The Professionals Circuit Archive - The Flat	     The Flat

 

by DVS

  
 Fifteen bloody hours chasing will o' the wisps and rumour had left Ray
Doyle in a foul mood. He wanted nothing more than to get home and sleep,
but hunger was also demanding his attention and so he stopped on the trip
back for a late meal. The place he chose had only two virtues: it was
open, and it was on the way home. He had never stopped there before, but
there was parking, and it was just off the motorway. Outside, the faded
paint and yellowed shades hinted of a less than successful enterprise; he
had almost turned and left before he pulled open the heavy wooden door. A
laughing couple had released marvellous scents of onion and fresh bread
into the night air as they opened the door to go out, however, and his
stomach had the final vote.

Inside it appeared no better than the outside, with uneven lighting and a
jumble of assorted tables and chairs. Yet almost all the tables were
filled, the food came promptly, and it was so good he forgave the white
rings on the wood of the uncovered table. The woman who brought his food
and drink was cheerful, the place was warm, and by the time he had inhaled
the last bite, Doyle was feeling human again. He was just wondering to
himself if he wanted something sweet to end with when a hand fell on his
shoulder.

"Ray Doyle! I was thinking it might be you!"

Doyle's first impulse had been to react as a CI5 agent, but the sound of
the golden tones froze the inclination and his hand moved away from his
gun. He knew that voice!

"Topper!" Doyle rose out of his chair, turning to face a tall, heavyset
man with a wide smile and a head with only a fringe of red hair left above
his ears. "Topper?" he asked again, less certainly.

"You've not changed a bit, lad!"

The same could not be said of Walter Toppenham, who had doubled his weight
and halved his hair. Doyle grinned and did not make the obvious comment,
instead saying, "How have you been? It's been...."

"Fifteen years if it's a day! Have you time to talk?" Topper asked, eyeing
the empty plate and glass at Doyle's place.

"Oh, yes, although if I fall asleep mid-sentence, don't take it
personally. Long day. What brings you here?"

"Habit. Charla gets tired of me taking up space in front of the telly and
sends me out for a bit of exercise." The man made an expressive face, and
Doyle laughed.

"You're still with Charla, then?" Doyle asked, remembering a petite young
lady with red nails who had dressed always in black skirts and t-shirts.
Had she changed as much?

"Married her, dear boy, when the first baby came along."

"Which you vowed you'd never do," Doyle reminded him, and he meant both
marriage and fatherhood.

"Don't remind me. There's three of them, now." Topper did not look at all
distressed, and in fact there was a note of pride in his voice which
caused Doyle to grin. "There now, no call to look like that! I suppose
you're still fancy free, then?"

Doyle thought of Ann and waited for the still keen stab of regret which he
was learning to live with. It didn't come, and he was able to say, "Almost
got caught last year, but it fell through. I'm a bachelor still."

"And a policeman, I heard. Never would have thought it! Ray Doyle,
upholding the law! You were the wildest of us all!"

"No, that was Tom!" Doyle said, avoiding the question of his profession
and leading the discussion back to old times.

"Tom. He was a bit of a tearaway in his time, wasn't he?" Topper said, his
lips turning down and his tone muted.

Doyle considered. "I take it Tom is no longer with us?" he said quietly.

"Wrapped his lorry around a bridge ten years ago. We had a lovely wake for
him. He'd 'ave enjoyed it. Just his sort of do." Topper's eyes squinted as
he looked back to the memory. "All the B's."

"Booze, babes, and breakfast at the end of it!" Doyle recalled with him.
Images swirled in his head as he remembered.

"Don't forget the other B!" Topper said with a wink.

"Boys," Doyle said, with half a laugh.

"Specifically, butts, Doyle. The year we discovered sodomy, eh?" Topper
gave an exaggerated wink.

"The same year half the group discovered hemp," Doyle added. He remembered
the ugly flat, the broken down chairs and sprung sofas which decorated the
place, the thick haze of smoke and the clink of bottles, and then someone
turned up the music until the ancient walls vibrated and the windows
rattled. He remembered dancing....

"The good old days." Topper smiled at some memory of his own. The flat had
been Topper's idea in the beginning. A group of art students, all more or
less poor, all wanting space to work, had scraped together the monthly
rent on the place. It had nothing going for it except the bank of windows
on two sides gave an enormous amount of natural light. Let in the cold as
well, Doyle remembered. He could almost feel the stiffness in his fingers
as he'd tried to paint. Tried. Even with warm fingers, it had been a
frustrating experience. So much inside, wanting to be expressed, and so
little talent. He'd felt real rage when, after days and days, he had no
more to show for his time than if he'd simply poured the paint down the
drain.

"Couldn't have been that bad," Topper commented, seeing his expression.

"Thinking about the art. I was so bad," he admitted, "I didn't even know
how bad I was."

Topper laughed. "You weren't good," he agreed, "and you weren't the worst.
There's not a working artist in the lot, you know. Salesmen and clerks and
teachers, now, all of them. Bonnie was the only one to even come close to
a career in art. She has an antique shop. Makes her money off tourists."

"Bonnie! Those damn cigarette holders she kept practicing with, and all
the while her eyes watering because she couldn't bear the smell of
tobacco!" Doyle laughed aloud at the memory.

"Bad as that idiot with the beret--him, the lad with the sharp nose, you
remember?"

Doyle did. He had always had a memory for faces. The artist's eye, but
none of the skill. "Trin something. Hung around with Tom."

"Trin Scott, I think it was. Knew his place, that one." Topper leered,
then poked towards Doyle, his finger not quite touching his skin. "Not
like some I could mention."

"Frustrated you, did I?" Doyle asked with a grin.

"Lord, yes. You were a beautiful lad, Doyle. All arse and eyes, under that
mop of curls. Come to think of it, you still are. How'd you like to make
me happy in my old age?"

"And bend over for you? Not likely, old son. And didn't you tell me you're
married?" Doyle wanted to know.

"So? As long as I don't bring home anything catching, right?"

"Those your words, or hers?" Doyle asked.

"We have an agreement. Any privilege I have, she can have, and vice versa.
She has an old boyfriend or two."

Doyle wondered how that worked. His own moral code had flexible spots, but
married women were more trouble than they were worth, and he believed in
fidelity within marriage. Why bother playing the game if you were going to
cheat or change the rules?

"Whatever works," Doyle said casually, keeping his opinions to himself.

Topper laughed. Doyle looked at him in inquiry. "It's just that I'm
getting old. Must be. The thrill of the chase is dimming, and it just
seems like too much work. I'm no beauty, so what I manage to charm into my
bed isn't much anyway. It's a sad thing, Doyle, when you realize you've
taken to bed someone the age of your mum, just to have your end away that
night." Doyle nodded solemnly. His own experiences with older women had
been odd ones. Safer to stick to sweet young things who thought the little
tricks you knew were fantastic. Although lately he hadn't even done much
of that.

"I'm even considering giving up my share of the flat," Topper was saying.

Doyle focused on him. "You're never telling me that's still going!"

"The flat? Hell, yes! Not the one we had at first; they tore that down
years ago. We transferred to a flat in the building just north--you
remember it? We used to call it the palace!"

"Do I? Too rich for our blood, I remember. It had central heating!"

"And all other mod cons. We've the attic, now. Nice light for
painting--not that many of us use it for that."

"Still the same arrangement? Seven members, one seventh of the expenses
and obligations, and an assigned day?"

"The same," Topper nodded. "I've got," he paused for effect, "Monday."

"Would have killed for Monday, back when," Doyle admitted, memory making
him smile.

"I had Friday, you had Saturday. Could only use the place to paint in the
mornings because on the weekends, everyone expected to party there at
night."

"I remember scraping up the money, taking odd jobs so I could pay my share
of the rent. It's a wonder I ever had any time to paint!" Doyle shook his
head. Just last month he had been undercover, working as a box maker while
watching for smuggled guns, using skills he had learned while earning his
extra rent money all those years ago.

"Yes, and in those days you only had to come up with a tenner. It's fifty
a month, now. It went up last year. It hurts the budget now almost as much
as it did then," Topper said. "That's why I'm thinking of getting out. I
could put half that amount away and surprise Charla with a holiday next
summer."

"She knew about the flat in the old days," Doyle recalled.

"She knows about it now, but not about the price increase. She'd be livid
if she knew!"

There was a pause in the conversation as Doyle ordered them both fresh
drinks. Then he asked, "Who shares the place? The old group?"

"Wally has Tuesdays. You remember him? Thought he could sculpt?"

"I remember." The man could make a huge mess without half trying, and the
damn stone chips got everywhere. Stepping on them with bare feet was an
unforgettable experience.

"He just uses the place to get away from his mother. Terrible old bitch.
Man named Fillbeck has Saturdays. Says he wants to be a writer and this is
the only way he can get a day of uninterrupted work done. He's produced
two books. Can't say if they're any good or not, but I saw one in a shop
once. Had a nasty cover, all dripping blood and fangs. He's a grocer's
assistant, too, I think. Sandra has Wednesdays and her friend Mona has
Thursdays. They're both in art school. Young things. Actually paint, I
believe. Wish we'd had their dedication. Deadly dull about it, they are."

"Won't give you the time of day, eh?" Doyle laughed.

"Too right. Half think they must be...." He waggled his fingers
suggestively.

"It would explain why they turned you down," Doyle said, but his pursed
lips and laughing eyes told that he thought there was another reason.

"You don't leave an old man any illusions, Sugar Ray! You always were a
hard lad."

Doyle didn't offer any sympathy, smiled at the old nick-name and only
asked, "Who has the other days?"

"Friday is Zach Thomas, Sunday is Mark Lane. Lane is usually there with
his squeeze of the week. The colour of hair changes, but not the empty
space under it...Thomas has the same hobby and picks up the same types,
but they're the opposite sex."

"Nothing changed there."

"I know. They're both late with the money half the time, too. Lane's on
probation. We're tired of fronting the money for him. But having to vet
new candidates is a pain in the arse."

"I remember." And Topper was ethical enough not to leave the group in the
lurch. He probably wouldn't quit the group himself while there were two
possible changes in the offing.

"Only thing worse is trying to find a new char. Have a good one now. Comes
in every week day from 11 to 11:30 in the morning. Does for someone else
in the building so it's no trouble."

"I remember when we didn't have help and we were each assigned jobs.
Lattie went nuts trying to force us all to do our part."

"Gave up on us all and went to Australia!" Topper remembered. "He's a
banker there, now, did you know?"

"The sort with double ulcers," Doyle predicted.

"No doubt. Another?" Topper asked, indicating Doyle's empty glass.

"No. I'm done for. I need twelve hours of sleep, one more glass and I'll
be taking it right here, or face down in the gutter. I'd best be getting
home." Doyle stood up slowly, frowning. Then he said, "Topper? Put my name
down on the list, will you? I think I need a home away from home."

Topper looked a bit startled, but said, "You should see the place first."

"No, that's fine. Let me have your number. I'd give you mine, but I'm
never home." Which was true, but not the only reason.

Topper produced a scrap of paper and a pencil, and provided the number,
all the while a big smile on his face. "We wouldn't even have to look into
you--there's enough of the old crowd who'd remember. Worth it not to have
to go through that again. Call on the first."

"Or as soon after as I can."

"You married, Ray?"

"I told you...."

"Oh. Right. Sorry. I'm just used to blokes wanting to get away from the
little woman."

Doyle grinned. It wasn't a little woman he was interested in getting away
from, more like a little man. A sandy-haired, sharp-tongued old bastard.

Doyle shook hands with his old friend, said his good-bye and went back to
his vehicle, forcing back yawns and old memories. Wonderful, the old days,
but not the sort he wanted to live over again. He shook his head, focusing
on the lines of the road, blinking his eyes to keep them functioning.

He'd actually asked for the next opening, the next occasion when a flat
and a day came available. Furthermore, he experienced a sensation of
wicked anticipation such as he hadn't felt in years, because he was quite
sure he was going to break the rules if he actually got the place. He was
*not* going to tell anyone about this bolthole, this secret room.
Certainly not Cowley, and not his partner, either.

What made him think he wanted a place of his own? Bodie had confessed to
having some boltholes, some secret stores, and he'd even shown Doyle two
of them. Probably had a half dozen more, the paranoid sod. Bodie had
become even more so since that affair with his East German girlfriend.
Botched all the way around, that was, and it still stung. Bodie,
Doyle--and Cowley. Cowley cooperated with the other agency, he had shared
a big job with Willis and that mob only last month, but Doyle knew he did
it with his eyes wide open, with all his moves backed up and checked.
Wouldn't like to be Willis, for when the opportunity came, Cowley was
going to drop his opposite number in it up to his scrawny neck. With any
luck, Doyle and Bodie would be around to help.

His mind was not staying on the subject he had set for it. Sure sign of
exhaustion. Still, a good night's sleep would set him up, and tomorrow
he'd see Bodie again. He'd missed his partner. Bodie had been undercover
for a week, playing the part of a taxi driver. Doyle spared a moment of
pity for Bodie's paying customers, but none at all for the drug ring which
CI5 had broken. His pity was all for himself, tracking down rumours about
mysterious men and missing payrolls for days and days, and nothing to show
for it, either. Cowley wouldn't be happy.

Doyle turned onto his block with a sense of intense relief, parked his
car, locked it, got his bag from the boot, and forced himself to be alert,
to go cautiously to his flat. He'd been away, and who knows what waited
for him?

Cold rooms, nothing in the cupboards and nothing hiding under the bed. He
set his locks, pulled a plastic bottle of milk from the freezer to leave
on the counter to thaw--he'd learned that trick from Bodie--turned on the
heat and crawled into bed, promising himself a hot shower in the morning.
He recalled nothing else until his alarm went off six hours later.

He slapped the thing into silence and gave himself over to hot water and a
shave, to the pleasures of tea and a hearty breakfast and fresh clothing.
Energy filled him, and he whistled tunelessly as he strode out the door.

It was when he was in the car again that it came to him exactly why he was
in such a good mood. It was because he would team up with Bodie again
today.

Bodie.

The whistle faded. Doyle was well aware that Bodie was coming to represent
a problem. All very well to become fond of your best mate, to depend on
your partner for just about everything. Just fine if you liked him,
enjoyed his jokes, appreciated his capabilities.

But admiring his arse was a bit over the line.

So was imagining what those lips would feel like under his.

Worst of all was imagining what Bodie would say if he ever found out about
Doyle's little deviations.

It was all Topper's fault, Doyle thought unfairly, slowing down to join
the stream of morning traffic at the intersection. Topper had been the
first of their group to dare try it on with a member of his own sex. He'd
winked and bragged and boasted until one by one, each of the others had
tried it as well. Doyle had been one of the last, put off by the eagerness
with which others had attempted his initiation. He'd finally given it a
try. Topper had offered his arse with the understanding that Doyle would
reciprocate in the reasonably near future.

Doyle had liked doing it to Topper. But he had been a kid, on fire most of
the time, willing to fuck at the drop of a pair of pants and only
moderately picky about what ended up in his bed. Doyle had followed
Topper's directions and been satisfied. Keeping his own part of the
bargain a week later had been hard, although he's never let anyone see how
reluctant he had been. It had hurt--but he'd adjusted and after a few more
trades, had started to spend his time equally between the boys and the
girls. On some rather memorable nights, he'd had both in the same bed.

"Randy little toad," he said to the memory.

He'd given up the boys and the art and the friends for the police. It had
been a good trade in most ways. A regular pay cheque, a sense of being of
use in the world, the occasional victory in the war against crime, all had
kept him from looking back. New friends, new goals, new lovers. It had all
changed again when he joined CI5.

With CI5 had come Bodie. Bodie, the aggravating sod. Bodie, the tough man,
the ex-merc, the soldier. The man.

The problem.

His problem met him as he entered the rest room door, met him with a lewd
comment and a beaker of stewed tea. Doyle accepted both in the spirit in
which they were offered and sat down to wait his master's call. Cowley,
facing down audits and accountants for the third straight day, emerged in
mid-morning for just long enough to bark out assignments.

"Cleaning house," Bodie sighed, as they climbed into Doyle's car. "Again."

"Has to be done." Doyle pulled out of the car park and into traffic.

"Poor damn Culbert. Can't even go for a pee ten years after you leave CI5,
without George wanting to know."

"It's a little more serious than that. He's not been seen for days," Doyle
said. "And he only left us last year."

"He's the smart one, if you ask me. Gateman at a posh development like
that one, and all he has to do is peer out from his little brick box, and
say, 'Ah, Mr Filthy Rich,' and punch the red button which opens the
electronic gate."

"Bit more to it than that, surely," Doyle suggested.

"Not much. Easiest security job there is."

"If you call it easy to be cooped up for hours at a time."

"Bet he takes a book. Improves his mind. I would," Bodie said, virtuously.

"Yours needs it. Do I turn here?"

"Your own mind could use a bit of help, Raymond. Of course you don't turn
here. Left at the pub."

Doyle followed Bodie's directions, allowing Bodie his smug nod of
confirmation. He allowed Bodie a lot, these days. Not that it seemed to be
harming anything.

"We might get off on time for once," Bodie commented later. "Want to try
that new Chinese takeaway?"

"Fine," Doyle said, not letting his pleasure at the thought of spending
the evening with Bodie show. "Are you paying?" he asked, with hope in his
voice.

"Your turn," Bodie said at once.

"So it is." Doyle had known that all along. He always knew whose turn it
was, just as Bodie always knew. When they didn't know, they together chose
the path, playing children's games or simple lotteries to resolve the
question.

Fairness had been the basis of the relationship they carved out during
those first strained days as partners. Part of their ability to
communicate with a minimum of words, to know what the other was going to
do in any situation, was based on a sense of fair play and turn and turn
about. Both kept the running total in their heads, tallying score
automatically in a game which had been running for years.

The accounting had started from distrust, each keeping severe count of
every point, taking turns being the one to dash first up a stair, to go
first into a room where a killer lurked. Soon, it became just a shorthand,
a way of easing the non-essentials from a discussion or an action. It had
evolved into something so much a part of how they were that they were no
longer even aware they did it.

Now, they did not always take things exactly in turns--and yet each always
knew what the actions of the other would be. The complexities of a shared
past had woven into their very personalities. They knew each other
extremely well.

But Bodie didn't know how Doyle felt.

Wasn't going to know, either. Doyle had decided that a long time ago. To
speak was to betray the fabric of their relationship. They had used women
as a touchstone in their reactions to each other, had the pursuit of the
fair sex as their shared hobby. To imagine Bodie turning from women was to
think of him turning from food or air. He enjoyed his affairs, short
honest things with no pretence about them. The young women who found Bodie
in their beds knew he was there for a romp and a tickle, they knew he was
allergic to the chimes of wedding bells.

No doubt Bodie thought Doyle's philosophy the same as his own, although
Doyle had always been more serious about his birds than Bodie. Doyle had
always had, in the back of his mind, a vision of eventual domesticity.
Cozy flat, adoring woman, a baby or two--he'd never imagined specifically
'who,' but he had always just assumed a 'what.'

That changed.

After Ann, with the dream in tatters around him, he had picked up the
pieces and went on. Bodie had been there, supporting him in a solid, matey
way. Slowly, the dark had drifted away from the vision of "who," and Doyle
had come to realize that his feelings for Ann had masked other feelings,
feelings he had not been able to acknowledge. Feelings he half hated and
half gloried in. Feelings he did not dare to put a real name to, for fear
of saying the truth aloud.

"You're quiet."

"Sorry."

"Kept you up last night, did she?" Bodie teased, with a wink and a waggle
of the eyebrows on the "up."

"Was decently alone last night, as you probably well know. *You* try
driving a hundred miles in the dark in the rain!"

Bodie snorted. "We've both done that before!"

"Not alone. I can usually count on your snores to keep me awake!"

"Nasty, dear boy. Who does the driving, nine times out of ten?"

"The one who needs the practice?" Doyle asked.

"The one who knows what he's doing. Way you drive, we'll die of old age
before we get to Culbert's!"

"In a hurry, are you? Eager to see him again?"

Bodie made a rude sound. "You know very well I could never stand the
bloody bastard."

Doyle nodded wisely. "Never got over the time he beat you over the
obstacle course, have you?"

"He cheated."

"Did he?" Doyle said nothing else, but grinned.

"Besides, he took advantage of my good nature."

Doyle tossed him an inquiring look.

"Never paid back the whole of anything. He'd round it off--always in his
favour!"

Doyle let his lips turn up again. "Maybe he just didn't have any change."

"He had it--always feeding it into the machines, wasn't he?"

"That's why he didn't have any," Doyle explained in the careful measured
tones one used when talking to foreigners and persons of doubtful mental
capacity.

"Never?" Bodie refused to agree, on general principles.

"Is this our turn?" Doyle asked, knowing perfectly well it was. Bodie was
successfully distracted, and Doyle made sure the conversation for the rest
of the drive stayed safely on the subject of the chances for Liverpool on
the tenth.

Their ID's got them past the gate, a manager's key got them into Culbert's
tiny bungalow on the grounds. It had been inhabited by a tidy man with no
real secrets--after the CI5 agents were done, every inch of his home had
been turned over. Everything from the Mayfair under the mattress to the
stains in the coffee cups came under their scrutiny.

"Left his wad," Bodie said, showing the roll of cash he had discovered
tucked into a mug in the back of the cupboard.

"All his papers seem to be here," Doyle added, closing a previously locked
metal box which had been under the bed.

"So where did he go?" Bodie asked.

"You might talk to the bloke at the gate, while I annoy the residents?"
Doyle suggested.

"Not too much, Doyle. Cowley won't like it if he starts getting those
phone calls about you again."

"Cowley can...."

"Ah ah!" Bodie shook his finger in warning and ducked out the door. Doyle
put on his best servant-of-the-public face and went to ask his questions
of the neighbours.

The neighbours all had domestic help, most of which were not adverse to a
bit of gossipy chat. They all knew of Culbert's status among the missing,
all had something nice to say about him, but none knew even his first
name. One of four men involved in security for the housing estate, Culbert
had been the newest and the most nondescript. He had foiled a robbery his
second day on the job, and was the most alert of the guards. He was also
the one who followed the rules, who actually looked at the ID when he
asked for it, the one who annoyed the residents at times when it seemed he
was being overly cautious.

Doyle went to every house, and there were sixteen of them. When Bodie
found him, Doyle was standing on the walk, staring at one of the four
flower gardens which were tucked between each quad of houses.

"Don't like the colour?" Bodie asked.

Doyle said, "Nobody's seen him since he got off work that night. Is there
something about this," he waved a hand, "which strikes you as not quite
right?"

"It's ugly," Bodie offered.

"In addition to the obvious?" Doyle wanted to know.

Bodie looked it over, then glanced across at another of the cultivated
plots for comparison. "No," he said.

"Did I ever mention that I went to art school?" Doyle asked casually as he
walked around the small flower bed. There were raised brick planters, with
urns of coloured cement holding cascades of greenery or glowing spots of
colour.

"Once. Or twice. Flunked out, didn't you?"

"A complete failure," Doyle agreed with candour. "But some of it stuck
between the grey cells. All the others," he pointed at the garden
sections, "have the hues of the flowers change in a kind of circular
pattern, moving from the outside to the middle. But this one doesn't."

"Offends your artistic soul, does it? Is there a reason you've decided to
stop and critique the garden?" Bodie asked. There was no scorn in his
voice, no implication that Doyle should stop wasting his time. He waited
for more information.

"Does the earth look a trifle disturbed to you?" Doyle asked.

"You think somebody buried him here midst the daisies?" Bodie jeered.

"No, I think someone could see the gates from here--if they shifted a few
of these cement pots temporarily."

"Lying down, hidden by the plants. Could do," Bodie agreed. "At night.
During the day it would be taking a stupid chance."

"At night," Doyle agreed. "And in the dark they got the flowers back out
of order."

"Leaving the question of--why?"

"I'm open to suggestions, Sherlock."

"He had just switched to the six to midnight shift. Each man was to walk
the perimeter of the grounds after he got off his shift, look for anything
suspicious. What did he see?"

"If he was here, he was watching his own station!" Doyle had moved the
urns--not without some difficulty--and stretched out in the space. Facing
away from the gate left him staring at a rhododendron. He switched again,
fitting his body into the area. Head down, he had a perfect view between
two bushy miniature mums.

"Or," Bodie said, "some person driving or walking in or out. But why
settle down for a long obbo, then?"

"You think it was Culbert here? Not somebody watching *him*?" Doyle asked,
scrambling up.

Bodie helped him pull the urns back into place, and then brushed at
Doyle's leaf covered shirt and jeans. He didn't notice as Doyle turned
slightly pale.

"Time to call Papa," Bodie intoned. "But you're the bright lad with the
clue. You talk to him."

"Coward."

"I'm going to go over the log with the guard again. They only log
visitors, not the coming and going of the people who live here. Then I'm
going to walk around this place, same as the guards are supposed to do
four times a day."

"Exercise. So good for the figure," Doyle agreed, automatically ducking
out of the way of Bodie's mock punch.

Cowley listened to Doyle's report without commenting, and then said, "I've
had a background check done on everyone who resides there, Doyle, and
they're clean, they're all clean, twenty years back and more. But twenty
one years ago...."

