The Professionals Circuit Archive - Midnight Dreaming       Midnight
Dreaming

 

by Jane

  
 *And when at last the Angel of the drink
 Of Darkness finds you by the river brink, 
 And, proffering his Cup, invites your soul
 Forth to your Lips to quaff it--do not shrink... 
 Strange, is it not? That of the myriad who
 Before us passed the door of Darkness through, 
 Not one returns to tell us of the Road
 Which, to discover, we must travel too... 
 We are no other than a moving row
 Of visionary shapes that come and go
 Round with this sun-illumined Lantern held
 In Midnight by the Master of the show....*
  --Ohmar Khayyam/Fitzgerald, 2nd Edition (1868), 46-67-73.

The man was dealing in a dozen kinds of dope; there was no doubt about it
and precious little surprise. Selling junk to pay for the arms to wage a
street war in London was an old enterprise. Doyle had watched it happen a
hundred times, first as a copper and then as a CI5 agent. 

The silver Capri Ghia wheeled in under the coppery foliage of the beech
trees, tires crunching on loose gravel, the late afternoon sun casting a
haze over the road dirt on the windscreen. Up ahead was the brown Escort
its driver's door open, its engine stalled out. Bodie killed the Capri's
powerful little three- litre motor and gave Doyle a speculative look. They
had tailed the Escort up from London on the motorway, followed it at a
discreet distance as the driver, Charlie Fender himself, threaded through
the damp autumn countryside. 

Fender's destination was their primary concern, and Bodie was kicking
himself. Ten miles out he had let the dope-dealing little moron see the
Capri in his rear-view mirror, and from that point on it had been a chase,
more reminiscent of a rally meeting than a drive in the country. 

"Bloody hell," Doyle muttered as he saw the car. "He's taken off on foot.
There's a house up there." 

"His place?" Bodie wondered. "Did he run from home, go to earth?" 

"We'd better hope he did," Doyle said tartly, "or we're going to have a
great time explaining to the Cow how we dawdled a hundred miles from home
then mucked it up." He swung the door open and slid out into the cool,
open air, drawing the automatic from the holster beneath his tan sports
jacket. "Come on, sunshine, while the light holds." 

Bodie was in his black leather jacket and black slacks. In the shadows he
looked very dark, sullen, dangerous. Doyle could feel the anger that was
simmering just under the surface, and words of caution were on his lips
before he could bite them back. "Loosen up, will you? I don't reckon this
is the cutting shop, so it's him against us--and he won't be armed." 

"Right," Bodie conceded as he drew his own gun and took out his RT. "3.7
to Central, over." There was no reply and he gave the SIS radio a cold
look. "Out of range, you reckon?" 

"Could be," Doyle nodded, "and there's the hills between us and home, and
the airport radar." He stepped away from the car, taking a look about the
property with eyes that were feral. They had driven a hundred yards from
the main road along a deeply rutted access trail. The Escort had come to
rest by a dilapidated fence on the other side of which was the remains of
a kitchen garden and a tumbledown farmhouse. 

The chill wind of autumn struck out of the north, its fingers cold and
sharp with the promise of the inevitability of winter. Bodie turned up his
collar as he stepped about the Capri's roasting bonnet, getting a whiff of
the aromatic engine, and followed Doyle in the direction of the gate. It
was only hanging by a thread, leaning drunkenly from the splintered wood.
The whole property was no more than a wreck, and Doyle's expression
tightened in displeasure: they had blown it. Charlie Fender had probably
headed in the opposite direction the second he saw the Capri tailing him.
Cowley would do two laps of the office without touching the floor, but it
was irretrievable, and not really Bodie's fault in any case. The only
chance they had was to take Fender in and pump him for the information,
with an arm full of Pentothal. 

The sun had dipped behind the hills moments before they inched across the
weed-strangled garden and Doyle gave the house a hard look: glassless
windows stared back, blind-eyed and forbidding. If Fender was armed, they
were sitting ducks. There could be a million shoot- holes in there. He
cocked the automatic, shifted its weight in his right palm, and shared a
tense glance with Bodie. 

"Whose turn is it?" Bodie asked softly. 

"Yours," Doyle told him. They took it in turns to take the point in a
sweep, the procedure in which a house was checked and cleared. He watched
Bodie take his own weapon in both hands and suck in a breath. 

They had done this so many times before that they barely had to think
about it, it was enough to let instinct carry them through the ritualistic
format. In through the front door, room on the left, room on the right,
cupboard under the stairs, kitchen at the back, scullery- - -one covering
the other. Slam the doors back, scan in a crescent from wall to wall,
lightning fast-- 

And there was Charlie Fender. He was standing against the wall to the left
of the door when Bodie burst in, desperation blazed in his eyes. 

He grabbed for the CI5 man's issue automatic and several rounds ripped
into the ceiling as it jerked upward and Bodie's right index finger
squeezed back on the sensitive trigger. 

The shots were deafening in the dusty confines of the old house and
Doyle's heart was in his mouth as he sprang into the doorway, pulling his
own gun down into line and trying to connect with the target. "Bodie! Get
out of the way! Bodie!" 

