few days. If you don't want me to go, just say."

 "No, you do what you have to. I'll be waiting."

 Still not entirely satisfied, Bodie decided to take Doyle at his word.
"So will our guests if I don't get moving. See you later, sunshine."

 ******

Later, much later, Doyle walked quietly through the blackness. 

 Four days of rain had ceased at last. The ground was sodden. Each step
felt as though his boots were being sunk into a thoroughly saturated
sponge, but the sky overhead was clear as crystal and dark as plush
velvet. Thousands of stars were littered across it, numerous as the tiny
shells left by a receding tide. Eyes accustomed to the dreary overcast
feasted on the pristine clarity of the night.

 Ray pulled his jumper closer about him. Tonight's breeze was more than
cool. In fact, most would call it a wind, but Doyle preferred to think of
it as the last breeze of summer. 

 Trying very hard not to find too much relevance in that thought, he
ambled toward an outcrop of boulders. Hidden behind four wide-reaching
spruces, the rocks weren't visible in the dark. Even in daylight one might
have difficulty sighting them between the evergreen branches, but, like
every other rock and dip in the land up here, Doyle knew their location by
heart. Fleetingly, he wondered if he had loved his home in London with the
same fierce passion he felt for this place.

 Probably not, he decided while climbing up to perch on a chilly stone
twice his size. A man who could fail to appreciate Bodie properly would no
doubt lack such sensitivity.

 He surveyed his overview. The rock had been a good choice. The fragrant
trees behind shielded him from most of the wind. Off to the far right the
chalet's glowing windows warmly beckoned him home. The road was a greyish
brown ribbon banding the dark shadow that marked the cliff's chasm. Beyond
that, all was shades of black. The uneven line of the mountains stretching
heavenwards on all sides looked like a hungry dragon had eaten chunks of
sky out of the horizon. Black as space and as starless as the empty
stretches between galaxies, the jagged peaks fringed the astral tapestry.

 Doyle drank in the cold night with all his senses. His nose was beginning
to sting from the wind and his breath fogged around him, but he still
lingered on the damp rock. Another time he might have heeded the mud and
chill and headed home, but just now he couldn't bear the sight of his
partner pouring over the files Cowley had left behind this morning. 

 His aversion was foolish, Doyle knew. He'd been the one who had urged
Bodie to accept the assignment . . . yet he couldn't help but feel that
this boded the end of their stay here. The conference was over three weeks
away and Bodie was already so absorbed in its preparations that he'd all
but ignored Doyle the entire afternoon - and this not even twenty-four
hours since they'd become lovers.

 This morning's apprehension returned with a vengeance, reminding Ray of
just how many times Bodie had said "no" last night before Doyle had
finally persuaded his partner to acquiesce to his wishes. 

 And after all that anguish, what had Bodie gotten? Someone too scared and
inhibited to take his stupid clothes off. Little wonder his partner was so
quickly disenchanted.

 "Ray?"

 The soft voice so close at hand almost cost him his cold seat. Doyle
swung toward the sound, the wind immediately sending the hair he'd once
again forgotten to bind whipping into his eyes. Doyle's fingers brushed
the irritating tangle aside.

 "What are you doing here? You'll catch your death," Bodie said.

 Doyle blinked down at his partner as though Bodie had just materialized
on the spot beside his rock. Whether it was his own morose preoccupation
or Bodie's jungle training, he hadn't heard the man slosh his way across
the mucky ground.

 A small smile touched his lips as he took in his partner's appearance. A
bit of wind and Bodie was dressed for the arctic in a black anorak with
the hood pulled up and tightly closed, heavy wool trousers and some kind
of fluffy hand warmer.

 "What's with the muff?" Doyle asked, looking at the odd garment wrapped
around his friend's hands.

 Bodie shook the bundle.

 Surprised, Doyle recognized his own light grey jacket. Bodie handed it up
to him with a self-conscious shrug. " 's a little nippy, isn't it?"

 "A bit," Doyle agreed, keeping his tone carefully neutral. "Thanks."

 Pretending to contemplate the Milky Way, Doyle watched his friend out of
the corner of his eye.

 "Care for some company?" Bodie was forced to ask at last. In no way did
the smooth voice betray that Bodie would be affected by a negative
response.

 Two could play that game. Ray waited until Bodie's discomfort with the
silence was visible before off-handedly remarking, "Thought you were too
busy for company."

 "There was a pile to get through," Bodie agreed in the same
matter-of-fact tone.

 Ray swallowed hard. The silences between them seemed to be saying more
than their words. Doyle didn't at all like the messages those empty
stretches were communicating, but as had happened when they'd argued in
the study last night, Ray found himself falling very naturally into this
attack and avoidance pattern. 

 He hated being this way with Bodie, hated the distance that was suddenly
gaping between them, but he had no clue as to how to circumvent it. After
being so totally ignored all afternoon, a part of him was afraid of
revealing too much. He was tired of being an object of pity, and even more
disenchanted with his role as invalid. If they were going to be lovers,
they had to be equals and equals didn't snivel about being ignored . . .
but, God, it was hard to sit here and play these stupid games when he was
hurting so much inside.

 Maybe Bodie was right. Maybe he wasn't up to this. Perhaps he wasn't
Bodie's equal yet. No one knew better than Doyle himself how completely
screwed up he was inside, but . . . be that as it may, his pride wouldn't
allow him to fold on this. 

 If he wasn't hard inside, he could pretend to be. He had a feeling that
he was a master at keeping up these kinds of fronts.

 Bodie's gaze was an intruding weight as it sought to penetrate the
secrets of his ungiving profile. Doyle let his partner stare, guarding his
privacy. He knew as long as Bodie didn't get a clear look at his eyes that
his secrets would be safe.

 "Yeah, it was a lot of work," his flat tone betrayed none of his
insecurities, or so Doyle thought.

 Bodie scaled the boulder, and sank down uncomfortably close to him. 

 Another time Ray might have enjoyed the proximity, but tonight he didn't
want the other man this close. Doyle's nose was dripping, making it
impossible to catch Bodie's fragrance even with so little space between
them, but he could still feel his friend's body warmth seeping through his
chilled flesh where their arms were brushing. Wanting to keep up his
guards, Ray struggled to ignore the distraction.

 Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bodie tug down his hood. At first
Doyle didn't understand why, for his friend was obviously freezing, but
then he realized that Bodie had pulled it down because it obscured his
view of Doyle.

 "You going to tell me why you're mad at me or are we going to sit out
here all night?" Bodie asked at last.

 " 's nice out here," Ray evaded.

 "If you're a longhorn sheep with a woolly coat. Although, that mop could
very well pass," Bodie joked, ruffling the windblown length of Doyle's
hair.

 Doyle couldn't help but jerk back from the casual contact. What was he –
a child to be condescended to?

 "Ray?"

 No amount of resolution could harden him to the bewilderment that flashed
through Bodie's eyes. Rather than deal with it, Doyle looked away.

 "It's last night, isn't it?" Bodie asked, his note of resigned sadness
slicing into Doyle's conscience. "I knew that once you got to thinking
'bout it, you'd have second thoughts. I'm only surprised it took this
long."

 " 's not about last night," Doyle snapped peevishly, unable to maintain
his stoicism in view of the dejection he was causing.

 "Huh?"

 "It's about today," Doyle corrected.

 "Today?" Bodie repeated, sounding the most cretinous Doyle had ever heard
him. "What's been wrong with today?"

 Doyle swung back to his companion. The confusion within surfaced as
anger. "It's like last night never happened."

 Even to his own ears the complaint sounded sophomoric, like a schoolgirl
mooning over her first love.

 Bodie, however, appeared to find nothing childish about it. All the
barriers dropped from his face. "Christ, Ray, you're right. I should have
paid more attention to you. It's only that there was so much background
material to absorb. I still haven't gotten through it all. I didn't want
to let the old man down, but that's still no excuse for ignoring you."

 Feeling twice the fool, Doyle mumbled, "I was just feeling left out,
that's all. Don't give it a second thought; it'll pass."

 "Like hell it will. Come here."

 And, just like that, everything was all right in his world again.

 After only one night together, embracing Bodie so openly should have felt
awkward. Yet Doyle was amazed by how naturally he accepted the enfolding
embrace. Bodie's warmth seemed to be precisely what his chilled body was
longing for. He curled around the larger man, venting a grateful sigh.
With budding familiarity, Doyle lent back against the sturdy support of
Bodie's chest, smiling as Bodie's arms settled shyly around his waist.
Obviously he wasn't the only one harbouring uncertainties.

 "Was I always this moody?" Doyle asked conversationally after a few
moments had passed.

 Bodie snorted, the sound explosive in the stillness. "You don't know the
half of it."

 "Why'd you put up with it, then?"

 A chin came to rest intimately on Doyle's shoulder, moist breath
shivering down his neck. "Because it's a part of you, as much as these
curls or your smile. Where I act, you think. It balances us."

 "Seems it would weigh you down."

 Bodie chuckled. "I needed it. More often than not my . . . enthusiasm
landed us in the doghouse." Bodie was quiet for a spell before continuing
in a more serious tone, "You never held that against me, regardless of how
wild the old man got. I never could understand why you never complained.
Got you in trouble often enough."

 "It does seem out of character," Doyle commented, attempting to fit this
new information into the picture he'd drawn of his former self.

 "Nah, not really. You were the softest touch goin'."

 "Thought I was a snarky, ill-tempered sod that never let anyone close to
me," Doyle joked.

 Bodie tensed, turning him to study his face. Doyle tried not to squirm
under the close examination.

 "I know I've said all of those things and more on occasion," Bodie said
slowly, choosing each word with care, "but that wasn't all you were."

 "No?" Try as he would, the simple syllable wavered.

 "Do you think I could care so much for someone like that?"

 Doyle's gaze strayed to the cold granite between their knees. "You're
very loyal, Bodie."

 "Ray."

 The cold steel in the tone demanded his full attention. Doyle met the
humourless gaze with defiance. "What?"

 "Answer me."

 "All right, then. Yes, I think you could. Despite all your talk about my
moralizing, memory paints me a cold-blooded killer. Even when you're
telling stories about us, my temperament . . . it sounds like you spent
half your time tap-dancing through a minefield."

 "Christ, you've a knack for twisting things, mate. Listen up. Ray Doyle
never killed even the darkest souled villain in cold blood. Killing, even
in self-defence, came hard to you. That's why you were so moody, agonizing
over situations where you had no choice but to take the hard line."

 "Right," Doyle agreed, unwilling to argue further. Of course Bodie would
defend the hard Doyle, the man he'd wanted all along.

 "Don't patronize me, Ray. Even at your most infuriating you never did
that."

 Wondering where all that closeness they'd felt moments ago had fled to,
Doyle pulled back to his own side of the rock and countered, "Fine. Answer
me one thing."

 "What's that?"

 "How did I win your heart back then?" Doyle asked, needing to know.

 "What?" Bodie stammered, paling.

 It wasn't until that instant that Doyle realized how much he was asking
of the other man. 

 But he'd already stepped in it. There was no taking the words back.
Making his tone a bit less contentious, Ray asked, "What was it you liked
about me? Or was it just the packaging?"

 The steel in Bodie's gaze melted. "You are mixed up, aren't you? I hadn't
realized it was this serious, though I should have done. This is more of
that two Doyles business, isn't it?"

 "I need to know, Bodie."

 Bodie's dark head nodded. "Okay. It wasn't the packaging. If you must
know it wasn't even your sense of what was right, or how gentle you were
with those weaker than you, or the way you always backed me up straight
down the line."

 "What was it then?" Doyle prodded.

 Here Bodie's gaze intensified. "You. There were never two Doyles, Ray.
Never. The man you are now was always buried in there. Hurting, bleeding,
crying, you were always hidden there beneath that prickly exterior.
Sometimes you'd let me in far enough to see what was hurting and I'd catch
a glimpse of the real you, the man who cared so deeply. That's what did
it."

 "Not often enough," Doyle guessed, reading the longing for more in
Bodie's expression.

 "Perhaps," Bodie agreed, "but that was as much my fault as yours."

 "How's that?"

 Bodie abruptly appeared uncomfortable. "You never trusted me enough, did
you?"

 Doyle still saw that as a failing in himself. "Was I good to you at
least?"

 Visibly bewildered, Bodie asked, "What do you mean?"

 "My memories . . . they're all scrambled," Doyle gave a weak smile as he
tried to explain the disorder in his mind. "They seem to jump from one
trauma to another. I can remember us together, chasing and being chased.
Times when we were scared or angry and shouting at each other, even times
when we played word games like in the study last night, but little else.
No quiet times. Were we just 9 to 5'ers, partnered at work? Didn't we ever
watch Liverpool on the telly together?"

 Bodie's nose crinkled with amusement. "Of course we weren't 9 to 5'ers.
As for the telly, you didn't have one in your last flat." His expression
must have revealed his dismay, for Bodie hastened to explain. "There were
lots of quiet times, Ray. You just can't recall them yet. Even the action
parts were usually different than you described them. Sure, there were
times we were worried and snapped at each other or other times when we
fought, but usually we got on well together. I've a bent toward black
humour that some of the darker aspects of our cases would touch off. You
were never as callous, but you could be bloody irreverent when the
situation called for it."

 "You callous?" Doyle laughed. That was one adjective he could never
equate with his partner. "Go on."

 " 's true. You just don't remember," there was no pride in Bodie's
protest, only bald insistence.

 "I don't believe you."

 "I know. You've forgotten what I'm really like. That's one of the reasons
you trust me as you do now."

 "What do you mean?" Doyle demanded, caring neither for the tone nor
worried expression.

 "We were good mates, Ray, don't get me wrong. The closest. Off duty and
on, but eighteen months ago we never could have had a talk like this."

 "Why not?" Doyle demanded.

 "My fault, I suppose."

 "How's that?" Doyle probed, confused. Bodie sounded as if he were making
a confession.

 "Because that trust has to work both ways, sunshine. There were times
when you'd been hurt so bad you couldn't keep me out. We'd talk like this.
You'd feel better for the talking and I'd feel closer to you."

 "So?"

 "So, I'd never let the scales balance. When it was me, I'd push you away,
handle whatever it was on my own. It would hurt you when I shut you out
like that, Ray, and . . . even though I knew it was hurting you, I'd do it
anyway. I'm afraid I haven't changed that way," Bodie's words were offered
in the tone of a warning.

 "No?" Doyle had the vivid recollection of Bodie alone with his misery the
day he'd spat the cheese sandwich all over his partner. Bodie hadn't
pushed him away that day.

 Doyle's hand settled on Bodie's shoulder. Beneath the heavy anorak and
jumper bundling his cold-sensitive mate, he could feel the tension. Even
as Bodie was stubbornly answering 'no', Ray was drawing the larger man
into an embrace. He hid his smile in the nook of Bodie's neck and shoulder
and allowed his lips to caress the chilled, soft flesh beneath an ear. 

 "That's all right, then. We'll manage," Doyle whispered, surprised by the
shiver that quaked through his friend.

 "Ah, Ray." Bodie's arms clamped convulsively tight around him as Bodie
pulled far enough back to lower his head for a kiss.

 Their first kiss since this morning, Ray thought. Once again, the
feelings sparked like wildfire between them, warming Doyle from the inside
out. 

 Bodie's mouth pressed demandingly against his, so hungry, so needy . . .
.

 It should have frightened him, but although not overly gentle, Doyle
found himself content with the passion between them. 

 They eventually broke from the lengthy, wet exploration, both winded from
the effort.

 "Home?" Doyle suggested, rising gracefully to his feet at Bodie's nod of
agreement.

 "How do you do that?" Doyle demanded irritably as they made their way
across the soggy field.

 "Do what?" Bodie asked.

 "I sound like a full platoon trudging through this muck."

 "You do at that, " Bodie concurred, a smile in his tone. "So?"

 "So I can't hear you at all."

 "You trudge through as many jungles as I did in my youth and you'd soon
pick up the habit of stepping softly."

 "What were they like, those jungles?' Doyle wondered.

 "Humid, buggy, though I dare say we'll be wishing for some of that heat
in a few weeks time. It's cold up here, mate."

 "But beautiful," Doyle said, his gaze straying to the stars overhead.

 "It's definitely got its attractions," Bodie agreed, his absorbed tone
drawing Doyle's attention. One thing he'd learned about Bodie, the man was
no nature lover. Doyle felt his cheeks warm as he realized the object of
Bodie's praise.

 "Did I say something wrong?" his partner asked as they approached the
chalet's door some time later with no further conversation between them.

 Doyle considered best how to phrase his discomfort, and then answered,
"No, not really. I'm just . . . not used to you looking at me like that."

 "Like what?"

 "With hunger." A chill that had nothing to do with the night wind touched
him. A collage of other gazes – hungry, hot, and ultimately ugly – flashed
through Doyle's mind. 

 Ray had the fleeting thought that he was playing with fire here. Bodie
was so much bigger and stronger than himself. Last night had been perfect,
but he could hardly expect that restraint to colour all of Bodie's
dealings with him.

 "Does it upset you?"

 Ray knew that if he said yes that Bodie would once again be thinking his
love was unwanted, Doyle realized as he drowned in the pools of sorrowful
blue. Yet a no would be an outright lie. 

 "On some levels," Doyle hazarded.

 Bodie's hand rose toward his broken cheek, hovering close enough for
Doyle to feel its heat without actually touching him. "You know what you
are to me. I'm no poet to offer you golden promises, but know this, Ray
Doyle. Whatever we share, it is for you to say. I'll not lay a finger on
you that you don't invite. I swear it, on everything I might ever have
held sacred."

 Doyle tried to gulp past the lump in his throat. Finding himself still
mute, all he could manage was to reach up and press Bodie's large palm
flat to his face. With his other hand he snagged the dark head, pulling
his partner down into a kiss.

 "You don't need an invite," Ray gasped as they parted, the strange,
quavering voice barely recognizable as his own. Without trying, this man
destroyed him, moving him down to the very fibre of his being.

 His forwardness amazed him. Two, three months ago the idea of any man
touching him as Bodie had last night and today would have left him shaking
in a cold sweat, sick with nausea. But, although Ray trembled now, very
little of it was fear.

 Without breaking his gaze, Doyle pushed open the door. Bodie trailed him
inside like a cobra's mesmerized victim. Pausing only to remove muddy
boots and his jacket, Doyle led them to the sitting room, to the island of
thick beige rug between hearth, easel and couch.

 Strange, yet somehow familiar yearnings fluttered through him as he
watched Bodie take off his jumper and knell at the hearth's edge to feed
some more wood onto the smouldering remains of the fire. The new log
caught with a ripping crackle, bathing Bodie's profile in a fierce orange
glow and shower of sparks that turned his partner's eyes to glinting
sapphires.

 Bodie might have been chiselled from marble, Doyle thought, so creamy was
the larger man's skin. His cheeks were flushed from the night wind and
fire's heat; they stood out stark as roses on a snow covered field.
Beneath the dark polo and clinging trousers, every one of Bodie's
well-formed muscles was sharply defined. 

 Even at rest, Bodie was a powerful, vibrant figure. Doyle's breath caught
at the sight, awed that such an incontestably masculine physique could
arouse him as it was so doing.

 "You all right, Ray?"

 Not realizing he'd made a sound to draw the inquiry, Doyle nodded. He
came to stand behind Bodie, his hands dropping to rest on the broad
shoulders as his friend fussed with the fire. Needing more, he crouched
down to nuzzle the exposed neck, not quite sure how Bodie would react to
his assuming a more aggressive role.

 In truth, he was experimenting, uncertain of both the drives within and
his partner's preferences. As to Ray Doyle of C.I.5, he had no
recollection of any of his sexual exploits. All he had to draw on were his
experiences at Van Cleef's hands and instinct told him that none of that
was applicable here. Whatever Bodie wanted of him, it wasn't a docile bed
slave. So he was left to grope in the dark for the proper approach,
ignorant and frightened as any schoolboy.

 "Mmm . . . feels good," Bodie murmured, leaning back to bare more of his
neck.

 "Yeah?"

 Where another's gaze might be said to devour him, Bodie's embraced. The
hunger was there still, but muted, balanced by a warmth void of threat.

 "Yeah," Bodie sighed, leaning further back.

 Already unbalanced by his shaky knees and the emotions pummelling his
system, the extra weight completely undid him. Doyle gave a startled yelp
as his feet went out from under him. Both he and Bodie tumbled
unceremoniously back onto the carpet. 

 Doyle cursed his clumsiness, wondering what Bodie must think of him. Last
night he couldn't get his clothes off and tonight he wasn't even able to
manage a kiss. His partner's laughter assaulted his ears, marking him the
idiot he felt. Cheeks aflame with shame, he turned away from his friend.

 "Ray?" Bodie called, still gasping on a laugh. "You all right, mate?"

 "Just fine."

 His frigid response cooled some of Bodie's merriment. "What's the matter
then?"

 Inexplicably annoyed by the concern, Doyle stormed sarcastically, "You
mean aside from turning a love scene into a comedy act? Nothing's wrong,
sunshine, not a thing."

 "Hey."

 Doyle glared up as he was rolled over onto his back, too infuriated by
his stupidity to be intimidated by Bodie's hovering bulk.

 Bodie didn't say anything to him for a long moment, just stared down at
him with those amazingly gentle eyes as they lie side by side facing each
other now. Bodie's gaze was alight with contained humour, but not a trace
of mockery. "Killed the mood for you, did it?"

 Doyle tried to look away and failed. 

 "Are you laughing at me?" Doyle demanded, not giving an inch.

 "Not at you, at us. This is typically us," Bodie explained.

 "How so?" Unmollified, Ray kept his tone hard.

 "Here I am trying so hard to seduce you with my suave charm and I go and
knock you off your feet like a bloody bowling ball. Go ahead, light into
me and get it off your chest. Then we can get back to the important
matters."

 Doyle's grin seemed to disconcert the other man. "Your fault? I'm the one
that toppled over."

 "Fell for me in a big way, huh?" Bodie asked with his usual outrageous
cheek.

 Doyle gave the expected groan, then allowed his smile to settle into
something more serious. "You know I have. Are you going to finish seducing
me now?"

 Bodie gulped, his head lowering the necessary few inches for a kiss
before he carefully eased his heavier body down on top of him. It was a
testament to how far they'd come in one day that Bodie would even try that
position again after the disastrous reception it had had last night.

 Tonight, Ray didn't panic under Bodie's blanketing weight. Rather, Doyle
felt himself spinning dizzily under its impact. He was overwhelmed by the
larger man's presence – the heat pouring off the heavy body, Bodie's
scent, familiar as his own, but tantalizingly arousing now, the power held
so carefully in check, and, most pervasive of all, the tender care behind
every touch. He was drowning in Bodie, drifting in a carefree haze of
sensation.

