The Professionals Circuit Archive - After Ojuka	After Ojuka

 

by Sebastian 

 
 "How would you feel if you'd let them get 'im?" Bodie demanded of his
boss, who regarded him for a moment, following the line of his gaze, then
turned away without a flicker. 

 "Oh, I think he'd have borne up quite well," Doyle muttered sourly,
looking down at his wrists. "I screwed that up, in one big way, and don't
tell me 'e 'asn't noticed." 

 "Look mate, you shot like an angel back there." Bodie's eyebrow lifted
towards Ojuka, departing unscathed. And his lady wife, looking out at them
with big, sombre dark eyes, on another journey entirely.

 "Bitch," Doyle snapped viciously from the side of his mouth, turning
away. "I knew it, knew there was something wrong when she showed up at the
hotel. And yet I let them get in--!" He shook his head in disbelief at his
own stupidity; he had been careful, just not careful enough. What counted
all those years, months of the highest day-to-day training if at the last
minute he was going to blow it with one stupid mistake?

 Lives got lost that way.

 "What's it matter now, anyway?" Bodie said, determinedly cheerful: after
all, the job was done, they lived and breathed again.

 Doyle was looking at him in an unfriendly way, eyes like chips of stone.
"Well, nothin'. Not to you. Or to me, or Cowley. Another job crossed off
and a bit more unsung glory for CI5. But--that girl back there at the
hotel--"

 Bodie only shook his head, looking down at the ground. "We'd best get on
our way, mate."

 Through no fault of her own--

 All she had done was be there. When he and Bodie, just by driving up to
the door, had drawn her into someone else's war.

 "Some angelfish we turned out to be," was Doyle's one, bitter comment as
he swung himself into the passenger seat of Bodie's borrowed car.

 "You coming out for a pint tonight?"

 Doyle turned to stare out of the window as Bodie started the car. "Think
I'll get an early night."

 Bodie's face twisted. "Ah, c'mon, mate. Just a quick half."

 Doyle's head came around, his stare burning like acid though his voice
was quiet enough: "I said no, Bodie."

 Bodie kept his mouth shut after that. His partner was best left alone at
such times: throw in too many sweet words of comfort and you were likely
to find yourself bitten to the bone. Doyle smelt of gunsmoke and of sweat:
he kept his head down and studied his wrists, wincing from time to time as
he shifted position. Always made a fuss about small injuries did Doyle,
although when it came down to it he presented himself fearlessly to
bullets, terrorists, bombs. Trusting his swift reactions and his perfect
aim to save himself, no doubt.

 *And me*, reflected Bodie, remembering Doyle's bullet whining past his
ear to take out the man threatening Bodie behind, Doyle's eye as he
sighted it in clear and cold and merciless. *Both have an extra hole or
two by now, I reckon, without Doyle's speed and timing.* Was that only
yesterday--? Seemed like a lifetime ago.

 He stopped outside Doyle's flat to let him out. Barely a grunt of thanks
floated back his way. He sat there a moment, hand on the gearknob,
watching Doyle running up the steps, hand on the bannister, hunched over
slightly, blue jeans dirty. The white jacket was dirty, too, looked like a
bloodstain or two here and there.

 *Oh, Raymond. A white jacket. Not the best thing to wear on a shootout,
was it?*

 No backwards look. The door slammed.

 Bodie put the car into gear and drove off. Pity about Doyle turning on to
guilt-trip mode: would have been nice to hang around with him tonight,
unwind a bit after the tensions of the last few days. But that was Ray for
you: he could switch from the matey grin to the look of ice at the drop of
a hat. At one time Bodie had been sure Doyle disliked him; he hadn't cared
one fig, Doyle could like him or loathe him as he chose just so long as
they worked well together.

 Which they did, right from day one.

 And sometimes--

 Sometimes he fancied an attraction between them that went beyond
friendship, a sexual thing, electric and alive as hell. Whether Doyle felt
it too he couldn't say and wasn't going to ask, but occasionally there
were clues. "So if you don't mind sharing?" The look Doyle had exchanged
with him in that narrow hotel hallway had been pure innuendo, shared,
instantaneous.

 Bodie sighed as he pulled the big car around the corner of the Oakham
Court Road where his current apartment was. Pity about the girl. Pity
about Doyle, too.

 ******

Next morning, bright and fresh and early, Bodie was presenting his ID at
the entrance to CI5.

 "That's not you, is it?" said the girl on duty, peering closely at the
picture.

 Bodie was affronted, and peered at it with her. "Good mug shot, that is.
Tall, dark and handsome devil, isn't he?"

 "That's what I mean," she said, and Bodie swatted her on the arm for
cheek, and sailed in through the narrow corridors to the recce room. He
located Doyle at once, over in the corner. Cream shirt, clean jeans, brown
boots, reading something that wasn't Playboy from the look of it. One lift
of the eyebrow was all the acknowledgement he got, but then again it was
all he needed.

 "Didn't do so bad yesterday, I hear, 3.7."

 Bodie turned around, grinned. "Didn't do so bad yourself, Murph. Hear you
copped a vanload of hot goods along the way. You wanna watch that, mate,
you'll be landing yourself a post back in the Force."

 "An' I hear the Cow's got the two of you on report--"

 "Wha--?" and then he saw the twinkle in Murphy's blue Irish eyes.

 "Wasting too much ammo, Bodie. One bullet per one body, you know the
rules. But Doyle's got his eye in, I hear."

 He's a beauty," Bodie acknowledged. "Can't miss. I reckon, take out
Towser's brain, whirl it round on a string, Doyle could it at sixty
paces."

 "No kidding?" Murph marvelled. "Put it back afterwards?"

 "Why bother, who'd know the difference."

 Murph stood with his hands on his hips watching Bodie push his way
through the cluttered chairs and tables and agents to get to his partner,
then he shook his head gently and went off to study some maps in the obs.
room.

 Bodie made a face, waved his hand around to disturb the haze of blue
smoke around Doyle, who also grimaced, not looking up from the papers he
held. "Yeah, I know, can't breathe in 'ere can you? Go out for a minute?"

 "Yeh, okay." Bodie bounced on the balls of his feet. Business as usual.

 In the cool fresh air of the corridor Doyle leaned against the wall.
"Wrists okay?" Bodie said, remembering; he took Doyle's hand in his own,
turned it over, examined the skin where it was shiny and puckered in
places. "Tried to barbecue yourself, hmm?"

 Doyle retrieved his hand, ran it down the outside of his shirt; his
thoughts seemed far away. Bodie tracked the absent fondling with his eyes;
Doyle's hand got as far as the waistband of his jeans, then travelled up
again to where his nipples must lie before he took the hand away and
shuffled the papers he held, eyes downcast.

