I spoke to you in cautious tones
You answered me with no pretence
And still I feel, I said too much,
My silence is my self defence
                            Billy Joel
 
 
 

January 29
Saturday, 1.25pm

Doyle ran as hard as he could, dodging one man after another, keeping
the ball slipping from one skilled foot to the other. He kicked hard
and it bounced off a tree in time for him to knee it back down and
head for the makeshift goal. But it was getting crowded down here.
His head came up, his eyes searching for help. With a cry of triumph,
he made a feint for the park bench - and kicked the ball sharply to
his right. Murphy deftly stopped it, hoodwinked the defence and sent
it flying between wrought-iron armrests into the back with a smack of
satisfaction. His team let out a yell of delight and ran to both of
them, slapping their backs - and then the ball was in play again.
This time, Doyle jogged off the muddy field and headed for
refreshment.

Bodie sat on the sidelines, wrapped up in his thick black coat, a
smug grin on his face. "Well done, sunshine. You'll be playing for
Man U next season."

"Where's the beer?"

"In the box."

"You not drinking?"

Bodie reached out and grabbed the blanket from the picnic table. "Get
that around you before you freeze to death. Sweat on a winter's day
will kill you. And what do you mean, am I not drinking? What do you
think this is?"

"A mug of tea?"

"Well, it might have been - in a different reality. Now it's
something much better." With a sly smile, he lifted his other hand
out of his pocket just enough to reveal a small flask of the best
brandy. Doyle laughed and took a seat beside him.

Bodie had never been much of a one to play at sport. Always happy to
watch, but rarely could he be coaxed onto the field. However, he did
make the best home crowd supporter, yelling both praise and abuse
from the sidelines - in equal measure and volume. Today, he'd been
right on his best and Doyle was glad.

The last couple of months seemed to be fading into history. Never
before, for months on end had Bodie seemed so distracted, so distant
and so quick to anger. But he'd taken those couple of hours off last
week and since then, was basically back to his usual pig-headed,
arrogant, loud, obnoxious and lovable self.

Bodie was still worried about something though, and for all that his
mood had returned to normal over the last week, there was, in odd
moments, a look around his eyes that hinted at more. But still, not a
word. Doyle had decided not to mention it again for the moment. If
Bodie had been in a hole and was now climbing out the other side,
Doyle wasn't about to shake the foundations purely for his own
curiosity. Time enough to ask about it later, when it was all over.
If there was still a need. If Bodie would let him close enough to
ask.

Fat chance. Bodie was good like that. Gave everything he had except
something of himself. Forged a bond with Doyle no one else had ever
bothered to make, stuck by him, stood his ground against the infamous
temper, offered a much-needed sense of perspective. And the occasions
he had defended Doyle against one kind of attack or another were now
legendary. It had given Doyle a breathtaking sense of self-worth he'd
never really had before, knowing Bodie was always there, at his back,
a bastion against the world. Odd that a man like Bodie would bother
with someone like Doyle - and yet be so frozen within himself that he
couldn't give anything else.

Doyle had long ago given up expecting him to change. He knew Bodie
and understood him; as much as anybody could understand what went on
under that raven hair. Bodie needed to protect himself. Always. If he
ever lost that shield, he'd be a dead man - and probably Doyle along
with him.

Do the job. Stay cool.

He'd never forget that dream as long as he lived. Him, fighting for
his life after being shot, a vision of Bodie standing apart,
untouched.

To the pure, all things are pure.

No, never forget those dreams and the voice that had brought him
back. Never.

Another roar from the men on the field brought his attention back -
to discover that the opponents had scored an equaliser. Doyle should
have got back out there but it was better here, in the relative peace
and quiet. They didn't often get this kind of time off - especially
after the last week's work where between the two of them, they'd
probably averaged about three hours sleep a night. Smiling, he turned
his gaze on his partner, saw the frown of concentration there, the
dark brows pulled together over eyes so luminous with blue it was
hard to believe. Never seen a colour quite like that anywhere else.

Bodie's gaze snapped to his for a split second before returning to
the game. He bellowed out an obscenity at Anson then lowered his
voice. "What are you staring at?"

Doyle almost laughed, "You."

"Yeah? Why?"

Doyle pulled the blanket around his shoulders, took a mouthful of
beer and replied, "You know, I never realized it before, but you
actually have a good face. I'd like to draw it one day - if you'd sit
still long enough."

Another sideways glance, acidic this time, "A good face? And what's
that supposed to mean?"

Pursing his lips with the old joke, Doyle said, "What do you think,
sailor?"

"Yes, very nice," Bodie shrugged, casually nonchalant, "but I tell
you, Ray, I'm wounded."

"Why? I just gave you a compliment. Doesn't happen every day."

"Too bloody right. We've worked together for five years and only now
you realize how devilishly handsome I am? Haven't you listened to a
word I've said all this time?"

"Nope. You've grown on me."

Bodie tilted his head, and they both added the old punchline, "Like a
fungus."

Bodie elbowed him with mock ferocity and turned his attention back to
the game. After a moment, his tone altered slightly, he spoke again.
"How's the chest?"

