The Professionals Circuit Archive - A Falling Off	  A Falling Off

 

by Callisto 

 
 Bodie glanced across at the man swaying by his side. Doyle was drunk. Not
falling-down-puking-over-your-shoes-in-the-gutter drunk, but definitely an
unsteady three sheets to the wind. He paused as his partner seemed to fall
up the kerb, if such a thing were possible.

 Better make that three and a half sheets, thought Bodie with a grimace as
Doyle misstepped and bounced off his shoulder. Something close to a giggle
emerged as they came to a halt.

 "What?" Bodie turned.

 Doyle blinked slowly. Twice. "Never said a word, mate." A hiccup belied
the gravity of his denial.

 Bodie couldn't help it. His face hurt, his back was bruised, his lips
were split, but something about an inebriated Ray Doyle got through.
Against his better judgement he rested back on the doorframe of his
building and grinned. The regret was instant.

 "Ow! Bloody hell."

 "What?" said Doyle, all slow concern as he leant forward.

 "Nothing," Bodie sighed. Fuck, he was tired. "Don't make me laugh, you."
He reached into his pocket and handed over his key. His wrists and fingers
were still sore, and drunk or not, Doyle was Raffles with anything locked.
"Just get us inside, Ray, and stop pratting about."

 Once inside, Bodie focused on getting to his living room, and to a settee
which had never looked quite so inviting. He bit his lip as he sat, but
the groan of relief was unavoidable. He found the energy to glare at the
man grinning at him from the doorjamb.

 "No, no, quite all right, you slump away, Grandad. I'll put the kettle on
and do the honours, shall I?"

 Too tired to fear for his kitchen, Bodie sat as bonelessly as he could on
his overstuffed settee and let his head fall back. He listened to the
sounds of Doyle trying to make coffee in the kitchen, and even when a
curse followed a crash, felt what he always did when his partner was here
at this hour. It was an oddity, but not one Bodie chose to worry about,
that in his own flat he needed Doyle banging around, breaking God knows
what, to feel what he had recognised with a jolt one day as a sense of
belonging. If memory served, on that particular day an FA-cup-final
argument had become spirited, with Bodie gloating once too often and Doyle
throwing half a can of lager at him for making him drop uncooked spaghetti
all over the floor. Propelled backwards by his furious partner, he was in
the process of being tossed out of his own kitchen when the word had
suddenly come to him, explaining everything. Family.

 The thought had left him grinning like a loon, even as Doyle threw a wet
dishcloth after him and told him to bugger off and get some wine since
they were now out of lager. Wary of giving it all too much importance, he
had bought the wine, eaten the spaghetti and simply resigned himself to
the fact that for some unfathomable reason, a scruffy ex-copper with an
acid tongue and appalling habits meant home.

 Another curse from the kitchen and Bodie closed his eyes, content to
drowse. He should really turf Doyle out and get to bed, not drink a coffee
he didn't need. His lips curved. And wouldn't get if the sounds from the
kitchen were anything to go by. He opened his mouth to tell Doyle to stop,
and promptly closed it. Doyle was not going to be sober enough to drive
home and would have to crash on the settee, in which case Bodie *would*
need the coffee to kick start him on his way to the bedroom. Another
smile, this time a resigned one. Talk about lives intermingled; from
coffee to keys to coffins...He opened his eyes. What the hell? He licked
his lips, his mouth suddenly dry as his heart sped, enveloping him in its
own loud and uneven rhythm. He breathed in, an off-key whistle sounded
faintly over the thrum, and everything slowed again.

 Just a bloody long day, he told himself as he shifted, and then winced
when the labours of the afternoon made themselves felt anew.

 All aching aside, the funny thing was the weight of it, which he could
still feel. Fifteen pounds, they'd said. Not even a fraction of what Bodie
bench-pressed one handed when he was showing off. But weighed out in high
explosives strapped securely over his heart, those fifteen pounds had
dragged like the Rock of Gibraltar in as many seconds. With his hands tied
behind his back, the ungainly press of it had threatened his balance as he
ran hell-for-leather away from the gunfire, away from the chaos of voices,
and away from the maniac pounding after him through the smoke.

 Bodie had rarely known such impotent fury as he had at the sight of Doyle
casting his lot like that, defying Bodie's instinct to keep him safe and
give some meaning to the death he was undoubtedly seconds away from. He
couldn't even remember the words they had spat at each other across the
rapidly shrinking distance. And it wasn't that Bodie hadn't saved lives
before or been saved by others. On the streets of Belfast and in the
jungles of Africa, a timely shot or a shove on the shoulder had made the
difference many a time. Hell, he and Doyle had done it so often their
alert system was down to the fine art of a raised eyebrow and a head tilt.

 Still, he had never been the focus of such single-minded determination to
be rescued or have someone die trying. It was burned onto his retina: the
flash of that ridiculous burgundy shirt when Doyle had thundered out
across the grass, arms pistoning, jaw set, decision made there and then,
though the heavens would--

 A loud slurp right in front of him brought his mind back and his eyes
open to find an arm in that same shirt extending a mug out towards him.

 "Not having you fall asleep after all my hard work in the kitchen."

 Bodie wrapped a slow, cautious hand around the mug, grateful yet
irritated that Doyle recognised the need to keep hold of it an extra
moment.

 "What suffered this time?" inquired Bodie dryly.

 "I did, mate." Doyle let go and took a slightly unsteady step back. After
a moment's hesitation he put his own mug on the side table and sank to the
floor, anywhere else clearly too much effort. "That sugar bowl of yours
jumped up and bit me." He waggled a clearly intact left hand as some kind
of evidence, while his right reached for his coffee.

 Bodie blew across the top of his rather full mug, thankful Doyle was at
eye level.

 "Get your own back, did you?"

 "Absolutely. Broke it to pieces, it won't be doing that again."

 They grinned, one at the other over the mugs, and split lip aside Bodie
had to admit it felt damn good. Something was loosening, tilting off and
away, and his breath suddenly came easier than it had all day. And all it
had taken was Doyle sitting there, gloating over a broken sugar bowl.
Momentarily overcome, he looked down and drank deep. Strong, and with the
usual horse-dose of sugar, but coffee had never tasted so sweet or felt so
good going down. He blinked, and his tired mind finally caught up to the
fact that he was unwinding from the certainty of a death foretold and
expected.

 Feeling better, he paused from the coffee to contemplate the cross-legged
picture of domesticity on his carpet. Doyle was currently slouched back
against the armchair, mug tilting precariously while he sniffed and
scratched absently under his holster. It was hard to reconcile this with
the man who had bowled his legs from under him and brought him to the
ground with a savagery that had knocked the air from both lungs. Knee in
his back, Doyle had ripped it all off, shouting his defiance at Bodie, mad
bombers, and whatever the fates thought they might have in store. The
force of those hands had welted Bodie's neck as Doyle wrenched, spun and
then flung, crashing to curl beside him. And with the earth vibrating
through his ears and the smell of cordite filling his nostrils, Bodie had
known the shock of finding himself in one living, breathing piece
post-detonation.

 The will of one Raymond Doyle. Quite a sight to behold. Bodie watched his
partner take another noisy slurp and couldn't keep the warmth from his
voice.

 "I do have chairs y'know, Doyle."

 Doyle flapped a hand dismissively, too busy draining his mug to reply.

 Relaxed more than he'd thought possible, Bodie made the mistake of
attempting to stretch out.

 "All right?"

 He looked up sharply; Doyle had sobered fast if he'd caught that. And
indeed, the eyes on him were bright.

 "Your fault if you must know, sunshine," said Bodie on a sigh. "A fella's
knee in the small of your back'll bugger your posture something rotten."