 Bodie's roving hands wandered to his shirtfront. "All right?"

 Ray nodded dreamily, utterly unconcerned by anything Bodie might ask of
him. Piece by piece his clothing was peeled away, a generous boon of
kisses and caresses lavished upon each section of skin.

 Doyle roused himself from the pleasant daze only when Bodie's fingers
settled on the opening of his jeans, at which point the quality of the
encounter changed somehow. He met Bodie's heated gaze. His partner's need
was encapsulated by the burning heat in those blue eyes and accentuated by
his short raspy breaths.

 Bodie's expression was intense as he undid the zipper. Doyle lifted his
hips as his partner gave a firm tug, pulling down jeans and briefs in a
single smooth movement. Bodie tugged his socks off as an afterthought then
sat back on his heels and just looked at the naked sprawl of him.

 There was little doubt that Bodie was pleased by what he saw. Doyle
withstood the appreciative examination as long as he was able. Although
there was nothing proprietary in the gaze, he found such close examination
of his nakedness unnerving, especially in view of Bodie's completely
clothed state. 

 "This is a little one sided, don't you think?" Ray finally commented when
his partner showed no indication of moving.

 Bodie started, rousing as from a trance. "You're exquisite, tawny and
lithe as a lion."

 Doyle felt his cheeks warm under the praise. He glanced down at himself,
trying to see what Bodie saw. Too skinny, too hairy, at best average,
certainly nothing to merit that light in Bodie's eye. "And you're waxin'
poetic. Come on, shed 'em."

 "You sure?"

 "Bodie!"

 Correctly interpreting his tone, Bodie scrambled out of his clothes, the
operation too rushed for Doyle to properly enjoy the divestment. He stared
at the result, more than a little awed.

 The man was perfect, from Bodie's short-cropped crown to the pink buds of
his toenails. Spilt cream skin so light the blue web of vein-work showed
through, blushed from exposure to the sun in other places. Doyle's eyes
travelled the length of his partner, finally hesitantly coming to rest on
the one area unfamiliar to him.

 Doyle swallowed nervously at the sight of the powerful penis, which was
aroused from just looking at him. At that instant Bodie seemed enormous to
him, the testes a heavy weight below the blood red, straining shaft. 

 Doyle froze inside, thinking of all the cocks his blood had stained,
remembering . . . .

 "Bodie," he stammered before the horror could take hold, "talk to me,
please."

 Disgusted, Doyle realized he was shaking again.

 "Huh?" Bodie's gaze softened as his partner took in his state. "More
poetry, sunshine? Shall I tell you how your eyes are like plush tree moss
or . . . . "

 "Tree moss!" Doyle interrupted, almost outraged enough to forget his
fear.

 "Very fetching tree moss, of course. Or your teeth, white as dry bones,
or your hair, wild as a tumbleweed bush or your nose, red as . . . . "

 "Bodie!"

 Bodie's expression stilled to one of utter seriousness, except for his
eyes, which still twinkled outrageously. "I mean it, Ray, every word of
it."

 Then Doyle chuckled and the world seemed right again. "Oh, come here, you
mad bugger," he crooned, reaching for Bodie's strong hand.

 "They say that about all us poets," Bodie lamented as he seated himself
close by. The ink-dark, blue gaze surveyed their island of space with
something akin to disdain.

 "What's wrong?" Ray asked.

 "Not quite comfortable down here, is it? But these should help."

 Doyle watched his partner drag the cushions and pillows from the couch.
He was fascinated by the ripple of muscle beneath the moon pale skin of
Bodie's flat butt.

 "That do?" Bodie asked once he'd arranged the cushions to his liking.

 "It looks like a harem," Doyle commented, leaning back on the pile.

 Bodie shot him an odd glance, the joke in his eye never voiced.

 Doyle couldn't fathom the restraint. Normally Bodie would have chuckled
and made some ribald comment about that being the point. The reticence
puzzled him until Doyle realized its cause. Were Bodie to make a joke
about seraglios, he would be making it to a man he'd bought and paid for.

 Moved by the unnecessary consideration, Doyle reached out to draw his
friend down into his arms. As Bodie's head settled on his chest he
experienced an odd sensation. He'd expected the larger man to blanket him
with his body as Bodie assumed the aggressive role so natural to him. Or,
barring that, that Bodie would once again instruct Doyle to lay atop him,
directing their lovemaking that way. The last thing he'd anticipated was
to have his partner cuddle around him like this. Despite Bodie's obvious
arousal the embrace was strangely non-sexual, almost one of comfort. 

 A little startled, Ray realized that for once, he wasn't the one in need
of comforting. Whatever this was about, Bodie was the one seeking solace
right now. The warm feeling soaking through his guts was one he couldn't
remember experiencing any time in the recent past. It took a while to
place it, but he finally decided that the peculiar feeling running through
him was protectiveness. It seemed a little absurd at first, that an
emotional basket case like himself would be feeling protective of this
competent warrior. Bodie needed a protector like he needed a third ear,
and yet, at the moment, Bodie did seem to need him to hold him like this.
The way Bodie was clinging to him, soaking up the closeness, told Ray that
this was something his friend was enjoying immensely.

 Almost of their own volition his hands roved the smooth expanse of
Bodie's back, stopping to finger the deep scar above the left shoulder
blade. Perhaps that protective instinct wasn't so far misplaced, Doyle
considered as he recognized the deep indentation in Bodie's otherwise
perfect flesh for the knife wound it was. Obviously, there was cause for
concern.

 Overcome with emotion, Doyle bent to place a kiss atop the feather soft
hair. All he wanted to do was hold Bodie like this and keep him safe
forever. 

 "Mmmm," Bodie murmured. "Ray, may I touch you?"

 *Not without an invitation*, he seemed to hear Bodie's oath whisper
through his mind. 

 "Please," Ray's reply was immediate, uncluttered by doubt or hesitation,
as was his body's response when his partner tongued the nipple that
Bodie's cheek was resting closest to.

 What Bodie did to him after that . . . he'd read about experiences which
transcended the boundaries of normal perceptions. Ray had undergone some
of the darker means by which this could be accomplished in Van Cleef's
bed, but never did Doyle believe pleasure could have the same
mind-boggling effect. Where Van Cleef's acts had driven him deep and tight
into himself, Bodie's ministrations seemed to unwrap him to the universe.
Bodie pleasured him with lips and tongue, relaxing him, unfurling him.
Starburst after starburst of ecstasy sparked through his nerves, each
opening up new levels of feeling. His senses reeling like a galaxy
hurtling through the void, Ray was nevertheless aware of everything. Each
touch Bodie gifted him with was as individual as a gem crystal.

 He blushed at some of the places Bodie put his tongue on the journey up
and down his front, but not once did it occur to Doyle to stop. And when
at last his companion reached the area most desperately craving Bodie's
attention, there could be no question of halting. 

 Bodie's hot mouth engulfed him and Doyle's mind just flew. There was a
galaxy birthing inside him, newborn stars shooting up nerve fibres too
miniscule to hold their energy, ripping their way through him in a
pleasure so fierce it was painful. Out of control, he bucked under Bodie's
mouth, almost as if his body were struggling to free itself from the wet
suction. For an eternity everything stilled, held there on the apex of
creation, then all those new stars moved at once. No mortal could survive
the intensity of such an experience. Doyle felt his world burst, his body
liquefy.

 Vaguely, Doyle heard himself voice a tiny sound, part whimper, part plea.
The cry echoed through him, coming as it did with that cosmic immolation.
The liquid galaxy spurted out in five powerful gushes. Bodie drank down
the stars and released his limp organ afterwards, climbing up the mountain
of cushions to gather him close.

 Reality was slow in returning. Doyle clung to the sweaty body beside him,
needing its physical presence to anchor him to the here and now.

 He blinked up at the sweaty man beside him, still too overcome for words.
His lips found their counterparts and within seconds Ray was drowning in
those dizzy depths again.

 Bodie broke away, quite abruptly. "Whoa, mate. Slow down."

 Doyle prevented his friend from slipping free of his embrace. Only then
did he feel what his befogged senses had veiled, the steel-hard shaft
jutting into his thigh.

 "Don't," he commanded, as Bodie tried to squiggle away. "My turn."

 Bodie's smooth flesh was sheened with sweat. The large droplets of
glistening liquid were prisms in the flickering firelight. The face that
Doyle was so used to seeing laughing was creased with strain, Bodie's
thick muscled body hard and tight with tension. 

 Abruptly, Doyle remembered that his partner had been fully aroused before
they'd sorted out the cushions. He eyed the distended organ with its
flaring, moist head. The scarlet colouring was almost angry looking. And
the huge purple vein down its side was throbbing a tattoo of want above
Bodie's tight-drawn balls; Bodie was long past ready. Pleasure had
surpassed pain and was now approaching torture.

 Still buoyed by Bodie's lavish generosity, Doyle would have liked to
reciprocate. He craved the opportunity to linger and give his partner the
same cherished gift he'd received. Besides, still uncertain himself, he
would have appreciated the chance to go slow.

 But such was not to be. From the look of things, one touch would finish
his friend.

 Unwilling to be denied at least a modicum of foreplay, Doyle lightly ran
his hands down Bodie's incredibly smooth, slick chest. 

 Driven beyond the possibility of restraint, the larger man's hips bucked
helplessly up at him as an incoherent cry escaped Bodie's tight-clenched
lips.

 "Don't worry, mate. I've been told I've got a talent for this," Ray
forced the assurance from his suddenly dry mouth as he bent his head
toward Bodie's swollen shaft, which was so desperate in its need.

 The scent of musk and sweat rising from his friend's heated groin sent
his senses swirling. Time was when Doyle would have gagged at the very
smell of arousal, but strong as it was, there was a clean earthiness to
Bodie that Ray couldn't equate to his previous experiences. His partner
was a rain-washed field of wildflowers to Van Cleef's open cesspool.
Smelling the tang of Bodie's arousal made Ray want to get closer, not pull
away and vomit in revulsion.

 Always, going down on someone had been the hardest act required of Doyle
in his months of imprisonment. Horrible and painful as being fucked was,
it was easier in some ways. While being buggered, he could be a passive
victim. All Doyle need do was kneel, lie, or stand where ordered and
suffer through it. But in fellatio, he was an active partner to his own
humiliation, having to work to bring off his abusers had made the shame
all the more biting. On a physical level, his captors would hurt him worse
when they took his arse, but the pain in fellatio had been mostly mental.
Sometimes even now Ray could hear Van Cleef's mocking croon telling him
that he was a natural born cock-sucker.

 And now for the first time, Ray was voluntarily taking another man's cock
into his mouth. The mental transition from victim to willing participant
didn't come as easily as he'd hoped it would. There were just too many
memories to overcome.

 It shouldn't be an issue, Ray told himself. He'd sucked cock hundreds of
times, for men he despised. Doing Bodie should have been easy, but . . .
Doyle looked at that angry red cock and everything in him just froze up
again. All he could think about at that moment was how many times he'd
nearly choked on organs that looked just like that one. He couldn't . . .
.

 "You don't have'ta, Ray," Bodie's voice, thick and gruff with frustration
called him back from the scary place his mind had retreated to. "Just let
me go and I'll . . . . "

 Take care of it himself, Doyle's mind completed. Bodie would just crawl
away and get himself off, after giving Ray the best sex he'd ever had – or
the best sex he could remember having. 

 That was just not happening here, Doyle decided, stubbornness stepping in
where courage failed.

 If he could do it for Van Cleef and Miller, he could do it for Bodie, Ray
told himself, getting a grip on his irrational panic. It was a cock, the
same as his own. Bodie wasn't going to rape him with it or choke him with
it. All it was going to take to get through this was a little bobbing, a
little sucking . . . a little semen. Nothing earthshaking or painful . . .
and it would mean so much to Bodie . . . .

 "Don't, Ray," Bodie repeated, his right knee rising to cover his groin
and block Doyle's access to the area. Bodie was needing it so bad that his
fists were clenched tight in the bedding in an obvious effort to hold
himself back.

 Ray had never felt so loved in his life. His heart melting at Bodie's
concern, Doyle appropriated one of Bodie's hands and firmly pried the
tight fist open. He pressed his lips into the sweaty palm, his tongue
peeking out to mischievously tickle the calloused skin. The salty taste of
the droplets he absorbed shot through Doyle like a swig of whiskey.
Apparently, the action had just as much effect on Bodie, who gasped like
he'd been unexpectedly doused with ice water.

 "Please, let me. I want to," Ray pleaded.

 "You can't mean that," Bodie denied. "Not after all you've been through."

 Deciding to try a different tactic, Ray began to speak in an emotionless
tone, "They used to come to me when they got off duty. Three, sometimes
four men. I'd suck them all off, take them in and drink their foulness
down and puke my guts up afterwards. I never had any choice there, mate.
They were cruel and ugly and hateful, but I had to pamper them like they
were my dearest loves. I . . . hated it. Once you put my head back on
straight, I never wanted to look at another bloke's privates again, never
mind suck 'em. But now . . . I want to do this with you, Bodie. You gave
me that freedom." Doyle paused to gather his thoughts, allowing the
fingers of his free hand to trail over Bodie's nearby inner thigh. The
whimper his stubborn friend gave was heart-wrenching. "All this ever was
to me was humiliation, but you showed me just a few minutes ago that it
can be something more. I saw your face, Bodie. You weren't revolted or
shamed to do me that way, were you?"

 Bodie gave a tight shake of his head and gulped. His eyes were tortured
now, barely sane.

 "You told me before that you wouldn't touch me without my say so. I give
you that same promise. I won't force this on you, not if you really don't
want me that way. Lord knows, what with the scum I've serviced, I wouldn't
blame you for not wanting their leavings. Only, just so's you know, you
don't disgust me the way they did. I like the way you smell . . . want to
know how you taste as well. Let me love you this way, Bodie. Please?"

 His argument appeared to work.

 Bodie bit his bottom lip and lowered his knee, his expression still
fraught with trepidation.

 Doyle was once again reminded of how easy it would be for him to hurt
this man, without even trying. It was clear that more than anything, even
more important than Bodie's own sexual satisfaction, that it was important
that Bodie be desirable to him.

 Ray could feel Bodie's anxious gaze searing his face as he lowered his
head once again. Doyle kept his own fears resolutely buried. He was
determined not to fail his partner, no matter the cost to himself.

 "Ray, we can just . . . aaahhh . . . . "

 In spite of his nervousness and the near panic gripping his guts, Ray
smiled as Bodie's words faded into that exclamation of incoherent
pleasure. All he'd done was collect the moist shaft in his palm. It
twitched like a live thing, seeming to grow just from the heat of his
hand.

 Bodie's musk surrounded him as he lowered his head. The gag impulse was
still there, but it was manageable tonight. Though it was still male musk,
it was Bodie, and somehow it being Bodie, it was more a fresh, clean
fragrance of desire rather than the dirty reek of old sex. The fact that
it was Bodie made it different . . . acceptable.

 Ray opened his mouth and poked out his tongue to meet Bodie . . . and
then gasped in shock as warm spurts of semen showered his face. Some hit
his open mouth and he tasted the tangy burst of hot liquid, but most of it
landed on his chin and left cheek.

 "Godddd . . . .Raaaay . . . 'm sorry, so sorry . . . ." Bodie sobbed as
he came, managing to look mortified even as climax took him.

 Bodie was panting like a winded stallion as the shaft in Ray's palm
slowly deflated. His partner had never looked so attractive. Bodie's
entire body was sheened with sweat and glowing golden in the firelight.
His normally handsome face had a softness to it Ray had never seen before.
The red lips were still slightly parted in an expression Doyle could only
define as bewildered bliss.

 *And Bodie was apologizing for it?*

 Astounded that his touch could mean so much, Ray bent down and gave the
wilted cock a soft kiss.

 "Oh, Ray . . . ."

 "Sssssh," Doyle soothed, reaching up to stroke Bodie's beaded brow. 

 Bodie's hands rose to frame his face, guiding him down a bit . . . for a
kiss Doyle thought, until Bodie's tongue touched him. He held totally
still as Bodie carefully licked the splattered semen off his cheeks and
chin. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell Bodie that he didn't have
to, but the sheer joy in Bodie's expression told him it was no hardship
for his companion. 

 Ablution completed, Ray got his kiss. It was weird to taste Bodie's semen
in Bodie's own mouth, but exciting, too. They exchanged saliva until long
after the need for oxygen became a pressing issue. Almost light-headed,
Ray finally drew back for some much needed air.

 Gulping in the pleasantly cool lungfuls, Ray stared down at the face of
the man who was so comfortably cushioning him. 

 "God, Ray, you just touched me and I couldn't hold back," Bodie
explained, still looking troubled. "Know it wasn't pleasant for you, but .
. . . "

 "It was perfect, just like you, mate," Ray whispered, a quiver running
through him at Bodie's open vulnerability. "Only one problem, though . . .
."

 "Wha's that?" Bodie asked, appearing braced for the worst.

 "You went by so quick, I barely got a chance to taste you. Know a way to
remedy that, though."

 "Huh?" Bodie looked so relieved that Doyle hadn't voiced a complaint that
Ray's actual words seemed to go over his head. 

 "You'll see," Doyle promised in a husky tone, leaning over to lick a bead
of sweat from Bodie's well-developed pectoral muscle. Bodie's helpless
gasp was all the encouragement he needed.

 Never had Doyle thought that he would be glad of the skills he'd acquired
in 

 Van Cleef's service, but tonight he found himself rejoicing in his
ability to stimulate his companion. Literally inebriated by the sense of
wild freedom his feelings for Bodie granted him, Ray felt many of his
crippling inhibitions drop away. His fingers and lips hungrily sampled
places Doyle's eyes wouldn't have dared three days ago.

 Bodie's face, neck, shoulders and chest were all familiar territory after
last night's explorations. Even so, Doyle treated them all as virgin
ground, showering each site with kisses and caresses. Ray's insides
quivered as he moved lower, more from excitement than nervousness. Bodie
was so touchable, a study in contrasts: baby soft skin above hard muscle,
night dark hair against near-translucent flesh.

 Bodie's powerful thighs splayed apart at Doyle's first touch, Bodie
seeming to offer him anything he might desire. Doyle bent to lick up the
inner softness of that athletic thigh, smiling at the prolonged moan that
produced. His partner was absurdly responsive to him. Bodie was responding
as though he'd hungered for the smallest of these touches for years.

 Which might just be the case, were even half the things he'd inferred
over the past few weeks true, Doyle realized. All through the interview
with Cowley yesterday, both Cowley and Bodie's attitudes had made it clear
that his partner's feelings for Doyle were no secret. Bodie had all but
told Ray afterward that his feelings had never been reciprocated. 

 What a way to live. For a man as proud as Bodie, it must have been pure
hell, Doyle thought as he once again approached Bodie's shaft. 

 That rosy cock was already fully erect, visibly aching for his touch.
Bodie was so big here that it was hard for Ray to fully master his fears.
So many cocks had hurt him in so many ways that it was hard for him to
trust that this one wouldn't be used as a weapon against him as well, but
all he had to do was glance up at Bodie's raptured features to know who
had the power here right now. For all that Bodie was turned on as hard as
any man who'd ever hurt Ray, Bodie seemed almost incapable of action at
the moment, so blown away was he by the experience.

 Emboldened by Bodie's seeming incapacitation, Ray lent down and
tentatively licked the pulsing, sweaty shaft. Salt and musk filled Doyle's
senses. All of it Bodie, all of it good.

 The moan that lick inspired sounded like it had been dredged from the
depths of Bodie's soul.

 "You okay with this, Ray?" Bodie stunned him by grunting out.

 Pulling back for a much needed, clear breath, Doyle sighed, "Mmmm,
Bodie-mate, you're like fine wine."

 His upwards glance was caught and held by Bodie's flushed cheeks and
incandescent gaze. Doyle's heart wrenched at the open yearning there. It
was clear that Bodie was dying for something that he would never ask his
abused mate to do for him. Spellbound by the mute plea, Ray lowered his
head again, this time taking his partner fully into his mouth instead of
just licking the shaft.

 "Ahh . . . Christ, Ray . . . yeahhh . . . please . . . use your tongue
like that . . . ahhhh . . . . " Bodie's groans filled the room as his dark
head thrashed about once Ray had him fully in.

 Doyle raised himself up enough for his tongue tip to trace delicate
patterns up the sensitive head of the glans, punctuating his pattern with
playful swipes at the loose foreskin and wet swabs from the cock's base to
its tapered tip. Bodie's flavour rushed through him as he worked
diligently at the other man's pleasure. Never had Ray been so absorbed or
playful in this act as to use his imagination to come up with new
innovations to delight his companion. Ray spared nothing, giving Bodie the
full benefit of his dubious talents.

 Pausing for breath, Doyle regarded the object of his ministrations – his
partner's throbbing cock. Rising from its nest of sweaty dark curls in a
majestic sweep, Bodie's shaft was truly something to behold. Slick with
saliva, its glossy sheen glistened in the flickering orange firelight,
almost an archetype of male sexuality. 

 Looking at it, Doyle was overcome with the absurd desire to paint Bodie's
cock. The primal power it represented; the wanton, pagan beauty of its
sexual declaration . . . Doyle observed it all and wasn't once touched by
its threat. Even when Bodie's iron fingers locked in his curls and guided
his head back down in a grip he had always loathed, Ray didn't panic. He
knew whom he was with, and until Bodie gave him reason to feel otherwise,
he would trust his partner not to hurt him.

 "Harder . . . more . . . .yeah . . . tha's it . . . . " Bodie panted as
Ray did his very best to suck his partner's brain out through his cock.
And maybe he succeeded. The shocked outcry that followed Bodie's rushed
words sounded pretty mindless. No thought, just a pure reaction to
pleasure.

 Doyle held on as the powerful body spasmed beneath him and did his best
to drink down the bitter, salty out-pouring.

 He had Bodie in his arms seconds after the last bit of semen sprayed his
throat, with no conscious recollection as to how his partner had gotten
there. Not caring about the details, Ray cuddled his armload closer. He
shivered as Bodie's tongue lapped the sweat pooling in the hollow of his
throat. Bodie was just so oral.

 "Feels good," Doyle approved, stroking down Bodie's sleek back.

 "So did that. Best ever, Ray. You okay?"

 Reading the wealth of concern behind the quiet question, Doyle hugged his
partner even closer. "Perfect."

 "Mmmm . . . that you are," Bodie agreed around a stupendous yawn.

