The Professionals Circuit Archive - The Wish I Wish Tonight	    The
Wish I Wish Tonight

 

by JGL 

 
 *Sincere thanks to PFL and Elizabeth O'Shea for the beta & Brit-check.
Much appreciated.*


 Over the years they had seen many women killed -- killed by accident,
murdered in cold blood, executed by necessity in the course of their
duties. But until ten minutes ago, Doyle had managed to avoid killing one
himself.

 Oh, Bodie had no doubt he'd been prepared. Had no doubt Doyle had been
ready to kill Inge Helmut to save him -- although in the end it had been
Julie's bullet that sent Inge crashing into the wall, slumping and falling
down the narrow staircase like a glassy-eyed broken doll. Doyle knew the
odds, had to know eventually one of his targets was going to be of the
feminine persuasion, but until now his luck had held. Partly because Bodie
had silently taken it upon himself to dispatch any villainous birds that
needed dispatching, thereby sparing Doyle's masochistic conscience a lot
of unnecessary flaying and flogging of the Boy Detective. Until now Bodie
had always managed to be the one in position to take that shot.

 But today he hadn't been fast enough.

 It didn't help that this fallen angel had a narrow white face and long
red hair and looked a lot like that tiresome bitch Ann Holly.

 And now Raymond Doyle, tough veteran of CI5 and man of action, was behind
the barn quietly throwing up his guts -- which was where he'd been for the
last seven minutes, and enough was enough.

 "Doyle, you all right?" Bodie called, giving Doyle plenty of warning he
was on the approach.

 "Yeh," Doyle responded immediately if huskily.

 And when Bodie rounded the corner of the barn Doyle was on his feet --
though leaning back against the wall. "Think I'm comin' down with flu," he
said. He mopped his forehead with the sleeve of his leather jacket. His
eyes met Bodie's briefly, and flicked away. "Everything under control?"

 Well, that was what the Yanks called the sixty-four thousand dollar
question, wasn't it? And never mind the exchange rate. Doyle was
chalk-white and his eyes looked black, but he pushed away from the wall,
moving past Bodie, cutting off anything Bodie might have said. And Bodie
turned on heel and followed him back to the barnyard battleground.

 It wasn't much of a mop up. Two dead former terrorists and an assortment
of slaughtered farm animals. Bodie felt worse about the dead chickens and
donkey than he did Hans and Alicia Hartzinger. It had all been
unnecessary. He and Doyle hadn't had any idea who the Harts really were
when they'd dropped in to question them about a former farmhand.
Unfortunately -- or fortunately, depending on how you looked at it -- the
mention of CI5 had sent the previously smiling, genial couple scrambling
for automatic weapons.

 As Bodie's old man used to say, *The wicked man fleeth where no man
pursueth.* Man and wife in this case. And all the fresh-baked apple tarts
in the world didn't change the fact that Alicia Hartzinger would have had
no compunction removing Ray Doyle from this vale of tears if he hadn't
managed to shoot first.

 Less than ten minutes later it had all been over. Nothing left to say,
really, although Bodie did his best with the local -- deeply shocked --
constabulary. Doyle was better at dealing with the plods, but this
afternoon he couldn't be bothered, staring vacantly as Alicia Hartzinger's
red-blanketed form was carted off.

 "Terrible thing for the community," said Superintendent Baker for the
third time, and Bodie barely managed to control his impatience -- with
both this local yokel copper and Doyle who was acting like -- well, leave
it. Doyle was all right. Too many shocks in too short a space of time,
that was all. Starting with that Holly bitch walking out on him Friday
last.

 Really knocked the wind out of his sails, that had. Bodie had never seen
him like this. Christ, maybe it *was* love.

 And he hadn't helped matters by turning Doyle down a few hours later --
but he didn't want to think about that now. Beside the point, really.
Whatever Doyle was brooding about it sure as hell wasn't because his
partner and best friend had declined -- granted, maybe not as tactfully as
he could have -- the drunken offer of a little rebound slap and tickle.

