Title: The Ruthless Old Bastard

Author: Anne Higgins

Fandom: The Professionals

Paring: Cowley/Minister, Bodie/Doyle implied

Rating: NC17

Category: Episode related, established relationships

Archive: Yes, to this list's archives. All others, please ask.

Summary: The after "Need to Know", Cowley has a few fences to mend.

Note: While B/D is a part of this story, the focus is purely on George Cowley. Bodie and Doyle get their turn in this 'universe' in the sequel Some Like It Hot.

This is among my favorite stories. I so love trying to get into George Cowley's head. I consider him one of the best characters around and one of the things that elevated Pros above the level of a typical action/adventure series.

It's always hard to judge these things, but I really don't think you need to have seen the episode to enjoy the story.

Author's note: The Minister in the episode Need to Know is not identified by either exact title or name. As there is no evidence that contradicts, I have dubbed him Peter Winslow and given him the dubious honor of being the Home Secretary and George Cowley's boss.



The Ruthless Old Bastard
A Cowley/Minister story
by Anne Higgins

Pymar left almost immediately after the shooting and took Andy Drake with him. Both George Cowley and the Special Branch officer had agreed Drake needed a trip to hospital after suffering an injection of truth serum on top of a lung-full of stun gas. Just a precaution, but one they'd felt strongly enough about to overrule any of Drake's objections.

Pymar had silenced him by pointing out the head of MI5 was still technically under arrest for treason and, therefore, in his custody. That something he could not argue against, Drake had relented and gone along quietly.

Cowley stayed behind at the Soviet safehouse, waiting for the clean up crew. He opted to put some of the time to good use by fetching his car from up the road. As he drove back, he picked up the radio mic, then put a call through to the Prime Minister, informing him the operation had been successfully completed with only one casualty. That was all it was prudent to say over a radio frequency, and the PM requested a meeting at ten the next morning for a more thorough debriefing. In the meantime, the PM would inform Tully he was now the sole acting head of MI5, but not to get accustomed to the position as Drake would be back at work as soon as the doctors cleared him. The PM also said he would brief the Home Secretary.

Cowley could not quite suppress a shudder at those words. Though he often dealt directly with the PM, the HM was between them in the chain of command, and Cowley seldom by-passed him as he had done on this operation. "Thank you, Sir," he said, then signed off, certain the PM's call would merely delay, not spare, Cowley the inevitable awkward encounter.

After returning the mic to its cradle, he parked the car near one of the barns, sat back and gave his body a moment to catch up with his mind's knowledge it was all over. It had actually worked. Incredible. An elaborate plan meant a hundred different things could go wrong, but nothing had. He glanced toward where his men waited and felt a twinge of guilt.

William Andrew Philip Bodie had sat down on the ground, leaning back against the wood fence surrounding the safehouse. Apparently, now that the adrenaline rush had faded with the end of the op, he was once again feeling the affects of the stun gas. 'Failed you, sir. Sorry.' The lad's words came back to haunt him. The risks taken had all been by Cowley and Drake, except for one. There had been one unavoidable moment when a different decision by the Soviets could have meant death for Bodie and his partner, Raymond Doyle. Cowley had done everything he could to minimize the danger, but it had undeniably existed.

Bodie and Doyle had performed exactly as expected, the perfect pawns in Cowley's game of triple think. Yet when he'd revived Bodie with a small canister of oxygen, the first thing the lad had done was apologize for a perceived failure.

He sighed, got out of the car, then walked toward his operatives. Doyle glared at him and moved closer to Bodie like a mother hen protecting her chick. Or a man protecting his lover from a potential threat. 'Good lad,' he thought of Doyle, always glad to see him guarding Bodie's back -- even when it was against Cowley himself.

'You hurt him,' Doyle's green-eyed glower raged at Cowley. 'He trusts you and you hurt him.'

"How are you feeling, son?" Cowley asked, stopping a foot away from where Bodie rested.

"'m okay," Bodie answered, but his face was paler than normal, and a cough followed the words.

