And this is why my eyes are closed
It's just as well for all I've seen
And so it goes and so it goes
And you're the only one who knows
                            Billy Joel
 

March 14.
Monday, 1.40pm

Amnesia or no, Doyle wasn't sure he was ever likely to remember a
time when he'd felt so warm and comfortable and entirely contented.
He sat outside at a picnic table in the garden of a pub. Before him,
lined with leafless willows and elms, stretched a canal with a couple
of colourful barges tied up a few yards away. Behind him, frequently
stoked against the winter's day, sat a pot-bellied boiler of
Victorian vintage. The publican had told them he'd rescued it from a
condemned factory because he knew it would work wonders in the garden
in winter.

It was perfect for Doyle for whom the cold was something he still had
difficulty dealing with - but who simply couldn't face sitting inside
anywhere right now. Nobody had said anything, but after the first
pint, the publican's wife had brought out a blanket and left it
sitting on the table. Bodie had pointedly shown no interest in it so
Doyle took it, to make her feel better.

He worked his way slowly through the second pint - but only because
Bodie had warned him there would be no third. Instead, he folded his
arms on the table, pulled the blanket further around his shoulders
and watched the reflection of intermittent clouds on the icy canal
water. Not a single duck to be seen anywhere. They wouldn't be back
at least for another couple of weeks. Pity, it would have made the
scene completely perfect.

The landlady returned once more, this time carrying a plate of
toasted sandwiches and another pint for Bodie. She gave them both a
smile and retreated indoors where it was warmer. Here, away from the
city, the cold had a real individual bite to it. Still, bad as it
was, it was never so cold as…

"Here, you better eat something or the beer and the drugs will knock
you out." Bodie pushed the plate across the table at him. He was
already munching on a sandwich of his own though the beer remained
untouched.

Doyle wasn't really hungry but he knew he had to eat something after
the alcohol. He bit into a ham and cheese and found it unbelievably
tasty. He'd finished it before he realized it, reaching immediately
for a second. By the end of that, his appetite had dulled a little
and he turned to watch Bodie consume his share with relish - and not
the kind found in a jar. Relaxed and not wanting to argue, Doyle
chose his moment carefully, "So, what changed your mind about coming
back?"

Bodie's head-shake was distracted; his attention on his food.
"Decided you were right."

"That if we're not going to work together any more it doesn't matter
if I remember?"

"It doesn't matter."

"So?"

"So I couldn't have you haunting my doorstep until I gave in. I have
neighbours to think about."

The shadow of a smile crossed Doyle's face, "And you're not going to
let me off the hook and tell me anyway?"

"No - and don't ask me again." Bodie kept his voice free of anger.
"Now give me a break and drop it and be happy I'm here at all. If it
had been anybody else, I'd have been long gone by now."

Doyle tore his gaze away and sipped carefully of his beer. The action
distracted the smile warming his face. So they hadn't been lying. He
and Bodie had been best mates.

He was important to Bodie after all.

Warmer on the inside too now, Doyle broached a different but no less
difficult topic. "When I was shot?"

"Yeah?"

"Tell me what happened."

Bodie frowned, "Your doctor said I shouldn’t tell you things you
don't already remember."

"Yeah, but this is different." Damned right it was. How was he going
to deal with every painful memory if he had a panic attack with each
one? "I need to know. This morning was…"

"Yeah," Bodie nodded, the frown fading a little. He pursed his lips
and sat back on his seat, stretching his long legs out before him
under the table, missing Doyle's by inches. "But that came on you
while you were asleep. You weren't prepared for it and all you had
was a dream of getting shot with no context to place it in. That's
enough to scare anybody."

As Doyle watched, the play of expressions over Bodie's face was
almost an entertainment in itself. He had a million fine variations
of movement between the faint lift of a single eyebrow to a
declaration of complete disgust. Laughter was not something he
appeared to indulge in often. The short cropped raven hair acted like
a frame to this interplay of visual languages; the amazingly blue
eyes, the directing force behind them. If Bodie had been an actor,
Doyle was certain he would have gone to see every film he made.
Taking a breath, he said, "Tell me. Give me the context. When did it
happen?"

"Summer last year."

"Go on."

Bodie settled with a nod, "You remember May Li shooting you. Do you
remember anything after that?"

"No."

There was no response for a second but the subtle shift in Bodie's
expression didn't require memory to interpret. "Funny, we never
really talked about that day, either. Well, after she shot you, she
left via the window and set off the alarms. Central called me and I
drove straight to your place. I didn't have a key so I had to go up
the fire escape. Some old bag yelled out that I was a robber but I
didn't stop until I got to your floor. I could see you from the
window, lying in a pool of blood." Bodie paused long enough to take a
swift, large mouthful of beer. When he continued, there was
absolutely nothing different in the way he told his story. Nothing at
all. "I tried to stop the bleeding, called an ambulance and went with
you to the hospital."

"Did you hold my hand?"

Bodie blinked, "What do you mean?"

"Like I said. You held May Li's hand after she almost killed me."

"Jesus, Doyle, don't make me regret telling you that."

"Sorry," Doyle backed down warily. They settled into silence and
though he was turned to face the canal, Doyle found his gaze
returning to Bodie's face, now in profile to him. That face and its
expressions weren't familiar to him - but yet on some level they
were.

He hadn't pushed Bodie for an answer because he just knew it would be
one push too far. But how could he know if he had no memory? It
seemed his subconscious was working for him, handing him meanings
behind words and gestures, pauses and inflections. It was strange,
like suddenly being able to speak a foreign language without every
having learned it. The exercise was intoxicating, heady and powerful
and yet frightening at the same time.

An edge of familiarity then, something not wholly unexperienced.
Something he could safely tell himself he could count on. What else?

"Did we do this a lot then?"

Bodie glanced sideways at him, "I'm not supposed to tell you."

Doyle couldn't control the temper that rose instantly, "Christ, Bodie
it's just a simple damned question! It already feels familiar, I just
wanted confirmation. Bloody hell, why do you have to make it so
hard?"

Bodie's eyes widened almost imperceptibly, his lips drawn together in
a thin, intractable line - but he gave nothing away. Not a hint, a
glimmer, a suggestion. Nothing. The man was a stone wall without a
single crack. How the hell had they managed to become friends when
Bodie would give absolutely nothing of himself away? Had he been hurt
before? Badly? If he -

Yes, he had! Bad. Twice… but…

No. No details yet - but he knew, for sure. Something of Bodie was
seeping through his memory.

But the man himself faced Doyle now, his gaze dark and thunderous and
Doyle wondered whether he should be afraid. He felt like he should.

"I'm not the one making it hard, Doyle. I told you I didn't want to
do this. I resigned my job so I wouldn't have to but, I'm here
because you asked - so don't go complaining when I can't give you
answers. I warned you yesterday I wouldn't. Jesus!"

Bodie stood up and paced his way to the edge of the canal, his hands
thrust into his jacket pockets. Without turning he added, "You wanted
to know about when you got shot and whether I held your damned hand
in the ambulance. I leave the story wide open for you to ask a
hundred questions I'd be happy to answer and yet you don't." He
paused, not losing the bitterness in his voice, "You nearly died on
the operating table. It took you six months to get back on the active
list and up until a few weeks ago, when you took a dive off a
mountain, you still used to scratch the scars on your chest whenever
something was bothering you. You never noticed; I always had to
remind you to stop."

"Bodie, I…" Doyle came to his feet but Bodie held up his hand.

"You were always self-absorbed, Doyle. You've changed from the man I
knew, before you went away, but even back then you weren't this bad."
Now he turned slowly, his big shoulders hunched down, as though he
were protecting himself, "You wanna know how I got that bike gear of
yours? Why I happened to have the keys to your flat? Because it was
my job to go through your things. Always the job of the surviving
partner to take care of the affairs of the deceased."

Doyle stared. The words were full of reproach but there was nothing
vulnerable in Bodie's face, no display of hurt, no invitation for
Doyle to ask further, to seek out the wound and deal with it.

This was insane! One minute it was obvious he held some importance in
Bodie's life, the next, it appeared he wasn't worth a damn. Which was
it - and which should Doyle address?

With careful movements, he walked around the table and approached
Bodie slowly, his feet dictating the pace. But he didn't get too
close; the guardedness in Bodie's eyes warned him not to.

Yes, he'd been right to be afraid.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"For what?" Bodie snapped back. "For nearly getting yourself killed
again? Or failing to?"

"You think I had a death wish?" Doyle's temper began to rise again.

"Sure, you were busily telling May Li to finish you off with a shot
to the back of the head!"

"But I never said…"

"And it took you two days to decide whether you were gonna live or
die. You're getting slower, Doyle, this time it took you three
weeks!"

Without thinking, Doyle swung at Bodie but the other man caught his
hand easily, holding it in a vice-grip. They glared at each other for
several long moments, then Bodie broke it by pushing Doyle's hand
away and stalking off. Pulling in lungs full of air, Doyle watched
him, the black jacket, the impenetrable hunch to the shoulders, the
outcast look, the loner, the dark and mysterious past…

Death wish?

"Bodie!" The other man ignored him so Doyle took off after him,
ignoring his feet as best he could. "Bodie! Wait! It wasn't me with
the death wish, it was you. And the bike and some girl and Cowley
holding a gun to your head and…" Doyle stumbled, no longer seeing
where he was going, the memory now flashing back to him so fast it
took his breath away. "And he was going to kill you… 'cause you were
going to kill someone, some bikie and Cowley had this gun and … it
was my fault. My fault 'cause I didn't listen, didn't try to help… my
fault…" He came to a stop, blinded by horror. Bodie had tried just as
hard that time to keep him locked out and as a result, he'd nearly
been killed by their own boss.

"Wasn't your fault, Doyle," Bodie responded crisply. "You were always
one for the big guilt trip."

Doyle pulled in his focus, felt his breathing steady and looked up at
Bodie standing a few feet away from him, gaze wary, still angry,
still forbidding. And yet, Doyle had glimpsed inside, just for a
moment - if only through memory.

He answered his own question. "You don't want me to remember, do
you?"

"Of course I do."

"Liar."

Bodie lifted his chin at that, a dozen pale infinitesimal shifts of
the eyebrows and mouth as unreadable thoughts scattered across the
silence. Then, voice level, lighter than before, betraying nothing at
all, "Seems you haven't changed so much after all. You better get
back to the fire before you freeze to death." With that, Bodie
brushed past him, heading indoors.

"Where're you goin?"

"Loo and to order some coffee. Fire, Doyle, now!"
 
 

Inside was dark and took Bodie's eyes a few moments to adjust. There
were a few locals sitting around the fire, watching him as he walked
in and ordered coffee. Then he saw the sign for the toilet and ducked
through the door, locking it behind him. Only then did he sink back
against the wall, willing calm into himself, desperately, urgently,
violently. Calm, for Christ's sake, calm!