 Truth to tell, Bodie wasn't sure why he had turned Doyle down --
considering how long he'd been hoping for a chance at that very thing.
Practically since the day they were first teamed. Raymond Doyle -- as he
well knew -- looked good enough to eat. And the feeling had been mutual.
And they'd both been around enough to know -- but, the timing had never
been quite right. Or perhaps they were both uneasy about what it might do
to that delicately balanced, finely-tuned partnership of theirs. So
despite that -- sometimes blazing -- awareness between them, despite their
affection and respect for each other -- maybe even because of it -- they'd
never got around to getting off with each other.

 Not even close really. Until the night Ann shattered Doyle's previously
bullet-proof heart into a million pieces -- and left Bodie to gather up
the shards.

 He was just glad that Alicia Hart or Hartzinger's superficial resemblance
to Ann Holly hadn't frozen Doyle one second longer or it would be Doyle's
corpse being loaded into the ambulance now -- instead of leaning against
the Capri gazing hollow-eyed across the yard at Bodie.

 He didn't look at all well. 

 They were finished here anyway. The whole bloody thing was so
insignificant Cowley didn't even make the trip from London, instead
squawking his instructions over the RT and ordering 3.7 and 4.5 back to HQ
for debriefing and then to follow up new leads on their scarpered suspect.

 Bodie thanked the superintendent for his help, referred further questions
and communications to CI5 Controller George Cowley, and walked over to
Doyle.

 "Ready, sunshine?"

 "Christ," Doyle said between gritted teeth, yanking open the passenger
door and dropping heavily inside. *****

 "A policeman's lot is not a happy one, Doyle."

 Doyle grunted, unamused.

 Bodie had relayed Cowley's instructions, brought Doyle up to speed on
what insight the superintendent had to offer into the Hartzingers, and
even offered a bit of neutral small talk when he ran out of more pertinent
things to say. Doyle listened to it all in bleak-faced silence.

 Not that Doyle had been a barrel of laughs all this long week, and
frankly this mute, withdrawn stranger was beginning to get on Bodie's
nerves. He missed Doyle. Missed the easy companionship, the instant
understanding that typified their working relationship. He missed laughing
with Doyle, even missed arguing with him. There had been a kind of force
field around the other man for the past seven days and Bodie didn't like
being kept on the outside of wherever Doyle was currently residing.

 He missed touching Doyle: those casual brushes of shoulders and hands,
the ruffling of curls, the occasional pat on that glorious bum. He hadn't
realised how accustomed he was to using Doyle as his own shining
flesh-and-blood worry stone.

 "Nothing else you could have done, Ray," he said into a silence that was
starting to feel uneasily familiar.

 Doyle said tersely, "I know that." And gave another of those almost
imperceptible shivers.

 There was more that Bodie could -- and wanted to -- say but he left it,
recognising the danger in Doyle's tone like a perfumier scents an elusive
undernote. Instead he cranked up the heat and concentrated on his driving.

 They were speeding through Buckland-in-the-Moor, and the afternoon had
gone creamy-yellow -- soft-edged with the coming evening, soft and damp,
fog rising from the tawny moor and a hint of woodsmoke in the air. The
hedges beside the road were lush with berries, the trees turning
autumn-gold.

 Pretty countryside this, and in a moment Bodie would be reduced to saying
so. Or mentioning the weather.

 His stomach growled. Breakfast was a distant memory and lunch had
consisted of a cup of tea and the two hot apple tarts Alicia Hart had
served right before she morphed into something out of *The Exorcist.*

 Weird to think of them, Hans and Alicia, living quietly in a Devonshire
backwater raising chickens and vegetable marrows. Attending Parish Council
meetings and going for drinks down at the pub. A pastoral life. Early to
bed, early to rise. What were their dreams like? Had they forgotten all
about the people on the plane they blew up?

 Unthinking, fingers tapping lightly on the steering wheel, he remarked,
"Say what you will, yon Alicia had a light hand with the pastry."

 "Stop the car," Doyle said desperately. He barely waited for the wheels
to come to a crunching halt on the gravel before he was on his knees in
the wet autumn leaves being violently sick again.

 "Doyle..." Bodie came round from his own side, squatting down beside
Doyle's shaking form. He brushed the soft curls back from the quivering
mouth. There was apparently nothing left to sick up, but Doyle's body kept
trying -- in great wrenching dry heaves. "Jesus, mate," Bodie said softly.

