The Professionals Circuit Archive - B & D Beside the Sea	 B & D
Beside the Sea

 

by Sebastian 

  
 Head down, Bodie trudged through the hot sand, wincing as the tender
soles of his feet encountered tiny twigs, pebbles, and shells which
deceitfully laced the apparently fine white sand. It didn't seem to be
bothering Doyle, who was bouncing along ahead of him, threading a careful
path through the spread of towels and slabs of lobster-pink human flesh,
the jumble of suntan lotion bottles, and bags, and buckets, and spades,
all of which adorned the beach. Probably had soles like elephant hide,
Bodie thought sourly, not a little envious. 

Finally Doyle stopped, tilted his face to the sea air as if scenting like
a hunting dog, his eyes half-closed in concentration; he turned carefully
around to inspect all aspects of the site, and finally nodded to Bodie.
"This do?" 

Bodie had been watching this performance with something akin to disbelief.
"Oh yeah," he enthused with mendacious admiration, "it's got so much more
than all the other seemingly identical spots we've passed on this five
mile hike here. Worth waiting for though. Only you could see that subtle
difference, mate." 

Doyle acknowledged the heavy sarcasm with the barest of looks. He
offloaded his shoulder bag -- souvenir of a Greek holiday -- and unpacked
his towel, spreading it on the sand. Bodie did likewise. In fact, it was
quite a pleasant spot, more secluded than some, in the shelter of the
sea-wall; and the nearest family part to them handily obscured behind a
lengthy striped windbreak. 

"How long we got?" Bodie asked, unstrapping his watch and stuffing it into
his bag. 

It had been Doyle's idea, this: hot day, too many recent hours spent
sweltering in an office, or a car; why not get away from it all, spend
their day off by the sea? Bodie, disdainful ex-paras supercool hero type,
had scorned the idea -- in principle. In practice it appealed enormously
to his nature (and he suspected Doyle was perfectly aware of that) his
spirits lifting irrepressibly the moment they got out of the car and
surveyed the gritty-sanded beach, the almost-blue water, the pier with its
peeling faded paint, and the rocks and the hamburger stalls which were all
part of the British seaside scene -- it had a kind of beauty about it,
flawed and tarnished and cheapened in a way a Greek beach never was
however crude the rusticity of its tavernas; but beauty it was, none the
less. Along the curve of the seafront were shops flagged with the
colourful gaiety of beach paraphernalia, bright-painted beachballs hung up
in nets, plastic inflatable toys; and shops to sell nothing but lurid
sticks of rock in every shape, size and colour imaginable; amusement
arcades with flashing neon signs everywhere one looked, and along the
beachwall, heavy iron telescopes, remnant of a bygone age when pleasure
was a simpler matter. Bodie breathed in the scent of ozone, candy-floss
and seaweed, and was happy. 

"Oh, I reckon we can give ourselves a few hours," Doyle was answering,
removing his tinted glasses from the inner pocket of his jacket. 

"A few hours," said Bodie with assumed moroseness, gazing around at the
collection of rug-wrapped septuagenarians huddled in deckchairs, nodding
into space, or simply staring; the scattered families of peeling
pot-bellied dads, chubby mums, squabbling kids -- "where the hell are the
beautiful people?" 

Doyle gave a tiny sigh, glanced down at himself; very briefly, but Bodie
didn't miss it. Doyle had style, even in his affectations. 

"I was counting on picking up some local talent," Bodie groused, ignoring
him. 

Doyle looked faintly aloof. "Can't you do without it for one afternoon,
Priapus? Fresh air, sun, sea, sand -- why'd you have to drag sex into
everything?" 

Doyle would turn down the chance of some nubile female company no more
than he would, Bodie knew that perfectly well. Just making the best of it,
and pretending a leaning towards asceticism, that was all. Which was a
joke, because underneath all that superficial cool Bodie suspected his
partner harboured a raging fire of sensuality, a fine uninhibited
appreciation of the delights of unbridled hedonism. It intrigued him. He
knew Doyle better than anyone in the world did, knew everything about him
-- but for the one area forever closed off to him, no entry, keep out.
Seemed unfair, even ridiculous; mused Bodie as he watched his mate pulling
off his t-shirt unhurriedly, shaking out the head of curls, that he,
Bodie, was barred from tasting that one thing about Ray Doyle. His gaze
was almost wistful as it travelled over his partner's lithe nude torso. 

Doyle had noticed the attentions. "Oi," he remarked as he unbuckled his
belt, "What you starin' for? Not got me in mind for a substitute 'ave
you?" 

Bodie snapped back to reality. They had special reasons for going
carefully on this particular subject right now; and Doyle, as he often did
so unnervingly, had hit yet again on the right interpretation of Bodie's
behaviour. Bodie had always prided himself on being unreadable, before
he'd met Raymond Doyle with the cool calculating eyes that seemed to look
clear through to Bodie's soul. 

"Possibly," he said, poker-faced. 

Doyle pushed his jeans down his thighs, began to step out of them. "Better
move the towels bit closer together in that case," was his only comment,
and he lay down on the lurid rectangle of towelling. 

