The Professionals Circuit Archive - The Third Week in April	    The
Third Week in April

 

by Ellis Ward

  
 The glimmering gold neck chain moved like a tiny, sinuous serpent as it
slithered between Ray Doyle's fingers, curled around his thumb, then
dangled limply from his loosely folded hand. It caught Bodie's eye as he
entered the rest room. He paused mid-step and regarded his partner,
unnoticed. Never mind that it had been a painfully long two days, Doyle
looked exhausted. The smattering of white at temples and sideburns lent
emphasis to the grey, drawn face and the distant green eyes.

 For an instant Bodie stood immobile, disturbed by his partner's empty
expression, the look of strain that seldom left him these days. In the
space of a heartbeat, he saw Doyle clearly: older, battered, worn down by
a profession that sucked most men dry within a couple of years. They had
been at it now for nearly eight years--eight years of wins and losses,
lusty living and narrow escapes. The toll was being taken, however, the
price being paid. Somewhere, for both of them, paintings of buoyant youth
were decaying into suppurating travesties of manhood. For that matter, the
originals were showing considerable strain and wear, as well.

 Doyle glanced up and found Bodie watching him, a curiously troubled air
about his usually composed face. Doyle smiled; Bodie saw the aura of
tragic self-absorption and vulnerability fall away. The transformation did
not fool him, but Bodie accepted the gesture for what it was--reassurance
in the face of a world gone mad, acknowledgement of something good that
remained untouched by the taint of their insane existence.

 Bodie carried the two cups of tea to the table and handed one to Doyle as
he settled himself in the nearest seat. It was going on 6:15 PM. An hour
ago they had witnessed the death of another good man--so many good men
lost in two short days. The rigged car had gone up in a writhing ball of
flame and sound, raining down pieces of flesh and metal for several
seconds, leaving black smoke to billow skyward until the fire was brought
under control. They had come so close to undoing the damage little Ulrike
and her trick dogs had wreaked--so close, but not quite close enough.

 "Looking tired, mate," Doyle commented, sucking down a grateful swallow
of nicely scalding tea.

 "Me? Not likely."

 Doyle's face lightened fractionally. Bodie's arrogance regarding his
looks was an old subject of discussion for them, the most irritating
aspect of it being that his self-appraisal was firmly rooted in substance.
"You want to watch that," Doyle warned him quietly. "One of these days
you'll find all your excesses have caught up with you. It'll be a wizened
old man with the sexual inclination of a turtle gazing back from your
mirror."

 Bodie snorted, not very surprised that Doyle's thoughts should have so
closely paralleled his own. "Dorian Grey, eh?"

 Doyle nodded. "That's the bloke. Won't be such a pretty sight, then."

 "And what about you? Getting kind of late for the frog prince to turn
into a comely lad."

 Doyle merely guffawed at this outrageous abuse. While he was reconciled
to the fact that Bodie was the stunner of this team, he was also
comfortably aware of his own attractions. "No such luck." The gold chain
wriggled free of his hand; his fingers flicked out to retrieve it. Wadding
the warmed links in his palm, he said bleakly, "We'll never get married,
Bodie."

 Bodie had seen the play of emotions as they altered the landscape of
Doyle's face. There had been wistful humour, followed by a deep, unplumbed
sadness. Determined to snatch him from this bout of depression as he had
so many others, Bodie snickered, "Don't remember asking you to, Doyle."

 Uncomprehending green eyes frowned at him--and then Doyle heard what
Bodie had said. Amused despite himself, he echoed Bodie's rough laugh.
"Yeah, well, maybe you and me together *would* work. But this job and
women--"

 A dark brow arched high. "You accusing Cowley of subverting the natural
order of things?"

 Doyle dropped his eyes to the foamy contents of his beaker; vending
machine tea produced a killing appreciation for the real thing. "Maybe,"
he said softly. "But it can't work--marriage and slogging for our George.
'S not fair to either one, husband or wife."

 Despite the slight smile, Doyle spoke from the heart, and Bodie felt a
strange desolation. He knew Doyle was thinking of the words that had been
flung at him by a woman who had just learned that her husband was dead.
June Cook had verbally savaged him, blindly striking out in a vain attempt
to repel the pain unwillingly rendered her by Doyle.

 "Hate to tell you this, mate," Bodie murmured, "but you're bound to marry
some day. You want all that: home, wifey, little buggerlugs cluttering the
place."

 Doyle could not repress a grin at Bodie's expression of distate. "The
last bit I can do without. But a home *would* be nice, and having
someone--the *same* someone--to share it with, would be very nice." His
eyes settled on Bodie with affection. "*You* can't fancy spending the rest
of your life bouncing from one busty, empty-headed bird to another--even
though that's what you want everyone to think."

 Bodie's mouth set in a straight line. He wasn't sure that this was the
direction he would have chosen the conversation to take. "Oh, yes?"

 "Yeah. It's the job, Bodie," Doyle said intuitively. "No loose ends for
you. That's what a family would be if you didn't make it home one day. And
that comes back to what I said, about the job."

 Bodie met Doyle's gaze openly. "Maybe," he conceded. Then, consideringly,
he added, "But it's more than that, y'know, Ray--'Ve never met a woman I'd
want to trust the rest of my life with."

 Startled out of his misery by this statement, Doyle briefly mulled the
implications. "That's a queer way of putting it."

 Bodie shrugged. He had regretted the words the instant they had escaped
his lips. But he had Doyle's full attention now, and if a little
soul-bearing would erase the grimness from that weary visage, he would
count the cost acceptable. "I've spent the better part of my life with
men. On ship, with the mercs, SAS-- You can be yourself with another
fella; birds always expect you to be something you're not. Living with
another bloke is easy--if it's the right bloke, of course. No demands, no
trying to change you." He drew a rueful face. "But it does have obvious
drawbacks. Like sex."

 Fascinated by this revelation, Doyle nevertheless saw signs of discomfort
etched in his partner's features and feared that he might try to retreat.
He waggled his brows at him. "Depends on the fella, doesn't it?"

 Bodie laughed out loud; Doyle had noticed a long time ago that Bodie
rarely did that and revelled in the warm sound of it now.

 "That an offer?" Bodie asked.

 "Down, Rover. Could be that you're looking at the wrong marriage
prospects." He wasn't serious--no more than Bodie. If there was anyone
firmly established in his sexual identity, it was Bodie. So much so, in
fact, that Doyle had once found it daunting being teamed with him. His own
experience had embraced much more than the strictly heterosexual, and
Bodie's undeniable physical attraction, coupled with a tendency to touch
without reserve, had at first put Doyle on guard--especially since he had
made the decision to abandon his bisexual tendencies when he had initially
chosen a career with the Met. Doyle had been right not to test Bodie's
orientation--his own words reinforced that. And if Doyle seemed to go to
the same extreme himself--well, all to the better. Their friendship had
turned into the one stable and permanent thing in Doyle's life; he would
do virtually anything to preserve it.

 Bodie dropped his face into his hands and rubbed his eyes tiredly. "Yeah.
Maybe I am." He staggered as a firm fist thudded into his arm. Green eyes,
soft with fondness, looked into his face.

 "You just need a break, sunshine; must do, for you to talk like this."

 The neck chain disappeared into a pants pocket. Bodie noticed; he would
get his hands on it for permanent disposal at the earliest opportunity.

 "Don't we all. Have any suggestions?"

 Doyle nodded, "Next leave we get. Have just the place in mind, too."

 "Where's that?"

 "Fishbourne."

 Bodie stared at him. "Fishbourne?"

 "Yeah, you know--near Portsmouth."

 "What, where the Roman palace is?" At Doyle's grunt of affirmative, Bodie
asked blankly, "Anything else there?"

 "Pretty country, clean air, fewer villains per square mile."

 Bodie made a rolling motion with his hand. "And...?"

 "And?" Doyle sighed good-naturedly. "And me for company."

 A patrician lip curled eloquently. "Got you for company *all* the time."

 Doyle grinned winningly. "But not in Fishbourne."

 Bodie seemed to consider this, as though it were an element which added
weight to Doyle's persuasion. It was a ruse; the prospect of the two of
them alone for a few days without the burden of the job and the risk of
disaster looming over their shoulders, made the decision a very simple
one. "Why not?" he said aloud, with just a hint of reluctance for effect.
"Maybe we'll stir up some action while we're there."

 Doyle knocked back the remainder of his tea. "But only the female
variety, please. 'Ve had enough of the other to last a while."

 "Hm." Bodie leaned forward, pushing the empty beaker out of the way, so
he could rest his head on his forearms. "Me, too. Where the hell is
Cowley? He told us to wait here for him over half an hour ago--"

 "Right here, Bodie."

 Both heads swivelled toward the door; it had glided open without a sound.

 Cowley observed, "If that's an indication of your readiness, I suggest
you both spend some time over the next few days getting in some sleep."

 "Sir?"

 "You have ten days," Cowley said, rewarded by the relief that eased the
two men's expressions immediately. He knew what strain they had been
under, knew full well what lengths he had driven them to. But Doyle had
taken Cook's death to heart and Bodie was obviously bearing the brunt of
it--as he always did. "Finish your reports, then get out of here. Be back
on the 22nd at 7:30, bright and early." Then, as Bodie rose with renewed
energy, "*After* you finish your reports."

 The door quietly shut before either man had the presence of mind to ask
why they had been kept waiting in the first place. It did not matter.
Doyle looked at Bodie, and Bodie acknowledged the questioning look with a
nod. "Fishbourne," he said.

 "After the reports," Doyle reminded him.

 Bodie lifted his wrist and indicated his watch. "'S already after 6:30,
Doyle. If *you* do the reports, I can nip round to both our places, throw
a few things in a couple of hold-alls, and we can be on our way tonight."

 At that faintly pleading look, conveyed by wide open blue eyes, Doyle
yielded. He had, in fact, intended to all along. "All right. Be back in an
hour. We'll leave my car here."

 A quick, triumphant grin flashed his way. "You're on." Bodie squeezed
Doyle's shoulder, then swiftly let go. "Anything special you want?"

 Doyle shook his head. "Couple of extra pair of jeans, clean underwear,
the basics--you know."

 "Got it. Thanks, mate. See you in a tick."

 The rest room door swung closed behind him, and Doyle was left alone.
Knowing Bodie, it would be closer to an hour and half, so Doyle decided to
take his time. In any case, the report was already partially done as he
had spent several hours of a sleepless night composing it in his mind.
Rubbing his face, Doyle tiredly gained his feet, and gave way to a fierce
yawn. He'd let Bodie do the driving, if he was doomed to spend the better
part of the evening doing his work for him. Mildly cheered, Doyle headed
out of the room and turned down the corridor toward the pool offices. It
would, however, be worth the effort to brew a decent cup of tea.

 ******

Bodie could not believe his luck as a car pulled away from the curb just
outside the entry to Doyle's block of flats. He secured the Capri and
bounded up the stairs into the building, finding the lift ready and
waiting for him. His mood had improved considerably since leaving CI5
headquarters. He had gone to his flat first, taking a comfortable few
minutes to throw together a sandwich and a quick cup of tea. It had not
taken him long to gather the few items he wanted and he had been back in
the car within twenty minutes. He knew Doyle expected him to dawdle, but
he was anxious to be on the road. They both needed a holiday and he had
every intention of making this one worth remembering. Why his partner had
chosen Fishbourne, he could not imagine--and was of no consequence anyway.
Bodie had been there himself, sometime during the last three years, dating
an American who had been fascinated by that sort of thing. They had driven
down one rainy afternoon and had spent the time viewing the remains of the
palace and strolling the grounds. Doyle was right: it was lovely
countryside, and the air was fresh. And, yes, he'd be more than happy with
the ratty bugger's company for a few days.

 He paused outside the door to Doyle's flat, flipping open the panel which
gave access to the electronic lock. In an instant his complacent
expression gave way to one of searing annoyance. The second lock had not
been set; he could not believe that Doyle would be so foolish, after what
had happened only a few painful months before. Doyle would get a rocket
for this, personally delivered by one William Bodie.

 Setting his jaw, Bodie slipped the key in to actuate the deadbolt and
slowly pushed open the door. His hand was under the lapel of his jacket,
fingers lightly curled round the butt of his pistol as he stepped into the
entry. It was, after all, just possible that someone had broken in,
although there were few skilled professionals who would dare breach CI5's
security systems, fewer still who would attempt the doing in broad
daylight.

 Already convinced that Doyle, abstracted about Cook and rotten little
Ulrike, had simply neglected to follow procedure, Bodie nevertheless made
a perfunctory examination of the living room and kitchen before proceeding
to the bedroom. There was no indication at all of anything being out of
order. Relaxing with a long exhalation, Bodie shook his head and turned
toward Doyle's wardrobe. "Stupid bugger," he muttered, and absently
reached for the sweater Doyle had been wearing the day before, which had
been discarded at the foot of the bed. Bodie raised the soft material to
his face and breathed deeply. With a foolish grin, he dropped it back onto
the bed. If Doyle only knew--

 It was the last conscious thought Bodie had as a solid object impacted
with the back of his skull. Only that, and the fleeting realization as he
crumpled bonelessly to the floor, that he had been terribly, stupidly,
wrong.

 ******

Doyle typed in the last punctuation mark and sat back in his chair. He
read over the final paragraph again as he drained the remains of his cup.
Last night's wakefulness had not been ill-spent, after all, allowing him
to polish off the report in record time. In fact, he had already reread it
for mistakes and thoroughness, and was satisfied that it would do. With a
flourish he unreeled the paper from the machine and spread it flat to
sign. He forged Bodie's signature, as well, and gave his watch a quick
glance. Bodie had left over half an hour ago. Probably, it would be
another forty-five minutes before he returned.

 Doyle left the chair, and shrugged into his jacket. Silently bemoaning
the fact that he had badly miscalculated, he carried the report down the
hall to Cowley's office. He had no desire to spend the better part of
another hour waiting for his partner.

 The darkened room of his superior's inner chamber decided him. It was a
rare thing that Cowley himself should have escaped the hallowed corridors
of CI5 so early in the evening; the place was as still as a tomb.

 Doyle dropped the typed sheet onto his desk and thrust his hands into his
pockets, thinking. If he left right away, he could probably meet Bodie at
his place; if not there, then at Doyle's. To that end, Doyle spent a
moment ringing Bodie's flat, and then his own. He did not let it ring more
than three times at either location, but Bodie would have guessed who it
was and answered immediately. So Bodie was in transit--undoubtedly to
Doyle's apartment. They could leave Doyle's car there; in the morning he'd
give the pool a ring and have someone collect it.

 Having settled all of this to his satisfaction, Doyle headed down the
corridor to the lifts, his spirits rising as his long legs eliminated the
distance to freedom.

 ******

It wasn't Doyle.

 There had been a surge of disappointment to accompany this revelation,
and because of it, and the fact that he had been taken by surprise in the
act of resetting the electronic watchdogs from within, the hand that had
delivered the blow to Bodie's head had been unnecessarily heavy. He
recognized him, of course, having glimpsed Doyle's partner through the
window that early morning so many months ago. He had not lingered, then,
half-crippled though he was. Only a well-developed sense of survival and
the desire for vengeance had got him out of the building and into the
woods before anyone had thought to look for him.

 The next few days had not been pleasant ones, spent constantly looking
over his shoulder and seizing whatever opportunities came available. It
had been essential that he keep a low profile, injured though he was, and
luckily he had still had a few favors to call in, or he would never have
made it out of the country. Once back in South Africa, he had taken the
time to recuperate and to plot his next actions. Only when it had become
obvious that the Ojuka cock-up had put his reputation as a first-rate
hit-man down the toilet had he seriously begun to consider what it would
take to recover his standing.

 Raymond Doyle fit nicely into his scheme. It would be a brazen kill, a
CI5 agent known to be the best. And only those who counted would know who
had executed him--and why.

 Parker stood a moment gazing down at Bodie's fallen form. No one outside
this room would ever have known exactly what he had planned for Ray Doyle.
CI5 would not have advertised that aspect of their agent's final moments.
Considering the effect on Doyle of finding his partner under the
circumstances he had intended for *him*, Parker smiled--a slow, curling of
lips that had nothing to do with humor.

 ******

Bodie knew he was in trouble the instant awareness began to flow back into
him. There were straps cutting into wrists and ankles, and cool air roamed
freely over his body. Retaining enough sense not to give himself away, he
tried to assimilate as much as he could from this less than advantageous
position. As memory returned, he realized that he must still be in Doyle's
flat--on Doyle's bed, apparently. Mouth filled with a soft cotton gag, his
arms and legs spread painfully wide, he faced toward the curtained window.
The room was dark, save for the lamp on the bedside table, which was
turned to its lowest setting.

 When the bed dipped behind him, Bodie stiffened reflexively, incapable of
maintaining the pretense of unconsciousness. There was a soft chuckle, and
a long-fingered hand made a slow sweeping caress of his lower back. Bodie
tried to swallow, but could not; probably would not have been able to even
if there had not been a gag stuffing his mouth.

 "You might be wondering who has done this to you, and why." The voice
came to him from the dark, strongly accented, unfamiliar. Bodie tried to
keep his respiration steady as the hand continued to move. He would have
been a fool not to guess what was about to happen. A flicker of eyes at
the clock on the bedside table told him that only ten minutes had elapsed
since he had entered Doyle's flat. Doyle would not even begin to look for
him for another half hour--if then.