 "What you got there then?" Bodie wondered, cheerfully enough, and he
thrust his chin over Doyle's shoulder for a look. Doyle didn't exactly
hold it out for him to see, but he didn't hide it, either. It was a double
sheet of A4 printout. Bodie scanned the top quickly: Personnel Data
Request/ CI5/4.5/10.10.82. Davies, Virginia Sophie, DOB 12.9.60.

 Date of death, 9.10.82, presumably; for Bodie guessed at once that this
must be the girl from the hotel, a little souvenir Doyle had called up for
himself the better to flay himself with. "Virgin for short, but not for
long, eh?" he said, and knew at once from the look in Doyle's eyes that no
amount of black humour was going to sort this one.

 "Bodie." Doyle said it with a kind of weary disgust, and Bodie's mouth
twisted wryly.

 "Okay, okay, not a joking matter." He took the sheets of paper away,
gently. About eighty lines, he reckoned, to sum up and dismiss her: birth,
school, job, bloke, death. Not much time. Never enough time...

 He put his hand on Doyle's shoulder. "Don't blame yourself, Ray."

 "I was there," Doyle said, eyes screwed up as he ran the memory one more
time. "She was terrified--squawked like a fuckin' chicken--and I couldn't
do one fucking thing to save her."

 "All right. But it wasn't you that shot her. Not you that pulled the
fucking trip on the gun. It wasn't your fault."

 "No," said Doyle, his eyes cold and set and hard, "it was that bastard
Parker."

 Bodie touched one finger to the split at the corner of Doyle's mouth, the
little swelling there. "Wasn't very nice to you either, was he?"

 At that, a peculiar little smile crossed Doyle's lips. "Oh, I think he
wanted to be--far too nice." Bodie stared at him. "Did he come on to you?"

 Doyle smiled, looking him in the eye, tipping his head back a little. "In
a way."

 "I'd have killed him," Bodie said, a flashtide of anger giving him a
sudden adrenalin rush. "I'd've ripped his cock off and made him eat it."

 "Oh yeah, he'd have loved that all right." At least Doyle was grinning
now, amused by his violence. Bodie was leaning in over him, actively
protective, looking down at him, darkly troubled. A little cluster of
agents were approaching and going past them; Doyle caught the curious
backwash of their gaze. He kicked Bodie away from him. "Can't keep meeting
like this. People will start to talk."

 "What?" Bodie was still hard with anger, not with him at all.

 "By the time that one gets back to the recce room, it'll be you giving me
a quick one against the wall."

 "What are you going on about?" Bodie realised he was crowding in on
Doyle, moved away. They began to walk together, side by side, down the
beige corridor towards the coffee machine, but before they reached it
Cowley's head popped out of his office like a tortoise out of its shell.
The same glare, the same discontented mouth.

 "Bodie! Doyle!"

 Thus summoned, exchanging a look they entered Cowley's inner sanctum.

 "Well, the Ojuka situation is now resolved," Cowley said without
preamble, and Bodie's lips wrinkled smugly.

 "Just doing our job, sir."

 Cowley glared at him. "There's no room for complacency, Bodie."

 "No, sir," they chorused. "We'll spend the day training if you like,"
Bodie added: he quite fancied a day spent in smooth physical activity,
shooting and diving and competing with Ray.

 "Since when have I needed you, Bodie, to arrange my schedules for me?"
and Bodie muttered something, abashed. "There's such a thing as being
overtrained, you know," Cowley continued; and from the peevish tone of his
voice, the hard glint in his eye, you would never know that in fact he was
pleased with these two, very pleased, and in mind to reward them with a
word of praise; 'good men', or the like.

 Then his mind shut close on it and he glared at them again, standing
there confident and cocky and sure. They knew they were good men. No need
to gild the lily.

 "I've just had a reminder through," he said, favouring them with a nasty
smile. "Someone's on the ball in Records. You're both of you long overdue
for a refresher First Aid course."

 Bodie and Doyle met each other's eye. Doyle rested first his elbow, then
his head, on Bodie's shoulder and hid his eyes. "Off you go now and
collect the details from the office." Cowley waved them briskly away.

 As they left the office gloomily, Bodie said: "You'd think he might have
said something. Nothing too heavy." He adopted an upper class accent.
"'Not bad, chaps'. Would've been enough, wouldn't it, Doyle?"

 Doyle spotted a can, skittered up to it, aimed it for goal, and kicked.
It scored against both walls. "I suppose you might say this is his idea of
a day of rest," he offered, not very sure.

 Bodie muttered, thinking of Avery, "Wish I had some dirty money in
Africa. I'd take a very long safari."

 "Oh yeah, you, well, closest you ever got to dirty money is that 10p you
dropped in the mud out running."

 "Yeh--and I couldn't be bothered to search around for it." Bodie clapped
an admiring arm around his thrifty partner, leaning in close to his ear.
"You could though, couldn't you, Ray? What did you do with it--just out of
interest?"

 "I'm savin' up, aren't I? Maybe you'll get a birthday card this year,
after all."

 This was more like it, Doyle's blues leaving him like clouds off a
mountaintop, leaving only the clear sky of his eyes. Bodie reached over
while the going was good, took the folded sheets of paper out of Doyle's
top pocket.

 "Don't hurt yourself with this, Ray." He dropped it into the nearest bin
to lie among the crumpled cans and frag-ends. "If anyone could have saved
her, you would have."

 The truth of that reached Doyle at last, and he stood still for a moment,
thinking about it. "She lived with her mother. On her own. D'you think I
should go and see her? Try and tell her--"

 "Tell her what." Bodie shook his head. "Whatever could you say, Ray; you
didn't even know her. Leave it be."

 In his urgency to reassure, he had moved very close to Doyle again,
backed him to the wall. Brooding green eyes locked with Bodie's steady
dark gaze, he brought one hand up to Doyle's shoulder; he could see the
throb of pulse in Doyle's throat, the little jump of muscle beside his
mouth as he swallowed. Doyle waited, fascinated by the intensity of
Bodie's attitude, the resolute set of his jaw. For a moment--

 A long, long moment. Then Bodie took his hand off Doyle's shoulder, hit
the wall beside him lightly, and turned and walked briskly off.

 "Thought you were going to kiss me," Doyle said to him, catching up with
no apparent effort.

 "Murph, Peters," Bodie acknowledged, lifting a hand in greeting as they
passed. He said without looking at Doyle: "Did you now? Relieved, or
disappointed?"

 "Whaddayou think, flower," Doyle camped, fluttering his eyelashes, and
seeing the look in his eye Bodie began to run, dodging, just in time.

 ******

The First Aid course took place in a chilly little church hall in a shabby
London backwater. There were eighteen other learners, from young women to
old women, but all of them women.

 "You wanna watch that. I think she's beginning to enjoy it," Doyle
yawned, as he watched Bodie's rhythmic compressions on the pink plastic
chest of the doll he was resuscitating. Bodie made a face at him as he
lowered his mouth over the doll's open one and blew into her airway, once,
twice. Then back to the compressions again.