But Fender was grappling like a wild animal or madman. He was not as tall
or heavy as Bodie but the desperation gave him a strength that wrenched
Bodie's gun out of his hands, and sent it skittering away in the dust.
Doyle held his own gun in both hands, watching them trip and fall heavily,
Bodie on top, his right fist clenched and drawn back. 

But the blow never landed. Instead, Bodie grunted, slipping sideways and
allowing the rabid Fender to scramble to his feet. He dove toward the door
where Doyle stood, two shots hammered into the thickening gloom, tossing
him backwards and spinning him into the wall. Then there was silence. 

Fender was dead. Doyle did not have to look at him to know that. He
holstered the hot gun and was on his knees at Bodie's side in a moment
more. 

"What happened? Bodie, what--" His eyes finding the hypodermic in his
partner's limp hand. "Oh, my God." He plucked up the hypo, squeezed one of
the remaining drops on his finger and sampled the acidic taste of the
hallucinogen and a strong mix at that. He returned his attention to Bodie
then, his heart hammering painfully against his ribs. 

Overdose? He saw the inflammation on the left of Bodie's neck--Fender had
jammed the needle right into the carotid. No wonder Bodie had gone down as
if he'd been hit with a sledge hammer. He felt for a pulse: fast but
strong. 

Bodie blinked up at him groggily. "Ray?" He slurred the name. "Ray, what
is it?" 

"A Psychedelic," Doyle told him. "Mescaline, maybe. Can you stand? Here
take my hand." He took Bodie's hands in his and hauled him up, putting his
back into the effort, and then Bodie collapsed into his arms, heavy and
clinging to him with a hug that squeezed the breath from his lungs. 

"Ray," Bodie murmured softly. "Oh, Jesus, Ray-- " 

Anger and anguish twisted Doyle's heart in his chest. He pulled Bodie's
head against his shoulder, slipping an arm about his waist. "Come on,
mate, try and walk. There's a hospital in the town up the road. Try,
Bodie." 

But the real world had already begun to distort, waver, dance about Bodie;
he was barely capable of seeing, could not feel the ground beneath his
feet. He was only sure of the arm that held him up, the warmth of Doyle's
body pressed against him. For a sickening moment the whole world was
black, a featureless pit, and then oddly his mind seemed to clear and he
took back possession of his senses with gratitude. 

******

*He blinked in surprise: the moonlight was silvery blue, shimmering on the
still waters of a lake, and he could hear the wind among the branches of a
thousand trees. The air was warm, smelling of night-blooming flowers. He
had no notion of where he was, but it was as if he had wandered into a
Mogul garden, designed centuries before to express the artist's concept of
Paradise. 

He turned slowly about, trying to remember why he was here, speechless at
the perfection of the place. The breeze tossed at the surface of the
water, shattering the moonlight; he saw the lotus dance there, and then as
his eyes roamed on, he saw that he was not alone. 

A figure reclined on the grassy bank, slender, breathtakingly beautiful,
naked and gloriously male. He was sure that he was not entirely human. The
skin was like velvet, jade green, and the eyes that turned to look at him
were golden and glowing. 

He swallowed, recognising the face, the figure, and the voice that spoke
huskily to him. "What are you doing here?" Ray's voice said, tauntingly
amused. "How did you find your way?" The apparition got to his feet and
Bodie caught his breath. It was as if he had never seen Doyle before;
every feature leapt out at him, the almond eyes, golden now, the perfect
lips, the chiseled nose, and the moonlight shimmered about his limbs like
stardust on emeralds. 

"Ray?" Bodie whispered in disbelief, afraid to close his eyes lest the
apparition vanish and rob him of a kind of beauty he had never even
imagined before. "What are you doing here? What is this place?" 

"I'm always here. Where are you?" The creature with Doyle's form stepped
forward, graceful as a dancer, and drew his cool fingers over Bodie's own.
"Here. Where your dreams begin, where your fantasies are born. I'm always
here, I've been here for years, and it's always moonlight...I've been
waiting for you. You keep me here, alone. That's not kind of you, but I
could wait, I knew you'd come here one day." 

Confusion milled in Bodie's mind as his eyes roved over the unearthly form
with its crown of coppery curls and the golden eyes in which he felt
himself drowning. In his nose was the musky scent of a man, and his
fingers itched to discover the hot emerald velvet of that skin. He was not
at all surprised to find himself powerfully aroused, to feel an electric
thrill as the creature touched him with Doyle's fingers, opening his shirt
and stroking his chest. 

"What--" He caught his breath and began again. "What are you doing?" 

Ray's voice chuckled throatily. "Seducing you. It's what you've always
wanted from me, isn't it? It's why you're here. You never dared to ask,
did you? Once you dreamed that you kissed me--oh yes, I know. I know
everything. You dreamed I was in your bed and underneath you. Do you
remember what you did with me? You--" 

"I remember," Bodie growled, in an agony of embarrassment, but the golden
eyes were not taunting, only teasing him gently, and the cool fingers had
already taken his shirt from him. "But you're.... You're a feller," he
said lamely. 

"Don't be an old-fashioned prude," Doyle's voice said scornfully as he
went to his knees in the grass at Bodie's feet. 

"But Ray--" Bodie gasped as he felt the caresses about his aching
erection, felt the restraints of his clothes deftly removed. "For God's
sake, Ray!" 