God he looked so thin and pale and sick and fragile and yet the
spirit inside was just as strong, unbroken by his ordeal. And hurting
so bad. Needing Bodie's help, desperately. Even without his memory,
even thrashing about in the pits of confusion, Doyle was a formidable
adversary. The same one Bodie had learned how to face five years ago.
Same principal as martial arts: never take the blow head on, always
deflect the force one way or the other.

Years of training and years of memory gave him the upper hand - just
- but even so, he had nearly blown it. Nearly given in, nearly
allowed Doyle to see beyond the barricades.

Because the old Doyle would have wanted to, would have done all he
could to get Bodie to open up and talk about those three weeks, tried
every trick in the book to soothe whatever pain Bodie was hiding. Ray
Doyle the friend would have done that, without even thinking about
it.

And Bodie missed that friend. Needed him and had the sense to know
it.

Pulling himself together, he turned on the tap and stuck his hands
under the cold water. Then he dried them vigorously on the towel and
went back into the pub. He paused at the door for a second to check
where Doyle was. Seated on his chair by the boiler once more, two
cups of coffee on the table before him, blanket around his shoulders.
His hair was long now and well due for a cut. It was the only thing
about him that still had any colour. Even his eyes, usually so green,
appeared as subdued as the forest opposite the canal. Would he too,
blossom in spring?

Doyle chose that moment to put his head back and look up at the sky
and the simple abandonment of the action sent a surge of regret and
longing through Bodie; but it wasn't strong enough to turn him from
his path - merely to keep him to it. It was the only thing he had
left to fight with.

He would make Doyle hate him if it was the last thing he did.
 

March 15.
Tuesday, 2.10am
 

London sounded like the beach on a gentle day. In the middle of the
night, the traffic moved evenly and quietly and at this remove, Doyle
found it difficult to distinguish between the soft sounds.

He lay on his side in bed, his pillows folded up, his head resting.
He had slept for a few hours after Bodie had brought him back. Then
nurses had brought his tea and he'd slept again - but for the last
two hours, slumber had eluded him completely and instead, he watched
the faint stars through the window, listened to London at night and
let the whole of his life wash over him like silk sheets on a bed,
caressing and touching but not allowing him to really feel.

Every hour that went by allowed him to remember more; not just of
Bodie but of his childhood, time in the Met, girls he had taken to
bed, pets he'd had, fights he'd won and lost, cases he'd twisted his
guts over, friends found and lost.

A life. Not complete yet, but getting closer. Even now, an image
would come to him, fresh and familiar, travel a distance - then stop
completely and he had no way of making it move again. So he would go
on to the next one.

So much coming back to him now and yet still, so little of the one
person it seemed it all hinged on. A few snapshots here and there;
the two of them perched on a window sill on a bleak London night,
trying to imitate burglars; speeding along a river chasing somebody
in a boat; crouched down in a disused railway carriage as gunfire
spitted all around. Good sharp memories, but no context, no idea
where they fitted in. Any one of them could be the one Bodie was
hiding.

Yes, Bodie did hide things; he remembered that much. Bodie didn't
talk about his past, about his feelings. He didn't let people in.
Faint memories - and present experience matched on that score. But
all the same, none of it answered the larger questions: why couldn't
they work together any more - and why was Bodie helping him if he
didn't care?

Perhaps he should just let it go. His memory was reconstructing
itself at a nice pace. In a few weeks he'd be able to get back to
work without a problem. If Bodie was so determined to leave, perhaps
Doyle should just let him. Give him his freedom, let him remain as
isolated and as solitary as he appeared to desire. Why should it
matter to Doyle if Bodie wanted out?

Not really a good question to play with idly because Doyle couldn't
find an answer why. All he knew was that it did matter. A lot. Bodie
mattered a lot.

And every day he mattered more.

Every day Doyle felt a greater desire to get behind that barrier, not
just to find whatever it was Bodie was hiding, but to see the man
lurking in the shadows - because he was certain that man was there
and he was the one Doyle knew. That was his missing partner. Until he
found that man, Doyle wasn't prepared to let Bodie out of his sight,
let alone out of his life.

And stranger and more subtle yet were his own reactions to Bodie. The
instant and easy instinct to stand up against any attempt the other
man made to bulldoze him, the quick anger and determination he
produced almost every time Bodie stonewalled him. Doyle hadn't been
like that with any of the others who had traipsed in here, welcoming
him back to life. More often than not, he found himself not only
listening to what Bodie said, but what he didn't say; allowing his
senses and his subconscious to feed him information that his memory
lacked - and he did it all with a kind of hunger that stunned him.

But of all of that, every surprise buried inside that enigma, the
oddest and the most disturbing were the reactions he couldn't name,
could barely even describe or notice at the time. Only afterwards
could he see what he'd done, how he'd felt. Yes, feeling most of all.
His contradictory feelings were the most disturbing of all.

An abrupt restlessness seized his body and with a rustle of linen, he
swung his legs over the side of the bed. Central heating kept the
room warm so he was comfortable padding over to the window in only
his pjs. There he paused, placing his hands flat on the glass, his
forehead pressed to the cold surface. A dull black sea faced him,
landmarked by dots of light marking out streets and buildings,
character shapes of the city. From here he couldn't see each of the
streets individually but he could see the personality of the place as
a whole, gain an impression of its size, its flavour, its mysteries.

He imagined Bodie in that city, probably asleep by now. Awake, riding
that bike, slicing through the traffic with the ease and grace of a
tiger, his face cool in concentration, completely attuned to his
environment, perfectly suited to the life he had chosen. A tough,
hardened warrior who had drawn his first blood in the wilds of
Africa, then brought his skills back to his own country, developing
them further to the point of perfection. He was the best at what he
did. But if he left CI5, would he be able to translate those skills
back to a place like Africa? Or would Bodie, after tasting a life
filled with goals he could believe in, suddenly hate the emptiness of
a mercenary's day?

Doyle closed his eyes and breathed deep and slow. He could ask
himself the same questions a dozen times and still get no more
answers. Until he found a way to cut through Bodie's armour, he would
… be … no

He clutched the window as dizziness assailed him. He forced himself
to breathe, understanding now what was happening to him. But that was
all the control he could muster as the violence of the images burst
upon him with the force of an avenging angel. Gasping, he sank to the
floor, blinded.

Bodie. Jesus Bodie! *Why did you have to go and do a dumb thing…*

Blood. Ambulance. Some guys in a gasworks. A knife. Deadly. Wanted
Bodie dead. Stabbed in the back. Left to bleed to death.

Ambulance. Bodie. Blood, pale, blue eyes pale, pain in those eyes,
pain and anger, hatred for those who had done this to him, Doyle
following the trolley, taking Bodie's hand, telling him off…

Bodie you idiot, you could've got yourself killed, have to be more
careful, don't you know I…

And the doctors taking Bodie away, tearing them apart, leaving Doyle
alone with the agony while Bodie fought for his life without his
partner to help him.

And no partner to help him when he got caught by those German
terrorists and wrapped in a pile of explosives so that when they went
off there would be nothing left of Bodie not even a memory a smile a
laugh a friendship nothing at all nothing for anyone to even bury
just the idea that he had run off to take the danger away rather than
risk Doyle -

He opened his eyes, breathing sharp, his arms wrapped around himself,
cheeks damp from tears he'd not realized he'd shed.

Bodie had survived that day. Doyle had run after him, hauled him to
the ground even as Bodie had struggled to get away. Doyle had caught
him and pulled the explosives off just in time to save both their
lives.

Absently Doyle reached up to the side of his face, fingering the
dented cheekbone.

Bodie had been prepared to sacrifice his own life. Had tried to do
just that to spare Doyle. He had ignored Doyle's calls to stop. He
had nearly died trying to save Doyle's life.

Slowly now, he got to his feet, not needing to steady himself against
the wall. Tomorrow he would get out of hospital and back home and
tomorrow he would do something about getting to the heart of the
Bodie mystery. He owed it to himself to find out the last of what was
missing.

But more than that, he owed it to Bodie to kill off whatever it was
he was afraid of.
 

March 16.
Wednesday, 2.45pm

Paperwork. For some reason nobody ever seemed able to understand, the
world revolved around paperwork. Bodie had to stand by and watch
Doyle, who still found it hard to hold a pen in his hand, sign one
paper after another, fill in details here and there and generally
waste a whole pile of time before the jailers would let him out of
hospital.

But then finally he was free and Bodie pushed the wheelchair for the
last time. He had a car today too, his usual silver Capri - but only
because he'd volunteered to pick up Doyle; Cowley was still not
talking to him and was unlikely to ever forgive him for resigning.

The day was as grey as an accountant but Doyle didn't let that put
him off. Rather predicably, he was grinning like a schoolboy as they
drove through the wet streets and over the river. His mood was
infectious though Bodie made a bigger effort to hide his feelings
than he usually did. He knew more than Doyle, just how dangerous this
next twelve hours was.

Dangerous? Any more than the last few days? Are there degrees of
danger? Risks he was willing to take and those he was not? Every
moment he spent with Doyle chanced the return of a memory he would
have given almost anything to take back. A big risk indeed. But worse
still was the other, more insidious risk that within each of those
precious moments spent with his partner, Bodie might betray himself
with a look, a word, a gesture. Moments when, for several heartbeats,
he could not take his eyes from those of forest green, when he
watched those lips in speech, remembering how they had felt to kiss,
when his hands ached to reach out and hold the other man, ease his
confusion and pain, assure him that everything would work out, that
his whole world had not been destroyed by a single misguided action
on Bodie's part.

Sometimes the effort of keeping himself in check, of constantly
analysing everything he said and did beforehand caused his temper to
fray. His nights were spent sleeping in snatches of a couple of hours
at a time, the rest bound up in endless thoughts of a man who had
come to mean everything to him and who he would lose forever in a
matter of days. A few weeks like this and he would start showing the
strain. But it was likely Doyle would remember before then and banish
him anyway.

It was an odd kind of risk that had so much certainty attached to it.
He imagined it would have felt the same to the criminal with the rope
about his neck. For every second he was alive, he understood the
danger he was in - yet for every one of those seconds he knew the end
was close by. It was only a matter of when.

He'd not had a lot of time to plan for what he would do when that day
came. For a start, he'd have to do something about looking for
another job - not a task he'd honestly envisaged ever doing again.
Not that he really needed to work; his Swiss bank and a few other
investments would look after him for the rest of his life if he
wanted. But he would never choose that path; after so many years
being active every day, a lazy life would be the end of him. He was
too young to retire.

But what else he'd do with himself was another matter.

"Hey," Doyle interrupted his daydream. "Better stop off and get some
milk and stuff."

