The Professionals Circuit Archive - London Games London Games by Ellis Ward He drew the door quietly against the jamb, hesitating until the click of the metal tumbler confirmed that the lock had engaged and sealed the entry before releasing the knob. The exaggerated conscientiousness of the action was in total contradiction to the thunderous expression marring the man's imperfect features. Ray Doyle was angry. He was also confused, bewildered, bruised, and very, very tired. Stubble darkened his jaw to menacing effect; his skin was grey from exhaustion, drawn and lined; and his eyes, rimmed with red, were as lightless as quarry-mined stones, sunk deep in abnormally pronounced hollows. The chill of the unborn day struck him at once, slipping through the tight-woven fibers of morning suit and starched linen shirt with the ease of centuries' long practice, adding one more source of irritation to his full-to-burgeoning catalog of complaints. Shoulders hunched forward, hands seeking body warmth in trousers pockets, Doyle nevertheless continued to stand on the concrete step, waiting for his eyesight to adjust to the night. Only shadows and muted lamplight glinting off shiny, bedewed automobiles that lined the pavement greeted his stare. Across the street, an iron fence surrounded a private park, its inner mysteries hidden by flowering shrubs and fruit trees. Their scent, strangely elusive in the heavy pre-dawn air, came to him on and inquisitive breeze, ethereally sweet. Doyle shivered. A vast sigh escaped out of his lungs, turning eerily visible as it poured between his lips. He shoved his clenched hands to the depths of his pockets and started down the worn steps to the pavement. There really was no sense in carrying on like this. After all, such an assignment had been in the cards for a long time. And in all honesty it was not the operation that had left him so out of sorts, but the degree to which he had managed to cock it up. Only yesterday morning, less than twenty-four hours ago, Cowley had sat Bodie and him down in comfortable leather chairs, handed them drinks - a sure sign of something undesirable to come - and told them what he wanted, and how he expected them to accomplish it. Neither had overreacted; why should they, since they'd been put out to stud before? That they had been ordered to attract and bed their own sex this time, rather than the opposite - well, flesh was flesh. Close one's eyes and think of England, and all that. At least that was what Doyle had said to himself; Bodie had not shared his thoughts on the matter. Once they had been dismissed, the two men had left the Controller's office for a spell in Records. Their target was Stewart Warne, a handsome man in his early sixties. Warne was reportedly a bit of a dilettante, who attended upmarket parties given by specially chosen acquaintances. At some point during the night he would pick the cream of the most recently invited crop and steal away with him to his flat in Chelsea. What exactly transpired there was unknown, for those who satisfied Warne's appetites were very carefully screened by his acquaintances, and well-versed before the fact in not kissing and telling, lest they bring down Warne's ire on their handsome heads. The influence and power the man commanded were considerable - yet on first perusal, it appeared that Warne was an honorable man, possibly even likable. His vice, if vice it was, was by no means restrictive. Men of every skin color, appearance, temperament, and political affiliation - all scrupulously over the age of twenty-one - were offered to him, and none of those chosen had ever bemoaned their treatment; or, lack of treatment in the case of those who had been passed over. All who were invited were provided with excellent company, luscious meals done to perfection, and exquisite wines and liqueurs to satisfy the epicurean palate. In fact, once Warne had made his selection, the others were free to sort it out amongst themselves how, and with whom, they spent the rest of the night; for the parties often continued until dawn, and their hosts were usually quite liberal-minded in granting the use of their bedchambers. Bodie's only voluntary comment was that Warne needed to find something more constructive to do with his money. The statement had been made rather tersely, and with little of Bodie's usual cocky humor; the only indication that he was not particularly pleased with this assignment. Questioned directly, Bodie said he was no more bothered with the prospect of spending a night with Stewart Bloody Warne than Doyle himself appeared to be, so why the inquisition? Accepting that Bodie had ceded to Cowley rather than make his true feelings known, Doyle did not pursue the matter - although he suspected that Bodie was in a snit because Doyle had made no protest to Cowley's orders, and therefore, had forestalled any objections Bodie might have brought up - without looking silly, anyway. Or so Doyle had thought. Warne was profoundly fascinating as far as Doyle was concerned, to the point of suppressing any latent phobias that otherwise might have alarmed him. The old gentleman had been married for forty years before his wife died, childless, of cancer. Every scrap of information they had on that period of his life bore evidence that he had been faithful to her, and had in fact, doted on the woman. They had lived well, if quietly, partaking of society as the fancy struck them, but seemingly well-content in each other's company. Early in his career, Warne had amassed a small fortune, and through canny business dealings his wealth had continued to grow through the years. Interestingly, he was reputed to be a generous man, and not known for ruthlessness nor inhumanity by those who had worked for and with him. Not even Cowley's interest impugned the man's integrity: One of Warne's bedmates had been tagged a Sinn F,iner who was very much wanted by Cowley, along with several other organizations affected by his activities. It was possible that Warne could identify him, and thereby produce a lead to the man's current whereabouts. Sheer luck had put Special Branch onto the lad the day of Warne's last party; they had promptly lost him the next. Interviewing Warne outright could put him at