The Professionals Circuit Archive - The High Up Singing and Alive Fruit 
     The High Up Singing and Alive Fruit

 

by Slantedlight 

 
 *Written for "Discovered in Temptation" on the discoveredinalj
livejournal community, to the prompt "lust"*

 ******

From where they stood in front of the window in the old farmhouse,
stakeout over, they watched the storm come in, all purples and battleship
greys across the yellowed fields of wheat. The heat of the day--of the
last week--thickened around them, and finally began to pluck at their
skin, crackling around their clothes, and through their hair. Doyle's
shoulder brushed his, and something crackled there too, the world
electric.

 It slid between them, touched their lips, which finally quirked to
smiles, and pulled their eyes to meet, to admit that they both knew, that
they both wanted. And so it began.

 Bodie slid his hand down Doyle's back, down his heat-wet back, the
t-shirt slick to his skin, over the ridge of belt and down the line of the
seam, as he had wanted to do all day, all week, *forever*.

 His finger hooked into the thread-bordered hole and pulled at the denim.
"You're really not fit to be out in public, Raymond." His voice was steady
but husked, coming from so far down within him that he was surprised he
could speak at all. He insinuated his finger further, found only bare
skin, and was surprised that he could still breathe.

 Doyle turned back again from the storm, and Bodie, from beneath his
lashes, eyes lowered to where he could see the contours of Doyle's
shoulders, the muscles of his arm and back, tight-bound by the shoulder
holster, could feel the heat of his gaze, as though that, too, was
electric. It pulled at him, and he looked up, paused on Doyle's lips as
Doyle answered, rough as lust, "Then maybe we should be somewhere less
public."

 They raced the storm home, the skies ahead of them blue, the darkness
chasing fast behind. The rain beat them to it, in an eclipse of the sun so
nearly total that day felt like night. Water streamed down the windscreen,
lit sodium-orange by afternoon streetlights, slashed viciously to either
side by the wipers.

 By the time they were indoors, laughter high and alive, they were wet
through, and shivering from the arctic soak. Bodie slammed the door behind
them and reached across to the light switch. He found hot, wet Doyle
instead, moaned deep in his throat, closed his eyes, and pulled them
together. He tangled one hand in Doyle's hair, holding him in place with
it, reached down with the other hand, and found the ragged tear once
again.

 Doyle gasped into his mouth, pressed them even closer, hip-to-hip, so
close, so hard it was almost painful, but Bodie didn't care. His finger
pushed further in, wrenching at the frayed cloth until it could slide
between Doyle's buttocks, slowly up, slowly down, counterpoint to their
thrusting cocks, their tangling tongues.

 More.

 Lightning flashed outside as Bodie pulled away and opened his eyes, so
that he saw Doyle purple-white against the wall, all hair and lips and
lashes. He pulled his finger free, slid his hands heavily across the denim
so that he held Doyle's hips still.

 A doom of thunder above them, more lightning, and Doyle looked up. With
slow deliberation, Bodie moved his hands back to the hole, hooked a finger
either side, and pulled at the worn fabric. In a moment of heartbeat
quiet, they both heard it tear.

 Bodie pressed his fingers inside, to velvet skin damp with the heat and
the rain, clenching tight against him.

 "Yes-s-s." Doyle closed his eyes, again, tilted his head back against the
wall, so that his body pressed towards Bodie's again.

 "Yes?" His voice trembled.

 "Yes, dammit!"

 Bodie turned him then, and bent his mouth to Doyle's neck as he fumbled
with his own trousers, as he wrenched again at the hole in Doyle's jeans.
Easier to undo them, to slide his hands around and undo them, to pull them
down, but he'd been staring at that frayed hole for so long now...

 He spat into his hand, slicked and positioned himself, turned Doyle's
head to meet his lips, and with his mouth on Doyle's mouth, and his other
hand pressing hard the front of Doyle's jeans, he slid home.

 The sky froze them again, caught and held them in another flash of
lightning, and Bodie took Doyle's moan into him, just as Doyle had taken
him inside. With a kiss, and with panting breath, hands all on Doyle, the
frayed denim brushing at arse and cock with each thrust and pull, with the
storm raging around them, they moved strongly, urgently in the electric
air, until they both screamed back at the lightning, and gasped into the
thunder, and then heard the rain falling once more.

 ******

There were weeks, then, when they came together, and weeks when they
didn't, interspersed all with the usual whirl of women and wine and
gunshot. Life was a rush, life was *the* rush, although the best highs of
all seemed to be the nights at a loose end, when they turned to each
other, let *that* strange madness in again. They could spend all night
awake then, taking and taken, every touch leading to a new experiment, to
something else that would have them soaring above everything, collapsing
into the mattress only until the next touch took them over again. It was
lust, and it was danger too, and it was knowing they were still alive.

 So the summer wore on, obbo following badger job following stakeout,
until the day Bodie found himself racing up a stairway, confronted with
tiny men staring at tiny television screens, chuckling in glee as a tiny
Doyle tried desperately to evade some of the best assassins in Europe,
Tinkerbell and some girl at his side where Bodie should be.

 That was when he realised that it was all real, when he raged away from
Cowley and not-CI5, crossed water and thin air following those patched
jeans until he had them both safe again, standing on the quayside,
watching the launch vanish into the distance, pretending that this was
just another end to just another op. And all the time it throbbed through
his head, that this was Doyle, and this wasn't just lust, and what would
he do now?

 ******

"Well then you can't interrogate, you're emotionally involved." Doyle
stared into his eyes a moment, then grinned and walked off, the patch
tight to his skin, hands tucked in his pockets against the wind blowing
across the water.

 Emotionally involved. Yeah, but it wasn't *Leila* Bodie'd wanted to
interrogate, was it? Bloody *hell*. He shook his head. Fine--there was
always Philippa. It'd been habit making him flirt, but maybe that was a
good thing. Old habits were safe enough, he couldn't blame Doyle for just
carrying on as usual. Time to deal with the other later. Philippa. He
curled his lips determinedly to a smile. Four eight five... Four eight
five, s...

 Fuck.

 The number wouldn't come, and he finally gave up on it. She'd had a touch
of the harridans about her anyway--CI5 would track her down about the
compensation. At least Cowley'd had their motor collected and brought
over, he'd leave Doyle to drop off the van, see how *Leila* liked that.

 He didn't know if he was in the mood now anyway, he thought, trudging
across the concrete to the Escort. He'd go home, get himself a bath, throw
one of those frozen pizzas in the oven and open a bottle of wine. There
was bound to be something worth watching on the box. That was it, early
night for a change, figure out the best way to play it with Doyle to...

 "Oi!"

 He paused, the door half open in his hand. Doyle was walking towards him,
and as Bodie watched he did a half-skip, jogged the rest of the way as
though he was afraid of being abandoned. Even as Bodie thought it,
Cowley's car pulled away from the quayside, the yellow van close behind
it, and Bodie followed their path with a frown.

 "What happened to your interrogation?" he asked, as Doyle came to a halt
beside him, nudging his arm with one elbow, and making a face.

