The Professionals Circuit Archive - Whatever Happened to Raymond Doyle  
    Whatever Happened to Raymond Doyle

 

by Anne Higgins

  
 *AUTHOR'S NOTE:* I do not consider this story to be a sequel to any of my
previous works, but rather a stand-alone exploration of a possibility.
This is not by any stretch of the imagination a death story.

******

The black Merc pulled up in front of the building, and he stepped out onto
the curb, never one for the time wasted waiting for his driver to get out,
walk around the car, then open the door for him. Still, he had emerged
from the backseat of a luxury car, and out of the corner of his pale blue
eyes, he noted a couple pausing to study him. Their manner and dress had
the air about them that always said 'tourist,' and American, at that. 

After a moment, they moved on, dismissing him as ... just another
politician? Or perhaps a harmless old man. He smiled. Although at
seventy-five he had to admit he qualified for the 'old' no one who knew
him would have ever labeled George Cowley as harmless. But not even the
old felt accurate. Five years ago, he'd finally submitted to a surgery to
have a bullet removed from his leg, and he walked with a faster, lighter
step than he had in decades. 

Nor had he noticed any mental deterioration. And he was a stickler for
having that monitored; it wouldn't do at all for a man in his position to
descend into senility or worse. So it was with no alarm that he once again
looked at the building before him with the persistent feeling that it had
a wrongness about it. This was not an example of his vaunted intuition at
work, or of mental time slips, but of his sense of style. While he could
appreciate the security and comforts provided by the current headquarters
of Criminal Intelligence 5, he considered the building itself to be a
typical modern monstrosity and missed the atmosphere of the building
abandoned ten years ago. 

He took a moment to scowl at the building, then went through the glass
doors into the security lobby. It too had the usual modern look: all glass
and bright colours to make guests feel welcome, the desk in front of the
lifts manned by a smiling, ever eager-to-be-helpful receptionist/security
guard. And if the glass were bullet proof and the receptionist a crack
shot with an Armalite kept hidden, but within easy reach ... well, what
the public did not know wouldn't hurt them. 

The metal detector to the right of the desk -- and the only portal through
which the lifts could be reached -- was a slight blight on the friendly
scene, but such devices were also relatively common these days, at least
in the buildings housing the government and the various security
organizations. 

This morning Joanna was not alone, the redhead looking up from a
conversation with her immediate boss to greet him. "Good morning, sir." 

"Joanna, Charlie," he nodded his hellos. "I trust things are well." 

"Yes, sir," Charlie assured him. Once a member of CI5's A-Squad, the man
now had responsibility for internal security. It had pleased Cowley to no
end that he'd accepted the job when it had come time for him to retire
from the field. Of all the things he had to worry about, the integrity of
the building and its personnel was no longer among them. 

He asked Charlie to stop by his office later in the day to discuss some
equipment upgrades -- he'd already decided to approve them, but it
wouldn't do at all for any of his department heads to start thinking he
was made of money. 

Charlie gave him an apprehensive look and agreed on a 2.30 meeting. 

That taken care of, Cowley went through the detector -- the device
temporarily disengaged by the touch of a button on Joanna's console --
then took the lift to the fifth floor, where the administrative offices
were located. 

Several areas in the building and most equipment that supplied information
required palm scans to gain access, but the office marked 'Controller' did
not have such elaborate devices -- merely another attractive woman
stationed inside who could use an automatic weapon with consummate skill. 

He walked into the outer office, then nodded to the young black woman
sitting behind the desk that separated visitors from the two inner doors.
"Good morning, Grace." 

Grace Northcott smiled, returned his greeting, then added, "I hope you had
a pleasant few days in the country." 

"Yes, very pleasant." Though they maintained a flat in London, Cowley's
wife had an estate in the country. She went up there almost every weekend,
understanding that her husband could not often get away to join her, but
insistent that he make the effort at least once every few months. To both
their mutual surprise and pleasure, his attempt to take a long weekend had
actually succeeded. "I assume that all was well here." 

She nodded. "It's even quieter this morning." 

One eyebrow rose, then his glance shifted to the door to her right, the
one marked *Arthur Stebbings, Controller CI5*. "Off making speeches?" 

"Yes, but the city seems quiet as well. Most excitement we had yesterday
were the usual 'nothing on for a few days' shouting matches in the rest
room." 

He nodded, knowing well how tempers could flare when the members of the A
Squad had nothing to do. That much hadn't changed since CI5's inception.
"I trust the offenders were sent to Records." That much hadn't changed
either, or at least he hoped not. Stebbings could be overly indulgent with
his 'thoroughbreds.' 

"Yes, sir." 

"At least the man has some sense," he muttered, then headed towards the
door on her left, the one labeled simply *George Cowley*. For of all the
things that had not changed, first on the list was that George Cowley ran
CI5. Stebbings was merely a nod to the mandatory retirement age, a
compromise with Whitehall that Cowley found acceptable. Stebbings made the
speeches, the goodwill gestures, and Cowley ran things behind the scenes. 

But now, with Stebbings due for his own retirement in three months and
some promising developments in a problem of long standing, Cowley had
decide the time had come for some changes. He entered his office, then sat
down at his antique desk. A beautiful piece of furniture, it was adorned
with a brass lamp of equal craftsmanship, the inevitable stack of files,
and two photographs. 

From the first Margaret Cowley smiled radiantly out at the world. A
remarkable woman, he'd never quite figured out how he had captured her
heart or convinced her to marry a man who spent most of his time at the
office. Patient as she was, yesterday Margaret had wistfully observed that
it would be nice to have her husband around for more than an occasional
day or two off. A few hours later she'd mentioned that some friends of
theirs had taken a cruise to celebrate their anniversary. Since he and
Margaret would celebrate their sixteenth wedding anniversary in July,
Cowley had realized this was a request and not information to keep him
up-to-date about the latest neighbourhood gossip. 

In a moment of optimism, he'd purchased tickets for a trip of their own in
September. Now, he needed to ensure that he could accompany his wife. 

CI5 could not exist without George Cowley. He'd heard that more times than
he cared to remember, but he had always disagreed. The problem had never
been that no one could replace him, but that it took a certain kind of man
to do it. And such a man had not existed when he had reached sixty-five.
Hence Stebbings. To be accurate, such a man still did not exist. But two
did. And he was determined that when he boarded that cruise ship with
Margaret, it would be with the knowledge that CI5 was safely in the hands
of his chosen successors. 

Except there was that problem of long standing to deal with. But then
there almost always was some sort of problem when it came to those two. 

His glance shifted to the second photo and the handsome image of William
Andrew Philip Bodie -- his illegitimate son, the very image of Cowley's
maternal grandmother, and the head of CI5 Hong Kong. Though circumstances
allowed him to telephone Bodie quite often, Cowley only saw him once a
year when they met in Malta for a combined vacation and annual debriefing
session. For his part, Bodie had not set foot in London for fifteen years,
not since the problem had begun. 

Capturing a moment frozen in time, the dark-blue eyes sparkled in the
photograph and a broad, almost mischievous grin lit up Bodie's face.
Cowley sighed, missing that young tearaway with an almost physical pain,
but the lad no longer existed. Bodie's file contained more current photos,
yet Cowley could not bear to look at them, couldn't endure seeing the
dullness of the eyes, the small, forced smiles. In essence, all the life
had gone out of the man since he'd left for Hong Kong. 

If things went well, Cowley would have his son back, smile and all. If not
... it would destroy Bodie completely. For that reason, George Cowley had
sat down and planned this operation with the same renowned care he used
when coordinating searches for terrorist bombs planted in the heart of
London. 

And that brought him to the files. To be precise, the personnel files of
the seven men on the short list to head the national CID. Except there
would be no national CID. Cowley had seen to that. Instead, CI5 would
expand, change with the times, as it were. The organization would split
into two divisions: one charged with terrorist/espionage activities, the
other with criminal. Bodie would head the first; a selection committee
would appoint one of the seven to the second. All of Cowley's plans hinged
on that appointment, and, if necessary, he would call in every favour owed
him to secure it. 

He opened the only file he cared about and read the latest psychological
evaluation, hoping it would contain the same encouraging signs found in
the three that had preceded it. An hour later, he picked up the phone.

******

Bodie stood at his office window, staring out at the city without really
seeing it. He had lived in Hong Kong longer than any other place, but he
felt no connection to it, no sorrow at the days ticking away towards the
end of British rule. To him, it was not a city full of excitement, but a
place of exile and a refuge. 

London had been the only home he'd ever known, the only one he'd ever
wanted, but fate had never been kind to him, and he had been unable to
stay. Some fathers gave their sons fancy cars or jobs in the family
business; George Cowley had given his a place to hide, and, to his ever
lasting shame, Bodie had taken it. By some standards he'd even thrived. 

On the face of it, he ran the CI5 Hong Kong Station, a redundant addition
to the usual bureaucratic levels of red tape that threatened to choke any
large city. But the station had very little to do with Hong Kong and its
criminal activity. He left that to the local police and MI5. Instead, his
office specialized in international covert operations. If the SAS wouldn't
or couldn't touch it, but it needed to be done, Bodie and his team saw to
it. At least once a week someone around the office would hum the *Theme
from Mission Impossible. * To which someone else would add a rendition of
the *Theme from the Twilight Zone*. Both were apt descriptions of the kind
of tasks his people had faced. Most of it made his years on the streets of
London seem easy. 

He sighed. Hard, demanding work with other lives counting on him: he knew
the trick cyclists had told his father that was the prescription that
would keep Bodie alive. That and to get him out of London where the
reminders of all he'd had kept the wound in his soul raw and bleeding.
While his life no longer hung in the balance, his job gave him a sense of
purpose, grounding him in a world that needed him. While not a road to
happiness -- he honestly never expected to feel happy again -- he was
content. 

Given all this, he had been unconcerned about the change over in power.
He'd simply assumed that his team would be relocated and business would
continue as usual. Or at least he had until an hour ago and the phone call
from his father. In one sense, he hadn't been wrong. The end of British
rule in Hong Kong would not be the end of the team, but it would mark the
end of his days as its commander. 

The door of his office opened, drawing his attention, and a lovely woman
with shoulder-lengthen blonde hair walked in. Or at least Susan was
normally quite lovely, but that description didn't quite match up with the
scowl of disapproval she had trained on him. "Something wrong?" he asked. 

She rolled her eyes. "In case it has escaped your notice, it is now 7.30
at night and we've been here since 4.00 this morning. I'm tired, I'm
hungry, and I'm beginning to forget what our flat looks like." 

Inwardly he smiled. "Ah, time to go home, is it?" 

"Bodie --" 

"My father called," he told her, knowing he had to get it over with before
he lost his nerve. 

"Oh?" 

*Such a calm little sound. * 

Susan had not shared his lack of concern of what the immediate future
would bring. "Well, let's have it." 

"This office will be relocated to Wales," he told her the best and worst
of it. Yes, the operation would go on, but it would not be stationed in
the sort of cosmopolitan surroundings that Susan enjoyed. Then he dropped
the bombshell, "I've been instructed to offer command of it to you, then
to Murphy if you turn it down." 

It was a rather dispassionate speech given that he was talking not only to
his second-in-command, but to a woman he had lived with for all but the
first year since they'd both fled to Hong Kong. They'd built something of
a life together out of mutual affection and loss -- though her loss had
been of a more straight forward manner. Her husband, Jax, had been killed
two months before Bodie had suffered his own tragedy. If Bodie and Susan
had never known love together, they had known deep friendship and comfort.
But he had come to feel ... know that she deserved so much more. 

She moved over to him and touched his arm. "And you?" 

"He wants me back in London." 

A sharp intake of breath, then her arms slipped around him, her head
coming to rest against his shoulder. "Tell me that means what I hope it
does." 

He kissed the top of her head. "There is ... a chance of a possibility." 

A hug answered him. "I'm glad." 

Bodie wasn't as certain. He'd lived without hope for so long, he didn't
know how to feel it anymore, and ... "It seems like a poor reward for all
you've done for me." 

She gave him another hug. "Do you know how long it's been since we last
made love?" 

He had to think about it for a moment, then remembered it was how they had
celebrated surviving the Lebanon op. "Seven months. I hadn't realized --" 

Her hand covered his mouth. "You're my best friend, Bodie, and in that way
I'll love you for the rest of our lives, but we haven't been lovers for a
long time, and in some ways we never were." 

He kissed her palm. Her words echoed his own feelings about their
relationship, and he once more felt regret at whatever it was inside him
that would not allow him to love again. "I wish things had been
different." 

"We made the most of what we had. It's simply time to move on." 

He nodded, and together they stood at the window, watching the glittering
lights of Hong Kong at night, holding each other as they each said their
silent goodbys to the life they'd led together.

******

*June 30, 1997* 

After the usual, but interminable delays, the jet hurtled down the runway,
then lifted up into a sky growing grey. Bodie watched the tarmac give way
to the more interesting view of Hong Kong and continued to stare until
long after the huge city had been left behind. He would never see it
again. Even if he returned, the city he had lived in would cease to exist
at the stroke of midnight. At that moment, the Union Jack would be lowered
for the last time, and the flag of the People's Republic of China would
take its place as, after 156 years of British rule, Hong Kong once again
became part of China. 

Bodie and his team had declined to stay for the festivities surrounding
the change in governments. No, that wasn't right. Bodie, Susan and
Murphy's team had declined to stay. He took Susan's hand, then glanced
back to where Murphy sat. He had few reservations about handing over the
care of his people to him. And there was a sense of rightness about it.
Cowley had created the operation with Murphy in mind, but had forced the
approval for the new station through and appointed Bodie to head it when
it had become obvious that Bodie had to leave London. Though Bodie liked
and respected Murphy, he felt Susan was the more skilled operative and had
made her his deputy instead. Fortunately, only Bodie and Cowley knew all
of this so there were no hard feelings, and the gradual change over in
command had gone smoothly. 

His attention turned back to Susan. Having her at his side would make the
days to come easier to bear and eliminated the need to find a new deputy
he could trust so completely, but he had demanded constant reassurance
from her that she had made the decision to return to London with him based
on her own needs, not his. That she'd eventually convinced him of that was
due to the fact that he knew how much she hated the sort of rural area the
team would now call home. 

Well, that and the mutual agreement that they would live in separate flats
from now on. 

He sighed. That would take some getting used to; he'd grown quite
accustomed to her soft warmth in his bed, even if he hadn't been doing
more than sleeping with her. But it was long past time she stopped wasting
herself on a man with a lost soul. 

She seemed to realize what he was thinking, for she squeezed his hand and
asked, "Will you be all right?" 

He kissed her forehead to reassure her, but couldn't bring himself to lie.
He hadn't been all right for fifteen years. Not since the day the doctors
had told him Raymond Doyle was dead.

******

Alan Cade entered his hotel room, then flipped on the television. Normally
he didn't touch the thing this time of day, but like many he wanted to see
history in the making. Silly, really. Whatever would happen to Hong Kong
wouldn't occur tonight or even next week. Only time would tell if today's
pomp and circumstance would lead to triumph or tragedy, not to mention
whose viewpoint would be used to define the terms. Still, he'd felt it
important to watch and had been pleased when his interview schedule had
allowed him a few hours to escape back to his hotel at the right time. 

He poured himself a glass of mineral water and smiled. He doubted this
freedom had been an accident. It struck him that nothing that had anything
to do with George Cowley happened accidentally. Though technically retired
for almost nine years, everyone knew the former Controller of CI5 still
ran the organization. And a damned good thing it was, too. Cade shuddered,
having had more than one encounter with Cowley's 'successor.' 

Arthur Stebbings seemed a pleasant enough man and intelligent, but he was
a politician, not the skilled tactician needed to run the organization.
Cowley was the only man who could and should head CI5 with its sweeping
brief that banished all jurisdictional boundaries and more legal niceties
than Cade cared to count. 

Cade had never approved of authoritarian organizations and did not
consider CI5 an exception. Still, its existence had been tolerable with
Cowley at the helm; but the organization should have been retired along
with its founder. Even Cowley didn't seem to disagree with those who said
that CI5 should give way to the national CID, and his presence on the
selection committee seemed to indicate his approval of the notion.
*Seemed* being the operative word. 'Never take anything Cowley does at
face value,' he reminded himself. 

But it all *did* seem straight forward. Cade had known for over three
years that his name was on the short list to head the national CID ... if
it ever happened. Well, *if* had arrived, and he had indeed been called in
for interviews. Through the years they'd known each other, Cowley had
supported him, or at least not opposed him every time Cade made a move
Whitehall disapproved of -- which Cade had to admit had been frequently.
He'd always considered the CID job a flimsy carrot dangled in front of his
face to make him conform and hadn't believed he'd ever be considered for
it. But Cowley's presence made it all make sense. Not only had Cowley got
him on the list, Cade knew the man could arrange the appointment with a
few whispers in the right ears. Now all he had to decide was whether or
not he wanted the job.

******

The plane landed late the day before it had taken off. 'Ah, the joys of
time zones and jet travel,' Bodie thought as he released his seat belt,
then stood up to stretch. He'd stayed in shape through the years. But not
the 'in shape' of a man in his late forties who jogged and gave an
occasional acknowledgment to eating right. Bodie's body was CI5 hard, a
necessity for a man who took a hands-on approach to running a special ops
team. He'd have to work all the harder at keeping fit now that his job
would be more desk bound. 

He got his and Susan's carry-alls from the overhead bins, then they joined
the slow shuffle out of the plane. When they reached the terminal, they
found Cowley and Margaret waiting for them. He'd not seen them for ten
months, but to his relief he found George Cowley seemed as untouched by
time as ever. Bodie knew the mind to be alert and as cunning as ever, and
the body he took into his arms lacked any hint of the frailty he'd feared
he might find when so much time passed between meetings. 

"Welcome home, laddie. Welcome home," a deep voice whispered in his ear.
Yes, for better or for worse, Bodie had finally come home.

******

"What do you mean there's been a change in plans?" While the voice held no
particular edge, dark blue eyes regarded Cowley with a look of pure
suspicion\tab 

Twelve hours sleep in a decent bed, a shower and a change of clothes had
done much to restore his son, and, as Cowley poured two glasses of pure
malt scotch, he thought that it might have been wiser to have kept him
groggy. Though this morning's meeting had reached a satisfactory
conclusion, the reaction to his news had been -- as expected -- volatile.
His ears were still ringing, and while he did not think Bodie would
express his own displeasure with equal volume or heat, he knew the next
few minutes would be most unpleasant. 

Still, there was little else for it but to get down to it. "As times
change, so must we, Bodie," Cowley answered, handing him a glass. 

Bodie took a long fortifying drink. "And what sort of changes are we
talking about?" 

He settled into his favourite chair with his own scotch. "There is a
suggestion that CI5 will be disbanded when Stebbings retires." 

Perhaps taking his cue from Cowley's matter-of-fact attitude, Bodie opted
not to react to that little bombshell. "So, I'm out of a job and coming
home to live with you and Maggie? Be a right proper situation comedy, that
will." 

Cowley smiled. "You will always have a room in my home, son," he reminded
him. "But I suspect you will prefer your own flat." 

"And how am I to pay for said flat?" 

A sip of scotch, then he revealed the results of months of favours called
in and strings pulled almost to the breaking point. "It will be the notion
of a national CID that will retire with Stebbings, while CI5 will assume
the responsibilities envisioned for that organization. The job and
personnel required to do this will require more than one man at the helm."


Actually, one man could handle the responsibility, but CI5's value was
more than a brief with a loop hole and broad jurisdiction. By keeping the
organization small, the security breeches were minimal. To date, there had
been only two in the entire history of the organization. That might change
drastically if CI5 became another MI5 with layers of command and little
contact between the controller and those who worked the streets. By adding
a second controller, in essence creating a partnership at the highest
level, Cowley hoped CI5 would retain its security as it all but doubled in
size. "You will head the anti-terrorist division." 