risk. If, however, the information could be seduced out of him . . . . *An absolute paragon,* Doyle had decided, believing not a word of it. Research completed, Bodie and Doyle had taken the invitations Cowley had somehow acquired for them - his contacts were legion - and departed to collect suitable clothing. From there they had separated for their respective homes to gain a few hours sleep before their night's debut. That evening, whilst performing his ablutions before the mirror over the bathroom sink, Doyle played out the scenario to come in his mind. Prepared as always to undertake whatever was demanded of him by an assignment, Doyle nonetheless had not one doubt that if either of them was chosen by Warne, it would be Bodie. There simply was no comparison between them, after all. Of the two, Bodie was by far the more attractive, and when he employed his legendary charm, Warne would certainly succumb as readily as any who had melted before Bodie's elegant feet in the past. His confidence was only magnified when Bodie had arrived on his doorstep, clad in morning suit, ruffled shirt and flawlessly knotted bow-tie. Even his shoes, gleaming with the improbable luster and fathomless depths only a military man could achieve, had made Doyle feel rustic and out of place. If this man did not capture Warne's attention, no one would. At least Bodie's mood had improved since the morning, although there was definitely a brittle edge to it. Only a couple of feet into Doyle's flat, he had batted Doyle's hands away from the recalcitrant length of silk looped around his throat, and quickly set it to rights, tightening it with cautious regard for Doyle's comfort. Considerately tweaking a curl into place over Doyle's collar, Bodie had then waved him toward the door and they had walked out into the night, having exchanged at most two or three sentences, not one of which alluded to their current op. The evening had not gone according to plan. Doyle and Bodie had arrived at Warne's party, hosted by a gentleman named Garret, shortly after nine. Presenting themselves as acquaintances who may or may not have been lovers, they had freely milled amongst the invitees, and when within the other's vicinity, had enjoyed the odd moment talking quietly together - as they would have done at any such affair. Their handsome fellows had comprised a dignified, yet happy group. No boisterous individuals had taken the stage and no one had lobbied untowardly for Warne's attentions. The man himself had kept a fairly low profile, wandering amidst the merry-makers and exchanging a few words with everyone. Doyle had found Warne more impressive in person than his photographs had conveyed. Tall and well-built, he towered over several people in the room, but somehow never loomed. His face was craggy and could easily have been forbidding, save for the kindly expression in very attentive blue eyes. Most disarming of all was the man's shock of thick brown hair. Well-groomed and minimally streaked with strands of grey, it nevertheless tended to follow its own inclinations; frequently straying onto Warne's forehead and into his eyes, necessitating a flick of long fingers or a jerk of the head to remove the offender. Observing him with determined suspicion, Doyle eventually conceded to his more skeptical self that this was no affectation, and that Warne was simply unpretentious, gracious, and genuinely friendly. After three hours of partaking of delicacies and wine that veritably kissed the lining of his stomach, Doyle had been standing contentedly to one side, monitoring the players in this undeniably hedonistic entertainment with replete aloofness, when Bodie had materialized at his shoulder. Bodie had given nothing away, outwardly relaxed and enjoying the gentle revelry. Having kept a discreet watch on his partner all evening, Doyle, however, could vouch that for once Bodie had repressed his voracious tendencies, and wondered what his friend was worried about. Before Doyle could put his question into words, however, Bodie had launched into several scurrilous vignettes about their fellow guests, reminding Doyle all over again why he enjoyed his partner's company so much - even though he was quite aware that Bodie was trying to put him off the scent. But Doyle knew something was up. He had seen the man devour a meal when faced with imminent annihilation without breaking the rhythm of fork to mouth; in comparison, the prospect of Stewart Warne making free with his person must surely seem far less intimidating. Puzzled, Doyle had nevertheless known better than to press an inquiry. But later, tomorrow, when all this had been comfortably relegated to the past . . . Stewart Warne had chosen that moment to join them. Whereas before he had spoken only a few words, now he made it clear that he desired more. At first, Doyle had shared the conversational burden with his partner, only to realize with slow astonishment that Warne had zeroed in on *him*. Not Bodie. Even more upsetting had been Bodie's obvious reluctance to defer to Warne's preference, hanging about and interposing himself at every possible moment, until Warne had very charmingly ushered Doyle away. Within an hour Doyle had found himself in Warne's luxuriously appointed Jaguar on the way to Warne's house. Nihilistically resigned to his fate, Doyle refused to contemplate what would follow - not in terms of an emotional experience, anyway. While he had not anticipated that he might end up being Warne's partner for the night, he faced it without a great deal of apprehension; the man was not a sadist, of that he was assured. More difficult to cope with was the lingering effect of that last look given him by Bodie. He told himself that he had imagined that shuttered expression of passion and anger, but it had appeared - and disappeared - so quickly that Doyle had come to doubt his own senses. Of course Bodie was concerned about him; he was always concerned about him - sometimes to the point of incurring Doyle's resentment. But that sort of extreme reaction usually only developed when they were involved in a life and death situation, when the odds were stacked so inflexibly against them that the outcome seemed inevitable. Surely Bodie could not imagine that Warne