"Dirt?" Doyle suggested, knowing that tone.

"Aye, dirt, swept under the carpet, but dirt, non'th'less, and ours to
deal with. Pay special attention to the occupants of #12, a family of four
named Netherton. I want you to become familiar with the area, go to each
house again. Show your ID, ask too many questions. At dark, I want you to
watch who comes, who leaves. I'm sending Jax, Emery and DeLeon to follow
any vehicle which departs from #12. Is this clear?"

"Very, sir."

"Cowley out."

Doyle signed off as well and went to tell Bodie his visions of an early
evening off had just been blown to the moon.

It wasn't an exciting day, but the weather was good, and Bodie was in fine
form, using his charm or his best official manner as the situation
required. When they had been to each house, Doyle went for the meal,
bringing back double portions of chicken and chips for Bodie.

Fingers shining with grease and chips disappearing at an amazing clip
shouldn't have been erotic, but Doyle was forced to look away, to pretend
diligence at the job. It annoyed him. He told himself it wasn't Bodie, but
only old habits drifting up from his past to haunt him. Old dirt, he
thought, and smiled. Bodie gave him an inquiring look over his well-gnawed
bone, but Doyle just shook his head and gave a shrug. Bodie only tilted an
eyebrow and went back to coaxing the last slivers of meat into his
digestive system.

They left with noise and a proper thank-you-for-assistance at the gate,
only to drive five blocks away, park the car in a quiet spot, and walk
back to the area.

"We're actually lurking behind a tree," Bodie said in disgust later.

"Not exactly spoilt for choice, are we. These people designed their homes
to discourage loitering by the under-classes, didn't they?" Doyle pointed
out.

"Not as clever as they might have been, with only one exit out of that
place."

"How are you at climbing trees? Bet we can see both the gate and #12 from
halfway up."

Bodie looked up. "Too obvious in daylight. Have to wait for dark to use
the tree, and then there will be easier ways to stay out of sight. Trees
are damned uncomfortable after the first five minutes."

"Spent a lot of time in trees, have you? Darwin may have been right!"

"Berk. Get out your pen, Raymond, someone is pulling up at the gate."
Bodie was the one reading off the numbers from the plates and describing
the occupants of the vehicle, while Doyle noted it down in his neat
crabbed handwriting. Jax and the others arrived at dusk, and they ate
sandwiches Jax had brought, and waited.

Two cars parked in the drive of #12 left shortly after eleven, and were
followed by CI5 vehicles. A sporty red number arrived there at midnight,
and left at one, and that was followed as well. Bodie was up in the tree
with the night glasses, whispering to Doyle perched below. Doyle leaned
against the rough bark and tried to hear only the words, and not the rich
sibilant sound, tried not to think of Bodie, whispering a different sort
of message into the night.

They were relieved at two, sent to get some sleep and report to Cowley at
ten. Bodie drove, and Doyle found he was watching Bodie's face through
slitted eyes while pretending to doze, and he felt a growing annoyance
with himself.

He always fell hard, when he fell, tumbling into near obsession with the
object of his desires. His romance with Ann had been like that, an
all-the-sudden total immersion into delightful enchantment. Be damned if
he was going to fall for Bodie in the same way. He could imagine nothing
more difficult to deal with--or more painful. Might as well just give up
the job now. He could become gatekeeper to the upper middle class, maybe.
There was a job open.

Dark humour. Bodie's sort of thing more than his. But then, he was well
aware of the way he had picked up some of Bodie's tastes and habits, and
Bodie's likes and prejudices, just as Bodie had adopted some of his.
Running in the morning, for example, and writing the date first when
filling out reports and....

"We're here."

Doyle roused. "Where's here?"

"My place. Pick me up in the morning?" Bodie asked as he opened the door.

"Right." Doyle yawned and got out to cross to the driver's side.

He drove away at once, resisting the urge to watch Bodie walk away.

He really ought to do something about Bodie, he thought when he was alone.
He checked to see if he was being followed as he pulled out of the parking
space, but as he could see nothing suspicious, he went back to his
thoughts. Doing something about Bodie.

Not Bodie's fault, he reminded himself. What was there to do? Quit? Stupid
thing to do, really. There would be questions, Bodie would take it wrong,
and on top of everything, Doyle wasn't a quitter. He liked the job. It
would have to become hell on earth before he gave it up. It was hard
working with Bodie while he lusted after him, but Bodie was the best part
of CI5.

The solution was to do something about the lust. Maybe it wasn't Bodie,
exactly. Bodie was just the man he worked with most closely, and he was
funny and good at the job and handsome. Of course Doyle had been attracted
to him. Rather by default, when you thought of it that way. What he should
do is find himself an outlet for those feelings. A man. Surely, if he
looked, he could find a discreet man for a few hours here and there.

He'd have to approach it with the same caution an agent of CI5 approached
anything. It was possible to do it. He had no illusions about that. For
all the wide range of results that a good solid investigation could
produce, there were always facts never discovered at the time. The trick
was to never leave a money trail, and never share a secret.

He thought about it until he left the car. Putting thoughts on hold in
favour of caution, he made his way to his door, and then inside.
Automatically, as he hung up his coat, his mind started up again.

Topper. That was the first step. He could talk Topper into sharing his day
at the flat, until a day opened up which he could have for his own. The
harder task would be finding a man to take *to* the flat. Doyle had a
preference for clean, muscular men, men without any feminine attributes,
men who were not into dominance, leather or pain. He knew where such men
were to be found, but there was a risk in being seen in such places. The
risks in advertising were just as bad. Worse.

Topper again? The man could keep a secret, and he'd enjoy the assignment,
enjoy having the excuse to go looking. But was there a better way to do
this? He gave it thought all during his shower, and he was still thinking
about the angles as he drifted off to sleep.

He called in the morning, but Topper had already left for work. Doyle
declined to leave a message, and he was glad Charla did not recognize his
voice. Morning brought second thoughts over his cereal and milk; he
continued to mull over the subject until he pulled up in front of Bodie's.
His partner met him at the door, jacket half on and a last piece of toast
clutched between his teeth.

"Running late, are we?" Doyle asked, taking the toast from between Bodie's
lips as the other checked both locks on the door. He tried not to think of
the warmth of Bodie's breath on his fingers, of almost touching those
lips.

"Mmmmph," Bodie said, having taken back the toast and disposed of half of
it in one bite.

Sad, when a man could look that sexy with toast crumbs all over his face.
"Eloquent bastard," Doyle said, with as much fondness as he allowed
himself to voice.

"Cowley wants us to go directly out, now," Bodie reported, before
disposing of the other half of the toast.

"Come on then, William. Don't dawdle," he advised, as Bodie slowed to
watch an under-age but over-endowed young woman cross the street towards
them.

"Not what I was thinking of doing," Bodie said, eyes still following her
progress down the walk.

"Thoughts like that will get you a new residence, complete with bars and a
clanging door, mate."

Bodie laughed. "Looking won't get me arrested. Do you want me to drive?"

"If you'll keep your eyes on the road, Romeo!" Doyle slid into the
passenger seat and fastened his seatbelt, mindful of Cowley's latest
campaign. Having recently lost an agent solely for the reason that the man
had been unsecured during a high-speed chase, Cowley had taken to verbally
harassing any agent who now neglected the basic safety precautions.

"Romeo? That's your way of telling me she's about fourteen, is it?"

"I thought Juliet was thirteen?" Doyle said, with a glance back. A crime,
putting kids in high heels like that. Made them look older, and it was
provocative, the way their rear ends swayed. And it made him feel old to
realize he was reacting like a....

Like a man in his mid-thirties, old enough to be her father, old enough so
that his first reaction wasn't lust, but concern for the little fool--and
her family, letting her go out like that.

"It's not like I was thinking of asking her out, Doyle. You know, you've
become very judgmental of late. I should watch that, if I were you."

Doyle said, "They're doing something to the road ahead. You'll want to
turn left."

Bodie turned at once, but didn't let the subject drop. "I've a date with
an air hostess tonight. Although if tonight is anything like last night I
shall go to bed with my balls in knots. Again."

I could solve that little problem for you, Doyle thought, but what he said
was, "Something wrong with your good right hand?"

"It can't kiss. Love a good snoggin' session. Osculation, Doyle, is
something very difficult to do alone."

Doyle had to agree with that, although he tried not to dwell too long on
the concept of kissing Bodie. It drove his blood pressure up. He should
have resisted, but he gave in to his worst impulses and asked, "So besides
kissing, what does your lordship require of his companions of the
evening?"

"That makes 'em sound like tarts, Doyle. Have a bit more confidence in my
abilities! The finest of young ladies, Doyle, that's what my birds are!"

Doyle snickered. Maybe some of them were, but all? Doyle knew better.
"Osculating experts?"

"Undulating experts as well. All legs and arse behind, Doyle. I love the
way a woman walks."

"A handicapped woman, you mean."

Bodie threw him a questioning glance as they finally hit the motorway.
"Pardon?"

"You think that wiggling arse is natural? It's just the result of high
heels, Bodie, toe squeezing, foot warping contraptions which take away a
woman's ability to run."

"Naw. It slows a *man* down, Doyle, not a woman! He stops to admire the
view, and she's got him within reach. She reaches out! She grabs him!
She...." Bodie was playing out a small drama with the aid of waving hands.
Most of the time at least one was on the wheel.

"Did you intend to hit that car? You missed by at least an inch," Doyle
said critically.

"Two," Bodie declared, unperturbed.

Doyle took the conversation back. "What do you look for in a sex partner,
Bodie?"

"Versatility. Legs down to there, tits out to here," Bodie said, taking
his hands from the wheel again to demonstrate.

"Not intelligence, or good conversation, or...."

"That's just icing. Comes along with the basic package."

"So basically, what you want is a pair of legs that open."

"Got it in one, mate!" Bodie agreed cheerfully.

Something inside Doyle gave a little twist, but he ignored it.

Bodie looked over when he became aware of the silence. "It's what all men
want. It's what you go after yourself."

"Don't judge me by *your* rule book, Bodie! Some of us look for something
other than that. Good conversation. Kindness." He looked at Bodie. "Fun to
be with. A sense of humour."

"I get those things. Just don't go looking for them. You make everything
too hard, Doyle."

You make me crazy, Doyle sighed to himself. What was he looking for? It
wasn't like Bodie was suddenly going to declare that what he *really*
wanted was a sulking green-eyed man who could outshoot him with a pistol.

Cowley himself was at the gate when they arrived, a sheaf of papers in one
hand, an r/t in the other. "Ah, there you are. Join Murphy. He'll fill you
in," Cowley said brusquely, turning away to speak to an irate citizen who
could not turn in at the gate because it was blocked by CI5 vehicles.

"Good morning to you, too," Bodie murmured, as he and Doyle went to meet
the other agents in front of the house.

Murphy nodded as they stepped beside him. "We're to take the house apart,
#12. Search it top to bottom. We're looking for papers, guns, and Culbert.
We're to search wearing these," he held up pairs of surgical gloves. When
Bodie caught his eye and lifted an eyebrow, Murphy shrugged in return.
Orders. "I have the kit here, and I'll be in the kitchen if you need
anything from the box. Evans, Jax, take the top floor, Branchcomb and
Ford, this floor except the kitchen, where I'll be with Thompson." There
were whistles at that, for Thompson was attractive and blonde. Murphy
offered them a selection of fingers to choose from but then went on as if
he had not been interrupted. "Bodie and Doyle will take the lower levels.
We'll be doing the grounds eventually, too, no doubt. Let's go." He began
handing out the gloves.

"The dungeon again," Bodie said sadly.

"They know your taste for low things," Doyle told him.

"Explains why I like you. Careful." They had reached the house and started
down the stairs. "All that money, you'd think they could afford a hand
rail."

Doyle was thinking how pitiful it was that his heart had thumped hard when
Bodie said he liked him. He'd better get Bodie out of his system. Soon.

The rooms below were for storage, for a wine cellar, for a weight room.
Doyle stood, pulling on the latex gloves and looking around. "Where shall
we start? Wine cellar?" They had long ago worked out a pattern for
searching a room, and they preferred to do it together. If they did it
individually, they found they were continually asking each other about
what had already been done. In the beginning, doing it together had
eliminated any lingering doubts about the quality of the other's work. Now
it was just a habit, another way of working together.

"Wine cellar," Bodie agreed. Bodie went left, and Doyle right.

"Nothing."

They did the room with the exercise equipment next. Doyle could see that
Bodie was aching to try out the devices--once he saw a gloved hand rest
yearningly on the bright steel bar of a complicated machine designed to
work the thigh and calf muscles.

They had to dismantle it all, to peer inside tubes and packets, open up
whatever seemed to be closed. Bodie went for a hammer, and resolutely
smashed open some of the weights. Sand was eventually everywhere, as were
bits of stuffing from several of the cushions. They made an attempt to
return everything to a reasonable state, due to Cowley's policy of not
disturbing the citizenry any more than necessary, but there was no denying
the room and its contents had suffered.

The storage rooms were last. Carton after carton, box after box, they
delved into private lives. The detritus of years, packed away and
forgotten. Bodie threw the dead mouse he found at Doyle, who ducked and
cursed him and promised a suitable revenge, while imagining just what he'd
like to do to Bodie to make him pay. Strange, strange thoughts, to weave
between the hard practicality needed to paw through item after item in
search of something not as it should be.

Jax arrived, measuring tape in hand, and working around them, he measured
each of the walls, and then left.

"I thought so," Doyle said. "No railings."

"If you're under the impression you're making sense," Bodie told him,
"give it up. You're not."

"I'll not bother to explain it," Doyle said. He'd spotted several
violations of the building codes; in a home this new it could only mean
that the builder had taken liberties for a reason--probably the folding
kind. There had to be a motive behind it, and Jax measuring the rooms
confirmed it. Secret room? Or just a safe the owner wanted well hidden?

They were invited to explore beyond the limits of the walls. Bodie went to
work with enthusiasm, prying off panels with an iron bar and an exuberant
willingness.

They found more than they expected.

Bodie, the iron bar slack in his hand, said in a low voice to Doyle,
"D'you ever read that story by Poe?"

Doyle looked at the plastic wrapped bundle, held upright in its wooden
niche by boards neatly nailed into place, and said, "Yes. You'd better go
tell Cowley."

Bodie shook his head. "You go. I'll keep on here." He hefted his tool,
looking at the space to the left speculatively.

Doyle shrugged and went. He returned with Cowley and three others, to find
Bodie had the whole wall down. There were five other bundles exposed, but
none of them had that rounded look which instinctively made them uneasy.
These new ones had an angular look. Bodie had one of those open, and the
dull metal of rifle barrels showed through.

Cowley knelt, tore away enough of the plastic of the first bundle to catch
a glimpse of what was within. "Female," he said in a clipped voice. "Not
recent," he added, and relief spread through the watchers as they realized
it couldn't then be Culbert. "Notify the authorities. The rest of you,
keep on looking. No doubt there'll be more to find." He showed little
emotion, but there was a touch of offended fastidiousness there
nonetheless.

Everyone scattered. Bodie attacked another wall. "What do you suppose that
poor woman looks like after all this time?" he asked Doyle.

"Welcome to go look if you like," Doyle offered, making no move to do so
himself.

"I didn't say I wanted to see it. Seen enough dead bodies, fresh and
otherwise, in my time. Human nature, though, isn't it?"

"Yeah. Not going to be anyone we know, is it?"

Bodie lifted one shoulder in a partial shrug, and said, "Stand back."
There were shouts behind him, and he stopped his swing. Jax appeared at
the top of the stairs. "They've found Culbert, and the bastard is actually
alive!"

"Can he talk?" Bodie wanted to know.

"Unconscious. Ambulance coming. Cowley says keep on with what you're
doing, and he's going along to the hospital. Murph's in charge. I'm to
start an inventory of what we have found. It's going to take more paper
than I've got to list this lot, so I'll be back once I've found some." He
popped back out.

"We'll be here awhile."

"I'll like it better when they take that away," Doyle looked over at the
so-still plastic-wrapped body on the floor.

"We're going to miss another meal," Bodie said; by changing the subject he
told his partner he didn't want to talk about the dead. Doyle didn't find
food at all the thing for a new conversational subject and changed it
again.

"We'll be working on this one for weeks. Fallen into the middle of
something big, haven't we?"

"Funny how it works, sometimes," Bodie agreed, and then he was making too
much noise to continue the discussion.

Doyle set to work, prying off the sections as Bodie loosened them.
Teamwork, he thought, as he put his back into it. Imagine how it would be
if they both quit CI5, if they worked at some job like other men. In
construction, perhaps. Could imagine Bodie doing that sort of work.
Driving big machinery, perhaps. Swinging a hammer. Imagine him with his
shirt off, sweaty, muscles swelling....

No. Better not.

"Clever," Bodie said, pausing in his work. "Ammunition stacked up along
the wood. Metal detector would assume it was part of the
reinforcement--they thought. That trick's been tried before!"

Doyle said, "They all have. Which reminds me. Bash through, that wood
behind. These blokes bring Trojan horses to mind."

"Your wish is my command," Bodie joked, but instead of using his crowbar,
he let loose with a kick, stepping into it to gain all the power he could.
Wallboard exploded out into the next room. "No, you're wrong," Bodie said,
peering through the hole he had created. He wasn't even panting. Bloody
show-off. Not that a certain part of Doyle hasn't appreciated seeing that
sturdy body in action. Not poetry in motion, Bodie--not unless bulldozers
were, as well--but eye-catching.

"The theory is still good. Got secrets beyond secrets, don't they?"

"Help me pull this down," Bodie ordered. Doyle loaned his strength, and
the rest of the wall was down. "The little housewife is not going to be
happy. We've made a right mess."

"Don't stop to admire your handiwork now. Too many more walls."

Bodie obediently went at it again. In two hours, they had indeed made a
mess of monumental dimensions, and they wore the evidence from head to
toe.

When the r/t sounded, they were glad enough to stop. "3.7," Bodie said
briskly, hiding his breathlessness admirably.

"I want you and 4.5 in the kitchen." No need to ask who. The two agents
headed for the stairs, Bodie still clutching the iron bar in a blistered
hand.

They found Cowley seated on one side of a wide kitchen table, papers
strung out before him, and several items wrapped in plastic besides. One
was partially open, and they looked over the contents silently while they
waited for Cowley to cease speaking into the r/t.

"Batteries, wire, timepiece, and..." Bodie began.

"Plastique," Doyle finished. "Nice little bomb, that."

"One of quadruplets, too," Bodie noted. "Looks like the other lads have
been busy as well."

"Can't take all the glory, mate. Selfish."

Cowley could now give them his attention, and he started with a sour look
to get theirs. "Bodie, Doyle, you'll stay with the house tonight. I'll
have Thompson watching outside the walls. I'll want reports every hour.
You found nothing else downstairs?"

"After the bullets? No." Bodie looked around the kitchen, his eyes
lingering on the fridge. Doyle, hungry as well, was bold enough to ask
Cowley if they could go out for a meal and was told food would be arriving
soon, and meanwhile, they were to wash the dirt off.

"Do we look that bad?" Doyle asked as they found their way to a spacious
bathroom. One look in the mirror assured him that he, at least, had chalky
dust in his hair and streaks of it on his face and arms. They indulged
freely in expensive soap and fresh towels, and emerged in time for the
pizza Anson carried into the house.

By dusk, the last of the lads had left, and Bodie had long ago munched up
the last crust of the pizza. Doyle joined him in the front room, glad of a
chance to sit for a moment. "Have you seen this place?" he asked Bodie.
"I've seen bombs that have left more standing."

"Yeah? Well, 'e shouldn't have had a finger in quite so many rotten pies,
should he?"

"I heard the body turned out to be his wife. Who do you suppose has been
playing the part all these years?" Doyle stretched. Outside, the lights
along the drives had come on. When Bodie didn't answer, he said, "I feel
filthy yet."

"So take a shower. I'll watch."

"You'll watch me take a shower? Petal, I didn't know!" Doyle joked.

Bodie made a rude noise. "You know what I meant!"

"Yeah, well, I wouldn't want to put on my dirty clothes again, so I'll
have to pass."

"Wear some of Netherton's. Wash yours--there's the machines in the room
beyond the pantry."

"Be something, wouldn't it? Chasing a man while wearing his clothes?"
Doyle stood, stretching. "It should be quiet, though. I think I will."

"Don't take too long--I want to do the same."

The bath was huge, with shower heads at each end, so that one could stand,
caught in spray from two different directions--or shower with a friend.
Doyle soaped himself well, scrubbing the dirtier bits with an assortment
of natural sponges. Odd sensations. His skin tingled, and he didn't think
of Bodie. He thought of Topper, of making his phone call. Not from here,
with the line tapped, but as soon as he could.

Clean and fresh, wearing silk boxer shorts he found in a drawer in the
master bedroom, and a white shirt and black trousers from there as well,
he emerged from the bathroom threading a belt through the belt loops.
Bodie whistled as he saw him, and Doyle stopped to look at himself in the
mirror. The cinched in trousers weren't his usual look, but--it wasn't
bad. All he needed was a coat to sling over his shoulder by one finger,
and he'd look like an advertisement.

Bodie was stripping off, throwing his clothing onto Doyle's. "Toss 'em all
in together--be quicker," Bodie suggested, before disappearing into the
bathroom. The image of those strong, powerful thighs, the broad muscled
chest, the lax roll of Bodie's genitals stayed with Doyle as he quickly
retreated, the armful of clothing swiftly snatched up as he went. The
warmth of Bodie's body still clung to the underpants on the top of the
pile, and Doyle was glad to find the laundry room, glad to thrust the
garment clear to the bottom of the machine, as far away as he could get
it. Soap powder, dials...he let the mechanics of getting the washing
started distract him from the odd wishful thoughts.

Afterwards, he did a round of the house, checking windows and doors,
although he knew Bodie had done so already. He would have been shocked to
his core to find Bodie had missed anything, yet he had to do his own
check. Like dogs, marking territory, one coming along after the other?
Doyle grinned at the idea.

He took another tour, turning out lights so that they could best look out
into the dark. Did he time his arrival so that he showed up just as Bodie
stepped out of the bathroom? He watched his partner dress, and he admired
the end result. Bodie, in a white shirt and black trousers from the same
drawers and closet Doyle had borrowed from, was....

Doyle sighed. The slacks, too long and too loose on Doyle, were tight on
Bodie, clinging to the curve of his buttocks when he turned. The shirt,
adhering to his body in spots where Bodie had still been damp when
dressing, was equally flattering. For once having to do without his high
necked polo, Bodie had deigned to leave the top two buttons of the shirt
undone. Doyle swallowed hard on the words which came to his lips and
settled for a nod which said his partner looked acceptable. Bodie, knowing
he looked wonderful, smirked. His hair was already almost dry, unlike
Doyle's which was still damp. Doyle ran his fingers through the mass,
turning an impulse to touch Bodie's hair into a re-arranging of his own,
and said, "No problem below. I turned off the lights. How do you want to
run this?"

"I don't anticipate trouble. Be a bloody fool to try to come in here, and
what's left to come for? No reason for both of us to stay up all night.
Let's take two hour watches. Flip you for it? Heads I go to bed first,
tails you do."

"With my coin," Doyle agreed, digging into the strange pockets for his
change. Tossing a coin to Bodie, he watched intently as it flashed into
the air and then fell to the ground. Both of them leaned over it. Doyle
thought of how close their heads were. Their bodies.

Bodie said, "I win!"

"Where will you be, then?" Doyle asked.

"I think I'll try here. Nighty night, Ray!" He made motions, pretending to
urge him out with the gestures a farmer's wife used to chase hens.

"R/t by the bed," Doyle said, although it didn't need to be said. Bodie's
gestures the second time were obscene and then threatening. Doyle grinned
and left.

He went from window to window, making no motion to show a watcher that he
was there, and pausing to study the scene out each pane of glass.
Eventually he went to put the laundry into the dryer. He thought of his
clothing and Bodie's, tumbling together, the legs of the trousers twisting
among and between....

The ruined house was quiet. Time passed too slowly. Doyle stood in the
door of the bedroom, looking at Bodie sprawled out on the bed asleep, for
a full moment before he woke him. He brought their clean clothing, and put
on his own while his eyes lingered on Bodie. Then he woke his partner and
watched Bodie change as well. Bodie was observably reluctant to climb into
his own clothing, to give up the expensive borrowed ones. White silk.
Bodie's taste in clothing went towards the fashionable, but not always
towards the classic styles. Bodie couldn't afford the sort of things he
would like to have; he dressed well considering his budget, but seldom
reached the highest sartorial peaks.

I'll buy you silk shirts, if you'll be mine, Doyle silently promised, and
smiled because it was a throwback to his childhood, to innumerable
bargains made with fate which he had outgrown years before. Hadn't he?

The bed was covered with fine sheets which smelled of lavender, but it was
too soft. Doyle stretched out on it, disappointed to find it held no trace
of Bodie's scent or warmth, but glad enough for the chance to sleep. His
two hours were gone in a blink. Bodie was back, waking him up.