 Doyle reached out blindly, shoving Bodie away -- and nearly toppling over
himself. "Just -- give me a minute --"

 Bodie ignored that, steadying him, keeping his hair out of the way, and
Doyle shuddered all over and tried again to cough up his heart and all
accompanying organs. It was alarming, although Bodie was not easily
alarmed; Doyle was drenched in a cold sweat Bodie could feel right through
the thin cotton T-shirt and jeans, and the violence of the spasms wracking
that skinny frame made him fear that Doyle was going to rupture something.

 Maybe it *was* flu. Maybe it was food poisoning, although the only thing
Bodie had seen Doyle eat in the last week was that single apple tart.
Bodie had eaten two of them with no ill-effect.

 He didn't quite know what to do. Was this a medical emergency? He could
feel Doyle's heart pounding crazily against his arm. He loosed the long
curls, rubbed Doyle's back with his free hand, feeling the bony ridge of
spine.

 "Easy, sunshine."

 Doyle swore shakily, pushed up and away. "'M fine."

 Oh, yeah. Brilliant.

 They rose together, Bodie offering a helping hand and Doyle reeling away
from it, staggering the couple of steps to the Capri and falling back
inside. Bodie went around to his side, slid back under the wheel and
uneasily studied his partner.

 After a moment Doyle lifted his head with an effort. "Why aren't we
movin'?"

 "Tryin' to think," Bodie said curtly.

 On cue, Doyle snarled, "Terrific! We'll be here all night!"

 Bodie snorted. Coming to a decision, he put the car in gear. Doyle bit
back whatever charming thing he had been about to say next, and dropped
back in his seat, closing his eyes once more. The long, fawn-coloured
lashes curved against his pale cheeks. He looked truly pathetic.

 Bodie drove, and eventually Doyle slipped into a twitchy doze.



 They came at last to a picturesque little village whose major claim to
fame seemed to be a twelfth century church with a ninety-two foot tower.

 It was nearly dark by the time Bodie pulled up in front of a little place
called the Two Bridges Inn, went inside and booked a room for the night.
He returned to the car in time to find Doyle hauling himself out of the
Capri.

 "You never stopped for a bloody pint," he snarled -- clearly assuming
Bodie had.

 "You're right." Bodie gestured back with his thumb at the door. "Booked
us a room. George can wait. We're both knackered, and the upholstery's 'ad
all the excitement it can take for one day."

 "Yours or the bloody Capri's'?" Doyle was staring owlishly up at him. In
the amber light next to the entrance he looked colourless, his lips a
little chapped, his eyes shadowed. Unbeautiful as only Doyle could be --
nor did he smell particularly fragrant, but meeting that shivery look
Bodie felt a strange mix of possessive affection.

 "Both. C'mon." He fastened a hand on Doyle's bony shoulder, steering him
inside the inn.

 It made no sense but he was abruptly glad to be spending the evening with
Doyle, glad of this excuse. It had been a long week without his best mate,
and maybe -- if Doyle wasn't too unwell -- they might manage to mend a
bridge or two now that they were off the clock and forced to spend some
down time in each other's company.



 Their room offered a charming view of the twilight-shrouded moor through
diamond-paned windows. The furniture -- including two double beds -- was
dark and old and good, the furnishings featured comfortably faded cabbage
roses. It was the kind of place you brought a new bird for a special
weekend away. Doyle walked straight into the bathroom -- one of the inn's
two featured "en suites" -- slamming the door behind him. The taps turned
on a moment later drowning out whatever unpleasantness was happening
within the fortress of solitude.

 Bodie stood at the windows staring out at the single star shining bright
in the indigo blue sky. Beneath the floorboards he could hear the cheerful
homely noises of the taproom. He would go downstairs and have a pint once
Doyle was settled to his satisfaction, but for now he enjoyed the quiet
melancholy beauty of the darkening sky and the lonely land.

 *Star light, star bright...* He smiled faintly. It was a long time since
he had wished on a star. A long time since he had believed in wishes
coming true.

 The toilet flushed, the taps turned off, the door swung open, and Doyle
said irritably, "Which bed d'you want?" He looked bloodless, his face and
hair dripping from what must have been some impatient splashing of cold
water.

 "Take your pick. 'M goin' downstairs. Bring you up a cuppa, shall I?"

