The Professionals Circuit Archive - ...And Lovers, Long Ago	    And
Lovers, Long Ago

 

by Jane

  
 The ground was still muddy underfoot and the wind was like ice, blasting
down off the North Sea in sharp gusts that made Doyle's face ache. His
teeth were throbbing but he had ceased to notice it amongst the general
pain he felt from head to foot. Every joint hurt and his head was burning.
Stupid idea, letting Bodie cajole him into hiking so early in the
year--maybe the SAS enjoyed this kind of masochism, but Raymond liked his
comforts. 

He could, at that very moment, have been home with his feet up, a glass of
gin in one hand, a good book, Beethoven on the hi-fi, maybe Bodie
collapsed in an arm chair, full of lunch and drowsing through the
afternoon. Their usual Sunday routine in winter; too cold to go out, too
expensive to pick the girls up for the day, since they were trying to save
enough between them to buy a yacht, and had to count the pennies. 

Dating was a thing belonging to the night; the longer you had a girl out
and about, the more money she spent for you, and you ended up with nothing
to show for it, Doyle reflected a little sadly. The jacket he had bought
as a gift for Cynthia had cost a fortune; she wore it occasionally and had
invited him home to bed a few times in thanks, but-- 

The Liverpool supporter's scarf he had bought for Bodie at the start of
the season had cost next to nothing. Bodie had been swathed in it since
November, used it in his jokes, and played silly games with it, enjoying
it enormously, and never more than when he could involved his benefactor
in the fun. He had used it to lasso his partner on Christmas Eve,
precipitating a wrestling match that had had them on the floor in gales of
hysterics. 

Bigger and heavier, Bodie had pinned Doyle to the carpet, but Ray had not
complained. It was seldom enough that he could get Bodie to touch him.
Propping each other up when they had had a few too many; applying cream to
a roasting sunburn; sticking bandaids on a forearm scrape when he'd come
off the bike on gravel; wrestling for the keys to the new car... Ray
smiled in spite of himself, called himself an idiot, and hoisted his
haversack up on his shoulders. Time to get moving before Bodie was half a
mile ahead. 

As yet Bodie had only made twenty yards on him. He was heading up a rabbit
track, and Doyle trudged dutifully in his wake, pulling his grey wool cap
down over ears that were aching in the wind. He was coming down fast with
something, he knew--a chill, most likely, after the repeated drenchings
and freezings of the last two days. Bodie had not noticed and Ray was not
going to say a word till he did; there was a sense of competition between
them that precluded genuine complaint, but when honest concern entered the
picture they had learned to open up. Acceptance of another man's caring
had taken years, but it was a fact of life now, a *part* of life. 

It was nice when Bodie offered up a crumb or two of concern; he would
touch more often when he was aware that his friend was hurting--and if
Doyle had said nothing about what was wrong, suffering in silence, Bodie
would often castigate himself and allow the tenderness he normally kept
buried to show through... It was worth suffering in silence for, Doyle
thought ruefully. Matey affection was one of life's little pleasures;
better than being with a girl, unless he was desperate for sex, which was
not all that often these days; after twenty years of rolling around in bed
with so many women he'd forgotten most of them, the friendship and rapport
he shared with Bodie meant more than a few moments of pleasure with an
almost total stranger. One day, there would be someone to love, he kept
telling himself; one day. But that day never seemed to get any closer, and
almost unconsciously, he had stopped waiting. Bodie's company was almost
always preferable to that of women, anyway; Doyle never relaxed for a
moment when with a girl, and ended up as tired from keeping up his guard
as from the sex. With Bodie he was relaxed at once, especially if they
were in a good mood, a little mellow, and *especially* if Bodie would
touch him. 

There was a nice feeling when that happened. A sort of tingling awareness,
familiar, warming, not unlike being aroused, except that it couldn't be
arousal, because neither he nor Bodie was gay. If it wasn't arousal -- and
it couldn't be -- Doyle didn't have a name for it, but it liked it anyway.
He had never actually turned on, but so often it felt strangely as if he
was about to, as if, if Bodie just touched him one more time, or in a more
sensitive place, he'd feel the kick of excitement, the rapid pulse, the
quick breathing, the glorious tightening in his groin. But Bodie always
took his hands away, and -- 

Right now all he was feeling was pain, lethargy and weakness. Up at the
top of the rabbit track, Bodie was admiring the view, standing in the
teeth of the gale, and he didn't see Doyle come trudging up behind him,
head bowed, gloved hands stuffed into the pockets of his jacket. As he
came up onto the low ridge the wind hit him in the face and he bit off a
moan, turning his back on it while his teeth ached anew. 

"Smell that air," Bodie was saying, impervious to the cold and gazing out
across the moorland; it was green with new heather, brooding under the
grey pall of the overcast, limestone cliffs in the distance, scots pines
sheltering in the crevices of the rolling landscape like dark smudges
against the green. Curlews were calling far away, and there was a tang of
the sea in the air; no part of England was ever very far from the ocean.
Only a line of high tension cables gave testimony to the fact that the
Twentieth Century had even taken place. Otherwise, the Vikings could be
marching in from Iarum, on the Tees, the Romans could be driving a band of
Brigante slaves under the whip, building the road that ran up to the wall,
Venutius could be on the warpath against the invaders, early in the First
Century. 

"Hrummph." Doyle sank down to sit on the damp heather, rummaging in his
pockets for the last of the Dispirins he had been crunching like candy. 

Bodie looked down at him, digging through his own pockets for chocolate
and nuts, and it was the crumpled foil in which the tablets came packed
that drew his attention. Ray was still silent --- if he hadn't been
looking he would never have seen the white soluble aspirin go from foil to
mouth to be crunched and swallowed with an expression of resigned
distaste. "Ray?" Bodie went to one knee beside him. "What's up? Popping
pills?" 

"Just aspirin," Doyle muttered, stuffing the empty foil away. Have to buy
more -- these were the last two. Good thing they'd be in the village by
nightfall... Oh, to lie in a hot bath with a cup of Irish coffee, and then
get into bed and pull the blankets up over his head... 

"You feeling bad?" Bodie asked. Doyle closed his eyes, sinking down,
chin-first, into the roll neck of his fisherman's jersey and the sheepskin
of his collar. He was flushed and pinched about the nose and mouth. Bodie
kicked himself -- Ray would *never* speak up even if he was going to
*die*, and he had been too busy reliving old memories from years gone by
to notice. Bodie pulled off his right glove, put his hand on Doyle's
forehead, watched him jump as he was touched. "Hey, you *are* under the
weather," he muttered. "Got a temperature." 

"Got a chill," Ray said, aware that he was shivering. "Been wet and frozen
too often these last couple of days." 

"So why didn't you bloody well *say* so?" Bodie demanded angrily, though
most of the anger was directed at himself. "I'm not clairvoyant!" 

"And *I* don't whine," Doyle grumbled. "Lay off, Bodie, I don't want to
fight with you." 

"Sorry," Bodie sighed, "it's *me* I'm mad at anyway, not you. Should've
seen it coming on... Reckon you can make it as far as Osmotherly?" 

"How far's that?" Doyle asked, hugging his chest. 

"Fix or six miles. Maybe seven." 

Ray gave a groan. "I'll have to, won't I? Can't stay out on the moor all
night -- a chill's one thing, double pneumonia's something else." He got
his feet under him with a supreme effort, more of will than muscle, and
put out a hand for balance. 

Bodie took him by the arm and Ray sighed. Always so right when Bodie
touched him, even when he was feeling like death warmed up. He sagged
toward the offered support as his head swam. "Fever's making you dizzy,"
Bodie observed, trying for clinical detachment and not managing it. "Look,
maybe there's a farm or a cottage around here somewhere. All we want's a
phone; call for a taxi into Osmotherly, have you in bed in no time." He
watched Doyle struggle to get himself going and bit his lip, calling
himself five kinds of fool, and vicious to boot. On the street, on the
job, they were so ultrasensitive to one another that he could guess when
Ray was thinking about sneezing, but off the job, they did not need the
painful edge of awareness, let it ebb away, until *this* sort of thing
happened. Here was Doyle, pushing one foot infront of the other and about
to keel over, and Bodie had been miles and years away, with the lads of
his unit of 3 Para, ignoring him. A large pang of guilt hit his nerves...
Ray was worth more than that, and deserved a damned sight better; he'd
only come on this hiking trip to please his partner. 

He'd wanted to stay at home, lazing by the fire, eating and reading and
relaxing, as they usually did on Sundays and long weekends since they had
started the savings account for the yacht. Bodie did not begrudge one
penny of the money that went into the account; the thought of actually
owning something together with Doyle was nice, the fact that the bank
account was jointly in their two names often made him smile. 

It would have been just as nice at home, Bodie thought wryly. Watching the
little monster sprawl out on the couch, hook one ankle over the back of
it, and go to sleep like that, all tousled curls and long legs, his
manhood so innocently flaunted, one long fingered hand lax on his thigh.
*Little monster*, Bodie thought fondly; he had absolutely no idea of what
his body language was saying. So often, it was as if that body was on
offer, relaxed in invitation, and warm with the promise of welcome. 

So Bodie took care to sit on his hands and look somewhere else whenever he
could. It was too nice touching Ray on the few occasions he thought he
could get away with it. If he inadvertently annoyed Doyle, it would never
be possible again -- and that would be a shame, because he knew how much
Ray *liked* to be touched. Platonically. In a matey fashion. Playfully...
It was frighteningly nice when they touched, and he had no intentions of
relinquishing the right to that subtle contact. The green eyes would smile
at him, sometimes become brighter than was normal, other times languid,
sensual. But Raymond Doyle was a ladies' man, a macho little spitfire, and
Bodie had the distinct impression that, hedonist though Doyle was, if he
didn't at least *try* to keep his hands to himself he'd get his head
bitten off in one snap. 

It was easier to shut him out, hide behind the wall of matey good humour,
and most of the time that worked well, maintaining the safe distance that
made it possible for them to live and work, so close, without arriving at
the confrontation Bodie sometimes worried was all too near. But it did not
work well all the time. Today, it had done them both a disservice. Ray had
his face cupped in both hands, rubbing his cheek bones, and Bodie guessed
that he was aching. Looking back on the day, he hadn't said much since
breakfast. He had been slow crawling out of bed too, and Bodie hadn't seen
him eat a bite. So he had been feeling bad all day and pushing himself
hard-- 

* For me. * Bodie bit his lip. "Why the hell didn't you tell me, you
clot?" 

"Told you," Doyle grunted, "I don't whine." 

"Don't bloody talk much either, do you?" Bodie touched his knuckles to
Ray's forehead. "You're burning up. And it'll be getting dark soon. Don't
fancy your chances of making seven miles that fast, do you?" 

"Hrrumpth," Doyle said, shivering. 

Bodie looked at him and had to smile. There was a ten-year-old-stubborn
aspect about him, emphasised by the straggles of auburn hair that were
escaping from the grey wool cap, and the huge sniff, and the blotting at
his nose with the back of his hand. "Mucky bugger," Bodie murmured, and
dug for a handkerchief. Then, as Doyle blew his nose enthusiastically, he
said, "Come on, let's get moving. There's got to be a farm or something.
Get you warm. Hot bath, a drop of the hard, you'll live." 

"No kidding," Ray muttered, shuffling his feet, which felt numb. He
stuffed a damp square of linen into his pocket. "Okay, Christopher bloody
Columbus, which way?" 

"Oh... southwest," Bodie said, casting about to get his bearings. The day
was already beginning to grow dim with twilight, so deep was the overcast.
He slipped the shoulder straps of Doyle's haversack off his shoulders.
"I'll carry this, for a start." 

"Bodie--" Doyle protested, feeling that he must protest though he was more
grateful than he would had admitted. 

"Shut it," Bodie said bluffly. "And come here." He slipped his free arm
around Doyle's waist. "Lean on me, for chrissake, and get your feet
moving." 

So nice when Bodie would touch him... Doyle smiled in spite of his aches
and pains, and the words popped into his mind and escaped through his lips
before he could stop them. "Whither thou goest, I shall go." 

"Eh?" Bodie blinked at him curiously, feeling the jolt of meeting those
remarkable, elven eyes at such close proximity, feeling the warm draft of
breath on his cold face. Close enough to kiss him -- He shook himself
hard. 

"Oh, nuthin'," Ray said, blushing, though the extra colour was lost among
the flush already brought on by the chill. "Lead on, McBodie." 

Suddenly beset by a feeling of disquiet, Bodie got moving. What the hell
had Doyle meant? Was he joking? He *had* to be joking: that was a vow of
fidelity he'd just let slip. No -- he was feverish, that was all. Bodie
smiled ruefully, shaking his head. The daftest thing he could do would be
to take seriously anything either of them said or did on the subject of
sex. They told artful stories, crafty lies, ribald jokes, straight and gay
alike, but it was all just banter, for laughs. He had seen Doyle making
love once, on a holiday they had taken together with two girls, in
Devon... Stark naked, flat on his back across the foot of a double bed
under a raven-tressed young beauty, hips lifted off the quilt, deep inside
of her, hands cupping her breasts, working hard at her pleasure as well as
his own... Doyle was a natural born lover; he got a lot of sex for his
efforts-- 

But no love, Bodie thought, frowning as they skirted a stand of touch
scots pines and headed toward a bridle path. Odd, that one so attractive
and loving as Ray Doyle could be one of those in the unenviable 'nobody
loves me' bracket. His family was miles away and his only friends were the
people with whom he worked -- the job precluded any others. * Me *, Bodie
thought, * and Murph, and Jax, and precious few others. * The women were
just that. Women. There for the times when he had to have sex or explode;
and it was a bloody expensive exercise, dinners, flowers and shows costing
what they did. 

