The Professionals Circuit Archive - Hyperion to a Satyr	Hyperion
to a Satyr

 

by Sebastian 

  
 *Part I*

The man was a predator, keen-eyed: he moved through the jungles of city or
tropic with equal sureness, taking what he wanted. He always got away with
it; born under an unblighted star he had beauty to match his cunning. 

A new job brought with it a new challenge, one with greenwood eyes and a
will very nearly as strong as his own; and he did not even guess that here
lay the flaw in his destiny. 

******

They were driving a souped-up Ford that week. Nippy, but battered. Doyle
found it wryly amusing: the first encounter with George Cowley might
extinguish the notion of CI5 as some kind of glamorous secret service,
fast cars, fast guns, fast women; but the reality of day-to-day working
rubbed it in with a vengeance. 

The plastic interior of the car stank of sweat. Doyle wrinkled his nose,
unaware that he was doing so, and thought yearningly of a hot shower,
clean clothes. His armpits were damp. 

"Could do with a bath." 

He almost jumped in his seat; it wasn't the first time his partner of six
weeks had thus surprised him with such an instance of seeming telepathy. 

"Yeah, I noticed," he agreed with the casual back-biting that was their
habit from the beginning. 

The car moved on through familiar, unremarked streets: the ex- detec. had
switched off for the day. His partner was driving him home. 

His partner, he mused, without needing to look at the hard smooth profile
beside him; the image seemed inburnt on his eyeballs. *Tired*, he thought
inconsequentially, and passed a hand over his face; his skin felt gritty. 

Never wanted a partner--especially not this one. 

He had disliked the man introduced to him as Bodie on sight: from the
polished dark hair and the smug expression to the double-breasted blazer
and shiny court shoes. Bodie had tried the needle on straight away, too,
setting him up as hot-blooded and impetuous (true) with a few well-placed
words, pointing out his own coolness as enviable contrast, but adding the
simultaneous sop--respect for his skills. That was the instant pattern
between them: the knife of rivalry, the balm of respect. It seemed to work
pretty well, as far as their duty partnership went. 

They had no other relationship. All fast sombre quips, steady support or
uncompromising leadership during the day, Bodie vanished straight after
and led his life in determined mystery. 

Doyle did not know what to make of him. 

He didn't want friendship. Doyle could and did live perfectly well without
amity. If he needed company, he found a girl. He was a lone wolf who ran
in a pack of two and hunted with others like himself; camaraderie, he
didn't want. 

Still, Bodie intrigued him, for that very impenetrability Doyle himself
sported, like a badge of honour. 

Bodie stopped the car. Doyle, startled out of his reverie, looked around.
They were outside his flat. The sparse motions of parting sprang
unprepared into action. 

"Right. Thanks. See you tomorrow." 

He made as if to snap back the doorcatch, but Bodie's hand was there,
darting in front of him, shocking in its speed and intention. 

"'Ang on a moment." 

"What?" he said, turning to find Bodie leaning towards him, blue eyes
raised to assess, appraise. 

"You doing anything tonight?" 

"Not particularly," he said unwillingly, because now the invitation had
finally come he was tired and not in the mood for a drinking bout and the
effort required for the sharp interchange of competition they fed on
during the day. 

"Fancy coming round to my place for a drink?" Bodie suggested casually;
and when Doyle wavered, he pounced with the weapon he had been waiting all
these weeks to use. 

He smiled. 

Subtle in its effect, it crossed his mouth, twisting it into beauty unlit
before; travelled on to his eyes, slanting them with warmth. 

Lost, Doyle capitulated. 

"I'll pick you up around nine." 

The car roared off, and it was only when he shut the door to his flat and
kicked off his shoes that the sensation of enticement fled forgotten and
he wondered why the hell he had agreed. 

Still, he had never seen inside Bodie's flat, nor anything of what the man
was like. It seemed like a good enough reason to take up the chance. Maybe
Bodie, like himself, needed, wanted to know more; to build up more behind
the solid working partnership they had created. 

Unconvinced by this optimistic interpretation of Bodie's motives, Doyle
sighed to himself and began to peel off his clothes. 

Showered, clean-shaven and clean-shirted, Doyle had regained freshness and
vigour by the time the horn tooted a jaunty summons outside. He snatched
up his jacket and flew down the stairs, whistling. 

Bodie was waiting for him at the wheel; he leaned over and opened the door
for him. 

"I could have driven over," said Doyle, struck for the first time by the
ridiculousness of the set-up as Bodie let in the clutch smoothly and
gunned off from the kerb like a fledgling from hell. 

Bodie flicked a measuring glance his way from beneath dark shadowy lashes.
Irish eyes, thought Doyle inconsequentially. "Don't want you driving back
over the limit," he said, rather sweetly, but with the edge of inscrutable
contention Doyle knew all too well. 

Odd thing to say. Did that mean he expected Doyle to get drunk while he
himself stayed smugly sober? Typical, bloody typical. Doesn't trust the
cop to hold his pints. Or which way up to point the Uzi. Or how to track a
killer in the night-- 

"You're not in the bloody Grand Prix," he announced with belligerence,
going for the grabstrap as Bodie rounded a corner perhaps on two wheels. 

To his astonishment, another of those smiles was turned his way,
half-rueful this time. 

"Always wanted to be. Fancied myself going round the track at 160, edging
in between Mansell and Lauda--" he caught Doyle's scathing eye and added
sheepishly, "I know, I know. Not half good enough--" which, being the
first time Bodie had allowed himself to be anything less than perfect,
left Doyle speechless and edgy. 

What the hell was wrong with Bodie tonight? What prompting this unusually
open mood? Doyle was just deciding that if Bodie smiled at him once more
he'd better scour his own medical records in case Bodie had gleaned
terminally bad news there, when they arrived at Bodie's flat. 

He went ahead of Bodie up the stairs, head whipping round with a snarl on
his lips when he felt a hand cup his right buttock, propelling him
upwards; but Bodie looked merely enigmatic and charming, one eyebrow
uplifted in query. 

"I thought someone--" said Doyle, and then stopped. 

"Must have imagined it, Goldilocks," said Bodie with cheerful mendacity;
and as Doyle turned his back again and continued to take the steps three
at a time, now, unseen, Bodie smiled again. 

The flat was a source of fascination to Doyle, who was still ruminating
over 'Goldilocks'; it was Bodie unlocked, his casements thrown wide.
Without waiting to be asked, he paced around it, taking everything in: the
sporting trophies clearly on view but out of reach, the shelves of books
lining one wall which revealed hitherto unsuspected facets to Bodie such
as an apparent passion for 16th century history and literature, and
marquetry- for-the-amateur. The furniture was modern; everything was
spotlessly clean and neat. Army training; block-headed army conditioning,
thought Doyle with a trace of disdain not entirely prompted by the guilty
certainty that the cleanliness of his own flat would not stand up
creditably to such inspection. 

He was standing staring at a frieze of identical dancing girls when he
heard Bodie enter behind him. It was not to that but an erotic carving in
relief that he gestured as he said sarkily, "Oh, very tasteful." 

"What did you expect? Socks over the bath and Mayfair centerfolds
blu-tacked to the wall?" 

He wasn't imagining it. Even Bodie's voice was different tonight. Not the
sardonic, carping tone he used to offer advice watching Doyle at target
practice, hands on his hips, that aggravating smooth-as-silk head tilted
to one side, a sneer written inherent in his malicious, sharp blue eyes.
Doyle had learnt to ignore it. At some cost to his love for human nature. 

"Something like that," he agreed, turning. 

Again, that sense of unreality. 

Bodie was standing there, the light picking out mellow glints in his dark
hair, his eyes compellingly unfathomable over the rim of a glass which he
was holding to his mouth, in the act of taking a swallow from it; he held
another glass which he was extending towards Doyle. 

Doyle had only ever seen him dressed in army combat gear, or pseudo-smart
blazer and tie style which always made Doyle's lip curl in a little,
satisfying moment of certain one-upmanship. 

Not tonight. 

Tonight, Bodie was all in black which suited him; the faint air of
devilish menace unchecked now by any misappropriate touches. It was
direct, and devastatingly effective. 

For the first time since he had met his partner, watching those dark-cast
eyes, the elegant lines of Bodie's strong body, Doyle felt a chill of
macho envy swoop in and take hold. 

It made him feel shabby in his old jeans and scuffed boots; his own brand
of puckish attraction overshadowed. 

It was a shock. He had always before felt confident that between the two
of them there was no contest, despite Bodie's assertions to the opposite.
What if Bodie turned out to be right all along? He felt unsettled now;
something about the evening making him ridiculously nervous. 

"Come and sit down," said Bodie softly, making Doyle jump. 

He berated himself for his daft edginess as he sat down in a chair with
his drink; but his nerves were not helped when the chair turned out to be
a rocker, giving way unexpectedly when he had been expecting solidity so
that he tipped most of his drink down himself, yelping as the ice-studded
scotch soaked through cotton onto warm skin. 

Bodie was solicitous enough, but Doyle caught a flash of something like
amusement in the eyes that were beginning to obsess him, which made him
suspect that Bodie had almost been expecting such a thing to happen. 

Stupid. Even Bodie was not so childish. And yet-- 

"Here," said Bodie, returning with a towel, "let's dry you off a bit." He
looked seriously down at the dishevelled figure, taking in the stormy eyes
huge in the almost-boyish face, the obstinate set of the round chin.
Beautiful, no doubt about it, even in that nasty navy-checked bovver-boy's
shirt. 

"I can manage," snapped Doyle curtly as the towel was whisked around his
throat; he snatched it from Bodie and glared up. 

