Part 4 of the Adagio series. Parts 1, 2, and 3 are Adagio, Catharsis, and The Homecoming.
"How would you like to go away?" said Bodie, over the toast.
They still had nearly two weeks of their New Year holiday to go.
"Why, you bored?"
"No," said Bodie, and slid him a look.
"Then why?" Doyle considered the idea, not overly enthusiastic. He still lacked energy.
Bodie shrugged, wiping his buttery fingers. "Thought it might be easier. More restful," he said quickly.
Doyle picked up on it, instantly. "Easier?" he demanded. He considered Bodie with watchful eyes, over his glass of juice.
"Well, you know." Bodie made a gesture, embarrassed, but wanting to be honest. "Here, I'm on edge all the time, waiting for the bloody phone to go, or the door, and Cowley's sweet face coming round it."
"I didn't know you felt like that," said Doyle, thoughtful. He slowly pushed his sleeves up, out of habit, wincing as the pain in his left arm took him by surprise. God damn it. He knew what Bodie needed, what they both needed, but he wasn't going to chance trying for it until he was fitter and there was less risk that he'd panic Bodie out of it with an untimely screech of pain. On the other hand, it had been a long time, too long... a little shiver ran through him suddenly, and he looked at Bodie, eyes bright.
His mate had noticed both the wince and the shiver, and was concerned. "You'd better lie down for a bit." Expecting resistance he added as he got up, "They said at the hospital you needed plenty of rest, and you don't want me lynched by that -- mmph --"
Doyle had risen to his feet and put his hand across Bodie's mouth. "All right, all right, you talked me into it. Come on." He pulled Bodie after him, beginning to strip off clothes he'd had on all of half an hour.
"I'm not the one with a week-old bullet wound," muttered Bodie, standing at the bedroom door watching garments -- shirt, t-shirt, socks, jeans, pants -- flying in all directions.
"Come on," commanded Doyle again, sliding into bed. He gave a luxurious stretch, each limb uncurling and flexing, pressing his body upwards, liking the contact of the cool sheet. He was hard, and ready, and he let Bodie know it with a little, sly glance. Bodie still hesitated.
"I really feel like it, Bodie," said Doyle with just a touch of wistfulness. "And if you won't --" he made a pause, and gave Bodie a little provocative flash of his eyes -- "I'll have to come all by myself." And he ran a slow reflective hand down his chest, his lashes closing luxuriously over dreamy green.
Bodie's voice, in his ear: "You wouldn't."
Doyle said softly, "Oh, but I would." He continued the gentle downward slide of his fingers, in earnest now, drawing a long breath in as he tipped his head back, pointed tongue flickering around parted lips.
He heard movements, half-opened his eyes, his hand resting lightly on his lower belly; to see Bodie with his sweater half over his head, pulling off his clothes in haste. He chuckled to himself, low: and made Bodie welcome as his naked mate came into the bed.
Bodie touched his mouth onto Doyle's warm lips, sucking the soft flesh gently before trailing round to his ear, whispering, "Do you do that?"
He was rigid with tension; not fear this time, something else. Another of Bodie's well-hidden fantasies? He'd win them all, in the end, he promised himself, every one. He said, "Yeah, course I do. Want to watch?" His palms against Bodie's cheek he tried to turn his face, but Bodie wouldn't look at him. "What do you think about?" Once he'd asked the question he instantly wished it unsaid, and buried his face into the cool skin of Doyle's shoulder.
Doyle thought, with fond astonishment, that anyone would think Bodie considered it a shameful sin to have sexual fantasies. He wanted to change all that, wanted Bodie to feel free of restraint with him. Pulling himself up, he slid his fingers into Bodie's hair and leaned over him, ignoring the ache in his arm which was not one bit so urgent as the sweet ache in his groin; looking down into the well-beloved face.
"I'll tell you. Shall I tell you?" he murmured, a profane sparkle of sensuous delight informing every feature. "See if it turns you on too." He wanted to excite him, make him feel good; he'd do anything Bodie wanted. Anything. And, dropping his head very close, he whispered to Bodie as he moved against him, weaving inspired fantasies for him, his voice a lilting drone as he felt the other man's increasingly urgent response to the things he was saying, the images he was building; his own growing to match it; and his voice acquired a harsh jerky sound, eroticism turned to crudity which fired them on still further into a sudden long and violent pleasure that exploded over them both; and Doyle was quiet at last, but for the sound of rushed breathing, thudding hearts.