Bodie considered that and seemed to have no objections. "Who would I
report to?" 

"The Home Secretary. You would be a joint controller with the man heading
the domestic crimes unit." 

"Ah, and that would be?" 

Though regretting the pain he was about to cause, he announced, "Alan
Cade."

******

Cade walked through the restaurant over to a corner table where a pretty
young woman with dark eyes and hair waited for him. "Sorry I'm late,
love," he said, giving his daughter a kiss on the cheek. 

"No problem, Dad. It's a good spot to people watch," Elena Belinsky said
with a smile that reminded him of her mother. 

Strange the things he remembered. He hadn't seen Yvonne in twenty years,
not since the day she'd taken their one-year-old daughter and left Britain
for Canada. But the memory of the woman's smile was as sharp and clear as
the pain of her taking Elena from him. At least their daughter had finally
stopped blaming him for that. In fact, though there were no winners in
such a situation, Yvonne had come out the clear loser. Too many years of
Yvonne's snide comments about Cade had influenced Elena against him for a
time, but they'd also not endeared Yvonne to her. In the end, Elena had
decided to move to England to complete her schooling and make her own
decisions about him. To his utter joy, they'd decided they liked each
other very much, and she planned to live in London once her legal studies
were completed. 

"Dad?" 

Her voice pulled him from the memories, and he gave her a smile as he sat
down opposite her. "It seems like my day for apologies. Sorry." 

"You've got a lot on your mind. How did it go?" 

He took a moment to give his drink order to the waiter, then answered,
"Well, that depends on your point of view." 

"What do you mean?" 

"I got the job. In a manner of speaking." 

She gave him the sort of puzzled look that he felt adequately expressed
his own feelings on the subject. "Dad?" 

He sighed, knowing full well how she would react. "You are looking at the
head of the criminal investigations division and Co-Controller of CI5." 

"What?" her loud hiss drew the attention of several other diners, and his
hand moved to cover hers. 

While she visibly struggled to control herself, he thought, not for the
first time, that it might have been a mistake not to tell Elena that her
assault case had been reviewed and over turned, not as she thought by his
string pulling, but by Cowley's. If she knew she had recovered her dream
of becoming a barrister due to George's help, she might have been inclined
to think more kindly towards the man. On the other hand, she might have
opted to give up law entirely rather than owe anything to a man who stood
for everything she despised about authority. That shucking of her chosen
career a real fear, Cade had opted to keep the details murky, but it
didn't keep him from toying with the notion of telling her the truth from
time to time. He shook his head slightly, then muttered, "I knew George
was up to something, but he still never fails to surprise me." 

"Why does that fascist keep interfering with your life?" 

"He's not a fascist," he snapped, more than weary of defending his
friendship with the man. Not that he understood it himself. He shared most
of his daughter's liberal attitudes, and that all added up to the fact
that Cowley, and men like him, were the enemy. But then there were no
other men like Cowley. For that reason, he opened his mouth to say that
sometimes you had to fight fire with fire, but he closed it. *Fire with
fire; the end justifies the means; all too keep things smelling ever so
faintly of roses and lavender. * He didn't believe it. He'd never believed
it. But. ... 

He did. Deep down inside, he knew that sometimes it was the only way to
win the battles that simply must not be lost. And it shamed him to feel
that way, because he didn't understand why he did. It violated everything
he'd ever fought for or against. He should have told Cowley exactly what
he could do with his 'change of plans,' had been on the brink of doing so;
instead, he'd ended a rather spectacular shouting match with his
acceptance of the post. 

No, he didn't understand it, yet somehow if felt ... like coming home. So
he set himself to gaining his daughter's acceptance, and, as he spoke, her
ever deepening frown mirrored his thoughts. Cowley had an agenda. Every
scrap of intellect Cade possessed screamed it. But what was it? And who
the hell was William Andrew Philip Bodie?

******

The half-empty glass of scotch tumbled from Bodie's hand. Speechless, he
stared at his father, his heart full of the one thing he'd never
experienced with the man. Cowley had betrayed him. Not once, not in all
the Operation Suzies, not in all the webs of double and triple think that
had ensnared him, had Bodie ever felt that. "No," he whispered, standing
without realizing he'd done it. "You can't expect me -- I won't -- Goddamn
you, he killed Ray!" 

His father's hands closed around his upper arms, bearing down with
surprising strength. "Stop it, Bodie!" he snapped. "Life killed Doyle, not
Cade, and not you. You've had fifteen years to realize that! Are you so
daft that you're still blind to the truth?" 

"I love him," Bodie gasped out the only truth he had ever known, his chest
heaving against a weight of emotion that would have crushed a lessor man.
Love? Christ, what an inadequate word that was. People loved ice cream, a
movie, a rock group. How could he use that to describe what he felt for
Ray? Doyle was half his soul, and the half that was Bodie's alone had
never been worth keeping. 

Hurt, he lashed out with words he knew would wound. "I stayed alive for
you." It was true. In those first few days after he had lost Ray, he'd
wanted desperately to put his gun in his mouth and end the pain. But
Cowley was his father, and he had been unable to bear the thought of
forcing the man to survive his son. 

Cowley gave him a shake. "Do you think I'm such a fool that I didn't know
that? Ach, laddie, I employ the best of the best, and that includes Ross
and her ilk. Even if I hadn't seen it in your eyes, you never fooled their
tests." 

The tests. Bodie's sense of hurt and betrayal vanished in a wave of
dismay. His father had looked at those tests, then put him on a plane
headed for the other side of the world. There he had found a hard,
demanding job, distance, and a woman suffering from a similar pain to help
him cope with his own. Cowley had saved him, and all it had cost the old
man was his son's presence in his life. "I'm sorry," he whispered, his
hand reaching out, then settling on his father's shoulder. "I forget
sometimes that I wasn't the only one who got hurt." 

"It's been fifteen years, Bodie," Cowley said, his voice heavy with
emotion. "I didn't bring you home just to head CI5, though that was always
my dream." 

Bodie shook his head. His father had given him years as far away from this
pain as was possible, but Bodie had accepted that it was time to come
home. Time to do what his father had always wanted and take over CI5. But
he lacked the strength to do more than that. "Ray's dead." 

Cowley looked him straight in the eye. "His mind is strong now, Bodie.
Somewhere inside Alan Cade sleeps the man you loved. It's time you woke
him up."

******

Cade was running late. Technically still Chief Constable of Eastland until
the end of the month when his new posting became official, a minor crisis
had delayed him. And he wasn't pleased about it. While he had no intention
of throwing the people of Eastland to the wolves, and while he appreciated
Wes Morton's acknowledgment of the fact that Cade was still his superior,
it was all more than silly. Wes was more than capable of handling things
in Eastland until Cade's replacement was picked. In fact, more than a few
-- many of them denizens of Whitehall -- would consider Mortan's way of
handling things superior to Cade's. Superior translating as conservative. 

He glanced at the woman striding down the corridors with him. Attractive
in a no-nonsense sort of way, Rose Penfold radiated a confidence that Cade
felt sorely lacking in himself and he was grateful for her calming
presence. The Detective Superintendent had headed CID at Eastland for the
last two years, and she'd agreed to accept the position as his deputy in
CI5. Such a relief he had someone familiar to rely on. 

A nervous smile touched his lips, and Rose frowned. "Is something wrong,
Alan?" 

"New job jitters," he said, dismissing the fluttering in his stomach. How
could he tell her that he'd gone through the nastiest gauntlet minds like
Cowley's could devise to win this appointment only to be reduced to a
bundle of nerves at meeting his *ipso facto* partner? He couldn't begin to
understand it himself, but his stomach had been doing back flips ever
since he'd heard the name. That and the embarrassment he felt on top of it
had left him in a lousy state to meet a man he'd have to work with day in
and day out. If they didn't work well together, their lives would be utter
hell, and the only direction to go career-wise from here was straight
down. 

As if that weren't enough cause for irritation, he found that even the
bloody building felt wrong. Nice enough, but somehow it lacked style.
Somehow, it felt ... off. And he'd never even bothered to notice buildings
before. 

He had that same inexplicable feeling of wrongness when he pushed open the
door marked Controller and entered the outer office. An attractive young
black woman sat at the desk guarding the inner doors. Somehow she wasn't
at all what he'd expected, yet she fairly glowed with that blend of
efficient personableness that anyone with half a brain cell would expect
from someone stationed in this room. He told himself that he'd grown too
accustomed to Diane Lewis in the desk outside his office door, and once
again felt a moment's regret that she'd opted not to leave her life and
friends in Eastland behind to join his staff in London. 

The woman stood. "Good afternoon, Mr Cade." 

"Ms Northcott," he said, assuming she matched the nameplate on the desk,
and moved towards the door opposite her desk. 

"They are waiting for you in Mr Cowley's office," she told him. 

Of course. Bodie had arrived first, so he would have claimed home ground,
and it was only fitting that he take his father's office, for in
twenty-two days George Cowley would truly be retired: the heir apparent
had finally come home to accept the crown. Cowley's son. It was all Cade
had been able to discover about his soon-to-be partner, and he didn't like
it. Sounded positively medieval. A part of him knew that wasn't fair --
Bodie wouldn't have got the job on the strength of genetic ties alone,
anymore than Cade had got his only through his friendship with Cowley.
Yet, while Cowley could only strongly advise and recommend when it came to
the position Cade had been chosen to fill, the man had been granted the
unprecedented right to name his own successor at CI5. As Cade understood
it, that right had been determined to mean he could chose one of the two
controllers the new set-up had created. Cade might have been his
favourite, but his appointment had not been the inevitability that Bodie's
had. 

He glanced towards the door that led to the office he would soon occupy,
then turned to the right, and knocked on the door even as he pushed it
open. 

"Ah, Alan, at last," Cowley greeted him from where he sat all nice and
cozy behind his desk. Two of the four chairs in front of the desk were
occupied, and he nodded at the attractive blonde who first caught his eye.


"Sorry, George, a bit of a bother back home," Cade said, "You remember,
Rose?" 

"Good afternoon, Mrs Penfold. May I introduce your opposite number. ..." 

Introducing the two seconds-in-command first was a violation of protocol,
but Cade found himself grateful for the few moments that Cowley's odd
lapse granted him. For he had finally got his first look at William Bodie.


Cade's heart caught in his throat, and two thoughts collided in his brain:
the man was beautiful, but Cade had never referred to a man, especially
one with such a powerful build, as beautiful. Handsome, he tried to amend
his thoughts, tried to capture a state of disinterested assessment, but
failed miserably. Bodie wasn't handsome. He was beautiful, and Cade, who
had never noticed other men, found that he wanted him. At fifty-one, such
earth-shattering discoveries should have been behind him, and should have,
in any case, been devastating; but any shock he felt was merely his
amazement over not being alarmed or stunned by the effect Bodie was having
on him. He shook his head slightly, trying to clear it, while dark blue
eyes studied him from beneath the longest eyelashes he'd ever seen. 

Dimly he realized Cowley was introducing them and wanting to touch, he
offered his hand. 

One of the uneven eyebrows arched, but Bodie shook his hand. 

It was all Cade could do to force himself to let go, then he said the
first reasonable thing that sparked in his brain, "Haven't we met before?"


For a moment something flashed in the dark eyes. Hope, Cade tried to label
the fleeting emotion, but that was ridiculous. He didn't know the man at
all, let alone enough to try to read what he thought or felt from a
fleeting look. 

Whatever it was vanished in an instant, replaced by a mask of
disinterested professionalism. "Yes," Bodie answered. "I was at the
hospital when you came out of the coma." 

Oh. "I'm afraid I don't remember much about those first few days," he
admitted. 

"So I was told."

******

*February, 1982* 

Jumbled dreams of nonsensical images gave way to a soothing nothingness.
He thought, even hoped this might be death, but he knew his own luck and
doubted such peace could ever be his for long. Still, he floated for what
seemed like quite a long time before an occasional isolated picture began
to take form. Tears in a pair of dark brown eyes, a baby held close to a
woman's breast, a photograph of a girl with the same dark eyes, an elderly
woman telling him she was proud to be his mother, a pretty red-head with
green eyes telling her little brother not to let his latest commendation
go to his head, another photograph of the dark-eyed girl -- this time a
few years older. 

One after another they came, never quite fitting totally together, but
slowly giving him enough sense of self to gather together the strength to
open his eyes. He groaned at the sharp pain that rewarded his actions. 

"Sunshine?" a voice called to him. A hand gripped his own. "I'm here,
angelfish. I'm here." 

He asked the first question that came to mind. "Where's here?" 

"St Guys. Managed to end up in hospital again." 

He processed that information. Again? He had no memory that he could latch
on to of being in hospital before. He licked dry lips, and almost
instantly a straw pressed against them. He took a long sip of water, felt
better, then looked up into a pair of bloodshot eyes. "Who are you?" he
asked, genuinely curious as to who was being so kind to him, who cared
enough that he looked like he'd been crying or fighting it for days. 

Horror filled blue eyes. "You don't know me?" 

"No." 

"Hang on a minute, I need to get the doctor." 

He faded, losing track of the time until a pleasant looking black man bent
over him. He wore a white coat and shone a painfully bright light into his
eyes. All said doctor to him. The next question confirmed it. "Do you know
who you are?" 

"'course," he answered, indignant. 

"Tell me." 

Dimly he was aware of the blue-eyed stranger hovering near the door of his
room. He found himself wishing he would come closer and go away with equal
fervour, the two thoughts clashing with such force that his head ached
almost beyond endurance. "Alan Cade," he answered through teeth clenched
against the pain. "I'm Alan Cade." 

When he looked towards the door again, the stranger was gone. And so was
much of the pain.

******

*July, 1997* 

Years of staying functional when sick with exhaustion or literally
three-quarters dead allowed Bodie to respond normally throughout the
afternoon, but inside he was screaming. The curls were gone along with all
that Bodie held so dear, but time had done little else to mark the exotic
face and sparkling green eyes. Absently, he noted that the tailored suit
hid a body that had gone a touch soft -- been a long time since the man
had done more than jog a few miles a day. There was no Brian Macklin to
make a bloke do more in the police force. 

Still, the shorter hair and greying temples suited Doy -- Cade, he
reminded himself. They suited Cade. Alan Cade. He had to start thinking of
him as Cade. For, despite what his father had said, if Doyle did indeed
slumber inside this attractive shell, it was a slumber Doyle had chosen to
take, and Bodie could never forget that. 

He heard himself making small talk, then even agreeing to have a get
acquainted drink with the man who wore the face of someone he had valued
above anything else in the world. Wore the face of the man who had
destroyed Bodie. 

Undoubtedly realizing how he felt, Susan manoeuvred things so that she and
Rose Penfold came along. And his lovely lady stayed close to him, more a
mother hen than a friend or ex-lover, but she'd never been able to shield
him from this pain. That had not changed.

******

*March, 1982* 

Cowley walked into the doctor's office and sat down in one of two chairs.
Bodie took the other. Only the sight of him proved he even existed
anymore. Bodie seldom spoke and what colour he'd had in his pale
complexion had vanished beneath the weight of pain and worry. 

In the three weeks since Doyle had regained consciousness, Bodie had tried
to see him twice. Doyle had not recognized him either time and had quickly
developed such head pain that he'd all but seizured. For Doyle's sake,
Bodie had been barred from his room, and the strain of obeying that edict
was all but killing him. 

He'd risked coming to the hospital today only to hear the results of the
latest tests on Doyle. 

The news was confusing at best. Carefully the doctor explained the rather
encouraging results of the latest brain scans, concluding with, "The
bullet seems to have left him relatively unharmed." 

Good news indeed, but it did not take into account the obvious and most
troubling aspect of Doyle's condition. "Doctor, he doesn't know who he
is." 

"Yes, I am aware of that," the man answered. "But I'm afraid none of our
tests can find a physical cause." 

"What are you trying to say?" 

"I'm saying that our best guess is that Mr Doyle doesn't remember who he
is because he simply doesn't want to." 

Cowley heard Bodie's gasp and had to restrain himself both from reaching
out to his son and from killing the doctor. He failed in the one, his hand
coming to rest unnoted on Bodie's forearm, but managed not to do the other
by reminding himself that the doctor did not know Bodie was Doyle's lover.


"And his reaction to Bodie?" 

"Again it is guess work, but he must represent some threat to Mr Doyle's
belief that he is Alan Cade." 

"Then exposure to Bodie might restore his memory?" 

"It might. But it could also cause severe damage. As I said, the bullet
has left him relatively unharmed, but he has still suffered a great deal
of brain trauma. To attempt to force his memory might send him back into a
coma. Perhaps even kill him." 

"And if we wait until his brain physically heals?" 

"Again, it might cure him. It also might create an emotional trauma great
enough to require he be institutionalized." 

Doyle's sister, Bridget, arrived and the three discussed the situation for
hours while Bodie listened in unbroken silence. He didn't even react when
the decisions were made. 

Cowley took him home, put him to bed and made some calls. By morning he
had the solution, and though it broke his heart to do so, he put his son
on a plane to Hong Kong at the end of the week.

******

*July, 1997 *

*... doesn't want to. * Bodie sipped at the scotch Cade had ordered for
him and didn't even try to fight the memory of a day that was never far
from his thoughts. *... doesn't want to. * As he'd refused to even
consider the possibility that Doyle might never come out of the coma, at
first he'd refused to believe such nonsense. Doyle loved him. He'd told
himself that over and over again. Doyle would never voluntarily leave him.
Yet days had turned into weeks, and only Cade existed. 

A decision had to be made. And Bridget Doyle Wentworth, Doyle's older
sister and only living relative had made it. Her brother would not be told
the truth. As far as she and everyone else was concerned Alan Cade he was,
and Alan Cade he would remain until her brother announced otherwise.
Cowley had agreed and helped Cade ease himself back into his life as a
copper. Heart broken, but knowing it was best for Doyle, Bodie had not
opposed any of it. Instead, he'd fled. 

Now he'd returned, and Cowley had told him to seduce Cade. Had told him to
show the man why he wanted to have what Doyle had lost to a bullet in the
head and the pain of one too many emotional blows. But Bodie didn't know
how to seduce Cade any more than he'd known how to seduce Doyle. Before
Doyle, Bodie had had more than a few encounters with homosexual sex, but
none of it had appealed. Doyle had turned something Bodie saw as a means
of survival into an act of pleasure, then into love. 

No, he didn't know how to seduce Cade, but the green eyes ravished his
body with ever glance. If Cade were anything at all like Doyle, Bodie knew
precisely how the evening would end.

******

Cade watched Bodie approach the table with the next round of drinks and
thought of something he'd rather wrap his hand around than a glass of
scotch. He knew his eyes were feasting on Bodie, but, to his delight, the
other man had not reacted with anger as might be expected, but with an
occasional, almost shy smile that Cade found encouraging. 

But Cade's eyes weren't the only ones doing a great deal of work tonight.
Rose gave him more than one curious glance, and he knew that he'd have a
few questions to field from her once she got him alone. If he could stop
gazing into Bodie's eyes, he might have been able to tell her to mind her
own bloody business, but it must be rather obvious to any trained observer
that he was utterly besotted. 

In fact, it was probably equally as obvious as the fact that Susan had
taken an instant dislike to him. He imagined a man could freeze to death
beneath the icy glares she cast in his direction. At first he'd feared
that she and Bodie were a couple, but neither Susan nor Bodie paid much
attention to the other. Bodie returned Cade's looks, while Susan seemed
well on her way to establishing a solid working relationship with Rose. 

That was what Cade should have been doing with Bodie. Instead, he was busy
mentally undressing him, imagining how the almost alabaster skin would
feel, all but hearing Bodie's soft moans of pleasure as he. ... 

"Evening all. Mind if I join you?" Cade forced his gaze to leave Bodie and
focus on a rather pleasant looking man. 