Bigger lungs and a slower metabolism. Cowley guessed that was the reason the gas still lingered in Bodie's system while Doyle seemed to have recovered totally. "That or glaring somehow burned it out of a man's lungs.' Doyle didn't understand ... well, he didn't care for the concept of need to know, but Bodie understood and accepted. The difference between an ex-Met copper and an ex-SAS sergeant.

He turned at the sound of an approaching vehicle, his hand 'accidentally' brushing against the dark silk of his son's hair, the only comfort both Bodie's pride and the near public circumstances would allow. "Go wait in the car," he told them. "I'll be along in a moment."

Doyle helped Bodie to his feet, though Bodie was certainly recovered enough to stand on his own. Just another instance of a comforting touch. "Come on, sunshine," Doyle said. "If you're a good boy and kip out in the back seat, I'll tell you a bedtime story tonight."

"Sod off, Doyle," Bodie growled, but made no effort to escape the hand griping his elbow.

Cowley smiled slightly, amused as always by their double act -- though he was not always inclined to show it. A van rounded the corner of the country road, and it struck Cowley that the Soviets had found a pleasant place in which to do their dirty work. A bright sun shining down on the farm, green grass and the birds singing created a peaceful scene totally at odds with the body lying twenty yards away.

He shook his head, then went to give the clean up crew their instructions.

*****

An hour later he ushered his two best men into his front room and over to where he kept the scotch. Bodie hadn't said much since they'd left the farmhouse, but as Cowley lined up three glasses, the lad ended his silence. "Can I ask a question?"

"Aye." He decided he was in the mood to indulge his son and picked up a bottle of his best pure malt.

"You put these stun grenades in their minds. Sold 'me hard."

"Yeah, supposing they hadn't gone for it?" Doyle demanded as Cowley poured a drink, then offered the glass to Bodie.

His son took it, but re-enforced Doyle's concerns by merely saying, "Yeah."

"I had you both covered," Cowley reminded them. "I'm a very good shot."

Bodie looked unimpressed "Yeah, saw that. Nevertheless, what if something had gone wrong?"

Cowley thought he saw Bodie flinch a little as he took a drink, but he pretended not to notice and concentrated on providing a scotch for the other half of the team. "Oh, in that case I would have arranged a nice headstone for the two of you." 'And buried you side-by-side. Together even in death.' He handed Doyle his drink and added, "Out of my own pocket, of course."

"Nice," Bodie muttered, more a movement of lips than a sound.

Doyle lifted his glass and studied the contents carefully.

'It's not poisoned, ladies.' He filled his own glass, then glanced at Doyle.

"Permission to make an observation, sir."

"Aye."

"You're a ruthless old bastard."

Cowley raised his glass in a salute. "Not so much of the old, sonny."

The three of them drank, but Bodie clearly flinched this time as the liquor went down his throat. 'Must be raw from all that coughing,' Cowley thought. He would have liked to have sent Bodie to the spare room and Doyle on his way, but he could tell from the flash of the green eyes Doyle would not be separated from his partner, nor would he leave him to care of the man he saw as responsible for Bodie's current state. That said man was Bodie's father obviously did not impress Doyle. Perhaps it even made his actions seem all the more criminal in Doyle's eyes.

Cowley sighed. He and Bodie had long ago reached an understanding about the separation of their blood ties and duty. A pity it didn't make things any easier. "Ach, take him home, Doyle," he said, reluctantly relinquishing Bodie to his care. "And I don't want to see either of you until Thursday morning."

Bodie brightened at the prospect of three days off, but the glower remained fixed on Doyle's face.

A slight smile tugged at the corners of Bodie's mouth. The lad did so love it when Doyle showed his protective instincts. Whether by device or from genuine fatigue, Bodie yawned, pulling his partner's attention from their boss.

"You heard him, Bodie," Doyle said, once more taking hold of the younger man's elbow.

The gesture said 'Mine!' so loudly and clearly, Cowley was hard pressed not to smile.

"Time for all good lads to go belie-bye," Doyle finished, steering Bodie toward the front door.