Doyle's face smiled up at him. "Are you trying to tell me you don't want
me? Your body says that's a lie." He got to his feet, taking Bodie's
flushed face between his hands. "I've been here for so long, Bodie. You've
kept me here so long, waiting...." He leaned forward and Bodie held his
breath, his sealed lips quivering as Ray's warm tongue licked to and fro
patiently insisting until Bodie groaned and surrendered his mouth to the
kiss. He held back from it for a time, feeling the exploration of his lips
and teeth, Ray's sweet breath intoxicating him until the desire to
physically possess this sublime creature, masculine or not, was
overpowering. 

His arms were like steel bands about Doyle's slim body, he took over the
kiss, pressing it until he tasted blood, and then the grass came up to
meet his sweat-sheened skin and he had the other pinned spread-eagled
beneath him, writhing and gasping under the onslaught of his demanding
mouth and driving hips. 

It began as a gentle seduction and ended as an act of violence that left
them both stunned. Bodie heard a sound he had never heard before and
longed to hear again: Doyle's voice screaming his name in the torture of
ecstasy as they fought each other for the last second they could make it
go on. 

Then Bodie collapsed beside him, in the same moment bewildered by delight
and mortified by what he had done to his best friend. He watched the other
curl up on his side in the grass, panting and exhausted, and wanted to
apologise until Ray's voice laughed quietly out of the moonlit face. "And
you wanted me to stop! Do you know how long you've wanted that to happen?"


"A long time," Bodie admitted reluctantly. "Did I hurt you?" 

"Yes," Doyle whispered. "Because you wanted to." 

"Wanted to?" Bodie echoed, aghast. "You're my friend!" 

"You didn't want a friend, you wanted a lover," Doyle said teasingly. "All
these years. And you've blamed me, in your dreams, for not making a pass
at you. Why?" 

Bodie shrugged, defeated. "I've never consciously thought about it, but
I've dreamt about it.... You're so bloody beautiful. The first day we met,
I was unfriendly to you. You know why? My heart was going like a drum, I
didn't dare let anyone see it. The last time I touched a man was when I
was in Angola. I only ever did it once or twice--I was desperate, he was
young and smooth and gay." He sighed, his eyes roaming over the tautly
muscled body with its dusting of golden hair. "I won't hurt you anymore if
you don't want me to touch you, I won't." 

In answer the emerald-green fantasy he recognised as Doyle leaned forward,
kissing him deeply and, incredibly, desire sparked in him again. This time
he lay still and let himself be toyed with until he could barely breathe
and begged for release, until he heard his own voice raised in the
senselessness of passion. He came as he had never come before, clutching
Doyle's head to his shoulder and sobbing before he plunged into sleep. 

When he woke, he was alone. The lake was choppy and the wind gusted
strongly; the shadows beneath the trees coiled with a menace he had not
seen before. He got to his feet, his legs rubbery beneath him, hugging
himself as the chill seeped into his bones. "Ray?" he called, and louder,
"Ray!" But he was utterly alone, it was as if no other living creature
existed in this world. 

The wind roared in the trees, the lake tossed freezing spray at him. "Ray,
for Christ's sake, where are you?" He invested the power of his lungs in
the plea but there was no answer. Overhead, thunder-clouds billowed up,
shutting out the moonlight, and the world became terrifyingly dark. 

He was so cold that tactile sensation was gone, and it was too dark to see
a hand before his face. The wind in the trees deafened him till he could
hear nothing else, and it blasted the scents of the garden away. His
senses were useless. He stumbled into the lee of a great, gnarled tree and
huddled out of the wind, but the cold had crystallised his bones and he
knew he would die here, and soon. 

So that was the price of such loving as he had never known.... Bodie
chafed at his arms, trying to hold off the inevitable a few moments
longer, but his heart and mind were full of Doyle and in that moment, if
he died, he counted the price fair. If the price of Ray's love was the
death of him, so be it. He closed his eyes, trying to relax, to make the
end easy; the ache in his limbs told him it would not be long. *

******

"Ray, for Christ's sake, where are you!" 

The words were shouted clearly as Bodie fought in the restraints, and
Doyle bit his lip, closing his fingers tightly about Bodie's. "I'm right
here, mate," he said softly, knowing he could not be heard. 

On the other side of the bed, Dr. Rose Ingram shook her head. She was a
woman of fifty with striking brown eyes and dark hair through which the
strands of silver coiled almost like decorations. "He's away on cloud
fourteen, I'm afraid," she said. "You got him here just in time, Mr.
Doyle. Enough Mescaline to drop an elephant! He's going to have a rough
time of it for the next few days. Why don't you go home? We'll call you
when there's anything to tell." 

But Doyle shook his head tiredly. "He keeps yelling for me--" 

"He doesn't know you're here," she argued kindly. 

"But I know," Doyle said heavily. "No. I'll stay. The boss knows where we
are. He hasn't recalled me so he can't need me." He forced a smile he did
not feel. "I'm going to be in the way, am I?" 

Dr. Ingram shook her head. "Not at all. You can make yourself useful, in
fact. Just watch him; if anything changes, push the panic button." 

They had put Bodie in a private room so as not to disturb the other
patients in this small, provincial hospital. Doyle hated hospitals, he had
been in too many of them. 