"Charlie!" Susan greeted the man with a bright smile. "How are you?" 

"In need of a stiff drink," he answered, sitting down beside her. "You are
looking at a man who has survived round three of budget talks with the
Cow." 

*The Cow? Cowley? * Cade nearly choked on a bubble of laughter and noticed
Rose's grin. 

"Frankly, my lovely," Charlie continued, "I'd rather suffer a week under
Macklin's tender care." 

Bodie gave Charlie a highly sceptical look. "Nothing's that bad, mate." 

"Hah! Spoken like a man who never had to deal with that old miser. To
think we used to complain about how hard it was to get him to sign off on
simple expenses chits! But enough of the horror stories, introduce me to
your friends." 

The introductions quickly made, the newcomer settled in at the table and
began an exchange of stories on bureaucratic nonsense that must be
endured. And Cade found he liked this Charlie -- he had an easy sense of
humour and a friendly manner that made it difficult to do otherwise. But
all too soon he found his attention going back to his new favourite
pastime: Bodie watching. 

After a time Rose made her excuses -- her husband was expecting her, and
it was getting late. That should have been a cue for the three former CI5
field agents to launch into endless stories about the good old days, but,
even entranced by a pair of blue eyes, Cade quickly noticed two things:
the subject of the 'good old days' was being avoided to an almost
painstakingly obvious degree -- he chalked this up as a desire not to
exclude him from the conversation --, and he was not the only besotted one
at the table. 

Charlie seemed to have his eye on Susan, and she responded with interest,
until they were out and out flirting with one another. 'Make a cute
couple,' he thought, then decided that they would not mind finding
themselves alone. He leaned close to Bodie and whispered, "Shall we get
something to eat?" 

Bodie glanced at their companions and smiled. "I don't think we'll be
missed. Did you have some place you wanted to try?" 

He looked into those deep blue eyes and pictured their owner in Cade's
bed. A lovely sight; one he thoroughly intended to see tonight. "Yes. Room
service at my hotel." 

The faintest of blushes coloured Bodie's cheeks. "I -- Sounds good." 

Fairly humming with triumph, Cade said their good-byes, then whisked Bodie
out of the pub and into a mini-cab. Settling as closely to Bodie as he
dared, he had the strangest feeling that he'd done all this before.

******

*March, 1975 *

Bodie dealt with the locks and alarms, then turned towards his partner.
Apparently needing no other invitation than a man deciding not to walk
backwards into the front room, Doyle pounced. The impact sent Bodie
staggering into the door with an "oof" of surprise. 

Doyle's tongue immediately seized the opportunity and invaded Bodie's
mouth. Having the distinct feeling that he would lose his tonsils if the
probe remained unopposed, Bodie kissed him back. Though he told himself it
was an act of pure self-defence, the dueling tongues so absorbed his
attention that Bodie did not notice Doyle had set about undressing him
until a firm, warm hand closed on Bodie's bared cock. 

He blinked, discovering he'd been stripped of all but his pants and
trousers, which were in a useless bundle around his knees. "Christ,
Doyle," he groaned as his partner's other hand groped Bodie's arse, "we
don't even like each other." 

"Want to fuck you, not marry you," Doyle growled, grinding his denim
covered erection against Bodie's naked thigh. 

It should have been off putting. Doyle's busy hands and mouth seemed as
harsh as those in the past who had forced him to have sex, but Doyle's
scent flowed through Bodie's senses like the finest of perfumes, and each
touch seemed designed to arouse him. 

In the back of his mind, Bodie thought ... knew that this was a mistake.
Adding sex into a partnership forged to keep them alive on the streets
would only confuse things, make it impossible to function as the team
Cowley expected them to become. Yet he did not protest when Doyle led him
over to the settee, then bent him over the back of it. He even whimpered
when the bastard left him long enough to fetch some lubricant. 

His whimpers soon turned to groans of pleasure as slick fingers massaged
his cock and balls, coaxing Bodie into a sexual haze that knew no sense of
reason. He spread his legs wide, and demanded, then begged for Doyle to
get on with it as those same clever fingers played with his arsehole. 

Despite the near roughness of their foreplay, Doyle eased his cock into
Bodie's body slowly, pausing several times to allow Bodie to adjust to the
penetration. Finally, he felt the press of Doyle's balls against his
buttocks. The sensation devastated him. He felt possessed, even owned, yet
something else. He felt. ... 

Doyle's first thrust banished his thoughts, and the two men began moving
in a dance of pushes and thrusts that quickly led them both to a screaming
climax. Vaguely, Bodie realized his last scream had taken the form of his
partner's first name. 

For a moment neither of them moved, then Doyle shifted away, his spent
cock falling free from Bodie. If the penetration had devastated him, the
absence of it almost shattered him. He wanted Doyle back inside him, back
where ... he belonged? 

Feeling nine times a fool for thinking such rubbish, he decided he should
collect his clothes and get out of there, but Doyle took hold of his hand,
then gave it a tug. 

"Come on, gorgeous," he said. "Need a quick kip after that, then maybe
we'll see about getting something to eat." 

Bodie allowed himself to be led into the bedroom, then settled on the bed
and into Doyle's arms. He didn't think he'd sleep. He'd always done his
best to avoid complicated entanglements, but it seemed fate had dropped
him in it this time. He still wasn't certain if he liked Doyle, but, as he
lay there curled up against him, the hair on Doyle's chest soft beneath
his hand, Bodie knew that sometime during the few weeks they'd known each
other, he had fallen in love. 

******

*July, 1997* 

His gaze locked with blue eyes fairly glowing with desire, Cade pushed
into Bodie's body and wanted to shout in triumph. Even if all his past
partners had been female, he'd always had a fondness for anal sex. But it
had never been so deliciously tight, so hot, so perfect before. And Bodie
was perfect. 

The taste of his mouth, the softness of his skin, the scent of his body,
everything about him made Cade ache with the need to claim it as his own.
So incredibly good. Both of them seemed to know exactly where to touch the
other to inspire the maximum pleasure, and Cade felt an overwhelming sense
of destiny as he stopped thrusting long enough to kiss Bodie again. 

One of Bodie's hands shifted up to hold the back of Cade's head. Fingers
stroked his hair, a sensation that made Cade want to purr, but the hand
withdrew after only a brief touch. For a moment paradise seemed oddly out
of kilter, then Bodie pushed up with his hips, sending a frisson of
pleasure coursing through Cade. 

Helplessly, he began to thrust again, pumping into the powerful body that
had yielded to him with such ease. Even that had seemed right. Reason said
that the big-bad CI5 hotshot would try to dominate a 'mere' copper, but
the submissiveness of his beautiful lover had not surprised him. No, more
than that, he had expected it. 

Paradise ended abruptly with mutual climax and the name that burst from
Bodie's lips at the moment of his greatest pleasure. For a moment, Cade
didn't move. It wasn't as if no one else had ever called out a different
lover's name when in bed with him, or that he hadn't done it himself on
occasion. But, like the fingers that had refused to linger in his hair, it
didn't feel right. 

Mentally, he shook himself, not wanting a silly slip to ruin things for
them, and he went back to kissing Bodie, while carefully manoeuvring them
both into more comfortable positions. Confidant that one of them would
wake up before the morning alarm, he settled down to sleep with his
beautiful lover in his arms. 

Bodie sighed, then dashed Cade's hopes for a night-long snuggle by gently
easing himself from the bed. 

"Bodie, you don't have to go," Cade said, surprised he had to tell him
that. 

A faint smile touched the expressive mouth. "I'm sorry. I can't stay," he
answered, pulling on his clothes. "Things to do. You know how it is." 

Having used the same choice of words himself on occasions when he wanted
to make a fast escape, Cade feared he knew exactly how it was. Had he
misjudged things that badly? "Are we going to do this again?" 

Bodie's smile grew broader, then he leaned over and gave Cade a long, lush
kiss. "Oh, yes," he whispered as their lips parted. "I promise." 

"That's all right then," Cade sighed with relief. He didn't think he could
have stood it if this had been a one night stand. Another brief kiss, then
Bodie left. 

Cade curled up to go to sleep, only one petty thought disturbing otherwise
sweet dreams. Who the hell was Ray?

******

Susan walked beside Charlie, utterly unconcerned that sometime during the
evening her hand had found its way into his. She'd grown so accustomed to
the contentment of her life with Bodie that she'd forgotten the thrill of
a pulse racing at a touch, of the near fear laced with anticipation over
what the future might hold. 

'Take it slow, girl,' she reminded herself. *Take it slow. * Her memories
of Charlie were fifteen years old. A span of time longer than she'd been
married to a man she'd wanted to grow old with. Ah, her darling Jax.
Though a part of her would always love him, sometimes it was difficult to
remember how his arms had felt around her. Charlie was alive, his arms
warm, and he made her laugh. 

Bodie had been safer. Although her companion for years, he'd never
threatened her memories of her dead husband. He'd never demanded that she
move on, and for the first time she thought that their relationship might
have been a mistake. Or rather the length of it, for she could not find it
within herself to regret those first years together when the only thing
that had dulled the pain of waking in a bed without the ones they'd loved
beside them had been the compassion of the other's embrace. But when time
had dulled the pain to a tolerable ache, and their relationship had
remained nothing more than a sexual friendship, she should have insisted
they part. For Bodie's sake as well as her own. 

Would his own pain still have been as sharp if he had found someone else?
She shook her head and wondered if she'd had too much to drink for she
already knew the answer -- of course it would have. Bodie had loved Doyle
with a depth that she found utterly terrifying. That he'd survived the
loss of it amazed her. Survived. That's all he'd done. In the beginning,
she'd felt that same emptiness in her soul, but as time had gone on. ... 

Her glance stole once again to the man at her side. They had stayed in the
Red Lion Bar until closing, then they'd walked and talked. She remembered
a man with a great love of night clubs and an almost allergic reaction to
the very notion of going home for a quiet night. But Charlie had changed.
He still was good company, still could make anyone in the vicinity laugh,
still had the mustache she'd always thought suited him, but he'd mellowed.
The man she'd once known would have tried to talk her into hitting the
nightspots instead of suggesting a walk. Though, like everyone else, she'd
liked him, she'd never been interested in the man she remembered. But the
man beside her made her pulse race from the simple pleasure of being with
him. Susan didn't know whether to weep or laugh; she could love again.
Perhaps, she could even love this man. 

Her heart singing with its awakening, reality came thudding down upon her
head as their walk took them back to CI5 HQ, and she could see a familiar
silhouette backlit in an office window. "Oh, Bodie," she sighed. 

Charlie looked up as well. "I thought he was with Cade." 

Both of them knew what he meant. "So did I, but something must have gone
wrong." 

He shook his head. "Doesn't seem possible." 

And it shouldn't have been, not the way those two had been looking at each
other, but. ... Fifteen years was a long time, and Cade was *not* Doyle.
She felt another surge of contempt for Cade and all the pain he had caused
her dearest friend, but she couldn't afford to indulge her feelings.
Cowley's plan had, for better or worse, made it necessary for her to work
with him from time to time, and she couldn't allow personal attitudes to
interfere with the job, but she damn well didn't have to like him. 

"I don't know if Bodie can take this, Charlie," she admitted. On the face
of it, she could find no real flaws in Cowley's plan, but she feared its
consequences. Could Bodie survive if it 

didn't work? 

He squeezed her hand. "He'll be all right," he assured her. "Bodie's one
of the strongest men I know." 

"Yes," she agreed, "but without Doyle there's a part of him that's as
fragile as an empty eggshell." And Cade could crush that shell so easily. 

"Maybe ... maybe he just needs to know whether Doyle is really gone or
not. Once he knows, he can move on." 

It sounded so reasonable. Fifteen years was a long time; even if Doyle
still existed, he might have changed so much that their love would have
faded. Yes, very reasonable, except she knew reason had nothing to do with
the situation; that, no matter what happened, Bodie would love Doyle for
the rest of his life. She struggled for a way to put it into words, then
remembered something she'd read in school. "Bodie is a swan." 

"A swan?" 

Yes, a sad, lonely, black swan, and ... "Swan's mate for life."

******

*PART TWO *

*November, 1997*

Cade sat up in the bed and glowered at his lover as he dressed. 

Things had gone better than even the wildest of optimists could have
predicted. Stebbings had retired on schedule and the new CI5 had gone into
business. Bodie and Cade worked well together, neither reluctant to ask
the other's input on a sticky case and always there to back one another up
when Whitehall gave the occasional bellow, but were equally capable of
working without the other. Two consummate professionals they were, and
everyone from the PM down to the janitors seemed to be congratulating
themselves on the success of the pairing. 

It was when things got to a personal level that the whole thing was shit.
Their jobs kept them busy. Very busy. It made the opportunities to get
together infrequent and very precious. Except the stupid prat kept wasting
them by insisting he had to leave as soon as the post coital haze wore
off. And Cade had had more than enough of that. He wanted Bodie in his
bed, in his 

arms all night long. Hell, he wanted the dozy bastard to live with him,
but he figured getting him to stay more than a few minutes after the
fireworks were over had to be his first priority. 

"Bodie, come back to bed." 

Not unsurprisingly, Bodie shook his head. "I've got to go back to the
office, Alan." 

Alan. And that was another thing. Bodie seemed to grant everyone in the
whole bloody universe a nickname, except for him. He always called him
Alan. Unless he was in the midst of an orgasm, then he refused to call him
anything. Although more than once Cade had thought he'd heard a muffled
'Ray' sounding behind clenched teeth. 

"That little excuse worked for the last nine times, lover. It's getting
old." True to his word, Bodie had come to him every time Cade had batted
his eyelashes at him, so he couldn't doubt that their affair was something
they both wanted. Or was it? "Tell me the truth, Bodie. You want to end
it?" 

"No, never." 

"Then come back to bed." 

Again the dark head shook. "Don't do this, Alan. I'm your partner and your
friend. Please leave it at that." 

"Funny, I thought we were lovers." 

"We're ... friends who have sex." 

Jealousy surged through his gut. "So are you and Susan. Or is she the one
you go home to and I'm your bit on the side?" 

"Stop it. You know there's no one else. Especially not Susan." 

Well, yes, that had been unworthy of him. Though he knew a special
affection existed between Bodie and his Deputy, he also knew she was in
the midst of a rather passionate affair with Charlie. The two of them
fairly glowed with happiness when they were together, and Cade would have
sold his soul to see that same glow on Bodie's face. "Sorry," he muttered.


"'s all right," Bodie answered picking up his discarded tie. "Getting used
to your spiky temper, aren't I?" 

"Gosh, thanks, Bodie." 

A look of near pain flashed across his lover's face so quickly that Cade
could easily have convinced himself that he'd imagined it. Only he knew he
hadn't. "I'll see you tomorrow, Alan," Bodie said, turning his back to the
bed and heading for the door. 

"Bodie," he made one last try. "I love you." 

Bodie froze in mid-step, but he made no sound. 

"Did you hear me? I said I love you." 

"No, you don't," Bodie answered with a firmness that stunned Cade, and
when the younger man lifted his head, the mirror over the dresser
reflected the look on his face back to Cade, and the pain and sorrow he
saw nearly made him cry out. Bodie pointed at that same reflection. "You
love that. No one's ever loved anything but that." 

Stupidity always made Cade angry, and this time it made him angry enough
to blurt out his own foolish words, "Except Ray." 

A telling silence confirmed his accusation, then Bodie turned back to face
Cade. "I'm your partner, your friend, and, if it comes to it, I'll die for
you. You can have me whenever you want me, but that's it. Don't ask
anything more from me." 

Cade stared at him, this proud, beautiful man who was all but begging him
to accept things as they were. 'Well, not a chance, my love,' he thought,
but knowing now was not the time to force the issue, he nodded his
acceptance. 

He could have killed Bodie for looking so relieved, so almost happy
because of that, but he kept his mouth firmly closed and did nothing
further to stop Bodie's departure. But he'd also come to a decision. He
respected the privacy of others, but enough truly was enough. He was going
to find out who the hell Ray was and what the fucking bastard had done to
so deeply hurt the man Cade loved.

******

Unable to endure the thought of his empty flat, Bodie headed for the
office and settled in for a long night of reviewing mission reports. He
liked what he saw. Murphy's covert team was performing to Bodie's
satisfaction, while the London based teams were handling the transition of
CI5 into two divisions very well. Cade had brought in several CID hotshots
to round out his own division, but seven teams from the old version of CI5
also now worked under him. Whatever else his father'd had in mind, the new
CI5 seemed to be a great success. He only wished he could make similar
claims for himself. 

He felt so lost, so lonely, and the only person he wanted to turn to was
the person he must never turn to. Despite every strict warning he'd given
himself, he'd allowed himself to hope. A fool's game, that. But if it was
a game, it was one he could neither stop playing nor see a way to win. 

Despite the obscenely early hour of the morning it didn't surprise him to
hear a soft knock at his door. The knock a courtesy rather than a request
for entry, Susan walked in almost before the sound penetrated his
concentration. 

She set a cup of tea within his reach, then sat down in one of two chairs
in front of his desk and concentrated on her own cup. 

If he said nothing, she would slowly finish her tea, get up, kiss him on
the cheek, then leave without saying a word. Her presence was an offer to
talk, one extended at least once a week. But he'd not taken her up on it.
Not even after she'd found him here after his first encounter with Cade
when he desperately had needed to talk, to scream, to ... something. But
that night, like this one, they drank their tea in silence. 

He did *not *plain want to talk about it. It was almost as if putting his
fears into words would make them real. No, he most certainly didn't want
to talk, yet when she stood up, ready to leave, he said, "Susan." 

That was it. Her name. Nothing more. But she sighed with a sound of pure
relief, then sat back down. 

He had to talk to her then, didn't he? He'd got her hopes up, and it would
have been mean-spirited to stay silent now. Wouldn't it? He considered
telling her something job related, and knew she'd let him get away with
pretending that he hadn't understood the significance of speaking to her
during their little 'tea party.' And, perhaps, because she would let him
get away with it, he opted not to pretend. "I. ..." he tried to start, but
suddenly didn't know what to say. So he sighed instead, "Oh, bloody hell."


"I think it might be working," Susan suggested. 

It was difficult to be certain. Cade's appearance had definitely altered
-- his hair longer, his clothes more casual -- but that could be a
reflection of a job that was no longer so public relations focused.
"Perhaps," was all he could give her. 

She looked discouraged, then regarded him warily. "Bodie ... if Doyle
doesn't ... come back, couldn't you love Cade?" 

"I already do," he whispered. It hadn't been difficult. There really
wasn't that great a difference between Doyle's and Cade's personalities.
And Cade touched him the same way, laughed the same way, even felt the
same way about most things. 

Now Susan looked genuinely perplexed. "I don't understand," she said
unnecessarily. "If you love Cade, why aren't you happy?" 

Because Cade couldn't love him. Cade couldn't even really know who Bodie
was. Doyle had known all about him and had all but hated him at first.
Time: time on the streets, time spent protecting each other's backs no
matter what had gained Doyle's respect and acceptance. Friendship, then
love had followed. Cade had none of the memories that had led Doyle to
love Bodie. And they no longer led the lives that would create new ones.
All Bodie could look forward to was discovery and contempt. He couldn't
bring himself to say that, but he tried to sum it up, "Alan hates guns. I
carry one." 

And he used it. Frequently. Technically he'd not had to fire it in the
line of duty since returning to London, but situations had forced him to
draw it more than once, and he knew it was only a matter of time. 

"You think that bothers him?" 

"Know it does." But Bodie had little choice in the matter. He was an even
more hands on Controller than Cowley had been. It put him in the field
when things weren't safe. That was another difference between Cade and
Doyle. Ray would have been right out there with Bodie, poking his nose
into things. Cade sent Rose, or stood back -- in a flack jacket -- while
others went in. It was all very correct police procedure, very by the
book, and not at all like Doyle, who Bodie imagined would had to have been
restrained to keep him from going in first, let alone going in before the
all clear signal was given. 

