The Professionals Circuit Archive - Glass Houses	 Glass Houses

 

by Miriam Heddy  
 People in glass houses shouldn't throw stones. And how many black friends
did he have, anyroad? 

There was Jax. 

But was he a friend? Really? 

Facing facts, he had to admit that he could count his friends, of any
colour, on the fingers of one hand. How many of the old crowd did he still
call on? And after a day with Murph and Anson and the rest, how many would
he have a meal with or watch the match with? 

Bodie. Just the one. So if he's so bloody racist, why spend every free
minute with him? Why not just tell him where to stuff it and be done with
him? 

*Because he's your partner*, he answered himself, getting out a glass.
Because a little of that same intolerance had kept them both alive more
times than he could count. *Because he's a right to be racist after
Africa, doesn't he? Maybe not a right, but he could understand, couldn't
he? Yeah, he could, because he knew what it was like, fighting not to sink
beneath the shit in Liverpool, and he knew enough to know it was a miracle
that Bodie survived to be the man he was, as good as he was, and not out
killing blokes in pub brawls... killing them for Queen and Country
instead.... 

And that was it, wasn't it? The job made it acceptable.... Because you
didn't get to pick him, and now you're his, for better or worse, and if
the worst of it is a few hateful remarks about flash cars and spades, you
can bloody well live with that. 

Because face it, Raymond, you can't live without him at this point, can
you? *

He shook his head, reaching for the scotch and setting it down again,
unpoured. None of those were reason enough to drink, except for the last,
and he wanted to figure that one out while he was still sober. 

Because I can't live without him. 'Cause it's true. Watches my back,
doesn't he? * 

And if he didn't, someone else would. Professional courtesy and Cowley's
law. Look out for your own, imperfect though they may be. 

He laughed, bitterly, picking the scotch back up again and pouring out a
double. Imperfect, hell. *Because you love him. * 

Fuck it, he decided, refusing to follow that line of thought any further
while sober, not at all surprised that it led there, in the end, as most
of his contemplations of Bodie did. 

Bodie and his failings were best considered while thoroughly smashed, if
they were to be considered at all. And his assets? Best not considered at
all, drunk or sober. 

Slugging down the first glass, then the second, he made a point of not
looking at his reflection in the window of the flat. It was dark tonight,
wet and cold and the perfect bloody end to a perfect bloody ordinary day
in London. 

Ordinary save for their being off for the weekend, and not even on
standby, because *Bodie* had to recuperate, didn't he? 

And what better medicine than your own private nurse tending to you? 

He poured another, his fourth by his count, and it wouldn't be his last
tonight. 

Bodie's assets were best not considered at all, drunk or sober, but he
already knew that in another drink, maybe two, he'd be considering them at
length -- about six inches, if he could get it up after this much booze. 

Fucking clich. Glass houses. What the hell did that mean to someone who
made a living killing people and then masturbating alone in his partner's
flat? 

Bringing the bottle with him to the bedroom, he caught his own image in
the darkened glass, a small remote figure weaving slightly, slightly
grotesque with the water sliding behind it. 

Looking past himself, he stared out at the street for a minute before he
realised that he was waiting 

-- hoping -- for Bodie to pull up to the building. But Bodie was probably
well on his way to getting a leg over with the black nurse. 

Too complicated, that was, and he didn't have the heart to figure Bodie
out when he couldn't even figure himself out. 

Setting the glass on the side table he picked up the bottle and drank
directly from it, realising suddenly that his plans for the evening no
longer included even his own hand. They were both fucked up. Deserved each
other, didn't they? Cowley was right. Their own mobile ghetto was a bit
too close for anyone to throw a stone without hitting the other square
between the eyes. 

On that thought, he slid down onto the bed -- Bodie's bed -- listening to
the rain outside coming down harder now, with the occasional flash of
lighting brightening the room. Closing his eyes, he was asleep long before
Bodie's car pulled up outside, and he was too drunk to be awakened by
Bodie's quiet knock, or the metal clatter of keys in the door as Bodie let
himself in and settled onto the sofa. 

******

He woke to the sound of the shower running, and for a moment he thought it
was the rain, still coming down. Then the door swung open and Bodie was
standing there wearing only a towel and a huge grin, smug and damp and
dangerously gorgeous. 

Ray moaned softly, pulling up the ugly fur spread and wishing him away.
When he next opened his eyes, Bodie was still there, having brought his
damp, pale body closer, sitting wetly on the side of the bed and pulling
at the bed cover until Ray had to look up and face him. 

"Ta very much for leaving me the sofa." 

"Sod off," Ray answered, not in the mood. 

"Didn't get much sleep. Had a night of it. She was a real raver." 

