Followed by The Other Game: A Post-GameWrap-up


MARCH

"Let's play The Game," Ray Doyle said to his partner. This caused Bodie, who had slumped down in the driver's seat, to sit up so suddenly that he banged an elbow against the door handle and said a bad word.

"Here?" Bodie looked around. They were inside the most decrepit vehicle CI5 owned, parked between two warehouses of turn of the century vintage, and they were taking turns watching another warehouse some distance away through extremely powerful field glasses.

"Why not?" Doyle said. "I'm bored out of my skull."

"There's nothing here," Bodie objected.

"Sure there is. Got your glasses? Look beyond the doorway we're watching to the old wall to the left. See the brick? I like that color. It'd make a great garden wall, or maybe, inside, it could be on the floor, in the entry hall."

Obediently, Bodie raised his own glasses. While Doyle watched where they were supposed to watch, Bodie sought out the wall Doyle had indicated. It was a nice color, true, but was it just this early morning light? Would it look different at noon? As they would most likely be here then, he decided to ask during lunch. Meanwhile, he scanned the area for anything else worth looking at.

They had played their game for several years now. In the beginning, it had been just a way to waste time. As a side effect, they had improved their communication skills, and had become experts at directing attention to a certain place in the least amount of time. It had saved their lives more than once.

But, to Bodie, it was more. It was a way to learn about his partner, it was a window into the other man's life, it was a way to share. Too, it was the key to his own hobby.

"There's someone up on the roof," Doyle commented. Bodie swung his own glasses upwards.

"Pennsworthy,” Bodie noted. "Is he supposed to be there?"

"What's the log say?" Doyle asked. Bodie dropped his glasses to pick up the notebook which came with the car and the obbo. The two who had manned the car during the night had not listed Pennsworthy as having arrived.

"No. I still say there's some sort of secret passage to some other building. How else are they getting in and out? Unless you think he's been inside for five days?" Bodie inquired with just a touch of sarcasm.

"Tsk. Don't let your baser instincts loose this early in the morning. We have lots of time to descend into mindless bickering and unkind remarks." Doyle grinned as he spoke, although he did not take his gaze from the building. Bodie let his own humor show and gently hit his partner on the upper arm to show he understood.

"Have to face facts. Anson and Waters could have let themselves be distracted. Could have fallen asleep." Bodie didn't believe it, but he offered the theory anyway.

"With Cowley on the prowl, checking in so often? I wonder why he's so hot to solve this one? Just more of the same, isn't it?"

Bodie shrugged. "Can't have that brick in the entry. You already have the Italian tile."

Doyle took this shift in the conversation in stride. He was used to it. "I do like the tile," he admitted. "But it would cost too much to have a whole wall of that brick, wouldn't it?"

"Yes," Bodie said cheerfully. "But there's the kitchen still. You could put it on the pantry floor, perhaps."

"That's right, there's a pantry, isn't there!" Doyle looked quite happy at remembering this.

Bodie smiled indulgently, even as he scanned the top of the building. What was Pennsworthy doing up there? Back and forth, rather as if he were following a path, and bending over once in a while.

"Bet he's growing weed up there," Doyle offered. "Happy smoke for the crime lords."

"What an imagination you have," Bodie scoffed. "Growing things are on your mind this month. Going on about strawberries all day yesterday, you were. I still say it's cheaper and less trouble just to buy them in the market."

"You just don't know. There's nothing like the taste of fresh berries you've grown yourself. Besides, what else do you do with a garden?"

"Sit in the sun? Mow the grass?" Bodie didn't really have any idea, not having grown up with gardens. There'd been one at home, but he had not been allowed in it, for fear he would trample the plants, perhaps. At a very early age he had been sent to school, and there hadn't been gardens there, either. Only cement and dirt and neat little boxes in the front of the building where flowers grew to impress the occasional visiting parent.

"Sitting in the sun sounds nice," Doyle agreed. There was a brisk wind outside. Spring hadn't yet reached the warm stage.

"Sitting in a warm tub sounds nice. Sitting in a warm pub sounds nice. Sitting in ... "

Bodie was interrupted by the r/t. He answered it automatically. "3.7" he said, lowering his glasses.

"Report." It was Cowley, who had asked the same question only an hour ago.

"Pennsworthy is wandering around on the roof. We've been speculating on how he got up there, sir." As he spoke, Bodie was making the notation in the book.

"Nothing else?" Cowley managed to hide most of his impatience.

"No." Bodie was going to sign off when Doyle made a noise. "Just a minute, Alpha," he said, and turned an inquiring head towards his partner.

"Smythe is up there, too. Carrying something. Big. Dragging it, really. Can't tell what." Doyle made his report into the r/t, which Bodie was holding up to his mouth, since both of his hands were on the field glasses.

"So that's it!" Cowley exclaimed, and signed off.

"I wonder what the hell's going on," Bodie sighed as he replaced the r/t and leaned back in the uncomfortable seat. He retrieved his own binoculars and lifted them to his eyes. Smythe was out of sight now, but Pennsworthy was bending over. There wasn't much to see and he frowned. Doyle nudged him to indicate that he was going to let Bodie take over watching and turned to investigate the hamper he had brought along.

"Beef and onion or cheese and pickle?" Doyle asked, knowing he did not have to inquire if Bodie was hungry. Bodie could always eat.

"One of each?" Bodie suggested. "With tea?"

"None left. Coffee or cola?"

Bodie sighed. "Coffee. But I'll need to get rid of it soon." There was no place to go except down an alley wall. It was an unsanitary practice which did not bother him as much as it bothered Doyle, who had once arrested men for doing such things and still found it uncivilized and a public health hazard.

"There's a nice bit of iron rail there," Doyle said, following his partner's thought process without difficulty.

Bodie strangled a laugh. "Play The Game even while you piss, do you?"

"Why not? Innocent enough amusement, and it takes the mind off the wonderful ambiance of the surroundings. Such as the dead rat behind the rubbish bin."

Bodie couldn't keep the grin off his face. "Thought that added a bit of elan, myself." Doyle sniggered, and Bodie had to force himself to watch Pennsworthy appear and walk the length of the building before disappearing again, instead of looking over at his partner.

"Did you notice they both appeared on the south end?" Bodie commented a little later, "but they disappeared on the north?"

Doyle shook his head, but said, "I'll write that down." He did so, in his small neat policeman's print. He handed Bodie his sandwich, tucked the coffee in its plastic cup between Bodie's legs, and said "What color is that tile?"

"Three browns and a white."

"Don't see how you remember all that. So it won't go with the brick. There's a chair in that little shop next to ... you know it, where you turn to go to your place?"

"A chair?" Bodie asked around a bite of sandwich.

"Got a nice pattern in the wood. Hand carved."

"Buy it now. Not much trouble to haul a chair around, what with all those other things you're burdened with." Bodie had helped Doyle move house often enough. He was at the point where he even knew how many cartons to find. You'd think, knowing that he was going to move at least twice in any 12 month period, that Doyle would keep his boxes, but he never did.

"But it might not go with each place." Doyle took a deep swallow of his own coffee. It was not warm enough to let it sit. He hated cold coffee.

"Who cares? Imprint your personality on the place, instead of letting it dominate YOU."

"Been reading those magazines in the doctor's office again, haven't you?" Doyle teased. It wasn't vicious teasing, for he too had spent time reading whatever was at hand as he waited for one friend or another to get patched up or admitted or released. Not all that long ago, he had waited for an entire hour while they had wrapped Bodie's ankle. Not broken, fortunately. And then there had been that terrible month two years ago, when he himself had balanced between life and death, a bullet through the heart. That still gave him twinges sometimes. He knew, in the depths of his soul, that he was not the same as he had been before. It was as if the woman had shot out his youth, his energy. He had to work for what had once come easily. He could run, he could fight, but the reserves he had once had were gone.

There were times when Doyle feared that he would let his partner down, when he strained to match him and felt the faltering deep inside him. He thought of quitting, but he found that idea repugnant. CI5 had become part of him, damn George Cowley for it, and he could scarcely entertain the thought of leaving. Leaving Bodie.

Bodie. Another problem. He was beginning to be afraid of what Bodie meant to him. Bodie was now ... more. Partner, friend, and true companion? What was Bodie? It bothered him that he could not name the essence of their friendship. Sometimes, The Game bothered him. How many years had they been playing it? Two? Very domestic, when you thought about it. Who had started it?

It had been that stakeout in Kent. They'd hidden in the bushes, and eventually, having run out of other topics of conversation, they had discussed the house itself. It had ugly shutters, but the most delightful stained glass inset in the door. The steps had been curved, with stone dogs at the bottom. It had taken almost a half an hour to exhaust the merits of stone anythings on stairs, in gardens, in houses.

At some point, however, they had started collecting the best features of the places they had to spend time at in the line of duty, and putting them into a non-existent house. They each had their own roles in the game. Either could spot a feature, either could suggest an item be added to the mythical home they had created. Doyle, however, had the last word about what was appropriate or artistic, and Bodie had the job of remembering everything which had been included, rejected or put aside for further consideration.

It was a silly thing for two grown men to do. Inventing dream houses was the province of little girls or interior decorators. Yet it whiled away many a dull hour, and it had a positive effect on their outlook. If one was planning, even for a future which would never happen, then the reality of CI5, of a job where death lingered in corners and danger was in every street, was somehow softened. Having something to look forward to was almost as important as having something to occupy the mind. It was very portable, it was not so vital that they became involved and did not give proper attention to their job, and not so dull that they abandoned it.

If it seemed strange that Bodie was most often the one who began the game, it was even stranger that it had improved their teamwork and their ability to communicate. Always good together, they now worked on a level which surpassed all other teams in CI5. George Cowley had given up trying to analyze what made it work and merely used it. Kate Ross had been forced to change computer programs and put in overtime, and still could not produce an explanation which satisfied her.

"What time is it?" Bodie asked a few minutes later.

"Just nine. Why?" Doyle took over the watching, knowing that Bodie needed his comfort stop.

"We're off at one, right?"

"Right. Why?" Doyle, eyes forward, found his mouth with his can and took a cautious sip.

"Need to go to the shops. Are you coming with me?"

"Probably. Have to get some new aftershave if I'm to impress Bethany tonight."

"Take more than cheap scent, mate," Bodie said, before leaving the car for the alley. He was careful as he picked his way through the refuse, and alert as well. It was the weekend, but there were still unsavory characters loitering here. Twice they had been accosted in their car. They had pretended to be waiting for someone -- it wasn't said, but all involved knew it was a drug dealer -- and Doyle had even had to purchase some gritty white powder from a young man who had obviously had been sampling his own wares. All this went down in the log.

Bodie watered a wall he had marked before, wondering, since it was in sight of the dead rat, if this were the place Doyle used as well. He thought about how dull stakeouts were, and he thought about Ray Doyle.

Ray. Ray, with the brown curls and the green eyes which seemed to see everything except the one thing Bodie worked hard to keep hidden from him. Beautiful Ray.

Ray, who was straight.

Of course, when it came to that, so was William Bodie. Unless one counted what went on in his head. Bodie dated girls, he had an active and normal sex life in all respects. Except one. At some point, he had developed an odd and encompassing passion for his partner.

It had been a shock, discovering he was capable of imagining sex with a man. He was grateful that the aberration didn't extend to his social life, that he could still date and make love to a woman just as he always had. But what he wanted, for some strange reason he had never been able to sort out, was this scruffy man with the shadows under his eyes. Bodie often made love in the dark so that he could let his imagination run free, and he always closed his eyes when the moment of truth came and he whirled away in the wild freedom of orgasm. His teeth clenched then, too, both with the pleasure and in an effort not to say the name he must never say. Ray.

He wanted to live with him. He wanted to wake up beside him, cook breakfast with him, work with him, play with him. The sex ... well, he assumed it would be great. Everything with Doyle was great. Even sitting in this stinking car in this miserable location on a cold day was good, because it was with Doyle.

He had it bad.

That was the attraction of The Game. It was a most bittersweet pleasure to imagine a house where he and Doyle lived. The perfect house. Surely, if the place were perfect, then the unfortunate fact that the companion there was not a woman could be overlooked?

Or would Doyle find a woman to join them? Just like him to miss the whole point of it.

But it wasn't like Bodie to stand in an alley and moon about what could go wrong in a dream which was an impossibility, so he tucked himself back in and went back to the car.

Once there, he took over the watching -- the job was hard on the arms -- and let Doyle take his turn in the alley.

Just as Doyle was sliding back into the car, the r/t crackled and sputtered and Doyle answered it.

"4.5," he said crisply.

"I want you to come in," Cowley's voice said. "Take the long way and make sure you are not followed."

"Any other instructions?" Doyle asked, as Cowley paused.

"No. Alpha out."

"He must have got those bugs in place. Wonder what fun thing he has in store for us for the rest of the day?" Bodie said.