A half a dozen campy rejoinders flashed through Cowley's mind, but Bodie didn't resort to any of them in his father's presence -- Cowley knew he didn't like flaunting his relationship with Doyle in front of him. Not that Bodie didn't do precisely that every time he looked at his partner, but he seemed unaware of the love often sparkling in his dark blue eyes.

Those blue eyes settled on casting an indignant look toward Doyle, then shifted to Cowley. "Good night, Dad."

'Dad.' He smiled at the sound of it, knowing all was forgiven as far as his son was concerned. "Good night, son. Doyle."

"Night, sir," Doyle muttered, then pushed Bodie out the door.

It fell shut behind them, leaving a vast emptiness in their wake. He actually liked solitude, but those two were so full of life it took a moment for him to accept, then embrace the silence.

He shook himself and reached for the three empty glasses. Though he listed pure malt scotch high on his list of simple pleasures, he didn't like the stale smell rising from a glass left to sit too long. But before he could gather them, his front bell rang.

A frown crossed his face. The timing was of someone who had waited to approach the door until after Bodie and Doyle had left the area. He couldn't see it meaning anything but trouble. Though he suspected it was not of the threat to life and limb variety.

He opened the door to find the Home Secretary standing on his doorstep, and from the tight anger simmering in the man's eyes, Cowley could tell the Prime Minister had indeed briefed Peter Winslow.

Suddenly feeling very tired, Cowley stepped back and let his superior enter the room. He would have given a great deal to have avoided this confrontation until at least tomorrow, but he had to count his luck for the day used -- and well spent.

Winslow moved past him without a word, but Cowley could feel his eyes boring into his back as he shut the door, then reset the locks and alarms. He turned to offer his visitor a drink, but found him already helping himself.

A fourth of the contents of Winslow's glass disappeared in one long swallow, then he looked at Cowley and in a quiet, clear voice said, "You bastard, you absolute bastard."

"So everyone tells me," he sighed. He would have liked to pour a drink of his own, but the other man's anger made it unthinkable to move closer to him. Remote, furious and distant, Winslow was a totally different man from the one who had visited Cowley only three days before. Then Cowley had feared listening devices and careful observation by unfriendly eyes. He'd warned Winslow of the need for discretion by shaking his hand when he'd let him into the flat and both had behaved accordingly. Ironic it might well prove the last time they touched.

A cold shudder stirred in his stomach, and he told himself not to be such a fool. He'd known this might happen, known his pursuit of the MI5 mole the Soviet's had dubbed 'Number One' could result in the loss of his dearest friend. "What would you have me say, Peter?" he asked, genuinely wanting to know.

"You can tell me why, George. Why didn't you tell me what you had planned?"

"There was no need for you to know." It was the honest, if superficial answer. It was also quite obviously the wrong answer.

"God, I knew you would say something ridiculous like that." Winslow took another sip of his scotch. "Perhaps you've forgotten you work for me. As does Andy Drake."

"Security demanded only those directly involved be told. The Prime Minister had to sanction the plan, which meant informing you would have been an unnecessary risk."

Winslow's handsome face went pale, then grew red in a mottled pattern Cowley knew always indicated barely suppressed rage. "Are you suggesting I was a suspect?"

"If you were, I'd not have asked you for your opinion on what level of force the Soviets were likely to use to take Andy from us." Cowley had been certain the dictates of détente would prevent them from using lethal force against British agents. Drake and Pymar had agreed, but in the end, with Bodie and Doyle's lives the ones at risk, he'd wanted ... needed further confirmation. On the face of it, asking the HM his opinion on unofficial Soviet policy seemed like a foolish choice, but Winslow kept well informed on foreign as well as domestic affairs, and Cowley had met few men -- none of whom were currently serving in Whitehall -- with a keener sense of judgment. "I risked my son's life on your opinion."

"Bodie." The name was a sigh, more than a word. "I don't know how he stands all of your manipulations."