He passed the damp cloth over Bodie's feverish brow and sighed, just
beginning to get over the shock of it himself. Twice on the road back to
town, he had been so sure that Bodie was dead that he had pulled the car
over, searched for his pulse and tipped back his head for mouth to mouth. 

He smiled faintly, realising that, in essence, he had kissed Bodie; and
then the smile faded abruptly as another realisation hit home. 

He had liked it. At the time, only the fear, and the dread had registered
on his mind, but in retrospect he surprised and disquieted himself.
Bodie's mouth was soft and hot, and cherished a thousand times more than
any girlfriend's. 

How many friends like Bodie did a person meet in a lifetime? One. Two, if
he was incredibly lucky. 

Doyle frowned at his partner, seeing the dark good looks, and remembering
the taste of his mouth. Impulsively, he reached out to touch those soft,
warm lips with his fingertips, and he wondered what it might be like to
kiss him while he was awake and able to respond. 

And then, what? Doyle swallowed. A kiss was the beginning, not the end.
His eyes moved across Bodie's broad, bare torso and he imagined himself
lying there. A shiver coursed through him and he shook himself hard. 

If Bodie knew what he was thinking he would probably explode-- 

If he ever found out that he had been mouth to mouth with his partner it
would be bad enough, Doyle thought. He snatched his hands away and began
to pace, wondering if Dr. Ingram might be right, if he should return home.


But before he could make the decision Bodie cried out for him again,
sobbing his name. Doyle returned to the bedside, taking his hand though he
knew he was unconscious, and watching the bewildering display of
expressions chase across his face. Only by chance did he look down and
notice the truth as a disturbance beneath the single sheet. Bodie was
calling his name out of whatever drugged dream. 

And Bodie was aroused. 

Doyle chewed his lip in thought, his fertile imagination working unbidden.
He could still feel that innocent, platonic, life-giving kiss, and it was
with a thrill of disquiet that he realised that he wanted very badly to
taste it again. 

Not because Bodie was a man, but because he was Bodie, because there was
no one else like him and no one else in Ray's life who had ever meant half
as much to him. Girlfriends came and went with almost monotonous
regularity, but there was always Bodie, backing him up, buying his life,
laughing with him, giving him a shoulder to lean on. If that wasn't love,
what was it? 

But not that kind of love, Doyle thought aridly. Do I want him? What do I
want. To have him hold me, to feel his weight on me, to have him spread my
legs apart and be inside of me? He shuddered, closing his eyes, but once
more Doyle gave rein to his impulses. He bent his head towards Bodie's
mouth. Soft, moist, and mobile. The kiss was fleeting, on Bodie's part
unwitting, but Doyle drew back breathless and afraid. 

The promise of Bodie's love, the kind of loving only Bodie could give was
overwhelming, and he knew with one glance at his partner's lower body as
he mumbled his name, that Bodie was probably dreaming the same thing. He
stepped back from the bedside, pulling his fingers through his hair. "Get
a hold of yourself, Ray, for God's sake," he muttered. "When he comes to
he won't remember what tricks the bloody drug played on him, and if he
knew what you just did he'd paralyse you!" 

******

They eased the withdrawal with sedatives, vitamins, fluids, and Bodie rode
it out with the kind of determination Doyle expected of him. Hovering on
the brink of delirium as the fever went back, he clung desperately to
Ray's hand and when at last he lapsed into a deep, natural sleep, Doyle
was nearly as exhausted as he was. 

Bodie was white, drawn, pounds lighter in weight, but it was over at last.
Doyle sank into a chair, watching his partner sleep with eyes half-closed
in drowsiness. 

Rose Ingram pushed a cup of tea at him and he sipped at the scalding
liquid gratefully. "You can take him home tomorrow," she said quietly.
"Make him rest, and keep him warm. He'll be okay, now." 

Keep him warm? Ray thought, feeling the jump of his pulse. It was not what
she meant, but the suggestion made him tingle. He had sat watching Bodie
sleep for hours, enjoying just looking at him. There was a great intimacy
in being there with him, holding his hand tightly in the early hours of
the morning, and it was a pleasure Doyle had not expected. 

The drowsiness pulled at him. He let himself rest forward with a yawn,
putting his head down on his forearm on the side of the bed. He had only
meant to relax for a few moments, but in seconds he was asleep. 

******

It was twenty minutes later when Bodie stirred awake and found himself
looking at a mass of coppery curls just beside his shoulder. He smiled
sleepily, reached out to tousle them gently as the warm sensations of
memory flooded through him, before he reoriented with the real world and
froze. 

His muscles locked up as he caught his breath, but Doyle did not waken.
The draught of his breath was a warm caress across Bodie's chest, so
gently and so innocently seductive that Bodie could hardly tolerate it. He
raised one knee to disguise the arousal and shook Doyle's shoulder softly.


Doyle woke with a moan, lifting his head and turning to look at his
partner with an expression that was as delighted as it was guilty. "I
dozed off, mate. I'm sorry," he muttered, forcing a smile. 