 "I'll remember that the next..." He grimaced and Doyle was up and moving
as soon as he saw it. Bodie's abused hand was cramping and about to send
coffee southwards. "...time I'm saving your life." Even as he spoke he was
clamping his own fingers around Bodie's on the mug, sliding down in front
of him and saving his shagpile carpet.

 For a heartbeat the tableau held its breath.

 "You and a carpet in one day, I should get a medal."

 Bodie said nothing, but he let his partner peel his fingers off the mug,
nodding his thanks as the cramp eased and his face smoothed out. He shook
his hand carefully, flexing the fingers, and sat back.

 "Now *that* was a close shave."

 He looked up, and his wry smile faded into something else. Doyle hadn't
moved. He was still there in the space at his feet, left forearm now slung
over Bodie's right knee for balance, mug already carefully set aside on
the side table.

 Another tableau held its breath. A pair of green eyes held Bodie in their
steady gaze, and in one moment it was all there again: the whisper of
something changed, a pulse in the air which beat its wings between them,
and which in his heart of hearts Bodie could no longer ascribe to
adrenaline.

 At the airfield during the mop up they had barely spoken. Just stood at
first, a shoulder's width apart, while they watched Cowley hold on to a
dying Christina. After she breathed her last, an unmoved Bodie had turned
on his heel, the slight race to his pulse having nothing to do with her.

 When the ambulances, back-up crews and police arrived, Bodie had found
himself caught up and only too willing to push his aches aside and focus.
However, he had kept Doyle in his peripheral vision at all times, and not
out of habit, ingrained though it was, but because some bizarre magnetic
pull was keeping him maddeningly aware of the man's every step. Once he
had lifted his eyes, helpless, and unerringly found his partner, half a
football field away and looking up from an inspector's notebook. The nod
he'd got, and the uncertain half smile, had done a lot for Bodie's sanity.
At least he wasn't the only one experiencing this.

 Whatever *this* was.

 After the last police car pulled away, Doyle had arrived at his shoulder,
grabbed his arm none too carefully, growled "We're done," and hustled him
off the field into the Capri he had somehow conned Susan into bringing.
Despite Doyle's moody silence as he slid behind the wheel, and the crackle
of tension as he slammed the car into gear, Bodie'd had no qualms about
where they were going. A wind-down in a pub somewhere was a given,
particularly after an op like that, so he'd tipped his head back on the
passenger seat and tried not to sulk about the fact that he wouldn't be
able to numb any of the strangeness with alcohol. He had been tended to on
site under Cowley's stern eye and force-fed painkillers in return for
escaping a trip to Casualty.

 Thus, when they got to the small country pub it had been up to Ray to
drink fast and for two. A couple of speculative glances in Doyle's
direction later and Bodie had relaxed an inch or two. His partner's mood,
though quiet, hadn't seemed particularly desperate. Besides, Bodie had had
other things to think about, one of them being how to sit comfortably; the
thrum of his aches and bruises had returned in the car and his back had
started to hurt. He'd bent his leg under the table and sworn softly at the
stiffness. No response from the man on his left. *So much for a magnetic
pull,* he had thought dryly, oddly cheered by the lack of reaction from
the grumpy profile deep in its beer.

 By the time he got through his second, sadly unspiked, orange juice the
congenial ebb and flow of pub garden life around him--and the pills,
probably--had been having an effect. Wanting to clear his mind, he'd taken
a deep breath as unobtrusively as he could while studying the bent head of
the incorrigible nutter next to him. He'd smiled, seeing it all suddenly
for what it was, had been, and would be again between them--nothing more
nor less than a megawatt adrenaline high from which they both now had to
come down.

 Clearly neither knew how to speak of what had taken place at the
airfield, but that was okay, Bodie had realised, when Doyle suddenly
looked up from his pint glass and filled an awkward pause with worry about
a lost expense chit. From trying to blame Bodie for it, it had then been a
short leap to almost tricking Bodie into paying for a round of sandwiches,
to cackling at something off the cuff and bawdy Bodie said about the
barmaid.

 In other words, business and banter as usual.

 Except that it wasn't. Because here he was in his flat, in his living
room, with a carpetful of Ray Doyle, whose ridiculous burgundy shirt was
pulling him forward, all aches be damned, and whose unhurried breath was
already close enough to hear. A flicker of uncertainty crossed the face
before him, and Bodie's forefinger rose unbidden to trace that outline,
cheek to jaw, with the lightest touch of the flat of his fingernail.

 "Can't believe what you did today, sunshine." Bodie spoke quietly, and
with a reverence he felt to his toes.

 Doyle swallowed. Bodie watched his throat move, barely resisting the
temptation to smooth it with the continued brush of his finger.

 "Funny you should say that, mate, because I can totally believe what you
did."

 And it was done, laid out between them in their usual succinct and
uncomplicated fashion. In truth, the revelation was easy for Bodie, there
in his lounge with his partner carelessly slung across his carpet and his
knees. He had known surprisingly early on that he would do whatever it
took to keep this man safe, including giving his own life. It was
something he neither boasted of nor denied, unconcerned whether Doyle knew
it or not; a fact of his life to be accepted with a shrug and filed away.

 Not a man given to introspection, Bodie was smart enough to realise that
he did not want recognition for it because he did not see it as anything
particularly noble. His life had been a volatile one from the start, and
no experience in it, from childhood to Africa to army, had ever taught him
that his own hide was of exceptional value and worth preserving at all
costs. It was a perception of himself and his place in the world that had
kept him sane, earned him ribbons Doyle knew nothing of and made him
incapable of planning so much as a week ahead his entire adult life. Only
here it was, going to hell in a handcart because Ray Doyle said so.

 With a slow smile of recognition and acknowledgement, Bodie found that
there was nothing left to do but let the pet theory which he had walked
with all his life fall and quietly shatter, taking with it as it did the
last walls of an isolation he barely recognised any longer as his. A lick
of warmth curled through in its place, deepening into an unexpected sense
of ease as he sat back, his eyes never leaving his partner's.

 And the pull was back, only this time it was Doyle who took himself
forward, no doubt recognising Bodie's wary settling for the backache it
was.

 Doyle stretched up on his knees, never leaving the space between Bodie's.
"You didn't really think I was going to let you run off and die while you
still owe me four quid..." he said, shuffling his own knees apart, locking
his centre of gravity. "Did you?" He let his hands fall loosely onto the
settee, either side of Bodie's lap.

 Mesmerised, it took a second or two for Bodie to find his tongue. "What
four quid?"

 But Doyle did not answer. Instead he leant up and forward, and Bodie felt
the world around him drop away. Was Ray going to kiss him? Is that what a
life offered and saved was now worth between them? Bodie stilled, the turn
of his life once again in the hands of this scruffy ex-copper, while he
took a second to realise that he had nowhere to go, no more settee to
retreat into.

 Whether Doyle changed his mind at the last second Bodie would always
forget to ask, but it was not a kiss that his partner came forward to
give. Rather, it was the press of a forehead against his, an act all the
more shockingly tender and intimate somehow. He swallowed, bewildered and
charmed in an instant.

 "Bodie, Bodie, Bodie." A whispered incantation from Doyle, his eyes
closed and his breath warm.

 Bodie whispered his own right back, in a single heartfelt syllable.

 "Ow."

 He heard Ray's breath catch and felt the loss as the head on his snapped
up. He braced himself, aware that however true a response on his part, it
had probably not been the wisest thing to say.

 He needn't have worried. There was nothing but amusement in the green
eyes.

 "That's you at your eloquent best then, is it?"

 "'Fraid so, sunshine. Bloody hurts." He was referring to the bruising
above his right eye, which Doyle had inadvertently aggravated.