"Nah, we're nearly there. I can pop out later and get whatever you
need." Bodie replied convincingly. Doyle was about to object when
Bodie pulled the car to the side of the street and turned off the
engine. Then he turned in his seat and watched Doyle until he met the
gaze. The green eyes were wary; excitement tainted with trepidation,
but even now, with no memory and no experience to back him up, he
still trusted Bodie completely. The realization kept Bodie's next
words in his throat a moment longer than he intended. Then he said,
"Okay, sunshine, out you get and see if you can tell me which door is
yours."

Doyle barely blinked for a moment then nodded abruptly. A second
later he was out in the street, coat pulled tight around him, head
tilted back to look up at the series of Victorian red-brick
buildings. Nice block this one, a place Bodie wouldn't mind living in
himself.

"That one?" Doyle was pointing and Bodie joined him on the footpath.

"You sure?"

With a frown, Doyle nodded, "Yeah, but don't ask me how."

"Congratulations," Bodie grinned. He got the bags from the car and
followed Doyle to the front door. Then they were inside and away from
the grey and the cold and climbing stairs slowly, giving the injured
feet a chance. Doyle reached the door of his flat, stuck the key in -
but paused before going further. Bodie said nothing; he had a pretty
good idea about the hesitation.

"Bodie?"

"Right here."

"What if I don't remember?"

"Why don't you go in and see first, worry about not remembering
then."

Doyle shook his head, a short sharp movement. Bodie couldn't see his
face but he could guess the expression. For a moment, he indulged in
a small fantasy of putting the bags down, wrapping his arms around
Doyle and promising that no matter what happened, Bodie would never
leave him.

Of course, he did absolutely nothing of the kind. Instead, he put on
his best voice, the one this new Doyle responded to most effectively,
"Something you always used to tell me - thinking about it mate,
that's worse than doin' it. Just go in."

As though he'd pressed exactly the right button, Doyle turned the key
and pushed the door open, striding inside as quickly as his healing
feet could manage. Bodie waited a moment before following. He dropped
the bags by the door, kicked it closed, then paused a moment for
himself.

He stayed in the hallway, the kitchen and lounge visible from where
he stood. Doyle was in there, moving around, looking at things in
detail. Bodie allowed his eyes to half close, to blur the edges of
his sight, blend the image of Doyle against this background, put him
back in the place where he belonged. This was Ray's home. Here he was
surrounded by the things he loved; from the framed photos on the
mantle, the DaVinci cartoon on the wall, to the African harvest mask
standing on it's own in the corner. Bodie had given that to him just
this last Christmas. He'd had it imported especially, it had cost a
small fortune but he'd gone to the effort because he knew Doyle would
love it.

And he had loved it. Bodie remembered how the green eyes had lit up
and how he'd recalled that image so many times over the ensuing
months before he realized how his feelings for Doyle had changed. But
understanding had brought fear, and fear had brought determination -
and determination had brought about catastrophe.

Doyle had come to a halt in the centre of the room, his shoulders
stiff with tension. Slowly, he turned and faced Bodie, his eyes dark,
the anticipation gone completely, replaced with something else.
"Bodie?"

"What?"

"Was I… ever a coward?"

Bodie's jaw dropped, his response automatic, "What the hell are you
talking about?"

Confusion flooded Doyle's face and he turned quickly to hide it.
"Forget it. Not very cold in here. I hope I haven't had the heating
on in here since I went away. I'll be payin' the bill off till next
Christmas. The bedroom's down here isn't it?"

As he vanished down the corridor, Bodie leaned back against the door
jamb and folded his arms. This was getting ridiculous! How many
subtle warnings would his subconscious give him before he took notice
and cleared off! Here he was, stuck in Doyle's flat, trapped between
a desperate need clawing him in two different directions: to make
Doyle hate him - and to help him in any way possible. He should just
get the hell out now, while he still had some self-respect left.

"Well, the good news is that it does look vaguely familiar." Doyle
reentered the lounge and made for the kitchen. Bodie didn't move from
his spot. Instead, he watched Doyle move around, without minding for
his feet too much, watched him brush the hair out of his eyes,
watched the expression on that too-vulnerable face dusted with
puzzlement and faint recognition as he examined bits of the kitchen,
labels and other things he should know. When he spoke again, his
voice was light but etched with that same something half-buried. Not
once did he look at Bodie. "Why do you keep staring at me?"

Bodie lifted a shoulder idly, "Still keep thinkin' I'm seeing a
ghost."

"Oh yeah?" Dry, disbelieving.

"You were dead for three weeks, remember?"

"No, I don't. How did you find out?"

"Cowley."

"What happened? He go to your place and tell you?"

"Yeah."

"And?"

"And what?"

"Tell me what happened."

"Why?"

"I'd like to know - and don't give me any of that rubbish about my
memory. I wasn't there so I can't have forgotten."

Bodie's gaze drifted unconsciously to the floor. "No, you weren't,"
he murmured without thinking.

"What?"

He looked up to find Doyle standing with a hand on either side of the
kitchen doorway. Warning bells thudded in his deaf ears. "Nothing."

But Doyle wasn't prepared to let it drop, "Nothing like hell, Bodie.
Tell me what happened. What time of day was it? How much did he tell
you? How long had I been missing by that point? When did you decide
to hold a memorial service? Why didn't you get around to going
through my stuff? How did you feel when you thought I was dead?"

Jesus Christ!

Bodie couldn't move, couldn't even blink. All of his muscles were
suddenly set in concrete. The quickfire questions caught him off
guard, fencing him in to a point where he had nowhere to go, slicing
straight to the heart of his private pain. And there was that
something else in Doyle's gaze that held him even more than the
questions. Snared completely by those eyes, Bodie's mind stopped
producing reason and simply allowed his body to react. His pulse
doubled, his palms got damp and something inside warned him that now
would be a perfect time to run away. The urge to simply take Doyle in
his arms and kiss him was almost overpowering.

Sensing he was onto something, Doyle stepped closer until he was only
a foot away from Bodie, eye to eye. "Tell me what happened. I want to
know how you found out your partner of five years was dead in a
skiing accident."

He was so close, so near, Bodie could inhale the scent of his
shampoo, see the fine lines about his eyes, the pulse at his throat.
The gaze still held him, unblinking. Was this how rabbits got caught
on the road at night? Watching the delicate features with deliberate
care, noting tiny defects, the tilt of the eyebrows, the precise
shape of the mouth, the dent in the cheekbone. Before him stood the
enticing form that haunted his dreams, waking him hard and
frustrated. Everything he'd ever wanted was there, a few inches away.
But he could say nothing; his silence a condemnation for his own
heart, his own fear and his own, only solution.

Doyle's voice dropped almost to a whisper, as though he were
deliberately tempting Bodie to do something. "I need to know what
happened, Bodie."

The demand in that voice and face was not something Bodie could deny
at that moment. He had just enough will to force a response, "When?"
Almost no voice. More an expression of breath.

"The night you found out I was dead. Tell me about it."

"Can't."

"Why not?"

"Don't remember too much about it. Ask Cowley." Hard swallow, tear
the gaze away. Do it! That's better.

Bodie finally detached himself from the wall and forced himself to
wander about the room, loosening up his body before making his exit,
suppressing the memories, the pain - always the pain. Have to get rid
of the pain. Too unbearable otherwise. Love and pain, too mixed
together.

Afraid Doyle would still be standing there watching him, he took his
time. When he finally turned back he was surprised to find a smile on
Doyle's face - which was quickly dropped.

He had to get out of here. Quickly. He was riding too close to the
edge, too near to that spot where he would happily throw everything
away and drown himself in that agony, tell Doyle the damned truth and
be done with it, anything - just to be allowed some closeness of some
kind with him - even if it was anger. Anything was better than this.
Yes, he had to get away.

Irritated more at himself than anything else, Bodie strode forward.
"Look, I have to get moving. Got some stuff to do. There's food in
the fridge for a couple of days. I'll stop by on Friday and get you
some things if you like. I'll leave you to settle in."

"You're not staying?" Doyle asked this like a five-year-old whose
favourite toy had just inexplicably broken.

"What for? I just picked you up from the hospital. Jesus, Doyle,
you're not a child. Even you need to learn to be alone - and I think
tonight is a perfect opportunity. I'm not your bloody keeper." Harsh
voice, harsh words, soft underbelly. If Doyle had said please, Bodie
would have melted like butter before a blowtorch.

Again that same confusion in Doyle's eyes - and more than a little
anger. However, before he had an opportunity to express it, the door
buzzer filled the silence. He turned swiftly and pressed it. "Yes?"

"Doyle? I take it you're back in one piece? May I come up?"

"Certainly, sir." Doyle kept his voice even but pressed the buzzer
with all the anger he would have used against Bodie.

Bodie remained in the lounge, balanced on the balls of his feet,
ready to take the first opportunity to flee. Then Cowley was at the
door and Doyle was letting him in. Both came into the lounge, Cowley
favouring Bodie with the barest flicker of interest, in the same
manner as one would notice a bug seconds before one stepped on it.

"Are you all settled in?" Cowley was saying, keeping a genial smile
on his face.

"Er, yes thank you, sir," Doyle replied. "Some things are still a
little strange but I'm getting there."

"Aye well, I just wanted to welcome you back. I'd like to see you in
my office Monday next week. We need to review your progress. In the
meantime, I want you to get some rest and do all you can to recover
your memory. I sincerely hope Bodie has been doing his best to help."

Before Bodie could utter a word, unconsciously Doyle stepped between
them, his hands slipping into the back pockets of his jeans in a
gesture of old. "Bodie's been doing an excellent job, sir."

Bodie nearly groaned. First at the instinctive protective gesture of
Doyle's, then at the underlying warning in his voice - and lastly, at
the faintly pleased smile on Cowley's face as he recognized the
gestures himself. No, it wouldn't be long before Doyle was back to
normal, all his old memories faithfully restored.

"Well, I have a meeting to attend. I just wanted to drop by." Cowley
was already heading for the door. "Bodie? A word."

Cowley was outside and Bodie following behind when Doyle caught his
sleeve, forcing him to stop. He met Bodie's gaze with solid
determination. "You go and do whatever stuff you need to get done and
then you come back here for tea. I'll cook something - but you make
sure you come back."

For a moment, Bodie wondered how quickly Doyle would change the
ultimatum if Bodie simply leaned forward and kissed him. Sometimes,
it seemed like the best way to put them both out of their misery.
Just get the truth out in the open, get the yelling and screaming,
the anger and betrayal all out in the open - and then they could go
their separate ways and leave all this agony and waiting behind.

But then, there would be no more stolen moments and Bodie needed to
store as many of them as possible away for later, when he no longer
had Doyle in his life. So he gave a muted, deliberately irritated
grunt in response, twisted out of Doyle's grip and headed out of the
flat in pursuit of Cowley.