 "It was your grave misfortune to be in the wrong place at the very
wrongest time," the man went on quietly. "This was, of course, planned for
the benefit of your partner, Ray Doyle. But I do not think he will like
what I am going to do to you. Sexual murders are often disturbing to those
who discover them. Especially if the victim is someone you are close to."

 Bodie let his eyes fall shut as the hand on his hip was joined by another
on the other side. The man carried on conversationally, "I would like to
take my time with you, but I cannot. Still, it will be almost as good as
it would have been with him. He is appealing, is he not?" Bodie felt
movement behind him, then warmth all down his spine. His teeth clenched
into agonizingly dry cloth.

 "So you will understand why I cannot make it easy for you. He must know
that you have suffered--so that *he* will suffer." Bodie felt the hair on
the back of his neck stand up at the sharp edge that entered the man's
voice. It would have been far better had he remained unconscious.

 ******

Doyle gave a relieved sigh as he spotted his partner's car. The rotten sod
was probably taking his time, undoubtedly emptying his refrigerator. Not
that there was much to despoil, since he hadn't been in much this past
week. Or was it next week already? Doyle puzzled this out as he finally
found a spot nearly a street farther away. Yes, it was Monday--a new week.

 He locked the car and strolled back to the steps leading to the entryway.
He was in no hurry now, savoring the moment, knowing that Bodie would have
things well in hand. The lift was engaged, so he took the stairs. His
pulse was moving a little faster, but he was not breathing markedly harder
when he left the second floor landing and entered the corridor.

 He grimaced at sight of the single engaged lock, the simplest to jigger
of the lot. He'd give Bodie hell about that, Bodie who never failed to
remind him to set *all* the locks, even if he was only home for a few
minutes.

 A wicked grin lifting his lips, Doyle eased the key into the narrow
opening with exaggerated stealth. With any luck, Bodie was in the
bedroom--or maybe even the bathroom--and would never hear him enter.

 The door swung open without a squeak, and Doyle slipped inside. He came
up sharp, his smile crumbling to dust at the sounds emanating from the
bedroom, holding him stupid as he comprehended their source. For a moment
he couldn't think, unwillingly absorbing the ragged breathing and rhythmic
cadence of bedsprings. He couldn't believe that Bodie would-- And
suddenly, sickeningly, he knew that Bodie would not.

 A remarkably steady hand stole under his jacket and released the catch on
the pistol. Doyle drew the Walther out and silently crept across the floor
of the living room to the doorway leading to his bedroom. As he came
nearer, he could make out softly muttered words, curses and obscenities.
The voice, impossibly, sounded familiar--and all at once he actually
recognized it. But then, the circumstances surrounding the hearing of that
voice had not been so very long ago--and the barely veiled threat so
lovingly delivered to him at that time had been menacing enough to recur
occasionally in Doyle's less savory dreams.

 With his back to the door jamb, he noiselessly swung round, the muzzle of
the pistol entering the room a fraction of a second before him. Parker's
back was to the door, and he was far too preoccupied to hear or sense
Doyle's quiet approach. It was as well that he did not, for the steely
purpose in the narrowed green eyes would have drenched his ardor more
effectively than an icy bath. The first he knew of Doyle's presence was
the solidly-muscled arm that curved round his throat and jerked him
upright, and the cold, impersonal snout of the .9mm handgun that dug hard
into his head behind his right ear.

 "Take yourself out of him, very carefully," Doyle instructed, his even
tone breaking harshly on the last word. He saw Bodie flinch, the dark head
twisting at the sound of his voice; Doyle could imagine all too clearly
how he would feel if it'd been Bodie finding *him* under these
circumstances. He wanted to tell him it didn't matter, rather Bodie than
anyone else, knowing with total certainty that it would be so. But he
couldn't--not now, not yet.

 Parker hissed, his movements made awkward by Doyle's unyielding grip.
Doyle had a glimpse of blood, noted the shuddering breath that escaped
Bodie's lungs as he was released. He dragged Parker backward off the bed
until he stumbled to his knees at Doyle's feet. Doyle pressed the
advantage, one hand cruelly hooked into the leanly muscled shoulder, the
other holding the muzzle of the Walther steadily against his head.

 Ice-cold fury raced through Doyle's mind like lightning across a
blackened sky. With total comprehension he knew why Parker was here, in
*his* flat, and could easily guess what else he had meant to do to
Bodie--*his* Bodie. A vicious outrage quite unlike any he had ever known
coursed through him. It was in his power--it was his duty--to hold the
bastard until the *proper* authorities arrived. But Doyle knew what would
follow, how the system would work. Charges must be filed--several charges,
for Parker was a known felon--and a trial would be held; not even Cowley
could prevent that. And Bodie would have to go through all of it--Bodie,
who hated being exposed, who hated being ridiculed; Bodie, who would have
been murdered in Doyle's place had Doyle arrived only a few minutes later.

 There was no decision to make, after all.

 A single gunshot shattered the quiet, the muzzle flash suppressed by the
proximity of the target. Strapped to the bed, Bodie convulsed as though he
had taken the bullet himself. Doyle heard his muffled cry and holstered
the weapon. Letting the lifeless body collapse to the floor, he smoothly
turned to his partner.

 Bodie was preternaturally still until Doyle came into view. "Ray?" His
eyes were dark with shock and confusion.

 Doyle gently removed the cloth obstructing Bodie's mouth. A grimace
curled his lips when he saw where the gag had come from; he threw the
cotton briefs onto the floor beside their owner. It was unlikely Parker
would have any further use for them.

 "Ray, what--?" Bodie's voice was a hoarse whisper.

 "'S all right, mate. He tried to do something stupid." Doyle extracted
the multi-blade knife from his front pocket and began to cut Bodie free.
Pain flowed across the handsome face as Doyle turned him onto his side.
"Lie still, Bodie," he ordered, using mild restraint as his partner
attempted to rise. Long fingers rubbed soothingly against his lower spine.

 For a moment Bodie allowed the careful massage, feeling the fire in his
nerve endings begin slowly to fade to a dull ache. And then he pulled
away.

 "Just stay where you are, will you?" Doyle grabbed one side of the duvet
and draped it over his partner with a quick flick of the wrist.

 "Doyle."

 The curly head came up at that; their eyes met. Bodie nodded, subsiding
back onto the mattress. "Almost great timing, mate. How'd you know?"

 "Didn't. Decided not to wait and guessed you'd be here." Doyle turned
away, yanking the R/T out of his jacket.

 Bodie continued to do as he had been told, grateful for the warmth of the
billowy cover and the opportunity to work the kinks out of strained
muscles. The stress in his back soon began to ease, and although it felt
as though he had acquired a thousand tiny bellringers, all on the loose
inside his head, he finally determinedly pulled himself upright, lips
twisting at the pulsing discomfort radiating from abused flesh.

 Doyle, speaking softly into the transmitter, heard movement behind him
and gave his partner a disapproving look. "Send the meat cart," he
finished flatly. "Better let Alpha One know, as well. 4.5 out."

 Before Doyle could start in on him, Bodie raised a warning hand. "'M all
right, Ray."

 "You're not all right, sunshine. I saw the crack on the back of your
head. You might have concussion."

 "I've had worse. Leave it, Doyle." With an effort that brought a sheen of
sweat to his forehead and upper lip, Bodie slowly brought himself to his
feet.

 Doyle's voice was raw. "What the hell d'you think you're doing?"

 Breathing hard and trying not to show it, Bodie growled, "Going to the
bathroom. You want to hold my hand?"

 Doyle laid tense fingers on Bodie's arm, maintaining the contact when
Bodie would have shrugged him off. "You can't. You need to see a doctor
first."

 With a terrible weariness, Bodie muttered, "Look, Doyle, it's no big
deal, okay? I'll be fine."

 "He hurt you."

 "Yeah, and I'll live. Now get out of the way."

 "*No. *" Doyle had to make him understand. "Bodie, he--"

 Bodie exploded. "Damn it, Doyle, I've been through it before--done it
myself, for that matter. Just let it go, will you!"

 Doyle's face lost all expression, his lack of response notable in a room
that seemed inordinately quiet following the roar of Bodie's voice. Then,
firmly, betraying neither his thoughts nor his feelings by word or
feature, he said, "Can't. He may have given you something. Fancy a bout of
rectal gonorrhea, do you? Or syphilis? Maybe even worse?"

 Never given to overreaction, Bodie paled slightly, but stood his ground.
"He didn't come in me," he said, his voice as rough as crushed stone.

 "No. But he did hurt you--I saw the blood. Great place for an infection,
that is. I know how you feel, mate. Just...let the doctor check you out
first."

 It was on the tip of Bodie's tongue to challenge Doyle's statement, to
point out the vacuousness of this claim of shared empathy in the crudest
terms he knew. But he realized, just as the words were sharpened for the
cut, that Doyle was shaking, a tiny tremor that no one but Bodie would
ever have seen.

 "Got something I can wear?" he asked gruffly. Turning away, he
uncomfortably lowered himself back to the bed and there propped himself up
on his left hip.

 "Yeah." Doyle headed for the bathroom. "Get you my robe."

 Less than fifteen minutes later, Doyle opened the door to the CI5
clean-up crew. Photographs were taken, Doyle's comments noted, and the
lump on Bodie's head sketchily examined. Parker's corpse was loaded onto a
stretcher and borne away, leaving a dark, wet stain on Doyle's carpet. He
was staring at it when Cowley entered the bedroom. Doyle's eyes slowly
rose to meet his--and instantly the agent felt as though the older man
could see through the layers of tissue and bone to the truth laid bare in
his mind.

 Cowley glanced from Doyle to his partner, who had not left his place on
the bed. Bodie's face gave nothing away, except barely acknowledged pain
and dragging weariness. "What happened, Doyle?"

 "Gave my report to Michaels, sir."

 "Yes--I saw it on my way in. Perhaps I should have said, *how* did this
happen?"

 Doyle had no answer; it was not a question he had thought to ask.

 The querying gaze moved to Bodie, who shifted uncomfortably. Cowley
intercepted his aborted sidelong look at Doyle; Cowley fixed his own
steely gaze on the strangely withdrawn Doyle.

 "You *did* set all your locks, 4.5?"

 There was no artifice in Doyle's reply. "Certainly. sir. Don't like
hospitals much these days."

 "Bodie?"

 A slow flush crept into Bodie's face. He closed his eyes and shook his
head. "Only one was set. Figured Doyle had been in a hurry. Stupid mistake
to make."

 "It was that," Cowley agreed gravely. From the corner of his eyes he saw
that Doyle was watching Bodie, his features nakedly revealing. "And
Parker, Doyle? You said he tried to get away. According to the report, he
was on his knees, your gun at his head. Surely you could have controlled
him with less permanent measures?"

 There was a flicker of something indefinable in the green eyes. The full
mouth tightened, then relaxed. "Judgment call, sir," he said evenly. "His
welfare wasn't exactly my first concern when he made his move."

 A moment passed--a long moment which Cowley allowed to stretch. "I see."
With deceptive blandness, he asked, "And what kind of move was that?"

 Doyle swallowed. "It's in my report," he said stiffly.

 Cold eyes travelled over Doyle's face, easily reading past the defiance
to the roiling emotion beneath. And then Cowley looked at Bodie, who
seemed oblivious to their conversation.

 "Aye, so it is," stated Cowley. Then, briskly: "Michaels said you need to
see a doctor, Bodie, for lab tests. If you're ready, I can take you."

 Bodie brought his head up at that, dark blue eyes suddenly alert. It
would get him off the hook with Doyle, going with Cowley. He wouldn't have
to explain the stupid remark that had jumped from his lips when he had
been trying to brush Doyle off. And he knew, eventually, that Doyle would
want an explanation. And what would his dedicatedly heterosexual partner
think of him when he got it?

 His decision must have appeared foregone to Doyle, who bowed his head,
flicking at something on his white jacket that had just caught his eye.
Bodie placed the source of the stain at about the same instant that Doyle
did; the long fingers stilled, then slowly drew away.

 "Thanks, sir. Already ruined Doyle's evening--and his flat. He can drive
me."

 "As you wish, Bodie." Cowley dispassionately regarded both men. Pain and
death were as much a part of their existence as breathing. This, however,
was outside their experience and neither was renowned for his ability to
comfort or to be comforted. Nevertheless, it was their choice.

 "Suppose you'll be wanting me in tomorrow?" Doyle's voice sounded no more
than resigned.

 Cowley frowned and turned away. "No. Your report seemed very complete--as
usual. We have wanted Parker a long time; it is unfortunate we should have
got him under such circumstances. In any case, I don't feel that there are
any loose ends." He gave Doyle an all-encompassing look. "Do you, Doyle?"

 The curly head moved in curt negation.

 "Good. Have your lab results sent to me, Bodie. Check in tomorrow and
I'll give you whatever news there is."

 "Sir."

 Before Cowley had disappeared out of the room, Doyle had already
retrieved and handed over Bodie's trousers and the white shirt he had been
wearing when he had come in. "Here you go, sunshine," he said quietly.
"Expect you'll want to get this over with."

 Feeding one leg into his trousers, Bodie countered, "Don't want to do
this at all."

 As Bodie dressed, Doyle silently stripped off his own blood-spattered
jacket and selected another from the open wardrobe. Once Bodie was
standing, one hand bracing himself on the footboard, Doyle held open
Bodie's black leather jacket for him. Bodie did not argue as Doyle guided
him into it, nor when he stayed close to hand as Bodie gingerly made his
way to the door.

 ******

The attending physician was very thorough and gratifyingly professional.
He did not mouth unctuous reassurances or condolences, and seemed well
aware of the unpleasantness of his examination. Bodie withstood it without
comment, responding only to direct questions, asking none of his own. A
pained flinch and repressed curse were elicited when the rent skin on the
back of his head was dealt with. The doctor washed the area out and
applied an antibiotic ointment, declaring it unworthy of stitches or
wraps. Since something else warranted two small stitches, Bodie counted
himself reasonably lucky. Nevertheless, he fled the doctor's ministrations
with relief, obeying his instructions to have an x-ray taken with all
haste.

 Doyle, who had been sitting with one leg crooked over the other in the
corridor outside the examination room, rose dopily at his appearance and
began to follow as Bodie started away. He had only taken a few steps when
the door came open behind them, and the doctor who had seen Bodie called
him back. When Bodie gave no indication of slowing, Doyle stopped and
obeyed the doctor's summons. For his trouble, he was given two tiny
containers of tablets, a tube of salve, and a small bottle of mineral oil.

 "I gave him an injection to help the spasming," he told Doyle, frankly.
"It'll make him a little drowsy, but I'm almost one hundred percent
certain he does not have concussion. The x-ray is just a formality to
verify that. The cream should be applied two or three times a day, the
mineral oil taken orally in one or two doses to keep his bowel movements
soft--that should make things a trifle more comfortable for him."

 Doyle held up the small phials of tablets. "These?"

 "Antibiotic to help avoid secondary bacterial infections. Nasty place to
have a laceration. The other is a mild relaxant. While I've certainly seen
worse, his attacker produced a fair amount of trauma. Your Mr. Bodie is
probably in a considerable amount of pain right now."

 The muscles in Doyle's jaws contracted, forming hollows beneath his
cheekbones. "Anything else?" he asked, well aware that he was requesting
confidential information. He shrugged. "Could you tell if he'd got
anything from him?"

 The doctor sighed. "Not with any certainty until the lab's had their hand
in. There appeared to be no traces of semen, nor preseminal fluid,
surprisingly enough. That's good. The blood tests will be run tonight.
We'll know more tomorrow, once the cultures have had a chance to grow; but
forty-eight hours is usually the minimum before we can state anything with
certainty."

 Doyle gave a nod of thanks. "I'll see that he uses this lot. Ta."

 ******

Bodie was awaiting the outcome of his x-rays outside the x-ray examination
room; Doyle spied him instantly as Bodie was the only patient there.
Wisely overcoming the urge to comment on Bodie's hospital pinny, Doyle
slumped into the seat beside him.

 "What'd he want?" Bodie asked. His head rested against the wall, eyelids
firmly closed, dark lashes spread heavily upon his cheeks.

 "Had some medicine for you. Said to be sure you took it all."

 Bodie's face twisted with displeasure. "That'd be something for
infection--both inside and out, I expect--and most likely a stool
softener. Am I right?"

 "Almost. You left out the pain-killer."

 Bodie grinned mockingly. "With a blow to the head? Always said these guys
are quacks."

 Doyle summoned a strained chuckle. "Nah. 'S just easy to see that you've
got a skull like a concrete wall."

 Letting his head roll to the side, Bodie opened weary, jaded eyes. "Oh,
yes? Then what's the x-ray for?"

 "Insurance. In case you disprove his medical opinion."

 "And keel over dead, eh? I'm feeling more assured by the minute. Well,
anyway, you keep 'em, Doyle. Feel fine, meself."

 Doyle leaned forward and dropped his chin into his hands. "That's because
you're already shot full of something. Won't last, mate."

 Very softly, Bodie whispered, "Nothing does, Doyle."

 Before Doyle could frame a response, the door across the corridor from
them opened a few inches, and an attractive face peered out. "You're
through here, Mr. Bodie. Doctor Mason says there's no sign of fracture."

 Bodie produced a wan smile and a muttered thanks. As the door silently
swung shut again, he stoically climbed to his feet. "Only be a minute," he
told Doyle.

