The Professionals Circuit Archive - London Games	 London Games

 

by Ellis Ward

  
 He drew the door quietly against the jamb, hesitating until the click of
the metal tumbler confirmed that the lock had engaged and sealed the entry
before releasing the knob. The exaggerated conscientiousness of the action
was in total contradiction to the thunderous expression marring the man's
imperfect features.

Ray Doyle was angry. He was also confused, bewildered, bruised, and very,
very tired. Stubble darkened his jaw to menacing effect; his skin was grey
from exhaustion, drawn and lined; and his eyes, rimmed with red, were as
lightless as quarry-mined stones, sunk deep in abnormally pronounced
hollows. 

The chill of the unborn day struck him at once, slipping through the
tight-woven fibers of morning suit and starched linen shirt with the ease
of centuries' long practice, adding one more source of irritation to his
full-to-burgeoning catalog of complaints. Shoulders hunched forward, hands
seeking body warmth in trousers pockets, Doyle nevertheless continued to
stand on the concrete step, waiting for his eyesight to adjust to the
night. 

Only shadows and muted lamplight glinting off shiny, bedewed automobiles
that lined the pavement greeted his stare. Across the street, an iron
fence surrounded a private park, its inner mysteries hidden by flowering
shrubs and fruit trees. Their scent, strangely elusive in the heavy
pre-dawn air, came to him on and inquisitive breeze, ethereally sweet. 

Doyle shivered. A vast sigh escaped out of his lungs, turning eerily
visible as it poured between his lips. He shoved his clenched hands to the
depths of his pockets and started down the worn steps to the pavement. 

There really was no sense in carrying on like this. After all, such an
assignment had been in the cards for a long time. And in all honesty it
was not the operation that had left him so out of sorts, but the degree to
which he had managed to cock it up. 

Only yesterday morning, less than twenty-four hours ago, Cowley had sat
Bodie and him down in comfortable leather chairs, handed them drinks - a
sure sign of something undesirable to come - and told them what he wanted,
and how he expected them to accomplish it. Neither had overreacted; why
should they, since they'd been put out to stud before? That they had been
ordered to attract and bed their own sex this time, rather than the
opposite - well, flesh was flesh. Close one's eyes and think of England,
and all that. 

At least that was what Doyle had said to himself; Bodie had not shared his
thoughts on the matter. Once they had been dismissed, the two men had left
the Controller's office for a spell in Records. Their target was Stewart
Warne, a handsome man in his early sixties. Warne was reportedly a bit of
a dilettante, who attended upmarket parties given by specially chosen
acquaintances. At some point during the night he would pick the cream of
the most recently invited crop and steal away with him to his flat in
Chelsea. 

What exactly transpired there was unknown, for those who satisfied Warne's
appetites were very carefully screened by his acquaintances, and
well-versed before the fact in not kissing and telling, lest they bring
down Warne's ire on their handsome heads. The influence and power the man
commanded were considerable - yet on first perusal, it appeared that Warne
was an honorable man, possibly even likable. 

His vice, if vice it was, was by no means restrictive. Men of every skin
color, appearance, temperament, and political affiliation - all
scrupulously over the age of twenty-one - were offered to him, and none of
those chosen had ever bemoaned their treatment; or, lack of treatment in
the case of those who had been passed over. All who were invited were
provided with excellent company, luscious meals done to perfection, and
exquisite wines and liqueurs to satisfy the epicurean palate. In fact,
once Warne had made his selection, the others were free to sort it out
amongst themselves how, and with whom, they spent the rest of the night;
for the parties often continued until dawn, and their hosts were usually
quite liberal-minded in granting the use of their bedchambers. 

Bodie's only voluntary comment was that Warne needed to find something
more constructive to do with his money. The statement had been made rather
tersely, and with little of Bodie's usual cocky humor; the only indication
that he was not particularly pleased with this assignment. 

Questioned directly, Bodie said he was no more bothered with the prospect
of spending a night with Stewart Bloody Warne than Doyle himself appeared
to be, so why the inquisition? Accepting that Bodie had ceded to Cowley
rather than make his true feelings known, Doyle did not pursue the matter
- although he suspected that Bodie was in a snit because Doyle had made no
protest to Cowley's orders, and therefore, had forestalled any objections
Bodie might have brought up - without looking silly, anyway. 

Or so Doyle had thought. 

Warne was profoundly fascinating as far as Doyle was concerned, to the
point of suppressing any latent phobias that otherwise might have alarmed
him. The old gentleman had been married for forty years before his wife
died, childless, of cancer. Every scrap of information they had on that
period of his life bore evidence that he had been faithful to her, and had
in fact, doted on the woman. They had lived well, if quietly, partaking of
society as the fancy struck them, but seemingly well-content in each
other's company. Early in his career, Warne had amassed a small fortune,
and through canny business dealings his wealth had continued to grow
through the years. Interestingly, he was reputed to be a generous man, and
not known for ruthlessness nor inhumanity by those who had worked for and
with him. 

Not even Cowley's interest impugned the man's integrity: One of Warne's
bedmates had been tagged a Sinn F,iner who was very much wanted by Cowley,
along with several other organizations affected by his activities. It was
possible that Warne could identify him, and thereby produce a lead to the
man's current whereabouts. Sheer luck had put Special Branch onto the lad
the day of Warne's last party; they had promptly lost him the next.
Interviewing Warne outright could put him at risk. If, however, the
information could be seduced out of him . . . . 

*An absolute paragon,* Doyle had decided, believing not a word of it. 

Research completed, Bodie and Doyle had taken the invitations Cowley had
somehow acquired for them - his contacts were legion - and departed to
collect suitable clothing. From there they had separated for their
respective homes to gain a few hours sleep before their night's debut. 