The Old Man was waiting in the street, breathing clouds of steam into
the cold afternoon. Already it was beginning to get dark.

"How is he doing?" Cowley asked without waiting.

Bodie shrugged, "Not bad, considering."

"And will his memory return? In full?"

"I should think so."

"And then?"

Bodie glanced away, pulling the car keys from his pocket, "Then he'll
be raring to get back to work."

"The question was not directed at Doyle, 3/7. At this moment, my
interest is in what you plan to do."

Bodie kept his reaction in check. He shot a glance at Cowley but
didn't say anything immediately. Cowley took his silence as an
invitation.

"I have to say I'm disappointed in you, Bodie. I don't know why, but
I expected better."

"Sir…"

"Don't interrupt me, Bodie. I'd have thought five years would have
left me with some influence over your attitude and at least the
semblance of loyalty but I see I was misguided in my appraisal."
Cowley paused and turned to signal to his driver to bring his car
around. "I'm glad you've finally had the sense to help Doyle out.
Doctor Ross has assured me that the amnesia requires your kind of
input to be reversed. What I want to know however, is what you intend
to do afterwards."

Bodie lifted his chin, a frail protection against the quiet,
purposeful attack. But his reply required no consideration,  "You
already know what my plans are, sir." With that, he turned and headed
for his car, gratified to discover that Cowley didn't call him back.
He wasn't entirely sure what he would have done if he had.
 
 

For the first hour, Doyle deliberately concentrated on practical
things. First, he had a shower and changed into some old familiar
clothes, things he could definitely recognize. Then he fingered
through the record collection and put on something he knew he could
hum. A Mozart sonata. Then he turned on all the lights, turned the
music up and proceeded to sort out the kitchen. In the back of his
mind a meal began to form, ready for when Bodie returned. He was
half-way through preparing it when the door buzzer squawked again.

Wondering if Bodie had suddenly had a change of heart, Doyle pressed
the button. "Yeah?"

"Ray? It's Sam. Can I come up?"

"Sure!"

Sam Cocrane was exactly what everyone imagined a mountain man to be.
Rugged, good looking, steely grey-blue eyes and unheavy square chin.
Longish straight brown hair and a fan of fine tan lines around his
eyes gave him that ageless look. Even the sling and cast on his arm
only added to the picture. He got through the door and instantly gave
Doyle a big hug, slapping his back a few times with a hearty laugh
that would have echoed around the glens. Doyle was delighted to see
him.

"God, you look well!"

"Yeah, well I only spent the one night on that mountain. You don't
look so bad - but you're too thin. Haven't they been feeding you?"

Sam followed him into the kitchen as Doyle pulled them out a couple
of beers from the fridge. "No stopping them. I'm told it'll be a few
months before I'm back up to strength. Something about prolonged
trauma and dropping of metabolic rate. Can't say I paid too much
attention."

"Well you should," Sam shook his head. "That's the kind of thing that
keeps you alive."

"Not likely to give it another try in a hurry, am I?"

Sam sipped his beer as Doyle picked up his knife again and began
chopping. "Any nightmares?"

Doyle shrugged. "You?"

"No more than you'd expect. They'll wear off."

"I've heard Russell is doing better now they moved him closer to
home."

"Yeah, but it'll be a while before he's up and walking around. You
were damned lucky you didn't lose a few toes at least." Sam raised
his eyebrows in a softly mocking gesture, "You know you've been
nominated for one of the Chief Constable's bravery awards?"

"Christ," Doyle laughed, "that's all I need!"

"But you deserve it."

Doyle glanced sideways at him, "Would you take it?"

"I didn't save a man's life."

Doyle grunted and shook his head. He still didn't remember enough of
his ordeal to say one way or the other. But Russell, whose injuries
had nearly killed him but who was now well on the road to recovery,
remembered everything and had told the story far and wide of how
Doyle had brought him home to safety. But a bravery award? "Can you
stay for tea?"

"Afraid not," Sam stepped forward and peered closely at what Doyle
was preparing. "I have a train to catch so I can only stay a few
minutes. How many are you cooking for?"

"Just me and Bodie. He eats like a horse."

Sam chuckled and leaned back against the bench. "I should get around
to meeting this legendary partner of yours one day. You've told me so
much about him."

"Have I?

Sam raised his eyebrows and for a moment, Doyle forgot his cooking.
He turned and faced the other man squarely, "When I went up to
Aviemore, did I talk about Bodie at all?"

Pursing his lips, Sam shook his head slowly. "No. Truth is, you
didn't say much at all."

"Was that normal for me?"

"No - but I've seen you in one of your moods before. I didn't try and
get anything out of you. You would have just snarled and told me to
mind my own business."

Doyle couldn't help smiling at that and Sam grinned back. Idly, Doyle
turned back to his cooking but didn't actually do anything for a
moment. There were too many things rattling around in his head and
none of them made any sense. His most recent encounter with Bodie had
left him raw and unsettled and he had to find some equilibrium before
the man returned. He had to get a handle on this.

"Look, Ray, if you want to talk, go ahead." Sam said into the
silence. "I don't know if I can help, but I'll try."

Talk? About Bodie? Put all this confusion into words? Wonderful idea
- but completely impossible. At least, in the way Sam would
understand. Doyle carefully picked up a carrot and ran the peeler
down the side. "Can I ask you something without getting a whole pile
of questions in return?"

"Sure."

"Before the avalanche," Doyle began quietly, his heart suddenly
pounding with a rush of adrenalin, "did I go… I mean, was I …
straight?"

"What?" Sam's frown was in his voice as much as his face. Doyle
couldn't look at him.

"You know, straight; as in did I only sleep with women?"

"Ah, sure - at least, as far as I know." Sam took a quick mouthful of
beer and shook his head, "But you're not going to tell my why you
asked, are you? Or even if it has something to do with the mood you
were in when you went to Aviemore?"

Swallowing, Doyle dropped his head and shook it. Senseless, all of
it. Finally, he came up with an apologetic smile. "Look, forget it
will you? It was just a thought."

Sam looked dubious but didn't pursue it. He finished his beer and
looked at his watch. "Well, I gotta go or I'll miss my train. I'll
call you next week."

Doyle saw him out, wishing his friend could stay a little longer.
Then, his mind still not on what he was doing, he busied himself in
the kitchen again until his feet began to give him trouble. Then he
opened a bottle of red wine and sat down in front of the fire, lit a
match to the kindling and settled back as the dark evening drew in.
But though his body was stilled, his mind raced like the wind,
roaring through empty caverns creating vacuums and howling at the
silence.

There was no doubt about it; he was attracted to Bodie.

Sipping his wine slowly, he allowed himself to absorb and accept the
realization, let it filter through his fractured knowledge of himself
and his past. The effort caused him no pain and only a little
discomfort. Perhaps he still had too much to learn of his other life,
perhaps when he remembered, he would like the idea so much less.

But he did accept it, letting it sit inside him with peace. Doing so
made other things fall into place. So many things.

The music came to an end but now he was content to sit in silence.

He was attracted to Bodie. Strongly. This afternoon, while pushing
him for answers, Doyle had deliberately moved closer, disguising it
in his concern for the other man's feelings on a delicate subject.
But the moment he got so close, other things had clouded his vision,
other sensations in his body that his mind had conveniently ignored
till then - and he'd been assailed by one single overpowering thought
and that was just how extraordinarily, breathtakingly beautiful Bodie
was. With his proud chin, sensuous and expressive mouth and those
blue, blue eyes which bored into him like twin daggers, seeking out
his soul.

Then other thoughts crowding on top; how it would feel to touch him,
to be with him, to kiss him, to feel those arms around him, to make
love to him. To touch that face and somehow find a way to make Bodie
smile again.

Awareness of it all made him dizzy with trepidation. He was now
walking in unfamiliar territory and it was scary - but he'd been
doing that since he got off the mountain.

But this?

He brought his glass to his mouth but now didn't drink any. Instead,
an idea struck him with more force than mere alcohol could muster.

Is that what happened?

Was that what Bodie was hiding?

Had Doyle felt this before going to Scotland? Had he told Bodie - or
made a pass at him? Something that had forced Bodie to decide they
couldn't work together any more?

*Sweet Jesus!*

It fitted with the facts. Bodie was happy to be around him but not
willing to give anything of himself back to their long friendship.
Bodie refused to talk about whatever problem they'd had - while
maintaining that it wasn't important - even though it was splitting
them up. And today, as Doyle had approached him, Bodie had responded
as though he were afraid of Doyle being that close to him,
physically.

Yes, it had to be that! It was the only thing that made sense; not
only of the past, but of the present, of Doyle's feelings now, of why
he'd been so obsessed with solving this mystery, why Bodie had become
and remained so important to him.

Bodie had been right all along. The answer: in the end, it did
neither of them any good to have Doyle know it.

When the phone rang, he ignored it. When the first crack of thunder
smacked against the windows, he didn't get up to pull the curtains
closed. He didn't even notice when the rain began to fall.
 

March 17.
Thursday, 1.40am

Bodie came down the stairs at Central one at a time, his steps heavy
with exhaustion, his mind clogged with names, dates and places firmly
fixed in the past. Eight hours of it, non-stop and all with very
little to show for it.

Murphy had called him the moment he'd got home, asking for a favour.
The case he was working on needed somebody with Bodie's experience to
do some file searching. Considering the problems he'd caused Murphy
lately, Bodie didn't feel in a position to turn him down.

They'd kept it quiet from Cowley of course. Bodie didn't want another
lecture or another frown of disappointment stabbed in his direction.
It was hard enough having to endure Doyle's censure let alone
Cowley's. You'd think the two of them felt they owned him the way
they pulled at him from every direction. It was unlikely either of
them thought for one minute that Bodie was only twenty-four hours
away from leaving for good. That hangman's noose was getting pretty
tight now.

Bodie didn't bother handing the car back to the pool. He still had
one more item of CI5 business to take care of: Doyle.

He'd tried three times to ring and let him know that dinner was off.
No answer each time. Now, that didn't necessarily mean something was
wrong, but Bodie was getting so used to worrying about Doyle that he
didn't give it a second thought this time. Instead, he dashed through
the rain to the Capri, slipping inside liberally sprinkled and damp.
The downpour was already hours old. By dawn there would be nothing
left of the snow which had all but covered London for the last two
months.

He pulled out of the carpark, glad for once that it was so late;
there would be little traffic slowing him down. He could stop by
Doyle's, check there were no lights on then get home and get some
rest. He had some arrangements to make, a few things to take care of
and then he would be free.

Free.