Bodie couldn't repress a grin, looking down at him. That was the thing
about old Doyle, took Bodie in his stride, largely unshockable and never
short of a comeback. His eyes travelled again over the length of him, nude
but for a small black pair of swim-briefs -- 

Now there was a thought. 

They had taken off their shoes before descending the stone steps to the
beach, but Bodie was still otherwise conventionally attired in shirt and
trousers. "How'd you do that?" he asked suspiciously. 

"Do what?" Doyle didn't stir, soaking up the sun caressing his bare skin,
the comfortably hot sand beneath his heels; he picked up a handful, let it
run idly through his fingers. 

"Get changed." 

"I took off my t-shirt," Doyle explained patiently, "I undid my belt, I
unzipped my trousers, I--" 

"How'd you get your trunks on?" Bodie cut in, favouring Doyle with a look
of exasperated hauteur. 

Doyle tipped up his glasses, stared enigmatically. "Had 'em on
underneath." 

Bodie gaped. This simple expedient had not occurred to him. Conceding the
round to Doyle, he rummaged in his bag and pulled out his own, watched by
Doyle's cool eye. "Have to find a cabin somewhere." He screwed up his eyes
against the glare of the sun, then shaded them with one hand as he stared
along the beach. There in the distance he could see a little row of wooden
huts. Picking up his towel, resigned, he prepared to set off. 

Doyle was up in a bound, taking the towel from him. "No need for that." 

"Wha--?" Bodie gazed at him in incomprehension. Surely Doyle had heard of
the little law that precluded revealing one's all on the beach? 

"Ah, c'mon Bodie, you're not that prudish. Like an old maiden aunt you are
sometimes," Doyle said impatiently. "You change under a towel, that's the
way the British do it. Look--" he nodded at a plump matron twenty yards
away struggling under a voluminous tent-like garment, finally emerging
like an overblown butterfly from its chrysalis, a bloated vision in a
skirted blue swimsuit. 

"I am not--" 

It was no good. Doyle had taken him in hand, purposeful and determined.
"Undo your trousers," he instructed, and watched with steely concentration
as Bodie complied, shutting his mind off from the possible interest of any
onlooker. Then, just as he had come to the fatalistic conclusion that
Doyle was determined to expose him to all and sundry, Doyle, standing in
front of him, whipped the towel around his waist, holding the ends
together. "Now pull 'em off. Pants as well," he ordered. Bodie, struggling
beneath the constricting towel, did his best. They were half-way down his
thighs when he was struck by a sudden mistrust, and cold blue glared into
mischievous green. 

"If you're gonna drop me in it, accidentally let this slip," he snarled,
"you'll be taking the long walk home, sunshine, and you won't be in any
shape to do it." 

"Would I --?" Doyle answered his own innocent question: "'Course I
wouldn't. Get on with it." 

Only partly reassured, Bodie kicked himself free of trousers and pants,
and, precariously leaning over, managed to insert one foot in the leg of
his trunks. 

It was then he realised that Doyle, still holding the ends of the towel
together, was peering unashamedly over the top of it. 

Bodie blanched, flushed, and grabbed the towel from him, clutching it
against himself. "What the hell are you doing?" he enquired with
precarious calm, and met Doyle's unabashed eye. "Just checkin'," said
Doyle mysteriously, and gently but firmly took the ends of the towel from
him again, gazing down into the dark cavern with deep interest. 

"Your parents Jewish, were they?" 

Bodie nearly choked. He glared at Doyle -- but Doyle was suddenly grinning
at him with sly delight, and it was all okay after all. "Get on with it,"
Doyle said again, "I'll give you five seconds before I drop it --" and
gazed into the distance with apparent lack of interest as Bodie, stooping,
struggled to pull up the trunks, just as-- 

"-- five --" counted Doyle aloud, and let the towel fall. 

Bodie was decently clad in blue and white striped shorts-style trunks. 

Doyle stared him up and down. "Cut-off pyjamas?" he suggested; then he lay
back down. 

Bodie was hurt by this. "Marks and Sparks finest, mate." He sat on his
towel, unpacked the Delial sun-oil, began to apply it to his shoulders.
"Want some?" Without waiting for Doyle's reply, he upended the plastic
bottle, thumped on the bottom of it. 

Doyle's eyes flew open as large drops of warm oil fell on his chest. He
caught Bodie's hand just as it made a gleeful dive for him. "You want us
marked out as a pair of fairies? You wanna rub oil into me, mate, you wait
till we're alone." He slanted an arch glance up at Bodie and began to
smooth the lotion in himself, long fingers gliding over his skin with
familiar ease. Liking the sensation, he let his eyelids fall, giving a
little sigh as his hand slid on over his own skin. 

Bodie watched, still breathless from the implied promise of the oil
remark, always intrigued by Doyle's attitude to himself. He seemed totally
at ease with his own body, he accepted it, he seldom looked in a mirror,
he was perfectly happy about touching himself, he was unselfconscious in
the way he moved. That attitude mystified Bodie who did not share it, made
him rather envious in a diffused kind of way -- deep-down, Bodie suspected
his body of unattractiveness, and to offset that he had developed over the
years a bravado-inspired attitude of braggadocio that worked, in its way,
nearly as well. He appealed to some types of women, Doyle to others. But
he envied Doyle none the less. Doyle had overridden his physical
imperfections, he presented them in the light of works of original art; he
was innerly assured of himself in a way Bodie never could be. 