It wasn't even remotely cowardice, but an example of letting the proper
experts do their job. Except Bodie was one of the proper experts. As Doyle
had been. But Cade wasn't. And he had that edge of barely concealed
contempt a man who always sought the peaceful solutions had when dealing
with those who used the guns. 

Bodie shook his head, then spelled it out to her as best he could. "The
part of Doyle that isn't Cade, the part his mind rejected, is the part
most like me." When Cade sussed that, their relationship would end.

******

Cade got his first opportunity to launch his investigation of The Ray
Syndrome two days later when he decided he needed to stretch his legs and
went to the rest room to get a cup of tea. Anson and Brian Macklin were
alone in the bright, spacious room going over a few evaluations. The sight
of the two of them huddled together made his muscles hurt, and he had no
doubts at all his phantom pains had been shared by anyone else thinking of
lounging about. But, unlike everyone else, Cade had no intention of
leaving. 

Instead, he got his tea, then sat down in a comfortable chair that was
just this side of being a polite distance away. Both men glanced at him.
Having gone more than a few rounds with Macklin in his quest to make
certain no one, especially Bodie, considered him soft, Cade almost
flinched beneath the man's gaze, but he fancied he hid it well enough and
gave them a smile. 

"Morning, gentlemen," he said, raising his cup in a small salute. "Having
fun dismantling the lads and lasses?" 

Macklin smiled, but Anson chuckled, then said, "Pair of jolly sadists,
that's us. And we're picking our next crop of victims." 

Cade winced in sympathy for those unfortunates who might make the list. Of
course, almost everyone did eventually -- even Cade's people ended up in
Macklin's tender clutches. Although only Bodie'd suffered Anson's
attentions. While Macklin was in charge of the fitness and training of
CI5, Anson had run the special ops training centre since a Jack Crane had
left the job in the mid-1980's. 

Macklin glanced at his watch, then stood up. "I have a session to get to.
You can post the training notices." 

"Oh, good, I love making the poor sods' day," Anson answered with a grin.
"Catch you later, Brian." 

Macklin paused in the doorway. "Oh, Alan, don't forget; we have a session
at 2.00" 

Cade groaned -- he had managed to forget -- and glared at Anson, who was
laughing away like one of Robin Hood's sodding Merry Men. 

"You know, Cade, you may be the only one in CI5 history who }{\plain \i
asked}{\plain for Macklin's services." 

"We all have our moments of insanity." 

"Oh, Brian's not so bad. Tough, but fair -- emphasis on the tough. Mind I
didn't start thinking that way until the accident." 

Cade remembered Susan telling him about it during one of the few times
she'd deigned to have a conversation with him. Anson's partner had lost
control of the car during a high speed chase and crashed. The partner had
been killed and Anson's hip crushed. Replacing most of it with plastic had
left the man mobile but unfit for A Squad duties; hence the transfer to
Crane's staff and the eventual nod as his replacement. 

"Been a lot of changes since those days," Anson went on. "Like this room.
Used to be a dingy hole in the old building." 

Cade fancied he could almost picture it, but then he'd been in a lot of
station houses that fit the description. "Know exactly what you mean.
Dark, depressing and the furniture always felt like it must have doubled
as torture devices during the Inquisition." 

"That's it. Had its tatty charm." He laughed again. "Bodie always said at
least it made Doyle's jeans look expensive." 

"Doyle?" He'd heard many names from the old days, even met some of the
faces that went with them, but Doyle was a new one. 

"Yeah, our Raymond certainly knew how to make tatty into a fashion
statement." 

Raymond. Raymond Doyle. So now he had the name. "Tatty?" 

"Yep, favoured tight jeans and t-shirts. Looked a treat next to Bodie in
his tailored-slacks and black polonecks. Quite a pair, those two." 

"They were partners, then?" 

Anson's smile faded, but he nodded. "4.5 and 3.7. Were Cowley's best --
not that any of us would have admitted it at the time. Lost them both in
'82." 

"What happened?" 

He shrugged. "No one's quite certain. But Doyle was never the same after
Cookie's death." He gave Cade the bare details. Cook, a young man seconded
from the Met Fraud Squad to CI5's B-Squad, had been killed along with two
other agents when a group of terrorists had surprised them while they were
digging for an arms stash. "Only there wasn't one. It had all been a trick
to capture the informant. 's not important anymore, I guess. Anyway, Doyle
had recommended Cook for CI5, was a friend of the family. And somehow he
ended up telling June Cook the news her husband was dead." With one child
and only a few weeks away from giving birth to another, she had not taken
the news well. "Neither Bodie or Doyle ever talked about it, but I guess
she was pretty rough on Doyle. Put him in one of his moods." 

"Moods?" 

Anson smiled slightly. "Doyle was a good bloke, but he was a stroppy
bastard. Went into a 'is it all worth it' depression. How did Bodie used
to put it? Oh, yeah, 'Give Ray half a chance, and he'll blame himself for
the invention of gunpowder.' Nothing he hadn't done before. No one, not
even Bodie was worried about him not coming out of it, but, well, fate
didn't give him enough time to do it." 

"Doyle's dead then." 

"So I've been told." It seemed a trifle flip answer, but, before Cade
could question him further, Anson stood up, then stretched. "Got to get
back to the centre to see how my current victims are doing. See you
around, Cade." 

He nodded, and Anson left him to finish his tea.

******

Cowley was helping Margaret in the rose garden when his cell phone rang.
He set aside the pruning sheers, pulled off his glove, then flipped on his
phone. "Cowley." 

"Anson here, sir. Thought you might like to know that our Mr Cade has
finally got interested in CI5 history." 

At last. "Excellent. What did you tell him?" 

"Bit of general chatter about the old days, Doyle's name and status as
Bodie's partner, and about Cook." 

"And his reaction?" 

"Tried to make it look casual, but he was all ears. If he doesn't head
straight for his computer, I'll take one of Brian's refresher courses!" 

Cowley smiled. Cade's computer would offer him few answers -- Cowley had
seen to that -- but it would give him enough to led him to the next piece
of the puzzle. And Cowley would ensure that those pieces were informative
enough to move him on from there. The game, as Holmes would put it, was
finally afoot.

******

Doyle. At worst he no longer had to be on a first name basis with the
bastard, and at best it would let him get the answers he needed. With that
in mind, Cade fairly pounced on his computer the moment he reached his
office. An information request almost immediately brought up an 'access
denied' notice. "File restricted. CI5," he read. He scowled, then used his
clearance to override the security lock. 

The computer beeped a few times, almost as if it were considering the
matter, then a few sparse lines appeared on the screen. Again he read:


*Doyle, Raymond 
 Operative Code 4.5 
 Activated: January 4, 1975 
 Deactivated, January 15, 1982 
 Reference: Bodie, William Andrew Philip 
 Files restricted. Access Controller Eyes Only. *

 Since he was a Controller, it obviously meant only Cowley could gain
access. Damn the man, what was he up to now? For the hell of it, he
checked Bodie's file, discovered the same restrictions and the same
activation date as Doyle's. 

But that was all the information he could get. Everything else was locked
out to anyone but Cowley. He checked Anson's, Charlie's, and Susan's files
and found them all accessible. Only Bodie's and Doyle's files were closed.
It was almost like what was available had been left to tease him. 

Cade sat back in his chair, seething. Then the light dawned. Tease though
it might be, it did give him a place to start. Smiling like a Cheshire
cat, he requested a roster of all A Squad members active during the years
of 1975 to 1982. The list came up quickly enough. Bodie and Susan were the
only ones still roistered as active. An appalling number of the names had
the word 'deceased' in the right-hand column, including Jax, the name of
Susan's late husband. But, to his surprise, Doyle was not listed as dead
as Anson had led him to expect. In fact, he had the same designation as
Anson: 'invalided out.' 

He'd known survivors to blame the dead, to feel that the death was an
abandonment. Which would have helped explain how Bodie felt, except Doyle
wasn't dead. Of course, invalided out of the CI5 A Squad could mean
anything from a vegetable in a hospital ward to an injury that wouldn't
interfere with any other job. Damnit, he needed more answers. 

His CI5 clearance was enough to get the last known whereabouts on the men
and women who had survived. Not counting Charlie, Susan and Bodie, only
two still lived in London. A Lucas and McCabe had opened a successful
security consultation firm headquartered only a few blocks from CI5 HQ. He
thought of talking to Susan or to Charlie, but Susan had made it plain
that she had little time for him, and Charlie might tell her Cade was
nosing about. Either way, it might get back to Bodie, and he couldn't
imagine the man being too pleased about it. Lucas and McCabe it was, then.


A call informed him that the gentlemen in question were out of town until
Friday morning. Cade made an appointment to see them Friday afternoon.

******

The morning disappeared under the usual mountain of paperwork that kept
any organization running, but on the whole things seemed quite. Thinking
it might be the same on the terrorist front, he stuck his head into
Bodie's office, then laughed at the man sitting behind the desk.
Surrounded by stacks of paper, a 'poor me' pout sat fixed on his face
though no one had been there to see it. 

Bodie gave him a sheepish smile, then hope seemed to brighten his face.
"Something I can help you with, Alan?" 

"Hope personified, that's you. No, I've come to invite you to lunch." 

"My hero," Bodie announced and abandoned his post with all due speed.
"Where are we going?" 

"Pub down the street. Elena's waiting for us." 

"Elena?" 

"My daughter. Figured it was about time the two of you met, don't you?" 

"I guess it is."

******

*December, 1974 *

Doyle went from the Tube to the market and picked up the things Yvonne had
asked him to get on his way home. Yvonne, Christ, what was he going to do
about Yvonne? 

She hadn't liked the fact that he was a copper. He couldn't imagine she'd
fancy the notion of CI5. But since the moment he'd heard about it, Doyle
had wanted to be a part of CI5, and now, thanks to the end of a rather
flashy Drugs Squad case, he'd finally caught George Cowley's eye. Hoping
that things wouldn't go well, and fate would take the choice out of his
hands, he'd gone ahead with the interviews and screening process. 

For better or worse, he'd passed them all and had liked what he'd seen. He
wanted in so badly it was an ache in his belly, but Cowley had been rather
up-front about the dangers of serving on the A Squad. It didn't seem the
place for a family man. Not that Yvonne would care if he stopped a bullet.


His resemblance to her lost lover had drawn her into his bed, then her
pregnancy had kept her dependant on him. Both of them had mistaken that
for love. Perhaps for a time it had been love, but now only Elena kept
them together. Elena. A beautiful thirteen-month-old bundle of joy in the
midst of such misery. 

For her sake, Doyle knew he and Yvonne had to go their separate ways. No
child could ever find happiness in a house full of bitterness. How ironic
then that he was intent on finally convincing Yvonne to marry him. She
didn't believe in marriage, had always said she and Alan had never seen a
need to have their love sanctioned by a government decree, so why should
she want to do it with Doyle? 

But, if he passed the training course, he would be in CI5, and the
benefits were better for a spousal dependant. Surely, she would see the
logic in that? They could live apart, see whoever they wanted, do whatever
they wanted; but, if he did die, Cowley would see that she was well taken
care of. Then there was Elena. 

The very image of her mother, there was nothing in the little girl's
appearance of her father, but they both knew she was Doyle's child. She
was a month and a half too young to be Cade's, but Doyle had been out on a
case when she'd been born. The dispatcher had held his messages until he'd
returned to the station. When he'd reached the hospital, he'd discovered
he was already a father. Yvonne had been angry with him for not being
there with her, and somehow all the anger and pain she'd felt over Cade's
loss had come to rest on his shoulders. Cade was the paragon of virtue,
Doyle the pale imitation who could never be counted on. And when she
wanted to hurt him the most, she'd scream at him that Elena had been
overdue -- a medical miracle given the amount of time involved and an
unlikely one given her birth weight --, that her darling Alan, not Doyle
was Elena's father. A marriage might give him some legal claim to his
daughter, some legal recourse if she carried out her frequent threat to
take Elena away. 

His mind full of arguments and counter arguments, he didn't notice the
silence when he first opened the door. But when he saw the envelope in the
centre of the kitchen table, his blood turned to ice water. Reaching out
with a trembling hand, ripping it open, carrying it over to the light
where he could see it better -- all of it was unnecessary. He already knew
what it would say, but still he started to read:

*Ray, 

By the time you read this, my daughter and I will be halfway across the
Atlantic. I have decided to go home to Canada, where I can raise Alan's
daughter in peace. 

Yvonne*

A second sheet of paper, a copy of the birth certificate he'd never seen,
was also inside. Here was the final insult, the last word on his
unsuitability to raise a child: Alan Cade was listed as her father.

******

*November, 1997* 

Bodie gave Elena his best smile as they were introduced. He'd been Doyle's
partner for three years before Bodie had learned of her existence. Doyle
had all but sobbed out the story as Bodie had held him in his arms. Five
years after she'd taken his daughter from him, Yvonne had relented a
little. She'd begun sending Ray pictures of the child, monthly reports and
even letters written in bright crayon from the girl herself. She'd had but
one stipulation. Elena thought Alan Cade was the name of her father, and
she would not be told otherwise. 

And so Doyle had come to open a bank account in another man's name, had
sent monthly sums to help look after the girl and had addressed all his
letters accordingly. Bodie had several opinions on the matter, but he'd
kept his mouth shut, offering nothing more than his shoulder and
unquestioning support whenever Doyle had needed it. 

Doyle had said the girl was the image of her mother, and now, sitting in a
pub chatting with the daughter, Bodie could see how her mother would have
attracted Doyle. Pretty, large, dark eyes, and he imagined oh, so
vulnerable in her grief. Bodie couldn't be certain he wouldn't have fallen
into the same web of pain Doyle had. 

Happily, father and daughter seemed very fond of one another, and he
thought perhaps it was a good thing that he'd never staged an SAS-type
raid on the Belinsky home and brought the girl back to England kicking and
screaming all the way. But he'd been tempted. Christ, he'd been tempted.

******

Bodie's cell phone rang when they were halfway through lunch. With a
resigned sigh, he answered it, listened for a moment, then said, "I'll be
there in five minutes." 

A muttered oath about bleeding politicians followed, so Cade doubted it
was serious and offered nothing more than a sympathetic smile when Bodie
made his apologies and left. 

Elena watched his departure with the same bemusement. "God, he's
gorgeous," she sighed when he was safely out the door. 

"Yes, he is," Cade answered with calculated honesty. 

Dark eyes fixed on him, studying him. "You like him, don't you?" 

Cade could feel the warmth of a slight blush and knew that alone had
answered her question, but he said, "Very much." 

She absorbed the information and studied him for long enough that Cade was
fighting the impulse to squirm. Then she asked, "Is he the reason for the
changes?" 

For a moment he didn't know what she was talking about. "Oh, you mean the
hair. I guess he is." Cade had attributed Bodie's reluctance to touch his
hair as a lack of something to run his fingers through. While he found
this a grand example of bloody cheek given that Bodie's own head was
covered with soft dark waves of no more than two or so inches in length,
he'd let his own hair grow. 

He'd worn it short for so long that he'd forgotten that it had a tendency
to curl, and somewhere in the back of his mind he remembered his sister
saying he was really Shirley Temple's little brother, not hers.
Thankfully, age had relaxed the curls, and it grew in soft waves similar
to Bodie's. He held up one of the four-inch long strands and asked, "What
do you think?" 

"I like it. Makes you look younger, too. But it's not just the hair." 

"Eh?" 

She smiled. "I never thought I'd see the day when my father would go to
work in anything less than a suit and tie." 

"I'm not in the public eye like I was, sweetheart. It gives me more
freedom in how I dress." A nice shirt, trousers and a blazer with a pair
of boots. Day in and day out that was all he wore anymore. He leaned
forward and in a voice full of conspiracy whispered, "We both keep an
assortment of ties in the office closet ... in case the PM wants to see
us." 

She laughed, and he smiled, enjoying the sound. Still it was odd how after
years of wearing them almost every day, he'd suddenly decided he hated
ties and avoided them like the plague. 

"Then there's your body." 

That made him start. One did not expect to hear his daughter commenting on
his body. "What about it?" he asked, giving her a suspicious look. 

"You were always fit, Dad, but now, well, let's face it, you're a hunk." 

He threw back his head and laughed. "What I am is a pathetic old man who
can't stand the notion of all those CI5 hotshots running around thinking
I'm some office slug. Tell you what, sweetheart, you ever want to get even
with someone, recommend the Macklin fitness program. Man's a complete
nutter." Though not such a nutter that he didn't have the sense to leave
the workouts to younger men. 

"And that's the other thing. You even talk more informally now. Honestly,
Dad, sometimes I think I'm talking to a completely different person." 

He glanced at his hands for a moment, working up his courage, then he
asked, "Do you approve of the change?" 

She smiled. "I love you, Dad. Long-hair/short-hair, suit/jeans,
girlfriend/boyfriend, nothing will ever change that," she assured him,
then clasped his hand. "But, yes, I like this version very much." 

"Good, because I think it may be who I really am." 

Her grip tightened. "Dad?" 

It had been hard to tell her the truth, had never been able to do it over
the phone or during their infrequent visits, but when she'd come to study
at Cambridge and had told him she planned to make England her home, he'd
know he'd had to do it. Still he had stalled, and they'd argued. 

She'd wanted to know how he could go from a student protester in Paris to
the Chief Constable of Eastland, how he could have switched sides so
completely. He'd tried to tell her that the line between the two sides had
moved, not him. Had told her drugs had been simpler, that back then they'd
been a way of changing your point of view. Perhaps he'd believed it, but
he didn't remember feeling that way. All he remembered was Yvonne telling
him that was how he'd felt. 

Odd that. Why had he asked her how}{\plain \i he}{\plain had felt? He
couldn't remember that either. Or ever taking drugs. Made him sick to
think he'd once done that and it didn't fit at all with the perceptions he
had of himself. But then, what did he know? Very little; and, in the end,
he'd told her. It had put an end to the fights, leaving them free to
discover friendship and mutual respect. 

"I think ... I'm starting to remember."

******

*April, 1982* 

Cade didn't remember the shooting, the doctor's were almost certain he
never would, and he couldn't summon up much regret about that. Who wanted
to remember being shot in the head? 

Investigators had pieced together the bare bones of it. He'd been driving
from a conference in Norfolk back to London when his car suffered a
puncture. A testament to his skill as a driver, he'd steered the Capri to
the side of the road without incident, then had set about changing the
damaged tyre He'd got the car jacked up and the spare from the boot, when
a vehicle had stopped beside him, the right wheels going off the road onto
the soft shoulder enough to leave a partial imprint. Then some bastard had
taken out a gun and shot him. It had been a small caliber, and he must
have jumped to the side when he saw the gun, but he didn't get clear. The
bullet had lodged inside the skull above his hairline. An inch higher and
it would have missed him totally. An inch lower and he would have been
dead. 

No, it did not upset him that he had no memory of that. But that was not
the only memory he'd lost. 

He saw the odd looks not quite hidden by his doctors as they charted his
memory loss. He could remember current events right up to the morning of
the shooting. He seemed to have lost nothing of his knowledge about police
procedures or his investigative skills. And he remembered much of his
work. Commendations, conferences, rather spectacular cases, he could
remember them in vivid detail. He even remembered some of his personal
life. His mother's face, her saying she was proud of him when he received
a promotion, who his sister was, and Elena as a baby. And every letter
Elena had ever sent him. He remembered those. But that was all. Before
1974, it was all ghosts and shadows, as if he hadn't existed before
working the case that had resulted in his promotion to Detective Chief
Inspector. After that, a few weeks a year here and there. 

And something else. Something about blue. But he couldn't latch on to it.
He thought very seriously about giving up, but his sister and George
Cowley refused to let him. 