It had always been the most important thing in the world to him. His
ability to pull up his roots and shift realities had always surprised
and pleased him. Such a tough and hardened skill, carrying with it a
philosophy that had developed from within, principals becoming more
clear as the reality of his actions began to repeat themselves. He
was free because he could walk away. He could always walk away. No
scene, no matter how heavy, how dangerous or how desperate could keep
him in a place once he'd decided to go. Never had, and now he knew,
it never would.

For the truth was, if he'd ever met anybody who could keep him in a
place, it was Ray Doyle. But that keeping had made Bodie vulnerable,
had kept him trapped until he was too easy to wound, to scar and mark
for life.

No one, no matter how bad, needed to experience what he'd been
through over the last six weeks. He was starting to suspect that if
he ever looked close enough, his soul would resemble a piece of
Venetian glass after a rather sour argument with a meat grinder. And
the worst part about it all was that it was his own fault. From
beginning to end. Nobody to blame but himself.

Rain slated sideways across the road, forcing the lorry he was
following to slow right down. Bodie didn't mind. He was on mechanical
now. No rush. Everything would get done in its proper order, in its
right way.

It wasn't as if he'd not known what he was doing. If anything, that
had only made it worse. He'd known what love did to him, how those in
love tore each other apart, how love gave one person the ultimate
power over another.

And Ray had hurt Bodie. More sharply and more deeply than he'd ever
been hurt before. All of it unwittingly, too, to add bitter irony to
the rest. Doyle would have had no idea of the bonfire he was adding
to that morning he'd packed to go north. No idea that his leaving was
the worst possible thing he could ever have done to Bodie.

But it was all too late now. The damage was done. Bodie knew now that
the moment he left, he would begin to recover - but not until then.
The wounds would never heal over, never close up while he was here,
in London, near his tormentor. No. He would make Doyle hate him and
then leave, allowing his own heart to hate in return. Only that way
could he harden himself enough to live again. He knew it would work;
he'd done it all his life, starting with his mother. Not once had he
ever been tempted to go back and find her. And she had never looked
for him. Hatred was the miracle worker. Designer hatred, made to
order, would bring him back to the man he'd been before CI5, before
Doyle; hard, talented and invulnerable. And never again would he let
himself fall in love.

He turned over Chelsea bridge then left along the river until he got
to Doyle's street. He pulled up opposite the flat and leaned across
the car to get a good look at the windows. There were lights on
everywhere - but no sign of movement.

A faint flutter of warning pricked at the back of Bodie's mind. Doyle
had always been a bit of a conservationist and leaving a flat full of
lights on all night could only mean one thing; trouble.

Crisp and objective now, Bodie pulled the collar of his jacket up
about his neck and climbed out of the car. He dashed across the
street and pulled out his keys. Without pausing, he let himself into
the building then paused in the hall, listening. After another
moment, he climbed the stairs and paused again before Doyle's door.
Nothing. Not a single sound.

He ignored the second flutter of warning in his gut and rapped the
door hard with his knuckles. The noise echoed in the stairwell and he
glanced around once before knocking again. From beyond the door, the
faintest rustle of movement suggested he knock once more. Then
footsteps clearly from beyond the timber and he stepped back a
little.

The door was wrenched open and Bodie couldn't help frowning. Doyle
stood before him, fully dressed, hair wild, eyes red and puffy from
sleep, shadows beneath - and surprise followed by horror plastered
across the face before it was clumsily hidden beneath surliness.
"Bodie! What are you doing here?"

For a second, he didn't quite know what to say. Then, gathering
himself, he replied, "You didn't answer your phone. It's procedure to
check."

"I'm not on call so you can forget procedure. Goodnight."

Bodie put his hand out, stopping the door, "Are you alright?"

Doyle paused, his gaze first on Bodie, searching and raw - then
dropping to the floor. "Fine. I'm fine, Bodie, just go away and leave
me alone."

"You don't look fine."

At this, Doyle looked up, his face suddenly flushed with anger.
"Look, Bodie, I said I'm fine. I don't know why you're even asking
since you don't really give a damn. Why don't you just go home - or
better still, get the hell out of London like you're always
threatening to do. Either way, get away from my door and leave me the
hell alone!" With that, he stepped back and slammed the door in
Bodie's face.

Bodie was turned and down the stairs before he could get a hold of
his fury. He was back in the car and pulling away from the kerb
before he could see straight. He was over the bridge before the
flutter of warning in his guts turned into a flood. Without pausing
he did a sharp u-turn and headed back over the river. This time he
parked a little distance from Doyle's place but in a position from
where he could see something of the room beyond the curtains. The
lights were still on.

Half afraid to stay and watch, Bodie settled down to wait. It didn't
take anywhere near as long as he'd expected. After ten minutes, he
caught the sight of a shadow moving near the window, to be replaced
by Doyle, obviously pacing up and down, oblivious to everything else.
Another ten minutes and the pacing stopped. Then nothing.

Bodie waited, not realizing he was holding his breath until his chest
began to complain. Then a flicker from below the window and he
realized Doyle was coming out the door. He had a parka on and the
hood pulled over his head. He turned into the street and began
walking quickly. Bodie waited until he'd reached the end and turned
the corner before taking off after him. He approached the corner
carefully, with lights off - in time to see Doyle flag down a taxi
and climb in.

He followed, keeping his distance. He was probably being too cautious
- Doyle in this frame of mind was unlikely to be paying too much
attention - but he didn't want to risk it.

The journey lasted another ten minutes and then Doyle was out, paying
the driver and running towards the door of a house. There he stood in
the rain, belting the knocker so loud Bodie could hear it from the
Capri across the road. Then lights came on in the house, one then two
and suddenly the front door was wrenched open.

Bodie went cold.

Doyle was welcomed with an embrace, taken inside - by his friend from
Murphy's birthday party, Jeff.

The door was closed and lights downstairs switched off while Bodie
sat in his car, stunned and immobile.

He had no idea how long it took him to move again and when he finally
looked at his watch, he realized without surprise, than an hour had
gone by. He glanced across to the house again to find more lights on.
Then another car was coming up the street. It stopped outside the
door and Doyle came out, giving his friend another hug before getting
into the taxi. Under cover of the rain, Bodie drove off after it.

He didn't pay too much attention to where they were heading until the
streets began to look oddly familiar. He watched the taxi take one
more turn then stop before his own flat. This time he drove on a
little further and watched Doyle through the mirror.

Dismissing the taxi, Doyle climbed the stairs to Bodie's door and
pressed the buzzer. Again and again he pressed it, getting wetter
each moment. Bodie should have got out of his car. Should have moved,
done something, anything; but all he could see in his mind was the
face of Jeff and sheer blinding jealousy swarmed up and consumed
every drop of sense in his body.

Doyle had lied about that man - and now he had gone to him in the
middle of the night.

Eventually Doyle turned away and walked down the street, away from
Bodie. It wasn't until he turned into the park that Bodie could bring
himself to move. Now he left his car and followed on foot, ignoring
the rain as it pelted down on his head. All he knew was he had to
keep Doyle within his sights.

The path was awash with water but Doyle paid no attention.
Fortunately there were lights on in the park, lining the pathways. It
made tracking Doyle easier and stopped Bodie from slipping and
tripping in the mud.

Doyle wandered aimlessly, heading for the small wood by the river,
where the path led to the bridge. Bodie hurried a little to catch up.
If he lost Doyle in the wood, he'd never find him again in this
weather.

But suddenly there was no need to worry. Just as he got to the line
of the trees, some inner sense must have warned him - or perhaps he'd
been paying attention after all. Doyle stopped and turned around,
seeing Bodie instantly.

For a long minute, they simply stood there watching each other. Then,
inexorably, Bodie found his feet taking him closer, until he stopped
within talking distance of Doyle.

In the light of the park lamp, he could see Doyle's face dripping
with water. The hood had come down and the curly hair was drenched.
Doyle's face was pale but his eyes were bright, as though he were on
some drug - but even so, there was no light of accusation in those
eyes, no hint that memory was driving this sudden madness.

"Come back to my flat before you get pneumonia." Was all Bodie could
think of to say. Jealousy and anger and fear and frustration and
betrayal and love were all tangled together inside him, making
mincemeat of any reasonable thought. All he knew was Doyle was in
danger - and that allowed him to operate on instinct.

"You liar!" Doyle roared. Bodie stepped back at the rage suddenly
directed towards him - but Doyle wasn't letting him go. He strode
forward, his gaze a beacon in the night. "You damned liar! You said
it didn't matter if I didn't remember! You said it wasn't what was
making you leave." He paused hauling air into his lungs with
difficulty, "You said I did nothing wrong. Liar! You know I did
something wrong - why couldn't you just tell me? I would have
understood. I wouldn't have blamed you. Why did you have to let me
work it out on my own?"

"Work it out?" Bodie almost laughed. "Well, Jesus, Ray, maybe I
thought you might be a bit upset. Perhaps I was just trying to save
you a bit of pain and agony. And maybe I was trying to help by not
telling you anything you didn't already remember - you know? Like the
doctor told me?"

Doyle's eyes flared at that and he stormed forward, his fists raised,
"You damned filthy liar! How could you just keep lying, even now."
The fists hit Bodie's chest without force. "After five bloody years I
can't believe I did so much wrong in one night that even you could
hate me so much!"

"Christ, Doyle I don't hate you!" Bodie bellowed back, suddenly not
entirely sure Doyle *had* worked it out.

"God! Another lie!"

"I promise you, I don't hate you. Why in god's name would I hate
you?"

Doyle's pathetic beating came to a halt but he said nothing, his
breathing harsh and ragged, his gaze never wavering from Bodie's
eyes. Suddenly he swallowed and said, "For this." Then abruptly his
hands gripped Bodie's face, and his lips were crushing Bodie's with a
sweet violence that sent a streak of terror through his whole body.

But he was finally beyond any control now; no part of his mind
registered the surprise that Doyle should be doing this, that he had
got it all around the wrong way. As Doyle kissed him in anger and
frustration, Bodie swiftly caught him in his arms and returned the
kiss, his own desperation and six weeks of suffering bound up in long
stolen seconds he knew he would pay for in a minute. Even the rain
was nothing to him as he held Doyle tight, threatening to crush
bones. Doyle kissed him as though he would never stop. Bodie didn't
want him to, would happily have stayed like that forever, his whole
body, his whole life, pressed up against Doyle's - but it was never
going to last.

Suddenly, Doyle stiffened and he jerked away. Bodie did nothing to
stop him. Doyle took another step back, his gaze on the ground, his
hands going to his temples. He shook his head, stumbled another step
back then shook his head again. Bodie could only wait. He already
knew what was happening. He'd known all along he couldn't stop it.

For a full minute, Doyle simply stood there, his head bowed, fingers
pressed against his temples. Then slowly he looked up, his eyes wide,
his mouth open in surprise. Simple, perfect innocent surprise. His
lips moved but it was another minute before any words came out.
"Bodie… I remember."