He felt more like himself. Downstairs, Bodie had made tea; it was hot and
fresh and Doyle carried the cup with him as he hiked from room to room. He
even went down to the basement. He thought of that poor damn woman, killed
and sealed into the wall of her own house. No ghosts, here. Just silence.
Too much time to think.

He was careful not to wake Bodie early. They had always played fair with
each other. Doyle lay back down on Netherton's expensive, uncomfortable
bed, watching Bodie check his gun before heading down the stairs.

The only way to be fair to Bodie was to never, ever let him have a clue
about how he felt.

Morning came with Bodie's hand on his shoulder, giving him a shake while
Bodie spoke into the r/t. "That's right, sir. Of course. Quiet as the
grave here all night."

"The local police will be sending a man over to guard the place until an
investigative team from New Scotland Yard arrives. Give them every
consideration." Cowley's voice had that abstracted sound, as if he were
doing two other things as well as speaking to them. Probably was. "We're
turning the murder over to them, while following up on the weapons cache.
We have numbers from the guns. Stolen, of course, but over four years ago.
3.7 will look into that theft. 4.5, I want you to report back to me at
two, here. We have some calls to make."

"I'll be there," Doyle said unhappily, and signed off.

"Cheer up, I have tea and toast ready downstairs. Who is going to notice a
loaf of bread gone missing when there's holes the size of elephants in the
pantry? Better hurry, though. The men on the bicycles will be here by
eight."

Doyle gave a scowl at Bodie's scurrilous description of a policeman--Bodie
had a habit of tweaking him about his past--and hauled himself to the
bathroom, where liberal applications of cold water to his face brought him
in touch with reality. His mouth was like a peat bog.

Hot tea helped set him right, but the toast--what was left of it--was
quite cold. He ate it anyway.

They had come in Doyle's car, and left that way as well, Doyle driving. He
dropped Bodie off at his place and went on to a public phone, where at
last he caught Topper. Mindful that his friend might have wife or children
listening at that end, Doyle was careful to explain his proposition in
words which did not require any answer except yes or no.

Topper was pleased with the idea of renting out some of his days until a
slot opened up for Doyle, and glad to meet for lunch at the pub where he
had last seen Doyle. The CI5 agent went home and went to bed. It was
difficult sleeping during the day, and after only a few hours he was up,
thinking about the report he would have to do on the Netherton case, while
he showered and dressed in fresh clothing. He had discovered long ago that
if he had a report all ready in his mind, it went much faster when he sat
down to put it on paper. Sometimes, too, he recalled the events more
clearly after this process. It was a great help when he was called to
testify in court.

He was early, and sat with a coke in front of him, waiting for Topper, and
wondering about the flat. When Topper arrived, the man thanked him for his
brilliant idea, relieved him of thirty pounds. "For the rest of this
month, and the fund," as he explained, and pressed into his hands a key.
It was cold and solid in Doyle's hand. Then Topper asked if he wanted to
skip the meal and spend the time at the flat. Doyle agreed.

They took Topper's car, Doyle not wanting to explain the radio in his, and
soon they were walking up the stairs in a modest house which had been
converted to flats thirty years ago.

"No lift. Keeps the rent down and the heart rate up," Topper said as they
headed up the four flights of stairs. The dark wooden staircase was
polished, the stairs clean. The door to the flat was number 10, and the
solid wooden door had two good locks, which Doyle approved of heartily.
This door opened up into a room which would have been huge, but it lost
much of its space because of a steeply sloping ceiling. The flat plainly
was a converted attic, as Topper had said. This white room featured a set
of large wooden lockers along the wall and windows on the north and east.
The curtains at the windows were faded but not dusty, and there was no
covering on the paint splashed wooden floor. A tiny kitchen was tucked
into one corner, with a sink and cooker and a table painted white, with
two black plastic chairs and a wooden one which had long ago lost all
varnish.

Doyle blinked.

Topper was showing him the lockers. There were eight, one for the cleaning
lady which was unlocked, one for each of the seven co-renters, with a
padlock or combination lock on each. Topper opened his, showing that there
was considerable space inside, including a rack for a coat or other
clothing, five small drawers, and a large empty space for an easel and art
supplies. Topper had this area filled with glasses, bottles and a stone
crock with a lid in the shape of a mouse. He offered the use of the closet
to Doyle, who declined, to Topper's almost-well-hidden relief. He locked
up and crooked a finger, telling Doyle to follow him.

"Ta da!" Topper opened the door to the bedroom with a flourish, watching
for Doyle's reaction with eager anticipation. Doyle's response must have
been satisfactory, because Topper laughed and ushered him in. The room was
like something out of the Arabian nights. Lush ruby-red carpet covered the
floor, and the walls were papered in blue, with a pattern of white and
gold. Curtains of thick red, which matched the carpet, guarded the
windows. The bed was king sized, covered by a black and white duvet,
turned back to show sheets of red satin.

Two of the walls sloped here, as well, but the bed was under part of this
slope and the wall featured bars and pulleys and ropes, with an actual
swing or trapeze tied to one side with a velvet cord.

"Bloody hell," Doyle said quietly.

"And there's this," Topper said, opening the door to the bathroom. It was
done in white enamel on which was painted original art--nudes, both male
and female, sported on every wall. The old-fashioned claw-footed bathtub
was huge, and had a shower as well. One wall held a shelf with a hundred
bottles of shampoo and conditioner, bubble bath, bath crystals and lotions
lined up. The toilet and sink were modern, and the cupboard featured thick
towels of every size and colour.

"I can see why you're reluctant to give this up," Doyle said to Topper,
while he struggled not to see a vision of Bodie, nude on that magnificent
bed. The bed wasn't his idea of good taste, but he knew Bodie was drawn to
the flamboyant in that area, and he knew Bodie would adore it.

Only Bodie would want to bring a woman here, make love to her amid all
this decadent splendour.

"The next two Mondays are all yours," Topper announced, with a grand
gesture. "By then a regular slot will probably be open. You did want your
own day, right?"

"Yeah. I want it." Now, more than ever. He smiled. "Wish I could stay
awhile longer, but duty calls. Thanks," he took Topper's hand firmly, "for
letting me have some of your days."

"I should thank you," Topper said, patting his pocket where the money lay.

When they parted, Doyle had the unmarked keys on his ring, and he went a
round-about way to work, stopping once for takeaway. Cowley grabbed him
the moment he arrived, and Doyle found himself driving Cowley from place
to place, playing secretary on the car phone while the boss was in
meetings so that when he came out again Cowley was instantly in touch with
all that was going on.

The last thing Cowley said that night was that Doyle was to arrive at nine
the next morning, to assist Bodie. It gave Doyle a warm glow which lasted
all the way home; it was better when he could work with his partner. Doyle
found he was whistling as he settled in for a few relaxing hours at home.
The box bored him, he soon discovered. Restless, he turned it off and sat
thinking for a moment, and then he went to his closet and began to root
around, finally unearthing a wooden box, which he took to the table to
open.

Paints. Brushes. Papers and notebooks of drawings. More than ten years
old, all of it. He'd lost the easel and the bulkier equipment about the
third time CI5 had moved him, and he'd long ago destroyed almost every
painting he had ever done. There was just this box left, and by now the
half empty tubes of paint and the old brushes would be nearly useless.
Best to throw it all out and start new. Being Doyle, his idea of throwing
it out was to donate it to the centre where he sometimes taught self
defence. They didn't expect him on a regular basis--CI5 did not operate on
a schedule--so they wouldn't notice at first that he did not come around
on Mondays.

He sat, one hand on the battered box which held the paints, and tried to
decide if he was doing the right thing by taking a share of the artists'
flat. Maybe it would be better to just give his extra time to the kids at
the centre. Yet in the middle of the night the centre couldn't take his
time, and the centre couldn't give him what he was looking for right now.
He didn't have to keep his share of the flat for long, after all. Just as
long as it took to get all this out of his system.

Whatever "this" was. Mid-life crisis? The same thing which sent happily
married middle-aged men running off with chorus girls? Only he wasn't
middle aged. Thirty three. Young, most people would say.

Bodie was younger. A couple of years, but it seemed more, sometimes. It
was the perennial child which Bodie exhibited, especially to his partner.
The sort of thing which caused him to wolf down Swiss roll on an op, or
give a Tarzan yell before leaping. Bodie....

Doyle shook his head, driving the image of his partner away from him. He
refused to think about Bodie. No. He needed to...he needed...he needed a
good wank and an early night, he decided. Slowly, he began his evening
rituals: checking the locks, bathing, brushing his teeth. Then, he turned
back his bed and got out his collection of magazines. Naked, he lay on his
bed, idly rubbing at his cock while he flipped pages. Some of the pictured
women caused a moment of warmth, and he worked to excite himself. Slowly,
however, he stopped paging through the magazine, letting it fall shut as
he was caught up in mental visions from the far past. He remembered
pumping an unknown man's cock at a party at the old flat, and how it had
been to hold still while fingers poked lube up his arse, getting him ready
for the cock.

It had never been great, being fucked. Good enough to get off on, good
enough to do it again, but never great. Better to be doing the fucking, he
remembered. Young. Too young to spend any time on your partner, intent
only on hunting the elusive next fuck. He recalled the nights when he had
fucked two or three an evening both men and women, and the one mad weekend
when he'd been taken by five men, one after the other. Drunk. He'd been
wild and drunk and a fool.

The memories weren't helping. Quite the opposite.

So he let his mind drift back only a few months ago, to a young woman who
had shared herself with him and given him the most incredible blow job.
Just thinking about it was enough to lift both his spirits and his flesh.
The feel of her lips...watching the dark cap of her hair as she bobbed up
and down for his pleasure, the skill of her fingers....

Doyle came, gasping, milking himself hard, and then falling back on the
bed while he recovered, his hand rubbing at his abdomen, his body singing
with the release of tension. He yawned, and forced himself to get up and
go clean himself up. Ten minutes later he was asleep.

Bodie was in a mood the next day, one of those dark spells where he
glowered at the world. The man needed exercise, Doyle decided, and after a
morning of phones and files he enticed Bodie down to the gym. Two hours of
the modified karate which CI5 currently favoured and the smile came back
to Bodie's face.

What was coming to Doyle's face was a bruise. He had miscalculated once,
and Bodie had gotten in a good one. Knowing that Bodie sported a few
bruises himself, thanks to Doyle's fast feet and clever hands, made it
bearable.

The bruise had some interesting side effects. Since it gave him a twinge
to smile, he was a sombre back-up to Bodie when they went to haunt the
haunts of the gun-running crowd. Surprising, how many people didn't mind
talking about buys which must have occurred four or five years in the
past. It was the current deals they were closed mouthed about. Memories
were faulty and booze made them more so, and on top of that, there were
deals which divided the results of other deals, and then combined them
with yet other deals. Guns, bought at different times than ammunition,
traded together and then sold separately again.

It was lucky they even came up with a name, but "Paulson" was mentioned on
three different occasions, and so they did not go home empty handed.

Bodie had been all black leather that night, wearing one of those oddly
pristine combinations that made Doyle look scruffy by comparison. Doyle
had been content to play second fiddle to Bodie in this environment, to
buy the drinks and keep his mouth shut while Bodie spoke to former friends
and acquaintances. Bodie did the same for him when they spoke to one of
Doyle's grasses.

Black leather.

It wasn't easy to get to sleep that night.

Monday was a relief. They spent the day getting certain visitors of
importance safely from the airport to the hotel, from the hotel to the
meeting, from the meeting back to hotel, and were off early. Doyle turned
down an offer to join Bodie for a meal, picking up Chinese on the way to
The Flat. He parked several blocks away, not only to be prudent but
because parking was less plentiful than he had thought.

He ate sitting in utter silence in the strange kitchen, glad he had
thought to bring his own beer, because while tea and a teapot was
available, he could find no cups. He had his r/t with him, but he hoped it
would stay silent.

After the meal, he set out to explore the place. He made a quick check for
bugs, prodded by professionalism and paranoia, and was glad to find
nothing obvious. He would bring a kit and do a proper job next time, he
told himself. Today was reserved for breaking and entering. He had his
kit, professional tools lifted off a second storey man back when he was a
copper, fine steel tools in a purpose-built case of felt and leather.

He started with the locker reserved for the char. It was not locked, and
considering the contents, there wasn't any need for it to be. Packets,
bottles, rags, mops, brooms, and a sweeper. It was on the end, closest to
the front door. The next in line was locked with a padlock. Doyle timed
himself, and was holding it open in less than four minutes. He grinned.
Nothing like keeping one's hand in, in a good cause. He could just imagine
what George Cowley would say if one of his flatmates turned out to be a
terrorist--or even a garden variety criminal.

This locker was crammed full. A man's coat, several years out of style,
hung on the hook. Condoms, salves, lubricants plain and flavoured, filled
one drawer. Coffee cups and other crockery, some packages of dried soups,
and some canned food sat on the shelf. There was a wind-up alarm clock
there as well. Another drawer of dildos and various odd devices which did
not bear close scrutiny, but which Doyle looked over quite completely.

The next locker took even less time to get into, but that was because it
was Topper's and Doyle had caught two numbers of the combination on the
previous visit. No surprises. He left it open when he finished.

The third, which had a double lock, took more than a half hour of work,
and he stopped twice to stretch cramped fingers and once to take a cup
from Topper's locker and go and make himself some tea. It was a good thing
he was in no hurry, he decided as he went back to the chore.

Inside was the biggest collection of porn magazines he had ever seen. The
locker was stacked top to bottom with them. Some were common, some were
like nothing he had come across before, even in his years with the vice
squad. At least, Doyle discovered after he had pulled them all out and,
one by one, replaced them in the same order, none of them were the really
kinky things. No kiddie porn, or snuff mags, or any that featured scat or
pissing. But there was one which featured people and animals--including a
spread with actors made up to look like the court of Catherine of Russia,
and which also featured horses--and one which had entirely too much
contortion and manacles for his taste.

All the drawers had been removed from this locker except one, and in that
was a bottle of lotion, glass, a cup and an alarm clock.

After he got all that back in place he had to stop and wash his hands--the
magazines were dirty in more than one meaning of the word and some of them
must have been decades old--and get another cup of tea. The next two
lockers were a breeze in comparison. They were used by artists and
actually contained art equipment, paint and small canvases. It was clear
two people shared both compartments. There were several works in progress
stored inside as well. Talent, Doyle decided, but one was untrained or
unrestrained, and the other seemed to have a problem with perspective with
which Doyle sympathized completely.

The next locker had an easy padlock and simple contents. An alarm clock,
condoms, magazines, plates and silverware, tall candles in elegant glass
holders, a selection of romantic cards with coloured envelopes, a stack of
unpaid bills--Zach Thomas, Doyle noted, was at the end of his creditor's
patience--and a scrapbook/diary with details of his sexual encounters and
evaluations of his performance. The man thought a lot of himself.

The locker on the end, fastened with another small padlock, obviously
belonged to the writer. There was an electric typewriter, a stack of
ribbons, several reams of paper, at least one of every correction medium
ever invented, and files and files of typed material. A single coffee cup
and a single fork and a small travel alarm gave testimony to his solitary
pursuits.

Unexceptional, Doyle decided as he closed the last locker and went back to
the one after Topper's, the one with the world class collection of naughty
magazines. Eighty-five percent of them were straight, and it took a little
work to find one which had a segment in it which featured men. Doyle took
the magazine and an alarm clock with him to the magnificent bedroom.

The bed was comfortable. He bounced on it, testing it out, while setting
the clock. Then, he went to the bathroom and gave the shower a test run as
well. Plenty of hot water and marvellous towels, huge thick ones made it a
lovely experience. It was strange to dry off in the midst of the painted
nudes on the bathroom walls. Clean, with the towel around his shoulders
because his hair was not quite dry, Doyle climbed back onto the bed to
peruse the magazine. Fuzzy pictures, most of them, and standard stuff,
too. Big man in leather feeding cock to a smaller man on his knees. Big
man spreading his arse for an even bigger man's horse-sized cock.

Here was one. Two bodies, entwined, lost in shadows. Highlights which were
almost artistic, and faces anonymous. Yeah. Just enough fuel for his
imagination. His hand started to move blindly searching for and finding
his cock, and he became so caught up in his fantasy that he almost forgot
to pull the towel over his spurting penis when he came.

He fell asleep a few minutes later, the towel pushed off onto the floor
and his hand trailing off the edge of the bed after it. He woke up several
times in the night to unusual sounds from other parts of the building, but
he did that at home as well, and he only turned over and went back to
sleep once he had identified what had roused him.

Well rested when the alarm went off at five, he spent a few minutes
returning all his borrowed items and hiding all clues to his snooping.
Next time, he decided, he would bring a track suit and go directly out to
exercise. As it was, he was forced to drive home, change, run, come home
and eat and be at work at nine.

Work was a complete contrast to the peace of the morning. Bodie was full
of stories about his latest girl. Doyle listened with patience to a
recital of how long and golden her hair was, how she was a natural blonde,
wink wink, how she liked to lick--everything, wink, nod--and how she was
insatiable--leer.

Doyle did his best to show interest, to respond as he always had, and
fortunately, they were put to work immediately upon arrival and he did not
have to pretend for long. Cowley had a new lead on the weapons from the
Netherton case. Half the morning was expended in discovering the
individual who had once been a partner of Netherton's was dead, the
afternoon was spent finding and talking to the man's daughter.

Stelle Ackerson knew a few more names, associates of Netherton's, and she
had known Mrs Netherton and spoke of how pretty she had been. Doyle had
let Bodie handle the interview. He sat back and watched his partner pour
on the charm. Doyle let his eye trace the shape of Bodie's body as the man
leaned forward. Bodie brought his hands to the front, as well, and both
actions made him look smaller, less threatening. And he smiled. Killer
smile, that, and when he stopped smiling it pulled his mouth into a bit of
a pout. He played her like a trout and she told all she knew.

"You didn't try for her," Doyle said when they were back in their car.
"Could have, you know. She really fancied you."

"She did, didn't she?" Bodie responded, pleased. "Maybe after the case is
closed and it's proved she had nothing to do with it, I'll look her up.
Right now, I've got my hands--and other parts of my anatomy--full with
Tammy."

Doyle snorted his laughter.

"She has," Bodie added, "a sister. Or so she tells me. Let's double,
Friday. Assuming, as always, that our social secretary has nothing else
planned for that night."

"What's wrong with her?"

Bodie cocked his head to one side. "Wrong with her?" he echoed.

"Yeah, the sister. If she was anything special, you'd have made a play for
her yourself."

"Haven't met her, have I?" Bodie explained.

"Ah. So this is a blind date."

"Yeah, but judging by Tammy, you won't be unhappy."

"I," Doyle told him, "remember the last time you set me up with a blind
date."

"When did I...oh."

Doyle bared his teeth at him and said, "I see you remember it as well as I
do."

"How was I to know she had tattoos?" Bodie wanted to know.

"Over fifty percent of her body. You, of course, did not see the ones she
had on her lower abdomen. Unless your fantasy is to stick it into a nest
of snakes?"

"Can't say it is," Bodie admitted. "Snakes?" he repeated.

"A little twist on the Medusa story, she told me."

"Charming."

"Isn't it."

Bodie recalled himself to their current discussion and said, "But Tammy's
sister won't be like that. Come on, mate. Live dangerously!"

Doyle made a rude sound.

"We'll make it just a movie and a meal. Can take her home early, if you
like," Bodie said generously.

"You already set it up, didn't you?" Doyle said.

"Well, if you couldn't make it, I could always ask Anson or Pruett. I did
tell her I had a good-looking mate, though, and are you sure either of
them really qualifies?"

Doyle said, "In low lighting," but he was thinking, 'Does he think I'm
good looking?' and his heart was beating just a little faster.

"Come on, Doyle. Only a few hours of your time," Bodie wheedled.

"I'll kill you if you're dropping me in it," Doyle warned.

"If she turns out to look like Godzilla, I will personally buy you a
bottle...."

"Of whatever I choose?" Doyle interrupted him.

"Well--as long as it doesn't cost more than...."

Doyle interrupted him again. "Whatever I choose."

"You win." Bodie gave in, with a glance which showed he had noted the
steel in Doyle's voice. "Friday," he said.

"Friday," Doyle agreed, even as he called himself fifty kinds of fool.
Double dates with Bodie hurt now. Watching him all over some woman, and
all the time Doyle was supposed to be doing the same to her friend. Hard
to do when your instincts were to kick both the ladies out the door
and....

Bodie was back on the subject of Tammy's charms, and Doyle didn't listen.
They were home early enough so that after Bodie dropped him off, Doyle had
time to hit a few of the shops. He bought tea mugs, two big ceramic ones
with Neptune and mermaids chasing each other in a blue and green sea, fish
tails creating the handles, and two plates to match. Flatware with black
handles and squat modern shapes, and squared off glasses with heavy bases.
Sets for two. He let his imagination conjure up a heavy-eyed young man
with bedroom eyes who....

Blond. Make him a blond, and short. Shorter than Bodie, anyway. Make him
young, and a little shy and serious. Opposite in every way of a certain
blue-eyed partner. Yeah....

"Sir? May I help you?"

Doyle realized he was blocking the exit, apologized and left at once. He
went home to a healthy dinner and an early night. It was just as well, for
the next few days were full. Cowley kept them running from one transport
company to another, checking invoices for a shipment which had taken a
specific route on a specific day. In this case, bounty was the problem,
rather than lack of information, for eighteen vehicles fit the
description. As happened so often, Cowley took the information they
provided and switched them to another assignment without explanation.

Friday night, they got off duty with only enough time to shower and dress
before Bodie was around with the car. Doyle sat beside Bodie in the cart
smelling the enticing scent of Bodie's aftershave and saying nothing as
they drove to Tammy's flat. Tammy greeted Bodie with a squeal and a smack
of her red lips, and Doyle took the opportunity to look at the sister.

The woman wore an odd look on her face, half apologetic, half resigned.
She was very like her sister, and yet a perfect example of how arbitrary
standards of beauty are. He face was only a trifle broader than her
sister's, her eyes only slightly smaller, her mouth only a bit wider. Yet
Tammy was beautiful and Terry very close to plain. Doyle introduced
himself, polite and warm, and saw the uncertainty in her eyes fade away,
replaced by gratitude and hope. It was the hope which scared him.

He drew her to one side and spun a story of a true love out of town, and
he saw that she only half believed him. Men, he assumed, had told her a
great many tales with the message that she was not what they were looking
for. All kinds of lies, and several brands of the truth. "We'll have a
good time," he promised her as Bodie and Tammy finished their physical
greetings and finally turned their attention to the rest of the world.

The meal was fine, with lively four-way conversations which left nobody
out. Terry had a fine sense of the absurd and a solid practicality. Doyle
wondered how many frogs she would have to kiss to find a prince. He was a
frog himself at the moment. Did her sister Tammy think she had found a
prince in Bodie? Or did she know about his webbed feet and not care?
Bodie, for all his handsome face and clever banter was no more on the
market than Doyle was.

The movie was a comedy, and they laughed. Afterwards, Doyle dropped Bodie
and Tammy off at her place and drove Terry home, and as he pulled up at
the address she had given him, he surprised himself by asking her if she
would like to go to bed.

"Not the faithful type?" she asked, one hand on the handle of the door.
"Or do you think because I'm not pretty, I'm easy? Men think I should be
ever so grateful for a one night stand, you know."

"No. Did you ever," he asked her, leaning on the wheel, his face turned
towards her in the dim light, "love somebody desperately, somebody who
couldn't see you at all, who didn't even care about you?"

Terry laughed. Doyle made a face. Of course she probably had crushes on
men who didn't even know she was alive. He felt a growing bond of sympathy
for her.

"Yeah, well, you understand." He tried a smile. "I wasn't really lying.
I'm committed, even if...."

"What kind of woman," she wanted to know, "wouldn't find you attractive?"

Doyle shrugged. He actually knew quite a few who thought him common, and
others who were willing to spend the night in bed with him, but wanted
nothing besides the use of his mouth, his hands, his cock. Most men, Bodie
included, never even looked at him romantically. Thank God.

"It's an intriguing offer, you know. I've never been to bed with a really
good looking man. Not too many men at all, if you want to know the truth.
Usually I get left off at the kerb with a handshake. It wouldn't be much
fun for you."

"Negative thinking. Can't have that!" he told her. "It will be fun. It
just won't be anything more serious. I wouldn't want to hurt you," he
added.

"Do you have...anything...to use, I mean?" Even in the dark he could see
her blush.

"Yeah." He turned to her, grinning. "Several somethings--if you want to
make a night of it!"

She laughed, almost lightly. "There's something I've never had. Twice in
one night." She seemed to make up her mind, saying, "If you really want
to...."

He was out of the car and opening her door, handing her out as if she were
a princess, and she laughed and gave him her arm. They went up three
flights of stairs, and went into her flat. It was small, clean, and the
bed was a double. He had her naked and in it in ten minutes. Her body
surprised him with the curves her dress had hidden. She had skin like
milk. Like Bodie's, he thought, but thrust that idea from him, refusing to
think of Bodie now.