would hurt him? Or was it that Bodie feared Doyle might suffer some sort of macho identity crisis as a result of being fucked? They had been encouraged to entertain that possibility; Cowley had been chillingly clinical in his briefing. But for all their male posturing, Bodie must know that Doyle would treat this as just another less than endearing aspect of the job. And that's all it was - a job. Doyle shook his head in a vain attempt to disperse the unwanted images that loitered in his mind. Resolutely, he headed south towards the high street. Grateful that in the darkness he could acknowledge his aches and bruises, he allowed himself a slight but perceptible limp. He had been right about Warne from the first. The man was not only a bloody paragon, but damned near a saint. Doyle's cynicism regarding him had died a slow, miserable death; in fact, he would have been much happier had Warne been just the opposite of what he appeared to be. "Bodie?"* Doyle laughed, letting the worn ivory cube tumble from this fingers. The resulting deuce was useless to him. "Sorry." He was not entirely successful in smothering an inelegant snort. "I don't mean to be rude, but Bodie most certainly does not love me." Unfazed by Doyle's rebuttal, Warne murmured good-naturedly, "You're going to tell me you're `just good friends'." According the statement a full ten seconds of deep thought, Doyle replied, "Much more than good friends, actually. But that doesn't mean he loves me." He frowned at the older man, who met his gaze boldly. Not having been led to Warne's bed as soon as they'd entered the flat had proved something of a surprise; this must be Warne's way of warning him that there would be more to come. *Bodie loved him -- indeed!*> It was a game of chance, but Warne had been an exceptionally good player, or somehow he had managed to rig the cards - or the die. After being flung to the four corners of the board's compass in their first match, Doyle had ended up trapped between station closing markers, and gracefully conceded. Apparently Warne was inordinately taken with the idiot game, however, and Doyle lost three rounds in a row before realizing that he had relaxed enough in the other man's pleasant company to return scandalous insults regarding his cack-handed playing abilities. me* to come home with you tonight, Stewart?" Warne sobered at once. "Because you looked a hopeless player - and I do so enjoy winning."> *If the evening had been given a name, it would have been titled "The Tormenting of Raymond Doyle,"* decided Doyle. Taken with the hyperbole of the notion, he summoned a grin while negotiating a step from pavement to street between two closely parked cars. In fact, the night had continued in much the same spirit: endless rounds of The London Game, until Doyle thought he would tear out his hair at sight of another station closing marker or contrary Hazard Card; and constant oblique - and not so oblique - references to Bodie. Warne had a perverse obsession concerning Doyle's relationship with his partner; it eclipsed virtually everything else - except, of course, that bloody game. After only one, brief physical contact, Warne had kept a discreet distance, freezing Doyle with a mere look if he implied by word or deed that there were other amusements available to them. Eventually, of course, he had given up; too warm, too mellow, and too bemused to press the issue. He should, perhaps, have guessed Warne's intentions much earlier; but Doyle's experience of aged romantics was admittedly somewhat limited. After a night of verbal sparring and mind-numbing board playing, Doyle had been ill-prepared for Warne's last sally. "He was hurting, Ray." Doyle yawned. "Not Bodie again, please." "You're not a callous man," Warne commented measuredly. "But you don't believe me, and I don't understand that. I would like to." "There's nothing to understand," Doyle replied a little desperately. "I saw his face when we left. And I'm quite fortunate the old saying about glances meting out death is not rooted in truth, or I would certainly be a dead man now." Doyle forced an exhausted smile. "Bodie's a past master of the broody look, that's all. It could just as easily have been him going home with you." Warne turned his head to one side, his gaze very intent. "And how would you have felt about that?" "Luck of the draw," Doyle replied noncommittally. "The poor bastard," Warne said musingly. "He loves you, and you couldn't care less." Doyle bit back a coarse retort, before complaining exasperatedly, "What has *Bodie* got to do with all this? You could have asked someone else home, couldn't you! I *thought* you wanted to go to bed with *me*." "And you would have done it," Warne said indictingly. "You would've let me have that sweet little arse, even knowing it would destroy someone who loves you." "He doesn't love me," Doyle snarled. "Then why are you here, Mr. Doyle, if not to make him jealous?"> *Why indeed, Mr. Doyle?* Only a street over from Kings Road, Doyle came to stop, inexpressibly exhausted and suffering from a too vivid sense of recall. When Cowley found out what he had done, Doyle would be lucky to be kept on in Records for the rest of his life. Then again, Cowley would probably just point him to the nearest fifth story window and he could save the old bugger, and himself, the bother. Whatever had possessed him to respond as he had? Certainly Warne's unrelenting interrogation would have done any of CI5's finest proud; but Doyle was trained for just such circumstances - in love and war. But more often in war, he acknowledged to himself; Warne had been talking love. Incessantly. He had no excuse, really, unless he suggested to Cowley that eleven straight rounds of The London Game would be enough to unman the most hardened criminal, much less one of Cowley's purportedly better agents. Doyle had told Warne everything: Why he was there, the information he needed; even, for God's sake, who he worked for. Cowley would see to it that Doyle earned a special chapter in the next training manual: *How Not To Work For CI5*. "It would never have crossed my mind that Peter was an active member of the Sinn Fin; after all, a man's politics are his own. But to get that information you were actually going to sacrifice your virginity to me?" "It's part of the job, sometimes," Doyle informed him resignedly. "Playing the poof?" "Whatever gets results." "And Bodie?" Doyle said, "He's my partner." "And you really haven't slept with him?" "No." "But you do realize that he loves you?" Beyond argument, Doyle sighed, "Believe me, you're quite wrong. If I even suggested something like that - " "Then you *have* thought of it?" Doyle simply stared at the man.