"Sorry for what?" Bodie murmured, revelling in the look of his tousled and
heavy-eyed friend. Doyle was flushed, confused, vulnerable and so
beautiful in the room's soft lighting that Bodie was left breathless,
remembering the creature of the moonlight and jade, remembering why he had
taken him, forced him, spread him wide and consumed him with such
senseless passion that he could not have been able to hear any cries of
protest for the pounding of the blood in his ears.... But Ray had not
protested, even when he was hurt, and he had taken his own revenge,
torturing with pleasure-- 

No. Not Ray. It was a dream, only a dream, nothing more. Bodie closed his
eyes to shut out the other's fey beauty. 

"Bodie?" Doyle frowned. "What's wrong? Do you want a doctor?" 

But Bodie shook his head. "No. I'm okay. It's just...I guess I'm not
thinking too clearly just now. It'll pass." I hope, he added silently, or
working with Ray, day in, day out, was going to be nearly impossible. 

"What about a cup of tea, then?" Doyle asked quietly, getting to his feet.
"Are you hungry? What about some of that horrifying nosh you call food?" 

"Just the tea," Bodie said. "And Ray...thanks. For staying. You didn't
have to." 

Doyle's eyes locked tightly with his and darkened as his pupils dilated.
For one terrible moment he wanted to sweep him up in his arms and kiss him
till he was out of breath. He swallowed hard on the feeling. "I did...I
wanted to. I called Cowley by phone; he's sent the Smurph and Alex out
after Fender's boss. Murphy's a good lad, he'll bring 'em in." 

"Fender. You killed him," Bodie whispered hoarsely. 

"I killed him," Doyle affirmed. "I killed him for you." He stirred. "Look,
take it easy, mate. They reckon you can go home--" He checked his watch.
"Today. It's 2:00 a.m." 

"On what day?" Bodie demanded ruefully. 

Doyle chuckled. "It's Thursday, October 29th. Bonfire night in a week's
time, Hallowe'en the day after tomorrow, and all the Scorpions are getting
ready for their birthday bashes. Sit tight, I'll get you your cup of tea."


The last thing Bodie saw as Doyle departed was his friend's small, shapely
rear, clad as it was in tight, faded blue denim, and he muttered an oath
to the empty room, clamping down on the ferocious wave of desire. 

******

The drive back to London was silent, strained, uncomfortable. They rarely
spoke, suddenly disquieted by one another, trying not to notice the myriad
tantalising details they had overlooked before--consciously overlooked,
Bodie corrected silently and glumly. He had had that dream of Ray in his
bed, warm and heaving gently beneath him: the moonlit apparition had not
been wrong. Dreams were funny things, he reflected; did they reveal the
truth about one's subconscious? If they did the sublime jade creature with
Doyle's face and voice was doubly right, because his unbidden dream went
back years. He shivered, trying not to watch Doyle's long, dancer's legs
flexing as he ambled through the gear box, brake, clutch, accelerator,
clutch, accelerator, and overtook slow traffic. How did I work with him
for all those years and never see him?! 

He walked quite steadily into his lounge room and plunked down on the
sofa, watching Ray potter about in the kitchen, making tea and searching
the refrigerator for something halfway edible. Their silence continued and
it was then that Bodie began to suspect that Doyle was angry. He watched
the other man's face curiously. 

"You want to tell me what's chewing at you?" 

Doyle's eyes leapt up and his pulse rate doubled, colouring his cheeks
with a blush that was attractive. "What are you talking about?" 

"About you. You haven't said a word to me since we left the hospital. What
have I done? Something I said?" 

The breath sighed softly over Doyle's lips. "No, nothing. It's just me.
I'm being an idiot. As usual!" he added vehemently, gulping at his tea.
"Look, it's late and I'd like to get home, get some sleep. Cowley wants me
back down the salt mine tomorrow, bright and early." He crooked a brow at
Bodie. "Do you want to come to the party? The club's having a Hallowe'en
do." 

"Club?" Bodie smiled. "You mean the Chelsea Fetish League?" 

"The health club where I work out," Doyle chided. "You've been there
yourself on a dozen occasions. They're having a party out at the
Manor--Preston Manor, down by the river, you know the place. Elizabethan
house, a Capability Brown garden and lake, very rustic, very old--" 

"Haunted house?" Bodie grinned. 

Doyle made a face. "I should have known better than to ask you." 

"No, I'd love to come." Bodie laughed. "Better than being stuck indoors
till this time next week. Sick leave is a bloody great nuisance." 

"Listen, buster," Doyle remonstrated, "that little git shot you with
enough Mescaline to light up the city of London. You want to go out on the
job and faint in the line of duty and get me shot?" 

"Get you hurt?" Bodie shivered again, knowing Doyle would have to see the
expression of his feelings. He remembered all too well the way he had hurt
him--or, hurt the creature of moonlight and emerald-velvet skin. He looked
up, seeing the same jade colour in Doyle's haunted, haunting almond eyes.
"Don't say that, Ray, don't even think it." He waved at the door. "Get out
of here and let me get some peace, will you?" 

Doyle nodded slowly. "Sure. I'll come over about seven, Saturday night.
The party kicks off at eight. Bonfire, turnip lanterns, roasting
chestnuts, fancy dress optional. What do you want to come as?" 

"A satyr," Bodie growled. "What about you?" 

"I thought I might come as an earthling, there won't be too many of them
around on THAT night," Doyle smiled. "Okay, I'll see you later, Bodie. If
you want me, pick up the phone, but the doctor reckoned you'll be fine
now, just fatigued and light-headed.... Sleep tight, my son." 