Doyle nudged him. "Oi. Come back." 

"Sorry, what?" 

"I said, twice, 'ow about a dip," said Doyle, watching him unblinkingly.
"Or were you serious about collectin' some company?" He nodded towards two
girls who had just arrived and were settling on a patch some fifty feet
away; pretty blonde things in bikinis; as they watched, one rose to her
feet displaying firm white thighs and heavy-breasted female allure. 

Bodie's mental withdrawal from the suggestion was swift, and something of
a surprise. He covered it easily, camping: "Thought we'd settled I was
gonna make do with you today, flower," on the principle that it was
amazing how seldom one was believed when one told the bare truth, and
accompanied the remark with a heavylidded pout and a swat at Doyle's
thigh. God knew, they had little enough time alone together relaxing. He
liked Ray, liked him better than anyone he'd ever met, enjoyed his
company. And since one bloody evening a few months ago, he'd been watching
Ray carefully for any sign that there might be a chance of something more,
but-- 

"Okay with me, sweetheart, but you better make your move soon. Cold water
plays hell with my libido." Doyle lay back down again, shutting his eyes. 

-- but the signals he got from Doyle were always confused; Bodie found it
impossible to read him on the matter. On the one hand, like Doyle's
unfazed remark just now, and the one about rubbing in the oil, any
suggestive camping around Bodie might instigate was always picked up by
Doyle and returned, in fact he sometimes started it himself. Did that mean
he was sure enough of his -- image, his sexuality to accept it in the
light he thought it was offered, a derogatory joke one had to take, and
respond to if one wasn't to appear threatened by it? Or did it mean he was
sure of his sexuality in another way -- secure enough to admit he could,
and would, respond to a physical advance from someone he found attractive,
whichever sex they were? 

Bodie didn't know; didn't dare to risk finding out. Wasn't sure he
*wanted* to know -- it was all very pleasant as it was, the light
flirtation between them, the tingly feeling of 'maybe - one-day' he got
whenever Doyle gave him that tantalising come-hither look, or one of his
rare, sweet smiles, staying just out of reach... 

But there might be so much more, there was just a chance of that. 

And sometimes the desire to find out once and for all, to resolve the
confusion engendered by the endless games they played with one another,
make Doyle lay it all in the open, was almost too much to bear... 

He smiled wryly to himself. This would put the cat among the pigeons. 

"Hey, Doyle; fancy making it with me?" 

He didn't say it aloud. He never did, only rehearsed it, sometimes, alone
at night in bed. 

Sometimes Doyle said 'yeah, okay,' straight off. Sometimes he had to be
coaxed. Sometimes he was taken by storm, crushed helplessly beneath
Bodie's fierce onslaught. It always ended the same, anyway; Doyle there in
his arms, pliant and responsive and gasping with the pleasure Bodie was
making him feel... 

He shook his head violently, like a dog dislodging water. He shouldn't be
thinking these things about his partner. He smiled again, more bitterly
this time as he imagined yet another opening -- "Hey, mate, I toss off to
wild fantasies about you every night, makes me feel good, how about trying
it for real?" 

It wasn't all his fault. Doyle was the flirtatious type. Bodie couldn't
decide whether he did it deliberately, for Bodie's sake, or whether it was
Doyle's automatic reaction to the subconscious awareness of a potential
sexual response. And, with his looks -- Bodie, being both generous and
objective, would not quite call him 'androgynous,' no, way, Ray was all
male -- but certainly there was something unconventional about him, the
loose curls, the starkly beautiful chains adorning throat and narrow
wrist, the big eyes -- 

They were staring at him now, wide and calculating. 

Bodie swallowed, uncomfortably, wondering how much he had given away in
those moments of far-off introspection. Doyle was sitting up, hands draped
across his drawn-up knees, head on one side, watching him carefully. 

"This is," he remarked for the record, "the fourth time. Are you coming in
for a dip? Or not? What's on your mind, Bodie?" 

Bodie blurted out, "Andy's party --" and could have buried his head,
ostrich-wise, in the sand. 

Doyle's face turned distant; he gazed out to sea. Small sailing boats
passed serenely; every so often a noisy motorboat would appear and zig-zag
through their midst. Behind them, walking along the seafront path above,
some noisy teenage trippers had a radio going very loud; they were
laughing and shouting and mucking about with all the self-centred
excitement, the us-against-the-world aggression of adolescence. 

"Oh, that." 

He said nothing more. Bodie's scalp was tight with embarrassment; what the
hell had he said that for? Doyle's guarded reaction made him more than
ever sure that he was all wrong, all his hopeful interpretations totally
on the wrong track -- 

Andy's party. Three months, or twelve weeks, eight days ago now. 

A mad, riotous celebration of still being alive. The stupidities only men
who were daily threatened by death, past, present and future, could
devise. A gut-rotting amount of alcohol. Idiotic stunts. Ridiculous games.
One of which had resulted in forfeits -- "Put your head in a bucket of
water and sing all 4-1/2 verses of Betty's Lament," "Drink two Cowley
specials" (Scotch, lime juice and advocaat). And when it had been Bodie's
turn to lose, he had drawn the short straw with a vengeance, his slip of
paper conveying the instruction to his fuddled brain -- "Kiss your
partner." 