Recently, there had been fewer women; Bodie had noticed this but said
nothing. Doyle was off on one of his introversion kicks --
'springcleaning' his head after the winter. There was no way to stop him
thinking, but he usually righted himself, given time and a bit of friendly
patience. As they walked, Ray leaned heavily against him and he felt an
arm go about his waist, under his own backpack, companionable, nice. If it
had been a girl, it would have been a gesture of invitation. 

But it wasn't, and Bodie kept on going until Doyle pulled them both up in
the lee of an outcropping of moss-grown slat. "Got to take a breather,
mate," he said, obviously, winded, and sank to sit on an ancient,
crumbling rock. He looked knackered, and Bodie sank down beside him, one
eye on the sky; they were making slow time. It would be dark soon, and it
looked like rain. Damn; if they were out here all night, and wet into the
bargain, the chances of a chill turning into pneumonia were not so far
fetched. 

Retreating into his jacket and jumper like a startled tortoise, Doyle
blinked dopily at Bodie, enjoying the attention, the concern, and the
touch as Bodie put a palm on his forehead again. Bodie was really worried,
and it felt good that he could have that effect on the bigger, undeniably
stronger man. Shamelessly, Ray set out to play the stranded kitten,
wondering how far it would get him. He shivered, and Bodie put his arm
around him, pressing close for warmth. He sagged heavily against the
larger body and Bodie propped him up. Doyle closed his eyes, wishing he
felt better so that he could make the most of it, because right at that
moment he *needed* propping up and holding. He turned his face into
Bodie's throat, seeking warmth for his aching teeth, wondering if Bodie
would push him away out of distaste at what was very nearly a caress, but
instead a large, warm hand, recently ungloved, cupped his cheek and drew
him closer. * Well, I'll be damned *-- 

"Hey, I can smell smoke," Bodie said abruptly. "Just a tick. Stand up,
Ray. It can't be coming from far away or the wind'd have dispersed it." He
climbed up onto the fracturing slate and gazed over into the valley on the
south side of the track. "Hey, there's a bunch of motor caravans down
there, ponies, dogs. Tinkers, by the looks of them. 

"Tinkers?" Doyle echoed. "Of course -- heading for the fair in Osmotherly
tomorrow. Sell the ponies there." 

"Right." Bodie clambered down and gathered Doyle in to his side again.
"How about a wee drop of moonshine and a bowl of rabbit stew beside an
open fire?" 

"Beggars can't be choosers," Ray said, trying to be dry and hardly
managing it for his chattering teeth. "Which way down there?" 

They struck out along the bridle path. It wound down the tortuous
hillside, through a sparse wooded nook where the ground was treacherous
with mud, and just a few hundred yards from the Tinker encampment Bodie's
fears were realised; the heavens opened and rain pelted down, icy cold and
soaking them to the skin in moments. Doyle moaned abjectly, Bodie felt his
shudders running through him, and hurried him onward. 

A pack of skinny mongrels set up a furious barking as they approached,
alerting the wandering people, and they watched as the door on the nearest
of the big motor vans swung open and a dark haired young man in a flat cap
looked out to see what was wrong. 

"Hello," Bodie called hopefully. "We're hikers -- my mate's sick, can you
help us?" 

Hospitality was the unwritten rule of the road. The young man beckoned and
Bodie propelled Doyle toward the moderately expensive mobile home. There
must be a decent living to be made from breeding, training and selling
ponies, he thought as the door opened wide and the man in the flat cap
stood aside to let them in. It was bright, warm, humid, slightly aromatic
and very chaotic inside. Two women were cooking in the back over a hissing
propane stove; three children under five were squabbling over toy cars on
the floor; two men, one ancient and one middle-aged, were playing chess by
a paraffin heater, and an old woman sat gazing up at the strangers out of
one good eye, while her blind eye stared at nothing. They were dressed in
denim and wool, all of them neat enough, but the aroma of seldom washed
bodies was noticeable at once. 

* And who the hell would want to get wet too often on the road in this
weather? * Bodie demanded, remembering what it was like to be out in such
conditions. The women blinked at the strangers, the children scattered
away, and it was the middle-aged man who left the chess board and stood
up, looking at Doyle with a frown; he spoke with a burr that had to be
Dublin or Wexford. 

"What ails him?" 

"Got a chill," Bodie said quickly. "Been rotten weather lately. And he's
wet through." 

"You both are." It was the old woman who spoke now, her voice throaty and
broken by age, and she was leaning forward toward them, peering up at them
for all the world as if she knew them. Her accent was purely Gaelic,
thick, and she spoke English only haltingly. "Get through in the back and
get your things off, both of you. Dinny's clothes'll fit the little one,
Joe's'll fit t'other... Fetch some, Michael." 

"Yes, Grandma." The young man who had let them in nodded quickly, and
Bodie watched him duck out of the big caravan before he steered Doyle into
the rear compartment and drew the curtain across to close it off. 

Ray was numb from head to foot, his fingers clumsy, unresponsive, and
Bodie watched him try to undress for a moment before he knocked his hands
away from the task and did it for him, stripping him deftly and to the
skin. A pile of blankets lay in the corner and he picked up the top one,
scrubbing at Doyle's pale skin with it to warm him. "You okay? Stupid
question, right?" 

"Dumb," Doyle agreed. "No, I'm *not* okay. Thanks for askin'." 

"Well, what's a mate for?" Bodie tucked the blanket around him and set
about getting his own clothes off. "Bloody British weather." 

Weary to the bone, Doyle slumped onto the bench among the stacked
blankets, head against the wall, reflecting on the ludicrousness of it.
Bodie had just touched him more in five minutes than he had in the last
five years, and now was stripping naked two feet away from him, and all he
could feel was the cold, the aches and the lethargy. He chuckled, despite
his woes, as Bodie took off his cammo pattern pants. 

"Glad you think it's funny," Bodie muttered, tossing his sopping underwear
down on top of the pile of his clothes and reaching for a blanket. 

"S'not funny. *I'm* funny," Doyle corrected. "I mean, you just undressed
me, like..." Like a kid tended by his mum, or like -- like a lover. A jolt
ran through Doyle's innards and he blinked at Bodie. So nice when Bodie
touched him, like -- like-- 

The dark blue eyes were fixed on him, wary but open; Bodie was worried.
"You look terrible, Ray," he said honestly. 

"Oh, thanks a lot. Haven't had time to put on a lick of woad." 

"No, I mean you look ready to drop, you twit!" 

"I *am* ready to drop." Doyle forced a smile. "But at least I'm getting a
bit warmer." He paused and had to frown, his eyes on Bodie's rear. "Hey,
do you know you've got a bruise on your bum?" 

"What? Where?" Bodie twisted, trying to see it. "Oh, that. Sat down rather
hard on the slope yesterday, remember." He rubbed at the bruise; now that
his attention was drawn to it, he could feel it. Doyle was still frowning
at it, and he raised one brow in speculation. "Why the sudden fascination
with my rump?" 

"Nice little rump, isn't it?" Doyle muttered, trying to make a joke out of
it. But he was not feeling much humour, and the aches and pains receded a
little as it hit him, full force. Of course it was nice when Bodie touched
him! Of course he wanted to get Bodie to touch him whenever he could, and
of course he hadn't minded standing there while Bodie undressed him,
because no touch was enough, because what he wanted was a caress, a kiss,
he wanted it *all*. 

Again, he chuckled, shakily. What a place for it to finally dawn on him!
No way to pursue the matter here, no room for a seduction, and besides, he
felt like hell. Bodie wrapped himself in the blanket, hand on Ray's head.
"Laughing's not rational in circumstances like these, mate -- you're
delirious." 

"Am I?" Doyle met the blue eyes levelly, his own eyes smoldering and
intense. "When we get out of here, and back home, maybe I'll tell you why
I'm laughing at myself. Ray Doyle, Detective Constable, so slow on the
uptake. Two years with the Vice Squad, and he can't even recognize a
simple little vice when he sees one!" 

"I'd be lyin' if I said I understood that," Bodie muttered. "Don't suppose
you feel like explaining?" 

"Not now," Ray sighed. "Feeling too bad, got too much company. Don't even
know if it's wise to *think* about it, let alone say it to you. I don't
want my teeth busted, you see, and you might wind me up a belt that'd
knock my fillings out." 

"What in God's name are you on about?" Bodie demanded. 

"Forget it." Doyle suppressed the shivers as the caravan's door was opened
again, admitting a blast of cold, wet air. Michael was back, bringing with
him an armful of jeans and shirts that were handed through the curtain.
"Hope they've got a drop of the hard stuff," Ray said, working out which
denims were the smaller and pulling them on. They fit like gloves, and had
been brought out of a clean laundry bag, for which he was grateful. There
was a green check shirt too and he put it on, not bothering to tuck it in,
rolling the sleeves up as he watched Bodie dress. 

It was unusual to see Bodie in jeans. As a rule he never wore them, but he
ought to, Ray thought. There was nothing like the way a pair of jeans
hugged a shapely rear. Little did he guess that Bodie was thinking the
same thing as he smiled at the fit of Dinny's clothes on Doyle. Decent
again, they pushed through the curtain and into the cramped communal
living area; the Tinkers sat looking at the strangers with curious
expressions. Bodie wondered what could be the matter, but Doyle was too
preoccupied with his worries to notice the scrutiny; he held his hands to
the heater, accepting a shot glass of poteen with gratitude. 

A similar glass found its way to Bodie's lips, but he had not drunk from
it before the old woman who Michael had called 'Grandma' spoke up. 

"You're Irishmen," she said, "your faces say so. Curly is a Kerry man, no
doubting it, but you're from Waterford, aren't you?' Cork, is it?" 

"Liverpool," Bodie corrected. "And he's from the Midlands." 

"Aye, but your fathers came from the old country." The old woman's good
eye roamed over Doyle as he drank the raw potato spirit. "Sit you down,
there'll be food shortly." 

They sat on the floor by the heater and Doyle was shaking inside of the
rug he had laid claim to. Bodie took his wrist, grunting at the rapid
pulse. "Going like a fist full of castanets, mate," he said drily. 

"I know," Doyle muttered. And he was well aware that the chill was not the
only reason for that. He blinked dopily at Bodie's fingers where they
grasped his wrist, felt the warmth of Bodie's thigh against his, and felt
a hysterical chuckle build up in his throat. *All these years, straight as
a die, then along comes the tall, dark, handsome stranger and oh, but you
want him to touch you! * He swallowed the poteen and gagged, and Bodie
thumped his back while Michael refilled the glass. Slowly the warmth
seeped back into his bones, and as it did the notion of what he was
feeling became less startling. So Bodie was a man. What did that matter?
He wasn't a prude, and in his days with the Met he had dealt with gays of
all descriptions as part of the job. But -- to *be* one? * No - bi. Bi I
can live with, * he thought as the drowsiness of alcohol, temperature and
weariness began to overtake him. * I mean, when I was painting I used to
think men were just as beautiful, didn't I? And Bodie - now, there is a
ravishing beauty! God, will he kill me if he finds out? Do I even want to
risk telling him? * 

Colour flushed up in Doyle's face as Bodie watched him thaw out, and his
eyes grew heavy, his chin sinking down onto his chest as the warmth soaked
in and the shaking stopped. He heaved a deep sigh and seemed to doze while
Bodie kicked himself again for sheer insensitivity. There were times when
Raymond Doyle was an inch under his skin, when he was painfully aware of
every shift in mood, every line and plane and hollow of the face and body
he lived half his life looking at; there were other times when he had to
shut him out before the closeness became *too* close and they regretted
it. And other times when the past crowded in on him, and Doyle was
temporarily thrust aside by the memories; that could happen at the
stupidest times -- like today. 

Guilt raked its claws over Bodie as he realised how much Ray had suffered
without a word -- to please him. An act of friendship -- even incongruous
because Doyle could be prickly as a cactus and as a rule never hesitated
to stand up for his rights. So why the hell would he hurt himself just to
fulfil a promise he had made rashly that, yes, they would go hiking over
this long weekend? Bodie frowned at the bowed profile, reached out and
brushed a strand of drying hair back off his face, watched him wrinkle his
nose and stir awake again. Green eyes blinked sleepily at him, and he did
a double take -- 

If a girl had looked at him like that, with lowered lids and the faintest
of smiles, he'd have been making tracks for bed. No -- it must be the
chill. Drowsiness and comfort after hours of being frozen and aching.
Bodie smiled ruefully at him as he put his chin down again, and it was
some time before he became aware that the old woman was watching them.
Hell's bells, what would *she* make of the little caress, and Doyle's
answering gaze? He looked up into her one 'good' eye, realising that even
that was not much short of blind, and waited for her to speak. 

Her face was pale, deeply etched by lines that told of a long, hard life,
and her hair was like silver wire, tied back loosely above a grey shawl.
Hands knotted by arthritis lay on the arms of her chair, but for all that,
Bodie had the impression of a young person looking at him out of the
ancient body. A person who somehow existed outside of the prison of time.
She wore a deep, intent frown as she looked from him to Doyle and back
again. "I know you, don't I?" The words were no more than a whisper. 