> And now, amidst the cold and damp of early morning, Doyle found precious little compensation in the fact that he had finally got the information Cowley wanted. Warne kept no secrets from HMG; he would willingly have surrendered Peter Beauchamp's name to any agent who had asked. Covert action had been totally unnecessary, and in Doyle's case, would likely prove seriously counterproductive to his future. The throaty rumble of a well-tuned engine dragged Doyle's attention out of the cellar of his bleak thoughts as a familiar car slid up to the curb. Its arrival was not unexpected; in fact, Doyle had suffered a twinge of disappointment not to find it standing outside Warne's front step. Taking hold of the passenger door as it swung open in front of him, Doyle half-heartedly groused, "Took your time, didn't you?" Bodie scarcely glanced at him. "Seemed to have a lot on your mind. Ready to go home?" Feeling the weight of words unspoken, Doyle almost refused. Bodie believed the worst had happened. It was there in the tension of his hands, clenched tightly round the steering wheel; in the too stiff erectness of his posture; in the blatant indifference of his stare. He couldn't know that the worst had indeed happened; and it was far more terrible than Bodie could imagine. Doyle wordlessly eased himself into the passenger seat. To make it perfectly clear that he was not ready for a session of gut-spilling, he reclined the seat, closed his eyes, and turned his face towards the window beside his head. The effort was wasted, but Doyle had known that the moment his haggard friend had shown up. "Are you all right, Ray?" Bodie asked evenly. "Perfectly." A few seconds passed and Doyle could feel the pressure build. "You know what I mean," Bodie persisted. "D'you need to see a quack?" "No." A mile disappeared behind them; the inside of the Capri was deathly quiet. Bodie's voice cut through the stillness like a chainsaw. "I saw you limping." "Bodie - " "Look, Ray, I can understand you not wanting to talk about it, but this isn't something you can ignore. If he hurt you - " "He didn't. I'm fine. Now will you shut up about it?" Bodie gave a tight nod, lips compressed into a pale line. He drove with deft, but abrupt movements, nothing at all like his everyday fluid manner. Inwardly castigating himself for being a pluperfect bastard, Doyle glanced across at his partner and took note of his appearance for the first time since entering the vehicle. If the night had been a disaster for him, it showed every sign of having been a singular travail for Bodie, as well. Deep purple bruising underscored his eyes, his face was blue with new beard growth, and the lines framing his mouth had become etched furrows filled with shadow. On anyone else such evidence of ill-use would have been distinctly unappealing. On Bodie, it simply gave new meaning to the word *rakish*, while emphasizing his impossibly attractive features. *"So you *have* thought of it,"* Warne's words echoed in his ears. Of course he had. Lately, fantasies of Bodie's deflowering had come to consume an unconscionable amount of Doyle's time. Not that he would ever do anything about wanting his partner. For one thing, his emotions regarding Bodie were terrifyingly complex. When he envisioned them making love, it was the holding and being held that remained with him long after the glow of fucking and being fucked had faded. For another, and far more importantly, Bodie didn't approve of emotional commitment; leastways not in his love affairs. "Y'know. You're not the only one this's ever happened to, Doyle." This unembroidered proclamation jerked Doyle out of his reverie with a start. "I mean - " Bodie hesitated, then forged on, "There's no reason to let it get you down, okay?" The gears of his brain working as uncertainly as a run-down clockwork toy, Doyle said slowly, "You trying to tell me something, mate?" "Not really," Bodie replied crisply. "Just don't want this to cause problems with us." "Problems?" Doyle straightened the passenger seat and twisted round to stare at his partner. "What sort of problems d'you have in mind?" That silky tone of voice had always served to put Bodie on edge, and it gratifyingly produced that same effect now. Bodie explained awkwardly, "You feeling . . . uncomfortable with me, maybe." "*You* didn't do anything to me," Doyle reminded him softly. "Yeah, but - It isn't exactly something a bloke - blokes like us - can brush off, now is it? Not easily, anyway?" "Go on." Bodie nosed the car south onto Battersea Bridge. As they crossed over the grey-green, lazily writhing Thames, he muttered, "Just - Well, I know what you're going through, that's all." Doyle selected his next words with exceptional care. "You're telling me you've been with a . . . *man*?" The car noticeably gained speed. "That's right." "And he - this man - fucked you?" The dark head inclined once in confirmation. Doyle felt himself go cold inside. "When?" he asked gratingly. "A long time ago. Years ago. And it's not important now, okay?" "When was it?" Doyle insisted. "The mercs? Merchant navy?" He frowned. "Not the Army?" "Does it matter?" Bodie's face twisted with a hint of hostility. "It might." Doyle stared at his partner in the faint light provided by the dashboard displays and the tentative advent of the sun. *"Bodie?"