Doyle hadn't realized his fingers were scratching the old scar - and
stopped himself abruptly. "Feels fine, Bodie. I told you, I'm all
mended. It's been a year."

"And the doctor told you you could open up a lesion just by yawning
the wrong way. Just think what football could do to you."

"Yes, Mother."

Bodie turned with a superior gaze, raising himself up so he could
look down his nose. "Well, if you're going to play the penitent son,
sonny, you can pour me another wee measure out of that thermos."

"On the condition that you tell me where the food is."

"Hell, Doyle, in the bloody box, under the beer." Bodie turned back
to the game with a painfully aggrieved smile. "You don't listen do
you? There's chicken and bread and potato salad and olives and some
of that green gunk you like."

"Green gunk?"

"Yeah, Greek stuff. In the plastic container."

Doyle finished rummaging around for food and brought the thermos back
to pour Bodie the promised tea. He'd gone to some effort. The food
was good. He must have paid a few quid for it. "Not bad this. I could
get used to it."

"Hah! What choice did I have with you pulling obbo duties all day
yesterday. And you'd better not have something on tonight."

"And when would I have had time to organize anything for tonight?"
Doyle paused, bread and chicken half way to his mouth, "Wait. Oh my
god, Bodie - you haven't… cooked have you?"

"Yep."

"But… that's perilously close to domesticity! What's got over you?"

"Oh, don't have a convulsion," Bodie replied dryly. "Just a phase I'm
going through. Thought I'd give it a try and see what it is I've been
avoiding all my life. Don't worry. After last night's mess in my
kitchen, it's not likely to happen again. I'll go takeaway any day. I
remembered why I love the easy life so much."

"So why are you still in CI5?"

For the first time that day, there was a split second's hesitation in
Bodie's response, a sharpness in the glance he couldn't hide from
Doyle. Then he shrugged, yelled another urge to the players and
settled back into his seat.

Doyle said nothing - but that glance brought up all the old worries
again - this time with more focus.

Was Bodie thinking about moving on?

Leaving?

After five years?

Was that why he'd settled down over the last week? Because he'd made
the decision to go?

All his previous promises to himself evaporated like ice in a desert,
driven by an abrupt and unfathomable panic. "Bodie?"

"Yeah?"

"If… you had something important to tell me, you would, wouldn't
you?"

"What?" Bodie feigned distraction but five years proved it wouldn't
work.

"You'd just come out and say, wouldn't you? I mean, that's what I'd
want you to do. If you had something important to say. I wouldn't
want you to tie yourself up in knots or anything. Just…"

"What the hell are you on about, Ray?" Bodie turned a level stare on
him, everything else buried beneath walls decades in the building.
Doyle searched his eyes but he couldn't find anything useful, nothing
to base even a guess on. A little embarrassed, he disentangled
himself and turned back to the game.

"Nothing."

Bodie waited a moment, nodded briefly and settled back. "And Ray?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't scratch."
 

3.20pm

Bodie stamped his feet once more on the hard frozen ground in an
effort to get his circulation going. Carefully he packed the food and
plates back into the box and snapped the lid back down. He had his
back turned to the others but he could hear the laughter of the guys,
replaying the match in that classic post-game mood of exhilaration. A
couple of years ago, when the boys had first started playing football
in this flea-bitten park, they'd nagged Bodie to join them; but team
sports had never interested him - at least, not to play them. There
was too much that needed to be given up, too much to be revealed to
create a team, make it good. It had taken enough out of him to accept
being partnered with Doyle - but to sign himself on with ten other
men was more than he could manage.

He turned with a half-suppressed smile to find Doyle, finally rugged
up in his great honey coloured coat, favourite Man U scarf around his
neck, waving his arms to demonstrate to Anson and Fields how they'd
completely stuffed up the defence.

The wild curls caught the last of the winter sunlight, streaking
auburn and gold and for a moment, Bodie imagined this was what angels
looked like after a friendly game. Then Doyle let out a wicked
chuckle at Fields's expense and Bodie had to grin. No, Doyle was no
angel - though his face belied it sometimes, when he was asleep. Now
the full mouth was pursed, dubiously listening to something Taggart
was saying. Bodie heard a comment from Murphy and abruptly, Doyle
burst out laughing.  He turned to Bodie to share the joke and when he
saw Bodie watching, he smiled. Wide and open, showing off his chipped
tooth, the sun dusting his hair in an incongruous halo, his eyes a
pair of forest green lightening streaks shooting straight through the
centre of Bodie's heart.

The effect on Bodie was devastating. His face froze and for a whole
second, he thought his knees would collapse completely, tossing him
to the frozen ground without a thought to his dignity. Only rigid
determination kept him upright.

Almost immediately, Doyle's smile faded as he obviously worried that
he'd done something wrong - and quickly, or as quickly as he could
manage under the circumstances, Bodie scrambled together an answering
grin and Doyle appeared mollified.

Have to stop that. Have to stop staring at him like that or
somebody's going to notice.

But he was so bloody beautiful.

And Bodie was in love with him.