 "'ey," Doyle called some time later, aware of how heavy the weight in his
arms had grown. 

 Looking down, he found that Bodie's eyes were already closed, his face
relaxing into the familiar blankness of sleep. His partner was totally
blown away by what they'd shared.

 Normally, Ray would have let his companion sleep, but the fire was
already starting to burn down. Despite the afghan and cushions from which
they'd made their little pleasure dome, in a few hours the sitting room
floor was going to be freezing.

 Not looking forward to a midnight move, Ray poked his partner and
repeated in a firmer tone, "Hey!"

 "Hmmm?" Bodie grumped.

 "Come on, Sleepin' Beauty, your mattress and pea are awaitin' you
upstairs," Doyle said, climbing to his feet and grinning at the groan
Bodie gave as Ray's movements disturbed him.

 Staring down at his adorably outraged, sleepy mate, it was all Doyle
could do to keep his laugh in as he offered the miserable man a hand up. 

 Bodie took him at his offer, making Ray work to haul him to his feet, and
then immediately trusting the bulk of his weight to Doyle's safe keeping
as he slung an arm across Doyle's shoulders.

 "Wasn't Sleeping Beauty that had the pea," Bodie mumbled.

 "Huh?" Ray grunted, more in response to keeping all that weight upright
than in reaction to his sleep-fogged lover's observation.

 "Sleeping Beauty slept for a hundred years," Bodie explained. "She didn't
have any peas."

 "So who had the pea then?" Doyle demanded as they carefully navigated the
chalet stairs.

 "Who cares? All this talk about peein' . . . Ray, can we . . . ."

 Doyle had to laugh then. He'd never seen Bodie so charmingly boyish.
Totally infatuated with this hidden part of his friend, Ray detoured to
the master bath.

 "You going to watch?" Bodie peevishly demanded as Doyle leaned against
the sink after propping his partner up in front of the commode. Bodie's
beautiful hands were frozen above his penis.

 It was ridiculous. They were both standing here bollocks naked. Doyle had
just sucked the damn thing off, and here Bodie was fixating on his modesty
like a Victorian virgin. Still, Ray knew that propriety demanded he be
more conscious of his companion's preferences.

 About to apologize, Ray stopped himself. He'd accompanied his mate into
the bathroom mostly to assure himself that Bodie didn't do himself an
injury in his exhausted state, but now that he was here, Ray found himself
wanting to watch the proceedings, weird as that might seem. He knew that
decorum demanded he allow his partner the same privacy that Bodie had so
thoughtfully accorded him in those first few months when he was so
emotionally damaged, but . . . something in Ray wanted to stay and he
trusted Bodie enough to be honest about it. 

 Changing mental cylinders, Doyle cautiously replied, "Thought I might."

 Holding his breath, Doyle waited for Bodie to balk and tell him it was
indecent or something of the same.

 Bodie's left eyebrow arced up, a speculative light entering his now
wide-awake features. "Go in for that kinda thing, do you?"

 No judgment, just simple curiosity seemed to motivate Bodie's question.

 Ray felt his face heat as he tried to explain the bizarre impulse. "I . .
. don't think so. 's just . . . I like watchin' you. Doesn't much matter
what you're doin'."

 Ray didn't know what he'd said to cause it, but his response seemed to
emotionally derail the other man. The jaded air left his partner's visage,
leaving behind a slightly ill at ease Bodie. It was strange. When Bodie
had thought it a kink, he'd seemed totally fine with the idea. Only now
did he seem off centre.

 "You want me to clear out?" Ray offered, uneasy himself now.

 "No," Bodie shook his head.

 "Too weird for you?" Ray quizzed, wishing he'd kept his trap shut.

 Seeming himself again, Bodie chuckled, aimed his cock at the bowl and let
loose in a powerful stream that foamed and steamed as it hit the cooler
water of the toilet. 

 "Nah," Bodie conversationally answered. "Some night when we've got
nothin' better to do, I'll tell you about weird, mate."

 Ray grinned as Bodie shook himself dry, flushed the toilet and headed
toward the sink.

 "What're you laughin' at?" Bodie demanded when Doyle couldn't contain his
amusement any longer.

 "You," Ray shook his head as he watched his partner fastidiously wash and
dry his hands afterwards. "Your mum must've been proud of your manners."

 "Some of us have manners, you know," Bodie groused. "You wouldn't want me
comin' to bed with you with dirty hands, now would you?"

 "Don't care 'bout your dirty hands, just so long as you come," Doyle
joked back.

 Bodie's grin was instantaneous. Worried, Ray watched it fade by slow
degrees to something softer. "God, Ray. It's good to see you so . . .
you."

 Doyle blinked at that. Bodie thought he was acting like his old self
again? As far as he could remember, he hadn't been the least bit snarky in
the last few minutes. This happy, silly horsing around was how Bodie
thought of his partner behaving? Beginning to rethink his opinion of his
former self, Doyle answered, "It's good to be me again, especially now.
Let's go to bed, mate, ey?"

 "You can't possibly be suggestin' that we . . . ." Bodie's words trailed
off.

 Ray just raised his eyebrows and gave his partner a speculative look. 

 His exhaustion seemingly a thing of the past, Bodie took his hand and led
him to their room.

 Ray's suggestion had been voiced more for effect than out of any actual
desire, but he followed his friend willingly, amazed to find himself
actively anticipating whatever might develop between them.

 ******

*Chapter Ten*

 That night Doyle slept soundlessly, and, even more importantly,
dreamlessly. Not so much as a single nightmare disturbed Ray's rest. It
was only his full bladder that awoke him just before dawn.

 After giving the lightly snoring bundle of warmth beside him a soft kiss,
Doyle slipped from the bed and crossed to the shadowed bathroom. Besides
having to pee, his mouth tasted like a thoroughly used litter box.

 As he brushed the foul taste from his mouth, Ray's body still seemed to
be thrumming from the intimacies of last night. He was unable to believe
what he'd done to Bodie, or, rather, how much he'd enjoyed doing those
things to Bodie. And what his partner had done to him . . . Doyle grew
hard simply remembering.

 He felt reborn. Every cell in his body felt tingly and alive. 

 His business in the bathroom completed, Doyle padded barefoot from the
room to go down and put the kettle on. 

 Twenty minutes later, Doyle was sitting in the centre of Bodie's unused
cot, a few short feet away from the double bed in which his partner still
slumbered. His legs tucked up under him, sketchpad in hand, Ray was busy
attempting to capture the ephemeral sense of innocence that clung to his
partner only while Bodie slept. Concentrating on that fleeting, near
ineffable quality, Ray absently sipped at his tea between frenetic bursts
of activity.

 As ever, Doyle was struck by the sheer animal beauty of his friend: the
milky white skin, so pale as to be almost translucent in places, the deep
black of Bodie's impossibly long eyelashes, the feathery fall of brown
hair, the impressive musculature, so strong even in repose . . .Bodie was
a magnificent physical specimen.

 As Ray watched, his magnificent physical specimen gave a sudden start in
the bed, one hand reaching out to the empty spot on Doyle's side of the
mattress. 

 Bodie's eyes snapped open, something close to panic gripping his
features. "Ray?"

 Unable to credit the open anxiety, Doyle cast his sketchpad aside and
climbed back onto the double bed, "Right here, mate."

 To his consternation, Bodie's distress didn't lessen any. Those sleepy
blue eyes still stared at Ray as though unable to believe that Doyle were
really there. 

 "What is it, Bodie?" Ray asked gently, reaching out to touch a
black-stubbled cheek.

 "'ey?"

 "You always look at me like . . . I don't know . . . like you're
surprised to see me here or somethin'," Doyle cautiously explained.

 "Maybe I am," Bodie's reluctance to discuss this subject was a tangible
presence.

 Temporarily ignoring the puzzling problem, Ray moved in to indulge in the
one, sure-fire cure to all of Bodie's strange moods – a deep, open-mouthed
kiss. Bodie had enjoyed it yesterday, so had he.

 This morning Bodie tasted different. Yesterday's kisses at dawn had shown
Bodie's mouth to be dry, but its sweet, Bodie-flavoured self. But today
there was a sour, thoroughly unpleasant aftertaste that Doyle slowly
realized was the residue of his own semen.

 "Gawd, is that horrible taste me?" Doyle chuckled as they pulled apart,
realizing only after the words were out how undiplomatic they sounded.

 But Bodie just grinned. "Must be. You're the only bloke I've been having
it away with lately. I take it you brushed your teeth already."

 "First thing," Doyle admitted. "Thought something had died in my mouth." 

 Abashed, Ray recognized that he'd once again put his foot in it.

 "Christ, but you're a romantic bugger first thing, Ray," Bodie laughed.

 "Sorry, I . . . . " Doyle searched for a proper apology.

 "It's okay," Bodie dismissed, and somehow it was okay.

 "Don't know why waking up with that taste in my mouth should bother me so
much," Ray admitted, settling down on the pillow beside his friend to
stare at Bodie's handsome profile. "I mean, it's not like I never did it
before . . . it's just . . . I don't remember it tastin' so bad the next
morning."

 Bodie was quiet a moment, as if debating whether he should voice his
thoughts. It felt like a major victory to Ray when Bodie eventually spoke,
as if Bodie now considered him stable enough to be totally honest with
him.

 "From the bruises those bastards left on you, you probably had a lot more
than a bad taste in your mouth to think about the morning after," Bodie
said.

 "Yeah, I guess you're right." Knowing his lover wouldn't touch him when
such memories were uppermost in his mind, Doyle hugged Bodie close to him,
confident enough in their relationship now to reach out and take what he
needed. The alacrity with which Bodie squeezed back told him that he'd
guessed right, that Bodie had held back only on Doyle's behalf.

 "Bodie?" Doyle asked after a few moments, pulling far enough away to see
Bodie's eyes.

 "Mmmm?" 

 "Before – you said that I was the only bloke you'd been having it away
with *lately. *Does that mean there've been others? Other men, I mean," he
qualified. Bodie's abilities last night had indicated his friend was no
stranger to same sex relationships. As the laughter seeped from his
partner's face, Doyle realized he'd overstepped himself. "Sorry. That was
a stupid thing to ask. It's none of my business."

 The silence that followed seemed to be the longest and most tension
wrought in the history of the universe.

 Just about the time that Doyle was convinced that he'd ruined everything,
Bodie reached out and stroked Doyle's broken cheek with his pinkie in that
strangely cherishing manner that got to Ray every single time. "Of course,
it's your business. You've made yourself an open book to me, told me
nightmares no man should be forced to relive. It's just . . . remember
last night when I told you . . . how I'd push you away when it was time to
balance the scales?"

 Doyle nodded, and then assured, "Bodie, you don't have to tell me
anything. I was just curious, tha's all." At the glance that earned him,
Ray explained, "You just seemed to know what you were doing last night. It
piqued my curiosity. That's all. C'mon, let's . . . . "

 Bodie snagged his elbow as he sought escape, guiding Doyle back against
the pillows. 

 "I'm just saying it's hard for me, Ray. I . . . ahh . . . didn't come up
through the police force like you did. I didn't always wear a white hat."

 "I wasn't always that lily-white myself, mate," Doyle reminded. Ray tried
to gentle the wariness from those magnificent blue eyes with soft caresses
to Bodie's tense neck and shoulders. "I told you 'bout that gang I
remembered being in and – "

 "Ray, that's penny-ante stuff. Gangs and Saturday night rumbles. I was a
hired killer. We prettied it up by calling ourselves soldiers of fortune,
but we were the worst kind of murderers. Didn't matter who we killed or
why, just so long as the money got banked."

 "I'll never believe that of you. Ever," Doyle insisted. "You may have
been there and done those things, but I know it could never've come easy
to you."

 "It did come easy, mate, far too easy," Bodie protested, looking away. "I
was a born natural. The best of the best."

 Doyle sighed, realizing that he was never going to win this particular
argument this way. "Okay. You were the best of the best or the worst of
the worst, or however you want to phrase it. Whatever you were, whatever
you did, it kept you alive and got you out of that hellhole. That's the
only thing that matters to me."

 Bodie met his gaze with obvious difficulty. "I could tell you stories
that'd straighten your curls . . . and make you hate me so much that you'd
be callin' Cowley collect for your ticket home."

 Bodie was serious; Doyle was stunned to realize. Tiring of the senseless
debate and wondering just what the devil they were really talking about
here, Ray glared down at the stubborn fool beside him. "All right. Let's
have the worst of it, then. Did you ever rape or murder innocent women or
children?"

 The lines in Bodie's wary face grew deeper as he answered, "No, of course
not. But there were some in my troop that did."

 "You're only responsible for you, mate. I'm sure there were blokes on the
Force with me who didn't walk the straight 'n' narrow . . . . "

 "And you turned them in . . . every one of them. That was why Cowley
chose you for his squad. You paid more than lip service to the rules. I .
. . I never turned them in, Ray. There wasn't anyone to report them to, no
one to care what we did out there, really."

 Doyle absorbed that in silence for a moment. "That sounds hard."

 "You don't know the half of it," Bodie evaded.

 "So tell me. All of it. Let me share it with you . . . . "

 "You can't share this. You wouldn't want to, truth be told."

 Bodie looked so damned sure of that fact that Ray just wanted to knock
that certitude right out from under him. He knew his partner. He would
back Bodie to do the right thing, no matter the circumstances. Whatever
this shady past was, it simply couldn't be as terrible as Bodie was making
it out to be.

 "Let me be the judge of that."

 "That's what I'm afraid of," Bodie muttered. 

 "What?" 

 "Nothin'," Bodie glanced over at the sketchpad Ray had left on the cot
before meeting Doyle's gaze again. "It's ugly, Ray. I don't know where to
start. You're going to have to ask me what you wanta know, 'cause there's
just too much to tell."

 "Let's stick to the important stuff, then." Trying to focus only on the
things that mattered most, Ray asked, "Did you ever shoot someone in the
back who was depending on you to protect him?" 

 "No," Bodie swiftly replied.

 "Did you abandon your mates in the thick of things and leave 'em to die?"

 Bodie grew paler. "No, but . . . . "

 "No buts. This is my show," Ray snapped. "You were at war, not a Sunday
picnic."

 "I know, but . . . . "

 "How old were you when you signed up with those mercs?" Doyle questioned,
genuinely curious. Those anecdotes Bodie used to tell him in the long days
before Doyle had trusted his partner enough to speak had left Doyle
wondering just how old his partner was. Bodie looked his own age or
younger, but the living his partner had crammed into those thirty-some odd
years seemed suited to someone twice their age.

 "Ahh . . . almost eighteen," Bodie answered.

 "And when you got out?"

 "Not quite twenty-two."

 "You were nothin' but a scared kid, fer Christ's sake, doin' what you
hadta to stay alive. I love you, Bodie. That's not going to change.
Whether it was gun runnin' or sellin' your skills to the highest bidder .
. . it doesn't make a bloody bit of difference to me. Not now, and not
back when we were partners, either, I'll wager."

 To Doyle's frustration, none of the wariness faded from Bodie's doubtful
eyes. The larger man still looked like a trapped animal determined to gnaw
its own foot off to regain its freedom. His face steeling with resolve,
Bodie began in a deceptively casual tone, "You asked about my experience
with other blokes. I picked most of that up over in Africa, too. None of
it's pretty, Ray. Still want to hear about it?"

 A warning prickle blew down Doyle's spine. Whatever Bodie had to say, the
hard set of the handsome features warned Doyle that this wasn't something
that he really wanted to hear. But Ray knew if he copped out now, if he
drew back from whatever this unpleasantness was, that Bodie would never
completely relax in their relationship. Every morning Doyle would wake up
to that same, uncertain gaze as Bodie lay there waiting for the day when
Doyle would figure out the ex-merc's deepest, darkest secrets and cut out
on him. Not that Ray ever thought that would happen, but he didn't want
Bodie living with that kind of fear. 

 There was also a part of Doyle, a side he rarely touched these days, that
seemed to wake up and pay attention. Ray didn't know how he knew, but
somehow he was certain that he had waited years to hear whatever it was
that Bodie was so afraid to tell him. That side of him was quietly
rejoicing, even as his conscious mind braced itself to handle some ugly
information.

 Consciously blanking all emotion from his face, Doyle answered, "If you
want to tell me about it, I'm all ears."

 "All right, but remember that I warned you."

 "Bodie . . . ."

 "Like you guessed, I was a green kid when I landed in the Congo. Had a
headful of grand dreams. Thought I'd find adventure and romance in the
Dark Continent. Those romantic illusions were ripped from me my first
night in camp, along with my virginity." 

 Ray winced at the studied calm with which Bodie related what must have
been one of the most horrible events of his life. His heart bleeding
inside for the eighteen-year-old boy that Bodie had been, Ray watched his
partner avert his gaze. 

 Bodie directed the rest of his story to the nightstand, as if unable to
even bear looking in Doyle's direction while telling this tale. Ray had
the distinct impression that he was probably the first person to ever hear
this particular story. "We'd parachuted in. The nearest town was a
two-week trek by foot through the deadliest stretch of jungle known to
man. I was completely out of my depths there, Ray. There was no way I
could have made it out of that jungle alive alone. I needed the others
just to survive. That first night in camp, the fellows introduced me to a
charming game that they play in those parts. It's not quite as refined as
chess," Bodie joked darkly, "but it's a hell of a lot more interactive."

 Bodie's clue about the loss of his virginity had already cued Doyle into
the type of games that they were discussing here. 

 "What happened?" Ray gently asked.

 "I was stupid, Ray. Thought it was just a wrestling match. You know, best
two out of three. I ignored the 'winner take all' portion of the prologue.
I was good, for an eighteen-year-old kid. But I just didn't have the
ruthlessness to win first time out. I went down in under two minutes. In
less than three, I was on my knees with his cock up my arse. He took me
there in front of the campfire with the entire squad watching on. It was .
. . quite an eye opener of an introduction."

 So much so that Bodie still couldn't meet his gaze.

 When he felt he could talk without losing it, Ray gripped Bodie's
shoulders tight and gruffly asked, "You thought I'd hate you for this?"

 His fingers were clenching Bodie's bare shoulders so hard that he knew
his paler companion would have bruises there later.

 "Nah, that was the part I knew you'd understand. It's the rest of the
sordid mess that . . . ."

 "Tell me," Ray entreated. Knowing how hard it was for his embarrassed
partner to do this while staring him straight in the eye, Doyle slid
around Bodie and encircled him from behind, drawing Bodie back to lean
against his chest. It was like embracing a block of stone; Bodie was so
tense. "Please? It can't be any worse than some of the stuff I've told
you."

 The reminder worked. Bodie's hand settled atop both of Doyle's where they
lay with fingers laced on Bodie's flat stomach. It seemed to take Bodie a
few minutes to find his voice, then the halting narration continued, "It
went on that way for a few nights. A different bloke each night, same
conclusion. By the time we met up with our main group four days later, I
was a right nutter. Really outta my head. There was a man in the new group
. . . Wallace was his name. Well . . . he wasn't as bad as the rest. He
was big and blond and laughed a lot and, if I'd met him under different
circumstances, we might've been mates. When one of the bunch challenged me
that night, Wallace stepped in. He said it wasn't rightly a fair fight, me
bein' just a green kid and all. Wallace pushed me aside and took on the
challenger. I didn't realize it then, but he was staking out his claim.
After that, the others left me alone and Wallace . . . I was green, Doyle.
He set himself up as my protector and I was so fuckin' naïve that I didn't
even know it until too late. Within a week, I was eatin' outta his hand. I
did anything he asked . . . anything. He, ah, taught me most of what I did
to you last night."

 "Was he good to you?" Doyle asked the only important question, hugging
his friend closer. 

 Bodie shrugged. "He didn't humiliate me by buggering me in front of the
squad like the others, but I was on my knees for him every night. He made
it clear if I didn't, that he'd toss me back to the pack."

 Ray shuddered. "Christ, what a prick!"

 "You don't know the half of it," Bodie amazed him by chuckling. "He was
built like a bloody stallion."

 "How long . . . ?" Doyle started to ask, before his better sense told him
that Bodie mightn't be prepared to recall how long he'd endured that
abuse, anymore than Ray himself was inclined to dwell on the length of
time he'd suffered in Van Cleef's clutches,

 But Bodie's brain operated along different lines than his did, his
partner taking his question as a literal reference to their former topic,
"At least ten inches, maybe more."

 Ray couldn't stop himself from chuckling at the indelicate response. He
wasn't sure if Bodie's ability to joke about this subject was a sign of
how well he'd healed over the years or just another diversionary tactic to
hide how much the events still pained him. Either way, Ray kept his arms
where they were and just held on. "Wasn't talkin' 'bout that, you daft
bugger. How long were you . . . with Wallace?"

 "'bout six months. He got blown to pieces in a mortar attack one morning.
The bastards took out the jiffies."

 "The what?" Doyle questioned. 

 "The latrines."

 Doyle was quiet for a moment before asking, "So what happened to you
after Wallace died?"

 "I was back in the Game again. Only, this time I knew what the stakes
were. I'd toughed up in that six months with Wallace. He liked to work out
and practiced with me, so I was fitter than ever. Wallace had taught me a
few dirty tricks, too. If he'd lived, chances were that I'd've been
challenging him myself within the year. Don't know about that for sure,
though. Like I said, he wasn't really all that bad to me."

 It was on the tip of his tongue to challenge Bodie's claim, to point out
that the guy had extorted a young kid into a predatory sexual relationship
and used Bodie like a sex toy, but for once Doyle's better sense prevailed
and he held his tongue. 

 What point would there be in making Bodie feel bad about the events now?
If telling himself that Wallace wasn't so bad to him made the entire
humiliating situation more acceptable to Bodie, who was he to destroy
those illusions? And, for all he knew, the guy might've been okay to
Bodie. There was a note of fondness in Bodie's voice when he talked about
Wallace that Ray wasn't entirely comfortable hearing. 

 Recognizing his own response for the jealousy it was, Doyle let the
entire issue drop and asked instead, "So what happened then?"

 "This is the part you're not going to like," Bodie warned.

 Ray didn't see how he could like anything less than the idea of some thug
buggering his teenaged partner every night in exchange for protection
against public rape.

 "Tell me anyway," Ray urged, kissing the soft skin of Bodie's neck.

 Bodie shivered, sighed, and then seemed to force himself to answer, "I,
ah . . . started winning the Game. Anyone challenged me, I made sure I
won, then fucked them bloody. I was . . . vicious, ruthless . . . utterly
without mercy. I killed more than one man in the fight itself, Ray. Like
you said, I was the worst of the worst."

 Bodie became so still in his arms that even the larger man's breathing
had seemed to cease.