* Bodie rolled his shoulders in an elaborate shrug. "Years ago, like I told you. Just after . . . Jordan. Things got kind of crazy." Doyle's green eyes narrowed, their expression guarded by a phalanx of dark lashes. "Who was he?" "No one." Fingers spread wide, thumbs hooked around the steering wheel, Bodie sat hunched inside his coat. "Met him at a bar. Couldn't even tell you his name. After a few drinks, he persuaded me to give it a go, and I did." His eyes cut across to take in Doyle's reaction; stung, they jerked away again. "Only once. Just for a lark." "For a lark - " "Yeah. And that's all I'm going to say. Just thought you should know. What with tonight and all, didn't want you thinking I'd - " " - hold it against me?" Bodie gave his head a weary shake. "No. More like, think less of you. Which I don't." Not even aware that he had been poised with painful tension, Doyle found himself relaxing back against the seat. Thoughtfully he folded his arms across his chest. Myriad ambivalent emotions churned around in his brain, leaving him simultaneously outraged and ludicrously amused. Having known his partner for nearly nine years now, Doyle had learned to read Bodie very well; far better than anyone else - except Cowley, who frequently evinced an awesome knowledge of Bodie's inner workings that Doyle could never hope to emulate. In any case, his instincts were unerring when it came to recognizing the truth as Bodie saw fit to present it - bearing no resemblance to his frequent embellishments and dissimulations. Doyle granted him those moments of whimsy; sometimes it made his partner more comfortable to weave a tale, or to flat out blunt the truth either through omission or nuance. But of one thing Doyle was very sure: Bodie never lied. Not to him anyway. He should not have done it now. Making a show of settling into his seat, Doyle pretended to sleep, needing the time to formulate how he would deal with this new complication. Despite closed eyes and a shoulder turned his partner's way, Doyle was not unaware of Bodie's nervous glances. It occurred to him that Bodie would be considerably more worried if he knew the true reason for Doyle's withdrawal. . . "We're here, mate," Bodie said, removing his hand from Doyle's arm the instant awareness stirred in the limp form. Despite himself, Doyle had fallen into a profoundly deep sleep sometime before they reached his block of flats. Rousing sluggishly, he frowned with every muscle of his face as sensation returned. Having briefly forgotten his troubled audience in the immediacy of each newly clamoring bruise and ache, Doyle belatedly comprehended what Bodie must be thinking. "Ray, are you su - ?" "Yes." Doyle silenced him with a single, tart utterance and warning scowl. At the closed, rather belligerent expression that shuttered Bodie's face, Doyle forced himself to relent. "Look, mate, I really am okay. And I didn't mean to bite your head off." "You don't have to apolo - " "Yes, I do." He offered an olive branch in the form of a diffident smile. "Come on up, Bodie. I'll make coffee. `S the least I can do for you giving me a ride home - and after you spent the night in the bloody car, too." "I don't think - " "C'mon, mate." Doyle repeated persuasively, very conscious that it was not in his nature to plead. It was important to him, however, that Bodie not leave just yet. Not until Doyle had resolved a few things to his own satisfaction. In reply, Bodie shut off the engine and favored his partner with a long-suffering look. "One coffee, then I'm off. I'm knackered, Ray." Doyle fabricated a grin. "You should see yourself; what you're saying isn't exactly news, y'know." He jerked his head towards the building. "C'mon." In the half hour it had taken to reach Doyle's flat, the cloudless sky had lightened, and the briskness of the morning had lost some of its bite. Only vaguely conscious of the world renewing itself about him, Doyle led the way to the main entry, focussed almost to the exclusion of all else on Bodie's moody presence a pace or two behind him. He unlocked the door to his flat and waved his partner inside, then piously attended to the ritual of rearming the security system. As Bodie was heading in the direction of the kitchen, Doyle called, "Put the kettle on, will you? I have to use the loo. There's a mate." He saw Bodie falter, then continue into the corridor. Doyle almost joined him, remembering guiltily that he had done nothing to put Bodie's mind at ease regarding his own unscathed - well, mostly unscathed - condition. But the festering irritation of Bodie's words returned to crush the impulse. However noble Bodie's motivation, Doyle would not tolerate being lied to. He exited the bathroom with hands and face cursorily washed and hair somewhat tamed. He shrugged off the hired coat and draped it over the back of the sofa in the lounge, then walked purposefully to the kitchen. Just inside the frame of the door, he paused to watch his partner. Bodie was standing by the sideboard, spooning coffee into mugs while the kettle steamed. It clicked off upon Doyle's arrival, and Bodie removed the plug and began to pour. "Bodie." Dark blue eyes skimmed over Doyle's person, taking in the absent dress coat, loosened collar and rolled up sleeves. "Hm?" Doyle unthinkingly returned the once-over as he tried to gauge his partner's probable reaction to his next words. "What if *I* wanted to fuck you?" he asked baldly. Caught in the middle of filling the other cup, Bodie shot Doyle a sharp look, finished what he was doing, and straightened. "Is that supposed to be funny, Ray?" "No," Doyle replied, humor clearly the furthest thing from his mind. Bodie stood very still, uneasy puzzlement shadowing his face. "You want to fuck me?" He could not seem to believe his ears. "Why not?" asked Doyle reasonably. "After all, if you'd let a total stranger do you, why not me?" A trace of anger tightened Bodie's jaw, then was gone. He turned to the sidetable and set the spoon down with inordinate precision. "Right," he stated a little huskily. "Why not, indeed?" Drawing himself up to his full height, hands clasped before him, he said conversationally. "Well, let's get it over with, then. Where d'you want me, Ray?" he canted his head toward the wall behind him. "Here? Fancy a sordid little knee-trembler, do you?" Taking Doyle's lack of response for a negative, Bodie said politely, "No? Perhaps the floor? Although I have to say I don't think my knees are up to a bout on your lino, sunshine." Letting his arms drop to his sides and regarding Doyle with an unflattering lack of interest, Bodie concluded brittley, "The bedroom, then?" Despite the fact that his heart was going like a jackhammer, Doyle gave a little nod and said, quite normally, "Yeah, the bedroom. I've always been partial to comfort." The look that Bodie gave him would have stripped freshly dried paint off a metal wall. With a tight nod, Bodie scooped up a mug, took a scalding gulp of coffee, slapped it back down on the sideboard, and strode from the room, brushing past Doyle as though he didn't exist. Furious, Doyle held himself back before following. *Damn Bodie for being such a cross-grained, stubborn bastard!