 Bodie retired into one of the small changing chambers under Doyle's
watchful gaze. Slouching back, Doyle jammed his hands into his pants
pockets, and discovered the gold chain he had taken off Cook's body. He
didn't bother taking it out, his fingers blindly encircling it, and
carefully tracing the links. For a brief time things had begun to look up.
He and Bodie should have been in Fishbourne by now--or within a mile or
two of it at least.

 Instead the promise of the evening had been well and truly shattered.
God, but he wished he had taken Parker out of action six months ago!

 For both their sakes.

 ******

Bodie fell into a shallow doze almost the minute he slumped into the
passenger seat of his own car, taken for its convenience when Doyle had
led him out of the apartment building. Doyle wondered if it was a ploy to
avoid conversation, having already determined that he would not try to
breach his partner's defenses tonight--if ever. He knew better than anyone
that Bodie would dole out information as he saw fit. And it was all too
obvious that Bodie had never intended to make that unguarded admission.

 As Doyle drove through the brightly lit streets of London, Bodie's words
returned to him again and again. *I've been through it before--done it
myself, for that matter*. Done what? Surely not rape--he refused to
believe Bodie capable of that. Then what? Was it possible that Bodie had
been involved in a homosexual relationship sometime in his murky past?

 The likelihood of that both intrigued and terrified Doyle. For eight
years he had slammed the door on his attraction for his partner, set the
lock, and damn near thrown away the key. While it was true that he had
suspected that Bodie might respond to something considerably more risque
than heavy double dating, Doyle had never dared suggest it, knowing his
own yearnings to be too near the surface to allow them exposure. And there
had always been the possibility that he was unutterably wrong, that Bodie
would have considered any overtures--even with a woman between
them--*verboten*--or, if agreeable, might have come to regret the
experience to the point of splitting the partnership altogether.

 Nothing was worth that.

 To be brutally honest, more than the simple fear of rejection had held
Doyle back. Bodie was a part of him, the complementary side of his being
that made him whole. If they ever transgressed that boundary between
friends and lovers, he suspected that the days of his independence would
be lost forever. He had not lied when he had told Bodie that home was a
beacon reaching for him with ever greater brilliance--and he doubted that
Bodie would ever want the same thing. Certainly not with him, a man Bodie
knew far too well, both for his strengths and weaknesses. Doyle would have
been stupid not to see how easily he could get up Bodie's nose--nor,
conversely, to observe how well Bodie dealt with him. But his partner's
unquestioning acceptance and toleration were rooted in friendship--a kind
of love, true, but not the *only* kind that Doyle wanted.

 All too soon, he brought the car to a stop outside Bodie's flat. Despite
the cessation of motion and sudden quiet, Bodie did not stir, slumped
against the passenger door, his left temple pressed against the glass.

 He looked very young and all too vulnerable, although Doyle knew that
that facade was as false as the unfeeling tough-man persona he showed the
world.

 In eight years Doyle had learned a great deal about Bodie, virtually all
of it through deeds, for Bodie was not one to put his innermost secrets
into words. When he gave his affections, however, he gave them
unstintingly; and when he hated, he was a man to beware. Somehow Doyle had
earned his trust and loyalty almost from the first. He had occasionally
ruminated over just what it would take to destroy that commitment--and had
concluded that he did not want to know the answer, so long as he managed
never to do any of the things that might hurt Bodie.

 Laying a hand on Bodie's shoulder, Doyle gave him a gentle shake. "Wake
up, mate."

 Bodie's chest lifted; he gave up a long, heavy breath. "We there
already?" he murmured.

 "Yeah. 'S only across town, sunshine."

 At that Bodie's eyelids peeled apart; he forced them wider through sheer
strength of will. The drugs had finally taken effect and he was bonelessly
relaxed, not a molecule in his body composed of any substance. He turned
his head to survey the street beyond Doyle's head and gave a dismayed
frown. "What are we doing here?"

 Doyle grinned softly. "You live here, remember?"

 Bodie's expression was quizzical. "But I already have my stuff." At
Doyle's suddenly blank expression, Bodie belatedly understood. "You don't
want to go anymore?"

 "To Fishbourne?" It had not occurred to Doyle to ask. Clamping a tight
lid on a surge of hope, he asked casually, "Do you?"

 The big shoulders rolled in a loose shrug. "No reason to hang about here.
But if you don't--"

 The starting engine drowned out the remainder of Bodie's words. A slow
smile crossed his lips; he folded his arms across his chest and lay back
in his seat. By the time they turned onto the A3, he was sound asleep,
half on his side facing Doyle, snoring lightly.

 Disproportionately pleased, Doyle was undeterred by the two hour drive in
pitch darkness through an intermittently driving and gentle spring rain.
He stopped to tank up Bodie's car and to buy himself an egg sandwich and a
beaker of tea. Bodie mumbled unintelligibly when Doyle pulled the driver's
door closed, and then continued undisturbed, soothed by the renewed motion
of the car and the quiet *swish-swish* of the wiper blades streaking
across the windscreen.

 Doyle recognized the tribute for what it was: With no one else did Bodie
ever so totally lower his guard. Smiling to himself, Doyle played the
radio just loudly enough to be heard over the engine, needing the random
noises to counter the lulling spell of the darkness and his own weariness.

 Slowed by the rain and the roads, they arrived on the outskirts of
Fishbourne just after 11:00. Doyle's entire body was thrumming with
tension and exhaustion as he pulled up in front of the inn he had stayed
in nearly a year before. He had not allowed himself to worry about their
chances of getting a room. Too tired to give it undue consideration even
now, he locked Bodie in the car and went into the reception area to try
his luck. It held, and a few minutes later he had parked the Capri and was
jarring Bodie awake once more.

 "C'mon, sleepyhead. *Now* we're here."

 Despite being drugged with fatigue and the vestiges of the chemicals in
his system, Bodie came conscious all at once, immediately regretting his
lack of prudence: pain lurked just below the surface and was quick to make
itself known.

 At his partner's bitten-off grunt of surprise, Doyle regarded him
closely, but said nothing. He hauled Bodie's hold-all from the boot, then
led the way into the vestibule. The sloe-eyed receptionist working the
counter signed them in with interest, her bright gaze lingering as they
went round the corner to the stairs.

 Doyle found their room and wearily unlocked the door. He was reminded
very briefly of the door to his own flat, and what he had found on the
other side of it mere hours before. There were no horrors here, however,
simply a well-kept room with twin beds, both of which were draped with
homey, quilted spreads. Doyle set Bodie's bag on the floor beside the
first bed and went to the second, which was nearer the window. His partner
had gone straight through the foyer to the adjoining toilet. Following a
spell of water splashing and loo flushing, Bodie emerged. Doyle gave him a
quick overall look.

 "How're you feeling, mate?"

 Their eyes met and held. Bodie's response was casual. "Sore. Tired. Head
hurts, me bum hurts. Reckon that about covers it all."

 "Top to bottom," Doyle agreed.

 Dark blue eyes smiled ruefully. "If I didn't say it before, Doyle,
thanks. Was awfully glad--"

 "Forget it. Just wish--"

 "Yeah. Me, too." He took note of where Doyle had parked his hold-all.
"What's this, then? You know I like the window."

 "Well, so do I. 'Sides, I drove down here while you slept like a babe in
his mother's arms--and anyway you had the window last time."

 Bodie's bottom lip twisted to one side. "Did I? When was that?"

 Fingers working sluggishly at his shirt, Doyle gave his head a shake.
"God knows. Anyway, first come, first served." With a massive yawn, he
rolled back onto the bed and closed his eyes, a hand gliding over his
half-exposed chest.

 Bodie watched him for a while, certain that Doyle was innocently unaware
of the wantonness of that loose-limbed sprawl. The fingers idly moving
through the hair beneath his shirt began to slow, then stilled. Was that
dark pelt as silken as it looked? Swallowing, Bodie began the weary ritual
of emptying his hold-all. When he had finally reached his pajama bottoms,
brought along expressly for this trip, he raised his head, puzzled.

 "Doyle. Hey, Doyle!"

 "Uh?"

 "Where're your things, then? Did you leave them in the car?"

 Tousled curls moved in slow negation on the patterned quilt; heavy
eyelids never stirred. "Uh uh."

 "Didn't bring anything, did you?" Bodie cocked a brow at his partner,
eying him curiously. For all that he could look a right urchin, Doyle was
finicky about what he wore, and he liked his things clean. "You'll look
undernourished wearing my stuff, mate."

 "Uh huh."

 "And you'll want to use my shaving kit as well, won't you?"

 "Uh huh."

 For some reason Doyle's unbelabored acceptance gave Bodie a smug,
comfortable feeling. It had been important to Doyle to get them both out
of town. The green eyes had flared with energy when Bodie had indicated
his desire to continue with their plans. And Bodie had certainly not
intended that: on the way out of hospital he had no more entertained the
thought of spending the next week with Doyle than of leaping off Waterloo
Bridge. Not after today; not after what Doyle had seen.

 Especially not after what Bodie had said.

 Flooded with chagrin all over again, Bodie closed the bag and dumped it
on the floor at the foot of the bed. Too late he anticipated the solid
*thunk* of metal stops impacting on hard oak floor. Doyle startled and
jerked half-upright, his eyes circles of green surrounded by widely spread
lashes.

 Bodie gestured his apology. "Sorry, mate. Anyway, now you're up, you
might as well have a wash. Don't want to sleep all mucky, do you?"

 "Heaven forbid," Doyle muttered sourly. He dragged himself to his feet,
peeling clothing open as he went, and bore himself to the bathroom.
Amused, Bodie changed, himself comfortably ensconced in the bed closest to
the window by the time Doyle returned, bearing a glass of water in one
hand.

 Doyle took Bodie's usurpation of his bed almost in stride, stating his
opinion with a quick baring of teeth and one or two muttered imprecations
before halting a few inches away. "Expected that of you, didn't I? Here."
He thrust the glass into Bodie's hand, rejecting the urge to dump it on
his dark head.

 To avoid a spill, Bodie climbed, at once, into a sitting position, his
eyes askance.

 Collecting his own jacket from the back of the chair, Doyle rummaged
through a pocket and came up with the small supply of medicines. He sorted
out the two under Bodie's cynical gaze, then extended his hand, the
tablets nestled in his palm. "Take 'em."

 Contemplating resistance, Bodie registered the barely lucid aspect and
decided to show pity instead. As soon as he had downed the pills, however,
Doyle held out the tube of antibiotic cream. "Need to rub some of that in,
too, mate," he said, with just a suggestion of challenge.

 Bodie's eyes sparked, blue fire glowing out of an impossibly pale face.
"Sure you don't want to do it for me, Doyle?"

 Doyle bit his bottom lip. "Will if you can't reckon where it goes."

 At the goggle-eyed expression, Bodie surrendered a laugh. "You would,
too. That's all right; thank you, mum. I can take care of that, myself."

 Relieved, Doyle smiled with unconscious charm.

 Feeling the weight of Doyle's affection, Bodie fought the urge to respond
in kind. He reached for the lamp switch and snorted, "Go to sleep, Doyle."

 In the darkness, Bodie listened as his partner finished disrobing and
made himself at home on the next bed. It was very quiet and every movement
was etched into the night like splashes of color on canvas. Despite
Bodie's stolid manner, Doyle's smile had touched him, just as it always
did. In fact, he had never learned to guard against the infectious quality
of Doyle's pleasure, especially when he was the cause of it. For it made
him feel cared for. In a curious way, almost cherished. Put at ease
despite himself, Bodie smiled, too. *Ta, mate*, he thought.

 ******

Night and velvet silence surrounded him. He had not feared the dark for a
very long time, and quiet could be a formidable ally. But Bodie's heart
was bruising his ribs and adrenalin seared the insides of his arteries,
conveying alarm to every cell in his body. Briefly baffled, he lay
motionless while extending every sense to its limit in an attempt to
conjure up the source of his disturbance.

 It was a while before he pinned it down, tedious minutes of patient
waiting before the ragged gasp that still echoed in his inner ear came to
be repeated. Noiselessly, Bodie shifted onto his side, picking out Doyle's
huddled form in the next bed. His partner was dreaming, entrapped in the
chaotic corridors of uncontrolled realms. His breath came in uneven
snatches bordering on sound, lodged low in his throat.

 Bodie considered reaching out to him, but the slight displacement from
back to flank had informed him that every bruise and tormented muscle and
ligament in his body was fully cognizant again and very keen on
communicating displeasure.

 The hesitation gave him a chance to think before he acted, to weigh the
benefit of jolting the sleeper into premature awareness. Bodie understood
nightmares, being subject to them himself on occasion--and much as he
disliked bad dreams, he had always viewed them as a necessary, if
unwanted, cleansing process. In this business, one could not afford to
absorb too much of the ugliness they were required to deal with on a daily
basis. Nightmares were an atonement and an eradication--a purge of the
system before it could become fouled beyond repair.

 Doyle moaned, a helpless, choppy river of turbulent emotion that sorely
tested Bodie's resolve. He steeled himself to act; Doyle's chest gave a
sharp heave and on a gasping breath, he grunted a single word. Paralyzed,
Bodie took it in: not a word; a name.

 *Parker*.

 Sickened, Bodie bit down hard on his bottom lip. *The bastard*. Somehow,
given this evidence of Doyle's horror, Bodie's own acceptance of what had
happened was undermined. And out of his vexation grew anger: if *he* could
take it, why couldn't Doyle? But it was fear that gave his skin a beading
of sweat: had Parker lessened him in Doyle's eyes? Would he have to prove
to Doyle that he was no different from the man he had been this morning?

 Bodie's unhappy thoughts were interrupted when Doyle released a quavering
breath, one hand coursing over the covers until it reached his chest,
there to pluck fretfully at the wash-softened material half-covering him.
He was awake, if still suspended on the borderline. Bodie tried to find
words that might reassure him, but turned coward before they could reach
his lips. What, after all, could he say? *"Everything's all right, mate;
you killed the bastard?" * How to make Doyle understand that, for him,
that was indeed the case. Parker *had* hurt him, both in body and
self-esteem, but while it was true that his misjudgment of the door locks
still smarted, the rest of it was history as far as Bodie was concerned.
It would be useless to moan about might-have-beens--especially since Doyle
had done the only thing that would have given Bodie any satisfaction:
Parker was dead.

 His ears pricked at the quiet rustle of shifting bedclothes. A tall, lean
shadow, Doyle disengaged himself from the rest of the night and padded
softly into the bathroom. The door whispered shut, and there soon came the
mild complaint of old plumbing as water ran into the basin. Listening
intently, Bodie cocked his head to one side, waiting until he registered
the squeak of faucets shutting off the flow. The door gave a token creak
and the wraithlike shadow reemerged, picking its way cautiously through
the unfamiliar room.

 Through slitted eyes, Bodie watched him, puzzled when Doyle paused at the
nightstand that separated the twin beds, his back to him so that his
actions went unseen. A heartbeat later the edge of Bodie's bed went down,
depressed by Doyle's weight. "Here," Doyle said wearily. "Time you took a
couple more of these."

 Not really surprised that Doyle knew he was awake, Bodie rocked up onto
his elbow. "A little midnight malpractice?" he asked sardonically.

 "Well past midnight, mate. Be dawn soon. Best if you keep this stuff in
your system all the time, y'know."

 "So says Dr. Doyle?"

 That elicited an unoffended growl. "Yeah."

 Working with one hand, Bodie downed the tablets then reached out for the
glass shining wetly in Doyle's hand. Their fingers briefly met, strikingly
warm against the chill surface.

 "Woke you, did I?" Doyle muttered.

 Bodie concentrated on swallowing. "Nah. Pain killers wore off." With a
final gulp, he stretched out his hand and waited expectantly until Doyle
took the glass back.

 "And you just thought you'd amuse yourself in a bout of silent
suffering?"

 "Hm. 'Sides, you needed your sleep."

 "Still do." Doyle raked his other hand through his hair, staring across
the room at nothing. Bodie thought he would continue, but Doyle simply sat
there, either content to stay where he was, or too exhausted to move.
Silence between them had never been uncomfortable, and Bodie took it in
stride now, very conscious of Doyle's closeness and warmth. Acting on
impulse, he sent a seeking hand out across the covers until it encountered
one bare, cold thigh. He patted it firmly, a solid touch that would not be
misconstrued. "Okay, mate?"

 Doyle's head came round. "Yeah. You?"

 There was a quick flash of teeth. "Yeah. Ta, mum."

 A not-so-motherly rack of knuckles thudded against his shoulder. "Go back
to sleep, Bodie. You're confused."

 With that Doyle left him, taking away the almost palpable aura of his
presence, something comprised of far more than body heat. Faintly bereft,
Bodie wondered what Doyle would do if he asked him to return--and then
grinned contemptuously at himself. He knew exactly what Doyle would *say*,
and it wouldn't be something heard in polite company.

 Or would it?

 Bodie had not been the only victim of Parker's cruelty. For the time
being, both he and Doyle were walking wounded: Doyle, bearing the psychic
brunt of Bodie's trauma; Bodie, feeling as though there were a poker up
his bottom and a small, but deadly brass band in full swing at the back of
his head. As always, he and Doyle balanced one another in the oddest ways.

 Strangely lulled by these thoughts, Bodie yielded to the drugs and his
own weariness, comforted as much by the fresh-smelling bed as by the
continued presence of his partner only a few feet away.

 ******

It was well past noon before either man began to rouse again. Doyle was
first to waken, yawning and stretching as he kicked the covers from his
legs. With nothing else at hand, he had spent the night in only his
briefs. Hearing snuffling sounds from the next bed and a little
self-conscious of his morning erection, Doyle moved with sudden purpose,
scooping up his jeans as he headed for the bathroom.