 "She wanted to okay it with her husband first..."

 "Ah... Rejected again, Doyle?" Well it didn't happen all that often.
Bodie grinned, prepared to be magnanimous, prepared to be second prize
tonight, because now he knew how he felt about Doyle, he wouldn't let
*that* situation go on for much longer.

 "Don't fancy the hassle, mate. Besides, there's Cynthia still waiting for
me..."

 Cynthia?

 *Third* place? Bodie felt his face freeze

 "...she's got a flatmate, if you're at a loose end..."

 *Him*? At a loose end?

 "...thought I'd give her a ring," Doyle nodded towards a flash of red
over by the houses. "Gimme a minute, okay?" and he loped off again, stride
strong and effortless even after the day they'd had.

 Bloody *Doyle*! Bodie dumped himself into the drivers' seat, slammed the
door and revved the engine hard. If Doyle thought he was going to be third
choice for *anybody*, he could think again. He glared at the steering
wheel, his knuckles white against the black plastic, and took a deep
breath, forced himself to relax.

 A double date, eh? He breathed in again through his nose, let it out in a
long, calm stream of air. Fine, they'd double date, and he'd show Doyle
what he was missing. Doyle was *never* as turned on as he was with Bodie,
that had to be true, because Bodie... Well. They were good together,
weren't they--so all he had to do was remind Doyle of that. It'd been a
while, after all, over a week, and it wasn't Doyle's fault that he was a
step behind, that he hadn't realised yet how it was.

 He slid the car into first and pulled away, stopped beside the phone box,
and tried to keep his eyes off Doyle's backside, leaning nonchalantly
against the red-framed glass, patch foremost. It was something to do with
the way the man *moved* he thought, the way he could twist and turn that
body, that promised--and delivered--a very special kind of flexibility.
Doyle was *pliant*, bend him any way you liked... He thought of being
under a pliant Doyle as well, watching his face above him, hearing his
breath, feeling Doyle's hands on his legs, his thighs, his...

 A knock at the window jarred him out of it, Doyle looking in with a
scowl, waiting for the door to be unlocked. Bodie reached over and flicked
the handle, felt his cock complain as it was twisted against his trousers,
and frowned himself.

 "'Bout bloody time," Doyle was grumbling, rubbing his hands together,
"It's getting a bit parky out there, you know."

 "Never mind, soon home to a warm...bed."

 Doyle grinned, and Bodie felt like thumping him, even as he checked
mechanically for traffic and pulled out. "Your place, or mine?" he asked,
knowing it would be Doyle's, always more sophisticated somehow than his
own Spartan-feeling flats, which rarely appealed to birds. He'd do
something about that one of these days... He shook his head. Or maybe he
wouldn't.

 "Yours," Doyle said, surprising him, until he remembered that he probably
had more food in than Doyle did, and neither of them had eaten in what
felt like forever. So he just nodded, letting them fall into a tired
silence until at last they were parked and moving stiffly up the stairs
and into the still air of his flat.

 "I'm gonna take a shower, alright mate?" Doyle called, already halfway to
the bathroom, and Bodie grunted back, heeling off his shoes, dropping his
jacket over a chair, and his holster into the bedroom. Some nights it was
just good to be home. He ambled through to the kitchen, put the pizza in
the oven, and checked to see that there was beer in the fridge. Not that
he fancied going back out to the offie, he had plenty of other drink in,
they'd make do with that. They'd probably pick up wine on the way to the
girls anyway.

 "What time are we going round?" he called through to the shower, pouring
himself a scotch and heading back to the bedroom to check his wardrobe. A
spatter of rain hit the window, and he grimaced. Suppose they should be
grateful it'd held off while they were jumping around roofs...

 "Going where?"

 "To pick up the girls..." Bodie let his voice trail away as he caught
sight of Doyle, holding a tiny blue towel in place around his hips,
leaning casually against the doorway, still dripping water down his neck,
over his shoulders, down to his nipples. He swallowed reflexively, knew it
was too late, that Doyle had seen, would surely know that Bodie wanted him
more than anyone else.

 "Didn't I tell you?" Oh so casual, "They're busy tonight, couldn't make
it. So I thought..."

 So you thought good old Bodie might stand up as third choice after all,
did you? Heat spread through him, lust, anger--disappointment? No, it was
rage, that's what it was. Thought Bodie'd be here whenever he... No.

 He went and stood in front of the bed, knowing his eyes were hard,
knowing there was no smile in him for Doyle, for this naked Doyle. "Come
here."

 And Doyle came, pushing himself away from the doorframe, sinuous as a
cat, eyes on Bodie's the whole time.

 Bodie would *not* be third choice, not even for Doyle. "On your knees,
and suck me."

 A moment's pause, and then Doyle fell to the carpet in front of him,
pressed his face to Bodie's groin, and his hands to the back of Bodie's
legs, holding him in place, balancing himself. Without looking up he
flicked open the button of Bodie's cords, pulled down the zip, and moved
Bodie's pants down and out of the way. Bodie wound his fingers through
Doyle's hair, an anchor of sorts.

 It was no good, he couldn't see him. He wanted to see Doyle's mouth on
him, those lips around his cock, to see Doyle on his knees, doing this to
him. He pulled on Doyle's hair, not bothering to be gentle, but it was his
undoing to see the closed eyes, to see himself disappearing into Doyle's
mouth again and again, and he came hard, stilling for a brief moment,
feeling Doyle swallow before he pulled out of him, and collapsed back onto
the mattress, still half hard.

 He opened his eyes to see Doyle bringing himself off, kneeling on the
floor by the bed, one hand moving fast, the other laid straining across
his own thigh, biting his lower lip--that minutes ago had been on
Bodie--until he came in a hard gasp. Bodie watched as Doyle's head bent
forward again, until he was nothing but a mop of curls and a curl of
limbs, spent at his feet.

 He would never get enough of seeing Doyle like that.

 While Doyle was recovering, he skinned out of his own clothes, dropping
them carelessly off the end of the bed, and stood up again. Doyle had
lifted his head, sensing movement, and Bodie took him by the hair once
more, gently perhaps this time, pulled him to his feet. That mouth...

 Bodie kissed it, pulled Doyle in close, letting him feel his arousal
still there, still hungry and wanting. Doyle moaned, a rumble deep in his
throat, and kissed him back, arms wrapped around his waist, hands sliding
up and down his back, down to his...

 No. Not today, lover-mine.

 He lifted a hand to Doyle's chest, pinched hard at one nipple, then the
other, and at the same time reached his other hand around and down,
parting buttocks, teasing at his arsehole, not quite doing anything, not
quite *not* either. Doyle gasped and seemed to lose all memory of what
he'd been trying to do, and Bodie twisted them around, dropped them onto
the bed with Doyle cushioning his own fall. He buried his face in Doyle's
neck, opened his mouth, and bit just a little too hard, sucked in the skin
so that Doyle would be wearing polo necks for a week, and reached
one-handed for the KY in the bedside drawer.

 "Bodie..."