He made it a night for her, accepting what she gave but making her
pleasure his focus. His mouth between her legs was new to her, and she
adored having her breasts sucked. She touched his penis as if it were made
of gold, she was wide-eyed as he taught her the proper way to encase a
hard cock in rubber, and she cried, "It's so big, so big!" as he pushed
into her, so that he wondered for a moment if she were a virgin.

She knew what to do, however, and she did it moderately well, and he
taught her a few tricks. An excellent pupil, in fact, he acknowledged when
they joined a second time an hour later, and the third time at dawn.

"She's a fool," Terry told Doyle as he dressed. She didn't have to say to
whom she referred.

Doyle paused and smiled at her, holding back a yawn. "We're all fools," he
told her. "A man with any sense would stay with you instead of chasing
impossible dreams."

"It was a wonderful night," she told him, and he kissed her before heading
out to his car. He went home, changed into running gear and jogged for an
hour before cleaning up and picking up Bodie.

Bodie was red-eyed and lazy with satisfaction and he was glad to let Doyle
drive. "So, what brand do you want?" Bodie asked when they were underway.

Doyle glanced over at his sprawled form and lifted an eyebrow. Bodie
understood him perfectly and said, "I owe you a bottle, mate."

"Nah," Doyle replied, watching the traffic.

"I suppose you'll want the same as Cowley. Pure malt?"

"Nothing, Bodie. It's okay. She was a nice girl."

"Anything closer to a dog and she would have barked," Bodie said with
careless cruelty. "Name your poison."

No way to win this one, and he wasn't in the mood to go into details about
his night. To explain any of it would be to explain too much. "Yeah. Pure
malt. What Cowley gets." He could always save it and present it to their
boss on some future occasion.

"Next pay packet," Bodie promised. "Unless you want to loan me a bit?"

Doyle grinned. "Not a chance."

"I know you've got it," Bodie said.

Doyle shook his head. "I've got plans for my money, mate."

"Retiring to the south of France?" Bodie asked.

"That's a thought." He decided to change the subject. "Wonder what the old
man will have us chasing today."

"Paperwork. According to rumour yesterday," Bodie amended.

Doyle made an unhappy sound. Paperwork, and on a Saturday.

"Yeah."

But they didn't. Bodie was sent to test fire new pistols, stoppages having
recently hit an all time high, and Doyle went to back up Jax in an
investigation of a car bomb which had taken out part of the wall of a
residence only a few houses from Safe House Four. Coincidence bothered
Cowley.

They got Sunday off. Not that it was a regular thing--most CI5 agents
worked at least one Sunday a month and two was more common. Sunday was not
a popular day to have off. Few of the agents were of a religious nature
and Sunday was not the best day to have free if you needed to shop, or if
you were looking for anything other than a chance to catch up with your
sleep.

They worked Monday, and that evening Doyle turned down a chance to go out
to eat with Bodie and several others, in order to go to The Flat. He took
the kit--an assemblage the size of a small suitcase--and checked the flat
for bugs. Nothing. He also traced the phone line through the walls. There
was no phone in the apartment, but there had been once, and he made sure
the ends of the line were sealed off properly. He ate fruit he had
brought, "borrowed" Topper's tea cup again, and spent the night in exotic
comfort.

The first of the month brought a long-awaited pay rise and, when he phoned
Topper to inquire about sharing another month, the news that Friday's Zach
Thomas had thrown in the towel and would be vacating that week. None of
the others had objected when Doyle's name was suggested; being a charter
member was in his favour. Was Doyle interested?

Yes. Doyle told him at once that he was interested, and offered, with the
joy of the rise still in him, to bring the first month's rent and the
deposit by at once. Topper, unused to such promptness, laughed and took
him up on it.

Friday.

His own day!

Unsure of why it meant so much to him to finally have a "day", Doyle went
about setting up his one-seventh of a house. He bought a fine lock. His
first Friday was spent reinforcing the door of his new locker with steel,
adding new hinges and installing the lock. After scrubbing down the inside
of the locker and painting it, he impatiently waited for it to dry and
then put in his place settings for two.

Place settings for two, he thought as he rested with a cup of hot tea.
Two.

He had given some thought to the problem of finding a man. He did not want
to find a gay bar and just pick up someone. He knew gay pubs were traps
for someone in his profession. He wanted what anonymity he could have, as
well as the maximum amount of control.

Before he left on Saturday morning, he had slid a note under the door of
the first locker, which most probably belonged to Mark Lane.

Bodie and Doyle were to take over from Miller and Ford Saturday morning.
It was a standard stakeout. They were loitering in a pub, keeping an eye
on the building across the street. Drugs, Cowley thought, but those who
slithered in and out were much older than expected, and other forms of
vice remained a possibility.

"Had a good night, did you?" Bodie asked, when the other topics of
conversation had dwindled and they had been reduced to talking about
Liverpool's chances for entirely too long.

"Eh? Oh, very quiet. Caught up on my reading," Doyle told him, partly
truthfully. He had ended the evening with yet another of the magazines
from Tuesday's collection, and his good right hand.

"Is that what it's called now?" Bodie asked, lifting his eyebrow in that
suggestive way he had. "You weren't home, confess it. I know, because I
tried to call."

"Call?"

"I *was* going to honour you with my presence," Bodie said, assuming an
air of offended dignity. "Or is it that you just aren't answering your
phone? Dangerous, that, if Father wants you."

"Tammy stood you up, did she?" Doyle said, shrewdly guessing what caused
his partner to consider spending the evening.

"No. But she did have to go the airport to pick up some cousin."

"You could have gone with her," Doyle suggested.

"It's against my principles to show too much interests in a bird's
relatives. They get the wrong idea."

"The faint clang of wedding bells?" Doyle asked.

"Not this one. But, she does fancy the idea of moving into my flat. It's
ever so much nicer than hers," Bodie added, doing a credible imitation of
a female falsetto.

Yet another middle-aged man entered the building across the street. The
next two were beyond middle age, frankly old. Doyle frowned. It would be
too obvious to sit here all day taking notes, but according to his mental
abacus that made thirty.

"So, where were you?" Bodie wanted to know.

"Out," Doyle said, his attention more on the scene across the street. The
man who had just come out was walking swiftly, his head up, his movements
abrupt. High?

"Come on. You can tell me her name," Bodie wheedled.

"Sorry. Not a girl," Doyle said.

"It's me, your partner, your dearest...."

"Somebody's going to have to go in there, see what's going on," Doyle
said. "Have we got anyone over fifty on the squad?"

"Couple men and women on the support staff. Jerome down in records must be
almost sixty."

Doyle shook his head. "He can barely walk. It has to be somebody who can
handle himself in a tight spot. It almost has to be...."

"Cowley!" Bodie caught his thought, and laughed out loud.

"Yeah, Cowley," Doyle grinned. "Do you suppose he yearns for active status
occasionally?"

"All I know is *you* get to be the one who suggests it to him!"

Doyle cut his eyes at him. "Coward!"

Bodie didn't deny it, but he didn't like the idea, even as a joke.
"Hungry?" he asked. "I'm going to order."

They had been sitting there long enough to know what looked good, and both
of them chose quickly. Doyle took advantage of the change in subject to
excuse himself. It wasn't so much that he needed to relieve his
bladder--although that turned out to be a necessity as well--as that he
needed to get away from Bodie. When he came back to the table, Doyle
decided, it had better be with a whole new subject of conversation. He
racked his brain.

All for nothing. A new waitress had come on duty for the lunch crowd, a
tall redhead with outstanding...ah, attributes. Almost too many to
mention, which did not keep Bodie's admiring voice from mentioning them as
soon as she was out of earshot. Doyle sat, half annoyed, half relieved. He
was safe from further prying questions from Bodie. At the same time, he
couldn't help feeling a slow burn of resentment against the woman, the
stranger, who so totally had captured his partner's attention.

Sheer jealousy, he told himself. The sooner he found a man to focus all
his passion on, the better. At the moment, however, he was forced to give
all his attention to the job. It was clear enough that Bodie's mind was
elsewhere!

The food was good. Doyle ate more than he usually would, and after the
meal he left Bodie to do the job--and flirt with the waitress over
coffee--while he went for a walk. Pretending to window-shop gave him an
opportunity to cross to the other side of the street, to look more closely
at the gentlemen who entered the door marked 14 and climbed the stairs.
They all seemed to have a furtive air. He waited to see what they looked
like coming out.

Number 16 sold art supplies, and from the window he had a good view. He
watched long enough to see that the men emerged with various positive
expressions on their faces and...shaved? Definitely shaved. Doyle stood,
perplexed, and at first did not hear the saleslady as she asked him if she
could help him find something.

When he emerged from the shop he had both hands full and two wrapped
packages under his arm. He'd also made his pay rise redundant and was, in
fact, shocked at the amount he'd spent. Dazed, he went around the corner
to put his purchases in the car before he went back to Bodie.

"Where the hell have you been?" Bodie wanted to know.

"She turn you down, then?" Doyle asked kindly.

"Have a date for Friday," Bodie countered, patting his pocket where his
little black book--in his case, brown--resided.

"Of course," Doyle said, having expected nothing else. "Bodie, why would
those men come out of there," he inclined his head towards number 14,
"shaved?"

"My god, we're watching a barber shop?" Bodie said, feigning shock. "Dens
of iniquity, those are. Some of them have," he leaned forward, "naughty
magazines!"

"No!" Doyle responded with proper horror.

Bodie nodded, maintaining his air of morality. "And bay rum!"

"Rum?" Doyle asked, puzzled.

"Bay rum, you ignorant toad. What some old men get doused with after a
trip to the barber. You've smelled it."

"Oh," Doyle said, recalling the scent.

"Always seemed a waste of rum to me, splashing it about."

"I'm going to call in," Doyle said.

"Ah-ah, Raymond. Your just had your stroll. My turn!" Bodie said, and left
to go to the car.

Doyle was left alone. He ordered tea, and it came and he had almost
drained it before Bodie came ambling back.

"We're to go. Cowley wants us back in. Something's on for tonight."

"Good." Doyle tossed back the last of his tea and stood up.

"What have you got back there?" Bodie pointed to the back seat as they
settled into the car, strapping in as per Cowley's latest instructions.
Both of them hated the feeling of being restrained, of reduced mobility,
but after losing two agents whom doctors said could have been saved if
they had been wearing seat belts, Cowley had laid down the law.

"That? Painting supplies," Doyle said.

"The walls in that flea-trap they moved you into could use a touch-up,"
Bodie agreed, deliberately misunderstanding.

"Cretin."

Bodie grinned and pulled out into traffic. Fortunately, from Doyle's point
of view, a little old lady cut him off at the corner and all Bodie's
attention went to avoiding an accident and finding the exact words to
describe her actions and ancestry.

Every minute from that point on was full. The "something" on that night
was the bust of an industrialist who had been exporting more than pipe to
the oil countries. A day to get in place, then a carefully orchestrated
raid, and two full days of mop-up.

And Friday off.

Doyle and his painting supplies arrived before nine in the morning, and as
he was unloading his car he saw two young women who were probably Mona and
Sandra, Wednesday and Thursday, coming out the door. Healthy looking young
women, athletic, with hair cropped short and arms full. He waited until
they were gone to go up. Right now he didn't want to think about the
others who were sharing the flat. Reality had no place in a fantasy.

A whole day. A whole Friday. Gathering clouds said it would be chilly and
wet later in the day. Doyle went early to the shops, buying a bit of
cheese, bread and fruit for his dinner, and a bottle of red wine. Once
back, he put the items which needed refrigeration away and went to unpack
his art supplies.

The easel unfolded, and he tried it out, adjusting the screws until the
height was right. The three already stretched and primed canvases he set
aside and he began to assemble his own, his fingers remembering
instructions which were fifteen years old without any prodding from his
memory. Soon the astringent chemical smells were making him light-headed,
the results were scattered everywhere, and Doyle was investigating the
tubes of paint he had bought.

A rattle at the door surprised him, but it was only the char, a leathery
lady of late middle-age with impossibly brassy hair who waited while he
slid the chain off the lock, and after a mumbled greeting went in and
cleaned the bathroom. She was gone almost at once, and he recalled that
she only came in for half an hour a day.

He painted Bodie. He knew the moment he put a brush into paint what the
picture would be. It wasn't a portrait. It was a series of shapes, blocky,
powerful, camouflage greens and browns, hidden touches of blue and the
long rust and red phallic shape which might have been a gun and might have
been something else. Everything which wasn't Bodie was jungle; he played
with the trailing vines and aggressive vegetation, spending much more time
on them than he did on the shape which said to him "Bodie," and had no
physical resemblance to his partner at all.

Only when a knock came at the door did Doyle suddenly realize that it was
getting dark in the room, that he was stiff and his fingers hurt.

"Who is it?" he called out, putting his brush down as if it had suddenly
grown heavy and then wiping his hands on the rag which had been a face
cloth that morning.

"Mark Lane," came the masculine voice, and Doyle frowned. Mark Lane.
Sunday. He went and opened the door the length of the chain, one hand on
the gun he had scooped up from where it lay on his jacket on the wooden
chair. What he saw caused him to go put the gun away and then come back to
open the door.

The man was not threatening. His hands were empty. Doyle studied his
visitor as the man walked in. He was an inch or two shorter than Doyle,
with a plain face under thinning brown hair. His big hands seemed
uncertain of what to do with themselves, and the brown eyes gave the
impression of someone who was nervous and shy.

"I think I remember you. At a party, years ago." Doyle's memory didn't
provide anything else except the mental image of a young man wearing plaid
bell-bottoms.

"I wondered if you would remember," Lane said, a smile warming his face as
he reached out a hand to shake Doyle's.

"Sorry about the paint," Doyle said. His hand still wore several colours,
but at least the paint wasn't wet. Lane's handshake was firm, Doyle noted,
and lasted just the right length of time.

"No problem. Nice to see somebody in the old group actually still paints,"
Lane said. He was looking at the picture, studying it.

"Just taken it up again. Stress reducer," Doyle said. He had the impulse
to cover the painting, to put it away, but he managed to subdue his
instincts, not wanting to draw even more attention to the canvas. "It's
not finished," he added, when Lane kept looking at it.

"I would have said so," Lane said mildly. "The secret of painting is
knowing when to stop," he added.

"Some of us shouldn't even begin," Doyle said with a smile. "I was just
about to make some tea. Would you like some?"

"Yes. Lovely," Lane added, when he saw the cups Doyle produced. As Doyle
filled the kettle, he said, "I was surprised when I got your note."

"It wasn't an easy one to write," Doyle admitted.

"I must confess, I don't remember quite all I would like to remember. Are
you...new to...ah, to...."

"It's like the painting. I'm coming back to it after a very long time
away. I thought you might know somebody to recommend to me."

"Yes, I understood that from the note. Frankly, I came to look at you,
Ray. I wished to know what type you were before I risked both my
reputation and someone else's well-being. But you're not a raving queen or
a leather boy, are you? You...to be quite honest, you don't have the look
of a man who needs any help finding his bed partners!"

"I hate the bars," Doyle said. It was partly true, after all. He poured
the water into the tea pot. "Do you take milk? I hope not. I forgot to get
any."

Lane shook his head. "This will be quite nice as it is, thank you,
although I do like...." He paused, looking around, and then pointed to a
cupboard. "Sugar, in the blue jar." He got up to get it himself.

Doyle poured the tea, handing the fuller cup to his guest and then taking
a cautious sip of his own. He only realized as it slid down his throat how
parched he had become.

"What...precisely...have you in mind?" Lane asked, after tasting his own
tea and setting the cup down.

"Looking for your cast-offs," Doyle said, flashing a grin when Lane gave a
start. "Topper said you had a few."

"Topper...." It was obvious that Lane had been going to say something
unkind, but had bit back the words.

Doyle lifted an eyebrow, silently asking a question.

"A man doesn't like to admit to his failures," Lane said,
self-depreciatingly. "Or, it could be said there was something wrong about
each of them. I'm not sure my cast-offs are what you need."

"But failures or not, you'd know something about the men. Know which ones
might be interested in a short term relationship. Just a bit of fun,"
Doyle said. "Nothing serious."

"Easy enough. That's all they were for me," Lane said, his eyes reflecting
a sadness, "short term. Nothing serious."

"Are you looking for something serious?" Doyle wanted to know.

"It comes of getting old, I suppose." Since Lane was only a few years
older than Doyle, Doyle made a depreciating gesture to indicate the man
was not old.

"Oh, you, you handsome types, it doesn't happen for you," Lane told him,
smiling faintly. "Have anything you want, for as long as you want!"

Doyle thought of Bodie, and gave a sour smile.

Lane noticed. "Your lips are smiling, but not your eyes. Some man break
your heart, Sugar Ray?"

"Oh hell. You remember that old name too?" Doyle laughed and shook his
head.

"If I remember, you were rather belligerent. It did fit." Lane stated. He
didn't let Doyle change the subject. "What's his name?"

"No names. Let's just say that I'm trying to forget Mr
Tall-dark-handsome-and-straight."

"So anybody will do?" Lane inquired, very casually.

"If he's clean, discreet, healthy and not looking for anything more than a
roll in the hay, yeah. Do you have somebody in mind?"

Lane sipped his tea, as if taking in courage before he spoke. "Well...I
volunteer."

Doyle, who had brought his cup up to his mouth, paused, and slowly put it
down again.

"I'm sorry," Lane apologized at once. "It was just a thought. Of course
you'll want someone younger. More exciting. It's just that, well, I am
clean, and moderately healthy--though I've an allergy to cigarette smoke,
I'm afraid--and I am discreet." He laughed, dryly, and said, "You needn't
worry about expectations. I never have any."

Doyle looked at him, thinking furiously. It's true that he'd had in mind a
few handsome young men. This plain faced man with the quiet air wasn't
what he had imagined at all. He was, however, as different from Bodie as
could be found.

"We could try it," Doyle heard himself saying. "For awhile."

Lane looked absolutely stunned. He recovered himself almost at once, but
an animated look stayed in his brown eyes. "Decent of you, old boy," he
joked.

"You never expected me to agree, did you?" Doyle asked.

"I wasn't joking, you know," Lane said apologetically. "About handsome
men. If they're straight, they go for the prettiest girls. How often do
you see a plain girl with a handsome man? Oh, yes, occasionally, but," he
shrugged, "it's not the rule, is it? It's the same with gays. You go to
the bars and there are all these handsome studs, cruising. Looking for
their match--or better. Some of them are even looking for mirrors, you
know. Their own doubles. It's very Narcissus. Oh, sometimes a man like me
gets lucky. Bobby has a fight with Vince and storms out with the first man
he sees, or Tony comes too late to the Garden, and makes do with the
second string. Usually, though, it's two types who go for those of *us* in
the middle rank who stand between the gods and the mud at the bottom of
the pond. One sort is looking for what he can get. A meal, a sugar daddy,
a favour, a loan, perhaps even a place to sleep. They learn quickly if
there's little to be milked from this particular cow. The other type is,"
he smiled, "like me. Always looking. Never quite successful at it."

Doyle said, "What are you looking for?"

Lane smiled. "An excellent question. At first, when we were young, it was
for thrills, for notches on the bed post. Then it was for grand romances,
for meaning in it all. I've passed that, now. I just don't want to end up
a lonely old queen buying, one way or the other, the time of young men."
Lane shuddered theatrically.

"Have a few years to go before then, surely?" Doyle assured him with a bit
of a smile.

"It's closer than I like." Lane took another sip of his tea. "Are you
looking for a bottom?"

Doyle blinked for a moment, then understood. Was he? Slowly, he said, "I
never liked it much. Being fucked."

"No one of the old crowd knew how to do it," Lane said. "The young are
impatient."

"Going to teach me how to do it right?" Doyle asked.

"If you like." Lane showed no emotion, no carnal eagerness, only a calm
practicality.

"I think so," Doyle said. He couldn't really imagine going to bed with
Lane. It was like considering bedding a woman who didn't attract him. Yet
there was something in Lane's very calmness, in his quiet practicality,
which appealed. Doyle knew instinctively that Lane was experienced, and
kind. Too, there was the knowledge that however calm his outward
demeanour, Lane was pleased at the prospect of bedding him. Doyle was in
the mood to do a kindness.

"Tonight?" Lane asked, apparently more interested in his tea than in the
answer.

"If you've nothing else on." Doyle was equally as casual about it.

"My calendar is completely clear," Lane answered.

"I want to clean up first," Doyle said, waving at his painting endeavours.
He took the last swallow of his tea too quickly, making that sound Bodie
teased him about, the one he usually compared to drains. Lane was too
polite to have even appeared to notice, much less comment on it.

"Do you need help?" Lane asked, standing as well.

"No, thanks anyway," Doyle said, with a wave that asked Lane to sit down
again and finish his tea. Doyle began to clean brushes and cap paints. He
left the picture out to dry on the easel, but he placed it in the corner,
turned so that it couldn't be seen. "I'll need a shower, " he added as he
was finishing up.

Lane, who was clearing away the tea things, said, "Yes, of course."

Doyle entered the warm water of the shower with mixed feelings. A few
coals were warming his belly at the thought of having sex, and a few
butterflies were doing loops a bit higher up as he contemplated the type
of sex. It had been so long.

But it was something he had planned, something he had decided he wanted.
He dried himself, concluded that to put on clothing again would be
redundant, and emerged from the bathroom naked and still towelling his
curls. Lane was there, putting something on the small wooden stand beside
the bed. He straightened up, his eyes wide. He swallowed.

"I think I'll take up painting again, too," Lane said in a raspy voice.

Doyle laughed. "Only if you were better at it than I was--or am!"

"I was told I was technically correct, but that my paintings had no life.
Perhaps I just didn't have enough life in my subjects." It was a
compliment, but not an offensive one, and Doyle's lips turned up. Lane was
letting his eyes take the scenic route from the top of Doyle's artless
curls to the bottom of his long-toed feet. His eyes widened as he noted
scars, but he made no reference to them.

"You're underdressed for the occasion," Doyle said, and stood watching as
Lane stripped. The man was too seasoned to be embarrassed by his
nakedness, but Doyle could see he was keenly aware that his body didn't
have the muscles and his face didn't have the beauty that he saw in Doyle.

He did have a cock that was of a size with Doyle's, and when erect it
would be a trifle longer. Doyle stared down at it, watching its growing
tumescence and thinking about taking cock up the arse. His own genitals
gave an inquiring twitch. He didn't react when Lane came close and touched
his chest, running an exploratory hand over the curve until it settled
over the small brown nub of his nipple.

"What do you like?" Lane asked. "What do you like best?"

"I don't remember," Doyle said, half-truthfully.

"This?" Lane went to his knees, and his mouth closed over the end of
Doyle's penis. Doyle's hands went at once to Lane's shoulders as he braced
himself. Good. Better than good. Doyle's head went back as the pleasure
gathered in his abdomen, spreading out, lifting his cock up hard into the
hot, wet mouth.

Lane changed the angle of his head, allowing more of Doyle's cock to slide
in, and for a few seconds Doyle fucked the willing mouth--until Lane
pulled away. Doyle felt the loss keenly, but he saw that Lane only wanted
to move them to the bed, and he agreed with the idea; his legs weren't
holding up well.

He was flat on his back on satin sheets, and the mouth was on his cock,
sucking, and slick fingers were at his arse, rubbing, opening him, and he
came when two fingers, buried deep, stroked him inside and the mouth
around him began an effort to swallow down all which he poured out.

Panting, Doyle lay unprotesting as Lane climbed on top of him, and began
humping into the hollows of his closed thighs. By the time Doyle was
thinking enough to wonder if he should do more, there was wetness there
and Lane collapsed on him, panting even harder than Doyle had.

"We didn't get very far," Doyle observed a few minutes later.

"Far enough," Lane told him, wryly adding, "One of us thinks he's died and
gone to heaven."

"We barely got started!" Doyle laughingly protested.

"Exactly. So far to go. So much to look forward to!"

"Tonight?" Doyle grinned.

"I have an idea. You go paint another picture. I'll just take a few hours
to recharge my batteries!"

"I have a better idea. You recharge, and I bring back a meal. Chinese?
Chicken?"

"Chinese. Two streets north, three east."

Doyle patted his shoulder and went to clean up. Normally he, too, rested
after sex, but now he was wide awake, too filled with a nervous energy to
relax. He welcomed the idea of a walk in brisk air.

He used the time to think. It was going to work, he told himself as he
strode along, head down because of the steady cold wind. He hadn't once
thought of Bodie as Lane sucked him off. It was good. The man he made love
to didn't have to be Bodie. It wasn't anything like the way Bodie would do
it. Smells, actions, words, all different, he told himself, with
satisfaction.

Waiting for his order in the small shop, inhaling the blended scents of a
hundred exotic spices, knowing they were permeating his clothing and hair
and probably his very skin, he found it easy to think of going back,
eating, and then heading for bed again. This time.... His imagination
toyed with possible variations as he returned.

