Three Steps to Heaven
A ceiling fan turns sluggishly, hardly stirring the air. It's suffocating. The temperature's been up in the eighties for days with no respite in sight.
Doyle's taken first watch, his eyes glued on the house across the way, elbows wide as he holds the weight of the binoculars. The back of his shirt's dark with sweat, his jeans clinging up under his bum.
Bodie adjusts himself and turns over. The bed creaks. "Wiltshire, I reckon."
Doyle glances back over his shoulder. "South Downs."
It's too hot to argue. Too hot to do more than pipe dream.
The ceiling fan turns sluggishly, flipping the edges of the paper. Pen poking from the corner of his mouth, Doyle rereads his report; complete farce, Flynn dead, two agents in hospital; all dressed up in pretty language to keep the Minister quiet.
"Coming?" Bodie appears round the door. He looks exhausted. Grey. It's been a rotten few weeks.
They leave the stifling office, Doyle dumping the file on the way out. As they reach the car, his hand slides possessively down Bodie's jacket, coming to rest on a well-clad arse. Two days off. Just enough time to be themselves.
The ceiling fan turns sluggishly, cooling the air on the men below. Sweat pools on Bodie's back sending shivers along his spine. Fingers trail up his flanks leaving shudders in their wake. Breath comes, heavy and hot on his skin.
But not as hot Ray himself, who's balancing above him, wiry arms braced. Skin's slick where they meet. And not all of it's KY.
A kiss pressed to his shoulder.
Bodie turns his head, reaches up and grabs the rail. It's midsummer's eve and they've been dreaming of this for days. Sunrise, sunset – his world turns here in this bed.
-- THE END --