Ray didn't respond, sure it wouldn't matter if he did or didn't care to
hear the details of Bodie's latest conquest. 

"Shoulda seen her, sunshine. All..." Bodie made a curving gesture over the
bed and continued, his smug smile broadening, his eyes going to slits as
he told the tale. "Had a nice arse, she did. Let me put it... eh, you
still asleep?" 

Ray opened his eyes again at the elbow digging into his ribs, knowing
there was no fighting it. "How was she then?" he prompted, grudgingly 

Bodie nodded, smile back again. "She was brilliant. Fantastic." 

"Seeing her again?" 

"'aven't decided. Might save her for special occasions. Need a piece of
dark meat -- ow! What was that in aid of?" 

"If you haven't -- look, I don't have to listen to it and I won't listen
to it. She's a *person*, not an animal." 

"She's a bird," Bodie said blithely, as if that settled the matter. Then
he added, as if for good measure, "Didn't see her in bed, did you?" 

Ray looked at Bodie, really looked at him, and he realised that he was
right -- he *didn't* need to listen to this. And he didn't need to drink
himself to sleep to make this palatable. Wasn't good for either of them. 

"You'll have the bed tonight. The flat to yourself." He shoved Bodie aside
and got out of bed, heading for the bath. 

"Eh, where you going to sleep then?" 

"Rather get a room than listen to you go on." 

Bodie blinked and then his eyes went hard and Ray looked away. "Like that,
is it?" 

"Yeah. It is," Ray agreed, not sure he knew how it was, but sure now that
he needed some time away from his partner before he said something
irrevocable, in hate or love or something between those things. 

In the shower, washing away the stink of booze and sweat and bad temper,
he could taste the words he couldn't say to Bodie -- daren't say -- and
they were bitter on his tongue. 

******

"Right, sir. Four-thirty. Got that. Yes. Yeah. Nothing so far." 

So far. And nothing likely tomorrow, or the next day. An obbo was bad
enough, but this one was threatening to go on for the whole week and
Cowley might as well've put two of the B squad on it for all the action
they were likely to see. 

He shut off his r/t with a sigh and sat down heavily on the sagging bed.
Bodie was in the corner chair, one hand holding onto his headphones, the
other peeling at a bit of paper that left a yellow trail of glue behind on
the bare wall. The bedsit was clean, at least, but the bed was a narrow
double with barely enough room for one to sleep comfortably, and certainly
not enough for himself and Bodie, who liked to sleep with his arms flung
out to either side of his bulk, not caring who his bedpartner was. 

No, Bodie was probably just doing it to get up his nose. Was probably a
gentleman if his bedpartner was a bird. Probably kept his hands to himself
in that case. 

And his stories, which were getting progressively dirtier the longer they
stayed here, and which Ray was finding it harder not to laugh at, despite
being angry still at Bodie for being... well, for being Bodie. 

He shook his head, deciding that was the problem right there. Bodie was
Bodie, and he was still not sure how he felt about that. It'd be easier if
he could bring himself to stay angry and righteous, but he couldn't. Even
the Cow didn't have the energy or will it took to ignore Bodie when he
poured on the charm. 

Bodie was a paradox, all right. A moron at the best of times. And the
worst? Ray looked around the dingy room, trying to decide if this ranked
as the worst. Bodie'd told his last story and they were waiting for
someone to bring 'round the take away. Ray knew Bodie had gone silent for
the last half hour as some test, to see if he'd pick up the double act.
But he held his tongue, not ready to give in just yet. Let Bodie do all
the work tonight. And tomorrow. He'd get the picture, if you filled in
enough of the lines. He was a paradox, but not an idiot. 

Bodie sneezed and snuffled quietly, not quite suffering in silence.
Normally, he was a right bear when he was sick with the 'flu. He'd sneeze
on you and then say, "Oh, sorry about that. Could you get me a cuppa?" all
innocence as he crumpled up tissues all over your flat. 

But he was on his best behaviour since Ray'd taken his kit and moved to a
room rather than listen to him talk rubbish. Now he was sulking when he
wasn't being paid attention to, but not whingeing about it. Yeah, he was
intolerable if you didn't have endless reserves of patience, which Ray had
to admit he did not. 

But, he considered, Bodie could also be the best person to have around
when your wallet was empty and you needed a pint. And yeah, he was a
racist, but he was also the bloke who poured you into a car at the end of
the night, regaling you with stories that would make a Marine blush. He
was ugly if you got too close and knew too much about him, but he was
bloody gorgeous when he had a mind to be. 