* All Doyle really wanted was Bodie's admission that he had made up at that rubbish on the ride from Chelsea - just to spare Doyle's supposedly injured ego. Why did Bodie have to be so bloody-minded about it? He found Bodie in the bedroom, already nude from the waist down, in the act of shedding the shirt from his back. At sight of Doyle, Bodie completed the job and held the soft fabric provocatively to one side. "This is it, mate," Bodie said with mild contempt, turning a little so that no part of him went undisplayed. "Seen it before, remember?" The shirt fell from his fingers, and landed on the floor in a heap. Remote blue eyes raked across Doyle's still fully clothed frame, then dismissively turned away as Bodie climbed onto the bed, there to lie on his belly, legs parted for Doyle's convenience. At once Doyle suffered a surge of panic the like of which he had never experienced before, not even when faced with certain, hideous death. With complete comprehension he knew there was nothing he could say or do that would erase this breach of trust. In pushing Bodie to confess his lie, Doyle had very likely destroyed their friendship. Yet on another level of his mind, a startled voice wondered if there was *anything* Bodie would not do for him. Compelling himself to think around the apprehension clawing at his brain, Doyle knew that Warne had been right. *But what do I *now*?* Operating on instinct alone, and clinging limpet-like to the belief that Bodie cared more for him than he ought, Doyle went nearer the bed. Eyes traveling the length of his partner's pale body, he sat on the edge of the mattress at Bodie's waist and laid a trembling palm over one scarred shoulder-blade. At contact, the muscle beneath Doyle's hand twitched, then stilled. Immediately after, a small wildfire of goose-pimples spread out across Bodie's shoulders, down his back, onto softly downed buttocks, over hard muscled thighs, all the way to suddenly curling toes. Distracted, Doyle shifted his hand, watching his spread-wide fingers float over Bodie's upper torso. The man's skin was like satin, cool and smooth, and most definitely pleasurable to the touch. Pliant muscle encased unyielding bone; hard here, over the shoulders and down the length of the long spine; rounded here, where the backbone came to an end between firm buttocks. Very daring, Doyle cupped his hand first round one hillock of his partner's arse, then the other, trailing his fingertips to the underside of the compact swelling, and from there down to the tops of milky white thighs, which were dusted with dark hair. For the first time since Doyle had sat beside him, Bodie moved, an abbreviated tightening of the muscle that ran up the back of his leg, and currently the object of Doyle's explorations. The movement drew Doyle's eyes upward to the pale expanse of hips and upper torso, revealing what he had not noticed before: Bodie was breathing unevenly, his quivering shoulders betraying the effort required to retain control. Never having intended cruelty, Doyle was stricken by the degree of his selfishness. In the process of gathering the straying lambs of his too easily scattered thoughts, he had allowed this uncomfortable tableau to continue far too long. "Bodie, I - " Absolutely bereft of words, Doyle leaned forward and rested his cheek against Bodie's shoulder. "You *idiot*," he whispered, and shockingly, began to laugh. There was no other reason for it but hysteria, although later Doyle would argue strongly that the whole episode was preposterous and more than worthy of a grin or two. Once the chortles had escalated into full-fledged whooping laughter, however, Doyle could not have bridled himself had he tried. He didn't. Instead, he held on to Bodie as though for dear life, trying with little success to explain himself, but incapable of producing anything in the way of coherent language. How long this went on, Doyle could not have said. Seconds blended into minutes, but probably not many of them. Doyle sensed the moment of transition, even in the part of his brain that stood aghast to one side, when Bodie suddenly stiffened, and the customary rise and fall of his chest ceased. There was little time for alarm. With a vast bunching of muscle, Bodie whipped himself eel-like out from under his partner, curled around and dumped Doyle onto his back. Winded and a little lightheaded, Doyle did not even try to resist as Bodie crouched over him, one knee gouging uncomfortably into his abdomen, vice-like hands pinning his narrow wrists to the mattress above his head. Bodie's face told his story: he was furious, degraded, and badly wounded. The brutality of his grip and stance spared no regard for Doyle's well-being at all. For the first time in all the years he had known Bodie, Doyle wondered if he should be afraid. "And what if *I* wanted to fuck *you*, mate?" Bodie rasped. Stunned, Doyle gave his head a tiny shake. "Not so funny *now*, is it, Ray?" Doyle opened his mouth to speak, to explain everything, even - given the chance - to apologize. But the unformed words died in his throat, denied release by Bodie's mouth, which came down hard and hurtful upon his. The kiss was violent and rapacious - it occurred to Doyle that while *he* had been bluffing, Bodie most certainly was not. He fought him then, squirming frantically to break Bodie's hold, wincing with the effort needed to twist his head free. But Bodie systematically employed his greater weight to quell Doyle's bucking movements, ruthlessly countering every desperate ploy until Doyle lay helpless beneath him, chest heaving, eyes overwide and a little wild. Something like pain sparked briefly in Bodie's face. Then he bent forward and took Doyle's mouth again. At first there was more anger than passion in the intimate pressure, but