"Only one way to find out. Fire up the horses, James."

Bodie was all too willing to do just that. They eased out of their spot and headed for more populated areas.

"You don't suppose he'll give us the rest of the day off?" Doyle asked as they found some traffic and started to lose themselves in it.

"You are talking about Cowley, aren't you?" Bodie inquired with mock concern.

"Sorry. I wasn't thinking." Doyle began to pack away the binoculars in the leather cases and to clear away some of the clutter which had accumulated during the last six hours. They had taken over from the other team at three in the morning. Not all of the mess was theirs, but they knew better than to turn in a car which had to be cleaned. It was better to stay on the good side of the grease monkeys. "I'll be glad when we can drive a real car again," he added. The motor on this one was good enough, but the appearance was of something which longed for the wrecker's yard.

"Me, I'll settle for something warmer. My toes are cold," Bodie complained.

The rest of the morning was filled with reports, but they were off by three. They shopped together on the way home, so that it was almost five when they separated. Doyle went to relax and to get ready for his date.

Bodie went to buy a chair.

---

APRIL

"We've recovered seven more bodies today, bringing the total up to twenty-nine," George Cowley said, checking a sheet of paper before he put it down and looked directly at the two agents who sat alertly before him.

"But who can we charge, and will it stick?" Doyle asked. He slouched in his chair, rubbing his nose absently as he thought of the consequences.

"It will be difficult, but we do have some tapes and film. I want you to follow up on several points in regards to ... "

He was interrupted at that point by the phone, which he put to his ear. The conversation from this side was disappointing; it was a series of yes, no, and of course which ended when Cowley, an irritated expression on his face, put down the phone and shook his head.

"I will have to change the plans. I've been asked to supply some men to advise local police on a matter which seems to be escalating. You two will go immediately to Brixton. In addition to giving whatever advice seems appropriate, I will want you to observe all aspects of the situation and report back to me.” He made a motion with his hand, telling them not to linger.

"Yes, sir," Bodie spoke for both of them as they went out the door. Then he said to Doyle, "That's the wrong way."

"No, it isn't. We need to pick up some wheels," Doyle told him, heading down towards the garage.

"We both brought cars today," Bodie reminded him.

"Not cars you want to drive into that area. Lose your wheels before you park it. I want to see if that old wreck we had last month is still available."

"I hate that thing," Bodie grumbled, but he followed along. Doyle's experiences as a copper were usually the butt of his jokes, but Bodie knew the other man had knowledge he didn't, and he was willing to trust it. All too soon they were heading south. Their conversation was not on their new assignment, however, but on their old one.

"Who would have guessed," Doyle began, pointing to the left at an intersection so that Bodie, who was driving, would not miss the turn. Bodie gave him a gesture which involved several fingers which indicated he had planned to turn there anyway and guided the car into the traffic. "Murder. We were actually sitting in that alley watching them dispose of bodies, and never knew it!"

Bodie nodded, checking his mirror. "Layered them in the tar on the roof. Murphy said there was room for at least a hundred, and some of the bodies had been up there for at least ten years."

"They'll have to take the whole building down. Might be more in the cellar."

"You have a disgustingly clever mind. What if they started on the roof only because all the other nooks and crannies were full?" Bodie changed lanes.

"Your mind is worse than mine," Doyle replied mildly. "I hope he can pin it on the Mafia. That lot's getting too bold."

"At least we don't have to do the follow-up on this case. It's up to Scotland Yard and insurance companies and anybody else who has the manpower to sift through missing persons reports and dead bodies. What a nest of snakes." Bodie turned. "Where is the police station? Isn't that where we check in?"

"It's to the left. Turn there." Doyle answered the first question and then the second. "I think so. Advice to the police, that's the way I understood it," Doyle confirmed. The new road was not as wide as the one they had just left and Bodie slowed down.

"What's that?" Bodie lowered his window to listen to faint shouts and the wail of a siren. He exchanged looks with his partner and then changed directions. They were now going down a street with ugly old houses converted into flats on one side and even less attractive store fronts on the other. Doyle's hand was reaching for the radio.

All hell broke loose.

From out of the sky, a flaming mattress fell into traffic. It landed on top of a mini in the opposite lane, completely obscuring the driver's view as it slid forward over the windscreen. The driver panicked, braking suddenly, sending the car behind slamming into it. The third car behind that one turned into Bodie's lane to avoid making it a threesome, and Bodie had to perform miracles to avoid hitting that car, the pedestrians, or parked cars. Outside there were screams and the distant sound of a growing riot. Bodie gunned the car to get out of the tangle, braked as Doyle shouted and he saw the lorry ahead of them swerve at the arrival of a second chunk of burning debris.

Bodie's muscles bulged with the effort of doing the impossible. He swore, braced himself and, fought to force the car out of the path of sure death. He went up on the sidewalk, scattering the people too stupid to have left the scene. It wasn't enough. The sound of tearing steel and the impact of tons of metal against the ten year old car made hardly any impression on his adrenaline charged mind. They were sent crab-wise across traffic, coming up against a parked car first and then sliding sideways into the glass of a store front. He was turning his head, frantic to see Doyle, when his hand came up to his scalp. He was wondering at the feel of blood when the world vanished into a swirl of blackness.

---

"Doyle?"

"Ray?" Where was he? Where was his partner? "Ray!"

There was a voice. "What is he saying?" it asked. He felt impatient with it.

"What he always says. He wants Mr. Doyle. Please, Mr. Bodie. You mustn't thrash about like that. Mr. Doyle isn't here. He'll be here later. You've been injured, you know. Let us take care of you. You don't want to disturb that ankle, you know. It's broken in three places! Mr. Bodie! Nurse, the ... thank you. I ... "

It faded, after that. He woke up again and asked for water, for Doyle, for news, but got none of them, and drifted out of himself, floating in whiteness. He roused when someone did something painful with a catheter, but could not focus. He remembered trying to shout, and nothing came out of his mouth. There were bad dreams. A whole series of them, or were they all created at once in that jumbled half-awake state he found himself in? How much time had passed?

And where was Ray?

Answers came, eventually. He was in a hospital, he knew that. Knew he hated hospitals, and was reminded why with every breath he took. He knew where he hurt. Head. Leg. Back. Foot. Still, he lifted his head, trying to see. A nurse hurried over.

"Ray ... Doyle?"

"They've just brought him in. He's just out of surgery, can't talk, luv. Maybe later. You need your rest, too. Don't disturb the line," she admonished, and Bodie looked beyond the plastic tubing to the left.

That was Ray Doyle?

It wasn't. Was it? He tried to focus, tried to see his partner under the bandages. If it was Ray Doyle, then they had shaved his hair and his head was wrapped in white. His shoulder was held in some sort of frame. A cast was on his wrist. The black tracks of stitches wandered up his other arm, almost buried in swollen flesh. More stitches down the side of his face and across his torso. No doubt there were more hidden by the white sheet which lay folded across his still body.

"Ray?"

"You can talk to him later. Right now, we need to change your drip," the nurse said briskly.

"Ray? Is he ... is he ... "

"Alive? Yes. Going to stay that way? According to the doctor, he has a good chance. Just lie back. Are you feeling well enough to take some soup in a few minutes?"

Bodie did not care about the soup. The thought of food left him sick. "What happened?" He only remembered the terrible sound.

"Riots." The woman was taking his pulse. "Terrible thing. All of Brixton is ... fires, overturned police cars, police called in. Over a thousand, they said, and the Prime Minister has made a statement ... " She paused to consult her watch, counting to herself. "It's the blacks you know, no jobs and high interest, according to the telly, and something about harassment from the police starting it all, but no one can sort it out. Petrol bombs, bricks, iron bars. We've been kept no end busy, and we're not the closest hospital, either. Millions of pounds damage," she added.

Bodie closed his eyes. He appreciated the information, but it wasn't what he wanted to know. "To ... us ... car?"

"Car? That scrap they pulled off of you? Hit by a lorry, I'm told. It was slowed by the other four vehicles it hit. Miracle you and your friend are alive." She was bringing forward a tray.

"Ray?"

"He's asleep, dear. Can't bother him now."

"I need to ... "

George Cowley was there when he woke up. Cowley asked all the usual questions, gave all the usual answers. But Bodie's glance kept straying to the still figure in the other bed until Cowley told him Ray was asleep. And then Bodie was, too.

It was morning when he woke up properly. The pain pills must have run out, for he woke in that stage of agony with which he was unfortunately too familiar. The hurt fills your senses, robbing you of all the keenness of sight and sound, so that you find yourself focusing on the pain to the exclusion of anything else. Bodie hated that, hated when the pain took over. At this point there was nothing to be done but endure, and so he did, but not with good grace. They came and gave him shots for the pain, and pills, but it was never enough to take it away for long. He didn't want that anyway. He wanted to stay as alert as he could.

Ray made sounds now. Hurt sounds, moans. Doyle came almost out of the haze of his own pain, but then he would sink down again. Doyle had nurses fussing over him more often than Bodie did. Bodie would try to see, and they would block his view, he would worry, and they would never tell him what he wanted to know.

Bodie had his own hurts sorted out. The back was strained, and he had bruises top to bottom. He had a severe gash on his arm, clear down to the bone for the length of his forearm. He had a broken ankle. He'd had a concussion at some point.

But no one would tell him about Ray.

One afternoon, just after the nurse had come in, checked Ray, not answered questions and left, Bodie sat up. He waited for the world to become still again, and then forced himself to his feet. He held onto the bed, the frame which held the privacy curtain, the table which held his water, and managed to make it the seven steps to the other bed.

"Ray?" The backs of his fingers brushed the white skin. Damp with sweat, pale with loss of blood and pain, Ray Doyle still looked good to Bodie. "Are you there?" he asked, making his voice as normal as possible. Doyle's eyelids fluttered and his head turned.

Bodie smiled. None of his friends or co-workers would have recognized that smile, and Bodie was uncertain as it touched his face, for he didn't need a mirror to know that it showed more than he wanted shown. No one was about, and he let his face show what he felt, what he usually kept inside.

With determination, he pulled back the sheet which covered his partner. The smile left him as he saw the sorry state Doyle was in. The stitches traveled in strange parallel lines across his abdomen, and down ...

Bodie swallowed, shocked in spite of his belief that nothing was left to shock him. The stitches continued on Doyle's penis; it had obviously been a near thing. A puncture wound and scrape on the thigh made him wonder what exactly had happened. A combination of fear and curiosity made him reach forward and gently check to see if there were any hidden injuries. With one finger he lifted the penis and nudged aside the balls. No damage beyond a scratch. He had touched Doyle only lightly, with one finger tip, but that small action made him draw a deep breath.

He had never touched a man there.

Soft. Yielding. The bruises were a rainbow of purples, blacks and blues. He understood the cliche which said it hurt just to look at it, for his own genitals had tightened as if they wished to crawl into his body. And yet there was a warmth, too, which told him that if he were not hurt, if Ray were not hurt, if ...

If. Bodie's smile returned, but this time it was bitter. He took his hand to Doyle's head this time, tracing the edge of white gauze. Five or six stitches there above the ear, and scrapes and cuts over most of the left side of his head, Bodie noted, but none of them looked very bad. Scalp wounds bled a lot and his imagination kept supplying him with a picture of Doyle covered in blood. He shivered.

"Doyle?" he asked softly. He didn't want to attract the attention of any of the staff. "C'mon, mate. Let's see those jade green eyes."

A ripple of tenderness went through him. He could say that. No one to hear.

"Sunshine? Time to wake up. Want to be sure you're all right," he told him. Doyle moved his head at the sound but did not respond in any other way, so Bodie just sat there, looking, touching what bits looked unharmed every so often, and occasionally whispering a word or two. Only when he heard the clank of a trolley did he make his way slowly back to bed.

This didn't stop him from doing it again that night when the shift had changed and the place was almost quiet for once. He sat on the edge of Doyle's bed, ignoring the trickle of blood spilling from one of his own cuts which had re-opened with his exertion, and talked, and touched when he dared -- it wouldn't do for anyone to come in and catch him at this -- and willed his partner to wake up.

It worked. Doyle sighed, moved restlessly, and opened his eyes. They wandered, then focused on Bodie. The full lips, now split both top and bottom, parted, and then moved as Doyle almost managed to say Bodie's name.

"Glad to see you back with the living," Bodie said, more lightly than he felt. "Was getting a bit dull around here, talking to myself. Of course, there are the nurses, but somehow they manage to shove things in embarrassing places as they chat. Quite ruins the conversation, it does."

Doyle's lips trembled with what was probably intended to be a smile, but his eyes closed almost at the same time.

Bodie was content to look at him for a moment before he went back to bed. He did not sleep well. Chimes, pain, voices, cries in the night. There were no comfortable positions. He dozed, until a nurse came in and, before he was quite aware, she had slipped a needle into his arm.