 "Sorry 'bout that." Doyle grinned, clearly anything but. "Forgot. You
banged your head."

 "Bang yours in a minute."

 The tension in the room eased at the note of something so familiar. With
an exaggerated sigh, Doyle made to lever himself up off the floor. "C'mon.
Way past bedtime for banged up Bodies. You've still got your jacket on,
for crying--"

 A sharp tug on his sleeve kept him in place as it threatened to unbalance
him. "Bloody hell! Watch--"

 "I can do better than 'ow', y'know."

 And just like that the tension picked right back up.

 Doyle licked his lips. "Yeah?"

 Bodie nodded, more confident now. An unplanned reflex had made him grab
at his partner, but he really did want to do better while pills, gratitude
and this easy warmth had him in their grip. He felt the oddest catch in
his heart at the way Doyle trustingly stilled. The words came to mind,
seemingly out of nowhere, and just seemed to fit.

 "What a falling off was there."

 Doyle blinked, a quizzical look in his eye, and Bodie's mind drifted as
he thought about it. He remembered and smiled. His peasant of a partner
was going to choke.

 "Hamlet."

 "Hamlet?"

 "Hamlet," Bodie confirmed, enjoying the slight squeak in Doyle's voice.

 "Smug bastard," Doyle said with a shake of his head, finally getting to
his feet. "I say your name and you come up with Hamlet?"

 "Pearls before swine, I know, mate, but someone's got to set the tone."
He took the hand offered down to him, too sore to be bolshy about needing
it.

 Once on his feet, Bodie walked stiffly out of the lounge to the small
entrance hall.

 "Oi, where do you think you're off to?"

 He opened the airing cupboard, then re-emerged with his arms full of a
pillow, a duvet and a tatty tracksuit of his partner's that seemed to have
taken up residence. He dumped them into Doyle's outstretched arms in way
of an answer. "Don't care how much coffee you drank, you're blinking too
slow to drive, so get yourself around that little lot. I'm off for a quick
bath and a bit of oblivion for..." He looked down at his watch. "Will you
look at that? All of a soul-restoring five hours."

 It took Doyle a second, then he groaned.

 "Forgot, didn't you?" said Bodie sweetly.

 "Yeah." He dragged the word out with feeling. "Bloody Cowley and his
loose bloody ends."

 They would be back on library duty the following day. An unknown name on
a scrap of paper deep in Dreisinger's pocket was all it had taken to
trigger Cowley's demand that he would not call it wrapped up, 3.7 and 4.5,
until every damn "i" had been dotted, every "t" crossed. This was, of
course, after they went in bright and early to write, type and give their
account of the airfield adventure, a report they had temporarily wangled
out of by going to the pub instead.

 "Look at it this way, mate, your mind needs all the improving it can get,
and you'll be doing it on the Cow's time. Give you some reading tips,
shall I?"

 Doyle glared at him over the bedding he was still holding. "Bog off,
Bodie."

 "Bog off, Bodie? Charming, that is, sunshine. Well, goodnight to
you'n'all, sweet Prince." He headed for the door.

 "Oi."

 He turned back at the soft call, half anticipating it. He knew his Doyle,
and had not really expected a clean getaway to bed and bath without a
little emotional nail-chewing first.

 Doyle shuffled his feet. "You okay? I mean, is everything...? Oh, sod it,
are *we* okay?"

 Nothing charmed him quite like the rare sight of a tongue-tied and
uncertain Ray Doyle. Tempted to stretch out such an enjoyable moment, he
took pity--dozy sod was still holding the bedding--and walked back over to
him.

 He smiled, taking the pillow off the top and tossing it over Doyle's
shoulder onto the settee. "We are okay." He reached for the duvet while
Doyle stood there, seemingly transfixed and tracking his every movement.
"Don't you worry your curly mutton head, we are better than okay." He
turned back from smoothing out the duvet, hesitated a moment, then took a
deliberate step closer.

 "But not today, eh?" This time it was his whole hand that came up to rest
on the side of his partner's face. "Not when we're both tired, sore, and
you're a little drunk still..." His hand slipped as he realised he had no
ending for his sentence. Nothing to explain this shift in perspective he
was now feeling, his ease with the world and this man. It was almost
euphoria, and truth be told, he was disquieted by it.

 "...and we've just offered to die for each other?" There was a smile
behind the intensity.

 The safest thing seemed to be to nod, so Bodie did, grateful beyond words
for such freely-given under-standing. His hand dropped to squeeze Doyle's
shoulder.

 "See you in the morning, then." He looked up and they acknowledged each
other with small, tight nods. Bodie cleared his throat, finally stepping
away. He turned at the door.

 "By the way, I'm the wounded one here, mate, so I expect to be woken by
the smell of a fresh brew, all right? You just set your alarm nice and
early."

 Doyle's response was both non-verbal and predictable.

 ******

The book did not land next to his elbow from a great height, but its
arrival still made him flinch. Doyle had been busy keeping one eye on the
counter and using the other to wade through the Vietnam war with a bunch
of teen soldiers who, if Michael Herr was to be believed, had waged said
war stoned out of their heads most of the time. *Interesting, have to ask
Bodie about--*

 It was red, slim and leather bound, and Bodie did not even break stride
or pause when he dropped it next to him and passed on, muttering
distractedly about ornithology as he appeared to scan the shelves and not
find what he was looking for. Doyle watched the performance until he
rounded the corner, then turned his bemused smile on the book. Probably
some bodice-ripping Victorian porn, or an Enid Blyton just to take the
piss, if he knew his partner.

 Apparently he did not.

 "Hamlet by William Shakespeare" was written in neat gothic-style
curlicues on the cover he turned over. His smile faltered, then widened.
*Smug git.* He looked up, wondering if Bodie was lurking somewhere to
catch his reaction. But the aisle was bare, so after yet another scan of
the counter, he cracked the spine and looked at the first page. Not the
peasant his partner enjoyed dismissing him as, Doyle did have to admit to
a bit of a blank spot as far as the bard was concerned. He had a vague
memory of poncing about in something unsightly on a school stage, playing
arrow fodder in one of Shakespeare's more bloodthirsty efforts, but that
was about it.

 Still, he was undercover--sort of--and while he was bored out of his mind
with this waste of a day, he was not at home with a mug of something and
his feet propped up. So he knew he was going to have to scan more than
read. Didn't matter, he was going to unearth that bloody quote if it
killed him.

 Absorbed a little more than he should have been, he was just bending his
head to the task when the library doors swung quietly open and a rather
nervous young man entered and stopped in his tracks.

 It was the faint tremor and the accent that brought Doyle's head up.
Nothing more than an innocent inquiry about overdue fees, but the man's
eyes were everywhere except on the librarian, and the bulge under his
short coat looked decidedly more handgun than book to expert eyes. Pale,
young, blond, and nervous, he shifted from foot to foot, pushed at
wire-rimmed spectacles and generally looked every inch the terrorist
apprentice. Straight from the fucking catalogue, thought Doyle in disgust
as he rose smoothly out of his chair. Caught temporarily in the man's line
of vision, he could do nothing untoward. But he had already seen Bodie,
circling in behind the queue at the issue desk. A brief look passed
between them, and Bodie put his hand under his jacket, nodding at Doyle as
he did so.

 The man was clearly scanning the library now and looking twitchier by the
second. Doyle watched as his hand stole under his coat to rest on the
bulge there, and he cursed Cowley for hunches that played out in public
places. With a last check on Bodie, who was moving quietly up the queue,
Doyle eased into the cover of an aisle, where he slid his own gun out,
aware that this supposedly simple pickup could now get nasty.