Doyle waved his goodbyes to the boys and crunched through the frost
to Bodie. He grabbed one end of the picnic box as Bodie took the
other. Together, arms weaving about madly to keep their balance on
the icy ground, they tramped through the park to the car. By the time
they got there, Bodie had regained his composure completely.

"Good game?"

"Great," Doyle replied, setting the box down before attacking the
snow built up on the Escort's boot. "Pity it snowed so much though. I
can't see the Old Man being too happy if half his squad comes down
with pneumonia in the next week."

Bodie grinned, "It would almost be worth it to see the look on his
face."

"Almost," Doyle gave a throaty chuckle, his attention on the boot.

This time, Bodie had a good excuse to look at him - but chose not to.
Instead he turned a sweeping gaze across the open park, the mud the
boys had been playing in and the leafless trees lining the perimeter.

His choices were too few. And sure, he knew what he was going to do -
even though he had no idea what would happen when he did. But he also
knew what he couldn't do, what he would never do, not even for Doyle.

Especially not for Doyle.

Rejection scared him, but nowhere near as much as handing his heart
over to have it crushed by the man most dear to him in the world.
Bodie trusted Doyle with his life; however this was entirely
different and infinitely more dangerous. This wouldn't kill him - it
could destroy him instead. Bodie would do anything, say anything,
prove anything - but he would never say a word about love.

Never.
 

10.40pm

Well, Bodie had never been a slouch and the meal proved that even he
could cook when he put his mind to it. As Doyle lounged on the sofa,
he ran his tongue around his teeth, remembering. Soft tender meat in
a delicious wine sauce, vegetables firm and fresh, just the way he
liked them. And the desert - creme brulee! When had Bodie learned to
make crème brulee!

The wine, too. A couple of whiskeys to start, then a fine Chardonnay
followed by two bottles of what was arguably the best claret Doyle
had ever set his lips to and now, tastebuds tingled with a lively but
classic port to sit beside the fresh-ground coffee. Doyle didn't want
to move an inch for fear of disturbing the glorious sensation of
being so perfectly fed. Didn't happen often enough for it to be taken
for granted.

Bodie weaved his way out of the kitchen with a pot of fresh coffee
balanced between his hands. His lips were pursed in concentration as
he lowered the pot to the table in front of Doyle. Having let got of
it, he sank to his knees with a self-satisfied grin. "Told you I'd
make it."

Doyle chuckled, no less inebriated than his partner - but he'd at
least had the sense to stay seated. "I owe you ten p then. Take a
marker?"

"Yeah, but you pay interest."

"Done."

Bodie collected the port bottle, refilled his own glass before waving
it somewhere near Doyle's - but nowhere near close enough. Doyle,
sighing with vexation, levered himself up to the edge of the sofa and
held out his empty glass.  Bodie began to laugh - and then Doyle did
too. Bottle and glass never got any closer. Soon Doyle could no
longer sit up straight but in trying to lean back, his bottom half
slipped off the sofa altogether and he landed in a giggling heap on
the floor.

"Jesus, Ray, don't let Macklin see you drunk. He'd fail you on
everything from hand-eye coordination to self-defence. That was a
very elegant move, you know." This was said straight-faced - but the
words were overwhelmed with more laughter as Bodie continued to seek
out Doyle's precariously balanced glass. Doyle didn't bother getting
up. Wasn't sure his legs could take it anyway. Instead, he held the
glass out, his elbow locked. Almost in desperation, Bodie pushed the
coffee table out of the way, grabbed Doyle's wrist with one hand and
poured the port with the other. The bottle landed on the rug between
them, a kind of truce line they could both reach when they needed.

Doyle finally got another mouthful of port and smacked his lips. When
he looked up he found Bodie grinning at him. "What?"

"And you say I enjoy my food!"

"Well, I have to add here, to be fair, that I enjoyed your food
tonight, too."

"Yeah? Good. I hope you made the most of it. Was a one off, that
one."

"Oh, come on, Bodie," Doyle wheedled, deliberately putting on a pout,
"Couldn't you do it just once more?"

As Bodie lifted his head to respond, Doyle added, "Every week?"

When Bodie's eyebrows shot up, Doyle dissolved into laughter -
literally. His body gave up and he landed stretched out on the rug,
one weak hand desperately holding his port glass aloft for safety.

The heater was on, his shoes were off and as the laughter slowly died
away, he felt a great depth of warmth seep into him. Good food, good
wine, good company. The kind of safe, undemanding haven he always got
from Bodie. A kind of peace it wasn't really possible to have outside
the front door. Here, they could take their armory off because those
inside this room didn't fire deadly shots at each other.

Bodie crawled across the rug to sit beside him, his glass raised to
see the firelight through it. "A good day today."

"Yeah. Great."

"Pity we have to work tomorrow."

Like a wash of cold air, Doyle's mood shifted and focussed on the
shadow of darkness that had abruptly reappeared around Bodie's eyes.
Bodie sat cross-legged beside him, neatly in profile, his classic
face clear of expression, his eyes reflecting firelight, lids
half-closed, breathing slow and regular.

After a moment, Doyle realized he hadn't responded. "Well, if you
feel like that," he began carefully, "why don't you take some time
off? Have a proper holiday. Go somewhere and sit in the sun for a
week."