 "No justice in the world," a lugubrious voice announced to the room at
large.

 Caught at the door, Doyle cast a wary look over his shoulder. "Eh?"

 Surveying him from under heavy lids, Bodie said evilly, "Supposed to give
big fellas the big ones, not the other way around."

 Doyle's face creased into a wide smile. "You saying you
were--erm--shorted, mate?"

 Bodie gave a dismissive laugh. "Talking about the *other* big fellas."

 "Sure. Want to prove that?" With four simple words the atmosphere in the
room went from playful mischief to charged interest.

 Unprepared for the intensity that flowed between them, Bodie was
temporarily incapable of speech. The spell passed, measured only in
seconds. He cocked his head rakishly. "Seen me before, Doyle."

 "But not...um...at attention," Doyle responded delicately.

 Accepting the challenge, Bodie fixed his grin and threw off the covers.
Feeling Doyle's eyes on his groin, he knew a fierce desire to impress him,
and rose--slowly, out of respect for his head--his hips rolled slightly
forward, so that he stood clearly outlined by the soft cotton of his
pajama bottoms.

 Something sparked in the wide-set green eyes, but was swiftly cloaked by
a half-turn of the head. Doyle sniggered, "Not bad, mate, but one of the
little fellas would probably have sent it back." Exercising educated
caution, Doyle slipped around the door and pulled it smartly shut behind
him; a pillow smacked into the wood only inches from where he had stood a
few seconds before.

 "You're just jealous, Doyle," Bodie yelled, not so loudly that he might
disturb the neighbors--if neighbors there were. But he was smiling,
wondering at himself for having been suckered into the idiotic contest.
Nevertheless, it had made him forget his assorted pains for the moment and
had been worth the instant that Doyle had seen him, eyes turning a
fathomless shade of jade. There had been humour, but unfeigned admiration,
as well. Bodie had had only a glimpse of his partner, but Doyle's stretch
briefs had been filled to capacity. His fingers itched to measure him
properly, both as to bulk and length, and the very thought began to
threaten the integrity of his own pants.

 He ran a thumb along himself to ease the constriction and climbed back
into bed. Being on his feet had set his head throbbing again and there was
a dull ache at the base of his spine. "When do we take the next batch,
mum?" he called quietly.

 There was a pause, and Doyle answered, "Now. You're overdue."

 "Yes, mum."

 A tousled head, notable for fierce green eyes, briefly appeared. "Bodie."

 Bodie gave him a look of affronted dignity. "I'm taking them, see?" The
instant the door was closed again, he added clearly, "Mum."

 "You'll be taking those up your nose, if you keep that up," Doyle warned,
his voice carrying distinctly through the door.

 Bodie spent a moment considering the merits of continuing the campaign of
bedevilment and decided to let it drop. "What's on the agenda for today?"
he asked instead.

 His partner reappeared, patting his face dry with a large white towel.
"'S up to you, isn't it. And the day's half over, in case you hadn't
noticed."

 Something tart was poised on Bodie's lips, but sight of Doyle quelled it.
The round face was unaccustomedly pale and lined with shadows, and the
green eyes were darkly smudged with pronounced circles. It wasn't often
that Doyle looked quite so unattractive, but when he did, it was as if he
pulled out all the stops. And yet, Bodie thought fairly, overall there was
something about him that defied the composite parts, that gave him an air
not of a dissolute caught in the damning rays of dawn, but of a waif,
abandoned by its mother at the side of the road.

 "Bodie?"

 Shaken out of his moss-gathering by Doyle's half-amused, and not in the
least bit waifish, tones, Bodie shrugged. "'M hungry. Let's take it from
there, okay? But, let's go out--leave the restaurant downstairs for
later."

 The tablets were taking effect by the time Bodie climbed into the
passenger seat of the Capri. He arranged himself with care--taking pains
to be unobtrusive--yet feeling the almost tangible weight of Doyle
discreet attention, and both intrigued and irritated at being so closely
overseen. Doyle rarely hovered, having learned long ago that overt concern
was something Bodie would not tolerate--even though Bodie was not unaware
of the double-standard of his attitude, for he was incapable of shutting
down his own protective instincts where Doyle was concerned.

 They drove away from the inn, heading out on a narrow country road. Bodie
gazed round with mild interest. The day was fine, sunshine mixed with
pregnant clouds, and the air smelt fresh and clean, just as Doyle had
promised. With all the rain they'd had this winter, the fields were
verdant and lush, and very appealing to the eye.

 They didn't go far before Doyle guided the car into a car park outside a
sleepy looking pub. Bodie glanced at his watch; there should be plenty of
time for a healthy meal. And telling Doyle he was hungry had been an
understatement; "famished" was much nearer the mark.

 They had their pick of tables as most of the noon traffic had already
cleared out. Bodie chose a booth with a window, but out of direct
sunlight; his head wasn't up to that yet.

 He grimaced at the ginger beer Doyle brought back to the table, receiving
a blessedly succinct lecture about drugs, head wounds and alcohol. Shortly
afterward a pleasant-faced, friendly brunette delivered their meals to the
table. She stood a moment and indulged in a bit of conversation. But
although they were amiable and amusing, she soon discerned that neither
man was interested in carrying the exchange beyond the point of badinage.

 "She likes you, mate," Bodie remarked softly as the barmaid drifted back
to the preparation table.

 "Me? Took one look at those lethal baby blues and nearly swooned, didn't
she."

 Bodie crowed under his breath with delight; since the trend of their
conversations regarding women usually went completely counter to this, he
couldn't help but be amused. And warmed. For she *had* shown Doyle a
little special interest and he had gently but firmly put her off.

 "You coulda had her," Bodie insisted.

 "And what would I have done with her?" Doyle was grinning but there was a
slight edge to his voice. "Care to sit around the lobby while I shag her
upstairs?"

 Bodie was mildly taken aback; Doyle was rarely so crude where women were
concerned. "Could've watched, I reckon. Make sure your technique is up to
par, y'know."

 Doyle guffawed. "When I need advice from you, I'll be sure to ask. Eat
your lunch, Bodie," Doyle instructed, determinedly putting an end to the
conversation.

 Before they were halfway through, Bodie excused himself to visit the
men's room. Doyle had finished his meal, pushed aside his plate and
fetched a second round of drinks before realizing that Bodie had been gone
a very long time. He was considering a recce of the toilet when his
partner returned at last, ashen-faced and moving stiffly.

 "Let's go back to the inn, Doyle."

 No questions were asked. They were on the road within minutes, after
tossing the barmaid a quick, "Thanks, love," and a mumbled excuse for the
abandoned meal.

 In their brief absence, the room had been cleaned and the beds remade.
Bodie disappeared into the toilet at once, leaving Doyle feeling useless
in the middle of the room. Deciding there was nothing he could do to ease
his partner's discomfort, Doyle thought his absence might be appreciated,
at least for a while. He announced his intentions through the door. As
soon as Bodie replied in relieved agreement, Doyle quit the room, stonily
quelling the desire to stay and offer comfort.

 ******

The room was in darkness despite the fact that the hour had only gone
four. Doyle entered quietly, his eyes zeroing in on the figure curled on
its side in the bed beside the open, but draped window. A cool breeze
sifted through the heavy folds of damask, the whisper of cloth the only
sound to be heard.

 Then, quietly, Bodie asked, "Was she good?"

 Doyle dropped his packages on the foot of his bed, and followed them
down, facing his partner. "Who?"

 "Tessa. The girl at the pub."

 "Good for what?" Doyle said blankly.

 Bodie shifted from one side to the other, his bent arm supporting his
head. "Reckoned you'd tried your luck after all. Afternoon closing time,
and all that."

 Doyle shook his head with slow emphasis. "Nah. Thought you could use a
break from me scintillating company. Picked up a few things, too." He
wanted to ask Bodie how he was feeling, but having guessed the source of
his problem, he wondered whether his partner would be offended if he
broached the topic.

 But Bodie gave him a stolid smile and answered his unspoken question.
"Should've had the mineral oil last night," he said wryly. "Think I popped
me stitches."

 "Do you want to go back?" Doyle asked, at once.

 But Bodie shook his head. "Feeling better now. It's all right, Doyle,
don't look like that. I've--"

 "I know--you've had worse." Doyle had not intended to say that, the words
springing from his lips completely unvetted. He cringed inside at sight of
Bodie's face, which had lost all expression. Speaking briskly, Doyle went
on, "Bought you some things to take your mind off--everything else."
Furious at his lameness, Doyle began to peel the purchases out of the
plastic carry bags, strewing candy bars, two bags of salt and vinegar
crisps, two cans of ginger beer, several paperback books, and the latest
issue of *Mayfair* magazine across the bedcover.

 And then he cautiously raised his head, expecting reproach for his
ill-spoken words. Instead he found himself the subject of an indulgent
gaze that bore no traces of anger.

 "I suppose this lot"--Bodie waved a hand over the candy and crisps--"is
our dinner?"

 Doyle smiled with relief. "There's a nosh house a few miles away. Thought
I'd pick up something there after a while--if you're still not ready to
try the cafe here."

 "Nah. Rather go out. And we certainly couldn't move an army on this
paltry fare. Even one that's been routed." He cocked an eye at Doyle,
noting his uncertain expression. "'S all right, Ray. Don't worry, okay?"

 Doyle snagged a bag of crisps and made a minor production of wresting it
open. "Rang Cowley," he said brightly. "Parker was cleaner and healthier
than he had any right to be. No diseases. The culture won't be done
growing for another 24 hours, but everything else tested negative."

 Bodie's reaction was non-existent. He took a can of pop and peeled it
open. "Anything else?"

 Long fingers drew forth a perfectly golden crisp, then turned it slowly
round and round. "June Cook went into early labor. The baby was
stillborn."

 Blue eyes rested heavily on Doyle's bowed head. "What about Allison?"

 "Getting better. He's still pretty shaken by the whole thing."

 "And Ulrike?"

 "Charges have been filed. She's being held, pending a trial date."

 Bodie drained his can, then crushed it in a fist. "Life goes on."

 Green eyes rose and studied Bodie's pallid, drawn face. "Yeah." Doyle's
teeth crunched noisily on the hapless crisp. He tossed Bodie the *Mayfair*
and sifted through the paperbacks for an anthology of lurid horror stories
for himself.

 With idle disinterest, Bodie turned the pages of the magazine, his eyes
hardly registering the nubile forms displayed therein. He protracted the
looking for a long time, his thoughts straying across to his partner who
was still working his way through the bag of crisps, sucking the salt and
vinegar out of each one before consigning the leeched remains to his
digestive tract. Morbidly fascinated, Bodie watched him from under his
lashes. Doyle's mouth had long been of interest to him. Full, with a
slightly wider and heavier upper lip, it could appear swollen with
unconscious sensuality, or snarl unattractively, displaying that less than
winsome chipped tooth. And when he laughed, the fullness disappeared--but
a rich, uninhibited Doyle laugh was rendered infrequently enough to mark
it a sight and sound worth appreciating. Well worth appreciating.

 Not for the first time, Bodie wondered what his partner would do if he
came on to him. And repressed a smile as--not for the first time--he
pictured the results of such an ill-considered action. For Doyle would
feel compelled to deck him to honor his manhood and its assertedly
heterosexual orientation. But while it was true that Doyle had never
openly solicited male attentions, there had been times when he had been
almost overtly flirtatious with Bodie, using his body as calculatedly as a
beautiful woman. Bodie had always put it down to Doyle's lack of
selfconsciousness; for the little bugger was fully aware not only of his
assets but his debits as well--and he simply did not care how others
reacted. But sometimes, Bodie was goaded almost to the point of reaching
out and capturing that quicksilver form. He could imagine the shiver of
apprehension that would course down Doyle's spine when he realized that
the challenge had been taken. The struggle would be brief because it
wouldn't be a battle of strength, but of desire. And there, Bodie
suspected, they would be more than evenly matched.

 "Oi."

 Bodie's vision cleared and he froze as he discovered somnolent green eyes
upon him. "Hm?" was all he could manage, and that just barely.

 "You ready for something to eat, then? 'S nearly six."

 Nearly six! Bodie must have been half-drowsing to have lost so much time.
"Yeah. Guess I am."

 Doyle gave him a head-shaking grin. "Well, you can quit eying me like
that; I'm not on the menu."

 "Oughta be," Bodie muttered, his throat dry. "You'd be about right for a
spaghetti noodle."

 The long body stretched and worked its way inch-by-sinuous-inch onto its
backside. "Well, in that case, you're lucky, because one noodle would
never be enough for that mouth of yours."

 Bodie cocked his head to one side, having recovered sufficiently to
return the banter with his usual aplomb. "Dunno, Doyle. Depends on how we
prepared you. I think you'd fit better in the sweets category, though. I'd
layer you with lots of chocolate goo and heaps and heaps of hundreds and
thousands."

 Doyle snickered. "And a cherry on top, of course." He arched a suggestive
brow at his partner, wiggling it leeringly. "Whose?"

 "Mine, mate," Bodie said innocently, "which I got from the store, of
course. A little red one, very sweet and tart." He snapped his teeth.
"What else do you top a sundae with?"

 "Hm. What are you doing?" This as Bodie pulled himself to his feet and
began to tidy his rumpled clothes.

 "Might as well come along. Not an invalid, Doyle."

 "Physically, maybe." Doyle sidestepped neatly on the way to the toilet as
a threatened blow just missed his head. "When was the last time you took
your pills, Bodie?"

 Blue eyes rolled upward. "Just before we went to eat."

 "You're slacking off, mate." Doyle came back out of the small bathroom
with a half-full glass, and pointed insistently at the phials standing on
the bedstand.

 "Jesus, Doyle," Bodie complained mildly, "You ever consider a career as a
nanny?"

 "Why should I," asked Doyle, archly, "when I already have you to take
care of?"

 Bodie bared his teeth then silently knocked back the pills. He took the
glass and had almost emptied it when a look of intense consternation
flooded his face. "What the bloody--" He gasped and held the container at
arm's length. "What'd you *put* in here?"

 Doyle's expression was not contrite. "Mineral oil. Don't want a repeat of
this afternoon, do you?"

 "God almighty, Doyle, it's like drinking snot!"

 Fighting hard to conceal his amusement, Doyle gave a jerky nod. "So drink
it down. 'S already half gone. Come on, Bodie, be a big lad and take your
medicine."

 "Damn you, Doyle, you're enjoying this, aren't you! Rotten little sadist.
Hope the day comes when you--" Bodie's eyes cleared and he gave his head a
sharp shake. "Didn't mean it that way."

 Doyle's unintentionally tender gaze was almost Bodie's undoing. "'Course
you didn't. Go on. You'll be glad of it tomorrow."

 "Huh." Bodie obeyed without further argument, then carried the glass into
the bathroom himself. "Won't make any difference. Don't intend to use the
toilet ever again." Then, as unmistakable sounds travelled from the toilet
bowl into the room behind him, he amended, "Not that way, anyhow."

 The rest of the evening passed uneventfully. They decided on takeaway and
brought their dinner back to the room. The meal was leisurely enjoyed,
followed by a pot of tea ordered from room service. Replete, they prepared
for an early night. For the first time in days--or was it weeks?--they
were completely relaxed, a state of existence so very different from their
norm. Both had long ago cultivated the ability to snatch sleep and to take
advantage of moments of stillness when they became available, but those
were temporary measures that could not balance the energy drain of being
on guard for long spells at a time.

 Doyle switched off the bedside lamp just after ten. Bodie had already
fallen asleep, one of the racy novels which Doyle had picked out for him
forgotten beside his pillow. In the dark, Doyle removed it, his fingers so
close to Bodie's face that the soft current of his breathing flowed over
Doyle's knuckles.

 "G'night, Bodie," he whispered and lowered the book to the floor. Minutes
later, lying comfortably on his side, turned toward his partner, Doyle was
oblivious to the world, as well.

 ******

It was well past midnight when Bodie was plunged into awareness, drenched
by the icy wash of startlement, his own name resounding in the otherwise
silent room. Collecting his unfocussed awareness with admirable speed, he
was still too late to spare his partner a tortured awakening. Bodie's face
twisted as his ears absorbed the other name, yielded up with a broken
sound of despair.

 "Doyle."

 The lean body rolled forward at once, a shaking hand rubbing the remnants
of unwanted images from his eyes. "Yeah. I'm awake. Sorry, Bodie."

 Before Bodie could reply, Doyle wrenched himself out of the covers and
stalked into the bathroom. Guilty and frustrated that his partner should
be suffering because of him, Bodie threw his pillow back against the
headboard and hoisted himself up to sit against it.

 The flow of water shut off, and Doyle returned. As he had the night
before, he brought with him a glass of water. This time Bodie was waiting,
the two tablets already in hand when Doyle passed over the glass. He
dispensed with the ritual with quick efficiency, slamming the empty
container onto the bedstand with unintentional force.

 Doyle's head swung up at the clatter, wide, still-haunted eyes focussing
on Bodie's face uneasily.

 With the tone of a man offering his kneecaps up for target practice,
Bodie asked, "Do we need to talk, Doyle?"

 Not understanding the reason for Bodie's abruptness, Doyle countered
woodenly, "No." Then, because it was his fault that Bodie's sleep had been
broken, he added, "Just a dream, mate. Sorry I woke you."