That evening, whilst performing his ablutions before the mirror over the
bathroom sink, Doyle played out the scenario to come in his mind. Prepared
as always to undertake whatever was demanded of him by an assignment,
Doyle nonetheless had not one doubt that if either of them was chosen by
Warne, it would be Bodie. There simply was no comparison between them,
after all. Of the two, Bodie was by far the more attractive, and when he
employed his legendary charm, Warne would certainly succumb as readily as
any who had melted before Bodie's elegant feet in the past. 

His confidence was only magnified when Bodie had arrived on his doorstep,
clad in morning suit, ruffled shirt and flawlessly knotted bow-tie. Even
his shoes, gleaming with the improbable luster and fathomless depths only
a military man could achieve, had made Doyle feel rustic and out of place.
If this man did not capture Warne's attention, no one would. 

At least Bodie's mood had improved since the morning, although there was
definitely a brittle edge to it. Only a couple of feet into Doyle's flat,
he had batted Doyle's hands away from the recalcitrant length of silk
looped around his throat, and quickly set it to rights, tightening it with
cautious regard for Doyle's comfort. Considerately tweaking a curl into
place over Doyle's collar, Bodie had then waved him toward the door and
they had walked out into the night, having exchanged at most two or three
sentences, not one of which alluded to their current op. 

The evening had not gone according to plan. 

Doyle and Bodie had arrived at Warne's party, hosted by a gentleman named
Garret, shortly after nine. Presenting themselves as acquaintances who may
or may not have been lovers, they had freely milled amongst the invitees,
and when within the other's vicinity, had enjoyed the odd moment talking
quietly together - as they would have done at any such affair. 

Their handsome fellows had comprised a dignified, yet happy group. No
boisterous individuals had taken the stage and no one had lobbied
untowardly for Warne's attentions. The man himself had kept a fairly low
profile, wandering amidst the merry-makers and exchanging a few words with
everyone. 

Doyle had found Warne more impressive in person than his photographs had
conveyed. Tall and well-built, he towered over several people in the room,
but somehow never loomed. His face was craggy and could easily have been
forbidding, save for the kindly expression in very attentive blue eyes.
Most disarming of all was the man's shock of thick brown hair.
Well-groomed and minimally streaked with strands of grey, it nevertheless
tended to follow its own inclinations; frequently straying onto Warne's
forehead and into his eyes, necessitating a flick of long fingers or a
jerk of the head to remove the offender. Observing him with determined
suspicion, Doyle eventually conceded to his more skeptical self that this
was no affectation, and that Warne was simply unpretentious, gracious, and
genuinely friendly. 

After three hours of partaking of delicacies and wine that veritably
kissed the lining of his stomach, Doyle had been standing contentedly to
one side, monitoring the players in this undeniably hedonistic
entertainment with replete aloofness, when Bodie had materialized at his
shoulder. 

Bodie had given nothing away, outwardly relaxed and enjoying the gentle
revelry. Having kept a discreet watch on his partner all evening, Doyle,
however, could vouch that for once Bodie had repressed his voracious
tendencies, and wondered what his friend was worried about. 

Before Doyle could put his question into words, however, Bodie had
launched into several scurrilous vignettes about their fellow guests,
reminding Doyle all over again why he enjoyed his partner's company so
much - even though he was quite aware that Bodie was trying to put him off
the scent. But Doyle knew something was up. He had seen the man devour a
meal when faced with imminent annihilation without breaking the rhythm of
fork to mouth; in comparison, the prospect of Stewart Warne making free
with his person must surely seem far less intimidating. 

Puzzled, Doyle had nevertheless known better than to press an inquiry. But
later, tomorrow, when all this had been comfortably relegated to the past
. . . 

Stewart Warne had chosen that moment to join them. Whereas before he had
spoken only a few words, now he made it clear that he desired more. At
first, Doyle had shared the conversational burden with his partner, only
to realize with slow astonishment that Warne had zeroed in on *him*. Not
Bodie. Even more upsetting had been Bodie's obvious reluctance to defer to
Warne's preference, hanging about and interposing himself at every
possible moment, until Warne had very charmingly ushered Doyle away. 

Within an hour Doyle had found himself in Warne's luxuriously appointed
Jaguar on the way to Warne's house. Nihilistically resigned to his fate,
Doyle refused to contemplate what would follow - not in terms of an
emotional experience, anyway. While he had not anticipated that he might
end up being Warne's partner for the night, he faced it without a great
deal of apprehension; the man was not a sadist, of that he was assured. 

More difficult to cope with was the lingering effect of that last look
given him by Bodie. He told himself that he had imagined that shuttered
expression of passion and anger, but it had appeared - and disappeared -
so quickly that Doyle had come to doubt his own senses. 

Of course Bodie was concerned about him; he was always concerned about him
- sometimes to the point of incurring Doyle's resentment. But that sort of
extreme reaction usually only developed when they were involved in a life
and death situation, when the odds were stacked so inflexibly against them
that the outcome seemed inevitable. Surely Bodie could not imagine that
Warne would hurt him? Or was it that Bodie feared Doyle might suffer some
sort of macho identity crisis as a result of being fucked? They had been
encouraged to entertain that possibility; Cowley had been chillingly
clinical in his briefing. But for all their male posturing, Bodie must
know that Doyle would treat this as just another less than endearing
aspect of the job. 

And that's all it was - a job. 

Doyle shook his head in a vain attempt to disperse the unwanted images
that loitered in his mind. Resolutely, he headed south towards the high
street. Grateful that in the darkness he could acknowledge his aches and
bruises, he allowed himself a slight but perceptible limp. 

He had been right about Warne from the first. The man was not only a
bloody paragon, but damned near a saint. Doyle's cynicism regarding him
had died a slow, miserable death; in fact, he would have been much happier
had Warne been just the opposite of what he appeared to be. 