He came in to find Lane, freshly showered and in a robe, drinking tea. All
of Doyle's new plates were set out and the wine was open and breathing.
He'd left his locker open, Doyle realized, wondering if Lane had taken the
opportunity to look through his things the way he had looked through
everyone else's. If so, there had been little to see. His gun had been
tucked into his jacket pocket, and now he left it there as he hung the
jacket up in his locker and joined Lane at the table. He didn't have to
carry an r/t unless he was on standby or on a job, and he wondered briefly
how he would explain it if he had to bring one here some time. It would be
smartest just to not come here when he was on standby. The thought did not
appeal.

They passed the cartons back and forth, serving up the food, and then they
ate, chatting about the past, about people they had both known and about
the changes which had come about. Topper was discussed, and Zach Thomas,
who had rented Friday before Doyle. According to Lane, Thomas had once
passed out on Friday, slept through Saturday one day when Fillbeck hadn't
come in, and had still been there on Sunday morning when Lane had arrived.
He told it in a droll way, and Doyle found himself laughing aloud.

They put the kitchen to rights together, and went to the bedroom. It was
late now. Doyle checked the doors and curtains again before he took off
his clothing. The yellow lamplight on the reds, blacks and golds gave the
place an Arabian Nights air. Too, it was a flattering light for Lane, who
pulled Doyle down onto the sheets and began a gentle assault on his
buttocks. His intentions were clear, and Doyle did not object. He
cooperated, doing his part by letting Lane have the lead, by lifting his
arse when asked, by holding quite still when, after a thorough
preparation, Lane moved behind him, centred himself, and pushed in.

It did not hurt, as Doyle expected it to. He remembered the tight feeling,
the fullness, but the slow care with which Lane began was new to him.
Pleasure grew, and Doyle reacted, shifting that he might more easily be
penetrated, spreading that Lane might drive in deeper and then deeper
still.

It didn't take Bodie to enjoy this. It didn't take Bodie at all! Doyle's
thoughts were wild as keen delight grew, as he felt his orgasm tumbling to
the surface like oil in a cauldron which had finally come to a boil.
Inside him, Lane pistoned to his own heights, plunging in hard as he came.
Lane pulled out, rolling off the condom which Doyle had not even realized
the man had put on, and then he lay beside Doyle, one hand laxly draped on
Doyle's knee.

When Lane had caught his breath, he said, "I'll let you do that to me in
the morning--if I'm invited to spend the night."

"Deal," Doyle said, and remembered nothing more until morning, when he
woke to find he had not set his alarm, there was no time for him to
discover the joys of Lane's body and if they did not hurry, Fillbeck would
be setting up his typewriter before they had even had a morning shower.

Doyle was out the door, calling his thanks to Lane who had offered to lock
up, and he shaved on his way to work with the electric razor he kept in
the car.

He and Bodie were watching the extremely nice home of one of Cowley's
suspect Whitehall Warriors. Cowley disliked it intensely when men in
authority flaunted the laws of the land. The assignment was the usual
one--they were to note the plates of the cars which brought visitors, and
to photograph those visitors. Very dull work, done from within a dark van.

"Always bleedin' hot or fucking cold," Bodie complained as he joined Doyle
inside the vehicle. Today was the latter variety. The small stove kept
them well supplied with hot soup or tea, and a plastic jug served as a
chamber pot, but it wasn't civilization at its finest. "Nothing to eat as
well. Did you think to bring anything?" he asked Doyle. Doyle, who was
watching the house as Bodie poked through the drawer which served as
cupboard and pantry, grunted out what Bodie interpreted as a "no."

"At least you had breakfast," Bodie moaned.

"Sorry, no. Woke up late," Doyle explained.

"Me, too. In the wrong bed as well," Bodie admitted, with a pleased smirk.
He was waiting for Doyle to ask for more details, but when he didn't,
Bodie was willing to provide them anyway, and went on at length about a
red-headed waitress, Lana.

Doyle was amused--Bodie with Lana, Doyle with Lane--he wished he could
joke about the similarity of the names, but he was smart enough to keep
his mouth shut. He was even more amused when Bodie began to hint about the
exotic delights they had shared. It was a bit of sodomy he was describing
at such length.

Doyle kept the glasses against his face, fighting his laughter and then, a
heartbeat later, fighting tears. Just like Bodie to be willing to fuck an
arse--if it was a female arse.

Don't think of him with his redhead, he said, trying to tune Bodie out.
Think of Lane, and what he did last night. The sliding tight moment of
penetration, the stretch of it, as if he were opening up the world, the
throb of cock against the magic spot which multiplied the crystals of
sensation he had felt in every part in the vicinity--and some that
weren't!

Bodie had asked a question.

"What?" Doyle asked, glancing away from the glasses for a moment.

"You haven't heard a word I've said," Bodie said in disgust.

"Something about kinky sex with whats'er-name," Doyle said.

"That was *before* I asked you for your contribution to the general fund.
I am going to go get food and the papers," Bodie said.

"Then you watch," Doyle said, thrusting the glasses at Bodie. His hand
found his wallet. When he opened it, Bodie's hand snaked around, and he
snatched up several notes while shoving the glasses back into Doyle's
hand.

"Ta!" Bodie said on his way out the door, as he pulled on the knitted cap
which gave him the appearance of a working man. Doyle offered him a salute
with two available fingers and kept most of his attention on his job.
Bodie was the one out there freezing his tush off, after all, and Doyle
was willing to be the one who kept warm.

He was just recording the departure of the man of the house, off to slay
dragons in his neat grey suit and monogrammed briefcase, when Bodie came
back. "Where's my change?" Doyle wanted to know.

"Wasn't any," Bodie told him. "I bought everything in the shop. Do you
want to start with the croissants, the Danish, the fresh bread and butter,
the jam tarts, the fruit or the chocolate?"

"For the sake of your arteries, I hope you're joking!" Doyle said, but of
course, Bodie wasn't. He started fresh coffee on the small stove and
offered to take over the watch, as he could do it one handed and while
chewing. He left Doyle to pour out the coffee when it was done. Doyle,
meanwhile, had finished his croissant and was halfway through the apple
before he poured the coffee.

There was enough food to last all day, but by the time they were relieved
at seven it was dark and they were both ready for a real meal. Bodie may
have been ready for even more, for he talked about giving Lana a call, but
Doyle was tired--and sore from sitting on his abused arse all day, and so
after they ate, Doyle went home. They were due to return the following
morning, and all he wanted to do was sleep.

He woke up, whistled his way through a wonderful shower and a proper
breakfast. When he arrived, he found that the van had changed colours and
position during the night, but he found it easily enough. Fresh fruit in
hand, he swung into the van to discover he would be sharing it with a
prime example of the living dead.

"What happened to you?" Doyle asked kindly, biting into his apple. Bodie
winced as if even that slight noise was too much for him, and did not
answer. "Wild night, was it?"

"If you ever meet an old mate," Bodie began, pausing to cough and then
blink, "and if he invites you 'round to try his homemade wine," Bodie
paused again, took a tiny, tentative sip of tea, and managed to continue,
"Don't go!"

"I won't," Doyle said, knowing he was entirely too rested and lively to
get anything except a scowl from his partner. He nudged the sprawled form
with his toe and said, "Go die in the corner there, would you? I'll
watch."

"Yer a prince, Doyle," Bodie managed to say before rolling onto his back.
His snores filled the van almost at once.

Hard to think of him as a sex object when he looked like that, Doyle
thought as he made sure the camera was within reach and settled down to
the job. Very interesting visitors today, if one could judge by the number
of expensive cars which rolled up to the door. He was kept busy enough so
that it wasn't until his bladder began to protest three hours later that
he finally roused Bodie to take over.

Bodie yawned, scratching his jaw with one finger while peering through the
glasses. Beside him, Doyle stretched, as much as he could in the confines
of the van, and then went to find the makeshift chamber pot. He focused on
the relief he felt, and when it impinged on his consciousness that he was
a few feet from Bodie, hand on his penis, when his mind began to drift
into dangerous waters, he clenched his buttocks, letting the soreness take
his mind to memories of Lane, instead of fantasies of Bodie.

It worked; the memory spilled out, lush and fresh, and he had to force
himself not to continue thinking about it. This was not the time to get
hard! Food. He would think of food. Doyle washed his hands on the
damp-with-antiseptic rag kept in a plastic bag for that purpose, and then
found a peach to devour. It wasn't quite ripe enough, but he didn't mind
the tartness and the texture. He ate it in small bites.

"Busy this morning," Bodie commented as Doyle sat down to gnaw on his
snack.

"Yeah. We're going to run out of film if this keeps up."

"Good," Bodie said. "Then we can go home. There's a pillow calling my
name. It's Sunday. Man was meant to lie in on Sunday."

"Not according to Cowley!"

"Cowley goes to church," Bodie said. "Very traditional, he is."

"D'you suppose he prays for us? CI5?" Doyle asked idly.

"What, Cowley? Humble doesn't suit him. I see him sitting down with God
for long chats."

"Yeah?" Doyle said, around another nibbled bite of peach. "I can't imagine
that. Not long chats. More like that old joke, 'God, grant me patience,
and do it now!'"

"Not me--I have a vision of him flipping over a page of a huge diary and
saying, 'Now, in the matter of 3.7, I suggest....' What?" he asked. Doyle
had made a funny sound.

"You. Ego the size of an elephant. You imagine Cowley talking to God, and
what are they discussing? You!"

"I probably worry them both," Bodie said without any modesty at all. He
was still looking through the glasses, and didn't have much defence when
Doyle punched him in the shoulder. "Ow! I shall tell them about you!"

"They probably both already know all there is to know," Doyle said, even
while hoping that Cowley didn't know about the flat. It was quite possible
to keep a secret from CI5. No one knew better than agents how thin the
budget was stretched, how much had to be done on so little. On the other
hand, their boss was a very canny man.

Bodie didn't reply, for he had taken up the camera to record the arrival
of what looked like family members--kids. Damn hard to get proper pictures
of the little buggers, they moved around so. He swore and mumbled and
finally had to make do with several blurry shots. This was followed by
four hours of--nothing. No one came, no one left, and the CI5 agents
almost died of boredom.

Doyle managed to doze for awhile. In the half-awake state, he would
sometimes find his thoughts drifting towards Bodie, but he learned to pull
back and substitute Lane's image. Naked. Leaning over him, and sucking. He
smiled.

"What's her name?"

"Whu?" Doyle asked muzzily, blinking his eyes open.

"You're wearing that sort of smile," Bodie pointed out.

"You are supposed to be watching the house. Not watching me," Doyle
pointed out.

"I want to ask you to take over. Me bladder's near to bursting," Bodie
said. It was probably true. They drank tea and coffee almost constantly on
these jobs.

"Hand it over, then," Doyle said, in the tones of one long used to
suffering. He was glad to keep his eyes on the house; it was bad enough
listening to the sounds of Bodie relieving himself. He forced Bodie to
take the glasses back at once so that he could also use the bottle.

Somebody somewhere had the job of taking one of these vans back after a
job, cleaning them out, emptying and washing out bottles used for chamber
pots, checking the equipment over for crumbs in the electronics or
whatever depreciations agents were responsible for inflicting on innocent
machinery. No doubt they aired the vans out as well, and recharged the
special batteries which powered all the equipment. He wondered if he would
be doing such a thing someday. It was one of the jobs for an agent who had
been injured permanently. Cowley never threw expertise away, and agents
who were no longer eligible for the two active squads sometimes found that
they were not allowed to escape CI5.

When they left they drove the van, for it would be replaced by a different
vehicle during the next shift. After leaving it in the garage, they took
the film to the lab and went to check for messages before going home.

"You're to arrive at eight tomorrow. There's work being done on the
plumbing and a crew of seven will be here. Mr Cowley wants each of the
workmen to have a CI5 assistant. Last time...."

"We know what happened last time," Doyle said with a sigh. A blast had
blown Mr Cowley's office up, turning the furniture to kindling and the
pipes in the walls into time bombs, which took to springing leaks at
unfortunate times and places. The men who had come to fix it had been
cleared, vetted more than once, and yet one of them had managed to set
some very sophisticated and dangerous bugs, which had required yet more
time to identify and remove.

"Plumber's assistants," Bodie said, laughing, as they left.

"Guards would probably be a better word," Doyle said, throwing a black
look Bodie's way.

"Whatever. We shall take some teasing for this," Bodie predicted.

"At least there will be seven of us to tease," Doyle said. "Safety in
numbers."

"Not much safety, in this case. Fair game, we are. What are you doing
tonight?"

"Tonight? It's Sunday, mate. Day of rest. I plan on going home and
resting," Doyle told him firmly.

"We've done almost nothing all day. I know a place where there's dancing.
Get your blood moving," Bodie suggested. The shuffling steps he took
looked more like a boxer's warm-up than a dance, and Doyle told him so.
Bodie ignored the criticism and urged Doyle to join him.

"Sorry, mate. Some other time," Doyle said, and headed for his own car.
Sunday. Lane's day. He thought of going to the flat, but what if Lane
weren't alone?

Could try a three-way, he told himself--but the idea didn't appeal and he
went home, to spend the evening with chores, music and the box. A full
night's sleep was wonderful, and he needed it to face the next morning.

Cowley called his seven men together and gave them complete instructions.
Each was assigned to a plumber or workman. Each would check the tools, box
and gear of each man, pat him down, check for certain substances,
concealed weapons, and bugs. Then they would stick with their man all day,
even escorting the man to the bathroom and on breaks.

Doyle was assigned a young man named Tom Allen. He was very tall and thin,
with long delicate hands and a long, heavy-jawed face. Doyle spent some
time speculating that the man had a long thin cock, a prediction which
turned out to be quite true, as Doyle discovered in front of a urinal when
they stopped for a break.

He wasn't obvious about looking, but it did give him pause. Too interested
in cocks at the moment, he warned himself. Got to hide it, got to be
careful. It was very important not to neglect his job, either, as boring
as it might be. The meal, at least, was taken in the common cafeteria with
the other men and their guards, and he got to listen to a prideful Bodie
tell exaggerated stories about his prowess as a lover and a fighter to the
only slightly sceptical crowd.

"That right? He took both of them to bed?" Tom Allen asked as he removed
old pipe so that new could be put in its place.

"Maybe. Even if I believe him I never let him know it. That bit stuck?" he
asked, as Allen strained.

"No. Would you move to the left, Mr Doyle?"

"I told you, just Ray. Or Doyle," the CI5 man said, finding a comfortable
spot from which he could watch both the workman and his work. He could
also see Ford and Thompson with their charges. They looked as bored as he
was.

He thought about painting.

He thought about Lane.

He thought about Bodie, and forced himself to think of Lane.

By the end of the day, he had built up that thick feeling which begged for
relief, sexual relief, and he went out with Bodie, and had a few drinks,
and flirted with a blonde in the pub while Bodie did the same with yet
another redhead, this one with thick auburn hair and a figure like a doll.

The blonde was Danielle, and Doyle went to her flat and into her bed. She
was on heat, just as he was, and they tumbled onto the sofa and fucked
like ferrets, and it was all over in ten minutes. He waited a decent
interval, threw on his clothing, kissed her warmly and let himself out.

Mindless, he told himself. He should have gone to the flat to see Lane
last night. Danielle was nice enough, but it was like having hamburgers
when you had your heart set on Chinese. He knew instinctively that if he
didn't keep himself busy with Lane, then he'd be once again paying too
much attention to his partner.

So the next morning, before he joined the plumbers, he made sure he had
Lane's phone numbers, both at work and at home. At noon he left Allen in
Ford's charge and drove off to find a public telephone. Lane was glad to
hear from him, although obviously he had not expected him to call at work.
They arranged to meet Friday.

He felt better after the call. As if he had paid up his insurance. He had
something definite to look forward to, and when he was ambushed by errant
thoughts of Bodie, he had only to think of Friday, and he managed to
distract himself.

A dull week of plumbers at the beginning and paperwork at the end was
punctuated Friday morning with a terrorist kidnapping. Doyle had time to
call Lane and say he couldn't make it and offering him the use of the day,
and then all of CI5 were busier than a one-handed juggler for twenty-four
hours. It came to a head Saturday evening, with Bodie leading an assault
group on the disused factory where the terrorists had gone to ground.

Bodie had been unscathed except for a cut across his chin which required a
stitch, and he was bemoaning the probable effect on his sex life when
Doyle signed out at midnight.

Doyle went to the flat. He knew he might find Fillbeck in residence, and
if so he was determined to go home, but he was wound up, upset, willing to
take the chance. To his vast relief, the apartment was deserted. He set up
his easel, dug out his paints and set to work with a single-minded
intensity.

What he painted was a garden, all flowers and shrubs, with the hint of a
house to one side. He made it ugly, with flowers in the shades of drying
blood, from bright red to black-brown, flowers with open mouths, like
crying children. Geraldine Mather, he thought, when he looked at it after
coming back from the bathroom at dawn. He stopped before he was done and
began another, this one broken bottles and the debris one found in
doorways down in the depressed area where he had been that day. Broken
bottles, scraps of newsprint, wrappings from fast food, and even a used
condom, next to the splintered wood and twisted, wrenched nails which
boarded up the door.

He cursed his lack of technique, wanting to do more than he was able, but
he waded in again on a third painting, this one recreating the pattern,
the look, of bullet holes across the front of a building, different in the
way it destroyed wood and glass and metal. It was so clear in his mind
that he found his fingers moving without direction from his brain, until
all at once it wasn't there any more and it was mid-morning and he was
standing, shivering, incapable of thought.

He must have gone to bed. Several hours later, he was wakened by a gentle
hand on his shoulder, and he blinked up to see Lane's concerned face above
him. Doyle roused enough to reach up and grab the other man, his mouth
making a meal of his throat. They were both clothed, and Doyle pushed Lane
away, stood, impatiently stripped and then helped Lane with the last scrap
of underwear, and then Doyle began on him. He had his own way, giving no
choices, except in the matter of a condom, and what did he care if the
latex was rolled onto him, as long as he could stick it into Lane's
up-turned, offered arse?

Hard. Deep. Lane didn't protest, and in fact was soon crying out and
pushing back, demanding more. When Doyle had spurted into the depths of
rubber and collapsed, he was rolled onto his back, and as he lay, sprawled
and limp, Lane moved to fuck his mouth, using it for the last few strokes
he needed to come himself. Doyle drank the fluid down, sucking too hard at
the end and causing Lane to cry out and jerk the twitching flesh from
between Doyle's lips. The last drops of semen landed on Doyle's neck and
chest, and he fell asleep as Lane was cleaning him off with a clever
pointed tongue.

He dreamed, nasty convoluted dreams involving work and shooting and Bodie
with blood dripping from his chin. He woke in the dark, to the heavenly
smell of food, only the need to use the bathroom kept him from heading
directly towards it.

"Well. You live," Lane said, lowering the book he had been reading. The
remains of a meal were on the plate in front of him.

"It's debatable. Did you save some for me?"

"I did. You look terrible," Lane said honestly.

"I painted half the night," Doyle said, filling his plate. There was a six
bean salad and a stroganoff. It could have been anything, and he
practically inhaled it.

"I saw," Lane said, waving at the paintings, which Doyle saw had been
propped up so that they could be seen from the kitchen.

"I should have finished them," Doyle said, looking critically at the three
while he continued to eat.

"You finished them. Although...this one needs paint out to the edge, rust
up, blue down." Lane said, of the bullet holes. "And a plain frame. The
flowers need an elaborate frame, to distract the eye just a little more
from the...effect. The trash...just a band of black, and then white, then
black again with a trace of steel on the outside. Modern."

"Never thought of framing them."

Lane raised an eyebrow. "What did you plan on doing with them?"

"I...."

"You hadn't thought at all," Lane said, amused.

"No."

"I always liked framing. Let me frame those, and I'll take them down to
Bonnie Dunn. You remember her, tall, thin, lots of teeth? She has a shop."

"Topper said. Tourists and antiques," he remembered.

"And a bit of art on one wall. We'll let the Americans and Germans cart
home your pictures. Mementos of their trip. Much better than painted
pottery and ashtrays with pictures of castles."

"You're serious!"

"Of course I'm serious. Unless you want to store them or paint over them,
what are you going to do with them?" Lane asked bluntly. "Might as well
make enough to buy new paint."

"They're not good enough."

"They are. Not saying they're Rembrandts, old boy. But they've got
something."

"Well...you can have those two," Doyle said, pointing, "but I want the
flowers. Have plans for them," he added, with a bit of a smile which was
not pleasant.

"How about the one you did the first day?"

"That?" A picture which said "Bodie" to him. For a split second, he
thought of keeping it, wanted to keep it, needed to keep it, but he
rejected that idea at once. Why hold on to it? Yet it gave him a curious
pang to say, "Yeah, take that, too."

"I," Lane said with regret, "have an obligation I can't get out of this
evening. If I leave you here to paint, and happen to come back at, say,
midnight, would you be...?"

"Here? Probably. Interested? Yeah," Doyle admitted. By that time he might
even be capable. "It's your day," he reminded him.

"Something to look forward to," Lane murmured, and got up to take care of
the dishes. Doyle helped, and within half an hour he had the flat to
himself.

He began another canvas, this one long and narrow and full of muted
colour, abstract, and when he put that aside he began an odd portrait. A
pistol, held in a hand, in Bodie's hand. It was how Bodie looked when they
were moving in on somebody. Bodie would hold it before his face, pointed
up, two handed, ready to aim and fire. Behind it, Bodie's face would be
intense, mouth held a certain way, eyes darting left and right. But Doyle
did not put in the face, only the hand and the weapon, both sturdy,
squared off shapes. Deadly.

"How very phallic," Lane said, when he arrived. Doyle had cleaned his
paints and put them away, and showered himself, and was sitting, wearing
only a towel, looking at the painting. It *was* phallic, Doyle realized.
The roundness of the hand had the shape of balls, the gun barrel, due to
the angle which he had drawn it, the right proportions. "It ought to
appeal--to somebody," Lane added, taking off his coat and hanging it up in
his locker.

"It doesn't appeal to you?" Doyle asked.

"Guns don't."

Inside, Doyle sighed. He knew that unless something happened to force it,
he would never reveal the details of his work to Lane, and he knew it was
stupid to wish that the other understood that part of him. His
relationship with Lane wasn't an emotional one. No need for Lane to
understand.

Maybe it was a mistake to look for just sex. Maybe he should be looking
for Mr Right. Or Miss Right. Maybe he....

"Ray?"

"Umm?" Doyle looked up.

"Come to bed, Sugar."

Doyle made a face at the nickname but stood up at once, his body agreeing
to the idea. He was fairly sure he was going to get fucked again, and the
idea was exciting.

He shed his clothing, he joined Lane in the bed, and he touched and rubbed
and sucked, and received the same in equal measure. He was opened with
fingers, and then with a tongue, and he knew he could not return that
favour. It felt good, the tongue invading his body, but he could think of
only one person, man or woman, with whom he could be that intimate. He
forced Bodie from his mind, refusing to think about him as he was
lubricated, turned onto his hands and knees and entered.

He braced himself. It was terrible. Oh, there was pleasure, and it was
everything he remembered. The problem was that in this position, it was so
easy to forget who it was back there, easy to imagine it was someone else.

He endured, his teeth clenched, and distracted himself by experimenting,
by holding tight around the cock as it moved in and out, and finding the
pattern and pace which caused Lane to moan and mumble.

"You may," Lane said, a few minutes after he had pumped Doyle full and
withdrawn from his body, "have the very best arse in London."

"Oh, I *might*?" Doyle joked. He was still hard himself, and he tilted his
eyebrow significantly in the direction of Lane's posterior.

"Flattery will get you--sucked off. Word of advice, Ray. Don't get
yourself screwed too often in one day."

"Why?" Doyle asked, just to keep the other talking. He was sitting up
against the wall, watching the head move into place above his groin.

"Tears, cuts, whatever. Infection down there is difficult to treat.
Although I can give you the name of a good doctor," he added, before going
to work on Doyle's more than interested penis.

How many cocks had the man sucked, Doyle wondered. How many men had
plumbed his depths? What personal experiences did he have with the medical
problems he spoke about?

And what the bloody hell am I doing here?

The answer came almost at once, when a warm mouth sucked him up. He forgot
to think.

A few hours of sleep was all he allowed himself. He showered and left
before dawn, needing to get out for a run, needing to go home and shower
again and change in time to meet Bodie at eight. They were ordered to work
on paperwork from their last assignment. They not only had their own, but
were expected to do what work they could for agents who were in hospital.
Branchcomb had managed to get knifed in the arm and would be out for a
week. Prat. Yet he wasn't really resentful, for other agents had done
Doyle's work in just this way, and for longer than a week. Like housework,
it had to be done, no matter what the circumstances--unless you wanted a
mess on your hands, and Cowley on your back.

About thirty minutes after he sat down at the typewriter, Doyle decided he
was grateful for Lane's policy of only once-a-day fucking. He was
decidedly sore, and sitting in one spot for long was rather uncomfortable.
Bodie eventually noticed, making some snide comments about ants in the
pants, and after that Doyle forced himself to be less obvious about it. It
helped to get up and move around, and he went so often for tea that he was
wearing a path in the floor--or so Miller, who was sharing their table,
told him.