Quick amusement quirked Bodie's mouth. "No-one could accuse you," he
murmured, "of having a sunny temper." He stayed where he was, on one knee
beside Doyle's feet. He was wearing a strange expression which Doyle,
already annoyed and now beginning to be apprehensive, shied off from
classifying. 

"How long we been partners?" Bodie was continuing. 

"Six weeks," muttered Doyle; he pulled at his shirt and squinted down at
damp-matted chest hair. 

"We ought to get to know each other better," said Bodie musingly. 

"Oh, great idea. Whaddyou suggest--? Little word games? Reminiscing about
our childhood?" queried Doyle mockingly; but he was already sure he did
not want to /wanted desperately to/ know the answer to that. 

Bodie rested one hand on his knee, squeezed it. Neither of them watched
it, Doyle staring down into lazy midnight eyes with dawning horror. 

Knew I'd be set up. Knew I shouldn't have come. 

But it was too late. It had begun. 

"You're a very attractive man, Ray," murmured Bodie, eyes gleaming,
inexorable, and instead of hitting him Doyle just watched, hypnotised, the
discomforts of his clammy shirt forgotten as Bodie's hand travelled up his
front leaving a caress in its wake to take hold of the open collar of his
checked shirt, rubbing it between finger and thumb. 

"This doesn't suit you," Bodie told him, and then his warm fingers slid
into the drop of the silver rope chain lying on Doyle's throat. 

"This does." 

And he pulled Doyle close with a hand curving around the nape of his neck,
fingers gripping tightly in the chain, staring with predatory amusement
into Doyle's wide-startled eyes; then his mouth descended to the wilful
pouting one that had made him determined to possess it the instant he had
laid eyes on it. 

I'm being kissed by a man, Doyle thought with fine detachment as the warm
lips touched his own, a moist tongue flicking there, seeking to part his
mouth; ought to do something here Ray. 

But he did nothing at all, not even when Bodie's lips left him and kissed
beside his mouth, moving on over heated skin to nuzzle his earlobe softly,
rousing shivers in him. He felt weak, heavy- limbed, as if he had no
control over what was happening; it was out of his hands. 

Still kneeling beside his unstable chair, Bodie was slipping free the
buttons of his shirt, laying bare his shoulders, parting it down to his
navel. 

"Don't suit you, check shirts don't," he murmured again, frowningly intent
on the chest revealed to him, the geography of its planes and dips, the
swirling of hair between the small brown nipples. "Make you look like an
off-duty dustman, and you don't suit that style, no, you're more of a--a
dirty little angel." He smiled to himself, pleased by the picture. "If you
were mine, I'd dress you in--" His fingertips skated lightly, slowly over
nipples that betrayed Doyle's arousal traitorously, rising excitedly to
his touch, "T-shirts, maybe. To show these off--so sexy, that, getting a
glimpse of these all hard under somethin' thin an' soft--oh, yeah... or
maybe I'd dress you all in leather. Yeah, you look good in leather,"
Bodie's eyes crinkled with irresistible humour, "tough and mean but
innocent-- but you're not innocent, are you Ray? You're a flirt. I've met
your type before. Big look-what-I-got eyes." 

He lowered his head, touched a nipple with his tongue. 

I just can't believe I'm hearing this, thought Doyle in disbelief,
listening to the echoes of the rough purr of Bodie's matter-of-fact voice;
his body ringing with little thrills of pleasure. His cock, as wanton as
his nipples, was pulsing, straining at the opening to his jeans, but that
was soon taken care of as Bodie ran a finger lightly down the zip of his
fly, then pulled it down. 

That brought him to his senses. 

"Get off me," he snarled, panicking; but Bodie held him down with one arm
across his chest, soothing as he undressed him swiftly-- 

"Ssh..." 

And then his cock lay bare in Bodie's curled palm, Bodie's thumb stroking
along its achingly hard length, and Doyle was lost. He looked down at
himself and found even the humiliation erotic. 

"Oh that's beautiful," Bodie whispered, his fair smooth skin flushed a
little now. "Knew you'd turn on fast, you got that heated kind of look
about you, like you're always ready for it, always ten seconds away from
coming... so bloody beautiful--" 

And with a gesture as graceful as it was careful, and more touching than
Doyle could find last fast-slipping defences to fight, he laid his cheek
on Doyle's cock as he held it, rubbing his face over it. 

Oh christ I'm gonna come 

Doyle's fingers dug into the arms of the chair, whitening with the strain.
Shocked to realise himself so close to ejaculation, spurt it out on
Bodie's cheek--"I want to go to bed with you," Bodie said, warm breath
stirring through Doyle's dark body hair, and again it nearly finished him,
"I want it so much Ray, don't say no." 

Against that quiet appeal, even if his body hadn't decided for him
already, Doyle had no argument. 

Shivering a little at the strangeness of it all, he allowed Bodie to take
him to the bedroom, Bodie's hand twining reassuringly with his, as if they
were children exploring a mystery. 

It was the sweetest, most passionately thrilling seduction he had ever
known; he could not remember ever having been so excited, so much so that
he would have agreed to anything, done anything. And Bodie led him into
delight over and over, skilled sure fingers knowing just how to play on
his sensitive body, to probe its darkest secrets, to make the pleasure
surge up in waves; Bodie the hard suave know-it-all gone, submerged into
this clever, gentle lover who knew nevertheless when not to be gentle. 

By morning, Ray Doyle was hopelessly in love. 

And he had said it, for the first time in his life, let it burst out of
the closely-guarded, secret place inside himself, told Bodie in the
night-- 

"I love you." 

but when he awoke, sticky, hot and rank in Bodie's arms, he could not
remember how Bodie had replied. 

Bodie was staring at him from very close, still half-awake only, looking
at him as if he couldn't quite remember who he was. 

Doyle smiled at him, a wide slow smile which lit up his so- often stormy
face; he reached out to rumple the silky dark hair, looking into the wide
blue eyes. 

Immediately, Bodie resisted, turning his head away from Doyle's hand as if
irritated. 

A little of the well-being seeped away, imperceptibly; but he could see
there was something wrong. 

"What's the matter?" 

Bodie evaded that with the ease of one chillingly long- practised at
coping with the morning after. He swung his legs out of bed, walked naked
to the window. "Time you went, mate. You'll be late for Cowley as it is." 

"Was a great night," Doyle said, testing, but meaning it too. His eyes
travelled over the strong clean lines of the body which had held and loved
his own over and over, and whose gentleness had led him to believe-- 

"Yeah," Bodie agreed, but without his mind on it as he knotted his hands
behind his head, stretching so that all the well- defined muscles bunched,
and then, slowly, relaxed. 

"One night stand, I take it?" Beginning to be conscious of anger, and
bitter hurt, he nevertheless still could not believe it; but Bodie's next
words sank him. 

"Not bloody likely, I don't let anyone who fucks like you do get away in a
hurry." 

He was grinning; pure hunter. 

Defeated, feeling sick, Doyle scrambled out of bed and hunted for his
clothes, suddenly uncomfortable naked under that mocking blue stare
awarding him ten out of ten for being a terrific lay. 

"And there was me thinking it was true love," he said, his head of dogged
curls lowered as he dragged up the zip of his jeans in a hurry. He had
intended to match Bodie for sarcasm and mockery, but it didn't come out
that way. 

"Oh, c'mon Ray," said Bodie impatiently, sharp ears picking up the tone,
sharper eyes travelling over the disconsolate figure turned away from him,
"don't let's make anything heavy of it. I wanted to get off with you, you
agreed, and it was great. We'll do it again some time, but for chrissake
don't let's get it out of proportion, like we were goin' for the big
romance or something..." he stepped closer, unselfconsciously naked, heavy
genitals swinging. "You *were* jokin', weren't you?" 

"Yeah," agreed Doyle in a voice devoid of all emotion, folding back the
cuffs of his shirt which smelled like a distillery rag, "I was jokin'.
Christ, Bodie, I'm sore in places I didn't know I had--" he winced as he
turned too quickly. 

Bodie whispered in his ear, a wicked smile curving his lips, "Olive oil."
He was pleased that Doyle was going to be reasonable; for a moment there
he'd thought he might be tricky. 

Doyle gave him a hard stare. "Do I drink it? Or rub it in?" 

And was rewarded by Bodie's amusement. 

Yes, he mused as he left, he could cry about it later; for now, all that
mattered was that out of unexpected despair he had managed to salvage
Bodie's respect. 

His natural resilience was beginning to reassert itself by the time he had
hitched a lift home; he was thinking with wry bitterness that he had lost
his last innocence. Virgin nowhere, no longer; even his heart had been
plundered now. 

Well, we'll play your game, Bodie, since I failed to sweep you away the
way you did me. 

And we'll see, we'll see just how tough you are. 

******

*Part II *

"This is boring, innit?" 

After the long silence, Bodie pronounced this with measured judgement, but
a hint of uncertainty, as if he had long been weighing up whether it was
boring, or not--and even now might be convinced otherwise. 

Doyle turned from his contemplation of the rows of cars amid which they
were parked. He had one denim-clad knee up, leather- booted foot propped
on the map-shelf, and his fingers were tapping idly on the dashboard to
the rhythm of the song which had been haunting him all morning. 

"Nah," he said scathingly, "nah, it's not, is it?" He added, turning his
head to gaze out of the window again at the gleaming silent hunks of
metal, "Underground carparks, y'know, they got real tourist appeal." 

"It's not underground," Bodie felt restrained to point out since they were
actually on the fifth floor; he removed his elbow from its perch on the
steering wheel and reached out to stroke the nape of his partner's neck,
an appealing, unexpectedly tender spot adorned with floating curls. 