 "Oh no, you won't enjoy it," the instructor's voice startled him from
behind. "Mouth'll probably be full of vomit. Snot all over the place." A
relaxed, confident woman in her thirties, she had the tilted nose and
dutch-doll looks of a Mary Poppins, except for her striped jersey and
tight jeans and a liking for shocking her pupils: one girl had turned
green and had to go out while Jo cheerfully related the story of a man
with a severed finger which his dog then ate.

 She moved Bodie's hands slightly, a hairsbreadth. "You do it there, you
might break his ribcage."

 "Guy's dead anyway, isn't he?" Bodie said ironically, annoyed. "He'll
forgive me a broken rib or two, probably use his first breath to thank me
for saving his life."

 "Oi," Doyle said in Bodie's defence, "I bet he's done it more times for
real than you've done it on a plastic dummy."

 She sat back on her heels and regarded him with interest. "That so? What
are you - ambulance men brushing up on your skills?" She grinned, brushing
a dark lock of hair off her face as she gave him the once-over, taking in
the tough beauty of him, the tight jeans, leather boots, open shirt.

 Sensing interest, Doyle grinned back. "Something like that."

 Bodie was worn out with his effort. He checked grimly for breathing.
"Nah, still dead as a dinosaur. See if you can work your magic on 'im,
sunshine," Bodie said, sitting back and wiping his mouth, watching as
Doyle knelt on one knee beside the life- sized doll and waved away the
antiseptic tissue offered him for the purposes of wiping the doll's lips.

 "Can't stand the taste," Doyle said, speedily and efficiently performing
the checks: airway clear, not breathing, no pulse--

 "On your head be it," she said briskly. "You might catch something,
y'know."

 "Anything he's got, I want it," Doyle drawled, and he leaned over and
applied his mouth to the doll's pink plastic orifice. Bodie's stomach
tightened for some reason, finding the sight perversely erotic, pretty
mouth Doyle had, too pretty for a man.

 "You'll 'ave to watch him," he said to Jo. "He might forget what he's
here for, he's got a doll just like that at home y'know." Doyle managed to
backheel him in the foot without breaking stride. The pit of his stomach
still fluttered as he watched what Doyle was doing, the line of his thigh
in faded jeans, thin, muscular forearms taut as he leaned onto his linked
hands to compress the chest. The silver link chain he wore slipped down
his wrist, prompting a comment from the sharp-eyed Jo:

 "You'd take the bangle off first, of course?" but the scattering of
laughter from the onlookers at Doyle's expense died out as Doyle looked up
at her, flint-eyed, and said, "Oh yes, darlin'. An' I'd ask you to hold it
for me," and Bodie felt another shiver inside himself: what was wrong with
him today? Something was different: that all his instincts were responding
to Doyle as someone he wanted to know more, and differently, than he
should.

 They moved on to blood loss. Shock. Internal bleeding. Gunshot wounds.

 Their lady leader had her own way of dealing with hecklers, and cast
around no more than a second for her volunteer to demonstrate various body
parts and manoeuvres. "Oi! One of you two," she pointed peremptorily, "the
Ambulance Men. Come and lie down for me," and Bodie, who disliked
exposure, thrust forward Doyle, who thrived on it.

 There was quite a lot of good-natured laughter from the female audience
as Jo pushed Doyle to lie on his back, unpoppered his shirt for him and
parted it, drew a line from his nipples and bisected it to demonstrate
some nicety of anatomy. She invited everyone to feel his carotid pulse,
rolled up his sleeve as far as it would go and called upon two victims to
try to find his brachial pulse: and raised a laugh in indicating the
general area of the major pulse in his groin, archly announcing that she
was not expecting anyone to search for *that* one. She folded him into the
recovery position where he lay obediently unconscious while she showed
them how to search for possible fractures, frisking him thoroughly from
head to foot. Then she released him back into Bodie's care for everyone in
the class to have a go at bandaging a partner's broken arm.

 Doyle stood patiently as Bodie unwrapped a large sling practically and
efficiently: in his vivid past he had dressed more wounds both small and
large than either Jo, or Ray Doyle, or possibly the Surgeon General. As
the others struggled with uncooperative lengths of sling Bodie was even
able to look at Doyle's face as he tucked in the bandage, drew up his arm,
knotted it neatly behind his neck. Doyle's eyes were distant, distracted,
his breathing a little faster than usual, a light sheen of sweat on his
skin.

 "That got to you all right, didn't it?" Bodie said, half amused, half
envious: maybe he should have volunteered after all. Mind you, he wouldn't
have been such a pretty sight as Doyle, lying there with his tight jeans
and his boots, his shirt undone, having some strange woman all but play
with his nipples. The bruises which littered his broad but skinny ribcage
seemed only to add to his pathetic charm. Probably everyone in the room
wanted to mother him by now.

 Doyle's half-slitted eyes came wide open and he stared Bodie full in the
eye. "I'm gonna ask her for a date."

 "Why, does she grow palm trees?" and he feinted backwards as Doyle
punched him. "Oops, there goes my collarbone. Still, I'm in the right
place." And he presented himself to Doyle for bandaging, which he
proceeded to do so efficiently that he was singled out to demonstrate the
technique to the rest of the class. Teacher's pet, already.

 After Head Injuries, the next item on the agenda was Choking; bending
Doyle over his arm and banging him on the back five times. And Doyle so
ungrateful, too, complaining with a series of plaintive coughs that Bodie
had gone about it with far too much enthusiasm.

 "It's supposed to be more slap than tickle, y'know," Bodie defended
himself vigorously.

 Jo overheard him, and clapped her hands for everyone's attention: "What
this gentleman just said is quite right: to be any use at all the slap has
to be both hard, and direct. You're aiming to force the obstruction up the
trachea by compressing the trapped oxygen. You two *have* done a bit of
this before, haven't you?" she added, dropping her voice as she wandered
over to them, grinning as she pushed a hand through her hair. "What line
of work are you really in--police? Army?"

 "Something like that," Doyle said deeply, hanging over Bodie's arm, with
that devastating half-smile.

 The look she gave him was speculative, searching. "Well, a bit of First
Aid's going to come in very handy to you, I should think. Split lip,
extensive bruising to the ribcage, minor abrasions everywhere, old
scarring--you lead an interesting life, don't you?"

 "Bit of a troublemaker," Bodie said, tutting sadly behind her. "Very
nasty piece of work," but they both ignored him.

 "Oh, very interestin'. Would you like to hear about it?" Doyle opened
wide both eyes, sweet, dangerous, seductive. She tilted her head at him,
hands on her hips, and gave him a look.

 "Promisin'," Doyle said as she walked away, and he rolled up his sleeves,
cackling. "Very."

 Bodie had to agree with him.