Childish, stupid, his remaining, uneasy rationality had scorned; even as,
obedient to the shared ethic, the mob madness, he pursued Ray Doyle around
the room to the cheers and jeers of colleagues and ran him down at last. 

He would never forget it, that first heart-stopping moment of seizing him,
the warmth and familiar yet unfamiliar sense of Ray close to him, held
tight in Bodie's stronger arms; the initial struggle, and then Doyle
submitting gracefully to the rules; laughing, wary eyes looking up at him,
just before Bodie's searching mouth found his. 

Although he had relived it many times in fantasy since, Bodie couldn't now
remember just how it felt, to kiss Ray Doyle. He did know that it had been
wonderful, the nicest thing he'd ever done, and when, needing breath, he'd
opened his eyes to find Doyle's drowsily shut, an expression of
concentrated ecstasy on his face, he felt a deep dive of his guts as if
something momentous had happened. It was like a blow to the stomach. Or a
dazzling light shone directly in his eyes. Or the dizzying rush of a
drug-induced high spreading out along his nerves. 

No blow, no dazzle, no drug. Just Ray Doyle, head tipped back, clearly and
uninhibitedly set alight by the touch of his, Bodie's mouth. 

He had, he supposed, expected one of two things, on that strange night
when they were frozen together in a moment of stilled-time amid the
jeering and the catcalls and the already fading interest as frenzied
activity was renewed elsewhere in the room. 

Either Doyle would view him henceforth with apprehension, distrust, a kind
of transferred unease; or everything would come right for them at that
very moment, they would walk off together, to resolve their innate
loneliness and their need in one another. 

In the event, however, neither alternative had happened. 

Doyle had opened his eyes, met Bodie's for one brief, telling moment, his
hands still holding onto Bodie's shirt. Some message had passed between
them, and Bodie was no longer sure he knew what it had been. Then he had
let go, stepped back, forcing Bodie to do the same; and he was left
empty-handed in the tatters of his own desire. They had gone on with the
party, acted quite normally and had done so ever since, no contention or
even tension between them; everything as it always had been. 

But Bodie couldn't forget it. Whether Doyle remembered as he did, he
couldn't tell. He stared at him now, brooding eyes searching his face. 

Doyle leant towards him, slowly, as if mesmerised; the musky tang of
warmed sun-oil hit Bodie's senses. Doyle made as if to say something;
changed his mind. "Swim," he said succinctly, and sprang to his feet. 

They picked their way over soft hot sand, then through shingle that made
Bodie wince and pick his feet up in a hurry, only wince anew when they
made contact once more with the sharp pebbles. Then, just when he thought
he couldn't stand it any longer, there was the blessed relief of firm,
cool damp sand, and finally the icy cold shock of the water rushing up to
lick at his toes and retreating. 

It felt good on his abused soles. Bloody British seaside, he thought
grimly to himself, not for the first time, and advanced further into the
sea. Doyle, a few seconds behind him, yelped with shock. Bodie, now with
the water half-way up his legs, his calves beginning to ache with the
chill of the water while his ankles had gone numb, turned to investigate.
"Okay?" 

"Bloody cold," said Doyle through chattering teeth. He lifted one foot
out, then the other, arms wrapped around skinny ribs, bottom lip caught
between his teeth. He looked absurdly mournful. Fastidiously, he kicked
out one leg to disentangle some slimy green seaweed which had attached
itself. Bodie decided instantly to be brave in contrast. He grinned, waded
purposefully out thigh-deep, braced himself, and dived forward. 

After the first agonising second or so it really wasn't too bad. He swam
vigorously around for a while, avoiding the beachball being chucked around
nearby by a group of mindless army types; a passing inflatable powerboat
sent a rippling wash over his head. When he turned for shore, it was to
see Doyle still standing there, only having progressed as far as his
knees. Goose bumps were standing up all over him, the cool breeze lifting
his hair. He looked perished. Bodie wanted to wrap him up and cuddle him
back to warmth. 

He didn't. He grinned, standing up, and waded towards him. 

Doyle saw the intention in wicked blue eyes, began a wary retreat watching
Bodie all the while, the cross-surge of the waves against his calves
threatening to disorient him. "Just you dare," he warned, but Bodie was
quicker. Cold and dripping, he launched himself against Doyle, locked his
arms around his waist -- Doyle so warm against his cool skin -- and they
fell heavily together with a resounding splash into three feet of salty
water. 

When he surfaced, spluttering and shaken, there was murder in Doyle's eye.
He advanced menacingly on Bodie who was laughing, jumped him. Bodie was
ready to put up a fight and they wrestled together for a while in a
struggle that suddenly turned amicable, now Doyle was over the outrage and
the first shock of the cold. They raced each other, arm over arm; and one
of the mindless marines, watching them, threw the beach ball in a fit of
macho needling so it bounced off Doyle's golliwog head; Doyle promptly
kidnapped it and threw it to Bodie. They had a good game of it, tossing it
serenely back and forth, while the marines launched unsuccessful raids to
rescue it. Finally tiring of the game, and getting numb, Doyle threw it
some distance away and left the tattooed hunks to swim for it. 