"Feels like it is," came Doyle's morose reply, ending that line of
discussion with finality. He leaned back into the caress, arching a
little; his rump wriggled on the damp sheepskin. Doyle was an endearing
sexual partner for the very reason of his intense responsiveness to such
gentle stimulation. In fact, Bodie had learnt over the years of their
liaison to go very slow with him: Doyle lit up like flashfire and had to
be carefully handled if it wasn't all to be over too soon. 

Yes, Bodie had devoted a lot of delightful time and care to pleasuring
Doyle over the years. And, he bet privately to himself, no one else of
Doyle's many affaires succeeded the way he did. Where Doyle was concerned,
Bodie had flair. 

Still fancy him just as much, he mused, cupping his hand over delicate
skin, stroking the tip of his ear with two fingertips; did a good day's
work here when I decided to make a play for you Raymond, didn't I. 

Doyle shifted a little; the springs of the Capri creaked. 

"You in the mood or something?" he queried with resignation, dropping his
head back against the rest. 

"Can't help it," Bodie owned with rare humility. "It's the way you sit.
Incurable flirt, you are." 

It was true: only the PM, being made of iron as she had recently informed
the nation, could resist Doyle now, an open- legged sprawl in his faded
blue jeans, tender manhood flaunted there: head tipped back, eyes closed,
lashes dropping onto the round cheek, mouth just parted to show a glimpse
of flawed white teeth-- 

"Thing about you is," Bodie said suddenly, "you always look like you've
either just had it, or you're just about to." 

--and then there was the adam's apple moving as he swallowed, the cream
open-necked shirt with its poppers dragged open to show off the fine hair:
that was his appeal, casual sensuality, intensely attractive, but
laid-back about it. 

Suddenly all the way there into sexual tension, Bodie pounced and nipped
him on the ear, one hand sliding down his belly to settle over the warm
contours of his groin. 

Doyle jerked. "Bloody hell, Bodie--this is a fucking carpark," he said,
turning his head restlessly to survey the unchanged scene. 

"Multi," agreed Bodie, "storey." And the dark lilting implication of that
was emphasised as his thumb stroked down over the warm denim bulge,
defining the genitalia with no difficulty of geography. 

Doyle shivered, hand clenching on the grabstrap. "We're on stakeout.
Can't--" 

But then, it wouldn't be the first time. Early on, desperate so many
times, they had turned to each other and grappled hungrily in the cramped
confines of the car, striving for release, riding high on the sweet
furious urgency of it, the snatched, risky secrecy-- 

"Gotta better idea," Doyle said, eyes closing again, taking a deep slow
breath in as Bodie flicked open poppers with a swift finger and thumb,
crept in to touch his nipples, graze them with fingernails. "Take a
raincheck on it--" Bodie winced: Doyle was having a brief flirtation with
American slang, which he delivered in the twang of the Bronx, lip curled--
"you doin' anything tonight?" 

There was a moment of silence. 

"Ah," Bodie said evenly. "Tonight could be awkward." 

Doyle took this quietly; he had proved, Bodie reflected with satisfaction,
to be far too sensitive to push in where he wasn't wanted. At the
beginning he had had moments of doubt as to the wisdom of seducing Doyle,
wantonly beautiful creature that he was, because he sensed there was a
fiery streak of possessiveness beneath that casual air; it had made Bodie
edgy because heavy scenes he did not want. Luckily, Doyle had turned out
sensible, and had settled into a pattern of acceptance with only the
occasional hiccup of resentment. Which, given Doyle's remarkably violent
temper, was only to be expected. 

"What about tomorrow then?" asked Doyle, and answered himself, "don't tell
me, tomorrow you have your weekly heart-to-heart with Karen, I remember." 

His tone, although acerbic, failed to sting. 

"There's Saturday--" Bodie began, flicking through a mental list, and
Doyle assented with a grunt. 

"And for now--" Bodie said, pleased, and began to move in: but Doyle
stopped him, pushing his hand aside, pressing shut a popper or two,
disregarding Bodie's disappointed noise. "Look, mate, if you can't fit me
in till Saturday owing to your heavy social commitment, you're not bloody
well 'avin' me now for a quick bit on the side in the car." 

He was grinning, a curiously engaging expression that, strangely, turned
Bodie's hardened guts fluttery; it was so rare to see Ray smile that way,
eyes under the heavy fringe of curls screwed up a little so you could see
his laughter lines, the warmth in them unconscious and unfeigned, cheek
creased, mouth wide with those white teeth showing over his bottom lip-- 

"Playing hard to get?" Bodie said, zooming in with a leer; but he had
already accepted the rejection because he deserved it and because Doyle
had as strong a will as his own: yes, he stood up to Bodie, didn't let
himself be pushed around, and Bodie liked that. 

For some reason, the comment sobered Doyle; the smile remained but it had
turned reflective, as he remembered. 

"That doesn't work, with you," he said, looking away. 

"Uh?" 

"I tried it. Used to think, if I backed off you'd chase harder," and Bodie
didn't want to hear any more, shut up Ray, don't, please don't, but Doyle
continued, "Didn't work though--you didn't even seem to notice." 

This was followed by a silence; Doyle abruptly snapped out of his past and
thumped Bodie on the knee. "Sorry, mate, wasn't trying to lay anything
heavy on you. 'Ave a polo." 

The pink tip of his tongue appeared through the circumference of white
mint, flickered provocatively, and was gone. He peeled back the wrapper,
extracted another and hung it from the dashboard. 

Bodie took it and crunched it up absentmindedly. He had half an eye on the
job, but he was also thinking over what Doyle had revealed. 

"Trust you," said Doyle disgustedly. "I make mine last, see how thin I can
get 'em, see?" The polo appeared again, much reduced in depth, almost
transparent-- 

Abruptly, Bodie leaned over and kissed his mint-sweet partner, swiping the
small circlet with a sweep of his tongue and swallowing as much of Doyle's
saliva as he could steal away in that one devouring moment. 

"I did notice," he told him against his ear. 

"Oh yeah?" mocked Doyle gently; he as much as Bodie was wary of discussing
their relationship, having learnt at cost that Bodie could hurt him
without even meaning to, or seeming to know what he'd done. 

"Yeah." Bodie wrapped an arm around his shoulders, gave him a squeeze. Had
Doyle but known it, it was as close as Bodie ever came to committing
himself; though it still fell very short of what Doyle had learnt he must
want without hope. "But I thought you were just tired of playing queer,
that's all. See--you were too subtle for me." 

"Wouldn't have made any difference, any case," said Doyle; and that truth
was accepted, by both; but it made the atmosphere a little wistful, an
autumn day with summer lost and all the dying leaves yet to fall into mud.


Breaking it consciously, Doyle pulled free, drew his gun and began to
check it over. "And not only do you keep resistin' my charms, you nicked
my bloody peppermint." He glowered up at Bodie from beneath scowling
brows. "Rejection, I can take. Theft is something else." 

"'Ave another," said Bodie, accepting the change of tempo with relief. He
ruffled Doyle's curls, trying vaguely to communicate affection. 

"Was the last one," Doyle muttered, but he didn't move away from the
caress as he sometimes did. 

"I'll buy you a whole new packet," Bodie promised rashly; and he kissed
his partner's amazed, upturned face. Stupid, he was telling himself, to
take this sort of risk with him out here, like this, but it was dark in
the car and-- 

And, Doyle tasted sweet, mouth opening to drink from him. 

Over Doyle's head he saw something move. 

Doyle picked up instantly on the tiny change of atmosphere. His head
whipped round, his gun up fast and steady, all softness wiped from his
face. 

"Over there," Bodie told him tightly, checking his Browning swiftly. They
counted time silently, and burst out of the car simultaneously in a
ready-to-fire stance, narrowed eyes checking, scanning, moving on. 

Nothing. 

Doyle relaxed, curly head ducking as he reached under his armpit to put
the gun away. "Shopper, probably. I'll go that way, you cover." Casual
heroism, peculiar to those unfamiliar with danger, or to whom it is
routine. 

Bodie moved fast to block his way. Surprised green eyes locked with hazed
blue steel. "Together," was all Bodie said. 

"Wha--?" Doyle only stared at him, astounded. 

"Stick together," Bodie repeated, conscious of faint embarrassment but
that was secondary to the immutable resolve. After all, it wasn't as if he
were fussing over Doyle or being overly protective or anything like that;
standard procedure, really, to keep close until--well, even if it wasn't
standard procedure, who the hell said they had to follow rules? He was
doing his job the best he knew and part of that job happened to include
making sure his partner kept in one piece-- 

He shook the thoughts off, aware of over-justification. 

"Be wasting time," Doyle warned, but he had already decided to go it
Bodie's way; Bodie usually had good reason for what he decided. 

The reason for this particular decision nearly stopped him some seconds
later when it hit him. 

"S'matter?" Bodie asked, loping along at his side, dodging cars. 

"Nothing," Doyle said; and an odd, perverse little smile twisted his
mouth: he had to look down to conceal the look in his eyes. 

They'd come a long way. 

******

*Part III *

"That's because you haven't met a girl like Ann--yet," said Doyle with
heavy meaning, and Bodie chuckled. 

"If it addles me the way it's done you, mate, believe me, I don't need
it." 

He ambled around the small living room, his manner easy and relaxed. He
knew Doyle was embarrassed and it amused him--but not to the extent of
being tempted to jeer. He was genuinely fond of Doyle: something about him
had just eased its way into Bodie's life and fitted there. As he stood
there, that realisation for once very clear in his mind, he experienced
the strong urge to communicate it to Doyle; he hesitated, looking for the
right words.... 

