The Professionals Circuit Archive - Coming Home	Coming Home

 

by Kathy Keegan

  
 Bodie was still dead asleep, and at six in the morning after a week that
had been a nightmare of tension, Doyle could not blame him. It was
discomfort that had woken Ray; his body was stiff and sore, which he had
expected. It had been a tough night, too. Bodie had been ravenous for it,
wanting him again when they woke at midnight.

The memory of his helplessness beneath all that power and scorching hunger
made Doyle shiver, though the August morning was warm and bright. Sunday.
A day for rest and recreation, a chance to recharge the batteries for the
week to come - idle pursuit and happy memories. Ray felt none of that. His
face twisted as he studied the back of Bodie's head; his partner lay on
his stomach, his face turned away, distanced from his bedmate even now,
this morning, after he had been allowed to take what he wanted. To slake
his blind lust in Doyle's willing body. Ray felt only a consuming
unhappiness, highlighted by the aches and soreness; and the feeling was no
stranger.

He let his eyes close, shutting out the bright sunshine and concentrating
on memory - not the previous night, but a night eight months before. New
Year; a party; too much alcohol and good cheer, too much laughter and
joking; a bed in a friend's spare room; unexpected and disbelieving
desire.

It had been good, Doyle thought. No, it had been very good. Bodie had a
mastery of the arts of loving that explained why his many birds pined
away, one by one, as they were dropped. Ray's brow crinkled in a frown as
he looked back over the years, trying to recall how many women there had
been. He had forgotten the names of most of them, but enough of the faces
remained for him to count too many. Bodie delighted in girls, enjoyed
them, pleasured them and discarded them. Few relationships lasted more
than two months.

And where do I fit into this scheme? Doyle puzzled as he shifted about in
the bed, trying to ease the kinks out of his spine. The girls were
tactfully dropped in a few weeks or a couple of months, but here it was
August, and Raymond Doyle was still in his partner's bed - a little the
worse for wear, but welcome there.

New Year had turned into an orgy of sensuality, and Ray had learned many a
dark truth about himself. The terrifying new heights of arousal as he was
crushed against the body of one bigger and stronger than himself, the
helpless lust that sent him willingly to his knees to be plundered like a
girl -

Oh, Bodie wanted him. January had been an odyssey of self-discovery,
February barely calmer, and as spring warmed it seemed to fan the fires of
the hunger that drove them together. It had been better than just 'good',
Doyle admitted. It had been beyond anything he had expected or imagined...
before it all went wrong.

Now, it hurt. The physical discomforts of being used were nothing - he had
never been afraid of a little pain and was no stranger to it. In their
job, who was? But there was more than that. A deep, racking agony that
seemed to center in his chest, made him taciturn and moody, wanting to
spurn the world in general, and Bodie in particular. The worst of it was,
Bodie had not even noticed.

Flaming June, glorious weather, two weeks' leave, Doyle remembered. They
had half planned to go away together, hiking and rock climbing, and Ray
had looked forward to it with a great satisfaction in the tingling
anticipation of time to themselves, time to be together and alone. Then
Sharon had come along; suddenly Bodie was heading for Paris and Rome, and
with an instant's blind panic, Ray knew what was wrong.

It was not Sharon, it was himself. Sharon was tall, red-haired and leggy,
and Bodie adored her for weeks. The trip to Paris and points West took ten
days, and he came home happy but exhausted. The girl was nothing short of
radiant, probably expecting an engagement ring... For Ray, it was a time
of soul-searching and misery, artfully concealed.

Sharon never received any such ring, and a week after Bodie got home he
felt the itch for a solid, muscular male body in his bed. A smile, fingers
tousling soft brown curls, and the look on his face was one of sublime
self-confidence. He knew Doyle would come back and climb into bed. Ray
very nearly refused him, but it was too easy to be ambushed by lust, by
the hunger to be with the one he loved.

And that was the difference. Ray smiled sadly at the back of Bodie's head
as the discomforts of last night's activities spurred him toward the
bathroom. He slid out of bed, mouthing a silent 'ouch', looking down at
Bodie for some time. It was no more Bodie's fault, in realistic terms,
than it was his own. Ray was in love; Bodie was out for fun and pleasure,
that was the start and end of it.

The kisses were just as fierce, the caresses just as practised as they had
been in January; but darkness and pillows hid the twist of unhappiness
that coiled through the blazing lust as Ray was urged onto his belly.
Surrender was bittersweet now. The needing was just lust; his own
helplessness within Bodie's embrace was little better than a brief,
sometimes painful bondage, a servitude to which he went silently,
accepting it for what it was. Bodie wanted him; he offered drinks and
companionship, and later, laughter and sexual fulfilment... Not a bad
offer, all told, Doyle admitted.

And for a long time it had been enough. And now? stiff-legged, he turned
into the adjoining bathroom and quietly shut the door. Hot water filled
the ivory tub, and he sank gratefully into it, lying back to soak away the
aches and tenderness and study his body. He was bruised; there were finger
prints on his hip bones, brands from little bites on his chest and belly,
more finger bruises on his thighs - the visible proof of how much Bodie
wanted this thin, tanned, furry body, as much as he maligned it and teased
its owner about its frailty.

Ray propped his head on the glass shower screen behind the bath and closed
his eyes. Bodie was as happy as a lark with his laughs and social drinking
and casual domination of his partner's body; it was all fun, no hard
feelings. So why am I here like a bloody little kid, trying not to cry?

The answer was all too clear.

Because I want him to love me, and he can't. Or won't. Because I have to
decide - now, before it gets any worse... I have to decide if I want to go
on this way.

He stirred as his shoulders and neck began to cramp with the weight of his
head on the glass, reaching for a bar of Island spice soap and absently
attending to himself. He had two choices. Take what he could get, call
himself a bloody fool for falling in love with the heartless bastard -
which was probably the truth anyway. Or bow out, call it a day, go and
find himself a nice little woman, as blonde as Bodie was dark, as
brown-eyed as he was blue-eyed, as small as he was big, and forget.

Surrendering to the moment's self-indulgent misery, he sniffed on blocking
sinuses as he climbed out of the bath. The sensible thing to do would be
to get out, run and keep running. But when had Raymond Doyle ever done the
sensible thing? Sense would have been to make a joke of it at that New
Year party, or to wake the morning after and swear he had no memory of the
blind lust that had sent him into Bodie's embrace. If he told the truth,
he had known even then that it would go wrong. Bodie was a good mate, he
just did not have it in him to love. Anyone. It was not Doyle, or Sharon,
or any of the multitudinous girls who had learned that fact at their cost,
and it was not something Bodie could help.

Like people who snored in their sleep. Like people who sang out of tune.
Like people who got freckles in the sun. Bodie did not love, and that was
that. There had been two women, Ray knew, who had come close to inspiring
the emotion in him. When he was very young, a girl called Helen, gut-shot,
long dead; later, the actress, Marikka - also shot dead. Bodie called it
love, but Ray was not so sure.

He had not seen his partner the rest of the afternoon after Marikka had
been killed, and he had expected a storm to break when they met the
following day; instead there had been nothing. Bodie reported for work the
same as he had reported every other day, as if nothing had happened. Just
a little quiet and subdued for a few days, Ray remembered, as one would
expect of a man who had lost a good friend.

A good friend. Bodie made few friends, and Doyle was well aware that he
was graced and favoured among that chosen few...

But I want more. Christ, Doyle, you're a demanding sod! He gives you all
he can, his friendship, his trust, and screws your brains out at least
once a week, and you have to have it all! Love, for Chrissake! You're
asking the bloody impossible, and you know it! But I always thought...
always wondered...

There was a tube of Savlon in the cabinet and he used a lot of it, needed
it, and murmured in honest relief as it eased the sore, raw leftovers of
submission. Bodie had had a few to drink, and he was always a little
eager, a little enthusiastic, after drinking. Ray had known how it would
be when he had accepted the invitation to bed and was not seeking to
apportion blame. But in the cold light of day hindsight was all too
cruelly accurate. And lust appeared tarnished, tawdry.

So run, he told himself, replacing the tube and reaching for a robe which
hung on the back of the door. Get out and keep going - if you don't like
being used, tell him where to quit! Can I? Will I? He sighed, belting the
robe and pulling the plug on the bath. Breakfast, or dress and go?

He stood in the bedroom doorway, looking at the rumpled disaster of the
bed. Bodie still had not stirred; he was snuffling into the pillow, at
peace with the world, and it would be noon before he woke and went
cheerfully to fry up sausages and bacon for lunch. Abruptly, Ray felt
nauseous, and reached for his clothes.

Jeans, silk shirt, tan jacket, suede boots. They had had a night on the
town, dinner at a restaurant, on to a club with a song-and-dance
floorshow; too much whisky and soda past Bodie's lips. He had not been
overcome or even mildly squiffy, but alcohol made him quickly aroused and,
contrary to the gist of popular opinion, that hunger was hard to satisfy,
as if he relaxed under the influence of a drink or three and let his
passions have their head.

Soothed by the antiseptic, Ray slipped into his clothes, regarding his
reflection in the long mirror. Slim, heavy-eyed, tousled. Seductive? He
grinned at himself, pouted and struck a pose, weight on his left leg, hip
out-thrust. The jeans were tight, outlining the tender curve of buttock
and genitals, and if he put his shoulders back to stretch the silk tightly
over his chest he could see his nipples. A little sore from love-bites,
they drew his fingertips, and he stood frowning at himself, seeing a
tousled Narcissus in denim and silk, massaging his nipples in abstract
sensuality.

Was this what Bodie liked, what he wanted? Ray closed his eyes, his
thoughts turning to the dark hours, later, behind closed doors. Kisses
that suffocated him, fingers knotted in his hair, tugging, demanding,
knees between his parted thighs; the heat and hardness filling him, over
and over, as if Bodie was never to be satisfied. Coming in huge racking
waves that drained him, going down on the bed and being lifted back to his
knees for the onslaught to continue. Bodie's ravenous desire communicating
itself so that he surrendered willingly to his mate's needs, trying to
fulfil everything he wanted, needed.

Because I wanted him to have it, Ray thought sadly. Because I needed him
to have it. Because I love him. He turned from the mirror, studying the
broad, white back, remembering the feel, the taste of that skin,
satin-smooth and hot. The dark silky hair was rumpled and inviting; the
sleep-gentled profile was turned to him now, mouth open as if in search of
a kiss. A sweet, foolish ache tightened Doyle's insides and he stuffed his
hands into his pockets, lest he reach out with a caress that would be his
betrayal.

He was sure he had never said it. The three words would be the end of
everything, he knew. Bodie dropped a girl like a hot potato the instant
she said it. I love you. No, Ray had tried to say it in other ways. At
midnight Bodie had woken, hard again, needing again, and held his partner
tightly while Ray went down on him, minutes of delight before the
self-confident hands had lifted him around, spread him wide again.

On his back, knees bent into his chest, helpless, not even wanting to
resist. Ray tore his eyes from Bodie, catching sight of his twisted face
in the mirror. Not the expression of a man satisfied and at peace, he
observed with a strange, dislocated rationale. The expression was one of
misery and despair. In the cold blue light of day, the unbridled lust was
ugly, for there was no love to cushion it, rose-tint it, protect it from
the merciless ravages of reason.

Go, he told himself, leaving the bedroom without a sound. Behind him,
Bodie did not move a muscle, and he checked the time. It was just before
seven. The whole world was still drowsing, oblivious to its own problems,
lost in its pointless dreams. Tears prickled his eyes as he took the lift
down to the street and stood leaning on the bricking by the door. The
silver Capri was parked at the kerb, and his own car was in Chelsea. Ray
had intended to stay for lunch, perhaps for the day.

Taking what I can get, making the most of it? he demanded, in that moment
intensely disliking himself. He pushed away from the brickwork of Bodie's
building, hands in his pockets, his feet taking him toward the end of the
street where a taxi rank stood beside the cluster of restaurants and the
entertainment complex. There was always a taxi to be had. Who the hell
needed Bodie?

He cringed at the words as they fled through his mind, recognising them
for what they were. Defiance. He was trying to blame Bodie for the wreck
of his own life, and that was not fair. What had Bodie ever done? Seduced
him, wined and dined him, taken him to bed, and -

And used me, Doyle thought viciously, the anger directed at himself now. I
was the one that asked for it, I put myself in his bed, got up on my knees
and invited him to fuck me - is it his fault, because he did as he was
asked? But... But I never expected to love him. Never asked to fall in
love, never wanted it to happen.

A big, ugly diesel taxi was waiting on the rank, its driver reading a
lurid paperback, sunglasses shading his eyes against the beautiful day. It
was going to be hot again. Get on my bike after breakfast, Ray thought as
he slammed the door and the taxi pulled out. Ride out into the country,
swim, show my body a little sun... Can't. Christ, I've got bites and
bruises all over me, damn him. Damn me for going to bed with him when he's
had a few. Oh, Bodie. He closed his eyes to the lovely day, surrendering
to the tearing doubt and unhappiness, trying to puzzle his way to a
conclusion as the cab took him home.

Stay, and be used, take what he could get and loathe himself? Or run, find
someone else, try to forget what had happened, put it into the past, get
it out of his system?

The driver spoke to him twice before he was aware of it, and he handed the
man some notes, not waiting for change. He was tired and stiff, still
sore, but most of the pain was in his heart and there was no remedy for
it. Fingers clumsy, he got key into lock and took the lift up to his flat,
foregoing the stairs with a rueful smile... Not this morning. The door
banged shut, locks clicked into place, and he studied the insides of drawn
curtains, deciding to leave them drawn.

A bottle of Grouse stood on the silver tray, its cap still sealed, shot
glasses upturned beside it. The amber fluid sloshed into cut crystal and
burned across his gullet without being tasted. Waste of good whisky, he
thought in Cowley's burr as he poured a second glass. The spirit warmed
him, brought him a certain spurious, artificial glow. The second glass
went down more slowly and he savoured the taste of it, picking up the
bottle and carrying it to the settee. He heeled off his boots and threw
off his jacket, fluffing a pillow beneath his head and regarding the
bottle with a frown. Stupid to drink. Damned idiotic. Biggest mistake he
could make.

He poured another glass.

******

"He's armed," Jax said, gazing up at the derelict warehouse. And he's out
of his head on something. Speed, or horse, or something. God knows. He's
been in there over an hour, so he'll have found himself a nice little
shoot-hole - if we go in he'll drop us, one at a time."

Cowley squinted in the strong sunlight of late morning, his pale blue eyes
studying the frontage of the warehouse. It had been the property of a
furniture wholesaler, but before that it had stored toys, and the interior
was fitted out with a maze of scaffolding. A million shoot-holes. "We
could use gas," the CI5 controller said shrewdly.

The coloured agent nodded agreement. "It'd save bloodshed. Problem is,
that place is the size of Wembley bloody stadium, and none of us has a
clue where he is. We'd have to fill it with gas, and if we do that, it
becomes dangerous. People living right next door. Evacuate?"

"All that disturbance on a Sunday morning, for one little IRA gunman,"
Cowley mused. "Where is the radio van?"

"Should be here in half a jiff," Jax guessed, eyes on his watch. "Long
range mics - he twitches a muscle, we hear, we have him. The gas is coming
too, sir... Murph should be right behind the radio van."

In fact, Murphy was minutes ahead of the van, green pilot's glasses on his
nose, the keys to his black Capri in his hand, as he strode through the
knot of police and CI5 people, waving to Jax and the boss in greeting. He
had his jacket off, sleeves rolled up, shirt open to smooth, brown chest,
smiling as he made his way to his colleagues' side.

"Nice way to spend your Sunday," he quipped. "Nerve gas and mad gunmen.
Cute, no?"

"No," Jax said, disgusted by the good cheer, "And where else would you be?
No - let me guess. In church, right?"

"Singing like a bird in the boys' choir," ." Murphy affirmed with an
expression of pure innocence. "Er, sir, who is this nut with the gun?"

"We only have a sketchy description," Cowley said tersely, "but it could
be Tom Gaffney. Short, dark, square face, limp. He fluffed a job at a
restaurant on Pearce street; he was trying to put a bomb in the bins
against the side wall - shaped charge that would have demolished the whole
public section. A chef surprised him; he put two bullets into the lad and
ran for his life. A local bobby saw him, chased him here. Thank God the
man had sense enough not to go in after him."

Murphy frowned. "Gaffney. I know that name."

"So you should," the Scot said tartly. "We get notification when an IRA
agent is released from prison. Gaffney got out a month ago, after serving
nine years. Doyle was the officer who arrested him in 1971."

"The Terror of Stepney Green." Murphy smiled. "Bright lad, our Raymond,
what?"

"Nice of you to approve," Cowley said as he turned to watch the van pull
in on the other side of the police cordon. "The gas, I presume. Where has
the radio van got to?"

"There's a traffic snarl on the bridge," Murphy told him. "A wagon lost
its brakes, tipped its load. Canned peaches all over the road. I picked my
way through `em, but the van took the long way around." He basked in the
sun. "Oh, what's the hurry? It's a nice day. If we weren't here we'd only
be stuck back at the office filling out forms."

Cowley allowed an honest smile. "I'm glad to hear you enjoy your work."

The spectators were held back by a mob from the Met, and CI5 people and
vehicles had the old warehouse thoroughly cut off from the street. There
could be no possible escape for the IRA man, and it was in Cowley's mind
that a surrender was likely. He had a loud-hailer in the back of the red
Ford four-door, and on impulse fronted up to the warehouse, standing in
plain view of the gunman, consciously making a target of himself.

"Gaffney. We have the whole place cut off. Come on out of there, man - you
can't shoot your way out. We have gas, and we'll use it. Don't make it
harder for yourself. Come out now."

There was no reply, and Cowley had hardly expected one; he repeated the
whole message for the sake of thoroughness, and had turned away from the
building when a pane of glass splintered outward, razor-edged shards
littering the pavement. Jax, Murph and several police marksmen went down
into the cover of their vehicles, weapons out and levelled on the broken
window, but the IRA man was in concealment.

"It's CI5, isn't it?" The voice was hoarse, thick with the accent of the
Belfast gutters. The Falls Road district. It was Gaffney, no doubt about
it.

"Yes," Cowley answered, the loud-hailer against his mouth. "My name is
Cowley."

"I know who you bloody are!" There was the dangerous edge of hysteria in
Gaffney's voice.

"He's starting to come down," Jax guessed. "Idiot!"

"Drugs." Murphy asked, glancing at the other's brown face.

"Yup. Was so stoned he fluffed the restaurant job," Jax affirmed. "Plays
nicely into our mitts, though."

"Gaffney!" Cowley's amplified voice bounced back off the warehouse walls.
"Come out of there. We're willing to talk."

"Willing to talk shit," Gaffney shouted. "If you're CI5, you've got Doyle.
Ray Doyle. He works for you now, I know."

Cowley's brow tugged in a frown. "We haven't got him here. We can get him.
You want to talk to him?"

"Get him," Gaffney barked. "Get him right now. I know Ray Doyle - I'll
talk to `im."

"All right. Sit tight and wait, man." Cowley set the loud-hailer on the
long, red bonnet of his car and reached into an inside pocket for the R/T.
"Alpha to 4.5. Alpha to 4.5." There was no response, and he repeated the
message, louder; still, Doyle did not reply, and Cowley checked the sIS
issue radio for faults. There was plenty of battery power. "Where the hell
is he?"

It was not like Doyle to leave his R/T unattended, and Murphy said so.
"Give it a minute and try again," he shrugged. "He could have gone to the
loo for all we know."

But ten minutes later 4.5 was still not answering the call, and Cowley's
patience had worn thin. He waved Murphy to his car. "Go and see if you can
find him. If he's not at home, try 3.7's flat, he might be there."

"Sir." Murphy jogged back to the black Capri, slid in under the wheel and
started it, pulling out in reverse and swinging the 'pocket rocket' sports
car toward Chelsea. The snarl on the bridge had been cleared, and only the
occasional crushed tin of fruit attested to the disaster. He made good
time, driving fast with one eye on the time, and skidding the car in to
park between Ray's white Escort and the red Mini belonging to his
neighbour. If the car was here, Doyle probably was at home.

But Murphy leaned on the bell for a full minute, and still Doyle refused
to answer, and he was on the point of R/T-ing Base with a warning to
security that he was about to break in, when a drowsy voice over the
intercom demanded crustily, "Who the 'ell is it? Bodie, s'at you?"

"No, Murph." Murphy told him. "Jesus, Ray, it's midday! You still asleep?
Better wake up, old son. Duty calls."

"Oh. Come in, then," Doyle said quickly, and the door released, permitting
Murphy entry.

The flat was in semi-darkness, and the first task Murphy performed was to
throw open the drapes. Doyle was in the kitchen by that time, slamming the
fridge door and pouring orange juice. Murphy leaned on the door jamb,
frowning at him. "You look like hell, boyo. What kind of a night did you
have?"

"Bloody rough," Doyle admitted, "so shurrup."

In fact, Doyle looked like a walking corpse, and Murphy was concerned.
There was usually an air of life about Ray, a vitality that not even long
hours slogging through records could dampen. He had a zest for living that
was famous - or infamous, a manner that was magnetic. Face like a fallen
angel, body like a broadwalk hustler, a walk that would slay a nun in her
eighties, and a grin that made him look like a schoolboy caught with a
girlie magazine. Murphy had long been drawn to the fascination of Raymond
Doyle, had watched him, when the opportunity presented itself, since '76,
when he had been invited to join the squad, and had liked what he had
seen.

So what the hell had happened to Ray to turn that bubbly vivaciousness
into this pale, tight-faced character whose feet dragged and whose hands
shook on his glass? Murphy took a step closer, extending one hand to cup a
thin, sharp shoulder. "Hey, mate, you okay? You look ill. When you said
it'd been a rough night I thought you'd been ravin' it up. You look like
you've been *chucking* up. Sit down, will you!"

But Ray leaned against the chromed edge of the sink unit, declining a
seat. "I'll sit tomorrow," he said cryptically. The glass reached his lips
intact and he sipped at the cold juice, making a face. "So what's the
action?"

"Bloke called Gaffney. IRA bomb wallah, holed up in a warehouse over the
river. Wants to talk to you. But you don't look up to it, sunshine. Better
call the Cow, tell them to shoot it out and have done with it."

The glass hit the sink with a clatter and Doyle got moving. "No. I'm
fine."

"This is 'fine', is it." Murphy demanded. "Must stick around and see what
it looks like when you feel lousy." As Ray stepped past him, he caught a
whiff of whisky. "Hey, are you hung over? Sunday morning blues?"

"No, not hung over," Doyle said tiredly. "See? No red eyes, no headache,
all sparkly clear," he added acidly.

"There's whisky on your breath." Murphy pointed out in succinct tones.

"Hardly surprising." Doyle was on his way to the bathroom for his battery
razor. "I've been drinking."

Drinking - on a lovely Sunday morning? Murphy frowned deeply, following
Doyle to the bathroom door. The razor was not steady in his hands. "You're
not hung over, are you? You're half way bloody drunk!"

Drunk enough to be trapped between misery and anger. The green eyes glared
at Murphy. "Butt out, mate."

Murphy raised his hands as if at gunpoint. "Nothing to do with me, but
Cowley is going to be thrilled, and I haven't got time to sober you up.
Oh, *why*, Ray? What's got to you, to make you set out, deliberately, to
drink yourself into limbo on a beautiful Sunday morning?"

The twist of Doyle's features told many a truth, but he said nothing,
plying the razor over his jaw an inch at a time. Murphy's frown did not
lighten. Doyle was mid-way between drunk and sober - drunk enough to be
untrustworthy, sober enough to be still in the grips of whatever had
driven him to it. There was an air of - Murphy struggled to define it - an
air of hurt about him. That was it. Something about him that looked
bruised, bleeding inside.

It must be bad to drive him to a bottle of whisky first thing in the
morning on his first day off in weeks, and Murphy felt a sharp pang of
sympathetic pain, longing to see the old, bouncy Doyle he had come to
expect.

Ray changed into a clean shirt and jogging shoes, and his brown leather
jacket, sliding sunglasses onto his nose, his shoulders hunched as Murphy
shepherded him out of the flat. He scrunched down in the left of the black
Capri, glaring at his knees and not looking up until the car braked down
behind the police cordon. Murph killed the motor and touched his arm.

"You going to be okay?"

"Just peachy," Doyle said softly, one hand on the door, about to get out
of the car before he turned back for a moment, appreciating the other
man's honest concern. "Thanks."

"Any time." Murphy said, forcing a smile. "Listen. Stay out of Cowley's
way; if he's busy he may never notice. Or tell him you're coming down with
'flu. 'S what you look like."

"Compliments will get you everywhere," Ray quipped, and left the car, door
slamming behind him.

Cowley was going over a plan of the warehouse with Anson and Lucas and
barely looked up as Doyle and Murphy appeared. Ray found a loud-hailer
thrust into his hands and squinted at the warehouse, his vision playing
tricks, his head beginning to throb in the bright light. Wishing he was
miles away, he brought the device to his lips.

"Gaffney! You've got me here, so talk. I'm listening - Doyle, remember?"

Silence, and then: "Doyle? Out here where I can see you!"

Out in the open, in the line of fire. Ray's nerves were crawling and he
was aware of Murphy at his shoulder as he stepped around the red Ford.
"See me now?"

"Yeah, I see you." Gaffney was at the broken window; the sun caught the
gunmetal of a weapon. Blunt muzzle, deadly. "Want to talk to you face to
face. Get in here. Just you an' me."

"No." Murphy hissed the word into Ray's ear, one hand on his shoulder.
"Not in there, he's got a shoot hole - and you're drunk, old son. Tell him
no."

"This is close enough," Doyle told the IRA man. "I'm not that much of a
fool, Gaffney. Come in there - and be shot?"

"Face to face," Gaffney repeated. "Or no deal!"

"Deal?" Doyle demanded, one hand rubbing at his head in an effort to
dampen the throb. He glanced over his shoulder; Cowley was listening now,
all attention. "What kind of deal?"

"Information," Gaffney offered, his voice high and thin. "And I get out of
here. But only if you talk face to face - come on, Doyle, get in here!"

Doyle took a glance at Murphy's doubtful face and turned to the boss,
referring the whole matter to Cowley. The Scot was calculating the odds.
Murphy broke the strained silence. "If he goes in there, he's dead meat,
sir. Gaffney just got out after doing nine years, he's got a gun in his
hand, he's coming down hard, he's got a shoot hole made to order - and
you're going to give him the bloke who put him away, right in his sights?"

"Why, thank you, Murphy," Cowley said tartly. "For your information, I'm
about to do no such thing. Doyle, go over to the window, stand under it.
Throw the loud-hailer away; it might be close enough. Keep him talking.
We'll get a sharpshooter behind the vans; he'll show himself and he's
ours."

"You hope," Murphy breathed soundlessly.

The ground had begun to heave and Doyle was cursing himself. Drinking in
the morning was a fool's game. In fact, in his job, drinking with the
object in mind of drunken oblivion was always a fool's game, no matter
what the time. He steadied himself, one hand on Murphy's arm, and stepped
toward the warehouse.

"Ray?" The other man's voice was very quiet. "You're green to the gills,
mate."

"You don't say." Doyle swallowed. "Only got to keep this berk talking for
a minute or two, till they drop 'im. Be okay." Keep telling yourself that,
he thought bleakly as the ground pitched under his feet. He was armed, but
his fingers were like plasticine and his reflexes gone to hell. Nice way
to get yourself killed, Ray - nobody to blame but yourself... Wonder if
Bodie would miss me?

The gunman was at the window, standing in the shadows, and Doyle's tongue
was operating on automatic; he had no idea what he said, would never
remember what passed between them, and had lost all track of time. In
retrospect, only the cutting edge of his own stupidity would return to
him, and it came as a vast relief when one shot barked out across the
street, finding its target with professional accuracy.

He sagged back against the wall, his face shining with cold sweat, and
Murphy was there a moment later, taking his arm and propelling him back to
the cars. Cowley was absent - his voice was shouting in the background,
organising a clean-up squad to go in for the body, but Doyle was not
listening. He slid in on the left side of the black Capri and held his
head.

Murphy frowned at the hunched figure, only becoming aware of Cowley when
the Scot was at his left hand. "Sorry, sir, what was that?"

"I said, what is the matter with 4.5?"

"'Flu." Murphy lied smoothly. "He's been bad all night... permission to
take him home and pour aspirin into him, sir?"

"Aye, get out of here," Cowley assented. "It's over."

"I'm off duty at noon." Murphy added cheerfully, going through his pockets
for his keys.

"Then we'll see you tomorrow," Cowley said by way of dismissal as the
younger man slid into his car.

The journey back to Chelsea was an agony Murphy was glad he did not have
to share, and Doyle's first stop was the bathroom. The sounds of painful
retching and the sour smell of stale whisky came from the room, and Murphy
shook his head over the other man, searching for an antacid and finding
strong peppermints in the kitchen cabinet. Ray was green-grey and ill,
sitting on the side of his bed with his head in his hands. Murphy handed
him antacids, a glass of water and three aspirin capsules. "How about
coffee?"

"Black," Ray croaked, taking glass and tablets from him.

"Want to lie down?"

"Nah. Be in the kitchen in a sec."

"Take your time." Murphy said softly. "I'll get the coffee on... And then
you can tell me why."

Dull-eyed, Doyle watched him leave and sipped the water. Stupid thing to
do - drinking in the morning, on an empty stomach. He deserved everything
he got, and was just bloody lucky that he was still alive to be sick. If
the job had been any more dangerous, he could have been in a hole in the
ground with Bodie throwing dirt in after him. Bodie. Christ, the cause of
it all. He swallowed the aspirin and stood up, swallowing again as his
stomach heaved. The smell of coffee was difficult to tolerate, but he
could only be better with something hot inside him, and he slumped at the
table, taking a cup from Murphy's hand... Murph was waiting, but Ray was
not about to talk.

How the hell could you say a thing like that - oh, it's nothing much, I'm
just miserable because I'm in love with my partner, and I don't like it
much when he fucks me for the fun of it, then passes out on me like I'm a
one night stand --

"Ray." Murphy sat down on the other side of the table. "Come on, man, if
it's this bad, you have to tell someone! Why not me? I'm a good listener.
Don't try telling me it's nothing, because I know you better than that.
You're a live wire, takes a lot to get to you. So what is it? What hurts
this much?"

The unexpected insight and compassion hurt, and Ray knew his eyes were
flooding with useless tears. He scrubbed at them and sipped the coffee,
burning his mouth on it. The sharp pain helped him focus. "It's bad, but
it's personal."

"Physical?" Murphy asked. "You're not ill, are you?"

"No, not ill." Ray wriggled on the chair, his backside making its presence
felt, reminding him of what Bodie had done; twice. Not physical? A wave of
hysterical laughter threatened and he drowned it in coffee.

"A woman? Affair of the heart." Murphy pressed. "Oh, will you *tell* me,
for Chrissake! You're not going to shock me!"

"Aren't I?" Doyle muttered. "Don't be so bloody sure."

"You've joined a witch coven, and last night they all took turns to ravish
you while they summoned Old Nick," Murph guessed. "No? Your old dog walked
under a bus. No? Your Mum just told you your real dad was the plumber. No?
Oh, come on, Ray, whatever it is, you'll have to share it. It's ripping
you apart. You know me. These lips are sealed - like talking to a priest,
mate." He reached over, one hand on Ray's forearm. "So talk."

The green eyes focused on Murphy's hand, then rose slowly to meet
blue-green eyes. Rather beautiful eyes, he thought. He heaved in a breath,
let it out slowly. "Bodie."

"Bodie." Murphy echoed, clearly surprised. "You two have had a row? When -
you were thick as thieves yesterday."

"Not a row," Doyle whispered hoarsely. "He... I... Oh, Jesus. It's got
nothing to do with you!"

"Maybe not," Murphy agreed, "but you're going to tell me anyway. Aren't
you?"

The need to share it, to have someone else know and understand, was
consuming, and Doyle could not stop the words. "We've been lovers since
New Year, and it's killing me."

Silence. The tap was dripping; the kettle was on the simmer; Murphy heard
the sounds, but barely registered them. "You sleep together... And you
hate it, Ray?" Doyle did not answer. "He, um, he has you, does he?" The
green eyes closed and Doyle nodded. "And you don't like the sex?"

"It isn't the sex," Doyle said hoarsely. "I used to like it. I still do, I
suppose, or I wouldn't let him do it, but... "

"He fucks you?"

"Yeah. Ever been fucked?"

Silence, again, then Murphy astonished his companion with a brief chuckle.
"Once or twice. Long time ago. It's... a new experience, isn't it?"

"Was for me," Ray agreed, looking up at the other man with veiled
curiosity. "You bi?"

"Maybe." Murphy shrugged. "Doesn't matter. It's you we're talking about.
And Bodie. So if you don't mind the sex, what is it, Ray?"

"Bodie," Doyle said with a sad smile. "I fell in love with the stupid
bugger. I didn't even realise what I was doing till it was too late to
stop it... Going to bed with him used to be fun, didn't seem to matter
that he did it all to me - was just a bit of fun, you know?" His face
twisted.

"Now, it isn't as nice," Murphy guessed. "You feel - what, Ray? Used?"

"Feel like a whore," Doyle admitted. "Christ, last night, I dunno... It
could have been anyone, Murph. He didn't speak to me the second time,
didn't kiss me or anything. Just had me, like, if I'd argued he'd have...
"

"Raped you?"

The word brought Doyle back to the present with a start. "I dunno. Bodie's
a good bloke, but he thinks he owns me. And I'm not helping him see the
rubbish in that, am I? I just do what he says. For the sake of being with
him."

Silence followed, and Murphy ached at the bitter self-hatred he saw before
him. Used. A whore. Savage words Ray was using to flay himself. "Look," he
said at last, "if even one of you has the love, it's okay, isn't it?"

"Used to be," Doyle whispered, "but I'm so tired now. So weary of wanting
what I can't have. Christ, listen to me - whining like a bloody kid after
candy!"

Murphy got his feet under him. "You're exhausted, you're ill, and you're
going to bed. How's the gut now?"

"Okay." Doyle stood stiffly, hand in the small of his back, well aware
that Murphy would know exactly what was wrong, but beyond caring. "You can
leave me to it, Murph - be fine in the morning, really."

"Yap less, and get moving," Murphy said bluffly, following the smaller man
to the bedroom. Doyle just stood mutely by the bed, one hand on his head,
not even attempting to undress, and at length Murphy muttered an oath and
stepped into the room. "Useless today, aren't you, sunshine? Keep still
and old Uncle Mike will help."

"Uncle Mike?" An edge of curiosity lightened Doyle's tone.

"That's what the nephews call me," Murphy grinned. "It's my name -
Michael."

"Michael," Doyle echoed, trying out the sound of it and liking it. He
stood still as Murphy unbuttoned his shirt and lifted it off, too late
remembering the bruises.

"Christ." Murphy turned him to the window. "He's a ruddy man-eater! What's
he done to your nipples?" It was all too obvious what had been done.

"He gets a bit carried away when he's been drinking," Ray said
defensively. "He's not usually so rough. I shouldn't have gone with him -
's my own fault."

"Carried away - keen?" Murphy echoed. He pushed Doyle onto the bed,
pulling the jeans off him before he could protest, clucked over the
bruises on belly and hips and raised an eyebrow at him. "What about the
rest of it?"

"The rest of it?" Ray frowned, confused and light-headed although his
stomach was steady enough now.

"How rough was he?" Murphy elaborated huskily. "Don't you think you'd
better turn over and let me check it?"