They lay in a warm, sticky tangle, Bodie's head laid face-down on Doyle's outflung arm. Just about recovered from the fireworks, Doyle looked down at his mate and wondered what Bodie was thinking. He tugged at a curl of dark hair and said gently, "You shocked at me?"
Blue eyes came open and focussed on him, playing over his face, searching. Then they lit with laughter, and Doyle relaxed, grinning back, relieved. He had taken a chance -- that had been a pretty animalistic performance by any standards, and Bodie had a surprising streak of conventionality that often made him draw back from Doyle's more way-out ideas; he had known to go easy with him. But Bodie would learn. He smiled to himself. Oh yes, he'd learn.
"Not shocked, mate," said Bodie thoughtfully. "It's just -- big eyes and an angel face like yours don't seem to fit with the depths of your imagination."
"You mean, I look so sweet you never expected me to have a mind like a sewer?" asked Doyle facetiously.
"Something like that. Not that I mind. Hey --" He stopped.
Doyle reached out with the point of his tongue, flicked Bodie's cheek. "Yeah?"
"You really turned me on just then, you know that?" muttered Bodie in a rush, and ducked his head, embarrassed.
Doyle chuckled and lay back, releasing him. "Me too." He stretched. "Do it again sometime, yeah? You can tell the story. Amaze me..."
"You have a very evil laugh, Raymond my boy," commented Bodie and then he too lay back, curling close to him, contented and peaceful and in love. He wouldn't change places with anyone in the world.
When he felt the warm, heavily relaxed body of his partner move he was awakened from his semi-doze in an instant. It was mid-morning, and time, more than time, to get up. Again. "Arm all right?" he said as he prepared to throw back the covers and swing his legs out.
Doyle kept him there. "Yeah." It was aching, a dull low throb he lived with these days, but he was ignoring it as best he could.
"Better get up, sweetheart."
Doyle only tightened his hold. "Don't want to let you go," he murmured, eyes shut, "not yet."
Bodie was touched, and warmed, and happy.
"Besides," Doyle continued, eyes springing wide open, "bit pointless gettin' up and going through the shower and clothes routine again -- when I'm in the mood to make up for lost time."
He moved suddenly and Bodie felt him warm and hard against his thigh, and his own body lifted in response.
"That happened fast," he murmured on a note of respect. "And you lying there so quiet..."
"Ah. But what was I thinking about, that's the question."
Bodie's eyes travelled over the languid sprawled figure. "What were you thinking about?"
"You, fucking me." Before Bodie could react, Doyle had sprung into action, on his hands and knees, kissing him with gentle thoroughness. No words were spoken as they made love gently; no fireworks this time, just a sweet building of sensation, drawing their response from the other, and they were good for each other, with each other.
"Bed's awash," mentioned Bodie, but he didn't move.
"Lovegift," came the dreamy answer.
"What?" He opened an eye.
Doyle reached down, slipped his hand between close-nestled bellies, rubbed his fingers through their mingled wetness. "'S precious stuff, that. I only give it to someone I love. Therefore, lovegift."
Bodie snorted derisively. "Go on. Don't tell me you didn't waste it on plenty of occasions when love wasn't even mentioned."
"Well," said Doyle, settling down, comfortably in Bodie's arms, "not any more."
"I thought I was the romantic one."
"You've made a convert of me."
Bodie was drifting, his mind reviewing the events of the last hour. "You must've been wasted on women," he muttered, "you're a little animal."
"Always knew I had what it took to swing both ways," was the drowsy reply.
There was a silence. He stretched. The doorbell rang.
"Oh shit," muttered Bodie, lifting his face from Doyle's armpit -- he had just been drifting off to sleep. "This is what I mean. You see? Doorbells..."
Doyle leaned over him to look at the clock. "Time we were gettin' up anyway. Can't lie around in bed all day, lover," he said in mock reproof. "Much as you'd like me to."