"Me and the sun haven't gotten along since I left Angola."

"Alright." Doyle moved, took a sip of port and let his head drop back
to rest on his arm. "Why don't you go up north? Do a bit of skiing.
I've a mate who works up at Aviemore. He could put you up for a few
days."

Bodie turned, amusement flickering at the corner of his eyes. "Tryin'
to get rid of me now, eh? So that's the reward I get for cookin' you
dinner. I knew there was a reason I never did it before. Damn, if
only I'd known." As Bodie held the gaze, the amusement died away,
leaving his expression bald and open - but suddenly full of meanings
he'd never noticed before.

The breath caught in Doyle's throat as Bodie still didn't turn away.
Time stretched out as neither of them moved nor said a word. Doyle
felt a gnawing compulsion to shift or say something to break the
moment, but something in that deep blue gaze made him pause; as
though a message were written there that he would be able to read if
he just looked long enough.

As though sensing his hesitation, Bodie raised an eyebrow and took
the glass from Doyle's fingers. Doyle moved to object but one look
from Bodie froze him. Before he could utter a word, Bodie stretched
out on the rug beside him, brought his face close and brushed his
lips across Doyle's.

Stunned, he couldn't move, couldn't even think. In those empty
seconds, Bodie kissed him again, lingering, soft and yet still
chaste. As though he were giving Doyle time to think, to feel. As
though he were giving him a choice.

Bodie lifted his head and gazed steadily at Doyle. His eyes were as
blue as a dusklit sky and as deep. So deep Doyle was tempted to
simply lose himself in them.

As the eons stretched between them, Doyle finally found words,
choosing them almost at random, his voice nowhere near as demanding
as it should have been. "What… are you doing?"

"Something I've wanted to do for a long time."

"But…"

"You told me this afternoon that if I had something important to tell
you to just come out and say it. I thought actions would speak louder
than words."

"But you kissed me," Doyle replied hoarsely, some of his shock
reaching his voice at last.

"And I want to do it again."

Doyle couldn't think of a response, something that made sense. This
was … impossible! Bodie had never been interested in men - ever!
Certainly had shown no sign of wanting anything more from Doyle than
friendship. Had he gone mad? How was Doyle supposed to respond? Bodie
had obviously spent a lot of time thinking about this, deciding what
he wanted to do. Wasn't Doyle allowed the same grace?

He moved slightly in an effort to get up but the alcohol acted on
muscles tired from the day's exercise. Instead, Bodie pressed a hand
to his chest then leaned close again and Doyle could do nothing to
stop him. This time the touch of Bodie's lips was warm and inviting,
not so innocent, suggesting other sensations, other longings buried
deep in a past and present he would never speak about in words. It
was a touch Doyle would have responded to if he'd been dead for six
months and again, the alcohol played against him, opening him up
inside, leaving him exposed to whatever it was Bodie was playing at.

Was he playing?

His eyes closed and for a moment, he surrendered himself to the
simple touch of the kiss, parting his lips to allow Bodie's tongue
space to explore. He tasted of port and coffee; masculine tastes. His
lips pressed to Doyle's wanting more, demanding and yet still seeking
what he hoped to find, confident and yet vulnerable, leaving a
swirling eddy in the wake of his tongue, his movements, his
declaration of desire. Enfolding together in a complex pattern, Bodie
left a trail of clues in his kisses; clues Doyle, even in his drunken
haze, could read and understand.

Bodie's hand came up his throat, the thumb pressing on his chin,
urging a deeper commitment, his body shifting closer. The thumb on
his chin was a gesture too erotic by far, the flesh touching his with
a burning heat so sharp it was almost painful. His heart pounding
now, Doyle couldn't help noticing the hardness pushed up against his
thigh, his own body involuntarily moving against it, driving nearer.

Without thinking, his hand came up to the back of Bodie's neck and
still the kiss went on. Doyle felt he was drowning but any desire to
rise for air seemed beyond him. Was this what the dinner, the good
wine and everything had been for? Had Bodie planned this night? All
to seduce Doyle?

A wave of shock washed through him, followed by fear-laced
anticipation. Both landed in a tangled confusion at his groin.

Bodie. His Bodie was trying to seduce him.

And he wasn't trying to stop it.

No, he'd never thought of doing this with Bodie but for some reason,
there was nothing repugnant about the idea - in fact, quite the
opposite. The closeness, the smell and taste of Bodie seemed at that
moment, in his alcohol-infested mind, the most natural thing in the
world. But it wouldn't end with a kiss, would it?

What did Bodie want?

With a moan, Doyle pushed against Bodie's shoulder, forcing his head
back to look into those fathomless eyes again. His heart pounded like
a freight train and his breath came almost in gasps - but he had to
know.

Even now, Bodie appeared to read his thoughts.

"I want you, Ray. I've wanted you for a long time. I think you want
me - at least, that's what your body is telling me. If you don't, say
so and I'll leave you to sleep on the couch. I'll never say another
word about it and I promise I won't lay a hand on you again. But if
I'm right, let me take you to bed and show you how much I want you."