Ten hours later someone called his name and he realized that Murph and Jax had dropped by. When they were gone he wondered what he had said. Doyle had slept through the visit, moaning once or twice. Bodie had explained that Doyle was doped against the pain, which was not true. Most of the drugs should be out of his system by now. It was just sleep, the sleep an abused body needed to repair itself. Still, Bodie was uneasy, and when his friends were gone he called a nurse and bombarded her with questions. To his surprise, she sent a doctor to him with answers.

Dr. Allen was thin, intense, and obviously in a hurry, but he was also a fountain of information. Doyle's x-rays showed he had a hairline crack in his skull which should cause no problems with reasonable care. They were most worried about his heart, where the trauma and bruising and swelling had aggravated the scar tissue from his old bullet wound.

"But he's going to be fine?" Bodie asked when the man paused.

"May I speak frankly?" The doctor had a beard shadow which he rubbed absently with his hand. Bodie wondered how long he had been on duty.

"Please." Bodie made the one word bland and hid the rising worry he felt.

"I think you both will be looking for a new line of work."

"Both of us." Bodie didn't make it a question, just a flat statement.

"Yes. Unless there's desk work for you in CI5. You've done the same ankle three times now. It's going to mend, but not the way you want it to. Doyle's heart is going to take a long time to recover. The scar tissue from his previous heart surgery tore. He will have an early retirement out of this. Fancy a pension?"

Bodie made a face.

"I'm serious. I will tell Mr. Cowley that I will sign the medical papers on Mr. Doyle at any time. For you, there might be enough change in six months to warrant a re-evaluation, but I am giving you no false hope. I will show you your x-rays if you like. Calcium deposits."

Bodie looked at him sharply. "Why are you telling me this?" he asked.

"Recognize the technique, do you?" The doctor smiled a wintery, tired smile and straightened. "May I speak even more frankly?"

Bodie stared at him a moment and then nodded.

"Mr. Cowley seems to think that you and Mr. Doyle are ... close."

"Close." Bodie repeated the word with just a slight change in inflection which asked what the hell the doctor thought he was on about.

"Close, Mr. Bodie. As in," he paused, obviously uneasy, "as in, lovers."

"Mr. Cowley thinks that?" Bodie hid his surprise, but not the twinge of pain the thought brought.

"Is he wrong?" the doctor wanted to know, studying his patient carefully.

"You could say that."

"Mr. Bodie, I need your cooperation here! Plans for Mr. Doyle depend upon your answers. It would help if I had some."

Bodie, although reluctant to speak, knew the doctor had pushed the right button. The name of Ray Doyle had its own power. He adjusted the pillow at his back and spoke.

"Cowley's got part of it right. What I feel for Ray is more than ... what it should be. Doyle doesn't know. But he's my best mate."

"That changes things, I suppose. Mr. Cowley's idea was that Doyle would need your support once the news was broken to him, but he was of the opinion that as long as he had you, the loss of his job could be weathered."

"He's got me, doctor, as a friend. It will be enough."

"Will it be enough if you retain your CI5 job and he loses his?" asked the doctor.

"I can get other jobs. So can Doyle. Nothing wrong with his brain, after all. Is there?" Bodie asked the last suddenly, as if the thought had struck him, hard.

"As far as we know at this moment, he is mentally unharmed. However, I have read the reports. He's not responding quite as he should. He took a very long time to come out from under the drugs. It's been suggested that he can't understand the difference between this occasion and the last time he was in the hospital. He may subconsciously believe that he has been or is near death, and he doesn't want to face that. It's important that you be there for him, Mr. Bodie."

"Bodie."

"Excuse me?" The doctor straightened up, confused.

"No mister. Just Bodie. And of course I am going to be there for Ray. What do you want me to do?"

"Talk to him. Explain things as he recovers his senses. If possible, prepare him for the news Mr. Cowley will give him about his future. Keep his spirits up. Help him plan for the future."

"I'd do that anyway."

"Good. We're also going to ask you to tell us if you think he needs help. A spy in the camp, so to speak."

Bodie shook his head. "No. I'm going to be honest with Ray. Nothing behind his back."

"We're not asking you to ... " The doctor began, and then paused, and shrugged. "As long as he gets help if he needs it." He glanced at his watch. "I have patients to see. We can talk again later. Bodie." With a nod, he left the room.

"Fool."

Bodie swung his head at the new voice. He hid his surprise. "How long have you been listening?"

Doyle opened his eyes. "Long enough."

"How long?" Bodie insisted.

"Long enough to hear that Cowley has very odd ideas about us." Doyle, whose voice was light, paused, wetting his lips. He looked over at the water on the bedside tray, which was just out of his reach. Bodie reached out and managed to push it a few inches closer. With his good hand, Doyle brought the water to his mouth and sucked on the straw. He made a face as he set it down.

"Warm."

"Yeah."

"The doctor's wrong, about me, too. I know this isn't the time I was shot. Figured that out hours ago."

Bodie was more concerned with another aspect. "So you heard what I said? About ... "

"I heard."

"Sorry. He shouldn't have talked to me here. Loud lout." Bodie chose to rail at the doctor rather than address the thousand questions and fears which tumbled in his mind.

A drop of sweat left Doyle's hair line and slid into his eyebrow. Doyle gave a short, quickly aborted shake of his head. "You should have told me."

"You're joking, aren't you? Not the sort of thing one says to a man, is it?"

"Depends, doesn't it?" Doyle's voice was a little stronger and his face had lost some of its paleness. Bodie did not look at him directly, but he was aware of Doyle's every move. "It wasn't quite clear to me."

"What wasn't?"

"How you feel. About me."

Bodie took a deep breath, but it did not help. He remained silent.

"Well? Love, lust, what?" Doyle asked.

"You'll laugh."

Doyle grimaced. Maybe it was a twinge of pain. "Do you really think that?"

"So maybe you won't laugh. Maybe it will be worse."

"I won't laugh." Doyle took another sip of the water.

"It's everything."

"Everything?" Doyle asked uncertainly.

"Yes. You know how it is. You date a bird, you like her sense of humor or her legs or ... something. But there's things you don't like, as well. Her laugh or her perfume or what she wants to do or she gets serious too fast. So you go on and find someone else. With you ... there's nothing I don't like. Face, body, mind. Everything." Bodie looked away, fiddling with his own water glass with his good hand. He took a drink. His mouth was dry.

"I didn't know you were gay," Doyle said a bit later.

Bodie looked up sharply. "I'm not."

"You aren't into fellows?"

"Never had one."

Doyle raised an eyebrow. It looked odd, for part of it was shaved away. "But you fancy me?"

Bodie nodded.

"How can you know that's what you want then? You could just be ... " Doyle didn't finish.

"I just know."

Doyle didn't argue with that. He closed his eyes. Bodie wondered if he had fallen asleep. Eventually, Doyle opened them again. "What do you want from me?"

"Whatever you can give."

Doyle's eyes closed again, and this time Bodie was sure he was asleep. Bodie eased back into his own hard pillow and stared at the ceiling. So much to think about. He let his mind dwell on Cowley, being wrong. Clever old sod. Half of what he was doing was keeping Bodie's mental state positive by giving him a project. In seeing Doyle through, the old man expected that Bodie would come through, too. Was he really ignorant of the state of affairs, or was he trying to arrange things in his favor, as usual? Did he know about Bodie's feelings and feed the doctor enough facts to force Bodie to reveal the true state of their relationship? What did Cowley really think?

What did Doyle really think? He had taken the shock well. He hadn't been disgusted, but then Doyle had a liberal streak left over from his misspent youth.

Doyle knew. It was up to Doyle, now, what happened. Bodie was in for a rocky few days. Right now, Doyle seemed to be focusing on Bodie and the shocking news that his partner fancied him. Later, what the doctor had said about the job, about his future, would come back to Doyle. He'd be hard to live with until he worked it out inside. Doyle was adaptable, but he hated to have his choices taken away, he hated to be forced.

Bodie knew things would be different between them now, no matter what conclusions Doyle would come to in his brooding and thinking. Everything was changed. The thought made him tired. He closed his own eyes, realizing that the pain had faded into the background as he had talked, but now it seemed to be intensifying. He tried to force himself to relax because it was worse if he fought it, but his body would not listen to him. The pain rose, but Bodie's awareness of the man in the other bed remained with him until his exhausted body fell into the deep sleep it needed.

---

Hospital food. It was vile. Bodie jabbed his spoon into mashed potatoes which had more in common with plaster than with food. But he ate. He was hungry. He thought about chocolate and wine and cake. He tried not to look over at the other bed, where a pretty nurse was helping Ray Doyle eat.

Why did she have to be so pretty? Her soft blonde hair and deep blue eyes were just the sort of thing Doyle liked and of course he was responding to her gentle coaxing ways. She was patting the sweat from his brow now, in classic fashion.

Bodie frowned at the chopped meat on his own tray and brought a piece up to his mouth, reflecting that while he had some difficulty eating, there were no pretty women to help him.

Not that he wanted pretty women. He responded to attention from them, of course. Always had, even after he figured out where his heart lay. Sublimation, that was, and lifelong habits. No, it wasn't that he wanted the nurse for herself. It was because she made things out of balance between Bodie and his partner. She wasn't something they could share, the experience wasn't one he was having, too. Bodie felt alone.

This was partly because Doyle had said little to him in the last 24 hours. Of course, a good deal of it had been spent in sleep. It seemed like if Bodie was asleep, then Doyle was awake, and if Doyle was asleep, then Bodie woke up. They had given Doyle a light sedative when he became so restless the night before. Bodie had held himself still, head turned away from the light but listening to everything said, every move made. Afterwards, he listened to the small sounds Doyle made before he fell asleep, and he thought about how intimate it was to listen to another person in the darkness. He let his mind toy with thoughts he usually did not allow himself.

Bodie played his own version of the game they had invented. He imagined Doyle in each room of their dream house. Doyle, in the kitchen, constructing one of his elaborate salads, looking up as Bodie came in, smiling. That was one of his favorites. And Doyle, emerging from the shower wrapped in one of those huge towels he had once said he favored. Deep blue it was. Or green. Green to match his eyes. Doyle, in the garden, Doyle in the pantry, Doyle crouched down in front of his stereo, while a fire burned in the fireplace. Doyle, stretched out on that huge sofa he had admired last year, his head in Bodie's lap as they watched the match on the box.

Sweet, silly dreams, easy to build, easy to imagine when the soft sound of Doyle's breath was only a few feet from him. He thought of a king-sized bed, and Doyle on the other side of it with him, just about as far away from Bodie as he was now, waiting for Bodie to scoot over, wake him with a kiss and ...

And love him.

Pure fantasy, of course. Doyle was over there, breathing unevenly, ill and sore and unlikely to have anything more than survival on his mind.

Cowley came. He had obviously spoken with the doctor. In his clipped voice, he echoed what Dr. Allen had said. The job they had done well for years was not theirs anymore. They would not be expelled at once, however. They would first heal, and then be evaluated. Cowley asked if they would be willing to do a desk job. Those he described had little appeal, but both Bodie and Doyle promised to consider it. The rate of pay was also less, of course. The real question, which all three were aware of but did not voice, was if they could stand what was essentially a demotion. Could they endure the pity, the casual dismissal by new agents, the long hours in the files or on the phone?

Cowley did not ask for answers, he only presented facts, but he seemed willing to go to considerable lengths to provide them with a future. He also left them with chocolate for Bodie and grapes for Doyle. He did not stay long and he did not make any reference to their personal relationship, or lack of it.

When they were alone again, Doyle slept, and Bodie watched the TV and tried not to give into the impulse to wake him up. He wanted Doyle. Not sexually. He was still at the stage when a lusty thought found his body unwilling to second the motion. He wanted the company, the comfort that just being with Doyle brought.

Doyle woke up in time for the evening meal, which he neglected.

"You should eat," Bodie said, striving to keep his worry from showing in his voice.

"I have Cowley's grapes," Doyle pointed out as the cheerful woman removed the remains of the meal.

"Going to share?" Bodie asked.

"Will you share your chocolate?" Doyle teased.

"Yes." He hesitated and then confessed, "I like the idea of sharing with you."

Doyle looked up.

"Half of it in you, half of it in me. Seems right, somehow."

"I wondered if I dreamed it." He did not have to say what. Bodie knew.

Bodie shook his head. "None of it, I suspect. The question is, can you accept it?"

"What do you mean?" Doyle asked. He was not looking at Bodie, he seemed to see something beyond the white walls.

"Can you stand to be with me, knowing how I feel?" Bodie asked intently.

Doyle gave a casual shrug. "Why not?"

Bodie made an inelegant sound. "Look mate, it's important. If you can't even stand to be around me, then I won't even bother making you this offer."

"Offer?" Now Doyle turned his head to look at Bodie.