"Bodie?"* Doyle laughed, letting the worn ivory cube tumble from this
fingers. The resulting deuce was useless to him. "Sorry." He was not
entirely successful in smothering an inelegant snort. "I don't mean to be
rude, but Bodie most certainly does not love me." 

Unfazed by Doyle's rebuttal, Warne murmured good-naturedly, "You're going
to tell me you're `just good friends'." 

According the statement a full ten seconds of deep thought, Doyle replied,
"Much more than good friends, actually. But that doesn't mean he loves
me." He frowned at the older man, who met his gaze boldly. Not having been
led to Warne's bed as soon as they'd entered the flat had proved something
of a surprise; this must be Warne's way of warning him that there would be
more to come. 

*Bodie loved him -- indeed!*> 

It was a game of chance, but Warne had been an exceptionally good player,
or somehow he had managed to rig the cards - or the die. After being flung
to the four corners of the board's compass in their first match, Doyle had
ended up trapped between station closing markers, and gracefully conceded.
Apparently Warne was inordinately taken with the idiot game, however, and
Doyle lost three rounds in a row before realizing that he had relaxed
enough in the other man's pleasant company to return scandalous insults
regarding his cack-handed playing abilities. 

me* to come home with you tonight, Stewart?" 

Warne sobered at once. "Because you looked a hopeless player - and I do so
enjoy winning."> 

*If the evening had been given a name, it would have been titled "The
Tormenting of Raymond Doyle,"* decided Doyle. Taken with the hyperbole of
the notion, he summoned a grin while negotiating a step from pavement to
street between two closely parked cars. 

In fact, the night had continued in much the same spirit: endless rounds
of The London Game, until Doyle thought he would tear out his hair at
sight of another station closing marker or contrary Hazard Card; and
constant oblique - and not so oblique - references to Bodie. Warne had a
perverse obsession concerning Doyle's relationship with his partner; it
eclipsed virtually everything else - except, of course, that bloody game. 

After only one, brief physical contact, Warne had kept a discreet
distance, freezing Doyle with a mere look if he implied by word or deed
that there were other amusements available to them. Eventually, of course,
he had given up; too warm, too mellow, and too bemused to press the issue.
He should, perhaps, have guessed Warne's intentions much earlier; but
Doyle's experience of aged romantics was admittedly somewhat limited. 

After a night of verbal sparring and mind-numbing board playing, Doyle had
been ill-prepared for Warne's last sally. 

"He was hurting, Ray." 

Doyle yawned. "Not Bodie again, please." 

"You're not a callous man," Warne commented measuredly. "But you don't
believe me, and I don't understand that. I would like to." 

"There's nothing to understand," Doyle replied a little desperately. 

"I saw his face when we left. And I'm quite fortunate the old saying about
glances meting out death is not rooted in truth, or I would certainly be a
dead man now." 

Doyle forced an exhausted smile. "Bodie's a past master of the broody
look, that's all. It could just as easily have been him going home with
you." 

Warne turned his head to one side, his gaze very intent. "And how would
you have felt about that?" 

"Luck of the draw," Doyle replied noncommittally. 

"The poor bastard," Warne said musingly. "He loves you, and you couldn't
care less." 

Doyle bit back a coarse retort, before complaining exasperatedly, "What
has *Bodie* got to do with all this? You could have asked someone else
home, couldn't you! I *thought* you wanted to go to bed with *me*." 

"And you would have done it," Warne said indictingly. "You would've let me
have that sweet little arse, even knowing it would destroy someone who
loves you." 

"He doesn't love me," Doyle snarled. 

"Then why are you here, Mr. Doyle, if not to make him jealous?"> 

*Why indeed, Mr. Doyle?* 

Only a street over from Kings Road, Doyle came to stop, inexpressibly
exhausted and suffering from a too vivid sense of recall. When Cowley
found out what he had done, Doyle would be lucky to be kept on in Records
for the rest of his life. Then again, Cowley would probably just point him
to the nearest fifth story window and he could save the old bugger, and
himself, the bother. 

Whatever had possessed him to respond as he had? Certainly Warne's
unrelenting interrogation would have done any of CI5's finest proud; but
Doyle was trained for just such circumstances - in love and war. But more
often in war, he acknowledged to himself; Warne had been talking love. 

Incessantly. 

He had no excuse, really, unless he suggested to Cowley that eleven
straight rounds of The London Game would be enough to unman the most
hardened criminal, much less one of Cowley's purportedly better agents. 

Doyle had told Warne everything: Why he was there, the information he
needed; even, for God's sake, who he worked for. 

Cowley would see to it that Doyle earned a special chapter in the next
training manual: *How Not To Work For CI5*. 

"It would never have crossed my mind that Peter was an active member of
the Sinn Fin; after all, a man's politics are his own. But to get that
information you were actually going to sacrifice your virginity to me?" 

"It's part of the job, sometimes," Doyle informed him resignedly. 

"Playing the poof?" 

"Whatever gets results." 

"And Bodie?" 

Doyle said, "He's my partner." 

"And you really haven't slept with him?" 

"No." 

"But you do realize that he loves you?" 

Beyond argument, Doyle sighed, "Believe me, you're quite wrong. If I even
suggested something like that - " 

"Then you *have* thought of it?" 

Doyle simply stared at the man.> 

And now, amidst the cold and damp of early morning, Doyle found precious
little compensation in the fact that he had finally got the information
Cowley wanted. Warne kept no secrets from HMG; he would willingly have
surrendered Peter Beauchamp's name to any agent who had asked. Covert
action had been totally unnecessary, and in Doyle's case, would likely
prove seriously counterproductive to his future. 

The throaty rumble of a well-tuned engine dragged Doyle's attention out of
the cellar of his bleak thoughts as a familiar car slid up to the curb.
Its arrival was not unexpected; in fact, Doyle had suffered a twinge of
disappointment not to find it standing outside Warne's front step. 