Not that he was gorgeous now. The beating he'd taken had left him weaker
than he'd admit to, and he'd been out of hospital only a week when the
cold took hold. His nose was a bit red at the end, his eyes a little
teary, and he was paler than usual. 

Ray almost felt sorry for him, but not sorry enough. *Bodie* was not sorry
enough. Was bloody well unrepentant, in fact. Said as much to Cowley --
that you could call a spade a black man, but it didn't make him any
lighter, did it? Had said it belligerently, and had meant it. 

And Ray'd kept quiet, had left it to Cowley to disapprove and hadn't
brought it up again, had even played along when Bodie'd mimed the Cow's
stern chiding. But it was wearing at him, and he knew it would come to
blows if this kept up. 

An explosive sigh, followed by another snuffle broke his reverie and he
looked up to find Bodie'd set down his headphones. "Your turn being the
eyes and ears of England." 

He checked his watch and got up, switching places with Bodie, who took the
bed with a thump that threatened the short life of the springs. The bed
creaked a few more times behind him and he didn't look back to see if
Bodie had fallen asleep until he'd been at the window recording no
movement for fifteen minutes and the scintillating fact that the bloke
across the way was watching a black and white film on the telly that Ray
had seen but couldn't remember the name of. He turned to ask Bodie if he
knew it, but stopped when Bodie caught his eye and grinned at him,
reminding him that he was angry with him and not planning on encouraging
idle chatter that might let Bodie think all was well. 

But, with the movie winding down and still unable to remember its name, he
finally gave in. "Oi." 

"Hmm?" 

"Bogie and Edward G. Robinson." 

"Hurricanes?" 

"Maybe. It's raining. And Lauren Bacall." 

"Key Largo." 

"'s what I thought," he said, not having thought anything of the kind. He
hadn't even been sure that it *had* been Bacall, as she'd had only a few
lines toward the end of the film. 

"Was a good one. Still on, is it?" 

"Nah. Just ended." 

"Like the bit at the end when the Coast Guard patches 'im through and she
thinks he's dead." 

Ray nodded, raising the field glasses again and seeing that the lights had
gone out. He listened quietly and heard the telly shut off and then soft
snores following. He sighed, deciding that this *was* the worst obbo ever.
The subject, if he *was* a terrorist, seemed intent on catching up on kip
every other hour. Earlier, Bodie'd mused that the bloke probably had
sleeping sickness. 

Ray was yawning in sympathy when the doorbell rang. The food arrived and
he set up the card table, unpacking foil trays and napkins and handing the
larger ones off to Bodie. 

Looking up over his lo mein, Ray finally couldn't resist. "Sad, the way
the Indians thought her father'd betrayed them." 

"Wot?" 

"At the end, they were shot -- ?" 

"Fugitives," Bodie mumbled, around a mouthful of food. 

"Shot for a crime they didn't commit." 

"Escaped from prison, didn't they? Did something wrong, an' they paid for
it." 

Ray shrugged, not having paid enough attention to the plot to argue, and
finding himself surprised that Bodie didn't rise to the bait. He was bored
and irritable and sick of dancing 'round it. "Still," he added,
meaningfully. 

"Still what?" 

"Still, the copper had it in for them for being Indian." 

"You trying to say something?" 

"Just making conversation." 

"Talk about something else then." 

"Right." 

But he didn't, eating quickly and tossing out the remainder in the bin. He
looked around, checking his watch and finding it was just past six and the
relief wasn't due till eight. He pulled out a pack of cards, setting them
up on the table and starting a game of Patience, keeping his back to Bodie
and not looking back again until he heard the laboured snores. Then,
taking his eyes off the flat where their mark slept, he looked at Bodie,
taking in the long lashes fluttering against pale cheeks, the blanket
pulled up over his chin, the large mound of blanket rising and falling as
Bodie took deep breaths through his mouth, his nose too congested now to
do him much good. He got up and straightened the blanket out, careful not
to wake the man and too aware of his own tender feelings toward him to be
comfortable with the gesture. Two more hours and he could go home to his
own flat, the burst pipe now mended. Alone to his own bed, for eight
hours, then back here again. 

But the two hours passed quickly and when Murphy knocked at the door,
waking Bodie, their eyes met and he realised he'd been watching him sleep
the whole time. 

******

"Two more bloody days of this and I'll be ready to tuck him in myself." 

Ray nearly laughed. Another day nearly over and they'd already turned on
the standard lamps. He hadn't expected the Cow had any good news, but
apparently Bodie still lived in hope of a reprieve. Two days were just as
likely to turn into three, then four more. The narcoleptic had taken in a
guest, this one an insomniac gun-runner who liked to stay up late reading
romances and drinking what looked like expensive scotch. Ray had taken to
tracking the man's reading for want of anything else to do. He was on
chapter five of the latest Barbara Cartland. The narcoleptic and the
insomniac rarely talked, but the Cow had decided that this might be
something big, though he wouldn't relay how or why he knew that, only
insisting that they keep their ears open. 