"We aren't going to be much good for awhile. Our careers are ... " He made a face and gave a wry smile. "We're both going to be out. Maybe for good. That's fact." Bodie didn't appear to be nervous, but he made the curious hunching motion that a person wearing a shoulder holster makes to settle it, which betrayed his emotional state. "I know how you felt about that place they had you in while you recovered from your last bullet wounds."

"It was nuns," Doyle complained, as he had a hundred times since. "I'd been without for weeks and bloody Cowley puts me in a home run by nuns!"

"I remember," Bodie said. "And who knows where you'll be put this next time? That place in Kent where MI5 and MI6 stash their invalids? I have a better idea. You and I can put together our own convalescent home."

"Not one of your better ideas. They'll never let us do it. Besides, I'll need some therapy, too."

"We can have someone in every day for an hour or two. I'll get the place ready. They won't keep me much longer." Years of experience were behind that prediction. "By the time they let you out, I'll be getting around fairly well. We can have some help in. We can do on the cheap, much less than that place you were in before. Cost five hundred a month, it did."

"Don't be daft!" Doyle was both amazed and upset. "Cowley never paid that much to have me harassed by nuns!"

"They didn't harass you. They just kept you fed, helped you to the loo and made sure you did your therapy."

"You don't know," Doyle said darkly, "how they can torture you! All in the name of good health! One gave me a sponge bath daily, with ice water!"

"Which I would never do! Only the finest warm water for you, scented with roses!" Bodie was joking, but Doyle recognized the underlying seriousness in the offer. "But that's why you'd have to be comfortable with the idea. Would you feel right letting me help you do all those intimate things, knowing how I feel about you?"

"It couldn't be worse than the nuns!" Doyle insisted.

"What did they do that was so bad?" Bodie asked, curious.

"It wasn't them, it was me. My body didn't know they were nuns, even if my head did! Fatal beauty drove two of those women to the convent! And the other was a drill sergeant in a former life!"

"Not so loud! We don't want Sister in here, do we?" Bodie asked, with a glance at the door.

Doyle made a face, half agreement, half mock-horror. Bodie was glad to see it, for it meant that his partner was feeling better. For the first time he seemed like himself.

"So here's what. You and me, a house, somebody to clean up a bit, and the PT in every day. Could you stand it?" Bodie kept most of the hope out of his voice.

"I could try," Doyle said. Bodie knew Doyle would want to get out of hospital as soon as he could. Bodie was the same way himself.

"I promise I won't make it hard for you. Won't put the moves on you or make myself a pest. Just friends."

"Can you do that?" Doyle asked.

"Yes." Bodie said it firmly. He was sure he could. He knew he would hurt, he knew it would not be easy, but he knew he could.

"I'll think about it."

Bodie knew none of what he felt showed on his face, but his partner knew him enough to read the non-expression.

"I not only want to be able to think about it," Doyle said, "I want to find out the options, and I want to hear from the doctor before I decide. I'll let you know as soon as they tell me when I can get out of here. If we do, there will be a lot of work. We'd have to make plans, rent a place, get everything ready."

"WE don't. I have to. I'll be out before you. All you have to do is mend," he said, and then he added, as Doyle's eyes closed briefly, "and sleep."

"Mmm." Doyle didn't speak again. He slept until they woke him up to check his blood pressure. They also wheeled out some of the monitoring equipment which had been beside him ever since he had first been brought in. Bodie was heartened by that, and he had napped the rest of the day, turning his head every time he woke up to be sure that Doyle was there, that he was breathing. Then he sank down into a doze again, able to sleep for a little while longer.

The result of sleeping during the day is that one is awake during the night. Some time after midnight, Bodie woke up. He knew the moment his eyes opened what his body needed, and he cursed it silently. Bodie sat up slowly, letting the waves of pain roll over him and then ease a bit before he stood up. He made it to the loo, had the relief of doing it all himself instead of with the assistance of a nurse and a bedpan. His back ached. Only wrenched, they had said, but it hurt more than his ankle in the cast. He was right handed and most of the damage was on his right side, so he fumbled around left handed as best he could.

His excursion left him so tired that he fell asleep at once. He woke up to light feminine laughter.

Emma.

He knew who it was before he opened his eyes. She was a friend of Doyle's, a nurse in another hospital. It was evident that she had heard he was here and come to offer comfort.

She straightened his pillow, helped him drink his juice, and patted such parts of him as were not injured. Bodie kept still and pretended to be asleep. She stayed what seemed to him a very long time, as she helped Doyle eat his breakfast.

When she was gone, Doyle said, "You can open your eyes now."

Bodie could see no reason not to. He gave a great show of stretching and waking. His own breakfast was there. Cold, he noticed. He was hungry enough to spoon up the cereal and devour the dry toast without complaint.

"We're well enough for visitors, apparently," Doyle said, watching Bodie at his single-minded pursuit of sustenance.

Bodie paused and said evenly, "She's a nice woman."

"Yes, she is. She's volunteered to take care of me once they let me out of here." Doyle watched Bodie carefully for his reaction. Bodie kept up a steady chewing. "Bodie?"

"If it's what you want," Bodie said after he swallowed.

"Generous of you," Doyle said with light sarcasm.

"I've never known anyone who can force you to do something against your will. Except maybe Cowley," Bodie said plainly. "Either you'll go for my plan or you'll find another course of action. Up to you."

"But it bothered you, Emma showing up?" Doyle pressed.

"Not at all. Loved every minute of it." Bodie made it a joke, all the while ignoring the dull feeling which had invaded his chest when he remembered the light smacking sound of her parting kiss. "I expect we'll both get some visitors now that the news has had time to get about. No doubt we'll have a steady stream of your former conquests showing up on the doorstep from now on."

"Yours, too, I suppose," Doyle commented, and he let himself ease back onto his pillows.

Bodie did not answer. When he looked over at Doyle, he found that his partner had fallen asleep, mouth partly open. Not very attractive, thought Bodie. That didn't explain why he spent several minutes just watching Doyle sleep.

What a stupid conversation. Bodie brooded on it as the morning advanced. Towards afternoon, Bodie's prediction came true. Visitors came. Fellow agents, former girlfriends, various doctors and nurses, all popped in for one reason or another. Bodie watched Doyle force himself to appear alert and on the mend and Bodie bit back most of the negative comments which came to mind as he listened to the same conversations again and again. Didn't visitors ever have anything original to say? He was glad enough when visiting hours were over. Doyle fell promptly asleep, but moaned once in a while as if his dreams were bad, or as if in his sleep he could no longer hold the pain at bay.

It kept Bodie awake, and finally he climbed out of his bed and hobbled over to Doyle's. He sat there, daring to place a hand on Doyle's arm and pat him when he made any sound. Eventually, Doyle became quieter, and Bodie took his own stiff and complaining body back to bed.

They had Doyle out for tests the next morning, and he returned grey and silent. Bodie was allowed to get up for an official first trip to the bathroom. It was hardly adventure, but then again, it was the high point of the day. There were more visitors in the evening, most of them for Doyle, most of them hard to ignore. Bodie dozed.

Dr. Allen came by to tell Bodie he would be released tomorrow. Bodie wondered if the man knew he was better than he pretended to be, or was just clearing the room for another patient. He didn't like the idea of some other man sharing the room with Doyle. He knew, however, that he himself was on the mend. Crutches would give him mobility enough, and he was well used the bloody things, having broken and sprained his lower extremities time and time again. He asked to be taken to a phone to make arrangements and was wheeled out by a pretty nurse who flirted mildly with him all the way, but who showed her displeasure when his one phone call became three, one of them quite lengthy.

The crowd had cleared out of their room by the time Bodie returned.

"So you'll be set free tomorrow," Doyle said, thereby proving that he had listened in on Bodie's conversation with the doctor -- again.

"So it seems," Bodie said, grimacing as he struggled back into bed. It felt great to stretch out. He sighed as the bed took his weight. "Would you care to make up your mind?" Bodie asked as soon as he was as comfortable as he was likely to get.

"About what?" Doyle asked.

Bodie made a face at the ceiling. Doyle was not that dumb.

"Oh. That." Doyle sighed.

"I need to know."

"You or the nuns," Doyle said dispiritedly.

"Easy choice," Bodie told him.

Doyle made a negative sound. Bodie made a mildly offensive gesture with the hand closest to his partner.

"You're better than nuns," Doyle decided. "I'll give it a try."

"Ta very much," said Bodie in the face of such enthusiasm.

"I've a right to be concerned." Doyle told him. "I don't like being dependent on anyone. Even you."

"But you are, of course. Every minute out on the street. Just as I rely on you. It's not a thing measured out, you know. You won't owe me anything for this. It won't change anything."

Doyle said, "I've always admired your dry wit, Bodie. Ha ha."

"It won't. You'll see." The nurse came in to test their temperatures and they let the subject drop.

The next morning Bodie had to wait for the doctor on his rounds to check him over and pronounce that Bodie was fit to leave them. There were too many people around for Bodie to have an opportunity for a word in private with Doyle, so they only exchanged nods as Bodie was wheeled out of the room by a male nurse, crutches carried by one female attendant and his few belongings by another.

Bodie greeted Murphy, who had come to escort him home, and they both got into Murph's car and drove away.

---

"It will be quiet without him," Doyle said to the woman who came to change the bedding on Bodie's bed.

"Don't worry about it, luv. We'll have you some company straight away!"

She was right. In an indecently short time, a young man of eighteen was installed on Doyle's right. The young man had two interests in life. He liked himself and he liked women. Any woman. He expressed himself often and crudely.

Doyle began to wonder if he had ever been that thoughtless and stupid. He began to wonder if the young man was ever going to shut up. He took to pretending to be asleep. He began to wonder when he would be let out. Fortunately the kid was out for tests that afternoon and scheduled for surgery the next morning. Doyle found that there was something even worse than nuns. Young Richard Smith. The fool moaned, he whined, he fussed like a baby and complained incessantly.

Doyle wished with all his heart he had been able to leave with Bodie.

Bodie called, of course. He called once every morning and once every evening for five days. Five long, painfilled, dreary days. Doyle seldom felt good enough to read, but he took to holding a book between himself and the motor mouth with whom he was forced to share quarters. Richard's doting mum came to visit him and decided that Doyle was as interesting, if not more so, than her own offspring. Not that Doyle blamed her, but fending off mother was a bit of a chore. Mrs. Smith, moderately attractive, was plainly looking for a father for the children. Doyle could not decide if he looked older when he was injured, or if she liked younger men. Perhaps she, like her son, valued a captive audience. Doyle began to look forward to getting out, even though he lay awake at night and chased his thoughts like a squirrel in a wheel.

Bodie, wanting him? Macho Bodie, who had a different girl every week? Bodie, with his no chains philosophy and his smooth lines?

Had Bodie gone crazy? No man suddenly decided one day that he was going to change something that fundamental. Did that mean Bodie had always been -- that way? Or that he was merely mistaken? Doyle seriously considered that. A mistake. If Bodie had never had a close friend, had never had much of a family, then maybe he did not recognize normal non-sexual love. His brain could be translating friendship into something more intimate.

But what if that was wrong?

What if Bodie loved him, really loved him, like that? Could they remain friends? Could they work together?

And then Doyle remembered that his career was finished. At least, his function as an active agent. He knew the sorts of jobs which were left. Dispatcher. Researcher. Hell, he had lots of options -- typist, clerk, and tea lady! It was just that none of them appealed to him.

Why worry about it now? He had Bodie to worry about. Bodie, who said he wanted his friend, Bodie, who wanted them to share a flat. Could it be done? Should it?

It was, after all, not really a choice between Bodie and the nuns. Cowley had access to a dozen such facilities. Doyle had been in several. He had hated them all. They were such impersonal places, filled with people who did not understand that CI5 agents needed more than sunny windows and help to the loo. Everything was done to schedule in such places. It had to be, of course, but Doyle and men like him needed different handling. Unused to the life of an invalid, they needed challenge, exercise, hope and more specialized assistance than the average patient. They hated the petty tyrants who sometimes surfaced in the medical professions, perhaps because agents were tyrannical by nature themselves.

So it was not the idea of convalescence with Bodie which Doyle found disconcerting. Bodie would know exactly what they both needed, and he'd change if the need arose. No, it was that other aspect.

Doyle would need help. Help with his exercises, help getting up and down, help with personal hygiene. Help from Bodie.

Bodie, who had developed some very queer ideas lately.

Doyle was not naive. Consenting to join Bodie, to live in a flat together, sent a message that he was not 100 percent opposed to the idea of sharing -- and maybe sharing more than a flat. If he had been utterly against the idea, he could have said no. Doyle had said yes. Did that mean he was, in the darkest corner of his mind, intrigued with the idea?

Doing ... THAT? With BODIE?

Intriguing wasn't the word! Frightening, unnatural, stupid. Try one of those.