 Hands trying to push him away, at the same time as Doyle arched his back,
hips raised against him, at the same time as Doyle let his legs be spread
and lifted. Bodie left off from where he'd been pulling at Doyle's nipple
with his teeth, squeezed jelly onto his fingers, watching Doyle as Doyle
watched, mesmerised, Bodie stroking his own erection, slicking himself
bigger and harder and more urgent.

 Third choice? Could those girls give you *this*? Could they have you flat
on your back, desperate to feel a cock inside you? *My* cock inside you?
Would they know what to do with you now, Doyle?

 Bodie thought of the patch, wondered if Leila had watched it as he had.
She didn't know how it had got there, no one else did. Bodie remembered
the wall, remembered the feel of Doyle fully clothed against him,
remembered their panting breath and their desperate kisses. He closed his
eyes, pushed into Doyle, moved hard and fast inside the welcoming heat. He
imagined tearing the patch off, and fucking Doyle against the wall in a
dark alley behind some club. Imagined walking back through the crowds of
people, all of them seeing Doyle in front of him, seeing the hole torn in
the arse of Doyle's jeans and knowing that Bodie'd had him, knowing that
he *belonged* to Bodie, that Bodie had *come* inside him.... And then he
did, and he felt rather than saw Doyle's little death beneath him, by his
own hand for the second time, and this time they both collapsed into
sweet, dark, sleep.

 ******

Bodie woke to lips soft on his own, and stroking hands, to warm flesh and
the gentle-urgent pressure of a cock against his own. He didn't open his
eyes, but he pulled the body closer and closer, and when the first kiss
ended it was because they had come almost together, and because he had
cried Doyle's name into the morning air, and had run out of breath for
anything else.

 "Morning," he managed finally, and they lay and looked at each other for
no apparent reason, as they never had before. Maybe, Bodie thought, maybe
he'd managed to convince Doyle after all...

 When the second kiss ended, it was because the telephone was ringing, and
because a ringing telephone before seven in the morning meant only one
person.

 "Sir?" he said into the phone, holding it angled between them so that
Doyle could hear their orders at the same time.

 "Aye, about time."

 Bodie rolled his eyes. He'd answered on the second ring. "Sir."

 "You're both on a week's leave."

 "A week?" He watched Doyle smile beside him, staying quiet for the
mouthpiece, barely breathing, containing an immediate joy.

 "You'll report in this time next week--and I do mean seven a.m."

 "Yes sir!" he grinned back at Doyle. A week--surely time enough to sort
this out, to show him.

 "Oh and Bodie, there will be someone into the flats to remove the
surveillance devices." The call ended with a clack and a buzz, and Bodie
hung up slowly.

 Surveillance devices...

 The smile had wiped off Doyle's face, he was scanning the room as though
bugs would literally fall from the ceiling now that he knew about them.

 They had to... "Jog?" he suggested, as lightly as he possibly could, and
did not wait for Doyle's agreement before scrambling out of bed and into
the shower. He was coated all over in Doyle, and he loved it, but they'd
*heard* it, other people had *heard* them, and...

 When he emerged, Doyle had shaken out two tracksuits, left them on the
bed, and was sliding the insole back into one of his trainers. Bodie knew
how he felt--it wasn't likely a bug would survive the pounding of a
morning jog, but just in case...

 He dressed and waited impatiently as Doyle took his turn in the shower,
flashing back again to the night before, this time finding it
overshadowed. His mind raced. Why would Cowley bug their flats? Were the
jokes true, *was* it standard operating procedure, or had he suspected
something? Well if he didn't before, then he *knew* now...

 The morning was wet but sunny, another presumably changeable day ahead of
them, on this day when everything had changed. Their feet slapped onto the
pavement, uncaring through puddles, and over to the park that Bodie never
visited, nearly two miles away. Eventually they both slowed to a walk,
finally stopping by the duck pond, where they watched a pair of white
swans glide gracefully around their concrete border.

 "He knows, he must do," Doyle began, kicking a pebble into the water, not
meeting Bodie's eyes.

 "He knows *now*," Bodie corrected him, "But how *long* has he known? It's
been..."

 "Seven weeks, three days."

 "...seven weeks, three days--what made him decide...?"

 Doyle frowned. "Some case, maybe? Nothing to do with us?"

 "It bloody is *now*!"

 "Yeah." A pause. "He's not fired us."

 "He's given us a week's leave, maybe he's softening us up."

 "Maybe..." Doyle paused, long enough for Bodie to turn properly towards
him. "Maybe he was hoping that Operation Susie would soften us up
first..."

 Bodie closed his eyes, appalled. No. He *trusted* Cowley.

 Cowley'd shaken their hands...

 "Look, if he had that big of a problem with it he *wouldn't* have shaken
our hands, would he?"

 Doyle shrugged. "P'raps not..."

 "But why tell us now and then give us a week off?"

 "Maybe he hopes we'll 'do the right thing'?" Doyle put on a voice, but it
didn't mask the bitterness, it didn't cover the betrayal.

 "What, resign?"

 "I dunno..."

 "I'm not bloody well resigning!" Wasn't he? He didn't know what he was
saying, but he knew he didn't want it all to change, didn't want it to end
like that. They'd go their separate ways...

 Beside him Doyle sighed. "No. Well, that's it then."

 That was it? Over, just like that? Of course Doyle would want to keep his
job, of course that was the most important thing to him, but...

 "Look, I've still got the offer of that cottage down Sussex--what d'you
think?"

 "Eh?" Now what was Doyle on about?

 "Well I'm not sticking around to find out who was assigned surveillance
on us, are you?"

 Ah. Well of course Doyle would want to get away, it made sense. Easier in
the end if they parted company here and now rather than dragging it out...
Right?

 "We could go down to Kev's cottage, try and work out what we're going to
do. Bodie?"

 Both of them? He felt a surge of hope, like shooting stars through his
heart, remembered just in time how shooting stars ended, and shrugged to
give himself longer to think, to... Bloody Cowley and his double-think,
they were *good* agents, surely that's all that should matter?

 "Come on, mate--it's by the beach... Did I tell you about the Lady's
Finishing School they've got down there? Do us good to get away from it
all, where we won't have this lot breathing down our necks..." he threw
out an arm, indicating, perhaps the surveillance team, perhaps all of
London.

 "Oh, why didn't you say? A Finishing School? Solve all our problems that
will."

 "Bodie..."

 "Alright! Alright." As if there was ever really the option of *not*
following Doyle again, even if he was planning to fuck his way through
half the debs in Sussex. "Give it a rest, eh?" Wasn't going to make it
seem too easy for him though. "Rent free, this place, is it?"

 ******

The cottage was all Bodie could want it to be: detached, comfortable,
one-bedroomed. It looked out to sea on one side, across the harbour and
roofs of the village on the other, far enough away to be nearly isolated,
close enough that the pubs were within walking distance. Doyle took them
out for a long, silent walk along the coast when they got there, and in
his turn Bodie took them out to get well and truly pissed that night, so
that they staggered home along the cliff path, Doyle ahead, weaving
unsteadily in the moonlight that spilled from sky to sea, that lit
everything gun-metal grey and shadowed.