 Doyle grunted. Apparently hearing his own curtness, he managed a "Ta." He
undressed beside the nearest bed, nearly overbalancing as he tugged at a
boot. The boot hit the floor with a thud they probably heard in the bar,
and he turned his attention, yogi-like, to the next one.

 Bodie left him to it.

 Downstairs he called Cowley on the landline, letting him know they were
stopping for the night, then turned his attention to cajoling a cup of
ginger tea and a couple of cream crackers from the sceptical proprietress.
These he carefully carried back to their room on a little tray, trying not
to slosh tea on the crackers.

 He found one lamp on and Doyle safely in bed having managed to avoid
falling on any furniture and braining himself during his one-legged
hopping striptease.

 "How're you feeling?" Bodie asked.

 "Felt better," Doyle admitted. Over the sheet pulled up to his chin, he
offered a pale, uncertain smile. He looked quite astonishingly ugly, and
Bodie had never felt fonder of him.

 "Sit up and get this down your neck," he ordered.

 Doyle bit off something rude, but sat up, wrestling the pillows behind
him. His face twisted up in pained rejection as Bodie carefully lowered
the tray to his lap, but Bodie wasn't fooled. Pretended to loathe it, but
Bodie knew Doyle secretly liked being fussed over. Mostly because -- as
far as Bodie could make out -- no one ever had. Which was yet another
reason a chilly, prissy hag like Ann Holly was all wrong for Raymond. Very
sweet nature, Ray had -- all things considered.

 "What the hell's this?" Doyle inquired, declining to show that very sweet
nature of his.

 "Ginger tea. Good for nausea. Learned that in the Orient. Go on. Drink it
down."

 Doyle shook his head, then picked up the fragile china teacup like he'd
never seen such a thing. It did look rather ridiculous in his thin, strong
hand.

 "It's called a cup," Bodie informed him. "This way you don't have to get
out of bed to kneel on the floor and lap it up."

 Doyle grinned, apparently pleased with this insult, and blew on the tea,
which had already cooled considerably in its trip from kitchen to guest
room. 

 "Down the hatch," Bodie advised. "It's stone cold now."

 Doyle sipped cautiously as though he suspected Bodie of trying to poison
him. Bodie stood at the foot of the bed, and wryly observed him. Despite
his battered face and the silky sable pelt bisecting his chest, Doyle
looked about ten, lashes lowered as he slurped, curls dishevelled. 

 Bodie was surprised to hear his own voice ask abruptly, "C'mon, Doyle.
What's wrong? Tell father."

 Doyle left off slurping -- which was a relief -- and said feebly,
"Nothing's wrong. Don't feel well, s'all."

 "Something's eatin' you," Bodie said. "Know you, don't I?"

 "Think you do," Doyle said rather darkly.

 Bodie had no idea how to answer that. He itched the bridge of his nose
with the edge of this thumb, thinking it over.

 Doyle nibbled the crackers with surprising delicacy, quietly finished off
his tea, and handed the tray to Bodie who set it on the small table near
the window.

 The room was quite dark except for the little circle of light thrown by
the bedside lamp. Doyle looked haggard in its mellow warmth, his
expression indiscernible.

 Bodie didn't understand the look -- but he didn't like it. He came over
to the bed, sat down on the edge next to Doyle's feet, aware of Doyle
straightening, suddenly tense. He didn't like that either.

 He slapped his own thigh. "Give us your foot."

 "What?"

 "Foot massage. Something else I learned in the Far East. It'll help.
Straight up. C'mon."

 "I'm all right," Doyle told him. "The tea helped."

 "I won't tickle you," Bodie promised.

 "Yeh, but I'm all right now." Doyle didn't actually clutch the blankets
to his chest, but his reluctance to be touched was palpable, and the
funniest part of it was the more Bodie could see Doyle didn't want his
hands on him, the more Bodie wanted that exact thing. Ironic, considering
how bluntly he'd passed on the opportunity a week ago.

 "Reflexology," Bodie told him. "It's a science."

 "My reflexes are fine. It's my stomach that's the problem."

 "This'll take care of it. Word of honour."

 There was a long undecided silence. Doyle made an exasperated sound and
thrust one long hairy leg out from under the sheets and blankets. "Enjoy
yourself, mate."