Mesmerising. Bodie gazed up at her, unable to look away, unable to find
his thoughts for some moments. "I don't think so," he said at last. "I'm
just a Liverpool Irishman. Must be someone who looks like me you're
thinking of." 

But she shook her head. "No, no. It's him too, Curly. And you. I know you,
both of you... Aye, and maybe I dreamed you." 

"Dreamed...?" Bodie asked softly, wanting very much to understand. 

It was Michael who answered. "Don't let Grandma worry you; she's fey, but
the dreams do no harm, not these days. She sees things, often true things
-- they'd have burned her for a witch a few hundred years ago." He
grinned, white toothed and handsome. "There's no harm in her dreaming, and
her treasures." 

Bodie smiled. "Treasures?" 

"Old, old things," the old woman sighed. "Things from the past, long ago.
No, not a few years, boy. Not a lifespan or ten... Things from the old,
wild days when the Earth was young and free." 

The words, the voice, the woman, made Bodie shiver. He looked at Ray's
gentle, drowsing profile. "And you 'dreamed' us?" 

She nodded. "Many times, and years ago... Och, I'm too old to keep my
memories need and tidy, but I'll think of it... Aye, and I know you. And
him. You're the two. Always the two." 

A clatter of dishes interrupted her and the younger women began to hand
around hot food. Fresh bread, stew, apricot jam, strong tea. Doyle roused
himself with an effort, savouring the meal which, because it was hot,
banished the aches in his face. He ate methodically, surprised by how good
the simple fare was, waking up as he began to revive, and taking more
notice of his company. The Tinkers were all one family, there was no doubt
of that: Grandma, whose name was Judith, the middle aged man, her son;
Michael, his wife, her mother; Michael's children and his old uncle, who
said nothing, as if he found the English language difficult. Other family
members would be scattered through the dozen other caravans -- sisters and
brothers and their spouses and children. 

The life of the wanderer, the nomad, was fascinating; there was something
wild about these people, something that seemed far from the Twentieth
Century, especially the old woman, who more than any of them harked from a
bygone age. The Tinkers were not Gypsies, Doyle remembered; when the
English went into Ireland and dispossessed the Celtic nobility, the Irish
royalty had two choices left to them. Stay on as servants on the estates
where they had once been the lords of the manor, or take to the road. Many
of them chose freedom over servitude, and many Tinker families, poor and
shabby though they may have been went by names such as Tyrone and Armagh.
It was not an idle boast when they claimed to be descended from royalty:
they were. But it was a wild, nearly barbarian kind of royalty -- 

The past tugged hard at Doyle. Not for the first time he felt the hunger
for freedom. They called it the call of the wild, and for sixpence, in
that moment, he would have elected to forget all about the city, the smog,
the killing and cruelty that was his way of life, and go where he was
beckoned, be free for the first time in his life. A glance at Bodie's face
showed him that his partner was thinking the same thoughts, and they
shared a rueful smile... It was a dream, but an impossible one. 

Judith was murmuring beneath her breath, her eyes closed. *Fey*, said
Michael, and Doyle was inclined to accept that without reservation. She
was nearly blind, but all her attention was fixed on the strangers, and
though she did not speak up while they ate he could literally hear her
mind ticking over. As the dishes were removed the younger women gathered
up the children and left the caravan to put them to bed in their own
vehicles. The old uncle lit up a reeking pipe and Michael brought out the
moonshine. Two glasses later, the woes of the world did not seem nearly so
bad, and Doyle leaned back against an upturned crate, content to watch
Bodie as the lights were turned down low and the atmosphere became mellow.


After a while Bodie looked up, perhaps feeling the green eyes on him, and
they studied each other in silence, each trying to fathom what the other
was thinking, feeling. For himself, Doyle knew what he wanted, and the
more poteen he drank the more sensible it seemed that he should want to be
cuddled up in Bodie's arms. He was half drunk, and he knew it; he was more
than half way in love, and he knew that too. But -- Bodie? What the hell
would Bodie say? What was he thinking now, as he looked back across the
paraffin heater with wide, dark eyes? What did *he* want?" 

The soft lighting played about Doyle's unusual features, playing tricks on
Bodie's eyes. One moment he was elven, the next an angel, the next
satanic, but always heartstoppingly beautiful... Thoughts like that were
nothing new to Bodie; he had always been aware of the incredible physical
beauty Doyle commanded; he had features most women would kill for, green
eyes that were wide and slanted with curling lashes, a perfect nose, lips
that were irresistible. He had often wondered what Ray must have looked
like before the hardcase with the beer bottle smashed his cheekbone and
chipped the tooth, the two flaws that made him human, made him *real*. Too
good to be true, probably. Take away those flaws and what was left
belonged on a Sixteenth Century canvas. Often, Bodie was reminded of
Leonardo's and Bellini's angels and cherubs, and of 'The Madonna Of The
Rocks'. He feasted his eyes on his friend as the poteen relaxed his taut
nerves, let him feel properly again. Beauty was there to be possessed, and
Bodie's acquisitive nature made him want to reach out to Doyle and, even
if for just a little while, own him. Hold him. Have him. 

* Dangerous *, he told himself. * Friendship is one thing, lust is
something else, and if you put the two together... Christ, I'll end up
loving him! * The thought was, on the face of it, absurd. And then Doyle
stretched, yawned and rubbed his nose with the back of his knuckles, a
gesture that was so innocently vulnerable that he might have been nine
years old, and Bodie's wayward heart gave a leap in his chest and beat
faster. He groaned without a sound. * Jesus, I already love him, who am I
kidding? * He smiled, not realising that he was doing it until Doyle
smiled back, and if Bodie had collected that smile from a girl he would
have been expecting a night to remember, with rumpled sheets and tangled
limbs -- 

"Och, and it's a fool I am, in me old age!" Judith exclaimed suddenly.
Doyle and Bodie looked at her expectantly. She was nodding vigorously at
them. "Now I know you, and oh, I've dreamed you often." She leaned
forward. "You," pointing one arthritic finger at Bodie. "Kinnamus. The
Iron Hand. The warrior. Aye, the reaver, the slayer, the dealer of
death... And you," turning to Doyle, "you, Bran. The raven, the bard, the
warrior whose great heart is pain, the one who set aside his art to
fight... Aye." She smiled, satisfied. "Warriors, the two of you, on many a
field of battle; hard times, with pain and death and little love but what
you found together." 

Doyle blinked. Had he heard that right? "Love? What... What do you mean?" 

The nearly blind eyes closed. "The Earth was younger and the Legions came,
and we fought... The Bridge of Sand -- oh, and the wren was the match of
the eagles! Such battles there were, so long ago, and you... Kinnamus and
Bran. You were there, warriors, and brothers..." She strained after the
memory, fighting for it, finding it. "And lovers, long ago." 

A jolt of electricity shot through Bodie's nerves and he met Doyle's eyes
sharply. If they had both been sober perhaps it would have been
disquieting, but as it was they were lulled by the stuffy heat of the
caravan and the moonshine, and the rain drumming on the roof, and instead
of a fretting horror a great warm sensation crept through Bodie's veins.
He could only guess at Ray's reactions, but the heavy eyes were warm and
the mouth he had desired for so long, barely half recognising it, was
curved into a smile. 

"Grandma," Michael remonstrated quietly, "you shouldn't say such things." 

"'Tis only the dream," Judith crooned. "Only the dream. Fetch my box,
lad." 

Obediently, Michael went to bring a small, carved wood chest from the back
of the caravan, and set it down on the old woman's knee. The lid went up
and the distorted fingers rummaged within. Doyle crooked one brow at
Bodie, and Bodie shrugged, but before they could ask what it was all about
Judith had found the object and brought it out. It was a green stone,
pierced at one end, flat and chipped and unimaginably old. She held it to
the light and it sparkled. Ray's eyes were drawn to it, as if hypnotised.
"This belongs to one of you," the old woman told them. "I don't know
which, but it's yours. Here, lad, take it." She passed it into Doyle's
long fingers as he reached out for it, and Bodie watched the frown draw
his brows together. 

"Ray?" 

"It's -- I dunno." Doyle hesitated, turning the green stone over and over
in his hands. It was warming against his skin, and the more it warmed the
better it felt. "It's like I know it, like I know the feel of it. Like..."


"Bran," said Judith, smiling. "'Tis the dream." 

* Warriors and brothers, and lovers long ago. * The words rang clearly
through Bodie's head and he swallowed. And again -- what were they now,
but warriors? And for six years they had been closer than brothers ever
were. It was like a self-fulfilling prophecy: how long had he wanted to be
Ray's lover? And if it *was* all fate, or destiny, and he was just drunk
enough to consider the possibility seriously, what did Doyle want? 

Doyle was gazing at him with wide, soft, doe-eyes, his face serene and
gentle, flushed with his temperature, and alcohol and the idea of it, and
Bodie saw a great tenderness there. If he had seen revulsion he would have
laughed it off, made a joke of it; but there was no revulsion, just a
gentle fascination that tugged at him hard. 

* And lovers, long ago *, Doyle was thinking vaguely, caught and held by
the blue eyes he knew so well. * Christ, were we? And here am I, tonight,
thinking how strange it is to look at a man and want him! If the old
woman's really fey and not just harmlessly insane -- oh, Bodie, will you
lie down with me? Will you touch me? Will you come with me, in me? Would
you want to? * The rapt look on Bodie's face said he would, and Doyle
shivered. 

The Tinkers seemed to attach no importance to it, as if the idea of two
men being in love was nothing to get upset about -- an age-old tradition
that went back as far as the human species. Perhaps it did. In a few
minutes it was all forgotten; Judith was dozing, Michael was reading the
paper, the older men went back to their chessboard, and Doyle and Bodie
considered each other in silence, a comfortable, close, intimate silence
that was better than words. Slowly, hesitantly, Ray smiled, and Bodie read
the acceptance of the idea in the expression. He caught his breath
sharply, raising a questioning eyebrow; and Doyle nodded. 

And lovers, long ago. Bodie closed his eyes, feeling the wave of
disbelieving emotion come up over his head: love, lust, tenderness,
friendship, curiosity, all intermingled until they were one and the same.
* Jesus, I want him *, he thought, not for the first time feeling himself
grow hard in response to his partner... but this was the first time it was
of any consequence. Ray had nodded in answer to the unspoken question.
*He'll do it -- he'll come to bed with me, he'll love me! Damn!* He opened
his eyes to find the green ones smiling at him, heavy lidded, bedroom
eyes, drowsy, a little drunk, very warm and speculative. 

Still they said nothing, and had not said another word an hour later when
Michael got up, stretched and yawned. "It's getting late and we'll be on
the road very early," he said. "Time to call it a day, I think... You can
have Barry Flannagan's 'van if you like. He's gone whoring in whatever
fleshpots he can find and won't be back till God knows when. I'll put your
clothes to dry and you'll have them back by morning. Are you feeling
better now, Ray?" 

"A bit." Doyle got his feet under him. "I'm dizzy and weak though -- got a
chill, s'all. Be better tomorrow. We'll be able to push off by then." 

"Och, don't worry, Come up to Osmotherly with us, you can catch your train
from there," Judith offered. "Here, take a bottle with you, it'll keep out
the cold." 

Bodie took the milk bottle from her; it was half filled with poteen and
had a cork hammered into the neck. "Thanks. Which is Flanagan's 'van?" 

"I'll show you," Michael offered, and headed outside. 

The rain had stopped and the moon showed her gibbous face through a break
in the overcast; Michael led the way to a small caravan still coupled to
an old Land Rover, Bodie and Doyle a pace behind. Ray's teeth were
chattering, though he still had the rug clutched about him; his bare feet
were numb in a moment, for the cold was striking after the warmth of the
family caravan. Flannagan's vehicle was not locked, and Michael snapped on
the light as he left them. 

"Thanks," Bodie said, "for everything." 

"The law of the road," Michael said dismissively. "Have you got matches
for the heater?" 

"In my pack," Bodie said, "forgot to bring 'em over." 

Michael handed him a box. "Keep him warm, for God's sake -- he's turning
blue. 'Night." 

The door slammed into place and Bodie gave Doyle a glance of concern
before going to his knees by the paraffin heater and swiftly lighting it.
"Come on, mate, I'll get you another rug. Toast your toes and drink some
more before you keel over." 

Pulling a chair up to the heater, Doyle did as he was told, and as he
rethawed Bodie saw that he still had Bran's green stone in his hand, and
was looking at it with a deep frown. It caught the line as he turned it
this way and that, mesmerising, strange. Both of them studied it, and when
Ray looked up his eyes were velvety with dilated pupils and Bodie's heart
skipped a beat. 

"What d'you reckon to the dream, Bodie?" he asked, voice low and very
husky, almost broken in his throat. 

"Old Judith's as fey as they come," Bodie said carefully, pulling another
folding chair up to the heater, determined not to rush any of this. 

"But the dream. Kinnamus and Bran... Christ, she had the two of us down
pat, like she'd known us all our lives. I mean, you, the Iron Hand, the
death dealer --" 

"And you, the bard who became a warrior. Us. Brothers." 

"And --" Doyle swallowed. "And lovers." 

"Yeah." Bodie met the doe eyes and had to smile; Ray looked nervous. "So?
What d'you reckon?" 

"I..." Doyle let a smile escape. "You first." 

"But I *asked* first," Bodie argued. 

Doyle sighed. "You're not laughing at the idea." 