They took a break in the middle of the afternoon, going down to the gym
for a general workout, Bodie, Miller, Murphy and Doyle. He ended up
partnered with Miller for the sparring, and quite enjoyed himself, despite
an occasional twinge in his nether regions. Miller was skilled enough to
be a challenge--and not quite as good as Doyle, which gave him a pleasant
sense of superiority. It was easier to get back to work after the
exercise, and at the end of the day the four of them went out for a meal.
Bodie and Murphy were joking, engaging in a bit of rough-house over who
was to drive. A cool pain, to see Bodie with his arm around a man, to see
him give all his attention to someone--who wasn't Doyle. Doyle sat at the
table at the pub, trading an occasional barb with Miller and forcing
himself not to stare at Bodie. As soon as he decently could, he made his
excuses and left.

Doyle went home and directly to bed, waking up the next morning to a
vigorous knock on the door. It was Bodie, clad in his red track suit,
bouncing and energetic. The enthusiasm was catching, and they went for a
long run, striding along side by side at a slow, steady pace. After, Doyle
made them a big breakfast of eggs and toast, and they arrived at work
several minutes early for once. Not that this impressed Cowley, who had
been at his desk for over an hour.

Cowley had a new lead on the Netherton case for them to track down, and
they went to ask questions of two of the man's former business partners,
who had just returned from abroad.

"You're quiet," Bodie said, after they had been driving for a few minutes.
"Keeping busy, are you?" he asked, with a wink which gave a clue as to his
meaning.

"Nah. But you've got that little twinkle," Doyle told him.

"Shouldn't have left so early--you too could twinkle," Bodie teased. "Did
you ever meet a bird who pretended that sex wasn't much, that she could
take it or leave it?" Bodie asked, and not waiting for an answer, he said,
"Mona, her name was."

"Last night?"

"Yeah. Had to work hard to get into her knickers, but once we got started,
it was great. Afterwards, I'm laying there, knackered and half asleep and
she's telling me that it had never been like that, and that it was the
best she'd ever...."

"Brag, brag," Doyle said, and punched him, hard. Bodie was driving and
couldn't properly retaliate.

"No. Odd, the way she kept on about it."

"Angling for a second helping," Doyle decided. "If you were the best she
ever had, maybe the poor girl just didn't know that it could be even
better than...." He ducked as Bodie retaliated, one-handed.

"Berk. No, I may have been the best she ever had, but that didn't matter.
I think it was all an act."

"Some would be flattered. Blue ribbon performance and the lady singing
your praises. Must go right to a bloke's head. Both of them. Wanted round
two out of you. Lots of men can't, you know. Once and they're done. Had a
bird tell me once that the second time was better for her, for most women.
Didn't always get off the first time--too fast. She said an amazing number
of men were too selfish to make sure the bells rang for her, too."

"Not a problem I have," Bodie protested. "Bells both times, guaranteed!"

"But your bird last night didn't know that, did she?"

"Knows now," Bodie told him smugly.

"Not necessarily a good thing--if she's looking for a march down the
aisle."

"Never did like forced marches. She'll give it up soon enough and go try
the line on a new bloke."

"Give up a good thing?"

"She'll have to. I threw away her number." And, of course, had not given
her his, due to the job. Doyle smiled grimly. Strange to think that he
actually wanted this insensitive bastard. If you had him, he'd just lose
your number after a few days, he reminded himself. Bodie wasn't the man
for faithful-ever-after. Better to stick to Lane, for now, and when that
was over, he'd see if he could find someone who shared his interests....

He laughed aloud, understanding a little better what he yearned for with
Bodie. Sex. Fidelity. Love. Intangible, important things--which he yearned
for from a heterosexual Don Juan. If you opened the dictionary and looked
up "fool", the definition would say "Ray Doyle." Bodie poked him. "What're
*you* laughing at?"

Doyle thought quickly. "Should have given me the number. Or are you afraid
of the competition?"

Bodie gave him a look of pure pity and said, "Leftovers, Doyle?"

"Comparisons are so important, Bodie. She deserves a chance to see for
herself."

"Then *you'd* be stuck with her," Bodie warned.

Doyle shrugged. "Settling down has always appealed to me."

"Even so, she's not your type. Tall, skinny, all brown hair and eyes."

Actually, that sounded a bit like Lane, which drew a sour smile from
Doyle, and he changed the subject by making a comment about a restaurant
they passed. Bodie could always be distracted by food.

Netherton's former partners were polite, helpful, warm and concerned.
Slick, Doyle thought privately, and in dirt up to their eyeballs. Although
they were interviewed separately, their accounts had a too-familiar feel,
as if they'd rehearsed it. A thorough investigation of their businesses
was in order, Doyle decided, listening to the smooth, believable account.
At once.

The agents discussed it as they drove back to report to Cowley. They
picked at the statements the men had made, taking them apart, looking for
anything which would pry out a clue, a hint of where to investigate next.

They stopped for chicken, eating it quickly--and not in the car, a
practice which Cowley had banned recently after an unfortunate incident
involving Cowley's good grey trousers and some stale and greasy chips,
which became acquainted one evening in Anson's car, to the detriment of
all concerned.

They typed up their reports on the visit. Cowley wasn't available, but he
had left instructions, and they went off to do a four hour stint in the
file room. Belle Chenwynd, who knew them of old, separated them to
different parts of the room and ruthlessly kept them on task until they
were rescued by Cowley himself.

"Elizabeth Walsh has consented to give an explanation of her methods to
CI5. A seminar, shall we say, which she will give three times." Cowley
spoke abruptly, obviously in a hurry.

"Three times?" Bodie asked as he shouldered into his coat.

"She wouldn't agree to have it filmed or taped. You two will be in charge
of acquiring the room--105 will suffice--and seeing that schedules are
arranged so that as many as possible will be able to attend. You are also
to provide any materials or papers Miss Walsh requires. See Betty about
tea. You'll consult with Miss Walsh on all plans; I won't have her
inconvenienced." For some reason, Doyle realized with a grin, Cowley was
looking at Bodie as he said that last. "Should you have extra time, I
shall expect you both to assist in the file room. Miss Chenwynd is
short-handed and has expressed to me the belief that it is imperative that
she have extra help before the situation becomes critical."

Doyle wondered what would constitute "critical" to the forceful Chenwynd,
but was wise enough to keep the question inside. Cowley left, and Bodie
went off to the phone to set up an appointment the next day with Miss
Walsh. Doyle took care of the call of nature and stepped out just as Bodie
returned.

"All on for tomorrow at nine, she'll meet us here. We need to be here by
eight." Bodie straightened his jacket and said, "Let's double tonight.
Lana has a friend. You'd like her. Legs up to here, hair down to there,"
he said, his gestures surely exaggerating.

"No thanks."

"What's her name?" Bodie demanded, obviously assuming that the reason
Doyle was reluctant was because he had his own date. Then leering, he
said, "Bring her along. Always wanted my own orgy. Three birds and the two
of us."

"Sounds a bit off balanced. Like you. I," Doyle said, "will be at the
shops." He wanted to visit an art store, a big one, and spend some time
just looking--and then buying. He knew of several which stayed open late,
catering to art students with odd work hours. He was in the mood to paint,
his fingers were tingling with wanting it. Yet he didn't consider buying
the supplies to take home, didn't want to paint in his CI5 flat. The
painting was connected in his mind with escape and novelty, and not with
the ordinary. It was anticipation, he thought, which put the edge on his
interest.

"I'm starting to worry about you, Doyle," Bodie said. "You're slowing
down."

"Not," Doyle said acidly, "where it counts." He nodded good-bye and headed
for the door.

Bodie laughed and caught up with him, and after a short waltz at the door
as each tried to go through first, they walked out to the car park
together, neither saying anything, but without rancour between them. Bodie
opened his mouth several times, as if to speak, but didn't. Doyle assumed
he was still thinking of trying to change his mind about the evening's
plans and was grateful when he didn't.

Doyle went directly to the art store. He tested brushes, he bought more
colours. Viridian. French Ultramarine Blue. Rose Madder, Sap Green. Two
new steel painting knives, a new set of badger hair brushes...he spent a
lot of time and too much money, before going home to a simple meal and an
early night.

The rest of the week was a pleasure. Doyle enjoyed their assignment. He
enjoyed Elizabeth Walsh. It became his job to introduce her--delicate job,
that, when he had to say she was an expert but be very careful not to
provide too many details as to where and when she became so. He sat
through her presentation all three times, and by the last he was beginning
to have a feel for what she said, beginning to understand just how her
mind worked. He and Bodie escorted her to wonderful, conversation-filled
meals, except on one occasion where George Cowley cut in.

"He fancies her," Bodie said, as they stood waiting for the fish and chips
which they were substituting for the fine restaurant which they had both
been anticipating all day. That had been on expenses, of course, and they
would not have had to hurry through the meal. Forced to pay for a meal out
of their own pocket, they mutually decided fast, cheap and filling filled
the requirements.

"He does not. You've got sex on the brain," Doyle criticized, stepping up
to the counter as their turn came.

"He does. Goes all honey smooth around her," Bodie stated.

"It's respect, Bodie. Some men respect women."

"I respect women! Miss Walsh, especially. She's a cool one, she is. I
remember when I first met her. Gun in my hand and she didn't turn a hair,
did she?"

Doyle had heard this story more than once. He nodded, to show he was
listening.

"It's the way he acts, around her," Bodie went on. "I can tell when a
man's interested."

Oh, can you, Doyle thought, and grinned.

"You don't believe me?" Bodie asked, counting out his share of the bill
and handing it to Doyle, who was closer to the till.

"No," said Doyle, and changed the subject by asking Bodie a question about
Lana. Lana, it turned out, was yesterday's news, literally. Today, Bodie
was rabbiting on about a girl he had met at the chemist's, a tiny blonde
named Tibby.

While Bodie waxed eloquent about Tibby's charms, Doyle let his mind wander
to thoughts of paint and passion. He had called Lane, who had agreed to
meet him at nine at The Flat, and if he got off at five then he could be
there by six and have three hours to paint, and then....

"...do you think?" Bodie asked.

"What?" Doyle blinked.

"About," Bodie said patiently, "the disco. Tonight. I was asking if you
wanted to bring a date and come with Tibby and me to the disco tonight.
Clean out your ears!"

"Sorry. Other plans already." Doyle nibbled on a chip. If his mouth was
full, he didn't have to say anything more, did he?

Bodie didn't press the point, and they inhaled their food and went back to
the job in relative silence. Doyle recognized that Bodie was getting a
little tired of hearing "no."

"Saturday, if we're not on," Doyle said, by way of an olive branch.
"There's a movie I want to see."

That was all that was needed. By the time they were back at their desks,
Bodie had it all planned, a double dater dinner and the movie. No doubt he
expected they would finish the evening in bed with their respective dates.
Doyle was considering a chaste good night kiss at the door and an early
descent on Lane's Sunday morning. He wanted to paint--and there was the
other inducement as well.

He didn't get off early Friday. He did arrive before Lane, and stared at
his painting supplies in frustration as he put away his jacket, because
there was no time for the paint. And then, Lane was late, and he could
have painted a bit if he had known! Doyle paced the room, working off his
nervous energy, waiting. Lane worked in an office; he was the sort of
assistant who did most of the work and got none of the credit. Why was he
late?

Doyle didn't get the chance to find out. His r/t sounded. Even tucked away
in the locker, he could hear it. He didn't want to hear it, but the
thought of not responding was only a fleeting one. He had just plugged in
the flex to make tea, and he jerked it out entirely too roughly as he gave
vent to his frustration. After scrawling a note which he left on the table
for Lane, he snatched up his jacket from the locker and was out the door,
his thumb down on the r/t button, his mouth close to it as he swiftly ran
down the stairs.

CI5 agent requesting assistance, shots fired. Doyle realized, as he
unlocked his car that he was possibly the closest to the site. He reported
his location--as soon as he reached an intersection--and brought his foot
down hard, driving like Bodie.

He had the never-fading joy of flashing his ID at the policeman at the
scene and being waved through at once. But then, discovering that he was
the first CI5 man to arrive, he also had the responsibility of taking
control of the situation. The ambulance made its noisy entrance as Doyle
bent over the body in the alley, but he knew at once that there was no
hurry. Burke was quite definitely dead, a bullet wound in his neck and
another in his groin. As there was nothing to be done, Doyle ordered the
policemen to hold back the growing crowd, checking the area for signs
which would tell exactly what happened here. Nothing could be seen in the
poor light except for a few drops of red blood. From the location, he was
sure they weren't Burke's.

A squeal of brakes, and a rising query in a familiar accent told Doyle
that Cowley had arrived, and he went to report. Cowley had obviously been
roused from his home. His suit was as rumpled as Doyle had ever seen it
get, and he was driving his own car. Doyle rattled off his observations in
a few sentences and stood with Cowley as the ambulance crew loaded the
body into the vehicle.

"He was coming off a job," Cowley said, not loud enough for anyone else to
hear. "He was watching Thomas Cannon's flat. Aye," Cowley added as he saw
Doyle lift his head, "a known associate of Coogan's." Cowley's face
reflected his sour opinion of every one of Coogan's friends and relations.
Ray's lips thinned as well.

"This alley is several blocks from the flat we were using for the
observations. Why would Burke be here? I'm putting you in charge, Doyle.
Find out if they tumbled him, or if this murder was unrelated to his
assignment. You said you found blood. His assailant will be wounded, then.
You know the procedures. Jax and Branchcomb will be here shortly. They'll
report to you. Call in hourly. I...will be doing the notification of next
of kin. A brother, I believe." Abruptly, angrily, Cowley stomped away to
his car, pausing to speak to a police officer before getting in and
driving away.

Doyle took charge. Jax, when he arrived, was assigned to locate Cannon's
whereabouts at the time of the murder. Branchcomb was sent to check the
area clinics and hospitals. Doyle was left to pry as much information out
of the local constables as possible. They were reasonably helpful. Burke
was shot from ambush, they decided, pointing out angles and the traces of
blood. A bullet was dug from a wall. samples were taken. Neighbours
questioned. Then, one by one, the men and women finished their jobs and
left. Doyle was the last to go, driving slowly to HQ, where he dictated a
short report.

Jax called in. Cannon was not at home, had left it an hour before the
shooting. Branchcomb called in. He had located a man who had just arrived
at the nearest hospital with a gunshot wound to the shoulder; as soon as
the doctors had the man patched up he was bringing him in for questioning.
The man had form and was a likely suspect.

Doyle went carefully, making sure his records were accurate, making sure
the case had no holes. Upon advice of the doctor, the man Branchcomb
brought was not questioned at once, but put in the infirmary under guard
until his condition improved.

Which meant Cowley could have a crack at him first thing in the morning.
Doyle finally returned home at just past two, holding back yawns and not
even thinking of Lane and the flat and all he had missed that night--until
he was undressed and in bed. He fell asleep thinking ahead to Sunday.

His alarm woke him at eight, he was at HQ at nine, Bodie showed up at ten,
grumbling because his day off had once again been commandeered. Rather to
Doyle's surprise and much to Bodie's, Cowley assigned Bodie to assist him.
They both attended Cowley's grilling of the man, Allford. A doctor was
also present--Cowley had no wish, should the matter entangle Ms Mather
again, to be accused of cruel practices.

The man was guilty, although he admitted nothing, but clever questioning
brought out far more than the man intended, or even realized he was
providing. In the end, however, they determined that he was hired help,
knowing few details of the intents and purposes of the men he served.
Cowley sent him back to hospital under guard, and set Doyle to work to
make what he could of the information they now had.

Doyle in turn gave instructions to Bodie, who showed no outside sign of
whatever he felt about the unusual situation beyond an elaborate salute,
and who went off as directed to check Allford's records. Doyle had the
impression of a wild animal, held in check by his own whim and not because
of any true domestication. When Bodie came back, Doyle was leaning over a
table spread with files and papers. Together they compared, made notes,
discussed possibilities.

Heads together, bodies side by side, Doyle fought the lure of Bodie's
scent, the heady promise that eluded deodorant and tingled in Doyle's
nose. He wondered if the smell of a person you wanted caused you to want
them, or if wanting them caused you to be attracted to their odour?

Lane smelled okay, Doyle told himself, moving back a few inches to lay out
a map. Don't think of Bodie. Think of Lane. He forced himself to give his
attention to work. Once he made a phone call, checking with the police
again. He wrote up the information, but his eyes would stray to Bodie;
when he realized what he was doing, he clenched his jaw and looked away.

Late that afternoon, Doyle told Bodie he could go, saying he knew Bodie
had a date that night. Bodie had given him a poisonous look and stayed to
work as well. In the end, the result was minimal. Allford had been paid in
small bills before he did the job, if one was to believe the implications
of his bank deposit, and he did not know the man who had handed over the
money. He didn't know the man he shot was CI5; he denied the shooting, but
his pupils--captured on film--gave him away, and told the watchers that
this information was unwelcome news.

Bodie threw his pen down and rubbed the back of his neck. "The case has to
be about more than Thomas Cannon."

"Coogan. And drugs." Doyle gave his own opinion.

"Then we can't be involved."

Doyle looked up. "We, CI5, or we," he pointed at Bodie, and then himself,
lifting his eyebrow expressively.

"Both. Turn this whole lot over to your old mob, Doyle. Drugs Squad."

"We're investigating a murder," Doyle said sharply.

"The suspect is under guard. Dead end. But we can't move against Coogan or
any of his friends. Not unless we want to be on the hot spot again. Do you
want to know what I think? I think Coogan has the stuff in his house, now.
Knows we don't dare make another raid, no matter how good the information,
because if we were wrong, it would be the end of us. The thing to do is
feed any information we get to the police, let them do the work, make the
raids, get the credit."

"And if rumours are true, and Coogan has more than one policeman in his
pocket?" Doyle demanded.

"Then the old man can use the fact that they didn't use our information
against them, and he pares out a rotten spot in that apple," Bodie replied
swiftly.

"Why, Bodie," came Cowley's voice, rich with approval, "I believe there's
hope for you yet." Both agents turned around as their boss came into the
room. "Well, Doyle? Do you agree?"

Doyle flicked his wrist to indicate the piles of papers which littered the
table and said, "Yeah. Might as well pass it on. There aren't too many
clues in this lot. Jax and Branchcomb have come up with enough evidence to
convict Allford. We didn't find the murder weapon yet, but there's
ammunition in his flat identical to the bullet which was found in the
alley, and the report says the blood found in the alley was his type. The
doctor has stated the wound he treated was fresh, and the bullet he dug
out of Allford will undoubtedly test as coming from Burke's gun."

"Then turn these papers over to Miss Eckards, make sure the charges have
been filed, and return here Monday morning. We will discuss your
suggestion at length, Bodie. Nine sharp, gentlemen." Cowley turned on his
heel and headed for his office.

Doyle began to collect the papers, putting them in order before sliding
them into their folders. He had mixed feelings. He'd done a good job
running the investigation, but Bodie had gotten the praise. They were
partners, but still competitive, and he felt the sting enough to snap when
Bodie rubbed his hands together and exulted that they would still have
time to make their date.

"Sorry," Doyle said, collecting up the folders under one arm and snagging
his jacket with one finger. "I'm going home to bed."

"That's the general idea--eventually," Bodie replied. "Come on, Doyle,
it's all planned."

"Unlike some people, I was up half the night," Doyle reminded him. "I'd
fall asleep at the movie--or later. Wouldn't want to offend the bird,
would I?"

"I'm sure you do it all the time," Bodie told him. "What's once more? Take
a chance, live dangerously!"

"Danger enough in calling Kathy and telling her it's all off--unless you
want to take them both? You're always telling me about your amazing
capacity; go ahead. Do it."

"It doesn't matter what I'd fancy, it's what Tibby would like. She's not,"
he sighed with regret, "that sort of girl."

"Oh? Suggested it already, did you?"

"Suggested a dirty weekend, the four of us. It didn't fly. Doubt she'd be
much fonder of three. She'd have to share," Bodie pointed out, "and she
wants me all to herself."

Yeah. Lucky Tibby. She'll get what she wants, too. Doyle headed for the
door. "Monday," he said. "We can run first. I'll pick you up."

"Yeah," Bodie said. He seemed abstracted as he left. Frowning.
Disappointed, maybe. Doyle searched for a twinge of guilt, but could only
feel relief that he did not have to go out that night. It was past five
now, and all he wanted was ten hours horizontal with a meal on each end.
He went home, made his call and his apologies to the girl he was to have
taken out, and then ate a banana which was too brown, a boiled egg and a
cheese sandwich, while he caught up on his newspapers.

The rest of the evening sported such moments of excitement as trimming his
toenails and removing certain stray hairs. He was asleep before nine. Up
before dawn, he went for a short run, confessing to himself that it was as
much an effort to gather his courage as to exercise. He was not quite sure
what his welcome would be when he went to the flat. After all, he had
disappeared on Lane Friday, and Sunday was Lane's day. For all Doyle knew,
Lane had made other plans, had another man there. The idea didn't make him
jealous. Should it?

Doyle called Lane from a phone near the park, forgetting that not everyone
would be up at seven on a Sunday morning. Lane sounded sleepily thrilled
to hear from him, accepted his promise of a full explanation later in the
day, and assured him that the flat was empty and he was free to use it.
After showering and putting on some of his oldest, most comfortable
clothes, Doyle loaded his car with his new painting supplies and an
overnight bag. A stop for food and then he was on his way across town.

He arrived in record time, and had paintbrush in hand within minutes. He
could feel the picture inside him, could almost feel it come through his
blood and out onto the brush. He painted a dancing man, head thrown back,
arms outflung, half lost in shadows which may have been fog or clouds,
arms and feet deep in the mist so that there was only the powerful legs,
the white-clad torso, the long smooth column of the neck, on which to
focus. The body was too slim to be Bodie, but the neck...he was afraid the
neck was created from certain sweet fantasies he had thought he had
forgotten.

He stopped then to put away his groceries, to take a trip to the loo and
to drink cold water. He could not stay away from the paint for long,
though, and he painted a graveyard, cool and green, and two men jogging
there, seen indistinctly through the trees. Red, and dark blue, the
vibrant colours lost in the greys and greens, and yet impossible to
ignore. The tombstones were harder than he expected, and he spent too much
time on them, finding he had too many which he could recall in vivid
detail. He could put names on all the stones, could personalize them, if
he wanted to, listing friends and family and CI5 agents....

He stopped, exhausted, ate, and lay down on the bed, fully clothed, to
rest. The next thing he knew, Lane was calling his name, was standing at
the bedroom door, smiling at him.

"What a wanton vision," Lane said. "A hungry one, as well? I brought
Indian, and wine." Doyle was springing up even as he spoke, his instant,
hearty response causing them both to laugh.

During the meal, Doyle managed his apology--tricky stuff, explaining that
he was on call sometimes, but not getting specific about what precisely he
did.

"It must make your social life erratic," Lane commented.

"Erratic doesn't tell half," Doyle assured him.

"Why don't you find a different position?"

"Job satisfaction," Doyle told him. Strange, but it was true. For all the
frustrations, something in him liked it, liked the idea of doing something
real to keep the country safe.

"Speaking of satisfaction," Lane said suggestively, seeing they were both
finished with the meal. Doyle grinned and began to clean up. Lane joined
in, saying, "I've looked over your newest efforts. Very nice. You work
quickly."

"Didn't used to." Doyle began running hot water. Two people clearing up
after a meal made the job less of a chore. Sometimes he and Bodie....

"...should keep on doing it," Lane was saying. Doyle looked up to realize
that he was washing dishes, but Lane was looking at his pictures. Lane was
probably a right bastard--in an ever so nice way--to live with, Doyle
thought. Then again, Lane would have to properly dry and put away these
dishes before they left in the morning, if he didn't want them to become
communal property. The problem was, Doyle was wanting Lane to do what
Bodie would have done. Dangerous, that. Lane wasn't Bodie.

"Sorry, what?" Doyle said, looking over his shoulder. He'd missed yet more
of Lane's evaluation.

"I said, there's something disturbing about this one, the green graveyard.
Very effective, with the men moving away, leaving the dead behind."

Doyle stopped, dried his hands and went to look at his own painting. Yes,
the picture said that. Odd, to think of what came out of one's unconscious
mind, things you didn't even know were there. He looked critically at his
work. The greens were not quite right, that was what made it disturbing.
That and the subject matter, of course. Graveyards weren't universal
favourites. Not everyone jogged in one. Running amid the dead. CI5 made
one strange, he decided. He went back to the last of the dishes, while
Lane went into the bedroom, and then in the bathroom. Doyle, drying his
hands, went to see what he was up to.

Candles. Soft music. Lane, naked, waiting for him.

"Well! For me?" Doyle moved into the room, automatically checking to make
sure the curtains were closed.

"I want to be fucked, Sugar. Hard." Lane stretched, rubbing his own
genitals slowly while looking at Doyle out of hooded eyes. "And then I
want to do it to you."

"I'm not ready, yet," Doyle said, teasing. "Need a shower."

"Not on my account," Lane told him. "I like you dirty. Earthy."