 They fell into bed when they finally made it, too exhausted to do
anything much more than take off their shoes and clothes, give their teeth
a perfunctory brush, and collapse onto the mattress with pint glasses of
water lined up ready.

 Mission, thought Bodie hazily, before the spinning world darkened,
accomplished. Can't end it if you can't string a sentence together,
sunshine.

 Only six more days to go...

 ******

Trouble was, they couldn't stay drunk for the entire week, and they
couldn't even stay hung over for an entire morning, though Bodie tried.

 "Ah, come *on* Bodie!"

 "You're worse than mosquitoes, you are." Bodie tried tucking himself
further under the blankets, giving himself up to the overly-soft mattress
and the brown almost-dark of being under covers, but it was no good, he
was thoroughly awake by now.

 "You'll feel better for it, you know."

 "I'd feel better if you'd leave me to suffer in peace!"

 He heard Doyle's sigh, could picture him standing there, hands on hips,
all energy, wanting to move fast and far just for the joy of it. His cock
gave a throb, and he wondered briefly what the odds were of dragging Doyle
back to bed--he'd give him movement and speed and...

 "Bo-*die*!"

 No one could nag like Doyle.

 "Alright, alright," he opened his eyes in his blanketed den, turned onto
his back and stretched, surviving the daylight with a scrunched up face
when it proved too bright. "But you're buying me breakfast first."

 "It's lunchtime!"

 "That'll do." He stood up in a rush, regretted it when he realised that
the bed really *was* too soft and he was stiff all over, and shuffled out
to the bathroom, glaring at his partner on the way.

 "You love it really," Doyle said, not, apparently, fooled, and Bodie
stuck his head around the door again to give him an extra cynical glare.
Doyle smirked, and Bodie found himself rolling his eyes and grinning in
return, and in the back of his head he was humming a mantra: *make it
alright, make it alright, make it alright...*

 Doyle was waiting for him when he got downstairs, with a mug of coffee
and a piece of toast, which Bodie eyed dubiously, and swallowed anyway.
He'd steer them in the right direction once they got out there. Maybe he
could even keep Doyle so busy nagging him about eating properly that...
Well, he'd see.

 The sun was warm but the wind was fresh, ringing around them in
occasional blusters and gusts, so that they both turned away from the
cliff-path and towards the harbour when they reached the end of their
lane. Out to sea the waves wore white caps, and the horizon was a hazed
grey. Rain tonight then, no pub for them unless they wanted to get soaked.
They'd get some beers in maybe, hole up in front of the telly, with the
electric fire on. Ray could cook, and they'd have an early night. Prove to
him that it was worth sticking together, that Doyle *needed* him just as
much as he...that they could fight the battle together.

 Doyle led them down the hill and straight to the sea front, where they
jogged past the odd tourist, and various gangs of local kids looking bored
and aggressive by turn. Bodie could remember being bored like that, and he
could remember the day he'd realised that he didn't have to be, ever
again. He'd been by the sea then too, with the skies dour and heavy, the
only lightness seeming to come from the edge of the world--for all that
he'd have to get up the Mersey first. He had done though. No more boredom
for him.

 They came out the other side of the village, circled around along the
footpaths, over stiles and farm gates, and past one particularly irate
looking farmer, and somehow ended up back along the High Street. With a
regretful glance at their sweat-soaked clothes, Bodie nipped in to the
local bakery and came out with a couple of cheese and potato pasties,
which they ate ambling slowly past Woolworth's and Boots, and back to the
sea front.

 He was relaxed enough that he didn't see it coming.

 "What do you want, Bodie?"

 *"Another pasty"* crossed his mind, but a glance at Doyle told him it was
the wrong moment. He had that casual look about him, the one that meant
he'd not give up until you'd told him everything you were going to--or
else thumped him, whichever came first, and Bodie wasn't in the mood for
that either.

 "Things to go back to normal." *Before we knew that Cowley knew, before I
realised that it wasn't enough just to screw your brains out.* And then,
because he'd given a straight answer, and there had to be balance, "Job
security, expenses paid on time, and that raise we were promised at the
end of every training cycle."

 Doyle was quiet for a moment. "Seems nice and simple, doesn't it?"

 "He'd be throwing away his best team." Cowley was many things, but he was
not a fool. The question was, how would be make them pay for it?

 "Might be the difference between keeping us and keeping CI5 at all, if
the papers got hold of it."

 "Storm in a teacup. The papers can't force him to fire us."

 "Yeah, but the Minister could--and might if the opposition got all hot
and bothered about it."

 Bodie tipped his head in acknowledgment. It could happen like that. It
shouldn't, but it could. "I'm not resigning."

 "I didn't say that we should."

 Bodie looked far out to sea. *Don't let him say the other, not yet.*
"Well then there's nothing we can do about it until we get back, is
there?"

 More silence.

 "Back to normal, right mate? Life's short and..."

 "...you're a long time dead, I know. But..."

 "Come on," Bodie nudged him, forced them back into action, "Last one
through the gate buys dinner tonight..."

 And they were off, along the promenade, around the harbour, and back up
the hill, rain clouds thickening above them.

 ******

"Beaulieu *what*?"

 "Beaulieu Manor for Finishing Young Ladies," Doyle repeated, handing him
a beer, "We passed it on the way back. That big red building by the park."

 "Who'd want to send their daughters *here*? I mean, Switzerland's bad
enough, but the depths of *Sussex*?"

 "Yeah, not exactly a hotbed of riotous living is it? So..."

 "So what?" Bodie almost frowned, his cosy evening clearly out the door,
but managed to turn it into scepticism instead. "You're expecting elegance
and deportment out here, are you?"

 "No. I'm expecting desperation and desire. Think about it Bodie," Doyle
crouched down beside the settee, where Bodie was comfortably slumped with
his shoes off and no previous intention of moving again for the night.
"We're talking about birds who've been stuck here in the sticks for
god-knows how long, surrounded by farmers and other assorted hayseeds. In
sweep two smart, cosmopolitan blokes..."

 "Think you can fake it, do you?"

 "...ready to sweep them off their feet and take them away from it all for
a few days. The only question is, how we let the others down gently..."

 *Back to normal it was then.* Fine. "The ones who'll be stuck with you,
you mean?"

 "The ones who'll...oi!" Doyle cuffed him, rose to his feet, and stood
looking out the window.

 Bodie watched him tip his head back to drink from his can, watched him
swallow, and thought about his lips on that neck. Thought about the marks
he couldn't see, but knew were there, the red-dark marks he'd put there.
"Think they'll be out tonight, do you?" he asked abruptly, flicking his
eyes to look past Doyle instead, to the windswept bushes and the scudding
clouds.

 "It's Friday night..."

 Christ, was it? He'd lost track. He was losing track of everything...

 "...if you were a bored, nubile young wench, wouldn't you be out?"