"Used some Savlon stuff," Doyle muttered. "Be okay."

"Do yourself a favour and turn over." Murphy said sternly. "Come on - it
isn't something new you've invented, you know. I've been there myself. Not
bashful, are you, Ray?" He forced a smile. "Can't be bashful about a
gorgeous little body like this, can you?"

Doyle blinked owlishly. "Gorgeous? Really?"

"Well, yeah." Murphy affirmed. "Like Bodie tells you."

To his surprise, Doyle gave a harsh bark of laughter. "He jokes about a
lot. Skinny and hairy. Convenient." His face clouded. "Convenient like a
bloody whore. Only free."

"Hey, he was joking, like you said," Murphy said quickly. "If he didn't
think you were beautiful, why would he want you?"

"Didn't, when Sharon showed up," Ray slurred. "Took her to Paris." He
giggled, nearer asleep than awake. "Gay Pahree!"

Murphy took advantage of the mortal drowsiness, rolling him onto his belly
and yanking down the blue underwear. Doyle writhed in protest, token
squirms and inarticulate words. "Well, you're like liver, but you're not
bleeding." Murphy told him huskily, replacing the blue cotton and rolling
him back over. "But he steamrollered you, didn't he?"

"Been drinking, told you," Doyle murmured.

"Then, for Christ's sake, be careful! Don't bloody well go to bed with him
when he's had one too many!"

Abruptly, Doyle was awake, and startlingly sober. "Not going to be a next
time, Mike. Can't do it again. Won't."

The tone was decisive, the first decisive thing Ray had said all day, and
Murphy met the clouded green eyes levelly. "You sure?" He watched slender
fingers rub at nipples bitten sore. Doyle nodded. "Then why are you so
bloody unhappy, if you've made the big decision?"

"Because... " Doyle looked away. "Because I love him. Can't go on being
used, Mike, but I'm not going to stop loving him by magic. Shall probably
always love him, God help me."

They were silent for a long time. Ray studied the quilt on which he lay
and Murphy studied him, seeing a small, brown, supple body, a tangle of
red-brown curls, huge, sad eyes and a face that was - Murphy admitted a
truth he had always felt in an abstract way - almost unaccountably
beautiful. And so sad that it hurt. He reached out, taking Ray's hand and
squeezing it. "You poor little bugger."

To his surprise, a wry smile rewarded the remark. "I'm not, you know."

He blinked, still holding the slender hand. "Not what?"

"A bugger of any description. He never let me."

Surprise lowered Murphy's jaw. "What - since New Year?"

Ray nodded. "I used to ask, but he'd make a joke of it, said I was too
little to wrestle him down. As if it'd have to come to a fight before I
could have him. I stopped asking."

"And let him have you," Murphy concluded. "That's not exactly even given
and take, is it?"

"Never was," Doyle said philosophically. "Didn't expect it to be, after
the first few weeks. I know he has a lot of bad experiences in Africa
behind him. Reckon he might even have been raped. He just jokes about it
all. You can never get a plain answer out of him. It was okay at first,
didn't mind, because it was just fun. Then... " He shrugged, shoulders
whispering on the quilt. "My own stupid fault for falling in love with the
bastard. Should have more sense at my age."

"Should you?" Murphy smoothed back rumpled curls, finding them springy and
soft, liking the feel of them and so smoothing them again. To his surprise
and delight, Ray smiled under the caress and heaved a sigh.

"Anyway, it's all a bit academic now. Not going to be doing it any more.
Makes me feel too much like a hooker now. Prostituting my heart, if not my
body, and for what? Bruises! No, that's not fair. Usually he's quite nice
to me." He closed his eyes, fingers tightening on Murphy's. "You're not
shocked, Mike - thank Christ. Thought you'd belt me one."

"I'm chock-a-block with surprises." Murphy quipped. "Oh, relax, you
half-wit. I'm a man of the world; got the scars to prove it. Smile? Just a
little one? There, that feels better, doesn't it?" He cuffed the curly
head affectionately. "Mind if I raid your fridge? It's lunch time and I'm
starved."

"Be my guest," Ray slurred, almost asleep now. "Oh, and Mike... Thanks.
Mean that."

With those words he was sound asleep, and Murphy stood up. There was an
astonishing pain in him; it hurt to see Doyle like this, and Michael
Murphy admitted to himself there was a real, genuine affection for Bodie's
mercurial little partner in him... And an anger at Bodie. Fair enough - so
Bodie did not love him, that was no one's fault. No one could be *ordered*
to fall in love. But that was no reason to use, to take, to make a joke
out of something that had begun to hurt someone.

It was typical of Bodie. Big, fun-loving, hearty, joking Bodie. In love
with the world, and loved by it. Blind to its bad points, or forgiving of
them; taking everything that was offered and given to him as his just
desert. Including the gift of Ray Doyle's body. And Ray's heart?

The gift of Ray's heart was one he did not seem to want, so he blithely
ignored it. How often did he swap girlfriends? Often enough to prevent any
of them assuming there was any love at work. So why the hell, Murphy
wondered as he scrambled eggs and made toast, did Bodie continue to bed
Doyle?

The answer was obvious. They worked together and were friends, and the
coupling was just an act of friendship to Bodie. There was a gulf of
difference between sex and love, and Bodie had no use for the latter. Ray
wanted to be loved and instead was just getting fucked... So how would *I*
feel?" Murphy wondered as he ate. Disillusioned; miserable; tarnished.
Betrayed?

He washed the crockery and made tea, sipping it as he stood in the bedroom
doorway, watching Ray sleep. Betrayed? so he drank, and Murphy was
wondering how long Doyle had been drinking. Not long, or he would have
been showing the signs; surely- the likes of Cowley, Macklin, Crane, Ross,
were like hawks, waiting to stoop on such behaviour.

Christ, it could be doom to his career, Murphy realised; and all for what?
Because happy-go-lucky Bodie enjoyed sex of all kinds and just happened to
have a beautiful, willing friend who would spread his legs; because Bodie
had not discovered a need to be loved. Yet. It was sad, Murphy decided,
and what hurt worst of all was seeing Ray in pain, disillusioned and
betrayed by his wayward heart.

What he needed was someone to be kind, affectionate... I'm getting set to
do the rebound stunt? Murphy thought aridly. I'm getting ready to
scavenge, pick up the bits for my own coup collection? And what the hell
about it? I don't love him as he wants to be loved, but he doesn't love
*me*, so we're even. No lies, no illusions. What he needs is right here in
my hands...

He smiled, enjoying the sight of Doyle's body, clad in a scrap of blue
cotton, curled on its side, brown in the light from open windows. Oh yes;
making love would be easy; Murphy was already half hard just thinking
about it. And Ray needed it. Badly. Smiling, Murph left the bedroom,
closing the door.

There was a film on tv, an ancient '40s musical that passed the time away,
finishing at four. As the end titles went up Murphy heard the bathroom
door close and went to make more tea. The loo flushed and Doyle appeared,
clad in his red robe, rumpled and still drowsy.

"There," Murphy said, handing him a cup, "Wrap your laughing gear around
that. Hungry?"

"Not really," Doyle was surprised at his company. "Still here?"

"Not going to leave you when you're bad, am I?" Murphy demanded. He put a
hand on Ray's forehead. "You feel cool at least." The impersonal touch
became a caress, fingers threading through he curls at Doyle's nape. "See
if you can eat. Bickies?"

"Okay. There's a packet of ginger snaps in the box." Heavy-eyed, Ray sat
down in an armchair, watching Murphy go to the kitchen, returning with a
crumpled packet of biscuits and sitting on the chair arm. A ginger snap
was pressed into his fingers and he chewed on it mechanically, not looking
up until he felt a soft caress on his neck. "Mike?"

Murphy was smiling gently at him, the blue green eyes kind and warm. "You
know, you're beautiful when you're hung over. All heavy eyes... Oh, go on,
Ray - don't gape like a goldfish! Bet Bodie tells you such guff all the
time."

Surprise made Ray nearly drop his tea. "No - well, that is, it's all a
joke to him. He doesn't seem to care what I look like. Got a big, beaky
nose and pop-eyes, so he says. Doesn't seem important to him, so long as
he can have me mouth and me bum. I expect he stopped noticing what I look
like years ago, we've been together so long. If I was beautiful, he'd have
loved me. Maybe."

"So how come he doesn't love his droves of beautiful birds?" Murphy
demanded. "You're a twit, Ray. But you're a beautiful twit, I'll give you
that." As Ray blinked in astonishment he stooped to press a kiss to his
forehead. "Let me be kind to you. I like you, really like you, always did.
You don't love me, but I hope you *like* me, and - Ray, you need someone."

Doyle's voice was a husky whisper. "I know. Oh, Christ, Michael, I've been
so - so bloody lonely. You don't know what it's been like. Working with
him, wanting him, while he dates this girl and that girl, then, once a
week I'll get the royal summons and trot along, well trained, and climb
into bed like his personal, made-to-order catamite." He paused, clearing
his throat. "I'm not proud of what I've been doing."

"Stop hurting yourself." Murphy said softly. "There's only you knows about
your wounded pride. Bodie's a good lad, never set out to hurt you on
purpose, but you're too clever an actor, Ray. You've hidden it all, made
him think you're happy. If you'd blown your stack at him it might have
been different."

But Doyle shook his head. "You can't get angry with someone because they
don't love you. You chew yourself out for being a berk." He looked up at
the other man, managing a faint smile. "Feels better to *say* it."

"Knew it would." Murphy gave him a conspiratorial wink. "Will you let me
be kind to you?"

"Share my bed?" Ray asked quietly.

A candid nod, and Murphy's fingertips caressed soft lips.

"I... could use the company," Doyle admitted. "But I won't lie to you. I
love him - dumb, I know, but I do. What I need is a friend, someone to
*be* there. Reckon you can manage that?" He knew there was a ridiculously
hopeful note in his voice.

As he looked up again a kiss brushed his mouth, light, almost tickling,
warm, and inviting. The offer of comfort, of solace, was too good to be
refused, and Doyle responded with parted lips, a flick of his tongue."
Murphy lifted his head before it could deepen and smiled. "That was nice.
Always liked you, Ray."

"Always liked you," Ray admitted. "Never guessed you might have liked me
like *that* - but then, it was only New Year I found out about Bodie, and
how nice it can be with a bloke. You... want to stay tonight?"

His reply was a tousling of his hair, more affectionate and matey than
intimate.

"I'm..." The words were just a whisper, the green eyes cast down. "I'm too
sore for it tonight, Michael."

"You can have me." Murphy offered cheerfully. "I got to like it a few
years back. Or we'll do it another way. Lots of ways to enjoy each other.
Ray?"

Doyle was thoroughly taken aback. "I just assumed -

"That I'd be the same as his lordship?" The bigger man gave a bridled
guffaw. "Okay, I'd *like* to do you, if you wanted me to, but, Christ, not
when you're red raw! It'd do my delicate ego a power or good, I *don't*
think, if I finished the job and had you bleeding. Do me instead, eh? Oh,
Ray, I wish you could see your face!"

"What's the matter with it?" Doyle demanded.

"It's pink and gawping." Murphy chuckled. "Most kissable." He got up and
headed for the kitchen. "You're just about out of groceries, you know.
Fruit salad, toast and jam suit you?"

They ate the makeshift meal on the hearthrug, watching the News. Ray was
still too dazed by the turn of events to say much. He watched Murphy as
much as he watched the television, liking what he saw and forcibly
rejecting the absurd notion that he was betraying what he felt for Bodie
by turning to Michael... That was the very concept he had to get out of
his mind before he could begin to tack his life back into place.

They listened to music, since there was only drivel on the box; Mozart,
Beethoven, Max Bruch. Murphy had a taste for the classics that delighted
Doyle, since it was new and refreshing. Bodie's preference was for rock,
rock and more rock, the harder the better, and while Ray could delight in
noise and a brain-pulping beat too, given the occasion, there were times
when he wanted something different. Bodie tolerated classics; Murphy liked
them, and Doyle appreciated the difference.

Still feeling unwell, Ray headed for bed early, suddenly nervous,
self-conscious, very much aware of the other man on his heels. Murph was
bigger than Bodie, taller, heavier, and part of him was worried. He stood
still, letting the robe be taken from his shoulders, letting his body be
looked at, touched and admired. Murphy was a more vocal lover than Bodie;
when he liked something he said so.

Furry chests pleased him; the interplay of muscle down the back, long,
slim legs; the curve of soft, pliant buttocks. His hands were feathery,
tickling, and he made sure he had Doyle aroused before he touched hot,
stirring genitals. Ray caught his breath. It was odd, very odd. Bodie was
the only man he had ever known before, and this was - different.

There was a different smell about Murph, musky and clean, very male, very
nice, but unfamiliar. He was less possessive, more tentative, and Ray had
to smile. Even the first time, Bodie had acted as if he *knew* Doyle was
his, belonged to him by right. It had produced mixed responses in Ray; one
part of him gloried in the unthinking possession - it was like coming
home. But as he realised that it was just sex, the possessiveness took on
the aspect of domination, and it was less attractive.

This was a game, Ray saw that at once. Murph would *ask* before he
touched, eyes laughing, fingers teasing, inviting Ray to return the
touches. For fun, Doyle thought, nerves alight now. God, but Murphy was
*big*; he had to bend to kiss Ray's mouth when they were standing, and
when they lay down, and he was on top, Ray felt a moment's panic. Too much
weight, too much bulk. He got a rein on the baseless cowardice at once,
but Michael had seen it, and flicked his nose in admonition.

"Berk. Wakey, wakey, Ray, I'm not here to wrestle with you, am I? Up you
get then. Howzat - better now?"

He had lifted Doyle bodily onto his chest, and sprawled out beneath him,
knees raised to cradle him. Doyle's heart was running away, beating at his
ribs, and he laughed shakily. "Nice. Very. Hardly ever been on top before.
Bodie's a bit eager, you see. And he likes to wrestle - all a game, and he
always wins."

Murphy hid his frown in Doyle's tangled hair. Unwittingly, Doyle had
probably put his finger right on the truth. All a game. *The* Game.
Domination. Winner take all. And his partner, innocent and in love, was
the prey. Bodie was a good bloke, one of the best, Murphy realised... The
simple fact that the sex had not turned into rape or violence was the
proof of how much Bodie was in control of what he was doing.

Yet still he *had* to win, had to be on top, had to possess; and here was
Ray, flushed and carried away on a tide of delight because, eight months
after he had offered up his virginity he was actually lying on his lover's
body. What Doyle, in his awful, city-bred innocence, did not know, was
that he was up against the habits of a lifetime, up against the law of the
jungle; and it was a contest he would never win.

To win, he must demolish Bodie in a fight - impossible, not because it was
beyond Ray's skills and tenacity, but because he was in love with his
opponent and would draw the line at inflicting injury; or, Bodie must
change.

Possible? Murphy wondered... And there was no answer to that. Ray was
kissing his neck, rocking against him, small and sweet in his embrace, and
he lifted the tousled head to look at him. "Well? D'you want to?"

"Want to what?" Eyes half closed, Ray was still rocking his erection
against Murphy's. Speech was difficult, the words indistinct.

The fingers in the soft curls tightened, demanding proper attention.
"D'you want to put it in me?" Murphy asked succinctly.

That stopped Ray; he gasped in a breath, stiffening from head to foot, and
Murphy watched him fight not to come. He got back control with an effort
of will, eyes glassy, and nodded. "I want to, if it's all right. There's a
tube of stuff in the top drawer."

One long arm reached out for it, a battered tube of rich vitamin cream,
nearly empty. Murphy uncapped it with a grin. "And all of this has been
lavished on your little fanny?"

"S'what it was bought for," Ray said tautly, managing a little humour with
a great effort. "Um, turn over and let me see to you. Please, Michael."

"No need for 'please' and 'thank you', Ray." Murphy said bluffly, handing
him the tube and lifting him off so as to turn over and get his knees
under him. "But take it easy, if you can. It's been a few years for me and
I've tightened up a lot."

Doyle took the cream on his fingers and sat back on his heels to consider
the whole situation. Murph looked terribly tight, but Ray well knew how
one stretched, and he slipped gentle fingers in through the ring of
muscle, pampering his new lover as Bodie had so seldom allowed. Michael
was loving it - a stream of moans and curses, accompanying delicious
wriggles, assured the novice that he was right on track.

"Come on, Ray." Murphy breathed at last. "Fingers are all very well, but
can't you think of something better to use?"

And Ray had to admit, he could. He was surprised by a moment of pain as
his cock pressed inside, and Michael gave a grunt of discomfort, so he
stopped, regulating erratic breathing, and held still until Murphy writhed
and cursed him, telling to get on with it. All the way in, he stopped
again, knowing that he could not last long. It was too new, to
overwhelming. He rested on Michael's smooth back, gasping.

It was over when Murphy heaved up and back, trying to drive him deeper and
get some friction. It was too much, and Ray came with a hoarse cry, ears
ringing. Face pillowed on smooth white cotton, Murphy found a smile,
despite the pangs of frustration. The first time was always a toughie. Ray
would be a bloody good lover, once he had been allowed to learn the new
skill; the great gentleness he had managed, when he must have been on the
brink of losing control, was the guarantee of it. Michael held still,
waiting for Ray to stir, and when the smaller body moved away from him he
turned over, letting his lover see the taut, aching erection throbbing
against his belly.

The green eyes were dopy, but Ray had found his voice. "Christ, mate, I'm
sorry. Couldn't hold back. Tried to."

"S'okay." Murphy smiled. "Get your breath back."

"But I'm so sore," Doyle panted. "and you're so...

"Big." Murphy supplied. "Stop worrying. You've got hands, haven't you?"

Ray swallowed, smiling. "Spread 'em and make yourself comfortable, then,"
he suggested, and when Michael was spread-eagled before him he lay between
the long, muscular legs and put his head down.

Nobody, Murphy thought dizzily, minutes later, *nobody* gave head like
Ray. No bloody wonder Bodie had to have him so often. Generous, knowing,
uninhibited, Ray brought him to a high that was devastating and a climax
that ripped him in two. He knew he was yelling and did not care, and when
he floated back to proper awareness it was to find Doyle curled up on his
chest, watching him with drugged eyes, his mouth soft and swollen. Murphy
wanted that mouth, drawing the curly head down with leaden hands until
Doyle's tongue was slipping silkily through parted lips to meet his own,
tasting of -

Me, Murphy thought, smiling against Ray's open mouth. He broke the kiss to
show Doyle the smile. "God, you're fantastic."

"Could always make that good," Ray said a little smugly.

"Bet you sent him up like a rocket." Murphy panted. "Do the same for you
whenever you like."

"Will you?" Ray put his head down on a broad, muscular shoulder. "Mind if
we sleep now? I'm beat as a rug over a line."

"I'll bet," Michael chuckled. "Come on then, bonny lad, into bed. What
about the clock? Got to be at the office by - what, eight?"

"Mm," Ray mumbled. "S'already set, radio'll give us a blast at seven." He
yawned and turned onto his stomach, and Michael bestowed a soothing
massage to back and buttocks. "Was good, Mike. Was bloody marvellous. I'll
do better when I get used to it a bit... 'Night, mate."

"Sweet dreams." Murphy wished him honestly, pulling the sheets up over
their heads and putting out the lamp.

In the darkness, Ray's steady breathing tickled his left shoulder, but
Murphy's thoughts were on Bodie. Bodie had just lost a prize, a priceless
gift he had never properly valued; he could get it back if he was prepared
to *buy* it back, but if he had the right tender to pay for it Murphy did
not know. As he settled to sleep he was sure of only one thing.

There was going to be trouble. It was no one's fault - not Ray's, not
Bodie's, not his own; but that altered nothing. When Sergeant Bodie,
sometime mercenary and happy-go-loving partner, discovered that his prize
had gone, there would be *trouble*.

******

In the fluorescent lighting, the tea looked positively purple, but Bodie
was alone in the squad room, early at work for the first time in a year,
and, annoyingly, there was no one to grouse about it to. Ray would have
enjoyed the joke, made a meal of it, hammed it up, gone into the
instinctive double-act, and Bodie smiled. Ray Doyle was probably the only
real mate he had ever possessed. There had been colleagues, work mates,
even temporary partners of one sort and another, but if there was one
thing Bodie had never had before, it was a friend.

Five years with Ray had changed that. Now, it was beyond the scope of his
imagination to envisage life without that tousle-headed little
aggravation. And since New Year it had got even better. A warm sensation
made Bodie's nerves tingle as he thought back to that party -

Destiny, Ray, he thought, smiling at the empty room - Kismet. Friends
working well together on the job, and later, working together twice as
well behind closed doors. Ray was a hell of a mate; not every man would
come across that way; never an argument, as if he didn't understand the
meaning of the word 'no'. But then, that sexy little creature probably
*didn't*. He was something special, was Ray, always in there with a cheeky
grin, a ribald remark, bedroom eyes and a zest for fun. Bodie toasted his
partner in tea, chalking another mark up to Ray as he thought back to
Saturday night.

God, it had been good. Ray was there at every point along the way, giving
it everything he had, and when he lifted his rump he did it willingly,
filling his lover with a furnace-heat. Bodie closed his eyes, shivering a
little as he remembered... Husky moans, Ray coming too soon to take Bodie
with him, then spreading himself wide to let his lover have it all.

And I bloody took it, Bodie thought a fraction sheepishly. Twice. Bet the
little sod was as sore as God knows what next morning... Christ, ought to
apologise. Where the hell is he? He checked the time, finishing his tea.
Ray was late, which was unusual.

And he had been gone on Sunday morning, which was also unusual. Bodie's
brow crinkled in a moment's concern. Damn, I didn't hurt him, did I? No
blood on the sheets. Just so sore he couldn't sit still, then. He grinned,
swallowing a chuckle. Well, you gets what you pays for and you pays for
what you gets, and if the little raver wanted fucking, there's a price!

Bruised? The grin faded and Bodie leaned on the window ledge, looking down
into the carpark. If he *had* been bruised inside, he would have made
tracks for a doctor, first thing in the morning, as soon as he tried to
empty his bladder and found out he couldn't, or that it was terribly
difficult to -

Damn. Bodie chewed his lip, castigating himself for being so eager. He of
all people, who knew what it was like to be forced that hard, and pay the
penalties of failure. It was long in the past, but the pain and distress
were still sharp in his memory; and to think that he had done something
like that to his best friend stung.

Have to be more careful in future, he thought ruefully, and maybe make
*sure* Ray is okay. Damned fool thing to do, screwing him that hard a
second time, and then rolling over and going to sleep; selfish too, he
admitted. Not the kind of thing you did to your best mate.

Blame it on the booze. Booze always did make him a bit on the passionate
side, and regrettably careless of details.

The growl of an engine drew his attention, and he returned to the present
to watch the white Escort pull into the carpark below the squadroom
window. Ray squealed the tyres on the way into the slot and slammed the
door, walking slowly toward the doors, head down as if he were studying
the ground. Bodie bit his lip. Subdued? Under the weather? Oh, bloody
hell, I've hurt him. And the stupid little sod didn't say a bloody word!

He got moving, meeting his partner at the lift door with a grin of
greeting and shepherding him into the squad room. "You look a bit blue,
sunshine. Anything wrong?"

In fact the green eyes were shuttered, and Ray did not so much look at as
through him, even though the full mouth was smiling. "No, I'm just fine."

"So what happened to you, Sunday morning? Woke up and there you were,
gone!"

"Oh, that," Bony shoulder within brown leather gave a shallow shrug.
"Waited around for you to wake up, but I'd just remembered a million
chores at home that needed doing, and I didn't want to spoil your sleep.
Was going to ring you, but by the time I was finished working Murph was on
the doorstep and I was over the river, sweet-talking an IRA gunman. It's
all go, ain't it?"

"All go," Bodie agreed. He studied Doyle's averted face. He was pale, a
little drawn. "Was great Saturday night, mate."

"Yeah, terrific." Doyle turned away toward the tea.

"Bet you were sore," Bodie chortled, one palm going down to fondle the
inviting curve of buttocks in tight denim. He felt Ray jump and patted
him.

"Extremely," Doyle admitted, not turning about, and burying his nose in
his cup.

There was a long pause, and Bodie frowned at the back of his partner's
head. "You, er, were okay, weren't you?"

"Okay?" Ray echoed indifferently, fighting off a yawn. "How d'you mean?"

"Sunday morning," Bodie elaborated. "You were just sore - nothing else?"

"Just sore," Doyle said dismissively, moving away to gaze out of the
window, carefully not looking at Bodie.

Which made Bodie doubt the denial of whatever hurt. "Hey, if you had a
problem or two, I'm sorry. Was a bit rough, I know. Didn't mean to be,
but, hell, you were begging for it."

"Was I?" The words were a hushed whisper, and Ray did not turn back from
the window. "How, Bodie? How did I beg?"

Bodie frowned at him. "Post mortems are not you style. If it's good, it's
good, and that's the end of it."

"But what did I do to beg for it?" Doyle said softly. "I wasn't thinking
too straight, can't remember clearly."

Bodie padded up behind him, fondling him again. "You suck me like that and
then spread yourself, and you *know* what's going to happen, mate!"

"Oh." Doyle stepped away again, sipping at his tea. "Yes, of course. Silly
of me. Well, so long as you enjoyed it."

"You mean you didn't?" Bodie demanded. "You were yellin' like a whole
Apache war party when you came!"

A flush stained Doyle's cheeks. "Of course I enjoyed it. Wouldn't do it if
I didn't enjoy it, would I?"

"Don't reckon you would," Bodie snorted. "Worth a bit of soreness the next
day, right?"

"Right." The husky whisper was quieter than ever. "Bodie, why won't you
let me do it to you?"

Damn. Bodie swung away, back toward the tea. He knew Ray was going to
start that again one day. "Not my scene," he said gruffly. "Hail the
conquering hero. Heat my bosom like Tarzan, bowl the maidens over. And you
as well, right?"

"Oh, yeah," Doyle said, so softly Bodie had to strain to hear him. He
heaved an enormous breath, and Bodie watched him turn about at last, a
cheeky grin on his face. "There's a fantastic new bird in Computers. Seen
her yet? Long blond hair, legs like a racehorse and a figure like Venus."

"Vanessa Maxwell" Bodie grinned. "Saw her last week - asked her out, too."
He preened. "She fell on me, of course."

They all do," Doyle agreed drily. "Just hope she didn't break her neck. Or
something else vital. Where are you taking her? Ballet? Opera? Transport
Cafe?"

The jokes brought Bodie an enormous peace of mind, and he relaxed visibly.
Christ, business as usual. Doyle was okay, just a bit inclined to writhe
around in his seat and disappear at intervals to the gent's with a tube of
whatever. Very much relieved, Bodie slung an arm about his shoulders,
squeezing tightly. "Taking her to the garden party, that charity do on the
river. In aid of the RSPCA, yet. She's big on animal rights. Heart in the
right place.

"As well as all her other bits and pieces," Doyle added. "Well, have a
nice time, and tell me all the juicy details the next day."

"Juicy details?" Bodie demanded brows climbing.

"Yeah, you know. Hail the conquering hero. Want to hear about how she was
bowled over and begged for it, and you had her till she... "

For just a moment Bodie could have sworn there was a catch in Ray's voice,
but a sudden burst of coughing explained it, and he made a joke of it.
"You got a cold coming on?"

"Dust," Doyle explained lucidly. "Too much cleaning yesterday. Curtains,
floors, the lot. That's my bout of domesticity over with till end of next
year. Oh, no - I'm not cleaning your place, mush, so don't bloody ask!"

"Bribe you," Bodie said innocently.

"Oh yeah?" Doyle gave him a shrewd look. "What with?"

"What would you like?" Bodie asked, watching Doyle perch on the edge of
the table and move a little sideways, finding a comfortable position. He
bit off a chuckle.

"You," Ray said darkly, "so sore you can't sit down, and me, so exhausted
I can't stay awake."

Bodie heaved a sigh, hand on his heart. "You haven't forgiven me for
Saturday night, have you?"

"No, I bloody well have not!" Ray grinned. "My anatomy is very important
to me, believe it or not." He checked the time. "How would you like the
sack? Early to work, late on the job! Come on, Casanova, time to do some
work."

Business as usual, Bodie thought happily, managing to pinch Ray's behind
as they went through the door, enjoying the yelp of outrage and looking
forward to teasing him about his wriggling around in the car. No doubt
about it - Ray was the best mate a bloke could have. Co-operative,
fun-loving, and able to take a joke at his own expense with the best of
them. A real bloke, and worth a dozen other mates.

They were chasing IRA bombers, who were hard at work with the August
tourist season at its height, and the week went slowly, routine leg work,
following leads and getting nowhere fast.

On the social scene, Bodie did much better. Vanessa was a real doll.
Garden party on Tuesday, a few drinks and dinner on Wednesday, and he was
in a perfumed boudoir, smothered in her flowery scent, and flying her
high. She cooked him breakfast before work on Thursday and invited him
back the following night, and Bodie discovered her one true flaw... As a
cook, she was a good plumber. The food was terrible. Still, she had her
good points, and he was waiting for ten quiet minutes to regale his
inquisitive partner.

They were parked by the embankment, lunching on salad rolls and doughnuts,
and he launched into the blow-by-blow, giving an account of the prawn
cocktails and pink champagne, the saffron satin bed sheets, and the sweet,
feminine wiles that had seduced him.

Doyle toasted the story in Coke and shook his head. "You ought to have
been a bloody novelist."

"What's that mean? Every word was true!" Half of them had been true, but
Bodie was not about to admit to that. "Anyway, she's asked me home with
her again tonight... which leaves Friday for us. Fancy a night out, Ray?"

Doyle yawned animatedly. "Friday's no good for me. Got a big night out
planned. Going to the dogs."

"You certainly are," Bodie agreed innocently. "But what will you be doing
Friday?"

"Greyhound races," Doyle elaborated with a pained expression. "Been saving
a bob or two to lose." "

"Okay, what about Saturday?" Bodie suggested.

"Mm... Saturday's no good either. There's a new film opening at the Odeon
Leicester square, had the seats booked for a fortnight." Ray tipped back
his Coke, draining the tin.

"Busy social schedule you've got all of a sudden," Bodie said, watching
the movement of smooth, brown gullet as Doyle swallowed the frothy liquid.

"I'm in demand," Ray quipped.

"Well, there's always next week," Bodie said philosophically, crumpling up
his lunch wrapper. "Don't suppose you'll know if you have an appointment
time free for later... ?"

"Appointment," Ray chuckled. "That's nice. Give you an appointment to ram
your cock into me - omigod, that's rich!" Bodie surrendered to the humour,
starting the car. "Okay, we'll look at scheduling later."

It was Saturday afternoon before they got back to talking over their
plans, and Doyle subtracted himself from the casual gossip with a yawn and
a stretch, ambling out to records and leaving Bodie typing the afternoon's
report. Ray was busy on Monday night, Tuesday night, Bodie had Vanessa on
Wednesday and Thursday, and the Friday was too far in the future to be
tied up - unless he made an appointment.

An appointment, to ram his -

Damn. There was an itch, terminally unscratchable, that came over him when
he wanted a man's body. No, Bodie admitted with a moment's honest
astonishment, it was not a man's body he wanted. It was Ray's body. There
was a subtle difference there, but a difference all the same. Vanessa was
nice, very nice; and there were men by the dozen who would have been
friendly, if he had the urge to go out and cruise, but that was not what
he was itching for.

He was itching for Ray, and Ray was suddenly somewhere between indifferent
and too busy to be bothered. That was bloody funny. Ray was such a peppery
little sod that the offer of a wild night in the sack was like a kid being
offered candy. So why the hell was he being so standoffish all of a
sudden?

Unless that Saturday *had* hurt him, and he was too much of a mate to
admit to it. Bodie looked back over the days since, trying to put his
finger on any unusual behaviour. From his own unpleasant experience he
knew what it was like when one's body had been forced... A swollen,
bruised prostate, and life became a nuisance. But Ray had been absolutely
normal, not a word or a gesture out of place, so it could not be that.

Then it came to Bodie with a flash of inspiration. Christ, there was
someone else. He was seeing someone special. Maybe he was falling in love.
Damn! A grin of humour creased Bodie's face as he studied his partner on
the Friday afternoon as they rode back to Central in the white Escort.
Okay - put it to the test.

"Busy tonight, are you?"

"Yup," Ray said at once. "Going out to dinner, and then a show. 'Don't
Start Without Me'."

"Wouldn't dream of it, duckie. Someone special, is she?"

"She? she who?" Doyle was concentrating on the traffic.

"This mysterious bird who makes it bloody impossible for me to get you to
myself anymore."

A cheeky grin answered that. "Who says it's a bird?"

Bodie did a double-take, suddenly and inexplicably hurt. A bloke? Ray was
seeing a man? "Oh, stop joking about and tell me about her," he said
lightly. "Share and share alike, remember."

"I told you," Ray said indifferently. "It isn't a bird, and as for share
and share and all that rubbish - well, you'll have to talk to him about
that. Michael's body isn't mine to loan around."

"Michael?" Bodie demanded, sitting up and fixing Doyle's profile with a
steely look. "Michael who? Come on - you want me to do my gumshoe routine,
and find out myself?"

Tyres whistled on the road as Ray pulled up at the lights. The green eyes
glittered, angry, feline. "It's my life, Bodie - I'm warning you. I don't
dance to your tune! You follow me, or check up on me, and you'd better put
up your bloody dukes, because I'll come out fighting!" He calmed, the
words releasing the tensions in him. "And for your information, it's
Michael Patrick Murphy, our Murph. And if you want to make an appointment
to ram that eager cock of yours up *him*, you'll have to ask him yourself.
He doesn't belong to me."

There was silence then. Bodie closed his mouth and kept it closed all the
way back to the carpark at Central, because the only words he could think
of were lame, egocentric, half-baked protests. You have no right to be
seeing a man because I'm your working partner - if anybody's going to be
fucking you, it's going to be me - you're cheating on me!

Irrational, Bodie told himself heatedly. Bloody silly. If Murphy doesn't
belong to Ray, how can I say Ray belongs to me? He's just my mate, we're
not married! Jesus, what is there Murphy can do for him that I can't? Let
him - let him -

Oh, of course. Bodie pressed his lips together to hold the bitter
recriminations m, trying not to picture the two of them together. Naked,
on Ray's bed, mouths together, sweat glistening on them as Murphy screwed
hard into him -

No. Murph writhing under him, pliant and accepting, the small, slender,
brown body rocking slowly on him while Ray took him. Gently? Yes, Ray
would be gentle. Ray was Ray - wild and abandoned, but always careful,
always so tender. Always.

The Escort slid in to park and the motor stilled. In the sudden quiet
Bodie found words, quiet and cutting. "It means that much to you, to do
the screwing, does it? Murph lets you, I don't, so you'll go to him
instead. That it, Ray?"

Doyle's face whitened to the lips and his knuckles went away to bone on
the plastic of the steering wheel. For some moments he simply breathed,
and Bodie watched him fight the anger back under control. When he spoke,
it was in a serpentine hiss. "The only reason I'm not ripping you apart,
*mate*, is because I'd have to explain to George Cowley why I killed you,
and it's too private to have *him* in on it. You ever say that, or
anything like that, to me again, Bodie, and I walk, got it?"

"You've already walked," Bodie snarled. "It's been weeks, you haven't got
time for me anymore!"

"I work with you eight and ten hours a day, you bastard! The only thing
I'm not doing for you now is inviting you between my legs. What's this
about, Bodie? You think you own me, or something? You think you've got
exclusive rights to me?"