 If the backslapping failed to dislodge the offending object, the next
move was apparently the Heimlich Manoeuvre. Doyle was beckoned out to the
front again, held lightly in Jo's capable arms against her chest while she
clasped her fists under his sternum.

 "--apart from just finding the correct position, never, never try this
out unless someone really is choking," she admonished. "--why?--well,
because," and all the time she carried on talking Bodie noticed that she
wasn't in a hurry to release Doyle, keeping him right there as if she had
forgotten she held him; finally, after several moments, releasing him with
a pat on the shoulder.

 "You wanna watch it, mate," Bodie muttered. "In danger of becoming an
older woman's plaything, you are." Doyle looked very, very pleased with
himself, as well he might, having just endured five free minutes of an
attractive female's embrace. "We'll have to do one of these more often,
now I know why it's called a refresher."

 Time to practise the latest topic: and it was Bodie's turn to hold Doyle
in the Heimlich position. When they reversed their roles, Bodie could feel
Doyle's body, warm and hard, pressing into his back, and something, some
instinct of repulsion made him pull away.

 "Sorry," Doyle said wryly, understanding; one hand rubbed the side of his
face as he looked at Bodie, waiting.

 Bodie patted his hand. "Don't be embarrassed, mate. I'm just happy you're
enjoying yourself so much."

 But the fun was at an end: the rest of the session was taken up with a
written paper of multiple choice questions. They both found it very easy,
getting perfect scores-- "'e marked his own paper, mind you," Doyle
pointed out loudly.

 It was 2PM. As the rest of the class gathered together pencils, paper,
coats, and made their chattering way out, Doyle sauntered over and offered
to tidy up. An exercise which ended in Doyle and Jo leaning on their
elbows by the wall, engaged in a long, deep conversation, while Bodie
grimly stacked every one of the twenty-four chairs himself.

 Then, "Oi! You coming?" he jerked an eye towards the door, and Doyle
turned his way.

 "Oh. Right. Yeah." He strode out towards Bodie. Turned at the last
minute. "Hey. How about comin' for a drink? Thirsty work, savin' lives."

 A deep long dimple flashed in each cheek as she checked her watch. "Why
not?"

 And Bodie watched in disbelief as the two of them pushed past him
laughing, and made their way to Bodie's car, and stood there chatting,
waiting for Bodie to open the doors for them.

 ******

"Much as," Bodie leaned nearer, "I love you, I hope you won't take it too
amiss if I go now." He nodded at Doyle and stood up, jangling the car keys
in one hand.

 Doyle considered him over the rim of his pint pot. "Gonna abandon me, are
you?"

 "Well, you've got enough there to keep your hands full, haven't you? And,
it may have escaped your notice, but we *are* officially on duty."

 "Only standby. Do me a favour, Bodie--"

 "Yeh," Bodie said resignedly.

 "Tell the Cow I'm takin' two hours of my overdue leave, will you?"

 "Ten minutes not enough?" Bodie marvelled.

 Doyle leaned near him and winked. "Can't rush these things. I reckon
she's going to turn out a peach. She's married--"

 "Bad news."

 "But her husband's very understanding--"

 "Still not good news. I've heard that one before."

 "Thing is, they're into all this wifeswapping stuff. He likes to watch."

 Bodie remained where he was, eyes wide open, fixed on Doyle.

 "Yeah, I know, tres kinky." Doyle's wry, expressive eye met his as he
took a smacking swig of his lager.

 "And you like the idea." Doyle had that look about him; someone had
thrown his switch and there was no stopping it now, countdown all the way
to the end.

 Doyle shrugged. "I dunno. Just, I reckon she's going to know the game all
right."

 Bodie couldn't care less about Doyle's plans for Jo, but the sudden
introduction of a voyeuristic husband threw a whole different light on the
matter. "As long as *watch* is all he does. You wanna be careful,
sunshine. Sounds like deep water to me." Not that Doyle was likely to
listen to him, or take his advice if he did. If Doyle wanted to get into a
sexual threesome with two people he hardly knew, or did not know at all,
then he would, and that was an end to it. Doyle was old enough to know
what he was doing; could look after himself better than anyone Bodie had
ever met. Not a spare inch of flesh on him (except where it counted, Doyle
assured him), smallish too, and yet he had the strength of high-tension
steel and the nature of a mink. Exotic, but violent.

 "Well, just make sure you tell me all about it afterwards."

 "I will. Now push off, will you, Bodie?" Jo was wending her way back
through the chairs and tables. "Two's company and all that."

 Bodie gave him a meaningful look. "Ah. My point entirely."

 "Husband's away at the moment, anyway," Doyle added, rising with grace to
let Jo back in again behind the table.

 "I'm off then," Bodie smiled at them both, a blaze of blue-eyed
innocence. He leaned down and murmured to Jo: "He'll be putty in your
hands, love. Just send him back in good working order, will you?"

 ******

Bodie worked on the Ojuka report all afternoon, finally dropping it into
Cowley's in-tray by 5PM , where it was to cause the CI5 chief some
surprise: the first ever on-time report from his best, worst agents 3.7
and 4.5.

 Bodie was restless, various disconnected thoughts or feelings chasing
round in his mind which he could not pin down: just the vague sense that
he was not entirely happy about the way the day had gone, though
backtracking it over and over did not result in enlightenment.

 Well: in one sense he supposed it was all quite simple. It had aroused
him, watching Doyle this morning, exposed and played with before a crowd:
what that said about himself he did not know or care, but for whatever
reason, it had turned him on.

 Doyle, similarly afflicted, had immediately taken steps to deal with his
own sexual tension, while he, Bodie, was still here wrestling with his.
So. Simple.

 He would ring up Louise--or Diana--fix up a date for this evening, and
that would take care of that.

 The expectation did not fill him with wild excitement, but it was the
best he likely to get. He could, after all, hardly go off and screw Doyle
instead.

 Though sometimes he reckoned Doyle might not say no.

 But that was not good enough reason to go for it. Lead to all sorts of
trouble, would a romantic fling with Ray Doyle. Half the reason he and
Doyle were so good together was that extra edge, some superfine tuning of
awareness, the attraction alive and strong between them. A dangerous
attraction, it had to be said.

 His R/T went off as he was cruising back home: he picked it up and held
it close to him as he steered the car onehanded in and out of traffic.
"3.7?" The peevish voice of his boss crackled at him.

 *Alpha One. Where's Doyle, Bodie?*

 "Following a lead, sir," Bodie said. "Someone had something he thought he
could use." He shut his eyes for a split second.

 *I'll want you both in at seven tomorrow. Don't be late.*

 Bodie exhaled with relief. "Are we ever, sir?"

 *And Bodie--get that partner of yours to write the report as usual next
time. His punctuation's marginally more by the book.*

 A wry smile crossed Bodie's lips as he flipped off the channel; old man
never missed a trick, he really never did.