Bodie kept his silence. This was the final act of a play he'd been
performing for too long already. He was ready for the finale.

"I remember… football… and dinner and wine and port. I remember…" he
came closer, childlike wonder on his face, "I remember everything,
Bodie. All of it. All the years I lost. Jesus, Bodie, I remember
*you*! It's wonderful!"

Driven, Bodie nodded, "You remember dinner and wine and port? And
after that?"

Doyle frowned slightly, still smiling a little, "I remember the fire
and you… and then you… kissed me. *You* kissed *me!* You said you
wanted me!" Now he came closer, his eyes happier than Bodie had seen
them before. Doyle's hand came up to touch Bodie's cheek but he
didn't move. Still couldn't. Doyle continued, "Then I kissed you back
and we began to make love. We did, didn't we?"

"Yes," Bodie allowed the short reply.

"And I remember thinking why hadn't we done this before and then I…"
Abruptly Doyle sucked in a breath, his smile fading to nothing as the
full horror of that night finally sank into his conscious mind. His
hasty exit, his trip north, the avalanche, his disappearance, the
death - and this whole roller-coaster nightmare they were still
riding. His hand dropped to his side as Bodie took a few steps
backwards, bracing himself for what had to come. The next words, when
they came out, were filled with all the dismay Bodie felt ripped from
his own soul.

*"Jesus Christ, Bodie! What in god's name did I do?"*

And Bodie broke.

Too much for too long and never a breath of hope.

Blindly he turned, willing himself to get as far away from all this
as he possibly could. He stumbled in the mud, slipped and staggered
to get his balance. He could hear Doyle call his name but he was as
oblivious to it as he was to the rain. Urging his feet to move
faster, he sloshed through the mud without caring where he went. Away
was all he wanted. A rumble of thunder groaned across the sky, a
mournful elegy to his wasted hopes of survival and invulnerability.
Too much for way too long. His whole life.

His foot slipped and he went down, hands scrambling for purchase in
the oily mud. Then he was sliding downhill, over the bank of the
river and into the water and nothing could stop him. Swollen with
more than twelve hours rain, the river dragged him down into its icy
depths, spewing him back up as he approached the bridge. Up to
breathe once more and to knock his head hard against the bridge as he
passed. Then there was just the cold and the darkness and then
nothing.

*
 

"Bodie!"

Doyle moved but he just couldn't move quick enough to catch Bodie
before he fell. Then he disappeared and Doyle almost died.

Frantic, he dashed along the river bank, heedless of his own danger,
searching for some sign. He ran all the way down to the bridge, all
the while screaming out Bodie's name. Then a sight. An arm, his head.
Up above the water. Then a crash as Bodie's head hit the bridge
support and his body went limp.

Doyle ran, his feet sinking into mud up to his calves. There were
bushes by the bridge and he used them for purchase; if he fell in
now, Bodie wouldn't survive more than a few minutes.

The water was icy but more than that, it was cold, so cold, the same
way…

Suddenly his mind refused to work, baulked at taking him further into
the cold. *That cold. Bleak and empty and now he remembered it so
very well every moment every second of that torture so icy and dead
inside standing on that mountain lonely and desolate and now he was
walking into it again and Bodie would still leave him alone and bleak
and empty because Bodie might want him but Bodie would never ever
love him… never love him…*

With a cry he stumbled forward. With one hand desperately clinging
onto a sturdy bush, he leaned into the river, stretching to grab hold
of Bodie's jacket. He got his fingers around the collar, tight and
solid then, sure he wouldn't lose his grip, he pulled steadily. Bodie
was trapped against the bridge support, balanced against the flow of
water. The moment that balance changed, he became a heavy dead weight
the water tried desperately to drag away.

Doyle was having none of it. He kept his hold, pulling steadily,
evenly, keeping his weight back, holding onto the bush, the water
swirling around his knees. Slowly, sluggishly, Bodie moved towards
him, his mouth below the water line, his nose constantly drowned by
the movement. Now Doyle put some more effort in, dragging harder
until at last, he fell back with Bodie half out of the water. He
turned Bodie over so his face was clear, then proceeded to drag him
the rest of the way out.

The effort nearly made him faint - but he did it. Rolling Bodie onto
his side, Doyle cleared out his airway and made sure he was
breathing. Then he sat down for a second and caught his breath,
allowed his heart to slow and calm before he broached the next
inevitable journey. He didn't bother looking across the park. He knew
it was a long way; though nowhere near as long as the snow.

But Bodie was unconscious and weighed a third more than Doyle - and
Doyle was still recovering from that last ordeal. Really, he should
go and get some help - but one look at Bodie's face, pale in the
lamplight, forced him immediately to his feet. He grabbed Bodie's
hands and pulled them over his head. Using the slick mud for his
purposes, Doyle dragged Bodie back up to the path where the land
flattened out a little more. He had to pause again to get his breath
back then once more he gritted his teeth. With a fireman's lift, he
swung Bodie up onto his shoulder and carefully and steadily climbed
the path to the road. Along the road to Bodie's door. Fish in his
pocket for the key. Not in the jacket. In the trousers. Lucky they
hadn't fallen out in the river.

Doyle leaned against the door as he undid the lock. Then inside,
closing the door behind him. He took the stairs to the first floor,
one at a time, his legs shaking with the effort, threatening to
collapse. Then the flat door, another key and inside. Instinct guided
his hand to the light switch and his feet to the sofa. There he
finally knelt and lowered Bodie down.

Almost spent, Doyle allowed himself to collapse for a moment,
desperate to get some strength back into his bones. Bodie wasn't out
of danger yet. He had to move - and move quickly.

But actual speed was completely beyond him. The best he could manage
was purposefulness. He rose and stumbled into the kitchen, kicking
off his boots and coat as he went. He filled the kettle and switched
it on. Then into the bathroom to fill the bath with hot water. Then
back to Bodie to feel the pulse, find the hands and feet frozen and
blue.

He knew all this so well. Too well and too recently. But Bodie would
be okay. He had to be. He'd wake up soon and tell Doyle off for
fussing. He would be okay.

He would.

Doyle lifted Bodie enough to pull off the waterlogged jacket, shoes
and socks, but his own strength was thinning now so he didn't bother
with the rest of Bodie's clothes. Instead, he lifted him on his
shoulder once more and took him into the bathroom. He tried to lower
him gently into the bath, but his arms gave up and the splash
drenched everything. Doyle was beyond caring. He got Bodie safely
settled with his head clear of the water then headed back into the
kitchen and the boiling kettle.

He filled a cup with hot water and three big spoons of honey. He
almost burnt his tongue as he sipped, stripping off his own clothes
right there in the kitchen. Fortunately, beneath his jacket he was
still mostly dry and after that heavy work, not even cold. Still
drinking he padded through to the bedroom, dragged a towel over
himself to dry off and grabbed a robe from the back of the door. He
then made another cup of honey water and stepped back into the
bathroom. He checked Bodie's hands and feet and relaxed a little to
find them already warming up. The pulse was a little stronger, too
and a faint brush of colour had appeared in Bodie's white cheeks.

He was going to be alright.

Knowing he shouldn't - but being entirely unable to stop himself,
Doyle leaned over and brushed his fingers across Bodie's cool cheek.
He didn't stir so Doyle leaned forward and risked a brief kiss;
nothing more than a touch of I'm so glad you didn't drown and god I
love you so much Bodie I'd do anything for you even give you up if I
have to.

He pulled up a stool and settled down to wait, exhaustion planing
every muscle in his body. He emptied his cup then started on the
second. When he finished that, he made another and brought it back
with him. Soon after he sat, Bodie moved. A slight flutter of
eyelids, a moan, an inarticulate mutter  - and then he was awake, his
eyes staring unseeing at the ceiling. A moment passed, then another
and then he turned his head until he saw Doyle.

"Ray?" His mouth hardly moved as he began to shiver. "God, I'm cold!
What happened?"

Doyle wanted to laugh and hug him at the same time but contented
himself with a gentle smile, "You took a dive off the bank and hit
your head against the bridge."

"Bloody hell!"

"It saved your life, mate. How do you feel? Can you move? I'm afraid
I won't be much help at getting you out of the bath. That's why I had
to leave you there till you woke up. Here, drink some of this."

Bodie took a sip and instantly screwed up his face, "Agh! Where's the
brandy?"

"Alcohol only makes hypothermia worse. Lowers the body temp when
you're in that bath to bring it up. I'll put some more hot water in."

He forced Bodie to finish the drink, then brought another and made
him drink that, too. Only then, when he'd checked Bodie's fingers and
toes and pulse once more, did he allow the man to climb out of the
bath. He brought towels and a robe hot from the drying cupboard and
left Bodie to get changed while he threw together some food. Bodie
wouldn't feel like eating but he had to.

Doyle sent him to bed and brought the plate in with another hot
drink. Bodie was still shivering so Doyle piled the blankets high as
he cajoled him into eating everything on the plate. Every minute saw
some more colour come back into Bodie's face, a little more life in
his blue hands, a little more strength in his shaky voice. Finally,
when he finished eating, Doyle left him alone to clear up the
kitchen, hoping Bodie would drop off to sleep.  It was only when he'd
piled the muddy clothes in the washing machine and the last plate and
knife was put away that he stopped, leaning up against the kitchen
wall. Abruptly, he began to shake and he wrapped his arms around
himself as tears tipped over his cheeks. He closed his eyes and bit
his bottom lip, making the pain steer the tears away to another
place, stored against another time. He was too tired now, too raw. He
had to check on Bodie and then he had to get some rest. A few hours
on the sofa and then he'd feel better about leaving Bodie alone for
the rest of the night.

What little there was left of it.

Pulling himself together, he wiped his face clear and headed back
into the bedroom. Bodie was lying on his side facing the door, his
eyes half-closed, his whole body shaking uncontrollably. Should have
left him in the bath a bit longer - but it was too late now. Slipping
out soundlessly, Doyle put the kettle on and rummaged through the
linen cupboard until he found the pair of hot water bottles he'd seen
there last year. He filled them up, grabbed the first aid kit and
crept back into the bedroom to find Bodie wide awake. He knelt down
by Bodie's head and slipped the bottles under the blankets. Then he
leaned forward to look at the spot on Bodie's left temple where a
shallow gash was surrounded by a lovely purpling bruise.

"Thought you'd gone home."

"In your bathrobe? I don't think so." He cleaned the wound, feeling
Bodie's eyes on him the whole time.

"How does it look?" Came the ragged question.

"Not too bad considering."

"Considering I should be dead?"

Doyle paused only a moment before replying, "Yeah." He added
antiseptic cream then fished around for a small dressing. He pressed
the pad to the skin and taped it down. Probably wouldn't last too
long, but it would do. As he went to move back, Bodie caught his
wrist, forcing him to look into those eyes.