"No, but... " Bodie shrugged, searching for words; it was a long time
since he had seen Ray Doyle white with fury, and never yet had that rage
been directed at *him*. "What does he do for you that I can't? or didn't?
Except lift his ass for you?" he asked at last, knowing how lame it
sounded.

The reply began with a snort of bitter derision. "You know, I pity you,"
Doyle said, and there was a dreadful depth of sincerity in the words.
"Lift his ass for me. Let you fuck me. Screw Vanessa, screw me. Christ,
Bodie, is that all there is for you - sex? Nothing else? *Nothing*? It's
all you think about, all you plan for, all you ever seem to want." He
broke off the gasp in a breath that obviously hurt. "Fair enough - fuck to
your heart's content, but not me."

"Ray," Bodie said quickly, "I didn't mean it that way. I put my foot in
it, didn't I? I've really hurt you, but I didn't mean to, mate, honestly.
Of course it's your life, and if you want Murph, that's fine. You're free
as a bird, Ray, always have been. I'm sorry - I spoke out of turn.
Honestly."

The green eyes were glittering. Fury or grief, Bodie could no longer tell;
it was as if Doyle was a stranger, even his voice sounded odd. "Free? You
think so?" he asked, choked. "Oh, Bodie, who gets to do who doesn't matter
a damn to me, it's not that, never was. I -" And then he was gone,
slamming the car and hurrying away toward the lifts. Bodie sat where he
was in the passenger seat of the white Escort, staring after him, and
aching.

Murph. A man. Ray was seeing another man.

It had been the furthest thought from Bodie's head - it had never occurred
to him that Ray would turn to other men... Bruise on my ego? He demanded
of himself, brutally. A lesson in ruptured self-esteem; I can't satisfy
him, so he needs another lover? He rubbed his face, trying to stop the
aches that beset arms, chest, shoulders, the sudden, crippling tension.
Ray was making love with another man.

He can't! It's not right, he hasn't the right to!

Gibberish, he told himself icily. Ray is a grown man, over twenty-one. He
has the right to do what the hell he wants, with whoever he wants... So
why does it hurt?

Hurt and anger fuelled one another and Bodie slid out of the car, slamming
the door. Rationality was far from his thoughts as he transferred to his
own car, powering out onto the road and away.

If that was what Doyle wanted, he was welcome to it - in fact, he was
welcome to go to hell. So why did it hurt? Why was there an ache in
Bodie's gut that refused to abate, and no amount of alcohol or Vanessa
Maxwell would alleviate?

It was late that night, after an evening spent in solitude and discontent,
that he finally identified the look he had seen on Ray's face. That was
not fury; that was pain. A real gut-wrenching agony, tearing him to shreds
behind a facade of artificial anger. Typical of Doyle to conceal what he
was feeling - but *why*? Bodie lay, wide awake, staring at the ceiling,
replaying the painful scene over and over.

Each time, now, he saw the lines of stress and utter misery on his
partner's face, and each time, his prickling conscience took him back to
that Saturday night. A few drinks, a lot of kissing; Ray, pliant, silent,
willing, his body offered up without argument.

I was rough, I *know*, Bodie admitted, but he's a man, for Godsake, tough
as they come, he can take it. I'm sure I didn't hurt him that much. He was
at work a couple of days later so...

Not physical hurt then.

It came to him with a sudden stab of merciless understanding and he
groaned. "Oh, Jesus, is that what I've been doing? Oh, Ray... *Me*, of all
people, it has to be *me*, the one who spent a year hating everything and
everyone, because... "

Because they fought him down and beat him, and, as the vanquished, it was
his part in the festivities to strip and kneel and take it. Two of them,
eager, rough. There was physical pain, a price to be paid, a little blood,
bruises inside, making life a source of annoyance for days, though he
carried on as if he was in the best of health, too proud to let them know
they had the power to hurt him. The worst pain was not physical in any
case; it was the smarting burn of humiliation that haunted him all year
and could still haunt him, even now, a decade later.

Cautiously, clinically, he went back to Saturday again and replayed the
scene. Doyle, silent, unsmiling, accepting, his face drawn taut, his body
offered without a word, and plundered with only token gentleness, more
than once. 'You were begging for it'. Bodie remembered his words of Monday
morning with another groan. Begging to be taken, hard, twice. "Then I made
fun of him for being so sore," he whispered to the empty room, and could
have kicked himself. "Christ, you're an ungrateful bastard, Bodie - it's a
wonder he didn't... It's a wonder he's still on speaking terms." He rubbed
his face.

*Had* Ray been begging for it? The memories, hazed with a fever of desire,
were jumbled and unclear; he remembered husky cries, but to his now
repentant mind they could as easily have been cries of distress as
delight. Ray had gone down on him before being fucked again -

Hoping to suck me off and avoid being taken? Bodie heaved a breath into
aching lungs; how he had *needed* it, to be sheathed in tight heat,
glorying in the possession of male strength. "No... in *him*," Bodie
admitted, aloud, giving substance to the admission. "So I didn't ask,
didn't let him suck me, just picked him up and... " He scrubbed angrily at
his face, the fury directed at himself now. "Jesus, it's a wonder he
didn't kill me when I made a joke of it on Monday! Why the hell does he
keep on smiling?" In that moment, Bodie honestly wished Doyle had hauled
off and smashed in his teeth. They could have argued it out, got to the
truth, made apologies where necessary, and put it behind them. Now, after
their stony parting, Bodie's one great fear was that he had not just lost
his occasional lover, but lost his one real friend.

Knowing that sleep was impossible, he slid out of bed and went to make
tea. He could apologise - words were cheap. Too cheap. And would Ray even
want to listen?

******

The play had been wonderful, hilarious, but if Doyle had even smiled, let
alone raised a chuckle, Murphy was not aware of it. They returned to
Murphy's flat, which was closer to the theatre by miles, and Michael set
about supper, waiting for Ray to offer up the story. But he could make
shrewd guesses at what had Doyle so caught up in painful introspection. It
was stupid to love anyone that much. And tragic. The story came out
haltingly as they drank cocoa and ate shortbread, and Murphy shook his
head over Ray Doyle. So it had come to a confrontation, and it had gone
badly. As much as that was predictable. The green eyes were haunted at Ray
looked at him with the final confession. "Would have done no good to lie,
so I told him I'm spending time with you. He could have found out in a
dozen ways in two seconds, Mike. Better that it came from me. You mind?"

"Was the sensible thing to do," Murphy shrugged. "Now, if he wants to make
a fight out of it he has to make his own play - he wants you back, he
rolls the dice. With you, with me. Or he lets you go for the sake of
peace."

"Go?" Doyle propped his chin on one palm. "I've already gone! He knows I
won't climb into bed with him any more, but he thinks it's because I just
*have* to the one who gets on top. That's as far as he wants to see;
fucking is all there is, and if he won't let me, and you will, I'd sooner
sleep with you... In a way I pity him, I really do."

"Don't," Murphy said softly. "Bodie's as happy as a kid in a toy shop.
He's got everything he wants, Ray. He snaps his fingers, and any bird who
sees him leaps into bed with him. If that's what it takes to make Bodie
happy, fair enough. You're different - you're allowed to be. No law says
you have to be the same. Bodie is having the time of his life, sowing his
wild oats. Save your compassion for folks who need it."

Doyle saw the sense of that and nodded, finishing his cocoa in one swig.
"What really worries me is that after the stupid way I went on in the
carpark, I won't even have him as a friend. I bloody *knew* sleeping with
him was a mistake. Take a five year friendship and chuck it on the scrap
heap, and for what? So he can add my scalp to his collection!"

"Ah." Murphy sat down on the arm of Ray's chair, one arm about his
shoulders. "Well, you can talk it out, can't you? He can still listen to
reason, can't he?"

"Dunno," Doyle said honestly. "I blew up on him. I don't even know what I
said, but I've got a vicious tongue when I get angry enough - and I was
furious."

"You were hurt," Murphy argued. "What, humiliated?"

"Yeah." Ray rubbed his face. "Felt like a tart, trying to act like a
minister's brat, and caught in the stable with the groom. All innocent,
but who'll believe me?" He forced a shaky smile. "Christ, I'm tired."

"There's a cure for that," Murphy quipped softly. "Go to bed."

"Right. D'you mind if I stay over?" Ray asked, not looking up. "I don't
feel like making whoopee tonight, so I thought I'd ask first."

"Prat," Michael said, cuffing the curly head by his shoulder. "Go and
flake out, I'll lock up."

Sleep eluded Doyle and he lay awake, calling himself all kinds of fool.
Bodie had no idea what he had said, and had even tried to apologise. It
was not his fault if he liked sex, and that was all he wanted. So he could
be a little eager and rough when he had had a few to drink - Ray already
knew that, and had chosen to sleep with him that Saturday night... Not
Bodie's fault at all. He was, as Murphy had observed, simply sowing his
wild oats and having the time of his life. Every bloke's basic right.
Doyle turned onto his side, staring at the window, trying to formulate
something he could say to his partner when they met at work, something to
patch it up. He could apologise for the storm of temper; Bodie had always
accepted apologies in the past. Would he now? The weekend stretched out
before him like a wilderness. There was one sure way to get Bodie back as
a friend, but Doyle rejected it in the same moment as it occurred.
Spreading his legs for Bodie to use him was the biggest mistake he could
make; it would take friendship and reduce it to sex, take their easy-going
working relationship and reduce it to a round of submission and casual
domination. No doubt Bodie would thoroughly enjoy the winning, the
satisfaction of being in the driver's seat, and everything would be rosy.

If that was the price of Bodie's friendship, it was too high. Ray curled
up, going over and over the problem, and he was no nearer an answer when
the sky grew bright with dawn. Michael was still asleep; the sleep of the
blameless, Ray thought with wry humour, and he slipped silently out of bed
to shower and make breakfast. He sat in the kitchen, drinking coffee,
remembering the countless occasions when he had seen the dawn come up with
Bodie; relying on the support of friendship to see them through whatever
crisis.

What was this but one more crisis?

But this time, was there anything left to see them through it? Murphy
stirred at seven, singing in the shower before he attacked cereal and
toast, and Doyle sat frowning at the table, knowing that he was pathetic
company.

It was the third time Michael had framed the question, and he knew Ray had
not heard him clearly even now. "I said, do you want to go somewhere
today?"

"Oh. Not really, Mike," Doyle said, forcing this thoughts to order. "As a
matter of fact, I'd rather spend a bit of time on my own. Not going to be
thrilling company today."

"I'll run you back home," Murph offered. "Save you the price of a taxi."

"Thanks." Ray managed a smile, but the good humour was only surface deep,
and when he had the door shut on his own flat he let the pretence drop. He
stood in the riddle of the living room, seeing many jobs that should be
done but unable to find the energy to tackle them. As usual when he felt
low, he ate chocolate and sat staring at the gas heater. August was so
warm that it was not in use, but its artificial coals were the focus of
the hearth. He had been laid on the rug in front of it, in winter. Once,
the memory would have brought a smile.

The demanding jangle of the phone roused him with a shock, and he glanced
at the time; it was almost lunch time - probably Murph, trying to jolly
him out of the moody blues... Bloody good bloke was Murph. He heaved
himself to his feet and snatched up the phone, expecting to hear Michael's
cheerful voice, shaken and suddenly cold when Bodie spoke.

"Ray? Ray, are you there?"

It was long seconds more before he could reply, "Yeah."

Another silence, and then Bodie said quietly. "Have to talk to you. Can I
come over?"

Come over here? To the flat? Ray rubbed his face. "Uh, no. I'll meet you
somewhere." Couldn't face him here, not in here where he's had me - hearth
rug, settee, shower, bed.

"The Swan?" Bodie suggested. His voice was taut, Ray noticed absently.
Tight-strung. "Buy you a beer, mate."

Bodie? Overtures of comradeship? "Um, okay. Be there at twelve, Bodie.
That suit you?"

Stilted dialogue, unfamiliar, uncomfortable. "Fine," Bodie agreed. "I'll
be there. See you, Ray."

With a click the receiver went back into place and Doyle stood frowning at
the phone for a long time. Bodie had not sounded like himself. Coming down
with something? Had he been working all night - Cowley's surprise
commandments? Ray's mind went back to their blow-up. Jesus, not even
twenty-four hours ago! So maybe it bothered Bodie too.

Bothered him enough for him to make the first move. Roll the dice, Murphy
had said. Try to get his lover back. Or his friend? One way to find out,
Ray thought bleakly, getting his feet moving.

The Swan was a country pub on the river, old, white walled, mock-Tudor
woodwork, too many patrons thronging in the bar. The white Escort slid
into a slot vacated as a brown Norris with an overload of sticky children
pulled out, and Ray pocketed the keys, walking by Bodie's car on the way
to the open doors.

"Ray?"

Bodie's voice startled him and he spun to see his partner leaning on the
wall, two tankards in his hands. "'Ullo."

"Got here a few minutes ago," Bodie explained. "Saw you arrive and sent
the lass for a couple. Too crowded inside, but there's tables this way."

White steel tables with pink and white parasols. Ray slid into the patch
of shade and took a beer from Bodie's hand. All the arguments and
apologies he had rehearsed the night before had gone and he was left
fishing awkwardly for words. They were an elusive quarry, and to his
surprise it was Bodie who broke the strained silence.

"I owe you an apology... And you can consider it said," he offered in a
rueful tone. "See?" He bared his teeth. "I've still got 'em, and I'm
bloody lucky, I know. You should have knocked 'em out for me. Okay, I've
said it. Good enough?"

Doyle blinked at him. "What the hell are you on about?"

"About the way I climbed all over you," Bodie said with a sheepish smile.
"Dumb thing to do, I know. I could've really hurt you, and then I didn't
even ask if you were okay. I'm sorry, if I can help it I won't do it
again, and now I'd like to bury it and go back to normal. You're my best
mate, and that is what matters."

"Oh." Ray sipped at the lager, searching his turbulent feelings for some
common denominator he could use. Bodie was waiting and he ran his fingers
through his hair, leaning back against hot steel mesh to study his
partner... Hopeful, he saw. Repentant. Guardedly cheerful, as if Bodie
*knew* forgiveness was as simple as a smile and a kiss. "Bodie, what do
you want?"

"Told you," Bodie said evenly. "Want to go back to the way it was before.
You and me. Mates."

The breath Ray took caught in his throat. "I'll be your friend," he said
softly. "Always was your friend."

Bodie pantomimed a sigh of relief. "Terrific. How about I buy you lunch?
Can hire a boat, have a nice afternoon. I've bloody missed you lately.
Missed you at home, that is. Haven't had the chance to get you to myself
for ages." He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

"No." Ray shook his head. "I said I'll be your friend, Bodie, and that's
what I meant. The rest of it is over."

Bodie's expression darkened, but the anger Ray expected did not appear.
The blue eyes studied his glass, and Bodie chose his words with obvious
care. "I've really hurt you," he said softly.

"If you mean, was I like raw liver for a couple of days, yes, I was.
Outside of that, I was lucky. That time," Doyle said quietly. "That isn't
anything to do with it."

"I know," Bodie admitted. "Wounded pride is a painful injury, isn't it?
Got no one to blame but myself - ought to be bloody grateful, in fact." He
managed a lopsided smile. "If you'd resigned, or asked to be reteamed, to
get away from me, I couldn't have complained, not after the way I've
been... " He bit the words back and took a draught of lager. "All right...
Friends, are we?"

"Always were," Doyle said sadly. "But I can't -"

"Yeah, I know," Bodie said quickly. "My fault." A long pause, and then he
said, "er, Ray, are you and Murphy still - that is, are you going to go on
with him?"

A flare of defiant annoyance worried at Ray's innards, but he held his
tongue until he had examined both the query and the man sitting opposite
him. Bodie was tight-lipped and pale, holding in some awful emotion.
Jealous anger, Doyle assumed - it was no more than he had expected, and
that was not Bodie's fault either. Perfectly normal reaction to the
'theft' of one's lover. He chose words that were soothing, his tone calm.

"Mike's just a friend, Bodie. Just another friend."

"But you're sleeping with him."

"I used to sleep with you," Ray shrugged. "what are we but the best of
mates?"

"But - he - he fucks you," Bodie muttered.

"So did you," Ray said quietly. "What about it? It's just a friendly bit
of fun."

"But you don't come to bed with me," Bodie whispered.

"There's a difference," Doyle said levelly. "Murphy is not my partner. I
can see him after work without jeopardising my working relationship,
without busting up the best friendship I ever had. Bodie, sex isn't as
important as what we have. What we had, before we made the biggest mistake
of our career. We should never have done it, mate. Sex can't be a part of
this lob, it's ripping us apart. Making life a contest."

"A contest I have to win, is that right?" Bodie asked, sadly. "Don't
answer that. I've answered it myself about hundred times over, haven't I?
Then made a stupid joke out of it when you were uncomfortable, afterward,
Okay." He held up his hands as if at gunpoint. "I've been a berk and I
deserve this. If Murph makes you happy, go to it, old son."

The gift of freedom hurt more than the expected fight for it, and Ray's
guts twisted. Isn't he even going to *try* to get me back? Christ, is that
*all* I was, just a quick lay, sex on command, when he needed it hard, and
a bird would have squealed? Self-doubt turned into self-loathing,
concealed behind a smile.

"That's a relief. Glad you feel that way, Bodie. Makes it easier, doesn't
it? Back to work, the way it was, before. Hey, how did you go on with the
Maxwell woman? Bit of all right, that!" The patter covered his churning
nerves, but for the life of him he could not remember what Bodie had said
in reply.

They drank a second round and sent for a pub lunch, eating it on the
grassy bank of the river, and in retrospect all Ray could remember was the
shine of August sunshine on Bodie's dark, silky hair, the way his mouth
smiled, the laughing, relaxed tone of his voice - pleasure and agony in
one.

So it was over, as simple as that. Cards on the table, confessions,
admissions, apologies. A spur of the moment rationalisation - job before
sex, and back to the old way of things. Blistering repartee, lightning
reflexes, jokes and social drinking with the birds... And hunger, Ray
thought sadly. Hunger, when I want his mouth, his hands, and I can't -
Won't -ask. Because the price is too high and, goddamn it, I'm not a
bloody whore!

They parted company at four and by five Doyle was leaning on Murphy's
doorbell, waiting to be questioned, grateful when Michael asked nothing.
They went to bed instead, making love slowly and gently, just sucking each
other to satisfied oblivion. Later, held in big, strong arms, Ray went
against his usual form and dissected what he had felt. It had been an act
of friendship. The love that made being with Bodie painful had not been a
part of it, and he and Murphy had enjoyed each other as he and Bodie never
had. For Bodie, it was the winning that brought satisfaction, he was sure.
Having his 'little raver' of a partner squirming around, begging to be
fucked. Ray shivered, only just beginning to fully realise the woman's
instinctive fear, that with her surrender would be forfeited the respect
she commanded. 'Of course I'll respect you in the morning'.

Bodie still seemed to respect him, at least; that was something - and more
than he could have asked for. Once or twice he *had* begged for it, in the
very early days when the feeling was new and strange; after that? Bodie
did not seem to understand. Ray offered his mouth out of love, spread his
legs out of love, wanting Bodie to be fulfilled, as much as to be
fulfilled himself, because sometimes it was painful and there was always a
thread of sadness to mar the pleasure. Begging for it? Ray turned his face
into the angle of Murphy's shoulder, blinking back foolish tears.

Begging to be loved. Whimpering for affection. Making do with fucking
because Bodie had nothing else to give him, and from him only desired his
body. Fool, he told himself - absolute bloody raving lunatic. Too old for
this stupidity; deserve to be made into a clown. Learn from the mistakes.
Don't make them again.

Learning usually costs dearly.

******

Bodie had the phone in his hand before he was properly awake, peering at
his watch. It was five, and he had been asleep the odd hour or two. The
voice on the line belonged to Cowley and he forced himself to awareness.

"You're on," the Scot was saying. "The Liverpool set-up. McDonnough just
turned up dead in a backstreet rubbish bin, and we need another man who
has been properly briefed up there - *fast*. That's you, Bodie. You can be
there by noon if you get moving now. Drive up, and Smithson will be
waiting for you."

Bodie hung up, rolling out of bed and under an icy shower before he had
even begun to think. Smithson was on deep-cover, so far undercover that
for him to be blown would terminate the whole operation. Libyans training
operatives in the arts of bomb and gun, right under the noses of British
authority - funded by IRA money that had originated in America, then
sending the terrorists into countries such as Germany, France, Greece,
there to wreak havoc, run the Security services around in circles so that
the *real* trouble makers could be about their business, unnoticed.

Charlie McDonnough was an old Army man who knew the hard stuff and was a
natural, born recruit. Big, tough, uncouth - Or could be, when he had to
be. As could Bodie. And he was dead. Swearing beneath his breath, Bodie
slammed the door on his flat and stalked out to the car. Damn Cowley -
damn Fate, or whatever, or whoever worked out the timing. Today of all
days! Monday. Ray would be at work and this should have been their time of
reconciliation.

There was a Chance, a slim one, but a chance, that Ray could have been
sweet-talked all the way, not merely back into friendship, but into bed.
Having learned the hard way, Bodie was confident that he could make a
better go of it now. Accept the offer of that gorgeous mouth, let Ray suck
him, If that was what he preferred. Maybe even suck him now and then. Roll
him over and lie on him, just rock against him, let that be enough.
Christ, he thought belatedly, see to his comfort.

Too late? Murphy probably babied him, before and after - was that what Ray
wanted? It did not seem in character, Bodie puzzled. Ray was a *man*, not
there to be petted and spoiled and told how beautiful he was. He was
beautiful, but that was beside the point.

Yet he was with *Michael*. Bodie shifted savagely into third and put his
foot to the floor as he hit the motorway. So Michael spoiled him, and
Doyle lapped it up, wanted it? The notion should have been absurd, but
Bodie could not shake it off, as he could not shake off the image of the
two of them together. Bloody Murphy, just hanging around like a vulture,
waiting to scavenge on the spoils. The anger was fleeting but genuine, and
then he swallowed it, recognising the impotence of it. Both of them were
free men, what of it?

He was haunted by the picture he had of them, a mental image of two
perfect male bodies, carnally interlocked; one large, broad, pale, the
other slender, brown, lithe. He barely noticed the miles to Liverpool and
was snarled in traffic as he forced his mind back to the job.

Smithson was waiting for him at the rendezvous pace, a waterfront bar,
cheap, down at heel. The man was fronting as a recruiting officer, and the
cover was nothing less than perfect. Silver whiskers, glasses, roll necked
seaman's jersey, baggy jeans and a walking stick - Smithson's own father
would have had a hard time recognising him. He greeted Bodie as he
appeared, beckoning him to a table away from the door, under the covering
din of a juke box playing the Rolling Stones.

"Hello Bodie, you look like hell."'

"Thanks a whole heap," Bodie said sweetly, the sweetness of venom. "When's
the meeting?"

"I'm only a genius, not a ruddy magician," Smithson said with a grin. "Get
yourself a room. Cheap, Bodie, you're supposed to be on your beam ends,
ready to kill for bread, remember?"

"How long?" Bodie growled.

"Search me," Smithson said indifferently. "Could take a few days, a week.
Chin up, old horse, call it a holiday. Nothing to do and all day to do it
in. See you, sweets!" With that he was gone and Bodie was on his own
devices. A room in a hotel was his first priority; food and sleep. The
previous night had been rough, a muddle of memories - Ray, angry at him,
Ray, hurting behind that facade of carefree good humour, Ray, panting with
arousal, taking him in until Bodie was sheathed to the hilt in the
beautiful, tight little ass. The images haunted him again, denying bin
sleep, and he dared not resort to alcohol or pills.

The itch for a man's body was becoming stronger with each day. A *man's*
body, he told himself bleakly. Ray Doyle had nothing to do with it. He
tossed the night away, spent the morning ambling down the murky, begrimed
seafront, ogling the tourists, girls and boys in skimpy bikinis, their
charms not- so-innocently flaunted for one and all. At three he was back
at the bar, chewing on a greasy burger and washing it down with tea like
brown paint, waiting. Smithson did not show. He left at four, at a loose
end, kicking his heels in the sooty little motel room. Itching.

Doyle had nothing to do with it, he thought sourly, dining on fish and
chips and watching the television until the sheer brainlessness of the
programmes made it impossible to watch any more.

Well, if Doyle had nothing to do with it, the rest was easy. Abandoning
the motel room, he headed for an area of Liverpool once well known to him.
Sixteen years had changed the place, but the character of it was the same.
Dissolute, abandoned, inviting, with the siren-song of the forbidden.
Dusky alleys, flesh for sale, male and female, drugs and the kind of
pursuit that would get you jailed. If they caught you.

It had been the Ringo's Discotheque in the mid-60s, but the neon had all
been renewed. It was Studio '66 now, and the music beating out of it was
different. The steely, sounds of The Beatles, The Shadows, Freddy and The
Dreamers, were gone. Rod Stewart. Spandau Ballet. The Police. Abba. Bodie
took no interest in the music tonight, buying a beer and watching the
dancers instead.

It was like watching a cattle market in progress; girls in suffocating
jeans, boys in denim, leather, shirts open to display chest hair and
medallions. Bodie grinned into the beer. Eeny, Meeny, miney, moe -

Instinct and the unconscious desire to test out the notion that Doyle had
nothing to do with it led him to the lad with the gold earring, the
skin-tight leather trousers and boots. Brown curls and blue eyes, skin
like milk. Irish looks, he thought, not wanting to know a name to remember
the boy by.

"Can I buy you a beer?"

The man was older than he had thought; he could see a few laugh lines as
he turned to the light and smiled. "Yeah. You waiting for anyone?"

"No," Bodie said silkily. "You?"

The man offered his hand. "Richard."

"John," Bodie smiled, appreciating the firm, dry handshake and ushering
the younger man to a table away from the dance floor. Lingering eye
contact; conversation littered with intentional double-entendre. "Want to
get out of here?" Bodie asked at last, an hour after he had bought the
first beer."

There was a knowing grin on Richard's face. "Keen, are you, John?"

"Yeah." Bodie smiled seductively. "Like it that way? A bit keen and
eager?"

Richard winked and stood up. "My place or yours? I live just round the
corner, if you're interested."

But Bodie was not so trusting. "I've got a motel room; stay the night if
you want.'"

Twenty-five, twenty-six, he thought as he shepherded his prize back to the
motel, shut the door, and put on the light to see what he had won. Medium
height, slim, nice skin and hair. Inviting mouth. The kisses were nearer
to bites, the caresses rough, and Richard's body was like an eel, slippery
with perspiration and writhing in his grasp as he bit and clawed, raking
his nails over Bodie's back, leaving welts and brands everywhere. The near
violence excited Bodie and he replied in kind, cuffing Richard's head
not-quite hard, then smothering the protest with his mouth. Richard
clutched him tighter, fingers tugging at his hair.

Bruised, tasting blood, Bodie tried to turn him over; the younger man
fought, wrestling hard, and Bodie's blood sang as he remembered the
struggles of yesteryear and felt the thrill of victory begin to tingle in
his veins. Then Richard was on his knees on the floor, heaving as Bodie's
fingers probed him. He was slick already, full of KY; he had set out that
evening with the single thought in mind of being screwed hard, and Bodie
was pleased to oblige, ripping into him like a trip-hammer, until he was
screaming and heaving.

Exhausted, they curled up on the floor with the bedspread half over them,
and Bodie smelt the distinctive odour of pot as Richard dragged his
trousers over and hunted through the pockets. Offered a drag, he took it,
listening to the sudden buzz, feeling the lax-muscled, artificial
relaxation. Richard finished the battered old joint and passed out.

For Bodie the exhausted sleep was brief; it was two when he woke, stiff
from the floor, stinging from his scratches and bites, and filled with a
deep, gnawing disquiet. Barely conscious, he reached for the warm
reassurance of his bedmate. "Ray? C'mere, Ray."

A snore answered him and his nose was assaulted by unfamiliar scents.
Cheap aftershave, musk, pot. Oh, God. Not Ray. He woke up too fast,
sitting up and holding his head as a moment's dizziness assailed him. His
cock was sore, still swollen, and Richard was out cold, flat on his back,
his mouth open, snoring quietly.

No, not Ray at all. Bodie frowned at the stranger, seeing him as if for
the first time... Cruel mouth, thin and down-tugged at the corners. Lank
curls, permed and shorn fashionably short over the ears, which gave the
haircut a punkish look. Pale skin, not a muscle in sight, fluff on his
chest and his belly. Semen crusting his abdomen and the thatch of short
curls below. Unfamiliar genitals, just adequate. Square hands, soft and
unused, rings on half the fingers.

Christ, but Ray was beautiful. Bodie rubbed his face in unhappy confusion.
Ray had beautiful, springy hair, naturally curly, gloriously unshorn. And
a nose that was perfect; and that mouth. Generous mouth, loving. Nice
muscles, like steel under the brown velvet of his skin; soft pelt on his
chest, between nipples that were so sensitive that he would gasp if they
were even licked.

Bodie remembered biting then, making Ray's clench on his shoulders -
excitement, he has assumed at the time. Protest? Ray's hands, Bodie
thought, looking at Richard's short fingers, which wore too many cheap
rings. He squeezed his eyes shut, reaching for the illusion of Ray's
presence because the cheap motel and the man he had just fucked were too
near to everything he had tried to leave behind years before. Ray was
different; not just his lovely, welcoming body, that husky voice and the
smiling green eyes. Ray was no part of this - could never be.

Cheap hotel rooms on the Cape. Scrounging for money. Taking what he could
get where he could get it. Men, women, it had made no difference. Cheap
whisky, moonshine and hot, screwing around, wasting his life. No, Ray was
no part of all that. Thank God. Ray was... To Bodie's fuddled mind it was
painfully clear. Ray was home and hearth, nice things, clean sheets, long
kisses and sweet caresses. Lovely body, with its hard, springy muscles,
soft skin and nice smell, offered up for the taking. Loving - not fucking,
Bodie thought, looking down at the comatose form of Richard. Richard had
been a casual fuck - and, for what it had been, it had been good. Great.

Except it had not been what Bodie wanted. He realised the truth of that
too late, and abandoned any attempt at sleep, trying to shake Richard
awake. The stupid kid was out cold, and Bodie swore. No chance of getting
rid of him before morning. He picked him up, turned him over and peered at
the little fool's backside in the meagre lamplight. Slick with seeping
semen and lubricant, he was red raw, and Bodie swore again, realising two.
things.

One, Richard was going to hurt.

Two, Bodie had never bothered to look at Ray afterward to see if he was
hurt or not, and had made a big joke of it if Ray was so sore that he had
to attend to himself.

Big joke, Bodie thought sourly, heading for the shower - and the bloody
joke's on me. No wonder the poor little burger has had it up to *here*.
Right, Raymond, my boy - he turned on the water, icy cold, and stepped
under it, gasping for breath - when I get home we're going to have it out.
Michael Patrick Murphy and me. If he wants his teeth loosened I'm just the
lad to do it.

And this time, Ray, you can trust me. T'isn't a man I want in my bed; it's
you. Oh, you're a man all right; but more than that, you're my best mate.
My friend. Clean and freezing, he turned off the water and scrubbed
himself warm and dry with the threadbare towel provided by a thoughtful
management. Grim faced, he climbed into the bed, abandoning Richard to the
floor - which was probably where the little fool belonged. Glowering down
at him, Bodie found that he had to fight off a shudder. The act had been
vicious, and Richard had wanted it that way. Loved it, heaving and
screaming at him to do it harder when Bodie was already at flat chat,
using him without mercy.

Now Bodie did shudder, realising what he had done. He had gone right back
to the jungle.

And that was what he had foisted on Ray, one bleak, loveless and regretted
Saturday night. Ray, of the lovesome body and sweet good humour, laughing
it all off and then coming back as his friend after what must have been a
nightmare. Bodie snapped off the lamp and buried his face in the pillow,
thoroughly despising himself.

But it would be different. Murphy would step out of the way if he knew
what was good for him, Ray would come around with some sweet talking and a
few beers; and then it would be good, as it should be. Bodie took solace
in that thought, and found sleep at last. What Ray Doyle needed was a
mate, a friend who would see him right in *all* situations... And Bodie
was the one to fill that role. Ray knew that as well as he knew it
himself.

******

The squabbling of the young couple across the street broke the monotony of
stakeout work, but each shift was at least a century long, and Doyle spent
the last half of them with his eyes on his watch, waiting for his relief.
Murphy had the next shift, Jax the shift after that, McCabe the next, and
then it was his turn again. And the six hours he spent at work, watching
the shuttered Hutchins house, seemed infinitely longer than his eighteen
off-hours. Feet pounded up the stairs to the stakeout flat, and he glanced
at his wrist for the time again. "You're late," he said over his shoulder
as Murphy ambled in.

"Big deal, a whole ten minutes," Murphy shrugged. "And I've got a good
excuse. Brought lunch with me. Nosh here before you go. Haven't seen you
for days, mate. Starting to think you've deserted me. Greener pastures or
something? I know - it's that luscious Maxwell bird, the computer genius."

Ray looked away from the window with a smile. "Nah. Just want the time to
be alone, think, get my brain working. Worked out well, didn't it, Bodie
being sent undercover right *now*. With him out of the way I can get my
act together, get back in gear. Christ, get it all worked out before he's
back and breathing down my neck again!"

"Breathing -? You think he's going to push his luck?" Murphy was peeling
the greaseproof paper from a ham sandwich.

"Bound to," Doyle said tersely. "Bodie being Bodie. Look at it this way.
This is the first time he's been turned down since he was about four.
It'll be a point of honour with him."

They ate in silence for some time, and then Murph crooked a brow at his
mate. "And will you turn him down again?"

The green eyes shuttered as Ray immersed himself in the well of
introspection that had cocooned him for a week, since he had lunched with
Bodie by the river, and then Bodie had been sent to Liverpool. "Yeah.
What's the whole point of doing anything in this life, Michael? Fun. You
don't mind how much it costs, or how many knocks and scrapes you get, so
long as you're having the time of your life, am I right? But when it stops
being fun, the knocks and scrapes become just that - bruises and blood."
He paused, regarding his food cynically. "Take a good look at me, Mike.
I'm black and blue."

"Ray, don't punish yourself," Murphy said quietly. "You're on the way to
fixing it. You told him you're finished, and he can't *not* accept it,
unless he wants to - Christ, stake a claim on you!"

At last Doyle smiled. "Stake a claim? Like how?"

"Territoriality," Murphy grinned. "Solemn contract. Pact. He says he wants
you and agrees to terms."

But Doyle shook his head sadly. "Can't hand out orders to fall in love,
sunshine - doesn't work that way. He wants me body, and it's as simple as
that. He let me go in about ten minutes of double talk, at the pub. He
shrugged me off and told me I was free; it's not important to him, never
was. He's... A good bloke. The best. Loves life, does Bodie, and sex is
like a celebration of life. Fun and games. Was to me, I'll admit, until I
did that damned fool stunt. Fell in love with him." He bit into a
chocolate doughnut and chewed in silence, until the very quiet made him
look up.

The other man was frowning soberly at him. "You know, you can be quite a
backyard philosopher," Murphy observed. "Bodie, celebrating life,
revelling in being alive the only way he knows how... Being alive came to
mean a lot to him, in the old days, so he told me once. You had to fight
every day just to survive, so you crammed your every spare minute full of
whatever good things you could get. Best of food, best booze, the
occasional high, if you could get good stuff, sex." He took a pull at a
carton of iced coffee. "He brought that back to this country with him,
it's just a damned shame you got caught up in it."