There was a touch of envy in his voice adding a silent 'as I can't.' Cowley answered, "Need to know is not an unknown concept in the military." A mild heart condition had kept Winslow out of the armed services, and he'd gone into politics to try to do his part for his country. Medical science had finally evolved enough to fix his heart a few years ago, but the lack of any service time whatsoever sometimes led to misunderstandings between the two of them.

Winslow shot him a sharp look and sat down on the settee. "Nor in the halls of Whitehall. You've simply failed to convince me I should not have been told."

Cowley considered his response carefully and decided only the truth would save him. "If my plan had failed, it would have been the end of my career and my reputation. I did not want you to suffer a similar fate." It was why he'd been both pleased and disturbed by Winslow's earlier visit. The PM had his good points, but the man was not above salvaging his own career by throwing as many sheep to the wolves as possible. Cowley had been adamant Winslow not be told and had documented his lack of involvement. Then the damned fool had come calling under the watchful eyes of MI5. "We both could have ended up tending our roses for the rest of our lives."

"You make that sound distasteful." Winslow's manner softened then, the anger still simmering, but no longer quite so obvious. "No more CI5, no more Whitehall. Just the two of us together. Sounds like paradise." He dropped down onto the settee. "Do you have any idea how worried I was?"

Oh, yes. He'd known. Peter had been almost playful during his earlier visit, teasing Cowley about his fussing over his health by attributing it all to a wife who cared nothing for her husband beyond the prestige of his position. A grand attempt to cheer him up that had both succeeded and made him feel guilty. "If you had known the truth it would have spared you some anxiety, I'll grant you that. But how would you have reacted?"

"I'd have kept my distance, that's for certain. I feel the perfect fool over my visit."

"In other words you would have behaved differently. As would have Bodie and Doyle. It was vital you all act naturally." It had always been Cowley's experience it was far easier to play an undercover role than to keep up a front of false concern. "The plan depended on it."

Peter glared at him, but the anger did not increase. They'd both been in the game long enough to know Cowley was right. "And it worked."

"Yes."

"I hear Manton was shot trying to escape."

Cowley poured himself the drink he'd wanted as he considered what to say. "He did not have to run. Or keep running."

"Is that so?"

"Consider it the modern version of leaving a disgraced man alone with a single-shot revolver."

Winslow finished his drink, then held his glass out for a refill. "How dramatic. Was it a sanctioned?"

Cowley brought the bottle over to him, then because he saw no objections in the handsome face, he sat down, too, though not as close to the other man as he would have liked. "Yes," he answered, pouring the scotch. He and the PM had been in total agreement on that point -- Cowley would give 'Number One' an obvious chance to escape, then deal with him. Manton had to have recognized it for what it was when he chose to take the offer. And if he hadn't, he'd been a total fool.

Winslow's hand touched his arm. "Are you all right with that?"

"He was a traitor, Peter. Responsible for the deaths of some very good men and women. I can hardly find it within myself to morn for him, but I took no pleasure in killing him."

"Such a ... correct answer. Tell me, George, are you ever wrong? Do you ever make a mistake like the rest of us mortals?"

He sighed. "I try not to. People have a nasty tendency to die when I'm wrong. And this time. ..."

"It might have been your son."

"Yes." He had no way of knowing who Manton and Tully would send to arrest him once Drake's 'treason' had been uncovered. As the man who had brought Drake into MI5, the man who had chosen him to take over the organization when Cowley had left to form CI5, suspicion had fallen on him. Had he been careless or involved in the treason? Neither was a flattering notion, belief in either enough to have him hauled in for questioning.

It had actually been a daft use of highly skilled men to have Bodie and Doyle assigned the task, but a fortunate choice for his plans. He'd resolved himself to using any members of the A Squad who might be sent for him, but had quietly hoped for his two best, and had known Bodie would be happier keeping a close eye on him. Undoubtedly, Manton and Tully had thought sending his son to collect him had made him more cooperative. They might have been right if Drake really had been a traitor. As it was, he'd smiled sweetly and used Bodie and Doyle to his best advantage. "My son."