slowly, unmistakably, that balance began to change. Struggling not to disgrace himself by admitting to tears or pain, Doyle did not immediately discern the difference. Bodie tipped his head a little to one side, then, and nuzzled Doyle's swollen lips with ineluctable gentleness. "I've never wanted to hurt you, Ray," he whispered raggedly, and raised his head to gaze emptily into Doyle's eyes. Swallowing hard, Doyle met that anguished visage with guilty self-awareness. "You couldn't," he said fiercely. He pulled his wrists out of Bodie's slackened grasp, and took his partner's face between his hands. "Even when I deserve it," he owned, and drew him down again. Like heat-softened wax they molded to one another, mouths and hands tenderly prowling. By dint of Bodie's state of undress, Doyle was granted greater liberty, and did not hesitate to use that fact to his advantage. But it was not in Bodie's nature to be left behind, and within moments he had facilely unbuttoned Doyle's shirt, fingers coolly electric on lightly furred skin. Arching up to increase their closeness, Doyle murmured appreciatively as their bare chests came together. Drunk on Bodie's kisses, he feasted at the softly pouting mouth, while Bodie blindly sought and released the clasp at the waistband of Doyle's trousers. Flash-point took them both by surprise; rarely, at this stage in their lives, did they arouse so quickly or intensely. Amidst fevered movements and sudden desperate need, they were carried aloft before registering that the moment was upon them. Shuddering helplessly, they relaxed back onto the mattress, lying on their sides, pressed tightly together. Only then did they break the last kiss that had aided their meteoric rise to such wondrous heights. Doyle peered at his partner from beneath drooping eyelids, pleased beyond hope to witness a singularly lethargic Bodie nestled close beside him. With gentle adoration he smiled, enfolding Bodie deeper into his arms. Head tucked into the crook of one broad shoulder, Doyle sighed with open contentment, gave his partner a lingering hug, and settled down to sleep. "Ray." "Uhn." The pleasant warmth that stretched all down one side of him removed itself. Doyle gave a murmuring complaint, and instinctively followed. At once he was taken into a crushing embrace, then unceremoniously shoved onto his back. His nascent protest was devoured by a brief, searing kiss. "Doyle." Blinking sleepily into Bodie's hovering, dismayed face, Doyle found himself attaining full wakefulness very quickly. "Yeah?" "You want to explain all this to me?" Bodie asked politely. He bent forward and rubbed his nose lightly against Doyle's. Reassured by that artless gesture, Doyle turned his face into Bodie's throat and yawned noisily. "Which particular bit didn't you understand?" he asked patiently. Bodie gave him a rough squeeze, eliciting a tiny grunt. "*Why* it happened would be a good place to start." Laughing softly, Doyle gazed up into Bodie's face. "Forgot to tell you: We're in love." "Are we." "Yep. It's obvious to people who don't even know us." "Is it." Unbothered by this prosaic reaction, Doyle occupied himself by tracing the line of Bodie's throat and collarbone, so conveniently close to hand. "Do you?" Bodie asked, at last. "Do I what?" "What you said," Bodie replied maddeningly. "D'you love me?" "Think I must do. Can't imagine why." Rather more huskily than usual, Bodie said weakly, "What's not to love?" "Don't ask, or I'll give you a list" Doyle chided amiably. Then: "And what about you? You *do* love me, don't you?" Green eyes probed suddenly guarded blue ones. "Say '*yes*,' Bodie." "`Course I do," Bodie muttered truculently, still eyeing Doyle uncertainly. "But?" Bodie grimaced. "Not but. Just - Well, this may all seem perfectly reasonable to you. But why now; tonight? And why were you so narked with me? You know, in the car, and after we got here?" "Because you lied to me, you irritating bugger," Doyle informed him smartly, gently circling Bodie's neck with the span of his hand. "Lied - " "About being with that bloke in Jordan. You *did* make that up, didn't you?" For an instant, Bodie froze. Then he shrugged, a pale hue of pink rising into his cheeks. "Yeah. Thought you wouldn't feel so - " "Hard done by?" "Hm." He summoned some of his old arrogance. "So it wasn't my technique - or lack of it - that gave me away?" "Nah. Just me being selfish, I suppose." "Eh?" "Wanted to be your first," Doyle confessed. "When you said you'd been with someone else, I almost clubbed you. Then I figured out that you were lying. Didn't like that; not for any reason." "Don't know if the Cow will approve of the new interrogation method, sunshine," Bodie advised him disarmingly. He rubbed a broad hand smoothly across Doyle's chest. "Won't happen again, okay?" Doyle grudgingly allowed himself to be convinced. "Yeah, okay." Tracing ticklish patterns around Doyle's nipples, Bodie murmured, "But you haven't said why this happened *tonight* - Was it because of what went on with you and Warne? Not," he said emphatically, "that it makes any difference, y'understand." Doyle favored him with a sweetly uncomplicated smile. "Not the way you think. Y'see, I've got news for you, sunshine: You're *my* first, too." The hand sliding towards Doyle's navel, stilled. "But, you and Warne - " Sniggering vulgarly, Doyle informed him, "The only compulsion Warne was seized by last night was a longing to discover Drayton Park." Musing to himself, Doyle went on, "That was the only game I came close to winning, and he still got me in the end." "Drayton Park?" Bodie asked, confounded. "Tube station on a discontinued line; Great Northern Line, I think. Didn't you ever play The London Game?" "Once or twice: it's like chicken pox or measles: hard to avoid." "Well, that's what we did - all night long." "Played The London Game?" "Warne is uncommonly fond of it," Doyle said darkly. "And in between moves, he kept wigging me for mistreating you." "Did he." "Rabbited on about it the whole bloody night; over and over, until - " Doyle's suddenly conscience-stricken look brought a hunter's grin to Bodie's face. "Yes?" "Christ," Doyle breathed, and unselfconsciously buried his face in the safe harbor formed by the hollow of