"So, lad, what will it be? A long wallow in self-pity?" Cowley asked one
day as Cade sat brooding in his hospital room, fit enough to go home, but
not even knowing where that was. 

"Aren't I entitled?" 

"Aye, perhaps you are, but what good will it do?" 

"None, but at least it's something I can do." 

"Ach, don't be daft, lad. You still have your wits, your skills. Put them
to good use." 

Cade gave him a long look. "I have brain damage, Mr Cowley. I'm told the
Met takes a dim view of coppers in that condition." 

"Then prove them wrong." 

"And how am I to do that?" 

"First we show that you can function, that your mind is still sharp as
ever," Cowley announced, obviously a man with a plan. "You've studied law
off and on for years. One more term at University of London should finish
it up and prove a thing or two." 

"University of London?" 

"You're already registered," he said. "Classes start next Thursday." 

Cade gave him a long look. "Why are you helping me?" 

"I hate waste." 

That and the fact that he'd worked with some of Cowley's people from time
to time, were all the old man would ever tell him. But with nothing left
to lose, Cade went along with the plan, filling the gaps inside himself
with a burning desire for justice. By 1984 he was back in the Met and
earned a rapid promotion to Detective Chief Superintendent.

******

*November, 1997* 

Thursday seemed determined to drive Cade round the twist. Paperwork,
mountains of it, without so much as the relief of a phone call to
interrupt the tedium. Every operation his division had going seemed to be
at the sit-and-wait stage. By late afternoon, he'd had enough of both. 

"I'm going down to the shooting range," he muttered to Grace as he stalked
out of the office. 

It was late enough for the fire arms instructor to have gone home to her
husband and kids, so Cade had to reactivate the range. He could have gone
home with a clear conscience himself, but he had an itch to do *something.
* If Bodie's side of the building hadn't been in the midst of a major
operation, he would have happily contented himself with screwing the
gorgeous bastard through the floor. He could have gone to the gym, but he
wasn't in the mood for a solo workout, or to risk the off chance that
Macklin might be lurking about. He wanted to find some way to occupy
himself, not increase his collection of colourful bruises. And that left
shooting practice. 

He used his personal key to open the weapons locker and chose a Smith &
Wesson. He hated the very sight of it. Hated the cold weight of it in his
hand, but he constantly struggled to grow accustomed to it. Cade was the
only non-clerical member of CI5 who did not carry a gun; ironic, as he'd
had the right to carry one for years. The person who had shot him was
still at large and could still be after him was how the logic went. Cade
didn't buy it. His watch and wallet had been taken. He'd been nothing more
than some poor sap in the wrong place when a greedy bastard with a gun had
happened by. Three other people had met similar fates during the following
week, though only Cade had survived. The case had never been closed. Like
many acts of random violence, without witnesses, there wasn't a way to
even start the hunt. 

Cowley had pointed out that it could have all been a clever plan to make
Cade think he need not fear further attempts on his life, but such double
think to kill the likes of him seemed too fancy. Besides, a pro would have
finished the job. 

He'd even fought arming his people, but only briefly. There was no way in
hell he could hope to disarm Bodie's personnel, and leaving his own people
unarmed would have created an imbalance of perceived authority that he did
not care for. But he hated guns -- well, he had good cause, didn't he? So
he'd absolutely refused to arm himself. 

He knew the decision agitated Bodie, made him afraid for him. Unwilling to
cause Bodie any distress, Cade had finally started working on his hatred
... oh, hell, his fear of guns. So far his efforts had proven less than
successful. 

He took up a position in front of the middle alley, loaded his gun, put on
his ear defenders, aimed at a black silhouette target the standard
distance away, then fired. He cursed in frustration at the hole half
on/half off the target's left shoulder. He'd been aiming for the centre of
the chest. 

Damn it! Six weeks worth of daily practice, and he seemed to be getting
worse, not better. He couldn't even pass the Course with that shot, and he
*had* passed it three years ago, when everyone had insisted he carry a gun
until some nutter making threats against him had been caught. And a hell
of a lot of good that had done anyone: the nutter had been caught; a
grief-stricken father who had lost his child to a drunk driver and needed
someone to vent his rage on. Cade had made a point of never meeting the
man face-to-face. But while he had been armed, he'd had cause to use the
gun in an unrelated matter. 

He closed his eyes against the still painful memory, then pulled himself
together and tried another shot. It missed the silhouette completely. 

"You're pulling to the left as you fire." 

Bodie's voice startled him and that fueled his embarrassment at his
pathetic shooting. "I am not," he hissed through clenched teeth. 

"Perhaps it's the gun then," Bodie allowed. He held out his hand. "May I?"


Not at all hopeful of the outcome, Cade handed over the weapon. 

Bodie considered the target for a moment, then pressed the distance/all
button. The targets all quivered, then slid to the very back of the range.
Satisfied, Bodie fired, emptying the clip. 

By squinting, Cade could make out the happy face now adoring the target's
head. He turned a glare of utter outrage on his lover. 

Bodie shrugged. "Saw it in a movie. Gun seems fine, Alan. Must be you." 

"Do you get some sort of kick out of humiliating me, Bodie?" 

"Not at all." He reloaded the weapon, then gave it back to Cade. "Try it
again." 

Cade reached for the distance button, but Bodie's hand stopped him. "Give
me a fucking break, Bodie. I can't hit the bloody thing when it's right in
front of me! How do you expect me to hit it when it's hiding back there?" 

"Stop pulling to the left." 

"I am not --" 

"Of course you are!" Bodie snapped back. "Damnit, Alan, you can be such a
prat! A gun is a tool, like a hammer or a saw or a screwdriver. You don't
throw it away because some bastard misuses it." 

"I'm --" 

"A bloody moron! Can't you see what you're doing? You've got the eye/hand
coordination to be an excellent shot, but you were out of practice the
night your driver died. A competent shot couldn't put those two robbers
down, and that's all you were." 

Cade glared at him, but he could see it happening in his mind. The three
men with automatics, as far away from him as the target was now, but
standing arrogantly in the open. An easy shot for a man like Bodie, but
not for a copper who had only passed the Course three hours earlier. He'd
known that, but with one of his officers in danger, he'd had no choice and
had 

opened fire. He'd missed. He should have been the one who had died that
night, but his driver had put the car between Cade and the gunmen. Jack
had saved him, but he'd caught a bullet in the neck before they could get
clear. He'd died two days later. "You could have saved him." 

Bodie nodded. "If it ever happens again, so could you." 

Cade shook his head. "No. ..." 

"It's not a crime to be out of practice, Alan," Bodie soothed him. "And
you won't be betraying Jack if you become a good shot for someone else.
Now, shoot!" 

Cade aimed and fired. The bullet struck the next target over and neither
of them tried to pretend that was where he'd been aiming. 

Bodie lost all patience with him. Suddenly Cade found himself confronted
with a former-SAS Sergeant in all his glory barking at him to shoot,
reload, shoot, reload, shoot. 

Finally, Cade reached his limit. "Enough!" he cut off the next command
with a shout of his own. "Enough, Bodie, that's enough." 

"Maybe," Bodie agreed, stepping closer to him, his manner suddenly
switching from drill sergeant to seducer. "We could get cleaned up," he
whispered, coming to stand behind Cade. "Go to dinner, maybe even a show.
I'd like that. Going out on a date with you." 

Cade sighed, relaxing at the press of the warm solid body against his
back, the warm breath of the man a purr in his ear. 

"Be late, when we head home. Maybe I'll even let you touch me up on the
drive back." 

Cade reached behind him and stroked Bodie's left thigh. "Sounds
wonderful." 

"We could go to my place for once. Never told you I have a fireplace, did
I? 's got a great soft rug in front of it. Could make love lying on that.
Would you like that?" 

"God, yes, let's --" 

"But there's that case my people are working. Everything seems quiet now,
but you never can tell when things might happen. Sometimes things even get
personal. Good tactics that, you know. Take out the leader and demoralize
the troops. Might try it tonight." 

The spell his lover's words and nearness had woven took a lurch, and Cade
felt the need to reach for him. "Bodie?" 

"Be late when we head home. Driving alone with your hand on my thigh.
Might come up on us then, run us off the road. Both good drivers, we'd
probably be all right, but do you think they'll give up?" 

"Bodie --" 

"Shhhh, can't you see it? We'd all bail out of our motors. They'd be
armed, but so am I. I'm better with a rifle, but I could outshoot them." 

"Yes." 

He felt Bodie move, then his lover's arm lifted, raising his Browning into
firing position. "Course, sometimes things go wrong." Bodie pulled the
trigger and a horrible nothingness followed. 

"Had a stoppage more than once. Could happen tonight. Be time for me to
die." 

Cade might have laughed at the drama, but the way Bodie said 'die' was
like a man calling to his lover. "No!" he snapped. "I won't let you!" 

"Then shoot. Save me, Alan. Save me, my love." 

His own weapon came up, then he fired. The bullet struck dead centre --
precisely where he'd aimed. 

"Again," Bodie said, and he obeyed. "Now the shoulder." 

The gun boomed with equal success. 

"The leg." 

Two pulls of the trigger -- Bodie hadn't said which leg. 

"Two targets to the right and in the head." 

Over and over again he fired, his shots moving from one target to another
on command, his reload smooth and cause for only a moment's interruption
before the roar began again. 

"That's enough," Bodie finally released him. "Check out a shoulder
holster, Alan. Play time's over." 

Numbly he nodded, set the gun down, then took off the ear defenders. He
took a deep breath and looked at Bodie. "Sometimes, I really hate you,"
Cade whispered, then left Bodie to shut down the firing range.

******

Trembling, Bodie waited until he heard the door close, then he let himself
sink down to the floor. He felt almost sick with relief. Safe, Cade would
be safe now. With the constant jeopardy of being on the streets behind him
and Doyle's shooting skills to cope with any unexpected threats, Cade
would be fine. And the effort to bring it about had almost killed Bodie. 

He couldn't seem to stop shaking, his insides quaking with a violence that
made him glad he hadn't had time to eat since a quick breakfast. It all
made him want to laugh. He was lucky Cade hadn't decided to shoot him. And
if anything convinced him that Doyle was gone for good, it was the fact
that his jaw remained in one piece. 

Bodie had helped resurrect a skill, not a personality trait. In his heart,
he had to admit that he'd hoped to do both. But his golli was gone, along
with that fiery temper and all the shared memories that would have granted
Bodie forgiveness. "Ray," he whispered, needing his lover so badly he
thought his heart might not withstand it. 

Almost as if to mock him, the door opened, and Cade came back into the
room. For a brief moment the years and the pain they'd brought vanished,
as he saw Ray standing in front of him. But sanity returned in a
heartbeat, along with the pain. The hair, the clothes, even the posing all
spoke cruelly of what Bodie had lost. 

Cade stooped down beside him. "I'm sorry," he said. "Sometimes I open my
mouth and bunch of nonsense spills out." 

"Nonsense, like 'I love you'?" 

Anger flashed in green again. "You bastard. Telling you I loved you was
the most honest thing I ever said in my life." 

Bodie wanted to believe him. And, in truth, when he looked into Cade's
face he did see as much love as he'd ever seen in Doyle's. But Doyle's
eyes had also held acceptance for who and what Bodie was. Cade's never
could. It was too much a part of the reason he }{\plain \i was}{\plain
Cade. And that left Bodie with a broken heart filled with nothing but
terror for what the future would bring. 

He tried to look away, but Cade caught hold of his chin, guiding Bodie's
lips to his own. When the kiss ended, Cade whispered, "You're trembling." 

"Sorry," Bodie muttered. "Didn't know how else to get through to you. I'm
--" 

"My beautiful love," Cade hushed him. "I know you only did what you had
to. Now, let me do what I need to do." 

Cade's hands began to soothe him, caress him, while his deep, warm voice
murmured words of nonsensical comfort. 

Slowly the attentions calmed Bodie, who had been almost certain that what
he'd done had ended their affair. His terror receded enough for the touch
to begin to arouse him, and he reached for his lover. 

Hands moved in loving caresses, pausing every few moments to undo a button
here, lower a zip there, until both men lay naked on the cold floor.
Should have been bloody uncomfortable, but somehow the harsh light and the
smell of cordite made Bodie feel like the room was a part of him -- the
worst part of him, and he desperately wanted Cade to see it and still want
him. "Alan, please." 

Cade seemed to understand, but he shook his head. "There's nothing we can
use, and I don't want to hurt you," he said, his hand moving towards
Bodie's cock. 

Bodie didn't want to come that way, so he turned his hips to block the
touch. "There's gun oil in the weapon's locker." 

Cade wrinkled his nose. "Make a mess of both of us, that will." 

Black, ugly and harsh. Like Bodie's soul. Like the soul that had cost him
Doyle. "Please. ..." 

With all his being, Bodie willed Cade to understand, and the man did seem
to consider the notion, but in the end he shattered Bodie's hopes. "No,
love. Can't be certain it wouldn't hurt you, and I won't risk that."

******

*September, 1977* 

Bodie lifted his Browning, then murdered another two tin cans. The range
was great enough that normally he'd have been insufferably smug, but he
turned a glare on his partner, who took his turn at keeping London safe
from rubbish. 

Bodie's face hurt, his split lip throbbed, and his torso ached from the
bruising of a dozen powerful blows. He should be home, singing the praises
of the strongest pain killer he could get his hands on, but Doyle had
dragged him out to CI5's makeshift shooting range. 

None of that would normally have bothered him. Humouring Doyle at his own
expense often seemed to be Bodie's major pastime. No, going shooting with
Doyle when he should be home taking it easy was business as usual. What
bothered him, what hurt far more deeply than his abused flesh was the
memory of one comment oozing with contempt. *Bodie, you're no better than
he is*. 

Did Doyle really see him that way? As no better than that monster Krivas?
Did he really think Bodie would put a gun to a girl's face and pull the
trigger? Bodie talked a good game, could put the right amount of menace
into a situation to unnerve even the toughest bastard, but, of all the
things he'd done, he could honestly say that he'd never used his gun
unnecessarily. Didn't Doyle know that? 

He tried to remind himself that Doyle said things he didn't mean when he
was angry, and that the words could have been designed to 'bring Bodie to
his senses.' Still, it hurt to think Doyle had thought him 'out of his
senses' in the first place. And it wasn't the first time Ray had said
something along those lines. 

It had actually been a rather common theme for the little sod's snide
remarks in the early days of their partnership, but Bodie'd had his own
line of nasty remarks to make, coppers never having been a big favourite
of his. In the end they'd called a truce, got to be friends and finally
lovers. The remarks had stopped. For the most part. But this was the
second time in as many months that Doyle had made one. 

Last month he'd actually compared Bodie to that nutter Tommy McKay.
Nothing was better than a good shootout for an afternoon's entertainment
as far as Shotgun Tommy had been concerned -- and the higher the body
count the better. Not someone Bodie would have tapped for CI5, but Cowley
moved in mysterious ways and Tommy had been on the side of the angels
until he'd got himself gunned down. In Bodie's book, Tommy had been
nothing but a killer. 

*And what makes you so different? * 

Went rather nicely with 'Bodie, you're no different than he is,' didn't
it. 

Suddenly Bodie didn't want to play shoot-the-cans anymore. Didn't want to
hear the guns firing, smell the gunpowder or feel the jerk of the
discharge. He flipped on the safety, holstered his gun, then walked over
to the nearest bench and sat down, his head bowed. 

A few minutes later, the continuing silence penetrated his brooding, and
he realized Doyle hadn't continued shooting. He looked up to find the
rotten sod sitting on the grass, cleaning and oiling his gun. 

Bodie watched the long, graceful fingers move over the metal and felt a
surge of envy for the inanimate object that so absorbed his partner's
attention. *Be nice to be so well cared for}{\plain . Be nice to be
treated with such respect, too. * 

He sighed. Nothing he said had ever seemed to make a difference in how
Doyle viewed him, but he had to try. He always had to try. Unfortunately,
he could only think of what he'd said when Doyle had asked him what made
him different from Tommy. "I'm not a killer, Ray." 

If Doyle was surprised by this sudden topic of conversation, he gave no
sign of it. He kept on working with his gun and said, "Because you don't
enjoy it." 

"That's right." 

"But the killing doesn't bother you." 

Bodie's stomach lurched, but he answered honestly, "No, it doesn't." He'd
never killed unless another life -- often his own -- was threatened. He
knew many blokes who tore themselves up over doing the same thing, but
Bodie had never seen the sense of it. He'd chosen this life and the
necessity to deal death on occasion was part of it. Did being pragmatic
about it instead of appalled make him like Tommy? Or worse, like Krivas?
Did monsters like them start out feeling like he did? And even if they
had, didn't knowing that was a possibility give him the ability to avoid
it? 

He didn't know. He could only hope and go on. But that left Doyle's
attitude to deal with. "You want a new partner, Doyle? One who bleeds
every time he pulls a trigger? If that's what you want, say so, and I'll
talk to Cowley." 

Doyle set aside his gun and the cleaning supplies. "No, that's not what I
want." 

"Then what *do* you want?" 

His partner considered that, then answered, "Be nice if you'd remember I
have a sharp tongue and don't always say what I mean. Does bother me some
that you're so matter-of-fact about the killing, but I *know* that doesn't
make you like Krivas. Or Tommy, for that matter. 

"I'd also like it if you'd keep in mind that I'm bloody fond of you, and
that I think you're a good man. No one else I'd rather have as a partner
or a friend. 

"But most of all, I'd rather fancy it if you'd get yourself over here
beside me." 

That request being something that Bodie not only could do, but wanted to
do, he complied quickly, and wasn't at all surprised when Doyle took
shameless advantage of their closeness and jumped him. 

Wanting the man with a fierce ache, he didn't resist the assault and found
himself pinned beneath Doyle. Lips pressed against his, and Bodie opened
his mouth, moaning his appreciation as an eager tongue invaded him. 

Was crazy. They were outside. Anyone could show up. Not at all uncommon
for Cowley to come fetch them here. Yeah, it was utterly crazy, but he
made no effort to stop the fingers he'd admired from stripping him off.
Worse, when he lay naked on the grass, watching Doyle shuck his own
clothes, Bodie wanted the cock jutting up before him buried deep inside
his body. Wanted it so badly that he whimpered and pulled his knees back
to offer himself. 

Doyle's eyes sparkled with desire, but he frowned. "We don't have anything
to use, pet," he said, his voice tinged with regret. 

The golli was too big to get by on spit, but Bodie already had the
solution. "The gun oil," he gasped. "Use the gun oil." 

"Bodie, that's brilliant," Doyle answered, snatching up the flask of oil.
He poured himself a palm full, then liberally anointed his cock and
Bodie's anus. 

A single thrust impaled Bodie, while the warm weight of Doyle's body
blanketed him. It took nothing more than that to pleasure him, but Doyle
began to move with hard, deep strokes, while his hands roamed freely over
Bodie, leaving the younger man writhing in ecstasy that swiftly sent him
tumbling over the edge into climax. 

Doyle froze until Bodie calmed. Then green eyes stared down into blue. 

"Go on, sunshine," Bodie whispered. "Take me as long and as hard as you
can." 

Doyle kissed him on the nose. "Shall do my best," he assured him, then
began to thrust again. 

Bodie wanted it to go on forever. He always did when Doyle fucked him, but
this time felt different. This time it felt like more than just sex. It
felt like ... acceptance. And when Doyle's seed finally filled his
backside, Bodie knew that Doyle understood him and still wanted him.

******

*November 1997* 

Bodie came, his release splashing against Cade's belly at almost the same
time Cade's erupted over his. But his climax had been of a purely physical
nature. Emotionally he felt defeated. 

He pulled from Cade's arms, then dressed quickly. 

"Damnit, Bodie, can't you even stick around awhile when we aren't in my
bed?" Cade snapped, yanking on his own clothes. 

