In every heart, there is a room,
A sanctuary safe and strong
To heal the wounds from lovers past
Until a new one comes along
  --Billy Joel

February 15.
Tuesday, 2.10pm

It was silent in the corridor as Murphy paused. Silent and cold. Hard linoleum beneath his leather soles echoed up his legs, his back and into his neck. A faint sound of breathing from his own mouth was all his ears could detect, like a whisper of memory, here and gone. Central was empty - or about as empty as it could ever be. And as silent.

Odd that the bustle of London failed to penetrate this sanctum with warm suggestions of life outside. There was no sound-proofing in these inflexible walls, no soft furnishings, no carpet or curtains. Stark and simple, grey and practical. CI5.

Murphy turned his head just once to glance down the long grey tunnel to where a thin film of light caught the immobile figure of George Cowley. The Old Man stood by his office door, suit neatly pressed, glasses in one hand, the other half-raised as though in mid sentence. He must have sensed Murphy's hesitation. Another heart-beat and Cowley raised his glasses, indicating the next, inevitable step forward.

Murphy nodded but doubted Cowley would see it from this distance. His gaze turned back to the door in front of him. He raised a hand and let it rest on the handle, putting all his focus on the image visible through the clear and polished glass.

The rest room. Windows opposite heaving grey winter light into a room without heat. A bench along the right wall, cupboards above, tea things and mugs scattered across the flat surfaces. Pale green ancient paint, white formica mottled with gold thread, scratched from use. In the centre of the room, a table, a chair almost parallel to it - and on the chair, a figure.

Black had always been Bodie's colour. The shade of his hair, his best clothes, his occasional moods. Black now surrounded him, enveloping those heavy shoulders, neither hunched nor rigid. Bodie sat in perfect profile to Murphy, upright on the uncomfortable chair, his feet flat on the floor, his chin lifted, those famous blue eyes level and studying the wall opposite, looking into a distance invisible to Murphy. One hand alone rested on the table before him. Fingers spread out, utterly immobile.

Murphy swallowed and pushed the handle down. The door swung wide at his touch, soundless, like the rest of the building. Bodie didn't even acknowledge his existence. For long moments, Murphy waited, giving the other man a chance to notice the change in the air, to register even if only on a subconscious level, that he was no longer alone. Then he moved forward and stopped beside Bodie. Gently he lifted a hand and placed it on the other man's shoulder.

"Bodie."

Movement, fractional and almost imperceptible. Then Bodie's head turned and raised, his gaze almost meeting his friend's. "Time?"

"Yeah, the Old Man's waiting. Car's downstairs."

Bodie nodded once then unfolded his large frame from the chair. Murphy stood back.

"You'd better bring your coat." He swallowed, not wanting to say it but having no choice. "It's snowing."

The only reaction was Bodie's hand reaching for the thick black coat draped over the back of his chair. Then he was past Murphy, his footsteps smacking down the passage like a tattoo of accusation. Quickly, Murphy followed.

Cowley was waiting in the car, seated in the back. Without a word, Bodie chose the front, taking his place beside the driver with a face closed of expression. As soon as Murphy was in place next to Cowley, the driver let out the clutch and the engine roared into life, breathing more heat into the confined space.

Murphy shot a glance at the Old Man as they moved out into traffic - but Cowley either didn't notice - or chose not to. His gaze rested out the window, on the roads as they slipped by, on traffic congested between streets too narrow for modern transport. His mouth set in a thin line, his pale blue eyes reflecting the grey day; there was little of the Whitehall-shaking hellion about George Cowley to be seen. His hands were clasped together - but the fingers of one hand kept tapping against the back of the other and Murphy would have liked to have smiled. Even the Cow wasn't as hard as he pretended to be.

Relaxing into his seat a little, Murphy turned his gaze on Bodie - but the face was averted leaving only enough for Murphy to see how Bodie's eyes watched the flutter of snowflakes down the side window. Of everything else, he appeared ignorant.

One grey street after another rolled by, page after page, each as the last until, without preamble, the car turned into a driveway lined by bald trees and sketchy grass. Gravel crunched under the tyres as the driver slowed and stopped beside other cars parked in the gathering snow. Bodie was the first to get out and Murphy followed him, always an eye to orders given and meant. Footsteps gouged into the gravel as they reached the church door, Cowley following behind - and then they were inside, Bodie striding ahead as though he would rid himself of his shadows. Arbitrarily, he took a seat three rows from the front, folded his arms and settled back, his face set and immobile.

With a last glance at Cowley, Murphy sat beside him leaving the boss to sit at the front; his duty, his place.

The small church was almost full - though Murphy would have had trouble putting names to more than a few faces. Kathy was there, sitting with Susan and Sally. She gave him a weak smile of encouragement but she knew where his place was. His attention was caught by the lilting phrases of a Beethoven organ piece. Not much, just the introduction. A rustle of movement and the priest, white-robed, book in hand, took his place before the lectern.

The music drifted to silence. People settled. Murphy lifted his attention from Bodie to the words the priest spoke, clear and distinct, echoing against hard stone walls empty of hope.

"Go placidly amidst the noise and haste and remember what peace there may be in silence. You are a child of the universe no less than the trees and stars. You have a right to be here." The priest let his gaze wander among those seated before him. "Words favoured by the man we have gathered here today to honour and remember. To honour because he was a voice in the darkness, a soul prepared to fight for and give his life for what he believed in. To remember because he was also a man, a human like us all, with his virtues and his faults. A man who, despite the violence of his work, managed to touch us all with his love and his humanity. In this memorial service today, we will remember and honour a man who was taken from us without warning and without goodbyes: Raymond Doyle."

4.15pm

Murphy withdrew his hands from his pockets, clasped them together and blew on them. It had to be below zero outside - but at least the snow had stopped. Already street lights were coming on, resenting the short winter days with bleak yellow warnings. Thick clouds loomed in the sky above, pressing down on the leafless trees as though they would crush the world beneath them.

Just about everybody had left now. Kathy had already gone, given a lift home by Sally. Taggart and Fields had rushed off on a job. Only Jax, Anson and Susan waited by their cars, Cowley with them - most likely talking about work. Not really the time or place but Murphy wasn't about to say anything to the Old Man.

As though reading his thoughts, Cowley chose that moment to leave the others and cross the carpark to where Murphy waited by the door.

"He's still in there?"

"Would I be standing out here freezing if he weren't?"

"I'm in no mood for flippancy, 6.2."

"No, sir," Murphy only just kept the irritation from his voice. "Should I get him?"

"Not if he's praying."

"Bodie?" Murphy let out disbelieving grunt. "Doyle was the believer of those two, sir."

Cowley took his gaze from the church door and pinned it to Murphy with the accuracy of a Class A marksman. "Then why do you suppose he's still in there, half an hour after the service finished?"

Murphy could only shrug.

"Aye, well leave him until he's ready to come out. Then take him home. Susan will drive you. Don't worry, she's an eye to his mood and won't try to draw him out. All the same, 6.2, your assignment for the next four days is to stay with 3.7. I don't want him to be left alone to do anything but visit the bathroom."

Murphy shot one look at the church door and the sliver of pews he could see inside. "Is such close observation really necessary, sir? It's not as if Doyle was killed on the job. There's no murderer for Bodie to go flying after, is there?"

"Does there need to be?"

The sharpness in Cowley's voice made Murphy turn back to him. "What are you getting at, sir?"

"Doyle was his partner, Murphy. You're his friend. Stay with him and keep him out of trouble. You're the only man I have available who's big enough to keep him in order."

For a moment, Murphy studied Cowley, seeing past the crisp instructions and gruff voice to where the genuine concern waited in those hard grey eyes, barely acknowledged. CI5 had lost half of its best team - but Cowley had lost a man, a good man. Doyle would be missed and in more than just a professional manner.

"Should I expect trouble, sir?"

Cowley raised his eyebrows, the ghost of a smile playing around his mouth. "Have you known a day on this job when you shouldn't?" He gestured to his driver to bring his car around. "Stay with Bodie, 6.2. Watch him and have him in my office by 9.00am, Friday."

"Yes, sir."

With that, Cowley turned and climbed into his car. Murphy glanced across at Susan who shrugged, happy to wait. Well, perhaps they would have to wait - but who said Murphy had to do it outside, where his feet were quickly forming the particulars of iceblocks at the end of his legs.

He headed back inside, just inside the door. A heater blasted ineffectually against the winter and he almost took up residence inside it.