 Bodie resettled on the mattress, took Doyle's foot between his hands,
placing his palm on the sole, and pushing the foot back to stretch the
muscles. Then he flexed the foot forward toward himself. Doyle swallowed
hard.

 Bodie murmured, "Relax."

 He stretched and flexed Doyle's foot a few times, then gently rotated it
clockwise -- then counter-clockwise. It was the kind of thing a doctor
might do -- or a physiotherapist -- they'd both had plenty of this kind of
treatment, and yet somehow the fact that it was Doyle's foot and Bodie's
hands made it...weirdly intimate.

 Using both hands he massaged the top of Doyle's foot near the toes.
Feeling all those delicate bones beneath the thin layer of skin -- funny
to think of all that speed and agility and strength depending on those
fragile links of bone and nerves and muscle. He could feel Doyle's tension
humming like a live wire beneath his touch. A glance at Doyle's face
showed his eyes shut -- closing Bodie out.

 Bodie pressed his thumbs hard into the pressure point of Doyle's foot,
feeling the tendons and muscles jerk. No one else in the world he'd have
bothered to coax out of a sulk, but for Doyle he made the effort. "C'mon,
mate," he cajoled. "Can't be that bad."

 There was a long silence, then Doyle opened one eye, glared. "Right. You
asked. The love of me life turned me down. All right? *And* so did the
girl I asked to marry me."

 Bodie's grin flickered and died as the full impact of that sank in. His
hands stilled on Doyle's foot -- which Doyle withdrew.

 "Funny," Bodie got out at last.

 "Think so, do ya?" Doyle closed his eyes once more. It had the air of
finality, of a door closing, blinds pulled, pavement rolled up for the
night.

 Bodie felt under the blankets for Doyle's other foot, pulled it onto his
lap, and Doyle didn't resist.

 Bodie continued to rub the long narrow foot, pushing carefully into the
pressure points. Doyle's feet were surprisingly long and narrow --
graceful arches and well-shaped toes. Nails trimmed close, scrupulously
clean and pink reminding Bodie of a well-scrubbed kid. Surprisingly
elegant -- and if Bodie was sitting here thinking about how elegant
Doyle's feet were he did have it bad.

 But then he was sitting here rubbing Doyle's feet, so yeah. Safe to say
he had it bad. He rubbed down the sole of Doyle's foot with his closed
fist, top to bottom. Doyle murmured something.

 "Hmm?" Bodie asked, his attention diverted.

 "Feel better now," Doyle admitted, grudgingly without opening his eyes.
"Think I'll sleep a bit."

 He was relaxed, true enough. Bodie could felt it in the easy boneless
foot lying trustingly in his lap. It went through his mind to scrape his
thumb nail down Doyle's sole -- give him a sharp -- deserved -- tickle but
he let it go. Doyle had been genuinely ill this afternoon; nothing funny
about that.

 Instead, he let go of Doyle's foot and Doyle pulled away, sliding back
under the covers. Bodie patted his blanketed feet and rose.

 "Yeah, you have a good sleep, mate."

 No response. He thought Doyle might be already out. He turned on the
light in the corner of the room, tilting the shade away from Doyle, turned
out the bedside lamp, and went down to the bar where he had a couple of
pints thinking over Doyle's strange comment.

 Just the doyley llama's daft sense of humour. But Bodie couldn't get it
out of his mind: Doyle's tone, his expression, the way he'd carried on all
week for that matter. Closing Bodie out like Bodie had let him down in
some terrible unexpected way.

 And that bothered Bodie.

 A lot.

 He'd been through plenty watching Doyle fall hard for the Holly woman --
trying to stay positive and optimistic the way a best mate should. Despite
the fact he'd disliked Ann Holly on sight and thought her particularly
wrong for Doyle. Way out of his depth with Ann. An Angelfish swimming with
a barracuda.

 Music from a radio playing distantly from somewhere behind the bar
filtered into his consciousness. The Beatles. An oldie but goodie.

 *There are places I'll remember
 All my life though some have changed
 Some forever not for better
 Some have gone and some remain
 All these places have their moments
 With lovers and friends I still can recall
 Some are dead and some are living
 In my life I've loved them all...*

 They pulled a nice pint here at the Two Bridges. The soothing flow of
local talk ebbed and eddied around him, the little concerns of weather and
livestock prices blended with the turned-down-low music. "In My Life."
That's what that tune was called. He'd always liked that one.