Bodie couldn't even look at him. It was over. He'd come to the range
knowing that, but when Cade had wanted him after the shooting 'lesson,'
he'd been fool enough to allow himself to hope. That masochistic cruelty
made it all the more painful to tell him, "I have to get back to my
office. 've got a report to write. Things got out of hand this afternoon."


The understatement of the ages, that. Despite the dangerous scene he'd
painted for Cade, the threat from the terrorist cell his people had spent
the last few weeks chasing was over. Their headquarters had been located
and surrounded, but they'd decided to make a fight of it. None had
survived, and a final suicide run for freedom had forced Bodie to shoot
down two of them before they could reach any hostages. "Always paperwork
involved when you kill someone," he explained further and forced himself
to look at Cade, to see the horrified expression settle on the handsome
face. 

Oh, yes. It was over. His heart shattering, Bodie turned away, then left
the room, headed back to his office and the job. He had nothing else left.

******

Cade stared at the door in shock. Somehow he got the distinct impression
that Bodie had just told him goodbye. He wanted to go after him. Or at
least a part of him did. The other part was appalled by what Bodie had
told him. First, it upset him to think of Bodie in danger without Cade to
back him up, and that was truly an absurd thought. Despite current
opinion, Cade was a highly skilled field commander, but his training told
him someone of his position delegated such things, and so he chaffed at
the bit and sent Rose to deal with things unless his own presence was
essential. That did not, however, make him the best man to guard Bodie's
back in a shooting war with terrorists. So why couldn't he shake the
notion that he was? 

Then there was the fact that he did not approve of killing. Yet he knew
that sometimes it was unavoidable, especially in the terrorist half of the
building. On the other hand, Bodie had not seemed too upset about the
killing part, only in telling him about it. 

A chilling thought, that. Could he have missed that Bodie was some callous
killing machine? In the months they'd been together, he'd seen much to
dismiss such a notion, but instinctively he knew that Bodie did not care
much when others forced him to kill them. Cade couldn't approve of it. In
fact, it sickened him, made his head hurt and his stomach churn. 

On some basic level, he even felt threatened, as if Bodie were some danger
to him. 

Nonsense, he told himself. Pure nonsense. He loved Bodie with a depth he'd
never thought himself capable of, and he trusted him as deeply. And he
knew Bodie was a good man, but. ... 

He sat on the floor of the range for over an hour, debating with himself
and never reaching a satisfactory conclusion. In the end, he sighed
heavily, got up, then started shutting down the shooting range. All he
really knew was that he loved Bodie and all of this had something to do
with Doyle. Hopefully, tomorrow he'd get a few of the answers he needed.

******

Cade watched the lift indicator and fought not to explode in a fit of
temper over how slowly the sodding thing moved from number to number. The
offices of Security International, Inc. were on the twelfth floor and,
thankfully for the peace and well being of the public at large, the lift
stopped on only two floors other than his own destination. 

Lucas and McCabe saved their own lives and limbs simply by having him
ushered into a conference room precisely at the scheduled time. McCabe,
the one with dark hair, introduced them both, then asked, "Now what can we
do for you, Mr Cade?" 

He came right to the point. "You can tell me about Raymond Doyle." 

McCabe glanced at his partner, some silent communication passing between
them. Cade wondered if people who witnessed him do the same thing with
Bodie found it equally annoying. 

The sandy-haired bloke said, "If you could be more specific, we might be
able to help you." 

Cade grit his teeth in frustration, and his mind did an odd flash to a
conversation he'd had with one of his officers a few years ago. The man
had been struggling with the dubious joys of trying to tell his son about
the facts of life. The officer had said that the trick was in not giving
too much or too little information. 

Normally Cade would have spared the conversation only polite interest, but
it had been a quiet day and the problem had fascinated him. So he'd asked
how that was done. His officer had smiled and said, "If they are old
enough to ask the question, they're old enough to hear the answer." 

Suddenly Cade felt very much like that man's child must have felt.
Bristling with the need for information, but knowing he wasn't going to
get it unless he stumbled on the right question. It made him want to
scream, but instead, he took a calming breath then started to feel his way
through things. "He was Bodie's partner." 

A nod by Lucas rewarded his cleverness, and Cade vowed that if he ever saw
that poor kid's father again, he'd punch the man in the nose. "And they
were lovers, too?" 

"From almost the beginning," McCabe answered, then tossed him a carrot.
"It wasn't exclusive until mid-1980, though everyone but Doyle knew Bodie
hadn't wanted anyone else for years before that." 

"Bodie told you this?" 

Lucas rolled his eyes. "Ah, come on, you've been around Bodie long enough
to know what he's like. One minute you wouldn't know if a grenade had gone
off inside him, the next his heart's on his sleeve. Everyone could see how
he felt." 

"Except Doyle," Cade muttered. 

"Except Doyle." 

Knowing the kind of pain that must have caused Bodie, Cade decided it was
a damned good thing Doyle had vanished. Still, "If it was exclusive from
mid-'80, and Doyle died in '82, they had almost two years together." 

"Yes." Lucas this time. "Seemed right happy, the pair of them." 

"So what happened?" 

"Doyle died." 

"Not according to his file," Cade snapped. 

"Death can be a point of view." 

"What the hell does that mean?" 

The two men merely looked at him. 

'The right question,' Cade reminded himself as he slowly counted to ten.
"So how did this 'point of view' death occur." 

The two men shared an uneasy glance, and Cade feared they wouldn't answer,
but Lucas finally said, "I always figured it was the shooting." 

"Shooting? You mean Cooks's death?" 

Lucas shook his head. "No, this happened a few weeks later. Bodie and
Doyle were on opposite ends of London canvasing informers about some case.
Can't even remember what it was now. When the call came, they both
responded, but Doyle was a lot closer." 

McCabe picked up the story. "Some bastard had taken a school room full of
kids hostage. Bodie was the best sharp shooter in the outfit, but Doyle
was almost as good, and Bodie was twenty minutes away when the man made a
break for it.

******

*December, 1981* 

Doyle pulled the rifle from the boot of his gold Capri, then hurried over
to the officer in charge. "What's the situation?" 

"Ten kids inside and a teacher. He's flashed a pistol a couple of times,
took a shot at some rocks to prove it was loaded." 

"Demands?" 

"None." 

Doyle's stomach churned. A nutter without something to demand was a
dangerous nutter indeed. 

"The hostage negotiator's been trying to talk to 'im, but it doesn't look
good." 

He considered that for a moment, decided to leave the peaceful end of
things to the negotiator and began looking around for a good vantage
point. 

The door chose that moment to open, and a man's voice shouted, "I'm coming
out!" 

With no time to do a proper setup, Doyle dropped to his knee behind the
nearest squad car, did a fast adjustment on his sites, then waited. His
gut churned again as a man stepped into the open with a small boy held in
front of him like a shield. "Jesus, that's Jake Malloy," he heard the
officer mutter. 

"Meaning?" Doyle asked. 

"Wanted murderer and child molester. We let him get away with that kid,
the best the boy can hope for is peritonitis. A couple of his victims bled
to death before anyone could find what he left of them." 

"So we don't let him get away." Doyle's voice was calm, his hands steady
as he lifted the rifle. 

"I want a car!" Malloy shouted, the muzzle of his pistol pressed to the
boy's head. 

That manoeuvre forced Doyle to hold his fire through two good shots at
Malloy's own head while a car was brought around. Malloy ordered the
driver out of the car, but, in an obvious bid to stall for time, the
officer inside acted puzzled, uncertain of what the man wanted him to do. 

The pistol shifted from the boy's head to point towards the officer. Doyle
pulled his trigger. Text book shot, nothing could go wrong, except
something always could. 

As he fired, the boy panicked and tried to jerk away. The motion brought
him into the bullet's path.

******

*November, 1997*

"The boy died instantly. So did Malloy," McCabe said with a sigh. The
bullet had passed through the child's body and killed his captor. No one
except the boy's distraught parents blamed Doyle. Had been a nasty scene
with them, but there wasn't a man or woman on the squad who'd had the
slightest doubt that they would have taken the shot. The shooting review
board had cleared him with equal assurances that he'd done nothing wrong.
"Doyle didn't take much comfort from that. And who could?" 

"If not for Bodie, I think Doyle would have gone round the bend," Lucas
agreed. But Doyle did have Bodie, and there still had been a good chance
that things would be all right. 

"Except they weren't," Cade said. "What happened?" 

Lucas shrugged, and McCabe said, "He sort of died. Depending on your point
of view."

******

Two hours later, Cade sat in a booth near the back of the Red Lion Bar
glaring into a glass of scotch. He still didn't know how he'd managed not
to kill those two jokers. *Point of view, indeed. * He found himself
fervently wishing he was the sort of copper who fancied petty revenge. The
image of Lucas and McCabe buried under a mountain of traffic citations was
too tempting by half. Sometimes scruples were a right pain. 

He sighed and took a sip of his drink. Cowley wouldn't approve of such
inattention to a glass of pure malt, but the old man could do the other
thing. *Not a very charitable thought about your dear friend and mentor,
my son. * Maybe he wasn't being fair, but he couldn't shake the feeling
that he was trapped in the middle of one of Cowley's exercises in triple
think. But all he really had to go on was two locked out computer files
and the itch on the back of his neck he always got when someone was trying
to manipulate him. 

*If they are old enough to ask the question, they're old enough to know
the answer. * It kept coming back to that fatherly advice and the odd
smell of conspiracy. Paranoia perhaps? A possibility, but he didn't think
so. Everything was too ... something. But he couldn't figure it out. He
didn't know these people well enough to feel so certain that they were
playing games with him. Hell, Anson had simply been talking about the old
days, yet Cade kept thinking he'd told him exactly what the old man had
told Anson to tell him. Could almost hear the briefing; *Give him a place
to start, lad. The name, the time frame, and a mystery to keep him
interested. *

But why? To teach him not to go nosing about in Bodie's past? Too
elaborate for that. A 'sod off, you nosy bastard' would have done that
much. He shook his head. No, it didn't make sense, and if he was as smart
as he'd always thought he was, he'd give the whole thing up as a mug's
game. But he couldn't. Oh, if he sat here long enough, he could convince
himself to pack it in, but the decision would last only until Bodie made
another one of his exits. 

No, he couldn't stop. If he didn't find the answers, he'd lose Bodie, and
he knew he couldn't bear that. Not even the issue of 'how Bodie felt about
killing' bothered him anymore. Whatever had happened to Raymond Doyle, he
knew that unreasonable guilt over the shooting of a child had contributed
to it. He wouldn't wish such a burden on anyone, let alone the man he
loved. 

Besides, when he'd woke up this morning, the whole thing had felt like his
surprise over wanting to have sex with Bodie -- like some issue he'd long
ago resolved and had merely taken out again for a brief review before
dismissing it from any sense of importance. 

He sighed again and found his glass empty. Before he could work up the
energy to get another, a lager was set in front of him, and Charlie
slipped into the opposite side of the booth. 

"Looked like you could use another," the man said with the grin that
seemed to melt Susan. 

'Must be the mustache,' Cade decided and wondered if he should grow one
for Bodie. "Thanks, mate," he muttered, though he would have preferred
another scotch. Maybe even a bottle or six. 

"You waiting for Bodie?" 

Cade shook his head. "He has a speech to make tonight." With Stebbings
safely retired, the Controllers of CI5 had to assume the public relations
duties as well as the tactical. Fortunately, such unpleasant necessities
were rare and they could split them between the two of them.
Unfortunately, it made for a late night and Bodie wouldn't dare come to
him so close to bed time. Could drop off in Cade's arms and the universe
might come to an end, or, even worse, he might sleep through the night.
*Can't have that. Bloody Doyle might not like it*. 

"Ah, brooding is it then?" 

He cast a glare at the cheerful man. "Thinking. 's a difference." 

"True enough, mate. Anything I can help with?" 

Cade considered that. If he were right, Charlie would have been instructed
to give him a piece of the puzzle, and Cade might as well get it over with
and let him give it to him. But if he were wrong, the matter might get
back to Susan. Especially since Charlie had that happy glow about him that
said loud and clear that he was waiting for the lady in question to join
him for a drink. *Ah, well, faint heart and all that rubbish. * 

"Ah, quite the puzzle was our Raymond. Good man." 

Couldn't prove it by Cade. Seemed like a moody, selfish bastard who'd not
deserved Bodie. "So what's your theory?" 

"Theory?" 

"About what happened to him." 

Charlie shook his head, and for a moment Cade thought he might be wrong
about his conspiracy theory or at least Charlie's place in it. The man's
next words reassured him that wasn't the case, "Trying to say one thing
killed Doyle is like saying an iceberg sunk the Titanic. True enough on
the face of it, but it was really a string of bad decisions and worse luck
that caused the collision." 

Cade noted another reference to Doyle's death, but opted to spare himself
the 'point of view' rhetoric. "So what do you think happened?" 

"Seemed to start with Cookie's death, then Doyle shot that kid." Charlie
shook his head. "Damned hard thing to live with, but he had Bodie. Made
sure we all knew it, too." 

"What do you mean?" 

"We'd all guessed they were lovers, but after the shooting Doyle needed
constant proof he was loved. He started with Bodie." Though a toucher,
Bodie had never been much for public displays of affection, but in those
final weeks walking into the rest room and finding the two of them ending
a kiss became a common occurrence. Looking back on it, everyone had
recognized it had been a sign of his desperation, of how far and deep his
growing depression reached, but at the time, it hadn't seemed more than
the need for some comfort during difficult times. 

Charlie shook his head. "But practically raping Bodie in the hallways
wasn't enough for Ray. He needed assurances from more than his lover. He
needed them from his family." 

Doyle's father had died when Ray was a kid, leaving Nuala Doyle to raise
her daughter and son alone. "I spent some time with her -- while I was
getting over a bullet in the left lung." He'd got shot working an
Operation Suzie-style case with Bodie and Doyle. "She figured I'd taken a
risk and a bullet Doyle hadn't, so she visited me in hospital several
times. Even brought me care packages to save me from the food. Was a
lovely woman." Kind, a devote Catholic, she'd done a good job with the
kids, though Ray went through a wild stage. "Happens sometimes in the best
of families, but he grew out of it. He was always ashamed of how much pain
that time had caused his mother, but it was obvious she loved him and was
proud of him."

******

*July, 1978* 

Doyle set on the couch with his mum, the comforting sounds of his sister
making tea coming from the kitchen. Been more than one time in the last
few weeks that he'd doubted he'd live to enjoy such simple pleasures again


He resisted the urge to sigh, never liking his mum to see how much the job
got to him from time to time. Worse, he hated playing Cade. Wasn't so much
the undercover part, but that he always had to go it without Bodie, who
didn't fit in with all the copper stuff. He glanced to the chair where his
partner sat, happily taking in the sights and sounds of the Doyle
household.

******

No, he didn't like going into a situation without Bodie, nor did he like
the thought of what sort of trouble the sod could get himself into without
Doyle to watch him. 

But this time it had worked out, and Cade had ended up with a promotion to
Detective Superintendent. But an undercover role reaping the rewards of a
job well done did complicate things. 

"I'm so proud of you, son," his mum said, then gave him a rueful smile.
"But it is a trifle confusing." 

He laughed, then gave her a kiss on the cheek. "I know, Mum. Guess you'll
have to do what I do and think of it as happening to some other bloke." 

Bridget walked in carrying a well laden tea tray. "That's right, Mum. Cade
is the knight in shining armour; Ray is the pest." 

"Ha bloody ha," he answered, loftily ignoring Bodie's peals of laughter,
then stuck his tongue out at both his sister and his partner. 

"But that means someone else gets all the recognition!" Nuala said with
utter indignation. 

"And I get George Cowley." Doyle gave her a woeful look. "Life isn't
fair." 

They all laughed, but Doyle felt uneasy. His mum had been a copper's wife
and saw promotion through the ranks as the mark of a successful career.
Was hard getting her to understand that he had more authority in a crisis
situation than anyone short of the Home Secretary. So much easier for her
to understand his successes as Cade. 

He suppressed another sigh and took his cup with a smile. Sometimes he
almost envied the bastard.

******

*November, 1997* 

Charlie shook his head. "Doyle led a complicated life. One of the
'benefits' of being in CI5 in general, compounded by how good he was at
undercover work. Hard to explain all that to a mum, especially when you
want to keep quiet about the gory details." 

Charlie had always got the impression that Nuala had understood, that
she'd figured out more than Doyle had ever told her, but it was difficult
for mother and son to connect with so much unsaid between them. "But it
seemed okay between them." 

"So what happened?" 

"Doyle decided it was time she learned about his relationship with Bodie."

******

*January, 1982* 

Bodie stared at his lover. "You can't be serious." Or at least he hoped
so, but the stubborn set to Doyle's jaw indicated otherwise. 

"Never more so," Doyle answered, dashing any notion of a bad joke. 

Damn. He should have expected this, but he'd hoped letting Doyle flaunt
their relationship every reasonable chance he had would be enough to get
him through the insecure patch he seemed determined to take root in.
Unfortunately, it was not. 

Bodie slipped his arms around Doyle, then kissed him on the tip of his
nose. "I love you, angelfish, but I don't think breaking the news to your
mum's a good idea." 

Doyle scowled. "Why not?" 

"She'll throw a fit." 

"Will not." 

Bodie rolled his eyes. "Ray, she's Catholic. Worse, she actually believes
all that muck coming out of Rome." And that meant she'd see their love as
a mortal sin. 

"She loves me more than the Pope," Doyle shot back, pulling away from him.


*And you're going to make her prove it. * "Course she does. That's why I
can't see her caring much for the news that you're joining me in the Other
Place. Imagine she's always fancied the notion of her kids on the cooler
side of the Pearly Gates." 

"Cowley accepts us, and he's religious." 

"Be serious, Ray. My father can triple think his way around anything,
including St. Peter's Rules for Entry. Besides, he's not Catholic. Makes
him less inclined to listen to earthbound blokes about spiritual matters."


Doyle tried a different line of attack. "But she likes you." 

"Won't once she finds out I'm letting her son have his wicked way with
me."

******

*November, 1997* 

"Bodie said that they argued about it for the better part of two days.
He'd honestly thought in the end that he'd made Doyle see reason." Charlie
paused and looked at him, almost as if he expected him to know the rest.. 

"But he hadn't," Cade guessed. 

"No. You have to understand, Alan, Doyle felt certain that everyone saw
him as a monster after the shooting. He was desperate for proof that he
was wrong." Charlie sighed. "Unfortunately, we all underestimated the
strength of that desperation." 

"He told his mother." 

"Yes."

******

*January, 1982* 

Bodie had tried to decline the post-'mission' pub crawl, but Cowley hadn't
chosen any of his people for being faint of heart, and his team had
literally dragged him along. Faced with the choice of giving in or
committing a few acts of GBH, Bodie had surrendered with a scowl, then
made his escape after his round. Despite his best efforts, the sun had set
by the time he headed for home. 

He'd had an uneasy feeling all day. Jack Crane had taken a few weeks leave
to be with his wife and new-born daughter, leaving Anson in charge of the
training facility. Before this mess with Doyle had begun, Bodie had agreed
to help out with a day of war-games to brush up any eroding commando
skills. Doyle had been looking forward to leading the opposition, spending
more than a few nights whispering in Bodie's ear all the plans he had for
when he'd taken Bodie prisoner. But a child's grave had ended the
laughter, and Doyle had opted to stay home, forcing Anson to play the
opposition leader instead of chief referee. 

Bodie had almost made his own regrets and stayed home as well, but Doyle
had kicked him out the door, telling him to go and win the war like a good
boy. It would have been better all around if he hadn't bothered. 

Worried about Doyle sitting home alone and brooding, Bodie hadn't been
able to keep his mind on things and had made a right mess of it. Still,
his 'troops' had been good natured enough about it, had seemed more
annoyed by his desire to make a fast get away; but he'd needed to get
home. 