Bodie had moved. He now stood in the centre of the isle, between the two front pews as though afraid of moving closer to the altar. His hands rested by his sides, flesh covered by black gloves, shoulders covered by woollen coat, head angled down, as though he were studying the medieval tiled floor. There was a stillness about him, about the church that sent a chill of a different kind through Murphy and all his instincts were alerted at the same time.

That left hand clenched suddenly and almost lifted. Murphy stiffened, ready for some assault - but then Bodie relaxed again and Murphy let out a breath -

And almost missed the harsh sound whispered in the silence. A voice. Words, coming from Bodie. The tone filled with fury; barbed wire scraping across the floor.

"You bastard, Ray. Why didn't you just say?"

---

January 17
Monday, 11.20am

"Good God, Bodie, what the hell do you think you're playing at?"

Doyle's half-laugh, half-rage, barely infringed on Bodie's concentration. At least, not that he would show. Instead, he carefully peeled the paper from his bacon sandwich, took another mouthful and kept his gaze attentively on the newspaper in front of him, effectively ignoring Doyle waiting outside the car, his arms full of grocery bags.

"Oi! Open the bloody door before I drop the lot!"

"Mmm?" Bodie murmured, pretending to study the racing pages with all the application of a lab assistant over a microscope.

A harsh thud rocked the car, making the cup of tea he had resting on the dash slurp liquid over onto his paper. "Hey! What was that for?"

"Bodie!"

With a grin, Bodie left his paper and reached over the back seat to unlock and push open the back door. Grumbling, Doyle dumped the bags on the back seat, slammed the door and climbed in behind the wheel. "Bloody arms were ready to drop off."

"Thought you'd be doing weight training with them, mate," Bodie quipped, his eyes once again on his paper. "You're always telling me how strong you are."

Doyle said nothing but simply started the Escort's engine and with a sly grin in his partner's direction, gunned the car into motion. With a shriek, Bodie made an ineffectual grab for his tea - only to find it splattered all over his paper, his hands - and his lap.

"What are you doing?" Frantically, Bodie brushed the hot liquid away from his more sensitive parts, spearing Doyle with a look of burning hatred. "That was uncalled for!"

"Oh, stop whining, Bodie, the paper caught the worst of it and you know it. Besides, if I did do you any damage, the female population of London would send me a reward - and I'm a bit strapped for cash at the moment."

Still tidying himself up, Bodie collected his bacon sandwich and pulled off a bit of soggy bread. Fortunately, the rest had survived unscathed. "That's because the only way they'll climb into the sack with you is if you take'm to one of those high class restaurants. Expensive way to get a bit of sex if you ask me."

"Better than taking them to the local caf like some people I could mention."

"I never..."

At Doyle's chuckle, Bodie glanced at him and settled for a grunt. He didn't much feel like arguing today. It had been a long week already. Two days, two cases, two shoot-ups - and four dead. Funny how they could work half a dozen cases for weeks at a time, long dragging jobs filled with intel gathering, obbos and speculation - and then within twenty-four hours, have three of them explode in the squad's face. At least he and Doyle had been spared the other case. The bomb. Seven wounded - though nobody dead. Did it have to be like that? Nothing for weeks, almost months - then too much, too quickly?

Maybe he was just getting old. How long had he been at this caper? Five years in CI5 and partners with Doyle that whole time. Good god, that was about the longest he'd stuck with anything his entire life. School, street kid, merchant navy, mercs, Africa, army, paras, SAS. And after all that, he ends up with a 'career' in CI5. From the sublime to the ridiculous. Getting old? Nah! Not yet. Not by half!

And now they had a morning off. A whole bloody morning. Just enough time to pick up laundry, buy a bit of food, see what the outside world looked like - and then go back to work. Hardly worth the bother, really.

"You'd better stop off at my flat. I'll have to get changed."

"Oh, it's not so bad," Doyle said, glancing with feigned concern at the wet patch on Bodie's lap. "I shouldn't think anyone will notice."

"Yeah, they bloody will, Doyle and you know it. Then I'll have to put up with a week's worth of jokes about getting over excited and not being able to save it for the birds so you can just stop by my place and let me get changed or I'll really give you something to complain about." Bodie finished with more of an edge to his voice than he'd intended. He didn't look at Doyle but instead, finished off his sandwich and settled back in his seat, prepared to close his eyes.

Doyle said nothing.

Bloody hell, why couldn't he stop doing that? What once would have been nothing more than a joke they could both laugh at, now became something that really irritated him deep down. No, he didn't want to look at Doyle. Didn't want to even guess what he was thinking. Didn't want to hear those words asking if anything was wrong. Didn't have an answer. At least, not an answer he wanted to think about.

Yeah, well maybe he was getting too old. Maybe five years was enough for any man. Plenty of time to get shot at and blown up and knifed. Breaking bones, collecting bruises and concussions. What a way to earn a living. A career in gradual self-destruction, that's what this was. Keep going until one day there's nothing of you left for them to target.

"Bodie?"

"What?"

"Is something bothering you?"

Yep, there it was. The question. Phrased differently each time, but nonetheless, the same question. And Doyle never taking his response for the truth, as though he didn't trust Bodie to even know the answer, as though he needed Doyle to help him work it out.

"There's nothing bothering me apart from a pair of wet trousers." Bodie filtered out the sigh but said nothing else. Doyle would know not to ask again. At least, not today.

"Bodie?

"Yeah."

"We're here."

With some surprise, Bodie sat up and looked about him. Doyle had found a park right outside his building.

"I'll wait here. Just don't take too long. I have to get this stuff back to my place before we go back to work. Don't forget your laundry."

Bodie collected the bag and dashed out into the cold. He leapt the stairs to his door, key already in hand. More slowly now he went up to the first floor, opened his flat up, absently turning off the alarms. He came to a halt in the lounge, by the window where a crack in the lace curtains gave him a spy hole on the Escort. The laundry bag dropped from his hand, forgotten.

Doyle was out of the car, his jacket collar pulled up around his ears. Two kids were making little snowmen along the front brick wall and Doyle was helping them.

Five bloody years. What the hell was wrong with him? Didn't five years mean anything any more? How many times had Ray saved him from death or injury? Or worse? Like last month when those Dutch gangsters had made the best attempt CI5 had ever seen at framing an innocent man for murder. If it hadn't been for Doyle, Bodie would even now be rotting in a cell on the Island, waiting for his enemies to take turns peeling slices off him.

For five years their partnership had been based on mutual trust. They ruled the top of their profession, their record of success unmatched by any other team. Their skills unquestioned, their strange shared wavelength almost incorporated into basic training for the new boys. They were the best.

Trust. Yeah. So what the hell was wrong with him? And how could he stop it? Leave? Well, that was one way out of it, but not his preferred choice. What else? Couldn't say anything - to anybody. Ignore it? Not working so far. Hadn't for the last two months. In fact, it had only become worse.

"Damn it, Bodie!" he hissed into the silence. "Just leave it alone."

As though Doyle sensed his confusion from below, he rolled up a ball of snow and fired it at Bodie's window. Knowing he wouldn't be seen, Bodie stepped back - then strode into the bedroom to get changed. Minutes later he was setting the locks and leaping back down the stairs to the cold outside, determined to shrug off this mood once and for all. Oddly, Doyle didn't complain about his tardiness and instead, simply swung out into the traffic.

"You are comin' to the pub tonight, aren't you?"

Bodie glanced aside - and only then did he remember and instantly grinned, "It's Murph's birthday, isn't it? Yeah, I'll be there."

"Good. You'll enjoy it."

"So you said last week - but I s'pose you still won't tell me what you've arranged?"

"Nope."

"Aha. Does Kathy know?"

"Didn't tell her." "But it'll be good?"

Doyle chuckled with delicious wickedness. "Yep. Murphy's gonna kill me - - so don't you get drunk. I'll need you to watch me back."

"Like hell. You've dropped yourself in this one, sunshine. I'll be busy elsewhere."

Again, Doyle sniggered, "You're assuming I invited some birds."

Bodie decided not to take the bait. "And the boys would hang around for about five minutes if you hadn't. Don't try that one on me."

Yeah. Perhaps a night at the pub was just what he needed.

9.15pm

Murphy was not now - nor ever had been - a match for Raymond Doyle. Nor was Bodie, on this particular occasion, of a mind to help the Smurph out. He valued his own skin far too highly.

No. It was far more enjoyable - and infinitely safer, at least for the moment, to stand back with everyone else and simply watch.

And laugh.

The pub was crowded with as many agents as could get the night off. Murphy's cool, laid-back attitude made him popular with just about everybody and most of them had snatched at least a few hours off. Many had girlfriends and wives with them, Murphy included. But right now, Murph had been separated from his lovely Kathy and was sitting blindfolded on a chair, handcuffed and completely stuck.