 It didn't take much in the way of brains to realize that Bodie was
awaiting judgment. 

 Clearing his throat, Ray tried to shake free of the savagery to which
Bodie had confessed. This was not something he had ever imagined of Bodie.
A victimized kid, he could relate to. This was . . . hard to accept. 

 His Bodie had played those sadistic sex games and raped other men in
public? It was something worthy of Van Cleef, not something Doyle could
ever envision his gentle caretaker as getting off on. And he had no idea
how to respond to the confession.

 Knowing he had to say *something*, Doyle bluffed it out with, "You did
what you had to do to stay alive, mate. I'd've done the same. So would any
man."

 But Bodie knew him too well. His tone strangely bleak, Bodie countered,
"No, Ray, you wouldn't. At least, not the way I did it. You see, there was
a part of me that . . . truly enjoyed winning those games. I took real
pleasure buggering those bastards in front of the entire troop. You never
would've . . . . " the words stopped, as though Bodie had realized he'd
said too much.

 And perhaps Bodie had.

 This time it was Doyle who held still, barely able to breathe. What his
friend had admitted to was both sick and sadistic. It repulsed Ray down to
the very fibre of his soul. This seemed to go against everything he
thought he knew of Bodie's character. Could he have been so mistaken about
this man? Could this gentle, loving man really harbour the kind of monster
Bodie was confessing to being?

 For the first time since Bodie had rescued him, Doyle cursed his lack of
memories. He wished he had some frame of reference beyond the six months
he'd spent with Bodie to judge this by. His heart told him that even if
this were true of Bodie twenty years ago, it was no longer true of him
now, but, what did his heart really know? Every instinct Doyle possessed
would have had him wager his soul that his partner could never be involved
in the kind of bestial acts Bodie had confessed to. If his instincts were
so far off, then how could he trust his heart any better?

 Doyle didn't know how long he lay there just trying to wrap his mind
around the unbelievable thing Bodie had told him. His next awareness was
of Bodie breaking free of his embrace and, for all that Ray wanted to hold
onto his partner, the shock of it all wouldn't allow him to. 

 "Too much truth, 'ey?" Bodie practically spat out, meeting Doyle's eyes
this time with the look of a man who'd seen his worst nightmare given
form.

 It was that hard, despairing expression that shook Doyle out of his
stasis. Ray reminded himself of how Bodie had insisted he wasn't going to
like this, how Bodie had feared that Doyle wouldn't be able to accept
this, and, with the moronic trust of an amnesiac, he had blithely assured
Bodie that it wouldn't change anything.

 And what had it really changed, Doyle asked himself as he met those
discouraged blue eyes. Bodie was still the same man he'd woken up cuddling
this morning, the same man who'd risked everything to save him. 

 Taking a deep breath, Ray tried to stamp down hard on his moral response
to his partner's revelation. If what Bodie had confessed to was sick and
sadistic, so was the world in which the innocent kid Bodie had been back
then had found himself trapped. Ray knew from his own captivity that only
the strongest survived in situations that horrible. After the degradation
and humiliation Bodie had suffered at the hands of those bastards, was it
any wonder that Bodie had enjoyed his revenge? 

 Doyle knew how he'd feel if given the opportunity to pay Van Cleef back
for some of the degradations he'd suffered. Rape wouldn't come close to a
proper revenge for Van Cleef. Disembowelment and vivisection wouldn't even
do the trick. If he, as an adult, weren't able to control his hatred in a
civilized manner, how could an eighteen-year-old boy who'd been so
brutalized have any hope of making a better showing? Who was he to judge
Bodie when Doyle's hatred for his own abuser made him equally
bloodthirsty?

 "It's all right, Bodie," Doyle whispered, meeting and holding that
troubled gaze.

 "Is it?" Bodie challenged. "We're talkin' rape and murder, sunshine."

 "Manslaughter, not murder," Ray corrected, not sure where that piece of
information came from. "Besides, it was self-defence. Your opponents
would've raped or killed you if given the chance."

 And somehow, that knowledge made what Bodie had told him a little easier
to handle. They weren't talking about decent, upstanding citizens here,
but degenerates that would rape a young boy in public and call it a sport.


 "I made damn sure they never got the chance again," Bodie told him. "When
I knew I couldn't beat them in a fair fight . . . I-I made sure I killed
them in the first few minutes. It was premeditated, Ray, straight down the
line."

 As he stared into Bodie's tortured eyes, Ray realized that Bodie had
already judged himself far more harshly than anyone else would have. His
mind at a loss as to how to proceed here, Ray's heart stepped in and
handled it. "Look, did you ever issue those challenges?"

 "What?" The look Bodie was giving him could only qualify as a glare.

 "Did you ever challenge one of those rats first or make a move on some
green kid?" Doyle asked, almost afraid of the answer he might receive. A
man pushed to his emotional extremes often gave as bad as he got, and,
although Doyle couldn't imagine Bodie preying on some innocent kid, after
what Bodie had been put through, it wouldn't particularly surprise Doyle.
Men tried to regain their lost self-esteem in strange ways, sometimes by
trying to reclaim it by becoming the very bastards who had stolen it from
them in the first place.

 "As far as the pack was concerned, if they left me alone, I left them
alone," Bodie said. "I only ever challenged two of them . . . after they'd
tried the Game on some wet-behind-the-ears kid who was already pissin' his
trousers over the mistake he'd made in getting involved with that outfit."

 "You stepped in to protect them?" Doyle glowed with relief, having known
all along in his heart what his Bodie was made of.

 "Yeah, I played the White Knight. Had to kill the challenger in both
cases, but I spared the kids that first night initiation," for some
reason, the words sounded like another confession.

 Not understanding Bodie's marked hesitation, Doyle asked, "So what are
you acting so ashamed of, then?"

 "Ray, you don't know what it's like out there. I didn't do those lads any
favours by stepping in. I *knew* neither of them had a snowflake's chance
in hell of going up against a veteran fighter and winning, not when they
didn't understand what was truly at stake, but I might've been wrong. If I
hadn't interfered, maybe one of them would have won."

 "What does it matter? You spared them that," Ray argued.

 "I spared them nothing. All I did was give them a different role to
play," Bodie countered, looking both weary and sick at heart, like he was
trying to explain something incomprehensible to Doyle in a language that
didn't have words to relay the concept. The world Bodie was describing was
so alien to Ray that he didn't doubt for a minute that it must feel that
way to Bodie. For the first time, he began to understand why Bodie had
remained so silent about these things for so many years, even though Bodie
fully understood that his reticence had kept him from gaining Doyle's
complete trust.

 Still not understanding what Bodie was trying to tell him, Ray
brilliantly enquired, "Huh?"

 "Ray, kids like that . . . unless they can win the Game or find a
protector, they end up being passed around the camp like a pack of smokes.
I set myself up as their protector, killed to keep others off 'em . . .
that wasn't a passive role or philanthropic act. There aren't any fairy
godmothers in the jungle and I was no altruist."

 Slowly, Bodie's meaning penetrated Doyle's disbelief. "You mean you . . .
."

 Bodie's jaw tensed, his lips straightening to a hard, white-rimmed gash
in his face. "I never forced either of them. Didn't haveta. The others let
'em know what was expected of them, what would happen if they didn't spend
their nights in their protector's tent."

 "Just out of curiosity," Doyle asked, a cold, disillusioned edge, audible
to even himself, creeping into his tone, "what would've happened to them
if they didn't . . . repay their debt to you?"

 Bodie's features were like stone, but there was still a haunted cast to
his eyes that made it plain that Bodie believed that he'd already lost
Doyle's respect, in addition to anything else Ray might've felt for him.

 Though that look hurt Ray, he was too disgusted at the moment to do
anything to ease it. 

 As though resolved to get through the worst of it, Bodie started speaking
again, "When I first joined up, there was a kid named Jerry there. He was
only a year or so older than me. A bloke had stepped in for him in the
Game his first night out. His protector wasn't an animal, but he wasn't an
especially nice guy, either. The kid came to him that night to thank his
benefactor, but said that, although he appreciated what Jones, that was
the older bloke's name, had done for him, he didn't want to sleep with
him. Jones just said fine and let Jerry walk away."

 "What was so wrong with that?" Doyle asked, thinking that that was what
Bodie or any other honourable man should have done in similar
circumstances.

 "Nothing was wrong with it, except Jones didn't warn the kid. By letting
the older bloke step in for him, Jerry had demonstrated that he wasn't man
enough to fight his own battles. He lost the troop's respect. After that,
the pack wasn't going to approach Jerry man to man. There would be no more
challenges . . . ."

 "What's so bad about that?" Doyle interrupted, still not understanding.

 "The Game's no joy, Ray, but it's a fair fight. One on one, winner takes
all. Jerry didn't have that protection anymore. It wasn't just one man did
him his first night in camp. Jerry's first night there, four men visited
his tent. All of them had both his arse and his mouth. The next morning,
Jerry went to Jones, begging him to let him sleep in his tent with him,
but the prick told Jerry that he didn't like shop-soiled goods. He kicked
the kid out. When I arrived, Jerry had been there a year . . . and every
night at least three guys had him. The night Wallace stepped in for me, it
was Jerry who convinced me that I should go to Wallace and be whatever I
had to be to stay in his tent."

 "My God . . . . " Ray stuttered, unable to believe that anyone could
survive three years in that kind of vipers' nest as Bodie had claimed to
have done. Hearing the truth, it was little wonder to Doyle that Bodie had
never confided in his partner before. "So, ah . . . what did you do when
your, er . . . wards showed up?"

 "What do you want, Doyle, explicit blow by blow details, fer Christ's
sake?" Bodie demanded, calling him Doyle as he only did when perturbed
with him.

 "You said you didn't force them," Doyle reminded. Not knowing why, he was
somewhat calmed by Bodie's bluster. Perhaps because it revealed how none
of this came easily to his friend. It was obviously something Bodie was
far from proud about.

 "I told each in his turn that he could spend the night in either my bed
or on the tent floor, but if they knew what was healthy for them, they
wouldn't leave until daylight."

 Doyle waited silently for the rest. He didn't want to push again, but he
needed to know all of it. 

 After a moment of staring at him, as though awaiting judgment, Bodie
continued with, "Jeff was the first. He spent three months sleeping on my
tent floor before he stopped a bullet. Ken came to my bed his first night
in camp. He was a terrified kid who needed a teddybear to cling to.
Barring that, he settled on me. He bought it two weeks later."

 "Ah," Doyle managed, his throat too tight to risk anything more.

 "Is that all you have to say?" Bodie demanded, appearing terrified and
furious in equal measures.

 "No. I'm . . . sorry that you had to go through all that. You were just a
kid and you didn't deserve any of it."

 "That's it? You're *sorry*?" Bodie questioned in a sceptical tone.

 "Yeah. I'm sorry it happened and even sorrier that you never trusted me
enough to confide in me before. You should have done. You're not at all
the monster you paint yourself to be."

 Bodie averted his gaze again, "It sure isn't anything to be proud of,
Ray."

 The raspy admission melted Doyle. 

 "Maybe not," Ray replied, "but what you made of yourself after that kinda
start – that is something to be proud of. And, may I remind you, that if
it wasn't for that shady past of yours, I'd be dead or languishing away in
some nutter's clutches."

 "How do you figure that?"

 Ray crawled closer to the naked man huddled on the far side of the bed
and gently guided Bodie's chin up. "You told me yourself that it was your
contacts from your mercenary days that got you the cash to buy my freedom.
And it was the Bodie who was born in those jungles that rescued me, who
stood unarmed amidst an army of villains, ready to take them all on for my
sake. So, don't go regretting that past too much, mate."

 So close to those passion-reddened lips. Doyle couldn't resist the
allure. His mouth moved of its own accord to claim Bodie's. 

 After his reassuring words, the action shouldn't have come as any
surprise to Bodie, but Doyle could feel Bodie's shock in the tense body he
held. It was almost as if after all Ray had said, Bodie still expected
rejection.

 Ray pulled back far enough to stare into those shadowed blue eyes.
"What's it going to take to get you to believe in me, sunshine?"

 The tender exasperation in his tone brought a smile to Bodie's face. "I
believe in you . . . now."

 "I don't think I like the sound of that qualifier," Doyle complained.

 "Where'd you learn a word like that?" Bodie demanded, his smile forced,
but there.

 "Bodie . . . . " Ray warned, unwilling to be sidetracked. "What did you
mean?"

 Both of Bodie's hands rose to frame Doyle's face, his ring and pinkie
fingers stroking gently over the mismatched cheekbones. "I know you love
me. Right now you'd forgive me almost anything, but when you get all your
marbles back . . . . "

 "When I get all my marbles back, I'm going to throttle you with them,"
Doyle promised, frustrated enough to shake some sense into his lover.
"Anyway, accordin' to you, there's only one Doyle, so you don't have
anything to worry about." At Bodie's expression, he added, "You can't have
it both ways, sunshine. Either you're right and I'm the one and only or .
. . ."

 "Or nothin'. You're the one and only." Bodie's right hand left Doyle's
cheek to playfully ruffle his chestnut curls. "My one and only."

 Warmed by the atypically sentimental admission, Ray kissed his companion
again, a deep and thorough exploration, after which he pushed Bodie back
onto the pillows and rolled on top of him.

 "Ugggh," Bodie chuckled. "You've put on weight, mate." As Doyle leaned in
for another kiss, Bodie's hands intercepted his shoulders, halting the
oral contact. "If we're going to carry on like this, I better brush my
teeth."

 "Later," Doyle dismissed, too excited by the press of their lower bodies
to consider disengaging for anything short of a major catastrophe. He
hungrily sought the mouth in question, not caring what flavoured it. Being
turned on like this, feeling confident enough to indulge it without worry
was a freedom he was still unaccustomed to.

 "Ray," Bodie weakly protested after an interval of breathless
exploration.

 "Later," Doyle growled, reclaiming Bodie's mouth with gusto.

 Bodie groaned as Doyle moved to feast on the white skinned neck. Ray's
hand stroked over the impressive musculature of the taut nippled chest,
pausing to carefully squeeze the pebble hard buds until Bodie was crying
out loud from the pleasure of it. 

 "God, Ray . . . ." Bodie gasped.

 Unable to credit how little effort it took on his part to turn this
fierce warrior into a quivering heap of protoplasm, Doyle slowly worked
his way down the other man's body, caressing, stroking and nibbling until
he reached his partner's steamy groin. The scent of Bodie's musk was
heavier than last night, which only made sense, since neither of them had
showered yet. 

 Though Bodie's scent was strong, Doyle wasn't particularly bothered by
the smell today. On Bodie, it was a pleasant aroma, that filled Ray with
hot longing instead of the normal disgust. That earthy aroma of Bodie was
fast becoming one of the constants of his universe, Doyle acknowledged.

 With no hesitation at all, Ray palmed Bodie's pulsing cock. A few,
well-timed squeezes brought Bodie up to his full, impressive size. Even
last night Doyle had experienced some lingering trepidation, but not this
morning. 

 His heart was so touched by Bodie's sad history that there was hardly any
thought of himself in Ray's actions. All he wanted was to soothe and
reassure. Today all he smelt, tasted and knew was Bodie . . . the patient
companion who had brought him back from the Gates of Hell. The unpleasant
parts of the tale Bodie had told were still troubling, but they were the
story of another man, not his gentle lover. Staring up into that
passion-dazed handsome face, which even now seemed to show traces of
disbelief that Doyle would want to touch him this way after hearing the
truth, Ray resolved never to let what Bodie told him make a difference
between them. He would trust his lover until given reason not to. And in
his heart, Ray firmly believed that Bodie would never give him cause to
doubt him. 

 "Ray . . . oh, God, yes, please, right there . . . . " Bodie pleaded as
Doyle's mouth moved lower.

 He took in the straining shaft in a single suck, Bodie's rich, salty
flavour tanging through him like the purest malt scotch. Sucking the way
Bodie seemed to like it best, Doyle lightly trailed his fingers up and
down his lover's inner thighs, delighting in the gasps that earned him.
When he thought Bodie'd had enough of that, he quit petting there and
claimed the mossy balls for his own, rolling them between his fingers with
growing skill. 

 Within moments, Bodie was grunting with pleasure. Doyle glanced up from
his work to find Bodie's eyes clenched shut, his face contorted with
pleasure. He returned his full attention to what he was about, sucking
that pulsing shaft like he'd worked his favourite cherry lollies as a kid
. . . which was probably the first flashback that hadn't upset him. 

 Doyle felt Bodie's body still beneath him, and then with a surprised
sounding outcry, climax claimed his lover. Although it still freaked him
out to feel hot semen spraying the back of his throat, Ray hung on and
drank Bodie down till he was dry. Only then did his mouth release the
flaccid cock.

 Tasting the same horrid flavour in his mouth that had been there this
morning, Doyle grinned. Obviously, this was something he was going to have
to get used to. The sheer adoration shining from Bodie's satisfied blue
eyes ensured that this was something he was going to be doing as often as
possible.

 Venting a satisfied sigh, Ray pulled back and climbed up to lie beside
his partner.

 Bodie's left arm and leg settled comfortably across him, their hairy legs
resting against each other with charming familiarity.

 "God, Ray, that was fantastic," Bodie said in a hushed tone a few minutes
later, looking as if it had taken him that long to return to reality from
wherever Ray's touch had sent him.

 "Good," Doyle yawned, ready for a nap. He smiled softly as Bodie showered
each of his facial features with lazy kisses. 

 After a few moments of that, Bodie's hand stroked down Doyle's bare
chest, fingertips lightly breezing across Doyle's sweaty genitals. 

 "What about you, mate?" Bodie sleepily enquired as his fingers moved in
for a more up close and personal exchange.

 What Bodie was doing felt damn good. Sighing, Ray stretched out on his
back and lightly ruffled the dark hair on Bodie's forearm. "Did I tell you
that you've got beautiful hands?"

 "Didn't haveta, did you?" Bodie replied, the hands in question
demonstrating that they were more than just a pretty face, mixed metaphors
be damned. 

 Face . . .hands . . . all Doyle knew was that those fingers were lethal
in their capacity to excite. 

 "How's that?" Ray tried to stay focused, but the pleasure jolting through
him was totally distracting.

 "I was born tall, dark and handsome . . . and engagingly modest," Bodie
joked.

 The attempt was painfully forced, but Doyle appreciated the effort Bodie
was making. That little reminiscence had shaken them both. 

 "First thing I noticed 'bout you was that modesty of yours, mate," Doyle
sassed back, arching up like a cat as Bodie's fingers introduced his balls
to new levels of delight. 

 "Shift up a bit, Ray," Bodie suggested after a few moments of that
incredible torment, guiding him up onto his knees. Doyle watched in
bemusement as his partner dragged all the pillows together until they were
in a mound. Then Bodie lay across them, his body positioned so that his
mouth was on a level with Doyle's aching groin.

 Ray could barely draw in breath as he deduced his lover's intent. His
insides clenched with delight as Bodie reached for him.

 "Chrisst . . . Bodiee . . . . " he moaned, his fingers digging deep into
Bodie's shoulders as his hips bucked forward to meet that open mouth.

 Doyle knew he'd gone too long feeling nothing. In the six months he'd
been in Van Cleef's clutches, Ray had had more sex than ten men did in
their entire lifetimes, but all of it had been forced and painful, and
he'd hidden from it . . . hidden so well that nothing they did could touch
him, buried himself so deep that he'd become lost inside himself. These
last few days, Bodie had been finding that lost man, coaxing him out of
his numbing shell with tenderness, teaching him to trust in a lover again
enough to feel. And now that he was feeling, Ray was blasted away by the
ferocity of the sensations.

 Bodie was like nothing he'd known. His amnesia aside, Doyle's body was
telling him that what Bodie was giving him was unique. Ray was certain
that even if he'd had his full memories, Bodie's loving would be something
special. Perhaps he was delusional and the extreme reaction he was having
to Bodie was just a natural response to coming out of such a long dry
spell, but Ray's instincts kept insisting that no one had ever spent the
kind of time kissing and caressing him that Bodie lavished upon him as a
matter of course.

 He could barely breathe, his body was reacting so hard as he knelt there
and pumped into Bodie's bobbing mouth. Doyle's heart was pounding like
he'd made the track to Anna's at a dead run in this lethally high
altitude, the sweat that was pouring off him only confirming that
impression. And the sensations sizzling along his nerve paths . . . Doyle
knew his body had never felt this much pleasure.

 His hips bucked forward in a wild, primal rhythm as Doyle pounded into
Bodie's all too willing mouth, burying his throbbing dick deep in Bodie's
throat. The liquid heat was sheer heaven, the best feeling Doyle had ever
known. Bodie's teeth never even grazed him as he fucked that beautiful
mouth like it had been built to handle this kind of action. 

 The intensity of his release frightened Ray in some ways, for he never
wanted to be out of control and hurt someone during sex as his captors had
hurt him, but Bodie seemed to be encouraging his abandon. Those large
hands were cupping the cheeks of his arse, pulling Doyle forward and in
deep, then hauling Ray further back with each withdrawal so that Ray would
have that much more ferocity behind him when he slammed back in. Those
fingers squeezed and kneaded Doyle's butt as Ray flew higher and higher.

 The action wasn't lost on Doyle. He'd noticed an emerging pattern over
the last few days. Bodie would wait until Ray was mindless with wanting
before he would dare a touch to Doyle's posterior . . . and touch it Bodie
always did, with a look of longing on his handsome face that just about
ripped Doyle's heart out. Ray knew what his partner wanted, and was
equally certain that Bodie would die before asking for it. 

 Bodie would never ask . . . which meant he should offer . . . only,
everything was just moving too fast. A month ago the idea of voluntarily
sucking off another man would have been unthinkable, yet for the past two
days now, Ray had been blissfully fellating his friend. Instinct told Ray
that it would be the same with that. No matter what, Bodie would never
hurt him . . . only, Doyle couldn't even face the thought of taking a cock
up his arse again, let alone make any kind of invitation along those
lines. Yet he loved Bodie and wanted to make him happy. 

 It was all moving too fast, all happening too quickly to assimilate. Sex
with Bodie was like one of those amusement park rides where they twirled
you around in a centrifuge until you no longer knew which way was up or
down, or what was right and wrong. It was all just a dizzying swirl of
pure sensation. Like now. All there was was the unmitigated joy of riding
Bodie's mouth. It was such a pure, primitive delight that nothing else
mattered. Those powerful hands taking up their proprietary holds on his
butt cheeks, the well-timed squeezes . . . it was all just a part of this
fierce and crazy ride Bodie was taking him on.