As he parked the Capri, the joke seemed to be on him. He'd let down his
mates and lost out on an evening making it up to them to come home to a
dark, empty flat. He looked up at the dark window and shook his head,
bemused at himself at all the worrying he'd done. ... Or Doyle was too
busy brooding to turn on the lights. Damn. Suddenly certain that was it,
he picked up his pace as he crossed the street. 

Silence greeted him when he opened the door. Glad enough to be wrong, he
turned his attention to the locks and alarms. But when he finished, then
turned back towards the front room, Doyle was standing in the doorway. He
couldn't make out the face, but the body seemed to radiate tension. "Ray?"


"I ... went to Derby this afternoon." 

*Oh, Christ. * "Saw your mum, did you?" 

He could just make out the nod of Doyle's head. 

Bodie paused a moment, then in the best neutral voice he owned, he asked,
"Did you tell her?" 

"Yes." 

*Damnit, Ray. ... * "What did she say?" 

"Nothing." 

That didn't seem likely, so Bodie waited, and finally Doyle spoke again.
"She sat there staring at me for the longest time. Then she started to
cry. Was almost hysterical by the time I left her with Bridget." 

Bodie moved over to his lover, took him into his arms, then held the
trembling body close. He didn't know what to say, didn't know how to make
it better, so he said the only thing he could think of, "I love you. Love
you so much." 

The hug that bought him almost broke one of his ribs, but he bore it
without complaint. 

"You knew it would be like this," Doyle whispered, his voice full of
tears. "Why didn't I listen to you? Why am I such a --" 

Bodie silenced him with a brief kiss. "You're all hurt inside, sunshine.
's keeping you from thinking straight. Otherwise you'd know, your mum will
calm down." 

"You think so?" 

"Know so. She loves you, sunshine. Apple of her eye, you are. Give her
some time. She'll come to terms with it."

******

*November, 1997* 

"But she didn't." 

"She never had the chance," Charlie answered, his voice sounding heavy
with regret. "She died two days later." 

"Oh, my God." 

A lorry's brakes had failed. Nuala had been in the crosswalk, six paces
behind a group of school children. The driver had swerved to avoid the
children and struck her head on. "She died instantly." 

"So they died unreconciled." Cade shook his head. If he'd learned one
thing during his years on the force it was to never let a loved one walk
out the door without coming to *some* understanding. Even if her son was a
total prat, he would have thought she would have known better after being
a cop's wife. He blinked. Now, how in the hell had he known Doyle's father
had been a cop? As had Cade's father. Something slithered through his
mind, but Charlie's voice distracted him. 

"Worse than that, Doyle convinced himself that she'd not seen the lorry
coming in time to evade it because she'd been worrying about him."

******

*January, 1982* 

Doyle turned away from the grave, the pain like a knife in his heart.
Bodie stood close to him, but for once his mate couldn't help. Bodie was
the one good thing in his miserable life, and he'd used it to hurt his
mum. 

His sister took his hand, but he couldn't bring himself to meet her gaze.
"Ray," she said, her voice thick from crying, "you've got to stop this.
What happened wasn't your fault." 

Bridget told him both she and their mother had figured it out already,
that it had only been the shock of the confirmation -- the sudden loss of
any ability to deny the truth -- that had unnerved the woman. "But she'd
already accepted it. Told me so the night before the accident. She was
going to ring you as soon as she figured out what to say." 

He wanted to believe it, but he couldn't. He'd hurt his mother so badly
.... It would have taken more than a day to recover. If she ever would
have. He shook his head, grateful for the kind lie, but knowing that's all
it was. 

Bridget gripped his hand all the harder and tried again, "Oh, Ray, she was
our mother. 'React first, then spend a month apologizing.' We got that
trait from her. Can't you see that's all it was?" 

He tried. Christ, how he tried. Yet, in the end, he could see nothing but
all the pain he'd caused. And that night as he lay curled up against
Bodie, he could do nothing but wait for everyone else to see his guilt and
turn away from him. Even Bodie.

******

*November, 1997* 

Cade rolled his eyes. "So all the ills of the world were his fault." How
could Bodie have loved a dozy bastard like that? 

The very notion irritated him enough that he changed the subject, "I
assume you're meeting the lovely Susan tonight." 

Charlie nodded, his face lighting up at the mention of her name. "Yeah.
Tell you a secret, Alan: she's agreed to marry me." 

Cade smiled for the first time in days. "Congratulations, mate, but it's
not much of a surprise. Obvious she's nuts about you." 

"Glad of that. I was terrified she might turn out to be a swan like. ..."
Charlie's voice trailed off and an uncomfortable look crossed his face. 

A swan like Bodie. Cade's mind filled it the blank easily enough. Swan's
mate for life, and Doyle had been Bodie's mate. 

Cade stood up abruptly, telling himself the sick feeling in his stomach
was too much scotch and not enough to eat. "I'll go and see what I can do
to hurry Susan along." 

Charlie caught hold of him arm. "Alan, I'm sorry, I didn't mean anything.
Babbling, that's all. Been worried about it; Jax is a hard act to follow."


He could tell the remark hadn't been part of The Plan, and that Charlie
was genuinely upset that he'd let it slip. Didn't make it any less true.
"'s all right, Charlie. Thanks for the drink." 

Feeling a strange sort of numb agony, Cade made his way out the front door
and headed back up the street towards headquarters. He'd lost. Charlie had
made him see it. Bodie was a swan, incapable of loving anyone as he'd
loved Doyle and too injured by his loss even to try to find contentment
with another. Cade had really never had a chance, and the realization made
him want to scream. 

Nothing had ever felt so right as having Bodie in his arms, nothing had
ever made Cade feel so alive, so whole as being with him. Yet what they
had left him hungry for so much more. He'd never have it. The only greater
pain he could imagine would be to lose Bodie entirely, but without love to
bind them together, what would keep Bodie with him?

******

Susan nodded a good night to the guard on duty and walked out the front
door of HQ, only to find Cade standing on the sidewalk, looking thoroughly
miserable, his gaze focused in at least the general direction of Bodie's
office window. She couldn't help but feel sorry for him, and, despite
herself, asked, "Are you all right, Cade?" 

His attention turned to her, and they studied each other for a moment,
then he asked, "Is it your turn now?" 

"My turn?" 

"To give me your theory about Doyle, your allocated piece of the puzzle." 

She shook her head. "I thought you were a good copper, Cade. You should
have all the pieces by now." 

He scowled at her for a moment, then surprised her by asking, "Why don't
we get along?" 

*Because you're only a facade for a man I cared for, and that facade hurts
a man I care for even more. * "Why should we?" 

He shrugged. "We're both victims of the Doyle Syndrome. Friendships have
been formed with far less in common." 

True enough, and if Cade were really Cade, she imagined that they might
have been great friends. As it was, at times, she could barely endure the
sight of him. "I don't think we should have this conversation." 

He looked at her again. "Do me the courtesy of an honest answer. Why do
you hate me?" 

An honest answer? Cowley had been very cagey about her part in the great
plan, had merely told her to go with her instincts, and they told her that
he did deserve an honest answer. "Because you don't make him happy, Cade.
You hurt him to his soul every moment he's with you --" 

"Because I'm not Doyle," he finished for her. "He can't love anyone else."


"He can't do more than exist with anyone else." 

"Damnit!" Cade exploded, the curse muffled by clenched teeth. "It doesn't
make any sense! How could he love Doyle --" 

"More than you?" This time Susan finished his thought. "I agree it doesn't
make any sense. After all you're. ..." she paused reaching for a memory of
something Bodie had told her once, something Doyle's sister had said when
he and Doyle had been visiting. She caught hold of it, then continued,
"you're the knight in shining armour; Doyle the pest. No, it doesn't make
sense at all, but then love isn't rational, is it?" 

She started along the walkway, headed for the Red Lion Bar and Charlie,
but Cade called, "Susan." 

"Yes?" 

"What happened to Doyle? Why isn't he with Bodie now?" 

Tired of the games, she again reacted on instinct. "Ask Cowley."

******

Cade wasn't at all in the mood for a drive in the country, but Cowley now
lived at his wife's estate, so into the country Cade went. He arrived at
the Grant Estate as they were sitting down to a late supper, forcing him
to hold his temper and his questions while they ate. Pleasant food and
chatting with the Cowleys made this a fairly painless delay; he found he'd
missed the old bastard. 

Still, he was not at all displeased when the meal ended and Cowley led him
into the study. "You know where the scotch is," the old man said, settling
into a comfortable leather chair. 

Cade poured them both a drink, handed Cowley his, then sat down in a
matching chair. "You know why I'm here." 

"Do I?" 

"Don't get cute with me. I've bloody well had enough of that!" His earlier
temper flared back into life. "Everyone tells me what you told them to.
Nothing more." 

"Now why would I tell anyone what they can or cannot tell you about
Bodie's ex-lover? For that matter, why do you feel anyone owes you answers
at all?" 

Cade squirmed at that. Why indeed? He couldn't think of a single reason
why anyone should tell him anything, yet, here he was, expecting to hear
the full story and angry he didn't already have it. "Just tell me what
happened after Doyle's mother died." 

"I interfered." 

"You what?" 

Cowley sighed, and Cade saw genuine regret in his eyes. "Doyle had always
been a touch moody, but during the week surrounding the funeral, he
carried it to an art form. He never opened his mouth unless it was to snap
at someone. Usually Bodie. I got tired of the shell shocked look in my
son's eyes and decided sending Doyle off on his own for a few days might
do them a world of good."

******

*January, 1982* 

Doyle zipped up his, or rather Cade's suitcase, picked it up then headed
for the door. He found Bodie in the front room, staring out the window. 

"Ray, I don't think you should go." 

"Cow's orders, Bodie," he said, hiding behind a convenient assignment.
"Time for the golden boy to make another appearance." 

Bodie shook his head. "If I ask, he'll let you stay. There's always
another copper conference to attend." 

He sighed, set the bag down, then went over to his lover and put his arms
around him. "Bodie, I have to go. Your dad's right. I need some time to
think, and a nice boring conference is a good place to do that." He kissed
Bodie's neck. "You've been so good to me, but I can't stand seeing you
flinch whenever I walk into the room." 

He felt rather than heard Bode gasp. "I'm sorry, I --" 

Doyle hugged him. "'s all right. Been a right bastard the last couple of
months. Must have felt like you were living with a rabid dog." 

"I love you." 

"Know you do. Want to keep it that way. It's why I have to get away for
awhile. Get myself sorted out." 

"You'll come back?" 

"Love you more than anything. Course I'll come back." 

"Will you?" 

"Promise." 

"All right." 

Doyle kissed him again, forced himself to let go, snatched up his
suitcase, and all but fled to the door. He wanted to stay, wanted to find
some way to make it really all right, but hurt so much inside that all he
could think of was that if he stayed, he would lose Bodie. 

That fear, the one greater than all the other horrors he'd ever known,
made him open the door and let him keep walking when he heard Bodie
whisper, "Please don't leave me." 

Tears he refused to allow to fall almost blinded him as he walked down the
stairs. *I'll make it up to you, Bodie. I swear it. *

******

*November, 1997* 

Cade stared at him. "You sent him on assignment when he was in a depressed
state of mind?" Christ, had the man wanted Doyle to die? 

"No, it was an appearance, not an assignment." He paused as if he were
carefully considering his words. Cade knew the man well enough to know
that the effect was totally for his benefit -- Cowley had obviously
thought this out well in advance. 

The pause stretched until the point where Cade was about to prompt him,
then Cowley said, "Doyle was a master at undercover work and played many
roles during his time in both the Met and CI5, but there was one part too
well crafted, too valuable for either the Met or myself to allow to end
with the assignment that created it. Various operations usually caused him
to assume that role once or twice a year, but if work did not require it,
I kept the cover alive by sending Doyle out to make an appearance. 

"His need for time away from CI5 coincided with an opportunity to make one
of those appearances. So I sent him up north for a few days." 

North. January, 1982. An appearance, not an assignment. The strain and
frustration of the last few days sent a stab of pain flashing through
Cade's head with enough force to make him wince, then the ache settled
into a steady throb. "Who ... what was that role he was playing?" 

"You tell me."

******

*August, 1973* 

Detective Constable Raymond Doyle walked into the Detective Chief
Superintendent's office and discovered that the man was not alone. He
didn't know why he'd been called to the office, but somehow he hadn't
expected anyone else to be there. 

A pretty woman with large dark eyes and a thin, balding man sat in two of
the three chairs in front of the DCS's desk. Doyle glanced at each of
them, then towards his superior. 

DCS Hogan ignored him for the moment and turned his attention to the
woman. "Well?" 

"I suppose ... that from a distance ... someone might think he was Alan." 

The man with her added a more enthusiastic approval, "The weight, build,
colouring, even the eye colour are all a perfect match. All will need to
do is darken his hair and get the curl out of it. By God, Tom, this might
actually work!" 

Apparently satisfied by what he'd heard, Hogan said, "Doyle, this is DCS
Bevans, No. 9 Regional Crime Squad at the Yard. He has a proposition for
you." 

Bevans motioned for Doyle to sit down and as he obeyed the man said, "I
hear you have a talent for undercover work, Doyle." 

"I try, sir." 

"I have need of a man like you for an undercover operation that could last
several months, but if it you can pull it off we could round up a network
of corrupt cops that we suspect of trafficking in drugs and of killing a
fellow officer. You interested?" 

Drugs, murderers and corrupt coppers. All the things Doyle hated rolled up
into one big package. "I'm listening." 

"A week ago Detective Inspector Alan Cade was assigned to my command. Cade
did his initial training with the Met, but he spent the bulk of his career
in the northern counties. He'd gained a reputation of being an excellent
officer, even earned a commendation for bravery in '69. And from all
reports, he was incorruptible. I needed such a man, so I offered him a
job. Two days ago, his car was run off the M1, and he was killed. But I
still need Alan Cade." 

The woman turned out to be a Yvonne Belinsky, Cade's lover and someone
desperate to do anything to avenge her dead love, so she'd agreed to help.
Doyle would become Cade, take over his life, his reputation and his job.
And along the way Bevans hoped to find a few rats in his nest, especially
the ones who had stooped to murdering an outsider to avoid working under
his eye. 

The risks were tremendous. The real Cade had already been killed, and,
though Doyle had not worked recently in Central London, his cheekbone was
a distinguishing mark that would be impossible to hide. Cutting out the
curls and darkening his hair might fool someone who had known Cade years
ago, but it would never fool anyone who had met Doyle before. He could
very easily be looking at a choice between being killed because he was
Cade or because he wasn't. Charming. But the chance it might work. ... 

He made his decision.

******

*November, 1997 *

*Cade's the knight in shining armour; Ray's the pest*. Oddly enough he
heard his sister's voice, not Susan's, say the words, then discovered that
he'd repeated them out loud when Cowley spoke. 

"Simplistic, but an apt enough description given a certain point of view."


Point of view. It all seemed to come down to that. For some reason Cade
heard himself say, "I have a daughter." 

"Doyle could never acknowledge his." 

Doyle had a daughter? Yes, of course he did. "My mother loved me; was
proud of me." 

"Doyle wasn't always certain of that. He even felt his need for proof of
it was what killed her." 

Crazy. It was all crazy. He should get up, walk out of here, hand in his
resignation and put as much distance between himself and CI5 as he could.
Bodie. He couldn't leave Bodie, but Bodie went with. ... "I hate guns." 

"Doyle shot and killed a seven-year-old boy. His name was Peter Williams.
He'd hoped to be a copper one day, like in his favourite television
program, *Starsky & Hutch*." 

Get out of here. Had to get out of here. But his head hurt too much to
move. "I didn't even know Cook ... Cookie." 

"Doyle recommended him for the job that cost him his life." 

"Was worse than a pest. He was a menace. A rat-tempered bastard not even
other coppers liked." He blurted out the words, not even knowing how he
could have even begun to guess they were accurate, but Cowley did not
contradict him. 

"Yes, he helped convict a few corrupt officers. He told me once that after
that even honest policemen treated him with caution -- as if he were a dog
who had turned on his master and could never be trusted again." 

Unreasonable attitude. Had never understood why good coppers reacted that
way to someone who helped stamp out corruption. *Any copper who goes over
the line, any detective who brings the force into disrepute, offends me,
personally*. He could remember saying that to his predecessor as Chief
Constable of Eastland. But he wanted to deny it. He did not want to have
anything in common with Doyle. With "A rat-tempered, self-centred, moody
son of a bitch." 

"Yes, Doyle was all of those things, but he was one thing more. He was the
man Bodie loved with all his heart and soul." 

And Cade envied him that. Christ, how he envied him that. Despite
everything he felt towards Doyle, it made him wish, made him want ... to
be ... Doyle. 

He blinked at the sudden absence of pain, then he glowered at Cowley.
"You're a scheming, manipulative old bastard." 

"A little less of the 'old,' sonny," came the answer and oblivion closed
in.

******

Cowley watched his guest topple from the chair to the carpeted floor,
downed the last of his scotch, then stood up and rang the bell for the
servants. 

Timothy responded immediately. An ex-Royal Marine with a build that could
put many an American football player to shame, he filled the doorway of
the study and turned a dispassionate gaze on, for what all he knew, was a
body on the floor. But, then, he was paid to serve as Cowley's
valet/bodyguard, not to look after guests. "Had a bit much, has he?" 

"Something like that. Would you mind putting him to bed? I'll look in on
him later." 

"Very good, sir," Timothy answered, tossed the body over his shoulder with
all the difficulty of a child lifting a rag doll, then headed upstairs. 

He must have passed Margaret along the way, for she walked into the room,
her eyes wide with concern. "Oh, dear, George, what have you done?" 

"What needed to be done." 

"And damn the consequences?" 

Cowley shook his head and walked over to his desk. He tapped Cade's file.
"Even at Eastland, the line had been blurring between the two of them. His
dissatisfaction with a job he'd wanted all his career, his inability to
forge a lasting relationship were signs of Doyle waking up. I merely gave
him the final push." 

"Then you think it worked." 

He nodded. "But we'll know for certain in the morning." 

They talked for a while longer, then headed up for bed, Cowley stopping to
look in on their guest. The man seemed to be sleeping peacefully enough,
his breathing deep and even, his face serene. All encouraging signs. 

Just one last thing. A touch theatrical, but sometimes he couldn't resist
the impulse. 

In the morning the sleeper would awaken, shower, then want clean clothes.
Cowley opened a drawer and provided some.

******

He walked into the office at a quarter past seven in the evening and
wasn't surprised to find Grace had gone home for the night. Bodie's office
was also empty. As he'd hoped. All he'd come for was the key. He spared a
moment to glare at the name on his own office door, then went inside and
got the key to Bodie's flat. He'd promised never to use it for anything
less than an emergency, but in a tribute to the old man's training, he had
decided that 1) *he* plain hadn't actually made the promise and 2) this
*was* an emergency. 

Slipping the key into his front pocket, he went out the door. On his way
to the lift, he noticed the light coming from beneath Rose's office door
and decided he really should check in with her. He knocked, opened the
door, then found she wasn't alone. 

Susan sat in the chair across from Rose's desk, but she turned towards him
as he walked in. For a long minute she stared at him, then her glance
shifted to his boots, then slowly moved up his body. Tight jeans, the
green silk t-shirt and his leather jacket were all carefully studied. Then
she looked at his face. "My God, it worked," she whispered. "It actually
worked." 

He gave her a look of his own. "Have you ever known one of the old man's
schemes to fail?" 

She shook her head. 

That seemed to be all the comment she had, so he shifted his attention to
a very puzzled looking Rose. He opened his mouth to tell his
second-in-command his plans, but Susan suddenly jumped up, ran across the
room, then threw herself into his arms. He returned the strong hug she
gave him and the kiss, but refrained from returning the slap that nearly
split his lip. 