At least Doyle had let Murphy keep his clothes on.

Everyone else kept a safe distance, a neat if hysterical circle around the poor man. Kathy stayed beside Bodie, unable to stifle her giggling.

"He's going to make me pay for this you know, Bodie. He'll never believe I didn't have anything to do with it."

Bodie grinned, "I'll back you up, sweetheart. We'll just blame it all on Doyle. Let him take the heat."

How Murphy had managed to let his guard down enough for Doyle to get the cuffs on, Bodie couldn't imagine. But it was done now and although Murphy pleaded to be set loose, Doyle was having none of it. Instead, he stood behind Murphy's chair and reached into a bag he'd brought with him. Almost soundlessly, Doyle, his mouth set purposefully, lifted a huge card up for everyone to read, turning it this way and that to make sure they all saw it clearly.

'Act like there's a stripper coming in.'

Almost on cue with the roars from the delighted crowd, music cranked up all around them. Typical stripper's music, bump and grind - only nobody appeared. Doyle held up another card.

'She's dancing in front of him.'

Whistles and calls. Encouragement for the phantom lady to do her worst.

Bodie began to laugh.

Murphy's face was priceless and even Kathy had to clamp a hand over her mouth so her love wouldn't hear her enjoying his discomfort.

Another card. 'She's removing her upper garments.'

More roars. They were playing along and loving it. Poor old Murphy was yelling at Doyle to take the blindfold off but Doyle, savouring every wicked moment, simply held up another card.

'She's getting ready to finish her act.'

From the bag, Doyle produced a filmy scarf and innocently brushed it over Murphy's face. The crowd screeched with laughter. Then the scarf disappeared and Doyle held up one last card.

'The stripper has left the building. Applaud.'

As though they'd just seen the best show on earth - which in a way, they had - all of CI5's finest put their hands together and whooped and yelled their approval. The music, almost drowned out by this barrage, grunted to a close.

Doyle held up his hand, encouraging them on. Over the noise, Bodie could hear Murphy shouting.

"'C'mon, Doyle, give me a break!"

"You wanna see the stripper?" Doyle yelled back.

"Don't be an idiot."

And Doyle grinned, his green eyes sparkling. He nodded to somebody behind Bodie and then there was a press in the crowd as a man stepped forward.

Tall, perfectly built, well-fed muscles defined by body oil and a scanty singlet. Tight leather pants and heeled boots finished the outfit off. The man took up a pose right in front of Murphy, taking the scarf Doyle handed him - and Bodie had to hold his stomach against his laughter, knowing what was coming.

With a flourish, Doyle removed Murphy's blindfold.

Murphy blinked, focussed - and his jaw fell open.

Kathy turned and buried her head in Bodie's shoulder, her whole body shaking with laughter.

Murphy was instantly on his feet, taking the chair with him - and suddenly Doyle had disappeared. It was up to others to steady their laughter and unlock the cuffs - a few of them having to hold the Smurph back from hunting out Doyle, no matter where he'd gone. Kathy chose that moment to go back to him. It was only her calm and repeated insistence that prevented cold-blooded murder.

His face aching with mirth and feeling better than he had in a long time, Bodie headed for the bar and another beer. He collected it and spied Doyle hiding in a booth on the other side of the crowded room. Their eyes met and they grinned. He bought another pint then squeezed through the press of people and landed on the empty seat opposite his partner.

Doyle took the drink with a nod of thanks, his gaze understandably, on the other side of the room, keeping an eye out for a surprise attack. His face was a picture; wariness combined with blissful satisfaction. It would take some time before that smug smile wore off. Time - or Murphy finding him in the next five minutes.

"Don't worry, mate. He'll save it for later."

"Yeah, that's what worries me." Though Doyle's grin made it a lie.

Bodie shook his head. "Jesus, Ray, you do like living dangerously! If Kathy hadn't been there..."

"If Kathy hadn't been there, I wouldn't have blindfolded him - and it would have been a real stripper."

"You mean, the guy isn't?"

"Nah," Doyle chuckled. "Just a bloke who does a little modelling for the art classes I used to do. Offered him a tenner and a few drinks. He was game. Loves a laugh."

Bodie raised his eyebrows. "A model?"

"Yeah." Doyle's eyes were still on the other side of the room.

"A gay model?"

"Dunno. Never asked."

Bodie turned his attention back to the crowd and eventually spied Murphy somewhat mollified by the delectable Kathy neatly wrapped around him. Music had boomed up again and a few couples were now dancing. Murphy dragged Kathy to a little space on their own and they danced, close up, creating their own world amidst the noise and crush. By the look of him, Murphy had already forgotten Doyle's prank - though without doubt, he'd remember tomorrow.

"He won't last the year."

Bodie frowned and glanced back at Doyle. "Eh?"

"Murphy." Doyle took another drink and met Bodie's gaze. "Was talking to him yesterday. I think he wants to get out."

"Kathy?"

"It's not her, exactly. She loves this mob - strange girl that she is. I think if young Michael Patrick wasn't already in the squad, she'd think seriously about leaving the Met and signing on. No, I think Murph's decided he wants the quiet life for a while."

"Serious then, is it?"

Doyle shrugged, "Well, you know him better than I do."

"But he never said anything about this to me."

Doyle's glance grazed against his awareness and vanished, buried in the action of taking another hearty mouthful of ale.

Strangely piqued, Bodie sat up straight and put both arms on the table. He fixed all his attention on his partner. "Well?"

"Well what?"

"Don't play games with me, Doyle. What was that look for?"

"What look?"

Now it was all innocence - but not the fanciful kind that warned of some incoming joke. No, Doyle expected Bodie to buy this.

He didn't. "Has Murphy said something? About me?"

Doyle grimaced and shook his head. "Look, Bodie, nothin's been said. Just forget it, okay?"

"No. Tell me what's going on."

"Nothing is going on." Doyle gave him an exasperated sigh and shook his head again. "Jesus, you tell me I obsess over stuff. Just trust me and forget it."

Bodie fell silent but the moment was far from forgotten. He wrapped his hands around his glass and let his gaze drop into the depths of the remaining amber nectar. He tried to dust away the cobwebs of that fleeting look, but it just wouldn't work. They stuck there, attached to a mental image of Murphy and Kathy together in their own world on the dance floor and buoyed afloat by his dark mood of that morning. Slowly, all the laughter of the practical joke fluttered away as though it had never been and he was left feeling hollow, grey and raw.

"Ray?"

Slowly he raised his head until his eyes met Doyle's. In the murky pub light, there was little visible of the usual vivid green. Instead, he was met with hazy brown, brows drawn up in that odd movement that appeared to make Doyle look so vulnerable.

The gaze that met his was searching and not a little gentle - and caught Bodie at the back of his throat. After a moment, Doyle took a breath, "Bodie, you're my best mate, right? You're the best partner I could have had even though I thought Cowley was mad the day he teamed us. Can't you just trust me and leave it alone? Please?"

Bodie gave a short shake to his head. "But?"

"No buts, Bodie. That's it." He grabbed his glass and put a hand on the table to push himself up but Bodie caught it, forcing the hand down on the flat surface.

"Answer me. But what?"

A flare of anger flashed across those eyes, to be instantly quelled. Even so, Bodie didn't let go. While Doyle's ire was not something he would normally choose to face, and in fact, would go some distance to avoid, right now he was willing to take the risk. Another heartbeat floated by and Doyle relaxed with a sigh, draining the last of his beer.

"Bodie, you're a stubborn SOB and if you were anybody else, I'd flatten you."

"Look at me and tell me." Bodie still kept a firm grip on Doyle's wrist.

"That's just it, mate. You know what we've been through together over the last five years. If I was ever in trouble, I'd come to you first for help. But Bodie, I hate to say it - you're just not the kind of bloke it's easy to confide in."

Sharply winded, Bodie released Doyle's wrist and sat back. He couldn't take his eyes from that face he knew so well. Inside, his stomach rocked a block of lead from side to side, squashing flat every tumbling morose feeling he'd had all day, for the last few months. If somebody was to throw a punch at his solar plexus right now, they'd break every bone in their hand.