"How do you do it, George?" The question was kinder in tone, and Winslow's hand settled on his forearm. A most welcome touch. "I've always wondered how you could give Bodie the assignments you do."

"He and Doyle are my best team." Bodie and Doyle. His son and a man he would have been proud to call his son. "If a job warrants their attention, but I give it to another team, one of lesser skill. ..." He shook his head. "Those two have a knack of surviving despite all expectations."

Winslow looked at him, then his arms moved to enfold him. "I'm sorry. Sometimes I forget how difficult it is for you when you make it look so easy."

Easy? Cowley felt his eyes widen at the sheer absurdity of the notion. "Every time I give him an assignment, I wonder if it will be the one that kills him." He let his head be guided to the other man's shoulder. "No, it's not easy. Not with anyone."

He would hurt more for the loss of Bodie or Doyle, but he always mourned when he lost an operative. No one joined CI5 unaware of the risks. No one made it to the A Squad who did not have the skills to deal with those risks. But the number of operatives who retired from the field was appallingly low. Those who retired in one piece made up an even smaller number. But, "CI5 is necessary, Peter. I believe that." What was the worth of his life if he did not? "But sometimes ... often, the price for what we do is very high."

Cowley shifted, so he could see Winslow's profile. "Has today's work cost me you?"

His head turned so he could look Cowley in the eye. "And here I always thought you were such a wise man," he said, then bent to kiss him.

The mustache ticked as always, forcing Cowley to smile even as their lips met. It was a good kiss, the words following it even better, "There are days I could absolutely murder you, George, but I've loved you for almost all of my life. I might as well love you for the rest of it."

His stomach lurched with relief and he smiled. "It's been a long day, Peter. Would you mind if we went to bed?"

Peter stood and held out his hand. "Sounds like one of your better ideas, my love."

Standing, he opted to forego the hand, slipping his arm around his lover's waist instead. Winslow murmured his approval and nuzzled Cowley's jaw.

He tried to sound put out, "None of that, you flirt. I've grown too old for acrobatics on the settee."

"Nonsense, George. You've always been too old for that," Winslow teased him, slipping from his grasp as he headed for the bedroom. He paused in the doorway and gave Cowley a long, hungry look. "Hurry along, now, or I might decide to cut CI5's budget."

Cowley loosened, then shed his tie as he followed. "Does that mean you'll raise it if I'm particularly good tonight?"

"Well, I'm fairly certain you'll get a rise out of something." His shirt fluttered to the floor, then his trousers and pants joined it. Naked and utterly beautiful, he gave Cowley a come hither look and made a show of stretching out on the bed.

"You're incorrigible," he muttered, slowly removing his own clothing. Despite a bad leg and a job that required mostly mental exercise, he'd managed to stay in reasonably good condition, but his stomach bulged a bit and he always felt an awkward moment when he bared himself to his lover's gaze.

Winslow gave him a loving smile. "How is it that even after all these years, you never fail to take my breath away?"

"And how is it that after all these years I can still forget how well you know me?" he asked, joining him on the bed.

The humor faded from Winslow's eyes. "Would that it were true, my dear. I know the little things only a blind man could miss, but I fear no one can ever really know George Cowley."

Though it saddened him to hear, he did not try to deny it. He'd worked too hard for too many years to keep himself hidden from the most intense scrutiny. A pity the only defense against an enemy often worked against a loved one as well. "I am sorry," he said taking hold of Winslow's hand.

"Don't be," his lover answered, and drew him down onto the bed. "It's all part of loving you. I accepted that long ago."

It was either the most loving or the most ridiculous thing anyone had ever said to him, but before he could decide which, Winslow kissed him, and it didn't matter anymore.

When their lips parted, Winslow whispered, "How do you want me to love you tonight?"

"Shouldn't I ask you that? After what I put you through the last few days?"

A second kiss answered him, then, "Nonsense, my love, you were only being you. And the triumphant hero deserves his reward."

While an unsettled father and insecure lover needed comfort and reassurance. For a man who claimed not to know him. ... "It's been too long since you've been inside me."