"It's not funny," Bodie said levelly. "Not to me, anyway." 

"And you're not furious at the idea." 

"Should I be?" 

"Can't see why." Doyle shrugged. "I'm not *that* repulsive, am I?" 

Bodie laughed gently. "You're not repulsive at all. In fact, you're
quite..." He let the sentiment die unspoken. 

"Quite acceptable? Quite nice?" Doyle wondered. "Quite drunk?" 

"Well, you certainly are half squiffy," Bodie grinned. "But I was going to
tell you you're beautiful. Seems silly to say it to a man, though." 

The green eyes lit up, dancing. "Not if the man's your lover." 

"But you're not," Bodie said pointedly. 

"Yet," Doyle added. He took a swig from the bottle. "Christ, I'm dying,
Bodie. The way I feel, I'll be lucky to live till morning. I'm so *cold*,
and I bloody well hurt." 

The catch in his voice raked at Bodie's nerves. "And it's all my fault,"
he growled. "Damned stupid idea, hiking in this weather!" He turned away,
hunting for blankets and, as he found them, noticing that Barry
Flannagan's caravan had only one bed. "Er, Ray." 

"Mm? What?" 

"There's only one bed." 

"So?" Ray blinked curiously at him. 

"You don't mind sleeping -- alongside of me?" Bodie avoided the usual
phrase, with all its sexual connotations, with a last minute effort. 

Doyle chuckled. "I wouldn't even mind sleeping *with* you. What's the
matter, Bodie? Look, if the old woman's said something that bothers you,
forget it. It doesn't bother me, but I can forget it if you want me to. I
mean, I'd like -- I want -- oh, Christ. I *mean*, yes, I'm interested, but
I'm not desperate. Well, not so desperate I'd push you if you didn't want
to bother... I'm not all that repulsive, though, surely." 

"Got a short memory, haven't you?" Bodie dumped the blankets onto the bed
and came back to the heater. "I told you three minutes ago that you're
beautiful." He reached out with one hand, cupping Doyle's face. He was
whiskery and hot and clammy to the touch. "Come on, you'll be better if
you settle down and get some rest." 

"Yeah." Doyle got to his feet and Bodie saw that he was shaking. 

"Hey, Ray... Are you ill, or... Or are you afraid of me?" He asked, very
quietly. "If you don't want me to sleep in the bed, I'll just curl up by
the heater there." 

"Oh, Bodie!" Trembling hands grabbed Bodie by the shoulders. "I'm feeling
like death warmed up, you clot. Afraid of you -- of *you*? Don't be --"
And he leaned forward, dispelling forever the idea that any such fear or
apprehension existed by pressing his mouth on Bodie's. Bodie jumped in
surprise at their first kiss, mouth opening at once as he gasped. It was
nothing like the first kiss he had been imagining for years; it came out
of nowhere, unexpected, unplanned, hard and hot and sweet, clinging and
deep -- no hesitant, gentle brush of lip on lip as he coaxed and cajoled
Doyle into opening his mouth and surrendering to the intimate pleasure.
There was only a moment of hesitancy, then Ray's tongue was in his mouth,
seeking his and finding it, then drawing back and inviting Bodie's tongue
to delve into the hot, dark haven of his own mouth. Bodie's arms went
about his partner, tightening into a punishing embrace, which was just as
well: a moment later Doyle's knees went out from under him and if Bodie
had not had hold of him he might have fallen. 

The kiss broke and Doyle buried his face in Bodie's neck, clinging to him.
"Not scared of you, you big, daft thing... Just feeling bad. Got to lie
down before I fall down, Bodie. Help me?" 

*Help you?* Bodie thought, dazed and blinking on scalding tears. *For the
rest of your life, with anything, with everything, any time you ask* --
even as the thoughts fled unbidden through his mind he saw the absurdity
of them, and he said nothing, just grabbed his cold, skinny partner in a
bear hug and kissed his ear before setting about the task of undressing
him. Ray was shivering and hugging his chest; there was nothing in the
least romantic about it, which made both of them laugh a little
hysterically. 

"Oh, I'm sorry, Bodie," Doyle said through teeth that were still
chattering as he stepped out of Dinny's jeans. "This is no way to sleep
together for the first time, is it?" 

"Doesn't matter, sweetheart," Bodie said fondly, fetching Flannagan's
coarse bath towels and using them to scrub at Ray's pale skin in an
attempt to get his circulation going. "It's all my fault anyway. If we'd
stayed at home this whole long weekend and you'd run true to form, ambling
about the flat half naked and falling asleep in compromising positions,
maybe I'd have broken at last and made a pass at you anyway." 

"You--" Doyle blinked at him. "You mean you've been fancying me like that?
How long?" 

"About three hundred years," Bodie said ruefully. "S'what it feels like,
sometimes. Into bed with you, Raymond. I'll bring the moonshine -- you
could use some central heating." 

Obediently, Doyle climbed in among the blankets. "So cold." 

"Drink," Bodie told him, watching him swallow a draught of the poteen. 

"I'm half drunk. If I drink much more I'll have a hangover tomorrow." 

"So, tomorrow we'll be in the village, you can get whatever you like for
it, there's bound to be a Chemist, and if there isn't these Gypsies--" 

"Tinkers." 

"--can probably point us to the nearest one." He watched the shivering
bundle of misery and sighed. "You look terrible. Still cold?" 

"Freezing." Ray's teeth were chattering to prove it. 

Bodie smiled. "Don't scream in outrage, will you? I only know one way to
warm you up, but--" 

"Bodie, will you shut up and get into bed?" Doyle said, even his voice
shaking. "You'll like a giant hotwater bottle. Come on, before I die." 

So Bodie turned off the light, brought the paraffin heater a few feet
nearer the bed, took off his clothes and slipped in between the coarse
blankets -- Flannagan did not seem to possess any sheets. He yelped as
Doyle's cold body pressed against him. Ray had stripped to the skin and
hadn't been wearing any underclothes to begin with, since they had been as
sopping as the rest of his clothes. The shock of going from a first kiss
to the close press of two naked bodies in such a short time was only
partially softened by the fact that Doyle was feeling too bad at that
moment to offer or want anything to do with sensuality. "You *are* cold,
aren't you? Come here, you silly bugger. Why didn't you *say* something
this morning before we left the pub? All you had to say was, 'Bodie I
don't feel well,' and I'd have been all over you like a mother hen." 

"I don't whine," Doyle said, snuggling close, face pushed into Bodie's
shoulder and inhaling the absolutely unique scent of him. Clean and musky
and male and *Bodie*. "You're so warm. Hold me?" 

"Thought I was holding you," Bodie said breathlessly. 

"Tighter, then. Come on, I won't break." In a desperate effort to get warm
Doyle pulled Bodie half on top of himself and only then went limp beneath
the living blanket. "Oh, that's better, that's so nice." 

*Nice* was an understatement. Bodie could barely breathe. His nerves were
singing and his heart was thumping so hard that he knew Ray must be able
to feel it. Arousal tingled through his groin, but the body beneath his
was so feverish, aching, cold and trembling, that the desire somehow
transmuted itself into an upwelling of tenderness; the urgency passed
quickly and he was content just to hold the other man, feeling the warmth
gradually get into his bones. 

Alcohol and exercise had taken their toll of Bodie too, and not long after
Doyle breathed a heavy sigh and relaxed completely, he felt the tug of
drowsiness and followed him into sleep. The last thing he consciously
noticed was a little sharp dig at his right shoulder, and he realised that
Ray was still holding onto the green stone that had belonged to the bard,
Bran, in the days when the Earth was younger, when they had been warriors,
brothers -- and lovers, in a fey old woman's dream... 

******

*Mist swirled in formless eddies, coiling into half-recognised shapes
before dissembling again, but Doyle was not cold and for all the
desperation of the day he was strangely at peace. He lay still not
striving for orientation, just letting it come back a little at a time
until he knew where he was... 

His nose told him his exact whereabouts before he opened his eyes: he lay
in his lover's arms -- of course. Sheepskin was soft against his bare back
and a warm draught of breath blew across his neck. He opened his eyes, but
it was almost dark and he had to wait for the room's forms to become
apparent in the low, flickering illumination of the hearth, a hollow in
the centre of the floor where a single log burned brightly. Above his
head, the thatch smelt smoky and he could hear birds rattling around
there; somehow, he knew that it was just short of dawn. And this was his
home. 

Everything clicked into place and he propped himself one elbow to look
around at the familiar place. It was a simple house, with one room and a
floor of swept earth. The tools of his trade were propped against the wall
-- two light, hunting javelins, a round, iron-bound shield with a lethal
boss, newly sharpened, two swords, a dirk with a jewelled hilt, and the
war spear, longer than he was tall with its bright, brass collar and
mantle of feathers below the quadruple-edged blade, half the length of his
arm. Beside his weapons were others, just as well worn, just as familiar.
With a smile he looked down into his lover's sleeping face. White, perfect
skin, brushed by black lashes, faintly flushed with warmth; the long hair
so dark that it was almost black even in strong sunlight, lay half over
his face, and he combed it away with his fingers, straightening the uneven
fringe and stirring the sleeper. The long lashes fluttered open and blue
eyes blinked up at him, dreamily, before the smile was mirrored and they
sought a kiss, an old, familiar sensation, longed for because of the
wealth of its comfort. 

For a moment Doyle fought for orientation as the other's tongue found its
way into his mouth, but it was all so natural... Kinnamus... Bodie...
Kinnamus. No difference, for all the gulf of time that separated the two,
and as he let the kiss besiege him the other world receded, faded out,
until all he knew was his home, his love, and the day to come, which both
knew would be wonderful and terrible as no other had been. 

Orientation was easy as the low, vibrant voice murmured his name; it
called him Bran. Of course. The kiss grew harder and there were hands on
his buttocks, pulling him closer than close. He felt the familiar surge of
heat along every nerve and when teeth fastened on his right nipple he
sighed, letting his wanton body arch toward the heat of the beloved mouth.


His senses began to swim with passion, always fresh and new no matter how
often the rite was repeated, and soon he found himself on his knees, head
pillowed on his folded forearms, while a soft, lapping tongue sent waves
of delight through him. His closed eyes freed his mind to wander,
summoning images of fantasy, and his lips crooned the name not of Bodie
but of Kin, making a caress of the sound as he began to rock on his knees,
waiting for the gift of joy, feeling the love that swirled about them
both, almost physically tangible. A strong hand cupped him, massaging his
swollen cock and his balls with sweeping caresses while the tongue
plundered his last secret. 

He was on the brink of pleading when he felt the hard, hot nudge of his
lover's shaft, and he strained to open, to invite the most intimate of all
caresses, striving to make himself one with the object of his love. He
threw his head back as the rigid heat filled him, and Kin's strong arm
slid about his chest, lifting him up and back until they knelt,
back-to-chest, unable to move much, suspended on the fine line between
ecstacy and agony, before they tumbled forward again and rocked together
for a long time. 

It was heartstoppingly familiar as they came. Doyle/Bran panted in the
scents of the sheepskin against his face, and the mingling scents of two
men in love. Kin/Bodie went down onto his back, kissing him, the long,
dark hair sweeping across his cheek as he turned his head toward the
soothing mouth. 

Outside, it was dawn, and as they drowsed they heard the call to arms, a
braying of horns over the encampment that was on the move with the first
glimmer of daylight. Bran slipped out of their soft bed of hides and
skins, dabbing away the cool trickles as they escaped, and as the warhorns
clamoured again he and Kin girded on their swords and collected their
weapons. The hearth was almost dead now and the cold or early spring
washed into the house; clad in leather, they were to march with the
warband, less a day's journey from the Bridge of Sand, where the scouts
said the Roman commander, Juvenal, was already in Eriu, searching for gold
and a source of slave labour. The horns blared again, and Kin caught
Bran's head to kiss him before they relinquished the sanctuary of home for
the vicious chaos of the world without. 

Thunderheads were boiling over the hills and it was raining before noon.
The host was a thousand strong, warrior men and women, hastening to a
confrontation they knew would send half of them past Death into the land
of Magh Mar. The bards sang of the next world, promising its riches, and
the tribesmen who marched against Juvenal laughed off the notion of Death.
It meant nothing to them, for Magh Mar was the reality and life just a
proving ground for the warriorkind. Bran and Kinnamus were sure of it.
They lay in the heather, eating mutton and black bread, while the scouts
went out to find the Roman forces. An expedition dispatched by the
butcher, Julius Agricola, commanded by a young soldier poet who was
destined to meet, full force, the enchantment of the land that could teach
magic to Persia. 

The Druidai wore their swords today: white robes and the green stones of
the island's ancient religion were to be seen everywhere among the ranks.
Bran fingered the green stone he wore on a thong at his own throat and
remembered the days of his youth with a smile; the days when he thought he
too would have been a bard. His boyhood was a vivid memory, long, hot days
on the island of Mona, learning among the Druidkind until it came to the
time of choosing... Holy Mona, or his lover. Bran had chosen to take up
the sword, and he had not regretted it for a moment; he and Kin were still
young, the love still vibrant between them, and yet they knew without
doubt that neither of them would see old age. 

Warriors, the beloved of the gods, died young and journeyed to Mahr Mar-- 

There to love again in the lands that made the Plain of Fal seem nothing
much to see. Bran gave Kinnamus a reckless smile as the scouts returned
with news that Juvenal's troops had been seen, their scarlet hackles
marching in from the sea behind their golden acuila. The host rose up out
of the heather and swordsteel rang, first one pealing chime, then a
hundred, bell-like and clear on the wind as the old world and the new met
in a welter of blood. 