Doyle swallowed and idly, Bodie watched his Adam's apple move up and down. "I'm sorry, mate," Doyle murmured, only too aware of the hurt he'd inflicted, even though he'd tried to avoid it. Knowing Doyle, he'd do the whole guilt thing now. "You didn't want to hear that and that's why I didn't want to tell you. But you do it to yourself. Hell, when Marrika died, you just cut yourself off, even from me. It took you weeks to get around to talking to me about anything - and still you never said a word about her. I still don't know if she was the love of your life or just somebody you had some vague sentimental feeling for. It sounded like she betrayed you once before, but I'm only guessing. And as for that dark distant past of yours? Oh, I know there are things you don't want to talk about, and you laugh at the stories the boys make up about Africa and everything - but I'm not talking about them. I'm talking about Murph and Kathy, Anson and Susan. Me. Your friends. You keep us shut out."

Bodie didn't move. Some small part of his mind, safely objective, noticed that that had been just about the longest uninterrupted speech Doyle had given him in over five years.

Stiffly, he lifted his glass to his lips and spoke before drinking, "What do you want me to tell you? My life's bleedin' story or something?"

Doyle sagged a little, "Christ, no, Bodie. But you know what I mean. Hell, I was there at your side when we took on Krivas and his mob - and yet all you ever did was hint at why you hated him so much. Who was the girl? Did you love her?"

Love?

Bodie could have laughed - if there'd been anything left inside that wasn't already diced and shredded. Gathering more of himself together, Bodie finished his beer and laid the glass back down, prepared to do battle. "Yeah, I know what you mean, Doyle. I've seen you do the same thing to me every day for the last five years." "What?" Doyle was thrown, instantly confused and it showed all over his face.

"Last year, the day you got shot." Bodie's words came out stunted now, and a little harsh, failing to completely hide the still-buried anger and fear that episode had cost him. "When we left the inquest, I asked you to the pub, to wind down - because I knew you were in a mood. I knew you needed it - but what did you do? You shut me out and went back to your flat alone. And May Li was waiting for you and almost killed you."

Doyle's mouth hung open and Bodie had to drag his eyes from it to meet Doyle's gaze. The distraction only served to darken his mood. "But..."

"But nothing, Ray." Bodie leaned forward, his voice a low growl. "I'll make a bargain with you, sunshine. I'll tell you about any episode in my life, if you tell me the story of how you got your cheekbone smashed."

Doyle snapped back at this. A look of something sped across his face like lightning, all twisted and grappling with past and present. A conjunction of realities too sharp and too tender to express in words. He hid it all behind disbelief - but Bodie had seen it. And Doyle knew it.

Depressingly satisfied now, Bodie got to his feet. "Tell Murph I said happy birthday." Without another word, he turned and pushed his way through the crowd and out the door.

He was three streets away before he even noticed how cold it was. Didn't matter. His flat was only around the corner and he'd left his car at Central, expecting to drink tonight.

The streets were quiet as he pounded along them, feet crunching on fresh falls of snow. Along the gutters and fences, snow had turned to grey muddy slush making the place look more dirty and foetid than it normally did. He crossed at the corner and stormed past doors, windows where a little light shone out into the night. He could hear radios and televisions, people's lives prattling on around him, oblivious to the silent menace stalking past.

One building from the corner, he turned and stomped up the steps. He shoved the key in the lock so hard, it almost broke. More stairs and then his front door. Only at the last moment did he remember to turn the alarms off. The door slammed shut behind him with such force, the living room windows rattled. He dropped his keys on the floor and sank onto the sofa, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

In the darkness, he silently urged calm upon himself. He took deep breaths and willed the muscles in his shoulders to unlock, to mentally picture the tension flowing out of them and away. He focussed on the knot in his stomach and worked at it, easing it loose again. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on a plain blank wall, to drown in it.

Exercises learned over years of fight training. Take only a perfectly clear mind into battle with you. Never aim a weapon with anger in your heart. Emotions of any kind spoil your aim. Feelings of any nature get in the way of the job and you risk losing your life by being unable to concentrate on why you're there.

And he was good at it. Not perfect, true - but pretty damned good.

So why wasn't it working this time? Instead of calming him, the exercises only fed his disquiet and unease and drove him eventually to his feet.

Damn Doyle!

Damn him!

Grabbing his keys, Bodie strode to the door. He'd set Doyle straight once and for all.

This time he didn't notice the cold at all. The fire inside him burnt enough to keep the whole of Chelsea toasty for a week. Ready to storm into the pub and haul Doyle out by the collar, Bodie was pulled up in the shadows on the opposite side of the street, by the sight of various people leaving for home in happy clumps. Bodie paused warily. He hadn't realized it was so late already. He looked at his watch. 11.10pm. Doyle's car was still there.

Before Bodie could move, the man himself backed out through the pub doors, Murphy and Kathy with him. Doyle led them to his car and unlocked it for them. That's right; he'd offered to give them a lift home. Even from his hiding place, Bodie could clearly hear Murphy's half-drunk warning of what the morning would play for Doyle. It was Kathy however, who made sure Murphy got into the car without smacking his head on the roof.

Bodie was about ready to head back home when he saw something else that stalled him. That guy - the stripper - exited after Doyle, warmly rugged up with a long coat and scarf. He came around the car before Doyle could get in and placed a proprietorial hand on his shoulder.

Bodie stiffened.

"I'm glad you called me," the model said with a grin. "That was worth coming out into the cold for."

Doyle nodded, "Yeah, thanks for doing it. I'm glad you enjoyed yourself."

Bodie couldn't take his eyes from that hand, the grip. His mouth went dry but his feet for the moment seemed unable - or perhaps unwilling - to move.

"I had a ball. Listen, Ray, we should go out for a drink sometime. Catch up."

Doyle laughed, a husky disavowal. The man ignored him and went on. "Oh, come on, Ray." Now he was smiling too, as though he knew what Doyle was thinking. He dropped his voice a little but Bodie would have heard the next words if he'd been standing a mile away. "You know I think you have the most gorgeous arse I've ever seen. Are you sure you won't even think about changing sides?"

Again that laughter from Doyle. He gave the man's shoulder a friendly pat, "Sorry, Jeff, but you're just not my type. But I will buy you a drink sometime just to show there's no hard feelings."

Jeff dropped the hand and stepped back from the car. "Oh, but there are, my sweet, there are. Drive carefully. Goodnight."

Bodie drew back further into the shadows as Doyle pulled out from the kerb and drove past. Jeff shook his head and turned for the opposite direction. Bodie was frozen to his hiding place, struck by two overpowering thoughts, one treading so hard upon the other, his breath was snatched away.

Bodie was jealous and -

Doyle had lied to him.

As the pub emptied, Bodie turned and walked back down the street, his hands deep in his jacket pockets, his mind abruptly emptied by that stormy intrusion. In what seemed like only a few moments, he found himself climbing the stairs to his flat again. He went in with only a vague feeling of a change in surroundings. Absently he turned the heaters up and dropped his jacket on the back of the chair. He looked down at his hands and was surprised to find them almost blue.

Shower. He needed to have a shower to warm up. He'd never sleep like this.

The bathroom filled with steam quickly and stripping off, he stepped under the pounding spray, closing his eyes and turning his face into it. As the heat seeped into his flesh, his mind began to work again, slowly cranking up into a fury of thoughts he could neither contain nor control.

Doyle had known Jeff was gay - but he'd lied about it to Bodie. Why? Had he thought Bodie would make an issue of it? Was there some element in his shady past he wasn't willing to admit to? Even to Bodie?

Did he really want to know?

With a groan, he put his palms high on the wall and leaned forward so the water would pummel his back and he could rest his forehead on the cool smooth tiles. Even before the next thought was completed, he dreaded it.

So it was true. All that jealousy, all that rage and anger. All that hiding and snapping, slapping Doyle back every time he tried to get close. But it wasn't really Doyle he'd been hiding from. No. Bodie had been hiding from himself and the knowledge that he wanted something from his partner that he was never likely to get. Now it stared him in the face, unavoidable and inexcusable. Hiding - even ignoring it would do no good any more. Hadn't done to begin with.

Christ, why was this happening to him? From the age of fourteen, when he'd jumped on that ship out of Liverpool, he'd been faced with countless opportunities to climb into bed with a man. Sometimes, in the merchant navy, it had been all he could do to fight them off. He could have been flattered, but as a raw teenager, all he saw was the affront to his masculinity. Not once had he ever been tempted - not even from curiosity. Not that it would have bothered him, really - but since he'd never wanted to, he'd never thought about it.

And then Africa. Oh, sure, plenty of opportunities there too. The mercs in his unit. The local girls either unwilling or too scared of the white soldiers - and Bodie had never been one to force a girl if she didn't want it. He'd made do with those who had wanted him and while not exactly scattering his wild oats, he'd managed to get by. Then there had been that night in Dakar when all his caution and skill had almost failed him. Luck alone had saved him from certain violent rape. That incident on it's own should have been enough to put him off for life. The army and SAS had reinforced it. Everybody knew it went on in the ranks, but nobody talked about it because the fact was, if a man got caught in the wrong bed, the only future was a dishonourable discharge and a life spent having to invent excuses.