Beautiful eyes twinkled in anticipation, then Winslow fetched the lube from the end table drawer. "An excellent choice, but I warn you, George. If that phone rings, I'm giving you the sack."

Cowley laughed, then gasped as a mouth fastened on his nipple, while fingers gently toyed with the patch of hair on his chest.

His own hands drifted over the satin smooth skin of Winslow's back and up into the soft full head of hair crowning his lover's head. His fingers never tired of caressing the silken strands of gray and brown -- something Winslow always dismissed as hair envy -- but to Cowley it was nothing less than one of his greatest pleasures. So soft, so warm. He sighed, then moaned as Winslow shifted to nuzzle his neck, the hard length of the man pressing against Cowley's thigh. His legs parted in an almost involuntary invitation.

"Impatient, my dear?"

One hand still entwined in the glorious hair, his other slid down Winslow's body to caress an arse that, while not as firm as it had once been, still made Cowley's mouth go dry with hunger.

Winslow wriggled, pushing back against the hand fondling him, encouraging the exploring fingers. "Ah, George," he sighed, "how am I supposed to fuck you when you make me ache for you?"

How indeed? A smile crossed Cowley's face. "I believe I have a solution." He shifted his weight, rolling them over until he rested on top of his lover's body. Taking the tube from Winslow, he spread gel on first his own cock, then on his lover's fingers. "Put that to good use," he told him, while using his own lube slick fingers to relax the opening to Winslow's body.

A vocal lover, Peter moaned his appreciation of the intimate touch, a sound that only grew when Cowley's cock replaced the probing fingers. Once fully inside Winslow, Cowley stopped moving then gasped his own pleasure as first one, then two fingers slipped inside him.

He began to move, his cock pushing in and out of snug, heat while fingers matched his rhythm, possessing him, even as he possessed. The duo sensations sent him tumbling quickly over the edge and he came with a loud groan.

It took a moment for him to collect himself, then he gave Winslow a quick kiss, before shifting down the bed to take his lover's cock into his mouth. He sighed with regret as the move caused the fingers to slip from his own arse, but the scent and taste of the man he loved filled his senses, and he forgot his own pleasures. Lavishing Winslow with the same attention and care he gave a major op, Cowley licked and sucked him to a climax that had the man howling at his release.

Cowley moved up to lie next to him, then drew his lover into his arms. "If you were a cat, I swear you'd be purring."

That earned him a chuckle. "You always were a smug bastard. Pity there's some basis for it."

He smiled. "Flatterer."

"We haven't made love that way for a long time."

"We aren't as young as we used to be either."

"Hmm." Winslow snuggled closer, a sign that he would soon drift off, so it surprised Cowley when he spoke again. "George, do you have any regrets?"

"Regrets?"

"Things you would change if you had it all to do over again."

"Are you trying to find out if I regret our relationship?"

"Well, yes, in a way. But more than that." He sighed. "I sometimes play this little game. I think back on our lives, decide what I would change, then try to figure out what you would chose to do. The first change is easy enough to guess -- Bodie."

Yes, Bodie. Cowley had not known of his existence until the boy was almost 19. He'd found him, brought him home and done his best to be a father to him ever since, but. ... "The pain I could have spared him had I only known sooner." He tried not to think about it too much. 'What if' could be a very painful road to travel, but he felt a need to reach out to Peter after keeping him at such a distance for so long.

"I don't know what sort of father I would have been. Perhaps it would have been a disaster if I'd tried to raise him from a babe in arms." Angry words between a father and son, instead of a rape, might have caused Bodie to run away from home and into the abusive arms of Krivas. "Perhaps he would have fled at an even earlier age."

Winslow hugged him. "I doubt it. I've always imagined you would have encouraged his love of poetry. I think had you been around he would have become a poet and a teacher of great literature."

A smile tugged at the corners of Cowley's mouth at the mental image of Bodie leading an academic life. He was so damned good at his job that it was hard to take seriously any other career for him. "Perhaps."