Hard to do, as Bodie seemed to have recovered from his cold in record time
and was now filling in a stack of crosswords and bothering him for all the
clues he couldn't get himself. 

"You what?" He'd missed the last clue, stopping to scribble down a name
and address. "Hang on." He called it into HQ and left the message, then
turned back to Bodie. 

"I *said*, 'Makes mountains out of molehills.' Three letters and it's not
C-O-W." 

"Ant." 

"No -- Oh. Right, then." Bodie erased a line and scribbled the word in.
Ray shook his head. Bodie could quote lines of Hamlet off the top of his
head and couldn't finish a crossword by himself. "Any action?" 

"Sleepy lost a bet to the other and is trying to double it. Hang on....
He's not having any of it. Fifty -- fifty pounds. Christ. All on a horse."


"Christ on a horse," Bodie repeated, picking up his eraser and rubbing at
the paper again. 

"Now Wakey is putting on the tea. One -- no, two sugars for Sleepy, an'
one for himself. Think I should make a note of that?" 

"Yeah. Do. We can serve 'em properly in interrogation." 

"If we pick them up." 

"Oh, we'll nab them. And* then*...." Bodie set his paper down, stretching
out on the bed and grabbing another biscuit from the tin. They'd had
dinner an hour ago, but Bodie was still and always hungry, or maybe just
bored. 

"Then what?" 

"Then, I'm going to pull a bird so hard 'er feathers'll stand on end." 

"Going to call on the nurse?" 

Bodie looked at him warily, then smiled. "Might at that. Took it up the
--" 

"Now Sleepy's pouring out a second cuppa." 

"Jealous, Raymond?" Bodie said, trailing biscuit crumbs down his
shirtfront. 

He didn't answer, scribbling down the licence of a car that had just
pulled up. The sky was clear and the moon made it startlingly bright
outside, so he only had to squint a little to see the numbers. "Company." 

Bodie got up off the bed and stood behind him at the window. They both
watched as a tall black man carrying what might've been a gun case rang
the doorbell. Sleepy answered and they both stepped inside. Ray listened
as the two men exchanged pleasantries and then moved into the kitchen
where Wakey turned the topic to the bet Sleepy had lost. After ten minutes
of an argument about the merits of betting on long shots, Ray handed the
headphones to Bodie and stepped back to the bed, picking up a half-filled
crossword and an eraser. 

"Curiouser and curiouser," Bodie murmured. 

"Somethin' interesting?" 

"Now what's a *black* man doing with Michael Reading and Jack Kilhearne?" 

"Talking 'bout the horses?" 

"Are they?" 

Ray looked up, setting down the papers. "They -- fuck!" 

"Exactly, old son." And then Bodie was on the line with HQ, feeding Cowley
a long list of names and numbers that could've been a racing form, but
which, in the proper order, when fed into the mainframe, would return
something else. It was a pattern, and Bodie had cracked it. A regular
idiot savant. 

"Right sir. Thank you, sir. We'll be ready." Bodie hung up, clearly
pleased with himself. "Drugs." 

"That what he say?" 

"Not yet. But it's likely. The spade's John Pierce." 

Ray nodded, too wrapped up in what that might mean to bother correcting
Bodie now. A high man on the drug hierarchy talking horses with two
suspected IRA members. Drugs, guns, and a list of names and numbers. 

"Might not be drugs. Could be a hit." 

Bodie shook his head. "Why's Pierce there, then?" 

"Mebbe he's branching out. Wouldn't be the first." 

Bodie nodded and pointed to the window as Pierce and Kilhearne came within
sight of the first floor window facing the street. Ray got up and watched
them stand by the front window, framed by the parted drapery, still
talking. "Reading's in the kitchen washing up." He'd left his Cartland
novel open on the chair. 

"What're they --" Ray swallowed his question as he watched Pierce lean in
toward Kilhearne and, even without the aid of Bodie's field glasses, he
could see the two men were no longer discussing the races, and if this
were a plot on the side, it was clearly developed past the point of
discussion. He suddenly felt he should look away, the intimate moment
broken when Bodie swore under his breath, setting the field glasses down
on the window seat with a hard thump. Ray reached for them, bringing them
up to his face before he could stop himself. The two men were still
kissing, lit by a nearby lamp, the room behind them falling into shadows.
*Of course they were still kissing, what had felt like minutes had only
been a few stunned seconds, hadn't they? * 

It wasn't as if he'd never seen two men kiss before, but never like this,
in the open, in front of a window.... *And one of them black, * his mind
supplied. They didn't know they were being watched. With the glasses, he
could see their open mouths pressed together, dark against pale. He looked
away, finally, turning toward Bodie, who was watching him, had been
watching him ogle the two men at the window. 