"Is it?" Ray shrugged off the observation. "Nah. Give a thought to his
birds - think they don't fall for him? Let's see. About four a year, maybe
five, since I've known him, and multiply that by five years. That's a lot
of grief, Mike. They dote on him, they tell him they love him, and Bodie
runs a mile. That's probably why he's still interested in me; I never said
a word about it. Tried to tell him in little ways, without saying it, but
he never listened." His expression darkened as he thought back to the
interpretation Bodie had placed on his ways of saying his love. Begging to
be fucked, he had called it. It was sad. He shrugged away the dreary mood,
forcing a smile. "Lots of grief in the world, Mike, isn't there? This too
shall pass."

"Hope you're right," Murphy vowed. "Coming home with me tonight? There's a
film on telly, and I've got pizzas in the fridge. Want to watch Gene Kelly
and Cyd Charisse, and then go to bed and improvise a dance routine... ?"

Ray laughed, the first time he had laughed in so long. Bodie had been out
of his hair for a week, and already he had begun to see properly again.
"Yeah, why not. It's a date, Mike. I'll bring the beer."

"Great." Murphy leaned forward, planting a smacking kiss on Ray's
sweet-tasting mouth, tongue teasing inside for a moment. "Cor, you're a
treat, Ray. Could rip the clothes off you and kiss you all over, right
here and now; then you could have me on the floor."

"Cowley would *love* that," Ray chuckled, leaping away from the offered
temptation and reaching for his jacket. "You're a treat yourself, but I'd
like to keep my job, and there's a house full of bomb wallahs over yonder
that needs watching... Tonight, Mike. *Then* you can kiss me anywhere you
like."

"And you can have me on the floor," Murphy winked. "Or in bed. Or wherever
you fancy it."

He meant it, and Ray felt a surge of familiar, warm, real affection,
leaning down to kiss him again. "Thanks. And when you've got your breath
back, you can have me, too."

He fled with those words, not wanting to show Michael the lines of pain he
knew were etching about his eyes. Christ, why couldn't Bodie have been so
casually affectionate? Little things came to mean so much, when love
entered the picture. Casual affection would have done; the odd compliment,
pet names and give-and-take in bed, gentle laughter, even if it *was* in
the manner of a joke about the physical price one paid for the act. Oh,
Bodie would play about; in fact, he would play about too much. Pinch my
backside at work, Ray thought, as he jogged out to the car; put his hand
between my legs when he thought he could get away with it, get me going
and chuckle when I'm in a right state, then calmly proposition a bird.
Call me ugly and skinny and hairy, then ride me till I can't sit down and
don't know what to believe anymore. Damn!

******

The Liverpool job was a bloody dangerous one, he knew; progress reports
came through from Smithson every day, and in Ray's subconscious was the
form of terror that Bodie would go the same way as McDonnough. Bodie swore
he was immortal and indestructible, but the bravado would not have fooled
his poor old mother. Bodie was as human and as fallible as anyone - and
more than some. But he hid his shortcomings behind that wall of suavity,
showing the world a cool, cynical exterior that was like a suit of chain
mail.

The one thing he was really afraid of was that someone would one day get
inside that suit of armour, Ray was sure; which was why Bodie ran a mile
at the mention of love. Or was it simpler than that; was it just that he
had no use for love, could not give it in return, and grew jaded with any
one partner after a few weeks or months? Okay, a combination of both, Ray
allowed. He's not the loving kind, and he's got secrets to hide, and a
person on the inside he doesn't want to show. Even if he was as
uncomplicated as a country vicar, that wouldn't *have* to make him the
loving kind. Lots of people don't know how love, and, goddamn it, don't
want to learn how. Doesn't mean there's anything wrong with Bodie. Or me.

He was making excuses and rationalisations, he knew, but did not care.
Bodie was more than worth the double-talk.

Eight days after he disappeared to Liverpool, word came from Smithson that
he had been recruited to the cause, and then news of 3.7 became sketchier.
Smithson had little to do with the inside workings of the organisation, so
rarely saw Bodie. Ray was fretting; Murphy could say or do nothing to
help, and let him get through the time as best he could, thinking how much
worse it would have been if Bodie had loved his partner, and said as much,
welded them into a couple. Christ, such a 'marriage' would make this job
nearly impossible, and Cowley was, as usual, dead right, in the
non-fraternisation rule. Getting involved with your working mates was
stupid to the point of suicidal.

A fortnight, and Bodie was on the phone himself, calling from a pay phone
in a railway station, just a routine check-in, the first chance he had
been given to get out of the building. The job was coming to the boil fast
and would break soon. A week or ten days, Bodie guessed, and Cowley sent a
squad up to Liverpool to stand by on Smithson's orders, ready to swoop.

Doyle was in Cowley's office when the squad was named, and lifted a brow
at the boss. "Want me to go up there, sir?"

"No," Cowley said indifferently. "You're already on the McPherson case.
You're of more use to me here, Doyle. Bodie could be out in his
calculations - a week could become a month, and I can't have you sitting
on your duff in Liverpool till October!"

So dismissed, Ray returned to the routine work on which he had been
engaged since the Hutchins stakeout had ended with a whimper. Six assorted
terrorists taking fright and putting their hands up at the sight of a
dozen Uzis. Not that Doyle blamed them. The days were long and boring and
he was grateful to escape in the evening, spending much of his time alone
and the remainder of it with Murphy, who knew when to make jokes and when
to let Doyle ruminate in silence.

When it came, Smithson's call to glory took then all by surprise. It was
four in the morning when the job broke, and the Liverpool police would
never forget it. They would be cursing CI5 up hill and down dale, Ray
knew, talking about the 'thunder and lightning brigade'. No, CI5 was by no
means adored; but they were bloody effective. Bodie acquitted himself with
style, phoning Cowley by seven the same morning, a sketchy report that
preceded what promised to be a novel-like read and would take an afternoon
to complete, and Cowley was wearing a fat smile, infinitely satisfied, as
he reported to the listening Doyle, Jax and Lucas, that Bodie was
finished, pulling out of Liverpool, and would be in London by noon.

Doyle was off duty at noon, and engineered his shift so that he got away
early. No guts, he told himself wryly, and was not reluctant to admit it.
Paperwork would have Bodie tied up throughout the day, and then he would
probably be so knackered he would head for bed and sleep the clock around.
*Then* there would be a scene, and Ray was grateful for the opportunity to
get himself out of neutral, screw up his courage, and pin a mask in place.

He went home, occupying his hands with cooking, which always salved his
nerves, reminded him that, somewhere in the dark wood there lived real
people to whom an apricot pie, a chocolate cake and a vegetable casserole
were the high point of the day.

Murphy was off duty at four and phoned to ask if he wanted company, and
Ray declined with honest thanks for the offer. "I Just need a while to
myself," he explained. 'You know."

"Oh, I know," Michael said wisely. "And watch yourself... Bodie is back in
town."

"He'll make a bee line for Vanessa Maxwell," Doyle retorted. "The
bastard'll remember I exist in about a week's time."

"Um... yeah," Murphy said, clearly doubtful of that. "Okay lamb chop, I'll
see you tomorrow... And, Ray. If tile water gets too hot, you know where I
am."

"Thanks," Doyle said honestly. "Thursday night 's a date, Mike. Wolves
against Spurs through the magic of video, and us."

"Can hardly wait," Murphy quipped lasciviously, and hung up.

There was a paperback Ray had been wanting to read for months, and he
involved himself in it that afternoon, as the casserole simmered in the
oven, confident that the day belonged to him, that Bodie would finish the
work and fall into his own bed in search of nothing more strenuous than
ten hours of sleep. The buzz from the door brought him back to reality
with a start, and he tucked the paperback under his arm, answering it
without thinking.

Yeah, who is it?"

"Me." Only Bodie would identify himself with that arrogant
self-possession.

Heart giving a wayward leap, Ray bit his lip. "Okay, come on in." He put
the book aside, poured scotch and stood waiting. Steeling himself? There
was a rueful humour in him and he held tight to that. Three weeks'
separation and the reunion was like a trip to the dentist. Bodie's face
appeared around the door - smiling, cautious. Guardedly cheerful. God, so
bloody beautiful -

"Shall I throw my hat in first?"

"Nah, it's safe to come in," Ray said with a genuine smile, levelling his
voice. "Drink?"

"Ta." Bodie took the offered glass and sank into a chair. "You look
fighting fit. How's life?"

"Can't complain," Ray admitted, watching Bodie's face closely. "When did
you get in?"

"Had lunch at the office," Bodie told bin. "Cowley had to have the report,
pronto - started to think I was writing Gone With the Wind before I was
finished." He took a sip of scotch. "What's that I can smell?"

"Casserole. Cooking for me and the freezer... Have you eaten? Want to stay
for dinner?"

Bodie accorded him a self-assured smile. "Thought you'd never ask!"

"Then you can set the table," Ray said sternly. "There's beer in the
kitchen; fresh fruit for dessert, and if you don't like it, lump it."

The casserole was very good and Bodie toasted the chef. "Nice job. Should
try for this type of work - except you'd look ridiculous in the funny
hat."

"You're telling me," Ray agreed, beginning to relax et last. Over dinner
he had studied Bodie whenever he could do so without Bodie knowing he was
being watched, and the other man was absolutely at ease, nothing in his
way, face or voice suggesting that he was here for anything more than a
free meal and a bit of matey gossip. Christ, it was going to be okay. Ray
stretched, rubbing his flat stomach. "So tell me about the Liverpool job:
real miniature war, so I heard." He got to his feet, moving to the stereo
stack and selecting a tape. A little Mozart aided the digestion.

He had started the Eine Kleine Nachtmusik when he felt a light hand on his
shoulder, a kiss on the back of his neck. "Bodie, no." The denial was not
easy. Desire leapt through his body, betraying him utterly, leaving him
flushed and desolate. He stepped away, out of Bodie's reach, but Bodie
followed; gripping fingers dug into his upper arm.

"Ray, I'm not going to bite you," Bodie said quietly. "I've missed you...
Come on, mate. Forgive and forget, eh?"

"I have forgiven," Doyle said quickly, turning to face the hunter. "I've
forgiven everything. Now I want to *forget* the rest, Bodie. Friends.
That's all." He made it without gasping for breath, but it was not easy.
Bodie was playing the seducer tonight. Oh, so smooth, so debonair,
beautiful, predatory, and Ray was afraid, felt like running, lest he break
every resolution, and go to him. Hungry for kisses, he swung away in
search of a drink, pouring Scotch with hands that shook.

Bodie stood still in the middle of the room, watching, missing nothing,
not the shake of his partner's hands, not the wild, feral gleam in his
eyes. Not the noticeable swell at his groin. "You want me," he said
quietly.

"I want you to leave." The words were calm, steady. Sad. "Please, Bodie.
If that's what you came here for, I can't help."

"Won't," Bodie corrected.

"Have it your way. Makes no difference."

"You want me," Bodie repeated. "Think I'm blind?"

Doyle swung toward him. "Think with your brains instead of your balls,
just for once in your life! Think past tonight - think about tomorrow,
next week. The job, Bodie, *life*. The proper world out there, where we
can get chewed to bits if we don't act and react the way we always did.
This... this is no good. Sex? Oh, sure, it's *fun*. Bit of *fun*."

"Sure it's fun," Bodie agreed. "So, why the hell not? Oh, come on, Ray.
You turn on like a powerhouse, you love it. We're good together. Don't you
remember all those times?"

Ray remembered all too well. Mindless abandon, lust beyond reason; hail
the conquering hero, and himself the vanquished, pierced, possessed, like
a trapped animal with nowhere left to turn. He heaved a sigh. "I'm sorry,
Bodie, I just don't want to. There's a little thing called pride, and mine
is busted right now. I've got nothing left to give like that."

There was a long silence, and then Bodie could not bite back the words.
"And what have you got for Murph?" He saw Ray flinch, took a step toward
him and pulled up short again, seeing sudden tension in Ray's slight body.
"Ray, listen. I know I've been a bit arrogant and eager in the past, but
I've told you, I won't do it that way again. Hand on my heart. Going to
treat you like bone china in future."

The words were an unwitting mockery, and Ray closed his eyes, shutting out
Bodie's earnest face. "You'd be so, so gentle with me, would you? Take me
to bed and so, so gently screw me through it." Green eyes snapped open.
"Why, Bodie?"

Bodie shrugged. "I want you."

"*Why*, Bodie?"

"Why do I want you? Because you're my friend, I like you, and you've got
the cutest fanny on the squad."

"Because I'm convenient," Doyle concluded bitterly. "I'm always there when
you can't pull a bird to order. Or when you need to shove it up a *man*,
because it's fun having a man under you, bloody helpless. Turns you on to
win. Right? *Right*?"

Bodie had whitened a little at the too-astute observation, his lips
compressing into a tight line, and he was silent. Ray choked on the pain
in his chest. "I'm not your whore, Bodie, I'm not a convenient lay when
you can't do better, or when you need to win, or need it so hard a bird'd
scream rape." He gulped in a breath. "I didn't get into bed with you for
that."

The silence stretched on and on. Ray faced the drawn curtains, not daring
to look back, and Bodie stood rooted to the spot, seeing agony before him
and not knowing what to say or do. There was a deep, racking pain in his
own chest; it had always hurt to see Ray Doyle suffer, but to know he was
the cause of it made it a thousand times worse. It was the pain Ray was so
obviously trying to hide that reached him at last, banishing lust.

"You're hurting. Ray, what is it? Let me help."

The quiet words of genuine concern nearly finished Doyle. "There's nothing
anyone can do. Just push off, Bodie. I'll see you at work."

"But, Ray - "

"Please! Won't you just leave me *alone*?

His voice broke on the last word and Bodie withdrew without a sound. In
the sudden stillness of the room Ray sank to the hearthrug and pressed his
face into his hands. He was shaking, hating Bodie, hating himself, loving
Bodie so much it hurt, fearing his company, dreading the future. It would
be simpler if he just climbed into bed and let the bastard have him. At
least then there would be the solace of physical closeness, the gift of
kisses, caresses, shared climax, before Bodie slapped his backside,
laughed at him and went to sleep dreaming of the bird he was taking out
the next day.

"I can't," Ray told himself, hugging his aching chest. "I can't. Hurts too
much." Love became pain and then even the dream of love was over, broken,
ruined. Jesus, all he wants is sex with me - all he wants is my bum, and
to hell with the rest of me. I'm a fine court jester - I walked right into
this. Happy, are you, Ray? You made your bed, old son - get on and lie in
it.

Aching with a mortal weariness, he reached for the bottle of grouse and
considered its contents speculatively.

******

The street was fluoro-lit, cheerless, and Bodie sat in the car, staring
blindly at the sky. Ray had wanted him - a little fact like that could not
be hidden inside those skin-tight jeans. So the attraction was still there
- Bodie bit his lip in relief. But the senseless lust was spent; Ray was
thinking now, and his conclusions were frighteningly astute.

He's there for when I have to have a man. Because I have to win, winning
turns me on and sometimes birds are too easy. Everybody plays The Game,
and when you lose you learn a whole new regard for winning. He closed his
eyes, trying not to remember and failing. Winning came to mean more than
pleasure; it came to *be* pleasure. The thrill of victory. The law of the
jungle.

"Is that who I am?" Bodie whispered. "Soon as I turn on to a man, I hear
the call of the wild?"

Richard. But Richard had been a little animal, had wanted it that way, had
bitten and fought and scratched, and been so full of lubricating jelly
that Bodie had known in an instant what he wanted. And had given him it...
Ray wanted something different. Friendship, comfort, kindness - he had no
idea the jungle even existed.

Bodie started the car, unable to be still, driven by the memory of Richard
and what he had done. It had been a physical shock to see Ray tonight,
standing in the lamplight, his hair like a halo, face soft and smooth and
beautiful. Wanting made Bodie's guts churn. *Needing*. Not to bury himself
in the body he desired, but to make Ray smile, to make him happy again, to
banish whatever it was that was hurting him. Long kisses and practised
hands would soothe him, bring him slowly to pleasure. Bodie groaned,
'hearing' the husky little moans as Ray surged up toward release.

It was a sound he had not heard in five weeks, and the way things were
shaping up he would never hear it again. No - Ray was too adaptable a
creature to surrender for long to this mood. Whatever it was, he would
work it out, be his old self again, bouncy and good-natured. Ripe for
seduction... Please God, make it soon, Bodie prayed as he let himself into
his flat and reached for sleeping pills. Make it soon, because I want him
so much it's bloody crippling me!

The pills took twenty minutes to work, plunging him into an uneasy,
drugged sleep. He hated pills; they always brought with them discomfort,
disorientation, unwanted side-effects. Dreams.

He knew he was dreaming but it did not matter.

Blistering bushland. Angola. Sights and sounds never to be forgotten - the
rush of the wind in the tall grass, the far-off voice of crow and vulture,
the creak of rotting timber. Raucous laughter beckoned him; he was sure
they were gambling and drinking until he heard a solid *slap*, and
another, and then knew what they were doing.

Three of them, McMann, Pengelli and Kruger, had finally cornered some new,
raw recruit, and were breaking him in. Bodie grinned, sparing the poor,
dumb sod a moment's sympathy, even though it served the idiot right. If
you stepped on tacks you got your feet cut. Only big boys belonged in this
arena.

*Slap*. *Slap*. The leather belt was leaving its imprint from shoulders to
knees as the kid bent over, touching his toes as instructed, white ass
uplifted and spread, buttocks getting redder by the moment. Not half as
red as they would be when they were finished with him, Bodie thought, not
taking much real notice as he set about the overdue task of cleaning his
kit. The slaps stopped in a few more minutes and he watched the thin
figure pitch to its knees, not an inch of back or backside left white.
Pengelli went first, trousers down around his ankles, raping with gusto,
too excited to last long.

A muffled scream, a sob, and Bodie looked up; the voice sounded familiar.
He could not see the newcomer now, as McMann was having him, ramming into
the quivering body far all he was worth. Harsh sobs escaped the man, and
Bodie frowned; the voice was *too* familiar. Kruger went last, and the
sobs became a scream, thin and high, on and on, until there was a sudden
silence, and Bodie got moving.

The three victors were ignoring their prey now, their sport complete, and
no one took any notice as Bodie went to him. The body was still, he had
fainted; blood pulsed in a steady trickle from between his legs, and the
buggers had strapped him within an inch of his hide. It would be days
before he could sit or lie. Dust and blood caked on him, and Bodie turned
him over carefully to see his face.

As he saw it the shock lapped over his head, his vision dimming for one
hideous instant before he was on his knees, grief robbing him of even the
slightest coherent thought as he cradled the battered body. "Oh Christ,
Ray, not you, not for this - not you, love. Oh Jesus, Ray, I love you -
love you -"

The dream shattered like breaking glass and Bodie came awake with a hoarse
cry. His face was wet, the sheets sweat-soaked, his breath painful, his
body aching. "Dream," he told himself, barely a croak. "Dream... Ray... "
He gasped in a breath, in a blind instant understanding what it was Ray
wanted, needed, and what he wanted from Ray.

And sex was the least of it.

The night was a trial of sleeplessness and self-castigation, as his
malicious conscience dredged up every item it could find to punish him.
All the bad jokes at Doyle's expense, all the allegations of ugliness. The
times he had deliberately set out to arouse him at work, for the fun of
seeing him sweat it out. The times he had wrecked Ray's dates
deliberately, because he had been stood up himself and wanted carnal
company. Liz and Samantha had told Doyle they never wanted to see him
again after one bust-up too many, Bodie's fault, Bodie's fun.

And the worst of it was, it had *been* fun. It had been a bloody good
laugh to watch Ray with his balls tied in knots, aching for relief and
still at work, slaving away behind a typewriter. And watch him lose one
set of girlfriends and spend a small fortune to win another set. It had
been all kinds of fun to set him up, and Bodie squirmed as he remembered
the Soldier of Fortune convention in Paris, to which they had gone in
June. He had spread it about that Ray was gay and on the lookout for a
good, hard fuck. Nine of them tried it on with the poor sod before he woke
up to the joke and got his own back by spiking Bodie's drinks with an
effective liquid laxative that cost Bodie dearly for two days.

Still, it had been fun, all in the spirit of sibling rivalry... But the
rivalry followed them into the bedroom, and it was there that Bodie's
conscience found a wealth of events with which to torment him. Little
things. Ray liked to cuddle, but tickling and pinching had soon taught him
the error of that, and although he had laughed at the time, responding in
kind, Bodie was suddenly painfully aware of the fact that he had not tried
to solicit any cuddles again. In the early days he had tried to coax his
lover along with a knee between muscular thighs, clearly indicating that
he wanted to take from Bodie what Bodie had taken from him. They had
wrestled, and despite the laughter Ray had done everything short of hurt,
that night, to evade capture. It ended when Bodie got him in a
full-Nelson, arm wrenched up his back, and bent him over the old chest of
drawers, taking him until he cursed and howled. He had not laughed so much
then, and was a long time in the bathroom, creeping into bed when Bodie
was almost asleep. That was the last time he had wrestled in earnest,
after that -

Submissive, Bodie thought. Taking what he could get.

Until - 'I've got nothing left to give like that'.

The alarm clock roused him from the reverie and he rolled out of bed,
peering at himself in the bathroom mirror. He looked as if he had been on
the town. Dissolute. Hung over. Habit sent him to the shower; hot and cold
water, in turn, three times; a couple of aspirins, black coffee till it
was coming out of his ears, and several raw eggs for protein. He shaved
and used a lot of cologne, dressing and taking another look at the man in
the mirror. He passed muster; you had to look closely to see pinkish eyes
and blue smudges beneath them.

He was at work on time, meeting the lads at one of the Cow's endless
briefings and trusting Doyle to get it all down in note form, his eyes
following the slender, artistic fingers as they held pad and pencil.
Christ, what those fingers had done to him, in the past.

They were in the Escort, Ray driving, work so routine as to be
soul-destroying. Loose ends and top-level allegations that carried the
sullied taste of blackmail. Nothing like a scandal in the corridors of
power to get the press off its collective duff. Bodie was as silent as
Doyle, neither saying a word about the scene in Ray's flat the night
before; they went from place to place, acting out their roles like
automatons, each knowing the other was strung taut as piano wires, but
neither willing to precipitate a scene.

Slowly, slowly, the atmosphere between them eased, and as Bodie began to
relax, he spent the afternoon surreptitiously watching his partner.
Partner. After the manifest stupidities since New Year, he was bloody
lucky to still have one! Ray was a little pale, a little heavy eyed, had
obviously had no better night than Bodie, but he was calm and ostensibly
cheerful. Long, blue-black eyelashes, Bodie noticed. Odd, first thing in
the morning, they looked longer. He had never bothered to take any notice
before. His face, shaved only an hour or so ago, was so smooth. Smooth as
a boy's, even down around his jaw, where he could be deliciously prickly
after a long day. Bodie let his slitted eyes roam lower as Doyle drove. He
had a lovely neck, did Ray, slender, not a wrinkle on it. He was wearing
the white shirt today, under the lightest of cloth jackets, because the
weather was so warn. The sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, displaying
thinly muscled forearms, and he drove with one hand on the wheel and the
other resting on the floor shift, almost like a caress, fingers cupped
about the hard, plastic-tipped shaft in his palm. Damn. The autoerotic
imagery was hard to resist.

Long legs flexed as he changed lane, shifted gear and accelerated, and
Bodie switched his attention to the thighs that had so often spread for
him. Long, lean muscle; he knew the feel of it, hard beneath skin so soft.
Dark down, up at the tops; nestling genitals, finely formed but big,
especially astonishing when he was aroused.

Bodie averted his eyes, glancing up at the halo of curls, limned by
morning sunlight, teased into a tangle by the wind from the open window.
Soft as silk; springy with health, their colour a rich, chestnut brown,
just a little silver at the temples. Not grey, real, blinding silver that
shone in the sun like loose change. Drowsy after the sleepless night,
Bodie was not aware that he was smiling.

Pulling in at the kerb, Ray yawned and rubbed his chest, unconsciously
pulling open an extra button so that the white business shirt was open
almost to his waist. Made him look like a hustler, displaying his
maddening charms, and there was no way he could work for Cowley and dress
- or undress - like that... Pity, Bodie admitted. Because Ray had a
beautiful chest, just enough muscles, just enough hair, sweet little brown
nipples, begging to be touched, kissed. Suckled.

Then Doyle was moving, dispelling the peace of the short drive out to
Earl's Court, and Bodie forced his mind back to work. He followed Doyle
into an office block, stood with him at the lifts, participated in an
interview with an under-secretary with a florid face and broken nose, and
somehow managed to sound articulate while his insides were churning.
Christ, I love him. Love the way he stands; love the way he leans on the
filing cabinet; love the way he squints at the orange juice as if it's got
pips in it; love the way he digs through his pocket for the keys; and
scratches his head while he thinks; and jogs across between the traffic to
get a paper; and... everything.

Christ, I want him.

But beneath the veneer of matey cheer Ray was not at ease, and no one was
more aware of that than Bodie, who had become so ultra-sensitive to Ray's
moods and ways that if he was *thinking* about sneezing a handkerchief was
forthcoming. Ray was broadcasting signals. Look, but keep your hands off
me.

So Bodie looked, acknowledging the enormous irony of it... Taking what I
can get, he told himself sadly, watching the time creep around to five,
watching Ray sign out and greet Murphy with a grin, a wink, a
conspirational expression that left Bodie in no doubt. They would be
together, in bed, moving together with slow, gentle precision; gentleness
was what Ray seemed to want. How many times had be tried to soothe, to
slow the pace, to ease back the lust that haunted Bodie when he put his
hands on the body be desired. With a girl the gentleness was natural, but
with a man, the compunction was to wrestle and *take*.

At least, according to the law of the jungle, that was the compunction.
Bodie mentally kicked himself black and blue. Ray Doyle came from a big,
artistic family in Derby; he had run the wild side as a kid but been home
by midnight or his mum would have boxed his ears. He had been playing at
sex since he was fourteen, but city birds were gentle fare - and in any
case, the little girls and older women available to a fourteen year old
would have been, on the one hand, green as grass and a little afraid, and
on the other, beguiled by this teenage imp with the big green eyes...

Coddled, Bodie thought bitterly. Ray had been coddled in the family home;
coddled by his women while he grew up. Leaving the nest and going to art
school must have been a big step, and it was there, between sixteen and
eighteen, that he would have grown up properly - learned what life was
about. Not furtive liaisons with cradle robbers, not giggling behind the
bus shelter with girls his own age, and then brawling with other lads.

His years on the force had shown him the seamy side of life, Bodie knew;
but city-seamy and jungle prison camp-seamy were two different things. Ray
would have seen the after-effects of rape, not been a party to the actual
event. Not as the victor and, thank God, not as the vanquished. He
shuddered as his dream returned to haunt him, bringing with it the scenes
of his young life he wished he could forget.

He had played the Game, but to his credit he had never set out to injure.
He had to win the fight, there was no question of that, but, once it was
won and the newcomer blotted at his bloody nose and took his clothes off,
Bodie had never used a cane or belt, and there had always been a lick of
something - oil, grease, something to make it easier, so that the poor sod
suffered much more from the humiliation of being fucked with his face in
the dust than from the actual act.

Ray would have some vague, sketchy idea about all; he would have heard
stories, read about it. But he blithely overlooked it, as did most of the
populace. No sense dwelling on what one had no power to change. To him,
sex was fun and the ultimate pleasure, something that existed between
friends or people who loved one another. Pain was not part of it -

Or had never been, before, Bodie thought sourly as he watched Murphy and
Ray leave the office. *I* taught him about humiliation, aches and pains,
bites and bruises, wrestling, albeit for fun, until he was overcome and
screwed on his feet.

Christ, why didn't he just punch my teeth in and leave? Why would he keep
on coming to bed with me? Then he remembered the times when Doyle had
tried to slow it down, gentle him, wanting to cuddle and kiss. Wanting to
be close. Begging, in his own way, to be cherished.

So I fucked him, Bodie thought bleakly, then pinched him to get him back
to his own side of the bed, slapped his rump, told him he was a great lay,
laughed at him for being sore, and passed out on him... Great. Jesus, he
must hate my guts. Doesn't want to say so, because it'd sound like
whining, because he came to bed with me on his own decision. He'll have
heard the jokes. Weedy little fags who ask for it hard and, when they get
it, scream rape.

He went home alone, forgetting utterly about the date he had arranged with
Vanessa Maxwell; it was seven when she called him to demand explanations,
and he concocted a spur of the moment story about having eaten something
which had him chained to the loo: she bought it and he hung up, returning
to his blind study of the carpet.

It was like going right back to square one. Not just the beginning of
their new relationship as lovers, but right back to the start. Ray was not
his lover now; and he had the impression that friendship itself was
hanging by a thread... It was his own fault; Bodie accepted the blame
without batting an eyelid; and set out to formulate a plan to fix it.

First, back off. Don't touch him, even platonically. Scrounge everywhere
for jokes to get him laughing, keep him laughing, try to lay the
foundations of a new friendship. One that was deep enough, strong enough
to overcome to stupidities that had taken place between them. Let him get
to know that he was safe, that he was valued.

That he was beautiful. No more half-assed jokes that alluded to beaky
noses, pop-eyes and big mouths, hairy legs and big feet. That was the
quickest way to engender bitterness. 'Bodie the super-stud, fuck anything
with a hole in it, no matter what it looks like'. Or, worse, Bodie, picky
and choosy when it came to his women, doesn't give a toss what his men
look like, so long as they spread 'em and limp afterward. He shuddered at
the thought, half way convinced that this was what Ray thought.

******

Ray was relaxed and smiling the next morning; great night in bed, Bodie
observed, watching the lax-limbed, sleek, satisfied look of the man. He
was ready to laugh at a dozen new jokes, and the day went well. Bodie kept
his distance, watching, feasting his eyes, careful not to let Doyle knew
he was under observation. A newspaper made an excellent hide. They even
managed to argue amicably over the horse racing, and Bodie's spirits
lifted. Ray did not *seem* to hate his guts, so there was that tantalising
outside chance that the whole scheme would see fruition.

They were still out after the clan of IRA bombers, always one step behind
them, picking up the bits, and the work had begun to frustrate them,
preoccupy them. There were times when the preoccupation with the job
superseded all else, when they were so engrossed in the details that they
forgot what had gone wrong and reverted to type.

Hunched over a file folder, Ray was grumbling at length about their
inability to find a key witness. It was a sore spot for the whole
Department, and if Bodie had heard this grumble once he had heard it a
hundred times.

"Not having a bloody crystal ball, how do you expect to produce Harold
Hamblyn out of thin air?" he asked, shoving a cup of tea under Ray's nose.
Doyle took it, and before he could stop himself Bodie had ruffled the
curly hair. The breath snagged in his throat... Soft, silky, springy,
smelling of shampoo. Aching to hold and kiss, he forced a chuckle and
snatched the file out of Doyle's hands, burying his nose in it as if
nothing had happened and waiting for the storm to break.

Soft slurp of tea, creak of old springs. Bodie turned back to see his
partner sprawled on the leather couch, feet up, eyes closed, tea balanced
on his middle: relaxed. For all the awful hunger to touch him, the
satisfaction of seeing Doyle relaxed meant more, and Bodie decided to push
his luck. The September sun had been warm, a real Indian Summer, and in
the dimness of the squad room Ray was gypsy dark.

"Been showing yourself a little sun?" He asked lazily. A green eye glanced
at him and Ray sipped his tea. "Yeah. There's a cousin of Murph's who owns
a sixteen footer, keeps it up the river. Henley. Was out on the water all
last weekend."

"Shows," Bodie said, hiding his irrational twinges of stupid jealousy
behind a smile. "You're the colour of Napoleon brandy."

Suspecting an insult, Doyle peered at his forearms. "So?"

"So it looks nice," Bodie shrugged. "Nothing nicer than a lovely suntan,
is there?"

"Hark at who's talking," Ray laughed, sitting up. "You, white as the
abominable snowman. Mind you, you pay the price for sunbathing... Got
burned on Sunday. Back like a lobster."

"You were at work on Monday," Bodie observed, perching on the edge of the
table.

"Murph plastered me in that Betnovate stuff. Took the red out a bit, made
it half way livable-with. Mind you, it was a big nasty sitting down."

Bodie was guilty of gaping. "You sunburned your but?"

"Half of it," Doyle snickered, indulging in humour at his own expense.

Again, Bodie gaped, imagining one lily-white cheek and one rosy-red one.
"Which half?"

Doyle threw a sheaf of papers at him, guessing what he was thinking and
laughing again. "The top half! I went to sleep and didn't realise I'd
wriggled around till my shorts had worked down. Was red as a post box in a
two-inch stripe; bloody un- comfortable."

"Should have reported in sick," Bodie sailed, trying *not* to imagine
Doyle, asleep, stretched out on the deck in the sun with his shorts
wriggled that low. Some things were better left *un*imagined while at
work; time to daydream later. More than anything he wished he had been the
one whose cousin owned the boat; that he had been the one with the tube of
Betnovate handy; the one Ray trusted enough to ask for that kind of help.

Doyle was still laughing. "Call in sick, and have to tell the Cow about
it?" He threw his head back, exposing the brown, smooth plane of his neck
in unselfconscious mirth. "D'you know what he'd have done? The
disbelieving old sod would have had me drop my pants and bend over the
desk, like a kid up for a spanking, show him the lot!"

Bodie shivered at the odd image. "Ought to be more careful with the cutest
fanny in London," he said sadly.

Silence for a long moment; Doyle frowned, and when he spoke his voice was
very soft. "I must have improved a bit, then." At Bodie's raised brow he
explained, "a while ago you rated it the cutest on the squad. Best out of
about a hundred. You just rated it best out of about seventeen million."

Bodie shrugged. "Meant it. Call me a connoisseur."

Ray gave a ribald guffaw. "I know what to call you!"

Time passed with exaggerated delay; a week seemed like six months, and
Bodie stood Vanessa Maxwell up a second time, also accidentally. This
time, she tore him off a strip and gave him fair warning. There was an Air
France pilot longing to wine and dine her, and if Bodie did not get his
act together, she would bloody well let Lucky Louie have at it. The tone
in her voice was not play. She was out to *live*, Bodie knew; twenty-eight
years old, and out to pack ten years' worth of living into the next two,
before she turned thirty and had to become - respectable. The best of
food, drink, shows, lovers. She wanted to be shown a fine time, wooed and
son, for the outrageous fun of it. Vanessa wanted sex, lots of it, and
high quality.

Abruptly, Bodie was furious; the imperious tone in her voice made him feel
like a gigolo who had already had his money and had failed to come up with
the goods. He was not thinking - in retrospect he was astonished at his
own behaviour, but at the time there was only the anger. He told her to
give Louie a ring and tell him she was available, because Bodie was fed up
to his back teeth with the pantomime.

The phone was in its cradle and he was glowering at the wall when it
dawned on him that he had just blown his top because a perfectly innocent
person, out for good sex, had been viewing him as a means to that end.
Because, while good sex was its own reward, Bodie wanted more. To be
treated as a piece of meat was abruptly humiliating, and his mind went
right back to Ray. It was not Vanessa's fault she was not interested in
finding someone to love, any more than it had been his own fault, and the
anger was as futile as the torments of his conscience.