"Gettin' out," he said to Bodie. 

"Cold?" 

Doyle nodded and rose out of the water, a skinny male Venus arising from
the foam, at least to Bodie's eye. Bodie followed him up the beach, eyes
dwelling on the clench and flex of Doyle's buttocks beneath the shiny
black nylon; he was cold himself now and glad to be out in the heat of the
sun. They passed the two girls, who, Bodie noticed, looked Ray up and
down, and then himself; he ignored it and hoped Doyle wasn't tempted. He
wanted him all to himself, today. 

He was gritty with sand, it was everywhere. He rubbed himself down briskly
as his partner did the same, then stretched out on his back and let the
hot sun gradually revive his cold-numbed nerves. His hand was touching
Doyle's who was lying next to him; a casual, accidental contact and Doyle
didn't move away. 

"Fancy a cuppa?" Bodie asked, seeing that Doyle still looked chilly; he
twisted his head and saw a hot-dog emporium not too far away. 

Doyle made a barely perceptible motion of his head. "Nah." He sounded
drowsy. 

Bodie lifted his head to look at him, then rolled onto his stomach so he
could do it more easily. Eyes closed, wet-spiked lashes lying on the round
cheek; each heavy brown curl trailing its own rivulet of moisture across
his temple. Bodie's gaze travelled on down the bare throat -- no chain
today, wonder why not? -- and the dark chest hair, a delicate understated
pattern of masculinity. The finely muscled arms, one at his side, fingers
stilled in warm sand; the other lying carelessly across his flat belly;
the great veins of an athlete standing out in stark blue relief on the
tender white skin of his inner arm. One knee was bent outwards, almost
touching Bodie's thigh as he leant up on one hand, completing his careful,
fascinating study of Doyle's body; his eyes returned to his partner's
face. Bodie, who was used to it, tried to view it as a stranger might. It
was an odd face: odd in the sense that taken feature by feature it was
flawed practically everywhere one looked; and in that viewed as a whole it
had a perverse haunting beauty. 

But Bodie wasn't a stranger. And he found Doyle faultless; everything
about him was attractive. 

Realising what was happening he drew back, conscious of his thudding,
racing heart, the tight knot of yearning in his guts. He unclenched one
hand, looked at his sweaty palm, trying to calm himself. God, but this was
getting beyond a joke. 

Only it never had been a joke. 

He meant, of course, that it was getting beyond the point where he would
keep it in the realm of fantasy, a bit of illicit spice to colour his
erotic dreamworld. He was beginning to want -- *too much* -- to make it
real. 

What was it about him, he thought, looking down into Doyle's sleeping
face, its refined cherubic look belying the cruel hard streak that was as
much a part of Doyle as the conviction in his own ideals, and was perhaps
the same thing. Why him? 

Because we're partners, because we had to learn to be close, however
little we liked it. Couldn't stay alive any other way. And because he's
smaller than I am, and because his beauty melts me inside, and because
despite all that he's such a paradox, god Bodie, *he's* not the one who
needs wrapping up and protecting, not him with his calm self-assurance and
his vicious toughness and his competence at everything he tries and his
determination and his quick wits... 

The hot sun was beating down. Bodie was sweating freely; but it wasn't
just the warmth. He threw himself violently onto his stomach, rested his
head on his arm, staring at the blank grey wall ahead; shutting out all
the background noise, the far-off wash of the sea, the harsh seagull
squeals, the shouts of frolicking bathers. 

Wouldn't you just know it would happen like this. 

He could handle it when it was just a flicker of sexual attraction, a
frisson of dark pleasure unlikely to be fulfilled, but
just-possible-enough to make it fun. 

But now it was more than that. Much, much more. 

Restless, he turned his head, ear pillowed on his upper arm, so he could
watch Doyle again. So deeply asleep... Doyle could sleep through anything,
when he wanted to, bar the barest bleep from his R/T, the first
pre-ringing ting of the phone, signals he was trained to recognise and to
react instantly to. Aching inside, knowing he was taking a risk but unable
to stop himself, Bodie edged closer so his face was a millimetre from
Doyle's bare upper arm. The scent of him arose, alien and familiar and
heady with the added warm musk of sunoil mingling with his sweat. 

It was irresistible. Zeus himself, who had succumbed to the charms of the
young Ganymede, would certainly have swept off this sleeping Doyle without
a passing thought; and Bodie was only too mortal. 

He let his lips brush over the warm scented skin of Doyle's arm, tracing
gently over the soft downy hair; and then his mouth parted and he let his
tongue glide there, playing over a centimetre of salty silken skin. 

The taste of him filled Bodie's senses; heart, body and soul cried out for
more. No chance. He'd risked too much already. Heart pounding, he pulled
away a little, and braced his arms to push himself up. 

He knew Doyle was awake the instant he moved. 

Every muscle tensed, he raised himself and stared down into Doyle's
wide-awake face, into his eyes: pale green ice collared around narrowed
pinpoints of black. Bodie waited, frozen. What had he done? 

Nothing. Everything. A snatched moment of self-indulgence; Doyle might
read it any way. 

He was sweating, drops of it running into his eyes. He made no move to
brush it away. Then, unbelievably, Doyle's face changed; a kind of weary
tenderness there. He reached out, touched Bodie, very briefly. 