 Ray was so far gone that reason had left him. He knew he was slamming
into Bodie's mouth far more forcefully than he ought to be, and it didn't
matter. Nothing did except the wildfire sparking through his loins. Doyle
knew nothing would ever feel this intense or good again in his entire
life. You only reached peaks like this once, and this was his chance for
it, so he was going to grab it. Ray fully believed that it didn't get any
better than this . . . couldn't get any better . . . and then, as had
happened so many times in the last three days, Bodie showed him different.


 Doyle was going at it like one of those porn idols who could pump it out
like this for hours, dancing on the edge of climax, without crashing over.
Then something happened that toppled the scales . . . something that had
no right to take him over the top as it did.

 Ray was lost in the sensation, fucking Bodie's mouth with a carelessness
he had no business displaying when Bodie's right hand shifted
infinitesimally on his butt cheek. As Ray slammed in again, Bodie
scrambled to get a better grip. Instead of remaining chastely on the
rounded globe of his posterior, Bodie's fingers dipped down between the
dark, sweaty crease between his cheeks for the very first time. 

 The gesture was purely accidental. Ray could tell by the scared look that
touched Bodie's face as Ray pulled back in the natural pattern of
thrust/withdrawal. 

 Their eyes met.

 Doyle was panting so hard he couldn't take in enough oxygen to clear his
senses to get a rational thought in. His only awareness was that there was
no fear here at the moment.

 The hot glitter of Bodie's eyes told him that his lover was almost as
gone as he was. Only, Bodie was coherent enough to be watching him, no
doubt trying to judge Doyle's response.

 Their gazes still locked, Ray saw his partner's face fill with resolve. 

 Looking like he expected his entire world to explode at any second, Bodie
deliberately dipped his middle finger deep into that dark rift between
Doyle's cheeks. Like a homing missile, that slender digit hit its target
on its first sweep. 

 The rockets that went off following Bodie's finger's initial probe into
forbidden territory turned into an all out nuclear blast as the wide pad
brushed across Doyle's tight puckered sphincter. His system reached
critical mass and melted into a zillion bursts of radiant energy that was
so far beyond a simple orgasm that it didn't even belong in the same
category. That was all she wrote. Every neuron Ray Doyle owned spasmed and
shorted out under the fireball of unexpected ecstasy that blazed through
him.

 Bodie's head lowered and sucked him in again at that vital instant and
Ray was coming and coming and coming . . . .

 His semen geysered forth like it would never stop, while Bodie drank him
down 

 like a man dying of thirst in a desert who'd stumbled into an oasis.
Bodie sucked, Doyle came . . . and then Ray felt his calves being
splattered behind him as the propped up body that was curled around him
reached a second climax.

 The truth that Bodie's finger had taught him was something Doyle wasn't
prepared to accept, but he couldn't refute it, not as he fell forward and
hunched there on all fours just trying to drag in enough air to survive
the next few minutes. Pleasure like that didn't lie. That one little
finger just brushing him there had left him so wiped out that he couldn't
even breathe right, let alone think straight.

 "Christ, mate," Bodie gasped out from where his head was folded somewhere
between Doyle's thighs and bent over chest.

 It was a statement of how blown away Ray was that, even though he
understood that the position had to be uncomfortable for his partner, he
was too far gone to do anything about it at the moment. 

 Left on his own, Bodie managed to squiggle his squashed face out from the
vice of Doyle's body. Bodie didn't move far, though. He just shifted far
enough back to breathe, and then collapsed beside Doyle.

 Ray's eyes were clenched shut as he knelt there almost in panic,
struggling to accept what his extreme response to Bodie's finger revealed
about him.

 Bodie's hand gently stroked over Doyle's spine and flanks. Ray could tell
from Bodie's bellows-like gulps for air that his partner was still too far
gone to be too aware of Ray's crisis. It was almost as though Bodie's hand
sensed Ray's mood and offered comfort of its own accord.

 Ray shivered in something that was definitely not repulsion as that palm
swept over his butt in the course of its travels. There was nothing
overtly sexual in Bodie's gesture; it was simply a comfort thing. 

 To Ray's consternation, his reaction was anything but oblique. His climax
had blasted his cock into the stratosphere, taking all of its innards with
it in that transformative climax . His shaft should have been hanging
there like an empty sock. What his cock had absolutely no business doing
was filling up and coming to attention at the mere brush of Bodie's hand
in that no trespass zone.

 "You okay, Ray?" Bodie questioned, sounding much more himself.

 "Yeah," Doyle answered, knowing he sounded too sharp, but having no way
to keep his irritation from flavouring his response. 

 Aware that if he didn't demonstrate his well being soon that there'd be
more questions, and possibly more touches to that traitorous area, Doyle
forced himself up into a sitting position. A couple of deep breaths, and
he thought he could dare Bodie's gaze.

 Doyle needn't have agonized so, his shagged out mate looked seconds away
from sleep. Little wonder. Bodie had had two orgasms in less than an hour.

 "You goin' back to sleep?" Ray asked, praying that he didn't sound too
hopeful. 

 "Thought I might," Bodie yawned. "You mind?" 

 "Nah, thought I'd work on that landscape for a while, catch the fall
colours in the mornin' light," he extemporized. Hating the fact that he
didn't have the discipline to resist that sleepy smile, Ray bent down and
deposited a soft kiss to Bodie's forehead. His partner was asleep before
Doyle's lips left the smooth, warm skin.

 Disturbed by what else he mightn't be able to resist, Doyle pried himself
from the bed and headed for the shower.

 ******

*Chapter Eleven*

 Aside from the occasional popping of a burning log in the hearth, the
rustle of turning papers, or the steady scratch of a paintbrush across
canvas, the sitting room was silent.

 Bodie sat on the couch, trying to concentrate on the mass of papers
Cowley had left for him, but his gaze kept creeping back to his partner.
Ray was totally engrossed in his work, completely oblivious to everything
but colour and shape. 

 They'd been in here since early this afternoon, working on their separate
projects, not speaking much, but highly aware of each other on a physical
level after this morning's loving. The picture window and everything
behind it was now nothing but a field of black, reflecting their images
back into the brightly lit room. His stomach was beginning to remind him
that it was long past time for dinner, but Bodie was too caught up in
watching Ray to pay those hunger pains much mind.

 He was still in awe of his partner, unable to believe what had passed
between them this morning. His darkest secrets were now out in the open.
Ray knew all about his past now, and he was still here. Ray hadn't bolted
from him, hadn't judged him as the monster Bodie had branded himself for
decades. His partner had been shocked and upset as any decent human being
would have been at the exposure of such savagery, but Ray had stayed. More
than that, Ray had laid him down and loved him like he was still worthy of
affection and care. It was the tenderness Ray had shown him more than
anything that had gotten to Bodie.

 "You're burning a hole down the side'uv my face," Ray remarked into the
silence.

 "Sorry," Bodie said, forcing his gaze back to the security documents, but
within minutes, he was staring at those long, loose curls again. 

 Ray's brow puckered in a frown and then he turned to look at him.

 Bodie felt his cheeks warm. Yesterday, he would have given Doyle an
amused grin at being caught again, but he felt unaccountably shy around
Ray since this morning. Unconsciously holding his breath, Bodie waited to
be politely asked to leave the room so that the artist could work in
peace, but after a moment, Ray gave him a smile and asked, "You hungry?"

 Bodie swallowed hard and nodded.

 "Help me clean my brushes?" Ray peeked up at him from under his lashes.

 "Sure," he agreed, that look constricting his heart. He stowed his papers
safely out of harm's way and moved to take the jarful of soaking brushes
to the kitchen sink, conscious of Ray's heat beside him all the way.
Quickly and efficiently putting to good use the turpentine that sat next
to the dish liquid on the sink, Bodie cleaned the paint off a rainbow
variety of brushes. 

 Ray must be doing an autumnal piece, Bodie thought, judging from the
rusts, golds, and oranges he worked out of the soft bristles. 

 While he dealt with the cleanup, Doyle quickly assembled a variety of
leftovers from the refrigerator.

 "Cold chicken, carrots, and potato salad okay?" Ray asked, dumping the
jar of carrots into a small pot for reheating.

 "Uh huh," Bodie absently agreed, concentrating on working a clump of
Indian Red out of a fan brush.

 When he was done and the brushes were all neatly drying upside down in
their jar on the counter, Ray replaced him at the sink to carefully wash
off his hands with turpentine and soap, doing things backwards as usual.
Washing the hands was supposed to come first, before touching the fridge
and every surface in the kitchen.

 Bodie automatically moved to the stove to start heating the veggie. He
felt a small smile touch his lips as he noticed the burnt sienna paint
streaking the handle of the little aluminum pot. Ray's toothbrush handle
was a multicolored spectacle these days as well. Bodie supposed that he
was lucky his cock wasn't speckled with paint at this point.

 In a few short moments, they were sitting down across from each other at
the small cedar table between the kitchen and sitting room. Bodie stared
down at his plate as he attacked his food. He tried to keep his gaze off
Ray, but that was like trying to keep himself from breathing.

 After a few minutes of companionable munching, puzzlement touched Ray's
features.

 "Are you all right?" Ray asked.

 "Yeah. Why?" Bodie answered too fast.

 "You've been awful quiet," Ray said.

 "Have I?"

 "Yeah," Ray's gaze was level, the concern in it unmistakable.

 All Bodie wanted to do was run. He waited for the inevitable barrage of
questions that always came when he felt backed to the wall like this, but
aside from watching him, Ray made no further fuss.

 They finished eating in the slightly heavy silence and then cleaned up
the dishes together. Their wordless routine went a long way in soothing
Bodie's ruffled nerves. Nothing was different. This was the way they'd
cleaned up every night since Ray had started to come out of his shell. It
was like this morning's bombshell had never happened.

 As he dried off the last plate, Bodie wondered if this was what a stable
relationship felt like. He'd only had two lovers in his life who'd hung
around long enough to be contenders. Marika and Jimmy Keller. Marika had
been more about chemistry than commitment, and Keller . . . well, the less
he thought about Jimmy, the better.

 "You want to call it a night?" Ray asked.

 Bodie glanced at the kitchen clock. It had almost gone nine thirty.
"Sure, why not? I'll close up down here."

 Ray gave him the same kind of bone melting smile he had last night and
then headed up the stairs.

 Bodie took his time locking up. When he returned to their room, Ray was
in the shower, no doubt trying to work stray paint splatters out of his
curls. Bodie had given up the hope of ever seeing his mate in solid
coloured clothes again. Everything Ray owned these days looked like a
Jackson Pollock print.

 He popped into the half bath across the hall to see to his own ablutions
and was waiting in bed when Ray sauntered out of the master bath in a
cloud of steam twenty minutes later. Ray was dressed in his blue striped
pyjama bottoms – the only pair yet that wasn't dotted with paint – and a
bath towel.

 The warm, damp scents of Ray's shampoo and soap filled the room as Ray
paused in front of the mirror to towel the water out of his long hair.

 "Do you think I should cut it?" the muffled question came from beneath
the moving towel and was barely comprehensible.

 "Hmmm?" Bodie asked.

 "My hair." Ray's pink face popped out from amidst the voluminous white
folds. "Do you think it's getting' too long?"

 Bodie took in the wet sheepdog look and tried to be objective, but there
was nothing he loved more than feeling those long locks slide between his
fingers. "I think it suites you, but if it bothers you . . . ."

 Ray grinned and chuckled. "Some help you are."

 Bodie found himself smiling back. 

 "That's better," Ray approved, dispensing with the wet towel by the
expedient of dropping it on the floor as he approached the bed.

 "What's better?" Bodie asked as Ray climbed in on his side.

 "You've been a million miles away all day," Ray said. It wasn't voiced as
a complaint, more like an observation.

 Tensing inside, Bodie realized that there was no avoiding the issue. Ray
wasn't his bird of the week, nor was he simply his partner anymore. As
much as he'd like to, he couldn't just walk away from this kind of
conversation, not without setting a very bad precedent and hurting Ray.
Even if he were willing to do the first, the second just wasn't happening.

 Feeling every muscle he owned turn to stone, Bodie softly offered, "A
couple of thousand miles south would be more accurate."

 "Ah." Ray watched him across the pillows. "The memories botherin' you?"

 Doyle's warm hand settled on his bare shoulder. It wasn't a sexual touch,
just a point of contact.

 Those particular reminiscences always left Bodie feeling so unclean that
it was a wonder to him that Ray could touch him at all. That worried green
gaze was watching him, waiting. Everything in him was screaming for Bodie
to run, but this was Ray. So, instead of fleeing, he did his best to
answer honestly, "I . . . never told a soul about any of that stuff, Ray.
Never figured anybody would hang around after hearing it."

 Doyle's gaze never wavered. His voice thick with emotion, Ray pointed
out, "I told you some fairly disgusting details of what happened to me.
You're still here."

 "That's different," Bodie dismissed.

 "How?"

 "You didn't sign on for any of that, Ray. I . . . volunteered."

 "You didn't volunteer for that nightmare. You were just a kid. You made a
mistake that nearly killed you. But you got through it; that's all that
matters." Ray leaned in to deposit a gentle kiss on his forehead and then
gathered him into his arms.

 Burying his face in the hollow of Ray's neck and shoulder, Bodie snuggled
closer, his cheek resting on Doyle's wet curls as he breathed in Ray's
soapy clean scent. He simply could not believe this man was real.

 Ray held him that way for a very long time, stroking his back, easing his
troubled nerves through sheer proximity.

 This was another thing he wasn't accustomed to. There had never been
anyone he could turn to for comfort like this, providing that he'd ever
been man enough to admit he needed it at all. His relationship with Jimmy
Keller had been the closest thing in his past to what he had with Ray, and
even there, Bodie had never been able to trust enough to allow his
vulnerabilities to show, even after Jimmy took that bullet for him. His
caution had proven wise in the long run, for Keller had played him for a
fool the same way Marika had. Even so, it would have been nice to have had
this kind of closeness somewhere down the line. That Ray could offer
comfort to him now, after everything his partner had been through, only
proved how strong Ray was inside. Or how much Ray loved him. Either way,
Bodie recognized that he was a lucky man.

 When he eventually lifted his face to look up at Ray, Bodie's mouth was
immediately taken in a kiss. His partner's hands tightened on his back as
their mouths melded. As the kiss deepened with passion, it felt like Ray
knew exactly what he needed, without his having to ask for it.

 Doyle made no protest when Bodie's lips moved to his neck. Bodie loved
the sensual lines of the long throat, and he loved what his mouth could do
to Ray when he put it to proper use there. Within moments, Ray was
moaning, his body melting in open invitation and absolute trust. 

 If ever Bodie had needed concrete proof that his revelations hadn't
changed anything, this was it. Words of acceptance and consoling gestures
could be offered for the sake of propriety, but his abused partner would
never have been able to fake passion like this. If Bodie's disclosure had
changed Ray's feelings for him, his touch would have revealed it.

 What it did reveal was an incredible amount of enthusiasm on Ray's part.
Every time they made love, it seemed to get easier. There would be fewer
walls, fewer roadblocks. Tonight Ray didn't even tense as Bodie's bulkier
body covered him. Ray just pulled him closer, those long fingered hands
claiming his back with the same artistic flair they'd use to map out a new
canvas.

 While those hands moved restlessly over his back, Bodie worked his way
down Doyle's front. He could have spent all night at that artfully dusted
chest, but Ray kept thrusting his hips up at him in silent invitation,
just begging for more attention down below. And it wasn't in Bodie to deny
him anything. 

 Bodie's fingers followed the soft, intimate trail of hair that arrowed
down the centre of Ray's flat belly. His fingertips drifted over the
elastic waistband of Ray's pyjamas, lightly skimming the cotton-covered
flesh below. Ray's helpless whimper had to be the hottest turn on he'd
ever had.

 Bodie pressed the heel of his palm against that demanding cock,
intoxicated by how much Ray was loving this. Doyle's muscles remained
wonderfully pliant as Bodie peeled the obstructing pyjama bottoms off his
mate. There seemed to be no fear at all tonight.

 The lamplight caught the red highlights in Ray's pubic and thigh hair,
and glistened off the moisture sheening that delicately sculptured penis.
Moved by Doyle's slender beauty, Bodie could only stare for a while.

 The pause was obviously too much for Ray. Within a few heartbeats, Ray
was thrusting his hips up at him again and there was nothing to be done
but touch that tender jewel. Bodie gathered the moist flesh into his hand,
delighting in how it pulsed and grew larger at his first touch.

 "Ahhh . . . Bodie, pleassssse . . ." Ray sobbed.

 Even if that request hadn't reduced him to jelly, Bodie couldn't have
resisted the lure. Bending his head, he sucked in that straining shaft,
greedily lapping in Ray's succulent flavour. So hot, everything about this
man was just so unbelievably hot.

 Ray's hands cupped his head, frantic fingers gripping his short hair to
hold him close.

 With someone else, Bodie might have been tempted to string this out, but
Ray had suffered so much that all he wanted to do was lavish pleasure on
his lover. So, he sucked Ray for all he was worth, letting his fingers pay
homage to those soft balls while he serviced that hungry penis.

 When he brushed his index finger over the sensitive flesh behind the
testicles a few minutes later, Ray hissed and spread his thighs wide
apart. Bodie repeated the action, this time earning a full-fledged moan.
This previously verboten territory was obviously an intensely sensitive
erogenous zone. Ray's hips jerked up so high that they almost sent Doyle's
cock poking out the back of his throat. 

 Bodie knew from personal experience that that particular area was a
landmine of sensation, and Ray Doyle was the most sensual person he'd ever
met. It only stood to reason that Ray would be excited by this. 

 He raised his head from his service for a moment, needing to see his
partner's face. 

 It was just as Bodie suspected. Ray looked turned on as hell, and equally
freaked out by the source of his excitement.

 "Hey," Bodie called, drawing the torn gaze his way. Doyle seemed to calm
some when their eyes met. "Your body's designed to give you pleasure. It
isn't a crime to enjoy it, sunshine."

 To illustrate his point, Bodie allowed his forefinger to brush over the
tight bud of muscle directly behind the perineum he'd been stroking. Doyle
had enjoyed it this morning when he'd touched him there, even though Bodie
had known that it was unnerving his partner on any number of levels. 

 Doyle's body liked it just as much as it had this morning, if not more.
Ray gasped, his hips instinctively lurching up at him.

 "Feels good, doesn't it?" Bodie checked.

 He saw Ray's Adam's apple gulp upwards as he gave a guarded nod.

 "Nothing's going to happen that doesn't feel good," he promised.

 Ray gave a noisy swallow and then admitted in a low tone, "I'm . . .
afraid."

 "Of me?" Bodie asked, freezing all motion.

 Ray gave a negative shake of his head and followed it up with a low, "No.
I just don't know if I'm ready . . . . "

 "This isn't about that," Bodie assured. "This is about finding out what
feels good. You seem to like it – "

 "I shouldn't," Ray said, his cheeks turning scarlet with shame.

 "Why? Because of Van Cleef?" Seeing that horrible self-consciousness
enter Ray's previously passion-dazed eyes, Bodie said, "Ray, you have a
right to enjoy your body. If you don't reclaim that right, then that
bastard wins. Nothing's going to happen here that you don't like. If
something makes you uncomfortable, you just say and we stop immediately.
Don't let him win, Ray. Please."

 "It's a question of trust, isn't it?" Doyle said after a silent moment,
appearing even more stricken, if possible.

 Bodie caught hold of one of the hands in his hair and guided it down to
his face. Depositing a kiss on the sweaty palm, he shook his head and
said, "No. I know you trust me. It's a question of how much control you're
going to let that bastard have over you. "

 "How so?" Doyle grated out.

 "If you don't like something and don't want to do it, that's one thing.
But letting that degenerate poison your pleasure . . . that's another."

 Ray squeezed his eyes shut and then softly admitted, "He used to say I
was born to be buggered, that I took to it like a babe to mother's milk."

 "You never liked what he did to you, never," Bodie soothed. "Just because
your body might've responded, doesn't mean you liked him forcing you.
Every man's body is sensitive there. It's no different than stroking a
bloke's balls. No matter who you do it to, you're going to get a strong
reaction."

 "Truth?" 

 "Didn't you like to be touched there before Van Cleef?" Bodie questioned.

 That flush was now making its way to Doyle's neck. "I don't remember."

 Bodie recalled his partner's amnesia. More and more, it was getting
easier to forget about it as Ray recovered.

 "Damn. Sorry. I forgot," Bodie said.

 "It doesn't seem the kind've thing you could ask most women for, though,
does it?" Ray hazarded. "Wouldn't it get you some peculiar looks?"

 "Guess I'm used to peculiar looks, sunshine," Bodie grinned. Relieved he
saw a smile touch Ray's face and some of the embarrassed colour recede.

 "You like it, then?" Doyle asked, looking as though he weren't certain if
he should have voiced the question.

 Realizing that he was going about this all wrong, Bodie turned his face
into the hand that had been absently petting his cheek throughout their
discussion. Capturing Ray's middle finger between his lips, he sucked it
into his mouth and slicked it up. Taking hold of Ray's wrist, he withdrew
the tasty finger from his mouth and said with a grin, "Why don't you see
for yourself?"

 Not waiting for a response, he guided Ray's captured hand to his bottom.

 His eyes very wide and endearingly uncertain, Doyle tentatively brushed
his fingers between the crease of Bodie's arse.

 Bodie didn't have to exaggerate his enjoyment. The whoosh of abruptly
released breath was ripped from his lungs as the shiversome delight
inspired by those tentative fingers slithered through him. It had been so
long, so damn long since anyone had caressed him there. Bodie's head
tilted back, his eyes sinking shut and mouth parting as he savoured the
sensation to its fullest. 

 "You weren't kiddin', were you?" Ray asked in a hushed tone.

 Bodie gulped, trying to find his voice, but he didn't even have the
wherewithal to open his eyes under the deluge of feeling. 

 Always a quick study, Ray didn't wait for instruction. His touch growing
far more confident, Ray slipped his fingers further in, pausing only when
they brushed over the tight guarded bud of muscle hidden there. 

 Bodie's entire body jolted at the contact, the flash fire of delight
ripping a helpless gasp from him.

 Doyle didn't disappoint him. That talented finger stroked and rimmed the
puckered opening until Bodie felt he'd explode.

 "More?" Bodie begged when that precious dalliance finally faltered.

 "Wha – ?"

 Bodie opened his eyes at the stunned sounding question. 