The grip was firm but had no real strength. Doyle could have broken
away at any time. But he knew Bodie had something to say and he knew
he had to listen.

"Feels strange."

"What?"

"You lookin' after me." Bodie turned Doyle's hand and looked at it
closely, studying the marks of still-healing frostbite, red welts
against pale skin. It would take another month or more before they
were gone completely.

"What else would I do?"

Bodie's gaze shot to his but after a moment, he let Doyle's hand go
and buried himself back under the blankets as a mighty shiver took
over his whole body. "Just can't seem to get warm."

Yeah. And there was only one thing for it. Clenching his teeth
against the reaction he knew he'd get, Doyle moved around the bed and
pulled the covers open enough for him to get in. Instantly Bodie
rolled over to face him, his eyes wide.

"What are you doing?"

"Getting you warmed. It's the best way. The only way."

"No. It's okay. The bottles are good. They're working. You don't need
to…"

Doyle shook his head and moved closer, his hand reaching for Bodie's
shoulder. "Look, just shut up, Bodie and let me get you warm. I'm too
bloody tired for an argument. I'm gonna fall asleep in a minute."
When his fingers touched Bodie's shoulder, they felt rigid muscle
beneath the woollen fabric. Bodie made no move towards him and Doyle
sighed. He was going to make this as difficult as possible. Still,
Doyle had come this far, he wasn't about to stop now.

Using the last of his strength, he pulled himself closer to Bodie,
wrapping his arms around the other man, trying not to think about the
fact that this was his Bodie and how much he'd wanted to do just this
and how obvious it was that Bodie wished he would just go away.

But he persisted and eventually, tiredness and physical shock forced
Bodie's muscles to relax, a little at first, and then more. Doyle
took the opportunity to get comfortable, his head resting on the
pillow beside Bodie's, his eyes closed, his legs wrapped around the
other's, his arms encircling Bodie's back.

Inexorably, the shivering stunted and faded and Doyle allowed himself
to drift, paging his thoughts away from recent memories of Bodie
falling into the water, of dragging him to safety. He just
concentrated on feeling the solidness in his arms, enjoying the
feeling of Bodie so close, almost captive for a few brief moments.
After weeks of trauma, uncertainty, of frustration and anguish, this
was too nice to ignore. He floated, suspended above reality, his
whole body drinking in the heady fantasy and without thought, it
responded. His head moved up and his lips found Bodie's, taking a
kiss from instinct alone.

Bodie's lips tasted cool and soft and so very wonderful.

The reaction was slow at first. In the beginning, Bodie's mouth
devoured his, unconsciously, eager and hungry but too soon -
heartbreakingly soon - he withdrew with a hiss. "Don't!"

Doyle opened his eyes. He'd left the lamp on and he could see Bodie
quite clearly, see the fear and anxiety written all over that
beautiful, arrogant face, see the dismay fill those glorious eyes. He
wanted to overwrite that fear, replace it with confidence, with love,
with trust.

Even though he knew Bodie would never love him, would never allow
himself to.

Again, Doyle moved, his arms holding Bodie in place as he caressed
Bodie's chin with his lips and tongue. Bodie moaned then jerked his
head out of the way. "I said stop it!"

A wild, chancy mood swung across Doyle like a cloud clearing from the
sun. "No, you said 'don't'. Not the same thing." He dropped his voice
to a husky whisper, deliberately seductive. "You'll have to be more
specific. Tell me what you like, what you don't like. Tell me what
you want. I'll do anything, Bodie, anything." With that, he dropped
his head and brushed his lips over Bodie's throat, licking along the
tender windpipe, sending shivers of something other than cold all up
Bodie's body. Another moan escaped.

"Please, don't do this." Pure anguish now.

Doyle ignored him for a moment, tasting the fresh skin on Bodie's
shoulder, breathing in the smell of him, the slowly growing warmth,
the firmness beneath, the shape of bone under muscle. Almost dizzy
with desire, he had to come up for air. He found Bodie's eyes shut
against what might have been unspeakable torture. Still taken with
the odd wildness, Doyle pressed his lips to Bodie's ear, let his
teeth nibble gently, moving his hands away to undo the belt of his
own robe. Bodie could feel what he was doing and instantly sought out
his hands, grabbed and stopped them before they could go too far.

"Ray, stop this now."

Instead, Doyle lifted his head a little until his lips just touched
Bodie's. There he paused and waited. For long seconds, Bodie didn't
move, the pain and confusion within him evident on his face. Then
Doyle pulled his hands away and removed his robe. Naked now, he took
Bodie's hands back and placed them on himself, made Bodie feel his
body, touch him the way both of them wanted so much.

With another moan, Bodie swore, "You're trying to kill me."

"No I'm not," Doyle replied in a whisper. "I'm trying to finish what
we started. I'm trying to give us what we both need so much,
especially after the last six weeks. I'm trying to make love to you,
Bodie. Just for the next hour, stop fighting me. Please. Let me make
love to you."

Bodie swallowed, his breathing short and shallow, leaving Doyle an
opportunity to move again. He slipped his hands onto Bodie's chest,
beneath the robe. He pushed it open wide, letting his hand drift
south over the smooth skin and flat belly, down to the warm darkness
of soft hair and hard flesh.

Bodie grabbed his hands again, this time hard, his eyes flaring with
anger - but he didn't say anything. Doyle could feel his heart
pounding in his chest, fast. His grip was so tight, Doyle frowned at
the pain but he didn't fight; he simply waited, breathless; sweet
anticipation twisting every part of his body, rolling through his gut
and making him nervous and ravenous at the same time.

Slowly, so very slowly, Bodie came to him, mouth moving closer until
his lips collected Doyle's in a merging of such aching tenderness,
Doyle could have wept. It lasted only moments - and then he found
strong arms gripping him in a vice, that mouth plundering his,
seeking, drinking him in, driving his lust between them like a hunter
would its prey. Doyle responded, flinging open the floodgates of his
own desire and longing. Matched perfectly, they moved together,
equally hungry, equally devouring the other, expressing with hard
swift motion, passions too long stored, too long ignored.

Robes were pulled out of the way, bodies entwined and lavished with
moist kisses, sucked and bitten, greedily and lovingly. Hands found
each other's hardness, swiftly bringing sharp focus and a breathless
pause, a moment of sheer stratospheric expectation. They faced each
other, eyes wide, both suddenly fearful.

Then Doyle smiled with the wonder of it all and Bodie kissed him
lingeringly, toying playfully with each lip in turn - but then the
rollercoaster resumed its ride and Bodie shifted and pinned Doyle
beneath him. Now they moved together in perfect time, their mouths
sealing the compact with a mutual need voiced without words, a
language of bodies living and thriving together, a history as long as
either wanted to remember; two souls joined for one single weightless
moment. Together they plunged over the precipice, enjoining the last
joyous seconds with a final kiss lasting only until they were utterly
spent.

Mindless for long minutes, Doyle finally forced himself to shift
Bodie a little, so he could breathe. He could feel their warm
stickiness between them and stilled his movements. His fingers
caressed Bodie's back gently, simply feeling, acknowledging, loving,
no more.

Bodie lay silent but from his breathing it was obvious he hadn't
fallen asleep. Then Doyle felt something on his cheek and he frowned.
He raised his hand to touch it and instantly Bodie clambered off him,
rolling away to the other side of the bed, leaving him suddenly cold.

Tears?

From Bodie?

Abruptly afraid, Doyle reached out a hand to Bodie's shoulder but the
flinch that greeted his touch made him withdraw. For a moment, he
laid there, a silent debate raging in his head. Then quickly he got
up, pulled one of the blankets off the bed and walked out, closing
the door behind him. He curled up on the sofa, wrapping the blanket
about him as though it would replace Bodie. Tears of his own pricked
the backs of his eyes and he squeezed them shut, denying release.

But he was too exhausted for more torment and he found himself
drifting off, memories of the last hour reverberating within the
corridors of his mind. Pleasure. Cold chased away. Love.

Bodie.
 

March 17.
Thursday, 2.10pm

It was the smell of coffee which woke him. Fresh coffee brewed the
way he liked it. Thick tendrils of the bitter scent rose towards him
and he breathed them in, unwilling to move and break the perfection
of the moment.

But discomfort and memory brought him to the surface properly. Slowly
he opened his eyes. He was lying on his side on the sofa, the coffee
table had been moved close to his head, a steaming mug placed only
inches from his face. He could see nothing else - but some other
instinct warned him that Bodie was close by.

Carefully he turned a little, keeping his movements as small as
possible - and there was Bodie, seated on a big chair by the window,
his legs up over one arm, his elbow planted on his thigh, his chin
resting on his fist. With his eyes gazing out of the window, Bodie
appeared to be a kind of reclining 'Thinker', so intent was he on his
ruminations. He was showered and dressed and apart from the bruise on
his temple, appeared none too bad for his brush with death.

But something in the way he sat told Doyle it wasn't the plunge in
the river that drove Bodie's contemplations.

Still keeping as quiet as possible, Doyle shifted and collected the
cup, bringing it carefully to his mouth to sip. All the while he kept
his gaze on the man by the window.

He was halfway though the cup when Bodie glanced in his direction.
Abruptly, the expression changed. "Oh, you're awake."

Doyle nodded, keeping his voice on an equally noncomittal level.
"What time is it?"

"Going on for 2.30. I guess you must have been tired."

"How long have you been up?"

"A while." Bodie shrugged and turned back to the window.

'A while' probably meant since 6 am! Doyle had to bite back the urge
to get angry even though he wanted to scream and shout and thump
Bodie and ask him what the hell was wrong.

Stupid. Especially since he now remembered everything about his
partner, all the way back to the very first day. He knew enough now
to avoid making mistakes like that out of ignorance. No. If he was
going to make any mistakes, he would do so deliberately. Even though
he suspected… no - believed - that he was going to lose Bodie anyway.

The thought caught him momentarily breathless. The idea of life
without Bodie was… was…

Probably a lot like a life without Doyle had seemed to Bodie.

He drained his coffee and let the bitter fluid calm him. "How do you
feel?"

Bodie replied without moving. "Head hurts, the rest of me feels like
I was hit by a train. What about you?"

"Me?" Doyle allowed a half-grin. "I could do with a shower." With
that, he got up, ignoring the shift of Bodie's gaze, the abrupt
discomfort on that brow. He pulled the blanket around him and headed
for the bathroom. It was only once he was in there that he realized
he'd kept his body demurely hidden from Bodie's eyes.