"What do you want, Bodie?" he whispered, fiercely; and the quiet intense
words echoed around them. "Tell me..." 

Bodie's throat was tight with tension; he opened his mouth to speak but no
words came out. He just stared at Doyle dumbly. Doyle shook his head,
looked down at the sand. "Should've stayed at home today... I knew it, but
I..." He ran out of words, his face absorbed, looking inward. 

Should have stayed at home? Bodie was trembling inside with strangeness
and confusion. "You wishing you hadn't come?" he tested, cautiously. Funny
how old his voice sounded... 

Doyle's head came up. He stared at Bodie, then briefly glanced around at
the throng of people covering the beach, seeming now to pen them in, halt
and frustrate any possible revelation. "You know what I mean," he only
said, and held Bodie's eyes for a long moment before his lashes swept down
once more. 

Bodie couldn't have been more stunned if the sun had suddenly tumbled from
the sky and landed with a splash and a fizzle in the ocean. His heart was
pounding again, the veins in his wrist throbbing as he stared at them,
struggling to cope with the giddy rush of sensations. 

Doyle slanted a glance up at him. "Why didn't you say something before,"
he muttered urgently, "oh Bodie, for godsake why--" 

He broke off, knowing the answer only too well. Bodie had held off, as he
had, because it wasn't the easiest thing to admit; one's own judgement a
precarious thing when the emotions were so involved, and knowing that if
one was wrong, the penalty was just too high a price to risk the gamble.
He had known for a long time that he and Bodie were inextricably bound up
in one another, he couldn't remember the exact moment the knowledge had
hit him, it was more a gradual growing of awareness that they belonged
together, that there would never be a time when they would be forever
apart. He knew Bodie knew it too. 

But that didn't necessarily need to mean sex. 

Unless they wanted it to. 

He'd known he did ever since Bodie had chased him, wrapped him up in
strong arms and kissed him, not in fantasy but in reality. But he might
never have known for sure that Bodie did too, had it not been for the
chance that had woken him from sleep moments -- a lifetime -- ago, to find
Bodie surreptitiously nuzzling his arm, an expression of such helpless,
loving confusion on his face it melted Doyle's heart... 

So now they both knew. And here they were, seventy miles from home
surrounded by crowds; it couldn't have happened in a worse place. He
lifted his head and studied Bodie's dear, goodlooking face -- now his, for
the asking. That was the hardest thing, not to be allowed one touch, just
one touch to say all he was feeling, had felt for months... 

He rolled onto his stomach, pressed his aching groin into the sand -- oh
god, he hoped Bodie didn't think it was just sex, that was part of what he
had to offer but he felt so very much more and he hoped Bodie knew it -- 

Bodie also rolled onto his stomach, so they were lying as close as
possible, faces turned together, warm breath mingling. Doyle moved his
hand so it was lying alongside Bodie's thigh; he stroked him very gently,
a tiny fingertip touch tracing minute circles. They spoke in whispered
murmurs, like kids sharing secrets. 

"We've wasted so much bloody time..." 

"When did you first--?" 

"Was when you got knifed, I reckon... was so mad with you..." 

"Long ago as that? Wish I'd known..." 

"An' you?" 

"Moment I saw you, sunshine." 

"My mouth's dry..." 

"That's passion, that is." 

"Nerves, more like... Don't care what it is, it needs rectifyin'." 

Reluctant to disturb the new-found intimacy, which had settled over them
like a warm cloud, isolating them from the rest of humanity, but desperate
for a drink, Doyle rubbed his eyes, rolled over and sat up. He allowed
himself a quick affectionate squeeze of Bodie's shoulder, and noticed
something. "You're gettin' burnt. Better get up, move around a bit, we
don't want you all sore." 

Bodie glanced unconcernedly down at hot red skin. "Who cares?" He got up,
too, shaking off sand. 

"You will," Doyle said softly, "when I get you back home --" 

He had that funny, faraway look in his eyes. Bodie took a deep shuddering
breath, not quite believing all this. He picked up his bag. Now that they
were standing up, on their feet moving across the sand doing normal things
-- they rinsed off the sand, salt and sweat under a rusty shower head
positioned at the walkway up off the beach -- he felt the magic of moments
before receding behind a facade of routineness. As they stood at the
counter of the tea-place drinking warm coke from cans, Bodie was seized
with a terrible fear that maybe it hadn't been real, maybe it had just
been a fantasy engendered by too much sun and an excitable imagination; or
if it *was* true, maybe Doyle would come to his senses, change his mind...


He stared at Doyle who was posed artistically propping up the counter,
absently noting the way his partner's nose was wrinkling slightly at the
pervasive odour of greasy fried onions; in desperation. 

Doyle saw the look, divined its cause with no trouble. "It's all right,
Bodie," he said clearly, not stopping to check whether anyone might be
listening, for *they* had not been privy to the intense exchange of
emotion, the cataclysmic shift in their lifestyles that had taken place.
Only Bodie would know what he meant. "It's forever. Now, or tonight, or
next week; makes no difference." 

Bodie nodded, and looked away before he drowned in green fire, out and
along the beach. 