"That turn you on, does it?" Bodie said, his face hard, his lips pulled
into an unattractive smile. 

Ray blinked at him, realising with a start that hell, yes, it *had* turned
him on. The two men were both handsome enough, their hands on each other's
hips, shoulders, and in the background the clatter of water rushing over
dirty dishes as the third man, Reading, washed up. Did he know? Did it
matter? 

It might, at that. This could be relevant to the op, but now he could only
think about the other question, the one that seemed to hang between
himself and Bodie, still unanswered -- that ugly expression still twisting
Bodie's face into a scowl. 

"An' what if it does?" he answered, finally, his voice a bit too rough,
still not in control of it. 

"It's sick, that's what." 

He stared hard at Bodie, wanting to know what he meant, but suddenly not
wanting to ask. Was it two men or the black man with his hands -- his
*lips* on the other man, his tongue invading Kilhearne's mouth, his dark
fingers tangled in red hair.... Pierce. His name was John Pierce. 

"Bothers you, does it? Always thought you mercs were broad-minded about
such things." 

"Bloody hell, Ray, it does turn you on, dunnit!" Bodie said, sounding
surprised, his pale face colouring a bit. 

"Seen men kiss before," Ray answered, feeling defensive, suddenly, and not
sure how this had turned round to be about him. It was Bodie who was the
racist, making a fuss about this. *Mountains out of molehills. * 

Bodie got up and walked toward him and Ray took a step backwards, stopping
when his booted heel hit the wall. With one eye on the window, reminding
himself guiltily that the conversation across the street *was* being
recorded, he put his attention back to his partner, who was standing close
to him now, in his space, deliberate. 

"Have you?" Bodie's voice was soft, threatening, the tone he got when he
was angry, really bloody furious, the voice that made men step away if
they knew what was good for them. 

Ray faced him, not following the conversation any more. "No different than
a man and a woman," he said, not convinced of that, really. It would be
different, wouldn't it, if he closed the distance, reached out and pulled
Bodie toward him, sealing his mouth over the fine line of his partner's
mouth, prying open his lips and sucking in his tongue. 

He gasped in a bit more air, breaking away from Bodie's stare to look out
the window again, seeing Pierce getting into his car. 

"We have a tail on him," Bodie said, absently. 

Kilhearne had gone back to the living room and turned on the telly, and
Ray, distracted, could hear the sounds of a travel programme filter
through the headphones resting on the window seat beside him. 

"You fucked her. She had her mouth all over you, didn't she?" 

He didn't say who, and Bodie didn't answer him, picking up the r/t and
notifying HQ that Pierce had left the building. The call was late, the
tail already following him. Bodie set the r/t down again and cleared his
throat. 

"Don't try tellin' me you can't see the difference between that and -- and
-- *this*," Bodie responded as if they hadn't been interrupted, waving his
hand toward the window as if the two men were still there, in plain sight,
hands and mouths engaged. 

"Kilhearne's got better taste." The words slipped out and Bodie stepped
back and before Ray could prepare, the blow came hard at his belly, and he
was stunned for a second, leaning back and holding onto the window frame,
trying not to sink to his knees, trying to force the air back in his
lungs. Then he was up and landed a blow to Bodie's much softer belly,
grinning a bit madly when he heard Bodie groan, unconcerned when Bodie
didn't fall and took another swing at him. 

He got in close, risking it because Bodie's blows were dampened at close
range, when he couldn't throw his full weight behind them. Landing a
cutting left to Bodie's face, he felt the wet warmth of blood as Bodie's
lower lip split against his teeth, and he followed Bodie to the bed as he
fell, the momentum of his swing bringing him down on top of Bodie. 

Before he could scramble off again, he was trapped in a bear hug by Bodie,
who pulled him closer, bringing him down, and Ray had just enough time to
see that Bodie's eyes were wide, his pupils dilated, his breath coming in
harsh pants, and then he was tasting blood on his tongue, Bodie's mouth
hard against his own, devouring him. 

He pushed back down against him, struggling to get out of Bodie's hold,
not relaxing a bit into that kiss although he knew that Bodie would let go
of him if he did. Instead, he continued to struggle, moaning as his hips
ground against Bodie's, feeling their erections coming together and then
he heaved, digging his elbow into Bodie's side and then he was free,
Bodie's arms letting go of him, surprising him. 