The door closed behind him and Bodie stood hugging himself against the
pain of trying to keep a bland, innocent face while he wanted to seize Ray
bodily and have him, right then and there, on the deep pile rug in front
of the gas heater, where the light of the lamp in the corner would touch
him softly, taking years off him, making him look like a kid again....
There was an ache inside of him that was getting stronger and harder to
ignore as time went by. That night, he hardly slept at all. 

For himself, Doyle lay watching the clock, wondering how he would be able
to go to work, day after day, as if it was all the same as it had been
before, as if nothing had changed inside of him. He thought of Bodie and
choked off an oath: if Bodie even suspected what was going on inside his
head, he would go up in a blue light, surely! But his mind returned again
and again to that single, fleeting kiss, and he felt his body stir in
arousal. He chastised himself for a fool, lectured himself sternly and for
the first time in years, resorted to analgesics to grab a few hours of
sleep before dawn. 

******

Preston Manor was draped in decorations and the Elizabethan house was
bathed in coloured lighting. Turnip lanterns nodded amongst the hundreds
of trees that were left of the original Capability Brown landscape, and on
the common area they had built an enormous bonfire. Rightly, it should
have been saved until 5th November, for Guy Fawkes' night, when "guys"
would be burnt all over England, but the club had decided to combine the
two celebrations into one for the sake of convenience. 

The Manor belonged to the club's patron, a minor title without any money
to back it up; he went by the name of Wally Cranshawe and made the estate
pay for itself by taking guests--usually well-to-do Americans--in season.
With October out this very night, the tourist season was well and truly
over. The air was crisp and cold, and the celebrants from the gym
clustered about the bonfire, drinking mulled ale, eating chestnuts and
listening to the readings from some obscure Celtic work. 

Samhain Eve, the night when the spirits were abroad, the Celtic New Year,
Bodie remembered. A few celebrants were dressed as Druids; one a
girlfriend of Doyle's. He watched the two of them laughing at some private
joke, watched the girl take the circlet of oak leaves from her blonde head
and slip it onto Ray's where it nestled among his curls as if it were made
of molten gold. Doyle threw his head back and laughed, but Bodie was too
transfixed by the image to see any humour in it. 

He turned back to his drink, sipping morosely at it. He had already had
too much to drink. The alcohol had begun to buzz in his ears and the fire
was too hot. He was at odds with the witches, warlocks, zombies and
gorillas, feeling left out of their humour, and he turned away from them,
disappearing into the darkness beyond the firelight. 

No one saw him go save Doyle, and his expression tightened. There was
something wrong with Bodie, he was sure. Either he was ill or eating at
himself over something; there was a lost, bewildered unhappiness about him
that made Doyle want to grab him, hug the pain out of him, kiss away the
confusion and torment; but that was impossible, it would only serve to
make things a million times worse, complicate the already muddled state of
affairs. He appropriated his third gin in twenty minutes and swallowed it
quickly. He was drunk even then, though no one but he would know it till
he had had a lot more to drink; just drunk enough to call a taxi home and
then weep disconsolately for the hopelessness of what he felt and could
never share. 

The revelry of the party-goers began to annoy him and he stepped out of
the firelight; no one saw him leave. Away from the brightness and heat,
the night was chilly and blue in the moonlight. He walked with his hands
thrust into the pockets of his sheepskin jacket, breathing deeply, feeling
the air sting his sinuses, as the alcohol set in, making him a little
dizzy. He ambled about the house into the man-made landscape, so very
English, so elegantly civilised. The moon was gibbous, hanging like a
great, yellow lamp in the sky, its light dancing on the water of
Capability Brown's lake. He walked to the edge of the water, watching the
glittering surface, and sat down with a heavy sigh, weary and overwrought.


The wind was gusting in the trees, blanketing sounds nearer at hand, but
as it dropped away for a moment he was sure he heard the rustle of
approaching footsteps. He turned curious, his head light and his senses
dislocated, but he recognised Bodie, who stood quite still, watching him
with eyes that shone in the moonlight. The sight of him was painful and
Doyle turned away, getting to his feet. 

Bodie's mouth was open as he searched vainly for words, unable to believe
what he had seen-- there, the moonlit water, there, the graceful beautiful
form, capped by its coppery tangle of curls. His heart seemed to be trying
to get out through his ribs and when Doyle turned away from him, angrily,
he thought, it was like a knife wound. "Ray?" he called softly. 

"Go away," Doyle muttered. "Leave me alone, I'm drunk, I don't trust
myself tonight." 

"But, Ray," Bodie said breathlessly, and when Doyle made to walk away,
"No, don't leave, Ray!" 

"For Christ's sake, Bodie," Doyle sobbed, quickening his pace and knowing
that his partner was right behind him, "I'm drunk, don't make me make a
bloody fool of myself, please!" 

If anything, Bodie was more inebriated than he was, though he could
control his limbs just as well. He caught Doyle's shoulder desperately,
spinning him around; for one moment he honestly thought Ray was going to
hit him--the clenched fist was there, drawn back, ready to strike. Then
Doyle seemed to lose his coordination, or his resolve, and stumbled. Bodie
caught him before he could fall, hugging him tightly enough to suffocate
him and murmuring his name repeatedly into the softness of his hair. 