Once under the water, his muscles hastily reminded him of the abuse
he'd given them last night. In reality, it was a damned miracle he'd
been able to get Bodie back here in one piece. But the water felt
good and a part of him inside felt even better and he kept it safe
from the rest of him that would drown it beneath stark reality. For a
moment last night, for a short blissful while, riding an urgent need
too swiftly expressed, Bodie might have loved him, heart and soul. If
that was all he could take with him, he would protect it and keep it
safe from the ravages of cynicism.

When he got out he found fresh clothes on the floor by the door. He
dressed and left, rubbing a towel through his hair. It really needed
a cut but he kind of liked it this long. Gave him something to hide
behind.

Bodie had made breakfast - or a meal, at least considering the hour.
A plate of omelette, mushrooms and tomatoes waited for him on the
coffee table. Of Bodie himself there was no sign.

Another little note left, another unreadable message.

He ate, washed up, waited in the lounge - then decided to risk
looking for Bodie in the bedroom. He arrived to find Bodie had just
finished changing the sheets.

Getting rid of the evidence of their night together.

Quickly Doyle slipped back down to the lounge before Bodie could see
him. Suddenly he just wanted to get out of here. He stalked around
the lounge, looking for his jacket before he remembered he'd left it
in the kitchen. Bodie had hung it in the drying cabinet, despite the
mud soaked into it. Doyle grabbed it, fishing in the pocket for his
wallet and keys. He could get a cab from the corner. If he slipped
away now, Bodie wouldn't have to face him again, wouldn't have to try
and find something to say - that said nothing at all.

But when he got back into the lounge, he found Bodie back on his
chair as though he hadn't moved, as though he never would, as though
he was trying to make time stop in this one place, in no-man's land -
because that was the only way he could face the situation he was in.

Doyle didn't bother holding his anger back now. He stood by the
lounge door and spoke, his voice harsh and crisp, but not loud, "So,
I was right all along. It was just sex you wanted from me."

For a second, Bodie didn't move. Then suddenly his head snapped
around, a frown already forming, "That's what you thought." A flat
statement without inflection - not a question.

"Was I to think something else?" Doyle shot back. His heart pounded
as he waited for a response - but Bodie's focus had shifted, his eyes
playing over the coat Doyle held.

"That needs cleaning," he said, as though that was the next thing he
was supposed to say and he said it because he was trying so hard to
do what he was supposed to do. Bodie was trying hard even though he
knew he was failing. The coffee, the breakfast; words, empty and yet
evasive, trying to establish some kind of neutral ground that didn't
involve love or even sex.

The anger inside Doyle drained away. Bodie was still operating in the
same way as he had from that first night when the chopper had brought
him back from the north, back from the dead. At the time - and until
last night, he hadn't realized that Bodie was trying to do the right
thing, as he saw it.

But what did Bodie want? From the look on his face, his body
language, he wished Doyle a hundred miles from here, from his life.
How could this be the same man who had made love to him last night?
Who had held him and cherished him and sang to him with his body,
even as he'd held so much back.

No.

Doyle wasn't going to give up. Not today and not tomorrow. He would
not give up Bodie without a fight. He was far too precious, far too
important to Doyle's every breath even if he was a stubborn,
pigheaded misguided fool who didn't have the sense to see that Doyle
adored the ground he walked upon.

No. Even if fighting meant letting him go. Losing him.

Taking in a deep breath, he pulled his coat on. "Come for a walk.
You'll feel better with a bit of exercise."

Bodie stared at him then nodded slowly, almost with relief. He
unfolded himself from the chair, grabbed a long black wool coat and
then herded Doyle out of the flat.

Outside, Doyle was surprised to see the day completely fogged over.
After all that rain, too. While he paused on the footpath, Bodie
strode ahead - aiming for the park. Doyle hurried after him.

The inevitable return to the scene of the crime - but what puzzled
Doyle more than anything else was the distance he'd carried Bodie. It
took him nearly fifteen minutes to get as far as the bridge in the
daylight, walking quickly, keeping track of Bodie. No, next time it
can be somebody else who gets injured and they can carry Doyle uphill
in the middle of winter, in a thunderstorm. Yeah, somebody else.

That somebody was standing on the footbridge, looking down at the
inky swollen river. It wasn't really a river, even. More a deep
brook. But it had been enough to nearly kill Bodie.

Doyle approached, his boots making hollow noises on the wooden slats.
He stopped and put his hands on the rail, leaned over and glanced
down. The place where he'd pulled Bodie out of the water was several
feet beneath the waterline now. If the level rose any more, the
bridge would be covered.

"You saved my life," Bodie murmured into the watery quiet, his eyes
fixed on the rippling, flowing mass in front of them. "You know, it's
odd, but I've never said thank you. Not in all the times you've done
it. I only ever told you off when I thought you'd taken too big a
risk with my neck. Like that sniper at Wimbledon. You said you were
worried you might miss and hit me. But you never miss, do you?"

"Occasionally."

Bodie pursed his lips and nodded as though he were thinking this
over. Then he lifted his chin, his gaze taking in the featureless
grey sky. "How did you get me back to the flat?"

"I carried you over my shoulder."

A frown then, sharp with a flash of something in the sombre blue
eyes. "You're one of a kind, Doyle." Ironic, a little bitter. Bodie
leaned his arms on the railing, taking care not to look anywhere but
directly ahead. "Nobody'll give you a medal for dragging me out of
this one."

Doyle laced his fingers together, trying to ignore the sinking
feeling in the pit of his stomach.

"Bodie?"

"Yeah?"

"That night, before I left for Scotland, that dinner, everything -
you were trying to seduce me, weren't you?"

A long silence, ended with a sigh, "It was a mistake. Like last
night. It should never have happened."

Now Doyle turned to look at him but there was no sign of recognition
from Bodie. Simply the same steadfast wall he'd shown all along, the
armour, the protection shielding him from anything Doyle could say or
do. Only last night, when he'd touched Bodie, had there been any
other reaction - reluctant then - regretted now.

A mistake. Bodie thought it all a mistake. He wished none of it had
happened. He saw it all as the manifestation of a moment's weakness
on his part; the seduction, the flight north, the weeks of mourning,
the recovery and worst of all, last night.

The leaden weight in Doyle's stomach lurched lower. He saw that
strong, beautiful face with eyes dreading the future, with a heart
that longed for the past. For five years his world had revolved
around this man, had indeed continued because of him, because of his
protection, his dedication, his unswerving loyalty, his unquestioning
acceptance of everything Doyle was - the only person in his life ever
to do so. Despite their diverging backgrounds, ideals, tastes, moods
- everything; they had become friends.

Doyle swallowed, "You're leaving me, aren't you?"

Bodie gave a short nod, "Yes."

Turning back to the river, Doyle held his reaction in, using brute
force. No amount of pleading would change Bodie's mind, no heartfelt
declaration of love would make any difference. So simple, so easy to
throw it all away; to denounce everything that meant something to
him.

To both of them.

There were a few people in the park, a man walking his dog, a couple
wheeling a pram. Few people out to make the most of this hideous grey
day. Another in a long line. All of them grey and cold.

No. Bodie would never love him. He would never allow himself to be so
vulnerable, so weak. He would never give something of himself like
that, allow himself to need - and he would go the rest of his days
just as isolated, lonely and alone as he was at this moment, as he
had been all his life. That was the way he wanted it and Doyle
couldn't stop him.

Struggling to keep himself under control, Doyle turned then, finding
no words to express the sadness overwhelming him. Instead, he simply
shook his head and walked away, long strides taking him to the other
side of the bridge where the path would lead him down to the main
road.

"Doyle, wait."

He didn't. He had to keep going or he was going to lose it completely
and that wasn't the way he wanted Bodie to remember him.

"Ray, stop!" Pounding feet on the damp ground. "Damn you, Ray…" A
hand grabbed his elbow and turned him around roughly. "Why are you
always walking out on me?" Bodie glared at him, those eyes blue
enough for the whole grey sky.

"You don't want me, Bodie," Doyle growled back, barely holding it in.
"You just want it all to go away and me with it. We've got nothing
more to say to each other. It's over, so just let me go and we can
get on with our lives, forget all about this stupid mistake!"

"Damn you!" Bodie grabbed both his arms and shook him, his voice
savage. "Is it so hard for you to understand? *Of course I bloody
well want you!* Christ, I want you so bad it's killing me! That's why
I have to go." A hand came up and gripped Doyle's face, harshly
rubbed a thumb over his lips. "God, I want to kiss you so much. Last
night was so… god, Ray, I just want you to understand. Can't you at
least try?"

"Understand?" Doyle hissed, shock and anger now permeating every bone
in his body; the touch on his face sparking off something terrible
inside him. "I understand too bloody well. I knew you'd do this! You
can't love anyone - and the moment you get close, you just leave. The
great, invulnerable Bodie can walk away from anyone. And you keep
doing it again and again because you're so damned terrified. And what
did you do that night? You tried to seduce me! Tried to get me to
give you a little of what you needed without having to explain why,
to take a chance, to actually risk something. But I ruined it, didn't
I - because, unlike you, I've *never* looked upon our relationship as
being *disposable!"*

Doyle paused, gulping in air. Bodie stood stock still before him,
like a tree waiting to fall.

"How could you do that to me, Bodie!" Doyle bellowed, not caring a
whit if anyone else in the park could hear him. "Was I always just
some body you could use when you wanted and then toss away, along
with five years of friendship? Are you really so cold? You probably
think you were better off while you still thought I was dead!"

Bodie snapped back at that, his eyes suddenly filled with a darkness
wholly unnatural. "Don't ever say that, you hear me?" The tone low
and menacing, his fingers digging into Doyle's arms. "Never!"

But Doyle wasn't going to stop now, "So you got hurt. I'm sorry,
really I am - but I can't take it back…"

"And you're going to promise me you'll never hurt me again? Christ,
Doyle, do you think I'm a fool?"

"Promise? Only a fool expects guarantees in love! And you're the
biggest fool I know!" He would have gone then but Bodie's grasp
tightened, twisting him back around. He then put a hand on the side
of Doyle's neck, the fingers compressing the muscle there, instilling
so much in that strong gesture.

For long seconds, Bodie held his silence inside, his chest heaving
with the effort. His eyes locked onto Doyle's, holding him as much as
the hand on his shoulder. Then he gathered voice, determination and
something else bordering on desperation and hopelessness. "Tell me,"
he hissed, harsh and raw. "Tell me you love me."

"No."

Bodie gripped harder. "Say it!"

Doyle shook his head, a great emptiness inside swallowing all the
anger, returning him to the dark and cold he'd hoped Bodie had
rescued him from. "It's too late, Bodie. I can't make it all right
for you. You don't trust me. You don't trust yourself. Please, just
leave me and get it over with. I don't want to be a part of this any
more." Tears now falling unchecked down his face, Doyle twisted away,
turned and ran, making sure he didn't stop or look over his shoulder.

This time, only the silence followed him.
 

(end part 5)