He stood up, stepping back from the bed, stunned and wincing still at his
injuries. Bodie'd not pulled his punches, and he could feel that he had
narrowly missed cracking a rib. He wiped a hand across his mouth and it
came away bloody. He stared at the bed, at Bodie, who was still lying on
his back, breathing hard, who wasn't looking at him but continued to stare
up at the ceiling. 

"Fuck. Christ." 

"On a bleedin' horse," Bodie agreed, quietly, so that Ray almost missed
it. 

"On a horse," he repeated, wonderingly, too aroused to be angry, too
confused to say anything more. "Fuck." 

They were on duty. They should've been at the window, listening, watching,
not fucking around -- *Almost fucking. * 

*Cowley would throw them off the mob if he found out, *Ray thought,
inanely, not sure whether that wasn't the last thing to be worrying over
right now, with Bodie still on the bed, both of them still hard, as if
their bodies didn't yet know that it -- whatever that had almost been --
was well over now. 

*Not here*. He shook his head to clear it. *Not fucking here, on the job,
in the middle of a bloody op. Not here and not like this. *As if he had a
choice. As if he was God or the Cow, who could decide when the hell this
happened. *If it happened. *He moaned, holding his arm across his front as
if that alone could ease the ache in his gut, the pain that was higher,
like his heart was in a vise, the air still being squeezed out of him by
Bodie's strong, unyielding arms. 

*Fuck him. Fucking fucking racist fuck*. Oh, it was happening. Too late to
stop it now, wasn't it? He checked his watch. An hour to go. An hour till
their relief came. He walked to the window, not saying anything, not
trusting himself to say anything. 

Bodie complied, keeping his mouth shut for once, and they waited each
other out, the seconds ticking by, only the sound of Reading turning his
bloody book to the next chapter, until finally, Murphy knocked at the
door, his eyes widening slightly as he took in their dishevelment and the
blood on Bodie's shirtfront. But he wisely didn't comment and they slipped
by him. As Bodie started down the stairs, Murphy tapped his shoulder,
opening his mouth, but Ray shook his head, and Murph nodded, heading for
the windowseat and picking up his r/t to call in his first report. 

Ray started down the stairs, meeting Bodie at his car, wishing they'd
taken separate cars, getting in quietly and not protesting when Bodie
turned the car sharply onto the road with a squeal that was too loud and
might've brought their target to the window. *Fucked up the op already,
didn't we? * 

He sighed, eyes locked forward, ignoring the man beside him as best he
could, hanging on as they took the corners too fast. 

They were too soon pulling up in front of his flat, and he wasn't at all
surprised when he heard Bodie's car door open and shut, nor the sharp
click of Bodie's shoes behind him on the stairs. 

******

It was only when he heard the door shut behind him, heard Bodie keying in
the locks, that he turned around to glance at his partner, noting the
tense set of his shoulders, the way he was pulled up and ready as if
anticipating another round of blows. 

*Too tired. Too bloody tired for that, mate, *he thought, heading to the
cabinet and pouring out two large drinks, taking his own to the window and
leaving the other on the table for Bodie to take or leave. 

"Don't like me much, do you?" 

*Ah, no, mate. Like you far too much is the problem. * 

"Don't have to, though." 

"'Course, always knew you were too good for this mob. Got it all figured
out, don't you. But you don't know what you want, that it? Don't know
whether to fuck me or read me my rights, eh copper?" Bodie sneered the
last word, making it a curse, making it sound worse than a spade or a
whore, and he steeled himself, reminding himself that this was almost
over. 

"That the best you can do?" He didn't turn 'round to face Bodie, not
biting this time. No. He'd had time now to think this through, the whole
ride home, and he was sure of one thing, now. Bodie had a lot to answer
for, and he wasn't going to let Bodie do this to him. Bad enough what
happened. Bad enough that the partnership may as well be over now. Too
bloody pointless is what this was. 

"Go home, Bodie." 

But in the window he could see that Bodie was not leaving, was, in fact,
taking off his jacket, his fingers hovering at his chest. He could see
Bodie look down at his stained shirt, then shrug, unbuttoning it quickly.
He paused then, as if not sure, but, eyes now up and fixed on the window,
so that Ray felt as if they were on him now, Bodie pulled off his shirt,
sliding it down his arms. In reflection, Bodie's body seemed as white as
the shirt, pale as milk, and Ray swallowed, feeling the pain return, a
dull throb in his chest, behind his ribs. He took another drink, waiting
for the fire of the booze to ease past his tightening throat. When it
didn't, he turned around. 