 He decided to call round at Ray's on the way home, for no particular
reason, see if he wanted a pint perhaps before Bodie's date. He could ring
Louise from Doyle's flat: she worked till ten anyway, and with any luck
she'd come off duty very tired and only too ready to fall into a warm and
welcoming bed.

 About to press the buzzer at Doyle's flat, a little message all prepared
on his lips, 'priapismic' being the operative word--Bodie noticed with a
rapid chilling sensation that the door was in fact slightly ajar, hardly
noticeable really, just that the catch had not quite snicked down when
someone pulled it to.

 Ray, in a tearing hurry to get the girl, whatsername, to bed?

 Or--?

 Trouble flicked on in his mind; one hand diving inside his jacket to wrap
around the familiar, comforting shape of his gun he gently nudged the door
open with his foot, and listened. His heart-rate was picking up, beginning
a drumroll in his ears, a prickle of danger raised all the hairs on his
skin. No sounds.

 He kicked the door wide and open and burst in, gun fixed and ready. It
took his eyes a moment to adjust to the dim hall light, but his senses
told him there was nothing there and nobody waiting. He rose from his
kneeling position and shut the door quietly behind him. Still wary, gun
still drawn and ready, he listened, then nosed the Browning's barrel round
the kitchen door, and then the lounge--nothing.

 That left the bedroom. And at once, all notions of trouble left him as he
approached it along the passage, because he could hear them as he drew
near, sighs and murmurs and moans. Still, Doyle?

 He stuck his head around the door. The room was darkened, just one light
on beside the bed on which two bodies surged, making wild and passionate
love.

 Bodie grinned to himself, walking noiselessly over the carpet. Doyle
deserved this. He really did. It wasn't funny, crack CI5 agent leaving his
door open. To any passing madman.

 "Got you," he said softly, appearing beside the bed. Ray Doyle was lying
on his back, the woman astride him, both naked, writhing. Bodie took time
to admire the full swell of pointed breasts, huge dark nipples, the way
she had her head thrown back, the loud, rhythmic way she was
panting--"Yes. Oh. God. Yes." Doyle had his hands on her hips: his thumbs
dipped into and caressed the cleft of her body near where it was joined to
his, and that seemed to increase the pitch and crescendo of the cries.

 Doyle was quieter, his pelvis rocking up, and down, and up again; his
head had turned to one side and he had, unlike Jo, taken in the fact of
Bodie's presence, with just enough breath to whisper, "What the fuck are
you doing here," a choice of phrase which amused Bodie.

 He laid the black mouth of his gun tenderly at Doyle's temple. "You left
the door open, Ray. Very careless." He leaned nearer Doyle's ear. "Bang
bang, sweetheart," he whispered. "You're dead."

 "Shove off, Bodie," Doyle gasped at some private, exquisite pang; he shut
his eyes and whimpered.

 "Oh, I dunno. Might as well stay now I'm here, mightn't I?" remarked
Bodie, spinning the gun and stashing it safely away. He leaned back
against the bedhead and regarded the action with a desultory eye.

 Jo was grinding herself down on Ray's body now, meaning business. Doyle
had his eyes shut again; his skin was flushed with sexual heat. His body
was withdrawing itself from hers and spearing into her again, such timing,
a boat tossing up and smacking down to meet the sea. They must be getting
close. Ray certainly looked as if he couldn't hold out much longer, his
forehead creased, his mouth parted, his breathing swift and sobbing as if
he were enduring the limits of pain. Bodie smoothed his hair back for him,
then let his hand wander, warm skin, damp curls of hair on his chest. He
ran his fingers through it lightly, Doyle so distracted he thought he was
beyond noticing, until he glanced again at Doyle's face, saw the sultry
haze of his eyes alight and watching him. Lightheaded, Bodie smiled at
him, and his fingers found Doyle's nipple, pinching it lightly.

 Doyle winced, eyes closing, and cleared his throat.

 "Kiss it," he murmured, his voice rough, rasping.

 "That's naughty, Ray," Bodie whispered to him, eyes bright and hot with
his own desire. "Too far gone to care, eh?"

 Doyle's eyes followed his lips as they grazed softly over moist and
silken skin. Watched Bodie open his mouth, take his nipple in and suck,
sweet and strong; nuzzle it with gentle lips, suck again. And as Bodie's
eyes lifted up to his face Doyle gasped sharply, his whole body convulsing
as he arched violently upwards; and Jo shrieking, highpitched, once and
then once more. As she threw herself forward onto Doyle's chest Bodie
moved back; through hard, slitted eyes he watched Doyle come, and come,
trembling all over his body. And when the fuss and the fury was over Bodie
got up and walked out of the room to leave them alone.

 In the kitchen he took the kettle off the gas ring, filled it from the
cold tap, replaced it and lit the gas under it.

 Then he stood by the window, staring out, though whether the view was the
Clapham Road allotments or the pyramids of Egypt he could not have told
you.

 When a noise behind him startled him he had whipped around with his gun
drawn and ready to fire before he had time to think--

 "Sorry, sorry," he muttered throwing up one hand in apology, tucking the
gun away beneath his arm.

 Her eyes were wide and her pose frozen. "Edgy, aren't you?" she said
sarcastically.

 The kettle began to whistle. "Cup of tea?" he asked her.

 "Please." She was fully dressed, back in her old jeans and stripy sweater
again. "Well, it's been an *interesting* afternoon..."

 "Have fun, did you?" he enquired pleasantly, stirring a spoon briskly
around. "Doyle up to scratch, was he?"

 She looked at him without smiling. "What do you think? Look, I'll leave
my number, in case he wants to call. Daytime's best." She accepted the mug
he handed her and sipped at it in silence, exclaiming through a mouthful,
"God, will you look at the time. Must be off." She set down the mug on the
drainer. "Thanks for the tea." Hands on hips, she winked at him. "And the
rest."

 "Did you *get* any rest?" Bodie enquired, interested. And she laughed
delightfully, moving for the door. At the last minute she turned, dark
hair swinging, and gave him a dimpled grin.

 "Almost forgot." She reached into her back pocket, took out two pieces of
paper. "You both passed," she said with a straight face, and then she
slapped Bodie on the arm and walked out chuckling.

 Bodie set the certificates on Doyle's mantelpiece, one at each end behind
Doyle's horrible Chinese dogs. It was time for him to go: he did not
particularly want to see Doyle again before the morning. By the morning
they would both be--just as they usually were, and they need never think
about what had happened. But he had already left it too late.

 "She gone?"

 At least he didn't pull his gun on Doyle, appearing now in the doorway,
rumpled head emerging through the neck of his shirt, mouth distorted by a
huge yawn.

 "Yeh, gone."

 "Didn't hang around," Doyle said, not questioning, just commenting; he
stepped towards the hob, intent on a reviving drink.

 "She left her number."

 "Did she?" Doyle said, spooning instant coffee into a mug. "Want a
coffee?" he indicated the mugs with a trigger finger.

 "Already had one."