"You bastard!" she snapped, her eyes full of fury and tears. "You
complete, utter, self-centred, moody bastard! I could kill you!" 

Instead she kissed him again. The touch was deep and full of the passion
only an ex-lover who'd remained a friend could give, and of course, that's
who she was. The fact that he could finally remember that they'd had an
affair before she'd taken up with Jax made him kiss her all the harder,
made her all the more precious to him. And he had a few tears of his own
in his eyes, when she drew back enough to look at him again. 

"Damnit, I should hate you, but I'm so bloody glad to see you, I can't
seem to manage it." 

"Not too thrilled with myself, pretty lady. Seems I've made a right mess
of things." 

"That you have," she assured him. 

He smiled. "Thank you ... for taking care of him. Helps to know he wasn't
all alone." 

A sadness touched her eyes. "I did the best I could for him, but. ..." 

He kissed her on the cheek. "He's at home?" 

She nodded. "Left about twenty minutes ago. Said I could reach him at his
flat." 

"I'm off then." He gave a nod towards Rose, whose puzzlement had given
over to open-mouthed astonishment. "See what you can do about explaining
things and feel free to spread the word to any and all of your fellow
conspirators." He started to leave, then paused in the doorway. "Oh, and
get my fucking office door fixed!" 

"Will do." 

He got two steps down the hallway, when she called, "Ray." 

"Yes?" he asked, glancing at her. 

"Welcome back." 

Doyle smiled, then headed for the lift. At the car park door, he nodded to
acknowledge the security guard's, "Good evening, Mr Cade," and sincerely
hoped he'd never hear that miserable name again. 

As far as Raymond Doyle was concerned, Alan Cade had died some time last
night, may the bastard rest in peace. Though absorbed was a more accurate
description of what had happened. He had retained all the memories of his
life as Cade, but it had been Doyle who had woke up in the guest room,
showered, dressed in the clean clothes that had been laid out for him,
then gone down to join the Cowley's for breakfast. No more pleased about
being manipulated -- even when it was for his own good -- than he'd ever
been, he'd launched right into it.

******

*Earlier That Morning*

"Why didn't you just tell me and have done with it? Why all the bloody
games?" he demanded, before he even sat down at the table. 

"And when did telling you something do any good, lad?" Cowley asked with
that discreet, but utterly insufferable smugness he often displayed when
he'd pulled one off. "You've always insisted on finding things out on your
own." 

Knowing that was more in reference to his ignoring all the reassurances
during those last few months before he'd been shot in the head, Doyle
glared at him, but couldn't deny the truth of it. 

"Ach, use your head, 4.5. The doctors told us you stopped being Doyle
because you wanted to. The only way to bring you back was to make you want
to come back." 

He protested that notion. He hadn't wanted to stop being Cade, he'd merely
started investigating Doyle and found himself manipulated into a situation
where he had to chose between a fantasy and Bodie. He'd never had a choice
at all. 

Cowley gave him a look usually reserved for adults who seemed unwilling to
see that one plus one did indeed equal two. "Did someone force you to
start that investigation?" 

"No." 

"Did someone tell you to do it?" 

"No." 

"Did anyone insist you see it through to the end?" 

"No." 

"Did --?" 

"All right, I take the point!" 

Despite that near petulant beginning, Cowley gave him the rest of the
story, allowing Doyle to get a firmer grip on his shifting reality. As
he'd expected even as Cade, Cowley's string pulling had allowed him to
return to the Met and work in areas where he'd *always* been known as
Cade. Those who had known otherwise and were likely to encounter him had
been briefed. It had all been that simple. "Naturally, we had to do some
fleshing out of the Cade background, give him conference visits or case
assignments that explained the knowledge that you'd gained in CI5, but
there was really little else that had to be done." 

"And Bodie went along with all of this?" That was the one thing he didn't
understand. If Bodie had loved him, why had he left him for so many years?


"The doctors were certain the very sight of him might cause enough
emotional trauma to render you insane. He had no choice." 

"Oh, my God, Bodie." Grief stricken for what his love had gone through,
Doyle's head dropped into his hands. 

To his surprise, he felt Cowley's hand on his shoulder, the touch
comforting, reassuring. He'd all but destroyed the man's son, yet he
obviously cared for Doyle. 

"I promised him I'd come back," he whispered. 

"And so you have." 

"Christ, George, how do I make this up to him?" 

"You'll find a way."

******

*Present* 

*You'll find a way*. Doyle had spent the entire day driving around the
countryside trying to think of the answer, but he'd failed. With the sun
threatening to set, he'd conceded defeat, at least temporarily, and had
headed for the office. As he parked in front of Bodie's flat, he still
didn't know what to do or say, but he needed to see Bodie, to hold him, to
make love to him. And he hoped, maybe somewhere in all of that, he'd find
his answers. 

He tried it the easy way first, pressing the security buzzer and
answering, "It's me," when Bodie responded. 

There was a silence, and he could almost hear Bodie thinking away. Was one
thing to get dressed and make his polite goodbyes in someone else's flat.
Was another thing entirely to ask a lover to leave, so Bodie had taken
care to keep Cade away from here whenever possible. Finally, the expected
excuse came, "I'm tired, Alan. Thought I'd turn in early. I'll see you in
the morning." 

"Suit yourself," Doyle answered and pulled the key from his pocket.

******

Bodie bit his lip against the urge to call out to Cade and forced himself
to step away from the intercom. He wasn't up to dealing with the man
tonight, or, more accurately, he didn't feel up to dealing with him and
any pronouncements inspired by their encounter in the shooting range.
Nothing more than base cowardice. Should let Cade tell him it was over and
be done with it, but he couldn't handle it yet. He moved towards the front
room and thought seriously about indulging in an overly generous glass of
scotch, but froze at a scraping sound. 

For a heartbeat, he absolutely refused to recognize what it was, but the
last click of the lock snapping open made it undeniably clear. The bastard
had used the key! 

Furious at the violation of both his trust and their agreement, Bodie
whirled towards the door, almost glad to have a reason to vent his
frustrations on Cade, but the sight of the man robbed him of his voice.
All he could do was stare as his visitor entered, shut the door, then
reset the locks and alarms. 

That dealt with, his lover turned to face him. "'Thought I'd turn in
early,'" the deep voice mocked him. "Who the hell are you trying to kid,
Bodie? You haven't gone to bed before midnight since you were in short
trousers." 

The clothes, the stance, the reference to shared memory, and most of all
the sarky barb all added up to one thing. "Ray?" 

"Yeah, pet, it's me." 

"Oh." Bodie's mind shut down. He couldn't think, didn't want to even if he
could; he simply stood there. His heart continued to beat, his lungs to
rise and fall, but not even his eyes seemed to function, for he had no
awareness of anything until the heat of pure malt scotch flowed down his
throat. 

He blinked and found himself sitting on the settee, Doyle holding a glass
to Bodie's lips. The glass tipped, scotch flowed into his mouth, and Bodie
swallowed a second time. 

"Better now?" Doyle asked. 

Bodie nodded and was rewarded with a kiss. 

"I love you, Bodie," Doyle said when their lips parted. He put the glass
down, took Bodie's hands in his, then sat down on the coffee table.
"Wanted you to know that right up front. I love you, and I want us to be
together for the rest of our lives." 

Bodie stared into green eyes glowing with love and didn't know what to do.
He'd so completely resigned himself to the idea that he'd lost even Cade
that he couldn't take in the possibility that Doyle, his Doyle, sat in
front of him declaring himself. And, in truth, he'd wanted this so much
that receiving his heart's desire made things seem unreal, leaving him
wondering if he might have finally gone round the twist. "Angelfish?" 

"Ah, Bodie." Doyle smiled, reached up and caressed Bodie's cheek. "Big,
macho, super-soldier still out terrorizing the villains, and inside still
my great, big softie. Love you so bloody much." 

*You know your trouble, don't you? Underneath that hard shell, you're just
a great big softie*. Bodie remembered Doyle's words from years ago, but
even more than the reminder of their shared past, the fact that the man
before him had known that Bodie needed such an assurance convinced him of
the truth. "Oh, Christ, Ray," he gasped, pulling Doyle up into a bruising
hug. 

The kiss that quickly followed had an equal strength behind it, and left
Bodie with only enough reason to kick the coffee table out of the way
before they went tumbling to the floor together. Once there, consumed by
the need to touch and be touched, Bodie tore at Doyle's clothing, only
vaguely aware that his own poloneck and trousers were meeting a similar
fate beneath Doyle's busy hands. 

Making love to Cade had always left him feeling like a starving man at a
banquet table, but denied more than a few scraps. He'd wanted the body
writhing against him for so many years, but how could he explain such a
hunger to a man who did not remember they'd even met before? It had made
him want to weep in frustration, and, not being a man for tears nor able
to explain them should they fall, he'd fled instead. 

But Ray would understand, had even seen his tears the few times life had
tried to take Doyle from him, so he abandoned caution and allowed himself
to feast. 

Mouth, eyelids, neck, ears, Bodie didn't care what he encountered, if it
were part of Doyle he nuzzled it, kissed it, then moved on to the next
tempting bit, all the while moaning his protests whenever Ray's own
explorations interfered with his progress. 

Finally, he merely eliminated the problem by shifting his weight and
pinning Doyle beneath him. 

Ray struggled briefly, then surrendered. "Big dumb crud," he murmured, his
green eyes glowing with love. "Get on with it then." 

Bodie kissed him, his tongue probing deeply as it danced with Ray's, a
delight he abandoned only at the call of a tempting nipple, then the
other. Need and want held him tightly in their grip, so he moved quickly
up and down the gorgeous body, trying to leave nothing untouched however
fleeting the caress. 

Doyle groaned loudly as Bodie nibbled the back of his knees. "Pet, I can't
last much longer." 

Heeding the warning, Bodie abandoned the knee, then straddled his lover's
hips. He reached behind himself to take Doyle's cock in hand, the touch
making Ray groan loudly. "Easy, sunshine," Bodie soothed him, shifting
into position. 

"Bodie, no," Doyle gasped. "You'll hurt yourself. Get something first." 

"No, I don't want anything between us. Not this time." Before Doyle could
protest again, Bodie pushed back against the engorged cock. The entry
eased only by Doyle's pre-come, it did hurt. But experience had taught
Bodie how to relax the muscle and the pain quickly transformed into
pleasure. "Ray," he sighed when he felt the press of Doyle's balls against
his arse. 

Green eyes locked with blue. "I love you, Bodie." 

"You're ... my life, Ray," he whispered, leaning over to kiss him. The
movement caused a few inches of the cock to pull free of his body, inches
he quickly reclaimed when their lips parted. 

"Then move, you beautiful bastard," Doyle moaned, gripping Bodie's hips.
"Move." 

Bodie rose, then lowered himself on the flesh impaling him, his slow
strokes taking him from the balls almost up to the head before lowering
him again. He wanted it to last forever, this lazy penetration that made
him feel like Doyle filled him to his very soul, and his lover seemed to
understand, for he did nothing to hurry along Bodie's climax. 

Instead, Doyle's hands caressed Bodie's chest, rubbing his nipples with a
gentle touch that soothed rather than aroused. "So beautiful," he
murmured. "Only beautiful man I've ever known." 

Yes, Doyle understood, but through the growing haze of his own pleasure,
Bodie could see the strain on Doyle's face, and knew the man was long past
the moment when he'd wanted to come. It was time to end it. "Touch me,
angelfish," he begged. "Make me come." 

The long fingers shifted from his nipples, down to his cock and balls. Not
having realized how close he was to the edge himself, Bodie cried out in
surprise as he felt his groin instantly tighten in final warning, then
moaned his lover's name while his seed spilled across Doyle's belly. 

The contractions of Bodie's climax had the usual effect on Ray, and with
his own cry of release, he spurted up into him. 

Doyle's shout of "Bodie!" ringing in his ears, Bodie collapsed against
him, twisting as much to the side as he could to spare the man the brunt
of his greater weight. He sighed as his lover's arms came around him,
holding him even as the spent cock fell from his body. His arse was
leaking and sore; he could suddenly feel the mild aches of a dozen bruises
Doyle's rougher attentions had left behind, yet he felt marvelous,
wonderful and ... happy. 

Christ, it had been so long, he'd almost forgotten what it felt like, but,
yes, he was happy. It almost hurt, it felt so glorious ... and familiar.
Yes, he could remember feeling this way in the past, back in the days
before Doyle was taken from him. And suddenly he understood how little
he'd allowed himself to feel since he'd lost him. Lost him, and learned
that to feel so much joy begged an answering pain -- one he knew he could
not survive a second time.

******

Doyle snuggled up against the hard warmth of his lover's body and thought
seriously about spending the rest of the night on the floor, but Bodie
stiffened and pulled from his arms. For a heartbeat he didn't understand,
then to his horror he saw Bodie pick up his trousers and knew the man was
about to go into his disappearing act. 

Wailing in despair crossed his mind, but he decided that while that prat
Cade might put up with such nonsense from Bodie, Raymond Doyle would not.
In a flash he was on his feet, across the room and filling the doorway
that led to the only way out of the flat. Confident that Bodie would not
resort to the acts of extreme GBH that would be necessary to prise him out
of the way, he launched his attack, "Just what the bleeding hell do you
thing you're doing?" 

Bodie, his face paler than normal and his eyes full of a look Doyle could
only describe as haunted, muttered, "I have to go --" 

"Unless the rest of that sentence is 'to the loo,' you can forget it,
mate. You try to leave, and I swear I'll handcuff you to the radiator.
Besides, it's your flat." 

"Oh." Bodie dropped the trousers, then sank back down to the floor,
looking like some lost little boy. 

Unable to endure that, Doyle hurried to his side, then took him into his
arms. 

Bodie buried his face in the hollow of Doyle's neck. "Ray," he whispered
and starting to shake. 

It took Bodie almost an hour to stop trembling, his tears flowing over his
lover's skin, and Doyle held him every minute of it. And truth be told, he
did a bit of trembling himself. So many emotions crashing through him --
relief, anger, fear -- Doyle felt as if he were trapped in the middle of a
hurricane, but the love he felt for Bodie kept him anchored. Kept him on
rational feet, let him whisper soothing words and gave him the courage to
speak again when the storm seemed to have passed. 

"I promised I'd come back, pet. Did I leave it until too late? Will you
take me back or have I lost everything?" 

He held his breath waiting for the answer. If Bodie sent him away, if they
couldn't find a way to recaptured what they'd lost, Doyle would want to
die. But he'd find a way to stay alive. Somehow. For Elena. But he
couldn't imagine ever drawing another breath without hoping it were his
last. 

Bodie's voice was so choked it took him a moment to understand. "Can't ...
live without you, sunshine. But ... I'm afraid." 

"Tell me why. Tell me how I can help." 

He lifted his head and looked at him with eyes full of tears. "You left
me," he whispered. "Damn, you, you left me." 

"I know, pet, and I know it hurt. But you had to know I didn't want to." 

Bodie shook his head a denial of any such knowledge. "The doctors said --"


"Cowley told me. Oh, Bodie, I'm so sorry." Tears welled in Doyle's own
eyes, but didn't spill. He knew that in his head Bodie did understand, but
his heart had hurt so much and for so long that he was begging for
reassurances, and Doyle was determined to give them to him. "Wasn't that I
didn't love you or wanted to leave you. Was that I hated myself so much I
wanted to die." 

Bodie's gaze shifted away from him. "And I had to let you." 

"I know." He sighed. "I think I wish I really had died. Been easier on --"


"No!" Bodie shouted, his hands seizing Doyle's upper arms, gripping them
with a strength that left his own knuckles white. "Don't you ever say
that! " Bodie gave him a hard shake to emphasize his order. "Only thing
that let me keep going was knowing you were alive and happy." 

"Happy?" Doyle said the word as if repeating something from an obscure
foreign language. "I guess I thought I was, but. ... Nothing but another
delusion, that was. Knew that the first time Cade got you in my arms." 

He eased himself from Bodie's grasp, then wrapped his arms around him in a
gentler touch. He'd spent most of the day thinking of what he'd say to
Bodie, how he could explain how he'd lost them both the last fifteen
years, and it kept coming back to something his sister had said to tease
him. 'Cade's the knight in shining armour; Ray's the pest.' Was just a
joke, but sometimes it was how it felt. 

"Cade was just another assignment that first time. Had to be him for
nearly eighteen months before the case cracked. Thought that was the end
of it, but the arrests went down in a way that kept me from having to
break cover. My superiors decided they might have cause to use him again,
so Cade was transferred to a made-up division in the Yard and sent
overseas. I went back to being Ray Doyle, and was glad of it, only I'd got
Cade's bird preggers. When she took Elena away was the first time I wished
I was Cade. 

"But there other things, too. Yvonne had told me all about Cade, so I
played 'im like she saw him. Came off as more even-tempered, thought
things through more before opening his mouth, Alan did. Didn't care for
injustice any more than me, but he knew how to make the system work,
instead of fighting it. All made him more popular with the higher ups." 

Step by step, he went through it all: the distrust of his fellow officers,
the promotions Doyle never got, the freedom to be his daughter's father.
He went over everything he'd figured out. 

Doyle caressed Bodie's arm. "See what I'm trying to say, pet? Cade had the
daughter, I didn't; Cade got the promotions, not me; Cade didn't know
Cookie, I recommended him to CI5; Cade didn't carry a gun, I shot that
poor kid; and Cade knew when to keep his mouth shut." 

He shook his head. "Even now that's the hardest thing to forgive myself
for. You're the best thing in my life, Bodie, but I cheapened what we had
by using it to hurt Mum." 

Bodie kissed his cheek. "You didn't kill her, sunshine." 

Doyle managed a smile. "Know that. 've got enough of Cade left in me to be
feed up with all the times I blamed myself for things I couldn't control.
Hurts though. Might not have been my fault, but she went to her grave
terrified for my soul." 

Bodie snuggled closer to him. "You think that's why you never let Cade go
for blokes?" 

Though the real Alan Cade had been exclusively heterosexual, Doyle had
been bisexual since he'd discovered sex. Cowley had told him that the
trick cyclists hadn't been able to figure out why something as basic as
his sexuality would have been changed by the shooting, no matter who Doyle
had believed he was. "Suspect so," he muttered, nuzzling the dark silk of
his lover's hair. "Or maybe was my way of being faithful to you." 

"Eh?" 

"Gave my heart to you. Didn't want to give out bits of it to other
blokes." 

"Oh." Bodie considered this, then Doyle felt him frown. "But you fell in
love with that Frenchwoman." 

"Did I?" He'd thought so at the time, but it hadn't taken more than a few
days and a smile from a pretty public relations specialist to get over
Marie-Pierre. Not the greatest testimony to love he'd ever heard. "No, I
don't think I did. Was another Ann Holly, and all the time I was accusing
her of not wanting a commitment, it was me holding back. Can see that now.
I'm a swan, too, my love. Even when I don't know who I am, I'm a swan." 

Doyle kissed his forehead, the tip of his nose, then his mouth. "Nothing
less than a bullet in my brain took me from you, Bodie. And we still found
our way back here. Is destiny, that is. Can't fight that, can we?" 

Bodie looked up at him. "Guess not," he said with a smile. "I love you,
Ray." 

They sat together on the floor, kissing and nuzzling one another in silent
reassurance that they were together and very much in love. But soon yawns
began to interrupt them, and finally Bodie gave up. 

"I'm tired, Ray," he said, getting to his feet and pulling Doyle with him.
"Can ... we go to sleep?" 

The tears Doyle had been fighting most of the evening began to fall, the
joy he felt sending a cold tingle through his nerves. "Oh, yes, we can do
that. Hold each other all night, shall we?" 

"Yes." Bodie hugged him. "We'll be all right, sunshine. We'll be all
right." 

"Know we will," Doyle answered, then guided the only man both he and Alan
Cade had ever loved out of the room and into the warmth of their bed. 

-- THE END --

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