Taking hold of the passenger door as it swung open in front of him, Doyle
half-heartedly groused, "Took your time, didn't you?" 

Bodie scarcely glanced at him. "Seemed to have a lot on your mind. Ready
to go home?" 

Feeling the weight of words unspoken, Doyle almost refused. Bodie believed
the worst had happened. It was there in the tension of his hands, clenched
tightly round the steering wheel; in the too stiff erectness of his
posture; in the blatant indifference of his stare. He couldn't know that
the worst had indeed happened; and it was far more terrible than Bodie
could imagine. 

Doyle wordlessly eased himself into the passenger seat. To make it
perfectly clear that he was not ready for a session of gut-spilling, he
reclined the seat, closed his eyes, and turned his face towards the window
beside his head. 

The effort was wasted, but Doyle had known that the moment his haggard
friend had shown up. 

"Are you all right, Ray?" Bodie asked evenly. 

"Perfectly." 

A few seconds passed and Doyle could feel the pressure build. "You know
what I mean," Bodie persisted. "D'you need to see a quack?" 

"No." 

A mile disappeared behind them; the inside of the Capri was deathly quiet.
Bodie's voice cut through the stillness like a chainsaw. "I saw you
limping." 

"Bodie - " 

"Look, Ray, I can understand you not wanting to talk about it, but this
isn't something you can ignore. If he hurt you - " 

"He didn't. I'm fine. Now will you shut up about it?" 

Bodie gave a tight nod, lips compressed into a pale line. He drove with
deft, but abrupt movements, nothing at all like his everyday fluid manner.
Inwardly castigating himself for being a pluperfect bastard, Doyle glanced
across at his partner and took note of his appearance for the first time
since entering the vehicle. 

If the night had been a disaster for him, it showed every sign of having
been a singular travail for Bodie, as well. Deep purple bruising
underscored his eyes, his face was blue with new beard growth, and the
lines framing his mouth had become etched furrows filled with shadow. On
anyone else such evidence of ill-use would have been distinctly
unappealing. On Bodie, it simply gave new meaning to the word *rakish*,
while emphasizing his impossibly attractive features. 

*"So you *have* thought of it,"* Warne's words echoed in his ears. 

Of course he had. Lately, fantasies of Bodie's deflowering had come to
consume an unconscionable amount of Doyle's time. Not that he would ever
do anything about wanting his partner. For one thing, his emotions
regarding Bodie were terrifyingly complex. When he envisioned them making
love, it was the holding and being held that remained with him long after
the glow of fucking and being fucked had faded. For another, and far more
importantly, Bodie didn't approve of emotional commitment; leastways not
in his love affairs. 

"Y'know. You're not the only one this's ever happened to, Doyle." 

This unembroidered proclamation jerked Doyle out of his reverie with a
start. 

"I mean - " Bodie hesitated, then forged on, "There's no reason to let it
get you down, okay?" 

The gears of his brain working as uncertainly as a run-down clockwork toy,
Doyle said slowly, "You trying to tell me something, mate?" 

"Not really," Bodie replied crisply. "Just don't want this to cause
problems with us." 

"Problems?" Doyle straightened the passenger seat and twisted round to
stare at his partner. "What sort of problems d'you have in mind?" 

That silky tone of voice had always served to put Bodie on edge, and it
gratifyingly produced that same effect now. Bodie explained awkwardly,
"You feeling . . . uncomfortable with me, maybe." 

"*You* didn't do anything to me," Doyle reminded him softly. 

"Yeah, but - It isn't exactly something a bloke - blokes like us - can
brush off, now is it? Not easily, anyway?" 

"Go on." 

Bodie nosed the car south onto Battersea Bridge. As they crossed over the
grey-green, lazily writhing Thames, he muttered, "Just - Well, I know what
you're going through, that's all." 

Doyle selected his next words with exceptional care. "You're telling me
you've been with a . . . *man*?" 

The car noticeably gained speed. "That's right." 

"And he - this man - fucked you?" 

The dark head inclined once in confirmation. 

Doyle felt himself go cold inside. "When?" he asked gratingly. 

"A long time ago. Years ago. And it's not important now, okay?" 

"When was it?" Doyle insisted. "The mercs? Merchant navy?" He frowned.
"Not the Army?" 

"Does it matter?" Bodie's face twisted with a hint of hostility. 

"It might." Doyle stared at his partner in the faint light provided by the
dashboard displays and the tentative advent of the sun. *"Bodie?"* 

Bodie rolled his shoulders in an elaborate shrug. "Years ago, like I told
you. Just after . . . Jordan. Things got kind of crazy." 

Doyle's green eyes narrowed, their expression guarded by a phalanx of dark
lashes. "Who was he?" 

"No one." Fingers spread wide, thumbs hooked around the steering wheel,
Bodie sat hunched inside his coat. "Met him at a bar. Couldn't even tell
you his name. After a few drinks, he persuaded me to give it a go, and I
did." His eyes cut across to take in Doyle's reaction; stung, they jerked
away again. "Only once. Just for a lark." 

"For a lark - " 

"Yeah. And that's all I'm going to say. Just thought you should know. What
with tonight and all, didn't want you thinking I'd - " 

" - hold it against me?" 

Bodie gave his head a weary shake. "No. More like, think less of you.
Which I don't." 

Not even aware that he had been poised with painful tension, Doyle found
himself relaxing back against the seat. Thoughtfully he folded his arms
across his chest. Myriad ambivalent emotions churned around in his brain,
leaving him simultaneously outraged and ludicrously amused. 