The whispered words acted like fire on Doyle's flesh, making him
burn. Want? Did he want Bodie? With this furnace of desire flowing
from his toes to the tip of his head, how could he want anything
else? Blinding, surprising, shocking desire that tugged at memories
of the last five years and the strange almost impossible bond they'd
always shared. Doyle had never wanted a man before, though he'd had
plenty of offers. Women had always been enough.

Hadn't they?

Bodie's hand was on his face again, fingers brushing over his
eyebrows and lips, demanding and yet prepared to wait for an answer.

But this was Bodie! His partner, his… partner. Life and death, side
by side, almost every day for the last five years. How could he just
want to touch, to feel the hard body laid beside him, to desire the
fruits so readily offered? Why so suddenly?

Because it was Bodie - and because he was here, now, watching him
with veiled expectation and no little fear of rejection, for the very
first time opening up to him a little in a very personal and
important way that touched him deeply. But Doyle didn't want to
reject him. No. He wanted to go on feeling this odd twist of
excitement unfolding in his gut, the prickles of anticipation darting
into his arms and legs, the way the booze enjoined his flesh and bone
to melt against the strong figure beside him. The hardness at his
thigh begged something. Curiosity and yes, lust too. Sex with Bodie
would be nothing less than an adventure.

Doyle let his hand slip from Bodie's neck to touch the side of his
cheek, shaking a little with a tumble of emotions. In one brief,
twisted moment, they settled and let him gaze upon that familiar face
with something he recognized had existed a long, long time. It had
taken Bodie's courage to make it physical.

That's why it felt so easy, so natural, to be touched and kissed by
Bodie. That's why it felt right.

Hissing in a little breath of curiously delighted joy, Doyle lifted a
corner of his mouth in an attempt to smile. In one blinding jolt,
Bodie's hesitation was gone as his eyes lit up with pleasure,
replaced by a burning hunger setting his body alight. Suddenly those
lips were on his again, crushing and sweet, hard and demanding. Doyle
felt himself go under again and this time, revelled in the cascade
washing over his body.

Without his volition, his hands began to move, pulling Bodie closer,
feeling the hard flesh beneath the shirt. Suddenly, he didn't want
the cloth in the way. Fumbling, he began to undo buttons and Bodie
paused in his assault on Doyle's mouth long enough to help. Then
Doyle felt the skin, smooth and soft to the touch, solid and
ferocious against him.

And Bodie was undressing him too but Doyle barely noticed until his
own shirt was off and their half-naked bodies pressed together for
the first time, electrifying every nerve in his body.

Groaning now and dizzy with desire, Doyle began to kiss Bodie in
return, allowing his craving to fuel his movements. From the short
breaths in Bodie's chest, it was obvious he was barely containing his
own desire. His mouth left Doyle's and travelled south down throat
and shoulder, stopping to lick and kiss, to bite and linger. Doyle
didn't know what he was doing - but he no longer cared. This was too
right, too perfect to stop.

Bodie had been right. Doyle did want him. Did want this. With Bodie.

A deep-throated groan escaped him as Bodie's tongue lapped across one
nipple, drawing it firm and upright instantly. Soon the other joined
it and Doyle's head began to pound. He was hot and feverish - but
this was no sickness. He allowed his hands to slip down Bodie's chest
to finally rub against that mound of flesh between the thighs, that
hidden knoll of secrets begging to be discovered. Begging for Doyle
to be the one to discover them.

But Bodie grabbed his attention so swiftly, he gasped. Strong hands
now touched him where he burned, deft fingers undoing the zip on his
jeans. Involuntarily, his hips rose in anticipation and in one fluid
movement, Bodie had his cock free. Instantly, Bodie shifted to his
knees, both hands palming the hard shaft before him.

"God, Ray," came the breathed words, distressed and harsh. "You are
so beautiful."

Then, before Doyle could utter a word, all thought was stripped from
him as Bodie raked his tongue across the straining head. Doyle bucked
in response and Bodie took the whole head into his mouth. Then the
rest, sucking hard, giving no quarter. Doyle half sat up, one hand's
fingers digging into Bodie's shoulder, the other taking his weight.
He watched, knowing the moment would come soon - too soon - and he
would give himself up in abandonment. But just for a moment, he
wanted to see, to know and remember that this was Bodie, the man he
had loved for so long without even realizing it.

Yes, love. Want and love and desire, all wrapped up into one clear
bundle. This wasn't just sex. This wasn't even the alcohol. This was
making love. Doyle knew. He'd done it before with more than one
woman. Even so, nothing before had prepared him for the sharpness,
the dazzling certainty that this was right. He did love Bodie - and
even if the other man had physically repulsed him, Doyle would have
gone to bed with him if only to make him happy -

Doyle bit in a lip, his eyes going wide. His hand slipped from
Bodie's shoulder.

Love?

Did Bodie feel love? He'd never said anything. Only about wanting and
desiring. Was that all it was to him? Simply sex?

Was that what had been bugging Bodie for the last couple of months?
Coming to terms with a change in his sexuality? And Doyle was the
experiment? Somebody Bodie could trust? Was that all?