What was intriguing was the idea of Bodie wanting to try such a thing. Not because it was with a man. Bodie had always seemed to be a mad bastard, capable of anything. But ... domesticity? Home life and devotion to it was the opposite of everything he knew about his partner. Given that he wanted to try such a thing, why with Doyle? Why not with one of the charming young ladies he had seduced by the dozens? Was he frightened of trying a deeper relationship? If he succeeded with Doyle, would he throw him over eventually for a more traditional match?

And wasn't Doyle putting the cart before the horse? Early days to worry about Bodie moving on, for there was nothing between them!

Yet.

The word hung in the back of Doyle's mind. He wasn't stupid. He knew how often he had fallen for one of his nurses. Emma, for one. She had nursed him for weeks last time, when he had been shot through the heart. He'd become more than fond of her, but before it had become too serious, she had recognized what was happening and taken herself off his case and onto another shift. When he met her again, months later, they had dated a few times, but both of them were different people, and they had remained friends but not sought a more serious relationship.

Already close to Bodie in one way, he was not unaware that it was possible to become emotionally dependent. Would Bodie understand that the closeness was not the kind of closeness he wanted? Would he settle for that?

It was fortunate Doyle slept a lot, for the hours between bordered on hell. Even when he had visitors, they were constrained by the presence of a civilian in the next bed, and the short conversations were limited to match scores and observations about the weather.

Bodie did not come to visit. He phoned, but he did not show his head until the afternoon of the day Dr. Allen pronounced Doyle fit to leave.

Release from the hospital is only the first step towards recovery. The rest is a long slow climb, with progress and lack of progress a cycle with which Doyle was all too familiar. He could not help feeling excited and hopeful at the thought of getting out. He wanted out. The sight of Bodie's head thrust into the doorway lifted his heart.

"What are you up to, then?" Doyle asked when Bodie did not immediately come in, but stayed at the door with only his head and shoulders in sight.

"Wanted to make sure you hadn't changed your mind. Don't want anything chucked at me," Bodie told him. He was using only one crutch and getting around rather well.

"You can't be that daft. What took you so long?" Doyle complained, pulling himself up with his good arm, which in this case was his right. It had no cast and fewer stitches.

"This and that," Bodie replied, and waited for the joke which was sure to follow. It didn't. Doyle was busy getting up off the bed and into the wheelchair which stood ready. "In a hurry, aren't you?"

"Not at all," Doyle said with false mildness. "Grab that box, that bag and that plant and let's go!"

"I can't think it's me. What's the motivation for your sudden desire to ... "

At that moment, a young blond nurse with a flushed face and an irritated look on her face pushed Richard Smith and his chair into the room.

"Leavin' us? But you were going to say good-bye to Mum!" Richard was blocking the door. Doyle's frown grew deeper.

"Actually, I wasn't. Bodie?" Doyle glanced towards his possessions, most of the desperation out of his voice.

"Right." Briskly Bodie scooped up the desired items, piled them haphazardly onto Doyle's lap and turned his charm on as he addressed the nurse. "Can you do the honors, Miss?" He waved the crutch to show why he could not be of more help. She fell for the shy smile and the blue eyes. Women usually did. Or perhaps she, too, was willing to do almost anything to get her away from the obnoxious Mr. Smith.

Ignoring Smith, who was still bleating on about his mother, they made fairly rapid progress down the green and white corridor. After a brief stop in the name of paperwork, they headed outside.

"Fresh air!" Doyle exclaimed, drawing a deep breath. The day was barely warm enough, with a wind rising and clouds on the horizon. It would rain later in the day. To Doyle, however, it was beautiful. He enjoyed it, his face up to the sun. The nurse did not complain, but waited for the return of the chair. Bodie just waited, watching Doyle.

"So how do we get home? And where's home?" Doyle asked, looking up at his friend. Bodie had changed in the days he had been away. Some of it was for the better -- his bruises were fading. It was, Doyle decided, the clothing. Bodie was wearing a faded pair of cords and a thick sweater, not at all his usual well-turned-out style. "Who's your tailor?" he added, teasing. He knew Bodie wore an older pair of trousers because the seam of one leg had to be slit because of the cast. He wore a black sock over the cast and a black trainer on the other foot.

"Our ... yes, there he is." Bodie lifted an arm and an old estate wagon pulled up to the kerb. "Your roller, sir!"

"Have you thought of having your eyesight checked?" Doyle asked kindly.

"Every time I look at you," Bodie said cheerfully. "Let's have you in, then." Doyle and his possessions were tipped into the back seat, and then Bodie gave a kiss and the wheelchair to the nurse and slid into the front seat beside the driver.

"Introductions are in order," Bodie said. "In front, Arthur Andrews, who works for us. In back, Ray Doyle, partner and patient. Any questions?"

"Dozens. They'll keep," Doyle said, studying Andrews as best he could from the back. The man was small. Mid to late fifties, if his grey hair was anything to go by. He wore glasses and drove with slow care. "Glad to meet you, Mr. Andrews."

His polite words were greeted by a short nod and a terse, "And you." Doyle lifted an eyebrow but did not comment. The traffic was nasty just here, after all. He leaned back against the warm plastic of the seat and let the stored heat of the morning seep into his sore back. He could not get comfortable, however, and restlessly changed positions every few minutes. His head itched, his shoulder ached, and the tiredness which never went away was increasing a little. Ten minutes later, his eyes closed and he dozed.

When the car stopped, he did not rouse until he felt Bodie's hand on his shoulder.

"Wake up, sunshine. We're home."

"We're ... oh." Doyle let Bodie help him out of the car. Andrews was on his other side to assist as well. Doyle leaned on Bodie and looked at the man his partner said worked for them. Andrews had a plain face, his skin pale and his eyes brown. He had rough calloused hands which seemed big for his body and he had the posture of a man who has labored hard all his life and cannot quite straighten all the way up any more.

Taken up with the study of the man, Doyle did not at first notice where they were going. When he did look up, he stopped so abruptly he almost had Bodie and himself over.

In front of him was a house. It had been standing long enough to have a wall of ivy up the north side and two large trees in front of it. A waist high hedge ran down one side of the property, dividing it from a bit of wood. The piece of land was an odd shape, but then, so was the house. Each previous owner had added a room or two. Some of them had been able to afford brick, some had not. The entire effect was one of comfort, with just a hint of mystery in the many nooks and corners.

A broad walk led to the front door. From the front there were three steps, from the side a sloping ramp of wood with an attractive railing. Doyle opened his mouth to comment on it when he caught sight of the door.

It was the stained glass inset in the door which held his eye. In red and white and black, with a clear bit just at eye level so that one could look out. The subject was unusual. It was a representation of an old Indian motorcycle.

Doyle turned to look at Bodie. His partner had a funny look on his face, part delight, part apprehension, part ... what? It confirmed Doyle's suspicions, however. Doyle said nothing, but began to walk up to the door.

Andrews slipped ahead to open the door, and then he turned and handed the key to Doyle. Slipping by the two younger men, he went to fetch Doyle's things from the car.

Doyle remained silent as Bodie helped him into the house. A stairway, broad, with well polished wood, went up. From where he stood he could see a landing, with a window and a comfortable chair, before the stairway made a turn and continued up. To the left was a small cloak room, and to the right a large sunny room with a comfortable sofa, three chairs of different types, a fireplace, a TV and a beautiful oriental rug on the polished wooden floor. Beyond it he could glimpse an equally large kitchen with a few bright copper-bottomed pans hanging where the morning sun could touch them.

Doyle finally spoke. "Show me the house."

"You need to rest," Bodie protested.

"Show me the house," Doyle repeated, stubbornly.

Bodie sighed, and he was unable to hide his worried glance, but he gave a short nod. "Sitting room," he said unnecessarily. A few steps brought them to the kitchen. Doyle stared. Cooker, fridge, sink, all to be expected. But on the counter one of those new microwave ovens, and to the left of the sink, a dishwasher. The walls were white, but many of the items here and there were blue. Coffee pot. Tea things. The new cabinets were oak.

"What's that?" Doyle pointed to a door which looked as if it should lead to the sitting room, but didn't.

"Lift."

"Lift!" Doyle walked slowly towards it, followed by Bodie, who demonstrated how it worked by punching the right buttons.

"It won't go unless all the doors are shut," Bodie said as it took them up. "First stop!" He opened the door but let Doyle precede him out.

They emerged about six feet from the stairs. Straight ahead was a bedroom. "Andrews' room," Bodie said, opening the door so that Doyle could see the neat and tidy room with the small telly, the carefully made bed, the comfortable chair under the lamp. "It has its own bath." They did not go in, and Bodie closed the door and went a few feet down the hall to the next door. "Guest room. About like Andrews', only empty. Also with own bath. The woman who owned this before ran a sort of boarding house."

There was nothing in the room except a large and colorful rug of red with a blue and white border, with matching curtains at the window.

"Also has the best view. Both roads and the front of the house." Not that such things were important here, but old habits died hard -- if they died at all. He closed the door and continued the tour. "Here is a linen closet, and here is a storage closet. Here is another room -- very small, no bath. It could be a box room or a sitting room. Here are the rest of the stairs. Now we go back to the lift," he suited his actions to his words. They went up again. The lift door opened into a smaller corridor, with only two doors opening off of it.

"This is my room," Bodie said, opening the door to the right. The room was small, plain, with a single bed and a dresser, a wardrobe and a chair. He closed the door almost at once. "This is yours," he said, opening the door across the hall. "We share the bath."

Doyle did not hear him. He moved into the middle of the room and stared. Stared at the window seat and the window which looked out over the back garden, at the oriental style carpet, at the tall lamps and the comfortable chairs, at the fireplace and the bright brass fittings. The king-sized bed with its cover of black satin, and the two large wardrobes with the carved doors were studied silently and thoroughly.

"Mine?" Doyle whispered, to himself.

"Let's go see the rest of the house," Bodie said.

"There's more?" Doyle said, but not as if he were aware of the words. He seemed bemused.

"Some." Bodie led the way back to the lift and they were both silent as they went back down. They heard steps on the stairs as they came out into the kitchen; Andrews on his way up with Doyle's bags. Doyle noticed his plant on the kitchen table. He'd have to find a place for it.

At the far end of the kitchen there were two doors. One led out into the garden, which was long and narrow. The other led into a large room. It was painted white, with a shop of some sort on the far end, mats and exercise equipment in the middle, and a table with four chairs at the near end. It had an unfinished look to it. Double doors led out into the garden, and there was a window north and one west.

"There's a room here," Bodie said, opening a door, "for storage, or it could be made into a bedroom. Over here, a sauna with one of those spa tubs. Two sheds and a garage outside."

Doyle turned without speaking and went back to the main room, where he carefully sat down in one of the chairs.

"Doyle, you need to get to bed." Bodie stood, impatient, worried, in the kitchen doorway.

"Do you," Doyle said, so quietly that Bodie had to take a step forward in order to hear, "love me that much?"

Bodie froze. Only the movement in his throat as he swallowed, hard, showed his reaction.

Doyle turned to look directly at Bodie. "It's all here. Everything I ever mentioned when we played that damn game. Every stick of furniture I ever admired. Every color I like, every whim I had, every ... everything."

Bodie had nothing to say.

"You didn't just go out and find this place. You didn't put it together in just a few days. You've been working on this for years. How many?"

Bodie did not try to evade answering. "Two. And a half."

"Is that how many years you've had the house or ... the other?"

Bodie limped closer, easing himself down into the chair nearest Doyle. He did not answer the questions.

"Bodie?" Doyle waited.

"Had the house for three years."

"Just happened to buy it?" Doyle asked, too lightly.

Bodie shrugged. "I took what I got in the mercs and invested it. Got a decent return after a few years. Decided to put it into real estate."

"So it was just accident you bought a house so much like the one I described growing up in, before my father died?"

"Do you want a drink?" Bodie asked, standing up. His fingers were white where he held onto his crutch.

"I want an answer to my question," Doyle said.

"What question?" Bodie said, although Doyle knew Bodie was not that obtuse.

"The first one. Do you love me that much?" Doyle was not looking at him now, sure that it would be easier for Bodie to answer if he was not under Doyle's sharp green gaze. Absently he rubbed at the scabs over his left ear where the stitches had been taken out that morning.

"Yes." A tiny word, with defeat in it. It was almost as if Bodie expected to be hit or shot for the confession.

"That much," Doyle said softly, to himself.

Doyle continued to sit. Bodie went to the kitchen where he could be heard clattering the tea things. Doyle closed his eyes and thought, and didn't think. He heard Andrews come down the stairs again.

"I'll be working on the wall," the man said, and then there was the slam of the back door. All such ordinary sounds.

Doyle only opened his eyes again when Bodie came in, cup in hand. He put it down on the table beside Doyle and went back for his own. Taking up the cup, needing the hot sweetness of tea made the way he liked it, Doyle took a first, too-hot sip and then held it in his cold hands. His restless gaze flicked from a picture on the wall, which he had last seen in his own flat, to the window, to the stairs. All so very ... right. It felt like home. All he had ever wanted.