 Doyle eyed Bodie over the rim of his mug, not missing the dark, brooding
gaze, the sulky droop of his mouth. Bodie just stood there, leaning on the
drainer, arms crossed, eyes trained on the floor; they flicked up,
expressionless, to meet Doyle's, then down again.

 Trouble of some sort. Doyle could see it in the blaze of Bodie's eyes and
feel it in the air, charged with Bodie's tension. He mentally shrugged it
away. Bodie would tell him if he wanted to, and if he didn't, Russian
torture wouldn't make him open his mouth. He swooped down to look in the
fridge.

 "Want something to eat? Eggs. Fancy an omelette?" He got to his feet,
precariously holding four eggs in one hand. "You know your trouble, don't
you?" And his eyes homed in on Bodie suddenly, sharp and penetrating, too
fast for Bodie to look away.

 "No," Bodie said, very quiet. "Think you do?"

 Doyle gave him a cheerful, lopsided grin. "Bottle it up too much, you do.
Look at you, all tensed up. You should have asked Jo for a massage. She
was an expert." He shrugged a shoulder experimentally, the one Parker had
twisted behind him yesterday.

 "Oh, I'll bet she was."

 "Pity she had to rush off," said Doyle, reminiscent, and at last, from
somewhere, Bodie found the will to smile.

 "So help me, Ray, don't tell me you're up for it again."

 Doyle winked at him, scratched his chest, broke the eggs into a bowl.
"You know how it is. Just need a bit of time to build up me strength
again." He whisked away with energy.

 Watching him, Bodie stirred himself to move away from the drainer at
last. "Yeah, well, I think I'm in danger of forgetting. Can I use your
phone?" He was already moving towards it.

 "Who's it going to be?" Doyle asked, intrigued. "That nurse--Louise was
it?" Well, she should give a good massage if anyone can." He tipped the
eggs into pan and ignited the gas. "Look, Bodie. I get the feeling you're
in a mood with me. Are you?"

 That stopped Bodie in his tracks. He looked over at the downcast head and
said to Doyle's hunched back, "Why should I be?"

 "I dunno. Well, I dunno," Doyle said inelegantly, turning to face him.
"Wish it had been you with Jo, is that it?"

 Bodie faced him out squarely. "Well, what do you think? I'm not made of
stone, you know," and a wide, considering grin spread across Doyle's face.

 "I knew it."

 "Psychic, aren't you?" Bodie observed, not sweetly.

 "These eggs are done," Doyle said, peering into the pan. "More scrambled
than anything."

 "Like your brains, then."

 "You could have had her," Doyle said, head down. "Why didn't you?"

 Bodie's heart picked up speed again. Doyle seemed to have lost his
appetite, ignoring the plate Bodie was holding out to him. Bodie took the
pan himself, tipped the contents onto the plate.

 "She looked 'appy enough with what she was getting from you. Same to show
her what she was missing."

 Doyle looked at him, amused. Bodie was wolfing the eggs down, waste not,
want not. He held out a forkful for Doyle, watched as Doyle swallowed it
absentmindedly, opened his mouth for Bodie to feed in more, eventually
taking over the fork and finishing the plateful.

 "You never made your phone call."

 Bodie shrugged. The urgency of his mood had fled him now, leaving him
nothing so much as tired; he turned away from Doyle, rubbing a hand over
his eyes. "Think I'll just go home, okay?"

 "Stay if you want," Doyle said. "Quick beer, anyway," and Bodie nodded,
might as well. Doyle was going ahead of him into the lounge, spotting the
twin certificates behind the china dogs and chuckling as he examined them.

 "Worked hard for these, didn't I?"

 "Hey, who was her star pupil?" Bodie reminded him, affronted. "You just
volunteered for extra stretcher duty, that's all."

 Doyle laughed, a rich, dirty chuckle. "And this was Cowley's idea of a
day of rest."

 "Day of--? Oh. After Ojuka, you mean." Bodie sat down heavily on the
settee and waited for Doyle to bring him a beer, which Doyle seemed in no
hurry to do; he was wandering around, peering out of the window, drawing
curtains, switching on lights, the telly. Very cosy and domestic.

 Yesterday, Doyle had nearly died.

 The day before, Doyle had shot within an inch of Bodie's brains to save
his life.

 What a bloody life.

 "About time," he said, taking the cold can Doyle was holding out to him,
but his partner was paying attention to the news, which was focussing on a
bomb which had exploded at an army barracks in Northern Ireland. Bodie
watched Doyle instead, the curve of his rounded cheek, the cool sculpture
of his mouth. He was wearing jeans with all the colour washed out of them,
still tight, the lean line of his thigh pressing next to Bodie's. Bodie
swallowed some beer, and on impulse he slipped an arm around his partner,
squeezed his upper arm tight, feeling the thin strength of it, the way the
rockhard muscle tensed to meet his grip.

 Doyle was taking no notice of him, incensed by the carnage in Derry-- "I
mean, I ask you, they were just doing their fucking job."

 "Misplaced concern, Doyle. Don't waste your breath."

 "What the hell do you mean?"

 "I mean," Bodie said, "try looking a bit closer to home."

 Doyle shrugged his arm out of Bodie's grasp. "D'you mind? I'm black and
blue as it is."

 "Nearly lost you yesterday, you know. And you were just doing your
fucking job."

 Doyle grimaced. "Don't remind me."

 "But there's still tomorrow."

 "Bodie." Doyle turned to face him, exasperated, inclined to be annoyed,
but his irritation faded out, the look in his eyes deepening in answer to
what he saw in Bodie's face. He went on, more quietly, "All right. Point
taken. But do we have to think about it tonight?"

 Bodie's lips twisted wryly. "Reckon you 'ave to think about it
sometimes."

 "It helps?" Doyle challenged.

 Bodie sucked some more beer out of his can. "Makes you realise--better
make the most of every day you get."

 Doyle's expressive face twisted again. "Can't say I didn't try today." He
glanced over at his partner; in an oddly pensive mood was Bodie, dark eyes
midnight-shadowed, fringed by downswept lashes as he studied the can
turning over and over in his hands, the twist of his mouth sardonic,
violent even.

 "You should have phoned Louise, Bodie," he said with sudden perception;
he himself had passed beyond the post-danger blues, nothing like a good
workout to do it, everyone knew that.

 Bodie stirred a little beside him, eyes flicking to his with a flash of
mockery. "Yeah, well, maybe I'd just as soon be here with you." And his
sudden, savage smile had a devil's taint to it.

 Doyle took that on board with outward calm, though he was considering
what it might mean: nothing more than Bodie in a difficult, provocative
mood, possibly.

 On the other hand, Bodie had been very gentle to him lately, *angelfish*,
and the like. All the grittiness, one-upmanship, violence, he now reserved
for people other than Doyle: Doyle seemed to walk inside a charmed aura at
Bodie's side, the two of them together against the world.