 Pausing long enough to assure himself that he hadn't put Ray off, Bodie
straddled Ray's waist and leaned over as far as he could to reach the
nightstand's drawer. Fortunately, the cream he'd used this summer to ease
Ray's sunburn whenever his nudist partner lingered too long in the sun was
right where he remembered leaving it. Fumbling the lid off the blue and
white jar, he held the open jar of fragrant white cream out to Doyle.

 He expected some kind of smart comment on the floral scent, but Ray only
dug his fingers into the offered cream. A moment later, those gooey digits
were back where they could be put to best use.

 Bodie groaned as that long middle finger greased the aperture, and then
slowly slid up its centre. There was nothing shy about Ray now. Bodie
could hear his partner's hoarse breathing as Doyle pushed his way up that
tight passage.

 A sudden twist, and Ray found that magic spot for which he was obviously
searching. Bodie couldn't hold back his outcry as the resulting sensations
pummelled him. So good . . . near perfect. There was only one thing that
would make it better and Bodie didn't hesitate to demand, "More."

 Once again, Ray humoured him. A second finger pushed up into his bottom.
The talented duet twisted around, delighting him with every wiggle.
Concentrating on the pleasure, Bodie felt himself gradually stretching
around Ray's fingers.

 Opening his eyes, Bodie sought his partner's gaze. He didn't know what he
was expecting – an indulgent smile perhaps – certainly anything but the
passion flushed cheeks and hot, glittering gaze that speared his own.

 At that moment, they were of one mind, one soul, one need. Bodie dug his
fingers deep into the jar of cream. Taking up a heaping helping, he
reached for Ray's hungry-looking shaft.

 The tensing of his partner's muscles brought his gaze up to Ray's face.
An intriguing struggle was going on there. Passion and prudence were a
bizarre mixture, but Bodie knew without asking that his partner was
experiencing both.

 "Give me this, please?" he all but begged. 

 "It wouldn't be fair for me'ta – "

 Bodie covered those luscious, full lips with his index finger. "Ssssh.
I'm never going to ask for something you're not able to give me, Ray.
We're not keeping score here. You want it. I want it. What would be the
harm?"

 Ray relaxed some. "You sure?"

 In answer, Bodie slathered the now-warm cream over Doyle's straining
penis.

 Ray groaned at the touch, his cock twitching like he might shoot his load
right then and there. But Bodie was able to get him greased up before
disaster struck.

 Rolling over onto his back, Bodie pulled his knees up tight to his chest,
while his hands guided Doyle in between his dangling ankles.

 Ray looked a little overwhelmed, but there was no protest in his eyes.
Moving with a confidence for which Bodie would be ever grateful, Ray
guided his enlarged shaft to Bodie's anus and carefully pushed through the
outer ring of muscle.

 Bodie grunted at the sensation. It had been so long, and Ray was big by
any standards. The stretch and bulk were impressive.

 "You okay?" Doyle froze, uncertainty touching his face.

 Bodie gave Ray's shaft an internal squeeze and rasped out, "Never better,
sunshine, never better."

 To illustrate his point, he hooked his ankles together behind the small
of Ray's back and gave a suggestive push.

 With a grunt of his own, Ray nudged the slightest bit further into him. A
sheen of fresh sweat broke out over Doyle's entire body, making him glow
in the lamp light like a well-oiled body builder.

 Looking up at those wild, chestnut curls and Ray's passion-torn
expression as he slowly claimed every inch of Bodie as his own, Bodie
almost felt as though he'd slipped into one of his old, late night
fantasies. He'd dreamed of this for so many years. But he'd never thought
it could happen. Oh, he'd been fairly certain that he might have lured
Doyle into his bed for a night of wild, sexual frolics, but Bodie knew
that he'd never have had the nerve to ask this of his partner if he'd
manoeuvred Doyle into his bed while they were back in C.I.5. It was one
thing to have it off with your partner in a mutual shedding of
inhibitions. Life could go on pretty much the same as normal after a blow
or hand job; Bodie's relationship with Keller had more than proven that.
However, asking your partner to bugger you could change the dynamics of a
relationship forever – as Bodie had also learned to his detriment with
Keller.

 Yet, what he was sharing now with Ray had nothing to do with the failures
of his past. 

 As Bodie watched the incandescent joy take hold of Ray's eyes as Doyle
seeped into him as smooth as melting butter and felt the growing
confidence in Ray's movements, he knew that he wasn't going to ever regret
this night. This wasn't about roles or power. It wasn't even about hot
sex, even though it was probably the most significant sex he'd ever had.
Bodie knew on an instinctive level that he wasn't going to come out the
loser in this union or be made to feel diminished by it. Doyle would never
throw it up in his face that he'd wanted this like Jimmy had.

 No, this was the complete antithesis of everything he'd come to expect
when having sex with another man. This was about healing . . . and trust .
. . and an emotion that Bodie knew he'd never truly felt in his life
before, for all the lip service he'd paid that particular four-letter word
over the years. 

 As his body stretched to accommodate Doyle's bulk, Bodie clung onto those
broad shoulders, watching every nuance of expression that flickered across
his partner's sweat-drenched face. Ray was loving it as much as he was . .
. loving him.

 After that brief period of initial discomfort when Ray reintroduced Bodie
to this pleasure, Doyle changed his angle of entry slightly, and Bodie's
universe realigned. That huge cock of Ray's nudged into his prostate with
that move, opening the floodgates of pleasure that had made this often
painful act one of Bodie's most cherished delights. 

 Ray mightn't have any memory of his sexual exploits, but his body
obviously remembered. Ray pulled out and reentered, hitting that same spot
again, blasting Bodie with the sheerest of ecstasies. 

 Bodie's eyes snapped shut, his lips parting in a helpless, "Ahhhh." 

 Ray started thrusting in earnest then, taking Bodie higher and higher
with every plunge in. The only sounds in the room were their hoarse
breaths, grunts, and the slap of their flesh. 

 Bodie could hardly hear any of it over the pounding of his heart. He was
nothing but feeling. His whole life, his whole body, everything he'd ever
dreamed, wished, or felt had been done to bring him to this moment in
time. As Ray joined them in the most primitive, primal way possible, Bodie
knew that he was never going to be the same man again.

 Orgasm hit him like a runaway train, bursting through every neuron he
owned in a dizzying swell of sensation. Bodie felt his body explode at
almost the same instant Ray stilled inside him in a final, wild thrust.
Whose cry was the loudest, Bodie couldn't say. All he knew was that it
sounded like the response were torn from their very souls. It certainly
felt that way from inside it. 

 They seemed to soar in that transcendental moment of utter bliss for an
eternity, before coming back to themselves. 

 Ray slipped out of Bodie's body and then sagged down on top of him in a
boneless, but heavy, sprawl.

 Bodie closed his arms around Ray and just hung on while the world slowly
righted itself around him.

 When they were breathing at something near a normal rate and the sweat
had begun to cool off both their bodies, Ray lifted his head to look down
at him.

 Bodie experienced a moment of pure terror at the thought that Ray might
expect him to express his feelings on what had just passed between them.
But all Ray did was take his mouth in a slow, sultry kiss that had parts
of Bodie tingling that had no right to be working after such an immolating
climax.

 Ray pulled the duvet over them both mid-kiss, and shifted his weight so
that he was lying beside Bodie, rather than on top of him. And then Doyle
did the most reassuring thing another man could do at such a moment. He
closed his eyes and went to sleep – mid-kiss.

 Chuckling to himself, Bodie gave his unconscious partner one last smooch
before following him down into Morpheus' sweet embrace.

 ******

*Chapter Twelve*

 "Hey, there."

 Bodie grinned at the familiar deep voice, his stomach lurching with
longing. 

 Their first separation. He'd never thought four days could last this
long. 

 "Hey, yourself. How are you?" Bodie asked, sinking down on the side of
the hotel bed.

 "More lonesome than I should be," Doyle admitted. "This is pathetic. It
hasn't even been a full day since we spoke."

 "Yeah, well, who called who last night?" Bodie reminded, so Doyle would
be in no doubt that their separation was a mutual ordeal.

 "Thanks for ringing me up," Ray said. "It helped."

 "A couple hours and I'll be on my way home," Bodie promised. "A couple of
very long hours."

 "How's it going?" Doyle asked.

 "Slow. Did I mention that I miss you?"

 Doyle's loving laughter rippled through him. "Several times last night."

 "It's worse this morning," Bodie complained.

 "But aside from that?" Doyle prodded.

 "It's a pretty big aside. But if you're asking about the conference, it
went well. Mohammad was pleased with the security arrangements."

 "Mohammad?" Doyle interrupted, sounding confused before he finished with,
"Oh, yeah, that was what you said Cowley called C.I.5's Minister, right?"

 "Actually, it was what the Minister called himself. But, to answer your
question, Sir William was happy with the team I put together. He asked
this morning if I could provide security for his friend's meeting in Paris
in April."

 There was a long pause, and then Ray asked in too casual a voice, "Are
you goin'ta do it?"

 "Thought we'd talk about it when I got back," Bodie said, wishing he
could see his lover's face.

 "Paris in April, huh?" Ray asked after a momentary silence.

 "Yeah. Does it appeal to your artistic streak?" Bodie asked.

 "What?"

 Hearing the pleased surprise, Bodie said, "I thought maybe you might like
to come next time. We could take a few extra days. Do the town. How's it
sound?"

 "Like you're in as bad a state as me," Ray joked, but Bodie could tell
how happy the suggestion had made him. 

 "I think I mentioned that I missed you, didn't I?"

 "Yeah, maybe once or twice," Ray said, his tone warm and embracing. "When
did you say you were leaving?"

 Bodie chuckled. "I'm just packing up now."

 "Good."

 "You keeping busy?" Bodie asked, just wanting to hear his voice.

 "Marie's running me ragged with busywork. Wilhelm and I fixed both sheds,
painted the deck and all the outside furniture, and waxed the rental skis.
We're waiting for her to order us to paint the lodge next. And I finished
two pieces." Ray reported and then added, "Did I mention that I miss you?"


 The laughter felt just as good as it had when they'd been doing this in
the dark last night.

 "You might have done," Bodie said when they'd calmed. "Just once or
twice, though."

 "Well, I do," Ray said.

 "Not for long. I'll be back before you know it."

 "Good." Ray's voice was touchingly hopeful.

 The silence and the miles stretched between them.

 "Guess I'd better let you go," Ray sighed.

 "If you want me to get home," Bodie replied, equally reluctant to end the
conversation.

 "I want you home. I want you anywhere," Ray said in a low tone.

 Bodie shivered. He wasn't used to Ray being that vocal about his wants,
but then, Ray was healing by leaps and bounds. What didn't fly one day,
was often on the menu the next. Sometimes, he just had to give his partner
some room to ponder an issue.

 "Yeah, me too," Bodie gruffly admitted.

 "Bodie – "

 "Yeah?" he encouraged.

 "I, ahhh . . . ."

 Hearing those three words that neither of them were comfortable voicing
echo unspoken in the line, Bodie softly admitted, "I feel the same way."

 "You do?" Ray's voice hovered somewhere between wonder and pleasure.

 "Yeah, and I'll prove it to you when I get home."

 "Hurry," Ray urged.

 "Will do. See you."

 "Bye, then," Ray said, sounding as miserable as Bodie felt.

 God, he hated this. 

 "Bye." He waited till Doyle rang off before returning the receiver to its
cradle.

 The room seemed incredibly empty as he turned back to his packing. It was
amazing how quickly humans became accustomed to things. A month ago, he
never would have dreamed it possible that Ray and he could be lovers, and
now it seemed almost alien to sleep alone.

 Bodie took one last look around the elegant room and closed his suitcase.
For all the Marriott Hotel's luxuries, he was eager to be home. His heart
light as a schoolboy's, he headed for the door. 

 South African marble floors, antique oriental rugs, brass and crystal
chandeliers . . the room the lift spat him into was more of a palace than
a lobby.

 "Bodie!" a voice stopped him as he exited the lift. 

 Recognizing Sir William's cultured tones, Bodie turned to C.I.5's former
Minister. The older gent looked fairly much as he had when Bodie had
worked under him. His hair was still as white, his Seville Row suit as
impeccable, and his gaze just as alert and perceptive. "Sir William."

 He was relieved to see that Reynolds and Parmington were still where they
were paid to be – at Sir William's side. It would be the foolish villain,
indeed, that tangled with the impressive bodyguards. 

 They paused beside a Duncan Fife table with a vase of red roses on it to
speak. Bodie could smell the roses from three feet away.

 "Once again, I must congratulate you on your fine work," Sir William
said, his brown eyes alight with pleasure. 

 "All the result of good training, sir," Bodie replied. "Are you on your
way home, then?"

 "Yes. Garrett's gone to arrange for the car. Have you given any thought
to my proposal?"

 "The Marcharet gig?" Bodie checked.

 "Yes. It's not as sensitive or as high profile a situation as that
Parsali operation you handled for George, but Pierre could use a good man
like you running the show."

 He fervently hoped it wouldn't be as hot a situation as the Pasali case.
That one had nearly gotten them killed. "I'd like to discuss it with my
partner before making a firm commitment."

 "Ah, of course. How is Doyle these days?" Sir William politely enquired.

 *Hard up* didn't seem the appropriate response somehow, even though it
was the first rejoinder that popped into his mind. Bodie confined himself
to a bland, if honest, "He's getting better by the day."

 "Ah, that's good to hear. He's a fine man. I wouldn't want to see – "

 "Excuse me, sir, but your car is here," the bulky brunet Reynolds
interrupted.

 "Ah, yes. Well, good seeing you again, Bodie," Sir William said.

 "Always a pleasure, sir. Have a safe trip home. Give my regards to old
George, will you, sir?" Bodie grinned.

 "Shall I phrase it that way?" Sir William asked with a sly glint in his
eye.

 "Er . . . ."

 "I thought as much," the older man grinned. "I will give George your
regards. You will let me know your decision about the Paris security job?
I'll need your answer within the month."

 "Yes, sir. I won't forget."

 "You have my card?" the former Minister checked.

 "Don't need it," Bodie said and then rattled off the number. 

 "George trained you well. It's a pity . . . well, time to go." 

 Bodie quickly shook Sir William's offered hand. He watched his fellow
Englishman until Sir William disappeared with his bodyguards into the dark
sedan out front.

 Checkout was for once an uncomplicated affair. Bodie was on his own way
out the door within moments.

 Two more of Bodie's hired talent were escorting the Israeli delegate to
his car. Bodie observed the smooth professionalism with which his men
worked. They were competent without being overbearing, able to remain in
the background while executing their duties. He was pleased with this
crew. Between his own contacts and Jacques', he'd been able to assemble an
impressive team. If he took that Paris gig, he'd want to make sure several
of these men were available.

 Following behind, Bodie watched Carter, the unusually tall black man in
his employ, precede his charge through the hotel's revolving door.
Carter's partner trailed the delegate like clockwork. The three stepped
out onto the busy street, and were passed by an enormous man in a blue
jacket who made Carter seem small.

 Bodie frowned as he followed his men out of the revolving door into a
grey, cold day. He'd only caught a glimpse of the passing man's face, but
he'd seemed very familiar. While Carter and his partner hurried the
Israeli delegate to his car, Bodie stared after the huge passer-by.

 He couldn't place where he knew him from, but his instincts were telling
him that the man meant trouble. Suitcase in hand, Bodie turned and
followed the stranger. 

 After a right turn at the corner onto the less crowded side street, his
quarry slowed down some. The man made the next right, which Bodie knew led
to the hotel's service entrance.

 Bodie fished his RT from his pocket and quickly clicked it on. "Jenkins?"

 "Yes, sir?" his assistant swiftly replied.

 "I've got an intruder coming around the service entrance. Get someone
down here right away to check it out," Bodie ordered. "Damn, I've lost
sight of him. I'm going in."

 "I'll get someone right on it. Please don't – "

 Bodie clicked off the transmitter and re-pocketed it. Hugging the wall,
he cautiously eased himself into the shadowed alleyway.

 It was almost a universal law that these types of service entrances be
poorly lit and offensive to the nose, Bodie thought as he silently moved
into the seemingly empty alley.

 The hotel door was still locked tight. At this proximity, he would have
heard it if the door had opened and closed, so the man still had to be out
here somewhere. 

 Bodie carefully eased his way around a delivery crate . . . and grunted
as something hard and painful bashed into the back of his skull. His last
awareness was of his suitcase tumbling to the dirty ground, and himself
following it down.

 ******

"Ray, dear," Marie called from the attic workroom's doorway. "Telephone."

 "Have you been calling me long?" Ray asked, dumping his brush to soak in
the nearby jar and then wiping his hands on a rainbow speckled towel. He
was making a conscious effort to use the towels and hand rags to clean his
hands off before moving out of the room. Just this morning he'd done
inventory of his clothes and realized that he didn't have a single shirt
or tee shirt that wasn't speckled with paint. The blue one he had on today
was a veritable smorgasbord of colour.

 His plump taskmaster was looking very fetching today in a rust coloured
skirt and gold jumper, he noticed.

 "No," Marie entered the room to peer at his latest work. "I like it."

 "You always like it. You're my biggest fan," Ray grinned, giving her a
quick peck on the forehead beneath her blonde curls.

 "Second biggest fan. I think Bodie is even less objective than me," she
laughed.

 "Well, there's that," he was forced to agree, "Is it Bodie on the phone?"

 He knew he sounded too eager, but he couldn't help it. If Bodie didn't
get back here soon, he was going to go insane. 

 "No, I don't know who it is. He said it was important, though," Marie
said as they started down the stairs together. "Run along, Ray. Don't let
me slow you down. It's important."

 Giving her a quick smile as he passed, he hastened down the steps. 

 The phone's receiver was sitting on the spotless reception desk. A little
breathless from his sprint, Doyle picked it up. "Hullo."

 "Mister Doyle?" The man was British, but a stranger.

 "Yes," Ray warily acknowledged the unfamiliar voice. "Who's this?"

 "I'm Paul Jenkins. I've been helping Bodie out on the Marriott security
job," Jenkins briefly explained.

 "Ah, yes. Bodie's mentioned you." Ray knew without asking that Jenkins
wasn't calling him for a good reason. Everything tightening up inside him,
Doyle quickly asked, "Is he alive?"

 The resulting pause was the longest ten seconds Ray had ever endured.
Finally, Jenkins said, "We don't know."

 Not knowing was good, Ray told himself. It was definitely better than the
alternative. "What happened?"

 "The conference was finished. We were closing up shop, getting the few
remaining delegates to the airport, when Bodie called me on the RT to
report a suspicious intruder at the delivery entrance. When my men got
there, they were nearly mowed down by a blue Chevy van. They gave chase,
but lost the vehicle in the warehouse district. That was . . . ten minutes
ago, now," Jenkins reported. 

 His brain frozen with shock, it took Ray a moment to get the wherewithal
to ask, "Bodie was in the van?"

 "We can't say for sure, Mr. Doyle, but it seems likely. We found Bodie's
suitcase abandoned in the alley. I think if he were able to, he would have
contacted us by now, though it's only been a half hour since I got his
call."

 "Yes, of course," Doyle said, his world dropping out from under him.
Bodie was missing – kidnapped from the sound of it. From somewhere inside,
a competent stranger emerged to ask the pertinent questions. "Are the
police there yet?"

 "They just arrived on the scene. We're waiting for Interpol. I'm going to
have to go speak to them."

 "Yes."

 "The authorities will be contacting you as his next of kin shortly, no
doubt, but I thought you'd appreciate a head's up," Jenkins said. 

 "Yes, thank you," Doyle numbly acknowledged.

 "Mr. Doyle?" Jenkins said.

 "Yes?"

 "I've known Bodie for nearly fifteen years. The boys and me feel pretty
much the same way. This was a choice job Bodie hooked us into. We owe him.
If there's anything we can do to help, we're your men."

 "Ah . . . thank you, Jenkins. I'm leaving now. I should be down to you in
. . ." Ray winced as he calculated the time it was going to take him to
reach Geneva, ". . . in a couple of hours."

 "It looks like this circus will be here all night. But if it's not, we're
in the hotel, registered under my name, Paul Jenkins."

 "I'll see you shortly," Ray promised and hung up.

 "Ray?" Marie's uncertain tone drew him back from the nightmares his all
too lurid imagination insisted on torturing him with. Ray knew better than
anyone the horrors of abduction.

 "Yes?"

 "What's happened?" Marie asked, her face already pale.

 "It's Bodie. He's been . . . kidnapped."

 "Dear God," she grabbed onto the reception desk's sturdy ledge to steady
herself. 

 "Marie, I'm going to need to borrow the Land Rover. I've got to get down
there." His mind already on his destination, Ray turned for the hall that
led to the hotel staff's quarters.

 "Get there? Ray . . . !"

 He was already halfway down the hall before she finished speaking. He
tore into his room, moving so fast that he frightened the cat from its
nest at the foot of his bed. Chloe jumped off and ran for cover, a grey
streak making for the door.

 Ray grabbed his black leather jacket out of the closet. Instincts he
didn't understand seemed to be taking over. His gaze jumped to the hook on
the inside of the closet door – where he normally stowed his gun at home,
he abruptly recalled – but all that was on it was a paint-stained work
shirt. No gun. 

 Ray wasn't even sure he'd know what to do with it if he had it, but
everything inside him insisted that he couldn't go into this situation
unarmed.

 "Ray," Marie's frightened sounding voice called from behind him.

 "Have you got a gun I can borrow, luv?" Ray asked as he shouldered into
his jacket.

 "Gun! Ray, you can't do this!" she argued.

 "They've got Bodie," he said, trying to remember if either Wilhelm or
Marie had ever mentioned possessing a weapon for self-defence. He rushed
to the dresser and pulled his wallet out. There was plenty of cash in it,
but no ID, nothing that would help him legally procure a handgun, and even
if he'd had the ID, Switzerland didn't exactly have a reputation for being
militia central.

 Deciding that he'd just have to wing it, Ray started for the door

 He only stopped when she caught onto him and held him in place. "Ray, be
sensible. This is crazy!"

 "They've got Bodie!" he repeated, hearing the strain in his voice.

 "And what are you going to do about it? Bodie asked me to look after you.
I can't let you do this. You don't even rightly remember who you are. What
good are you going to be running off half-cocked like this?" Marie asked,
her trembling hand gripping at the slick leather covering his shoulders.

 "I don't know what good I am anymore," Ray answered, stamping down on the
panic that was coursing through him. "All I know is that Bodie is my
partner and I can't let him down."

 "He wouldn't want you to do this. You know that," Marie reasoned.

 "Marie, I don't have time to argue. You can either help me or get out of
my way."