Doyle was checking his watch. "Look, Bodie--" 

Bodie threw his hands up. "Okay, okay. I get the message. Not wanted." His
lip acquired a droop. Hands on his hips, his unusually elegant partner
merely regarded him, waiting for him to go; he looked good enough to eat.
Or anything else you cared to name. Recklessly, Bodie stepped forward and
swept him into a hug. Staring down into the odd, dear face, he murmured,
in his best deep romantic-hero's voice: 

"If you were a girl--" 

"Yeah?" prompted Doyle; he nipped Bodie's chin with sharp teeth, his
breath warm against Bodie's throat. 

Unsure it was wise, Bodie said it anyway. 

"I'd have married you." 

After a frozen second Doyle snorted. He pushed Bodie away. "Piss off,
Bodie. You're an idiot," he added, resignedly affectionate. 

"But you love me anyway," Bodie carolled, immeasurably relieved. He
shadow-boxed his way across the room to the door. "Cheers, curlytop. 'Ave
a great night." 

" 'Ang on a moment." Doyle glanced around, plucked a single red rose from
the bunch waiting for Ann and presented him with it. "There, mate." 

Bodie, overwhelmed, kissed Doyle just beside his mouth and exited, holding
the rose dramatically to his chest. 

Doyle looked after him, shaking his head; his smile soon faded and he
forgot Bodie entirely because he was unaccountably nervous about the
evening to come, a flicker in his guts as if he were an unkissed maiden
faced by a starved cavalier. Stupid. Nothing to be afraid of. What's so
different from taking out any bird--? and I usually do all right there....


But it *was* different, and he knew why. Why it was so important. 

He was falling in love. 

******

Bodie had been unworried about Doyle's latest fancy until Doyle's
behaviour became erratic: his temper, always prone to turn vicious, ran
freely these days and he seemed liable to long introspection, lapsing into
silence often. They had completely lost the old double-act; Doyle simply
wasn't playing. And he was as touchy as hell. Particularly if Bodie dared
to mention Ann. 

He'll get over it, Bodie reasoned; but he was a little bothered that Doyle
had made no move to introduce him to the elusive Ann who was worthy of
roses and a tie. Recalling that porcelain perfection he'd glimpsed just
twice, he'd already resigned himself to the fact that this was not going
to be one of the girlfriends they shared--not that he much fancied getting
his end away there, anyway, from what he'd seen. Be more fun fucking a
frozen chicken, Bodie reckoned. But he was used to a carefree regime,
wherein he and Doyle moved in and out of each other's sexuality with
freedom, introducing the more liberal of their girls to sex in company
with each other; there had been some wild, wanton nights best not thought
about in the light of day. Then there were a few girls, interestingly,
who'd been so turned on by it all that he and Doyle had felt free enough
to be open about their own strong sexual tie: he remembered several who'd
loved to watch him going down on Ray or vice versa, oh yes, good nights
those, riding high on sexual heat, a rich feast of decadence to feed every
nerve, every sense; and then sometimes there were nights just for the two
of them alone and they were in some ways the best of all, because-- 

Bodie didn't want to go into just why that should be so--and in any case,
it was irrelevant because there were none of those nights now; Doyle spent
all of his free time with Ann and seemed to need nothing more. Jealous?
Bodie asked himself; and yes, of course he was jealous, if only because it
seemed he had lost, with no warning, the source of the best sexual highs
he'd ever experienced, and then he was jealous of Doyle's company, too; he
missed him. From being something special to Ray, now there was just Ray,
and Ann; Bodie had been backbenched, lumped into a general grey mass of
'outsiders' along with everyone else. That hurt. But never mind, he
reasoned, Doyle'd soon get over it. Novelty worn off, he'd be back. 

Having thus succeeded in reassuring himself, it was therefore something of
a shock for Bodie to hear from Doyle that he was intending to marry her. 

This was serious. 

"--you'll be telling me next you're going to marry her--" 

"--yeah, well I might just do that--" 

He kept his reactions cool, careful; not showing by a flicker the internal
turmoil set off in him like rocketflight by Doyle's backlashed statement. 

It was time he met her. 

But before he did, Bodie made a bad mistake. 

Because the news was buzzing around in his head, and because in some
strange way he needed to tell someone, he let it out to Cowley, thereby
unleashing a Pandora's box of horrors set in motion by six flat words: 

"You'll have to check her out." 

******

"Sherry, Bodie?" 

He would have liked to assume his best drunk-Irish accent and mumble
"Yeah, but sh'not as hairy as me legs," because from the moment he had
looked over that disdainful cool exterior he had had the urge to disrupt
it. Clearly she thought Bodie was a bit of a slob anyway, a bit non-U...he
played up to that quite happily. 

"Not for me thanks; sherry's a drink for ladies and clergymen," he said, a
bold blue-eyed stare unleashing itself onto her, "I'll 'ave a pint of
Ray's home-brew, ta all the same." He smacked his lips and rubbed his
belly in appreciative anticipation, and sauntered out to the fridge. Who
the hell did she think she was--? Offering him a drink as if she owned the
place, when it was his and Doyle's haunt; standing beside the bar like the
Hostess...Bodie, shamelessly proprietary, always assumed he had a
half-share in Doyle's flat and helped himself to alcohol, or anything else
he fancied, without waiting to be asked. 

Doyle was hard at work in oven gloves and an apron; he was leaning to peer
into the oven. Bodie patted him on the rump as the curly head disappeared
into the dark confines; and left his hand there in a lingering caress. 

"Be'ave yourself," came a stern, slightly strained voice from inside the
oven. Bodie grinned to himself. All not well with the casserole, eh? 

"How'd you know it wasn't Ann?" he asked, perching on the corner of the
breakfast bar. 

Doyle came out of the oven backwards, shut the door quickly and uncurled
to his full height. There was a smudge of what looked like tomato paste
beside his mouth. "I *did* think it was A--" he began, grinning, but had
the line stopped when Bodie pulled him close, and, very thoroughly, licked
it off. Then he moved to his mouth, kissing him deeply. Doyle tasted of
warm wine and onions. Been testing out the sauce, obviously. 

"*Bodie*," hissed Doyle, and dragged himself free. "For chrissake." He
wasn't amused any more. Bodie noted all this carefully, ignoring the small
hurting pit that yawned open inside him. 

"What you doin' out 'ere then?" Doyle asked, beginning to chop a tomato at
machinegun speed. "Thought you were entertainin' Ann." 

"I don't think she'd like my act," said Bodie with truth; but he took the
point, got the beer he had come for out of the fridge and trailed back to
join her. 

"Does Ray need any help?" she asked. Probably be as glad as he was to
escape to the kitchen: the atmosphere in here was about as heartening as
inside Cowley's sock. 

"Nah, the Master Chef's getting on just fine." Deciding at random to be
perverse, Bodie sat down beside her, too close, and swooped in on her with
his most seductive grin. "Well, it's nice to meet you at last. Raymond's
been hiding you from me; very naughty of him." 

Her move, now that Bodie had insinuated proprietorship of Ray; and she
rose to the challenge with no trouble as she said sweetly: "Funny he's
never mentioned you to me. First I heard of you was this morning, when I
heard that this mysterious friend called Bodie was coming to dinner and I
had to look my best." She smiled, ostensibly to soften this although it
was a hard, brittle smile, and Bodie felt a flicker of respect: no
milksop, this. It was war, and no weapons to be withheld. 

"So you work with Ray, do you?" she was continuing, taking a tiny
noiseless sip of pale sherry. Without answering Bodie bounced to his feet
before her startled gaze and smoothly refilled her glass, right to the
brim, with a flourish. 

"Thanks, but actually I didn't want any more," she said directly, her eyes
hard and unflinching beneath her unappealing fringe. 

"Sorry," apologised Bodie, and taking it from her, took a healthy swallow
from the delicate-stemmed glass. Then he handed it back: waiting, like a
keen-eyed professor with a rat in a maze, to see which way she would turn
next. 

This, he could see, had scored. 

Already she had left it too late, either to comment or to reject it; the
best she would do now would be to abandon it, a feeble gesture which would
earn her no points in the needle game that Bodie, an expert, was
thoroughly enjoying by now. 

Doyle popped his head round the door at that moment, quizzical. "Bit quiet
in 'ere innit? You two getting on all right?" 

"Yeah, just fine," avowed Bodie. "You get back to your cuisine, Escoffier
and leave to me the task of persuadin' Ann she's made the wrong choice." 

Doyle nodded and disappeared once more, giving Ann a wink and a curiously
warm look before he left. 

It curled Bodie's guts. 

For he know quite well what that look had meant: okay, I know he's being
difficult, but bear with it; making a conspiracy between them that both
excluded Bodie and relegated him to his place. 

Bodie found he had lost all his taste for the needle game. 

Conscious of victory, Ann graciously investigated again the question of
his working life with Ray, and from somewhere he found the vigour to
answer. 

He was very thoughtful. He watched Ann now through professional eyes since
he was supposed to be checking her out--oh christ Ray was going to hate
that, let's hope nothing comes of it and then he'll never have to know;
and he watched her with Doyle, because up till now he had not quite
believed, not deep down inside, that Doyle could carry this through, not
once the first madness was over. 

Now he saw them together, he was--frightened. 

There was something, about Ray, that spoke of sincerity; his eyes followed
her wherever she was, he was gentle with her as if she were fragile; he
was entranced in a way Bodie had never seen him before. He remembered the
roses, with sick dread. 