Kin was the first to go down, split rib from rib and separated from his
lover by the furious, chaotic eddies of the battle. He crawled off the
field, feeling the life's blood pumping out between his fingers, and the
blacksmith's lad went quickly in search of Bran, finding him counting his
own wounds, white with pain, his leathers slick and red. 

He limped after the blacksmith's boy, away from the din and reek of
battle. Kin lay in a nook in the lee of an old, wind-stunted tree, and his
eyes were misted, betraying the struggle it took to wait, to hang on to
the tenuous thread of life long enough to feel Bran against him, one last
time. 

The battle seemed far away as Bran stumbled into his arms, cold and numb
and weary, recognising the telltale signs for what they were. There was
not much time, for either of them. The blacksmith's lad left them in
peace, and they tossed away the swordsteel, finished with it, sheltered
from the wind, the embrace close and warm, the kiss alive, exquisite and
desperate with the knowledge that it was the last, until the mortal
drowsiness swept over them and they sank into the darkness, the peace, a
moment not of parting but of the final joining, life's ancient covenant
with sleep...* 

Bodie woke with a start as Doyle called his name, tossing fitfully. He was
not awake, but the dream must have been too vivid to be borne; the
dampness of tears chilled Bodie's shoulder. He gathered the thin, hard
body against him, shaking him gently. "Wake up, Ray, you're dreaming.
Ray!" 

And Doyle came awake, the shock running through him. He was trembling
again, but not from the chill. Bodie pulled the blankets tighter about
them, wishing a light was within reach. The caravan was in pitch darkness,
but at least he could feel that Doyle was warm again, and as he withdrew
from the dream he relaxed, clutching tight to Bodie as if to reassure
himself that he was there. "Nightmare?" Bodie asked softly, holding the
curly head against his own. 

"No," Ray murmured. "Just strange... But not strange. I dreamed... old
Judith's dream, I think. You and me. Bran and Kinnamus. The love...
Christ, Bodie, I've never felt love like it. We fought together, we -- we
died together." His fingers bruised Bodie's arms. "It was *us*." 

"Shhh," Bodie crooned into his hair. "It was just a dream." 

But Doyle was not so sure. "No, it wasn't. It was *us*, Bodie, we lived
then, we were everything she said. Warriors. Brothers. Lovers." His voice
broke on the last word. 

"Don't torment yourself, Ray," Bodie whispered. "You're safe, you're warm,
you're stronger now you've got the chill half beaten. Warriors? I guess we
are. Brothers? We always have been, haven't we? Lovers?" He drew a caress
about the unseen face, tracing the shape of it, dwelling on the shape of
lips, the straight, perfect bone structure of nose, the soft-sheathed
oddity of battered cheekbone. Doyle was smiling under his touch, he felt
the expression as a blind person might have, 'seeing' through his
delicately tracing fingertips... The blind were definitely on to
something, he thought. "Loving you is simple, Raymond Doyle. It feels like
I was *born* loving you. It feels..." 

"You *were* born loving me," Doyle sighed. "Oh, I dunno. Maybe tomorrow
all this will be back in perspective -- maybe I'm just drunk or delirious,
but here in the dark... I *know* the old woman's right. You can tell
yourself a whole pack of lies in the blue light of day; it's easier to
tell the truth in the dark." 

"Yeah," Bodie agreed. "Much easier. I love you, Ray. I think I've loved
you for ages, just didn't wake up to myself until it was engraved on a six
inch nail and driven into my thick skull." He paused, settling Doyle more
comfortably in his arms. "Will you kiss me?" 

Doyle was still remembering Kin's mouth as he searched for Bodie's in the
darkness. Bodie's was the same, hot and sweet and possessive. He felt the
love come up and drown him, and called himself a fool. It was stupid to
feel like this about anyone, not safe, not wise. But then he was on his
back and Bodie was lying heavily on top of him, and he wasn't thinking
anymore. The memories of Kin's loving were feverish and he felt the throb
of arousal, felt himself quickly grow hard, felt his hips lift with a will
of their own, pressing the two of them together. Bodie was already
gasping, and it was far too fast, a headlong plunge into swift ecstasy,
racking and bewildering. 

The tide of desire had come out of nowhere. Bodie was shaken by his own
hunger, disquieted by the suspicion that, if Ray had not wanted it to
happen, he would have been overpowered by Bodie's sheer weight and
physical strength... The notion dried his mouth. Simple rape. So much the
better that Doyle had not held back one erg of response. The effort of it
exhausted Ray and Bodie was sure he passed out rather than falling asleep,
burning up again with his soaring temperature, his heart fluttering like a
bird. Bewildered but ecstatic, Bodie smiled into the tangled curls,
remembering a few words Ray had spoken earlier: *Christ, Bodie, I've never
felt love like it.* "You will," Bodie murmured, unheard, "oh you will." He
caressed the limp, satiated body, discovering the feel of bone, muscle,
fine skin, silky body hair, the soft stickiness of genitals, the soft-hard
heat of him, the musky, masculine smell, so beautifully, sinfully erotic
in the aftermath of lovemaking. He drew the blanket over their heads,
inhaling deeply, smelling the essences of both of them as he buried his
face in the soft curls. 

Later, he would learn the taste and texture of every part of him -- Ray
would withhold nothing. Bodie shivered, realising everything that that
meant. His nerves tingled as he *knew*. The long, dancer's legs would
spread for him, Ray would welcome him at last, and it was like... He
struggled to define the confused feeling. It was like coming home. To
love. Coming home, after a long, long absence, as if they had just begun
to wake from a long sleep. Bodie closed his eyes, wondering, remembering
the verse: *I only rest a while to keep/ Life's ancient covenant with
sleep...* Warriors, brothers, and lovers long ago. 

Past lives... 

And once again. 

A Tinker encampment in a rainstorm was a funny place to find your true
love, but Bodie had to wryly admit, no place was more fitting in this
case. He fell asleep with his face in Doyle's soft hair, nursing a
measureless content. 

A cockerel welcomed the sun from the roof of Flannagan's caravan, and they
stirred awake with a shared groan, blinking in the fragile daylight. Bodie
got one elbow under him, watching Doyle rub his eyes and yawn. He was blue
about the jaw and flushed, but he looked much better. "Hello, love," Bodie
said, very quietly, and kissed his nose. 

"Hello, love," Doyle echoed, and licked Bodie's lips, inviting a kiss. He
stretched as it broke and mirrored Bodie's smile. "Did I dream it, or did
we... make love last night?" He ran a palm across his stomach, felt the
crusting of their life's essences, dried there. "Yes, we did." And he
blushed darkly, his eyes smiling into the blue ones. 

"You forgot?" Bodie sounded miffed. 

"No; I did so much dreaming I just wasn't sure..." He frowned. "I dreamed
us as lovers. I mean, *real* lovers. You know. Technically, all we did was
bring each other off -- crude as that sounds. I dreamed us as *lovers*,
Bodie. You *know* what I mean. You took me. All of me." 

"Inside you," Bodie whispered. "You want that, Ray?" 

Doyle closed his eyes, shivering. "Yeah. They reckon it hurts, but it
didn't in the dream." 

"It doesn't hurt too much if you're careful," Bodie said slowly. "Only if
you're too dry or too fast or too rough, or if you're scared and tense.
And after a little while it doesn't hurt at all." 

"Scared? Of you?" Ray made a scornful face. "No way, mate... Mate. That's
just about accurate now, isn't it? The word's got a whole new meaning." He
put his head down on Bodie's chest. "I wish you could have shared Judith's
dream... There was love like you wouldn't believe." 

"You can always show me," Bodie suggested softly. 

"Show you?" Doyle sounded surprised. "You mean, you want all of *that*?
The love?" 

"I want anything you'll give me," Bodie told him. "I'll take lust, but I'd
sooner have love." 

The shiver coursed through Doyle again, reaching every nerve. "I'll show
you, then. A bit at a time, over years and years. Loving's not like
sleeping together. I could love you and never touch you. S'not sex." 

"I know," Bodie smiled. "I *want* you for years and years, you clot. Come
and live with me. If Cowley doesn't like it he can lump it. If he asked me
to choose between you and CI5, there's be no choice, would there?" 

"None," Doyle said emphatically, "at all." He stretched. "Feel better,
love. It's Monday morning, isn't it? Four day long weekends are
exhausting... Got to be back in London by tonight. We could catch the
train down by lunchtime, and..." He chuckled. "And go to bed. Your bed,
wider than mine, lovely mattress." 

"Sheepskin underblanket, sheepskin coverlet. Keeps the warm in," Bodie
said wisely. 

"Yeah, I know," Ray murmured, remembering the bed of soft hides and skins
in their little house on the eastern shore of Eriu. "Listen, the Tinkers
are up and about. Time to get up, maybe. Reckon they'll give us
breakfast?" 

Bodie sat up and stretched his arms above his head. "Oh, I expect so. And
a ride into the village." He smiled at the caress on his back. "Train up
to Middlesborough, Intercity back home to bed. It's a pity we hadn't
decided to do that in the first place -- would have saved us money and
saved you being ill. Cor, what a night we could have had last night!" 

"Doesn't matter," Doyle shrugged, his fingers finding the green stone that
had been lost in a fold of the blankets, turning it to the sunlight. "This
was Bran's... It's mine. It's beautiful, isn't it?" 

"So wear it," Bodie said huskily. "Goes with your eyes. Get a chain for
it." 

"A thong," Ray corrected. "It's a Druid stone, you know." 

"And you dreamed that as well, did you?" 

"Yeah. I dreamed it all. The way we lived, fought, loved. And died." He
blinked up at Bodie almost blindly. "You died in my arms -- and I in
yours." 

The strangest thrill caught at Bodie's heart, squeezing it tightly in his
chest, and he stopped to take Ray's mouth again, ignoring the morning
whiskers, revelling in the way Doyle opened to him at once, made him
welcome. "No more talk of death and dying," he said, sliding out of
Flannagan's blankets. "I've just woken up to the fact I'm in love, and I
don't want it spoiled, Ray." He had pulled on the borrowed jeans when
knuckles rapped at the door; opening it, he saw Michael there. 

"Morning to you," the young Tinker said with a smile that was dazzling.
"Here are your clothes, nice and dry. There's a bit of breakfast cookin'
if you want it -- and it's a fine day. Rain's gone over." 

So it had. The moor was still cold and wet but the sky was blue and the
wind sprang out of the south, a few degrees warmer. "Thanks, we'll be
there in a jiff," Bodie told him, taking the armful of clothes. They were
still warm, as if he had just scooped them up off the floor beside
Judith's paraffin heater. Bodie closed the door again, and dumping the lot
on the foot of the bed, sorting his from Doyle's and dressing quickly. 

Ray sat up, staring gloomily at his clothes. "I'm sorry, Bodie, really I
am." 

"For what?" Bodie blinked at him, wondering what in the world he meant. 

"For last night. That was a stupid way to be together for the first
time... The first time's supposed to be special. Slow and -- I dunno.
*Special*." 

"It *was* special," Bodie remonstrated. "Christ, I never cuddled any
*girl* that tight for that long. They usually yell about suffocation, but
you? You wouldn't let go any more than I would. How often do I fall in
love? Last time I loved anyone, I was a kid, young and green and silly.
Didn't mean *that*." He snapped his fingers. "I mean, I got over her death
in two seconds flat, didn't I? Whereas, every time *you* start talking
about dying I want to howl." 

"Sorry... I'll try to remember that," Doyle said with a faint smile. "I
just didn't want to let go, last night. I was cold, and... How often do
*I* fall in love? Last person I loved was Ann, and that was over so fast
it'd hardly got started so it doesn't really count. It's almost as if...
As if all my affairs had to be temporary things, just there to tide me
over till it was time to wake up, time to find out way here in the rain.
That make sense?" 

"A lot of sense," Bodie agreed. "So much, it's frightening." Fully
dressed, he sat on the bed and smiled. "Look at you. Bloodshot eyes,
whiskers and hair like a bird's nest, and I *still* fancy you! Come on,
love, get dressed and get some breakfast into yourself. It's nearly seven
and -- we've got a train to catch." 

* The Intercity, back to London *, he thought as he watched Doyle standing
in the lee of the big family caravan where Judith's brood lived, a mug of
tea in one hand, his electric razor whirring through the stubble on his
jaw, his grey wool cap pulled down over his ears, his collar turned up,
very pale in the cold air, the eyes green as a Seer's. Bodie smiled; it
should have been strange loving a man, but it wasn't. Not by a long
stretch of the imagination could Ray Doyle be thought of as anything less
than a hundred percent *male*, yet there was so much about him that
transcended gender. He was slight and gentle and emotional much of the
time, all of which appealed immensely to Bodie; he was blessed with
features that were timeless, less human than elven, perfect skin and a
husky voice that would have made a laundry list sound like an amorous
advance, to 'come up and see him sometime.' The wonder of it was not in
why Bodie *could* love him and fancy him; it would have been more to be
wondered at if he could *not* find love in his heart and a fire in his
nerve endings. 