At work, he was satisfied that Doyle was relaxed with him now. Often, he
would broach a topic, get Ray onto his soapbox and leave him to it, let
him talk himself dry just for the pleasure of listening to him, of being
permitted to look at him openly. Child prostitution and kiddy porn got
Ray's goat; and pollution, and whale hunting, and the kangaroo cull; and
the rape of the environment, logging of redwoods, the Canadian seal cull.
Bodie shut up and listened, and dizzily admitted that he had learned a
thing or two. Then there were things that pleased him; vintage films,
veteran bikes and cars, French wine, the art of Japanese cooking, the
conservation of birds of prey, the paintings of Leonardo and Bellini, the
books of Joseph Conrad, Jack London and Rafael Sabatini. The music of
Sarasate and Saint Saens, Dvorak, and Bach.

The books demanded too much time, and Bodie read seldom in any case, but a
crawl of the more highbrow record shops turned up a violin concerto, a set
of Symphonic suites and an album of short pieces for chamber orchestra.
The Bach was beyond Bodie, too intricate, too abstruse, too irrelevant to
the world in which he lived and moved, but the Symphonic suites were
beguiling. They could have been written for a film. First, the
'Introduction And Rondo Capriccioso', then the 'Havanaise'. The stuff of
which daydreams - and wet dreams - were made.

Hesitant, tentative, he put the album on, lay down on the couch, and
closed his eyes, determined that if he could not like the music, he would
at least learn from it, get an insight into the way Ray Doyle's mind
worked... Ray's mind worked in some wonderful ways. The music was balmy,
like a late evening on a tropical beach, warm sand and nodding palm trees,
the moonlit waters of the Caribbean. He could see Ray, as he lay there,
buoyed aloft on the music. *See* him.

Blue in the moonlight, naked and smiling in invitation, one hand extended
in welcome. Starlight in his eyes, hair disorganised by the cool breeze
cool off the sea, soft and tangled, whispering on his face and neck. Long,
uncut. Soft sand under them as they lay down together; sweet taste of
Ray's mouth; tang of his sweat; soft velvet of his skin. The music brought
it all alive, the murmur of the sea, the beat of drums in the jungle-clad
hills, the moonlight on the water, the tide still, waiting to turn. Ray
beneath him, long legs curled about him, sighing in contentment as he
opened to his invader's gentle passion.

The stylus lifted and Bodie groaned; aroused, frustrated. It was a
fortnight since he had been with anyone at all, and six weeks since he had
been with Ray. There was an ache in his balls that seemed to reach his
knees and his heart, and he knew what he was going to do as soon as the
music finished.

The bed was lonely, the sheets cool, the noise from the street pervasive,
but he shut it all out, concentrating on the fantasy inspired by music
from a bygone age. for a few minutes, Ray loved him, wanted him, and was
happy with him.

The coming was nearly painful and although the physical tensions eased,
the ache in his chest persisted.

They were staking out a restaurant in Soho, where the upstairs flat was
suspected of being an IRA bolthole, and the weather had broken at last. It
was raining, the water sluicing over the windscreen, buying them privacy,
and Ray was yawning, almost asleep with boredom. His hands were playing
absently with a torn envelope, folding it this way and that, and Bodie was
watching the supple fingers, not the restaurant. He looked up at his
partner's face as the vast yawn captured him, and could not help a smile.

"Put your head back and doze if you want. I'll keep a weather-eye on the
place." Ray glanced at him in surprise and ran his fingers through his
hair. "You look shagged out," Bodie added. "Tough night?"

"Couldn't sleep," Ray admitted. "Cowley looked at me as if he thought I'd
been on he town! Was in my own bed, chastely alone and trying to read to
pass the time away."

Chastely alone, Bodie thought with a certain perverse satisfaction.
"Should have phoned up. I'd have been good for a gossip. Always enjoy a
chin-wag with you."

"At four in the morning?" Ray demanded. "come off it, Bodie. I've slept
with you often enough to know you're dead to the world at that time."

A matter-of-fact statement; nothing in it, one way or the other. Bodie
shrugged. "I haven't been sleeping lately; you could have called at four.
I was drinking tea and watching Ma and Pa Kettle." He answered Ray's gape
with a wry nod. "'The Egg and I'. Not a bad film, if you can't get to
sleep and don't like talking to the furniture." He allowed a smile. "How
about a game of Monopoly? Poker? Scrabble? We can try having insomnia
together, see if it's any less irksome that way."

A long silence ensued, and then Ray said quietly. "Play board games and
drink tea?" There was a disbelieving note in his voice. "Pull the other
one, Bodie."

Bodie sighed, and let Ray hear it. "You're going to be punishing me for
the next year, aren't you? Okay, I'll be honest. I *do* fancy you. I'd be
blind and dead from the neck in all directions not to. You're beautiful -
what's not to fancy?" He saw Ray's double take and grinned cheekily.
"Bashful?"

"Stunned speechless is more like it," Ray retorted. "You gone off your
chump? Or d'you need glasses these days? Few short weeks ago you told me I
had eyes like gobstoppers and a shnoz like Cyrano de-Vhatsisname."'

"I was joking," Bodie said dismissively, disguising the flush of
embarrassment by yawning and scratching. "Can't a bloke joke about a bit?"

"Be my guest," Doyle said indifferently.

"But just now and then it's politic to tell the truth," Bodie amended.
"And I'm not going to lie... I do fancy you. And you've got beautiful
eyes, if you want the whole confession. And the nose is bloody perfect.
And the mouth is enough to send Sister Anna into a spin. Okay?"

Stunned speechless, Doyle said nothing for a long, long time, and then he
found his voice with quiet words. "I've told you once already, Bodie. I'm
not interested in that anymore."

Murphy's name leapt to Bodie's lips and was bitten back; ardent promises
of gentleness were bitten back also, because he could see no single reason
why Doyle should believe a word of it. A tongue-tied litany of love was
swallowed whole, out of utter cowardice. If Ray mocked him - or worse
still, assumed he was being mocked, and lashed out in anger or hurt -
Bodie would run and keep running. Resignation. Jobs overseas. Anything to
get away, to begin to heal and forget. The price of Ray's disbelief and
retaliation was too desperately high.

Instead, he answered Ray's reiteration of his feelings with an accepting,
comradely silence, and that seemed to please Ray more than anything he
could have said. Moments later, he was yawning again, and then said
drowsily, "If you meant it, I will kip for a bit. I'm bushed."

"Course I meant it," Bodie said softly. "Go on." And Ray must have
relearned to trust, he decided, because he leaned back, closed his eyes,
and was dozing in moments. Bodie divided his attention between the
restaurant and the man sitting beside him. Well, I've said it, he thought,
a little satisfaction warming him. I came out with it, told him I still
fancy him, told him he's beautiful... And he didn't hit me, didn't fight,
didn't get angry. He feels safe enough to go to sleep right beside me. It
was a start.

******

Michael was absolutely still for minutes; Ray could hear the deep, even
breaths, a whisper in his ear. It was a way he had of making it last a
long time, and it was fantastic. They made sure they were especially
comfortable, absolutely at rest, and not open to cramp, with pillows
beneath Ray's stomach to prop him up a little and a pillow to either side
to make it easier for Michael to hold the weight of his upper body on his
elbows so Ray could breathe comfortably. Lots of Doyle's favourite vitamin
cream, a deep, deep massage performed by long, careful fingers until he
was utterly relaxed, able to accept Murphy to the hilt. Michael, being of
greater stature than Bodie, was bigger, and that had worried Ray a little
at first:

When Bodie filled him, it was suffocating, and it had been weeks before he
had had the nerve to allow Murphy to do it. Michael had guessed the
problem accurately. With Bodie, he had been tense, perhaps fearing pain,
perhaps, even subconsciously, resenting what was happening, because it was
so one-sided. An hour's foreplay and a lot of trust had solved the
problem, and now, they lay still, breathing carefully so as to make it
last and last.

With his cock pressed into the pillows and his neck and shoulders pampered
with many kisses and licks, Roy was at peace. It was a transitory,
spurious peace, a relinquishing of his struggles for a time, giving
himself up to the care of another. It was what he had wanted from Bodie,
what he wanted to *give* Bodie, on occasion, when he was permitted to.
Michael was very big and hot inside of him; he could feel every throb and
twitch, and smiled, wriggling to rub himself against the pillows under him
and get some friction inside.

As he moved, Murphy's breathing rhythm broke and he heaved a groan, biting
Ray's shoulder in admonition. "Keep still, if you can. We're good for ages
yet."

"Mmmm," Ray breathed into the pillows, eyes closed, mind floating as his
innards churned with the wonderful sensations, a minute or so from climax,
suspended there, lapped in the helpless delight of it.

It was Michael who had to move at last, as his legs began to protest, and
he stirred, sliding to and fro slowly. Ray let his hips lift, rotate,
gasping as the pressure shifted inside. Then a large, warm hand wriggled
in between belly and pillows to hold him, and it was downhill all the way
to a climax that was slow and exquisite.

Michael withdrew and checked him with light fingertips, muttered an
endearment, kissed the middle of his back and lifted him into an embrace.
Ray was just returning to proper awareness, and wanted to be kissed as he
lay on the smooth, broad chest. Murphy lavished kisses all over his face,
finally taking the offered lips.

"Was lovely," Ray yawned, settling to doze.

"It's always lovely," Michael agreed. "Come on, bonny lad, off you go to
the loo before you doze off. Ray!"

"All right, I'm goin'," Doyle smiled, somehow getting to his feet and
stretching luxuriously. A trickle at his thigh reminded him of where he
was going, and he padded away while Michael set about tidying up the bed.
Damp pillowcase for the washer, he thought, smiling drowsily. The one with
the blue flowers embroiderdd on the corner - crackle of plastic beneath
it. Deliberate concession to the pleasure that could be managed, if one
used one's brain. He smiled again as he flushed the blue enamel loo,
seeing the tube of analgesic cream set on the side of the basin, just in
case. He did not need it, had never needed it after the first time, and it
had been patient, persistent fingers that had made him a little sore that
time, as he had needed a lot of attention to relax and let go. He put the
tube of ointment back into the cabinet, unused, and padded back to bed.
Murph had put the lamp on his side of the bed out, and Ray doused his own,
sliding in between cool sheets and seeking an embrace that was close and
affectionate.

No, he did not love Murphy, but it would be impossible not to becoae very,
very fond of him. Who else had ever called him by those silly, cozy pet
names - 'bonny lad', and 'lamb chop', and 'curlytop'? And no one else had
ever made him feel so treasured. With girls, it was great, but he did all
the work, made all the running, and he knew full well that they were only
in it for the fun of it. So was Michael, but it was different with a man.
Ray had caught a glimmer of what it could be like with Bodie, and craved
the rest, everything Bodie either could not, or would not give him.

The thoughts of Bodie banished sleep, and he heaved a deep sigh. Michael's
fingers tugged at his hair. "Not sad, are you? Not after what we just
did?"

"No," Ray admitted. "But I keep thinking about bloody Bodie... He's
watching me, Michael. Half the time, every chance he gets, every time he
thinks I'm not looking. He watches me, and it makes me nervous."

"Can't take his eyes off you," Murphy teased. "Shows a distinct tendency
toward good taste, that does. Why nervous?"

"He wants me," Ray said softly.

"Another illustration of good taste. Look, unless or until he makes his
move, there's no law against looking. Then, when he *does* make his move,
you have to decide."

"Decide?" Ray echoed.

"If you want him," Murphy elaborated. "Come on, Ray - I know you inside
out. I know you love him. Can't fool me. Not when you mutter his name in
your sleep, and when you're coming.'

Doyle lifted his head, astonished, shocked. "I what?"

"Mutter his name when you're coming," Murphy repeated. "Oh, calm down,
it's normal to do that when you're in love. I've been in love myself a few
times. So you have to decide."

Ray burrowed under the blankets as he cooled. Decide. To go to Bodie, or
not. He sighed again, acknowledging the hunger to be with Bodie,
acknowledging the terror that it would all go wrong again. "He means
well," he said slowly. "He came to me to apologise for being - arrogant,
he called it. After that, we just went back to being friends, except that
he's watching me all the time."

"With big, hungry eyes," Murphy added, tousling already tousled curls.
"You afraid, Ray?"

"Of being fucked? No. Of learning to hate him? Yes. If he bangs me into
the middle of next week, like I'm a one-night-stand, with his brains
somewhere in the area of his balls, I'll probably hit him, and then it's
over. S'not worth it, Mike. The sex isn't worth putting the whole
partnership on the line. And yes, it scares me."

Silence, and then Murphy spoke again, a suggestion that took Ray by
surprise. "There's an alternative, you know. You could invite him to bed
with us. With me here, he'd have to go steady, as he knows I'd flatten him
if he didn't - and he knows I can do it. Or, he could lie there and watch
us do each other, and see how it *should* be done. Ray?"

The idea was fascinating, and Ray smiled. "I dunno. Let me think about it,
Mike. But you're right, it would be a way to get him out of my system. I
know he doesn't love me - and I'm not asking him to start; and he's not
using me for a good hard session once a week, for the sake of his own
chuckles, the way he used to. Once in a blue moon, when I'm feeling in a
forgiving mood, maybe... Or not, if he forgets to say please and thank
you!"

Michael laughed. "You're evil, Ray. That's the spirit, old son. Let him
know *he's* a convenience, when *you* feel like it, and if he's too rough,
wind him up a crack in the teeth."

But Ray shook his head. "Couldn't hit him. I love the stupid, arrogant,
bloody-minded sod, remember."

Again, Murphy laughed. "Sounds like it. Oh, go to sleep, Ray, and let
tomorrow take care of itself. Tonight was lovely, and I'm damned if
Bodie's going to spoil it for us."

A delicious quiver ran through Ray's innards as he remembered what they
had done, remembered the sensations of being full of Michael. "You're
right. Haven't had such a nice time since I snuck into my granny's pantry
and saw off the whole of my birthday cake." He paused, stifling a chuckle.
"And I didn't have to throw up this time, either."

"Throwing up is an optional extra," Murphy said piously. "How old were
you?

"When I scoffed the whole cake? Oh, four, five." Ray yawned. "G'night,
Mike. My eyes are glued shut."

Let tomorrow take care of itself, he thought as he slid down into sleep.
Wise words indeed.

******

The cafeteria was only sparsely populated at two in the afternoon. Murphy
collected a cup of tea and an apple turnover, taking a break from the
routine work in records that had been boring him since nine. Turning in
search of a table, he saw two faces he recognised, and in the first
instant saw that Ray was not exaggerating.

While Doyle was intent on a bike magazine, Bodie was just as intent - on
him. The bigger, darker man sat at the same table, his hands cradling a
cup, his expression brooding, his blue eyes fixed on his partner.
Devouring him, Murphy thought, hiding a grin. Gobbling Ray down, feature
by feature. But there was an expression on Bodie's finely sculptured face
that was not lustful in the slightest.

Sad? Murphy wonder6d. Or resentful? It was hard to tell with Bodie; he hid
everything with almost as much skill as Ray. Ray would disguise what he
was feeling - hurt would be hidden behind anger, grief behind grumbling,
childlike enthusiasm behind cynicism. No, Bodie attacked the problem in a
different way; he pulled his expression straight, like a mask, and kept it
that way, as if the wind had blown on him and set his features into that
half-wilful, half-supercilious look. People who did not know him were
irritated by it; those who did were worried. It meant he was hiding
something, and one day soon there would be an explosion of unleashed
anger.

So he was jealous and resentful, Murphy concluded; not surprising. No one
would lose a lover like Ray Doyle without a pang of envy and a thrill of
fury. Ray was something right out of the ordinary, somehow combining an
astonishing masculinity with a gentleness that was endearing. Tenderness,
a way of expressing affection that - as Michael well knew - made his
lovers sometimes smile into space, daydreaming about him for the pleasure
of it, and want him all the more.

So Bodie was smouldering about his loss. As yet he had not made his move,
but from the look on 3.7's face, Murphy had the strongest impression that
he would, before long. For a while he debated about joining the two, but
decided against it. There was no sense in goading Bodie, provoking the
explosion, so that he detonated in the wrong place, before he had thought
it out with enough thoroughness.

Instead, Murph took a corner table, indulging in his break and not looking
up until he heard the bleep of an R/T.

"4.5." Ray's voice carried clearly as he raised his tone for the benefit
of the radio mic. A blast of static, then, "He wants to meet me where?...
Okay. He say what it's about? Oh, great - miracle of our time. Thanks,
Jax, tell him I'm on my way." The R/T went back into the pocket of the
green cloth jacket, and Murphy watched him scrape back his chair, handing
the bike magazine to Bodie. "Bloke called Sidney Boyd, know the name? He's
got some info to trade, wants to meet me."

"Dangerous," Bodie said doubtfully. "He hates your guts. You put a bullet
in his brother, didn't you?"

"I put three in 'im, but who's counting?" Ray said with a grin. "He's been
on the run a long time, Bodie; chances are he's just sick and tired of it.
Info will trade off for a shortened sentence and some perks while he's
inside. There's a lot to be said for colour telly and porno magazines. I'd
better get going, mate; see you later."

"Ray." Doyle was already moving and turned back with a raised brow of
curiosity. "Be careful," Bodie said, almost too quietly for Murphy to
catch the words.

Michael looked up, watched Ray smile. "I will, stop your worrying, you're
not me mum."

Then he was gone, and Bodie was glowering at the table, his expression
remote, withdrawn. He had not even noticed Murphy's presence, and did not
bother to look up as Michael left, returning to the desk where he had
worked the morning away. Loose ends to do with a case he had closed to his
own satisfaction a month before - but Cowley was never satisfied. Also,
the case would be in court reasonably soon, and the silk in charge would
need all the help he could get.

Still, the toil was a source of utter boredom, and so it was with relief
that Murphy answered his R/T at four. Cowley was on the other end, his
voice taut and brittle, and Michael knew at once that something was wrong.
"46 Manson Street, Whitechapel, and make it fast, Murphy. You're backing
up 3.7. Arm yourself on the way out, there could he shooting."

"Small arms or artillery?" Murphy was already moving.

"It's a hostage situation," Cowley said tersely.

"Why am I backing 3.7, then?" Michael asked.

"Because 4.5 is the hostage," Cowley said, his tone suggesting that he was
distracted by some event at source. "Get moving, Murphy, there's something
happening inside the house now."

Ray had walked right into it, Murphy thought bleakly - just as Bodie had
been afraid he would. Damn. He jogged down to the armoury, collecting an
Ingram and plenty of ammunition, then was in the car and on his way in
three minutes. A sprint into the warren of Whitechapel, and he found the
street; derelict or near-derelict buildings, scheduled for demolition.
Old, old houses, the bricking blackened, the windows grubby. There was
Cowley's red Ford, and Bodie's silver Capri blocking the street to the
Public. A Police car stood behind it, and Ray's Escort stood a little way
up the street. Murphy skidded in to park the black Capri and jogged toward
the figures of Bodie and Cowley; both men looked furious and tense, and
Cowley was concentrating on an upstairs window, hand cupped to his mouth:
"How do we know he's still alive? You get nothing until you give
something, Boyd!"

A voice, Cockney, high pitched: "He's alive, all right - listen!"

A moment of silence, and then a cry - distress, pain. A curse, Doyle's
voice: "Bodie! Bodie!"

"Right here!" There was an edge in Bodie's voice that Murphy had never
heard before; he dragged his eyes from the window to see 3.7's face. Waxy,
white as a sheet, showing the laugh and frown lines more than usual.
Whites of his eyes more visible. Christ, he was scared. Bloody petrified,
Michael realised. As if Ray was the most precious thing in the world.

Damn. Murphy glanced back at the window, caught a glimpse of a face capped
by blond hair. Ray gave one final cry and was silent. "Cowley! You want
your man back, you clear out of here, like I said. You leave a car with a
full tank and a hundred grand, and you get your boy in one piece!"

Murphy moved to Cowley's side. "I thought he wanted to trade information."

"So did we," Cowley affirmed. "Apparently that was never the intention. He
wants compensation for the brother Doyle killed, and if not that, then
Doyle's life will do."

"And a car to get out of here," Michael added. "But where the hell does he
think he's going to go in a *car*?"

"Eight streets away, hide it in a greengrocer's loading bay and disappear
into this rabbit warren on foot," Bodie said sourly. "Must've been done a
dozen times; coppers run themselves ragged looking for a car, and all the
time he's on a bloody bus. We'll bug it, of course, but he'll still take
off on foot."

"We'll bug the money," Cowley added.

"You're going to give him what he wants?" Murphy asked.

"If we want Doyle back alive," Cowley nodded. "We can recover Boyd and the
money, the young idiot has probably never heard of radio tracing. But
Doyle is no use to me dead." He glanced at his watch. "Jax and Anson went
to fetch the money some time ago - Whitehall clears it, Barclays supply
it, but it takes time, and Boyd is impatient."

Bodie stirred restlessly. "Murphy's got here now, sir. I don't see any
point in waiting. Keep him talking at the window, and we'll go in."

"With *care*," Cowley said acidly. "He's irrational. If he hears a
floorboard squeak, Doyle is a dead man."

Murphy watched Bodie's mouth twist, then 3.7 turned away, drawing the
Smith & Wesson from his holster and cocking it with one abrupt movement.
Cowley shouted up to the man in the house, occupying him, while the two
agents doubled up and circuited the block to approach the derelict house
from the alley at the rear. A broken window permitted ingress, and they
waited until their eyes had adjusted to the dimness before going on.

The house stank of mould and damp; there was rotting lino underfoot and
ancient wallpaper peeling off the slats. Bodie stalked through the fetid
rooms like a cat after a mouse, the younger man a pace behind him, and in
minutes they were at the foot of a staircase.

Every stair was a new adventure in terror, but somehow they made it to the
top without a betraying squeal - more by insane good luck than skill,
Murphy knew. There were only three rooms on the second level, two bedrooms
and a bathroom, and since the bathroom and one of the bedrooms were at the
rear of the house they knew where Boyd was without sweeping.

******

Murphy had often seen men shot dead, but he was sure, in retrospect, that
he had never seen a more cynical killing than that of Sidney Boyd. Bodie
was not satisfied with one bullet; five cut the man almost in two,
deafening in the room, and Boyd would never have known what hit him.
Humane, in a way, Michael thought bleakly, but he was too intent on the
figure on the filthy floor to give much of a toss about Boyd.

Ray was on his face, his wrists wired together at his back, so tightly
that his hands were purple and his skin bloody. He was out cold, red
wetness oozing over the left side of his face from a gash in his scalp. At
the window, Murphy gave the Cow the all-clear, pulling one finger over his
gullet. "He's dead, sir."

"And Doyle?" Cowley shouted up.

"Unconscious. Bodie's having a look at him now - hang on a sec, sir."

The hands that were running over Ray's body in search of broken bones were
shaking; Murphy blinked in astonishment as he took in the haunted
apparition that was Bodie. Chalk-white, utterly oblivious of the salt
wetness on his cheeks, or of the fact that he was gasping. Obviously
finding no broken bones, the shaking hands turned Ray over, and Bodie
swore as he saw the bruised, swelling jaw, puffy lips, the blood from the
cut on his scalp getting everywhere. With the wire off his wrists, he laid
Ray down flat and went over his ribcage a bone at a time, finding no bad
breaks, but still swearing beneath his breath. The gentle hands
transferred to Ray's groin, and he cursed in more strident tones. "Christ,
he's swollen. Murph, get a bloody doctor here, fast."

Murphy lifted the R/T. "Ambulance, sir. Fast."

Bodie took his jacket off, folded it and slipped it under the curly head,
and then Murphy watched with something akin to awe as Bodie gently took
the jeans off his partner's narrow hips to look at whatever injury. Ray's
abdomen and thighs were bruised, and his testicles were puffy with
swelling; Bodie's fingers performed an oddly tender examination before he
looked up. "I don't think there's any real damage." His voice shook.
"Here, give me a hand. Lift his shoulders."

They took his jacket and shoulder harness off, and as Ray began to stir,
used the green cloth jacket to cover him from waist to knees. He retched
as he came to, and Bodie was quick to turn him onto his side, but Doyle
was not sick, and eyes narrowed against pain focused on Bodie's face.

"Took - your - time," he wheezed, face ashen, waxy.

"Took twelve minutes," Bodie said quietly, his handkerchief swabbing the
blood from Ray's cheek.

"Twelve - ?" Doyle coughed and caught his breath in pain. "Christ. Felt
like a year with 'im kneeling on me crotch."

Murphg saw Bodie's whole body give a convulsive jerk, and when he spoke,
his voice was rough. "Ambulance is coming, Ray. Try to keep still."

"Couldn't bloody move if I wanted to," Doyle said tiredly, reaching for
Bodie's hand. "Jesus, it 'urts."

Cowley must have radioed it in as a real emergency, as they heard the
whoop of a siren on the road before footsteps pounded up the stairs and
two ambulance men appeared with the tools of their trade. Quick, thorough
and professional, they were ninety percent sure there was no real damage
by the time they had Ray transferred to the stretcher, and the pain seemed
to be subsiding naturally. Doyle was able to uncurl a little and had
noticed the pain from the scalp wound and the swollen jaw at last. He was
breathing deeply but looking green, as if his lunch had a doubtful future.
Murphy took his hand briefly as the ambulance men repacked their gear, and
gave him a wink.

"Be in to see you tonight, Ray. Promise."

By this time Bodie was silent, and it was not until the Ambulance men had
gone and the CI5 cleanup crew were on the scene to remove the bloody heap
of wreckage that had been Sidney Boyd, that Murphy could find a moment to
notice 3.7. Cowley did not bat an eyelid at the body - not its extreme
deadness, nor the state of it, as if he expected such a display from
Bodie. Murph made the report, walking to the top of the stairs with the
older man, watching him leave when he had heard it all, and then turning
back to find Bodie.

He was the only person who would ever know that Bodie made his unsteady
way into the cracked, tarnished bathroom, and was sick as if he were about
to die. The water was still on, and as Michael heard a tap begin to run he
withdrew, knowing that Bodie would resort to anger if he was approached.

Damn. So Bodie had an Achilles heel after all. And Ray was it. Odd, that a
man who was so attached to his partner while they were at work would take
him to bed, afterward, and nearly rape him for fun. Murphy shook his head
over the apparent contradiction that was Bodie, sure as he had ever been
of just one thing.

In his own screw-loose way, Bodie loved Ray Doyle, and irrespective of the
way he showed that love, it was there. It was tragic. There was Ray,
breaking his heart over the big oaf, too scared to go to bed with him in
case he was mauled again and came up hating; and there was Bodie, so
petrified for Ray's life and safety that, when it was all over, he threw
up his lunch. Murphy returned to his car, trying to work out some way to
set matters right between the two idiots. Who but an idiot would fall for
Bodie - smug, supercilious, cynical, arrogant, super-macho son-of-a-bitch?
And then Michael remembered the gentle hands that had undressed Ray and
examined him, tender and shaking with fright. Those could be the hands of
a wonderful lover, if there ever came a day when love, and not lust, drove
Bodie into Doyle's bed.

Tragic, he thought, returning to the office in convoy with the other CI5
vehicles, and rearranging his evening's plans to take in a trip to the
hospital. Ray could use a bit of cheering up, he knew, and a smiling face
was worth ten quid.

******

He still felt ill by seven and could not face food, but Bodie drank a
bottle of beer and forced down digestive biscuits, showering and shaving
before he drove over to the hospital. They had sent him to Guy's, across
the river, just a short way from Whitechapel. The carpark was full and the
lifts busy, but Ray was only on the second floor and he jogged up the
stairs. He had a box of Black Magic chocolates under his arm, and a brown
paper bag of magazines - bike rags, cars, art, boats. Anything but adult
things, becauee Bodie was guessing that sex would be on the prohibited
list for Ray for a week or two.

CI5 people got private rooms, as a rule, for reasons of security, and Ray
was looking pale, groggy and uninterested in the world at large as Bodie
closed the door behind hm. He pinned on a smile. "'Ullo, sunshine, how's
life?"

" 'Orrible," Ray sighed.

Bodie handed over the chocolates and pulled up a chair. "What's so
horrible? Ambulance men said there was no damage."

"No *real* damage," Doyle corrected. "But I've got bruises on me bruises.
Hurts like you wouldn't believe to take a leak, and you're talking to a
monk on vows or chastity."

"Just temporarily," Bodie said soothingly. "Anyway, with all your
technicolour skin, who'd dare even kiss you? Your jaw's puffed up, and
your mouth. What's the rest of you like?"

'"C'mere and see," Doyle said unhappily, lifting the sheet and hoisting up
the hospital gown he wore. His abdomen, groin and thighs were purple.
"They gave me a shot of something, pethadin I think. Made it better, but
now I just have to sit and wait. At least the berk didn't break me arms or
something! If it comes to a toss up between a fortnight of chasteness and
six months in plaster - no contest."

Bodie found a smile. "Know what you mean. It hurts a lot when you think
about birds, or making it, doesn't it?"

"I wouldn't know, I haven't had any such thoughts - yet," Ray said
ruefully. "Voice of experience?"

"Yup. Was kicked in the goolies while I was in Belfast. It makes life a
bit hard for a bit, but so long as there's no real injury, you'll forget
it ever happened." ,

"Swelling's going down a tiny bit," Ray said thoughtfully, carefully
brushing his fingers over the purpled skin of his abused genitals. "They
want to keep me in for a few days, do some tests." He covered himself and
stretched. "Not looking forward to wankin' to command with a bottle in one
hand."

"Safest to check," Bodie shrugged. "Blood in the semen, and they'll know
what they're trying to treat at least! Take a tip from the maestro, Ray."
He forced a smile and knew it was sheepish, memories of his own brush with
disaster sharpening. "Don't get carried away. Half hard'll do and spill
it, don't come. Won't hurt too much that way."

"I do not plan on coming for an indefinite period," Ray said succinctly.
"Makes me bloody balls ache just thinking the *word*." He lay back against
the pillows and reached for the box of Cadbury's. "Glad you were there to
pick the bits up. Thanks."

The last word tore Bodie into shreds. Christ, a year ago, they would have
taken it for granted that one picked up the bits for the other. Now they
were starting again, laying the foundations of a whole new relationship.
Bodie sighed, leaning over to put a hand on Ray's arm, noticing that his
wrists were taped up with bandaids. His skin was warm, soft, the green
eyes heavy, drowsy and dark. Bodie ached to kiss him, and did not dare.
Instead, he squeezed the finely boned forearm and let it go. He knew his
voice would betray him, and cleared his throat before trusting himself to
speak. "You had me worried there for a bit. Any time, sunshine."

"Can go home on Friday," Ray said quietly. "Swelling'll have gone down by
then, and their test results will be back. I can't stand hospitals."

"Makes two of us," Bodie agreed. "Brought you some magazines to read -
nothing porno, so I hope cars and bikes and boats'll do you. Damned shop
had sold out of camera magazines."

Doyle took the magazines, inspected the covers and smiled; the kind of
sleepy, soft smile that sometimes appeared after he had been loved without
being fucked. Bodie's heart gave a lurch as he remembered the few times he
had sucked Ray, remembered the silky, salty taste, the moans of
inarticulate pleasure, the smile that rewarded him.

Love made his heart ache, and he knew he could not stay, not while Ray was
so hurt, vulnerable, dopy and trusting. If he stayed he would blow it, say
something, do something, that would wreck the trust and comradeship that
was beginning to regrow. "I'm on call," he said weakly. "Can't hang about
long."

"S'okay, I'm going to be asleep soon anyway," Ray said with a yawn. "And
Michael will be along later."

Murphy. Bodie got to his sheet with a sad smile. Murphy would come
breezing in, tousle Ray's curls and kiss him, and be welcome to. Bodie had
got past the point of jealousy now, and could not find the energy to be
angry. Instead, he pushed his luck a few yards further than he had
intended, leaning over to press his lips to Doyle's forehead, banking on
the fact that Ray was shot full of pethadin and not thinking clearly.

Green eyes blinked sleepily up at him; there was the trace of a smile on
the full lips, and Bodie fled.

******

There was nothing like hot water for making one luxuriate in being alive.
Ray basked under the shower until he felt the twinges of guilt, then,
laughing at himself, snatched up a towel and ambled into his bedroom.

Nothing like being manoeuvred into chasteness for almost a fortnight for
making one hungry for it. He caught sight of himself in the big mirror
behind the dressing table and gave himself a grin. He had lost weight, but
the bruises were only a faint yellow shadowing now, invisible under his
tan on belly and thighs, unnoticeable between. Two weeks of gentle
exercise and light duties. He had spent the first four days as an uneasy,
reluctant creature of leisure, but released from hospital he had been
cleared to carry on, so long as he took it easy. Desk work, riding around
in the car to talk with this witness and that peddler of information.

Bodie had picked him up. The sight of his partner's face as he dressed to
leave had surprised Ray, since Bodie had only looked in on him twice. But
on each visit there had been a kiss, just a brushing of lips on his
forehead, as if Bodie was not sure of his welcome. Ray frowned at his
reflection, thinking back on all the silly, whispered things Murphy had
told him about his body, and for the thousandth time wishing it was Bodie
who had said those things. Still, Bodie had said a lot in the air that
day, words Doyle had recorded indelibly, never to be forgotten, often to
be savoured. Joking aside, Bodie liked the way he looked, and quite
obviously still wanted him.

So give him what he wants, Ray thought as he studied his reflection
critically. Just once, for the hell of it. Been over two months since you
were with him... Wouldn't hurt to let him have his bit of fun, just once,
would it?

Yes, it would. Ray had long since transcended the ability to forgive rough
treatment. To wrestle around the room and then have your arm wrenched up
your back and the chest of drawers shoved into your middle and an
oversized cock rammed into you was not his idea of fun, and the danger
that he would forget how to laugh it off, if Bodie wanted to play like
that, was too great.

He was hungry for Bodie; he did not seek to deny it even to himself. He
had woken up in the middle of the night, last night, lying in a puddle and
with his head full of Bodie; the first time he had had a wet dream of any
kind in years, the product of so long spent without sex. But it had not
been Murphy he had dreamed about, and in the dream Bodie had been a lover
in a million. Too bad real life was a dead loss by comparison.

The thoughts of the dream, and Bodie, were arousing him, and he glanced at
the mirror to see himself getting the first wide-awake erection he had had
since the day he had been hurt. It felt wonderful, and he sat on the foot
of the bed, legs spread wide, toying with himself and enjoying the ability
to be able to do so without an ache.

Murph had invited him home tonight, and it was going to be bloody good -
they had promised themselves something special. So why was he thinking
aoout Bodie while he loved himself? Ray shook himself, trying to
disentangle fantasy from reality, but each time he almost made it he
thought balk to those chaste little kisses on his forehead just before
Bodie left. Gentle. Caring. Maybe Bodie had meant it -

'Treat you like bone china in future'. He had backed off, kept his
distance, kept his hands to himself, just used his eyes... Hungry eyes,
Ray acknowledged. Oh, yes, the bastard was keen to have a man again. Why
the hell didn't he just co out cruising and pick one up? Or maybe he
*did*.

Damn, Ray swore as the image of Bodie screwing some kid into the bed
spoiled his fantasy. Cowley would love that - his top agents cruising. And
Ray found the image repugnant; tawdry. Filthy little hotel room in
Limehouse, a boy with his backside in the air, begging to be hurt. Or not
hurt. Playing out some sordid fantasy. Abruptly, Ray's erection subsided
and he stood up, muttering a mild obscenity as frustration raked its claws
over him. He gave himself a hard look in the mirror. "You're an idiot,
aren't you? It's Bodie's life to live as he wants to. If he wants a tight
little bum and a kid who'll play his games, good luck to both of them." He
sighed wryly. "Another fine mess you have gotten me into, Stanley."