Because Doyle might well think himself in love, clearly had kidded himself
into believing he was anyway, but Bodie was quite certain Ann Holly worked
out love on a calculator. Fragile--? No way. 

He disliked her intensely. Everything about her irritated him, her brittle
manner, her Sindy-doll looks and grooming, but worse than any of that, he
could not conceive of a woman less suited to Ray, whose weaknesses and
strengths Bodie knew better than anyone in the world. 

In their natures, their attitudes, their social class and style of
behaviour they were totally apart. And she had a hard look to her, an
ungiving inflexibility-- 

No, oh no, she wasn't right for Ray. Bodie knew Doyle to be a loving
creature, oh yes, loving, once his loyalty was won over; deeply
affectionate without being sentimental, he needed and deserved warmth in
return. The thought of all Doyle's love being dashed on the cool rocks of
Ann's passionless reserve was hard to bear. Bodie's only hope, which he
clung to grittily all through the awkward and desultory conversation at
dinner, was that surely Ann would not want to tie herself to Doyle
permanently. In Bodie's opinion she wasn't fit to wash his socks; but in
Ann's, now, almost certainly Doyle would not be good enough for her, not
by a long way. 

The optimism of that wavered when Bodie's flatly realistic nature
prevailed--why not? Marriages were made and unmade in moments these days.
Doyle earned good money, had a nice flat; he was brave, dashing and
courteous to his ladies; probably just about scraped a pass in literary
taste and table manners; and he was undeniably attractive. Even a cool
bitch of the Ann Holly type couldn't miss that. 

And if he'd slept with her yet--and Bodie was certain that he had, there
was that unmistakeable air of casual physical intimacy between them--she
must surely have rated him a pass plus in bed, because Bodie knew all too
well, Doyle was beautiful, in bed as everywhere; he had the kind of
delicacy that robbed even the most intimate of sexual acts of crudity. Had
a good way with women too, Ray did; liked to take his time, give them
pleasure. 

Not that you could imagine Ann feeling much of that. 

Bodie could see it all with drenching clarity: the wedding, Doyle alight,
excited, dancing past Bodie and out of his reach forever; disillusionment
dawning too gradually to shock. The kids nannied; Ann giving dinner
parties for Sloane Rangers (she would hire caterers), the perfect hostess,
good with the chat. Doyle brought out and displayed to her lilyflower
friends like some kind of untamed, exotic pet; only Doyle would not like
that, nor the cool kiss at bedtime and the laden reminder that they had to
be up early--and so, finally, the split: nice settlement on Ann while she
was freed to hunt around for a new catch-- 

Ray, can't you see how it would be--? 

Doyle was too idealistic over such things--idealistic, or just not looking
far enough ahead. Look at them now, Bodie mused, playing idly with the
glass of VSOP balanced on one knee; Ann with Doyle's arm around her there
on the settee, and even in the low light not relaxed enough to rest close
against him; still maintaining the poise of a lady, and the artificial
social conversation that Doyle was, for her sake, responding to in kind
while Bodie, less motivated, had long since ceased to pretend
attention.... 

"You're quiet," Doyle said in a slightly raised voice, to inform Bodie the
comment had been intended for him. 

Bodie knew he had let Doyle down tonight; the hostility between himself
and Ann had been instant, mutual, and probably inevitable, but that was no
excuse for his poor performance since. Apart from a dogged dinnertable
social effort, in the course of which he had been able to drop in a few
questions about her family, for Cowley, he had made little contribution to
the evening. 

"Sorry, sunshine," he responded; he met Doyle's eyes and for an instant
Ann Holly had gone as if she had never existed, for there was no way Bodie
was going to conceal the warmth he felt for Doyle in that moment. "Tired,
that's all." 

And as he said it, the thought flashed into his head, she's going to hurt
him. Oh christ I hope to god she doesn't hurt him-- 

"Have you two got to be at work in the morning?" Ann's unmellow tones
crashed in, offering, perhaps, a conciliation; but like Bodie's own sense
of failure, far too late to do any good. 

"Yeah. Up bright and early." Bodie rose with the comment; set down his
glass, still a third full. "Must be off." 

Everyone was perfectly, self-consciously aware that the evening had been a
disaster; but, now it was over, anxious to prove it had not been. The
lovers rose too, there was a flurried exchange of awkward chat, given life
by everyone's relief that it was over. 

With some sensitivity, Ann stayed where she was while Doyle saw Bodie to
the door. 

"All right, mate?" Doyle asked, a little quiet, a little worried; he was
on edge wondering if Bodie, not known for his delicate sensibilities,
might bluntly put into words what he did not want to hear. 

In answer, Bodie's fist flew out and caught Doyle in the belly--but
gently, so that his instinctive wince and recoil was unnecessary. "Yeah.
Great meal, mate. Thanks--see you in the morning." His eyes, gleaming dark
in the low light, lifted sharply to Doyle's; and he gave him a brief
smile. 

"Okay," said Doyle, and Bodie could feel the eyes on him until he turned
the corner and heard, a long way off, the door shut firmly with a click. 

Okay. 

No, everything wasn't okay, and Bodie was no longer sure he knew why not,
although puzzlingly, he thought it had all seemed quite clear earlier.
Fighting down the images of that closed door, and what would now be going
on behind it-- 

*Thank god that's over* 

*Sorry, I'm sorry he was difficult, sorry it was awkward for you* 

--and the warm compensation Doyle would now be laying on her as if she,
sinless, had come through a terrible ordeal fighting off the wolf. Bodie
moved to his car as if through deep water. 

The tyres squealed in protest as he exacted every rev of acceleration from
the Capri and shot off into the night. 

He didn't take the roads home but simply drove on and on, making
split-second decisions at junctions, until he came to open country. It was
here that he spotted twin blazing headlights in the rearview mirror. Oh,
fuck it. 

Fuck the whole bloody world. 

He pulled in to the side of the road, wound down the window. 

A traffic cop, malicious with delight at having made a catch in the long
watches of the night, stuck his head in. "Mind showing me your licence,
sir?" 

A slow buildup; he was winding up to much much more, easing off the layers
of courtesy like snakeskin. 

Instead Bodie had his ID ready in his hand. He stared up. Thoroughly
thwarted, and having trailed miles down this deserted route for his prey,
the cop was about to enquire nastily whether this was official business. 

Something in the man's eyes stopped him. 

Muttering an apology, he went back to his car and the reassuring company
of Ches, who had bad breath but was otherwise okay-- 

"Whassup, Sambo?" said his partner, intent on rolling another cigarette.
"Wife in labour on the back seat was it then?" 

The traffic cop wasn't listening. 

"CI5. You 'eard of CI5, Ches?" 

"Them the ones what crawl out to do the dirty work and then vanish back
underground?" 

"Screwballs," muttered his partner, "they're screwballs. You can tell by
the look in their eyes." And with a sudden rush of impatience he thumped
the dashboard. "Get this fuckin' wagon back to town, we've wasted enough
bloody time." 

Bodie stayed where he was, the car pulled into the side of the road, in
the middle of nowhere. He killed the lights. 

He know now what was wrong with him. 

Jealousy--that was to be expected. Anyone'd be sick at the thought of
losing such a sexual prize as Doyle, especially to someone who wouldn't
appreciate him. But Bodie was resigned to such things; eventually the
games stopped, as one by one they peeled themselves off the carefree
sexual rotas and settled down. If you were yourself unsuited or unwilling
to do the same, you had to accept the changing faces. 

But this--this was more than that. 

He couldn't hide from it any longer. 

Jealousy--oh yes, he was sick with it, Doyle even now lying at peace,
trusting, naked in the warmth of his bed, Ann, privileged Ann to whom
Doyle had given not just his body but his love, beside him; and Bodie out
here in this dark unknown world, alone. Bodie had been used for so long to
being first for Doyle then no wonder it hurt his pride and his sense of
order in his world to find it was no longer so. 

If only that was all. 

But that cosy little notion had been destroyed at one pass with the
damning, too-revealing thought-- 

Oh christ I hope she doesn't hurt him. 

It was quite clear. 

Rather than bear Doyle's hurt if Ann should leave him, Bodie would beg her
on his knees to stay and be kind; and that, oh that was not jealousy.
Chilled, stricken, Bodie wound up the open window in a hurry and leaned
his head on his forearm. 

Too late, too late; it had happened. 

******

*Part IV *

Ann had gone. 

Only Bodie was left for him, sharing the pain. 

"I wanted her to love me. I thought she did. But no one ever does, I'd
forgotten that." He whirled, fist raised, and punched the wall in a blow
that must have bruised, aimless. "You know, that's what kills me, Bodie.
However hard I try, however much I love someone, I never--get there for
them. Never gonna try again, Bodie," he said with a kind of fierce
courage. "Never again." 

He paced around, frenzied, barely leashed. Bodie had never seen him like
this before. Doyle, turbulently emotional, occasionally worked himself up
to be melodramatic, but this-- 

It was real. 

The pain of it whipped Bodie through to the bone; his stomach was aching
with it. His throat was choked; it wouldn't be long before he was in
tears. Crying, he thought distractedly; so this is what it does to you to
love someone. I should be jealous because he's so sad he's lost her; I
should be triumphant because now he's all mine. And instead all I can
fuckin' well feel is this terrible tearing inside because he's sick with
hurt, and so help me if I could get her back for him I'd do it and shut
the door on them and walk away-- 

But he couldn't do that, Ann was gone, reneged on shallow promises; now
the time to face up to it. Moving on slow feet, as if he was wading
through sludge, he went over to where Doyle stood leaning on the
mantlepiece with his cheek on his arm, knuckles pressed to his mouth; and
slid his arms around the tense figure, pushing his face onto Doyle's
shirtclad shoulder. 