 Doyle hated terrorists. Not quite with the ice that Bodie did, but he
still hated them. Give him a pumped-up junkie any day over these pale
urchins who sold their humanity without ever knowing it. And he hated
would-be terrorists even more, because like with Mr Twitchit over at the
counter, you had to add an unhealthy dose of incompetence to the mix.

 Doyle raised his ID and a finger to his lips to quieten any alarm from
the startled woman suddenly sharing the aisle with him. "'S okay, love.
Just a few too many overdue books, can't be too careful these days." Gun
out, but back under his jacket, he gave what he hoped was a reassuring
wink before moving to peer round the shelving.

 The next half minute or so played out for Doyle at somewhere between five
seconds and eternity. Five seconds because that's how long it took for a
little girl's "Look, Mummy! That man's got a gun!" to be heard loud and
clear and for him to realise that "nasty" was going to be an
understatement. Eternity because he saw the aforementioned gun come up and
swing out on a hair-trigger reflex to where the voice had come from, and
he knew, without being able to do a single thing about it, that his
partner was going to move towards the frozen child but was going to be
impossibly late to prevent tragedy. Mr Twitchit was clearly too
trigger-happy for Bodie to have a chance of getting there in time.

 As fast as he saw this, Doyle's reactions were still that crucial
split-second behind the finger now squeezing the trigger. He heard the
bang--deafeningly loud in the confined space--saw his partner and the girl
fall in a mess of limbs and a spray of blood, registered the chaos of
screams that lit up from all around; all as he took a calm professional
aim through a flurry of scattering people. He fired three rounds, spinning
and dropping Mr Twitchit where he stood, ignoring the bewildered look on
the dying face that turned towards him.

 "Bodie!"

 Doyle scrambled. Past a frightened Joe Public who clawed at his clothes
and who he would have kicked aside if any had impeded his path, past
overturned tables and chairs, and past a corpse he barely glanced at. He
rounded the corner to the counter, heart pounding.

 The child was covered in blood and bawling. It was that hiccupy
scream-cry that children did, pausing to gulp in as much as air as they
could before they went rigid and let rip. But she was upright, in the arms
of her distraught mother, and Doyle knew instinctively it wasn't her
blood. Which meant...

 "Shit!"

 Which meant that Bodie was in trouble.

 Ignoring the gore-speckled mother and child, Doyle scrambled the last few
feet to the groaning figure sprawled on his back behind them. He
slithered, quite literally, into his partner's side, and his stomach
fought momentarily to overcome the sight and smell of so much blood;
*Jesus, of Bodie's fucking blood.*

 "R-Ray?" Bodie's lips were bloodless as he struggled to raise his head
and clamp his hands around his right thigh.

 And that was all Doyle needed for training to take over with an
efficiency Cowley would have recognised as CI5 to the core.

 "Here, mate, right here." Spoken almost with distraction as Doyle
assessed at lightning speed. The bullet had gone through the back of
Bodie's right thigh. Hence the blood loss from both an entry and an exit
wound. No expert, Doyle knew enough to offer a quick prayer of thanks that
the blood was too dark to be arterial. He also knew enough to know there
was still far too much of it leaving his partner's body.

 "You! At the desk!" The startled head of the young librarian came round.
"Yeah, you, love. Call an ambulance!" Glancing around, he saw a scarf
resting loosely over the shoulders of the mother still trying to calm her
child and wasted neither time nor words in jerking it clear. He worked
quickly, clenching his teeth when he began twisting the tourniquet high
around Bodie's leg. Eyes never leaving Bodie's face, he raised his voice
and continued. "When you get through, tell them it's a priority A3 call."
He winced right along with his partner as the cloth bit in.

 "Easy, mate." At least Bodie was still conscious. A final twist and Doyle
took himself right in close as Bodie reacted, letting the smell of all
that blood between them fill him, fill his senses with heat and hope
rather than despair. Bodie's eyes flickered open and his breathing
wavered. Doyle lowered in further, determined.

 "You stay with me, sunshine. You hear? Bodie? You bloody stay." He heard
his voice crack on the last and didn't care, if it kept Bodie's eyes open
and on his. Bodie managed to nod, just once and barely, then his head
turned left and stayed there. His breathing was shallow and shocky in its
rhythm, but it was there. Doyle raised a blood smeared hand and patted
Bodie's hair clumsily, swallowing before he whispered "Atta boy" for no
one's ears but his own. At the sound of sirens, he turned towards the
librarian.

 "I...I'd already called them, sir, and the hospital's just down the
road."

 Young and pretty, the librarian was tentatively approaching
them--everyone else, he now realised, had pulled back from their little
blood-soaked circle, content to gawk from a distance. Feeling a measure of
relief, but too preoccupied to thank her, he simply gestured for her to
come nearer.

 "What's your name, love?"

 "Uh...Sally."

 "Well, Sally, take your hand and keep pressure on this." The blood flow
had slowed considerably, and with medical help imminent another priority
had surfaced. Waiting until he was sure she had it securely, he eased
himself back on his heels, wiped his hand on his jacket sleeve and reached
for his R/T. As he spoke into it, he used his free hand to haul over a
nearby toppled pamphlet stand. With a gesture to Sally to press down hard,
he clicked his R/T off and eased Bodie's leg up to rest on it.

 The shift elicited a groan, but just as he moved back to Bodie's head, he
heard the doors burst open behind him. He waved his ID high above his head
without turning. "Over here!" Knowing better than to get in their way, he
contented himself with a brief hand press to his partner's forehead before
he backed off. The skin was clammy and Bodie's eyes didn't open.

 Doyle ran a hand through his hair, vaguely aware of the picture he
presented. "Shock, bullet wound to the right thigh," he informed the
ambulance men as they approached. As they went to work, one stepped out
and away towards him. He blinked, then realised why.

 "No!" The sting of over-reaction. He quietened his voice. "No, not mine.
It's...it's all his."

 Cowley and police arrived together just as Bodie was being loaded into
the ambulance. With his usual abruptness, Cowley ordered Doyle out of the
ambulance and back into the library. Recognising the need for post-op
protocols--just--Doyle guided him around the crime scene, pausing here and
there to give perhaps the tersest verbal report in the history of CI5.
When they neared the front door again, he spun on his heel to leave,
almost daring his boss to stop him again.

 Which, of course, he did. But with a totally unexpected hand on his
shoulder. Doyle froze, resisting with difficulty the urge to flinch. He
knew that his hard-won composure would not survive an act of kindness
right now.

 "Och, they don't come any tougher, 4.5. Could have been a damn sight
worse and you know it." That, for Cowley, qualified as an act of kindness.
But the hand came off his shoulder, and the tone changed just in time.
"Though why you felt the need for three rounds when one would've sufficed
and perhaps left us with someone to question, I'll never know. A chance,
Doyle! A chance to sew it up once and for all, and you go in--"

 "Yeah, well, sometimes it's not dead enough, is it? Sir." His head came
up on the last, caught up in a reason he himself had not known until it
was out of his mouth. Something in his delivery changed the nature of
Cowley's gaze on him. He kept his own eyes steady, bracing himself. But
Cowley changed tack once again, the wind apparently gone from his sails,
while he studied the man before him. Doyle took a breath and tried not to
fidget.

 "Aye," Cowley said simply, and moved to re-enter the fray of uniforms,
witnesses and the occasional flashbulb.

 Relieved, Doyle exhaled and took a step away.

 "Oh, and Doyle?"

 Doyle gritted his teeth as he turned back.

 "Home first, 4.5."

 "Sir?"

 "Your clothes, laddie. Good God, man, one look and they'll arrest you."

 With that he was gone, and Doyle was left looking down at himself and
wondering how he had forgotten that he was covered with Bodie's blood.