It took a moment for the truth to sink in, but Doyle heard the painful
desire in Bodie's husky voice and groaned with a mixture of relief and
fright. Bodie's body heat warmed him and he could feel the other's intense
arousal in the press of his hips. He lifted his head breathlessly, knowing
that there was no way back now, and not caring. 

The first kiss should have been gentle, but Bodie was beyond restraint and
Doyle gasped as his mouth was claimed, ravished without mercy, the kind of
kiss he had been trying to imagine while he castigated himself as an
idiot. When it broke they were both panting, kneeling in the grass,
oblivious to the chill of the night, aware only of the agonising yearning.
Bodie's hands were cold inside Doyle's shirt, following the contours of
his body, and Doyle somehow found his voice, knowing he sounded strange. 

"What are you doing?" 

The memory was sharp in his mind and Bodie responded quietly, almost
without thinking, "Seducing you. Don't tell me you don't want me- - -your
body makes a lie of that." 

"I...I do want you," Doyle whispered. "But here, it's too bloody cold,
isn't it?" 

"Where, then?" Bodie asked, leaning back to look at the other's exquisite
features, blued and fined by the moonlight. 

"Come up to the house," Doyle said, getting to his feet with an effort.
"They've opened up a bunch of rooms for the guys who are going to soak up
the booze till they're stiff as a board." 

"I'm stiff as a board myself," Bodie admitted pointedly, "but not with
booze. With you." He gave Ray his hand, following him into the house by
the servant's entrance at the rear, and chuckled as they climbed the back
stairs. It was worth a wry chuckle; how many lovers had been smuggled up
these same stairs while Elizabeth I and Mary Queen of Scots had been
dicing for the throne of England? Bodie had seen the film, with Glenda
Jackson and Vanessa Redgrave, and as they entered the ancient house it was
as if they were stepping back into the past, leaving the troubles and
moralities of the present behind them. 

The house was almost silent, its dark, walnut panelling and heavy framed
portraits wreathed in impenetrable shadows. Doyle had visited here before
and knew his way around; he led Bodie to a room on the upper floor in the
open hearth, warming the air and lighting the room with the rosy glow only
a live fire can give. The wind rattled at the leaded windows as they shut
out the world outside; the bed was ancient, four- posted, with stiff
damask sheets that must have been bought when Queen Victoria was alive. 

Doyle stood quite still, letting Bodie undress him; when they both stood
naked in the embrace of the firelight it was as if they had shed the
Twentieth Century, stepping back into the past, into another life--perhaps
a former life in which they had been lovers, like Alexander and his
beloved Persian boy. And which am I? Doyle thought wryly as he sank down
into the bed's deep feather mattress. Bodie's weight was welcome on him,
Bodie's mouth kissing his chest, nibbling on one nipple while his hands
made pleasure into torture and torture into pleasure, calculated caresses
that made him ache and tingle and want to shout. 

Conscious thought became disjointed and they were operating on instinct
and impulse; Doyle was not certain at what point Bodie nudged his knees
apart, kneeling between his thighs. He would have cried out as his body
was impaled for the first time in its life, but the cry was blanketed by a
kiss and instead he writhed mutely, frantic as sensations he had never
felt before set his nerves aflame. 

It was only later that he thought to wonder where Bodie had learned his
technique, but he could not bring himself to ask. Jealous, Ray? he
demanded of himself. And if not, why not? He learned fast himself, copying
Bodie's tricks and improvising as he rolled his partner and lover onto his
back and repeated the whole rapturous coupling with a determination and
control he had not known he had. Bodie panted, straining against him,
clawing at his back with fingers like steel until Doyle could hold back no
longer, and then they came as one body, shuddering like leaves in the
wind. 

Slowly, imperceptibly, awareness trickled back. They lay in a comfortable,
loose embrace, arms and legs entwined, Doyle's head on Bodie's chest and
listening to the slow, steady rhythm of his heart. The passion was spent
for the moment and they were drowsy with exhaustion, fulfillment, alcohol
and raw relief. 

"Ray?" Bodie murmured. "You're not hurt?" 

Doyle lifted his tousled head with a smile. "I'm tougher than that,
sunshine. I was a virgin in this type of thing, though." 

"I bowled a maiden over," Bodie quipped, smiling fondly at him. 

Doyle laughed, joining in the humour and continuing the joke. "Yeah, I was
caught in the gully at deep fine leg; but--I knocked you for six first,
right?" 

"For six sixes in one over," Bodie admitted, cuddling him and chuckling.
"So it was good?" The hopeful note in his voice was engaging. 

"It was terrific," Doyle smiled. "Did I do all right? I mean, it was the
first time I ever wanted to do that to...a man. Jesus, am I gay? Are we?" 

Bodie's shoulders shrugged. "I dunno. I never fancied another man, well,
not really. It's not like that, it's like.... Like I love you. I want to
be with you, to look at you, listen to you; the sex is just the frosting
on the cake. Lying here with you, tasting your mouth, being inside you, or
having you inside of me--sex is just a little part of it. I'd love you if
you had hit me, back there, and I'd never set a finger on you." He paused
and added almost as an afterthought, "Forgive me?" 