 "If I was a bored nubile wench I'd be back in London." And you'd be in my
bed, and we wouldn't get up for anything less than the apocalypse. And
probably not even then. "But since I'm not..."

 "Then we'll go out." Doyle smiled at him, bright and cheerful, and Bodie
wanted so desperately to hit him, to knock some sense into him, that
suddenly he had nothing to say. "There were a couple of wine bars on the
High Street, there's bound to be some action there."

 "Yeah..." Bodie tried to look thoughtful, even enthusiastic, his mind
racing. There had to be some way to keep him at home... "You'd better get
your kit on then, old son. Won't impress anyone looking like that, will
you?" Except me. Doyle was wearing the patched jeans again.

 "'S early yet," Doyle pointed out, "Don't want to be too jollied up by
the time they're let loose."

 "Ah, but if we drive by the school on the way, and happen to need
directions from helpful young beauties as they stroll into town?" he
suggested, conveniently ignoring the odd scatters of rain now sliding down
the window.

 Doyle looked at him admiringly. "You're right you know, the Cow'd be a
fool to get rid of a brain like that."

 Brain indeed, Bodie thought, waiting until he heard the stamp of Doyle's
feet upstairs at the back of the house, before slipping silently out the
front door and around to where the Capri was parked.

 ******

When Doyle appeared again, there was no sign of either jeans or patches.
He wore the pale green moleskins that made Bodie's heart stop every time
he watched Doyle take a step, a near-transparent white shirt, and a flash
of gold at his neck. He was trying hard tonight, so that Bodie had to
clench his teeth and look away, to remind himself that there would be no
bird running her soft hands over that body at midnight, that he would have
his chance to make it his again.

 "Very nice, mate," he managed lightly, "You might almost catch one of my
cast-offs looking like that."

 "Oh we'll see, won't we? Bathroom's free," Doyle added unnecessarily, as
Bodie climbed the stairs in his turn. He dressed smartly, despite the fact
they wouldn't be going anywhere, in black for his mood, and because Doyle
liked it, and was down in record time. He wanted the irritation over with
quickly, so that they could get on with enjoying the night.

 "There you go mate, you can drive," he tossed the keys across the room,
and Doyle spun quickly enough to catch them, then twirled them on a
finger, looking Bodie up and down.

 "Not so bad yourself," he acknowledged, so that Bodie pulled a face at
him to hide his smile, and nodded him towards the hallway.

 The door opened in a gust of wind and a spray of rain, the sky already
dark despite the hour.

 "Well they may not be strolling so much as running!" Doyle yelled, as
they jogged across the grass and slid, already damp, into the car.

 "As long as they're running in wet shirts I don't mind how else they do
it." He waited for Doyle to start the engine, looked straight ahead into
the evening as Doyle twisted back to reverse around to the driveway. The
Capri started to move, then there was an audible *snap* and they came to
an abrupt stop.

 "What..?" Doyle was looking between his legs to the footwell, frowning.

 "What is it?"

 "Bloody accelerator cable's gone!"

 "Eh? Can't have done, it was only in for a service a few weeks ago."

 "Yeah well, you'd better get your money back, because they didn't do a
very good job."

 "You want to try rigging something?"

 "In this?" Doyle scowled at the rain streaming down the windscreen, at
the buffeting of the wind, and at Bodie in general. "You can have a go,
mate, not me..."

 He made a show of peering up at the heavy clouds, twisting his lips
ruefully. "Suppose we'll have to make do with what we've got in, then."

 Doyle sighed heavily beside him. "Suppose so. Get it fixed tomorrow, try
again then."

 You won't want to, sunshine, Bodie thought, reaching out to slap him on a
green-clad thigh, turning it into a caress as he lifted his hand away,
fast enough that Doyle would wonder if he'd felt it at all, so that he'd
be half turned on before they even got inside. "Come on then! No point
sitting here like lemons when it's warm inside."

 They dashed back through the rain, hunching their shoulders as the key
twisted awkwardly in the lock, and they were forced to endure it for
chilly seconds longer. Doyle went straight to the fire and lit it, holding
his hands out to the electric orange glow as it emerged slowly behind the
safety grill, and despite the fact that he was shivering as well, Bodie
paused to stare for a moment at the way he crouched, the way the moleskin
stretched across his backside, at the line where wet shirt clung to his
skin before disappearing into the waistband of the trousers.

 His.

 Doyle stood abruptly, and turned. "Fancy some nosh then?"

 "You cooking?"

 Doyle rolled his eyes. "Lazy bastard."

 "I'll have you know my father was very well known on our street."

 "Oh yeah? What about in your mum's house?"

 Bodie reached up to cuff him, found himself tangling his fingers in that
hair again; so easy to hold that way, was Doyle. Should cut it off,
really, surprised no one'd held him down with it in a fight...

 "Bodie?"

 He tightened his grip, moved in and kissed him, hard and fast. A promise.
Then he let him go.

 "Well, since we're on our own," he suggested, plans for a long, slow
seduction well and truly gone, "All that pent up energy going to waste..."

 "Then we might as well use it up somehow?"

 There was a twist to that voice, Bodie thought, made sure not to blink,
not to swallow. "Well, if you'd rather be playing Scrabble..."

 "You'll only sulk when you lose again."

 He met Doyle's eyes. "Only if you cheat again and stick me with the X
*and* the J." Nothing there now, face inscrutable. Had he imagined it? He
turned towards the kitchen, "But don't feel as if you have to, mate, it's
a free country."

 "Not with Cowley making the running it isn't..."

 But Bodie was reaching for the freezer, could pretend he hadn't heard.

 ******

In the end Doyle did cook, and they even played Scrabble, before he let
himself be led upstairs, let himself be kissed until he was senseless and
shivering, then turned and offered that backside to Bodie. Bodie took it,
made him cry out above the rain and the lashing of the wind at the
cottage, woke him again so that he could feel Doyle plunge deep and hard
into him, and then again so that they could rub desperately against each
other, so that Bodie could fuck that mouth again, so that there was no
breath left for words, or even energy for caresses, and dawn was breaking
before they lay heavily, twined limb over limb and breath to breath,
asleep.

 ******

When he woke Doyle was out of bed, standing half-dressed by the window,
looking pensively into the distance, most likely seeing nothing of the
scudding clouds or the gulls raging with wheels and dives and squawks
against the wind. Bodie watched him for a while through half-open eyes,
saw him running his thumb across his lips, shifting his weight restlessly
from one foot to another, pursing his lips and then running his hands
through his hair and starting all over again. Doyle was making decisions.

 And somehow, as he always did, Doyle knew that Bodie was awake all of a
sudden, more clearly than he knew what he'd been staring at, probably, and
he half-turned his head to look at him instead. Bodie didn't bother
pretending. "Thinking important thoughts?"

 "Important, yeah. Pleasant, no."

 Unpleasant thoughts...not much that could mean, was there? "Can't you
leave it for a few days, Ray?" It was worth a try at least. "We've not
even been here half a week yet." He tried to make it sound...not
dismissive, but *lighter* than Doyle was trying to turn things.