 He tried not to look at his watch. The badge had helped, as it always
did. Bodie was going to be down the hall in a private room when he came
out of recovery, and even though visiting hours were long since over and
Doyle had no right to be sitting where he was, no one questioned a thing.
The occasional nurse smiled brightly at him, but that was all. *Helluva
fucking privilege.* He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. Leaning his
head back against the wall, he willed himself to sit still and just wait.
His hands went to his jacket pockets, and against the odds he relaxed a
little. He had just found something which would pass the time quite
nicely.

 The first thing he noticed when he was finally allowed into Bodie's room
about twenty minutes later was how white everything was. It almost hurt
his eyes. The walls, the bedding, the bandages, even the chair he hooked
his foot round and pulled in. The only colour in the room seemed to be the
yellow of yesterday's bruises on Bodie's face. That and Bodie's hair,
which looked shockingly dark amongst all that white.

 Never at his best in hospital rooms, Doyle watched the rise and fall of
his partner's chest for a few unsteady seconds and wondered what he would
say to him when he woke. When Bodie was knifed that time, he had *cried,*
for Christ's sake, scaring the crap out of both of them. To give Bodie his
due, he had never teased him about it, had never even mentioned it, in
fact. Doyle swallowed, suddenly unsure of his emotions yet again as he
studied the face on the pillow. He took in the IV, the heavy swathe of
white Bodie's right leg was buried under, and the paper-thin hospital gown
which did absolutely nothing for him. He let his eyes wander more, up and
down both bare arms, which in true hospital style were laid out neatly,
palms down, on top of the bedsheets. He slowly took in the faint marks
here and there, scars he had never really had the chance to see before,
and which were from a lifetime of other battles he knew nothing of. *More
noble gestures, Bodie? Any of them for partners and small children, mate,
or is that just since CI5?* He found himself looking for the ones from the
previous day, the ones he knew were his. *Theirs.* There they were, on his
wrists, hands, face and neck. The only thing missing was the blood from
today. *Also ours,* thought Doyle before he could stop himself, and
without warning the terrible stink and heat of it filled him again.

 It was too much. Aware that he was on the verge of becoming undone once
again beside his partner's hospital bed, he did the only thing he could
think of. He put his head down and waited for it all to pass. His forehead
came to rest lightly on Bodie's forearm and his hands anchored him there,
one either side of his bowed head, fingers curled lightly round his
partner's cool skin.

 If there was a better medicine for the storm in his heart, he didn't know
it.

 ******

If there was anything worse than waking up in a hospital bed with a
mouthful of stale breath gumming your lips together while your brain threw
off the last of the anaesthetic with a flair for the dramatic, Bodie
didn't know it. Resisting the urge to grip his head with two uncoordinated
hands and groan, he settled instead for a hesitant squint down the bed.

 Nothing rushed back; he already knew not to move his leg, that the itch
in his left hand was from an IV and that he had taken a bullet in his
thigh because that was head level for the child he had saved. It was only
pain and discomfort that Bodie felt in hospitals, never disorientation.

 Which brought him to the pressure in his bladder. He squinted around,
looking for the call button and offering a silent prayer for someone other
than the Nurse Ratchets he usually ended up with. He moved his right hand,
and heard and felt the crinkle of something decidedly un-hospital-like.
Intrigued, he curled his fingers slowly in and brought it up towards his
face. It was a thin piece of paper, folded neatly. Mindful of the IV, he
brought his left hand over to open it up. He caught sight of just the
first type-written word and immediately knew what it was. Discomfort
forgotten, he took in the empty chair pulled in close to his right side,
and a grin cracked its way through all the soreness and irritations of
hospital life.

 *Ray Doyle, as I live and breathe you will be the bloody death of me...*

 ******

A bang, a muffled curse and Bodie shook his head. Not again...

 "Doyle!"

 "What?"

 He tried to squint round behind him, but Doyle hadn't moved from the
kitchen, merely shouted out above the clatter. About to sigh dramatically,
Bodie realised the waste of it and closed his mouth. He had just got his
leg organised on a cushion on the coffee table and did not feel like
moving to make a point. Trying to settle, he willed himself to relax, but
his leg throbbed from the brief walk from car to door, and the skin under
the bandaging was starting to itch again. He looked around. Typical,
nothing to scratch it with. In the hospital he had sneaked a plastic fork
under the bandaging until it had slipped all the way in and stayed there.
Sister had not been impressed, and it was a state of affairs Bodie's
subsequent charm had failed to rectify. For six very long days. Nearly a
week of irritations and bog-awful food before his partner had finally
swung by to liberate him a little over an hour ago, with the promise of
CI5 gossip and something home cooked. Bodie had curtly informed him that
it had better be nothing less than Cowley's long-lost love child and
stuffed veal, an irrational sense of abandonment still rankling at having
to endure all that hospital time alone.

 No sooner had Bodie come to in the hospital and unglued his brain and
mouth, than Doyle had stuck his head round the door with a "Sorry, mate",
an "All right?" and a "Can't stay. Bloody Cowley!" He had huffed and
puffed his way round the small room until Bodie's head hurt and dropped a
couple of packets of Jaffa cakes on him with a hasty shrug before
disappearing in a flurry of spits and curses to the wintry wilds of
Northumberland for a short-handed stakeout. Left to recover one
mind-numbing day at a time, Bodie had done just that, albeit with a
spectacular lack of grace and good humour.

 Of the two, Bodie knew he was the worse patient. Not for him his
partner's compliance with the "rest and be thankful" bit. Instead he had a
suspicion of hospitals--born in part from a revolting experience in
Africa--which tended to wear down even the strongest will to give care.
Unless the nurse was busty and blonde he scowled a lot, and to Doyle's
disbelief, he occasionally spat pills out when no one was looking. "You
never know, my son," was all he would say, finger to his nose.

 Still, he was out of hospital now, and as he took in his surroundings,
the dragging emptiness of the last few days receded with surprising speed.
He tried a cautious stretch and grunted with satisfaction when he managed
it. Another clatter interrupted the quiet, and he turned his head towards
the kitchen in frustration. *What the bloody hell was Doyle doing in
there?* He opened his mouth to yell, and then he caught the whiff of
something tomatoey, heard some loud off-key whistling, and found himself
unable to say a word.

 Here it all was again. His life, just as it should be.

 He eased himself back and settled onto the settee. Best to simply resign
himself to the usual state of affairs concerning Doyle and his kitchen.

 Another bang, another curse. Bodie squinted round as a head appeared in
the doorway.

 "A tray, y'majesty? Or will you hobble in and eat with the help?"

 "I'll let you know, Jeeves." Doyle's head disappeared again, drawn by
something boiling over, no doubt. Bodie's voice followed him. "And ease up
on the pots and pans, you."

 Whistling was all he heard back. He glanced around the empty living room
and tried to get comfortable again. Another waft of something drifted out,
and his stomach growled in response. He opened his mouth to shout and
realised he was being foolish. Bum leg or not, he had been deprived of
conversation too long; he was going to have to enter the fray.

 The sight that met him stopped him at the doorframe. Doyle was at the
cooker, faded blue shirt serving as a hanky while he stood, up to his
armpits in chopped onions and whistling along to something impossible on
the radio.

 Doyle turned, sniffed outrageously, gave him a watery smile, and Bodie
could think of nothing to say. The small kitchen was wreathed in steam and
warmth, only part of which he knew came from the pot bubbling on the
cooker.

 He limped over to the nearest chair and dragged it out. He pulled another
out for his leg, made a show of settling in, then laced his hands around
the back of his head and looked at his partner, grinning.

 "Spaghetti. Now. Then gossip."