 He could see that he'd shocked her and perhaps even frightened her a bit,
but she didn't move from in front of the door. Her face tightening with
resolve, she started, "Ray –"

 "It's *Bodie*," Ray said, wanting to scream it out loud, but somehow he
kept the words at a decent level, although he could do nothing about the
desperation flavouring them "I don't have a choice."

 He didn't know what emotion was showing in his face, but whatever it was,
it seemed to overwhelm her.

 "All right," she said in the tone of one who knew they were making a
grievous error. "But Wilhelm is going with you."

 "Wilhelm took those three snowmobiles down to the mechanic to be
repaired. He won't be back for hours," Ray reminded. "You've got to trust
me, Marie. I'll bring the Land Rover back as soon as I can."

 "I don't care about the damn car, Ray! It's you and Bodie I'm worried
about!"

 "I know that. But I have to do this." he said, touching her cheek. She'd
done so much for them both – taken them in and treated them like her own
sons. Even though they hadn't said anything to her about the change in
their relationship, Ray knew that she'd guessed. And nothing had changed,
except that maybe she made a bit more noise when approaching a room if she
knew that Bodie and he were alone together in it. She was still the same
incredibly loving woman who'd spoon-fed him when he was too confused to
want to live – and he was standing here menacing her. What was worse was
that he couldn't back down. So he tried to explain, "I wouldn't be alive
if it weren't for Bodie. You know that. I can't hide my head in the sand
while he's in trouble."

 Tears swelled in her crystal blue eyes, so close to Bodie's in colour. "I
know. Come on, I'll get the car keys."

 Together, they rushed to the office where she kept the keys to the
various vehicles on a rack of hooks above the desk. As she handed the Land
Rover's keys over to him, she abruptly looked her age.

 "Thanks, luv," Ray said and kissed her cheek.

 "What are you going to do, Ray?" Marie asked as she hurried with him out
to the car. It was bitterly cold this afternoon. The slate grey sky looked
as though it might snow at any moment.

 He paused to look down at her, hating how frail and old she suddenly
seemed. "Whatever I have to."

 Her face white as chalk, she nodded and swallowed. 

 "Will you be back?" Marie asked in a small voice, visibly shivering in
the cold. 

 The fear in her eyes hurt him, he knew what she'd been through in her
life, all the losses: her parents had turned their backs on her decades
ago; her little girl had died unexpectedly; her only son was now away in
an internship in Brussels and hardly ever had time to visit anymore; and
now the two newcomers she'd taken to her heart were about to disappear as
well. Little wonder she was so upset.

 "If it's humanly possible, Bodie and I will be back. I promise you, luv,"
Ray assured. His own mother had never been half as nurturing to him as
Marie had.

 Seeming calmer, she nodded and then said, "Ray, Bodie told me that you
were both with the police, but . . . if something should happen and you
need a place to stay where no one can find you . . . this is your home;
remember that. Wilhelm and I will do whatever we can to help you. There
are places up in the mountains where a man can hide for years, where not
even your Mister Cowlick can find you."

 "Cowley," Ray corrected with a small smile. "And thank you. We'll be
back."

 "Please God," she said and threw her arms around him in a brief hug. "Go
now. And may God go with you."

 He opened the Land Rover's door and slid into the icy cold passenger
seat. It was only as he turned the key in the ignition that he realized
that this was the first time he'd driven a vehicle since . . . before Van
Cleef. Fortunately, driving seemed to be one of those automatic activities
like walking that didn't require much in the way of memory. 

 The trip to Geneva was the longest two hours Ray had ever spent in his
life, including the time he'd been held captive. He floored the
accelerator most of the way, driving as fast as the road conditions would
allow. Somehow, he managed to evade both the notice of the police and
ending up in a ditch.

 His only thought the entire time was Bodie: where his lover was, why he'd
been snatched, what was happening to him . . . .

 Ray did his best not to dwell on that last bit. He knew better than
anyone the kind of things that happened to a person when they were
abducted. By his estimation, Bodie had been missing for two and a half
hours now. Not a hideously long time, but it could seem like years when in
the hands of a nutter like Van Cleef.

 At least that was one thing he didn't have to worry about. Bodie had
assured him months ago that the call he'd made to Interpol the night he'd
rescued Doyle had resulted in Van Cleef's capture and life imprisonment. 

 Two and a half hours, Ray raged as he finally reached the city proper.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he could hear a voice reminding him of
how a hostage's chances of being found alive decreased with every hour
that he remained missing. He didn't know where that troublesome fact came
from, but Ray filed it away with the rest of his worries.

 The Marriott Hotel wasn't hard to locate. Doyle thanked whatever star had
guided him into reading over Bodie's shoulder as they'd sat together on
the couch at night when Bodie was going over the building's security
arrangements. It was strange. He'd barely glanced at those papers, and yet
he remembered the hotel's address, its six entrances, its
two-hundred-seventy-six windows . . . . Why he would have taken such close
note of these details, Ray had no idea, but he'd done it without thinking,
as though it were something he'd been trained for years to do.

 It was only as he turned down the Marriott's street that he realized that
was precisely the case. He *had* trained to do that kind of thing his
entire life. Bodie and he were partners; it only stood to reason that he'd
be competent at whatever Bodie excelled at.

 Bodie's assistant, Jenkins, hadn't lied, Ray thought. The crime scene was
a circus, even nearly three hours after the abduction. There were half a
dozen police cars blocking the road onto which the Marriott's service
entrance opened out. A forensics team was hard at work taking samples from
the area. There was enough yellow tape cordoning off the alley to seal
King Tut's tomb for another four thousand years. The crowd was a mob scene
of reporters, thrill seekers, and bewildered Marriott guests trying to get
back into their hotel through the throng. And everywhere Ray looked, he
could see a crisp uniformed police officer interviewing witnesses and
taking notes.

 Ray didn't know how he knew, but he was fairly sure that line of
investigation was going to dead end. Whoever had snatched Bodie would have
had to have been damn good. There wouldn't have been any witnesses, at
least none left alive.

 The closest thing to witnesses would have been Bodie's men who had chased
the van, and Interpol was sure to have them hidden safely away.

 Ray bit his lower lip, at a temporary loss as to what to do. His choices
were limited. He could try to locate Jenkins in this mass of confusion. Or
he could work the crowd on his own and see if he learned anything. Or –
and this was his least viable alternative – he could identify himself as
Bodie's partner to the authorities and pray he didn't end up stuck in a
nightmare of bureaucratic red tape for the next six weeks.

 His eyes restlessly scanned the crowd as he inched the car past the
police barriers in the line of bottlenecked traffic. Maybe he should find
a parking space and – 

 The thought cut off as his gaze came to rest on a familiar face in this
place where he'd expected to know no one. 

 Ray knew every line on the face of the muscular blond man with the black
jacket. That long nose, the alcohol-reddened blue eyes, the pointed chin .
. . Ray knew the onlooker, biblically. It was one of Van Cleef's henchmen,
the one who'd liked to use his teeth. 

 Ray felt his blood turn to ice. The contents of his stomach lurched
upwards as he remembered hard teeth and hands, biting and hitting and
eventually . . . .

 He cut the reminiscence off. 

 Sweating and panting in an incipient panic attack, Ray tried to get hold
of himself. This wasn't about him. It was about Bodie, and he couldn't let
his partner down. 

 He forced himself to take a few deep, cleansing breaths, and thrust all
imagery from his mind. That wasn't who he was anymore. Those horrors had
happened to a different person. Bodie, that was what was important here,
not a ghost from his past. All he had to do was concentrate on getting
Bodie back alive, that, and breathe.

 Slowly, his heartbeat returned to something near normal. Breathe and get
Bodie back. He could do that.

 Followed close on the heels of that resolution was the recognition that
none of this was coincidence. 

 Van Cleef was safely locked away for life, but what would have stopped
any of his accomplices from continuing his lucrative business? If Miller
or Van Cleef's accountant had escaped arrest that night, they would have
been more than capable of continuing their master's work. The conference
Bodie had been covering would have been exactly the kind of target they
would have hit. And if they'd recognized Bodie . . . . His partner was in
a hell of a lot more trouble than Ray had thought.

 Bodie hadn't testified at the Van Cleef trial, but Schueller, the
Interpol agent Bodie had alerted, had named Bodie as his main informer.
Van Cleef's surviving business associates would probably be quite eager to
take their revenge on the man responsible for incarcerating their leader
and shutting them down, however temporarily.

 As he watched, Van Cleef's man left the crowd and started to stroll down
the street in the direction Ray had just come.

 Doyle saw an opening in the opposing lane of traffic, and spun the Land
Rover around a hundred-eighty degrees. 

 He was surprised by how smoothly he executed the move. There was no
telltale tire squealing or skidding. It was almost as though he were
accustomed to haring off in the exact opposite direction on a second's
notice. He accomplished the turn so uneventfully that the man he was
tailing never even looked back over his shoulder.

 Ray was grateful that the traffic in this direction proved much lighter
than it had been the other way. He was able to keep a half block or so
behind Van Cleef's man without arousing any suspicion. 

 The bulky thug walked a good distance, far enough for the upscale
neighbourhood of the posh hotel to give way to a warehouse district. Ray
recalled Jenkins saying how his men had pursued the van somewhere into
this area before losing it.

 Ray kept driving as the man turned into a dark alleyway. He parked the
Land Rover at the next open spot, and then got out to pursue his suspect
on foot. 

 He hurried back to the lane the man had turned down, but the villain was
nowhere in sight.

 That was all right, though. He didn't need to see his suspect to know
where he'd gone. The rickety looking staircase at the back of the alley
was frighteningly familiar. 

 Ray stared up at the faded green and white sign that read OBERSTEIN'S
IMPORTS, unable to believe the sheer brass of the operation. And if he'd
needed any further confirmation that this was the right place, there was a
Yank van parked to the side. 

 He'd come full circle. A little less than a year ago, Bodie had risked
his life to rescue him from this very building.

 It was unbelievable. Who in their right mind would have thought that Van
Cleef's followers would return to the very building their leader had been
arrested in? It was so monumentally stupid a move that it was brilliant.

 Hiding in the shadowed doorway of another building, Ray studied the
entrance to Oberstein's for a long moment. The staircase was out. Even
from here Ray could pick out the lens of the security camera that was
pointed at the stairs. Fortunately, it was not a mobile camera. Its
limited range was focused squarely on the entrance.

 Even so, when he decided to move, he took no chances. He sidled along the
adjoining warehouse wall, approaching the Oberstein warehouse from the far
right. 

 Quick as a bullet, he shot over to Oberstein's brick wall, drawing in
rushed, relieved breaths once he reached its cool sanctuary. There was a
drainage pipe on the far corner that he might be able to scale to a first
story window.

 Ray was easing along the wall in the drainpipe's direction when a door
opened out almost in front of him. His back to the wall, heart racing, Ray
tried to still his breathing to remain unnoticed. 

 Shocked, he watched the blond man he'd been following step out through
the door. His suspect had a bruise on his right eye that hadn't been there
earlier. Ray suspected the man had been reprimanded for the monumental
stupidity of returning to the scene of the crime.

 The thug paused in the doorway, fiddling with a cigarette and lighter
while staring in the opposite direction from Doyle.

 Recognizing a now or never moment, Ray lunged at his target. He hadn't
been sure what he was going to do when he first moved, but his body seemed
to have a mind of its own. 

 He slammed the smoking man hard into the wall. The cigarette went flying
off into the night-dark alley in a shower of sparks as the muscular thug
gave a startled grunt. 

 As if this were a dance he'd practiced so often that the moves were
instinct now, rather than conscious, Doyle's right elbow came up in a wide
circle to catch the point of the man's chin dead centre. The move sent his
opponent's shaggy blond head cracking against the brick wall. 

 Ray's knee caught the henchman in the family jewels as the man bent
forward after hitting the wall. Doyle clasped his hands together, his
fingers tightly interlaced. His arms raised in another wide circle for
momentum, after which he brought his joined hands down in a sweeping arc
that caught the back of his opponent's head again. 

 A sickening snap that heralded the breaking of the neck followed, and
then the blond man fell like a ton of bricks.

 Panting, Ray stared down at his handiwork, unable to believe what he'd
just done. There had been no thought involved at all after the initial
decision to attack. It all had been sheer instinct.

 Ray bent to assure himself that the man was still alive. Placing his hand
on the throat, he felt a slow, but steady pulse. Before he stood back up,
Ray searched the unconscious man. Switzerland mightn't be military
central, but villains like this were usually well heeled.

 Doyle froze when he grabbed his opponent's arm to roll him over. There
was something solid, with the particular hardness associated with metal,
beneath the jacket sleeve right above the wrist. It was a strange place to
carry a gun, but Ray sensed he'd seen stranger over the years. 

 He shoved the sleeve up the hairy arm, and gaped at what was revealed. It
had been years since he'd seen a knife sheath like that one. Ray was
startled to realize that the design was very similar to the one he'd worn
in his days with the Dragons. 

 Ray unstrapped the sheath and removed it from the fallen villain's arm.
Then he slid the knife out. It was a beauty, as far as such things went.
Sleek and elegant, the Bowie knife was a good six inches long and wickedly
sharp. 

 Doyle quickly removed his jacket and fastened the knife sheath to his own
forearm. He experimented with the mechanism that would release the knife
directly into his hand below it. Like the one he'd worn in art school, it
was a touchy release.

 Once he was fairly certain that he had the hang of the knife sheath's
release, Ray quickly put his jacket back on and returned to searching his
opponent.

 Usually men who fancied a blade like this one didn't carry guns, but he
was in luck. He found a shoulder holster on the left side under the
jacket. Doyle smiled as he extracted the deadly black Beretta from its
leather sheath. Bingo, he was in business. 

 After a second's pause to check the clip, Doyle stuck the gun in his
jacket pocket. A moment later, he dragged the man in through the still
open door.

 The corridor the fire exit opened into was nearly pitch black, except for
the glowing red lights on the Emergency Exit sign over the door through
which he'd just entered. Ray had the strong feeling that the man he'd
followed wasn't supposed to be where he'd caught him smoking.

 He took a few moments to adjust his eyes to the inky environment and then
cautiously slipped down the hall.

 The building felt empty. 

 He paused at another dimly visible door and put his ear against its cold
surface for a while before opening it. The large, dust filled room with
its high, broken windows was also deserted, but it was better lit then the
hall by dint of its many windows.

 Ray stared at the shadowy stage up front, haunted by memories. The pain
of the people who had passed through this place felt etched into the very
dust.

 Finally, he closed the door on the past, both literally and figuratively,
and moved on.

 His recollections of the time he'd spent in this place were hazy and
nightmarish, but he seemed to remember Van Cleef occupying a room
upstairs. Most of the prisoners had been confined on this story, but Ray
had been a special case. His cell had been next door to Van Cleef's
quarters, no matter where the auctions were occurring. Ray remembered
moving around a lot. The entire incident was a daze of agony and terror.

 Since Van Cleef had always claimed the best accommodations, Ray thought
it was a natural enough assumption to expect his successor to be rooming
there.

 He found the staircase. Every small creak seemed to shriek through the
darkened warehouse like a siren, but no one came to investigate. He could
see light on the floor at the top of the stairs, so someone was up there.

 If this were not an auction night, security would probably be minimal.
Most nights, it was only the drugged prisoners, Van Cleef, and a couple of
guards. Having dispensed with one guard, Doyle knew the man's partner was
probably prowling around here someplace.

 Nervous as a cat, Ray slipped against the wall at the top of the recessed
staircase. As below, there was a single long corridor that was bisected by
the stairs. The hall to his right was as dark as the rest of the place,
but the area off to Ray's left was lit.

 Ray peeked around the corner and pulled quickly back at the sight of the
huge man guarding an open door in the middle of the hall.

 Damn. It was just his luck that it would be Miller. The man was built
like a brick wall.

 On the heels of that thought, Ray found himself wondering who was running
the show now, if not Miller. The accountant, whose name Ray had never
known, had probably had enough knowledge to get the auctions up and
working again, but Ray would never have thought the nervous bookworm would
have had the gall. And even if he had, was it possible that both Miller
and the accountant had escaped the Interpol raid?

 A distinct, pained-sounding grunt filled the corridor. Ray peered around
his shielding corner again.

 Miller had turned to stare into the open room behind him.

 Ray knew he was never going to get another chance like this.

 He was down the corridor, fast and silent as a passing breeze. He only
had the one chance, and he couldn't blow it.

 Once again, there was no thought to his attack. He came up behind the big
man, reached up and around his shoulder to press the flat of his left
forearm across Miller's windpipe, then he locked his left hand around his
right wrist, and pulled straight back in a classic choke hold. Tugging for
all that he was worth, Ray dragged the resisting, bulkier man backwards
behind the shelter of the wall, out of sight of the open door.

 Miller gave a startled whoosh as his air cut off. His beefy hands came up
to claw at Ray's strangling arm, trying to free his breathing while
simultaneously bending forward in an attempt to dislodge Doyle. They
banged into the wall beside the door, but not hard enough to make any real
noise. It wasn't anything that would carry above the scuffling sounds
emerging from the room behind them, at least.

 Ray held on tight and kept pulling his arm back against the throat harder
and harder. If Miller got enough air to cry out, he was done for. 

 Even as he did what he had to, Ray was appalled by the savagery of the
act. He wasn't just cutting off his opponent's air; he was crushing his
windpipe. It was a nasty way to die, but it was the only soundless way Ray
could take the enormous man out.

 It seemed to take forever. 

 Finally, Ray felt a revolting sag in the cartilage under his forearm.
Miller gave a small sound that was a cross between a wet gurgle and a
whimper. Immediately, the huge man went lax in his arms.

 Miller toppled forward, nearly taking Ray down with him. But he held on
tighter and guided the giant's descent. Once Miller was face down on the
floor, Doyle maintained his crushing hold for another minute or two and
then released the limp form. 

 Ray's unsteady hand sought out the side of the bruised and crushed
throat. Unlike the lucky chap with the broken neck downstairs, Miller
wouldn't be waking up again. There was no pulse.

 Ray straightened up, shaken by what he'd just done. One man dead, one man
crippled for life – all in the course of ten minutes. What the hell kind
of monster had he been, that killing like this was second nature to him?

 Recognizing that this was not the time for that kind of thinking, Ray
concentrated on the only thing that had any real meaning to him – finding
Bodie and getting him out of here alive.

 Breathe and find Bodie, those were his orders of the day.

 A couple of deep breaths, and his nerves were as calm as they were likely
to be. Knowing that he probably wouldn't be surprising anyone within the
room from behind, Ray withdrew the Beretta from his pocket. He slipped off
the safety, and raised the gun so that it was up in front of him, ready to
take out any threat within.

 Another deep breath to steady his nerves, and he jumped over Miller's
dead body to land in a crouch in the doorway. His gun was trained on the
room's occupants with the same unerring instinct that had brought him this
far.

 Everything stopped for Ray as his eyes took in the sight before him.

 His partner was there, shackled to a metal headboard that was
frighteningly familiar. Bodie was alive, thankfully, and much the worse
for wear. His face was bruised and bloody, his wrists torn beneath the
silver handcuffs with which he was bound, but he was still mostly dressed,
and looked as though he were putting up a decent fight to remain so.

 It was the other figure that stopped his blood. The man running the
hostage auction was not the accountant, as Ray had presumed. To his
horror, Ray found himself face to face with his worst nightmare – Van
Cleef in the flesh.

 He stared into those bottomless black eyes, feeling everything freeze up
inside him – thought, feeling, will . . . everything. Abruptly, he was as
impotent as he'd been when Bodie had saved him from this monster's
clutches.

 Maybe it was the fact that Van Cleef hadn't changed much in the last
year. The dark suit was the same high quality Ray remembered. He was a bit
thinner, perhaps, and his eyes wilder with madness. But the cadaverously
pale face was the same evil incarnate, if sporting a fresh bruise that
Doyle suspected might have come from Bodie's boot. His mousy brown hair
hung around his cheeks in an unsightly, sweaty mess that Doyle remembered
only too well.

 His shock paralysing him, Ray stared at the knife in Van Cleef's hands.
He'd obviously interrupted the nutter in his attempt to cut Bodie's
clothes off him.

 "Ah, Mr. Doyle," Van Cleef said in that deep, melodious voice that turned
Ray's blood to ice. The madman seemed completely unsurprised by Doyle's
arrival. "How good to see you again. Your partner and I were just
discussing your location. So good of you to spare me the trouble of
collecting you myself."

 "Ray!" Bodie's puffy eyes strained to focus on him. His voice was rife
with despair.

 While Ray was standing there frozen in shock like a wax sculpture, Van
Cleef's knife moved quickly to rest against Bodie's throat.

 "Now, if you'd be so kind as to drop that gun," Van Cleef requested. When
Ray didn't instantly comply, Van Cleef said, "I assure you that I will
have no compunction in killing your partner before your eyes. As you might
remember, I always keep my promises."

 Doyle shuddered at the reminder. He could feel the icy beads of sweat
dripping down his back. The very thought of placing himself under this
madman's power again made him want to turn the gun on himself, but he knew
that if he did anything that stupid, his last sight would be Bodie's
bloody throat. 

 "Well, what will it be, Doyle? You're free to pull that trigger, but I
assure you, I can sever his jugular before the bullet gets me," Van Cleef
said, visibly enjoying himself.

 Ray remembered that the man had relished the act of tormenting his
victims nearly as much as he had raping them.

 "Don't, Ray! Shoot the bastard!" Bodie cried.

 Van Cleef's knife pressed a little harder against that snowy white throat
that Ray loved to nuzzle. A thin river of red trickled down over the blade
as it pricked the skin.

 Sick to his stomach, Ray made the only decision possible. He dropped the
Beretta to the floor.

 "No, Ray, no," Bodie said, turning his bruised face away.

 "Well done," Van Cleef approved. "Now kick it over here, if you'd be so
kind."

 Ray did as asked.

 "I've missed you, my pet," Van Cleef said in an unctuous tone as the gun
came to rest on the floor to his right, below the sparsely furnished
room's single window. "Now, if you'd be so kind as to remove your clothing
and join us over here, I'd be most grateful."

 Van Cleef was obviously counting on the terror quotient to keep Ray
frozen in place as the villain rose from his awkward bend over Bodie to
move to retrieve the Beretta. 

 Why shouldn't Van Cleef be smug in his victory, Ray thought with
self-disgust. They both knew that Doyle's fear had kept him docile as a
lamb for months. Toward the end there, all Van Cleef had had to do was
voice a command to be obeyed.

 But tonight it wasn't only his own life that hung in the balance here. If
he cocked this up, Bodie was going to suffer for it. That just wasn't
happening.