As for what Bodie wanted ... Doyle sighed. He was seeing new sides to his partner, learning things which disturbed him because they were in conflict with what he had known before. Love 'em and leave 'em Bodie, capable of a long and secret devotion? Strong, confident Bodie, afraid of admitting how much he loved? Randy, lusty Bodie, willing to live in a chaste relationship just to be near the one he wanted most of all?

Warmth welled from Doyle's heart, causing his face to flush, his pulse to beat faster. Stupid, wonderful Bodie. Bodie, who deserved to have the one he loved turn to him and say, yes, I love you, too.

"Are you going to stay?" Bodie asked as he sat down again. His tea had slopped over his hand and he licked at it to catch the drip.

Doyle said, "Yes, I'm going to stay."

"Good."

He didn't ask how long, Doyle noticed.

"When does the PT start?" Doyle asked, after another swallow of tea.

"Tomorrow. Her name is Mrs. Jones. She's supposed to be good. Cowley's had her vetted."

Doyle nodded. He drank his tea.

"Do you want more?" Bodie wanted to know.

"I think I need to go to bed." Doyle yawned, punctuating the statement with proof.

Bodie drained the last of his own cup. "I'll show you how things work," he said, pulling up his crutch and heaving himself to his feet.

Doyle nodded. They went to the lift. Bodie let Doyle punch the buttons which took them all the way up. They didn't speak.

The bedroom was warm. The bed looked inviting. It was the proper height, not low the way some modern beds were since the advent of the waterbed craze. Bodie turned it down. White sheets, red pillow cases. It looked good.

"I cleaned out your apartment. All your belongings are here. I put them away but of course you'll want to move things about. There's still several boxes of your books and things out in the shed. I didn't know whether you'd want a bookcase up here, or another downstairs. You decide and we can either buy it or have Andrews build it. He's good. Most of the work on the place is his."

"You'll have to tell me about him. Later," Doyle decided as he was ambushed by a yawn.

"Need ... ?" Bodie tilted his head towards the bathroom.

"Unfortunately, yes. Can go by myself, but I'll need help after that, getting the jeans off." Doyle was slow in moving. His chest hurt more now, and his thigh ached.

"Do you want to sleep in anything?" Bodie asked, knowing that Doyle usually slept nude.

"No. The cloth bothers me when it rubs against my sore places. I'm hoping to spend a lot of my time in my dressing gown."

"Fine with me!" Bodie attempted one of his leers, but it didn't quite go. He was too tense, and it was too important to him. He tried to pretend it wasn't so, but it was not hard for Doyle to see it.

When he came out of the bathroom Doyle limped over to sit on the edge of the bed. Sitting beside him, Bodie helped him off with his clothing, fingers carefully neutral and eyes not meeting Doyle's. Doyle knew his body was being looked at, and he wondered why he didn't feel concern. The nurses had not been so mindful of his bruises -- or as impersonal.

"I see they've done away with most of the threadwork," Bodie said as he slid Doyle's pants off. Doyle glanced down. There were only a dozen stitches left over his stomach. His arm, his chest, his cheek and ear, his penis, were all marked with still painful red tracks, but the actual stitches were gone.

"Not before time, either," Doyle said. "These have to stay," he touched the line of stitches just above his waistline, "a week more. That's my deepest one. There's ointment in my box. My pills should be in there, too."

Bodie went to bring them, arranging all the medications in a row on the bedside table nearest the bathroom. He brought a glass of water and put it down on a bit of folded cloth. "Need anything now?" he asked, peering Doyle through anxious eyes.

"No." Doyle stretched out, grateful for the soft firmness of the mattress, for the warmth of the sheets.

"I'll be off then," Bodie said awkwardly, pausing to pull the curtains closed before he went out. He closed the door firmly behind him. Doyle could hear him going to the lift, hear the faint hum as it went down.

The lift. Put in just for the few weeks they would need it, or in anticipation of other injuries? It was true that between them they usually had some hurt or another, but their careers were due for an involuntary change. Surely they wouldn't be injured as often in a new line of work?

A police artist. He'd once had that ambition, but it had been set aside for loftier goals when he realized that Photofit had put most of the artists out of work. He'd gone for CI5. The top. Now, going back to the Met as a specialist in identification had only a little appeal. He could go back even further. As a teen, he'd wanted to paint. Well, now he had the time for it. His shoulder shouldn't get in the way of either of those plans. The doctor had said he had lost ten to twenty percent of the mobility in that arm. Quite likely he would never be able to lift it over his head again, the man had said. Privately, Doyle was sure that with work, he could get back most of the use of it. If nothing else, he wanted to be able to scratch his head with that hand. He was forever lifting his arm, remembering, and then having to use the other one. His head itched, with the new hair growing in. He had been told he could take off the last light gauze tonight, and he was looking forward to it.

A nurse had told him the three areas where his head had been scraped and cut had turned out to have only superficial damage, except for the stitches which had been above his left ear. They could probably have left most of his hair alone, but the only way to discover that had been to take it off. Head wounds bleed all over, he had always known that and he didn't blame them for being careful, or for taking it all off to even it up and make it easier to bandage. But he hated the itch. At first it had itched because the shaved areas had started to grow in, and now itched where the scabs pulled at it and where it was healing. Good sign, itching, according to the doctor.

He itched other places as well. Thinking about it, he let his hand fall to his groin. His penis lay there, a damaged warrior without a trace of life in him. Dr. Allen had warned him about any "excitement" for at least a fortnight, and longer would be even better. The delicate tissues needed to repair themselves, and there was a chance that an erection could tear the wounds open again. Passion killer, that was. Not that passion was on his mind at all. Good thing he wasn't madly in love with Bodie.

He lay, hand cupping his private parts, thinking about Bodie, about love, about sex. Bodie, who loved him.

Bodie had hidden it well. Still gone out with girls. Sublimation? Was he always with women when he was out at night? Or did he sometimes come here, and work on this place? Bodie ...

Bodie was his last thought as he fell asleep, and his first thought when he woke up several hours later. It had been the deepest sleep he'd had since before the accident. No voices, bells, passing rattle, and no one to wake him up to test his blood pressure and give him a sleeping pill! He did hear voices, very faintly, and the sound of a closing door. He sat up. It was almost dark outside. His own robe was across the foot of the bed and he got up, shrugged into it, found the slippers he almost never wore near the foot of the bed, and slid them on.

He had to wait for the lift to come up. It seemed quite strange for it to be there. It was one item which had never been mentioned in their game. He wondered what it had cost his partner. He had a good idea of what the house itself had sold for, and he experienced a twinge of guilt. The fool had probably spent every penny he had on this place.

Mixed in with that guilt was another feeling, part annoyance, part understanding. If Bodie could, indeed, keep their new relationship platonic, then Doyle owed it to him to do what he could to maintain their strange household. Imagine what it would be like to live surrounded by items bought to please a lover who would not have you, would not have the sacrifice or the offerings.

Was that what this was? A shrine? Or was it a bribe? As the lift went down, Doyle leaned against the wall and rejected both those ideas. It was just Bodie's way of dealing with a love he didn't understand and didn't dare ask for. It was a way to keep hope in a situation which had none, and it was a way of wishing. Dreaming.

The lift door opened.

"You knew it was tea time. Trust you!" Bodie seemed to be in good spirits. He was pulling a pan of hot rolls out of the oven.

"Never tell me you've taken to baking!" Doyle said as he sat in the nearest chair. It was lovely and warm here, and the smells were fantastic.

"I can't tell a lie. They're Andrews' specialty. He bakes them in butter, and the bottoms are all crusty and good! He'll be joining us as soon as he gets washed up." Bodie tumbled the rolls into a basket, brought fruit, jam, butter and a plate of cakes to the table and then went to see to the tea.

"You'll have to tell me how we acquired this paragon," Doyle said as a tea cup was thrust in front of him. Actually, it was not a cup, but a nice deep mug with thick sides to hold the heat in. One he had used at Bodie's place, if he remembered correctly. Strange to think of his things, and Bodie's, all mixed in with new ones. Hard to sort it out what belonged to whom. Which would make it hard to leave.

"Later," Bodie said, as the back door opened. "It's ready," he said over his shoulder to Andrews, who washed his hands at the sink.

"Of course it is. I should know. I made it." Andrews gave a nod to Doyle, took the cup Bodie handed him, and sat down. "The wall's to the corner. Half done," he reported. Bodie had dealt out plates and started passing the food. "It will be raining tomorrow. I'll leave it for now," Andrews said.

Bodie nodded, his mouth already full.

Doyle sampled one of the crispy rolls and gave a respectful glance towards Andrews as he took another bite. "Marvelous," he said sincerely. "I am more than tired of hospital food!"

Andrews nodded. "You should have seen this one when he was first out. He finished off a pan of these," he lifted up his roll, "in the time it took me to change out of my gardening clothes."

"I saved you two," Bodie protested, already on his second one.

"Very kind of you, that was, Master William," Andrews said, sarcastically.

"He wouldn't make them again, to punish me," Bodie complained.

"Served you right," Doyle said, just to tease. Everything tasted wonderful, and he sat and listened to the combination of planning, gossip and explanations which Bodie traded with Andrews. It was a strange sort of relationship they seemed to have. While it was clear that Bodie gave the orders and had final say on the plans, Andrews had nothing of the servant in his manner. That didn't surprise Doyle. He remembered a long rambling conversation he had with Bodie on the subject of class and servants in British society, one night when they were staking out the very posh home of a drug czar.

When the meal had been reduced to scraps the three of them cleared the table. Only that small exertion was almost too much. Doyle's chest hurt and he was glad to go when Bodie turned bossy on him and ordered him from the room.

He went to the sitting room, where he sat on the couch and looked around. Bookcases, Bodie had said. There was space between the windows, but that might block the light. Over by the door, perhaps. He hadn't seen his stereo or Bodie's, for that matter. Unless they were behind those cabinet doors? Music would be nice, but he felt too tired to go and look. He heard a door open and then close, and then the sound of a car engine starting.

"I thought about putting a dining table over in that corner, but it looked crowded, and the kitchen was big, so I put it there. You can decide how you want it," Bodie said, coming in. "And I forgot to show you the washer and dryer, just off the kitchen."

"Can just see you sorting your whites out," Doyle said with a grin. "Where's Andrews?"

"Off to town in the car. It's his car, actually, and since he's the one doing the errands while I'm," he waved his crutch to explain, "it works out well enough."

"Where did you find him?" Doyle asked. Bodie joined him on the couch, a careful distance away.

"He came along with a load of lumber," Bodie said, seriously.

Doyle gave him a stern look.

"He did!" Bodie insisted. "I'd just bought the place and had decided I could fix it up in my spare time." At this, Doyle gave a snort of derision and Bodie had the grace to look embarrassed. They never had spare time. "I was looking at lumber and heard him asking the yard man if there was any work. One of those men who do just about anything to keep off the dole. Lots of pride. No real career, you see, just did a bit of whatever came along which would bring in money. Never needed much because he never married. He helped me that day, and then I had him checked out. Clean record except for one occasion when he got into a fight a few years ago. We came to an agreement. Having him live on the premises kept it safe from break-ins and he could work on it as well. He had a place to stay and a little money."

"And?" Doyle asked. When Bodie looked puzzled, he said, "I know you, Bodie. There's something you're not saying. Spit it out," he ordered.

Bodie glanced at the window. The curtains were not yet drawn, but he didn't quite feel like pulling himself up and going over to do it. So he did anyway.

"Bodie?"

"He's gay, you see. That's one of the things I found out when I had him vetted. At that point I was finally admitting to myself how I felt, what I wanted. I was curious. That may be part of the reason I hired him. I watched him work on the place, studied him. There's nothing about him that's different from any other man. I expected it would show, but it didn't. He'd work, he'd go out for a beer, he'd talk about the match. Just like anyone else. And politics. Has a lot of interesting ideas on government. When I offered him a fulltime job, he told me about himself. Said if it made a difference, he'd go. I can't see it does. Once every two or three weeks he goes somewhere for an evening and comes back with that look. You know. He doesn't do it often, really. Hates the places mostly and just goes because ... well, you know.

"I told him I worked for a government office and I told him I was renovating the place as my retirement home. At first he thought I had money. He soon had more of the truth out of me. He knows about ... the game, that I planned this with you in mind. He put two and two together and figured out how I feel about you. I think he liked the idea of it, of planning a love nest. Not that it is, I just think he thinks of it ... " Bodie seemed to decide that sentence was too dangerous to finish. "When we were in the hospital, I called up and asked if he wanted to stay even though things were changing. I knew we'd both need help for some time. He admitted he had been thinking that the job was almost done, that I wouldn't need just a person on the place if there was no other work. I told him we'd been in an accident, and I asked if he'd mind taking on a bit of cooking, cleaning, helping us out. Told him it might be months before we were both on our feet.