"You --" growled Bodie and made as if to hit him, stilling the blow at the last possible second so that his fist just gently touched the full lips of his partner. Doyle opened his mouth and bit him lazily, eyes wide.
They looked at one another. Doyle grinned, a little unsteadily; the rush of unfamiliar tenderness had taken him by surprise. "Made for each other," he said roughly, with an odd catch in his voice.
And when Bodie looked inclined to respond to that, he pushed at him. "Go for that door."
Bodie answered it, in a bathrobe. It was Murph; big, easy-going Murph, dressed in the usual CI5 gear -- jacket and jeans. Bodie felt at a definite disadvantage, being both undressed, and several inches smaller in bare feet.
Murphy swept a meaningful eye over him. "Not up yet? Tut tut, 3.7."
"I was," Bodie was about to say; and shut his mouth on it rather quickly.
Murphy grinned at him. "Are you going to invite me in? Or would the lady object?"
Bodie made a face of exasperation. "No birds, mate -- I'm a clean-living man. Come on in."
He led him through into the untidy kitchen, the remains of breakfast still littered over the table. "Coffee?"
"Wouldn't mind. Thought you might fancy a day on the range," he added as he swung himself into a chair and watched the other man spooning coffee into mugs. Three of them. "Contest on."
"Shooting?" Bodie considered, only vaguely tempted. "Don't you get enough of that on the job, Murph?"
"Ah, c'mon, Bodie," Murphy said easily. "There's a few of us going. Morning at the butts, lunch at the pub--"
"Yeah, and after that you'll have to move the targets in ten yards." He poured on the boiling water, passed over the mug.
"You got something better to do?" Murph was asking, when Ray Doyle, having hastily showered, appeared at the door to see who the caller was.
He was barefoot, in jeans, a towel slung around his bare shoulders, and he was in the act of fastening his belt. He pulled the loop through the buckle and looked up.
He acknowledged his colleague unsmilingly and took the mug of coffee Bodie held out. "Come to call him back on the job, have you?"
"Unconditional," Bodie reminded his partner.
Murphy had been surprised by the appearance of Doyle and wasn't hiding it well. Casting around for something to say, he caught sight of the bandage on Doyle's forearm and remembered the bullet wound. "You getting better, Ray?"
"Oh, all the time," said Doyle, expressionless. "Get plenty of practice, that's the secret."
Bodie grinned at that, and killed it quickly.
"I was trying to talk your partner into going shooting," said Murphy, vaguely uncomfortable though he didn't know why, other than that Bodie's partner always made him feel that way. "You too, if you're interested. And fit enough. The two of you'd probably clean up."
"I've seen enough flying bullets for a while. You?" He flicked a glance up at his bathrobed mate.
Bodie shook his head. "You'll have to manage without us, Murph old son."
Murphy grinned, to cover his unease. "You're playing full-time nurse, then?"
Bodie had one of his unpredictable changes of attitude. "Yeah," he snapped, eyes flashing. "Any objections?"
Murphy stared. Doyle made a little cool-it gesture. "Okay, okay, don't bite his head off. Hangover," he explained coolly to Murphy.
"Yeah," muttered Bodie, "sorry. See you then Murph." He disappeared in the direction of the bathroom.
Doyle took a clean shirt off the airer and began to put it on, wincing involuntarily as he grazed the sore arm, and did the buttons up one-handed. "What's the news then, Murph? Who's up to what?"
Murph shrugged, dragging his eyes away and resting them on his mug instead. "Sammy Harding's on the run. The Lemming Road lot are under twenty-four hour eyeballs -- do you really want to hear any more?"
"Must be off, any case." He drank the last of his coffee and rose. Doyle went with him, to see him out. When through the door Murph, being Murph, couldn't resist popping his dark head around, a spark of good-humoured heckling in the blue eyes. "Enjoy your billet doux," he said in an atrocious accent, and hared off down the stairs at top speed.
Doyle just stared after him for a moment, then shut the door firmly and went to find Bodie.
He was in the bedroom, half-dressed, and he turned his head and smiled when he saw Doyle.
"It'll be all around CI5 by lunchtime," Doyle said. He dropped down onto the bed, pushing Bodie's laid-out pile of clothes to one side.
Bodie's smile disappeared. "Murph won't talk."