"But, of course, his name wouldn't be Bodie." That had been the last name of the man Bodie's mother had married; a good man who had raised Bodie as his own son, but had died leaving him to the mercy of a mother who hated him for being George Cowley's son. "What would you have named him? And don't even try to tell me you haven't thought about it."

"Peter," Cowley answered without hesitation for he *had* thought about it. "Peter George Cowley." After the most honorable, loving man he'd ever been privileged to know and the tradition in his family of a son's middle name being the father's first.

That got him hugged. Hard. A long silence followed, but his lover hadn't finished with him. "What else, George? What else would you change?"

"I would have liked to live in a world that hadn't forced us to chose between our work and sharing a home." The greatest pleasure he knew was to go to sleep with the man he loved in his arms and to wake and find him still there come morning. But it was one they darned not often risk. That regret compelled him to do what he could to ensure no one in CI5 felt it, too, to use the excuse of budget cuts in allocations to give couples the opportunity to openly share living quarters. "But that's changing a world, not my life."

He thought back over the things in which he could take no pride. "I'd have liked to have hurt you less." They both knew what, or rather who he was talking about. Annie. Young and career-minded he'd turned his back on Peter and convinced himself she was the love of his life. He'd done such a complete job of it he'd still thought he might love her when he'd encountered her three years ago. Such a fool. Love was the man in his arms, not a woman who had never seemed to understand who he was.

He'd found it quite ironic that when Doyle had seemed determined to make the same mistakes, he'd also chosen a woman named Ann. He'd not liked the pain the affair had caused Bodie, but it was not an area in which Cowley could justify interfering. Instead, he'd done what he could to occupy his son, let him know he was there if Bodie needed him, and counted on Doyle coming to his senses on his own. Ann Holly had left Doyle standing in a car park three weeks ago. One week longer than their affair had lasted. And nothing about Doyle indicated he'd given her a second thought beyond the few hours after she had left.

There would be a few more casual affairs in that boy's life, a few more token protests against settling down with a man, Cowley was certain of it, but he was equally certain within months Bodie and Doyle would be in his office asking for a 'budget cut' that would allow them to share a flat.

"Ah, but if you hadn't turned to Annie, I wouldn't have married Elaine on the rebound."

That surprised Cowley. "I would have thought you would have numbered her among your regrets." What love there had been between Winslow and his wife had not lasted beyond their first anniversary. Cowley found her a cold woman, but the Winslows had a comfortable, if disinterested relationship with one another, and she had never asked for anything but discretion when the two men had resumed their affair five years after the marriage.

"She has given me two beautiful children. How could I wish to change that?"

"That's the trouble with 'what if,' Peter." If he hadn't fallen for Annie, if he'd stayed with Peter ... His lover had wanted to live openly together, but MI5 would not have hired a suspected homosexual. An undercover operation for them had resulted in Bodie's conception. CI5 was also conceived through his work with MI5. How could he regret that? "Nothing exists in a vacuum. Change the pain --"

"And you might lose the good as well." Peter laughed softly. "I got it right, George. I thought that was what you would say."

Cowley kissed him on the forehead, then whispered the words that never came easily to him, "I love you."

"And I you, my dear." He yawned. "Sorry, not too romantic of me, I know. But it has been a long day."

"Sleep then. We've both earned it." Not the sleep of angels. That had been beyond Cowley's grasp for decades, but he usually slept the untroubled sleep of a man who knew he'd done the best he could in an imperfect world.

"Good night." Another kiss, then Peter nodded off.

Wanting to enjoy the gift of having him in his arms, Cowley resisted the lure of sleep for a few minutes. Again he felt that ache of knowing days, even weeks might pass before they might enjoy another night together. But he'd chosen his life with his eyes wide open.

He loved his son and the man sleeping in his arms; held a deep respect and fatherly affection for Doyle; and genuinely cared for many of the people under his command. But duty to his country came before them all. God grant that it never happen, he would sacrifice everyone and everything he loved in the name of that duty. If that made him a ruthless old bastard, so be it.

Content, Cowley closed his eyes, then slept.



End