"Forgive you for what?" Doyle demanded. "For giving me the loving of my
life? I thought I was going to have a heart attack! I haven't had a high
like that with a girl for years." He chuckled shakily. "I guess, being a
bloke, you know exactly where to touch me, and how.... Am I gay? I never
looked at another man that way, before, Bodie, I swear it." 

"And will you, in future?" 

"Will you?" Doyle asked drily, then sighed. "I don't know. I think it has
more to do with being in love than having sex." He made an exasperated
face. "Damn it, Bodie, I'm trying to tell you I bloody well love you!"
Bodie exhaled hard and squeezed his eyes shut, which made Doyle frown.
"What's wrong now?" 

"I'm going to pinch myself and make sure I'm awake. I'm trying to convince
myself that this house isn't haunted by a Celtic warrior with the face of
a seraph who just happens to look like my partner. If I wake up in the
morning with a hangover and realise I've been laid within an inch of my
life by a randy old ghost who comes out every Hallowe'en and seduces
good-looking blokes--" 

He broke off as Doyle punched his shoulder. "I'm not a ghost, you clown,
and I'm not old either." 

"But you are randy," Bodie grinned. "Which makes two of us. Christ, Ray,
how did we work together for so long and never see each other?" 

"Oh, we saw each other," Doyle mused, "it just took a long time for us to
wake up to it. I've always liked touching you, I always enjoyed it when
you'd put your arm 'round me. I used to like the judo, because it was so
nice to wrestle with you.... Was it just me, or did you notice it too?" 

Bodie sighed. "Don't you remember when we used to play two falls out of
three in the gym? Like a slow dance, then roll on the mat.... We used to
take forever to get up. Jesus, we're slow on the up-take!" 

"Better late than never," Doyle smiled, and kissed him deeply, glad that
they had both shaved in the evening before leaving for the party. "Do you
want to join the merry throng again? They're having fireworks at
midnight." 

"Too cold out there, too warm in here," Bodie yawned. "Who wants to get
smashed with a bunch of loonies dressed up as witches and zombies?" 

"So why did you come?" Doyle demanded. 

"To the party, or are we speaking biologically?" Bodie asked blandly. He
relented as Doyle snatched up a heavy feather pillow and made to smother
him with it. "All right, all right! I came to the party to be with you. No
other reason. Good enough?" 

"Not by half." Doyle straddled him, licking his neck and chest teasingly.
"But you can show me the other half, if you want." 

Bodie caught his breath as his hips and Doyle's began to grind together.
"I want," he muttered, watching the firelight shimmer on his lover's hair,
bringing out its red tones. "I want to make you scream my name, and purr
like a cat, and tell me you can't live without me. What do you want?" 

Doyle smiled gently. "To see you so zonked out of your mind you don't know
what day it is, because you want me so much.... To spend years with you,
lots of years, maybe the rest of my life. Good enough?" 

"By half," Bodie whispered. "What about the other half?" 

And then he gasped, catching his breath sharply as Doyle growled, deep in
his chest, and began the ancient ritual again, pleasure and pain, selfless
and selfish, a ritual as old as time, and as primitive. In Bodie's mind
were the images of moonlight, and jade and water, but the reality of the
slight, hard body pressed against his banished the fantasy, replacing it
with something better...Ray. Not a figment of his frustrated subconscious,
but Ray, alive and panting, fierce with wanting, sobbing half- formed
endearments as they punished each other to make it last every second it
would. 

Neither of them noticed the chimes as the old clock in the hall struck
midnight. 

-- THE END --

******

*NOTE:* For those who are curious to know what the "pillow talk" Bodie and
Doyle used and are not familiar with the language of Cricket here are some
of the footnotes that accompanied this story. 

"Bowled a maiden over": an over is a set of six balls sent down the wicket
to the batsman to be played. The balls aren't "thrown" or "pitched,"
they're BOWLED, which is entirely different. An over in which no runs are
scored by the batsman is called--a maiden over, and the bowler is said to
have--bowled a maiden over! Maidens are the best kind to bowl, as the
opposing team isn't scoring runs. 

"Caught...": if the batsman plays the ball straight into the hands of one
of the 11 opposing fieldsmen, he's out--caught out. (His job is to beat
the field placings and make runs while they chase the ball, a feat
accomplished by scampering 22 yards between the wickets while his
partnering batsman changes ends with him. Takes two batsmen to play, of
course.) 

"In the gully": the gully is a fielding position. 

"At deep fine leg": it's an adjunct to the gully, a fielding position
where a batsman can be caught out. 

"Knocked for six": if the batsman plays the ball hard enough, he can knock
it right over the boundary line (usually a 3 1/2' fence) without it once
touching the ground. This is called "hitting a six," and six runs are
awarded to his team--a black, black mark against the bowler who sent him
the ball that was so loose it could be played for six. The bowler is said
to have been "knocked for six!" (in everyday English [British English] it
is used to mean "knocked flat by surprise"). 

"Six sixes in one over": an over is a set of balls. There are six in an
over; and if every one of them was bowled so loosely--or the batsman is so
good he's literally unplayable by the bowler--there's a million-to-one
chance that he could "knock up a six" off every ball. It's been done, but
it happens very, very rarely. It'd be like knocking the bowler for
thirty-six, so Bodie's closing quip is actually a great compliment! 

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