 "I don't think we can, Bodie..."

 No, you wouldn't. He gave up on sleep, forced his body upright and out of
bed. He'd face it with clothes on at least.

 "Cowley won't stand for it, you know."

 "Christ, Doyle, can I not even use the bog before you start?"

 He closed the bathroom door on Doyle's muttered apology, didn't care that
he was more forceful with it than he meant to be. He had to buy some
time... He swilled water across his face, feeling like he was falling
faster and faster through thick fog. It'd seemed so clear as he'd watched
the launch pull away, with Hanish safe, and Doyle *there*, right in front
of him, as if he always would be. Nothing ever stays the same... He'd
never wanted it to before.

 When he came out again the bedroom was empty and there was a cup of
coffee on top of the dresser. He grabbed the first things that came to
hand, covered himself in cords and polo neck and socks and shoes, and went
downstairs.

 Doyle, of course, was waiting for him, still barefoot, his shirt hanging
open. There were lovebites across his skin, Bodie's marks, and there was a
plate of toast on the table. Peace offering, or a bribe to go quietly?

 "If the papers got hold of us they'd have a field day."

 "Oh I dunno. We could always get that Mather woman to defend us. Big on
civil rights, wasn't she?"

 "Bodie!"

 "Well for fuck's sake, Doyle. Why're you assuming that Cowley would sell
us to the Daily Mail?"

 "I'm not, but...I've been thinking..."

 "Christ, spare me..."

 "No, this is *important* Bodie!"

 He didn't want to know. He didn't want to hear, he didn't want to finish
the fall, not now, not yet. Not when they'd been so high, so far above it
all. "I'm going for a walk."

 Doyle reached for his arm, a fraction of a second too late.

 "Look, don't worry, I won't embarrass you by hanging around!"

 This time he slammed the door on purpose, knowing it wasn't apologies
that Doyle was offering now, snatched his jacket from the hook and slammed
the front door too. The wind grabbed him, cut through him, but he barely
noticed, battling against it with a kind of savage joy. Finally, something
he could fight with.

 He followed the cliff path away from the cottage, away from town, half an
eye to the deep grey waves that rose and crashed their way towards shore.
They matched his mood, and he searched grimly for a verse that fit. *Wild
wild the storm, and the sea high running...*

 Why'd Doyle have to make everything so bloody complicated, watching for
trouble that hadn't even begun yet? So Cowley'd bugged their flats, it
didn't have to mean anything--standard operating procedure to keep an ear
on your own agents. Didn't mean he'd use anything that *wasn't* a risk to
CI5, didn't mean they'd have to resign, or be split up, or *give each
other up*.

 He tried to imagine giving Doyle up now, no more patch, no more arse, no
more mouth, no more nagging. He could do it, if he had to, if Doyle forced
it. Course he could live without the bugger, stupid to think otherwise. No
one *really* died of a broken heart. He wrenched his jacket tighter to him
as he walked, clenched his fists inside the pockets, glowered down at the
path. A broken heart. Fucking hell.

 It was a good five minutes before he realised that it'd started raining,
huge heavy drops that he felt on his head, and down his neck and his back,
and that somewhere out to sea there was a vague rumble of thunder. Just
great. He paused. Maybe there was somewhere to shelter, anywhere, so that
he could avoid going back to the cottage, back to hear Doyle tell him that
they had to finish it.

 Further inland, distantly, he could make out a barn of some sort, which
presumably meant there was a farm somewhere. Too far to make it before the
heavens opened properly, even if it didn't belong to one of the militant
farmers who haunted the public footpaths around here. In front of and
beside him, the cliffs had gentled themselves to steep slopes, though they
still dropped away to the sea. There might be a cave, or a path down to
some cove resplendent with a Mr Whippy van--or there might not. He turned
reluctantly to head back up the hill to the cottage, and there was Doyle
in front of him.

 Bodie didn't say anything, but he didn't get more than a foot past him
before Doyle grabbed his wrist, swung him around so that they stood face
to face.

 "Couldn't have picked a better time to go for a stroll?" Doyle shouted
against the wind, his face a rage at the rain, at the far storm, at Bodie.

 "What's it to you, Doyle?"

 "Why are you making this so difficult?"

 *He* was making it difficult? "That's rich coming from you!" He wrenched
himself away, turned his back to Doyle and gazed determinedly at the
lightning playing on the horizon. But if Doyle... He swung back. "You
don't need to use Cowley as an excuse to go back to your birds, you know!"

 "Cowley's no excuse, mate, he's a fact of bloody life!" Doyle stepped up
to him again, and again Bodie retreated. "You can't just pretend it's all
going to be *alright*! You might want to live in some *fantasy land*..."

 "And you just want to pull everything down! Is that what's easiest for
you, Doyle? Not a shred of poetry in that thing you call a heart, is
there?"

 "And since when were you the *great romantic*?" Doyle reached out a hand
to make his point, to prod Bodie's chest, and Bodie pushed him away, spun
and stepped and...

 He knew as he moved that he'd run out of world to move on, as he turned
in a rush and saw the sea and the sky too close, unbounded suddenly by
land, by anything as solid as rock and soil and coastal path. His arms
stretched out in useless desperation, he threw himself backwards--and he
fell, down and down...

 Somewhere far away he heard Doyle yell, maybe even felt the rush of air
as Doyle reached out for him and could not catch him, but he was already
on his back and sliding, feet-first down the nearly-cliff, too fast to
grab at grass or stone, though he felt them there under him, shredding his
shirt, his trousers, taunting his clutching hands. He couldn't see
anything except rushing sky and sea, shades of deep grey, flashes of far
away lightning.

 He juddered down to a steeper section of slope, desperately dug in with
his heels, and finally felt himself slow, clawed more successfully at the
ground, managed to turn onto his stomach, to gain some purchase with toes
and fingers, and to come at last to a precarious halt.

 He lay still, eyes closed, cheek to the earth, unable to do anything but
breathe, and try to stop shaking. After a moment he opened his eyes,
turned carefully, and looked up. A gust of rain hit him full in the face,
and he blinked, lay back again. He was maybe three feet away from the
final drop down to the sea, to where storm-driven waves were thrown at the
rocks and the cliffs, vanishing in a lace of spray that shone white
against the dark day.

 "Bo*die*!"

 Doyle's voice--but close, too close.

 Bodie opened his eyes, tilted his head to look back up the slope, and
there, again, was Doyle, descending more slowly than he'd done, but in the
same feet-first manner, where a single unlucky tip could have you rolling
out of control.

 "What the hell d'you think you're doing?" he shouted, as Doyle came to a
halt beside him. A wave of dizziness hit him, and he reached a hand to his
head, closed his eyes again. Must have knocked himself somewhere on the
way down he thought vaguely, waiting for the nausea to pass. Mild
concussion, just what he needed...

 "Bodie..."

 Someone else's hand on his face, cold and wet and warm at the same time,
and he let it comfort him into darkness.