But Bodie had never been in danger of any of that - because his passions had always been wholly and completely focussed on the fairer sex, no matter how hard to catch.

And two months ago, that had all changed, against his will, against even his conscious desires. Oh, he knew the exact moment, the precise second his lifetime view of Doyle had abruptly altered, ruining his peace.

All so innocently. On the job, trapped between a warehouse wall and a truck, Doyle close behind him. The men they'd been following for a week were too near for them to risk moving and they were stuck for almost twenty minutes. Crammed up together in a tiny space, their feet hidden by the back wheel of the truck, unable to go back or forward, not even to speak.

After the first rushed seconds, as the stark reality set in and Bodie had realized they had to stay put, he'd relaxed a little - and that's when it had happened.

Slowly, creeping from one part of his being to the next, like a kind of poison, he'd become aware of Doyle's body pressing close to his side. Doyle's breath on his neck, feeling the heart beat from his chest. He'd caught a glimpse of those green eyes, the full lips parted to breathe silently, the hair tousled by the wind streaking down the alley. Doyle was there, touching more of him than any casual matey gesture could ever manage, ignorant of the effect he was having on his partner - while every fibre in Bodie's body, every thread of his soul shrieked a wanting he couldn't begin to put words to.

His arousal had sent a wave of deep, violent shock through him which to this day, he could recall without any trouble at all.

Impossible and yet -

Not impossible at all.

And standing outside that pub tonight, he'd felt it all again, watching Jeff place a hand on Doyle's shoulder, making the offer with a smile, having it turned down without offence.

What would Doyle do if Bodie played the same game? Would he receive the same chuckle, the same secure smile? Or would Doyle smack his teeth in for making such an assumption, for betraying a friendship they both relied on so much.

And why had Doyle lied?

Bodie turned off the shower and dried himself. He threw on a robe and stomped through to the kitchen. He put on the kettle for a cuppa he didn't really want - but he couldn't quite bring himself to go to bed just yet. There were too many suggestions in that action, too many ways for him to trap himself as he had done so many other nights since that day in the alley.

And it hadn't all ended there, either. Minutes after they'd finally squeezed themselves free of the alley, they'd caught up with the traffickers, trapping them mid-deal. Oh, they'd brought them in without too much trouble but there had been a moment there, when Doyle had almost vanished from his life altogether. Again. A gun brought to bear on him, Bodie too late to shout a warning, his own weapon terrifyingly slow but managing to bring the man down with a single shot. Doyle had been philosophical about it as usual, but that day it had been Bodie in shock, for hours after, replaying the incident in his mind's eye, conjuring up an alternate ending for the day - to walk out of the morgue, facing a world without Ray Doyle.

Again.

That day, over a year ago now. The alarm on the R/T. The frantic drive, the climb up the fire escape to look through the window and see the sight.

Never, no matter how long he lived, would Bodie ever forget that first split second. In that second, that moment in time - which to him, dragged for an eternity - Doyle was dead. Gone, his presence no more than an emptiness. Lying motionless on the carpet, covered in blood.

Blood everywhere.

Everywhere.

Ray's blood.

And then Bodie had cracked through his ice-bound horror and fallen at Doyle's side to find a weak pulse. The hours, days and weeks after that had never seemed quite so bad as that first moment, even though for a while there, it looked like Doyle might not survive surgery - or the first two days after.

Nothing ever as bad as that moment.

The kettle whistled and Bodie pulled out a cup, stuck a spoon of coffee into it. The steaming water burnt his fingers but he paid no attention as something else drained into him with the aching ice of a cold bath. A dismal realization so awful, his mind couldn't contain it in silence.

"Christ, no!" he breathed into the empty kitchen. "No."

No, no, no.

"Please, don't let it be love!"

Yes, he could accept that he lusted after Ray Doyle and would do just about anything save risking the partnership to get him into bed - but please, not love. Anything but that.

Lust he could live with. Like the pains of a gun shot or a knife cut, the agony was physical. He had learned ways and means to curb it, to reduce the affect it would have on him. He could still function, do the job, live his life. He might be a little bad-tempered every now and then, but it wouldn't destroy him, wouldn't change the life he'd worked so hard to get.

But love?

Real love?

A fate worse than death. Words like pain and agony, distress and torment were volleys of soggy paper against a wall of obsidian rock. To love was to give oneself up, hand one's heart into the care of another in the vague and vain hope that it would be given back unbruised and unbroken, still whole.

Physical pain Bodie could cope with, even the thought of a long and painful death scared him only a little in comparison. And he knew. As a child and as an adult. So he'd learned to shelter his heart against that onslaught. Marrika had come close - but her world had always been at odds with his, and his deep-rooted survival instincts had warned him off giving more than a little of himself. As it was, that small part had been charred to a cinder with her betrayal and would never see daylight again. She had been the last; he had promised himself so.

But - was he still so inured against the hurt? Did he still protect himself so perfectly? Or had Ray Doyle, mercurial, guilt-driven and blindingly honest, found a away through the rat-maze with his unswerving loyalty, his heart-felt ideals and a smile that nearly melted Bodie every time he saw it.

No, this hadn't been going on for only a few months. This condition - serious as it appeared to be now that he looked at it - had been developing for a year, perhaps longer. Doyle had been getting to him for a long time. Perhaps even from the beginning.

When truth is revealed, it is generally done so completely and Bodie now looked back on five years and saw all the things he had blinded himself to before. The laughter, the jokes, the nights watching football on the telly, the quiet afternoons spent reading papers, long nights on obbo duties. Days spent working with somebody he could trust with his life - not lightly, but seriously. Times when they horsed around and others when the peace was all they needed.

In a crowded room or in response to a joke, Bodie would always look for Doyle's gaze first. He would seek and find those cat-green eyes, wide and open, trusting, the eyebrows drawn together or raised slightly, affecting vulnerability. The quirky smile which accompanied the deadpan voice, light, lilting and absolutely not to be taken seriously. And the opposite, the husky growl, the warning, the anger and rage, the danger.

Ray Doyle was a man of contrasts and it was not unknown for him to display most of them in the space of an hour. But Bodie knew them all. Every one.

Every one except the lie.

But did it have to be love? Did he even know what love was any more? Was this what it felt like? This aching in his gut, this fear of going to sleep, this torment rolling ever onwards in his head, this almost overpowering desire to go straight to the man's flat and use every ounce of his superior strength to get Doyle into bed, to open his eyes and see that the two of them together could be so much greater than the sum of their parts. To show him, really show him, how important it was that they be together. Was that love - or was he just thinking and feeling with his balls and making too much of everything else?

And if he did, if it was love, if he gave anything away this time, if he so much as glanced in that direction, there would be nothing left of him to recover. Too many years of protection had left him with no immunity. But would hope alone save him from that fate - or was it already too late? Had he already given his heart away for Doyle to crush in his innocence?

Maybe that's why Bodie'd been so thrown tonight in the pub. So hurt so quickly. So deeply. He was already in danger.

Abruptly restless, Bodie took the coffee and poured it down the sink. He strode into the living room and picked up the bottle of scotch he kept by the telly. He screwed the lid off and swallowed twice of the burning fluid, seeking satisfaction in the searing of his throat. He put the bottle away before he could finish it off. He turned to go to bed - and stopped. No, that was a little too dangerous tonight. Dreams and fantasies would get tangled and confused and right now, that was the last thing he needed. No, the sofa would do for tonight.

And tomorrow?

Tomorrow he would have to get himself an answer. No matter what. He had to know what he was doing here.

And why.

---

January 18
Tuesday, 6.00am

For the second time in six hours, Doyle found himself sitting in his car, freezing and watching the windows of Bodie's flat. At the moment, it was all dark, but soon a light would come on, then another and half an hour after that, Bodie would come down the stairs ready to be driven to work.

At least, that was the original plan. The one they'd worked out last night - before they'd had that small disagreement.

Doyle brought his hands together and tried to blow some heat into his sheepskin gloves - and failed miserably. With a groan at this self-imposed discomfort, he stuck them back under his arms, put his head against the rest and stared out through the crack of window he'd left open.

Christ, he'd been an idiot last night! His instincts had warned him to stay right away from any subject Bodie might be touchy on - and what did he do? Put his foot right in it - and then, as frilly icing on the cake, he'd brought Marikka and the Krivas girl into the discussion.

No wonder Bodie had swiped back with the crack about his cheekbone.