 *Yeah. You let me in, didn't you....*

 Took a long time, god knew how many perfect shots across his line of
cover: he had risked his own life time and time again to save Bodie, and
Bodie had done the same for him, no thanks expected, never count the cost.
But there was of course a cost: both hard, both unsentimental, first had
come respect, that was all, and then another feeling which had a life all
of its own, out of control now and pushing them out to the limit.

 He knew how Bodie felt. Goddamnit, he ought to: he had been to the same
places, seen the same things, lived and died and lived again a thousand
times and would again if their luck stayed in, if Bodie's eye held, and
his own.

 Deep thoughts, deep water. His hand strayed to his midriff, caressing it
lightly; yesterday had been hard, and the beating from the sadistic Parker
rather more severe than he had allowed Bodie to know.

 "All right?"

 "Yeah, just tired."

 He saw Bodie's sharp, hungry eyes range over him, but he did nothing.
"Get us another beer, will you," was all he said. "Or maybe we need
something stronger."

 When Bodie returned he put his hand out for the tumbler of amber Scotch,
shut his eyes, tipped his head back.

 "Didn't it get you all worked up, watching us like that?" he asked
without opening his eyes.

 "Maybe," was the only reply he got.

 The liquid fire of the Scotch burned sweetly down to his guts. "Would've
done me."

 Bodie made a little sound beside him, sneer or smile. "Yeh, well, you.
Not all like you, y'know, mate. Some of us have great self-control."

 Doyle grinned, lip lifting away from sharp, uneven white teeth. "Never
seen that as much of a virtue." His eyes snapped open, catching Bodie's
burning into his skin; his heart was racing, fear or excitement, both.
Because Bodie in this mood was volatile, dangerous; anything could happen.

 Bodie watched Doyle's elbow lift, long fingers raking through his own
curls; his shirt was clean, smelt sweet from the washing line, but beneath
his armpit was a fresh, damp patch of sweat. The cuffs were rolled back,
as always, almost to his elbow, his forearms honeybrown from outdoor
shoots. He had not fully buttoned the shirt, and as he moved one nipple
was plainly visible, also the crease in his flat belly; the hair went all
the way down from his nipples to below his navel and, presumably, beyond.

 Bodie watched him with one desultory eye. There was silence for a while.

 Then: "She was a find, wasn't she," Doyle yawned.

 "I wouldn't know, would I?"

 "Lovely little mover," Doyle said, and he wriggled reminiscently.

 Bodie moved sharply. "Don't keep on about it, Doyle."

 Doyle was all malice as he said, "Sorry. Keep forgetting you didn't get
off today."

 Bodie's mouth twisted, caught unawares by the harsh whisky sting. "Yeah,
well, keep on bringing it up and I just might be desperate enough to make
a pass at you, Doyle."

 Doyle flicked him an enigmatic look. "Yeah?"

 "Well, it has been known, you know." Bodie threw himself back, closed his
eyes. Now it was Doyle's turn to look, unobserved; his partner was wearing
a cream shirt, black cords, black shoes. He still wore his gun, banded on
a worn webbing holster. Probably the last thing he took off at night. His
chin was faintly shaded with blueblack stubble, his profile lazy,
handsome. Bodie had all the dark tough beauty of a fighting war-film hero.

 "I got kicked yesterday," Doyle said, quiet. "Want to see?"

 "Oh yeah," said Bodie bleakly. "Can't wait. That'll be a real thrill for
me, Doyle."

 Doyle undid the last button of his shirt and pushed it off his shoulders.
Arching his back a little, he began to unbuckle his jeans.

 Bodie's eyes flashed open at the sound. "What the 'ell--"

 "Look at this." Doyle unzipped his fly, pulled down the band of navy
underpants to show Bodie Parker's footprint, etched in black. Bodie spared
it hardly a glance; his eyes, hard and dark and angry, were on Doyle's
face.

 "I'd be careful if I were you. I'd say you were flirting with me for all
you're worth."

 There was a curious, offbeat stillness in the room, one man's tension a
feed for the other. Doyle met his gaze, unblinking. "Would you? Well, you
know me best, Bodie."

 Bodie said softly, darkly, "Some people might say you deserved all you
got."

 Doyle's face twisted, abandoning pretence, his patience at an end. "Ah,
come on, Bodie. Look, you're obviously desperate for it. The vibes 'ave
been comin' at me all evening," and this was suddenly desperately
dangerous: they had arrived at last at the closed door.

 Bodie was, he could see, under control, the terrifying control of anger,
but only just, a pulsebeat leaping in his throat as he said, slowly, "None
of your damned business, Doyle."

 Doyle hooted. "Oh, that's rich, that is. You made it my business, comin'
here this afternoon. Watching us--touching me --" He lay back, one hand
pushing his shirt out of the way, shoving down his underpants a little
more, revealing the pinkness of his sweetly curled cock. "Well, now you
can touch me some more. I'm here and your girlfriend isn't. Do it to me,
Bodie."

 Bodie's eyes dwelt on him, from here to there, angry, hungry.

 "Come on," Doyle said again, urging, coaxing, "come on, Bodie. You're so
hot for it you won't even notice the difference. I promise you."

 His throat tight with fury, Bodie tapped him on the cheek with one
finger, the only touch he allowed himself, the blaze of his eyes disturbed
and violent. "Very touching offer, mate. Thank you. It's at times like
this you find out who your friends really are, innit?"

 Doyle turned this aside with a sound of exasperation. "Don't try and
pretend with me, Bodie. Playing cool till you freeze up. I know you,
Bodie, and I know what you want. Your eyes...you've been bleeding for
this, all fuckin' night."

 "Not for you," Bodie said, deep and low. "Sweet as you are...what have I
ever done that makes you think I could possibly want you, Ray?"

 Doyle saw, out of the corner of his eye, that Bodie's arm was shaking. He
sat up, with an involuntary wince of effort, and reached over to begin
undoing Bodie's shirt buttons. "Didn't say you did, did I? Don't make a
big deal of it: you're in the mood for it, just bloody look at you, and
I'm willin'. Shut your eyes." And as Bodie did nothing, adding with more
violence, "Shut your eyes, I could be anybody, damnit. Pretend."

 To hell with it: Doyle had happened on the perfect excuse. No big deal,
two mates together, a little drunk: they need never talk about it, not
ever. He would not and he knew Doyle never would.

 He closed his eyes.

 Lay back.

 Forced himself to be still as Doyle's hands, quick and light, moved over
him, sorting through layers until he reached the man inside: he was hard,
of course, as he had been on and off all day, forever, and he could not
help, not with the strongest will in the world, the thrill that raged
through him at the first cool touch of Ray's hand.

 He must have made some sound, some betraying word, perhaps, *'oh Ray
please'* because he heard Doyle answer him, very far away, and he knew
they were in deep trouble, because he could not stop himself now, he
wanted it too much, more than anything he had ever wanted.