Bodie stood before him, stripped to the waist, his fine skin pale and
unmarked except for a bit of dried blood near his throat and a fine line
of black hair that arrowed to his belt. He had, over the years, been
fighting his own body's tendency towards softness, and Ray suddenly
realised that if they were lucky, if they were really bloody lucky, they'd
both live to see Bodie lose that war, go soft and fat and grey. And he
felt his heartbeat fast, his throat tighten as his vision blurred a bit,
but then he swallowed the start of tears, continuing to watch Bodie
carefully, amazed that he would just stand there and be looked at like
this, evaluated, and for once his expression wasn't smug or confident. 

But neither was it shy. He looked, in fact, like he might never move from
this spot unless pushed, and Ray knew that he *could* push him. The wrong
word, and Bodie would go home. 

He cleared his throat, preparing to find the right words, but Bodie spoke
first, his hands at his sides clenching into fists, "Who the hell are you
to judge me?" 

He took another drink, draining the glass and walking past Bodie to pour
another, coming within inches of him as he passed. Holding the bottle up,
he glanced to see that Bodie hadn't yet taken his own glass, so he turned
and brought both glasses back with him, holding out Bodie's to him and
waiting for Bodie to take it. 

The glass held out between them for a few seconds before Bodie raised an
eyebrow and took it, not taking a drink, holding it down by his side. Ray
took another sip of his own drink, casually leaning up against the doorway
to the next room. "Who else is there?" 

Bodie sighed, letting out a deep breath and Ray watched as his posture
relaxed. Bringing the glass to his still-reddened lips, he took a drink,
swallowing. Ray watched his throat move, eyes narrowing to that spot of
dried blood marring the skin that was already shadowing with stubble. "I'm
going to get cleaned up." 

"Right." 

Bodie brushed past him, closing the door to the loo and Ray listened to
the rushing sound of water as the shower started. Setting his glass down,
unfinished, he walked to the bedroom, stripping his clothes off and
tossing them in a pile in the corner of the room. He sat down on the bed,
feeling numb and not drunk enough. Bodie would come out any minute now and
he hadn't the slightest idea how to resolve this. 

And then suddenly he tipped back his head and laughed, surprised that he
heard no bitterness, felt no bitterness in his own voice. *Bloody Bodie*.
Couldn't let it end, couldn't let him off that easily. Couldn't let him be
right, just this once, without mucking it up, making him doubt himself.
Racist, he was, and it was ugly, that. But who *was* he to judge him?
Turned on by black on white, turned on by Pierce and by the nurse who let
Bodie take her from behind, if you believed him, and yes, Ray found that
he had believed him, and had carried that image of Bodie thrusting up into
her, and that *that* turned him on, because she was black, and he shook
his head, wondering if Bodie was right, if he had any right to talk. 

But no, he did. He did because he was here, his head a muddle that took
the edge off his hunger, clouding the need and want, dampening his desire
with the home truths he didn't much like to know. 

*The Sun will never set*. He laughed, harder, a bit bitter, this time, but
God, what a bloody joke it was. Glass houses with mountains inside them
and he looked out the window, his laugh fading to a chuckle as he saw that
yes, the sun had set. The night was pitch and the moon had found a home
behind the clouds that had started to gather as they drove from the bedsit
to his flat. 

By the time Bodie got out of the shower, stepping out in a towel, the
water glistening over his skin, now clean and slightly pink from
scrubbing, it had started to rain outside. 

"C'mere." 

Bodie walked over to him, stopping a foot away from him, his face serious.
Ray reached over and turned on the lamp, wanting to look at him, wanting
to see him well enough to catch every imperfection, every flaw. 

"Cowley'll kill us, you know." 

"If we don't do the job for him first," Bodie answered, a hand coming up
and rubbing his injured lip lightly. Then he grinned, wryly." Your left's
a bit weak." 

"Sod off." Ray scooted up farther onto the bed, resting back against the
headboard, aware now that Bodie was smiling again, those blue eyes fixed
on him, that he was naked. "Take that off." 

Bodie unknotted the towel, which slid off his hips to the floor. A little
self-consciously, awkward undressed as he never was in his clothes, Bodie
moved to the bed, sitting on the edge of it. 

"Closer." Ray motioned with his hand, his voice rough and deep with want,
desire flaring up in him, remembering too well the feel of Bodie pressed
against him, the familiar smell of him, the taste of him in his mouth,
copper and spit and the smooth silk of his lips next to the rough skin of
his cheeks. 

But Bodie had shaved, his skin now smooth again, and he smelled of Ray's
shampoo, his skin drying but the hair at his groin still damp, droplets of
water clinging to his black curls there, his foreskin pulling back already
and one fine pearl of moisture at the tip of Bodie's cock, thick and hard
and standing up against his belly. 