He had selected his black jeans and red tee-shirt when the intercom buzzed
for attention and, pulling on his red robe, he went to answer it. To his
surprise, Bodie's voice answered.

"Got time for an old mate, Raymond?"

"Er, yeah, come on up." There was most of an hour to spare, as Murphy had
a few chores to do at home, and he hoped that Bodie would make it brief,
whatever it was he wanted. He lounged, looking at the door, and pinned on
a smile as Bodie appeared... well dressed tonight, suave, smooth, very
handsome, very aware of how good he looked. And he had a bottle of
champagne in his hand.

"Who's the lucky bird?" Ray asked, smothering the flush and shortened
breath that always overtook him at times like this.

"Bird?" Bodie echoed, then caught his meaning and smiled. "Oh, no, the
bottle's for you."

"For me?" Ray said, astonished. "What have I done to deserve the treat?"

"Got out of hospital with your balls in working order," Bodie said,
counting items off on his fingers, "got back to work with a smile on your
face, trotted off like a good boy to see Doctor Johnson when the Cow told
you to, and braved Macklin for the first time this afternoon. There. That
warrants a bottle."

Ray snickered. "You wouldn't say that if you knew what Johnson and Big
Mack did."

"What did they do?" Bodie demanded, watching Ray blush darkly and loving
he sight.

"Macklin was in Johnson's consulting room when I got there. I kept waiting
for him to leave, but he didn't; 'drop your pants', says the doc, so I
didn't have much choice. Couldn't make much of a fuss about it if it's all
clinical and professional, could I? How would *you* react, with Brian
giving your balls a good feel?"

"He *what*?" Bodie spluttered. "He felt you - ?"

"Invited to by bloody Johnson," Ray affirmed, the blush not fading by one
shade yet. "Macklin did a course in first aid and sport physiotherapy,
Johnson was one of the instructors; the old fool went into a lecture on
the subject of a boot in the wrong place, made me the test subject. There
was I, standing in his office with my pants at half mast, and the two of
them bent double, giving me a good feel." He laughed at the look of utter
outrage on Bodie's face. "What would you have done?"

"Told them to bugger off," Bodie said angrily. "You're too forgiving, Ray.
It's *your* body, *you* say what gets done to and with it, not them. So,
after all that, what's the verdict?"

"I'm fine," Doyle shrugged, perching on the arm of a chair. "Must be. Woke
up ever so sticky last night."

"That's a relief," Bodie smirked. "No, honestly, Ray, I've been a bit
worried."

"Thanks for caring," Ray said honestly, permitting a real smile to replace
the heat of the flush of remembered embarrassment. Bodie did care, he
knew. Friendship had never been in doubt, no matter what had gone right or
wrong in bed.

'Treat you like bone china in future'.

Ray shivered suddenly as he remembered a proposition of Michael's...
Christ, a threesome. Perfect way to have his cake and eat it, work Bodie
out of his system. *If* Bodie would go for it. It was not really, what
Michael had wanted, but Ray was sure Murph would not mind - it had been
his idea, and it was a good one. *If* Bodie would agree to it.

But Bodie was looking at him with dark, sad, hungry eyes; eating him
whole; wanting in every bone in his body. Ray let his smile widen a
little. "You want me, don't you?"

The question seemed to bring Bodie out of a daydream with an enormous jar;
he flinched physically, and then nodded with a guilty duck of his head.
"Yeah. I cannot tell a lie," he said defensively. "I mean, look at you!
Stahding there, warm and damp, with your robe falling open. Christ, you're
beautiful, Ray. Sometimes I joke about too much and I just trust you to
know that I *am* kidding. Any time you want *truth*, all you have to do is
go soulful on me and ask for it. Just bloody stop smiling while I hurt
you!"

The speech made Doyle blink in surprise. When the hell had Bodie noticed.
- ?

"I - er, okay," he agreed, struggling to remember what he had been about
to say. "Listen, Bodie, how do you feel about a threesome?"

"On your way out with a bird, were you?" Bodie asked softly.

"No. I'm going to Michael's. He wouldn't mind if you were with us. Even
mentioned it as a possibility a while ago. He's a great mate, is Mike."

How Bodie did not drop the bottle of champagne he would never know. Ray
was nervous about asking, he could see that, and after all that had
happened between them, the very proposition must have taken guts. But - a
threesome? Then it came to him, and the heart melted in his chest. The
poor little bugger was hiding behind Murphy. He wanted to ask Bodie to
bed, but was too terrified of the consequences, if it got away from him...

Scared I'd screw him into the floor and then slap him on the backside and
laugh when he limps a bit, Bodie thought with abstract self-castigation,
the repentent thoughts swamped by one far, far more important... Christ,
he wants me. After all the stupid things I've done, he wants me. He warmed
from head to foot, knew he was flushing as rosily as Ray had when he had
told the story of the afternoon's mauling, and didn't care. The memories
then were different; Ray, wanting to cuddle, wanting to slow it down and
take it gently.

If Murphy had not been a part of it, it would have been absolutely
perfect. But if he had to be there to give Doyle the confidence he needed
to face Bodie inside a bedroom again - my fault, Bodie admitted readily.
He fashioned a smile and gave the nervous Doyle a nod.

"Sure, why not? Might be heaps of fun. We'll take the bottle over to his
place, shall we?"

"Oh, yeah," Ray said breathlessly, suddenly aware of what he had just
done. "I'll just phone him up, okay? Don't want to put him out - he's
providing dinner too, you know. I'll tell him to set another place." He
fled on those words, into the bedroom, closing the door behind him. He
dialled Michael's number on the private phone - the outside, unbugged line
that was for his personal calls. Fingers drumming on the table he waited
for an answer, then: "Mike? Ray. Listen, I've asked Bodie to be in it
tonight. Is it okay?"

"Okay by me," Murphy said at once. "Sure you know what you're doing, Ray?"

"I... think so." Doyle forced a shaky chuckle. "Time I faced up to him,
don't you think? And besides, you'll be there. Just one thing, Mike. Don't
let him fuck me. Not yet. I've got this big yellow streak up my back.
Don't want him like that just yet." Or ever? He -wondered as Murphy
muttered words of soft agreement and hung up.

He dressed quickly, pulling his boots on as he returned to his partner.
"Ready to go?"

"Your chariot awaits, milud," Bodie grinned. "You look edible tonight,
Pay. Love that tee shirt. Washed out and sort of disreputable. Rakish, you
know?"

"Just about ready to be ripped up for wash rags," Doyle admitted. "Shall
miss it. Who's driving?"

Bodie drove, and, parked nose-to-tail with Murph's car, followed Ray up to
Michael's second floor flat. He hung back, breathless, more than a little
afraid of what he would see, but determined to keep his cool, his temper,
and hold his tongue. As they closed the door Murphy gave Ray a bear hug,
almost squashing him. A fortnight since he had had hold of him, Bodie
thought - and it showed. Christ, nine weeks since I've held him... Except
I didn't hold him, I damned near raped him. Released from the hug, Ray
lifted his lips for a kiss, and it was a good one, open-mouthed, deep and
hard.

"Luscious lad," Murphy said by way of greeting. "Can feel your ribs,
though. I *know* you've got gorgeous bones, lamb chop, but I don't *have*
to feel 'em! Eat, will you?"

"Yes, dad," Ray said dutifully. "I'm starved, to be honest. Spaghetti
smells great, Mike."

"There's enough to feed half of CI5," Michael told him. "And chianti, and
gelati. Go and sit down, grab a drink while I dish it up."

Fetching scotch and soda, Bodie followed Ray to the couch and sat beside
him, wanting to kiss him and feeling as if he ought to ask permission. His
eyes did the asking, and Doyle smiled, exasperated. "We'll be in bed soon,
you twit. No sense being standoffish *now*."

So Bodie leaned forward and brushed his lips against the mouth he had
hungered for... Not biting, not ravishing, not plundering, but kissing
softly, and for a long time. He was hard before they had been Dressed
together for long, and gave an involuntary leap as he felt Ray's hand tuck
around the heat at his groin, pressing and rubbing. He groaned helplessly,
both disappointed and relieved when Murphy's voice yelled, "grub's up, so
stop gropin' and come and eat."

"*He's* groping," Bodie said breathlessly. "I'm just sitting getting
groped. There's a subtle difference."

"Yeah, well you'll get your chance later. Now come and eat, since I've
slaved in the kitchen for a ruddy hour."

The food was good, and they ate a lot, lazing through the early evening
and getting steadily more relaxed. Even Bodie began to relax, though it
still hurt, deep down, when Ray let Michael hold him and put his hands in
places Bodie had always subconsiously assumed were his. They drifted into
the bedroom, Ray pulling off his teeshirt, and suddenly Murphy's hands
were inside the black denim, rubbing and encouraging, and Ray was pushing
his hips into the big, cherishing hands.

Feeling left out and inexplicably lonely, Bodie pressed up behind Pay,
unbuttoning his shirt so as to rub his chest against the smooth skin over
sharp shoulderblades. He kissed Ray's neck and ears, gratified when Ray
leaned back against him and let himself be literally propped up while
Murphy slid the jeans and underwear down and off.

Bodie slipped his shirt off, heeled off his shoes and pulled Ray against
him while Murphy began to undress; Michael grunted, obviously miffed after
expecting Ray to undress him, but Bodie had other ideas.

Ray had a point. Cuddling was nice. He passed his hands over smooth back
and soft buttocks, feeling the heat of Ray's cock right through his
slacks. "Lie down, sunshine," he whispered, close by Ray's left ear. The
curly head drew back, green eyes looked at him. Nervous, Bodie saw, and
leaned in to kiss him again. "Go on, lie down - relax."

"Okay." Ray's deft fingers unzipped Bodie and dealt a scorching caress
before he turned away toward the bed and found himself in Murphy's
embrace, kissed again and pushed backwards until he tumbled onto the
mattress. Bodie swallowed, stepping out of his slacks as he watched Ray
mould against Michael; he arched as Murphy licked his nipples, and Bodie
could not tear his eyes away, watching the pink tongue curl about the
little brown peak. Ray murmured in pleasure, stretching and purring like a
delighted cat.

Naked and aching, Bodie lowered himself onto the bed and shuffled closer,
kissing and stroking, roaming over Ray's body from mouth to groin and back
again before he looked up to find two pairs of eyes watching him lazily,
Ray's glassy, Michael's laughingly approving. Ray lay in the crook of
Michael's right arm, shivering and breathing deeply with some effort.

Bodie found a smile, moving up, wanting Ray's mouth very much, shivering
himself as Ray gave him the gift he needed. The kiss was deep and long,
but half way through it he felt Ray begin to quiver, heard him begin to
moan in rhythm, and he was not surprised to find Murphy sucking him in
that rhythm when he looked up. Ray's hands clutched at him and Bodie held
him, lapping at his mouth while Murphy sucked him off and licked him
clean, the work of a few agonized/delighted minutes. Ray came powerfully,
arching up off the bed and slamming himseIf against Bodie, who caught him,
kissing him deeply as he began to come.

The first time he had ever been worked on by two talented mouths at the
same time, Bodie thought, forgiving Murph for the imagined intrusion,
because Ray was so pleasured and cherished. They let him rest, getting his
breath back, and then Bodie's narrowed eyed watched in fascination as Ray
began to touch and stroke, repaying them both for their efforts. He
divided his attention between them, going from one to the other with a
kiss here, a lick there, taking his time and arousing himself anew as he
went.

Somewhere along the way, he found his way into Michael's arms again, and
Bodie saw that Michael had definite ideas. He swallowed, watching with
glazed eyes as Ray spread his legs and Murphy lifted them. His fingers
were laden with his own pre-ejaculate, Bodie saw, and shifted position to
watch the long, capable fingers work... Michael was very slow, very
careful, stroking Ray's anus again and again until Ray's deep breathing
found a rhythm, then slipping inside and stroking again, lavishing care
and attention that earned him a smile Bodie envied.

Bodie transferred his gaze to Murphy's groin and had to frown. He was so
big and Ray was so small, so oddly delicate. Still, Ray was sure, and
Bodie leaned in to stroke his chest as the bigger man pressed inside and
began to work. Ray lay nearly still, legs wrapped around Murph, and Bodie
was sure he was not even aware of his partner's existence until the green
eyes opened blindly, looking right into his, and Ray held out his hand.
Bodie took it, held it tightly as Murphy thrust in harder and came.

Bodie was waiting for Ray to come too, but he didn't; he lay still,
splaying his long legs to release Murphy as Michael found the strength to
move at last. But Murphy did not move far. Weight on hands and knees,
poised over Ray, he looked down at him with an affectionate smile, bent to
kiss him and then sat back on his heels to consider Ray's aching erection.
He rubbed the tip with his thumb, making Ray gasp and arch. "Hm. What
would you like to do with this, eh?" They shared a chuckle, and then
Michael kissed the middle of the furry chest and climbed off him to kneel
and wink at him.

There was a pain in Bodie's chest that outdid the pain of frustration in
his groin, and he stifled a groan as he watched Ray nestle behind Michael,
kiss his back and enter him. So bloody gentle and tender. The look of
breathless ectsasy on Ray's face as he came to rest, all the way in, tore
the breath from Bodie's throat, hammering a truth into him -

I never gave him this. Never. But I took it from him so often, and
demanded it from him whether he wanted to give it or not. His hand cupped
over his genitals, pressing to ease the ache as he watched Ray finish
inside his lover. They froze for a moment before Ray's slight body
shuddered and Murphy groaned eloquently. Bodie swallowed - Jesus, to feel
him coming in me, feel him jerk, inside, and pour it out, hot and deep and
-

Ray was exhausted now. The second time he had come, and it had been
nothing if not thorough. He slumped on the pillows, flat out, smiling at
Murphy as the bigger man rolled over and kissed his shoulder. Only then
did they look at Bodie, and Bodie felt oddly alone, though he was in the
most intimate of all situations. He swallowed useless words of protest and
endearment and watched Michael shifting restlessly, rubbing that big cock
against Ray's bony hip; feeling the tingle of arousal again, Bodie
guessed, watching another huge hard-on gather and fill out. Michael
stretched luxurously, kissed Ray's mouth and gave Bodie an unabashed,
come-hither smile.

"Whatcha doin' over there? In quarantine or something?"

Bodie did not answer, nor did he move until Ray held out his hand in
welcome. He went into Ray's arms with a disturbing gratitude, pressing his
aching shaft into the softness of Ray's belly; the pressure eased the pain
as four hands began to stroke his back and two mouths kissed him.

He could not take much more, and knew it. There was a tiny whimper in his
throat as Ray kissed his mouth, and he had to arch awav from someone's
hand, he did not know whose. "No more, or I've had it," he said, trying to
laugh, not managing it. His eyes cleared and he found himself looking into
laughing blue-green ones. Ray was still nibbling his shoulder, bringing a
sort of ease.

Michael was kneeling on Ray's other side, one finger running up and down
his cock while he regarded Bodie with a devilish grin. "I'll give you
three guesses where I want to put this, Bodie me lad."

Bodie's mouth dried. "But - I want Ray."

Michael laughed lazily. "Honestly, Bodie, you're the eternal bloody
optimist. Ray's useless till later - maybe useless till tomorrow."

"Later," Ray said, chuckling. "I've been saying it up for a fortnight,
remember - I'm full of it. Must be."

Bodie shook his head. "That's not what I meant ~-"

"Oh, be reasonable," Murphy cajoled. "Who's the only one here who *isn't*
thoroughly fucked already? That's you, mate! Can't have Ray again, either
of us. Don't want to hurt him by accident, do we? He's too much of a lamb
for that... And the same goes for me. I'm a lamb too." He winked at Ray
and gave Bodie a stern look. "Come on, then, old son, spread 'em and be
quick about it, cuz I'm about ready to blow a gasket."

Fear tightened Bodie's heart, and yet he knew there was no escape. How
could he face himself if he got up and ran, after all the times he had had
Ray? He forced a smile, knew he was crimson, hoped the soft lighting would
cover the flush. "Take your time, Murph. You're a big lad, and it's years
since I did this. I'm tight as your fist."

"Years?" Murphy echoed, climbing over Ray. "But I thought you'd been
sleeping with Ray since New Year?"

It was Ray's voice that saved him. "Doesn't matter, Mike. Leave it alone,
eh?"

"Anything for you, bonny lad," Murphy agreed cheerfully. "Come on, Bodie,
move yourself... Oh, Ray, hand us the stuff, will you? I'm a bit dry here,
and Bodie's not joking when he says he's tight. He may not be a lamb, but
I don't see any good reason to make him smart."

Teeth grinding, Bodie knelt up, trying to relax and unable to. He was
shaking when he felt cool hands on his shoulders and got his eyes open to
see Ray, so close. He knew his voice was tight and odd. "Hold me. Ray,
hold me."

"Hey, you're not scared of it, are you?" Ray asked in a hushed tone.
"Murph's careful. Careful as I am, you'll see."

"Hold me," Bodie asked through gritted teeth as fingers probed him,
withdrew and probed again, stretching him, making his nerves tingle and
his balls throb. Ray held him and he pressed his damp face into a bony
shoulder, breathing in the scent of shampoo, cologne, sweat and musk. Ray.
"Wish - it - was - you," he whispered as the fingers withdrew for the last
time and it was about to happen.

First time in eleven years.

Jesus, Murphy was so big, filling him to the heart, as if the pressure
inside him was forcing his guts upward; he moaned into Ray's neck as Murph
forced in the last inch. Suffocating. There was pain in his loins, a
crippling ache in his back, but Michael held still for a while until he
could breathe again before setting off in search of his own relief. Every
thrust seemed to slam into his heart, and yet he knew Murphy was going
slowly and gently. He held his breath, praying that it would not take too
long; and then Michael's hand found him.

He climaxed as soon as he was taken in a firm grip, and cried out into
Ray's mouth. He could hear Ray murmuring soft words, but the whole world
revolved about the invasion of his body as, spent, he lay against Ray and
the pillows, and waited... Murph had already come once, and had a lot of
control this time.

Wet heat streamed into him, five gushes that turned Michael inside out,
and then the heat and hardness withrew and Bodie was gasping into Ray's
shoulder. Sore. Burning, inside as well as out. He rolled over, stiff and
cramped, lying in Ray's arms, weak and shaking. Ray was kissing his face,
but he was hardly aware of it.

The only thought in his head was one of rebellion as unwanted memories
crushed him; the feel and smell of Ray were his only anchors to reality.
Sticky with his spilled seed, trembling and very sore, he was burning with
resentment. He was not hurt, he had come, but it was far from what he had
wanted. He had needed to quench his feverish desire inside Ray - *needed*
it, needed to -

To fuck him, hard, Bodie thought abstractly, and shuddered at the thought,
where once he would have disregarded it. Getting his breath back, he
lifted his head, found Ray frowning at him while Murphy's fingertips
parted his buttocks to look at him. Flushing anew at the unwanted intimacy
from one who was no more than a work mate, he writhed away, pressed
against Ray and avoiding Michael's hands and eyes.

Michael was chuckling cheerfully. "Got a nice bum, Bodie, I'll hand you
that. Guess you're okay, if you don't want me to look... Christ, I'm
knackered. Who's for a kip? Or does someone want to volunteer to fetch a
beer?"

"Don't look at me," Ray yawned. "If I stand up I'll fall flat." Bodie felt
a hand on his cheek and looked up into concerned green eyes. "You look a
bit weird, Bodie. Not hurt, are you?"

"No," Bodie said hoarsely. "Just - " Sore. He bit off the word, knowing
that it was an invitation to Ray to return all the laughter there had been
when he had limped stiffly to the bathroom to attend to himself. "I'm
fine." But as he glanced at Murphy, sprawled out at his ease across the
foot of the bed, hands under his head, the tide of bitterness returned.
What he had wanted -

I wanted to make love to you, he thought, focusing on Ray's mouth, so
soft, so swollen with kisses... Not fuck you, make love to you. Didn't
want Murphy, don't love Murphy for Chrissake - what does he want, ramming
it up me?

The resentment crystallised into a brittle hostility and he looked from
Murphy to Ray, seeing Ray's puzzlement... 'All mates together - what the
hell is screw-loose old Bodie on about'?

Bodie felt his face twist. So how d'you like it now, Bodie? Happy? You
ought to be, it's what you've been doing to Ray, till he just couldn't
take it anymore, and you weren't even slow and easy with him - fucked him
through the floor, didn't you? The bitter self-knowledge made him shiver.
A good, hard fuck, for the fun of it... But I don't want that anymore!
Want to make love to him, I love him. Oh yeah, there's a difference.

Ray was puzzled, offering his arms in comfort, and for a while Bodie
accepted the cuddling embrace until the very surrender to the soothing
became a source of humiliation. Ray had never been allowed this, though he
had tried to ask for it - and probably felt like a fool. Suddenly
nauseous, Bodie rolled off he bed. Standing was an exercise in discomfort,
but he pasted on a smile and reached for his clothes.

"Got to go, lads. It's getting late."

"Uh?" Murphy blinked drowsily at him. "What, already?"

Half dressed, Bodie did not trust himself to look at Murphy yet. "Yup.
Hope you enjoyed yourself, Murph."

"You mean you didn't?" Michael demanded with a grin. "You were moanin'
away like a company of Italian opera singers!"

"Was I?" Surprised, Bodie could not hold in an echo of Ray's words, one
Monday morning, weeks before. "Course I enjoyed it. Wouldn't do it if I
didn't enjoy it, would I?" A lie. As Ray had lied to patch up their
working relationship after their last night in bed. Bodie grabbed his
jacket. "See you at work tomorrow, sunshine," he said with fabricated good
cheer, winked at Ray, and departed in a hurry.

Murphy whistled as the front door banged. "What got into him?"

"You did," Ray said drily. "I don't think he enjoyed it all that much."

"Couldn't have gone any slower," Murphy shrugged. "I mean, I didn't
exactly fuck him through the bed! What the hell did he *want* me to do
with him?" Then he grunted and sat up. "Hmp. You heard what he said - he
came here tonight expecting to bang you, Ray. 'S the whole reason he came
over, I reckon." He shuffled up the bed and took the smaller man's face
between his hands. "Be careful about him, Ray. He's a funny-un, is Bodie.
Reckon he thinks the world of you in his own way - he'd die for you, I'm
sure. But you know what he wants from you, and unless you can give it to
him and be happy about it - watch out for your heart."

"Yeah," Ray agreed. "This whole thing was to work him out of my system,
Mike, and it's helped. I dunno if I *can* be a casual lay when a bird's
stood him up. Queue up with the birds, waiting for my go in his bed.
*Maybe,* if he was easy and gentle and affectionate, but that isn't
Bodie's way. Even in bed, he's still tough. With a man he is, anyway.
Well, with *me*. D'you think it's because I'm older than him? If I was a
boy he might have felt protective."

Michael cuffed him. "You're five years older than me, stupid, what's it
matter? You're a cuddly, furry little treat; you make *me* come over
protective, cuz when I lie on you I'm terrified I'll squash you, and you
look at me with those bloody big eyes... Nah, Bodie's a funny type. He's a
mate in a million and he thinks a lot of you, Ray."

"But he doesn't love me," Ray sad softly, "and he came here tonight with
designs on my bum, and was put out when he didn't get it."

"Um... frustrated as hell, I should think." Murphy grinned. "0h, never
mind. It'll do him good, teach him a valuable lesson - that he no more
owns you because he had you in bed since New Year than I own him because
I've had *his* ass."

"Crude," Doyle observed.

"But accurate," Murphy snorted. "D'you want the loo first?"

"Ta." Ray rolled to his feet and stretched. "D'you see something' though,
Mike? He held me a lot, and asked me to hold him while you did it to him.
Funny for Bodie to do that, all things considered." It was too complicated
for his sleep-fuddled mind and he yawned, heading for the bathroom and
filing the whole problem away for future reference. Whatever had got into
Bodie - aside from Michael - it was something new to Ray.

******

The drive home cleared Bodie's head, but the twinges of his mildly abused
body were a constant reminder of what had happened to him. There had been
no pleasure in it, and coming had been joyless.

Jesus, how has Ray taken it for so long? Unless the little idiot was too
much of a mate to punch me out... Unless the constant submission became
easier to bear, mentally as well as physically, as it went on... Unless
there was some part of Ray that had wanted it.

Ray - *wanting* to be tossed onto the floor or pinned against the wall - ?
Bodie rejected the idea. If Doyle had been into humiliation, he would have
been in Bodie's bed at the snap of his fingers, and delighted to be there.

Tyres whistled on the road as he pulled up at the kerb and sat glowering
at the dash. So, with typical, bloody-minded Doyle martyrdom, he had
preserved the working partnership at all costs, had he? And the cost must
have been high. Bodie admitted this bitterly as he got out of the car and
walked stiffly up to the door, fumbling for the right key.

He sank several large scotches and headed for the shower, .standing under
the water until it ran cold. In the cabinet was a tube of Savlon and he
used it, wondering how many times Ray had done this, and knowing
instinctively what was wrong with him, why he was boiling inside with a
mix of rage and self-pity.

He had been on the receiving end of a loveless fucking, and it was not the
same as being in charge of the same act. He thought of Richard, a little
animal in Liverpool, wanting it that way, and saw how pathetic he was. He
thought of Ray, trying to be gentle in Bodie's bed and having those subtle
advances refused; and he felt suddenly ill.

Eyes squeezed shut, all he could see was the way Murphy had had him, the
way Ray had taken him, minutes later. Hunger for Ray made him ache anew,
and he cursed himself and the need. Ray would never let him do that again,
and the alternative... Bodie shivered. It was Ray's embrace, the warm bulk
of him, the scent of his body, he needed; the gift of his mouth, soft,
silky curls in his fingers, that special, unique *something* that was Ray,
and which he was dying of starvation without. The urge to wrestle,
dominate and screw him were gone, purged once and for all in another man's
bed. Bodie gazed into a fourth glass of whisky as he stood in the
lamplight, beside his own bed, knowing he had taken a priceless gift and
torn it to shreds before the giver's eyes with cheerful ingratitude.

The alternative was to spread his own legs for Ray, and the notion made
him shiver again. Ray would be gentle, he knew; and Bodie *could* do it.
If he had done it for Murphy, Christ, he could do it for Ray, offering his
body out of love, taking his pleasure from the knowledge that he was
bringing Ray the kind of ecstasy he had denied him before. Surrender went
against every instinct in him, but he could do it. The act did not take
long, and Ray would make him come too, and then they would share what
Bodie really wanted. Closeness, holding and kissing, quiet words spoken
drowsily in the dark.

His body throbbing with frustrated desire, Bodie slid into bed and put his
right hand to good use; but this time the fantasy was different. Knees
protesting the floor, carpet against his cheek, Ray inside him, big and
hot, working hard with long, deep thrusts that brought pain but also
pleasure beyond description. Bodie groaned, his wilful mind following it
all through to the point at which the cock that filled him seemed to
explode, pulsing scalding waves into his guts, and then grew soft as Ray
collapsed onto his back, murmuring the kind of love-curses he sometimes
spoke.

This time, coming was a physical shock, shattering him out of his body as
the thought of Ray inside him, coming in him, sent him up over the edge
with a power he had not anticipated. Spent, he fell back to the mattress,
gasping for air and cursing himself for the stupid tears. Christ, to have
Ray inside him -

Was that why Ray had taken it for so long? Bodie was half asleep already,
exhausted and dizzy after so much neat whisky drunk too fast. Why else
would Ray take all that had been handed out to him? Surrendering his body
out of love was the only way Bodie could do it, he knew, without being
physically ill. He could and would do it for Ray.

"S'that why you did it for me?" He whispered hoarsely. "Is it?" Please
God, let it be true. If it was true, Ray would come to bed with him, and
they could make it all right, make it good, expunging the stupidities and
starting afresh.

But Doyle refused him. He asked the question, very softly, in the
afternoon, while they were in the car en route to a meeting in Southwark,
and he could literally feel Ray stiffen up in every joint. He glanced left
at his partner and swallowed: Ray's face had that shuttered look he
dreaded. "You're not afraid of me, are you, Ray?"

"No, don't be ridiculous," Doyle scoffed. "I just don't want to, s'all."

"Don't want me to make love to you," Bodie concluded.

"Don't want to be fucked," Ray corrected offhandly.

For the life of him, Bodie could not stifle the words. "But it's okay for
Murphy to do you!"

"Murphy?" Doyle echoed. "Jealousy'll give you warts on your nose, Bodie.
So me mum used to say... And anyway, I was fucked last night, that's quite
enough for a bit. You got some idea I get banged every night? Christ, why
don't I go and stand under a lamp post and make money at this, if I'm that
keen?"

"Didn't mean it that way," Bodie muttered. "What I meant was, how come
you'll sleep with Murphy and not with me?" There was no answer, and he
took a quick breath. "You can screw me, if you want to."

The green eyes gaped at him, widened, and then turned to ice. "Shut up,
Bodie, while you've still got teeth."

"What?" Bodie pulled up at the lights and blinked at Ray's white, angry
face. "That's what you've always wanted, isn't it? That's why you went to
Murphy, isn't it!"

"That's enough." Doyle's face was drawn tight with anger. "Think you can
talk your way around me? I asked and nearly bloody pleaded for that, and
you thought it was a big joke - what's changed, suddenly? I was never good
enough for you, but Michael fucks you and all of a sudden you want it
again! Discovered you like it? Like it deep and hard, like you used to
bang me? Then you'd better go and ask Michael to ram it up you again - he
might be able to accommodate you in his lunch break. If I wasn't good
enough before I'm not good enough now. If it's fucking you want, go and
pay for it - Fifty quid'll get you screwed into the middle of next week,
so they tell me. Take your own KY, mate, or they'll bang you dry and love
it."

The tirade battered at Bodie, leaving him empty and aching. There was
nothing left to say, nothing he could do; to Ray it was all agony, the
pain was naked in his eyes, and Bodie could understand every word of the
tirade unleashed on him. The words came from Ray's heart... Bodie's offer
was too little and too late, and must have dealt the final wound.

They were silent until the scene passed over, but the anger haunted the
rest of the day and they spoke seldom, parting company at the office door
and heading in different directions. Bodie stood with the Capri's door
open, watching Ray slide in under the wheel of the white Escort, slam the
door and start the motor with a vicious stamp on the throttle. The car was
gone in moments, leaving tyre rubber on the concrete. He was furious,
Bodie knew, made to feel small, worthless... All those rejections, then a
capitulation to Michael Murphy, and out of the blue Bodie needs fucking -

Hollow, he drove home and reached for the bottle of whisky. It was half
full, and by nine he had sunk the lot and was sprawled on the couch while
the Stones pounded out of the hi-fi, trying to exorcise thought from his
head and feeling from his body. He was a runaway truck, he knew, heading
down a steep decline with a cliff at the bottom of it. He had no idea how
to slam on the brakes, and even less will to care about it... If the cliff
killed him, so what? He was better off out of it.

Vaguely he remembered that Ray had four days' leave coming up and would
not be at work the next morning, and he prayed that Cowley would not
partner him with Murphy, because all he could feel for Murph was a
poisonous resentment, and even though he *knew* it was irrational and
insane to feel that way there was nothing he could do to curb it.

They partnered him with Anson, who chain smoked until Bodie could feel the
onset of real, raving lunacy. if Anson lived out his tenure he would be
bloody lucky. Bodie read him a furious riot act late in the afternoon and
blows were avoided simply because Anson valued his teeth. He kept his
distance and forfeited his smokes under sufferance, getting out of Bodie's
way as soon as the day's work was finished.

It was a sample, for Bodie, of what life without Doyle would be like; an
he did not care for it. Even taut, strained silences and fighting with Ray
were preferable to the awful, yawning chasm that was left when he had
vanished. The phone in Ray's flat rang and rang, and when he had not
answered by eight that night Bodie knew he had gone out with the object in
mind of staying out. Solace came from a whisky bottle again, but it took a
lot of neat spirit to put Bodie away; he slept like the dead and woke with
a hangover that made the woes of the world seem trivial by comparison.

Anson did not smoke that day, but resorted to another form of torture,
inviting suicide without a qualm. He set off at nine to crow about his
women friends, who had entertained him with a vengeance the night before,
and by three he was still crowing, rubbing salt into open sores and
driving Bodie to distraction. If Anson could see what he was doing, he did
not care. Somehow Bodie finished the day without wringing his neck, and
remembered with gratitude that the next day was Saturday - his weekend
free, on the roster. One glorious weekend a month to himself.

It was raining and cool, the sky leaden, complementing his midnight mood,
and he stopped off on the way home to buy enough alcohol to see out the
weekend. He gave himself a grin of utter disgust as he shut the front
door. Turning into a real lush. Another month and I'll be a bloody
alcoholic, and the worst about it is, I don't give a shit. Foul language
both salved the sores and fanned the flames of the anger Anson had begun.
The fury was undirected, finding targets everywhere, and that Friday
evening Bodie hated the world, resented it for existing, for making him
hurt as he had never been hurt before.

He was half drunk by eight and knew he was irresponsible as he lost the
ability to think or see straight. How he did not kill himself, or someone
else, as he drove fast toward Murphy's place, he would never know. The
roads were not busy and no police car picked him up, but it was sheer
luck. He had not even stopped to think that Ray might not *be* at
Murphy's: in his drink fuddled mind, it was obvious where Ray would be -
in Michael-bloody-Murphy's bed, getting his brains screwed out.

And that was wrong. Ray had no right, was two-timing his partner, cheating
on him. He leaned on the bell until Murphy answered. "Bodie. Lemme in."

Puzzled note in Murphy's voice. "Bodie? You okay? You sound funny."

"Let me in!" Bodie roared at the mic.

"Okay, keep your shirt on. Come on up, it's open."

There was Murph, tall, broad, good looking and wearing a worried
expression as Bodie made it into the flat, stumbling through the door. One
big hand reached out to grab him as he almost fell but he threw it off,
not wanting the other man's touch.

"Where's Ray?"

Murphy's frown only deepened. "Phew, your breath smells like a distillery.
How much have you been drinking?"

"Not enough," Bodie snarled. "Ray! Where is he?"

"That's none of your goddamned business!" Murphy raised his voice. "Get
out of here till you sober up - and for Christ's sake don't let Cowley
catch you like this!"

Bodie was not listening. "Ray! Ray!"

Movement at the door; Ray stood there, bare chested, his feet bare, washed
out blue jeans only accentuating the shape of his body. Backlit by the
bedroom light, his hair was like a halo, and even angry his face was like
a painted angel. Bodie's breath caught. Words eluded him.

"He's drunk," Murphy said acidly.

"I can see that." Ray took a step into the room. "Bodie, what the hell do
you think you're doing?"

"I came to get you," Bodie snarled. "You don't belong here. Never did.
Don't want his hands on you."

"Who doesn't," Ray demanded, "you or me? Bugger off out of here, Bodie,
till you can stand up straight! Look at the state of you, man. Trying to
get the sack?"

"I - came - for - you," Bodie said succinctly, the words over-emphasised.
"Get your shirt on. You're coming with me."

For a moment Ray just blinked, then anger replaced the astonishment. "Like
hell I am! And the only place you're going is home, to sleep it off...
He'll kill himself on the road, Mike. Better call a taxi. Jesus, if Cowley
gets onto this, he'll roast this loon over a barbecue."

He had reached for the phone when Bodie knocked the receiver out of his
hand. "I said get your clothes, you're leaving." The voice was icy now,
the words slurred.