 ******

He woke to a thundering from the sky, to a flash of white lightning, and
to muttering in his ear. He stayed still, ignored the rain and the icy
wind for a moment, because the words were Doyle, and Doyle was talking to
him, and he wanted to hear.

 "...fucking drama queen, not enough to go charging out in a bloody storm,
you've got to throw yourself off a cliff as well. Wait until I *love* you,
because you're a selfish fucking bastard, and you don't care what *I*
might think about that. Oh no, too busy making things hard, you are,
deciding that you're going to fuck off and leave me and..."

 "Ray?"

 The muttering stopped, the warmth that he hadn't realised was lying along
his side shifted, and Doyle's rain-slicked head appeared in front of him.

 "What happened?"

 "Oh, we're *bird* watching, mate. Get a great view of the lesser spotted
tern from out here you know..."

 "Doyle?"

 "Sorry... I'm sorry mate. You've been out for nearly an hour, was
starting to think you were never going to wake up..."

 "Why didn't you..." he tried lifting his head, looking around. The world
stayed solid, if wet and windswept. "Why didn't you go for help?"

 "Oh, I guess I didn't think of it... And leave you here, unconscious,
where you could turn over any second and find yourself down with Davy
Jones?"

 "Where did you learn about Davy Jones?"

 "Listening to you rabbit on about the Merchant bloody Navy, I expect...
Look, Bodie, d'you think you can move?"

 He tested his limbs warily, found them stiff, but apparently mobile.
"Yeah."

 "We need to get back up the top. Think you can do it?"

 He tilted his head back again, saw scrubby grass and roiling clouds.
"Yeah. 'Course I can do it. Whenever you like."

 "How about now?"

 Bodie nodded, turned himself so that he was facing up the slope instead
of out to wind and rain, and managed to push himself upwards a foot or so.
It'd take them a week at this rate... He tried for something a bit
stronger, felt a strength again in his arms and legs, even if they did
tremble at the effort. Be alright when he got into a rhythm... He turned
to share the victory with Doyle, found him right there beside him,
watching him, and pushed upwards again.

 They paused to rest every ten minutes or so, Doyle lying himself
alongside Bodie, both of them huddling inward away from the rain.
Eventually it eased up a little, though the wind was vicious. Doyle talked
to him, a stream of complaints and tirades and encouragements, so that it
all seemed less, somehow, than it was. This was just Doyle nagging him to
keep moving, and so he would, and they could eventually stop and
eventually sleep. But while Doyle was nagging, he moved.

 Reaching the top felt better than every Munro he'd ever bagged, every
rockface he'd ever scaled, and they flopped, breathing heavily, at the
edge, before Doyle stood up and started nagging at him again, and he
managed to get to his feet and stagger, slowly but steadily, along the
path back to the cottage.

 They slipped and slid more than they had done on the cliffside,
horizontal ground beneath them giving them a confidence that the rain had
slicked to mud, that the wind blew in their face. Twice they came a
cropper together, Bodie felt clumsy as he never did, his body stiff and
shivering, his head crashing pain, but then the cottage was in front of
them, and the door was open, and they were safe, inside.

 Doyle forced them upstairs straight away, before he could collapse once
and for all for the rest of the day, the week, this lifetime, ran a bath
and settled him back into heat and steam. Bodie let his eyes close again,
let Doyle run a washcloth over his body, didn't stir as he was cleaned and
warmed and his cuts and grazes were carefully washed out.

 Eventually Doyle forced him to sit up so that he could see to his back,
and Bodie did that too, bending over his raised knees, half-heartedly
swilling at the scrapes on the backs of his thighs. His headache was
fading, enough that at last he opened his eyes, stared at the chipped
white enamel, at the taps and the chain that led down to the plug, at the
tiles on the wall. Doyle's hands, the stroke of his fingers, were
soothing, but eventually it stopped, and the plug was pulled, and Doyle
was urging him to his feet.

 Bodie took the towel from him finally, asserting his independence,
twisting and bending to dry himself. He wrapped it around his waist,
thinking only of lying down in the soft bed and resting for a while, and
crossed the hallway to the bedroom, Doyle right behind him. As soon as he
sank onto the bed, Doyle was there, kneeling before him, peering intensely
into his eyes.

 "Forget a bit, did you?" Bodie asked gruffly, rubbing at his forehead,
wincing when he came across a shallow gash that stung with the movement.

 "Wanna check your pupils, you might be concussed."

 "Of course I'm fucking concussed, I fell down a bloody cliff!"

 "Yeah but...do you need an ambulance?" Doyle reached up with his hands to
hold Bodie's head still, and Bodie shook him off. He wasn't going
anywhere.

 "What, don't reckon you could drive straight in the rain?"

 "Might manage it if the car was running, but since it's not, it's
ambulance or nothing."

 Ah, he'd forgotten about that. "Nothing then. I'm fine, Ray." He pulled
back the blankets, dropped the towel to the floor, and slid under. "I just
need some kip and I'll be fine." A thought struck him and he opened his
eyes suddenly. "Are you okay?"

 And Doyle smiled, a gentle stretch of his lips, and warmth of his eyes.
"Yeah. I'm gonna have a bath mind, warm up, yeah?"

 Bodie nodded, lifted a hand from beneath the covers, and stroked across
Doyle's head, down to his neck, reached a thumb across to his cheek, and
stroked there too, then let him go. "Go get warm..."

 Doyle wasn't quick, but Bodie was still awake when he came out, naked but
dry, smelling of soap and shampoo. Bodie slid over in the bed, pulled the
covers back, and Doyle came, slipped into the warmth beside him. Bodie
reached over with one hand and pulled him close, so that they lay as they
had done on the cliff, Bodie on his back, Doyle plastered down his side,
their heads close together on the pillow.

 "It was me knackered the car," Bodie spoke into the dim room, staring at
the ceiling as he said it, then turning his head to watch Doyle instead.

 Doyle didn't ask, but he told him anyway. "I didn't fancy a night out. I
didn't fancy...us with birds, last night."

 There, confessed.

 Doyle was quite still for a moment, then, "The Finishing School is closed
for the summer. There wouldn't 'ave been any birds."

 Oh.

 "Why'd you suggest it then?"

 "We've always gone for the birds first, thought you'd rather try that
than go straight to...well, to bed, just us."

 Oh.

 "You don't really want to be here, I know that. Dunno why you came,
really."

 "Like you said, better than waiting to hear from the lads, asking about
what we've been up to." No, that wasn't true. "Because it looks like I'd
follow you anywhere."

 "Since when?"

 Felt like he'd always done it, when he thought back, but... He
half-smiled, a rueful twist of his lips. "Since you patched those fucking
jeans..."

 "Goes two ways you know," Doyle said, after another pause. "Followed you
down the cliff, didn't I?"

 "Yeah, and where were your brains *then*, eh?" he asked, more
aggressively than he meant, because he remembered the moment he realised
that Doyle was down there with him, just as close to that cliff drop, in
just as much danger. That they could both fall. "You should have gone for
help!"

 "Wasn't thinking with me brains, was I? And why do you think I patched
the bloody jeans in the first place?"