Hypocrite! After complaining that Bodie shut himself away from people, Doyle had been unable to say a word. Jesus, Doyle knew as well as anyone that his partner had good reasons for keeping his thoughts to himself, reasons buried under years of pain and learning to find a way to live with it. He'd never intended to imply he wanted Bodie to open up and tell everything.

And taking that kind of tack could quite possibly be the exact opposite way to get Bodie to open up. Especially now.

Last night had been his big chance. Knowing he would love the joke planned for Murphy, Doyle had planned on plying Bodie with alcohol, going back to his flat for a nightcap - and then applying just enough pressure to get Bodie to explain what had been bugging him for the last few weeks.

No, months.

Doyle wasn't exactly sure when the moods had begun to change. After all, Doyle wasn't the only CI5 agent capable of mercurial shifts of humour. Bodie had had plenty over the last five years - but his were always short-lived, generally endable with a few beers and a game of darts, a round up of the latest dirty jokes Doyle had collected. Never before had he seen Bodie so fixated on what appeared to be one single problem.

No - he had seen it before. Once.

That mess with Williams and the bikies. Cowley had threatened to kill Bodie - and he'd meant it. And if he had, it would have been Doyle's fault for not sticking with Bodie in the first place, for not making an effort to find out what was behind the depression, for not staying with him and watching his back. For not being a friend. Bodie had needed Doyle and Doyle had failed him.

Cowley wouldn't have killed Bodie - Doyle would have stopped him. Yes, even if it would have meant the end of CI5. Cowley had never seen it at the time, so concentrated was he on getting Bodie to release his hold on the bikie, King Billy - but Doyle had stayed close, ready and prepared, watching Cowley's eyes for the subconscious flash of intent that always heralded the press of a trigger, a split second before it came. Doyle had done it before, would no doubt do it again. As a marksman himself, he'd made something of a specialty of knowing how to tell that moment. He would have seen it coming and he would have kicked the gun aside. Bodie might have been injured - but he would have survived and to hell with George Cowley.

Yes, there were some similarities between that depression of Bodie's and his current apparent state of mind - only last time, his work had suffered. Now, Bodie worked just fine, no better and no worse. No, really the only obvious thing was the way Bodie dealt with the people around him.

Yesterday, Murphy had said as much to Doyle. That's why he'd confessed his plans rather than to Bodie. Always a little apart from those around him, in the last few months, Bodie had become positively isolated. He still went down the pub, still played darts, still partook of the usual jokes and bitches about work but whereas once, he had been a driving force behind such behaviour, these days, he sat back, injecting only the occasional dry comment. Susan had been the first to notice, drawing Doyle's attention to it about two months ago.

Not that Doyle hadn't asked Bodie - and more than once at that. Every time the same response. Nothing wrong. No point talking about it, no point asking.

And then there was last night.

After he'd taken Murphy and Kathy home, Doyle had returned here, in the pitch of icy night. He'd sat in his car for an hour, watching the lights in Bodie's flat, debating with himself the advisability of going up there and beating the truth out of his partner, but some subconscious sense of unease had kept him in his car long after the lights had gone out.

And again this morning. Up extra early, yawing his head off, he'd come by to talk to Bodie before work - and yet still, he sat here, getting colder, waiting for Bodie to come out on his own.

Never realized he was such a coward before. Or - was he too afraid Bodie would press the issue about his damaged cheekbone?

Unable to stop himself, Doyle chuckled dryly into the icy morning. No, he wasn't that selfish. He could put up as much defence as he needed to. Bodie was never going to hear that tale if he lived a hundred years. Nobody ever would.

No, it was something else. Something that rippled warnings on a dozen different levels of his awareness. Something that told him to tread very, very carefully this time.

Bodie would still be angry about last night - but neither of them would want to turn up to work in that state. The Old Man noticed such things and had a bad habit of asking awkward questions - and getting answers under the most inappropriate circumstances. No. No matter the warnings rumbling in Doyle's stomach, he would have to face Bodie this morning. Now.

He pushed the car door open and was gratified to note a light go on in Bodie's living room. He got out of the vehicle and waved his arms around a bit, jumped up and down to get his circulation going. Then he jogged across the road, up the steps and pressed the buzzer.

The answer came quicker than he expected. "Yeah?"

"It's me."

"Bit early. Come up." The lock on the door was released and Doyle took the stairs two at a time, his first thoughts on warmth. The flat door was open ready for him, the kettle already on. Doyle made straight for the gas fire in the living room, hearing the shower with the part of his brain not affected by cold.

Still waving his arms a bit, he made tea then for good measure, put a plate of toast on the table beside it. When he was done, Bodie appeared, dressed and rubbing his cropped hair dry with a towel. His eyes flickered over Doyle before moving on.

"Jesus, somebody's hungry."

"Hungry and cold." Doyle poured tea out as Bodie grabbed a slice of toast and leaned back against the kitchen counter.

As Doyle warmed his hands against the cup, he tried to gauge the mood of the man opposite him. So far, Bodie's tone had been noncomittal - to anyone else, that might mean that everything was fine. But Doyle knew Bodie too well to be fooled by it. For a start, Bodie hadn't actually looked Doyle in the eye once so far. But was that because of last night - - or whatever else it was bothering him.

And should he say anything about either?

He couldn't help himself. The diligent worrier inside him demanded action and he had no choice but to make the attempt. "Bodie, are you okay?"

The response was instantaneous. Bodie rolled his eyes, swallowed hard and set his cup firmly back on the bench, "Christ, Ray, if you ask me that once more..." Then he was walking out - and for a second, Doyle thought he must be mis-hearing because he distinctly heard... laughter. Wry, a shade bitter perhaps, but laughter nonetheless. Another moment later, Bodie reappeared with his coat on, ready to go.

He grabbed another slice of toast and waved it in Doyle's direction. "Well, don't just stand there, sunshine. We don't want to keep George waiting, do we?"

On the way to the car, Doyle set his most searching gaze on his partner and found all the classic Bodie-signs present. All those hundreds of subtle nuances that had taken painstaking hours to compile. The set of the shoulders, the exact pace of his walk, the angle of his head, the tilt of his chin - right down to the precise tone of voice used and the degree of glitter in those all-too-blue eyes. Doyle knew it all so well because he'd seen it all before. Too many times.

Bodie had chosen to ignore the whole thing. As usual. No fight, no argument, not even a discussion. Nothing. As if last night hadn't happened.

Exactly like that - and if it hadn't been for Doyle's expert knowledge of Bodie's hiding techniques - he would have begun to wonder if he hadn't imagined that tense moment in the pub, the fire flung at him from those extraordinary eyes. The challenge unconsciously given - now to be withdrawn.

Bodie would bury the whole thing again, stretching out the distance already developing between them. It was only a matter of time before Bodie succeeded in isolating himself so perfectly that their working relationship would start to suffer. And once it did, they'd never find a way back.

It was enough to make a man scream.

For a moment, starting up the car, Doyle was tempted to tell Bodie to go to hell - but he'd done that once before, over the bikie gang. No, he'd let his partner down once in five years. He would have to wait five more before he got another turn. No, Bodie needed help - even though Doyle had no idea how to do that - what he did know was how to stick to somebody.

After five years, Bodie meant too much to Doyle. Too much to just walk out on him because he was a shrivelled up, cantankerous, self-opinionated, egotistical, self-deluding, stubborn SOB.

Too much by far - and Bodie deserved more than a couple of months worth of patience even if, in the end, Doyle ended up with an ulcer.

Hell, it was a dangerous job; maybe they'd both get blown up before he'd have to worry about it.

6.35pm

Bodie lounged in the chair before Cowley's desk, his fingers nimbly tying strands of elastic bands together. Doyle waited beside him as Cowley finished off his phone call. With a final word, the handset was replaced and the Old Man turned back to them.

"Well, you two managed to make the most of your day. Well spotted, Doyle. It's not every day you accident upon the load up of two tons of stolen ammunition. If you hadn't noticed the registration of the truck, we wouldn't have known anything about it until the locals started getting picked off with 9 mil. Can't say I realized Jimmy Sumner had got out yet - though obviously all promises to stay on the straight and narrow have been rescinded."

"Bit late."

"Right well, you may as well get off home, both of you. Here tomorrow for round up at 8.00 am."

As Doyle got to his feet, Bodie leaned forward, ignoring him. "Actually, sir, I might be a couple of hours late. I have an appointment."

"Well change it, Bodie."

"I can't, I'm afraid. It's personal."