 "Five minutes, your lordship." Doyle turned his attentions back to the
pot. "Ah, yes, the gossip. Well, no news on Cowley's love-child, but
you'll never guess who Susan's gone and hooked up with."

 "Not the bodyguard from that posh club? The one with no neck and a fake
tan?"

 The spoon stirring the pot froze. "No, but who the hell is that?"

 "God, you're always so far behind, sunshine. Some bloke; pit bull to the
rich and shameless. I forget his name, but he was sniffing around her for
ages. Thought Jax was going to get himself beaten up and in the papers for
that at one point." He chuckled at Doyle's expression. "Just as well I'm
here, innit? Or you'd never know anything."

 "True. Pathetic, mind. But true. Drink?"

 Bodie winced and Doyle grinned. "Can't yet, can you?" He took a moment to
rummage in the cupboard under the sink and came up with two cans of
something soft and fizzy. Bodie opened his mouth to tell him not to be
daft, and to take a lager for himself, but all that came out was "Ta,"
when Doyle handed it to him. It was a nice gesture, and he'd missed those
the last six days.

 And speaking of things he'd missed...

 "A Doyle-special."

 "Eh?"

 Bodie shifted in his chair and gestured expansively around the kitchen,
caught in a rare moment of sentimentality.

 "This. You. Here in my kitchen, breaking the furniture, and cooking a
Doyle-special." Ray stopped to look at him, and Bodie couldn't resist. He
took his voice up to falsetto. "Spaghetti bolognese? Why Raymond, I had no
idea! What's that you say? My knickers? But, of course--" A tea towel
landed on his head.

 "Ungrateful bastard."

 Bodie pulled himself free of the tea towel. "Not at all, mate. Love your
spaghetti bolognese, just don't get a chance to eat it very often."

 Doyle took a step away from the cooker and leant in close, catching his
partner unawares. "That, Bodie, is because *you* are not a difficult
bird." Purred, almost into Bodie's ear, he slowly took possession of the
tea towel again before whistling his way back to the cooker.

 Bodie shivered, in all that steam and warmth.

 Two minutes later and all was ready. Doyle brought it to the table and
took the lid off with a flourish. "Ta-da!"

 Bodie leant over, inhaling the fragrant steam noisily. His exhale turned
into a beam at his partner, and the shine in his eyes was quite genuine;
six days without a proper meal could do that to a person.

 Doyle looked back at Bodie, and the moment lengthened, Bodie reluctant to
look away from the man he had missed so ridiculously much this last week.
When he spoke, Doyle's eyes were not on the spaghetti. "Uh...why don't you
get your laughing gear around this little lot, and don't say I never do
anything for you."

 Taking advantage of a distracted Doyle, Bodie did the only thing his
hunger would allow at that point. He grabbed a string of melted cheese off
the top, and earned himself a belated rap across the knuckles as he
lowered it into his mouth with noisy precision.

 "'Ot," was all he could say, still grinning.

 Doyle shook his head, brought two plates over and spooned it out. He
pulled out the chair opposite the one Bodie had his leg up on, and after a
quick "cheers" and a clink of cans, the serious business of the evening
began.

 Silence reigned for approximately four large mouthfuls before Bodie made
it back to the topic at hand.

 "Susan."

 Doyle paused to drink from his can, then said in a conspiratorial aside,
"Fly-half for the England rugby team, no less."

 Not a rugby fan as such, even Bodie reacted to that. "Impressive. And
where did she find herself one of those? Pass the pepper, would you?"

 Doyle did, and twirled another mouthful onto his spoon. "Picked him out
of the team line-up, knowing Susan. It's been a while apparently, she kept
it under wraps, which knowing our lot is completely understandable."

 Bodie grunted agreement, his mouth too full for much else. Doyle carried
on. "Then Anson catches her whispering sweet nothings over the phone after
a changeover and that was it. She practically puts him in an armlock when
she catches him eavesdropping, swears him to secrecy, and of course, it's
all round the parish by morning." There was a brief lull while he scooped
up another mouthful. He waved his empty fork at Bodie. "And he's taking
her skiing in February."

 Bodie's eyebrows went up to his hairline and his mouth visibly twitched.
Doyle caught on instantly and swiped at him good-naturedly with his fork.

 "Sod off, Bodie. What can I say? There was bugger all to do in
Northumberland except gossip."

 "Don't let Cowley hear about you honing those kinds of skills on his
time." A clatter of cutlery on china, and Bodie pushed away an empty plate
and patted his stomach approvingly.

 "Well?"

 "Not stuffed veal, mate, but Christ that hit the spot." Bodie leant back
and belched. He caught Doyle's grin and head shake and chuckled himself,
feeling better than he had in a very long time.

 "Hey, height of appreciation, that is." His eyes tracked Doyle in the
soft early evening light as his partner pushed away from the small kitchen
table and moved some of their dishes over to the sink.

 "I'll consider myself complimented then, shall I?"

 "You do that. And while you're feeling all chuffed and chef-like, you
might want to put the kettle on since you're over there." He grinned at
the look Doyle sent him, aware that they had both been doing that an awful
lot this evening. Pathetic really, two grown men this pleased to be in
each other's company after a mere week apart.

 Doyle turned round to face his seated partner and leant back on the
kitchen counter as he waited for the kettle to boil. "You haven't heard
the best bit, either. Jax is as down in the dumps about it as you've ever
seen, which no one can quite figure out, but Murphy, ah...Murph, pillock
that he is, thinks he should get free match tickets out of it."

 Some of Bodie's drink went down the wrong way.

 "Wait, it gets better. The idiot only goes up to her in the squad room
and asks, doesn't he."

 "Ahh, what? And me not there to see it?" Bodie's grin widened with an
evil sense of regret. "God, I bet he's limping worse than I am."

 "Oh, even the Cow was alarmed, mate. Never seen Murph as pale." Just then
the kettle sang out. Still chuckling, Doyle turned to busy himself with
preparing two mugs of tea, and Bodie wondered why something this mundane
should hold his attention and keep his own smile from fading.

 When Doyle turned round with the proffered mug, Bodie saw that he was not
the only one, and for a second he knew the foolishness of staring and
smiling for no reason he could think of. From the look on Doyle's face, he
guessed he wasn't alone in this.

 "Uh..." Doyle cleared his throat and gestured one of his mug-filled hands
towards the lounge. "Here or there?"

 "Eh?"

 "Tea, cloth-ears. Here. Or there."

 "Oh, um...there. Bum's gone to sleep here." Bodie lifted his right arm up
and out and left it there in space.

 "What?" Doyle's turn to look puzzled.

 "Help." Still a blank look. "Me. Get up and move. Bloody hell, Raymond,
where the fuck were you when they were handing out merit badges?"

 "At the back of the line, mate." Ignoring the outstretched hand, together
with the pained look, Doyle began to take steps towards the living room.
"Got me hands full, Bodie, with more important things. So you can just
hobble yourself up and out." At the door he looked back, and Bodie could
tell he was keeping his face straight with difficulty. "Teach you not to
bring your stick, old fella."

 If he'd had something to hand, he'd've thrown it, tea or no tea. The cane
he'd been issued at the hospital was already a bone of contention. Bodie
had tried to leave it behind in his room, the hospital foyer, the Capri
and the lift. To no avail. Doyle was like a bloody golden retriever,
forcing it back into his hand at each missed opportunity. Even, as they
had exited the car, with a clip round the back of the head, as if Bodie
were a trying two-year-old.

 Which Bodie supposed was probably not too far off the mark. He wasted a
sigh on the empty kitchen before he shook his head and set about moving
his leg and getting himself up and out. No chance of Doyle getting all
dewy-eyed over him, then. He grimaced as pins and needles made themselves
felt, taking a second or two to find his equilibrium. And yet, he
reflected, there truly was an odd comfort to be had in the way his partner
never let him get away with anything. Kept him on his toes. He glanced
around as he gingerly worked himself upright, looking for things to clutch
so he wouldn't have to put all his weight on his right leg.