Having known his partner for nearly nine years now, Doyle had learned to
read Bodie very well; far better than anyone else - except Cowley, who
frequently evinced an awesome knowledge of Bodie's inner workings that
Doyle could never hope to emulate. In any case, his instincts were
unerring when it came to recognizing the truth as Bodie saw fit to present
it - bearing no resemblance to his frequent embellishments and
dissimulations. Doyle granted him those moments of whimsy; sometimes it
made his partner more comfortable to weave a tale, or to flat out blunt
the truth either through omission or nuance. But of one thing Doyle was
very sure: Bodie never lied. Not to him anyway. 

He should not have done it now. 

Making a show of settling into his seat, Doyle pretended to sleep, needing
the time to formulate how he would deal with this new complication.
Despite closed eyes and a shoulder turned his partner's way, Doyle was not
unaware of Bodie's nervous glances. It occurred to him that Bodie would be
considerably more worried if he knew the true reason for Doyle's
withdrawal. . . 

"We're here, mate," Bodie said, removing his hand from Doyle's arm the
instant awareness stirred in the limp form. 

Despite himself, Doyle had fallen into a profoundly deep sleep sometime
before they reached his block of flats. Rousing sluggishly, he frowned
with every muscle of his face as sensation returned. Having briefly
forgotten his troubled audience in the immediacy of each newly clamoring
bruise and ache, Doyle belatedly comprehended what Bodie must be thinking.


"Ray, are you su - ?" 

"Yes." Doyle silenced him with a single, tart utterance and warning scowl.
At the closed, rather belligerent expression that shuttered Bodie's face,
Doyle forced himself to relent. "Look, mate, I really am okay. And I
didn't mean to bite your head off." 

"You don't have to apolo - " 

"Yes, I do." He offered an olive branch in the form of a diffident smile.
"Come on up, Bodie. I'll make coffee. `S the least I can do for you giving
me a ride home - and after you spent the night in the bloody car, too." 

"I don't think - " 

"C'mon, mate." Doyle repeated persuasively, very conscious that it was not
in his nature to plead. It was important to him, however, that Bodie not
leave just yet. Not until Doyle had resolved a few things to his own
satisfaction. 

In reply, Bodie shut off the engine and favored his partner with a
long-suffering look. "One coffee, then I'm off. I'm knackered, Ray." 

Doyle fabricated a grin. "You should see yourself; what you're saying
isn't exactly news, y'know." He jerked his head towards the building.
"C'mon." 

In the half hour it had taken to reach Doyle's flat, the cloudless sky had
lightened, and the briskness of the morning had lost some of its bite.
Only vaguely conscious of the world renewing itself about him, Doyle led
the way to the main entry, focussed almost to the exclusion of all else on
Bodie's moody presence a pace or two behind him. 

He unlocked the door to his flat and waved his partner inside, then
piously attended to the ritual of rearming the security system. As Bodie
was heading in the direction of the kitchen, Doyle called, "Put the kettle
on, will you? I have to use the loo. There's a mate." 

He saw Bodie falter, then continue into the corridor. Doyle almost joined
him, remembering guiltily that he had done nothing to put Bodie's mind at
ease regarding his own unscathed - well, mostly unscathed - condition. But
the festering irritation of Bodie's words returned to crush the impulse.
However noble Bodie's motivation, Doyle would not tolerate being lied to. 

He exited the bathroom with hands and face cursorily washed and hair
somewhat tamed. He shrugged off the hired coat and draped it over the back
of the sofa in the lounge, then walked purposefully to the kitchen. Just
inside the frame of the door, he paused to watch his partner. 

Bodie was standing by the sideboard, spooning coffee into mugs while the
kettle steamed. It clicked off upon Doyle's arrival, and Bodie removed the
plug and began to pour. 

"Bodie." 

Dark blue eyes skimmed over Doyle's person, taking in the absent dress
coat, loosened collar and rolled up sleeves. "Hm?" 

Doyle unthinkingly returned the once-over as he tried to gauge his
partner's probable reaction to his next words. "What if *I* wanted to fuck
you?" he asked baldly. 

Caught in the middle of filling the other cup, Bodie shot Doyle a sharp
look, finished what he was doing, and straightened. "Is that supposed to
be funny, Ray?" 

"No," Doyle replied, humor clearly the furthest thing from his mind. 

Bodie stood very still, uneasy puzzlement shadowing his face. "You want to
fuck me?" He could not seem to believe his ears. 

"Why not?" asked Doyle reasonably. "After all, if you'd let a total
stranger do you, why not me?" 

A trace of anger tightened Bodie's jaw, then was gone. He turned to the
sidetable and set the spoon down with inordinate precision. "Right," he
stated a little huskily. "Why not, indeed?" Drawing himself up to his full
height, hands clasped before him, he said conversationally. "Well, let's
get it over with, then. Where d'you want me, Ray?" he canted his head
toward the wall behind him. "Here? Fancy a sordid little knee-trembler, do
you?" Taking Doyle's lack of response for a negative, Bodie said politely,
"No? Perhaps the floor? Although I have to say I don't think my knees are
up to a bout on your lino, sunshine." Letting his arms drop to his sides
and regarding Doyle with an unflattering lack of interest, Bodie concluded
brittley, "The bedroom, then?" 

Despite the fact that his heart was going like a jackhammer, Doyle gave a
little nod and said, quite normally, "Yeah, the bedroom. I've always been
partial to comfort." 

The look that Bodie gave him would have stripped freshly dried paint off a
metal wall. With a tight nod, Bodie scooped up a mug, took a scalding gulp
of coffee, slapped it back down on the sideboard, and strode from the
room, brushing past Doyle as though he didn't exist. 

Furious, Doyle held himself back before following. *Damn Bodie for being
such a cross-grained, stubborn bastard!* All Doyle really wanted was
Bodie's admission that he had made up at that rubbish on the ride from
Chelsea - just to spare Doyle's supposedly injured ego. Why did Bodie have
to be so bloody-minded about it? 