 Bodie's voice was surprisingly hard. "It wasn't *just* a dream, Doyle. It
was about me--and Parker." At Doyle's sharp movement, he went on, "I wish
you hadn't seen that. But I'm selfish, too, and I'm glad you got there
before he got round to murdering me."

 "Bodie, it's not--"

 "Yes, it is. Look, Ray, I know you. And you've been grinding your teeth
over what I said for the last two days, probably somehow mixing it all up
together, making more of it than it was."

 That earned him a befuddled stare. "What you said-- Oh." Doyle's
expression changed completely, making Bodie tense with skin-crawling
disquiet. "That." He accorded Bodie a long, searching look. "Yeah, I'd
like to hear more about *that*."

 Confused and more than a little embarrassed, Bodie sought a way to defend
himself from the treacherous turn the conversation had taken. He wasn't
ready to explain that remark to Doyle; especially not now, not
half-addled, with his body still tightly wound with nervous tension. *If*
he ever told Doyle, the moment would be chosen very carefully--as would
his words. Looking hard into the expectant face, Bodie forced his brain to
kick into full function. "So, if it wasn't me--" He elaborated bluntly,
"--Parker fucking me--then what was it?"

 Doyle blanched, his face so exposed that Bodie felt a twist of fear,
himself.

 All at once, Doyle took to his feet, moving with a speed and purpose that
Bodie wondered if his partner meant to leave altogether. But Doyle only
went as far as the window. There he pulled the curtains wide, his hair
lifted up and off his forehead by the wilful breeze that invaded the room.
Filtered light from beclouded stars and three-quarter moon gave his
features a satanic cast and betrayed a faint tremor in the hands that
rested on the sill.

 Frowning, Bodie said huskily, "Ray?" At the lack of response, he knew he
must pick his way carefully. "You did what you had to do. You've killed
for me before." Bodie's voice died on the last word. Now why had he
phrased it quite like that?

 Doyle smiled, but there was ice in it--that, and a trace of self-disgust.
"And will again, I expect."

 All at once, Bodie knew--or thought he knew. It was one of those
intuitive flashes that had occurred between them from the very beginning,
an instantaneous communication that transcended empathy. "Parker wasn't
resisting, was he, when you shot him?"

 Doyle keyed on the sound of Bodie's voice. There was no recrimination,
nor condemnation. Nor, thankfully, amusement. But Doyle could not face
him, could not cope with the magnitude of his actions being reduced to
flippancy, as was Bodie's way. "No." There was more to say, but Doyle was
too tired and too self-absorbed to summon the words.

 Stupefied, Bodie stared at him, knowing, as if it were his own burden,
what it was that Doyle was feeling. His statement had been perfectly
accurate; Doyle had indeed killed for him before. But not in anger, and
not in vengeance. Somehow the idea frightened him, for while Doyle was a
man of fierce passions, he had never allowed those feelings to interfere
with their job. So, outraged at what Parker had done to Bodie, Doyle had
executed him?

 No. Doyle wouldn't do that. It wasn't in him to kill that way. But Parker
*was* dead, and Doyle must have succumbed to some motivation stronger than
his usual sense of justice.

 Justice.

 And, again, Bodie understood. Killing Parker to avenge Bodie's assault
was something Doyle could never have justified. Putting a mad dog
down--one already accountable for several innocent deaths--now, that Ray
could do. More than that, Bodie saw clearly for the first time that Doyle
had been driven to this convoluted reasoning because of *him*. Rocked to
the depths of his soul by this revelation, Bodie was beset with an unholy
satisfaction. "I didn't realize," he said in a deep, contained voice.
"Thanks, mate."

 Doyle, who had not been privy to Bodie's thoughts, felt as though he had
been slapped. He turned slowly, muscles knotted with the need to retain a
semblance of self-possession. "Thanks? I *murdered* that perverted
bastard, and you say 'thanks'?"

 Not crediting the outburst overmuch, Bodie said evenly, "Know why you did
it. Would've done the same."

 "Yeah, well, *you* probably would have, but *I've* never *wanted* to kill
before." Doyle spat the words out. "But that's not true, is it--I've just
never *given in* to it before."

 Bodie took a deep breath and then another. "Is that it, Doyle?" he asked
tightly. "Or the fact that this time it was personal?"

 Feeling raw, Doyle snapped, "Meaning what?"

 Bodie's voice was low and savage. "If it'd been me, Ray, if I'd caught
Parker doing that to you--" But the very thought was intolerable. "Killing
him like you did would have been a kindness."

 Doyle shivered. Bodie's words, delivered with stunning intensity, lifted
the small hairs all over his body. And, perversely, the strength of his
feelings, stated without embellishment, also took away the edge of Doyle's
anger, and calmed him as sympathy and concern would never have done. "I
don't regret what I did, Bodie," he said quietly. "I think that's what
bothers me. And I'd do it again, God help me. In an instant. Just--well,
you'll understand if I ruin your sleep yelling my head off, eh?"

 The broad shoulders lifted in a shrug. "Always have before; don't see why
I shouldn't now."

 "Smug bastard."

 Bodie beamed back at him, his smile as arrogant and self-assured as ever.
To preserve that smile, Doyle realized, he would do almost anything.

 Turning to conceal his own expression--which Doyle suspected gave away
far too much--he began to fuss with the curtains, closing out the night
and its icy mist. Then he returned to his own bed, and slid under the
covers, suddenly greedy for warmth.

 Bodie repositioned his pillow and hunkered down until he was comfortably
cocooned once more. They had talked long enough for the relaxant to be
weaving its chemical spell, gently guiding him back into the labyrinthine
tunnels of sleep. He was slipping into darkness when Doyle spoke.

 "Bodie?"

 "Hm?"

 Doyle hesitated for so long that Bodie shifted his cheek on the pillow
and forced his eyelids apart. Eyes devoid of all color stared back at him.
Ridiculously, Bodie felt pinioned under that wide, purposeful gaze. "Yeah,
Doyle?" he prompted.

 There was a flicker of white as Doyle's teeth claimed his lower lip. But
before Bodie's nascent sense of apprehension could overwhelm him, Doyle
said, "About what you said before-- I know you don't want to talk about
it, but just answer me one thing, will you?"

 "What?" The single word was curt, unencouraging.

 "Said you'd done it yourself. You...didn't mean rape, did you?"

 "No."

 Bodie expected more, despite Doyle's promise. A sigh was all he heard,
and he could hear relief in it. He was compelled to ask, "Would it have
bothered you so much?"

 Doyle's covers rustled and shifted, possibly concealing a shrug. "Dunno.
Kids do crazy things. But I expect if you had, I'd feel that I don't
really know you."

 "Are you so sure that you do?" Bodie asked.

 "Most of the time. Like now. You don't want to talk about it because you
think I might...hold it against you, be disappointed in you. But I already
know about it, don't I? That much of it, anyway. And it doesn't make any
difference, y'know?"

 Drawing the bedclothes up to his nose, Bodie secured himself from Doyle's
knowing gaze. "Yeah, okay, mate," Bodie whispered. Strangely enough, it
would be easy to tell Doyle what he clearly wanted to know at this moment,
to let the words flow out into the nightbound room. But what would be
served by telling him the rest? Nothing, really, nothing at all. And yet--

 "G'night, Bodie,"

 The breath caught in Bodie's throat--he had been that close to speaking.
He grunted a reply, heart beating hard and fast. Doyle didn't intend to
push him on this--Bodie comprehended that much. And the moment had slipped
past, never to be resummoned--or had it?

 Feeling as though some terrible pressure were building inside him, Bodie
rolled onto his back, eyes clenched tightly shut. Taking the night into
himself, and shaping it into words, Bodie began: "Derek was a sniper,
hired on for a one-shot--literally. And he was young, still in his
teens--and very, very good looking. The night he arrived the dogs were in
full cry. Meet some very friendly sorts in the bush, and they all wanted
to be friendly with Derek in the worst way." Bodie hesitated, his mouth
dry. Doyle had not made a sound, but Bodie could sense that he was
listening. "But he was a smart lad, was Derek, for all that he was young,
and he'd been around. He looked us over and made a shrewd guess he'd be
safe with me. Why, I can't say. He came round and asked if we could double
up for the night; made some excuse about needing to repair his kit. Just
because I knew it would get up a lot of noses, I agreed." Bodie let his
voice trail away. That much of it was easy. And, bloody hell, did Doyle
give a damn anyway?

 Surreptitious movement from the next bed indicated Doyle was definitely
interested. Bodie turned his head just far enough to see his partner.

 Doyle had rolled onto his side and was watching him with head propped up
on the heel of his hand. He said nothing, waiting for Bodie to continue.

 "Derek was okay. A quiet boy, knew his job, bit of an amoral little
bastard. Turned out he was gay, too." Bodie chuckled very softly at the
irony of it, remembering the way he had laughed at Derek's admission. "He
offered himself to me in exchange for protection. By then I'd decided it
was worth the satisfaction of bashing a few heads just to have him around.
Told him I wasn't keen on it, and he didn't push."

 Dark blue eyes turned toward the window, but saw another time and place.
There the land was barren and inhospitable, lacking the cool, rain-laden
scent of April in England. "We did the job and Derek decided to stay on.
To avoid reprisal, we went deeper into the bush. We were out a long time,
and by then it had been months since I'd had a woman. One night, Derek
heard me--y'know--and offered his services again." Bodie's voice dropped a
note. "I didn't refuse."

 There was a long silence, during which Doyle began to wonder if he should
say something, yet instinctively loathe to speak. Finally, Bodie said, "We
took care of each other for nearly four months. He was good, was Derek.
Until he bought what he sold. Sniper got him."

 This time the silence stretched, bearing down on Bodie like some
oppressive weight. Doyle had not spoken, had not moved since that single
change in position. Bodie's eyes were heavy, and he wanted to sleep; but
the long, wordless moment made him believe that he had made a horrible
mistake. To hide his rankling disappointment, he stated roughly, "You
wanted to know."

 He didn't see the slight, accepting nod of Doyle's head, the panoply of
emotions that fought for supremacy of the taut features. He didn't even
know he was holding his breath until Doyle spoke.

 "And what did you do for Derek?"

 The question took him by surprise. Warily, Bodie said, "What d'you mean?"

 "He let you fuck him," Doyle said, without inflection. "What'd you do for
him?"

 It was as if a monstrous fist had reached inside Bodie's chest and
squeezed the life out of his heart. For a long while, he just lay there,
counting the dying beats.

 Doyle persevered. "Give him a wank, did you?"

 "Doyle." He did not dare turn toward that smug face, knowing that he
would want to destroy it if he did. The mistake he made was in assuming
that Doyle found his tale amusing, when in fact, Doyle was coiled even
tighter than he, and was aware, as Bodie was not, of how much hinged on
Bodie's response.

 Doyle said, "Well?"

 That brought Bodie round, eyes blazing, as the eyes of an animal cornered
by its enemy blaze--with fear, with fury, with hatred. "Sometimes," he
said sneeringly. "Sometimes I sucked him. But what you really want to know
is if I let him fuck me. Isn't it, Doyle?" He swallowed hard, so caught up
in the agony of his own emotions that Doyle's frozen expression did not
register. "Isn't it? Well, you got it in one, Doyle. I let a man fuck me,
okay?"

 With a violent heave, he showed Doyle his back, biting his lip viciously
to still its traitorous tremble, willing the helpless sting behind his
eyelids to subside before he shamed himself further. A cool hand between
the shoulder blades was the last thing he expected. He flinched
involuntarily, then jerked away in an effort to dislodge Doyle's touch.

 "Sorry, Bodie," Doyle whispered. "But I had to know."

 Rage poured into Bodie's veins. "*You* had to know. What is it, Doyle,
are you worried about your back? D'you think I'll--"

 "*Don't*." The hand pressed harder against him. "Don't." Doyle's voice
broke harshly. He forced himself to speak very carefully. "Had to know,
Bodie--because I don't think I could be a bottom man for the rest of my
life. Not even for you, sunshine."

 Too stunned to believe the evidence of his ears, Bodie jerked himself
upright, and precipitously switched on the light. "What?"

 Blinking up at him out of tortured eyes, Doyle said wryly, "You heard me.
That is, of course, if you want me."

 "If--" A hand moved forward, as if of its own volition, only to be called
back at the last instant. "You can't mean that."

 His face twisted against the light, Doyle disagreed. "I can. I do." He
reached out and brought one finger down the side of Bodie's face.

 Still incapable of assimilating what Doyle was offering, swamped with the
astonishing totality of it, Bodie looked for traps. "Why now?" His eyes
darkened, then widened. "Because of Parker?"

 "No!" Doyle sat up straight and swung his legs over the edge of the bed,
separated from Bodie by mere inches. "Sort of. Ah, damn-- I mean, if he
hadn't raped you, you'd never have said what you did to get me off your
back."

 "And?"

 "And if you hadn't admitted to having done it with a bloke before, I
never would have thought you might want to do it again. With me."

 At that instant, Bodie's bewilderment was complete. "You're gay?" he
asked weakly.

 "Bi. Have been for years."

 Impossibly, Bodie's eyes widened. "Since we--"

 "No. Haven't had a fella since before joining the Met."

 That produced a touchstone of normality amid Bodie's disjointed thoughts.
"More than ten years." He tsked softly. "By-the-book Doyle. You love to
make yourself crazy, don't you?" Licking unexpectedly dry lips, Bodie
demanded, "Why offer now?"

 It was Doyle's turn to lower his eyes, to fidget under an attentive gaze.
"Because it wouldn't have been worth chucking my career for a one-night
stand. Because I think you'd be worth the risk. Because--if you let this
Derek bloke fuck you, you must've cared for him. And if you cared for
*him*, then maybe you can care for *me*." He lifted his head and studied
his partner. "Well, Bodie?" Doyle asked.

 Hearing that quietly ragged voice, Bodie's chaotic thoughts fused into
one distinct certainty. He repeated the motion he had abandoned before,
thumb and forefinger going out to stroke against Doyle's cheeks, drawing
closer until they measured the distance from one corner of his mouth to
the other. "Dunno, Doyle. Soiled goods. Always thought I'd marry a
virgin."

 Half-mesmerized by that devouring scrutiny, Doyle said stupidly, "Who's
talking marriage?"

 Bodie smiled, cutting off the drowning man's lifeline with a single look.
"You are. For the rest of your life, you said. Trying to wriggle out of it
now, are you?"

 Clinging to rational thought with little success, Doyle said, "Doesn't
make much difference, if it's a virgin you want."

 Bodie disentangled himself from the bedclothes and went to his knees in
front of his partner. He curved his arms around the thin form, taking his
time to savor the friction of warm skin beneath his hands. This was the
first taste of a longed-for intimacy he had never hoped to realize, and he
concentrated on it, on the freely granted reality of Ray Doyle, close
held. Cushioned by Doyle's bare, smoothly furred chest, lulled by the
reassuring cadence of Doyle's steadily beating heart beneath his ear,
Bodie said calmly, "Love you, Ray. Guess that means I want you any way at
all."

 Making no effort to fight a sudden prickle of tears, Doyle bent forward
until Bodie was surrounded, knowing with total insight that of all the
moments they would come to share, this would remain best remembered of
all, forever.

 Bodie stirred, finally, and Doyle could tell that he was almost asleep on
his knees. "C'mon, mate," he urged, and gave Bodie's arms a tug. He went
willingly, crawling under the covers beside Doyle and going limp all along
one side.

 "Sorry, Ray," Bodie murmured. "Can hardly keep me eyes open."

 "Shh," Doyle soothed. "'S all right. This is nice, too."

 Bodie smiled; curving lips pressed against Doyle's collarbone. "Hm.
Very."

 The combined effects of the drug and the emotional release overcame even
Bodie's considerable strength of will. Doyle held his soon slumbering
partner with infinite care, taking in every detail of Bodie's presence.
The scent of hair mingled with the soap and sweat odor of his body musk:
Doyle inhaled it all, letting it linger in his nostrils until it was
engraved in his brain cells. On the narrow bed they were mostly skin to
skin, Bodie's arm heavy across Doyle's hips, one pajama-clad leg hooked
over Doyle's thigh. Supple fingers roved over Bodie's shoulders and back,
as far as they could reach, marking the flow of muscle and bone, and
varying degrees of warmth.

 At peace, Doyle felt himself dispersing into the nether regions of his
own consciousness, his entire being defined by a sense of well-being that
rivalled any he had ever known. In the end it had been very simple: Bodie
loved him, and had found the words without difficulty--Bodie, his strong,
aloof, take-no-relationship-seriously partner.

 Perhaps, Doyle thought with painful irony, he should be grateful to that
bastard, Parker. Without him, he and Bodie might never have reached this
point. But the image of Bodie held helpless beneath the other man returned
to him unbidden, sending fresh fury pounding into Doyle's head. Bodie had
been hurt--Bodie who could fool the keenest mind into believing he never
suffered as other men did, no matter the injury.

 The thought was disquieting; Doyle moved uncomfortably as it took
substance, sprouting other, equally unwelcome considerations, like a
hydra. Was that why Bodie had been so quick to turn to him, to admit his
feelings? Or was his need new-born, given life by Parker's brutality?

 A prickly chin crept across Doyle's chest and soft lips parted to release
a quiet sigh.