Doyle was suspended somewhere between anger and disgust; he looked at the
hand on his arm, then at Bodie's blurry face, and said, very levelly,
"take your hand off me."

"For Godsake, Bodie," Murphy interjected, stepping forward, "let it go
till you're sober."

"Shut it," Bodie snapped over his shoulder, never taking his eyes from
Ray's. "And you're coming with *me*. You don't belong here -- *you* don't
want his hands on you. You're mine, Ray - mine. And you always were."

There was a dead silence then. In it, Murphy watched Ray whiten to the
lips with a fury beyond words, and knew it was time to get between them.
"Ray, he's out of his head. Come on, pet, back off and let's have this
out, him and me."

"It's not your fight." Doyle's voice was no more than an icy whisper.

"It's not yours either," Murphy said calmly. "He's smashed and he's trying
to commit suicide. Don't help him."

Blazing green eyes met Murphy's, and Ray saw the sense of it, stepping
away from Bodie and backing up against the wall. Michael was cool,
detached now. "All right, Bodie. Cards on the table, old son. What do you
want?"

Bodie was drunk enough to focus on the passions of the scene rather than
on the words. "I want Ray. I've always wanted Ray. He's mine, get that
through your skull. *Mine*. Always been mine. So keep your hands off him!"

Incredibly, Murphy smiled, but it was a thin-lipped expression without
humour. "Ray's a free man. He doesn't belong to you and he never did. He
doesn't belong to me either. And if I want to touch him, and he wants me
to, you can think again, Bodie. If that's all you came here to say, you
can leave now."

Another silence, but brief this time, the lull before the storm... Bodie
was too drunk to fight well, but he had stature and physical strength, and
an enormous rage to back him up, and Doyle watched incredulously as he
barrelled into Michael, thrusting them back to the settee. They fell
heavily, bounced onto the carpet, and Bodie get a fist into Murphy's
middle, trying to hurt whereas Michael was trying *not* to.

For a frozen moment Ray could not believe what was happening - they were
fighting, over *him*, whaling into each other as if they hated each other,
all over Raymond Doyle, and who was going to take him to bed. Then reality
assaulted him and the horror of what was going on knifed into him. His two
best friends were ripping into one another, the probability was that
someone was going to get badly hurt, and it was his fault - like the
scarlet woman who set brother against brother.

A fury that exceeded Bodie's whipped Doyle to action, and he produced a
physical strength he had never known he had. He physically lifted Bodie
off Murphy, slamming him into the wall and delivering a short right cross
that dropped him and filled his mouth with bright red blood.

Both combatants stared at him, Murphy on the hearthrug, winded and
gasping, Bodie collapsed against the skirting board, blood spattering his
chin. Ray heaved in a breath and found words that would suffice. "It's
over, Bodie. Over! Did you get it this time? Finished! You - you own me? I
*belong* - ? Christ, you arrogant, egotistical, self-centered, spiteful
bastard!"

He turned away, marching into the bedroom for shirt, jacket and shoes, and
Murphy was calmed down when he returned; but Ray was not stopping. At the
door he turned back, fixing the two men with a desolate, desperate look.
"It's over, Mike - *all* of it. It's got to stop before it finishes the
three of us. Thanks, mate... See if you can get Bodie sobered up, will
you? Or just put him in a taxi and send him home. I... I've got to go."

With that he was gone and the flat was suddenly silent. Murphy picked
himself up off the floor, nursing a rib he knew was badly bruised; Bodie
did not stir. Michael frowned down at him, angry and sad. "You happy now?'

In fact, Bodie was wallowing in the bottom of a well of pure misery; felt
sick and ill, and only the alcohol in his bloodstream held the pangs of
shame at bay. But the fight was knocked out of him now and he could not
move. He propped himself against the wall and held his head, which had
begun to throb as a result of the blow. Ray packed a hefty wallop when he
was annoyed - he had always known that. Had seen him put down much bigger
men, but had never expected to be on the receiving end of a Ray Doyle
piledriver himself.

"Well?" Michael was waiting. "Come on, Bodie. Speak up - you had enough to
say when nobody wanted to listen!" He paused, noticing Bodie's pallor and
sudden greyness. "Christ, if you throw up on my carpet I'll break every
bone in your body!"

Thankfully, Bodie was not quite that far gone; he just shook his head
mutely, and Michael went to fetch a glass of dry ginger from the fridge.
Shaking fingers took it, and then Murphy was astonished to see the dark
blue eyes flooded with tears. Massaging the bruised rib, he knelt at
Bodie's side and put a hand on his shoulder. "What the hell is wrong with
you? What in God's name do you want Ray for? To fuck him again? You must
have a brain like a baboon! Ray's had enough of that from you! How often
do you have to be told for it to sink in?"

"I know," Bodie whispered, as if it hurt to even speak. "I've hurt him, I
know that. Jesus, you don't know the things I've done to him for fun. *My*
fun, that is. Dunno why he didn't kill me and have done... All I ever do
is hurt him."

Murphy sighed, sitting on the footstool beside the armchair. "All he wants
is for you to leave him alone now. This is ripping him to shreds. I know
you fancy him - I fancy him myself. And through your bloody stupid goings
on, I can't have him anymore! I really needed that. Why can't you get it
through your skull and leave him alone?"

"I want him," Bodie whispered.

"Big deal," Michael said ruthlessly. "I want Kate Jackson, but I can't
have her either. Go and find yourself a pretty boy and pretend he's Ray
while you fuck him senseless."

The brutal words found their mark unerringly. Bodie's wilful mind sent
Richard's face back to haunt him and his nerves gave an involuntary
shudder. "Don't want that."

"Then go and recruit one of your millions of birds," Michael amended.
"Every woman you see falls for you like a ton of bricks. Find yourself a
redhead who likes it on her knees, and bang her as hard as you can. If she
doesn't yell rape, you'll be well away."

The thought almost succeeded where the alcohol had failed to turn Bodie's
stomach. He gulped dry ginger. "Don't want - Christ, all I want is Ray.
Just Ray."

"But for Chrissakes, why?" Murphy demanded loudly.

The confession was out before Bodie could Stop it. "Because I love him!
I... love him, God help me."

It was what Murphy had half-suspected, but still it made no sense. He was
looking into blue eyes haunted by utter misery, so he did not doubt what
Bodie had said. But it had taken weeks for him to get Ray to calm down,
relax and let go in bed, so Michael had a pretty good notion of what had
passed between these two clowns. His fingers tightened on Bodie's arm. "If
you love him, you stupid sod, why do you play The Game with him?"

The question was asked in a low, quiet monotone, but it got through to the
part of Bodie's mind that was still working better than if Murph had
shouted. A denial sprang to his lips but he did not voice it. It would
have been more than half a lie. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to quell
the images he no longer wished to see. Ray, threshing about with his face
pushed into the carpet, because his knees and back were hurting - screwed
hard where he was, because Bodie wanted it that way; then struggling to
stand and going to soak in a hot bath so as to get his body moving. Fucked
over the chest of drawers in his own bedroom, mildly stunned and nursing a
dozen bruises. And other times, other ways Bodie longed to forget. That
was not making love. That was rough and ready sex, hard and active, where
the partner with the greater weight and height played to win, because to
lose meant getting hurt.

"Well?" Murphy was waiting, watching the twists of Bodie's changing
expression as memory tormented him. He was obviously in an agony of
recollection and regret, so Michael curbed his tone and reined in his
anger. The simple fact that no outraged denial had rushed out of Bodie was
enough to make him furious: Ray deserved better than that.

"Was in fun," Bodie slurred, confused. "Didn't know what I was doing at
first. Didn't think about it... We used to laugh, he just took it. Thought
he wanted it that way."

"Bastard," Michael said bitterly. "Arrogant, egocentric, selfish - "

"He already said all that," Bodie said miserably. "And he's right. I just
didn't think, until... " He dragged both hands over his face, trying to
get a grip on his thoughts. "Didn't realise how much I love 'im till it
was too late." Now that the confession had begun it would not stop.
Michael was father confessor, and Bodie was prostrate before him, awaiting
judgement. "Up in Liverpool, I tried what you said. Had a bloke that way.
Was angry with Ray for going with you, angry with meself for being such a
berk as to care... Made me sick, afterward. Realised it was Ray I wanted.
Was later when I realised I love him."

"When?" Michael asked softly, caught in a dreadful fascination by the
purging of a soul.

"Dreamed. Dreamed the way it used to be. They were doing a kid. Breaking
him in, you know. I let them have him, hurt him, but I recognised the
voice that was screaming." Bodie drew into a foetal ball, and said no
more.

For a long time there was silence, and then Murphy shook his head over the
other man. "You're an idiot, Bodie. Don't know how you ever managed to get
out of school, let alone onto the Squad. You're next thing to a mental
case."

"Yes," Bodie agreed, putting his head back against the wall and sniffing
on sinuses that were blocked. "It's too late now, isn't it? He hates me.

"An hour ago he still loved you," Murphy said quietly. "Now... I dunno.
You might have put the lid on it, old son. Ray's been pretty shell-shocked
by all this; a barrage of possessive bullshit from you was the last thing
he needed. See it from his angle for a jiff. He's *yours*, to beat into
submission and fuck so hard he can't sit down. How d'you think that made
him feel?"

Bodie blotted drying blood from his mouth. "I know. Oh, Christ, I'm so
tired."

"I'll get coffee on," Murphy said resignedly. "You'd better have something
for the whisky blues, and then sleep it off. You'll at least be able to
see the problem sober. Get on the settee - and if you throw up, I'll
bloody well rub your nose in it, so remember, the loo's that way."

Every bone in his body comprised of misery, Bodie got himself onto the
settee and held his head, waiting for Murphy to return with aspirin, black
coffee and a large chunk of butter. "What the 'ell's that for?"

"Aunt Mary's guaranteed soberer-upper," Michael told him. "The butter
floats on top of the booze in your stomach,stops the fumes coming up to
add to your already drunken stupor. Pinch your nose and get it down. Then
take the aspirin and start on the coffee. Got to get you sobered up if
you're going to get home and not find yourself in the cells overnight with
a bunch of stinking drunks - not," he added pointedly, "that you don't
deserve a night in the cells; but Cowley would chuck you out on your ear,
and that seems a bit extreme."

He watched Bodie get the butter down, chasing the aspirin after it' and
shoved the first of several cups of very strong, black coffee at him.
"Drink." He sat on the arm of the settee and sighed. "And incidentally, if
I'd known you loved Ray like this, I wouldn't have screwed you the other
night."

"Wanted Ray," Bodie slurred.

"Maybe you did, but you were not going to get him," Michael said severely.
"Truth is, you've pushed him to the end of his tether, Bodie. You may
never get him. You do realise that, don't you?"

Bodie nodded, looking as depressive as he felt, and drank the coffee
without a word. It was eleven when he was sober enough to go, and Murphy
showed him the door, then stood at the window to watch the fool get back
into the car and toddle off at a sedate pace. As the Capri turned the
corner at the end of the street the phone rang.

"Michael? It's Ray. I'm sorry, mate, for running out on you. I just had to
go... Left you to it, didn't I? Did Bodie give you a hard time?"

"No, just did as he was told", Michael said. "Listen, Ray, Bodie's in a
hole a mile deep. He'll want to talk to you when he's wide awake... Hear
him out, lamb chop. You might like what he has to say this time."

Silence, then Doyle cleared his throat. "Maybe. But I've heard all I ever
want to hear, Mike. I've got to get out of London for a bit, just the
weekend. There's an express up to Derby at six in the morning... I'm going
home. I'll check in to the office before I leave, but don't tell Bodie
where I've gone. He can find out if he's got the steam to, but don't hand
it to him. Don't make it simple. With any luck, he won't even try to
follow me."

"He will," Murphy said wryly. "He's told me a lot, of things Ray, but It
isn't my place to speak for him, not after the loopy things he's done
lately. He'll have to put it in his own words - hearing it in mine won't
do you one iota of good. And you'll have to think it out after you've
heard it all. Murphy paused. "Do listen Ray, if you've still got enough
patience where it counts."

"I... I'll think about it," Doyle said tiredly. "See you on Monday, Mike.
Take care."

Murphy hung up and stood looking at the phone, wondering where the hell it
would all end... 'Marriage', a fist fight, two resignations, a strategic
reteaming. It was in the lap of the gods.

******

Caffeine, aspirin and raw eggs worked their miracle of rejuvenation for
Bodie at ten to six on a Saturday morning that was sharp and cold, and he
watched the clock crawl around to half past before picking up the phone...
Ray was not answering. He knew he would not be with Murph, so unless Doyle
had gone on the town with the object in mind of getting smashed and into
some unwary stranger's bed, where the hell was he? That kind of abandon
was not in character with Ray Doyle. A Doyle with a fit of the moody blues
sat in his own flat with the drapes closed and stared at the floor while
he analysed his mind, soul and the cosmos.

He was not answering by eight, and Bodie had begun to worry. Christ, *had*
he done something stupid? A night among the drunks in the police cells,
and his job was forfeit. That was not the kind of thing Cowley would
countenance for a moment. Bodie was fretting now, and picked up the R/T,
calling Central. Mandy answered, a young girl with a high pitched voice
who was new and cutting her teeth on the early shift.

"This is 3.7 - I'm trying to reach 4.5, but he isn't answering the phone."

"Hardly surprising, 3.7," she said glibly. "He'll be out of R/T range till
Sunday night or early Monday. He's gone home."

As far as Bodie was aware of it, 'home' to Ray was a flat in Chelsea, and
he struggled with the statement for a moment before it dawned on him. Home
as in *home*. 27 Morley Crescent, the family castle, his mother's house.
Derby. "When did he leave?"

"On the Intercity a couple of hours age," Mandy told him. "Dunno why, but
I sort of expected you'd be with him.!'

Bodie closed down without a coherent reply, and sat frowning at the gas
heater. Ray had run, out and far, and it was clear that he wanted to be
alone. The decent thing to do would be to leave him in exile, as he
obviously wanted... The decent thing, but not the sensible thing. By
Monday, 3.7 and 4.5 would be strangers, and it would be over indeed.

The next express was at ten, since Bodie had missed the eight o'clock
northbound, and it would be loaded. The thought of sharing airspace with
smokers, squealing children and the Working Man was too much, and instead,
Bodie locked his flat and slid into the car. The Capri would get up and
fly in the fast lane, and he could be in Derby faster than if he waited
for a train.

The question was, would Ray see him? He had chosen the right place to run
*to*, Bodie acknowledged... The family home where two words in the wrong
direction and Mrs. Kathleen Doyle would tell him to get lost. A house
where he was a total stranger, and would have to be on his best behaviour
- careful not to drop expletives, or biscuit crumbs; careful not to make
Ray annoyed. Doyle had probably not done it on purpose, but he had chosen
the one safe place in the whole country, short of going to ground and
leaving no forwarding address.

Bodie did not see the countryside flash past; his foot was to the floor
and he filled the eight gallon tank several times, shamelessly charging
the petrol to CI5. Time to sort it all out later. Cowley would go through
the roof, but Bodie would talk his way out, as usual... Could he talk his
way out of the mess with Ray?

He had never seen the Doyle family home, and got a surprise as he drove
down Morley Crescent in search of the address. It stood behind a high, red
brick wall, trees and, shrubs obscuring the bullding from view. The gate
was open, a tall, black wrought iron affair, and the tyres crunched on
gravel as he pulled up the drive to park behind a British Leyland
grocery-getter.

The house was old, windows painted white, front door one of those
elaborate carved pine things with security screen and peep hole. Bodie
leaned on the bell and waited, his innards churning. He had no idea of
what he was going to say.

******

Full of ham and salad, Ray sprawled out on a single bed that seemed to
have shrunk by yards, and closed his eyes. He had not slept the night
before, and the train journey had been an unexpected hassle. But worth it
he thought, managing a faint smile as he listened to the sounds of the
house, so odd and yet so familiar. Reassuring.

There was the muffled banging of plumbing that ought to be lagged; the
rattle of the garage doors in the breeze; the slam of the kitchen window;
the creak of floorboards under his mother's feet as she moved about on the
stairs; the crunch of footsteps on the gravel next door.

Familiar things brought a spurious calm, and Ray soaked it in, needing it
after the night before. Blind fury had not lasted long, and in minutes had
been redirected at himself for the utter lunacy of falling in love with
someone as dubious as Bodie. He deserved everything he had got, and more
besides. He should have separated Bodie from his breath the first time the
bastard had refused to let him up off the floor and find some comfortable
way to lie or kneel. He should have known what he was in for, given Bodie
the rounds of the bedroom, and gone.

Weak-kneed, lily-livered, adoring acceptance of a dozen near rapes had
just given Bodie the quite natural impression that his partner was a
little pervo who liked to be raped, got off on the humiliation of being
spread-eagled and hammered. It was disgust at himself that turned Doyle's
stomach, and he had spent the night labouring toward a decision.

Bodie would never have him sexually again, this he knew already. But could
he survive the degradation of working with a man who was confident that
Raymond Doyle was - he struggled after a word, and the only one that
seemed to fit was *deviate*. Same-sex encounters were fine; making love
with a man was a source of satisfaction unequalled even by loving with a
woman, he had found. But Bodie's idea of taking a man was something else
again, and Doyle castigated himself without mercy for the stupidity of
humouring him for so long.

Even then, there was a hunger for Bodie, but it was the yearning after a
dream, and he had no patience with himself for it. Christ, it wasn't
Bodie's fault any more than it was a bloke's fault when the twelve year
old girl painted her face and put on high heels, pranced around and
convinced him she was eighteen at least, and then went screaming to mummy
because he had given her what she had asked for.

Ray rolled over, looking up at the boxed toys on top of the wardrobe.
Train set, Lego, Meccano, the things of childhood, long gone, never
missed. The room had been kept pretty much as it had been; first Kenny had
slept here, letting the younger boys have beds instead of bunks in the
other room; then Dirk had had it, so as to be able to study when he got to
college. Dirk had moved out a year before but their mother kept the bed
made up because it was a handy spare for those frequent unexpected guests.

Unexpected guest - that's me, Pay thought sourly. I come running home to
hide my head for a couple of days before I have to get back on my feet,
and cope... Christ, what am I going to do? He thinks I get off on
domination fantasies! How the hell do you work with a bloke who thinks
you're a deviate?

Two choices: reteaming. Resignation... Of the two, resignation would be
the easier. He would have to give Cowley the reason, but, since it was the
last official report he made to the boss, it carried no ramifications.
'Yes sir, I want to resign, sir. Why? Because my partner thinks he owns
fucking rights to my bum, and I've stopped seeing the funny side of it.'
Cowley would love it - but he would take it as a pretty good excuse to
*go*. He would probably talk like a Dutch uncle, try to persuade Ray that
reteaming would be better, but Doyle was none too sure of that.

Bodie would be around; in the squad room, at meetings and briefings. They
were likely to be casually reteamed in future, as Bodie and Murph, and
Murph and Jax, and Jax and Doyle himself, were swapped around as the job
required it.

And that was suicide. He had already hit Bodie, and meant to hit him,
meant to *hurt*. In that instant, if he could have knocked his teeth right
out, he would have been happy... It was a bad way for a friendship and
partnership to end, but end it must. One drunken night, at New Year, had
wrecked everything.

'Dear Mr. Cowley, I regret to inform you that I must tender my
resignation, to become effective at the earliest opportunity. My working
relationship with Bodie has become a liability, and it is my belief that
it would be a mistake for me to continue to work as his partner, or,
indeed, as a member of your department. My reasons for these statements
are entirely personal and will, of course, be outlined to you at your
convenience. An early appointment time would be most preferable, since I
feel the partnership has become dangerous. The basis of the disagreement
between 3.7 and myself -

Tyres crunched on the gravel outside, interrupting the moody train of his
thoughts. He rolled off the bed and lifted the net curtains from the
window in time to see the car pull in behind his mother's P71.

Jesus, the bastard was quick off the mark. Ray looked at the time and bit
off a curse. Eight o'clock last night, he had been in a heap on the floor,
drunk as a skunk and spitting blood - literally. It was just before two on
Saturday afternoon, and the Capri must have flown up the motorway. Bodie
got out of it, stiff, cramped, stretching as he walked up to the front
door and leaned on the bell. Familiar chimes pealed in the hall, he heard
his mother humming as she hurried from kitchen to door, the squeal of
hinges that could have used a lick of oil. Deep, familiar voice, Derby
accent with a slight trace of Dublin accent left over from the old days:
"Yes?"

"Mrs. Doyle? My name is Bodie, I work with Ray. Er, is he at home?"

"Yes, he is - he hasn't been here long... Is it something important? Oh,
don't say he's going to have to leave so soon?

"We just need to talk, Mrs. Doyle." Bodie being smooth, suave. Trying to
charm the older woman. And he'd do it, Ray thought bitterly. Could charm a
bird out of a tree when he wanted to, could Bodie. Nobody stood a cat in
hell's chance.

"He's in his room, Mr. - Brodie, was it?"

"Bodie. Up the stairs?"

"Yes, the second door on your right... I'm just about to make a cup of
tea. Would you like one?"

"I think it might save my life, Mrs. Doyle - I've been driving for at
least the last three years!"

Footsteps on the stairs; Bodie's tread, regular and light. Ray sat on the
edge of his bed, clasped his hands between his knees and schooled his
expression. His knuckles were bruised, he noticed absently; he had bruised
them on Bodie's jaw. Had Bodie come here to fight again? Christ, not with
Kathleen in the house -

"'Ullo, Ray."

The door shut with a click and Ray looked up. Bodie was pale, big, dark
smudges beneath his eyes, his mouth thin and drawn with fatigue. "Didn't
take you long."

"Tried to call you this morning. Started to worry when you didn't answer
the phone, so I called Central, and they told me you'd come here." He
paused, glancing around the child's room. "Can I sit down?"

"Please yourself," Ray said levelly, and watched his partner sit in the
swivel chair by Dirk's desk. "Whatever it is you've got to say, get on
with it. I'm not in a mood for small talk, Bodie. And before you start,
I'll come clean. My resignation is on Cowley's desk first thing Monday
morning."

The silence was long and painful, and then Bodie said softly, "I thought
that's what you'd do. And it's the wrong thing, Ray. You're chucking away
your career for someone else's mistakes... Mine. I've been a bloody fool,
I know that. If you can't work with me - and Christ knows, I can
understand that! - then it's *me* who goes, not you."

The words were unexpected, spoken in a soft, gentle voice that was
disconcerting - diffident and - repentant? Ray's brow knitted in a frown.
"Okay, I'm listening. Entertain me."

He saw Bodie wince. "I didn't come here to lie to you, Ray. Not any more.
I've been lying - to myself as well as to you, for too long. It's the
bloody deceit that's caused all this. If I'd told myself the truth at New
Year, and then whispered it in your lug'ole, we'd have been happy as a
pair of pigs in clover." He studied his knotted hands. "I know you detest
me. I don't blame you." He took a peek at Ray's face, hoping to see a
refutation of the statement but seeing only the straightened, schooled
mask Doyle sometimes used to cover his feelings. It could mean all or
nothing. "I've done everything to teach you how to despise me, nothing to
make you even like me, let alone l- Jesus, when I think of the things I've
done to you, I could dive off the roof. Must be out of my mind! Thing I
can't understand is why you didn't kill me!"

"I'm insane," Ray said tartly, wondering what the hell Bodie was on about,
and thinking back to Murphy's advice over the phone the night before.
Listen to the silly sod, Michael had said; you might like what you hear.
"Will you get to the point, Bodie?"

Bodie smiled sadly at him. "You saw it last night. I bust into Murphy's
place, full of hate, coming to grab you, needing you like I've never
needed anyone."

"Needing my body," Ray said quietly, bitterly.

Bodie shook his head slowly. "I thought that, once; I used to tell myself
I needed you that way, all lust and frenzy. Bloody believed myself, too.
I... put the theory to the test, Ray. I'm not proud of it, but you ought
to know. You have to know before we can go on, I had a man in Liverpool,
when I was away that time. I tried to replace you. Surrogate, or
something. It was... ugly. I feel filthy just thinking about it. He was a
little animal, and I did it so hard it's a wonder I didn't put him in
hospital... Christ, maybe I did. Afterwards, I felt nothing. Empty. Hated
him, hated myself. Wanted you so much I didn't know what to do with
myself.

"Except I knew then, I didn't want you like that, hard and fighting.
Wanted to make you smile, Ray, wanted to make it so right. I came home,
and you were so beautiful and so miserable, I'd have given anything I had
to make it right... Started to see the truth, then. Learned how to stop
lying to myself." He paused, looking up and meeting the green eyes
levelly. "I've been telling myself the truth for a hundred years - s'what
it feels like, without you. I... want to tell the revelations to you now,
before it gets any stupider. Then - well, you can throw me out of here,
belt me again. Anything but resign, Ray. After you've heard what I've got
to say, if you can't live with it, *I* go, not you. You pay for your
half-assed mistakes in this life, I've always known that. I'm not ducking
responsibility."

There was a taut silence then; in it, they heard the sound of feet on the
stairs, and Kathleen Doyle's smiling face appeared at the door. If she
noticed the stress and strain in the room she tactfully overlooked it,
perhaps attributing it to the rigours of a rotten job. Bay took a tray of
tea and cake from her, setting it down on the foot of his bed and offering
up a manufactured smile as she left. Bodie did not look at her, waiting
for privacy again.

"I'm listening," Ray said softly, staring at the tea but not reaching for
a cup. "Say it and have done." He hurt; whatever it was Bodie was up to
was something new, but it was just as obvious that Bodie was far from
happy - feeling a fool for his invasion of Murph's place.

"It's... very simple, Ray," Bodie said quietly, sadly. "So simple I didn't
even realise what was happening. I love you, that's the start and finish
of it."

Silence. Doyle heard and did not assimilate the words for a long time, and
as they percolated through to his thinking mind his breathing snagged in
his throat. Still, he could not digest the meaning, and knew his voice was
tight and hoarse. "You - what?"

"I love you," Bodie repeated softly. "With all that means, all it entails.
I want your body, sure; but I want your heart to go with it. I want you to
smile for me, want you there beside me when I wake up, so that I can do
stupid things, like tell you how you're a raving beauty all whiskery and
dopy with sleep, bring you breakfast in bed and cajole you into fucking me
rigid before we have to get up." He managed a shaky smile. "Only on our
days off, though, because I don't think I could work afterwards. I can't
imagine how you used to -"

"Bodie!" Doyle's voice was like a whipcrack; the green eyes were bright,
feral, glittering, probing Bodie to his soul, and it felt as if they were
flaying him. He waited, holding his breath while Doyle glowered at him,
trying to read his face as they had always been able to read one another,
before all this had messed up their lives.

"Ray, I'm not lying," Bodie whispered. "0h, Jesus, has it come to this,
sunshine - we've grown so far apart you can't even see when my heart's
breaking?" He closed his eyes to hide the bitter tears and dragged his
hands across his face.

When it came, Doyle's voice was like a salve. "I can see, you bloody great
lunatic. I'm just having a hard time taking it in, understanding it.
Bodie, *why?* For Christ's sake, why?"

"Why do I love you?" Bodie said hoarsely. "I dunno. Why does anyone love
anyone? Because you're one of a kind, and I'm dying without you.
Shrivelling up like a plant with its roots ripped out of the ground." He
lifted his head, no longer trying to hide the tears.

It was the sight of tears in Bodie's eyes that reached Doyle at last. In
all the years, no matter the state of affairs, he had never seen such an
expression of grief and remorse. He had seen Bodie annoyed, even furious,
injured and saddened, but never so deeply hurt that he could not hold it
in. Anger was gone from Ray's mind in an instant; a small, quiet voice in
the back of his mind told him he was a fool for capitulating so quickly
after the months of such pain as he had endured himself, but he ignored
it.

He held out his hand. "Come here, you stupid great idiot."

"Ray?" Bodie got to his feet, half expecting to be read a lecture, even
though he could see acceptance on Doyle's face.

The tea tray was set onto the floor with a muted clatter. "I said come
*here*, Bodie!" It was not a request.

Bodie went. The soft springs of a child's single bed squealed under their
double weight but they ignored it, and suddenly Bodie was dizzy with
disbelieving relief as Ray tugged him down until they were lying entwined,
the bigger man's weight crushing the breath out of his companion.

"Idiot," Ray accused breathlessly, holding Bodie by the ears to savage his
mouth, muttering between bruising kisses, "fool, lunatic! What did you
think I wanted? You thought I wanted fucking? You thought I wanted blood
and bruises? Jesus, Bodie, what do you think I am, some kind of deviate?"

"Ray, I -" Bodie got no further as a furious tongue ravished his mouth
again.

"You couldn't tell I loved you? You didn't want to know!" Ray clamped his
legs about Bodie's hips and squeezed to hold the bigger man still,
unconsciously using all the considerable strength he possessed. "Why did
you think I kept on coming back to you and letting you beat me?"

"I suppose I thought -" Bodie began, and was silenced by another savage
kiss. His blood was pounding. The slim arms and legs had him in a
vise-grip, and although Ray was beneath him he was definitely in command.
An astonishing strength held him captive, the mouth against his was
desperate and wild, giving Bodie some inkling of how it might have been if
Ray had not been in love with him, and had made a real fight of it. They
might have crippled each other, if not in the fight, then in the coupling
that followed. A little blood was one thing, but men could get killed,
never mind hurt, if the violence was bad enough, or sustain injuries that
effectively neutered then. Bodie moaned into Doyle's open mouth, riding
out the storm until sheer exhaustion began to quieten Ray. Slowly, slowly,
he stilled and lay panting beneath Bodie's weight. He had called his
partner every name he could lay tongue to, neither of them having heard
one of them.

At last Bodie dared look into the green eyes. "Ray?" He lifted his head to
look down at the flushed face; Ray's mouth was swollen and he was still
weeping, unaware of the tears. Bodie bent a little, licking away the salt
tears. "Christ, mate, I'm sorry. For everything."

"Makes two of us," Doyle said huskily.

"Not your fault," Bodie said stubbornly.

But Ray shook his head. "February 16th. I know the date - was the day we
shot it out with that madman, Landers. It'd been close, we needed to be
together. You wanted me, I knew, which was okay, because I wanted you.
Wasn't till we got back to your place that I saw the way you wanted it. I
didn't like it with my face shoved into the carpet, and the floor was
killing my knees." He spoke ruthlessly, watching Bodie's face, needing to
*know*. Bodie remembered too; clearly. "I told you I was hurting. You
shoved my legs apart, my cock went into the floor, nearly crippled me. Had
to fight to get back up; was half way up, on one knee, when you started to
fuck me. Had to hold my weight like that or bash meself into a eunuch on
the floor. I yelled at you to stop, and you bit me. I pulled every tendon
in my right leg." The words were level and emotionless, neither accusing
nor maudlin. "Because I wasn't straight on my knees you weren't straight
inside me, and it hurt. A lot. I couldn't get you to stop, the louder I
yelled the harder you fucked me- so I shut up, because if you went much
harder you'd have rammed me into the floor and castrated me. I couldn't
get up when you finished, but you looked so relaxed, vulnerable, peaceful,
when you passed out, I knew you'd needed it hard, and knew it was my fault
for not getting into bed fast enough."

The memory scorched Bodie's nerves. He closed his eyes, not finding the
courage to see Ray's face while he related the story. "Your fault? Don't
be a bigger idiot than me."

"Shut up, Bodie, I'm not finished." Ray's voice was a mere whisper. "I
wanted you to have what you needed, but that should have been the *last*.
After that I knew... But I couldn't walk away. I was the idiot! But I'm a
man too, Bodie. There are times when *I* need something. Oh, I'm not
saying I want to screw you so hard you're in pain afterward, but... Jesus,
I asked you to let me have you on a lazy Sunday night after we'd been
fishing since morning. We were dozy and squiffy and it would have been
so... so gentle. You laughed at me then, and you laughed at me every time
I asked after that." He paused and sighed. "Didn't you ever wonder why I
stopped asking?"

"Wasn't thinking," Bodie whispered. "I'm squashing you flat here. Let me
move a bit."

They rolled a little, both their heads pillowed on the white cotton at the
bedhead. Ray was aware of the possessiveness of Bodie's hands and answered
their sharp tugs, going into the thickly muscled arms, letting his head be
held against one blue shirted shoulder. "No, you never do think, do you,
love?"

Love. Bodie's heart skipped a beat. "Ray, you believe me, don't you?"

"Oh, I believe you," Doyle whispered. "All your bloody idiotic antics
these last weeks make sense now."

"Will you come back?" Bodie asked softly against the warm, brown curls.
"If you come back -"

"If I come back," Doyle echoed. "Terms, Bodie."

Bodie lifted his head. "Terms?"

"Solemn contract. And I want your hand on it, as if it was a business
deal. If you can't do that, go now."

The husky, low voice was taut with anxiety and Bodie could not conceal a
smile. "I'm not going anywhere. Terms?"

"One. If you love me, you can stop screwing around with every bird you
see. I'll chew your balls off and feed them to next door's cat if you do."

"Cuts both ways," Bodie added. "And if you put one little finger on
Michael bloody Murphy, I'll kill the pair of you."

"Deal," Ray agreed soberly. "Two. I don't mind the sex getting a bit
rough, and I'm not afraid of a few bruises or a bite or two, but when I
*tell* you I'm hurting you get off me, or you go out through the door and
keep going, because by the time I *say* it, it's going too far."

"Hurt you?" Revulsion for the idea made Bodie shudder. "I've been a fool
in the past, Ray, I don't deny it, but it's *past* now. If I ever forget
myself and pull that stunt again, you won't have to throw me out, I'll run
for it, and keep running, all the way back to the bloody jungle where I
belong."

"Fair enough," Ray said quietly. "Three. This relationship is going to be
give-and-take, or it doesn't happen. I don't mind being fucked quite
often, I've learned how 'good it can be. But I want you, Bodie, I've
wanted you that way since the start, and if we're going to get bloody
*married*, you come across when I need you, same as I come across for you.
Deal?"

The blue eyes smiled. "I tried to tell you in the car one day. I wish you
would do me. I let Murphy do it because there was nothing I could do or
say that would make sense enough to stop it happening, but I wished it
could have been you. Couldn't stop thinking about it, and every time I
wanted you in me. Must have sent the launderette lady on a holiday to
Bermuda on the proceeds of my trips down there. Me sheets have been washed
away." He ducked his head, knowing he was flushing.

Silence, then Doyle actually gave an earthy chuckle. "Silly boy. Wasting
all that when you could have been spending it where it should be spent. I
want it in future, Bodie. All of it. It's mine."

The fierce, possessive words, with their erotic intent, made Bodie shiver.
"It's yours. That cuts both ways too, mind. I want yours. Want to taste
it, want it in me. Every day."

"Every day?" The green eyes were heavy, languid, smiling.

"Every day," Bodie growled. "Terms?"

"Yeah. Four. We live together, so I can keep an eye on you."

"So I can keep an eye on *you*," Bodie amended. "Five?"

"Five. We split the costs of running the flat; and we spend the savings
together. I want to *love* your brains out on a beach in Tahiti, and
that'll cost money."

Bodie swallowed, thinking back to the music of Saint-Saens and the fantasy
the Havanaise had generated. "I want you in Barbados, after dark, when the
moon's full," he admitted.

"Fancy banging a wolf, then, do you?" Ray teased as he began to relax now.
Forgot to tell you about that - I'm a werewolf."

"Doesn't worry me," Bodie said airily. "I'm a vampire, so we're even." He
leaned forward to lick Ray's mouth softly. "Terms... I want you long and
slowly, all the ways here are, every time we can manage it, with clean
sheets and a bath to share afterward. And if you're sore, I'll baby you."