Bodie's throat and shoulder. "I really fucked up tonight, mate." "How?" Instinctively lowering his voice to match Doyle's hushed tones, Bodie stressed the verbal prod with a measured but unignorable physical one. "Ouch. Sadist." Doyle gave a violent wriggle, but subsided when Bodie bestowed a cherishing kiss. Temporarily consoled, he said dramatically, "You don't want to know, Bodie. Although you *will* need to break in a new partner - All right, all right, I'll tell you!" Shortly thereafter, having spilled his woeful tale, Doyle was outraged when Bodie only laughed. "You - " Heedless of his more than half undone trousers and shirt, Doyle wrangled his partner onto his back and mounted him with single-minded efficiency. "Pax!" Bodie giggled, desperately trying to evade Doyle's omnipresent fingers. "Will you stop!" he roared, at last. Doyle grinned down at him, enjoying the moment of dominance. Incapable of maintaining a severe front in the presence of such good-nature, Bodie smiled back. "Stop carrying on, you moron," he said calmly. "Warne's not a security risk. You and I know that; Records know that. The Cow won't be thrilled, but - " "He won't be thrilled is right," Doyle interrupted morosely. "But it isn't as if I came out of it empty-handed. Maybe I'll blackmail him: he throws me out, no Sinn F,iner." Bodie insinuated his hands beneath the open folds of Doyle's shirt. "You weren't kidding about that game, were you? It's addled your brains, mate. *Nobody* threatens Cowley." "Maybe - maybe not," Doyle said absently, eyes half-closed. "Ray?" "Hm?" Large hands pushed the body-warm shirt off Doyle's shoulders. "Why were you limping?" "Warne's cat," Doyle replied dreamily. "Huge ginger tom; weighed two stone if it weighed an ounce." "Go on!" "`S true. Pounced on me when I had to use the loo. Damned thing was lurking in there like it owned the place. Here, look." With little regard for Bodie's vulnerable abdomen, Doyle shifted position and brought his left leg up for his inspection. "See?" He pushed the hem of his trousers above his ankle to expose bright red welts that surrounded the base of his calf. "Jesus!" Bodie exclaimed, impressed despite himself. "The little blighter didn't half take a chunk out of you." Openly pleased by this show of solidarity, Doyle extricated his leg from Bodie's gently probing fingers and perched comfortably upon him once more. "So!" he said brightly, his pallid, fatigued face refuting the sparkle in his voice. "Now everything's settled, all we have to do is choose between engraved or hand-written invitations, I reckon." The room fell awkwardly silent. "You mean, marriage?" Bodie articulated, lest there be any misunderstanding. Holding his breath, Doyle said nothing. "Now wait a minute, old son," Bodie began, his expression amused, "I'm already -" "Spoken for," Doyle anticipated him wryly. "How could I forget? Yes, I know: You're married to the job." "Wasn't what I was going to say, but you are right, in your own muddled way." Bodie concentrated on peeling first one sleeve then the other off Doyle's arms. "Especially when you consider that for the past eight and half years, my job has been watching out for *you*." He pitched the shirt over the side of the bed. "Little late to be sending out invitations, if you ask me." Doyle felt as though he had taken a blow to the body. "You mean that? The whole works? A real marriage, Bodie?" "The whole works," Bodie agreed. "*That's* what I was going to say a second ago: `M practically married to you already. You going to tell me you've had any better offers lately?" "Not one," Doyle whispered. Swallowing hard against the lump that had materialized in his throat, poked Bodie's chest with a sharp finger. "It doesn't bother you - all this?" "Nope." Faced with Doyle's frowning concentration, Bodie raised a querying brow at him. "You?" "No, not that." With Bodie assisting him in the complete removal of his trousers, Doyle said solemnly, "But I think you should know . . . Well, I'm not too sure about the sex thing. Y'know - fucking." Relief took the tension out of Bodie's wary expression. Bracing Doyle's back with one hand whilst he helped yank off a trousers leg with the other, he asked matter-of-factly, "D'you want to fuck *me*?" Doyle pursed his lips, eyes wide and considering. "Could probably be talked into it fairly easily, actually. But I - " "*You* could take it at least once, too; tough little sod that you are," Bodie assured him. "Just y'know, for consummation purposes." "That means you want to do me, too," Doyle translated offhandedly. "Of course," Bodie said, in no way deceived by that cool statement. Doyle's trousers went the way of his shirt. "But if we both hate it - it *could* happen - I think we can work it out, don't you?" "Very likely." Doyle agreed soberly, then dropped forward and blissfully lost himself in the wonders of Bodie mouth. "Is this crazy, mate?" he whispered, resting his damaged cheekbone against Bodie's bristly jaw. "Probably," Bodie said unconcernedly. "But then I never expect anything less from you." Doyle rocked his head indolently from side to side, incorporating a brushing caress across Bodie's mouth with each sensuous pass. "But what if we ruin it; y'know, everything else? What'll we do then?" "We just won't ruin it," Bodie said with simple logic. Rolling them both onto their sides, he framed the round, wilful face between two blunt-fingered hands, staring hard into Doyle's eyes. "Stop worrying. After all, we've got at least an hour before we're due to report in." Before Doyle's squawk of outrage could reach painful proportions, Bodie silenced him in the newest and best way he knew how. "God, that's good," Doyle breathed, some time later. "Hm," Bodie agreed laconically. "In fact, mate, right now I can see only one problem." His hand drifted down Doyle's side to a prominent hip-bone, dipping under the elastic band of Doyle's nylon pants. Bodie's fingers encountered the evidence of their previous lovemaking and contentedly smeared it over the flat belly. Scarcely following the conversation, Doyle prompted hazily, "Yeah?" "You've still got too much on," Bodie said, and immediately set about correcting the situation. It was not a problem for long. -- THE END -- Archive Home