Bodie always maintained afterwards that sex had been the last thing on his
mind; that a lot had happened very fast and all he'd had in mind was that
they needed very badly to be close, and alone, even if only for a few
moments -- 

His hand went out to Doyle, checked and then continued, because the last
thing he wanted was for the new awareness between them to create
awkwardness, and he patted Doyle's arm to get his attention. "Look." He
pointed to the far-off row of dilapidated beach-huts he'd been about to
set off for earlier. From here it could be seen that they were hugging the
sea-wall around an outcrop of rocks, and that the beach in front of them
was deserted, probably because it was extremely stony, with an unpleasing
aspect. 

Doyle followed his gaze, understood instantly. He threw his empty can
towards a litterbin where it fell with a clatter, wiped his mouth with the
back of his hand. 

"Let's go." 

On arrival, it was even plainer why this part of the beach was empty, the
shingle adorned with smelly rubbish, rotting seaweed, oilcans, old rope.
There was a large red-lettered sign, too: "Bathing is DANGEROUS From This
Point." The huts looked as if they hadn't been used in years; but they
didn't care, didn't notice. They were young, and newly in love. 

Bodie chose the end cabin, latched the door shut behind them. The cubicle
had a wooden floor, close-slatted wooden walls, and a small cracked mirror
on one of them. It was about four feet square, plenty of room for one
person, or two who didn't mind being very close. The confinement made
awkwardness vanish, and Bodie's arms went instantly around Doyle, hugging
him desperately close. Doyle hugged him back, starved of touch, turning
his face over and over against Bodie's cheek, his eyes closed. Bodie's
hands stroked up and down Doyle's bare warm skin, long tremulous caresses,
their groins thrusting urgently together. Their mouths met to kiss; hard
and demanding, everything suddenly so frenzied, dizzingly fast and sweet
and desperate... 

They were both hard, pressing together in a contact more painful than
satisfying. On a hissing, indrawn breath Bodie broke the kiss, slipping
his hands down Doyle's back, inside his damp trunks, held cool damp
buttocks. He squeezed them, then ran his fingers down the cleft, burying
his hot face in Doyle's shoulder, his eyes screwed shut as the need in him
welled to an ache of unbearable longing. This wasn't enough, but he knew
what to do, what would assuage it. "Please, Ray," he murmured, "oh,
please..." and his fingertips trailed over the entrance to Doyle's body,
brushed away a grain of sand there, returned to play with it gently. 

At first, Doyle had stiffened slightly, unused to the intimacy of the
touch, the invasion of his most guarded privacy, but he forgot prudishness
when his wanton body betrayed his hesitation, responded instantly to the
exciting thrills of pleasure Bodie's gentle finger was giving him. He left
the cool analytical part of his mind behind, stopped thinking, sagged
against Bodie, spreading his thighs to give him greater access. 

Bodie slipped one hand down the front of his trunks to squeeze his
throbbing erection, tenderly cradle his balls, the other still gently
sliding up and down between his buttocks. "Please," he whispered again
into Doyle's ear, "Wanna fuck you -- need you--" 

Doyle was too far gone for more than a moment's hesitation. No woman had
ever touched him like this, known so surely how to turn him on, spoken to
him with such harsh urgency. He nodded once, tightly, and turned to the
wall, bracing his hands against it, his legs spread. Bodie wrenched down
the slip of damp black nylon and Doyle lifted his feet in turn, kicked the
trunks impatiently away. "You bring the Delial?" he tossed over his
shoulder tersely. 

Bodie was rapt in his concentration on the view of Doyle thus presented to
him, spreadeagled against the wall, the bare white buttocks in stark
contrast to the tanned skin elsewhere an incitement to rape, to plunder
the cool naked body offered to him. It took a moment for Doyle's query to
sink in. 

"Sun oil," repeated Doyle through gritted teeth. "Don't want to hurt me,
do you?" 

Hurt him? Never. Bodie caught on, grabbed for the bag, fumbled around in
it with shaking fingers, finally disentangled the greasy warm plastic
bottle from the encumbering folds of a damp towel. He had a struggle with
the top, and shot out far too much over his fingers. With a reverence
approaching worship he rubbed it in between Doyle's buttocks, squirted
some more on direct from the bottle for good measure; the scent of it
arose like a light aromatic cloud. 

Doyle made a sound that was half-laugh, half-groan; the warm oil on his
balls and between his legs was a ticklish sensation. "You must have used
half the fuckin' bottle on me. You'll slip out, mate..." 

"Nah," Bodie assured him, raising a hand to brush sweat out of his eyes;
he was breathing hard. "It'll be okay, just relax..." 

Doyle closed his eyes, pressed his palms into the wall, and bit his lip,
bracing himself. He felt the other man's warm solidity push against his
back, Bodie's knees pressing into the backs of his... so good, safe... and
warm lips trailing over his neck and shoulders. Hands were holding his
hips, and he could feel the thick snub lance of Bodie's arousal rubbing up
and down between the cheeks of his ass. He held his breath, prepared for
pain although the slippery point of flesh gliding over his sensitive
sphincter was giving him glorious sensations in the area -- god, whyever
did we wait so long -- 

Then Bodie, breathing heavily in his ear with excitement, took one hand
from Doyle's hip, and used it to guide himself gently into the other man's
body. A little groan escaped him as he eased into the hot moist channel --
it felt so bloody marvellous... and so easy, no resistance, Ray rocking
back against him, his beautiful welcoming body gripping onto him smoothly,
tightly. 