 *But of all these friends and lovers
 There is no one compares with you
 And these memories lose their meaning
 When I think of love as something new
 Though I know I'll never lose affection
 For people and things that went before
 I know I'll often stop and think about them
 In my life I love you more...*

 No question he was in a melancholy mood tonight. It would have been
better with Doyle sitting here beside him, elbows brushing, the occasional
nudge of foot or knee, that comforting presence always in his peripheral
vision. Well, perhaps not. Not this evening anyway. Not that Doyle held an
exclusive on feeling lousy about topping men, women, and farm animals. He
didn't generally make himself sick over it, though, and today had to be
about more than the shooting -- or even shooting a woman who looked like
an older version of Ann Holly. It had to be about more than Ann Holly.

 *The love of me life turned me down.* And *so did the girl I asked to
marry me.*

 Just Doyle being funny, but the bruised look in those wide green eyes
troubled Bodie.

 He called for another pint.



 When he let himself in the room, Doyle was still sleeping, frowning at
his dreams, fingers twitching in sleep. For a moment Bodie watched him in
the shadowy light; he bit back a grin, touched by something uncomfortably
like tenderness.

 But he should have known better than to stare at Doyle, even asleep.
Doyle stilled, and Bodie knew almost to the instant that he became aware
and started processing his surroundings. After a moment his eyes slowly
opened. He stared at Bodie as though he couldn't quite place him.

 Bodie said, "Catch any nice rabbits?"

 Doyle's eyebrows drew together, then his mouth quirked. "Time's it?"

 "After midnight." Bodie unbuckled his holster. All at once he was very
tired, the beer hitting him.

 "That why you're walking abroad with the rest of the undead?"

 "Ha." Bodie pulled his black polo-neck over his head, tossed it over the
chair near the little table. "How're you feeling now?"

 Doyle yawned, offering an inspiring glimpse of fillings and tonsils.
"Feel better. Feel all right. Tea helped. And the foot rub." He blinked
sleepily at Bodie as Bodie unbuckled his belt. "Thanks."

 Bodie grunted acknowledgement.

 "Thirsty though." Abruptly, Doyle threw back the covers, padded over to
the abandoned tea things and carried the cup into the bathroom. Bodie
heard the taps running. He shoved his holster beneath the pillow on the
other bed. Pulled back the duvet and slid between the sheets.

 Clean sheets, a good mattress, Doyle -- still in one piece -- guzzling
thirstily away in the bathroom. It didn't get much better than this. He
folded his arms behind his head, studying the single shining star he could
see through the parted curtains.

 Doyle padded back into the room, paused at the table. "Want the light
out?"

 "Yeah."

 The light flicked out dousing the room in easeful darkness. The shadow
that was Doyle climbed back into the bed next to Bodie's. The headboard
knocked against the wall.

 Bodie's eyes adjusted to the darkness; he'd always had excellent night
vision. He watched the mound of Doyle rearrange itself a couple of times,
mattress springs squeaking.

 Silence.

 He could feel Doyle's wakefulness from across the few feet of floorboards
and fluffy rugs.

 "Doyle, about what you said before --" He turned his head, trying to read
Doyle's face in the gloom.

 He could hear the face Doyle was making in his voice. "Stupid. Don't know
why I said it. Just feelin' poorly, s'all. Feelin' sorry for meself."

 What he didn't say -- surprisingly -- was that it had been a joke.

 "Yeah." Briefly Bodie considered the wisdom of his course. "The thing
is...it's not like I wouldn't...not like I haven't --"

 Nothing from Doyle. He could feel the frown in the silence.

 "Was just--"

 The lamp between the beds switched on. "Was just what?" Yes, Doyle was
definitely frowning. Well, no fear that Doyle didn't know what he was
talking about or hadn't the same thing on his mind.

 "Oh, I dunno. You'd had a skinful. I'd had a bit as well."

 "You sayin' I didn't know what I was doin'? Or you didn't know what *you*
were doing?"

 "Not sure," Bodie admitted.

 Doyle said evenly, "I knew what I was doing, Bodie. Hadn't had that much.
Don't suppose I've ever had that much."