"You're fucking beautiful." 

"Not unattractive yourself, for a self-righteous golly." 

"Don't call me that." He winced, suddenly feeling wrong about that, too,
and his easy acceptance of the name. 

"Gollywog or self-righteous?" Bodie asked, and Ray blinked, then laughed. 

"Both. Either." 

"Right, sunshine. Angelfish. Petal." 

Ray nodded, pulling Bodie in closer, letting his hands trail across the
fine skin, pushing Bodie down roughly onto the bed and then climbing on
top of him, letting his hardening cock brush over Bodie's, leaning in to
kiss Bodie on the mouth, careful with his torn lip. Bodie deepened the
kiss and then pulled away, brushing his lips over Ray's cheeks, lingering
on the scarred cheekbone. "I think you're right." 

"Hmm." Ray climbed off of Bodie again, sitting beside him and laying
kisses starting at his neck. "'m right." 

Ray continued his kisses over Bodie's chest, gliding across the thick
muscles there, biting down on each nipple. Bodie gasped and then chuckled,
"Right. Gollys are -- are -- ow!-- oh -- cuter than you." 

Biting down again in answer, Ray sucked apologetically on the reddened
nipple then, moving down again, he followed the line of black hair down
the soft belly, laying kisses across it then pressing down with his hand
into the soft flesh there. Bodie was, he decided, just Bodie. Suave and
too gorgeous and knew it, dark and hard, mysterious and dangerous, and
large and expansive and generous, and God help the man who thought he
could get close to one without ending up with the rest besides. 

Continuing to explore, moulding his hands over the hard and soft curves of
flesh, the familiar form that lay -- temporarily, he knew -- passive
beneath him, he came to the dark curls of hair. He stroked curiously
across the triangle of hair, moving down to cup the testicles hanging
there, tightening slightly in his hand. He weighed them in his right hand,
using his left to grasp the thick cock, pulling and stroking and then
leaned down, placing a kiss on the head, tasting and finding Bodie both
salty and strangely pleasant, like his first taste of scotch. He held him
in his mouth, sucking down the silky head, letting his other hand move
back, down between Bodie's legs, over the perineum, and Bodie opened his
legs, letting him in. 

Bodie moaned loudly as Ray's finger entered him, and Ray only had a moment
to thrust in farther, testing the tight ring of muscle there, before he
felt Bodie's hands in his hair, forcing him up and off, leading him back
up so that they were lying face to face again, and he held himself upon
trembling arms, propping himself up over Bodie's body as they kissed
again, and then Bodie pulled him down so that he rested with his full
weight on Bodie, something he never did with a woman, but Bodie was strong
and soft and comfortable beneath him and he knew that whenever he wanted,
Bodie could easily throw him off or roll him over. 

Beginning to find a rhythm again, they moved against each other a little
frantically, and Ray grunted as Bodie's hands bruisingly gripped his arse,
cupping him and pressing him down so that their cocks were pressed hard
together, and then Bodie broke their kiss, tipping his head back, exposing
his throat to Ray's tongue and lips and teeth, and Ray felt the wet plash
of come urging him on and he drove his body down and up and down again,
grinding against the wet skin and the drag of hair and sobbed in air as
his orgasm hit him hard, hard, again and again until he wondered when the
hell it would end. 

"Been a long time, mate?" 

He looked up, exhausted, limp and not seeing the humour in being stuck
against his clod of a partner in this state, sure that Bodie'd arranged
them both so he would be stuck in the wet spot all night. 

"Some of us -- " he began, rearranging their limbs so that Bodie was
shifted over, leaving him room and a bit of dry sheet which, he was sure,
would be stolen back by dawn, "Some of us --" he tried again, but Bodie
interrupted him with a kiss. 

"Some of us -" 

"...don't get out very often?" 

"Sod off." 

"Maybe in the morning, love," Bodie said, easing into the bed, flinging
out his arms to take up as much of Ray's bed as he could manage without
occupying the dead centre of it. 

To himself, he muttered, *some of us are picky about our bedpartners*. But
he couldn't say it aloud, and he sighed, knowing that he was not up to the
task right now of deciding whether *this* had been a very good choice at
all. The problem with living in glass houses was, come dark, you could
find yourself blindly walking into a very hard wall. Yes, he nodded,
sleepily, better to live *with* someone in that house than alone. 

And in the morning, they could go about hiding as many of the stones as
they could find and hope the rest would work itself out before Cowley
authorized another move to new CI5 housing. Glass houses for two could be
hard to find, and harder still to keep in this mob. 

-- THE END --

*Originally published in *Motet Opus 3 in B and D*, Keynote Press, October
1999*

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