"He said he didn't mind." Bodie came back to sit down.

"He's ... given me advice. Helped me out." Bodie shrugged. "He's been a friend, told me off when I needed it. Told me how it is to be gay. Sometimes he acts more like an uncle than anything else. I ... don't mind. Short on family, you know."

Doyle knew. Damn shame there were people in this world who got more help and support, and affection, from the hired help than they ever got from their own families.

"He seems decent enough." Doyle looked down at his feet, still slipper clad. He was starting to feel tired, but was reluctant to give up the freedom from routine, and the peace. Besides, if he went to bed too early, he would be awake in the middle of the night.

"You should be in bed," Bodie said.

Doyle lifted his head to look at Bodie. Bodie, he realized, knew him. Even off the streets and even though they had not worked together for weeks, his partner's knowledge of him remained. Did Doyle have the same ability, that same awareness of Bodie? He had always thought so, but why hadn't he noticed that Bodie had fallen in love with him? Or was it love which gave Bodie that extra knowledge? Doyle, however, was well aware of his own sensitivity to Bodie out on the street. Sometimes they moved as if they were man and shadow, or as if yoked by invisible harness. How much of that was due to Bodie, and how much to Doyle?

How much to love?

"Don't you like the pattern?" Bodie asked. "We can change it.

"What?"

"You're looking at the wallpaper, and frowning."

Doyle took a deep breath. "The wallpaper's fine. It's all fine, Bodie. Just a bit of a surprise. I wasn't expecting something nice, you know. I thought we'd have some ground-floor flat. Something like the one Murphy got lumbered with in January. You remember."

"Can't forget. We made a list of all the features we didn't like in a flat and Murphy showed a place which had every single one of them."

"Poor sod."

"Yeh. But he got to move. He's in your old one now," Bodie told him, grinning.

Doyle let the corners of his lips turn up, too. "Good. He liked the staircase."

"He was happy. He had a celebration of sorts last Saturday. Everybody off duty went over and got pissed. According to Jax, even Macklin showed up for a bit."

"Let him out without a keeper, did they?" Doyle inquired mildly, his thoughts on CI5. It was strange to hear about what everyone was doing; already it seemed as if they belonged to another life. Yet he hated the thought of being left behind, forgotten. The squad, drinking at his apartment. Without him. He made an effort not to think of it. Instead, he looked at Bodie.

"Are you ready to prove your strength of character?"

Bodie appeared puzzled.

"I think I would like a bath. Most of the damage is on the front side of me. The doctors warned that if I did take a bath, I would have to sit up, not lean back and get the cast on my shoulder wet. I'd have to have the hole in my leg swabbed out with disinfectant afterwards. And because of my wrist," he held out his left arm, which had the wrist wrapped in plaster, "I can't wash my hair properly. What's left of it," he added, with a shake of his head.

"I do miss the tatty curls. But they'll grow back," Bodie said, studying Doyle's head. "Let's go up, then." He stood, held out his left hand, and when Doyle took hold, he pulled him up easily.

They walked slowly, Bodie with his one crutch, Doyle trailing a hand along the tops of the chairs as he went by in case he might need their support. The lift was slower than the types found in commercial establishments, and it featured a humming motor and various rattles and clanks. Doyle kept his mouth shut because he didn't ever want to be the sort of person who talked when he had nothing to say. Bodie wasn't saying anything either.

The bathroom was big. Of course, it would be, for he remembered the occasion when he and Bodie had discussed the perfect bog, and he remembered what he had said he liked. Mirrors. Enough light. A new tub with a fancy shower attachment. Heated towel bars. Fancy tiles.

Bodie started the water running and came to help Doyle out of his clothing. He was as silent and as impersonal as a valet, and that was strange. Bodie's normal joking, the lightness which would have made it easier for both of them, was missing. Bodie didn't want to make it difficult for him, and so he was very careful, which made it difficult. Doyle may have intended to grin at the thought, but it turned into a grimace. Everything still hurt.

Bodie noticed. "Want your pills?" he asked, checking the temperature of the water with his hand, and then standing.

"No, I don't want the bloody pills," Doyle said, moving to stand next to the tub. He got into the water fairly easily -- it was getting out which would pose problems. Even a few inches of warm water was better than the sponge baths he'd been enduring. One handed, he soaped the flannel Bodie handed to him, and began industriously to scrub at the nearest bits. It was easier to ignore Bodie if he was busy. Easier to pretend he wasn't naked with a man who had expressed a sincere interest in his body.

Only he couldn't forget it, really. Not when Bodie's too-gentle hands worked shampoo into the fuzz on his head and then rinsed it. Bodie, who had to go so awkwardly down to his knees to perform the task.

"I could wait until Andrews returns," Doyle said as Bodie was forced to shift his weight as he leaned forward.

"Not a chance," Bodie said, with a trace of his old lecherous bonhomie.

"But you would if I insisted," Doyle said.

"Course I would. But you won't. Unless I do something stupid. Which I won't. Lean forward."

Doyle leaned. He had a towel draped over his shoulder to protect it from splashes. He was very aware of the texture of it, and that a corner of it had fallen down and was wicking up water.

When Doyle was rinsed, Bodie helped him up, and wielded the towel with brisk efficiency. After assisting him into the robe, Bodie knelt beside him and tended the wound. It was a strange one, for the metal bar which had pierced him had been three sided, and it had not gone out exactly as it had gone in. Bodie's hand trembled and he spilled a little of the disinfectant, but neither of them commented on it.

"Done," said Bodie as he pressed down the last bit of tape and gauze. "What would you like now? Music? A book?"

"Just sleep." Doyle made his way through to the bedroom. The bed looked comfortable. He'd never had a bed that big. It was clearly designed for two. He didn't look at Bodie as he folded back the bedding so that he could climb in. The sheets smelled good.

"I can get you a hot water bottle," Bodie offered.

"No need. I'll warm up fast enough."

"You'll be all right?" Bodie asked as he watched his partner climb in.

"Fine. I can finally sleep on my side. Only this side, mind, but it's better than a couple weeks, flat on my back. I can't sleep properly on my back."

"I know what you mean. I still can't rest on my right side for long," Bodie said. He was standing there, the light from the bathroom behind him causing his face to be difficult to see. He was making no move to leave, but not coming any closer, either. He seemed to be leaning heavily on his crutch, and Doyle felt a stab of guilt. Getting up and down was hard for Bodie. It wasn't his broken ankle which gave him trouble so much as his wrenched back.

The phone rang. There was an extension beside the bed. Bodie looked at Doyle, who made no move to answer it.

"It's your house," Doyle said.

"Ours," Bodie said, and picked it up. "Good evening, sir," he said, and Doyle knew it was Cowley by the way Bodie straightened just a little.

"Yes. He's here. Yes. Tomorrow. Yes, of course. Seven, sir?" A pained look on his face said that it was seven in the morning the old man was suggesting. "Yes, we'll be expecting you, then. Good-bye." He hung up.

"He's coming here tomorrow morning at SEVEN?" Doyle asked, although he knew the answer perfectly well. Bloody typical, that. He'd been so looking forward to lying in, to sleeping as late as he wished without the badgering nurses and the noise of the hospital to prevent him.

"Before his meeting with the minister. He didn't say which."

"He never does. That means I'll have to get up at six," Doyle sighed.

"True. But you can go back to bed when he leaves, which will have to be before eight."

Doyle sighed. "It's not the same. Is Andrews up to helping me put together breakfast?"

"You're never going to feed him?" Bodie asked, but his expression showed the prospect didn't bother him excessively.

"He doesn't eat properly," Doyle said, which wasn't really an answer, but he knew Bodie understood. "Doesn't have to be elaborate. Toast, tea, eggs and bacon ... "

"Sausage, bit of tomato, a bowl of oats." Bodie shook his head in mock sadness. "You'll spoil him."

"What have we got in?" Doyle asked.

"All your favorites and all mine," Bodie said with satisfaction. "And juice and fruit and everything needed to put you back into the pink."

Doyle eyed Bodie's waistline significantly. Not that his partner had put back the weight he had lost in hospital, but he well knew Bodie's tendencies.

"And Andrews makes lovely pancakes, as well."

"Just the easy stuff this time," Doyle said. "Is there an alarm?" He looked around.

"In with the radio," Bodie said. "Or I can wake you up?"

"This will be fine," Doyle said, fiddling with the dials and buttons of the bedside radio.

"Good night, then," Bodie said, and he went to the bathroom to turn off the light before heading for the lift.

"Good night," Doyle said. Finished with the alarm, Doyle turned off the bed-side lamp and stretched out. Fantastic to have his own pillow again, and the normal weight of blankets pressing onto him. Hospital blankets were light, to the benefit of bodies so wracked with pain that even a few extra ounces of blanket could be punishing. But they didn't feel right. Hospital sheets were just a bit too stiff, too.

He was tired, he was comfortable. He should be asleep.

There was the sound of a car, a door, and distant voices. Andrews, coming home? Had to be.

Home.

He fingered the soft binding on the blanket and thought about Bodie. About the house. About what Bodie wanted. About what Doyle felt he could give. Friendship with Bodie was good. He might even say he loved his partner. The feeling in his heart as he thought about the house, about Bodie buying it and furnishing it via the game so that it was as near to perfect as anything Doyle had ever imagined, was keen. Such a house. Bit of garden outside, but not enough to be much work. Or, at least, no more work than he cared to make it. He had no doubt his motorcycle was in one of the sheds out back, next to Bodie's.

"Gratitude." Doyle said it aloud into the dark. His thoughts were muddled. Illness did that to him. His thoughts skittered from one idea to the next. Gratitude. Was that what Bodie could settle for? Was that what Doyle felt? Gratitude was a burden which Bodie wasn't handing him. Bodie, Doyle realized, had done it all as much for his own sake as for Doyle's. He had always wanted a home, and maybe he didn't know enough about them to design his own. Bodie didn't expect gratitude. He didn't expect Doyle to trade his body for a home, either. Yet, there was an air of hopefulness which Bodie could not quite bury. Did Bodie really expect that Doyle would eventually come around to his way of thinking?

Could he? Love Bodie? That was easy, he was fond of the bastard. But MAKE love to him? Bodie was, in every respect, the opposite of what Doyle looked for in a date. Given his druthers, he liked slight women, blondes or red-heads with blue eyes. Curves. Graceful ladies who made a fuss over his masculine attributes and yet who still had a mind of their own.

The only one of those points Bodie had was a mind of his own. Oh, two. Bodie had blue eyes, after all. Three? Maybe Bodie would make a fuss over Doyle's attributes, given half a chance. Doyle was quite fond of that moment when a woman realized that nature had been kind to him below the belt. What would Bodie say? What would Bodie want?

What would Bodie settle for? Doyle, when he could imagine himself with a man at all, could only think of himself in the "masculine" role. The one doing the fucking. It wasn't that hard imagining having Bodie under him.

What was hard to imagine was Bodie, playing bottom man for anybody. No, if he ever said yes to Bodie, he'd be saying yes to everything. To mutual ... everything.

It had to be that way. Doyle had fought hard to be equal in their partnership, to force Bodie to respect his opinions and to let him take the lead when they were dealing with his areas of expertise. Just as he let Bodie lead when his partner had knowledge he didn't. There was no permanent leader in their group of two, no submissive partner. The roles passed from one to another in a natural way, making them true partners, and Cowley's best team. They hadn't become Cowley's best until they had given up their struggle for power; each had come into the partnership expecting to be the leader, the alpha, and at first they had been constantly at odds. Doyle had to force himself to give up his position, to bend a little in the name of unity. He only managed it because Bodie had done the same.

Would Bodie be that way in private life? Would he want a partner, or a paramour? Had he built a cage for a pet bird?

No, Bodie knew Doyle better than that. Bodie would be expecting things to go on as they had been. Equals. Which meant that Bodie expected to get fucked. When and if ever Doyle agreed to it. Bodie. Hard man Bodie. On his knees with a cock up his ass? It couldn't even be imagined.

And why was he trying? He was tired, and he needed to sleep. Doyle closed his eyes. How quiet it was here. Houses on two sides and across the street. Some sort of park behind the garden wall. He tried to recall details. He had a policeman's mind, and could remember what he had seen, even when he had not paid much attention at the time. There were flowers, pink amid a tangle of greenery, on either side of the front door. The drive was concrete, with a row of shrubs along it, neatly trimmed. The front door ...

The front door, decorated with a stained glass window of a classic motorcycle. A smile formed on Doyle's face. That damned window. He remembered well the utterly boring stake-out over a year ago. The unit had been parked right across from a church, which had been set on the lot so that six stained glass windows had faced the street. Each window had a biblical scene presented with unimaginative precision.