 Distracted, Doyle canted his head to look down at Bodie's face, smooth
and handsome, yet bearing the vestiges of strain beneath the heavily
lashed eyes, even through the hazy veil of night. Maybe Doyle's fears were
founded in fact. And if they were, what was he expected to do? He
couldn't--wouldn't--give Bodie up, not now. He *wanted* Bodie; lying here
with him warm and relaxed against him, helpless in the grip of sleep,
Doyle could have taken him without hesitation--save that Bodie was not yet
ready. And although Doyle was unaccustomed to holding himself at
bay--especially where lust was involved--for Bodie, he could wait forever,
if necessary.

 But then, his feelings for Bodie encompassed much more than sex. Bodie
had immediately seized on the slip Doyle had made, when he had stated that
he could not be Bodie's bottom man *for the rest of his life*. The words
had sprung from his heart, borne of an already fully formed commitment he
had never expected to feel. No one would ever meet his needs the way Bodie
could; no one would ever accept him as totally, nor love him as
completely.

 And, yes, he knew Bodie was ripe for the picking. If he took him now,
vulnerable and hurting, was he any less cruel than Parker? Doyle would
make their first time together good for Bodie; but the day might come when
Bodie threw it back in his face--for, as in love as he was, Doyle knew
himself and he knew Bodie, and their personalities would never be
completely compatible. There would be fights, angry words--and they would
make up, and love the anger and pain out of one another. But what if he
was wrong, and Bodie was turning to him out of desperation? He might yet
come to resent Doyle for taking advantage of him when he was weak, might
even come to hate him, for Doyle doubted Bodie would ever be the one to
walk out, and would endure an unhappy relationship before willingly
hurting Doyle.

 Racked, Doyle debated both sides, his only comfort the man who lay
trusting and at peace in his arms. Hours passed and, exhausted, he finally
yielded to his conscience. If what they had between them was more than a
manifestation of protective concern on Doyle's part and an unvoiced desire
for solace on Bodie's--and Doyle honestly believed that it was--they would
win through.

 But in the meantime, they would have to go slowly, take it one day at a
time, and no more. Bodie wouldn't like that, might possibly take Doyle's
hesitation as a kind of rejection. Or he might go to the other extreme and
try to force them into irrevocable action. Doyle found the prospect of
holding Bodie at arm's length more than daunting. But he must be prepared
to fight for him, even if the opponent in this battle was Bodie himself.

 Acting upon his decision, Doyle kissed Bodie very gently upon the
forehead, reluctantly conceding that, if the devil's advocate's arguments
were correct, it might be the last time he would ever do so. And then he
crept away, cold through to his core as Bodie's warmth was lost to him,
and returned to the other bed.

 ******

Rain was still in the air, the crisp, cleansing scent of it seeping
through the folds of the heavy damask. A breeze rippled at the open
window, through which the milky light of morning flickered in. Bodie
turned his head toward it, inhaling the heady moistness that was redolent
with blooming flowers, and smiled, waking with a sense of perfect
contentment. He extended a hand, searching for the form that had given
birth to this feeling, and encountered only empty mattress and tumbled
covers. He lurched up onto his elbow, and surveyed the room. There was
Doyle, in the next bed, curled on his side away from Bodie, tucked under
the bedclothes up to his ears.

 Banking down the tiny uncertainty that rose at sight of him, Bodie crept
out of his own narrow bed and leaned over his partner. Careful fingertips
edged the bed clothes down from Doyle's shoulders, then moved onto his
smooth, wonderfully warm skin. He touched him lightly, not wanting to
force Doyle into sudden awareness. But his heart was a heavy pulse in his
throat as his palm navigated the contours of tight musculature, the
pronounced ridge of spine, and the puckered traces of healing, where the
flesh had been torn open by bullets.

 "Don't."

 Bodie took his hand away at once.

 Doyle rocked onto his back, eyes faintly unfocussed. Bodie's expression
came through despite his sleep-blurred vision; Doyle moved all the way
over until he lay on his side.

 "It was a dream," Bodie whispered.

 Doyle shook his head in sharp negation. "No."

 Bodie swallowed, his lips flattening to a thin line. "But you've changed
your mind."

 Again Doyle shook his head. "No. But we need to talk, Bodie."

 "About what?" Just below the taut surface of fear lay anger. "We talked
yesterday--last night. What do you want to talk about, Doyle?"

 A nervous tongue tip slid out and flicked across Doyle's lips. "About
you. About us. I was thinking last night--"

 "You just have to go and ruin it, don't you, Ray? Have to make
everything--"

 "*Listen to me*." Doyle emphasized the command by reaching out and taking
hold of Bodie's wrist, his fingers gripping it tightly. Half stretched out
of the bed, bare to the waist, he was yet a presence to reckon with.

 Bodie wanted to gather him against his chest, but was flayed by the
certainty that he would be rebuffed if he tried.

 The panic in Bodie's eyes was enough to galvanize Doyle into action, the
resolve he had felt strongly in the early hours before dawn dissipating
like wind-blown smoke before that terrible need. He struggled upright,
taking both of Bodie's hands in his, giving his tousled head a shake to
clear the clinging tendrils of sleep. "Just listen to me," he went on, his
voice low and steady. "I realized after you went to sleep that I was being
selfish about all this. That I was ignoring the fact that you've just been
through a rotten experience, that you're still--how'd she put it?--'under
the emotional cosh.' You are, Bodie, and I could take advantage of you
right now, so easily."

 "Who?"

 "What?"

 "Who said that? Was she talking about me?"

 Doyle's mouth came open as he floundered for words. "No. It was Gilpin's
sister, she went on drugs after her mother died. Bodie, did you hear what
I just said?"

 Two hands were slowly working their way up Doyle's arms. "You think I
don't know my own mind."

 Something sheltered deep inside cracked at the disillusion in Bodie's
voice. "No. Maybe." Doyle forced himself to meet blue eyes that were dark
with misery. "It's just that I want you to be very sure that you
understand what you're getting into. You said you love me last night. It's
easy to say that when you want someone to love you back."

 Bodie bent his head, staring down at Doyle's hands, resting now upon his
knees. "You didn't say it."

 Doyle moved closer until his forehead brushed against Bodie's. "Didn't I?
Thought you must have guessed."

 "Until I woke up. What are you really worried about, Ray?" Bodie's hands
were on Doyle's shoulders now, fingers applying rhythmic pressure to the
muscles that radiated from neck to trunk.

 There was nothing for it but total honesty. "Losing this." Doyle pulled
back against the massage, searching Bodie's eyes. "Having you find out
that it wasn't what you really wanted. Losing you."

 Wistfulness and reluctant understanding lent the handsome face a
poignance that Doyle could hardly bear to witness. If Bodie demanded that
he scrap every word spoken in the last few minutes, he would agree without
argument. Instead, Bodie muttered, "So what do we do?"

 Doyle smiled weakly. "Let you work this through. Go slow."

 "And *you'll* tell me when I'm ready?"

 "No." Doyle gritted his teeth, words hissed out like air escaping a
puncture. "You'll tell *me*. And you'll be damn sure of what you're
saying, because once you make that choice, mate, there won't be any going
back, 'cause I don't intend to let you go."

 In response to Doyle's fierce proclamation, Bodie simply nodded. "Okay,
if that's how you want it." Almost off-handedly, he asked, "What if I said
I was ready now?"

 Doyle met the guileless blue eyes uneasily. "I'd want to thump the shit
out of you later, if you were wrong."

 Bodie considered this, hands easing around the sides of Doyle's neck,
floating upward until they cupped stubbled cheeks in both palms. "I'm not
as noble as you are, Doyle. It crossed my mind that, maybe, you were a
little confused too--but I don't care. Told you: I want you any way I can
get you. This way we'll both be sure." Inwardly gratified by Doyle's
open-mouthed befuddlement, Bodie slid in beside him once more, and folded
his arms around the bare-boned chest, nuzzling his face into sleep-warm
curls and pulling an unresisting Doyle with him as he sank down into the
mattress with a comfortable sigh.

 After a moment, lulled almost to the point of somnolence by Bodie's
gentle petting and all-encompassing hugs, Doyle said tartly, "Been called
a first-rate bastard recently?"

 "Not by my intended, no."

 Doyle made a rude sound, drifting with the soothing touch. He was
exhausted, having spent the remainder of the night brooding over their
future--a future that Bodie unquestioningly accepted in its totality,
risks and all. "First time for everything."

 "Yeah," Bodie murmured, drawing the single word out until it became a
husky whisper. "Looking forward to that, too."

 "Easy, mate. Get your strength back, first." Doyle dragged himself up,
chin digging sharply into Bodie's unprotected chest. "Take your medicine
yet?"

 "No, mum," Bodie said wearily. "Haven't had a chance, have I?"

 Doyle turned his face, raking a hundred tiny, razor-sharp hairs across
tender skin. Bodie snarled and caught Doyle's head between restraining
hands. "All right, all right. Jesus, Doyle!" This outburst garnered no
sympathy. Unrepentant, drowsy green eyes blinked up at him, and Bodie felt
all the heat of anger disappear before a far greater one.

 Doyle waited as Bodie's head moved closer, the anticipation knotted in
his stomach making it difficult to breathe, much less think. At the last
instant, Bodie abandoned his apparent intention and shoved Doyle down hard
onto his chest. "Go back to sleep," he growled.

 A little disconcerted, Doyle wondered if Bodie was one of those men who
did not like to kiss other men. He would soon have to readjust his
thinking, if that were the case, for Doyle ranked that particular activity
quite high on his personal lists of to-dos. "Don't forget your pills," he
said peevishly. "You can reach 'em from here, y'know."

 "I won't forget."

 Not completely arranged to his satisfaction, Doyle spent a moment sorting
out limbs and trunk until his face was cradled in the hollow of Bodie's
shoulder, his arms and legs possessively twined around his body. Bodie's
expression was hidden from him, or he would have marvelled at the notable
control his partner was bringing to bear.

 Doyle's nearness was an exquisite torture. Having contemplated the
prospect of being in precisely this situation more times than he could
count, and now finding himself bound by freely given constraints, Bodie
could only silently remark upon the cruelty of fate and its unkind
treatment of men. Consoling himself with a gentle caress of Doyle's upper
shoulders and back, he nevertheless envisioned how this particular
scenario was *supposed* to conclude.

 Despite the complaint of rapidly rousing flesh, Bodie ruthlessly put the
brakes on his desire and concentrated on the uncomplicated pleasure of
Doyle lying half on and half beside him, solid and real and no longer a
dream, or a figure of fantasy. Those beguiling lips had nearly lured him
to his doom, for he could never have honored their agreement had he kissed
him under these circumstances. Bodie's arms tightened and Doyle pressed
closer, the pattern of his respiration signalling sleep, his move
reflexive.

 But Bodie had agreed, and he would respect Doyle's wishes. Doyle's
concerns could not be dismissed out of hand--by Doyle anyway; and Bodie
well knew how single-minded his partner could be. But this way there would
be never be a question of their real feelings for one another. It was how
Doyle needed it, everything neatly secured, done up right and proper. And
Bodie could live with that. If the anticipation--all the more intense for
being held at bay--lent a filip of excitement to their courtship, all well
and good. In fact, Bodie viewed this stage in their relationship as the
equivalent of an engagement period, the announcing of bans. And like two
virgins of old, they would contain their passions until the wedding. But
the wedding would not be long in coming--Bodie would see to that. He would
play the game--and if he played it right, it would be Doyle who was driven
to consummate their vows.

 ******

It was just before noon when Bodie rousted Doyle out of bed. He was
necessarily abrupt and scrupulous about maintaining his distance. Doyle,
still sprawled across the mattress, clad only in the slip of nylon that
betokened modesty, was entirely too tempting, and Bodie knew that far
better men than he would have readily succumbed.

 "C'mon, Doyle, shift your bum, I'm hungry."

 Faintly frowning green eyes struggled open, yielding for long seconds at
a time to the sweet haven of darkness.

 "Doyle!"

 "What you on about, Bodie?" he grumbled. "We're on holiday. Don't need to
get up."

 Doyle's eyes shot apart as a heavy form dropped onto the bed beside his
head. He was lifted bodily into a tight clasp, *oofing* involuntarily as
all the air was compressed out of his lungs.

 "You do, if you're on holiday with me," Bodie countered. "I've had it
with this room, mate. If I don't get out of here, you're going to have to
scrape me off the bloody walls."

 Doyle subsided familiarly into Bodie's arms. "Uh huh." He inhaled with
slow pleasure; Bodie smelled clean and fresh.

 "Doyle."

 The note of warning should have cut through the cottony wisps of
indolence, but Doyle was floating too peacefully to worry about Bodie's
mood. Only when he was yanked up and thrust unceremoniously--and
painfully--onto Bodie's shoulder did he realize his error--and by then it
was too late.

 "Bodie, don't!" Doyle gasped, divining his partner's intention
immediately. "I'm awake, you sod, don't--" Five great strides later, he
was brought down onto his own feet, forced to cling to Bodie for support
as his abductor straightened beside him. They were in the bathroom, which
was small for one person, and very small for two. Doyle looked into dark
blue eyes that were brilliant with suppressed amusement. "Rotten--" But
the remainder of the epithet was rendered incomprehensible by the pressure
of Bodie's mouth brought with precision and purpose onto his. Doyle's
existence shrank to the impressions that swept through his mind: the
silken soft feel of Bodie's lips, the tantalizing hint of tongue lurking
behind barely separated teeth, the taste of breath and moist mouth. Doyle
was reeling when Bodie stood back, desire sparking along his nerve endings
like electricity through high tension wires. Bodie took two more steps
away, holding out his hand to still Doyle's forward motion.

 "I'll be waiting for you downstairs, just outside the dining room. Ten
minutes." He pivoted on heel and was gone, leaving Doyle to stare dumbly
at the closed door.

 "You pluperfect bastard," Doyle breathed. Seldom, if ever, had he been
brought to such a state with so little provocation. He ran the tip of his
tongue over still sensitive lips, savoring the vestiges of the signature
taste that was already mingling with his own. He did not need to glance
down at his no longer adequate briefs to recognize that Bodie had brought
him to full arousal in less than seconds. Smiling to himself and shaking
his head, he peeled off his beleaguered pants and stepped into the shower.
He let out a muted shout of sheer joy. "You bastard!"

 ******

Bodie was lounging against the wall facing the foyer to the dining room
when Doyle appeared at the foot of the stairs, ten and a half minutes
later. The dark head lifted at sight of him, and appreciative blue eyes
swept from Doyle's head to foot appraisingly. A knowing quirk tugged at
one corner of Bodie's mouth as he took in the oversized trousers and
shirt. They gave the lean frame an air of Continental insouciance, dark
corduroy belted tightly at the waist, the top three buttons of Bodie's red
shirt undone so that a tasteful "V" of dark pelt showed through. Bodie's
eyes told him he was cheating and Doyle answered with a fey grin. A
passing couple restored them to their surroundings; they sobered at once.
It was their first intimation of the subterfuge that their lives were to
become. Yet neither was overly concerned and merely exchanged rueful
smiles before proceeding to the entryway.

 Lunch was a deceptively placid affair, their entirely appropriate
behaviour masking an undercurrent of wicked indulgence. They were
intoxicated with love and freedom. Doyle's eyes were completely clear of
shadows for the first time in days and Bodie evinced no stigma of the
ordeal he had suffered. Gazing at his straight-faced, but gleaming-eyed
partner, Doyle knew they would come out of this all right--and if Bodie
had his way, by all appearances, sooner than later.

 Part of the reason for Bodie's resurgence of spirits was easily deduced.
"You didn't take your medicine, did you?" Doyle stated.

 "Not true, mate. Took the important stuff, anyway. Don't need the pain
killers anymore."

 "Everything working again?"

 Bodie gave a theatrical shudder. "Never stopped, did it? But, Christ,
Doyle, that mineral oil works a treat. If they don't have a proper sewage
system, they'll be wondering where the oil slick came from."

 Doyle covered his mouth to muffle a snort of laughter. "Idiot." He made
no effort to conceal his respect, liberally mixed with tenderness. "It
doesn't seem to bother you, Bodie, what happened. Don't think I could
handle it as well. Would have made me feel...sick."

 "Did a bit," Bodie admitted, eyes cast down, overtly studying the pattern
in the tablecloth. "But I told you, Doyle, it happened before."

 "Rape?" The word was barely a whisper.

 Bodie nodded. "Fresh on the boat, still a lad, not that stupid, but a kid
all the same. The first mate took an interest in me." He shrugged.
"Thought he liked me--but not that way. Got me drunk one night and by the
time I twigged to what he was doing, it was too late. Tried to kill him,
all the while I was chundering my head off. The radioman--a nasty old
geyser I'd avoided like plague--dragged me off him. Took me to his cabin
and cleaned me up." Bodie's head, bent over his cup, moved in remembered
wonderment.

 "Gentle as a new mother, he was, even while he singed me ears with the
most blood-curdling threats you ever heard, to make me lie still. It
didn't matter that I'd been buggered, he told me, and it didn't make me
any less a man. What did matter was that I'd been hurt. The damage done to
my body could kill me, if it went septic; the damage done to my pride
could only do as much harm as I let it." Hearing the words again, and
recalling his own callow reaction to them, Bodie grinned. "Pretty stupid,
huh?" He raised his lashes, expecting pity or horror, pained empathy at
the very least.

 But Doyle was chalking up silent thanks to the radioman who had shown
Bodie kindness when it was needed most. "Don't know why we always say that
about the things that are true," he commented softly. "Doubt that I
would've had the brains to accept it at that age, meself."