In all the last five years, Doyle had never seen Bodie in love. He'd
only ever seen this side of him. The sensual side that caught and
trapped women by the dozen, like a proud beautiful spider inside a
cold deadly web.

Sex.

Just sex.

And tomorrow -

Tomorrow they would have to face each other, remembering what they
had done tonight…

No, for all that it felt right and so wonderful, Doyle couldn't just
lose himself in it. There was too much else to loose. The
partnership. The best friendship he'd ever known.

His heart.

And in the end, he'd lose Bodie.

No.

With a cry, he pulled away, scrambling to his knees. He had to get
out, now, before it was too late. They needed time to think, to
decide - to know what it was they both wanted. This wasn't something
they could idly and drunkenly fall into. Sex now would only confuse
everything. He had to get out.

"Ray?" Bodie was coming to his feet, his hands out ready to stop
Doyle.

"I'm going home." Already Doyle had his clothes straightened, shirt
back on, one shoe on his foot. Finding the other, he shoved it on,
not bothering with laces. Jacket, there by the door.

"Ray, wait!" Bodie grabbed him but Doyle twisted away.

"No, Bodie. I have to go home. Now!"

"You can't drive. You've had too much to drink." Bodie was following
him to the door.

"Get a taxi." Then Doyle was outside and running down the stairs so
fast he almost stumbled. He arrived on the pavement half-afraid Bodie
would follow him but there was no sound from the door. Turning
swiftly, he headed down the street, his feet breaking into a run. At
the corner, he managed to flag down a taxi and he jumped in, spiking
a glance back up the street. Bodie was there, barefoot in the snow,
just watching. A second later, the taxi moved off and Doyle lost
sight of him.
 

January 30
Sunday, 9.07am

"Bodie!"

Cowley's voice raked down the corridor like a call from hell and
Bodie paused mid stride. He'd spent half an hour so far trying to
find out if Doyle was anywhere in the building without actually
asking anybody. Not the easiest thing to do. But he had to be here -
he certainly wasn't at home because Bodie had checked there first.

He had to find Doyle. Had to talk to him, had to explain, make him
understand, try and find out why the hell he'd run off like that when
it was so obvious he'd wanted… At least, that's what it had looked
like at the time…

Christ!

"Bodie!"

He turned slowly, keeping his movements quiet. With any luck, Cowley
might think he hadn't heard. The truth was, the last thing he wanted
to do today was face George Cowley in that kind of mood. Well,
perhaps that wasn't exactly the last thing he wanted to do. Second
last. The other would have to wait.

"Bodie!"

"Sir." No, no way out of it now. Bodie suppressed a sigh and headed
back for Cowley's office. Why was the old bastard so cranky today?
There were no desperate measures being planned, no ground-breaking
cases in the offing. Everything on the boil had pretty much been
wrapped up last week.

Hell! Had Ray said something about last night? Would he do something
like that?

Bodie reached the door and peered inside. No sign of Doyle and from
the look on Cowley's face, no word from him either.

"What time of day do you call this, 3.7?"

"Er, about nine oh eight by my watch, sir." Bodie stayed outside.

Cowley's expression came back so flat, Bodie quickly stepped through
the door and presented himself before the desk, upright and ready for
whatever. "You called, sir?"

Cowley pulled his glasses off and dropped them on the desk. He sat
back and let out a noisome sigh, deliberately designed to communicate
the precise level of dissatisfaction without actually having to
quantify it with words.

"Late night, 3.7?"

"Not really, sir. Just not much sleep."

"I hope the young lady was worth it."

"Sir?"

"Lack of sleep?"

Lady? If only it had been so simple - but Bodie didn't have the
energy to bother. "No question, sir."

Another sigh, this one more a combination of satisfaction and
disparagement. "Very well. You can relieve Jax at the Willard house.
You'll be alternating with him for the next week."

Bodie frowned and glanced down at the Old Man. "What about Doyle,
sir?"

"He's requested a few days off to make the most of the recent heavy
falls of snow in Scotland. Since he's owed more days than even you,
3.7 and since we've not got a lot happening at the moment, I thought
it prudent I give my permission."

Bodie's mouth had gone dry and he had to swallow before speaking.
Something unpleasant was jumping around in his stomach, upsetting his
concentration. "Scotland?"

"Doyle has gone skiing, Bodie," Cowley replied with a crispness
usually reserved for men possessing limited intelligence. "A holiday?
You remember those?"

"Not too well, sir," Bodie replied from habit, his mind racing. Doyle
had run off, really run off - so far that Bodie couldn't follow him,
couldn't explain, couldn't apologize. What would happen when he came
back?

Would he come back?

"He asked me to tell you he'd call you - but why you both suddenly
think I'm your message service, I don't know."

"No, sir."

Bodie's thoughts were still with Doyle so at first he didn't notice
the way Cowley had risen to his feet. Abruptly the haze cleared and
Bodie nodded quickly, already turning for the door. "Willard House,
sir. Relieve Jax. On my way, sir."
 

February 2
Wednesday, 11.35pm

The clock on the mantelpiece ticked harsh and sharp into the silence
of the empty night. Bodie counted the markers, one after another,
blind and deaf to all else but that steady rhythm, the counterpoint
to his own pulse. His feet and hands were numb with cold but inside,
where the whisky swam, he was warm and cosy. The only warm part in
his entire flat.