Cowley sat back, pursing his lips, but since they'd brought in Summer and his boys without shedding a drop of blood and collecting the stolen ammo in the process, he could hardly complain about a couple of hours. "Very well. Ten and no later, Bodie."

"Yes, sir, thank you sir."

Bodie was up and out the door before Cowley could change his mind. Doyle strode beside him as they headed down the corridor. For a moment, Doyle said nothing. Then, just before they could hit the freezing outdoors, Doyle paused.

"This appointment, Bodie?"

"Yeah?"

"Does it have anything to do with what's been bothering you lately?"

Bodie raised an eyebrow, rolled his eyes - and shook his head for good measure. "I told you, nothing's bothering me. But since you asked, yes it does. Now can we please get out of here? I'm hungry."

"Fancy a quick pint?"

"Not tonight, thanks. Just drop me home."

The journey passed in a haze of inconsequential chatter about Jimmy and guns and stolen vehicles - and Bodie sighed some relief when Doyle, still bemused, drove off into the winter dark. All day it had been too easy to go back over last night, the questions about Jeff rattling off his brain like machine-gun fire. But every question had it's own back up; why should Bodie care about Doyle's past? So what if he had gay friends. Did it matter in the long run?

All in all, the last thing Bodie wanted right now was to get into that one conversation. Not at least until he knew whether he really needed to have it or not. Not until he found out, once and for all, what he really wanted. Bodie paused on his doorstep a moment to make sure Doyle was really gone, then rushed inside with no lack of haste. He showered, changed, grabbed his most unremarkable coat and scarf, collected the keys to the Capri - then headed back out into the cold. He could grab something to eat on the motorway north.

11.48pm

Birmingham. In winter. Cold and wet. Not a place many people would choose to spend an evening - but then, wasn't choice what this was all about?

God, when had he learned to get so maudlin? Questioning was Doyle's thing. Maybe he had been around CI5 too long.

See, that's exactly the problem! Thinking things like that! Hell, Bodie was the arrogant one. The beautiful and engagingly modest one. The one the ladies couldn't resist.... Well, perhaps best not to follow down that line of thought.

Bodie did a left turn down a badly-lit street and abruptly began to laugh. This was so silly. So stupid. Coming up here in the dead of night - he could get himself killed - all to answer a simple question. Well, granted, it wasn't that simple exactly - but it was only the one question.

Hell, if Doyle knew what he was doing Bodie would be minus a few teeth by now.

Yeah, Doyle. Bad-tempered, moody little sod. All laughter and smiles one moment, dark slashing anger the next. Capacity for guilt the size of Spain - and yet, the only person Bodie had ever met who continued to care for him no matter what happened. Even now, after months of bad temper from Bodie, Doyle had used all caution and gentleness this morning, asking how he was, knowing Bodie would be upset by last night, wanting to talk it out, make it better, stop his partner from hurting. Doyle cared, alright. Cared a lot.

And no, it wasn't just duty, either. Doyle could never be accused of being so shallow. No, the exact opposite. There were depths to Doyle Bodie had only ever glimpsed. Those he had seen wove together to form a personality and character of extreme complexity and yet at times, he was as easy to understand as a year one reader. He had walls - pretty solid ones at that - and they came down when he wanted. Slammed down in fact - especially over his question about the cheekbone. But there was always something about Doyle that attracted a more than it repelled, something in that angel's face and green eyes. Bit by bit until, over the years, Bodie found he couldn't imagine being teamed with another partner, trusting anyone else as wholly - or any kind of life that didn't have Ray Doyle enmeshed within it.

It was almost invisible - and only somebody who got really close would ever see it - but Doyle had a fine narrow healthy streak of honour and somewhere along the line, it had sliced right through Bodie and lodged in a place he couldn't touch, himself.

But was that love? The kind that scared him the most? Since last night, he'd gone over this so many times, it had begun to make him dizzy. What did he want from Ray? Friendship? Sure, always. Partners? Absolutely. Nobody else. Sex? This time the answer was slower but no less positive. Yes. He wanted to hold Ray, touch him, kiss him, feel the depths of passion match his own. Yeah, he wanted sex with Ray. So much it hurt - but - Love? No matter how many times he went the circuit, how many times he asked himself the same questions, in the end he was left with the same hollow pit in his stomach as the last, painful truth revealed itself. He wanted all of that from Doyle. But he also wanted something else. Something he couldn't name. Something that both terrified and excited him at the same time. Something that held promise and dire warning and yet still drew him onwards. He could only think of it one way. He wanted something more.

Bodie left the car parked at the end of an alley and turned down, hands thrust deep into his pockets.

How long did he have? Two hours to get back, get some kip and be at work by 10. That gave him an hour or so to play with.

Would he need an hour?

Garish neon scrawled above the door led him to the place. Deliberately refusing to hesitate, he walked straight inside, through the second door keeping the heat in. It was even darker inside than out. There was a bar opposite, the usual configuration of bottles, glasses and crisps arranged along the wall. Between Bodie and the bar were tables crowded with people, all talking at the same time, almost yelling over the sound of music coming from a dance floor somewhere in the distance.

Yeah, there were a few women here - but the rest were men and more than a couple glanced in his direction as he paused to get his bearings.

Well, he was here now. Best to make the most of it.

His normal arrogant bearing made crossing the room a breeze and he reached the bar with his dignity in tact. He ordered a gin and tonic and managed to pinch a table by the wall as it suddenly became vacant.

So far so good. But so far had only been the easy bit - and it wasn't yet too late to back out, head for home question unanswered - but still in one piece. Sanity would still be in tact - more or less. He wouldn't really have to risk anything.

No. Stay until there is an answer - regardless of what it is. Doyle deserves that much.

Smoke and noise suffocated any liberal atmosphere the club might have achieved with dcor. This was one of those places best not visited during daylight hours; no eye could stand that kind of bleak, deliberate seediness.

But it wasn't in London and the chances of Bodie being recognized here were limited in the extreme. Both gun and ID were safely at home. If it came down to it, he could always claim he was following up a lead of some sort. Hell, he knew enough seedy characters to fill three places this size...

Check and double check. Take no chances, risk nothing. What an idiot! What was he doing here if not to risk something? To take a chance! Or at least to risk something he could bear losing. His heart would have no part in tonight's activities.

With half a grin to his own idiocy, Bodie raised his glass and took a sip. One drink would be enough if he had to drive back to London in the early hours. He let his gaze drift across the darkness, noting without pausing the knotted couples touching, holding hands, arms around each other. Even kissing. Intimacy. Between men.

He'd seen it before but not this open and despite his purpose, there was something oddly unsettling about the sight. If the club had been filled with hetro couples, would they be touching each other like that - - or would they be content to wait until they got home?

A pair of eyes snagged his. Dark eyes on a face younger than his. Spanish perhaps.

Bodie didn't look away but couldn't ignore the sudden flutter inside. Fear? Hell, yes. But fears had to be faced, didn't they?

Didn't they?

Bodie looked up to find another gin appear on the table before him and an elegant hand pull a second chair up.

"Mind if I sit?"

"No." Bodie managed, keeping his voice level. Those eyes bored into him again and... and for the first time, he allowed the intent to go further than his head. The back of his throat ached, his shoulders cramped, his gut tumbled over like a flapjack in a pan and his cock did a small leap before settling to wait for the next jolt.

Years of working in a violent profession kept the stress from Bodie's voice, stopped him from swallowing too much. He drank again, waiting for the other man to make the next move.

And he wanted it. That next move.

"You army?"

"No," Bodie replied, his gaze catching the sheen of silky hair, shoulder length, arms sinewy and strong. Mouth parted enough to suggest... the tip of tongue darting to one corner, as if in anticipation.

"Get a lot of army in here. Nowhere else for them to go, is there?" The other man glanced around the room once, briefly then turned back to Bodie, delivering the next desired jolt. "If we leave our drinks here, the bar will hold them for us."

A thrill of fear splashed through Bodie, and hard on its heels was the wash of excitement. It was going to happen. Tonight.

He nodded and the other man stood. Bodie came to his feet also and let the man lead him through the room, between bodies jumping about the dance floor, to a door at the back. A long corridor stretched into the distance, draped with a few bodies on display - but the Spaniard didn't go far. He turned into one of many doors on the left and Bodie found himself inside a small booth, about six foot by four. An unmistakable smell of musk told him what it was - and warned him what was about to happen.

He turned to find a finger tracing the line of his jaw down to his lips. Unthinking, he touched his tongue to the tip, then drew the finger inside his mouth, sucking gently. The Spaniard smiled.

"I thought so." With his other hand, he deftly unclipped Bodie's buckle and pressed his hand against the bulge beneath the cloth.