 Seconds away from the indignity of hopping, a voice from the doorway cut
through his predicament.

 "'M tempted to let you, I really am. But it's just too cruel to watch."

 Before his dignity had a moment to collect itself, Bodie found his right
arm hauled across Ray's shoulders.

 "Shall we?" Doyle's eyes were altogether too close and too full of
mischief for a coherent response. He seemed to realise this, and his
bemused smile disconcerted Bodie even further. "C'mon, hopalong, tea's
getting cold." Bodie felt a hand settle on his waist, but he was unwilling
to either blink or look away. The smile opposite slipped a little, though
the green eyes stayed clear and focused.

 "Ready?" Doyle's voice had suddenly gone soft.

 And there in his kitchen amongst the dirty pots and pans, with his leg
giving him grief, his partner calling him names, and with no great
galloping of heartbeats, Bodie knew that he would never get it better than
this. Lager stains on the walls, fantastic spaghetti, a cuff round the
ear, something whiny and classical on the stereo, a helping hand on his
hip...Christ, but he'd been blind.

 Every moment in his life that he kept close at hand, however mundane;
every trial and tribulation of risk and survival, every vague promise in
the word "tomorrow" after every near miss, had all somehow wrapped
themselves around this man and tied him to Bodie when he wasn't looking.
He would have laughed at the irony, but for the fact that he wasn't ready
to say any of it aloud just yet. So instead he lowered his head, taking a
moment to gather his thoughts under the cover of a grunt of pain.
Unfortunately, the only thing that came to mind was how warm Doyle's
breath was on the side of his neck, and how ridiculously safe he felt.

 If breath on his neck could do this, anything more was going to be icing
on the proverbial...

 "Oi! We moving or taking root here?" A slight uncertainty to the
belligerence, and Bodie got his thoughts and mouth under control just
before his head came back up.

 "Ready and willing, sunshine," said Bodie, with a deliberate purr of
intensity. He looked for the reaction.

 Doyle increased the grip on his hip and his hand, inhaled, swallowed, and
then met Bodie's eyes, his smile barely holding on.

 Jesus. It* was* all right here. His for the asking.

 If it was an epiphany, however, it was a Bodie-style epiphany. So when he
hobbled his way forward, leaning on his partner perhaps a little more than
was necessary and only half listening to whatever old-fella jibes were
coming his way, his thoughts were singularly, and wholly, centred on how
he could get his hands and his lips on the icing of one Raymond
Doyle-flavoured cake.

 Once in the living room, Doyle lowered him onto the settee and handed his
tea to him before taking his own mug over to the armchair.

 "Now, if it's all right with you, Grandad, I'll just sit over here and
enjoy what's left of a stone cold cuppa--where you off to now?"

 Bodie had the grace to look uncharacteristically sheepish as he got
himself upright again.

 "Bog. Forgot."

 "Charming."

 Bodie felt Doyle's eyes on him as he set off, so he straightened and
tried not to clutch too many pieces of furniture. He heard, as he was no
doubt meant to, the exaggerated tutting that followed him all the way out
the door and decided dignity lay in not falling over, rather than in
taking a hand off something to whack the curly head as he passed by.
Bloody cheek; anyone'd think he'd spent a week twiddling his thumbs by
choice.

 By the time he got back to the settee, he was actually wondering where
he'd hidden his cane and hoping against hope that his partner had missed
his last hop, skip and ungainly collapse onto the cushions.

 "Use your fucking cane, Bodie! That's what it's there for."

 "Just shut it, Ray." Bodie leaned back and closed his eyes, aware that he
was being a prima donna, but too annoyed with how much his leg hurt to
come anywhere near admitting either. He'd only gone to the bathroom and
back, for Christ's sake. He heard his partner thump the arm of the
armchair and swear none too softly, then get to his feet and head out to
the kitchen again.

 So much for his plans for something Doyle-flavoured...

 "Here."

 He opened his eyes to find a glass of water and a couple of his pills
being held out towards him. The protest was automatic, a well-worn reflex
which never got further than an intake of breath, stopped in its tracks by
the look on Doyle's face.

 Resigned, he handed over an empty glass a few seconds later and tipped
his head back, favouring his partner with an apologetic smile.

 "Ta."

 "Should think so." Doyle turned away to put the glass down. "I am not
slinging you across me hip every time you--"

 Bodie reached out and caught the cuff of a sleeve, knowing it was a
now-or-never kind of moment.

 "Not the armchair, mate. The floor. Where I can see you."

 For a second he thought Doyle was going to come at him with something
caustic--or worse, play dumb--and make it all impossible. Instead, he
paused, then made a great production of settling, slowly, cross-legged on
the carpet, lacing his fingers together and cracking them. He let them
fall to rest loosely on either knee.

 "Shoot."

 Despite himself, it brought Bodie up short. "What makes you think I have
something to say?"

 Doyle grinned. "Well, I don't see any coffee being thrown around, so I'm
not here to save the shagpile."

 Bodie seemed to consider it. "Fair enough."

 Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew the piece of paper he'd been
keeping warm and safe since the hospital, noticing that Doyle stilled the
instant he saw it.

 *Here we go...*

 "You," he leaned forward, almost hearing the pick-up in Doyle's heart
from there, "are a vandal and a thief, my son." He tutted softly, unfolded
the thin piece of paper and held it aloft. "After all that mayhem we
inflicted on the good people of Dulwich in their library, you think you
can just go round swiping books and tearing pages out, sunshine?" Said in
the mournful, scolding tone he loved to patronise his partner with.

 "I...uh, slipped it into my pocket when I was giving Cowley the guided
tour." Doyle rubbed his nose and pulled at a mark on the carpet. "Your
fault, mate. Didn't seem right to leave it there after you'd taken the
trouble to...y'know, say it to me, and everything." He glanced up, and
this time Bodie held his gaze effortlessly.

 "Besides." His voice was stronger now, and he began to move, uncurling
his legs and taking himself up onto his knees. "Had to find it, didn't I?"
Doyle came forward, and Bodie heard his own heart then. Eyes locked with
his partner's, Bodie had the strangest sensation of reeling the man in. He
swallowed, his knees falling open of their own accord. Doyle raised
himself up between them and took the paper from Bodie with the utmost
care.

 "And?" Bodie resisted the temptation to clear the squeak in his voice and
say it again.

 "Well, quite what the hell you're doing comparing us to a ghost in chains
and someone else's missus, I have no idea."

 "You read it then?"

 Doyle snorted. "Yes I bloody read it, as you knew I would. 'A falling
off', not at all what it sounds, is it?"

 He smiled, charmed by Doyle's indignation. "Forget the chains, sunshine,
how does it sound?"

 He saw Doyle's head go down, and Bodie held his breath. He wasn't about
to tell Doyle that the only reason he remembered the phrase was because
some bird had told him on a date at the pictures that it was the most
romantic thing she'd ever heard. He couldn't remember the film, a weepie
where Ali McGraw had whispered it before dying. His repetition of it later
on that same date had tumbled them to the floor of her flat and he had
never forgotten it. The phrase, naturally, not the girl. Let Doyle think
it was the benefits of a literary education.

 The devil in him had dropped the play on his partner at the library,
wanting to tease, flirt, provoke a reaction. But the silent response, that
torn blood-smeared page in his fist at the hospital, had stung his eyes.
Doyle's gesture had made him take the words to heart, rolling the phrase
over his lips as he'd fallen asleep in that darkened hospital room.