He sat on the sofa, his legs stretched out, feet resting on the
coffee table beside the empty bottle. The glass remained in his
fingers, empty also. He didn't want to let it go, didn't want to
loose something else that was empty besides him.

Doyle hadn't called. And he wouldn't. Bodie had blown it in the worst
possible way.

Jesus, why had he just run off like that when it was so obvious he'd
wanted to keep going? What mercurial thoughts had struck that woolly
head so violently he'd broken off before they'd really got started on
this new relationship?

Had he changed his mind?

Yes.

And that would change everything. If it had only been a single kiss,
they might have survived it - but Bodie had shown how he felt - and
Doyle knew and had felt the same, if only for a moment. Feelings like
that wouldn't stay submerged for long. No, they'd resurface in odd
moments, when rage at other things snagged their discipline. They
would snap at each other, resentment and anger flying in the face of
the only friendship Bodie had ever really valued.

Doyle would know this as surely as Bodie did.

And just as surely, Bodie knew it was over. All of it. Five years of
effort.

Over.

He'd taken that risk, believing - or perhaps only hoping - that it
was the right thing to do, that since Doyle did care for him at
least, he might take it in the spirit it was intended. That if he
wasn't interested, he would just say no.

But he hadn't. He'd said yes. Bodie had seen it in his eyes;
acceptance first, then a wanting almost equal to his own. He had seen
it. And felt it. Doyle had kissed him in return, had taken equal part
- until some idea had struck him, some wave of revulsion perhaps, and
then he'd got up and run away. Just like that.

And just like that, it was all over. Everything.

But try as he might, no thought of what he should do next sprang like
hope into his
mind. Instead, his head was as empty as his glass. He was frozen in a
single moment in time, unable to move forward or back, to want or
desire anything at all.

He was tired. So tired now he couldn't sleep. The last four nights
had given him snatches of unconsciousness but no rest. Simply moments
when his brain had switched off out of sheer desperation. Blessed
moments when he no longer had to think, to reflect on how easy it was
to throw away something so important, so necessary to every way he
saw his life now.

It had taken him twenty-six years to find a home. Twenty-six years
looking for the place where he could belong and still be himself, do
the things that mattered, in the way that was natural to him. George
Cowley had changed his life that day he'd spoken to Major Freddy
Nairn. A step sideways from SAS to CI5 had brought focus to the haze,
sharp reality to a life filled with angry prevarication.
Pointlessness had threatened Bodie more than once until that day.
Then old George had made the suggestion. Join CI5 and do something
with all that angst. Find a tangible way to fight back.

Until the words had actually been spoken, Bodie had never even
realized that was what he'd needed. Give it all some purpose, some
meaning, some reason to be. A reason for Bodie to be.

So CI5 had become the place for him to be, his home - but almost from
the first, the soul of that home had been Ray Doyle. He had the
reasons - all of them, and he beat them into Bodie, day after day,
year after year, and love had been born that way. Teaching him
without realizing it, making him understand that the reasons were
very real and worth believing in, and Bodie had discovered the first
threads of a faith in himself that he could understand and see with
his own eyes. Doyle's reasons became Bodie's reasons and he put roots
down in his new home and felt no wish ever to move from this place.

Until today.

Oh, yes, he'd known this would happen. Months of thinking hard
thoughts, of wondering and discovering feelings he wouldn't normally
bother to question. But because they'd involved Doyle, he had
questioned, wanting to make sure, to be positive. Doyle was worth
that much. Worth so much more.

And so Bodie had given Ray a small piece of his heart, afraid to
trust, but doing so anyway. And Ray had taken it in, crushed it and
tossed it back in his face.

Yeah, he'd known it would happen. But knowing didn't make it any
easier, didn't make the hurt duller, didn't make it go away. What he
needed right now was some way to freeze-dry the rock that had taken
up residence in the middle of his chest, so much worse than Marikka.
Carve that part out of him so he could forget it quicker. Had to
forget because remembering made it hard to live, to breathe, to
think. Even the booze did little more than soften the edges. They
were still there and drew blood every time he touched them.

An idiot. After all these years, he should have known better.
Should've had the sense to walk away when he could.

He pulled in his bottom lip and swallowed against his dry throat.
With heavy muscles, he hauled his feet off the table and got up. He
held out a hand to steady himself against the wall as he wound his
way into the kitchen. He thrust the glass under the tap and filled it
with water. He guzzled the whole thing down in one go and refilled it
immediately. He drank again and it was only when he was finished that
he noticed the other noise intruding into the blanket silence.

The door buzzer.

For a moment, hope slapped against his face, sobering him just a
little. Doyle?

Still holding the glass, he whirled around, nearly loosing his
balance. Grabbing hold of the kitchen bench, he steadied and made for
the front door. He stuck a thumb to the intercom, like a man reaching
for a lifebelt.

"Bodie?"

He frowned. Didn't sound much like Doyle. No, sounded more like
Cowley. But what was he doing coming here at this time of night?
"Sir?"