 The second that knife was clear of Bodie's throat, the deadly stranger
inside Ray who'd been running the show all night reasserted himself. 

 However, this time, it wasn't temporary occupancy the stranger sought.
While Ray's body moved into action, so did his mind. One moment he was
standing there puzzling over the alien presence time-sharing his brain
tonight, and with his next heartbeat, all the clouds were clearing from
his memory. There were no longer two separate Ray Doyles. The lethal
stranger Doyle melded smoothly with the artist Doyle, and there was only
himself, Ray Doyle – William Phillip Andrew Bodie's partner and lover. 

 Even with the smooth transition, it was a bit much to assimilate in a
life and death struggle. But both sides of him were agreed on this course
of action. His follow through was as instinctive as the rest of his
actions tonight.

 Ray released the catch on the hidden knife sheath. That impressive Bowie
knife he'd lifted off the first guard slid smoothly into his palm. Like
the professional he was, Ray took the knife's balance in the instant he
was lifting it to throw. By the time the blade was released, it flew as
true as his bullet would have.

 The blade caught Van Cleef just slightly left of centre of his chest as
he was rising with the Beretta in hand. Doyle's former captor stared down
at the handle of the knife sticking out of his chest and at the red stain
which was rapidly spreading across the front of his white shirt.

 Fury rapidly overtook disbelief on the madman's face. Van Cleef raised
the Beretta and pointed it at Doyle.

 No thought, just instinct. Ray ducked down and rolled to cover beside the
nightstand as a volley of bullets blasted where he'd stood seconds before.
He grimaced as he realized that he was still mostly exposed behind the
nightstand, but there was no other cover to be had. He prayed with all his
heart that the shots wouldn't hit the bed, where his lover was stretched
out like a sacrificial victim.

 He waited for the next blast. By his count, Van Cleef still had four
bullets left.

 But there was only silence and the smell of spilt blood and cordite
wafting through the room.

 Not trusting the pause, Ray waited a minute more before cautiously
peeking around the nightstand. Van Cleef lay unmoving in a gory, scarlet
puddle by the window.

 "Ray?!" Bodie sounded frantic on the bed. Ray realized that his
handcuffed partner wasn't able to see him while he was down behind the
nightstand like this. For all Bodie knew, the shots had killed him.

 "I'm okay," Ray said, rising shakily to his feet. He kept waiting for his
newly regained memories to retreat again, but he still knew who he was and
who he'd been. He remembered London and Bodie, and C.I.5 and Bodie, and
the chalet and Bodie, and bed and Bodie . . . .

 As he stood there in the suddenly quiet room, Ray searched for the shock
he'd expected to experience upon finding himself Bodie's lover once he
regained his full faculties, but it wasn't there. It wasn't like the
memories of his time at the chalet had switched off when his old memories
switched on. They were there together, a coherent whole. The battered man
staring up at him in open disbelief from the bed was the cement holding
both parts of him together.

 He wanted to run straight to Bodie, but he wasn't the same Ray Doyle
who'd woken up at Marie's this morning with no other concerns in life
other than finishing his latest canvas. You put a knife in a man's chest,
even a mad bugger like Van Cleef, and certain protocols had to be followed
afterwards.

 Ray quickly crossed to Van Cleef and kicked the Beretta free of the
long-fingered hand. Then he knelt down to check the throat for a pulse;
for all that he cringed to initiate any physical contact with his rapist. 

 Though warm, the skin beneath his fingers was as still as Miller's had
been.

 It was over.

 "He's dead," Ray said, hearing the hollowness in his own voice.
Remembering the cuffs on Bodie's hands, Ray reached out to search Van
Cleef's jacket pockets for the key. Sure enough, the right one disgorged
the tiny handcuff key. He looked over at the bed as he rose to his feet
and demanded of his shackled partner. "What's he doing here? You told me
he was in prison for life."

 Maybe if Bodie's face hadn't been so roughed up, Ray would have been
further enraged by the guilt that flashed across it. But taking in Bodie's
puffy, blackened eyes, bloody right cheek, and bleeding, cracked lips, Ray
couldn't get too angry.

 "The day Cowley came to visit us I found out he'd been shot in a prison
escape attempt. The officials were pretty sure he'd drowned. They found a
body that they thought was his," Bodie answered, seeming almost afraid.

 "And you didn't think I had a right to know?" Ray hissed, almost too
furious to listen to the answer.

 Bodie's stricken expression was not feigned. Ray had never seen his
partner so miserable. At least, not since they'd become lovers.

 "I wanted to tell you, but I wasn't sure how you'd react, and then . . ."
Bodie faltered for a moment, his expression as grave as if he were
wagering his entire world, ". . . and then we became lovers, and I
honestly forgot all about the bastard."

 Ray scoured those banged up features. He knew truth when he heard it. 

 Suddenly, he became aware of the fact that he was haranguing a man who'd
just been abducted and worked over by professionals, a man who was still
in handcuffs. Whatever Bodie had or hadn't done, this wasn't the time for
this. 

 "How are you feeling?" Ray belatedly asked as he approached the bed, key
in hand.

 "Like a proper idiot," Bodie said, his face red from more than blood.
"They caught me cold *again*, Ray."

 Ray eased himself onto the side of the bed, taking stock of his partner.
Bodie appeared to be in about the same state as his clothes – banged up
and dirty, but for the most part, intact. Thank God.

 Almost weak with relief, Ray forced a smile and said lightly, "Nah,
there's nothing proper about you, mate."

 Then he bent down to press a gentle kiss to Bodie's forehead, which
seemed to be the only uninjured part of his face.

 Rising, he quickly undid the handcuffs, wincing in sympathy as the
grimace Bodie gave as sensation returned. Once both cuffs were off, Ray
helped his partner sit up in the bed and then quickly started rubbing his
arms.

 "How bad is it?" Ray asked, hoping there was no nerve damage. Bodie's
hands looked red and swollen, but the colour wasn't as bad as it would
have been were there sustained lack of circulation.

 "'s okay," Bodie lied, in visible agony. "They only cuffed me to the bed
an hour or so ago, though it felt like years."

 Ray kept rubbing, grateful for the warmth and life in the flesh beneath
his palms.

 "Not to sound ungrateful, but what the hell are you doing here, Ray?"
Bodie asked after a few more moments, his voice dramatically less
distressed.

 "Your man Jenkins called the lodge to tell me what happened," Ray said.

 "That mad bugger brought you here? Where the devil is he? What was he
thinking, letting you come up here alone?" After a pause for breath or
thought, Bodie asked in a more sombre tone, "Paul's not dead, is he?"

 It took Ray a moment to recall that Jenkins Christian name was Paul. 

 "No, and he didn't let me come here alone," Ray said and then briefly
described how he'd followed Van Cleef's guard back to the warehouse on his
way to meet Jenkins.

 "Bloody hell, Ray! Are you trying to get yourself killed? What if you'd
been seen? What if the guards were here?" Bodie fretted, his split lip
starting to drip blood again.

 Feeling a tightness in his throat, Ray quietly answered, "They *were*
here. Where do you think I got the gun from?"

 "You . . . ." It was hard for eyes as swollen and discoloured as Bodie's
were to look truly thunderstruck, but somehow Bodie managed it.

 "Miller, the econo sized goon, is dead in the hallway. The man I followed
back is down in the ground floor corridor with a broken neck," Ray grimly
reported.

 He waited for more questions, but Bodie simply stared at him. After a
minute, Bodie raised his arm to give Doyle's shoulder an encouraging
squeeze, wincing at the motion. A short time later, Bodie said, "We've got
to find a phone to call this in. My RT's out of range."

 Ray nodded. "We have to call Marie, too. They'll be worried sick by now."

 "Yeah," Bodie nodded, looking as though he immediately regretted the
action.

 "How's your head? You dizzy? Any double vision?" Ray quizzed before
allowing his lover to move.

 "My eyes're too swollen for double vision," Bodie complained, which more
than anything told Doyle that he wasn't suffering anything too severe.

 Relief sweeping through him, Ray helped his partner up from the bed. He
was happy to see that Bodie was standing on his own, even if he weren't
moving too quickly.

 Together they made their way out the door. 

 Bodie paused in the corridor to stare down at Miller's still form. Even
flat on the floor the man was enormous. With his black jacket, pale white
skin, and light coloured trousers, the dead man looked like a beached
orca.

 Without another word, they headed for the stairs.

 ******

With a heavy sigh, Bodie climbed into bed what felt like centuries later.
He leaned gratefully back against the mound of pillows, stretching his
legs out in front of him. Every inch of his body ached to get intimate
with the mattress, but he wanted to wait for Ray to finish in the loo
before giving into his exhaustion. 

 What with the interview with Schueller and the stop at the nearest
hospital, it had been 3:00 a.m. before they'd made it home. Well, not home
per se, but Marie's was close as made no difference.

 They'd been damn fortunate, straight down the line. His unbelievable
rescue alone would have used up a lifetime of luck, but the fact that Ray
and he hadn't been detained by the authorities was nothing short of
miraculous. 

 Once again, Bodie blessed whatever star had prodded him to contact
Shueller directly, rather than go through normal channels. If they hadn't
had a personal relationship with the Interpol agent, they would still be
down at the office answering questions. Ray's lack of a passport alone
would have kept them there for days, but Schueller had been surprisingly
accepting of Bodie's explanation of Ray's ID being lost in the chase.
Bodie suspected that Schueller's good will had as much to do with the
promotion he'd received due to his fast action on Bodie's tip off last
year as to any true belief he had in Bodie's story. All that really
mattered to Bodie was that they'd let them go home. First thing in the
morning he knew he was going to have to call Cowley to see if the old man
could straighten out Ray's passport problems, but that could wait until
daylight.

 Bodie shifted in the bed, moving very carefully. The soles of his feet
were about the only thing on him that didn't hurt. He had a spectacular
collection of bruises popping up on his arms, chest, thighs, shins, and
legs, and he suspected he had about the same developing on his back. In
short, he hurt all over. But nothing was broken or ruptured, and he was
glad to be hurting. For a while there, he hadn't been certain that he was
going to be around to enjoy the morning.

 Even now his mind was filled with the image of Ray bursting into that
room, gun drawn, face intent as the old days, but wearing that totally
incongruous, paint-speckled tee shirt under his black leather jacket. He'd
looked sexy, and deadly. Very much the Ray Doyle Bodie remembered of old.

 He smiled as the object of his thought slipped silently into the bedroom
and eased the door shut behind him. It closed with a quiet snick.

 "The cat'll be mad," Bodie said, gesturing with his chin at the closed
door and wincing immediately at the resulting pain.

 Ray was dressed in his usual pyjama bottoms. He had a glass of water in
one hand and something cupped tight in the other.

 "The cat's in with Marie," Ray said.

 "They finally went to bed, then?" Bodie asked, relieved. He'd been
horrified to find the Grubers up and waiting when they'd pulled into the
lodge half an hour ago. Bodie didn't know if he could stand any more
fussing over. But it had felt good, like the home he'd never had as a kid.

 "Yeah," Ray answered. "This really shook Marie up."

 "She all right now?" Bodie asked, stricken with guilt. It seemed that
he'd brought these good people nothing but trouble since he'd first
darkened their doorstep.

 "She will be," Ray said and climbed into bed beside him. "Here, take your
pain pill."

 Bodie stared at the large white pill. 

 "If you don't take it, I'll tell Marie," Doyle threatened with a smile.

 Bodie took his pill, doing his best to ignore Ray's stare. There was
something different about the way Ray was looking at him, but he couldn't
say just what.

 The water was cool going down his throat and he greedily drank the entire
glass. Ray took the empty glass from him and put it on the nightstand. He
waited for Doyle to turn out the lamp, which was on his side of the bed,
but Ray made no move to do so, even though he was nearly white with
exhaustion.

 "How're you feeling?" Ray asked.

 "Rough, but better than I should be." Thinking about all Ray had done
today, Bodie asked, "You?"

 Those eloquent green eyes lowered to stare at the floral duvet. "I killed
two men tonight."

 "I know," Bodie said, wishing that it could have been himself who'd done
the job. He didn't enjoy killing like some did, but when he put a mad
bastard like Van Cleef down, he knew he'd done the entire world a favour.
Ray had never been able to see it that way.

 "I should be . . . guilty about that . . . but I'm not," Ray whispered,
seeming almost ashamed to meet his gaze.

 Well, that was unexpected. While in C.I.5, Ray usually suffered the
torments of the damned over what the job forced them to do. Bodie had
figured that this shattered, more sensitive version of his partner would
be even more torn apart by the necessity of killing. But, then, the
villains Ray had put down were the monsters who had abducted, tortured,
and raped him. Perhaps the lack of guilt wasn't so inexplicable, after
all. Bodie knew he sure as hell would be sleeping better after seeing Van
Cleef's corpse.

 Looking for the right words, Bodie said, "They were evil, Ray. Maybe it
isn't our place to judge, but no one knows better than you how dangerous
those men were."

 "And that gave me the right to kill them?" Ray challenged softly.

 This conversation was familiar of old to Bodie. "Maybe not the right, but
definitely the responsibility – to stop them any way possible."

 Ray nodded, seeming to think about what he said. Finally, Ray looked over
at him and announced, "I don't want to do that anymore, Bodie."

 From the tension in his features and slender body, Ray looked as though
he were waiting for his world to fall apart.

 It was a strange conversation, but Bodie's life had never been normal.
"You don't have to, sunshine. I still can't believe you were able to do
what you did tonight."

 Ray took a deep, shaky breath and seemed to force himself to say, "Bodie,
I remembered."

 The pain pill starting to kick in and ease his aches, Bodie asked a
little sleepily, "Remembered what?"

 "Everything."

 That single word froze his blood. Bodie looked at the man sharing his
bed. "You – "

 "Got my memory back tonight," Doyle finished. He appeared as nervous as
Bodie abruptly felt.

 Doyle remembered – everything. He knew he should be happy for his lover,
but all Bodie could see was his world crashing down around him. The
amnesiac Ray Doyle had needed him, but Ray Doyle of C.I.5? 

 That Ray Doyle had never needed anyone. Bodie knew he'd be lucky to keep
the man's friendship. The love that had felt so right between them in this
isolated corner of the world might be viewed in a very different light by
his self-sufficient partner. No matter how Bodie looked at it, he knew
he'd taken advantage of his friend when Ray wasn't in full control of his
faculties. Going into this, Bodie had known that it was wrong of him to
touch Ray, but he simply hadn't been able to stop himself. And that was no
more of a valid excuse than the one that bastard Van Cleef might have
offered.

 "Bodie?"

 "Yeah?" he snapped. He wasn't up to this – not physically or mentally,
and definitely not emotionally. He couldn't lose Ray now, but . . . Bodie
knew he was going to have nothing to say in that. It would be the same as
always. Ray would do whatever he damn well pleased; only, this time, the
partner who'd violated Doyle's trust wouldn't even be a factor in the
equation. 

 Ray was watching him like a hawk. 

 Only now did Bodie wonder why Doyle was in here with him at all. If Ray
had got his memory back, shouldn't he be down the hall in a bed of his
own, or on a plane to England?

 "I'd like for us to stay here, for a while at least," Ray quickly
amended, sounding and looking as anxious as Bodie felt.

 "Huh?" Bodie blinked his swollen lids. Ray was acting like the one who
was about to lose it all.

 "I know this place doesn't have the pubs or the nightlife to offer that
London does, but – "

 Bodie reached out his bruised-knuckled hand to still Ray's words and then
asked the only question that mattered to him, "You want to stay with me,
the way we've been these last few weeks?"

 Bodie's free hand gestured at the bed they were sharing.

 Ray's eyes widened huge as saucers. He reached up to push Bodie's palm
from his mouth, but he didn't let go of it. Ray clenched Bodie's hand as
though it were his last hold on life.

 The surprise left Doyle's face, and most of his worry. "Whatever we do,
we do it together, agreed?"

 Bodie gulped. The steel in that question did more for him than a dozen
avowals would. 

 "Agreed," he rasped out.

 The action seeming strangely significant, Ray sidled close to him, put an
arm around his shoulders, and gave him as much of a kiss as Bodie's
battered mouth would allow, which was basically the lightest brushing of
their lips together.

 The pill must have kicked in big time at that point, for Bodie felt dizzy
when Ray pulled back. 

 Ray seemed to study him for a moment. Then he softly said, "In case you
haven't figured it out yet, I'm in love with you."

 It was the first time either of them had said the word out loud. 

 Looking into those warm, loving eyes, Bodie didn't know how he could ever
have doubted that. Ray had spent the last month showing him how much he
meant to his partner.

 Feeling very foolish, Bodie whispered, "I thought you'd hate me for
taking advantage of you."

 "Figured it was something like that," Ray said. "Listen up. I remember
what happened – everything. I remember how often you said no to me, and I
know who took advantage of who."

 "I'd hardly say you took advantage of me, Ray," Bodie protested, just
managing to keep his laughter back. He knew how prickly Doyle could be,
and, whatever he did, he wasn't going to cock this up by being facetious.

 "Then we're all right," Ray said, visibly relieved. 

 Both of them relaxed against the pillows, seeming to just want to enjoy
the proximity. This wasn't exactly what Bodie had envisioned doing on his
first night home after their separation, but in light of his injuries and
both their states of exhaustion, this cuddling seemed all they were up to.
Not that Bodie could find much fault in it. Holding Ray close like this
seemed to be precisely what he needed.

 After a time, he softly commented, "So, you want to stay here in the
chalet?"

 "If it's all right with you," Ray answered.

 Feeling the tension in that lithe figure that Ray was obviously working
to keep out of his voice, Bodie asked, "If you had your choice of anyplace
in the world, where would you want to live?"

 It wasn't an idle question. As long as Doyle didn't ask for a Mayfair
brownstone, Bodie's ill-gotten gains in the safe downstairs would pretty
much set them up comfortably for life. Not to mention the lucrative fee
he'd charged for this weekend's security gig. The money Ray's artwork was
bringing in was nothing to sneeze at, either. A little startled, Bodie
realized that for the first time in his life, he didn't have to work if he
didn't want to.

 "With you," Ray promptly replied.

 Smiling, Bodie said, "Let's take that as a given, okay?"

 "Okay."

 "So?" Bodie prodded.

 "I guess my answer would depend on what you want to do," Ray said at
last. "Do you want to go back to work for Cowley? And, before, you ask, I
know I'm not ever going to make the squad again. Tonight was sheer
desperation. I don't want to make a life of it."

 Bodie thought about C.I.5 without Ray as his partner. It wasn't too long
a think. "I don't want to work in C.I.5 without you to back me up, but
even if I did . . . I'm nearly forty. Even if I get in good enough shape
to take my old job, Cowley won't be able to keep me on the A-Squad for
much longer. And I'm too much of a prima donna for B-Squad."

 "So, what do you want to do instead?" Ray asked and then added. "We don't
have to decide anything tonight, but it'd be nice to have some idea."

 This answer didn't require much more thought than his previous one had.
"I sort of like this security gig business, Ray. The team I put together
was a good one. Think I'd like to give it a go."

 To his intense relief, Ray looked neither threatened by the idea nor dead
set against it. "Think you could do that kind of work from here?"

 Translation – Ray *really* liked it here, as if Bodie hadn't known that.
He could also sense how nervous Ray was that he didn't. Knowing only one
way to assure his lover, Bodie decided to spoil his surprise. "I spoke to
Jacques about the chalet when he came by the Marriott for dinner on Friday
night. He's agreed to let me buy it from him."

 "What?" Ray asked, seeming both shocked and overjoyed.

 "It seemed like a good investment," Bodie said, his words ending with a
painful "Umppphf!" as Ray hugged him tight.

 "Sorry," Ray pulled back and apologized the instant he realized he was
hurting him. "You really want to stay here long enough to buy the place?"

 Bodie could see what a salve that had been to Ray's worries. "Providing
Marie and Wilhelm have no objections."

 Ray snorted. "You're kidding, right? I'll be lucky if I can get you back
to the chalet this month."

 Doyle didn't seem any more concerned about that than he was. 

 His gaze going abruptly dark and serious, Ray reached out to touch his
face. "I didn't think I'd ever see you alive again. It scared me."

 A year and a half ago, it would have been like pulling teeth to get
either of them to admit that aloud to each other.

 Bodie reached out to bury his fingers in Ray's long, soft curls. "I know.
I lived that for the six months you were missing, remember?"

 "I don't want us to ever go through that again," Ray said fiercely.

 "Me, neither." Seeing the worry in Ray's eyes, Bodie said, "Today was
personal, Ray. It's not likely to be repeated. I'm going to be
coordinating security, not working it."

 When he'd worked for Cowley, he'd always thought that the men in the
field protecting the target had the harder job, but after these last few
weeks, he'd come to appreciate how hard the man who decided where the
bodyguards would be stationed and coordinated the million other details of
getting a couple of scores of dignitaries safely in and out of a security
nightmare worked. His new job might be less perilous, but it was much more
demanding.

 Ray nodded and snuggled down beside him. After a quiet minute, Ray sat up
to turn off the light and then helped Bodie lie down flat to sleep. 

 Bodie smiled as Ray's head settled next to his on the oversized pillow
they were sharing. After another minute, Doyle's arm landed lightly across
his chest.

 Bodie could just make out Ray's profile in the dim light seeping in from
the dark mountain night outside the curtained window. Ray's eyes were
still wide open.

 "What's up?" Bodie asked.

 "You think we can make this work?" Ray questioned, the light pressure his
arm gave Bodie's chest illustrating what *this* was. 

 "It's been working, hasn't it?" Bodie asked, knowing how Ray worried
about problems long before they manifested . . . if they did at all.

 "Yes, but . . . ."

 "Go on, spit it out," Bodie encouraged with a yawn.

 "Back home, you always fancied variety," Ray discretely answered.

 Hearing what Doyle couldn't bring himself to come out and ask him, Bodie
gave his partner the truth. He figured he'd let Ray make what he would of
it. "I always fancied you; I settled on variety."

 "Oh."

 "Can we go to sleep now, Ray?" he all but begged. "Or do you want to iron
out our retirement plans while we're at it?"

 The warm breath from Ray's snort caressed his face. Peeking out one
discoloured eye, Bodie saw that Ray had finally closed his own eyes, even
though his face was still tensed with thought.

 "It'll be all right, Ray," Bodie whispered, and opened his cracked lips
again as he pressed a kiss to his partner's cheek.

 Somehow, Bodie knew it would. Shifting closer to Ray, Bodie closed his
eyes, already anticipating the morning and the start of their new life
together.

 -- THE END --

 *Originally published as a zine novel by CrowRow Productions, 2003*

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