After three days, they had been reduced to discussing what each could possibly represent, and why the artist had not been shot at birth for his crimes against art and humanity. Then they had talked about what they would do if given the task of designing such windows. They had agreed, at last, on one window for each of their favorite machines, but had not been able to form a consensus on anything except the motorcycle.

Bodie had made it real. All the speculation, the laughing suggestions and the serious ones, had all found form here. From the front door to the back garden, Bodie had made it all come to life.

Bodie ...

Doyle fell asleep, and he slept the night through. He woke, and though his body was sore, and the deep ache was still with him, he felt refreshed in a way he had not at the hospital. There was clean cold air coming from the open window, and Doyle wondered why he hadn't come awake at the sound of someone in the room, for the window had been open only a crack the night before. That was what the hospital did to you. It took away your edge.

Up on one elbow, he looked at the clock. True to form, he had come awake just ten minutes before the alarm was to go off. At least ALL his instincts weren't failing him. He let himself back down and stretched each limb. The deep hurt in his chest was the only part of him which was not noticeably better. He made a face at the fresh white paint of the ceiling and forced himself up out of bed.

He shaved, one-handed, he dressed as best he could, and went not to the elevator, but to the stairs. Going down wasn't so bad, and he wanted to look at it. All wood, it was, polished and clean. There were a couple places could use a picture on the wall, he decided, but nothing else cried out for change.

Andrews was in the kitchen, placing hot scones in a bowl before covering it with a cloth. Looking up, he saw Doyle, and he gestured towards the coffee. "Cups above," he said.

"Morning," Doyle said with a friendly nod, which the older man returned.

Doyle opened the cupboard and found his own mugs stacked there. By moving slowly and stretching, he was able to take down his favorite. He filled it with fragrant coffee and went to the table, where he sat down with care.

"Bodie said you wouldn't mind if I got started on breakfast," Andrews said diffidently.

Doyle wasn't sure how he felt about this man. "Grab a cup and join me?" he asked.

Andrews nodded, and filled his own cup with the fragrant brew. The hospital had nothing like it, Doyle thought as he took his first sip. This coffee had golden glints in it, as coffee should. Only in the two days before he had been released had he been allowed coffee, and that liquid had been an insult to the name of coffee.

"Bodie says you cook."

"Only in comparison to Bodie," Doyle replied, and watched the small smile form on the other man's lips.

"He also said you'd not mind me doing most of it. Until you get better," Andrews said, lifting his own cup for a small mouthful. It was still quite hot.

Doyle did the same, and then nodded. "If you don't mind?"

"I don't. We've one of those dishwashers and a dozen other gadgets here. A new kind of oven, and a juicer. There's no work at all."

"Trust Bodie to go overboard."

Andrews nodded. "He does. He says you keep him in line."

"Ah?" Doyle chose not to say more.

Andrews nodded again. Outside the window, a bird called. Doyle's head went up as he listened. Andrews took the opportunity to have a good look at Doyle. Doyle, who turned his head and caught him at it, gave an inquiring look, but Andrews chose not to answer it, either verbally or by any other sign. Each took another sip of coffee.

"Bacon and eggs, Bodie said, and oatmeal," Andrews said a moment later.

"Yes. Tea and toast with jam as well, if I know Bodie," Doyle contributed.

"The oatmeal is on. Would you like to cook or set table?" Andrews asked. "The other table is in the wing. It seats six, but it's not as nice as here, with the sun. But, your choice."

"Here. And I'll cook. I'm not good with reaching into cupboards yet." He looked down at his bad arm, frowning.

Andrews stood up, cup in hand, and began to show him where things were. It would not be hard to remember, for the arrangement was a curious blend of how his own kitchen had been arranged, and the way Bodie's had been, and he had always known his way around both.

There was something different about this morning. It reminded him of that poster, the one about today being the first day of the rest of your life. If he wanted it, this could be home. This could be the kitchen he cooked breakfast in for the rest of his life. It was an unsettling thought. He looked around. It was large and modern, and it wouldn't take much at all for him to think of it as his. His kitchen, his house.

His Bodie?

Was the price too high? Bodie had said that he was willing to take as much as Doyle could offer, that if friendship was all that there would be, he could be content. Was it so? Could he have a home, and Bodie, without having to ... put out? He grinned at the spattering bacon at the phrase which had popped into his mind.

There was a hum which it took Doyle a minute to classify, and by the time he remembered the elevator, the door had opened and Bodie stepped into the room.

"Good morning! And any morning which starts with THAT much bacon has to be a good one!" Bodie's nimble fingers snatched a twisted slice from the plate where Doyle had just put it. He had to blow on it before he could push it into his mouth.

Doyle slapped the fingers as they came back to steal another. "Go find something useful to do. Like make toast," he ordered. "Cowley will be here in a few minutes." Even as he spoke, there was the sound of the bell. "Early," Doyle sighed. Of course.

Andrews went to answer it, and Doyle began to crack open eggs. They were alone for just a moment, and Bodie took the opportunity to give Doyle a quick pat on the shoulder as he passed by with the bread. Doyle could not look over his shoulder in that direction because of his cast, and so he did not follow his impulse to see what expression was on Bodie's face. He turned back to the eggs. He did turn around to greet Cowley a moment later.

The old man looked tired. His face looked just a little grey. His eyes were as bright as ever, however, and he looked well pleased about something. Perhaps it was just the sight of the attractive table. Andrews was placing bowls of hot cereal around.

"If you need to talk business, I can do the chores first," Andrews said. He was speaking to Bodie, but his eyes were on Cowley -- he obviously knew Cowley was the one to make the decision.

"I've nothing to say that you can't hear, Andrews," their boss said, which told Doyle that Cowley had been here before, and Andrews thoroughly vetted.

Andrews nodded. "Would you want coffee, or tea?"

"Tea." Cowley sat down in the chair Bodie indicated, and then said, "Thank you," as the cup was handed to him. He began to speak even before the meal was on the table.

"I have the report from the security team. They will be making some changes here this week. Please provide them any assistance required. Mr. Andrews will have to attend several training sessions concerning these arrangements. I trust there is no objection?"

Andrews gave a shake of his head and began to eat his cereal. Mr. Cowley tasted his as well, and gave a nod of approval before he continued.

"4.5 and 3.7 will have the opportunity to leave an lasting impression on CI5. I am asking you to attempt to redesign the forms we currently use. I have heard you both complain often enough about the paperwork; we shall see what you can come up with to improve it, given a free hand. I will provide you with a lists of consultants, should you need assistance. I want something that will be compatible with the new computer system as well. I am interested in clarity, in streamlining the reporting process, and in cutting costs." He paused to give his attention to his food and allow the news to be considered by his agents.

"Those New Scotland Yard forms as well?" Doyle said hopefully.

"I'm afraid that's their bailiwick. There's little we can do about that." Cowley took up his tea again.

Doyle was looking distinctly interested. "Something that would make looking through the files easier? That's what you want?"

"Aye. And easy to fill out, as well."

Bodie had finished his cereal and was helping himself to eggs and bacon. It was only then that he remembered the unmade toast. Fortunately, there were scones, and he reached for them while saying, "Our names would be blessed for generations to come."

"Don't let it go to your head. Forms change every year," Doyle reminded him.

"It's not just that they change. It's that we get more of them," Bodie observed.

Cowley ignored that. "You can't start until the security teams have finished checking your house. Also, we will be installing a safe here. It should be on the ground floor. I'll want to search for the best location before I go."

"Er ... yes, sir." Bodie looked around and then took refuge in his eggs.

"I know the place." Andrews surprised them all by speaking. "But it's not downstairs. Up." When Cowley opened his mouth to speak, he went on. "No place down here that's private. Windows look in on every room. Upstairs, though, in the small room, near mine, there's a closet that would do. It backs up to the shaft we had reinforced for the lift. The structure can support the weight," he went on.

Cowley looked at him directly. "I'll check it out, of course."

"It was my thought you'd not want it on the ground floor, with the physical therapist coming and going, and no doubt others as well. You could put it in the loo, of course," Andrews said with absolute seriousness.

Cowley was actually considering it. Bodie and Doyle exchanged glances. Andrews passed the tea when he saw that Bodie's cup was empty.

"On another matter," Cowley said, accepting a refill as well, "The paperwork is not finished on the incident in which you were injured. As you probably know, riots developed in that area after you were removed to hospital. The police would like to know if you saw this man," he produced a photograph from his pocket, "in the vicinity."

Doyle looked, and shook his head before passing it to Bodie, who did the same.

"Nasty bloke. Needs a shave," was Bodie's opinion.

"Needs a jail cell, by all accounts," Cowley said, putting the picture away again. "He seems to have organized several disruptions." Cowley turned his attention to his food.

"If you are ready, I could take you upstairs," Andrews said as soon as Cowley put down his fork. They went off together, using the lift, and Bodie and Doyle were left to exchange another speaking look.

"Forms," Bodie said sadly.

"And security locks. And a safe!" Doyle chimed in.

Bodie grinned suddenly.

"What?" Doyle wanted to know.

"Andrews has Cowley up in a bedroom. Alone!"

"You," Doyle informed him, "have a dirty mind. The Cow could give straight lessons to a ruler."

"You never know. Still waters run deep!"

"Why don't you make yourself useful and help clean up here?" Doyle suggested.

"Tired already?" Bodie was joking, but under his lightness was a question.

"I'm fine. I won't be able to say the same thing after the session with the PT, will I?"

"Mrs. Jones? Sweetness and light, she is," Bodie assured him.

"Not bloody likely. She'll stretch me, thump me and tell me to work harder. They always do."

Bodie knew that. "Has to be done."

"I know." Doyle stood up briskly and began to clear the table. Only a few seconds later, he was forced to slow down. There was a deep ache inside if he tried to hurry. He really was not looking forward to his therapy.

Cowley came down the stairs, pausing on the landing which was halfway down to look out of the window there, then he said a kind word about the house and took his leave. Andrews came down in the lift a moment later and started on the breakfast dishes.

When Mrs. Jones arrived, she confounded both Bodie and Doyle by asking -- no, demanding -- to see Bodie first. Cowley, it turned out, had asked her to see to exercises which would not harm his healing back. Bodie hoped to end up in the warm water of the whirlpool bath, but the matter of his cast caused her to suggest that the strain of keeping it dry would be bad for his back. She left him with a heating pad and started in on Doyle.

He had been through it all before, he knew the why and when of everything she told him. He was tired of it before it began, but he cooperated because he knew it was the road to as much health as he could regain. So he moved when asked to move, he worked as hard as required, and he was grateful when it was all over.

He did not end up with a soak either, for she wanted to avoid lengthy immersion in warm water because of his leg. It was not yet at a stage where the risk of infection could be ruled out.

Mrs Jones was brisk and professional, with a bland patter and impersonal hands. He was glad when she left.

As soon as she was out of the door, Doyle announced that he was going up to bed. Bodie went with him, saying that it was the best idea he'd heard all morning, and they were both so tired they did not even turn, acknowledge the double meanings which could have been in those words. They parted at the lift, Bodie going to the right, Doyle straight ahead. Doyle didn't bother to undress, but lowered himself gingerly onto the black satin cover and stretched out on top of it.

Black satin. Typical Bodie choice. Doyle himself favored more practical, washable bed covers. He wondered if he had ever said anything which Bodie had construed as a desire for a huge bed covered by black satin?

Maybe that was Bodie's dream. Nice to think that he might have pleased himself at times, instead of using Doyle's tastes as a measure of everything. What had Bodie dreamed of as he picked out the spread for this huge bed? Was he hoping ...

Of course he was. And were was he now? Sprawled out on that small bed in the room on the other side of the bathroom. Bodie hated single beds, he'd always said so. Liked room to move, did Bodie. Confinement of any kind got up his nose.

Doyle came up with the same conclusion he had reached before. Bodie must love him a great deal.

Love. Doyle sighed and wished he could fall asleep, wished his thoughts would settle down and leave the problem of Bodie alone for now. But love was something Doyle knew a little about. He knew how often love turned out to be something else. Or turned into something else. Anne Holly, for example. He had been sure he was in love with her, but months later, after it was all over, he had come to the conclusion that it had not been love he felt for her. Just as it has not been love she felt for him. Perhaps it was not love which Bodie felt for Doyle.

But it was closer than what Anne had offered. Anne had wanted things from him. Not material things as much as furs and diamonds, although she wouldn't have minded some of that. She had wanted him -- but only in a certain way. She'd wanted changes, both in his attitudes and his lifestyle. Bodie, on the other hand, had not ASKED for changes. Bodie had not asked for material possessions either. Quite the opposite. He wanted changes from Doyle, no doubt about it, bigger changes than Anne had wanted! But he did not demand them and he didn't even really expect them. He was just waiting to see if they would happen.

Impossible changes. Weren't they? Doyle would have said so, but then at one time he would have