He found Bodie in the bedroom, already nude from the waist down, in the
act of shedding the shirt from his back. At sight of Doyle, Bodie
completed the job and held the soft fabric provocatively to one side.
"This is it, mate," Bodie said with mild contempt, turning a little so
that no part of him went undisplayed. "Seen it before, remember?" 

The shirt fell from his fingers, and landed on the floor in a heap. Remote
blue eyes raked across Doyle's still fully clothed frame, then
dismissively turned away as Bodie climbed onto the bed, there to lie on
his belly, legs parted for Doyle's convenience. 

At once Doyle suffered a surge of panic the like of which he had never
experienced before, not even when faced with certain, hideous death. With
complete comprehension he knew there was nothing he could say or do that
would erase this breach of trust. In pushing Bodie to confess his lie,
Doyle had very likely destroyed their friendship. 

Yet on another level of his mind, a startled voice wondered if there was
*anything* Bodie would not do for him. 

Compelling himself to think around the apprehension clawing at his brain,
Doyle knew that Warne had been right. 

*But what do I *now*?* 

Operating on instinct alone, and clinging limpet-like to the belief that
Bodie cared more for him than he ought, Doyle went nearer the bed. Eyes
traveling the length of his partner's pale body, he sat on the edge of the
mattress at Bodie's waist and laid a trembling palm over one scarred
shoulder-blade. 

At contact, the muscle beneath Doyle's hand twitched, then stilled.
Immediately after, a small wildfire of goose-pimples spread out across
Bodie's shoulders, down his back, onto softly downed buttocks, over hard
muscled thighs, all the way to suddenly curling toes. 

Distracted, Doyle shifted his hand, watching his spread-wide fingers float
over Bodie's upper torso. The man's skin was like satin, cool and smooth,
and most definitely pleasurable to the touch. Pliant muscle encased
unyielding bone; hard here, over the shoulders and down the length of the
long spine; rounded here, where the backbone came to an end between firm
buttocks. 

Very daring, Doyle cupped his hand first round one hillock of his
partner's arse, then the other, trailing his fingertips to the underside
of the compact swelling, and from there down to the tops of milky white
thighs, which were dusted with dark hair. 

For the first time since Doyle had sat beside him, Bodie moved, an
abbreviated tightening of the muscle that ran up the back of his leg, and
currently the object of Doyle's explorations. The movement drew Doyle's
eyes upward to the pale expanse of hips and upper torso, revealing what he
had not noticed before: Bodie was breathing unevenly, his quivering
shoulders betraying the effort required to retain control. 

Never having intended cruelty, Doyle was stricken by the degree of his
selfishness. In the process of gathering the straying lambs of his too
easily scattered thoughts, he had allowed this uncomfortable tableau to
continue far too long. 

"Bodie, I - " Absolutely bereft of words, Doyle leaned forward and rested
his cheek against Bodie's shoulder. "You *idiot*," he whispered, and
shockingly, began to laugh. 

There was no other reason for it but hysteria, although later Doyle would
argue strongly that the whole episode was preposterous and more than
worthy of a grin or two. Once the chortles had escalated into full-fledged
whooping laughter, however, Doyle could not have bridled himself had he
tried. 

He didn't. Instead, he held on to Bodie as though for dear life, trying
with little success to explain himself, but incapable of producing
anything in the way of coherent language. How long this went on, Doyle
could not have said. Seconds blended into minutes, but probably not many
of them. Doyle sensed the moment of transition, even in the part of his
brain that stood aghast to one side, when Bodie suddenly stiffened, and
the customary rise and fall of his chest ceased. 

There was little time for alarm. With a vast bunching of muscle, Bodie
whipped himself eel-like out from under his partner, curled around and
dumped Doyle onto his back. Winded and a little lightheaded, Doyle did not
even try to resist as Bodie crouched over him, one knee gouging
uncomfortably into his abdomen, vice-like hands pinning his narrow wrists
to the mattress above his head. 

Bodie's face told his story: he was furious, degraded, and badly wounded.
The brutality of his grip and stance spared no regard for Doyle's
well-being at all. For the first time in all the years he had known Bodie,
Doyle wondered if he should be afraid. 

"And what if *I* wanted to fuck *you*, mate?" Bodie rasped. 

Stunned, Doyle gave his head a tiny shake. 

"Not so funny *now*, is it, Ray?" 

Doyle opened his mouth to speak, to explain everything, even - given the
chance - to apologize. But the unformed words died in his throat, denied
release by Bodie's mouth, which came down hard and hurtful upon his. The
kiss was violent and rapacious - it occurred to Doyle that while *he* had
been bluffing, Bodie most certainly was not. 

He fought him then, squirming frantically to break Bodie's hold, wincing
with the effort needed to twist his head free. But Bodie systematically
employed his greater weight to quell Doyle's bucking movements, ruthlessly
countering every desperate ploy until Doyle lay helpless beneath him,
chest heaving, eyes overwide and a little wild. 

Something like pain sparked briefly in Bodie's face. Then he bent forward
and took Doyle's mouth again. At first there was more anger than passion
in the intimate pressure, but slowly, unmistakably, that balance began to
change. Struggling not to disgrace himself by admitting to tears or pain,
Doyle did not immediately discern the difference. 

Bodie tipped his head a little to one side, then, and nuzzled Doyle's
swollen lips with ineluctable gentleness. "I've never wanted to hurt you,
Ray," he whispered raggedly, and raised his head to gaze emptily into
Doyle's eyes. 

Swallowing hard, Doyle met that anguished visage with guilty
self-awareness. "You couldn't," he said fiercely. He pulled his wrists out
of Bodie's slackened grasp, and took his partner's face between his hands.
"Even when I deserve it," he owned, and drew him down again. 