"I love you," he said, very quietly. 

He knew--oh he knew so well it was the wrong time, the bittersweetness of
that singing defeat through his blood, but he had to say it. For a moment
they were close, Doyle stilled within the circle of his arms; Bodie shut
his eyes, cheek rubbing gently on the hardboned upthrust of Doyle's
shoulder, offering useless comfort. And as he had expected, Doyle pulled
away from him, running a hand through his hair; he walked to the window
and leaned against the wall, his back to Bodie. He had the back of his
wrist pressed to his mouth, to try and stop the quiver that would keep
threatening; his voice was very low. 

"Don't give me that, Bodie." 

Bodie stayed silent in his own pain, accepting the failure. 

"I know you 'ad to say it. Thanks for that. But--that's enough. I just--I
just can't take any more, tonight." Quietly spoken, no emphasis. 

Yes, of course that's what Doyle would think. All that pain he just could
not hide; 'no one loves me'; what more natural than to step in unthinking
and contradict it with a lie? 

No, Ray, he wanted to cry out, it's not like that, would I lie about it
for chrissake?--but then Doyle turned blindly to face him, taking a deep,
tearing breath, and all thoughts of any kind fled him because he could see
that Doyle had spoken the perfect truth; oh yes, he'd had enough, all
right. 

He got to him just in time, supporting him while the violence of misery,
frustration and grief ripped through him, just holding him, his own skin
wet as he stared grimly, silently over Doyle's ravaged face and called
forth every curse he could think of to settle on Ann Holly and the entire
female sex and anyone else who had hurt Ray, ever. Including himself. 

Doyle had been quiet for some time now, the thin chest still heaving
hugely, expanding, shuddering from time to time. Bodie thought he might
have fallen, exhausted, into a doze where he knelt, head cradled close to
Bodie's shoulder; he could feel cramp setting in from the awkwardness of
the crouching position he had been forced to hold. Cautiously he uncurled
stiff wet fingers from the side of Doyle's cheek and regretted it
instantly-- 

"I want you to go now, Bodie." 

He couldn't see Doyle's face. "If you think I'd leave you tonight then
you're off your head," returned Bodie shortly; he let Doyle go and rose to
his feet. 

Doyle followed suit, knees cracking as he did so, brushing his sleeve over
his face. "I said, I want you to go." His voice was still strange, hoarse
with crying; a catch in it making his words jerky. 

"I'm not goin', Ray." 

Doyle looked terrible, red-eyed; unshaven face smeared with tears and
worse. He concentrated on Bodie when he did not want to, when he wanted to
have his own misery out, and spoke with low intensity: "I wanna be on my
own Bodie, don't you understand that?" 

"Yeah, just like Garbo. The answer's still no." 

"Bodie--" Doyle was beginning to be angry--"Can't you get it into your
bloody head--?" His voice dropped, as he surveyed the stooping, palefaced
figure before him; something about Bodie's bleakness got through and made
him soften what he had been going to slam into him, intending to hurt. "I
don't want you, I don't want *it* I mean, tonight, don't you see that?" He
tried to be kind, tried for a moment to see Bodie's problems past his own.
"Look, I'm not sayin' it's over with us, with you and me, but tonight--"
His voice caught again, but he didn't heed it, battled on, "It's her I
want, I know I can't have her but that's how it is tonight, and I'd be
better alone, honest, Bodie." He tried to smile, to make it all better.
"I'm not in the mood, mate. Go out and pick up some bird from the pub, eh,
you can tell me all about it in the morning?" 

The knife slid under skin and twisted. 

"You make me so angry sometimes," said Bodie in a low voice; and he
crossed the room and pulled Doyle into a fierce, desperate hug, his voice
raw. "I'm not in the mood either, *mate*, it may surprise you to know; I
doubt I'll ever bloody be in the mood again the way I feel tonight. I'm as
sick as you are over all this you dumbheaded little idiot, in case you
hadn't noticed, and there's no way I'm leaving you alone--you don't 'ave
to see me, dunnave to talk to me, but I'm *staying*, and if I 'ave to lay
you out cold to prove it I will so just shuddup." 

Whether Doyle took it in or not he didn't know, but he seemed to concede
to the vigour of it at least. Bodie let him drink, then, and when the
inflow of whisky had relaxed him enough to make him drowsy he took him to
bed; got in beside him, draped an arm over him and, eventually, slept. 

******

When Bodie awoke, jolted out of dreamless sleep by something unknown, as
his eyes came open his guts twisted straight away in a knot of depression
and dread to face the day; not one, not even one blessed minute of lying
there in the awakening half-doze, bathed with oblivion. He reached out, to
share his sudden misery, but Doyle was not there. He was in the bathroom
when Bodie pushed open the door, seated, his head in his hands. 

"Whassa time?" Bodie asked, wandering to the mirror and looking, wincing
at his own blurry expression, his chin shaded with stubble, his hair going
all different ways. 

Doyle's fingers were steepled, threaded through curls beside his ears,
pressing the throbbing nerve there that was making his head pound. He
didn't look up. "About seven or something." 

"Sleep okay?" 

"Yeah, I slept okay." 

Clearly Doyle was not in the mood to appreciate idle chat. Watching
himself in the mirror, Bodie saw his mouth twist in humourless irony; oh
yes, ironic all this, more love in him than ever before in his life, and,
what was more, for someone who for years had hoped for just that: only it
was too late, too bloody late, Bodie's day was gone, never even sampled,
vanished like a dream the day Ann Holly came into Ray's life and fucked it
up.... 

If only, if only. If only he'd taken more notice of his own feelings
rather than shoving them under the carpet the way he usually did, then
maybe that day when Conroy died, when Benny died, it would have been Bodie
he turned to, not that wheyfaced bitch-- 

Pointless. 

And yet-- 

Suddenly desperate, he glanced down at the downcast figure beside him. Oh
christ, however could he have missed it? He knew every inch of that body
there, he could pick Doyle out blindfold in a crowd by the creases behind
his knees, as Doyle could him; they were very close, as close, perhaps as
two people ever could be. Take now, this very moment: it was so usual, so
accepted a thing for them to be together that Doyle hardly knew Bodie was
there, would not disturb his own morning routine by a fraction to
accommodate Bodie's presence. And that was the truest test: hold that up,
against the presence of guests, friends, in the house. They belonged. It
was so much more than friendship Bodie could not define it as other than
love. How many years had he had to think about this, and shrugged away the
chance as if it hardly mattered? He had been blind; and a fool. 

On impulse he dropped to crouch in front of Doyle, elbows perching on
Doyle's bare thighs, hands flying to grip Doyle's skinny upper arms,
knotted with fine muscle; gazing intently into wide-open seasprite eyes
that had flashed up to meet him. 

"We'll make it, sunshine," he promised, tightly, grittily. "We'll be
okay." 

Serious, forced out of his innerfocussed detachment, Doyle studied his
face for a moment as if curious to know what had prompted all this; it was
as if he was swiftly checking, backtracking on Bodie's line of thought to
disinter the original idea. After a minute he said: 

"Yeah." And Bodie knew then that in a way the worst was over, that Doyle
would not close him off again. False prophecy, the depression of waking.
He rose to his feet, even managed a little chuckle. Doyle's bathroom
needed a clean; dropped talcum powder flew in grey clouds wherever one
laid a foot, there was a greasy ring around the washbasin and, given what
Doyle was in there for, anyway, it seemed all in all an odd place for a
revelation. 

"What you laughin' at?" Doyle said at last, raising his head and watching
as Bodie, with firm brisk strokes, swivelled the shower taps so that water
splattered down into the bath. His eyes looked brighter; more sharp. 

"Just thinkin'," Bodie answered, "after all these years you'd think I
could have picked a better place to propose." He slid a speedy finger
along the cistern, collecting powdery dust; this he dabbed on Doyle's
nose, swooping in before Doyle could turn his head away. 

"Bastard," said Doyle without heat, dignified even positioned as he was,
nose delicately flared. He added: "What you proposin', anyway?" He watched
as Bodie put one leg over the side of the bath, his eyes automatically
dwelling on the parting of Bodie's buttocks in unconscious erotic pursuit.
"Marriage?" with gentle derision. Bodie's head flew round at that; his
eyes were warm, gentled with promise: Doyle stared. "Somethin' like that."
And before Doyle could respond, Bodie leaned down, one hand on his
shoulder, and kissed him on the mouth, very gentle, a sweet touch of
delicate lips on velvet skin; taking his time. 

Then he vaulted the side of the bath and doused himself beneath the
cascading water. 

"I wouldn't kiss everyone before they cleaned their teeth in the morning,"
he shouted over the rush of the downpour. 

"No," agreed Doyle. Bodie was exuberant this morning. He wondered why; and
why he should be feeling a little that way himself; for when he had awoken
less than an hour before, he had seriously wondered if the day was worth
making the effort for. 

"You got gut trouble, Doyle, you bin on there so long?" Bodie began to
lather himself with brisk efficiency. "Only takes me two minutes. That's
army trainin', that is." 

Disregarding the insufferable smugness, Doyle made a face. "Too much
booze," he explained and shivered, his face twisting as another twinge
cramped his belly. 

"You better get on with it, mate, or I'll be throwing you off in a
second." 

"I'll make room for you, don't worry," Doyle shot back at him. 

He'd never have said that to Ann, Bodie thought, and threw his head back
under the cleansing needles of spray. 

******

The long silence of locked-in misery broken, in the car Doyle talked about
her, fingers fiddling with an odd piece of string, head down. Bodie
listened, let him get it all out, though he hated to hear it; didn't want
to know one more thing about her. 