Did Lane dream of ravishment by tough street thugs? Rape fantasies?
He-made-me-do-it? Doyle was unbuttoning and climbing out of his clothes as
Lane watched with heavy-lidded appreciation. Doyle didn't shower. As soon
as the last garment hit the floor, he was on the bed, and Lane was sucking
him, getting him hard. The man paused to put a condom on Doyle, a thick
one, heavily ribbed, and then cheek to pillow, arse in the air, Lane
waited while he was lubricated with one quick efficient finger, and then
entered.

Lane moaned with delight. It wasn't easy to get in, Doyle had not spent
enough time stretching the anus, but Lane wasn't complaining, he seemed to
want it that way. He was humping back, wanting more. Doyle gave it to him,
hot and hard. The condom's ridges affected Doyle as well, and he did not
last long, coming with a sharp cry. He pulled out, falling back. Lane
stripped the condom off Doyle, tossing it into the bin. Then, leaning over
Doyle, who was laying on his back, panting, he began to play with Doyle's
cock and balls, soothingly at first, and then he moved his attention to
the tiny puckered place behind. With liberal dollops of the lubricant, he
rubbed, stretching, making the tight hole ready for him. He rolled on one
of the ribbed condoms one-handed, then crouched over Doyle, tilting his
hips, easing the man's legs over his shoulders in a position which folded
Doyle, allowing Lane to loom over him, to control. His slick cock prodded
for the opening, finding it, pushing in.

Doyle groaned with the pleasure. The ribs of the condom felt odd, but they
played a drum roll on his prostate and he responded. Lane had never been
in him so deeply, and Doyle gasped and struggled for breath, bracing with
one hand and encouraging Lane with the other.

"Oh, yes, oh, yes," Lane said, over and over. Doyle couldn't hear the
music any more, only the wet sounds of their bodies together. Lane came at
last, grunting as he hit his peak, thrust in deeply as Doyle, still
desperate for stimulation, undulated beneath him. Doyle was hard again,
standing tall, and he made a sound of relief when Lane pulled out and his
abused legs could fall into a natural position. Lane made a half-hearted
effort to pump the thick cock, keeping it interested while he took a few
moments to recover. Then he rolled over and with one hand wrapped around
the base, he licked the head like a lolly and then sucked it into his
mouth.

Neither had the energy to hurry. Once Doyle sighed, and once he inhaled
sharply, and then he let out a long "Ahhhhhh!" and was finished. They
drowsed for several minutes. The music drifted over them, soft as the
night. Lane stirred, fumbling the condom off his wilted organ, and then he
struggled to a sitting position, patted Doyle on the thigh and went to the
bathroom. Doyle drifted, half asleep.

A yelp and a clattering sound jerked him up. Doyle was instantly alert,
rolling off the bed, heading towards the door, pulling on his robe as he
went. It sounded as though Lane, padding out to make a post-coital cup of
tea, had fallen over the easel; Doyle hoped the painting had not been
ruined.

He saw Lane first, and Lane hissed, "Take care, Ray, he has a gun!" and
then Doyle's searching eyes found....

Bodie.

All in black, as if he were on a night job, standing by the table with a
face like granite, like thunder, like a bit of hell carved out of flesh.
The cold anger stopped Doyle in his tracks, but he put on a calm facade
and said, "It's all right," to Lane.

"He has a gun!" Lane repeated, his voice an octave high. Bodie did have a
gun, held in his right hand, pointed down. White knuckles, like the white
lines which bracketed Bodie's mouth. There was real danger here. The very
idea that Bodie should point a gun at him sent a flash of cold through
Doyle's blood.

"Yeah, I know. So do I," Doyle said, although his hands were obviously
empty. Doyle was suddenly, painfully aware of what he had been doing, of
the smell of sex which permeated the air around him. Forcing his voice to
calmness, Doyle said, "I know him. It's...."

He was interrupted by Bodie, who pointed his gun at Lane and said, "Get
dressed." Then, to Doyle, "Both of you."

Doyle gave a sharp glance. He didn't want to give the impression of
jumping to Bodie's order, but he was practical. To Lane's obvious
distress, Bodie followed them, standing in the doorway, watching every
move. Doyle dressed quickly, watching Bodie watch the two of them. It was
a very odd look on his partner's face. Bodie's hand went to his pocket,
and Doyle tensed, wondering what Bodie was up to now.

"How much does he owe you?" Bodie asked insultingly to Lane, his wallet in
his hand. Lane opened his mouth, anger overcoming any fear he felt, but
before he could speak, Doyle's hand came down on Lane's arm, restraining
him.

Doyle thought of answering by saying that Lane didn't owe him anything,
that he owed Lane--but the humour wouldn't be appreciated. The situation,
Doyle decided, needed altering. He knew Bodie, knew how he was in one of
his vicious black moods. One wrong word and this would all blow up. He
winced as he imagined trying to explain a cock-up of that magnitude to
Cowley. Lane was the unknown factor in this. Best to get Lane away.

"Why don't you go home. I'll get this straightened out, and then give you
a call tomorrow," Doyle told Lane in a quiet, civilized voice.

Lane, turned so that Bodie couldn't see his face, mouthed the word
"police" at Doyle, and said, "Yes, very well. I'll get my coat."

That's all they needed, Lane calling in the coppers. He undoubtedly
planned to call the minute he got down to the street. Brave of him, Doyle
thought, studying the other man. He was white-faced, but determined.
"Don't," he said.

"But..." Lane protested, glancing again at the gun still pointed in his
direction.

"Believe it or not, that nutter is my partner. I'm safe enough with him,"
he said, hoping it was true. He'd seen Bodie in his wild moods, knew how
hard it was to sway him then. He wondered how it would be if Bodie did
shoot him. The idea that Bodie would do that hurt as much as bullets.

"Partner?" Lane said doubtfully, but he collected his coat. Pausing at the
door, he fingered the remains of the chain, cut though, and doubt returned
to his eyes. "He doesn't look like a policeman. Ray...?"

"I'm sorry about this, really. I'll ring you tomorrow," Doyle said again,
following Lane to the door, and closing it after him. Lane had given him
another look, this one filled with speculation. Lane no doubt thought
Bodie a jealous lover. Doyle wondered if his arrangement with Lane was
ruined. He turned to Bodie. "You bloody idiot! What the hell do you think
you're doing! You...."

"What do I think *I'm* doing?" Bodie shouted. "I'm not the one who's lost
his mind. I'm not the one fucking some *man*...letting him...damn you!"

Bodie was almost incoherent with rage. His face was flushed, his hands,
even the one holding the gun, were clenched tight, and white.

With false calmness, Doyle said, "If you're not planning on using it, put
the shooter away." He went to the kitchen area and began mechanically to
make a pot of tea, scarcely knowing what he was doing, but needing to keep
busy, keep moving, not let Bodie see how this was affecting him.

Three seconds. Five. Ten. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Bodie's
fingers tighten, and for a moment he wondered if Bodie really wanted to
shoot him, and if he would. But after a few more long seconds, Bodie slid
the gun into his holster.

"How long have you been here?" Doyle asked.

"Long enough."

Doyle looked over at him, meeting his eyes. "How long?" he demanded.

"Long enough to see you fuck him. Long enough to see him fuck you."
Bodie's voice was cold. Icy.

"What the hell were you doing here in the first place?" Doyle wanted to
know. "Why did you break in? Why were you spying on me?"

"Not like you haven't done the same!" Bodie snapped back.

Doyle went still. "This was a job, then? Cowley ordered it?"

"The old man doesn't know a thing about it," Bodie said, and Doyle felt
something uncoil in him, a relief he hid by pouring two cups of tea and
pushing one over towards his partner. He sat down to drink his own, and
after a long moment, Bodie sat as well, but he did not pull the cup
towards him, did not drink. "Don't you have anything stronger?" Bodie
demanded, watching Doyle take a cautious first sip.

"No," Doyle snapped at him. "So you followed me on your own? Broke in, on
your own? Spied on me, on your own?" Doyle managed to keep most of his
anger out of his tone. Most.

"How long did you think you could keep this hidden? How do you know Cowley
doesn't know already! How could you be so stupid?" Bodie shouted.

"You didn't answer my question," Doyle said, and swallowed more of his
tea, careful that his hand didn't shake.

"Yeah, on my own," Bodie told him. "I," he said bitterly, "was worried
about you." He gave a snort, deriding his own concern.

Doyle kept his illusion of quiet control, and asked, "Why?"

"Why was I worried? God knows," Bodie said scornfully.

"No. *Why* were you worried? What made you think something was wrong?"

There was a pause. Then Bodie shrugged. "You were acting...." He shrugged
again. Finally, he said, "I don't know. You were just different."

Doyle thought about it. Probably he had become so involved in his
problems, in finding solutions, that he *had* been different. Only Bodie
would have noticed. He rubbed his neck, only then realizing how tense he
was, how it was making his neck stiff. He looked at Bodie, who was staring
at him with an extremely difficult-to-interpret look in his dark eyes.

"I'm sorry I worried you. Didn't intend to," Doyle said.

Bodie didn't seem to hear his apology. He went on staring at Doyle in that
odd, single-minded way, and then he spoke. "I thought you were in trouble.
Or had a bird who was in trouble. I thought...." He made a sound, half
sigh, half exasperation. "But what I saw when I came in was you...and then
he...." Bodie shook his head, as if to clear it. It didn't seem to help
much. He frowned, and then seemed to zero in on one thing. "You let him
fuck you." His frown deepened. "You *liked* him to fuck you!"

There didn't seem to be much he could say to reply to that. Doyle finished
his tea and poured himself another cup, one he didn't particularly want.
He folded his hand around the cup, holding the warmth. Despite the tea he
had swallowed, his throat seemed dry. "You watched," Doyle said, not quite
making it an accusation. "Why did you watch?" Why *did* Bodie watch? Why
didn't he interrupt at once, or leave, or....

Bodie didn't answer. Instead, he stood up and stripped off his jacket, and
then his shoulder holster, and then his shirt. At that, Doyle sat up
straight. "Here, now! What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?" he
demanded of Bodie.

"Just take your clothes off, Doyle."

He wasn't that much of a bloody fool. "I'm not into rape, Bodie," he said,
with as much calm as he could dredge up. Bodie continued to shed his
clothing, until he was naked. Doyle couldn't help studying the
long-desired body, his eyes lingering on the half-hard cock.

"I saw what you like, Doyle. Into fair play, turn and turn about. Fine.
Come on."

"What are you playing at? This isn't your scene," Doyle said, irritated
because the idea had appeal, and yet he knew it was stupid to even
consider it. It would ruin the partnership, either sooner or later.

"How do you know? Maybe you don't know me any better than I knew you,"
Bodie said, his voice strained. "Get your clothing off, Doyle." The order
was snapped out in his best SAS sergeant's voice. Doyle resented it. Did
Bodie think all he had to do was snap his fingers and give an order, and
Doyle would be on his knees?

"Oh, very charming. Your birds like that, do they? Sweeps them off their
feet, does it?" Doyle moved as he spoke, putting the chair as well as the
table between them, mentally mapping out what moves he could make if Bodie
decided to make a fight out of it.

"We're not talkin' about birds now, are we?" Bodie said.

"Oh, so this is how you come on to men, is it?" Doyle asked sarcastically.

"Never thought a man needed subtlety," Bodie said smoothly, adjusting his
position as well, kicking his trousers aside so that they would not foul
his feet if he were forced to move quickly.

"Had men before, then?" Doyle asked, and because he was looking into
Bodie's eyes at that moment, he saw the lie behind the words Bodie spoke.

"I've had men."

"And they had you?" Doyle countered, still watching those midnight eyes.

Flicker. "Yeah. They've had me."

Lie. That was a lie. What was Bodie up to?

"That what you want, then? Fair trade?" Doyle asked.

"Yeah. That's what I want, Doyle." Not quite a lie, this time. Strange
folds of meaning, wanting and not wanting, all stirred in with fear and
something else Doyle couldn't quite discern. "Just what he had. That's
what I want."

"You trying to bugger me, or the partnership?" Doyle wanted to know. "You
don't want me. You just want to even the score in some damn game you're
playing! Count me out, Bodie. Go home. We'll talk about this tomorrow."

"Doyle. Take off your clothes." Bodie drifted closer, eyes on Doyle's. You
could drown in eyes like that. "Please," Bodie nearly whispered, and Doyle
understood then why Bodie scored so often. There was something in that
begging tone which made him toss caution aside, to tell himself that it
was all screwed up anyway, partnership and job, and so why not take
whatever Bodie was going to offer. Make a memory of it to take with him.
It didn't help that one part of him screamed for it; what was on offer was
what he had wanted for so very long.

But he still had that cool centre, still had some control, and so he
lifted a shoulder as if to say it was all the same to him and began to
one-handedly unbutton his shirt. Bodie's eyes were on him every moment as
he tossed the shirt over the back of a chair and then went on to remove
the rest of his clothing piece by piece. When he was naked he stood and
exchanged long looks with Bodie, and then he led the way to the bedroom.

Soft music still played on the radio. The rumpled bed gave mute testimony
to the activity which had already occurred. At the sight of it, Bodie's
jaw thrust out, and his erection firmed.

This, Doyle thought, isn't about sex at all. It's about territory. Lane
was a lesser male who had trespassed on the dominant male's territory, and
Bodie was going to re-establish his claim. All animals, under the veneer
of civilization, Doyle told himself, and he was not surprised that there
was no tenderness, no kisses, just hot limbs and a big body, and Doyle on
his knees, waiting.

Bodie was big, but Doyle was still slick from before, and Bodie, he
remembered, had taken women this way in the past and was not entirely
without experience. Doyle was pierced, and the cock fed into his body inch
by large inch. So big, and raw, too. Lane had worn condoms each time he
had entered Doyle, but Bodie allowed no barrier between them and Doyle's
skin flushed and he shivered because every inch of Bodie touched some part
of him. Bodie's hot torso came down onto his back, and his arms wrapped
around Doyle, and Doyle, bracing against the greater weight of Bodie, felt
the cock inside him sink deep into him. He squeezed around it, trying to
sense every endless inch of it, took a deep breath and sucked it in a
fraction of an inch deeper. He paused there, knowing that real pain would
come if he forced more, yet half inclined to just try, to see...but then
Bodie moved, withdrawing until only the tip of his cock was inside Doyle's
body.

Bodie pressed in again, with more speed this time, causing Doyle to grunt
with the power of the thrust, and he braced himself and accepted it,
letting the storm which was Bodie batter itself out on his shores until
with one last lunge, Bodie emptied himself into Doyle with a grunt and a
sigh.

Fastest fuck on record, Doyle told himself, as Bodie pulled free and
collapsed beside him. Doyle groped, one-handed, for the towel kept beside
the bed, and used it to mop himself up. His arse was sore, and he
remembered he had just broken Lane's rule about getting fucked twice in
one day.

Beside him, Bodie caught his breath, rolled over onto his back and stared
up at the mirrored ceiling. Doyle looked up, drawn by Bodie's intensity,
and their eyes met in the mirror.

"Your turn," Bodie said, breaking away first. He should have looked
relaxed, sated, but instead there was a tenseness in his manner, an
emotion he could not quite hide. Silly sod, Doyle thought, half in
exasperation, half fondness. Still going to try to convince me you've done
this before? What did Bodie think he had to prove?

Unfortunately, Doyle was too tired to try to work it out.

"Sorry. Don't have another round up the spout," Doyle said, trying to make
a joke of it. Maybe, with a lot of coaxing, he could get hard again, but
Bodie wasn't the only one with fears. Bodie hadn't thought this out, he
was just reacting to the situation. Operating on instinct.

That was Bodie, stupid with bravery. Or, at least, stupid, Doyle amended,
as Bodie's large square hand cupped his genitals and Bodie rolled on his
side to better minister to Doyle.

"Bodie, don't!" he said sharply, shoving the hand away roughly.

"Yeah. I forgot. You came twice for *him*, didn't you?" Bodie said acidly.
Bodie leaned over Doyle, this time putting his hand on Doyle's hip,
rubbing there slowly. "Where'd you find that berk, anyway?"

It would be suicide to answer that line of questioning. Doyle changed the
subject. "Look, mate, I'm tired. We have to clear out of here early, and I
want to sleep. You can go or stay as you like, but if you stay, button
it." Doyle rolled over to the other side of the bed, back towards Bodie,
and burrowed under the covers.

Bodie got up, turned off the music and the lights, and climbed into bed
with that fumbling caution one uses in a strange place in the dark. He
didn't keep his distance. Bodie's head was on the same pillow, his body
was a line of warmth along Doyle's back, and his groin curved along
Doyle's buttocks and reminded him that Bodie had done it, Bodie had fucked
him, and left something of himself inside. The heat of Bodie seemed to
soak into him along the path the man's cock had taken, forcing him to
remember every moment of it.

A fantasy come true, Doyle reminded himself. Behind him, he heard Bodie's
breathing slow. The other man was not asleep, but drifting in that
direction. Tired, not only from tracking Doyle, but from unusual activity.
Trust Bodie to fall asleep as soon as he had his end away. Might explain
the trouble he had keeping his birds. A treat in bed--until he got what he
wanted?

Lying here in the dark, wondering about inconsequentials such as Bodie's
post-coital technique was stupid. He should be asleep, and if sleep eluded
him, then he could at least worry about more significant issues.

Like how Bodie would act in the morning? How this would affect the job?
Perhaps he should turn his mind to the problem of being asked to serve as
bottom man at regular intervals for an undetermined amount of time?

Behind him, Bodie took the last slide into true sleep, lax limbs falling
away a bit. Eventually, he shifted onto his back, and a began a light
snore.

Love's young dream.

With as much caution as he used on the job, Doyle eased out from under the
covers. It took considerable skill to vacate the bed without waking the
other, but Doyle managed it. Then he shrugged into Lane's robe and made
his way silently to the other room, closing the door quite carefully
behind. He wandered aimlessly for a few moments, putting a few things
away, making the kitchen decent. But that wasn't what he wanted to do, and
he gave into the impulse.

He painted. He spoiled a canvas attempting a cityscape, and then he
rescued the effort. Onto the ruined buildings he built a montage of ghosts
and ghouls. There was Murphy dancing with only his bones, and Cowley as a
ghost, oozing out of a window to reign over wispy chaos. It was crude, it
was frustrating. He didn't have the techniques he needed to produce the
effects he saw in his mind, but it was ugly enough to satisfy some unhappy
recess of his mind. Dawn came, and he stopped, stretched, and methodically
cleaned up, finishing with a shower to wash away the signs of the various
activities of his long night.

The sounds of the plumbing had roused Bodie. Naked, with disordered hair
and narrowed eyes, Bodie came to stand in the doorway to watch Doyle towel
dry.

"You're going to be hell to work with today. You should have slept," Bodie
told him flatly.

"Not all like you SAS types, are we?" Doyle brushed by him to put on the
change of clothing he had stashed in his locker. It all smelled of
turpentine now. Bodie had followed him, but paused by the easel to look at
the new canvas.

"All headed for hell, are we?" Bodie asked, after a lengthy perusal.

"Already there, mate. Better get dressed, if you want anything to eat this
morning. Have to be out of here by eight."

"The owner comes home then, does he?"

"One way of putting it. I have my car, I assume you have yours. I'll meet
you at work," Doyle told him, straightening up, putting away.

"I think I'd prefer to go in your car," Bodie said, in that bland tone he
used to disguise exactly how he felt about something.

"Oh?" The tone implied it didn't matter what Bodie thought. Doyle was
going to do it his own way.

"I'm going to buy you breakfast," Bodie explained. If Doyle had been more
like Bodie, it would have been more of an inducement.

"You mean you want to keep an eye on me," Doyle interpreted. That wasn't
Bodie's style, was it? He was usually glad enough to leave behind the
person he had fucked the night before. Couldn't see him wanting to hold
hands the next morning.

"You're worth looking at, sunshine," Bodie assured him, with a wink.

Doyle said nothing. There was Bodie, bantering in his usual way, throwing
off flattering phrases with scarcely a thought. Gesturing Bodie out, he
took up his hold-all and followed him, pausing only to lock up.

"Have your own key," Bodie noted.

Doyle didn't want to make explanations, but he knew Bodie would make his
life difficult with his constant efforts to dig out the truth. It was what
they did for a living, after all, and they were both good at it. He
explained, "It's an artist's studio, Bodie. I paint there. I rent Friday."

"Yesterday was Sunday," Bodie said, without much inflection.

"So it was."

Bodie persisted. "Do you screw Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and
Saturday as well?"

"You have a nasty tongue."

"I'm not the only one. Do you?" Bodie had a hint of steel behind his
words. Jealousy?

"As a point of fact, no."

"Only Sunday?"

"Only Sunday."

"Gay by appointment, then?" They had reached Doyle's car. Automatically
they made the usual checks before unlocking the door.

"Where's your car?" Before Bodie could give him argument, he said firmly,
"You don't want to leave it here, Bodie, trust me. What's Cowley going to
say if you can't produce your motor, eh? Or if you return it in pieces?"

"What's he going to say when he finds out you fancy the fellers?" Bodie
countered.

Doyle sighed. "You planning to tell him?"

"Not at the moment." The implied threat hung between them. Doyle pursed
his lips, thinking. Bodie stared at him. "Doyle?"

"Blackmail?" Doyle asked, showing his disappointment in Bodie even within
one word.

"Do you think that of me?" Bodie demanded.

"I don't know what to expect of you," Doyle said sharply, starting the
car. "Where's your vehicle, 3.7?"

"Two blocks north, one east." Bodie snapped out. "What I meant was, before
you leaped so blindly to your conclusion, was that I think we should wait
and tell him together."

"Tell him what?" Doyle wanted to know. "That you screwed me last night?"

"I doubt he'll want us to get that specific. All he needs to know is that
we're lovers."

"We're not, " Doyle said through clenched teeth.

"Not my fault. Half-way there, though, aren't we? We can remedy that
tonight." Bodie was so matter-of-fact about it, but his glance at Doyle
was too brief. Bodie was going to force the issue, martyr himself on
Doyle's sword. Doyle expressed his distaste at that thought.

"No need, Bodie." Doyle stopped beside Bodie's car. "We'll forget about
it, won't we." It was not really a question, but Bodie answered it as
such.

"No, we won't. And I won't get out of this car while you harbour that
thought. We're going to do it, Doyle. Tonight."

Doyle looked at that stubborn expression of the face he knew so well, And
sighed. Well, why not. Let Bodie get it out of his system. Not like
fucking Bodie would be such a chore, and maybe with his virginity out of
the way and his bum sore, Bodie would reckon them even and come to his
senses.

"Tonight," Doyle repeated. Behind them, a horn sounded.

Bodie got out, but stuck his head back in to say, "Millie's."

One of Doyle's favourite places for a quick breakfast. He nodded, even
though from this angle Bodie could no longer see him, and drove off,
watching in his mirror as Bodie checked his own car over, got in, and
pulled into traffic some distance behind him.

Doyle was glad to be alone, glad to have a chance to think. Tonight.

Tonight.

He could feel himself go on heat, just thinking about it. Even if it was
just once, he was going to have what he wanted. Bodie was insisting on it.
Yeah. Why? Was there ever a man less gay than Bodie? And even if he found
the novelty of it diverting, how soon before he was back to his normal
behaviour? He was changing his women in mid-week now; the poor things
never even lasted until the next weekend. Why was Doyle worrying? Chances
are, he would be old news by Friday. It would hurt, but at least it would
be over and done with. He wouldn't have to live anymore with the wondering
and wanting.

Or would he? Worse than Bodie dropping him casually would be Bodie coming
to him casually. He tried to imagine a lifetime of Bodie showing up every
time a bird didn't come through, wanting a little fuck to tide him over.
Bodie was capable of doing that, too.

The idea didn't appeal. But Bodie would be hard to resist. Bodie would....

Millie's was crowded, and there was no chance to talk. Doyle was glad
enough to eat his croissant and watch Bodie demolish a plate of them. He
thought of what he would say to Lane when he called the man. After this
farce, it was over between them. Lane was practical about such things, had
said so from the beginning, but he deserved more than a brush-off. Doyle
thought about what would be best to say. Then he thought about how long he
should wait before finding a replacement. Probably best to give up the
flat and find some place else to paint.

"You're quiet," Bodie said, wiping a bit of strawberry jam from his lips
with care.

"It's time to go," Doyle said, truthfully.

"Wonder what the old man will have for us today? We've been getting all
the odd bits lately," Bodie commented as they rose from the table. There
was no opportunity for more speech as they paid, and returned to their
separate cars, but Doyle was aware of several measuring looks from Bodie,
which he managed to ignore. Bodie drove behind him all the way to HQ, his
car a white shadow directed by a dark one--sometimes the other vehicle was
close enough for Doyle to see Bodie's frowning face in the mirror.

Cowley met them promptly at nine and gave them the task of clearing out
Burke's desk, lockers and files. It was not the simple job it would have
been if Burke had worked in, say, an insurance office. At CI5, each item
had to be inspected, each paper scrutinized. Certain items would be turned
over to the family, but others would be evaluated for a connection to
current or past cases before they were destroyed or filed. The task would
take at least the morning. Cowley waved them off, glad to have that small
matter attended to, his eyes already fastened on the files spread out on
his desk as the door closed behind them.