Bacon was frying by the panful, and from the dozen or so motor caravans
appeared no less than five dozen Tinkers, all milling around, feeding the
dogs, rubbing down the ponies, which had sheltered under their tarpaulins,
fetlock-deep in cut heather, overnight. Doyle had one eye on the time as
he ate, gauging the time it would take them to shuttle into Middlesborough
and make the connection with the Intercity Express. As much as he felt
oddly at ease with these people, he was eager to be moving, to get back
home. To bed? He smiled. Deep in his left pocket, his fingers were curled
around Bran's green Druid stone, and his eyes followed Bran's tall,
smouldering, beautiful lover. Bodie knew he was watched and looked up with
an oddly selfconscious smile, nearly shy but not quite, his blue eyes
darkening with promise. 

As the Tinkers broke camp, old Judith came out to bid them farewell before
heading for Michael's four wheel drive. She walked badly, bent with
arthritis, and was more nearly blind than they had realised. She clutched
a shawl about her against the wind, her silver hair teased loose by the
gusts, and squeezed their hands. "God keep you well. And take care of each
other," she said to both of them, and then, to Bodie added: "Guard him
closely, lad; he has the soft, foolish heart of a bard, has your Bran, a
great heart but one that gives him pain." 

"I will," Bodie promised, looking up over the old woman's stooped
shoulders at his partner... his lover. Doyle wore a frown of perplexity
and said nothing. "Look after yourself, Judith. Maybe we'll meet up again
some day." 

They rode in the back of a wagon with several of the dogs and three noisy
children, and hopped down onto the road before the Tinkers' vehicles
headed for the fairground. When the caravans and four wheel drives had
gone the world became quiet and still, and Bodie led the way across a
paddock, the shortcut to the rural station where they would get a train to
connect with the Intercity. 

The sky was blue now, and larks were singing high up; half way across the
paddock they stopped to listen to them, and Bodie shook his head ruefully.
"It's a pity we have to get back to all that noise and smog. It'll be nice
up here today." He gave Doyle a cheeky grin. "Nicer at home in bed,
though, eh?" 

"I hope so," Doyle said fervently. "I'd hate to think that getting laid in
the cold, damp grass with an audience of cows and magpies is as nice as it
gets." 

Bodie laughed out loud and caught his face between gloved palms to kiss
him. "You're a virgin, aren't you?" 

"Well, unless last night counts, yeah," Ray admitted. "And last night you
didn't, well, take me, did you? So I expect I'm a virgin. What about you?"


"Haven't had a bloke since Africa," Bodie told him honestly. "Never wanted
one. Men were just necessary in the bush, unless you were going to live
like a monk, and -- Jeez, I was a kid, I'd have popped my cork. Nah, I
never really *wanted* a bloke until I met you. Then I fell in love. Feel a
bit of a twit saying it, if you want to know." 

"Don't," Doyle murmured. "There's nothing stupid about loving. I'll show
you, when we get home. I'm a virgin, yeah, but... I dreamed Judith's dream
I know what it's about as surely as if I've been falling into your arms at
every verse end, and loving's a big part of it. Sex is just sex. Let me
show you, Bodie." 

And Bodie was delighted to comply. They ate British Rail's idea of lunch
and dozed on the train, then took a taxi from the station to Bodie's flat.
As they closed the door and dumped their hiking gear Doyle was chuckling.
"Did you mean what you said when you asked me to come and live with you?" 

"Of course I did." Bodie took off his jacket and got the heating on,
turning up the gas fire. "I make it a policy to say what I mean... unless
it's expedient to lie." He turned back to Doyle, watching him pacing
around the flat with an odd expression on the elven features. "Yeah, take
a good look. You'll never see it this tidy again; as soon as you move all
that junk of yours in, you'll have the place looking like a second hand
shop, and an untidy one, at that... You're feeling better, by the looks of
you. You look just about over it." 

Doyle nodded, wrinkling his nose affectionately at the concern in Bodie's
voice. "Just about. I'll be fine by tomorrow." 

"And what about now? Want a cup of tea?" 

"A pure malt'd hit the spot, if you've got it." 

"Coming up." Bodie poured two, tossed his own down while Ray sipped at
his, and put the empty glasses on the silver tray beside the bottle. Very
deliberately, he took Doyle in his arms. "We've got some unfinished
business to attend to, haven't we?" 

"Nice way of putting it." Ray looped his arms around Bodie's neck. "I want
to see if it's like the dream. Us together, I mean." 

"Oh? And how was that?" Bodie asked, not for the first time envying Ray
that damned dream. 

"Beyond *my* powers of description," Doyle smiled. "You know, it's turning
me on like blazes just holding you like this." He caught his breath as
Bodie pressed his hips forward, feeling the hardness of arousal there.
"You too?" Ray returned the pressure, feeling the electricity coursing
through him, and put his head down on Bodie's shoulder. "The bed, the
sofa, the floor or the dining table," he murmured. "I do hope you'll say
the bed." 

"Raymond, you're wicked," Bodie chided fondly, cuffing his ear and
following him into the bedroom. "Come on, and maybe I'll admit how many
times I've lain in this bed pretending and wishing you were there with
me." 

"You mean--" Doyle blinked. "You, um, did yourself, thinking about me?" 

"Shocked?" Bodie raised one brow. 

"Flattered," Doyle corrected. "I wish you'd said something instead of...
Oh, hell, Maybe it was better letting it take its own time. Better for
both of us this way." He came to rest beside the bed and turned, stepping
into Bodie's embrace. "Lovers long ago. Lovers... Funny little word, isn't
it? So much meaning. So much --" 

As Bodie began to touch him, Doyle let the words run out. The tightening
in his groin and chest robbed him of his breath, and as Bodie licked his
ears he began to tremble. Two time frames were fighting to drop into
alignment -- the glorious familiarity of Kinnamus' love, and acid-sweet
strangeness of Bodie's. He was painfully aroused and gasping for breath as
Bodie slid the shirt from him and gathered him in, one hand tucked into
his crotch, massaging there. His pulse hammered in his ears and the
tingling ran up into his abdomen and down into his thighs, a sensation as
terrible as it was wonderful. His knees seemed to weaken and he clutched
at Bodie for support as he felt the jeans unzipped; he wriggled,
uncomfortable and with a growing fever of desire. 

Bodie watched his lover, bemused, and wished with all his heart that he
could have shared the dream. Ray was reliving it now, he was out in a
world of his own, behaving not like a virgin but like one whose love had
returned after a long separation. In a moment he would reciprocate the
ardour he was feeling through Bodie's hands. Bodie knew that when he did
it would sweep them both away. He bit his lip, praying that he could
remember to be careful, gentle, but his ears were singing and his blood
pressure soared to match his pulse rate -- 

And when Ray drifted back from his dreams and began to return the loving
he was bowled over as completely as if he had been hit over the head. The
fingers were practised, the lips knowing, the kisses and caresses tender
and educated, every last erg lavished on him without hesitation...
*Kinnamus*, Bodie thought. *Was I? He thinks I was... My body thinks I
was... It's so familiar, it's so fine...* Ray was on his knees, his cheek
pressed to the white, rippling abdomen, his fingers tracing patterns
across Bodie's flanks and buttocks, his breath a warm, tormenting draught
across the throbbing heat of Bodie's cock. 

The first kiss nearly had Bodie off his feet. A lick, and he was barely
strong enough to stand, and as Ray began to suck him he swayed. How many
women had done this for him he no longer knew, but it was different now --
it was *him*. There was liquid delight surging along every nerve, a fire
in his groin and an ache in his balls, and he moaned, at once wishing that
Doyle would stop yet *never* stop. Then his legs went out from under him
and he found himself sprawled across his bed. 

The mattress depressed under Doyle's knees, and he sat back, waiting for
the blue eyes to clear, reading the anguished expression on his lover's
face, loving him in that moment without reservation or question. As Bodie
swam back to his senses Ray stretched out, cat-like, inviting, and the
game began again, with Bodie the tormenter and Doyle his willing, helpless
prey. Gently biting teeth drew a whimper from him and Bodie licked
soothingly at the marked shoulder before he combed through the silky hair
on Ray's heaving chest and began to suckle. 

Inarticulate murmurings passed Doyle's lips, little pleasured sobs, yelps,
gasps for breath. Bodie barely had to learn what pleased him most. There
was a sense of familiarity, as if this had been their secret longing since
the beginning -- perhaps it had -- and lived in dreams so often, with such
finesse, that making it real was gloriously simple. Doyle's arms went
around Bodie and they held each other with a great, tender yearning.
Tumbled over, Bodie was pressed down beneath the heat and weight of his
lover's slight body. 

Barely realising what he was doing, he spread his legs: his body knew what
it wanted. Ray caught his breath as he realised what he was being given,
and his heart skipped a beat. Desire blazed through him like a flash fire,
making him shake, and he held back, clinging to his sanity with an effort.
Bodie had his breath back now, the blue eyes closed as he lay waiting, and
Doyle paused to stroke the dark, velvety shaft with delicate fingers,
making his face twist with the agony of delight. 

"Ray," Bodie panted hoarsely, "Ray, do it, do it, please." 

"Shh, relax," Ray crooned, "I will." Then he reached down between them to
touch himself, gathering enough of his sticky, pearly pre-ejaculate to
make them both slick. First one finger, then two, slipped easily into
Bodie, caressing his prostate delicately until he cried out, a wordless
plea for release. Torture had never been on Doyle's mind, and he responded
at once. 

Bodie cried out again as he was pierced; there was a burning discomfort,
the sharpness of pain, half remembered from many years before, but not
enough to make him howl as he did; the cry was one of disbelieving joy as
he realised that he and Doyle were *one*, for a brief time in the same
body. The deeper the impalement, the less it hurt, and then pleasure began
to strum across his nerves as if he was a musical instrument, there to be
played. 

The melody was rapture, and Ray knew it well. The dream of Kinnamus and
Bran filled his head as Bodie filled his senses. He fought his every
instinct to keep still, winning the battle until Bodie, unable to bear the
exquisite tension any longer, had to move or die, and began to heave
beneath him. Then Doyle lifted his hips and trust again, slowly and
delicately, lest they tumble over the brink too soon. The whole cosmos
contracted to the confines of their own aching need, the knowledge that
they were one, the helpless tide of love, the struggle to make it go on. 

It ended when fatigue clawed at Doyle, when his muscles would barely serve
him any longer, and the spark of desperation shot through him, bringing
him to flashpoint with a groan of tortured delight. Bodie was a second
behind him, yelping as the heat of Ray's coming lanced deeply into him,
before he too surrendered to the deep, surging orgasm. Doyle collapsed
heavily on him, spent, his breathing ragged, his skin sheened with
perspiration, his ears barely hearing the endearments that were sobbed
into his hair. 

Slowly, they came down off the high, drowsing, less than half conscious,
aware that they were aching and sore and still flying. For a few moments
they must have slept, Doyle was sure, because he came to with a gentle
start to find himself cradled in the crook of Bodie's arm while tissues
tickled across areas still to sensitive for comfort. Heavy blue eyes
smiled at him, and Bodie kissed his mouth again. 

"You sure you were a virgin?" Bodie asked wryly. 

Doyle smiled. "In which life?" He caressed Bodie's face tenderly. "Why?
Did you want me to be blushing and coy and submissive for you?" 

"*You*?" Bodie laughed. "Never -- can't even imagine that. It's just...
You were fantastic." 

"So were you," Ray added. "Bloody wonderful. Best I've ever had." 

"Honest?" Bodie asked, kissing his nose. 

"Honest. Cross my heart and hope to have Cowley find out. S'worse than the
prospect of death." 

A broad smile lit Bodie's features. "I used to dream about having you
underneath me, love. Was just as nice the other way around." 

"So we take it in turns to be on top," Ray yawned. "Got all the time in
the world, haven't we?" 

And Bodie nodded. "So we have. Because tomorrow night, after work, we're
packing your stuff a bit at a time, and fetching it all over here. I'll
have to think of some way to discourage Julia... Y'see, Julia's someone I
sleep with when I need to, but I don't love her. Never did, never will,
which isn't to say she's not a nice kid -- she *is*. But I'm just not in
love with her. And if I'm in love with you, which I am, it's you I want,
not her." 

"Logical," Doyle said, smiling, "Luckily, I haven't got a regular girl
just now." 

"So I've noticed. You haven't been getting much of it lately -- haven't
been *trying* to get much lately, have you?" 

"No. Was nicer being with you." 

"What -- just as friends?" 

"Yeah. God, Bodie, I've been rollin' around in bed for the better part of
twenty years... I can't even remember their names, their faces. It's just
one long blur with the odd highlight here and there. A woman I really
*cared* about. Love? I'd started to think it was a myth. Something out of
magazine stories, the kind of dream you have when it's raining outside and
you're on your own and a bit low, and wishing you had someone there who'd
hold you while you hibernate... Silly, really." 

"You think so?" Bodie murmured. 

"Not particularly intelligent, is it? I mean, out of four billion people
on this planet, how many d'you think find someone who loves 'em -- really
*loves* 'em? Not just likes 'em and lays 'em. About half a dozen, I
reckon! I won't say I'd 'gone off' sex, but I *will* say the novelty wore
off. After a while the endless blur of casual tumbles got to mean nothing.
Could have got just as much out of a do-it-yourself job, and sometimes
more. I was looking for -- oh, I dunno. Companionship. That make sense?
Someone who'd talk to me, know what I'm feeling -- not just when I'm
aroused, but all the time. Someone who'd be kind to me for the sake of it,
instead of it being a means to an end. You know?" 