"Open the door, Bodie. I need to talk to you."

"Okay." Bodie replied, uncaring. The Old Man wouldn't be impressed by
the empty bottle on the table but since Bodie was leaving CI5 it
didn't matter much, did it?

Leaving?

Yeah.

No choice.

Time to grow up and leave home.

Footsteps outside made him turn back to the door. He'd almost
forgotten Cowley was out there. God, he needed some sleep. With any
luck, the Old Man wouldn't stay long - especially if there was
nothing to give him to drink.

Half teetering on his feet, Bodie reached out and undid the locks,
swung the door wide. Cowley wasn't alone. Murphy stood behind him, a
shadow without expression. Bodie waved them in then forgot them as he
turned and stumbled his way back to the living room. He didn't sit.
That would show disrespect to the boss and the boss didn't think much
of disrespect. Wouldn't look good on Bodie's reference would it?
Failing to show proper respect when handing in resignation. Was
probably a hanging crime in some countries. Was England one of them?
He couldn't remember.

Cowley was back, standing in front of him, wavering from side to
side. And he seemed to have a problem with fuzziness. So did Murph.
Was it foggy outside? Bring it in with them?

"I see you've been having a drink, 3.7?"

"Yessir," Bodie replied, suddenly realizing he still held his empty
glass. Coming up with a boyish smile, he clasped it to his chest like
it was his only friend left in the world. "Sorry, I can't offer you
one. Would've got a second bottle if I'd known you were comin'.
S'this a social call, sir?"

Cowley glanced at Murphy then turned back to Bodie, "No, it is not. I
hadn't expected to see you drunk - but then again, perhaps it's for
the best. Sit down, Bodie."

"Can't, sir."

"Why not?"

"Fall asleep, sir. Not polite. Better standing."

"Aye." Cowley pulled in a breath. "I've got some news, Bodie. Bad
news, about Doyle."

For a second, Bodie could do nothing but blink. Little sod has gone
and done it, hasn't he? Resigned before Bodie could. Typical!
Probably blames himself for the whole damned thing. Always had a way
with guilt. Never mind that sometimes things were Bodie's fault. Like
this one. All his fault. Should've left his armour on. Should've…

"There's been an accident."

"Uh huh?" Bodie tried to keep track of this. Doyle resigning was an
accident?

"Monday afternoon, Doyle was out skiing off piste with his friend and
two others. There was an avalanche. They were all caught. Only
Doyle's friend, Sam Cocrane, survived. He's in hospital now with
multiple injuries. He regained consciousness long enough to tell
Search and Rescue that he saw Doyle and the others caught in the
direct line of the snowfall. So far no bodies have been recovered."

Bodie stopped breathing.

"Doyle and the other two men remain missing, buried beneath a hundred
foot of snow. Teams have been trying to get into the area since but
last night the search was officially called off due to further falls
of snow. Bad weather is expected to continue to the end of the week.
They hope at that point to go back and recover the bodies." Cowley
came to an end, his voice grey. "I'm sorry, Bodie."

Bodie blinked slowly, exhaustion and booze weighing like lead on his
eyelids, on his brain. A growing pain in his chest woke him a little
and with vague surprise, he allowed air into his lungs. Odd; he'd
never had to think about breathing before -

His knees folded beneath him and he sank to the floor, the glass
still clasped between his hands. His mouth opening to speak, he
lifted his face towards Cowley - but nothing coherent came out. Just
some rasping sound.

And then the words. "Doyle? Dead?"

Cowley, suddenly devoid of his fuzziness, nodded slowly, "Aye,
laddie. I'm sorry."

The glass snapped between his hands but it wasn't until Cowley dashed
forward and grabbed the pieces that he looked down and saw the blood.
Doyle's blood. No, his blood.

But Doyle was the one who'd died… Shot. In his flat. Two bullets… No.
Cowley had said Doyle had been killed skiing, in Scotland. Under a
ton of pure snow.

So why was there blood on his hands?

"Murphy, get a cloth so I can stop the bleeding! And put the kettle
on. He needs some coffee. Quickly man!"

Doyle?

"It's all right, Bodie. Just keep still. The cut is deep. You'll need
some stitches. Murphy? Call the doctor and get him to bring his bag
over."

I'm so sorry. And now you're dead. So very sorry. Sorry.

"Lean on me, laddie. Let's get you to the sofa. You'll be more
comfortable there. That's right, keep the hand elevated. Now, just
let me wrap this around it. It will hurt while I put pressure on it."

My fault. I loved you. My fault.

"Doctor will be here in ten minutes, sir. Coffee's on it's way."

So beautiful. Impossible not to love you. Ray?

"Better get the heating on in here. Don't know what the man's been
doing, sitting here in the cold. See if there's a blanket in the
bedroom."

Ray? Answer me.

"Just lean forward, Bodie and let Murphy put that round your
shoulders. There, that's better. I think you chose the right night to
get drunk, laddie. With any luck it will dull the pain a little."

Bodie gazed ahead into a night blacker than the pits of hell and from
deep within the yawning abyss rose a tidal wave of sheer, consuming,
blinding terror.

*RAY!!!!*

(end part 2)