Bodie couldn't suppress the moan which escaped his lips. It felt like he'd been hard for months with no relief in sight. This wasn't going to take an hour.

His fly was unzipped quickly and then his erection was released into the man's hand and for a moment, Bodie abandoned himself to the sheer pleasure of feeling. Hot breath seared his face but he didn't turn for a kiss. That wasn't why he was here. Instead, his hands sought out the other man. He had to feel, had to know what he was doing - or the whole thing would be pointless.

On any other day, he would have smiled at the silent pun, but his blood was pounding in his ears as his body stumbled over the lines between desire and reality, custom and familiarity. He'd never done this before and his wanting increased through the essence of forbidden pleasures, mysteries as yet unknown. His cock strained for release, pumped gently but firmly by this wanton creature. Bodie found the zipper and pulled it down, discovered a lack of underwear and paused only a second as his fingers touched hot flesh. He pulled it free and wrapped his hand around it. It was incredible. So firm, so real. A cock in his hands, the head straining, the ridge along the top already seeping pre-cum onto his skin.

Bodie smiled. With a kind of perverse joy, he looked down and watched as his strong hands set to work, squeezing the other man's balls, fingers pressing the ridges on the tender underside, pulling harder and faster. The breath against his cheek became staccato, a grunt no more. Bodie squeezed harder, revelling in the power, knowing orgasm was seconds away. His own cock was left forgotten but he didn't care. All he wanted was this thing in his hand, a weapon belonging to another man.

With a guttural moan, the Spaniard jerked and came and Bodie felt the triumph roll over him. Taking only a few moments to recover, the Spaniard then lifted his eyes to Bodie's long enough to give him a sated smile - and then he dropped to his knees.

Abruptly, Bodie pulled in a breath of shock as his cock was taken into the Spaniard's mouth. Again his eyes travelled south, watching that masculine face suck on him, eyes closed, enjoying it. The sight and sensation was extraordinary, and before he realized it, he was holding the man's head against him, thrusting deep into that mouth, savouring tongue and lips and teeth as they grazed against his flesh.

Oh god!

He froze, his eyes snapping open. No. He couldn't do it. Not like this. Not so empty and callous and quick and harsh and cheap and so damned lonely. It was too much - too far. With the wrong man.

Carefully but firmly, Bodie pulled the face away from his crotch and offered a half-hearted smile. "Sorry. Not tonight."

"You sure? I mean, you deserve it. Your hands were damn good."

"I'm sure."

"You can have my arse if you'd prefer."

Bodie bit his lip to stop himself from replying. Instead, he shook his head and urged the man to his feet. In control again he smiled, "I enjoyed watching you come."

The man frowned at him as though he'd just discovered a new and rather bizarre fetish - then gave a quick shrug. "Your choice." With that, he turned and left Bodie in the booth alone.

Swallowing, Bodie gazed down at his erection. He could either do something about it himself now - or get the hell out of here and back to London.

Home. Yeah.

He had his answer and for the first time, after all those months of pondering, he knew exactly what he was afraid of.

---

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

January 29
Saturday, 1.25pm

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

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

"Where's the beer?"

"In the box."

"You not drinking?"

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

"A mug of tea?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Do the job. Stay cool.

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

To the pure, all things are pure.

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

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

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

Doyle almost laughed, "You."

"Yeah? Why?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Nope. You've grown on me."

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

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

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

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

"Yes, Mother."

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

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

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

"Green gunk?"

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

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

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

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

"Yep."

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

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

"So why are you still in CI5?"

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

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

Was Bodie thinking about moving on?

Leaving?

After five years?

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

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

"Yeah?"

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

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

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

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

"Nothing."

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

"Yeah?"

"Don't scratch."

3.20pm

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he was so bloody beautiful.

And Bodie was in love with him.

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

"Good game?"

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

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

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

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

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

Especially not for Doyle.

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

Never.

10.40pm

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

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

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

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

"Yeah, but you pay interest."

"Done."

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

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

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

"And you say I enjoy my food!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yeah. Great." "Pity we have to work tomorrow."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But..."

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

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

"And I want to do it again."

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

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

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

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

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

A wave of shock washed through him, followed by fear-laced anticipation. Both landed in a tangled confusion at his groin. Bodie. His Bodie was trying to seduce him. And he wasn't trying to stop it. No, he'd never thought of doing this with Bodie but for some reason, there was nothing repugnant about the idea - in fact, quite the opposite. The closeness, the smell and taste of Bodie seemed at that moment, in his alcohol-infested mind, the most natural thing in the world. But it wouldn't end with a kiss, would it?

What did Bodie want?

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

Even now, Bodie appeared to read his thoughts.

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

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

Hadn't they?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love?

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

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

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

Sex.

Just sex.

And tomorrow -

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

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

His heart.

And in the end, he'd lose Bodie.

No.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

January 30
Sunday, 9.07am

"Bodie!"

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

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

Christ!

"Bodie!"

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

"Bodie!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Late night, 3.7?"

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

"I hope the young lady was worth it."

"Sir?"

"Lack of sleep?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Would he come back?

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

"No, sir."

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

---

February 2
Wednesday, 11.35pm

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

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

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

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

Had he changed his mind?

Yes.

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

Doyle would know this as surely as Bodie did.

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

Over.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until today.

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

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

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

An idiot. After all these years, he should have known better. Should've had the sense to walk away when he could. He pulled in his bottom lip and swallowed against his dry throat. With heavy muscles, he hauled his feet off the table and got up. He held out a hand to steady himself against the wall as he wound his way into the kitchen. He thrust the glass under the tap and filled it with water. He guzzled the whole thing down in one go and refilled it immediately. He drank again and it was only when he was finished that he noticed the other noise intruding into the blanket silence.

The door buzzer.

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

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

"Bodie?"

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

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

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

Leaving?

Yeah.

No choice.

Time to grow up and leave home.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Can't, sir."

"Why not?"

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

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

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

"There's been an accident."

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

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

Bodie stopped breathing.

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

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

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

And then the words. "Doyle? Dead?"

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

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

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

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

Doyle?

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

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

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

My fault. I loved you. My fault.

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

So beautiful. Impossible not to love you. Ray?

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

Ray? Answer me.

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

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

RAY!!!!

---

And every time I've held a rose
It seems I only felt the thorns
And so it goes, and so it goes
And so will you soon I suppose
  --Billy Joel

February 6
Sunday, 4.00pm

Murphy picked up the last paper, checked the number on it and slotted it into the right space in the file. He signed the cover sheet just as Anson and Taggart came into the office. Taggart went straight to his desk but Anson paused, tossing a glance into the corridor to make sure it was empty.

"Well?"

Murphy raised an eyebrow, put the file on top of a larger one and came to his feet. "Nothing yet."

"Jesus, Murph, what do you mean, nothing yet? It's been a week! How long can it take?"

"Calm down, mate," Taggart grunted.

"It's alright for you," Anson said over his shoulder, "you and Doyle weren't exactly mates."

"And therefore I shouldn't give a damn if they don't find his body till spring? Is that what you're saying?"

Anson shook his head, "No, of course not. I mean..." he shook his head again, glancing at Murphy in something of a plea. "I mean... we have to do something. We have to..."

"Say goodbye?" Taggart added without moving.

"Yeah," Anson breathed.

"And that's hard to do without a body to bury."

Anson frowned. "It's not just that. Murphy, you know what I mean."

Murphy picked up his file and nodded. "Yeah, I know." He headed for the door but one last question from Taggart made him pause.

"You know we've been on this damn case all week. Tell me, how's Bodie doing?"

With his gaze on the corridor and Cowley's door a few feet away, Murphy could only shrug. "No idea."

"We do need to do something, Murph," Anson added. "Tell the Old Man, will you?"

Murphy sighed but said nothing more. He headed towards Cowley's office and knocked. A word from within and he opened the door.

"Is that the report?" Cowley looked up with a deep frown, his glasses perched on the edge of his nose as they usually did when the CI5 Controller got too tired to notice.

"Yes, sir. As complete as it can be at this stage."

"Well, sit you down while I take a look."

Cowley opened the file with a shred of impatience, sifting through the paper without taking time to read Murphy's summary. Murphy sat in the uncomfortable chair and openly wished to be anywhere else. Anywhere but back up north. That had been hard enough once already.

He'd not been able to get within fifty miles of the mountain where Doyle had been killed. For the last week, blizzards had swept central Scotland cutting off huge sections of the country. Roads were impassable, lakes frozen, services suspended. The pundits were already calling it one of the worst winters in recorded history.

And that was the one Doyle had