Doyle snorted. "Everyone talks, mate." He leant back on his elbows, thought better of it, and shoved a pillow behind his head.
Bodie looked serious; he reached out one absent hand for his shirt. Doyle picked it up and tossed it to him. "Bother you?" Bodie asked thoughtfully, shrugging into it.
"No," Doyle said, with truth.
Bodie gave him a sudden dazzling smile, leaning nearer. "No problem then, is it?"
Doyle reached out one lazy hand, caught the open collar of Bodie's shirt and twined his fingers in it so they were very close, looking directly into each other's eyes. Bodie waited, breath held, expecting some important confession, ready to promise he'd swear blind they weren't lovers if that was the way Doyle wanted it --
"Bodie...what does billet doux mean to you?"
"Love letter," answered Bodie without hesitation, responding manfully to the unexpected change of subject.
"'S what I thought." Doyle watched his thumb move slowly along the ridge of Bodie's collar-bone. "Murph thinks it's some kind of soft camp-bed..."
Bodie was highly amused, but he kept his face deadpan. "For two, no doubt."
"Or one. You could lie on top of me, be nice."
Tired with crouching over him, Bodie sat down beside the relaxed body of his mate, traced an absorbed finger around his face. Doyle shut his eyes, his mind wandering away from Murphy.
"You gonna write me any?" He opened his mouth, softly bit the wandering finger.
"Ouch, nipper. Write you what?"
"Billets doux," said Doyle, pronouncing it beautifully.
"If you want me to... Dear Ray, you are the sunshine of my life, yours ever, B..."
Doyle grimaced. "Hardly Shakespeare, is it? I mean, in later life, no one's gonna be interested in the publication rights. Heard it somewhere before, too," he added, disgruntled.
Bodie grinned down at him, half thankful that Ray had his eyes shut; he knew his own eyes were too soft, his face helplessly set into a dopey tender look as he surveyed the love of his life.
"I could possibly do better," he murmured, "given more time to think."
Doyle gave a tiny nod of approval. "But they'd have to be written on rice paper," concluded Bodie.
Doyle's eyes flew open. "Rice paper?"
"You'd have to eat 'em after. Destroy the evidence."
"I've heard of people eating their words, but--"
Bodie silenced him with his mouth, one hand running up his side to tangle on the silver chain that lay on the soft pelt of dark hair.
When he finally drew away he was still holding it, and he glanced at the silvery links that lay across his fingers thoughtfully. "Must get you a lead for this," he commented, getting up.
For once Doyle was short of a comeback; and he didn't care. He lay and watched Bodie through half-closed eyes.
Bodie was pulling on a jacket. "Think you can manage to stay out of trouble for an hour or so?"
"Going out," said Bodie shortly; he was combing his hair, squinting into the mirror. "And what I don't want to find when I get back is you in a relapse, or you under fire from a marksman, or you making it with some passing bird, understand?"
He could even joke about it now, Doyle noted with some satisfaction. "Twice in one morning, mate...I couldn't get hard on Cowley's orders. Nah, I won't be any trouble. Feel sleepy, anyway." That was true. Bodie leant forward for one final kiss.
"Where you goin'?" Doyle stared up with drowsy green eyes. The drugs he was on were really knocking him out.
Bodie winked at him, lecherously. "I'm going to visit your nearest rival," he whispered, wickedly, and tugged a curl in farewell.
"No problems, I hope, Bodie?" Cowley looked at his off-duty agent with a distinctly edgy eye. Having granted the man something he'd moaned about needing for years -- fourteen days of unconditional leave -- he hadn't expected to find him here in the office, demanding an interview.
Bodie grinned at him cheerfully. "Not so far, sir... 4.5's being a good boy and getting plenty of rest." He went on hurriedly, "The thing is, I was thinking of taking him away for a few days." He waited.
Cowley waited too. But he was the one to give in first, that bright hopeful look on 3.7's face creeping past his defences despite himself. "I see. And it would need to be somewhere well away from CI5 and your colleagues --"
"That's right, sir. But somewhere pleasant -- he needs cossetting a bit --" agreed Bodie.