Like heat-softened wax they molded to one another, mouths and hands
tenderly prowling. By dint of Bodie's state of undress, Doyle was granted
greater liberty, and did not hesitate to use that fact to his advantage.
But it was not in Bodie's nature to be left behind, and within moments he
had facilely unbuttoned Doyle's shirt, fingers coolly electric on lightly
furred skin. Arching up to increase their closeness, Doyle murmured
appreciatively as their bare chests came together. Drunk on Bodie's
kisses, he feasted at the softly pouting mouth, while Bodie blindly sought
and released the clasp at the waistband of Doyle's trousers. 

Flash-point took them both by surprise; rarely, at this stage in their
lives, did they arouse so quickly or intensely. Amidst fevered movements
and sudden desperate need, they were carried aloft before registering that
the moment was upon them. Shuddering helplessly, they relaxed back onto
the mattress, lying on their sides, pressed tightly together. Only then
did they break the last kiss that had aided their meteoric rise to such
wondrous heights. 

Doyle peered at his partner from beneath drooping eyelids, pleased beyond
hope to witness a singularly lethargic Bodie nestled close beside him.
With gentle adoration he smiled, enfolding Bodie deeper into his arms.
Head tucked into the crook of one broad shoulder, Doyle sighed with open
contentment, gave his partner a lingering hug, and settled down to sleep. 

"Ray." 

"Uhn." 

The pleasant warmth that stretched all down one side of him removed
itself. Doyle gave a murmuring complaint, and instinctively followed. At
once he was taken into a crushing embrace, then unceremoniously shoved
onto his back. His nascent protest was devoured by a brief, searing kiss. 

"Doyle." 

Blinking sleepily into Bodie's hovering, dismayed face, Doyle found
himself attaining full wakefulness very quickly. 

"Yeah?" 

"You want to explain all this to me?" Bodie asked politely. He bent
forward and rubbed his nose lightly against Doyle's. 

Reassured by that artless gesture, Doyle turned his face into Bodie's
throat and yawned noisily. "Which particular bit didn't you understand?"
he asked patiently. 

Bodie gave him a rough squeeze, eliciting a tiny grunt. "*Why* it happened
would be a good place to start." 

Laughing softly, Doyle gazed up into Bodie's face. "Forgot to tell you:
We're in love." 

"Are we." 

"Yep. It's obvious to people who don't even know us." 

"Is it." 

Unbothered by this prosaic reaction, Doyle occupied himself by tracing the
line of Bodie's throat and collarbone, so conveniently close to hand. 

"Do you?" Bodie asked, at last. 

"Do I what?" 

"What you said," Bodie replied maddeningly. "D'you love me?" 

"Think I must do. Can't imagine why." 

Rather more huskily than usual, Bodie said weakly, "What's not to love?" 

"Don't ask, or I'll give you a list" Doyle chided amiably. Then: "And what
about you? You *do* love me, don't you?" Green eyes probed suddenly
guarded blue ones. "Say '*yes*,' Bodie." 

"`Course I do," Bodie muttered truculently, still eyeing Doyle
uncertainly. 

"But?" 

Bodie grimaced. "Not but. Just - Well, this may all seem perfectly
reasonable to you. But why now; tonight? And why were you so narked with
me? You know, in the car, and after we got here?" 

"Because you lied to me, you irritating bugger," Doyle informed him
smartly, gently circling Bodie's neck with the span of his hand. 

"Lied - " 

"About being with that bloke in Jordan. You *did* make that up, didn't
you?" 

For an instant, Bodie froze. Then he shrugged, a pale hue of pink rising
into his cheeks. "Yeah. Thought you wouldn't feel so - " 

"Hard done by?" 

"Hm." He summoned some of his old arrogance. "So it wasn't my technique -
or lack of it - that gave me away?" 

"Nah. Just me being selfish, I suppose." 

"Eh?" 

"Wanted to be your first," Doyle confessed. "When you said you'd been with
someone else, I almost clubbed you. Then I figured out that you were
lying. Didn't like that; not for any reason." 

"Don't know if the Cow will approve of the new interrogation method,
sunshine," Bodie advised him disarmingly. He rubbed a broad hand smoothly
across Doyle's chest. "Won't happen again, okay?" 

Doyle grudgingly allowed himself to be convinced. "Yeah, okay." 

Tracing ticklish patterns around Doyle's nipples, Bodie murmured, "But you
haven't said why this happened *tonight* - Was it because of what went on
with you and Warne? Not," he said emphatically, "that it makes any
difference, y'understand." 

Doyle favored him with a sweetly uncomplicated smile. "Not the way you
think. Y'see, I've got news for you, sunshine: You're *my* first, too." 

The hand sliding towards Doyle's navel, stilled. "But, you and Warne - " 

Sniggering vulgarly, Doyle informed him, "The only compulsion Warne was
seized by last night was a longing to discover Drayton Park." Musing to
himself, Doyle went on, "That was the only game I came close to winning,
and he still got me in the end." 

"Drayton Park?" Bodie asked, confounded. 

"Tube station on a discontinued line; Great Northern Line, I think. Didn't
you ever play The London Game?" 

"Once or twice: it's like chicken pox or measles: hard to avoid." 

"Well, that's what we did - all night long." 

"Played The London Game?" 

"Warne is uncommonly fond of it," Doyle said darkly. "And in between
moves, he kept wigging me for mistreating you." 

"Did he." 

"Rabbited on about it the whole bloody night; over and over, until - " 

Doyle's suddenly conscience-stricken look brought a hunter's grin to
Bodie's face. "Yes?" 

"Christ," Doyle breathed, and unselfconsciously buried his face in the
safe harbor formed by the hollow of Bodie's throat and shoulder. "I really
fucked up tonight, mate." 

"How?" Instinctively lowering his voice to match Doyle's hushed tones,
Bodie stressed the verbal prod with a measured but unignorable physical
one. 

"Ouch. Sadist." Doyle gave a violent wriggle, but subsided when Bodie
bestowed a cherishing kiss. Temporarily consoled, he said dramatically,
"You don't want to know, Bodie. Although you *will* need to break in a new
partner - All right, all right, I'll tell you!" 