 So here in his living room, waiting for that head to lift and the turn of
his life to be decided, he knew with utter certainty that come what may,
he had been right to think it, say it, and make Doyle know it. Context be
damned.

 Doyle looked back up and smiled, answering him finally. "Sounds like the
truth, mate."

 In an instant Bodie knew what it was to feel restless and still at the
same time. Some almost-forgotten instinct rose up, urging him to take
flight before it was too late, before Doyle closed the gap, and the rules
of engagement he was flirting with here changed for eternity. But
something else, something far more unfamiliar, was urging him to stay
where he was. No more ribbons for you, it whispered, for your hide and
your soul finally matter this much...

 Doyle's lips, pressing on his with an almost nervous tenderness, suddenly
took the decision out of his hands, and he felt a clarity he had never
expected. He closed his eyes to savour such a perfect sensation, still
momentarily unsure from the trip in his heart which instinct would win: to
flee or to stay. Then he knew. When Ray's hand came up to rest on his
neck, keeping him in place with the lightest of touches, that last vestige
of disquiet in his heart smoothed out, fell away, and he knew. He leaned
in, bringing his hands to bear on Doyle, anything to deepen this kiss and
keep it alive.

 As Bodie breathed him in, he realised two things: that Doyle still
smelled of oregano, and that he had never turned on so fast in his life. A
hand landed on his cords, right where he was slowly strangling, and he
thought he might literally jump out of his skin. He groaned deep and
reached, but knocked Doyle's elbow into his bandage as he did so. The
groan changed timbre and Doyle pulled back instantly.

 Neither of them spoke.

 Just breathed.

 Looked and breathed, loud and uneven onto each other's faces in the
evening stillness of Bodie's flat.

 "Ow," said Bodie.

 He waited, watching Doyle's breathing even out a little.

 And as Doyle leaned slowly forward, pressing his forehead to Bodie's and
whispering the inevitable words in reply, the déjà vu hit home with a
force that had Bodie closing his eyes before the first syllable of his
name left Ray's lips. This intimacy repeated, this delicious sense of a
pattern shared.

 "Bodie?" Whispered. Ray's forehead was still pressed to his.

 "Yeah?" Whispered back.

 "Close to the truth, then?"

 Bodie pushed back a little, keeping his partner near with a hand on the
back of his neck.

 "Nah, miles off, sunshine. Can't you tell?"

 A slow smile stretched out between them. Ray licked his lips and Bodie
leaned in to do it too. A hand on his chest stopped him.

 "Bodie?"

 He was scarcely concentrating, eyes fixed on their target.

 "Mate? Not to break the spell, here, but you think I could get off me
knees and drag you off to something a bit more comfortable?"

 Bodie simply increased the weight on Doyle's splayed fingers until his
mouth reached its target.

 About to go under for the second time, Bodie felt himself being pushed
back as Doyle separated them, a couple of panting inches apart.

 "Bodie?"

 He tried again. Doyle grabbed his jaw.

 "Bodie. Bed. Now."

 *That* he heard.

 ******

In the early hours of the morning Doyle knew a moment of panic. It wasn't
the strange fact of being awake in Bodie's bed with an unfamiliar angle of
light coming through curtains that weren't his. He had woken in enough
unfamiliar beds in his lifetime, including his partner's on occasion. The
difference, he knew, was the occasion. He was neither drunk nor wounded,
the only conditions under which he had been given space in it previously.
The arm banded across his chest as he lay there on his back was different,
too. He turned his head, trying to see something of the face on the pillow
near his shoulder, but the light wasn't good, so he turned it back and lay
there, blinking at the ceiling.

 On those previous occasions there had been an invisible line: left,
right; your side, my side. As you would if you were sharing with a mate
who'd had too many and was going to have rotten breath in the morning. But
he had crossed that line, spectacularly, and without the excuse of
alcohol, fear, relief, or any of the other things that Doyle often used to
propel him into someone else's bed.

 And it wasn't even a gender thing. So early on in the partnership that it
should have split them wide open, somehow it had come up. Bodie had asked
first, he did remember that. And Doyle had surveyed the taunting arrogance
in front of him across the rim of a pint glass and wanted nothing more
than to wipe it clean off. Ice in his veins, he had looked Bodie straight
in the eye and told him. "I was an art student for a while. Went with the
territory. You?" But the response had not been what he'd expected. "Army.
Went with the territory, too." Each had taken the other's measure there in
that pub, nodding coolly, refusing to smile. And then somehow that shared
confidence had become precisely that. Never referred to, the knowledge of
what each had spontaneously trusted the other with had come to matter.

 Doyle glanced at the man beside him and knew that those experimental
fumblings of long ago bore little resemblance to what had taken him from
floor to sofa to bed in one stumbling, barely restrained tango with his
partner.

 But what the fuck did it resemble, then?

 Unsure if he wanted to wake Bodie, Doyle laid a tentative hand on the
forearm resting on him, and smiled in the darkness. Cool. As always. Like
a sedative, it slowed his thoughts and he considered the ceiling again.

 This night he had learned a whole new vocabulary for Bodie. There were
sounds he knew, sounds that saved his life and kept him sane on an almost
daily basis. He knew the sound Bodie's gun made when he slid it out of his
holster and the safety came off. He knew the sound of a Bodie in full
flight behind him, footsteps clipped and economical on tarmac, and he knew
what it was to be yelled at to get his bloody head down, and then to be
hauled to his feet afterwards and yelled at some more.

 But now he knew the sound Bodie made when Doyle's hand had held his cock
for the first time. A growl, somewhere in the back of his throat, it had
vibrated into Doyle through lips which were pressed to Bodie's neck at the
time. He knew the sound and rhythm of a Bodie about to come, slicked and
moving against him, side by side, tongue deep and wet in his own mouth.
And he knew what it was to hear his name loud, as if in a storm, and then
again moments later on a sigh so quiet he had almost missed it.

 He swallowed. He could never not know this now, any of it. He could--

 "Mate, I can hear the gears grinding from here."

 He turned his head to see Bodie still in place on the pillow, but the
right side of his mouth had lifted in a curve. The arm over his ribs
tightened a fraction.

 Bodie's eyes opened. "Gonna tell your Uncle Bodie all about it then?" The
tone was mild enough, but there was a thread of tension to it.

 He turned in the circle of the arm across him and watched it slide off to
rest between them as he took himself up on an elbow. He could do this in
the dark.

 "What are we doing, Bodie?" He heard Bodie's muffled snort into the
pillow and started again. "Sod off! I mean, I know what we're...it's
just...Christ, this is *us,* Bodie, you and me, and I don't..." Frustrated
by his inarticulacy, he pulled on his hair with his free hand. Bodie
turned slowly onto his back, mindful of his leg, and Doyle brought his
hand down to rest hesitantly on his partner's chest. "I just need to know
what we're doing, mate."

 "Told you already."

 "Told me what?"

 "We're falling off, sunshine." Said with all the confidence and certainty
that only Bodie was capable of, the smile that went with it was blinding,
even in the dark, and Doyle wondered if his insecurities had a chance.

 *Git. Smug, self-satisfied git.*

 He took a breath and shook his head, but it was no use. Try as he might,
he could only feel blessed by such arrogance.

 "How far?" It had to be asked.

 He increased the pressure of his hand on Bodie's chest, moved it slowly
down and let Bodie feel the smile on his mouth when he kissed him.

 "Hmm? How far, Bodie?" His own cock twitched and filled when he heard
that throated sound again.

 "Fucking China, Ray."

 And that, thought Doyle, as his mouth followed his hand, sounded just
about right.

 -- THE END --

 *December 2006
 Originally published in *Never Far Apart*, Justazine Publications, April
2007*

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