" Too bloody right you will." Ray gave a languid stretch. "And if you're
sore afterward, I'll baby *you*." He felt the shiver run through Bodie's
nerves. "Last term, Bodie. We go to Cowley, first thing Monday morning,
and tell him. And if he doesn't like it, we resign and bugger off and be
happy somewhere else."

"You're complacent," Bodie observed, glorying in the way Ray cuddled up to
him and kissed his neck.

"Yeah, I am. Not making more mistakes, am I?"

"No," Bodie admitted. "This time you're dead right. Oh, Ray, it's going to
be good. I love you so much I can't tell you what it's like. The sex is
different. I want that too, though." To reinforce the point he tucked his
fingers into the warmth of Doyle's groin and began a slow, rhythmic
massage that soon produced the desired result. A throb, a sudden heat, and
the denim was tightening. Ray arched his back helplessly, cramped between
the muscular body and the wall, and Bodie caught his breath. "Ray, let me
look at you. Want to see you."

"Stop - bloody - asking," Ray growled. "My body belongs to you now, same
as yours belongs to me!"

Two-way possession was frightening, and Bodie felt a thrill of
pleasure/terror as Ray made him the priceless gift. He got his knees under
him, beside the bed, unzipped the washed-out blue jeans and lifted the
throbbing genitals free of soft yellow cotton. The smell of Ray's musk was
so familiar, better than any aphro ever devised by man. His cock was big
and blindly seeking, knowing what it wanted. Bodie could not deny it.

"Ah - God!" Ray breathed as Bodie began to suck him, his hips lifting and
rotating, the breath torn from him by fingers that probed his balls and a
tongue that was doing unthinkable things to him. The fact that it was
*Bodie* doing this made it nearly unbearable, and he came quickly, pouring
into Bodie's throat with a whimper and falling back, spent.

There was a taste to Ray that was unique; Bodie craved it, claiming every
drop of scalding semen Ray could produce and then licking him clean. He
gave the spent testicles a kiss each and carefully tucked the
over-sensitive genitals back into.the yellow cotton, his palm massaging
the quivering belly soothingly as he watched the green eyes slowly clear.

"What - what about you?" Ray asked at last, as he began to think again.

'I'm okay," Bodie lied. His own erection was painful, but it would subside
given time.

"Liar," Ray said serenely. "Lie down."

"There's no need -"

"I said lie down!" Ray knelt on the foot of the bed to allow it, and took
a delight in exposing Bodie before he sat back on his heels, astride his
lover's legs, to look at him. A wanton, flushed sprawl, sinking the
mattress of a single bed in a child's room, big, excited genitals
quivering in the slightly cool air. "What do you want?"

"Anything." Bodie sounded strangled. "No. Actually I want you to take me,
but this isn't the place... or the time. Dunno what your mum'd think."

Ray choked off a laugh as he bent to return the gift he had been given,
sucking Bodie into his throat and lavishing on him all the care and
attention to detail he had learned. Bodie was beside himself before he was
allowed to come, writhing helplessly until the bed protested.

Swallowing the last rush of hot semen, Ray licked him dry and kissed the
softened cockhead before lifting his head. "One good turn deserved
another."

"Ray?" Bodie slurred, holding out his arms. "C'mere. Kiss me. Please?"

"Stop asking," Ray growled. "I keep telling you, you don't have to ask any
more, because it's us now." He accepted Bodie's embrace and offered his
lips, collecting a kiss that was gentle and tasted of their seed.

"Come home with me," Bodie whispered.

"I will," Doyle told him. "Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" Bodie protested. "I can't just drive off and leave you here!"

"I need time to get my head sorted out," Ray said firmly. "The way I'm
thinking right now, I might mess it all up. Too much heat, too much
anger."

"Not still angry with me?" Bodie asked, puzzled.

"No, love, angry with myself." Ray sighed heavily. "We nearly cocked it
all up, didn't we? If it hadn't been for Murph it would have been over. I
need to *think*, sweetheart, and calm down, because when we get into bed
this time, I want it to be *right*. We're trying to build ourselves a
future, and you can't build anything on shaky foundations."

"Logical little twerp," Bodie teased. "Okay... bonny lad, we'll do it your
way.

Doyle had to smile. "Murphy calls me that."

"He doesn't own the copyright," Bodie said bluffly. "And besides, it's
accurate and I like it. So get used to it."

"I hope I will," Ray said against Bodie's shoulder. "You can stay here
tonight, if you like."

"Not enough room in this stupid little bed," Bodie scoffed.

"There's another room," Doyle said, pained.

"Stay under this roof, and not be able to touch you? Not bloody likely.
I'm not a masochist." Bodie kissed the battered cheekbone that fascinated
him and sat up. "You know something? We've let the tea go cold."

"Have to tip it down the bathroom sink, or mum's feelings will be good and
bruised," Ray smiled. "Forgot about it."

"Want some cake?" Bodie retrieved the plate of fruit cake and broke a
piece into chunks. He popped a piece into his lover's mouth and kissed
him. "I'm going to pine away on my own tonight."

"Dream about me," Ray said with mock-indifference.

"Been doing that a lot lately," Bodie said honestly.

"So you've got plenty of practise at it," Ray grinned. "Oh, Bodie, play it
my way. Let's cool down and get it *right*. We can't afford any more
mistakes, not after the pantomime there's been. Please?"

"I'll dream about having you in Barbados," Bodie said soberly. "I've got a
record at home -"

"You do it to music?" Ray smiled.

"Best way," Bodie admitted. "Saint-Saens. That piece called Havanaise...
Can't resist it. Us on a beach, in the moonlight."

"Didn't think you liked that kind of music," Doyle said, surprised and
delighted. "Here, on this beach, who's doin' who?"

"Whom," Bodie corrected with a smile, tousling the curls he loved. "Oh, we
take it in turns. You can have me, then I'll have you."

"Got to be careful about the sand," Doyle said solemnly. "God, how'd you
like sandpaper shoved up you? Hm, there's a lot to be said for bedrooms
instead of beaches!''

"Point." Bodie pulled him close and was kissing him deeply when they
heard` the telltale creak of the stairs. They sprang apart,
panic-stricken, zipping up and trying to smooth ruffled hair, and by the
time Kathleen knocked at the door there was nothing to be seen.

Ray levelled his voice. "Yes, mum?"

The door opened and the older woman's face appeared, a pleasant smile
bestowed at the visitor. "I'll need to know if Bodie will be staying for
dinner."

"There's time, before you head back to London," Doyle said quietly. "If
you want to, Bodie."

"I'd like to, Mrs. Doyle," Bodie agreed. "Here, d'you want the tea tray?
I'm afraid we didn't make the most of it - business got the better of the
conversation"

"So I see!" She shook her bead over the cups. "Well, if you're all talked
out now, I can make a fresh cup."

"Mrs. Doyle, you're a lifesaver," Bodie said, knowing that he was charming
his new mother-in-law, and determined to make a thorough job of it.

Kathleen bought the spiel and shut the door on her way out. When Bodie
turned back, it was to see Ray frowning at the closed door. "That's
another thing... She'll have to know, sooner or later, you realise that."

"Yeah, I expect so," Bodie agreed. "But - one crisis at a time. Cowley
first. Then, if we get the sack, we can save one emotional scene by
dropping both bombshells together.''

"Logical." Ray got up and stretched. "Let's go down and have tea in the
living room... Being alone with you, with access to a bed, is too
distracting."

He was not wrong. Before they left the room Bodie captured him in a
suffocating embrace, wanting to kiss him and revelling in the willingness
with which Doyle met his mouth. There would be no holding back, nothing
denied, no secrets between them now. Total honestly, total/commitment.
Bodie acknowledged a certain terror of it.

It was the terror of the unknown. He had never permitted anyone to ensnare
him in a relationship that mattered a damn... had never permitted anyone
to stake a claim on his heart.

There were first times for everything.

Bodie opened his mouth to Ray's soft, silky tongue, needing the
possession, inviting it. Ray answered gently before releasing him and
stepping back to catch his breath.

"Come on, you big soft twit. Come and have a cuppa. Mind your language
around mum, she doesn't care for it. And say you like the roses, if you
want to get on her good side."

"All you Doyles have got green fingers?" Bodie asked as he followed Ray to
the door. Before he could answer Doyle was besieged by a kiss. "I love
you," Bodie whispered fiercely.

"I know you do," Ray said, voice quiet, husky. "Come on and drink mum's
tea. And for Chrissake, don't look at me like that while you do!"

"Like what?" Bodie demanded, surprised.

"Goo-goo eyes are for the bedroom," Ray said sternly.

"Sorry." Bodie was surprised by the meekness of his own voice. "Didn't
realise I was doing it. Have to be careful about that at work, won't we?
'Less the Cow gives us the sack."

"Look on the bright side," Doyle smiled. "He mighht need us. We're still
good at what we do even if we *are* fucking each other six ways from
Sunday."

Bodie winced at the bluntness of the wording. "I keep telling you, I want
to make *love* to you. I... I had a man in Liverpool. That was fucking,
and it was bloody awful, if you must know." He looked into the green eyes,
knowing he was wearing a ridiculously hopeful expression. "Let me love
you, Ray."

Doyle answered with a smile that was unabashedly sweet. "I will. Love you,
you stupid bugger. I've loved you for ages, haven't I?"

With that, he opened the door and pushed Bodie through it before they
could surrender to either sentimentality or lust, both of which would have
been a mistake in this place and at this time... Time for that later, at
home.

******

The Intercity express was due in at 4.30, and Bodie was ten minutes early,
standing on the platform with a throng of business people, children in the
uniforms of boarding schools, day trippers on their way home. Sunday
afternoon, late in September: the weather was awful, the sky leaden,
intermittent rain blasting in on a wind that cut like a knife. The other
people on the platform were looking at Bodie as if he must be insane,
because he was standing there, hands in his pockets, his shoulders damp,
the wind in his face, smiling into the middle distance as if it was a
glorious day.

Bodie's mind was miles away. Miles away on a beach in Barbados... It had
not happened, he was smiling at the dream, but it could be *made* to
happen. Shared flat, shared savings, holidays booked well in advance. Far,
far from CI5 and George Cowley, no R/T to get between them, no worries
about the phone or knocks at the door...

The Intercity pulled in with a rush of noise and commotion that brought
him back to the present with a jar. The passengers were streaming from it,
preoccupied and harrassed, and he scanned thelr faces for Ray's. He had
called Derby at two, and Ray had been cheerful, relaxed, saying that he
was on his way out even then, so nothing short of an earthquake would have
kept him of' the train.

There he was, small and slight, an overnight bag in one hand, blue denim
and brown leather buying him utter anonimity, as he shouldered through the
crush, his eyes easily picking out Bodie. His lips smiled in greeting, and
Bodie beckoned him to the steps, escaping from the crush with a moment to
spare before the departing crowd began to jostle with the one which had
just arrived.

The car was close at hand, which was fortunate as the rain began to patter
again as they left the station. They did not speak until they had shut out
the damp, chilly afternoon air, and then Bodie took Doyle's hand under
cover of the dash and squeezed it. "Welcome home, love."

"Was hoping for a bigger hello than that," Ray chided.

"In public?" Bodie demanded, laughing.

"Not enough room in the car anyway," Ray agreed. "Home, James, and don't
spare the horses."

Home. Bodie had the key in the ignition before he thought to ask, "My
place or yours?"

"Mine," Doyle said after a moment's thought.

"Better memories," Bodie observed. "Most of the times I've hurt you, I was
king of my own castle. I know."

"Fool," Doyle smiled. "I've got plenty of casserole in the freezer at my
place, and a bottle of red. You'll be hungry, but you won't want to push
off to a restaurant. Not tonight."

"Oh." Bodie's cheeks flushed as he started the car. "You don't bear
grudges, do you, Ray?"

"Not forever," Doyle admitted. "And not when it all comes out right in the
end. Be dumb to spoil everything again."

"Yeah.' Bodie threaded through the traffic, every nerve ultra-aware of the
man sitting at his left. Doyle was a long, lean sprawl in the passenger
seat, one hand strap-hanging, the other lax on the top of his thigh, one
boot braced, the other tucked back beneath it. He was watching pedestrians
in the rain, his expression calm. Serene. Bodie wondered how he managed
it, because his own insides were churning.

The shower stopped and they got inside without getting wet. Bodie had left
the heating on and the air was warm. The sky outside was dark and low, and
he put on a lamp as they closed up for the night. Ray picked up the Phone
before doing anything, calling in to Central with the regulation
notification that he was back in London and could be reached at his flat.
Bodie prayed that no one would need him that night...

No one but me, he amended. Because I need him. Bloody Christ, how I need
him.

"You've been in here," Ray said throatily. "Why?"

"To get the place warm before we got here," Bodie said levelly. "I just
brought some fresh milk over and put the heater on. I knew you'd want to
come back here."

"How?" Ray asked, taking off his jacket and hanging it over the back of a
chair.

"Told you. Better memories here."

"And I told you, I don't hold grudges."

"Better memories, though," Bodie said. "For me, too. When I think of the
things I've done to you in the past... well, I'm not proud, Ray."

I'm... glad to hear it," Doyle said with a smile as he stepped closer.
"D'you need me now, or have we got time to get a bite to eat?"

Bodie bit his lip. "I don't think I *could* eat, to be honest. The last
time I felt like this, I was about thirteen and a girl had just given me
the come-on. Haven't been so nervy about sex since then. Wouldn't be fair
to your casserole to pound it down without tasting it while my balls knit
themselves into a tea cozy."

Ray shook his head with an honest laugh. "Christ, you sound in a worse
state than I am!"

"I love you," Bodie whispered, hoarse as he forfeited his breath willingly
at the sight of his mate in the lamplight... Ray was backlit, the ends of
his hair glistening, his face in shadow, just the prominences of
cheekbone, nose and mouth outlined in the light. The faintest remnant of
daylight from the curtained windows cast a glimmer in his eyes.

Then Ray stepped forward and into his embrace and Bodie caught him
tightly. "God help me, I need you!"

He was not exaggerating; the heat and hardness of an enormous erection
strained at the front of his black slacks, and Ray pressed his palm
against the swelling, massaging with firm strokes until Bodie was
helpless. This time, Bodie did not try to take command, and Ray enjoyed
the ability to have his way for some time before he drew his hand back and
took Bodie's mouth in a deep kiss.

"Bedroom," he said softly.

'Yes, please." Bodie swallowed hard, allowing himself to be led into the
siren's lair.

Ray pushed him down onto the foot of the bed and stepped back to strip,
wanting to watch the effect the studied performance had on his lover. He
undressed very slowly, often stretching and sometimes touching himself in
conscious provocation. Bodie sat still, breathing hard, his eyes slitted,
his hands clenched into the bedding. Ray took his jeans off with a
flourish, turning back to display the swollen cock that made his blue
cotton briefs uncomfortably tight. He stepped into Bodie's hands, enjoying
the light fingers that came to rest on his hip bones and thrusting his
hips forward and tipping his head back in electric anticipation.

The fingers gripped his hip bones for a moment and then went away, peeling
the blue cotton off. Doyle murmured in pleasure as a palm cupped his
balls, pressing into Bodie's hand and spreading his legs as the underwear
was slipped off and tossed aside.

The hands cherished him from head to foot, lingering over nipples, ribs,
genitals and buttocks, until Ray could barely breathe and was on his feet
by luck alone. Bodie was behind him, kneeling at his feet to kiss the
small of his back, and as he felt careful fingers spread his buttocks Ray
leaned forward to give Bodie access to his very centre.

The sheer trust, as well as the wantonness of Ray's movement sent a shock
through Bodie's nervous system, and desire was boiling in his blood a
moment later. He leaned forward to kiss the pucker of muscle, felt it
contract against his tongue, heard Ray heave in a breath and held onto the
sharp hip bones as he lavished on Doyle a pampering he had never thought
to give before. The cherishing of Ray's body was its own reward and Bodie
could have spent hours delighting in it.

Too soon, Ray could barely stand and coiled his fingers into Bodie's hair
to stop him. He sank to the floor, pressing against the cool friction of
Bodie's clothes, and sought his mouth. Bodie was shaking with the effort
of holding himself rigidly in check, and Doyle smiled ruefully at him.

"Now you're going to the other extreme - I'm not a bloody virgin girl!"
With that he set about undressing his lover, and Bodie somehow kept
breathing as he was stripped and caressed by knowing, loving hands. Naked
and still on the rug at the foot of the bed, where a glance at the long
mirror displayed the sensual image of two bodies, perfect and very male,
tight in a carnal embrace, they clung together, rubbing belly to belly
with fluid, smooth undulations.

The sensations were beautiful in a strangely innocent kind of way, and
Bodie's heart hurt... They were making love. Suddenly he realised that for
all the sex they had shared they had never *made love*. He was blinking
through a mist of tears as he lifted his head to see Ray' s face.

His expression was one of debauched ecstasy, reminding Bodie of the
classical depictions of Bacchus, all curls and long eyelashes and swollen
lips. He captured those lips with a kiss that ushered Ray back to the
present, and smiled. "0kay?"

"Stupid question," Doyle said, muffled as he teased at an erect nipple.

"Ray, I want you." Hushed, breathless.

Doyle lifted his head and nibbled Bodie's ear.

"I want you in me," Bodie elaborated, gasping.

But Ray shook his head. "Not now. There's the rest of our lives to fuck
each other's brains out, but right now, we set the past to rights." He
kissed Bodie's nose with a smile and got to his feet, fetching a tube of
cream from the too drawer of the cabinet beside the bed.

Suddenly too weak to move, Bodie remained where he was, taking the plastic
tube as it was pressed into his hand and looking down at it blankly.
"Ray?"

Doyle sank down beside him, shaking his head over the look of bewilderment
and uncapping the tube for him. "Come on, you big soft loon. You know
where this goes by now. Bit on here - " He drew a single, torturing,
long-fingered caress the length of Bodie's aching cock, leaving a swathe
of cream there, then squeezed a generous amount onto Bodie's own fingers.
"The rest goes *here*, remember?" He turned slightly, knelt and rested on
his elbows to wait.

A moment of animal lust blazed through Bodie like a summer squall,
electrifying, frightening, but it lasted no more than a brief time and was
quelled by a tide of love. Ray was going to bruise his knees and elbows on
the floor, and the days when Bodie was prepared to accept even that
abstract abuse were gone.

Very careful of the cream on his fingers, he stirred and brought Ray up
with him. "On the bed, bonny lad. Don't hurt your knees - give yourself a
backache this way, too."

Ray let the gentle hands urge him onto the quilt and lay down on his left
side, crooking his leg. Bodie cuddled up behind him, fingers rimming him,
slipping inside, stroking for a long time until he was open, floating,
boneless, not aware that he was murmuring disjointed, slurred endearments.

The words of love were what Bodie had craved, starved for. To hear them at
last cooled the pangs of raw desire until he could slow down and begin
again, coaxing his lover first to accept his fingers, then to accept his
cock. Sheathed to the hilt, he lay still, let Ray catch his breath and
move as he would, thrusting into nested hands and bumping back to deepen
the impalement. He nuzzled the damp nape beneath tangled red-brown curls
as Ray grew too excited to wait.

"Now, sweetheart?"

"Bo - die!" Ray was gasping.

Very carefully, Bodie changed positions, rolling Doyle over onto his belly
and lifting to let him get his knees under himself; every wriggle was a
delicious torment and soon Bodie was too near the edge to wait. He came
first, aware that Ray was still heaving beneath him, and tightened his
fist about the taut, straining cock, pulling once, twice.

"Ah - ah, Christ!" Ray breathed, filling Bodie's hand with wet heat.

At last they were still, and Bodie lifted his hand to his lips to taste
the spilled semen. He was softening within Doyle, but Ray seemed to be
able to breathe, and they lay quietly, reluctant to end it. It was the
twinges of protest from his back that moved Bodie at length, and as he
moved to ease them he slipped free naturally.

Ray gave a long, low groan as the last, welcome pressure was gone, and
rolled over, eager for Bodie's embrace.

"Okay?" Bodie was drifting back to proper awareness and his lover's groan
could as easiliy have been relief as pleasure.

"Course I'm okay," Ray mumbled. "Was fantastic, best ever. Love you,
Bodiemate. Love you."

Bodie believed it; the limp, sated body in his arms was vulnerable,
helpless. An eighty year-old could have beaten Ray to jelly. In all
honesty he was not much more capable himself, but a thread of concern
coiled through him and he wriggled around, lifting the narrow hips and
ignoring Ray's giggles as he surveyed the damage. The tight little anus
was oily and just a little swollen, and he reached over the side of the
bed for the vitamin cream, applying another, fresh swab.

Drowsy green eyes were watching him when he lay down again. Ray shuffled
into his arms. "Why?"

"Don't want to hurt you," Bodie whispered. "I've had enough of fighting to
last me the rest of my life. Why in Christ's name would I want to hurt
you? I love you."

Doyle put his head down on one muscular shoulder with an exhalation of
content. "Wish you'd decided that last New Year. We could have saved up
enough to go away from Christmas this year! It's going to be a rotten
winter, and - " He gave a vast yawn " - they reckon it's lovely in
Antigua."

"I'll bet." Bodie tugged a pillow to comfort and closed his eyes. "Well,
we'll go to Antigua next year. Cricket and Scuba, and lots of loving, eh?"

"Sounds about right," Doyle smiled. "God, I'm knackered. Can I get into
bed for a bit? It'll be time to start cooking soon, and I don't think I
can stand up straight."

"Stay where you are, pet," Bodie said indulgently. "Even a berk like me
can take a casserole out of the freezer and bung it in the oven. Sleep for
a bit, then... share the shower with me?"

"Only if you wash me back," Ray said with a yawn.

"I will. Wash you all over, if you like."

The green eyes opened, drowsy, dark, laughing. "I think I like you this
way, all submissive and considerate."

Bodie chuckled. "Makes a change, doesn't it? I've never been in love
before, not really. It, um, hurts a lot, doesn't it? Being in love."

"Hurts like the very devil," Ray agreed. "if it hadn't been for Michael I
think I'd have gone bonkers - Cowley would have had me committed. Don't
hate Michael; he was doing his level best for the whole lot of us."

"I know," Bodie said quietly as they settled to doze. "I saw how you were
together. Was - what's the saying? Insane with jealousy."

"Yeah, I'm sorry about that," Doyle admitted. "If we'd known, it wouldn't
have happened. But you were being such a twerp! I'm not clairvoyant,
sweetheart. All I thought you wanted was - "

"This." Bodie palmed the perfect buttocks, squeezing them lightly. "Of
course I wanted this. But that wasn't all I wanted. Not by then." He
sought Ray's mouth with a kiss, invited Ray's tongue to play, until they
were breathless. "Love you," he whispered into sweat-damp curls.

Pay answered with a deep yawn. "Mm. I know, and I'm glad. All's right with
the world, you understand!"

"Sounds nice," Bodie murmured. "C'mere and be cuddled... Then sleep while
I see to dinner. I'll wake you when it's nearly done and we'll share the
shower."

"Lovely." Ray was dopy with sleep already.

By contrast, Bodie was wide awake; he guessed that Ray had not slept well
in days, perhaps weeks. Or longer. It had worn him down - it had worn
Bodie down also, but Bodie was still drawing on some reserve of nervous
energy; he would crash out soon enough, he knew, but for the present it
was wonderful to lie awake in Ray Doyle's bed, holding the man, cuddling
him unashamedly while he slept, sated and content.

They would make love again, later. Make *love*. Bodie did not even want to
*hear* the word 'fuck' again. Ray was thin and hard, his skin hot and
slightly damp, his long legs curled up comfortably with Bodie's own, and
he was deeply asleep now; the utter trust of the abandonment was all Bodie
would have prayed for, if he had known how to pray.

Later, he would show Ray the same trust, spread his legs and give his
lover what he had wanted for so long. Bodie's body remembered the feel of
Murphy inside him, and he shivered. It could be good, it could be very
good indeed, but only if it was Ray. Nobody else. His pride, his dignity,
his honour and his cynical, insecure heart would not permit his submission
unless it was with Ray... Love made the difference.

With Ray, and with love, submission had nothing to do with it. There would
be times when they were excited, exuberant and wild, Bodie knew; but he
knew that a flicker of pain or discomfort on Ray's face would quell his
arousal better than a bucket of ice water. There were too many bad
memories now; the spectre of casual, convenient sex would haunt him for
years. Ray would probably get exasperated with him for being *too* gentle
for too long, but Bodie was prepared to endure exasperation.

Nowhere near awake, Doyle turned over and buried his face in the pillows,
the quilted coverlet loose about his shoulders. Bodie propped himself on
one elbow to look at him, finger tips tracing the patterns of muscle about
his spine. They had wasted so much time, nearly ruined everything.

They had a lot to thank Michael Murphy for. Although the thought of
Murphy's possession of Doyle's body still brought a thrill of anger and
outrage, Bodie could overcome the emotion and acknowledge the debt they
owed the other man. There was no way they could make it up to him; gifts
would be misplaced, and favours of love were *not* forthcoming, Bodie
thought wryly - Murph had had all he was going to get in that department!
So words would have to suffice. 'Thanks for match-making - good old Irish
tradition'!

With a nuzzling kiss on the back of Ray's neck, Bodie slid out of bed to
see to dinner. It was dim with twilight outside and getting wild. Autumn
winds battered at the eaves and it would be raining soon... Long, cold
winter nights curled up by the fire or safe in bed, loving when the fancy
took them or just talking, as they had not talked in so long. Ray stirred
as Bodie pulled on his slacks, but did not resurface, and Bodie
surrendered to a tidal wave of love and sentimentality... Ray was as tough
as tanned leather, he *knew*, but the figure in the big, rumpled bed was
also slender and smooth and almost ridiculously vulnerable.

To have and to hold, Bodie thought, smiling as he stood watching his lover
sleep. Good times and bad, sickness and health and all such gibberish.
Fetch and carry for him when he's got 'flu, toss for who's going to make
breakfast, humour him when he's in a mood, pamper him when he's feeling
randy, and watch his back at work -

Cowley. The thought of the Scot's dour face brought Bodie home from his
wool-gathering with an uncomfortable jar, and he slipped out of the room
without a sound. Christ, how would you phrase it? If they sat in the old
man's office and said some curt line about sleeping together, Cowley would
immediately assume they were a hundred percent bent and having it off for
fun; so the first thing to impress on old George was that the sex was
actually the least of it, and that they were in love. How to do *that*,
quickly and succinctly? Bodie got the casserole into Ray's new microwave
and stood staring out at the darkening sky. Word games had never been a
great love of his.

No few of the lads swore the Cow had a soft spot for him, but Bodie was
unaware of it. He had seen the canny Soot Five Ray Doyle a mile where he
gave everyone else a yard, forgive him for flashes of insubordination and
even blasphemies that must have jarred Cowley's somewhat religious soul.
So maybe he would listen to Ray?

Maybe Ray could find a few brief words that put it in a nutshell, let the
boss know that it was more than a tumble in bed for fun, and likely to be
a nine day wonder. Bodie went through every gambit he could think of and
discarded them all: too trite, too predictable. No few women swore that he
had been seduced *by* the Blarney Stone, never mind kissing it, but for
once in his life Bodie could thhink of nothing to say.

He noticed the time as the neighbours arrived home with their usual
racket, and wandered back to the bedroom to put on the lamp. Ray stirred
as it went on and Bodie sat on the side of the bed, waking him properly
with a kiss while he stroked through the pelt of silky chest hair. "'Ullo,
love."

"Ullo." Ray smiled but made no move to get up,, seemingly content to lie
at an angle in the wide bed, blankets pushed aside, and look up at his
partner.

"Dinner's in the oven," Bodie prompted after a long time. "If you want a
shower, time to rise and shine."

"Domesticated all of a sudden," Ray teased.

"Could learn how, where you're concerned," Bodie admitted. "Someone has to
do the cleaning and cooking - even James Bond must have pushed a vacuum
cleaner around. Once or twice."

"I suppose," Doyle agreed. He looped his arms about Bodie's neck and drew
him down, wanting to kiss and be kissed. "I *need* a shower," he admitted
against Bodie's open mouth. "Sticky and... I love you."

The non sequitur brought Bodie a wide smile. "Thank Christ for that! It
was all right, before, wasn't it? You were out on Cloud Nine."

"Higher." Ray sat up and stretched. "I'm not even sore - you laugh and
I'll slosh you one!"

"Not going to laugh," Bodie scoffed, yanking the bedclothes off him and
catching his hands to pull him to his feet. "Dinner will be a ruin if we
don't get moving."

"Lead on, I am yours to command," Ray said meekly, earning himself a cuff
around the ear.

"You aren't anyone's to command," Bodie said sternly. "If I ever had any
delusions about that, you convinced me otherwise. Jesus, when you hit me
at Murph's place you nearly knocked me bloody head off."

"Yeah, well, I... I'm sorry," Doyle said uncomfortably. "I was angry."

"I gathered that." Bodie opened his arms, wanting to bury the past once
and for all; he was unprepared for the next of Ray's questions, but Ray
had the right to ask, and deserved an answer.

"Did you really have a man up in Liverpool?"

Bodie ducked his head to hide a shamefaced expression. "Yeah, I did. I
picked him up at a club. He was just a stupid kid looking for a thrill."

"And you gave him one. You didn't like it?" Bodie neither answered nor
looked up. "Bodie, look at me." The blue eyes were sober and haunted...
No, Bodie had not liked it. "Did *he* like it?"

"I dunno. Expect so," Bodie said vaguely. "I'm not sure. I probably hurt
him, but he was off his nut that night. Lust and pot. The old, old story.
Me? I just wanted you. Hurt in here." He rubbed his chest absently, his
eyes travelling over Ray's body. "I still want you, and you're not going
to wiggle out of it, later. Have your dinner, and then have *me*. I won't
take no for an answer this time!"

"Good." Ray was wearing a self-satisfied smile, little short of a real,
honest smirk. A Bodie-esque expression that made the originator of that
smile laugh delightedly.

"You complacent little bugger," Bodie accused, and could not resist the
temptation to deal a stinging slap to one buttock. "Who's for a shower?"

"Wash my back?" Ray was already moving, smiling sultrily over his
shoulder.

"Told you. I'll wash you all over." Bodie followed him into the bathroom,
would have followed him anywhere at that moment, especially dressed - or
undressed - like this.

It was difficult not to spend themselves under the hot water, and the
shower became an elaborate game of tag, almost exhausting. The oven timer
ended it, and Ray wrapped a large bath towel about his hips, dripping his
way into the kitchen to take dinner out of the microwave. They drank wine
and ate tinned fruit, watching each other over the table and enjoying the
anticipation.

This time Bodie wanted it; this time he was hot and eager, wanting every
caress, every kiss... God, but Ray was good at this, so clever, so
patient. Bodie forgot the jungle entirely beneath his sensitive, educated
hands, and when he surrendered his body it was with a sense of
achievement, a contradictory sense of triumph -

One body, one flesh, one life.

Ray was big inside of him, hot as hell and hard as a rock, moving gently
but with purpose. A dozen dreams pressed in on Bodie's mind, reminding him
of the painful, lonely nights of self-recrimination, and then were purged
forever as Ray came, climaxing violently, deep inside of him.

It was more than enough to trigger release for Bodie; he came with a sharp
cry, heaving under Ray's lax body as the long, artist's fingers pulled and
squeezed one final time. His closed eyes displayed a multitude of colours,
his nose was filled with the musky scent he knew as *Ray*, his body was a
slave to its own fierce desires, the willing instrument of another's
pleasure, and pleasured itself at the same time. Ray was sobbing quietly,
Bodie identified the sound at last and would have held him, had he been
allowed to move.

"Ray? Sweetheart, move. Want to hold you."

Doyle withdrew very carefully and let him turn over, obviously needing to
be cuddled more than the man who had been his willing victim. "You okay,
Bodie? Better this time, was it? I know you didn't enjoy it much when
Murph did it, but it gets easier as you go on, I promise."

Bodie gaped at him. "It was fantastic - what the 'ell are you rabbitin' on
about?"

Suddenly limp, Doyle sagged in his embrace. "Thank Christ for that. I've
been terrified, love. Terrified you'd hate it."

"Berk." Bodie ruffled already tousled and still slightly damp curls. "I'll
let you into a little secret... I think you could do anything with me, and
I'd love it. Anything at all."

The green eyes were still dark. "Anything,? That leaves a lot to go at,
mate."

Bodie nodded solemnly. "And we'll probably try it all, one thing at a
time. Luscious, perverted acts of sinful pleasure." He bit off a guffaw.
"You don't half look beautiful like that, debauched and tousled and
panting." He chuckled as Ray did an exaggerated double-take, and wriggled.
"I'm, a bit, um -

"Sore," Ray guessed with a smile. "Turn over, then." Cool, careful fingers
applied a little cream, drawing a purr of contentment from Bodie. "There."
Ray finished with the cream, wiped his fingers clean on a tissue and
dropped the debris onto the floor. "Feels better for a bit of attention,
doesn't it?"

It did, and Bodie was sheepish about admitting it. Instead, he grabbed Ray
in a bearhug and knocked the breath out of him. Come on, my gorgeous lad,
settle down now. We've got a big day tomorrow - got to tell Cowley;
terrifies me."

"Me too," Ray admitted, grabbing the bedclothes and swathing the pair of
them in cool sheets. "But he won't give us the boot."

"Complacent," Bodie accused for the second time that day.

"Logical," Doyle argued. "It's the lull in the IRA season, I'll give you
that, but there's trouble in the Chinese community now. General - what's
his name? Lin Fo. I was reading the case file on him the other day. He's
here for medical care, but he'll be lucky to get out of this country with
his skin intact. Every Chinese and his Uncle Wu seems to be out for his
blood." He yawned. "With this lot coming to the boil, Cowley's going to
need all the old hands on deck. That's us, sunshine."

Bodie was silent for a moment, enjoying the closeness and shared body heat
as Ray doused the lamp. "Worries me a bit... The dangers, on the job.
Jesus, it could happen any day. One of us could buy it just like that." He
snapped his fingers.

"Calculated risk," Ray said indifferently. "You pays your money and you
takes your chance. Destiny and all that crap."

"Destiny," Bodie echoed. "You want destiny? How about us? There's bloody
destiny for you." He broke off to chuckle. I'm just remembering something.
Years and years ago, I once said to Cowley, 'whatever we are, you made
us'."

"I remember that," Doyle murmured, smiling against the warm, muscular
shoulder. "We were after some loony who was trying to poison reservoirs,
weren't we? He called us a music hall act, or something. Well,
double-act... Close to the mark."

"Too close for comfort," Bodie said primly. "You know, I have a feeling
old George may get less of a shock than we think. Could be he's been
suspecting this all along."

Ray gave a rich, earthy chuckle. "Hope so... This Lin Fo affair is coming
to the boil nicely; I'd love to be there when it breaks. We could be on
the dole, though!"

"Shurrup and go to sleep," Bodie told him sternly, both hands finding a
perfect resting place on the round softness of the buttocks that had
allured him for so long. "Tire enough to worry about bloody Cowley
tomorrow."

"You're right," Doyle agreed, pulling the blankets over their heads. "Just
right now I couldn't give a toss about the future. I love you, and that's
that."

Bodie absorbed the words and stored them to be replayed at length,
inflection, tone and all. It was like coming home, coming home to love,
and he would have said so, but Ray's soft snuffling in his shoulder
betrayed the truth. He was asleep.

-- THE END --

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