"Oh, yeah." Bodie folded him into a closer embrace, his hair rustling on
the pillow as he nodded. "They take a look at you when you proposition
'em. They eye you up and down -- 'yeah, this one's good for two or three
slap up dinners, a few dozen roses, couple of shows, few days boating on
the river, shopping spree or two, maybe a weekend in Paris. And look at
that body, bet he'd be a good screw in bed too. Frosting on the cake. Nice
boy-toy to play with till it gets boring, then dump him and push off to
pastures greener...'" He sighed heavily. "Stupid, when you put it like
that, isn't it?" 

"Loony," Doyle agreed. "So I decided to save the money and stick it in the
bank for the yacht. Y'see, I'd have you to myself when we went yachting.
Had that in mind all along, unconsciously. Nice days on the water, you and
me and the fresh air, few beers, getting mellow. Peace and quiet. Warm, so
we'd start to take our clothes off sooner or later..." He chuckled. "It
would've happened next summer, when we'd got the boat. This way's better,
though. now we can go out *knowing* what we're going to be doing instead
of stumbling around wanting something we can't quite seem to catch on to."
He smiled against Bodie's shoulder. "The way I've been stumbling around
for ages... I think I've been in love with you for some time, Bodie." He
was serious. "I'm just slow at realising these little things." 

Bodie kissed him. "You're bloody *backward*, never mind slow, mate. I'll
get the Cow to give us authorisation to live together tomorrow." 

"And what about Julia?" 

"Oh, I'll just break a couple of dates, she'll take the huff and leave,
they all do. She's seeing an airline pilot as well, when I'm working." 

It had been happening to them both for years, as if they had been destined
never to find anyone who would tolerate the vagaries of the job for them.
They were, Ray came to realise in that moment, very, very lucky to have
one another, because there was little or no chance of there ever being
anyone else. He wriggled closer to Bodie and put his head down on his
lover's chest. "Jeez, I'm sticky. Feels like we need a shower." 

"Not yet," Bodie purred. "We're going to be a helluva lot stickier in
another couple of minutes if you keep on wriggling that way." He laughed.
"We're going to spend the next three months in a continual state of
exhaustion!" 

"What makes you think three months'll slow us down?" Doyle chuckled. 

"Never you mind, my pet," Bodie told him. "I'll buy you a packet of
vitamins -- with ginseng and Vitamin E." He yawned as Doyle settled
against him, all movement ceasing as his breathing levelled out. "Going to
sleep already, are you? Resisting my charms?" 

"Just wrung out," Ray said softly. "Being ill does that to you. Won't be
all that chipper for a couple of days." 

"I know, just teasing." Bodie rolled them in the sheepskin coverlet and
fluffed the pillows. "Could do with a kip myself, if it's all that same to
you... Ray? Ray?" 

His reply was a gentle snore, just one, as Doyle beat him to sleep. 

******

*The wind among the heather spoke with the voice of a wild creature, a
rushing cry, wild and free, and the sky was as blue as cornflowers. Bodie
woke, blinking on the brightness, but though he knew that there should
have been a vast disorientation he felt greatly as peace. He recognised
the line of the hills, the sounds of the stream that babbled over the
rocks close at hand -- 

And the voice that was laughing and teasing with Rua just a little way
behind him. He rolled over in the springy heather, the smells of the earth
rich in his nostrils, and smiled. That voice was like a caress to his
ears, low and husky, and there was Bran, clad in his scuffed leathers and
sheepskin, hair tangled by the wind, rolling over, locked in mock combat
with the big red hunting dog. The prize was the last leg of rabbit -- the
three of them had been hunting all morning and had eaten well on the
profits of the trip. Rua had more than his share, but Bodie knew Bran
would let him win -- 

Bran. The name that came to his mind was not Doyle's, but it did not seem
to matter. For a moment Bodie struggled to align the two worlds, but it
was not possible, and the longer he tried the more unreal the other world
became. This was his time, his home, he knew, and his name was Kinnamus
Iron Hand. He was a warrior; there were scars on his arms and shoulders,
callouses on his hands and a gall on his left forearm from the war shield
carried there. 

There were scars on Bran's skin, too: he knew them all. Bran, of the
sweet, slender body, the laughing eyes and silky voice. Kin laughed at the
wrestling. The dog was winning. He was as big as Bran anyway, and probably
as strong, and not adverse to sinking his teeth in, albeit gently. Then
Bran would bite back, nipping an ear in vengeance. Kin propped his chin in
his palms, watching his lover and their dog at play. 

With a final twist, Bran let the dog have the leg of rabbit and rolled
over in the heather, exhausted and happy. Rua pounced on the meat and
wolfed it down as if he had not seen food in a week, bone and all, and
Bran sat up, brushing the long, red dog hairs from his leathers. Catching
Kin's eye, they shared the humour, and Bran came back to the rough hearth
by which Kin had dozed, sprawling down beside him. 

Life felt fine, the air was clean and the sun was hot. They watched Rua
chasing rabbits, watched the shaggy ponies grazing by the stream, and
watched each other for the pleasure of it. Kin teased the heather debris
from Bran's hair, making him yelp, and threatened mayhem on him when he
swung a playfully defensive fist that skimmed the bigger man's jaw. Bran
never took threats seriously and felt free to shave another mock-punch
over his lover's jaw as Kin yanked his hair again. 

They were wrestling then, and Kin was winning -- not because he was bigger
and heavier, he was sure, but because Bran was laughing too hard to fight
well, and because he had every intention of surrendering the struggle when
it suited him. On the field of battle, Bran was as much an Iron Hand as
his lover: fools looked at him, saw the stature of a bard, the face of a
Seer, and challenged him unwisely, but those who knew him knew better. 

And Kin knew him better than anyone alive. He knew Bran's every mood,
could read the slightest expression that chased across his face, knew
every scar that marked his body, every moan that would pass his lips when
he was touched, even his dreams. Like most bards, Bran was as fey as he
looked, which was why the Druidkind had taken him to their hearts and into
their ranks, to be educated on the island of Mona. Holy Mona. Would Bran
have worn the white robe one day? Perhaps. 

But he had given it all up, left the sanctuary of Mona forever and taken
up the sword, following the love of his young life into danger time and
again. Still, they were safe, and their battles were not so frequent that
they were worried yet. They were young, strong, as mad as the warriorkind
*had* to be, and the same love that had made Bran turn his back on Holy
Mona ten years before made him surrender in the heather today. 

Kin did not mistake or underestimate the gift he was given, and he took it
gently, wondering again at the gods' strange decree, that he should lie
with a man and cherish him before all of the women who had been his. Bran
had had no women; on Mona, the students were governed strictly, and one so
young as he had been was not permitted to go with girls. Then, before he
had had time to learn the favours and pleasures of the women who would
have gladly welcomed him, his wayward heart warmed in love -- 

And not for a girl. There was heather in the curly hair again, and Kin
removed it carefully while his lover was still purring and content. Ten
years since they had met, since Kin, already a warrior, had swept the
young bard off his feet that Beltane. Bran's first feasting... At Imbolc
he had been too young, and by Lugnassad and Samhaine he would be abroad as
an apprentice, not an observer. But that Beltane the boy had been allowed
to attend just to watch... To watch? Kin smiled. Swept off his feet, he
had defied his teachers and coupled in the shadows with the tall, white
skinned warrior who took his breath away. There was lovemaking everywhere
that night; no one noticed one more mating beyond the firelight, and at
dawn Bran could have gone back with his teachers, back to Mona, to study
and the solitary life of the ones who wore the green stones and vowed
their lives away to the occult. 

But dawn saw them rolled in a yellow calf hide, asleep among the ashes,
curled about each other and content. Bran already knew enough about the
warrior's arts to learn the rest of it quickly from the swordmasters and
from Kin himself. He could ride and knew the healing arts too. But killing
came hard to him, and Kin often watched him punish himself with guilt for
what he had chosen to do, what he now *had* to do. More than once, Kin had
offered him his freedom, thrown open the door to let him go, though to
watch him leave would have broken his heart. 

Perhaps the offer of freedom made it easier for Bran to stay. Kin had the
power to exorcise the pain from his heart as no other could, an exorcism
of gentle words and soft kisses, hard hands and pleasure-pain that quickly
became rapture as he offered himself to be broken on the rack of his own
lust and instead of being broken was made stronger, made whole and calm. 

The dog, barking into rabbit warrens too small to be squeezed into, roused
them from the drowsy reverie and they ambled to the stream, scooping up
handsful of water to wash. Bran yelped as Kin threw a freezing shower over
him, prickling his sun-hot skin; for a moment they were about to start the
game again, but before it begin the love came up to overwhelm them, and
instead of wrestling they just held on, naked by the bank of the stream,
oblivious to the world and wrapped up in their dreams. 

It was for times like this that Bran had spurned the Druidkind, Kin knew,
thinking back to the night when he had searched for a partner in the
firelight, someone fit for a warrior to drink with and love with. There
were dozens of unattached girls and women, he could have had any of them,
but it was the boy who sat staring into the fire who took his attention.
Slight, shy and so beautiful that the warrior was ensnared by his own
appreciation of beauty. The shyness lasted half the night, until the
stunned amazement at his own body's wanton behaviour wore off, and then
Bran had learned the language of love quickly, speaking it fluently with
the fingers of a musician and lips of a bard. 

By dawn, Kinnamus was in love, and they had not been apart for more than a
few days since. Ten years: more like ten weeks, and if they died tomorrow
they could not count themselves short changed. And, as warriors, Magh Mar
would welcome them, they knew, there to live again, and love, beyond the
reach of old age and Death. It was the warrior's code, the basis of his
honour and faith, without it the call to arms would have been a cause for
fear, and Kin's only real fear was that Bran should be killed and not he
-- or he and not Bran. To be apart was worse than to die, for Death was
nothing. 

Still, the battles could not be denied, and the call to arms was due too
soon. The Romans were there, off the east coast of Eriu, searching through
the cold, wet jungles of the mainland for the Bridge of Sand. When they
found their way into the island there would be fighting, glorious and
terrible, and perhaps he and Bran would live to see the day out; and
perhaps they would not. 

Unconcerned, Kin wrapped his life's partner up in his love. It did not
matter what happened; there would be partings, but not forever, not for
long, and they were born of a patient race, they knew how to wait...* 

******

"Wake up, Bodie. Bodie, you're dreaming!" 

Bodie swam back up to his senses with a start, blinking in the flood of
early evening sunlight and seeing the concern in the green eyes. It took
him a moment to feel the sharp little dig of the green stone against his
shoulder: he had been lying on it. His fingers shook as he picked it up
and handed it to Doyle. "Yours, I believe... And beware of that, love.
It's deadly." 

"What d'you mean?" Ray held the stone tightly; it was rich with the heat
of Bodie's skin. "Bran's Druid stone?" 

"It's --" Bodie struggled to remember. "It's a dreaming stone." He
shivered. "Oh yeah, I dreamed us. Old Judith's no fool, is she?" 

Ray blinked at him. "Kinnamus and Bran?" 

"You. You wild young creature." Bodie smiled. "You told your teachers what
they could do with their rules and regulations and came with me." 

"Yeah," Doyle nodded, flushing a little, wondering just how much Bodie did
know. 

"I seduced you," Bodie said softly. "One night, in the shadows on the
brink of high summer." 

"I went willingly," Doyle murmured. "We were in love." 

"We *are* in love," Bodie corrected, gathering Doyle against him and
kissing him. "One of these days we'll share that stone when we've both got
hold of it, and see what happens. But for now..." He plucked it from
Doyle's grasp and put it on the bedside table. "Go back to sleep. You've
got blue rings under your eyes. Not time to get up and make dinner yet." 

Obediently, Doyle put his head down on Bodie's chest. "You... You felt the
love, did you?" 

"There's all the love I can handle in this bed," Bodie told him quietly.
"Shush, like a good lad, will you? Time to play around in the past --
their past, our past, whatever -- later. Sleep now." 

"Later," Doyle said stubbornly. "Have to talk to you now." 

Bodie sighed. "What about?" 

"About us. I..." Ray took a breath and began again. "I want to tell Cowley
about us." He felt Bodie stiffen from head to foot and pressed on. "No,
look, it's only fair, isn't it? The department's not popular with the
press, they love to roast us alive. *We* know we're not gay, but I shudder
to think what the real world out there's going to think. We're going to
live together, for a start, and it's going to show in the way we look at
each other, isn't it? Sooner or later the secret's going to be out of the
bag and... I think Cowley ought to know ahead of time. That way, he can
sack us now if he wants to, or sack us later when he has to. It's the only
thing that's fair to the rest of 'em, love, isn't it? We could be used to
discredit the whole lot of them, and... I don't want that on my
conscience. Okay, maybe we'll get booted out of the department, but rather
that than be used to destroy the department some day." 

"And if Cowley knows about it, it'll solve everything?" Bodie sounded
dubious. 

"No, of course not. But he'll have the decision to make, whether we stay
or go, and no matter *what* goes wrong in a year, two, three, he'll have
the contingency plan drawn up. He'll probably hand us to the press on a
silver salver, and they'll probably behead us in the scandal sheets, and
we'll be notorious." Doyle laughed quietly. "Hey, we're *not* gay, are
we?" 

"We're *us*," Bodie said emphatically. "We must've fallen in love
somewhere along the line, but since we don't seem to fancy other blokes...
Oh, bisexual, aren't we? Just now I don't really give a damn." 