 For a moment Bodie's eyes rested on the dent in Doyle's cheekbone. "Right
then," he said, coming to a decision, "then I suppose what I'm sayin' is I
wasn't sure how much you'd had. Wasn't sure why you were askin'.
Didn't...fancy being anyone's... sloppy seconds."

 "I see." Doyle's green eyes were narrowed and glinting, so he probably
did.

 "Silly, I know." He offered it hopefully. He could see Doyle beginning to
get angry, although he wasn't exactly sure why. The anger gave him hope,
though, and he wasn't sure why that should be either.

 Doyle said slowly and carefully, "You think I kissed you because Ann
threw me over?"

 *I kissed you.*

 Until that moment he'd forgotten about the kiss. Blanked it out
completely. Total amnesia like in a bad spy film. And how could that be
because that kiss -- for one instant -- had rocked his world.

 That press of Doyle's mouth on his, Doyle's mouth cool and soft and
tasting of lager and something intimately and intrinsically Doyle.

 Not shy exactly...but tentative. Hopeful maybe? But trusting too. Doyle
confident he wasn't going to be handed his teeth back like so many marbles
in a game he'd lost. Because of course Doyle knew -- knew his kisses would
-- should -- be welcome here. But Bodie inexplicably, after the first
delighted shock of response, had astonished them both by rejecting Doyle.
Shoving him away before Doyle had even half-whispered his suggestion of
what they could do with the rest of the night.

 And for one unbearable instant Doyle had looked appallingly hurt. And
bewildered. And then angry. Very angry.

 But by the time Bodie saw him again, the following Monday, he had all his
emotions under control. Under lock and key. In a chilly Swiss bank
account, combination lost forever.

 Or perhaps merely misplaced. Because Doyle did appear angry again. And
anger after the frozen indifference of the past week was a huge
improvement.

 "Well, why *did* you kiss me?" Bodie asked in a tone of great
reasonableness -- sparing a fleeting hope that the walls of this old place
were as thick as they appeared to be.

 "Because I'm stupid," Doyle said, and just like that the anger was gone.
He sounded tired. "Because I thought you wanted it. Because I wanted it."

 "I did want it."

 "Could've fooled me, mate." Doyle was lying on his side, head propped on
hand, and the detached part of Bodie's brain registered that pose and was
even vaguely amused by it -- classic Doyle even lying down. "Almost broke
my arm, shoving me away."

 "Was your impeccable sense of timing more than anything, sunshine. Nobody
likes to feel second best."

 Doyle said slowly, "So...if I were to kiss you now...?"

 And the relief of this comfortable -- rational -- discussion of long-time
partners and two good mates suddenly crumbled away, like ground giving
beneath Bodie's feet, the empty aching sky where there should be solid
earth. His heart sped up the way it did before a fight -- and that was
certainly part of it, the knowledge that it could go so wrong, that he and
Doyle could end up at war instead of...lovers.

 Because that was what was at stake here. The promise and the threat. The
promise of something so precious, so unique he was afraid to put a name to
it -- "love" barely covered it -- and the threat of what it would do to
them if it went wrong. It would destroy them.

 "You'd better be damn sure it's what you want," Bodie said, and the
harshness in his voice surprised him.

 It didn't seem to surprise Doyle, though, or worry him. He threw back the
covers, and two steps later slipped in beside Bodie, and Bodie was
instinctively moving over, moving away from the heat and energy that was
Doyle. Not that there was anywhere to go -- not that he really wanted to
go far.

 "Miraculous recovery, innit?" he managed.

 "Nah." Doyle's curls smelled faintly of gun smoke and perspiration
and...apples. "Throw up again if you turn me down. On you."

 Bodie shook his head at this romantic declaration, but he thought that
beneath the joking Doyle was probably telling the truth. For all his cool
under fire, his tough confidence on the job, Doyle had a funny vulnerable
streak. And an emotionally stressed Doyle was a Doyle who didn't eat and
didn't sleep. And a week of not sleeping and not eating...was enough to
get them both killed.

 "C'mere," Bodie said roughly.

 Doyle's arms wound around him with wiry strength, and it was only then
that Bodie realised Doyle was shivering. His own arms wrapped around
Doyle's thinly muscled back, pulling him close. Doyle's head bumped into
the naked curve of his neck and shoulder, and he could feel the softness
of Doyle's mouth and eyelashes, the bristle of his jaw.