"--I never thought, just didn't believe she'd do that to me." 

He lifted his head, stared out of the side window. "That's what's so 'ard
to take." 

"You don't really get to know someone," Bodie said distantly. "Not in a
few days." 

If that stung, it was nevertheless the truth and although Doyle winced he
didn't try to deny it. "Well, *you* certainly didn't know her," he said
with a little edge of heat. "You only met her once, for chrissake." 

"I saw enough," said Bodie grimly. When Doyle didn't reply to that, he
flared, his face screwed up in pent anger, "Oh for godsake, Ray, if you'd
married her I'd have sat bloody hard on what I felt about her for *your*
sake, and that alone, but now she's run out on you there's no fuckin' way
in the world I'll pretend anything. She was a bitch. A cold bitch, and if
you can't see that now believe me you soon will." His lips stretched in a
savage smile as his hand swung the wheel; the car flashed out to overtake
a lorry. 

Doyle's brow creased; absently he put one hand to his belly, pressing
slightly. "I know you didn't like her. You made that very clear. But do
you know why? You were jealous, that's all. Jealous as hell. But I bet
you're not going to admit that, are you?" 

It was out. He'd never meant to say it, but there it was. And he knew it
didn't matter: for all they were quarrelling now, they were in some odd
way very close today. They would not hurt each other, not today, perhaps
never again. 

"Yeah, I'll admit that," said Bodie tightly. "No sweat, sunshine. Of
course I was bloody jealous. I wanted to put up a fight for you but I
could see it was too late. But that's not why I hated her. I--" He
stopped, aghast at the rank sentimentality of the words that had flashed
into his mind ready to use. 

Doyle was looking at him, the haunting slant of his troubled eyes
attentive, his fists clenched up tight as if to fend off physically the
knowledge he didn't want. 

Bodie said it anyway. 

"You were loving her and I knew, so help me I *knew*, sooner or later she
was going to throw all that love back in your face like so much shit.
That's why I hated her, Ray. I'm not makin' any apology for that." 

For a moment there was intense silence in the car; stillness before the
storm? Without knowing it Bodie was strung up on tension waiting for
Doyle's reply. 

Then Doyle expelled a long breath, slowly. His eyes dropped to the piece
of string he still held; he had knotted and unknotted it already countless
times, thin fingers working ceaselessly. Now they were stilled. "Was it
that obvious? That she didn't love me?" 

Funny, he was thinking to himself numbly, how you can so deceive yourself;
see what you want to see. 

It was written all over his face. 

For all the world it was as much as Bodie could do not to hurtle the car
into a stop and wrap this bruised Doyle up in himself, hold him tight and
safe and in a place where no one could get at him to hurt him ever again--


There was much to say today and they would have to be honest; this was one
of the times when the brutal truth was not necessary. 

"Maybe she did love you, in her way," he said roughly, looking straight at
the road ahead. "How would I know--? Like you said, I only met her once.
She probably did love you, I'm not saying she didn't. What I'm saying is,
she wasn't right for you." He reached out, gave the thin knee a
meant-to-be-reassuring squeeze; never to know that the unconscious,
desperate grip of his fingers gave Doyle a deep black bruise: "Sunshine,
believe me. You need a certain sort of-- toughness...to cope with a lady
like Ann and not go under, and you just haven't got it, not the sort of
toughness I'm talking about," he added, because in fact Doyle could be
hard; so hard Ann would look Poppinsish by comparison. Bodie had seen
heavies twice his size unnerved into immobility by the chilling force of
Doyle at his most dangerous. But on the other hand, a deep, close
relationship with someone was necessary for him; he gave a lot to it and
couldn't thrive without a lot being given to him in return. Ann would have
trampled that kind of vulnerability into the ground. 

He hardly dared look at Doyle to see how he was taking all this. But Doyle
merely nodded, and put another question to him. 

"So you were glad when she left then?" 

So casual-sounding; but Bodie wasn't a fool. He hesitated, and this time
snapped straight into the truth. 

"Of course I bloody well was. She was poison for you and the quicker it
ended the better." 

"You really believe that, don't you." 

Doyle still had his head down. Impossible to gauge his reaction. 

"Yeah. And you'll make it a whole lot easier on yourself if you start
believing it too," growled Bodie. He changed gear, savagely; wrenched the
car out past two cyclists riding abreast. A horn blared; startled, he
checked his wing mirror to see a motorcyclist dropping back too close
behind; jesus christ, must have been overtaking and I pulled out in his
path, stupid trying to drive and carry on this kind of conversation-- 

Doyle had not even noticed. Because he trusted Bodie he was feeling around
it all; but the hurt was still all too close to him, his head was in a
whirl. Let it rest. Maybe Bodie was right; and maybe, too, one day he'd be
able to see it from afar. For now, he didn't want to think about it; it
was over. 

He scrubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand and looked up, with a
ragged little smile that tore at Bodie's heart. "Good job I've still got
you," he said, and added automatically, qualifying it as he always did
lest Bodie sense entrapment and back off, "Sometimes." 

It was stuffy in the car. He wound his window down a fraction. Abruptly,
Bodie pulled the car into a layby, jerked on the handbrake. "Ray--" 

There was a strange sensation in his chest, a choking feeling of
constriction. 

Doyle turned his head to look at him; the wind danced in his hair. "What?"


"I've gotta tell you this, I know it's not a very good time," Bodie said
all in a rush, staring straight ahead, one hand clenched whitely on the
steering wheel; "I tried to tell you last night, but-- Listen, Ray. If you
want it that way, it doesn't have to be--*sometimes* any more." He
listened to his own heart pounding the beat of blood through tight veins.
Thunderous. 

"I can't believe I'm hearing this," said Doyle after a minute. Risking a
glance at him Bodie tried to smile. "It's okay, I know it's too soon after
Ann. But--I wanted you to know, if nothing else I wanted you to know that
you--that you got there for me," he said, wanting, needing to wipe out
Doyle's words of the night before. 

"When did you decide--this?" Doyle said. 

Bodie shrugged, feeling both better and worse now it was out. "Didn't
decide anything, mate; just realised it was true. Few days ago." 

"When you thought I was going to drop you for Ann." 

Doyle's voice had a hint of dangerous disquiet. "*No*," said Bodie, and he
turned to face his partner, reaching for his hands, holding his wrists
gently when Doyle did not return the grasp. "Not then. When I realised
that if she ever let you down I'd run after her and drag her screaming all
the way back to you. If that's what you needed." 

Doyle was quiet then, sensing honesty; with his thumbs, he idly stroked
Bodie's palms as he gazed out of the window and assimilated the shock. 

"You gotta admit it," Bodie said to the silence, "Whoever's up there in
charge of Fate really screwed this one up, didn't he?" 

"I dunno," said Doyle reflectively, and his wide clear eyes scanned
Bodie's face. "It helps." 

Bodie took a deep breath. "Look, you don't have to feel I'm putting any
pressure on you. I swear I'm not, Ray. I know it's all the wrong time and
everything, what with Ann and all. I'm not so thick I can't see you'd
trade me in for her right now if you got the chance." He gave a quick,
ironic smile: but, nervous, he didn't meet Doyle's eyes. "Talk about on
the rebound. Or, second-best. But--" 

"No," interrupted Doyle, "you're not that. Don't put yourself down, Bodie;
you know perfectly well what you mean to me. I'm not 'aving any of this
noble martyr stuff." 

Bodie had to grin. "I'm not noble. Just out for my own good--and yours." 

"It won't last," said Doyle with conviction. "Like a kid, you are. Toy in
the cupboard you 'aven't looked at in months, all of a sudden someone
comes to play, takes a fancy to it, that's it, they can't have it." 

Bodie clenched his fists, his guts twisting. "Don't be hard. Don't be..." 

"I'm not," said Doyle, suddenly repentant. He slid an arm around Bodie's
shoulders, hugged the rigidity out of them. "But let's be realistic, mate.
It'll all be over in a week--just as long as it takes for you to fall for
that new blonde in computers." He grinned, to soften it. 

"Christ, Doyle. It's not some bloody crush I've got on you, y'know. I've
known you five years and been layin' you for all but a few days of 'em, so
I think you can say I'm past the risk of infatuation." 

"Well, what is it then? The grande passion of your life?" Doyle, mocking. 

"Yes," said Bodie steadily, "that if you like." He wasn't meeting Doyle's
eyes; unused to sentiment, he was finding all of this very embarrassing.
His fingers, twitchy, tapped the wheel. Without warning, his hand dived
for the keys dangling in the ignition, wrenched it around. The well-oiled
engine sprang into life. 

"Sod this Doyle, I've had enough. Let's go home." 

0 - 60 in ten seconds. 

Cowley'd kill them but he'd call them in sick. They weren't much use to
anyone today in any case; Cowley, foreseeing that, had sent them off on a
minus-points-priority job which could wait. Would have to. 

"Grande passion, eh?" murmured Doyle at his side. 

Bodie didn't take his eyes off the road. "Yeh. And also--" 

"What?" Doyle prompted, when the silence stretched. 

"I wanna be with you for all my life," said Bodie gritting his teeth to
get it all out before his nerve failed, "It might be bloody illogical and
I know it isn't possible but I wanna nail you down, right now. You dunnave
to say anything, I know that's not what you want at the moment. But that's
what *I* want; reckon it's best that you know." 

Doyle was silent. Risking it, Bodie darted a sidelong glance at him.
Catching the look and sensing its uncertainty--knowing Bodie as he did he
was aware of how bloody awful all this must be for him; all the things he
most hated in one go--Doyle said, answering something Bodie had not asked,


"I love you, you know that." 