 Bodie's smile lost its edge. "Didn't. Wasn't till it happened again that
I realized the important thing was surviving. Not very different from
being shot or cut, after all. Pain's pain--hurts like hell and you could
murder the bastard that does it to you. But Parker's dead. Makes a
difference."

 Doyle accepted this without reaction, apparently in control of the demons
bequeathed to him by the dead man. But Bodie knew that he would have to
watch his partner on that. Given a proper opportunity to brood, every
Doyle instinct for self-condemnation would come to the fore; Bodie
intended to be ready when--if--it did.

 Doyle wiped his mouth and laid the napkin on the table. "What happened to
the radioman?"

 "Dunno. Jumped ship and never saw him again."

 "And the mate?"

 Feral satisfaction gave Bodie's features an unpleasant cast. "By the time
we reached port, he wasn't quite the man he'd once been."

 Expecting censure, he was surprised to see Doyle's mouth lift into a
tight smile. "Good," he said equably. "Saves me hunting the bastard down
and cutting off his goolies."

 Bodie clucked reprovingly. "And you a public servant. What's the world
coming to?"

 "Sometimes I wonder," Doyle said, with perfect honesty.

 ******

Following their long, companionable lunch, they made for the car, Doyle
tossing Bodie the keys to the Capri without a word. They roamed round the
countryside, exploring narrow lanes hedged by tall grass, brambles and the
odd tree. Eventually they ended up in Fishbourne proper again. As Bodie
guided the vehicle into the car park outside the low, nondescript
structure that housed the remains of the Roman palace, Doyle gave a hoot
of laughter.

 "Couldn't resist, eh?"

 Bodie smiled back at him. "Have to pick up a souvenir for the Cow."

 "What, one of those tatty pens that has FISHBOURNE printed on the side?"

 "Why not? Show him we care."

 "Oh, we care all right. Would've cared even more if he'd given us two
weeks, instead of ten days."

 "So we'll give him a *little* pen. You been here before?"

 "Last spring. Debbie, remember? She was 'studying things Roman.' Made a
day of it. We even spent a few minutes here."

 Bodie gave him a prim look. "Then you're in for a proper viewing, old
son." As they strolled up the sidewalk that ran along the front of the
building, Bodie frowned, "Don't recall you seeing a classicist."

 "She wasn't," Doyle said wryly. "Told you what she was interested in.
Expect she thought there'd be a lot of nude statues, that sort of thing.
She was pretty disappointed, until I got her back to the inn."

 "And showed her a different sort of nude. Yeah, I get the picture,
Doyle."

 Auburn curls flew into the air as Doyle's head came sharply round. His
partner glanced sidelong at him, then turned away. Doyle's heart beat a
little faster as he registered what had just occurred between them. *So
much? * he thought. Bodie had said nothing, really, but the tone of his
voice, just a shade off its usual jaded flippancy was enough to signal
storm warnings to Doyle.

 Just then they came to the glass front doors. Doyle grabbed the handle
and ushered his partner inside, stepping in neatly behind him, his left
hand executing a deft grope of one hard-muscled buttock before the two men
reached the admission kiosk. He heard Bodie's quick gasp and moved past
him, drawing out his wallet, hoping to shield him from any chance
observers. "Two, please," he told the white haired gentleman who greeted
them with a smile--and an odd look for his partner.

 A little tentatively, eyes roving from Bodie to Doyle, the man said, "The
audio-visual presentation will be starting in about fifteen minutes, if
you'd like to attend. It's just round the corner there to the right." He
handed Doyle his change and nodded the way.

 Doyle thanked him and joined his partner, who had entered the foyer,
ostensibly to admire the model reproduction of the original palace.
Without a shadow of expression, Bodie said under his breath, "Do that
again, Doyle, and you'll be eating a slice of knuckle pie."

 Doyle bent nearer, as if concentrating on some aspect of the display.
"You can do it back to me, if you like," he said contritely. "I deserve
it."

 "Bastard," Bodie growled, but his face lit with unwilling humor. "C'mon,
let's go out on the grounds."

 With his partner following docilely, Bodie strode purposefully to the
exit which led to the gardens. It began to rain lightly as they walked
away from the building; neither man seemed to notice. Hands pressed deeply
into his black leather jacket, Bodie risked a glance at his too-quiet
partner. Doyle met the look with an enquiring lift of brows.

 "Gonna have to split up, Doyle," Bodie announced casually.

 Wary green eyes shot his way. "What d'you mean?"

 "Just that. Never be able to think objectively with you around, y'know.
How am I expected to know my own mind with you distracting me all the
time?"

 Thin shoulders rose and fell under the white jacket. "You're right; I
shouldn't have done that."

 Bodie's head slowly came round; he fastened disbelieving eyes on his
chastened partner. "Are you serious?"

 "Of course. Can't name the game and then try to change the rules." A slow
flush started at Doyle's throat and coursed upward until it disappeared
into his hairline. "Was trying to distract you. Debbie really bothered
you, didn't she?"

 Bodie gave a tiny laugh. "Not Debbie, mate."

 "What, then?"

 They had reached the eastern end of the pathway; as one, they turned
north and continued their stroll. "'S not important, Doyle."

 "Spill it, Bodie."

 The black leather jacket creaked as Bodie hunkered into it; the wind was
like the edge of a knife this far from the building, and the rain frigid.
"It made me think of the ones before me--the other blokes." Bodie chanced
a sidelong look at his partner; Doyle met it and gave him a comprehending
smile.

 "Tell you the lot, if you want."

 "Okay."

 Sensitive to Bodie's tangled emotions--he wanted to know, and yet he
didn't--Doyle set out to make it brief. "First one was a friend in art
school. Went into the wilds roughing it for a weekend. One thing led to
another and I came home Sunday night with a new outlook on life--and
myself. Numbers two through five were all one-nighters. The sixth and last
one was a lad I met in a pub. He had got in with a bad crowd." Doyle
sighed. "But he appealed to my crusading instincts--and, yeah, a few basic
ones, as well. I tried to get him away from his mates, but they weren't
ready to let go. One night they came after us. I got my face reshaped, and
Brandon never came out of the coma."

 "That was over ten years ago, Doyle. How've you managed--"

 "To do without?" Green eyes raked speculatively over Bodie's face.
"How've you?"

 The flaps of Bodie's jacket came open as he spread his hands wide. "But I
wasn't--" He hesitated, afraid that his next words would be
misinterpreted.

 It was too late. Doyle said flatly, "Gay?"

 "You said you're bi; you like men. I...only ever had Derek. He was all
right, but if I'd had the choice, he wouldn't have been it." Bodie's face
contorted with frustration; he was putting this all wrong. "Until you came
along, Ray, I could appreciate another fella as being attractive, okay;
but women had all the equipment I needed." Bodie stopped and faced his
partner. "You stood me on me head, mate, when I realized that I wanted to
do with you the things I'd done with Derek. And all the things I *hadn't*
done with Derek."

 Doyle said lightly, "Yeah, well don't go looking to my vast background,
Bodie. Didn't really have that much experience before I gave it up."

 This, apparently, was what Bodie had hoped to hear. "So we'll learn
together. You've got a good imagination, Doyle; you'll find a way to hold
my attention."

 "And a few other things. Hurry up, you lazy sod, or we'll miss the show."

 ******

They dutifully sat through the audio-visual presentation on the history of
the Roman palace at Fishbourne, neither one paying as much attention to
the film as each other. Sitting side by side in the dark amid a widely
scattered crowd, they were allowed a latitude they wouldn't otherwise have
enjoyed. Doyle was a little taken aback when a large, square-cut hand
wended its way across his knee and surrounded the fingers of one hand. His
first instinct was to shake it off, but a quick survey of their situation
revealed that no one would notice and, consequently, no harm would be
done. Nevertheless, all propriety was in full observance when the lights
came up at the end of the short, instructional program. They filed out
amongst the rest of the viewers and began to amble through the displays.

 Eventually, having seen everything, they came to idle beside the railing
that overlooked the remains of one of the palace's former inhabitants.
Ensconced where it had been found in its shallow grave, the skeleton gave
mute testimony to the ephemeral nature of mankind.

 "That's me, mate," Bodie muttered, "if we don't get something to eat
soon."

 Doyle rolled hopeless eyes towards the ceiling. "Just ate a few hours
ago, Bodie. Can't be that hungry already."

 His partner conjured up a passable leer, sensibly hidden from stray eyes.
"Must be feeling better, then."

 Before Doyle could respond, an elderly couple came up behind them and
stopped to share their view. The man and woman were speaking softly, but
their accents were clearly audible: American tourists, taking in the
sights.

 "Poor guy," the man said feelingly. "Make sure you've got plenty of
matches handy when I go. Don't want anyone digging my tired old bones up
two thousand years from now."

 The woman laughed, a low, earthy chuckle, that caught both agent's ears.
"Don't worry, we've got bags and bags of charcoal ready and waiting."

 An arm snaked around her well-rounded shoulders and squeezed. "Thanks,
hon. Always knew I could count on you."

 Doyle slanted twinkling eyes across at his partner. As he suspected,
Bodie was completely sober-faced, only the minute tremor of his lower lip
giving away his amusement.

 "This is fantastic," the woman sighed. "There's nothing so old and
beautiful like this at home. Imagine being able to see it anytime you
like."

 The arm tightened again. "Sure there is," he pointed out warmly. "Your
grandkids come to see you all the time."

 "Thanks a heap. Rat. You know what I mean." But her words held a wealth
of humor and affection. She leaned against her husband as they walked
away, their voices fading as they navigated the elevated ramps to the next
display, fingers linked.

 When they no longer risked being overhead, Bodie cast a raised brow at
his partner. "That's you and me in twenty years, mate."

 Doyle snorted impolitely. "They've been married for ages, Bodie. We won't
live anywhere near that long, twenty years."

 Bodie wagged his head. "We've already been together eight years--"

 "Seven years, eleven months, and...ah...seventeen days--including leap
years."

 "--what you said. And with you and me together, nothing can touch us."

 A somber silence came over Doyle and he raised still, luminous eyes to
his partner's face. "Yeah, it can, Bodie, it's inev--"

 "Don't."

 "After all, we *have* got to tell Cowley sometime."

 Derailed by the unexpected turn in the conversation, Bodie gawped. "You
gonna do the telling?"

 Doyle leaned back against the railing, forearms hanging limply in front
of him.

 "It'll have to be done someday."

 "He may want us to resign."

 "Yeah."

 "And?"

 Doyle regarded Bodie queryingly. "And what?"

 "You don't mind?"

 "Do you?"

 Bodie's breath came out in a ragged rush. "*I* asked first."

 Thin shoulders rolled in an elaborate shrug. "'Course I do. It's not the
best of jobs, but it's important, and we're good at it." He frowned as he
sought the necessary words. "But we can't go on indefinitely, either.
Reflexes are already slowing down."

 "Great, Doyle, I'll be sure to remember that in our next fire fight." He
grunted as a sharp elbow made a painful foray into his ribs.

 "You know what I mean, Bodie. It'll happen sooner or later, one way or
another." He attacked again as Bodie snickered at this coupling of banal
profundities. When that elicited an inelegant wriggle of evasion, Doyle
said with complete sincerity, "But I'll go like a shot, if that's what
Cowley wants."

 Bodie straightened up, adjusting the smooth line of his shirt front.
"Yeah. Me, too." He added dolefully, "And I hope, someday, you'll give me
a good reason for abandoning such a salubrious occupation."

 Doyle's elbow flashed again, but his target neatly sidestepped the
attempted blow. "Berk," Doyle said without heat. "C'mon, Bodie, I'll buy
you a cuppa and some bikkies, if you're nice."

 "'M always nice, Doyle."

 They spent a half hour in the adjoining refreshment area, sharing a
packet of shortbread while they sipped their tea. The weather was clearing
a little when they finally returned to the car park, minutes before
closing time.

 Silence lay easily between them as Bodie drove the Capri back toward the
inn. And yet, throughout the minutes-long journey, he was plagued by the
feeling that time was wearing thin for them. He could not say precisely
what had gone wrong, nor what must be done to fix it. The slip he had made
in the gardens figured fairly largely, even though Doyle had not seemed
unduly disturbed at the time. But Bodie understood him, and suspected that
if Doyle were given time to dwell upon it, he would decide that Bodie
would be better off not expanding his homosexual experience.

 If there had been any doubts in Bodie's mind--there hadn't, and there
weren't--he could still say with all assurance that he knew what he wanted
with Doyle; that the sex was important, but the honest caring and
commitment they shared of equal, and probably greater, worth. He was clear
now of the only drug that might have dulled his wits--and the ugly memory
of Parker's assault retreated with each passing hour. *He* knew that; it
was Doyle who required convincing, and the longer they put off
consummating their relationship, the more likely they would meet with
greater and more overwhelming obstacles to support Doyle's embryonic
doubts.

 So, it had to be tonight. And somehow, Doyle had to be the one to bring
the issue to a head.

 The sky had lightened considerably by the time they reached the inn.
Bodie locked the car and followed Doyle up the front steps, happily
enjoying the view thus presented to him. A slow current of arousal
slithered through his abdomen, reinforcing his sense of purpose. He only
wished he had a way to focus Doyle's feelings, to channel them so that he
could see past the roadblocks that existed only in his mind.

 In the end it was easier than he imagined.

 They were given a table at the back of the restaurant, having a clear
field as there were few other diners to restrict their choice so early in
the evening.

 Apparently apropos of nothing, Doyle commented, "Interesting, watching
tourists."

 "Hm?"

 "Like today. The American couple. Yanks show up everywhere. But you have
a definite trend in other places."

 Offering only token participation, his thoughts decidedly elsewhere,
Bodie prompted, "For example?"

 "The *Victory*. Lot of Frenchies there. And at the War Museum--hordes of
Germans. Why, do you suppose?" Doyle finished whimsically.

 "Maybe they're trying to figure out where they went wrong?" Bodie
suggested.

 Doyle was about to protest this when their waitress appeared, and they
both took note. She was young and very attractive, blonde with long,
flowing hair. She stopped before them and smiled sweetly, her blue eyes
rich with interest. "What'll you gentlemen be having?" she asked, her
voice clear and melodious.

 Doyle gave her a friendly grin, and pointed at the omelette listed on the
menu placard. "With cheese, please. And toast."

 "It only comes with chips in the evening. Will that be all right?"

 Doyle gave in gamely. "Yeah, my friend'll take care of 'em for me."

 "And you?" She turned to Bodie and fairly tumbled into his eyes. Her
youth betrayed her, and he took pity, gifting her with a warm, indulgent
smile, casually conscious of the power he wielded.

 "Cheese sandwich, please. And a tea."

 She drew away from the hypnotic gaze with reluctance, remembering herself
as she did so. "Something to drink for you, sir?" she asked Doyle, who had
studiously ignored the exchange.

 "Same for me, thanks."

 With a last, charmed glance at Bodie, she left them, unselfconsciously
exaggerating the sway of her hips. Dark blue eyes followed her progress,
unthinkingly comparing her attractions to those of the man beside him.
Doyle made an abrupt motion with his hand, and Bodie snapped out of his
revery. The intensity he found in the green eyes startled him.

 "What is it?" he asked, swinging a look back behind him, searching for
the source of Doyle's unusual gesture.

 But Doyle denied a purpose. "Just hungry."

 "Oh." Bodie's brows flickered. "What were we talking about?"

 "Doesn't matter," Doyle mumbled. He fidgeted with his fork. "I think,
maybe, we should head back tomorrow, Bodie."

 *Here it comes*. Bodie had no intention of pandering to him, however, and
said stiffly, "Why?"

 "You were right, what you said earlier, y'know. About me distracting you.
Goes both ways. Not fair to either of us."

 Giving away none of the fear fluttering deep inside him, Bodie said
evenly, "Okay."

 A swift capitulation was not what Doyle had anticipated. His eyes widened
and he regarded Bodie with something akin to numb shock. "Okay," he
echoed, and stared down at the empty table in front of him.

 It took all Bodie's strength not to grab Doyle by the hand and drag him
up the stairs. Furious that his partner could suffer such depths of
uncertainty, he wondered what could possibly have triggered this sudden
attack. It came to him upon the thought, a perfect vision of youth and
beauty, and himself, paying what Doyle probably viewed as far too much
attention.

 *All right, you bastard*, he thought fiercely. *This is it, we play it to
the end*.

 They sat in stiff silence, enduring a brief interruption when their teas
appeared. The girl was every bit as ingratiating as she had been before,
and Bodie played her ruthlessly, aware as he had not been before, of the
stricken audience seated next to him. He outdid himself for charm and wit;
the bewitched object of his performance departed with the soles of her
feet several inches above the floor.

 Bewildered and hurt, Doyle kept his own council, cynically congratulating
himself on his earlier intuition. He'd only been testing the water when
he'd pushed Bodie about going back, his partner's instinctive
responsiveness to the girl's flirting setting him off balance more than it
should have done. But Bodie's brusque agreement to his suggestion had
stung like acid, searing him to the essence of his being.

 Their meal arrived, along with another unbearable interchange of mutual
admiration. Doyle stared down at his plate without a twinge of appetite.
Was Bodie aware of what had happened? Could he have changed his mind so
quickly?

 Doyle wanted to shake himself, to throw off the sourness of insecurity.
Glances at Bodie's profile revealed a cold aloofness that had been totally
absent the last few days. It wasn't something Bodie employed often, but
when he did, Doyle always felt as though he had been consigned to the
rubbish heap. He was there now, unwanted and unloved, and achingly afraid.