"Cowley will, though," Doyle said a little bleakly. 

"Maybe," Bodie mused, "maybe not. He's ex-Army, remember." 

"So?" 

Bodie cuffed his ear gently. "Wakey, wakey, Raymond. You *know* what the
Armed Forces are like on the quiet! And the Public Schools, and the
colleges, and all your prisons, and the Merchant Navy. Cowley's been
around the block a time or two. He's seen it all, same as I have. You...
Maybe you've still got a bit to learn, sweet'eart, but you're catching up
fast. Like lightning." 

"I'm a quick learner," Doyle muffled smugly against Bodie's shoulder,
biting him there. "So we tell him and take the consequences." 

There was a long pause, and then Bodie assented. "Yeah. That'd be wisest
in the long run. I'm not ashamed of us, and what we feel, and what we do,
you see. I'm not going to hide it away from the world. Okay, we won't
flaunt it -- it looks stupid in public anyway. D'you see those loons in
San Francisco, flaunting it to the TV cameras? Two queens in raggy jeans
and chains, kissing in the street in broad daylight look ridiculous, so
bloody silly they make a mockery out of the whole thing. Makes what *we*
have -- not dirty, but a bit unacceptable to the public mind. Know what I
mean." 

"I know," Doyle sighed. "And you're right. So we behave ourselves in
public, don't annoy the 'normal' people out there, and keep it for quiet
moments, wherever we can find them... And if the Cow gives us the sack, we
might be finding a *lot* of them!" 

"We'll see," Bodie conceded. "Now, having sorted out the practicalities,
will you close your eyes and go to sleep?" 

"Not sleepy anymore," Doyle chuckled. 

There was a note of wickedness in that voice, and Bodie shivered, trying
not to think about Bran, and about the night he had seduced the boy in the
shadows. The more he thought about it, the more Kinnamus became a part of
himself, and he suspected that Doyle must be feeling the same way about
his -- his other half. "Ray," he said, mock-threateningly, trying to
remonstrate before his partner got going. 

But it was already too late. 

George Cowley pencilled in an appointment time for them amid his busy
schedule, and their half hour allocation became forty minutes. He sat on
the other side of his littered desk, hands about a cup of tea, his calls
held at the switchboard, and heard them out. Bodie did most of the
talking, a monologue that began haltingly, became defiant and then
resigned, and during its course not a word or an expression issued from
the Scotsman. 

"We've been closer than most families for years, sir," Bodie had begun,
his voice quiet, confidential, his face a guarded mask. At his left, Doyle
was studying the ceiling. "In this job, it happens, you know that. You
depend on each other, you come to care for each other, never stop thinking
about your other half. Friendship gets a lot deeper than it should,
probably, but there's sweet bugger all you can do about it, other than
chuck the job. It's the same in the ranks, in the Army, isn't it? The more
danger you get into, the closer you get. Friendship gets to be affection.
A lot of people would call it love. 

"*We* call it love, sir." There was a hint of defiance in his voice now,
as if he half expected the boss to butt in with some outraged argument. "I
suppose there's always the chance -- risk, if you like -- that when two
people spend so much time together, in danger, it'll happen. Falling in
love, I mean. Doesn't seem to make much difference that it's two men --
never *did*, either, if you've read your history books. So that's it, sir.
It sort of crept up on us a bit at a time over years, and..." 

Doyle took up the monologue as Bodie let it lapse. "And finally, one day,
it dawned on us what we were feeling, what we wanted. I was ill, sir, out
on the hiking trip. Could've got pneumonia out of it, and that was the
final straw, I think. It gave us the final shove, brought us together.
We... We've already consummated it, sir, so it's too late for lectures and
reprimands." 

"Yeah," Bodie said as Doyle fell silent. "I don't know if you can
understand what we mean, but... Look, if it was lust we'd have ignored it,
probably. Lots of birds we fancy that we can't have too, if it comes to
that! But it isn't lust. S'not that simple, I..." His tone became one of
pure resignation, as if he fully expected the firing to come soon, and the
dole application to be in first thing in the morning. "I love him, I want
to live with him, I want to stay on the job, and I think you can trust me.
Ray'll have to speak for himself." 

"You can trust me, too," Doyle said softly. "I'd like to stay with the
department, but... Don't make me make the choice between CI5 and my life,
sir. If I have to, I'll make it, but I'd rather not. A contract's just a
piece of paper, a job's just a job, much as I respect the role we play,
the work we do. Like I said, you can trust me, and we know how to be
discreet. We'd both like to stay on, but --" He glanced at Bodie and found
a smile. "We're only asking for your authorisation to live together,
technically. Anything else that takes place in our lives is our business,
no one else's. Sir." 

Then there was silence, and they studied the carpet with expressions that
gave nothing away. Cowley looked the two of them over and sighed quietly.
They were embarrassed, disquieted, defensive, eager not to offend but just
as keen to stand up for what rights their contracts allowed them. And
willing to resign, if they had to. He let them suffer for a full minute
before speaking, and levelled his tone carefully. "It's an old tradition,
isn't it? Comrades in arms. I've seen enough of this to follow your
arguments, but I won't lie to you: what you're doing is dangerous in the
sense that you'll make targets of yourselves. The odds are good that
you'll be crucified one day, and I'll make myself clear right now. You'll
not take this department down with you. You go to the wall at the first
breath of trouble, do you understand?" 

"Sir,"Bodie said, hardly daring to believe what he was hearing -- they
were not getting the sack, and Cowley was talking as if -- 

"Yes, sir," Doyle said. "So you don't mind?" 

"Oh, I mind," Cowley told him acidly, "but there's nothing I can do about
it, is there? If I tell you to drop the whole thing, you'll tender your
resignations. Well, if I'm going to lose your services I may as well lose
them for some good reason. At present there's no harm done. Two field
agents living in the same flat? Nothing there to get excited about.
Discretion will take you a long way, if you're lucky, *all* the way; not
being clairvoyant none of us can be sure. Och, you two can scrounge
together enough brains between you to manage a kiddy's crossword puzzle,
so I expect you can contrive not to make a complete mess of this. Think
yourselves lucky that you're the best at what you do. That I need you. Or
you'd be out on your ears and in the dole queue!" He looked them over, and
Bodie was sure he saw the boss' mouth twitch into a half smile. "I might
have expected it of *you* two, anyway, so I don't know why I'm surprised.
And it'll save the department the costs of securing one of your flats, so
you're not costing us money." 

*Scot*, Doyle thought aridly. He stood up, needing to move. "You'll sign
an authorisation for us to live together, then," he concluded, "and chuck
us to the wolves if anything goes wrong." 

"Aye," Cowley nodded. "But it goes into your psychological profiles, 3.7,
4.5. Confidential data, certainly, but it goes on record. If you two start
botching up on the job for any reason at all, I don't want our
psychologists guessing in the dark." 

Bodie gave an agonized groan. "Kate Ross will eat us alive." 

"Doctor Ross is a professional," Cowley said drily. "If it's any
consolation to you, she has a reputation for eating *everyone* alive; it
may be part of her job. An understanding of human nature is the foundation
stone of her profession... You may not like her or approve of what she
does, but I'm sure the news that the two of you have discovered this
revelation of yours will come as no surprise to *her*. She'll have been
expecting it, based on your test results over the past years since she
arrived on the squad." For a moment Cowley studied them over the rims of
his glasses, and then he pulled open one desk drawer, rummaging for a
blank form, and scrawling on it with a fountain pen that sounded scratchy
in the room's sudden stillness. Filled in, it was pushed across the desk
and Doyle picked it up. 

It was their authorisation; he folded it and fed it into his inside
pocket. "Thank you, sir. We appreciate it." 

"I'm sure you do." Cowley snapped the cap back onto the fountain pen and
checked the time. "Now be off with you. You've got me behind schedule." 

The door clicked shut behind them and Ray drew a hand across his brow in a
theatrical expression of relief. "You know, I really thought he'd chase us
for our lives," he admitted. 

"So did I," Bodie murmured with a wry grin. 

"But you still went along with it?" 

Bodie shrugged. "What else was I going to do? Drop you like a hot potato
and pretend you didn't exist from now on? Working with you would be
absolutely bloody impossible. So that'd mean getting a new partner. Nah,
not for me... Never wanted a partner in the first place; made an exception
in your case, but I can't see myself making an exception in anyone else's.
Don't trust my back to strangers -- sooner stick my finger in a pencil
sharpener. And knowing *you* were trusting your back to a stranger would
have been worse!" 

"So that little melodrama was the lesser of two evils," Ray concluded. 

"Decidedly the lesser." Bodie pinned on a rakish grin. "Besides which, it
worked. Only fly in the ointment is that Kate Ross is going to be privy to
the wedding bells." 

"Yeah." Doyle sighed. "But Cowley's right; she *is* good at what she does,
goddamn her for it. She'll probably shriek with laughter and crow in
triumph. Yell 'I told you so' at us. Y'know, this *might* be why she's
been giving us a hard time all along. She could see it in the test
results." 

And Bodie made a face. "Now you mention it, she'd be less than proficient
at her work if she couldn't see it. Damn! Raymond, we're thick." 

"As bricks," Doyle agreed happily. "And it's knocking off time, and I want
to get out of here and start packing up to move. Want to stop off at the
library on the way over to my pl-- my *old* place, too." 

"Library?" Bodie frowned. "What for?" 

"Want to look something up," Doyle said vaguely, and wouldn't elaborate. 

An hour later, Bodie was leafing through a monumentally boring copy of
'Time' while Ray buried his nose in a stack of books, going from index to
index in search of a snippet of information none of them seemed to
contain. When he came across what he wanted at last the 'eureka!' was
audible. Bodie looked up from the magazine as a book was shoved under his
nose. He read methodically at first, then with a dawning fascination, and
at last in disbelieving delight. 

Before leaving the library, he put the page on the photocopier, not
creasing the copy, which was destined for the back page in his photo
album. From the library they drove to Doyle's flat; on this trip, he
collected all his clothes and personal effects, a box of books, his
portable TV and radio, the record player off the hi-fi stack -- and the
Capri's hatch would hardly close. The car was low on its suspension and
Bodie laughed. 

"Have to call a truck to take the rest of your junk, I think." 

"Junk?" Doyle said indignantly. "There's a thousand memories locked up in
that flat. Unlike you, I don't throw *my* memories in the bin." 

And if it had not been broad daylight in a public place, Bodie would have
kissed him on the spot. Instead, he squeezed his hand in the privacy of
the car. "I've never had any memories worth keeping, so far," he admitted.
"Army, Mercs, strings of girls -- can't even remember the faces of most of
them now. Whole bunch of things I'd sooner *forget*, to be honest. S'why I
don't have much stuff to my name." 

Doyle smiled, the green eyes softening beguilingly. "Yeah. Well, all
that's going to change now, mate. It's all going to be different now." He
held Bodie's fingers tightly. "You realise what you said before?" 

"Said a lot of things," Bodie muttered. "Which bit?" 

"About Kate Ross," Ray reminded him. "Who's going to be privy to --" 

"To the wedding bells," Bodie finished. "That bothers you? Christ, Ray,
this hasn't exactly been a whirlwind courtship. Makes me shudder every
time I think about how many years I've been 'courting' you! Time we
settled down, isn't it? Don't you think?" 

"Yeah,"Ray agreed, colouring slightly. "Yeah, I do. So take me home, will
you? Oh -- there's an off license at the corner, pull up and I'll buy us a
bottle of champagne to celebrate." 

"I," Bodie said, expression sultry, "can think of better ways to
celebrate." 

"So can I," Doyle chuckled. "But we'll get to that later." 

While Ray was pouring the champagne, Bodie was slipping the xerox into the
back of his album. The pages were filled with old snapshots, Army friends,
a few girls, clippings from newspapers. Slowly but surely, he knew, they
would all be ousted in favour of new photos, memories he wanted to keep.
It just grieved him that there would never be any photographs of Bran and
Kinnamus in the album -- a silly thought but one he treasured. He touched
his glass to Doyle's, swallowed the French champagne and caught his
lover's head to kiss him thoroughly. 

The album was forgotten, standing open on the table, a blotched xerox copy
telling many a truth neither of them would ever be able to share with
others. 

******

*In the year 80 A.D., the soldier poet Decimus Junius Juvenalis, then only
twenty years old, led an expeditionary force of the Roman Army, under
orders from Julius Agricola, the Governor of the province of Britain, to
seek out the Bridge of Sand and strike into the heart of Ireland in search
of the gold legend held to abound there. His troops met fierce resistance
and were defeated, but Juvenal survived, leaving the island and returning
to Rome, discredited by the fact that he had 'gone native.' Spurned as a
soldier, he spent the rest of his life in Rome, becoming a satirical poet,
denouncing the snobbery and corruption of the Roman aristocracy, and
always maintaining that he was as one with the ancient gods of Eriu, the
Wren King, the Heron Queen, the Silver Hand. The Bridge of Sand was washed
away forever, by what forces, no one knows.* 

******

*Brigantia*: the kingdom, or tuath, in the north of Britain, below
Caledonia, at this time ruled by Caris(s)mandua, or Aricia, a Queen loyal
to Rome. *Eriu*: Ireland. The Romans called it Hibernia. *Mona*: the
island of Anglesy, the Druid stronghold, the seat of Druidic learning.
Even Druids from Ireland were educated there. 

-- THE END --

May 1986

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