 "What's wrong? You all right?" He smoothed a light hand down the long
bony ridge of Doyle's spine, brushed the soft cotton of the briefs
covering his taut, muscular buttocks.

 "Nervous," Doyle admitted. He laughed, softly, but there was an edge in
the sound.

 That admission of weakness helped. A lot.

 "Nah. It's just us together," Bodie told him -- not missing the irony
that he was now the one reassuring Doyle. But the truth was they were
reassuring each other, together in this as in all things. He bent his head
and found Doyle's mouth, tasted moist heat and hunger. Doyle was kissing
him like he was starving, like he needed this contact to survive --
mouth-to-mouth and no doubt about it.

 Reluctantly, Bodie released him, and Doyle pulled away panting -- only to
latch on again. It was sweet and feverish and a little desperate. It was
beyond anything Bodie had dreamed -- most definitely beyond his control.
Spinning out of Doyle's control too, if Doyle had been hoping to
manipulate him into something, which seemed unlikely given the way Doyle
was shaking. He was hard too, no mistaking the aggressive thrust poking
its way through the fly of the soft cotton briefs.

 Well, that was tit for tat. Bodie's own arousal was like a heat seeking
missile, locked onto Doyle. He jumped a little as Doyle's cold fingers
fastened on the waistband of his briefs, tugging, and Bodie returned the
favour the best he could with Doyle already humping against him.

 This wasn't going to last long. Laughing, he tore his mouth away and
gasped, "You're going to have me out of the bed."

 "Have you any way I can get you," Doyle returned. He nipped the side of
Bodie's throat, a pleasurable sting, and Bodie sucked in a sharp breath.
He used his strength to push Doyle back a little, but only a little --
giving himself some wiggle room as he stroked thin-fleshed skin over
strong bones, caressing -- getting as much pleasure from touching Doyle as
he was giving. Doyle wriggled close, and Bodie wrapped his arms around him
rolling Doyle on top of himself. Doyle made a satisfying bony weight all
down the length of him, Bodie's legs moving to accommodate Doyle's knees,
cocks poking each other's bellies.

 Doyle arched back for a moment, staring at Bodie's face. His eyes were
wide and slightly dazed. "How the hell could you think you'd ever come
second to anyone...?"

 Put like that it did seem ridiculous. Of course they came first for each
other. Did it really have to be said? Well, maybe sometimes.

 "Thought you were in love with Ann."

 "So did I." Doyle grimaced. "Not quite the same thing, is it?" He bit the
finger Bodie reached to smooth away the line between his brows. "Shouldn't
have to change yourself to be lovable."

 "Did she want you to change?" Bodie could hear the dryness in voice.

 "That, yeh." Doyle shrugged. A funny smile tugged at his mouth. "I was
thinking how I'd have wanted her to change." The chipped tooth showed. "Be
more like you."

 Bodie started laughing, and Doyle joined in, hips and bellies and cocks
rubbing pleasantly against each other.

 After a moment the giggles died away and they began to move in unison
with slow, delicious friction that gradually broke and ran into something
hot and fierce and frantic. Doyle licked a bead of sweat from Bodie's
temple. Bodie nuzzled the hollow beneath Doyle's ear. It was so strange
but so familiar.

 Doyle gasped, "How?"

 "Just like that..."

 And then Doyle went taut as a bowstring, trembling as a wet slickness
spread between their bodies. He made a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob
-- but by then Bodie's focus was on his own coming, the exquisite clench
and release, the squirt of liquid silk mingling with Doyle's seed. Oh yes.
*At ease, gentlemen...* Hot and spent and satisfied they rested in each
other's arms.

 After a time, Bodie shifted. Doyle mumbled protest.

 "Just turning out the light." He reached across and snapped it out and
the tranquil darkness floated down on them. Doyle nestled closer, one
hard, muscular arm wrapped around Bodie's chest, his breathing evening
out, already drifting into sleep.

 Bodie used his chin to brush down the curls tickling his nose. He smiled
to himself. Maybe it settled something. Maybe not. No regrets though,
regardless of what the morning held.

 Through the parting in the curtains the stars were bright and big -- like
cartoon stars. They seemed to be smiling. 

 -- THE END --

 *April 2008*

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