 "Tell me." Nearly a whisper, that.

 "To remind you of that first time. Was planning on wearing them as often
as possible, so that you'd forget you ever wanted anyone else." Doyle
swallowed suddenly, as though he was nervous, as though he had no idea
that Bodie... "Blew it, didn't I? Got too serious."

 Bodie lay, quiet in the dim afternoon light, and listened to Doyle
breathe, and to the stillness from outside, and to his own thoughts, clear
again. Beside him Doyle had closed his eyes, pursed his lips, was maybe
waiting for the ground to hit him too. But they weren't falling any more.

 Finally he shook his head against the pillow, so that Doyle opened his
eyes again, breathed in deeply.

 "Not this time."

 "Hmmn?" Doyle frowned.

 "No such thing as too serious this time." And he leaned over, and kissed
him, not because he wanted to fuck his mouth, or his backside, or be
fucked, but to show him that it was alright, to steady him on the ground,
right there beside Bodie. A long kiss, and soft, and gentle, and tasting
of Doyle.

 Finally Doyle pulled away, and just looked at him for a while. "Yeah?"

 Bodie looked steadily back and nodded, and smiled until Doyle smiled
back. "Yeah."

 For a while they breathed in the cool late afternoon air, thought of
nothing much. Then, "What about Cowley?"

 Bodie grimaced, he couldn't help it. Yeah, there was Cowley. They should
head back to town, deal with it properly. He said as much.

 "He won't want to get rid of us, you know."

 "Yeah... You reckon we could convince him it was a one-off?"

 "A twenty-two off..."

 "Yeah?" Doyle'd kept count? "Well, a one-off experiment, an affair that
ran its course."

 Doyle nodded beside him, understanding. "We'd have to date women as well,
still..."

 "Yeah." Bodie frowned. But if it meant saving their careers, and if Doyle
*knew*, if they both knew that it meant nothing to them... He thought back
to some of their double dates, hearing Doyle's breathing quicken, watching
other hands slide down Doyle's chest, across his backside.

 "Of course if *we* knew that it was just for a night or two, we could do
women too," Doyle began, "Lust is lust. But knowing that you're there, or
that when I got home you'd *be* there, ready to fuck me, ready for me
to..."

 Yeah. *Knowing* was all he needed, knowing that Doyle was right there
with him. And now he did.

 ******

The telephone woke them, a brassy jangle in the dawn-early air, barely a
foot from where their heads were lying together on the pillow, so that
they both jumped and sat straight up, stared at it, disconcerted.

 "No one knows we're here," Doyle said on the second ring, voice husky
with sleep.

 There was one person who would always know where they were.

 They lay back down.

 "Might be your mate, wanting to throw us out before next week."

 "He's in Tenerife."

 The phone rang a third time.

 "Well go on then, he's your mate," Bodie tilted his head to the phone,
trying for optimism. Even Cowley couldn't hurt them now. Probably.

 Doyle reached over, picked up the receiver, and as Bodie had just three
days ago, held the earpiece between them.

 "Doyle."

 "About bloody time!"

 "Whadda you want, Turner? We're on leave, remember?"

 "Oh that bugger *is* down there with you then? Betty said he might be."

 "What do you want?" Doyle repeated, aggravation in every word, "Do you
know what time it is?"

 "Cowley does."

 That was enough to stop them breathing. Bodie leaned up on one elbow so
that he could hear the phone and see Doyle's face at the same time. Doyle
had his eyes closed.

 "And what does Cowley want?" Exaggerated patience this time.

 "The keys from that badger job in Fullham."

 Silence.

 "Decking Road?"

 The badger set-up, the op before the Hanish Susie, Doyle undercover right
amongst the villains themselves, Bodie listening breathlessly through the
headphones to every word that might mean a blown cover, an own kill rather
than a capture. Hadn't worked like that, they'd got the blackmailing
bastards. Doyle's eyes were still shut.

 "Oh come on, Doyle, I don't care if you've been living it up all
night--Bodie's got the only bloody keys since Anson chucked the others
down the sewer, and Cowley doesn't want to pay the landlord for breaking
in so that he can retrieve the bloody bugs from the bloody flats!"

 "Bugs?"

 "Yeah," all sarcasm now, "You remember what people who are *working* do?
We should've had the keys back next morning!"

 Except Cowley had appeared before they'd even got in to work, had turned
them into nothing with a word, and sent them off chasing smoke and
duplicity.

 "Yeah, hang on..." Doyle covered the mouthpiece with one hand, gazed up
in silence at Bodie, who could feel his face frozen with the same careful
control.

 "They're in my flat," Bodie said, "On the hall table."

 "Bodie's place, in the hall. Can I go back to bed now?" Doyle's voice was
flat, he didn't even wince at the sharp *click* as Turner disconnected
them without a word.

 Slowly, slowly, Bodie sunk his head down to Doyle's, his face in the
pillow, their cheeks together. He breathed in and out,
Doyle-in-the-morning, warmth and sweat and a faint reminder still of soap
and shampoo. Doyle's hand came around, cupped the back of his head, and
held them there, together.

 Eventually Bodie turned to Doyle's ear, said softly "I forgot about the
keys." Paused. "I forgot about the badger job, and the job before that,
and the one before that."

 He remembered following that patch, remembered that nothing before that
afternoon had seemed to be real or important any more, remembered the fog
of *not knowing*.

 Doyle pulled away then, held his gaze for a long moment, so that Bodie
saw every fleck of colour in his eyes, a dozen shades of green in the
morning light, then he moved and rested his lips against Bodie's, not a
kiss, but a closeness, and they lay still for a while longer.

 No bugs, not in their flats. Cowley didn't know, no one knew. Just them.

 After a while, Bodie pressed closer and kissed him properly, his Doyle,
then let him go.

 "Feeling up to the drive back to town?"

 "I should be asking you that." Doyle traced a soft path along the graze
on Bodie's forehead. "Could stay on here for a few days, rest up."

 "Could do."

 "Should probably stay in bed, get our strength back."

 Bodie thought about it, stroked a hand down the length of Doyle, shoulder
to nipple to flat stomach, to hot, hard cock. "Probably."

 "Might..." Doyle paused on a gasp, pushing upwards into Bodie's fist,
"Might as well take advantage until we get bored..."

 Get bored of this? Bodie pressed his erection hard against Doyle's hip,
ran a thumb across the moist heat of Doyle's own, bent his head to Doyle's
chest and flicked at one nipple with his tongue. Another gasp, more
pulsing heat, a hand in his hair and his own moan loud in the morning air
as he surrendered to it all again.

 Outside the clouds ran fast against the sky, chased by winds and gusts
and storms, and the sun broke through to shine down on sea and stone. The
world was still electric, still dangerous and deadly, and it always would
be. In the depths of the bed, in the cottage, on the coast, they rode the
current high and alive.

 -- THE END --

 *March 2007*


 *Poetry quotes from:*
       --The Electric Orchard *by Paul Muldoon*
       --Patroling Barnegat *by Walt Whitman*

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