 When he opened his eyes at last to stare down at the long fingers ringing
him, the flexing of Doyle's slender wrists as he worked on him, quick and
sure and hard; oh such skill, Doyle, you could sell it. He must have
practised on himself, to get this good, some lonely nights, the lights
turned low: now wouldn't that be a sight to see...

 Doyle murmured to him something, his name, and then: "yeah, you like
this, don't you," and then his name again. Helpless, tender, Bodie reached
out a hand to him, and in quick understanding Doyle nuzzled his fingers,
turning his cheek against Bodie's palm over and over again; he kissed it,
and his belly, and then he looked up. His eyes were very bright; "Is this
what you want, Bodie?" he whispered; and Bodie watched through slitted
eyes Doyle swallow the tip of his cock, wicked tongue flickering, the wet
heat shocking; it sent him sky- high, right out over the edge. He twined
his fingers in Doyle's hair and dragged him off hard, his cock shooting,
the quick white spurts flying away from him while his whole body convulsed
in the sweetest, sharpest pleasure: he heard himself cry out, like a man
gutshot, the cruellest of deaths, and the most certain.

 ******

It was very late now: midnight, or soon after. They had lain this way for
a while; perhaps they had slept, Doyle had lost track of time and couldn't
be sure. Bodie was awake now, anyway. Doyle could sense the movements of
his eyes looking out over Doyle's head. At least Bodie had held him
afterwards, Doyle's head on the smooth warm planes of his chest, the
hardmuscled circle of Bodie's arms loosely around him. Once or twice he
had felt Bodie's fingers slip through his hair, smoothing it, in what was
surely a caress. And that was more than he had expected.

 He didn't want to move, not even to speak, knowing that to break the
spell would mean the end of things--perhaps forever, but at last he found
the courage, lifted his head away from Bodie's heart and spoke his name.

 Above him Bodie sighed, a little waft of cool air stirring his bare skin.
"Yeah?"

 "All right?"

 "Yeah." Bodie pulled away from him now, not in an unfriendly way, but
gently, and sat up. Doyle watched him look down at his white shirt, wet
through to his skin in several places: he wondered what was going through
Bodie's mind.

 "Should've let me go the whole way, sunshine," he said softly. "I would
have done."

 Bodie looked at him briefly. "Didn't want to choke you. Or whatever."

 "Oh, cocky," Doyle murmured, and gave him a slow, beautiful smile. After
a moment Bodie smiled back at him, enigmatically, the feeling in his eyes
too deep to read.

 "Must say, you did that as if you were born to it."

 "Was quite a sight. You comin' silver bullets everywhere. Would've seen
off any vampire." He was chatting for the sake of it, seeing Bodie reach
for his holster, begin to strap it on over the stained shirt.

 "You goin'?" he made himself say.

 Bodie's reply came as a relief to him; he had had some idea that Bodie
might be angry with him, or with himself, but angry, anyway.

 "Not much point now, is there--Cowley wants us at 7. Don't mind if I
stay, do you?"

 Doyle shook his head. He reached out for Bodie's hand, took it in his
own, squeezed it very hard. Neither of them said anything for a moment.
Doyle was gathering all his courage for the next question, almost but not
quite the hardest of all.

 "Well? Was it good--or not?" he demanded, with cheeky bravado, and after
a moment Bodie smiled, one of his rare, sweet smiles, a warmth beginning
around his mouth and softening it, lighting up his eyes as he looked into
Doyle's. *Don't let the cat get at 'im....*

 "With you? Ah, mate, you don't need to ask, do you? Better than I ever
dreamed, okay?"

 "Then why do I get the feeling you wish I hadn't done it?" Doyle
sharpened up his tone, though he almost wished he hadn't as he saw the
light die in Bodie's eyes as he looked outwards, away from Doyle, though
when Doyle pushed against him, demanding, his arm went around Doyle and
stayed there, easy, as if it belonged there.

 "I dunno...superstitious? Or something."

 "How d'you mean?"

 Bodie's face turned towards him again: it wore an expression of
absorption as he pushed Doyle's shirt aside, began to trace around his
nipples with one squaretipped finger.

 He spoke very softly, looking at his own hand, not at Doyle's face. "I
wouldn't lie to you, Ray, there's been times before I've thought about
this. Thought about you like this. I shouldn't have, I know, but--"

 "Ah, come on. You know I've thought about it too."

 Bodie went on as if he hadn't heard, "I always thought, better that we
never let it get off the ground. Never let it get a hold on us. It was
always there, but--as long as we never did anything about it, I had the
feeling we'd be okay. We'd be together. Nothing would go wrong--"

 "A lucky charm." Ray Doyle laughed, quite harshly; and he grabbed back
Bodie's hand, laced his fingers through it and brought it to his mouth for
a kiss. "You're mad, Bodie, you know that. What difference can it possibly
make--?"

 "I dunno," Bodie said, and looked into his eyes, a look so sweet, so
searching it got to Doyle and stabbed him to the heart. "Never change a
winning game, they say. And now we have."

 "Well, at least we'll die 'appy," Doyle shot back at him, but he saw this
was not funny for Bodie, and he sobered quickly. "What do you wanna do
then?" Suddenly he had arrived at it: the hardest question, and he was
already feeling an angry premonition about the answer. He wiped the back
of his hand over his mouth, jumped to his feet. "How does this sound then?
Can't undo it maybe: but--" He shrugged. "--we got a bit drunk one night,
a bit carried away, I blew you--not that big a deal, is it? And now we
forget it."

 He began to move, blindly, towards the dark archway of the bedroom. Bodie
was there with him in an instant, sliding arms around his waist and
pulling him back against his own body, nuzzling at his ear.

 "Ah no, you got me wrong there, mate. I don't want to forget it. I
couldn't forget it."

 The lightest touch of Bodie's lips against his ear was sending shivers
all through Doyle. Hunger vanquished anger and ignited desire instead; he
tipped his head back against Bodie's shoulder and let Bodie kiss the side
of his throat.

 "Could do the Heimlich Manoeuvre on me from here," he whispered.

 "Yeah, but it wouldn't be top of my list."

 Bodie's hands slipped around to the fastening of his clothes, began to
unbuckle his belt and unzip his jeans. All willingness he pressed himself
back against Bodie, felt the hard dagger of his thrust against him,
aggressive, all power. It scared him and thrilled him and made him hard
and ready, to struggle with Bodie, to give in to Bodie, he didn't care
which.

 "All the way this time," he whispered as Bodie threw him down on the bed;
and Bodie looked up from between his thighs to meet his eyes, to share a
moment of perfect, perfect understanding.

 Madness.

 They were mad to do this.

 But they were going to anyway.

 -- THE END --

 *Originally published in * Bene Dictum II: Half 'n' Half*, Oblique
Publications, 1995*

   Archive Home