 A minute later, the arrival of a family of three precipitated the return
of their waitress, who allowed herself a quick smile in Bodie's direction
before applying herself to her job.

 Bodie turned toward Doyle and with a nod of the head that indicated the
girl, said, "Not bad, eh?"

 Doyle chewed his bottom lip. "Very nice," he agreed. Dark lashes drifted
downward until his eyes were impenetrable. Summoning his strength from
seemingly nowhere, Doyle said without reproach, "So--go ahead, Bodie." He
raised his head, essaying a fair imitation of good-natured understanding.
"Get it out of your system, mate."

 Bodie refused to applaud the magnitude of Doyle's self-sacrifice. Keeping
a sudden surge of panic well under control, and tautly aware that he could
bugger the works with one ill-placed word, he said calmly, "'Get it out of
my system.' You mean--sex?"

 Doyle's jaws tightened. "Obviously."

 The dark head bent forward, then tilted to one side so blue eyes could
regard Doyle measuringly. "Now?"

 This time Doyle did not even attempt speech, his knuckles white where
they curled around the handle of his cup. At that instant, the sweet-faced
blonde stopped beside their table.

 "Is there anything else I can get for you?" she asked.

 Bodie bit back his frustration; it wasn't her fault, and he had been less
than honest with her. "Nothing, love. My friend here is picking up the
tab. I've got to use the phone."

 Without a backward look, he pushed away from the table and strode from
the room, feeling the combined weight of two very different pairs of eyes
heavy between his shoulder blades.

 By the time Doyle appeared, bristling for a fight, Bodie was at the foot
of the stairs beside the public phone, arms folded placidly across his
chest.

 He forestalled Doyle's flash-point temper by clamping a hold on one tense
arm and wheeling him onto the first step, a hand planted firmly in the
small of his back to keep him moving. "You're right," he informed him,
lips inches away from Doyle's ear. "It's *now*."

 "Fuck off, Bodie." Doyle jerked free. "Just tell me what you're playing
at."

 "We'd be better off having this conversation in our room," Bodie proposed
sensibly, stepping a little to one side as two school girls and their
mother passed between them, curious expressions turned their way.
"Otherwise you might get me arrested."

 Green eyes spat at him. "For what?"

 "I intend shortly to engage in certain practices which are considered
illegal when committed in public." Honeyed persuasion warred with
undisguised entreaty for command of Bodie's voice. "I can think of a far
better way to spend the remainder of our leave time, Doyle, than standing
here on the stairs, arguing. Can't you?"

 There was no period of transition; Doyle went from icy rage to helpless
supplication in the blink of an eye. "I don't think I can handle this,
mate." The tremor in the husky voice was genuine; it filled Bodie with
equal parts aggravation and ungoverned tenderness.

 He managed to be gently reassuring. "Sure you can, Ray. You've seen it
before, it'll fit into your hand, easy." At the faintly apoplectic
expression that contorted Doyle's face, Bodie added urgently, "Please,
Ray. Don't ruin everything. I *want* this. Please?"

 Glacial green seas slowly grew more temperate, still choppy with warning
and treacherous enough for Bodie to fear drowning. "Finish your call?"
Doyle asked shortly.

 "What?"

 "Said you had to use the phone. Did you get your call through?"

 Bodie swallowed, so giddy with the effort it took not to engulf the
suddenly compliant Doyle in his arms that little was of comparable
importance. "Yeah."

 "Okay." Having made up his mind, for better or worse, Doyle was seized by
the need to move. With a long, slanted glance at his partner, he began to
climb the stairs, long legs mounting the steps two at a time.

 He was already in the room when Bodie came up behind him. Doyle stood
facing the window, arms loose at his sides.

 With a quick twist, the security bolt was set, and Bodie took an unsteady
step forward. He had wanted this for so long that now the moment was upon
him, he didn't know if he could do it justice.

 "Come on, Bodie."

 The rough-voiced invitation made Bodie shiver. He reached out and curved
his arms around Doyle's unresisting body, turning his face into the heat
and softness of the sensitive skin behind Doyle's right ear. He blew into
the ear lightly, inordinately pleased by the palpable response that
travelled through the lean, tightly muscled form.

 Breath left Doyle's lungs on an extended sigh; he curved back into his
partner's nearness. So many sensations were generated by this close
contact, and the most important of all was the delicious relief--no more
constraints, no more internal warfare, no more doubts. Doyle readily
complied when Bodie turned him round, the finger under his chin lifting
his head so Bodie could look straight into his eyes.

 And Doyle could see into Bodie's.

 Other people had looked at him with such open desire, the color of their
irises overtaken by lightless pupils hungry for visual input. But none of
those eyes had ever been Bodie's, midnight blue blending into black, so
full of wanting and love that Doyle was set aflame with a mere gaze. One
of Bodie's hands came up, and fingers that were betrayingly unsteady
stroked Doyle's jaw and cheek. Doyle let quivering lashes fall downward,
concentrating on the magical sensations created by Bodie's hand, so big
and capable, a killing instrument when wielding a gun, but an artisan of
exquisite intuition when executing a caress.

 "Doyle..." Bodie's left hand came up to cup the other side of Doyle's
face.

 Held gently, Doyle stood waiting as Bodie's mouth came down, sensing the
barest hint of warmth and moisture as a tentative touch fell on his parted
lips and was gone. Doyle cocked his head upward, encouraging more, and
Bodie bent to meet him, going slowly to absorb every nuance of Doyle's
distinctive taste. They fed lightly on one another, neither deepening the
kiss, needing only this initial contact to satisfy the infant stirrings in
their blood.

 A moment later they broke apart, lungs working to overcome the absence of
air. Doyle's hands trailed unhurriedly around Bodie's body, starting at
his waist and meeting at the small of his back. Bodie arched slightly away
from the kneading fingertips, relaxing again as they continued upward.

 Doyle's hands were spread wide like a butterfly's wings, bypassing the
fully flexed strap that secured the holster to Bodie's chest, recording
the trivial bits of information that differentiated Bodie from all the
others he had touched before.

 "Nice," Bodie murmured, his voice rich with immense satisfaction.

 "Hm?"

 "This," he explained, knuckles brushing against Doyle's cheek. "Touching
you. Holding you." He bent slightly forward and kissed the full lips that
welcomed him without demur. "Kissing you." He tickled Doyle with the
movement of his mouth, finding that the pronouncement of the final word
led nicely to the realization of that very activity.

 Doyle was a little surprised by this luxurious, unhurried foreplay. He
had seen his partner in action with women and well knew that Bodie usually
tended to the more straightforward, get-down-to-business approach. But
somehow Bodie must have sensed that Doyle needed this, maybe even wanted
it himself. They were still a little fragile, both of them, and these
earliest moments would lay the groundwork for whatever they managed to
build between them later. "Rotten bastard," Doyle said, the lovingly
uttered words turning the pejorative into an endearment. "Had me worried
downstairs, y'know."

 Bodie pulled him closer, suppressing a shiver at a current of humid
breath against his ear. "Why'd you do that, Doyle?" he groused. "Told you
how I feel. Thought you trusted me, mate."

 "'Course I do," Doyle defended himself, his chin rasping against Bodie's
jaw. "But I saw the way you looked at her, just your type and all. You've
only ever been with one bloke, Bodie. Said it yourself, birds have--"

 "Know what I said." Bodie tightened his arms, burying his face deeper in
dark auburn hair that smelt of rain and and sea-salt and Ray Doyle. "And
you were looking, too; saw you." Irony hardened his chuckle. "*I* was
comparing her bum to yours--yours won, no contest--and there you were
thinking I wanted to bonk her, after pouring my stupid heart out to you."

 "Not stupid, Bodie, never that," Doyle said intensely. "It's just--I
don't want this to go wrong, y'know?"

 Bodie understood exactly what Doyle meant. Neither of them had ever
developed a solid, long-term relationship with a woman. Since Bodie had
determined years ago that marital bliss was the stuff of fiction, he had
wilfully avoided the possibility of it, making it very clear to any female
who chose to spend a few hours with him that nothing more than a good time
would ever come of it. Doyle, on the hand, literally craved a solid
commitment, wanted it with his whole heart and soul. In their business, it
was a fantasy that would eventually acquire the tarnish of reality, either
necessitating the whole process of ending a bad situation and starting
over again or, as in Bodie's case, foregoing the futile exercise
altogether.

 So why was he ready to dump his convictions for this wild-haired,
green-eyed madman who could exasperate him to the point of near-violence
with a few well chosen words--and in fact made a habit of doing so with
remarkable frequency for the sheer deviltry of it?

 Simple enough, really: He loved Ray Doyle, had loved him forever, it
seemed. And the root of this new undertaking was their friendship,
something far more tangible and capable of withstanding the shocks of
living than mere love.

 He drew his head back until only their temples were pressed together. "No
guarantees in this life, Ray. Don't know what'll happen to us, or how
we'll feel about each other in five years. But I do know this: It kills me
to see you hurt, and I don't ever want to be the cause of it. Love you,
mate."

 Doyle shifted forward, his body leaning against Bodie's with total trust
and acquiescence. "Make love to me, then," he said thickly. "*Now*,
Bodie."

 The vibrant whisper was enough to send a tide of lust crashing through
Bodie's body. He gently kissed a path down the side of Doyle's face,
taking a long time to learn the precise feel and taste of his right ear
lobe, descending with maddening patience to the pulse that beat at the
base of his throat. Doyle was pliant to his touch, moaning softly at the
delicate web of pleasure being woven around him.

 Bodie's fingers were impressively deft, unbuttoning Doyle's shirt with
nimble movements, hands fluidly coursing beneath the folds of material to
bare his darkly-downed torso. He urged Doyle onto the bed beside the
window.

 Doyle lay back, highly conscious of the cool fabric beneath him in
contrast to the heat of Bodie's presence crouched over him. He watched
through slitted eyes as his trousers were efficiently removed; in a moment
he was unencumbered and Bodie's hands were on him again, curving around
the pronounced balls of his shoulders, sweeping down the length of his
arms to briefly tangle with his own seeking fingers, and back up to rake
through the fine hair on his chest. Doyle sighed, speaking in soft gasps,
directing Bodie's explorations without reserve.

 At last Bodie drew away, just long enough to divest himself of his own
clothing. Then he was taken into Doyle's arms and it seemed perfectly
natural that Doyle should move his thighs apart so Bodie could lie between
them.

 With Doyle's head trapped between his hands, Bodie kissed him, defining
the outline of the full mouth with a warm, slick tongue. The lips fell
apart, and Bodie searched inside, his pulse racing as he cherished the
cool tongue that greeted him, examining the smooth surface of teeth, the
sharp edge of one chipped tooth.

 Doyle began to writhe, forced to move or go mad, pressing his hips upward
to create the friction his body now demanded, goading Bodie to move in
kind. Their bodies assumed a wonderful symmetry of purpose. Breath
mingled, mouths clung together, hands stroked with feverish intention.

 Their first night had only begun.

 ******

Heavy folds of damask rustled at the window, refusing entry to an
inquisitive breeze. The room had darkened with the encroachment of night.
Amidst the shadows, Ray Doyle lay cuddled close to Bodie's chest,
patiently undergoing his partner's delicate inspection of a newly
sensitized portion of his anatomy. A large dollop of antibiotic cream was
employed before Doyle was allowed to rest unprodded.

 "Love you so much, Ray."

 "I noticed." Doyle drowsily turned his cheek against Bodie's shoulder.
"Thanks, mate." His tongue was as limp as the rest of him and the words
came out slurred and throaty. "We're sealed now."

 Bodie slid a finger down the crevice separating Doyle's buttocks. "Just
the opposite, sunshine," he contradicted. "Hell of a pair, aren't we?
We've both got sore bums now."

 Doyle laughed, the sound seemingly generated in the depths of his chest.
"Was worth it. Next time won't hurt so much."

 "Next time won't hurt *you* at all. My turn. So you'll have to be
patient. Be a few days at least."

 A wiry arm floated upward across Bodie's chest, finding a home around his
neck, fingers buried deep in the hair at the base of his skull. The small
knot from Parker's blow was still evident and Doyle took care to avoid it.
"Thought you'd see it that way. Share and share alike. Which reminds me:
you owe me 3, 37p."

 Bodie twisted his head to give his partner a hard stare. "What for?"

 "Left me with the tab in the restaurant, didn't you?" There was a
miniscule twitch at the corner of the full mouth. "I'll knock off the 37p
for acting thick, but the rest is yours."

 Bodie smothered a laugh. "Generous to a fault, that's you, mate."

 Doyle put his head back down, comfortably drifting amid his partner's
warmth, when another thought occurred to him. "Who'd you ring?"

 "What?"

 "Said you had to use the phone. Or was that just an excuse to clear out
before you could do me a damage?"

 Bodie was insulted. "Wouldn't thump you. Love you, remember?"

 Doyle's voice softened. "Yeah. So who'd you ring, then?"

 "Cowley."

 The narrow mattress squeaked and groaned symphonically as Doyle pulled
himself onto his elbows. "Why? What'd you ring him for?"

 "Had to, didn't I? The last test, the culture for gonorrhea: needed to
know if it was positive or not."

 "Oh." Doyle relaxed, a muscle at a time. When he had draped himself upon
Bodie's shoulder again, he murmured, "And, of course, it was negative."

 "Hm." Bodie played with a handful of curls that were trying to invade his
nostrils. "Wants to see us tomorrow."

 A thread of uneasiness banished Doyle's renewed downward spiral into
sleep. "Why?"

 Bodie shrugged, almost displacing the head on his shoulder with the
exaggerated movement. "He wanted to know why I was in such a hurry to
know. Insisted on speaking with him right away, y'see."

 This time, Doyle pulled himself up with the liquid ease of a hunting cat,
eyes wide, face very still. When he was crouched over his partner, he
said, "You didn't."

 A wry nod was his reply. "Had to. I've never lied to George. Not about
the important things, anyway."

 "Jesus God, Bodie, what did you tell him?"

 Bodie noted the way Doyle's throat worked as it tried to accommodate a
swallow hindered by barren dryness. "Just that I didn't want to pass
anything nasty on to you."

 Green eyes were briefly hidden by heavily shuttered eyelids. "And he
said?"

 "That we'd have to be more sensible about sharing birds."

 The stunned look on Doyle's face was enough to satisfy Bodie's more evil
tendencies toward baiting his partner for a long time to come.

 "And?" Doyle prompted limply.

 "And I said we weren't sharing any birds."

 "Oh, God. Was he still breathing when you rang off?"

 "Pretty loudly, in fact. Said he was going to have a word with you about
taking advantage of me." At Doyle's unintelligible sputter, he added
calmingly, "I assured him that we both know what we're doing. *He* said--
Well, the gist of it is, he wants us there by noon."

 Doyle allowed his weight to collapse onto Bodie's unprepared body, not in
the least repentant at the simultaneous grunt of discomfort and gasp for
air which this action produced. "Bloody hell, Bodie, what'd you have to go
and do that for?"

 Big hands ran up and down Doyle's back. "It'll be okay, mate. What's the
worst of it? He boots us out, we go. Didn't think you'd want to be the one
to tell him, and this way he's got a little time to think about it."

 "But you shouldn't have turned it into joke," Doyle protested. "He'll be
convinced we're just out to have it off with each other."

 Bodie hugged him closer, ready to relent. "No such luck, Doyle. Told him
we're permanent. Told him I love you." He felt the words register in the
thin frame, heard the catch in Doyle's breathing.

 When Doyle spoke once more, his words were remarkably prosaic--but Bodie
could hear the unmistakable underlying emotion. "Bet that made his day."

 "Very probably."

 Doyle aired a long, put-upon sigh. "God help me, but I do love you,
Bodie."

 "Goes both ways, old son," Bodie agreed placidly. "It'll be all right,
Ray. You'll see."

 With gentling touches and slow, swirling caresses, he urged Doyle to
surrender to the mood they had created earlier. Doyle accepted without
complaint, his cheek rubbing lazily against Bodie's shoulder. The
repetitive motion gradually stilled, and finally, half-blanketing Bodie's
chest, Doyle slept.

 As exhausted as his partner, but reluctant to let the moment go, Bodie
lay with his eyes open, nose half-hidden by riotous curls, making plans.
First they would deal with Cowley. If he gave them the green light (and
Bodie thought it highly likely that he would--at least until he could
replace them), they would have the next few days to move in together.
Doyle's place, probably, since Bodie had far less to move. And then it
would be *home*, because Ray would be there.

 Suddenly blinking hard, Bodie rolled his face deeper into Doyle's hair.
It was terrifying to discover that, after all these years, his carefully
built-up shields were gone, that the potential for agony lay tame here in
his arms--and that he would do everything in his power to keep him there.

 "Christ, Ray," he muttered petulantly, so quietly that Doyle did not even
twitch. "See what you've done to me, mate."

 He shifted a little, arranging his partner and the bedclothes--neither of
which resisted--to his satisfaction, and put his own head down. Just
before yielding to the darkness, however, he stole a final kiss from his
new lover, who subconsciously rewarded him with a sleepy lift of head to
facilitate Bodie's mouth. Bodie lay back with a sigh, his face wreathed
with a contented smile, at peace with the world and himself, and sublimely
unconcerned about the future, because he had *now*.

 It was more than he had ever hoped for.

 -- THE END --

 *Originally published in *Chalk and Cheese 9*, Whatever You Do, Don't
Press!, 1991*

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