"Why don't you clear out his lockers while I begin here," Doyle suggested
with the appearance of efficiency as they stopped beside the desk Burke
used.

Bodie's expressive eyebrow rose. "I never noticed that yellow streak
running down your back, mate," he said in a low voice.

"There were a lot of things you never noticed," Doyle replied acidly, and
went to work at once. He was aware of Bodie as the other stood a moment in
speculative silence before he strode away.

Burke was a packrat. He kept notes on small scraps of paper and his
handwriting would have baffled cryptographists of any century. Bodie and
Doyle were all day at the job, stopping only for a quick sandwich at noon.
By staying an extra hour, they finished up, filled in the required forms,
and left items at the file room, the mail room and the shredder before
signing out.

The atmosphere was at once tense between them as they shrugged into their
jackets. "Let's eat at the Gold Dragon," Bodie suggested at once. "We can
take my car."

Macho, Doyle thought. Making all the decisions, taking the power positions
for himself. Typical Bodie. He smiled slightly. "Let's take *my* car to
Mario's."

Bodie grinned, obviously realizing exactly what he had done and what
Doyle's response meant. "Your car, to the Gold Dragon?" he offered in
compromise. They both knew the Chinese place was near his flat, the
Italian one near Doyle's. What they were really discussing is where they
would spend the night. It would be Bodie's apartment, but Doyle would have
the car and could leave when he wished.

"I like Chinese," Doyle said, agreeing to it. Might as well let Bodie have
home ground for his deflowering. He wondered if Bodie had something for
lubricant, or if he should arrange for a detour past the chemists.

"Fine. Let's go." Nothing else was said as they went down to the car park,
liberated the car and headed off for the restaurant. It was twilight.
Doyle flicked on the radio and neither spoke until they were seated amid
the red upholstery and gilded lanterns of Bodie's favourite Chinese place.

The waitresses were exotic and beautiful, the food good, the portions
large. Doyle ate more than he usually did, and said less, while listening
to Bodie rabbit on about Liverpool's chances. Nervous, he decided. He
smiled, glad to know he was not the only one. He could feel the tensions
between them tightening, feel them come closer to the moment Bodie was so
clearly focused upon.

Doyle was trying not to think of it, afraid to dwell on how it would
probably go wrong. He had dreamed of having Bodie for years, he knew a
deep feeling that was more than anticipation at the thought of being the
first, probably the only man, to get into Bodie's arse.

But he kept expecting it not to happen. Bodie would back out, or the world
would end, or *something* would occur to prevent it. He was a little
surprised when they paid the bill, and got into his car, and drove to
Bodie's flat without incident. Bodie's rooms were chilly, and Bodie saw to
the heat while Doyle was instructed to get them drinks. His hand trembled
when he poured, and Cowley would have been severely disappointed in him,
for he wasted the good malt, spilling it over his own hand.

Bodie returned, and Doyle watched him lift the glass to his lips and sip,
then take a moment to pause in appreciation before taking another small
drink. Bodie was so beautiful, with his hair, the shade between brown and
black, a close cap for his head, a frame for eyes of a colour Doyle had
never found in paint, his mouth a shape traced out more than once with
pencil and paper, but never gotten completely right. After enough kisses
would he know how to draw those lips? Would there be kisses? There had not
been kisses with Lane, but Lane, as Doyle knew all too well, was not
Bodie.

"You're thinking about doing me," Bodie said, in a whisky voice. For being
so smooth and quiet, it produced an incredible impact in Doyle's gut.

"I'm thinking about *not* doing you. Or do you think the partnership can
survive me shoving my cock up your arse?"

"It survived me shoving mine up yours," Bodie pointed out.

"Has it?"

"Yes," Bodie said firmly. "Look, Doyle, what's the big deal? I'm not
innocent, you know. I know it will hurt a bit, but you took it, and I can
do anything you can, mate."

The man hadn't a clue. Doyle forced a smile. "So let's get to it. Would
you happen to have some lubricant? KY? Vaseline? Lotion?" Doyle hoped it
wasn't lotion. Some of them had alcohol in them and could sting a bit.

Bodie winked. "Strawberry? Or banana?"

Trust Bodie to have it--in fruit flavours. A smile reluctantly formed on
Doyle's lips. "Lead on," he said, although he knew well enough where
Bodie's bedroom was. Instinctively he knew not to take over completely, to
let Bodie have the illusion of control even when it was tenuous at best.
He let Bodie check over the room, large but windowless, let Bodie suggest
that Doyle have the shower first, let Bodie loan him a thick robe to wear
while he waited, sitting cross-legged on the bed, for the sound of the
water to stop and for Bodie to come out.

So casual, the way Bodie paused in the doorway, wearing a towel around his
waist while he worked another vigorously over his short hair. He slung it
around his shoulder, ducked back to use the comb, and then came back into
the room with that Bodie swagger that Doyle was beginning to believe
shielded more than one vulnerability.

He had the chest of a Roman warrior, Doyle decided. Solid, a bit stocky,
well muscled. Neck like a Greek statue, and...Doyle drew in his breath
sharply as Bodie flicked aside both towels and strode forward towards the
bed.

Doyle looked up to Bodie's face and said, "Where's the...." Bodie was
already opening the drawer of the bedside table and pulling out two garish
tubes, one red, one yellow. He tossed them at Doyle, then turned out the
light and slid into the bed. Doyle's eyes struggled to adapt, but there
was almost no light. Not that he couldn't do it all by feel, but he felt a
need to see, to know Bodie's reactions with all senses. He reached out,
found the lamp on his side of the bed and turned it on. Bodie blinked at
him, mouth opening to comment or protest, but then he closed it and said
nothing.

Doyle tucked the tubes under the pillow and sat up to shrug out of the
robe and toss it to the floor. Then he rolled over until they touched. The
flinch Bodie made when Doyle's chest first brushed his was tiny, but it
told Doyle that his partner was as nervous about it as he was. Doyle
stretched, letting all of his body find a matching spot on Bodie's to rub
against, and then with two fingers he turned Bodie's head towards him and
brought their lips together.

Bodie could kiss. When Bodie pressed forward, intent on rolling them over
so that Doyle was beneath him and Bodie was in control of the kiss, Doyle
pulled his lips away and aggressively turned the tables, forcing Bodie
onto his back and Doyle half over him.

Bodie did not fight him, and when Doyle's lips found his again, he
participated whole-heartedly in the kiss. One big hand came up to Doyle's
head, the fingers threading through the curls. It felt good. They kissed
again.

Eventually, Bodie's lips broke away. "You always kiss this much? Or is
there some reason you don't want to go to stage two?"

Because stage two led to three, to four, all eventually ending with...an
ending. Doyle lifted his head. "Giving you lots of chances to change your
mind," he explained.

"Not exactly the way to go about it," Bodie informed him, shifting so that
Doyle could feel the half hard evidence of his very real interest. "Get on
with it, Doyle." Bodie spoke brusquely, but he did not sound annoyed or
impatient. Nervous about it, surely? Doyle trailed a hand down Bodie's
flank, then over the hard stomach, across the hip bone and then, quite
slowly, he closed his hand around Bodie's cock. It felt good in his hand.
Big, and alive. He thought about it being inside him, and flushed, moving
restlessly. To be inside Bodie. It was near now. He was fighting the haze
of lust building inside him, forcing himself to be slow enough and careful
enough so that it could be done right.

He tugged, pulling Bodie half onto him, freeing an arm so that he could
reach around and palm Bodie's buttocks. Just as solid as the rest of him.
Powerful. He rubbed, feeling the tense clench which relaxed almost at
once. Then, Bodie deliberately shifted one leg up, separating the mound
under Doyle's hand into two hills with a valley between. Doyle's hand slid
down at once, exploring the very warm crevice, taking inventory of stray
hairs and measuring distances, fingers tracing the very edges of the anus.
Finally, he let the pad of one finger brush over it. Bodie took a deep
breath. Doyle took back his hand, reached under the pillow with his other,
shifting them both in the process, so that when he had the cap off, he was
sitting up beside a prone Bodie.

Strawberry. A sharp, artificial, but unmistakable scent. He put some on
his fingers and brought it to Bodie's arse, finding the place unerringly,
and rubbing there, testing the give, the resistance. More red goo, more
rubbing, a finger in. Then two. Slowly, working at it, one part of his
mind cool, amazed, careful, and another holding back the fire that was
growing in his own groin. He was hard.

Bodie was hard as well, weeping a bit from the tip of his cock, and
holding himself with one large hand. He wasn't pumping, wasn't stroking,
only holding tight, making the smallest of movements now and again with
his hips.

Doyle's own hand trembled as he brought the red slickness of the
over-scented salve onto his cock, stroking to spread it. Without words, he
then pulled and pushed Bodie into the position he wanted, with Bodie's
arse in the air and his head on the pillow. But Bodie didn't want that, he
brought himself up and braced on all fours, head down. Doyle let him have
his way. Moving behind, he fingered Bodie again, stretching the opening
and making his fingers a funnel through which he pushed himself, pulling
back the fingers as he felt the head of his penis well inside.

"Should I stop?" Doyle was shocked when his voice came out a rough croak;
he swallowed several times, and was going to withdraw because Bodie had
not answered, but then something gave way a bit within Bodie, and Doyle
slid in a few more inches. Instinctively, Bodie shifted, opening himself,
and Doyle's own instincts bade him thrust, and there he was. In Bodie. Not
quite all the way in, but Doyle began a withdrawal and a second thrust,
and then another, working his way in deeper with each.

Felt good. Bodie, hot around him, different from Lane, not only in
tightness, but in a dozen ways his mind was too inflamed to categorize.
The lump of the prostate was more pronounced, and Doyle targeted it,
wanting to make this a pleasure for Bodie which could never be forgotten.

He knew when he began to succeed. Bodie gave a bit of sound, a moan with
an odd upturn at the end which made it sound like a question, and he
lifted his arse and thrust back, unable to stay still. Doyle let loose,
holding nothing in reserve, unable to control himself the way he had
before. He was going to come, he was on the edge, he was....

He was emptying himself into Bodie, and yet his hand, reaching under,
stoked the bow-taut hardness of Bodie's cock, pulling orgasm from Bodie as
well, so that the convulsions of Bodie's coming milked the last of his
own, prolonging it, giving him a strange delight.

Cock in Bodie, exhausted, feeling things he had never quite felt before,
Doyle soaked in the essence of the moment, while the world settled around
him and he waited. For what? What would Bodie...would Bodie....

Bodie stirred, gave a sighing sound, and Doyle rolled away. Bodie's long
arm captured him and he was pulled close to Bodie's sweat-damp chest.

"Hell of a thing, mate," Bodie said, his words slightly muffled by Doyle's
curls.

No answer to that, of course, no matter what he meant, but Doyle moved his
head anyway.

"Not how I thought it would be," Bodie went on. Then, as if Doyle had
asked, he added, "Better. It was better. I was afraid...."

Afraid? Bodie? A slight expulsion of air from Doyle's nose expressed his
doubt about that.

"Was," Bodie insisted. "Was afraid I wouldn't be able to do it, and you'd
have an excuse to go back to that whey-faced fool." Bodie turned on his
side and ran a hand over the bits of back and arm he could reach. Bodie's
hand felt very warm and solid. Good. A touch of moisture at the corner of
his eye warned Doyle that his emotions were very much at the surface. He
took firm control, and was going to pull out of the embrace when Bodie, as
if reading his mind, tightened his grip and leaned over enough to place
his lips on Doyle's forehead.

It meant too much. Doyle jerked out of the holding arms and rolled to the
edge of the bed, coming to his feet in one smooth, continuous movement. He
was only one stride away from the bed when Bodie caught him, a hand on his
shoulder spinning him around with more force than Doyle appreciated--he
shoved Bodie's hand away.

"Bloody hell, Doyle! What are you...." Bodie paused as if struck by a
sudden thought, and then said, more quietly, "I did the best I could.
There's tricks to it, of course. I'll learn."

"What are you on about?" Doyle demanded, letting the anger and confusion
he felt out at Bodie.

"Look, I have only one question. Was it enough?"

"Enough what?" Doyle said, feeling particularly stupid. He rubbed at his
head absently, the spot where Bodie's lips had touched.

Bodie rolled his eyes eloquently. "Enough to keep you home, berk. Enough
to keep you out of his bed." It was clear he meant Lane.

Christ, what a competitive sod. "Already decided I wouldn't be going
back."

"Good. Just you and me from now on," Bodie stated, his jaw jutting with
his determination.

Yeah. Until Lola or Polly or Gina comes along.

"You're too quiet."

Doyle looked at him, then down at his own nudity, realizing he was cold.
Glancing around, he located his clothing and after collecting up the
scattered bits, he began to dress.

"Not going home, are you?" Bodie asked. "Come on, Doyle. Stay the night."
He added in hesitant enticement, "Let you have my arse again in the
morning."

"You'd never walk again," Doyle predicted, shaking his head. Then he said,
"Slow's best, Bodie. Word to the wise. Never more than once a day." Lane's
advice, though he couldn't tell Bodie that. "Wouldn't want it to affect
the job."

"Still, no need to go rushing off. Uh...Doyle...." Bodie hesitated, and
Doyle looked up from pulling up his zip. "Maybe that's the way gays do it.
Have sex, and then off home or...but," he shrugged, a little
self-consciously, "I like to spend the night. Have a little cuddle."

"Just so you can do it again in the morning," Doyle suggested.

"That," he said, with a swift grin. "But...don't go."

"You want me to spend the night."

Bodie nodded.

"Okay. I'm going to make some tea."

Bodie nodded.

It was too awkward.

Doyle reminded himself that affairs of the heart always had rough spots,
had awkward moments to get through, no matter if they ended or went on to
happy ever after. As he found the kettle and filled it, he thought about
some of their current cases, he considered Netherton, because he did not
want to think about this situation, about Bodie and....

"You think too much." Bodie had come up beside him. His partner's big hand
came up, and Bodie ran his fingers through Doyle's hair slowly. "I can
almost see the gears turning."

Doyle gave most of his attention to the tea. Or appeared to.

"You're thinking it won't work," Bodie said, studying Doyle's face. Doyle
watched him do it, thinking of painting that chin, looking at Bodie's lips
and tracing the line in his mind. "Always borrowing trouble, not willing
to accept what's in front of your eyes."

"A good trait in a CI5 agent," Doyle said lightly, trying to draw the
conversation away from the serious. He didn't want to hear from Bodie that
this meant something, that it was special, because then it would hurt all
the more later, when....

"You're not using your noggin, Doyle," Bodie said, and took his fingers
from the curls so that he could mock-knock on Doyle's head.

Doyle pulled back instinctively, but Bodie had thrust a leg forward and
slightly behind Doyle, to block any retreat.

"If you'd bother to think," Bodie said, "you'd understand."

Doyle gave him a look that implied that it was not Doyle who needed to
think, or understand. It only made Bodie grin that infuriating grin he
sometimes dredged up. Doyle was not in the mood for it. He moved a
fraction of an inch, but Bodie blocked it once more, moving closer until
they were touching. A bit of water at the edge of the sink was slowly
wicking up Doyle's shirt, and he wiggled to avoid the discomfort. Bodie
seemed to understand what was bothering Doyle and let him move a few
inches further down, so that he was leaning against the counter.

"Do you think," Bodie began, in a too-reasonable and conversational tone,
"that I would let just *anybody* do that to me? Shove their cock up my
arse? Not my thing, is it?" Before Doyle could answer, he supplied his
own. "No. Only one man I'd let do that, Doyle. And for only one reason."

Doyle waited for Bodie to go on, half afraid of what Bodie had to say.

"This is it, Doyle. This is the one." He brought his hand around, cupping
Doyle's cheek, rubbing it lightly. "This is the one that means something.
This is the one you can't run away from."

"Me!" Doyle squawked, goaded into it by the sheer unfairness of it. *He*
wasn't the one who avoided commitment like the plague, who....

"You. Me, too." Bodie was fair about it. "It's going to take both of us to
make this work."

"This?" Doyle repeated, looking inquiringly at his partner. What,
precisely, was "this"?

"This private partnership," Bodie said quietly.

"Sleeping together," Doyle said, as if to clarify it, but genuinely
curious to see if that was how Bodie saw it.

"It'll be more than that. Don't tell me otherwise, Doyle. I'm not going to
put up with something lukewarm. With you running off to some other man
every Friday. Or any other day of the week."

"This from the man whose pointed comments about a ball and chain went on
for a quarter of an hour once, not that long ago!"

"But that's just it, Doyle. It's different with you. You won't tie me
down. You'd let me be me."

"Wrong!" Doyle broke away, to stalk to the front room, flicking on the
light as he went, and then to move restlessly around the room. The
feelings inside wouldn't let him be still. He turned to face Bodie, who
had stopped in the doorway, leaning there, watching him. Waiting.

"Wrong, Bodie. I wouldn't let you be...what you are. I'd be more demanding
than any of your birds ever thought of being."

"Probably," Bodie replied. "But you wouldn't mind spending the day at the
firing range, followed by three orders of chicken and a long night between
the sheets."

"Your idea of the perfect date?" The thought drew a twisted grin from
Doyle's lips.

"One of 'em. You can't deny it appeals to you, too. I know it does. I know
you better than anyone, anywhere, Doyle." His eyes narrowed. "I knew
exactly when you found that...man. Conversation, patterns, habits--there
were enough changes so that I knew something was going on--and I had to
find out what had happened."

"And you did," Doyle said. "Surprised to find you didn't know me as well
as you thought?"

"No. Surprised I didn't know *me* as well as I thought."

Doyle was puzzled, but he didn't ask what Bodie meant. Bodie, however, was
willing to give the explanation without being prodded. "Wanted to tear out
his heart. I watched him shove his cock inside you, and I wanted to rip
the damn thing off."

Jealousy. Doyle opened his mouth to comment on it, but Bodie waved him
silent. "You'd done him first. I'd watched that, and I was angry, but when
you let him...." Bodie shook his head, as if he still couldn't believe it.
"I knew, all at once, everything. Now, I know exactly how it's going to be
between us. Assuming you don't fuck it up."

"*Me*!" Doyle yelped yet again, and he strode forward, angry, stopping
when he was nose to nose with Bodie.

"You. I won't stand for any other men in your bed, Doyle. It's just going
to be me."

"Oh? Is there room for the two of us *and* all your women?" Doyle asked
sarcastically.

"I won't need women. Neither will you."

"Easy to say," Doyle snapped.

"We can do it. We can do it because we're friends." Before Doyle could get
in another sarky comment, he explained. "Not just your garden variety of
friends. Favour or two, beer at the pub, bet on the match--can get that
anywhere. Between us, there's something more than that. I trust you. I
know you. We've got something besides the sex."

"The job," Doyle said.

Bodie shook his head. "It started with the job, but it's something more,
now. Partnership. Thing is, we'd still have it even if we weren't
partners, even if we worked at completely different jobs. What's that
sound like to you?"

No way was Doyle going to touch that one. Bodie, however, was again
perfectly willing to answer his own question. "More like a marriage, isn't
it?"

"Not much," Doyle retorted, but even to his own ears it lacked force.

Bodie grinned. "I see some advantages to shacking up with you. We can make
anything we want out of it, can't we? Don't have to be tied to the
traditional," he added with satisfaction. "And no need to worry about
kids, schools, all that. We can do whatever we want!"

"Not quite," Doyle said flatly.

"I wouldn't cheat on you," Bodie said, very seriously.

"Easy to say. Bodie, this sort of thing is harder than 'normal.' Not
easier."

"Afraid of the work?" Bodie wanted to know.

"Afraid all the work will be mine," Doyle snapped. "The picture you're
making of settling down--you casting me in the role of the wife? Do all
the cooking and cleaning, waiting on the lord and master?" Doyle's tone
warned that he wouldn't do it.

"You're a better cook," Bodie pointed out, but before Doyle could perform
some type of mayhem upon his body, he added, "No, that's not what I had in
mind! Look, I was just comparing it to marriage so you would know I'm
serious. What else would you call living together, loving each other?"

Madness, said one part of Doyle. Heaven, said another. But he still didn't
believe it could happen.

"We'll be fine," Bodie said. Was he repeating it to convince himself, or
did he really believe it? Doyle stared at the familiar, handsome face,
trying to see past all the emotion and problems to whatever truth might be
beneath it. "You don't have to worry about being bottom man all the time.
We know I can do my share, don't we?" Bodie grinned, inviting Doyle to
remember.

As if being buried in Bodie, making love to him, was something Doyle would
ever forget.

"It'll be like the job. Turn and turn about. We always know whose turn it
is, don't we? Same in bed. It'll be fair, Ray. And it will be good...."
Bodie bent his head, punctuating his sentence by pressing his lips onto
the bit of Doyle neck he could reach.

Exactly then, Doyle knew what he would do. He'd try this madman's plan, do
his best to make it work between them. Why was he fighting so hard? It was
what he'd wanted, after all. He caught fire, pulled his wonderfully
tortured neck away from the nibbling lips, and pulled Bodie into a proper
kiss, full and deep and wildly exciting.

Strangely, as the kiss evolved into another, and then again another, he
found himself thinking of paint, of exotic colours and blends, of a blank
canvas, waiting for him. He did not want to give up painting, but knew
that in some environments he couldn't do it. Would Bodie trust him enough
to let him have a separate studio? Or, would it be possible to paint and
live in the same place? Imagine being so comfortable with a person, trust
them so much that you could work with them in the same room, trust them to
take care around the paint, to not make comments which were off-putting or
mocking, not to mind the smell and the muss.

Would it be that way with Bodie? Doyle found that he didn't have the
slightest idea how this would all turn out. It didn't seem possible that
it could work, he could have everything he wanted. But already it didn't
seem possible that he could give Bodie up. Kisses like this....

Bodie was manoeuvring them both back to the bedroom, and Doyle knew by the
press of Bodie's cock against his hip exactly what Bodie had in mind.
There would be many occasions when hands and mouths would satisfy them,
but the deep down truth was that Bodie liked to fuck, needed it, enjoyed
it intensely. Doyle, who had no objections to being fucked, allowed Bodie
to guide them to the bed.

He let Bodie make the running, do the touch-and-lick-and-kiss he did so
well. Let Bodie explore and tease and indulge himself. Doyle returned
enough of the caresses and kisses to keep Bodie interested, but not enough
to hurry matters along. Doyle was cooperative when Bodie decanted the
fruit-scented salve and began to rub it between his nether cheeks. Bodie's
fingers felt big, and Doyle closed his eyes to better sense each touch.
Hesitant, sometimes, and very sure at others, the fingers explored, found
the way in, and discovered exactly how to make Doyle squirm and moan, to
pant and then demand, with hoarse desperation, that Bodie get on with it.
With one lunging thrust, Bodie obeyed.

Had a cock that was perfect, did Bodie, one he wielded with enthusiasm and
a firmness of purpose. He breathed bits of words and promises, most of
which were lost against Doyle's curls or skin, and he was wise enough to
give loving attention to Doyle's cock and balls; in fact, he treated them
as if they were his own.

Bodie, fucking him hard and deep. Bodie, wanting him. Bodie, willing to do
this over and over again. Not just a one-night stand. Bodie was his. And,
as Bodie hit the pleasure within him and burst it, throwing it out to
every part of his body, Doyle cried out. The convulsions of his pleasure
tore an equal reaction from Bodie, who thrust deep and held tight.

An eternity later, one of them groaned and stirred.

In his drowsing mind, Doyle was painting pictures, odd ones where the
curve of Bodie's hip, which he knew was under his fingers, was repeated
over and over, and the colour of Bodie's eyes lined the dark edge of storm
clouds over a tossing sea.

"What are you thinking about?" Bodie's voice, a deep rumble, disturbed the
picture. It didn't matter. Doyle moved until he could look at Bodie from
sleep-slitted eyes, and he smiled.

"Everything. Nothing."

"Us?" Bodie wanted to know.

"Yes, us," Doyle admitted.

"Convinced you there *is* an us, did I?" Bodie wanted to know.

"Drove the point home with consummate skill," Doyle said, and smiled
again. "And, Bodie?" Doyle beckoned his lover to bend close to him. With
lips almost touching Bodie's ear, Doyle whispered, "It's your turn--to put
out the light."

"Bastard," Bodie said lovingly, but he got up and did it. Doyle looked at
him in surprise. Bodie shrugged, and to Doyle's delight, he flushed just a
bit, a touch of rose on his cheek which faded at once, but still left
Doyle's fingers itching for a paint brush.

He would have to go over and get his paints, and all the other things he
had at the flat. Then later, he'd call Topper and tell him Friday was
available again. Poor Topper would have the hassle of finding another
person for Friday.

But meanwhile, there were a couple of Fridays left in the month and maybe
Bodie wouldn't mind a night amid the velvet and lace. And there was always
that trapeze he'd never had a chance to try out....

"Why are you grinning like that?" Bodie asked, with well-founded
suspicion.

"Come give me a kiss," Doyle ordered, and Bodie did so at once. They
traded long, lake kisses, turn and turn about, until, heavy-eyed, they
crawled into bed and slept.

-- THE END --

*Originally published in *To Friends*, Chained to the Typewriter Press,
1993*

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