Shortly thereafter, having spilled his woeful tale, Doyle was outraged
when Bodie only laughed. "You - " Heedless of his more than half undone
trousers and shirt, Doyle wrangled his partner onto his back and mounted
him with single-minded efficiency. 

"Pax!" Bodie giggled, desperately trying to evade Doyle's omnipresent
fingers. "Will you stop!" he roared, at last. 

Doyle grinned down at him, enjoying the moment of dominance. 

Incapable of maintaining a severe front in the presence of such
good-nature, Bodie smiled back. "Stop carrying on, you moron," he said
calmly. "Warne's not a security risk. You and I know that; Records know
that. The Cow won't be thrilled, but - " 

"He won't be thrilled is right," Doyle interrupted morosely. "But it isn't
as if I came out of it empty-handed. Maybe I'll blackmail him: he throws
me out, no Sinn F,iner." 

Bodie insinuated his hands beneath the open folds of Doyle's shirt. "You
weren't kidding about that game, were you? It's addled your brains, mate.
*Nobody* threatens Cowley." 

"Maybe - maybe not," Doyle said absently, eyes half-closed. 

"Ray?" 

"Hm?" 

Large hands pushed the body-warm shirt off Doyle's shoulders. "Why were
you limping?" 

"Warne's cat," Doyle replied dreamily. "Huge ginger tom; weighed two stone
if it weighed an ounce." 

"Go on!" 

"`S true. Pounced on me when I had to use the loo. Damned thing was
lurking in there like it owned the place. Here, look." 

With little regard for Bodie's vulnerable abdomen, Doyle shifted position
and brought his left leg up for his inspection. "See?" He pushed the hem
of his trousers above his ankle to expose bright red welts that surrounded
the base of his calf. 

"Jesus!" Bodie exclaimed, impressed despite himself. "The little blighter
didn't half take a chunk out of you." 

Openly pleased by this show of solidarity, Doyle extricated his leg from
Bodie's gently probing fingers and perched comfortably upon him once more.
"So!" he said brightly, his pallid, fatigued face refuting the sparkle in
his voice. "Now everything's settled, all we have to do is choose between
engraved or hand-written invitations, I reckon." 

The room fell awkwardly silent. "You mean, marriage?" Bodie articulated,
lest there be any misunderstanding. 

Holding his breath, Doyle said nothing. 

"Now wait a minute, old son," Bodie began, his expression amused, "I'm
already -" 

"Spoken for," Doyle anticipated him wryly. "How could I forget? Yes, I
know: You're married to the job." 

"Wasn't what I was going to say, but you are right, in your own muddled
way." Bodie concentrated on peeling first one sleeve then the other off
Doyle's arms. "Especially when you consider that for the past eight and
half years, my job has been watching out for *you*." He pitched the shirt
over the side of the bed. "Little late to be sending out invitations, if
you ask me." 

Doyle felt as though he had taken a blow to the body. "You mean that? The
whole works? A real marriage, Bodie?" 

"The whole works," Bodie agreed. "*That's* what I was going to say a
second ago: `M practically married to you already. You going to tell me
you've had any better offers lately?" 

"Not one," Doyle whispered. Swallowing hard against the lump that had
materialized in his throat, poked Bodie's chest with a sharp finger. "It
doesn't bother you - all this?" 

"Nope." 

Faced with Doyle's frowning concentration, Bodie raised a querying brow at
him. "You?" 

"No, not that." With Bodie assisting him in the complete removal of his
trousers, Doyle said solemnly, "But I think you should know . . . Well,
I'm not too sure about the sex thing. Y'know - fucking." 

Relief took the tension out of Bodie's wary expression. Bracing Doyle's
back with one hand whilst he helped yank off a trousers leg with the
other, he asked matter-of-factly, "D'you want to fuck *me*?" 

Doyle pursed his lips, eyes wide and considering. "Could probably be
talked into it fairly easily, actually. But I - " 

"*You* could take it at least once, too; tough little sod that you are,"
Bodie assured him. "Just y'know, for consummation purposes." 

"That means you want to do me, too," Doyle translated offhandedly. 

"Of course," Bodie said, in no way deceived by that cool statement.
Doyle's trousers went the way of his shirt. "But if we both hate it - it
*could* happen - I think we can work it out, don't you?" 

"Very likely." Doyle agreed soberly, then dropped forward and blissfully
lost himself in the wonders of Bodie mouth. "Is this crazy, mate?" he
whispered, resting his damaged cheekbone against Bodie's bristly jaw. 

"Probably," Bodie said unconcernedly. "But then I never expect anything
less from you." 

Doyle rocked his head indolently from side to side, incorporating a
brushing caress across Bodie's mouth with each sensuous pass. "But what if
we ruin it; y'know, everything else? What'll we do then?" 

"We just won't ruin it," Bodie said with simple logic. Rolling them both
onto their sides, he framed the round, wilful face between two
blunt-fingered hands, staring hard into Doyle's eyes. "Stop worrying.
After all, we've got at least an hour before we're due to report in."
Before Doyle's squawk of outrage could reach painful proportions, Bodie
silenced him in the newest and best way he knew how. 

"God, that's good," Doyle breathed, some time later. 

"Hm," Bodie agreed laconically. "In fact, mate, right now I can see only
one problem." His hand drifted down Doyle's side to a prominent hip-bone,
dipping under the elastic band of Doyle's nylon pants. Bodie's fingers
encountered the evidence of their previous lovemaking and contentedly
smeared it over the flat belly. 

Scarcely following the conversation, Doyle prompted hazily, "Yeah?" 

"You've still got too much on," Bodie said, and immediately set about
correcting the situation. 

It was not a problem for long. 

-- THE END --

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