"Christ, but you're fuckin' wonderful. You are..." he murmured, scarcely
conscious of what he was saying. Head turned sideways, resting on Doyle's
shoulder so he could nuzzle his neck, he slipped one hand gently around
him, stroking blindly with trembling fingers over the damp skin of hip,
belly, finally seeking out Doyle's semi-erect penis, squeezing it until it
began to fill out and lengthen in his hand. "I love you, Ray, love you so
much..." 

Doyle was totally relaxed now, thighs widely parted, forehead pressed into
rough wood, concentrating on the strange sensations of being filled; and
Bodie thrust into him and withdrew, thrust and pulled back, with a smooth
sucking movement that was darkly, sweetly erotic. Yeah, it felt good, the
Greeks had it right, sodomy was fun; and Bodie's subtle hand was rubbing
his cock rhythmically all the time. He went with it. He was suddenly
conscious of an overwhelming surprise, as the twin sensations spread,
touched, gathered together in one vast oncoming rush -- 

"Oh god, Bodie," he sighed, "you're gonna make me come, it's too -- oh,
christ --" 

He was half-laughing, half-weeping as he flooded with orgasm, thighs
shuddering, pulse over pulse into Bodie's tight hand, spilling over and
onto the wall; and his muscles clenched tight around Bodie who moaned deep
in his throat and clutched Doyle suddenly hard back against him as he
poured out his own warm seed deep within Doyle's guts. 

Doyle slumped against the wall, felt Bodie slip from him. His thighs were
still trembling. Bodie turned him, held him, covering him with kisses
which he weakly returned, breathless and still laughing. 

Bodie bore them both gently to the floor, leaning back against the wall,
wrapped him up tight in a tangle of warm oily limbs, murmured into his
hair with a voice still ragged, "What're you cackling about? Wasn't meant
to be *funny*." 

"It's hysteria --" 

Doyle tucked his head under Bodie's chin, snuggled close against the
strong body. He was beginning to be aware that it was very hot, very
stuffy in the tiny cubicle. It reeked, too -- sex and sunoil. 

"Look at me." 

Obedient, he lifted his head and looked up into Bodie's sweat-streaked
face into very serious deep-blue eyes that flooded with sudden warmth as
they surveyed him in return. Doyle, thoroughly fucked and all spent-out,
looked very cute, cuddled up against Bodie's chest as he was. 

"Okay?" was all he asked, softly. 

"No," said Doyle, and as Bodie lifted an eyebrow in enquiry, a little
worried frown between his temples, he punched him lightly on the belly,
Bodie's hard muscles tensing automatically to meet the blow. "Of course it
wasn't *okay*. It was bloody -- fantastic -- only I can't find words to
say how it was, and as soon as I get my strength back I'll show you,
instead." 

Bodie, with proud new proprietorship, touched his limp sticky genitals
delicately. "How long?" he asked thoughtfully. 

Doyle began to respond promptly: "Seven in--" and was forced to shut up as
Bodie kissed him forcefully into silence. They were in a mad mood,
euphoric and tired and blissfully happy. 

But they had to pick up the threads of normality sometime. Doyle finally
pushed himself away from Bodie's idly wandering hands, ran his fingers
through his tangled sandy curls. "God, we're disgustin'," he said, eyeing
Bodie with totally fallacious distaste -- actually, Doyle quite fancied
him the way he was now -- "Filthy. If Cowley could see us now--" 

That was a sobering thought all right. Not wanting to give it serious
attention right now, Bodie said gloomily, "'E probably can. Got X-ray
vision, he has. Not to mention clairvoyance. Probably making a note in the
file right now, his lips pursed up in that mean little scowl -- 'On this
day, regrettably agent 3.7 saw fit to screw 4.5 through the wall on the
seafront at Sexmouth' --" 

"Nah, it'll be okay." Doyle said no more, gathering up their discarded
swim-trunks, pulling his on, wincing as the gritty material rubbed over
his tender areas. "We need a shower." 

"Stating the obvious, as usual? That's the copper in you coming out, that
is, Doyle." Bodie unlatched the door, stuck his head cautiously out. "All
clear," he announced: and blinking a little in the sudden light the two
weary CI5 agents stumbled out into a wave of heated air. They walked along
the front and threw themselves into the sea. 

There was still the rest of the day to see out; no need to cut it short.
Might as well avail themselves of the rest of the delights the seaside had
to offer. "How about a pub lunch?" suggested Bodie as they bounded up the
steps, Doyle a little stiff-legged. He nodded towards a likely place,
named vaguely appropriately, "The Bull and Spear." 

Doyle assented. "Yeah, okay. But we better stick to orange juice." 

Bodie gave him a glance of non-comprehension; the anticipation of a pint
or so of cool lager had been beginning to form almost imperceptibly in his
mind. 

Doyle elaborated, "I think I've been well-oiled quite enough for one day
--" 

Upon which dreadful pun Bodie thumped him, and the two men walked off to
begin the rest of their lives. Together. 

-- THE END --

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