And the simplicity of it made Bodie catch his breath. 

"We'll sort it out," Doyle only said; and the miles passed on by. 

******

The balance had subtly changed; now it was Doyle in charge, Doyle the
practical one offering comfort. He made coffee while Bodie rang them in
sick; it was always safest to let Bodie deal with the Cow. As his partner
emerged from the lounge Doyle handed him a steaming mug, one eyebrow
uplifted in query. 

"Said we'd fallen prey to the runs and didn't dare stray far from the
bog," Bodie said with a sheepish grin at him. 

Doyle nodded slowly and winced as his stomach protested the arrival of the
coffee. "'S only half a lie." He put down the mug; walked over to Bodie,
took his away too, setting it on the side. Then he slipped his arms around
Bodie, pulling his shirt out of his waistband, watching his face through
slitted eyes. 

"But you," he murmured, "you're okay, aren't you? Aren't you, Bodie?" His
fingers slipped in to palm the warm mounds, stroking with his thumb. 

When Bodie understood, his heart jolted. He nodded, holding Doyle's gaze
all the while. "Yeah, sunshine," he said in a husky whisper, "Just fine,"
and Doyle began to push him backwards, guiding him until they were in the
bedroom. 

Hastily unclothed, Bodie threw himself down on the bed and Doyle stripped
for him, making a sensuous game of it, bare limbs sliding free from
cotton, posing briefly, yet casually, only a covert glance from beneath
curled lashes giving any sign that he was aware of Bodie's attention.
Naked, he padded over to the bed and stood looking down at Bodie. It was a
very intense, curious look they exchanged; when at last it ended Bodie had
the strange, almost breathless feeling that some contract had passed
between them. That if all went well, now, with Doyle's return to him then
there would be no doubt of the future for them. 

Doyle's lean thighs were close beside him; Doyle was still sitting up,
leaning against the headboard. Bodie turned his head to nuzzle the
salt-sweetness there; he threw an arm over his thighs, his fingers
pinching a fold of skin. With the other hand he found himself, closing his
eyes as he touched his own excitement. 

Doyle murmured, "Oh, yeah, do that: I like to watch you do that." And he
dived over Bodie to lie propped up on one elbow, eyes absorbed, drifting
from Bodie's face to his nipples to his fingers. 

"Enough," he said into Bodie's ear, and Bodie desisted with a sigh,
hungry. He brought his hand up to cup Doyle's chin without looking; Doyle
turned his face, brushing new stubble over Bodie's fingers, kissing them
briefly. 

"I love you," Bodie said without opening his eyes, without moving; and
felt Doyle's shift of response as he heard, and took it into his heart. 

Then he was kneeling, between Bodie's legs, thumbs stroking the smooth
inner thighs. It was all Doyle today, Bodie letting him do it all, do
whatever he wanted, sharp eyes measuring, making decisions, holding the
mastery of both of them; Bodie's only will engaged to accede to his. It
suited him; imperiousness sat well on Doyle. It was not always like this.
Sometimes it was Bodie in command, Doyle his to play with. Sometimes
powergames didn't appeal; and they would rock together gently, mouths and
bodies tender, flying unrushed to a sweet slow climax. At others they
would battle sweatily, each trying to fight the other into submission.
However it was, it was all the same anyway; in bed, they were equals and
it had been that way right from the start. 

But today, today it was Doyle's field; he held Bodie in his hands, poised
above him, his desiredark eyes slitted gleamingly. A chill of sexual
tension ran down Bodie's spine. He arched, presenting himself, needing to
be touched there; but Doyle merely ran his thumbs up into the join of
thigh and groin, brushing in the crisp hair there, barely touching the
sensitive skin beneath. Without needing to look Bodie knew how his cock
would be, lifting and searching, desperate to find that touch and be
melted beneath it. 

"Don't tease," he said, but it was an appeal without hope; Doyle would
keep him this way as long as it suited him, knowing how it heightened the
feeling. 

"Don't tease," Doyle repeated with an edge of amazement in his voice; he
slipped his hands under Bodie and dug his nails into his buttocks. Bodie
clenched against it; another urgent throb of arousal pierced him. 

"Please," he begged, and Doyle leant nearer him, breath drifting across
Bodie's chest as he blew coolly on a nipple, making his way leisurely to
Bodie's ear. "You can't escape," he whispered there, and grazed his teeth
lightly over the ultra-sensitive lobe of Bodie's ear. Bodie shivered in
anguish and delight; so bloody erotic: Doyle his master here, as skilled a
fighter as Bodie himself, and once he was on top there was no trick Bodie
could play to turn things around. Yes, now it would be all the way to the
end.... 

Testing, he bunched his muscles as if to throw him off, but Doyle was
ready for him, flying at him, mouth fastening on a nipple, tweaking a
twinge of pain through him as punishment, shooting sheer lust right to the
centre of Bodie: and then his tongue, soft in its wake, soothing, rubbing
the tiny hurt away. "Wicked," he murmured against Bodie's cheek, warning:
"Don't do it again." 

"Please," Bodie said again, tensed up with the pain/pleasure in his loins;
Doyle could make him come, sometimes, without even touching him, erotic
suggestion enough, and he was close, even now, but he wanted so badly to
be touched-- 

The sweatstreaked forehead, desire-shivery skin, told their own story to
Doyle; and so he ended that game and began another. 

"All right. All right, lie still," he soothed, brushing a quick fingertip
reassurance down Bodie's cheek. Eyes shut, Bodie felt velvetsoft lips
nuzzle him from nipple to groin. It was sweet. He drifted, hazy with
gentle pleasure. 

And then, with no warning he was taken in, engulfed in a warm moist haven;
it made him arch up. He moaned. And as Doyle's flicking tongue searched
him out, exploring every line, every crease and fold, a terrible/wonderful
surging began at his very centre, and he clenched his hands tight in
Doyle's unseen curls, all thought fled as he concentrated on his coming. 

It was snatched away from him. 

Doyle dragged his head away, gasping: "Jesus Christ, Bodie!" And as
Bodie's dazed blue eyes met his, explained, "Too fast," coming up to hold
him, the lean warm weight of him friendly, his tone soft, appeasing: "Too
fast, fella. We gotta slow down. So keen today, aren't you?" His eyes ran
over Bodie with lazy affection. "I love you. Just gotta calm down a while,
hold on--" He stroked the short fringe of hair, combing it through his
fingers as he talked. Bodie had one arm flung up over his eyes, his breath
was coming hard, and Doyle wondered just how far he could take him; he
hadn't intended cruelty, nor to tease, but today was--special, he wanted
it to mean more than a quick tumble, a fast release soon forgotten. "Okay
now?" and after a moment Bodie nodded. 

"Turn over," Doyle whispered; and when Bodie was there he stroked a finger
down his spine right to its very tip. Bodie breathed carefully, forcing
himself to stay calm. Gentle hands parted him; a warm damp tongue trailed
over terribly, beautifully sensitive skin. 

"Oh yes," he said, head turning to one side on the pillow, scarcely
conscious of speaking at all, "Please do that Ray, please," and the tongue
probed him with tender knowledge, making him melt outwards, his whole body
lush with soft soft pleasure until there was no resistance in him
anywhere; lapped luxuriously with Doyle's saliva he opened to the warm
snub hardness of Doyle's cock, accepting it easily. 

"I'll fuck you, lover," Doyle whispered into his ear, making a caress of
the words, "lay you till we come--" 

Deep inside Bodie, held snug and safe, he knew they were both very close.
He moved slowly, sure and unhurried; he kissed Bodie's shoulder, nuzzling
there openmouthed. 

"I love you, Ray," Bodie whispered, the first thing he had said for a long
time. "I love you. Come in me." 

Hands kneading Bodie's shoulders, Doyle arched up, his head dropping back;
he thrust home all the way, the tip of himself reaching out to the very
centre of Bodie. Beneath him Bodie cried out, but there was no pain as
Doyle came inside him, shooting sweet streaming fire to explode Bodie's
own: together, they tumbled into orgasm, mindless and beautiful, absorbing
every sense, each nerve shrieking its own pleasure, too unbearable to last
however they tried to hold on to it, stop it ebbing away. 

That was on Doyle's mind as he rolled off Bodie at last, leaving one hand
on his rump, patting him every now and then to remind him he was loved.
Ann was gone, but Bodie was here. Bodie would always be here. 

"Why is it over so fast," he muttered, looking down at himself. He sighed,
let his head drop back. Shower. In a minute. 

Bodie had to laugh. Looking him over, Doyle reached out a lazy hand to
play with the white pearls adorning Bodie's belly, rubbing it softly into
Bodie's skin. "'Course, there is that religion that promises you eternity
as one perpetual orgasm." 

Bodie liked what Doyle was doing; he shut his eyes. "Sounds great, why
haven't we signed on?" 

"The snag is, you have to die first." 

"Forget that then," Bodie said sleepily, and he reached out and took Doyle
in his arms, pulling him comfortably close, "because I'm feeling like I've
got a lot to fill life with, right now." 

Doyle offered him his finger; Bodie sucked it clean and held onto it. "You
fuck like a pro, sweetheart," he said into one ear. 

Doyle winced, a grimace crossing his face. "Oh, tender words." 

Bodie gripped him by the upper arms. 

"Those if you want them," he said steadily; and gave them to him without
stint, until Doyle was laughing at him, and crying, and loving him all at
the same time. 

Hungry for love, they rolled together and took it slow. 

And that was the beginning. 

-- THE END --

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