"But, bearing in mind the pittance of your combined salaries, you aren't in the position of being able to afford the necessary degree of comfort, solitude, and scenery --"
"It's unfortunate, that, sir --"
"-- so you want to borrow the Rosings," completed Cowley neatly. Bodie grinned at him, confident. He was impossible to resist. Cowley gave the matter a bare moment's consideration. Then he pulled open a drawer and took out a key which he handed to Bodie.
"Thank you, sir," said Bodie, sincere gratitude in his voice.
Cowley glared. "Any breakages -- and it'll be docked from your salary."
"Yes sir. I'll tie him down if 'e looks like getting violent."
Cowley made a face to indicate that the humour was not appreciated. "Get along with you before I change my mind."
Bodie stopped at the door. "And you sir? No problems either?"
And if I had, thought Cowley wearily, if I said I needed you here, now, asked you to cancel your leave, give up the time you so badly need with him, would you come?
The answer came straight away; yes, Bodie would come. He was a good man, loyal. His loyalties might be shared now; but he had chosen for a mate someone who had the same priorities, lived under the same pressures, and who would therefore always understand.
"No problems, Bodie."
As Bodie went through the door, Cowley added, "Remember me to 4.5."
Bodie answered without turning. "I'm sure he won't have forgotten you sir."
It was a pretty little house; Cowley had chosen it for its isolation. Such was his commitment to CI5, believing as he did that the whole organisation would collapse if he were absent for more than a day or so, that he rarely used it. Few people even knew about it; Bodie was one of the exceptions. Cowley had brought him here after Marikka's death, when Cowley had been, he had found with surprise, the only person he could bear to have around. He had never told anyone, not even Ray Doyle, about that maudlin drunken night when he had gone through the gamut of embarrassing emotion, and Cowley had just been Cowley, looked him in the eye the next day without less respect, and never referred to it after.
Doyle was lying on the couch, a can of beer in one hand, watching the television with an idle eye. Bodie, having unpacked for them both, came in and sat down beside him with a fresh can. He gave a little sigh.
"Matter?" Doyle asked lazily.
It had been a long drive. Bodie did look tired, not tense, just weary, dark lashes closing over his eyes as Doyle watched him. His partner had been carrying the can for both of them for long enough.
In answer Bodie set the can aside and put his arms around him, settling them together, holding Doyle close.
"I love you." Stupid, but he couldn't stop saying it.
Doyle responded, "And I love you. Best in the world..." He smiled as he said it, remembering the childhood phrase, intense nursery promises whispered at dark secret times, to someone so beloved you couldn't imagine a time when their love would not be the most important thing in the world to you...
Bodie was looking at him. "Didn't you ever say that?"
"No?" said Bodie on a note of questioning blankness; and a totally overwhelming rush of sentimentality threatened at Doyle. Not for Bodie, the cosy childhood intimacy with a parent, the loving bedtime phrase. Whatever hell he had grown up in, unlike Doyle, there had been no-one to love him there.
He hugged Bodie to him, fiercely. Bodie didn't know why, but he submitted to it contentedly enough. "I love you," Doyle murmured harshly, "an' I'll love you forever. I'm gonna make it all up to you, lover. I never loved anyone like this an' I never will, d'you hear me Bodie?" And he held him tight, in fingers that bruised.
Bodie rested against him, quiet, not questioning what had prompted all this, only knowing that he was happy. "This is what matters," said Doyle low, staring down at the dark head resting on his chest. "This." And he gave Bodie another hug. "Us together. Loving..."
Not the sex. That didn't matter, and it never should have done in the first place. But it had acquired a disproportionate importance, at least in Bodie's mind, and Doyle hadn't helped. Christ, Bodie'd had a rough few months. They had wanted to make each other happy, and been deluded by that into believing it would work. Like fools, Doyle could see that now. He had foreseen some of the problems that might come up for them if they were serious about making such an unlikely relationship work, and tried to lay in safeguards. He had failed there, and learnt along the way that love would have to be enough. He was happy, now, to settle for that. But Bodie had had a bad time of it...it had shaken him, made him lose his way; he had gone into this at the start expecting to have the upper hand; he was used, no doubt, to nothing less. But neither was Doyle, and it had been he who won out, rocked Bodie's world, his fantasy of how things would be between them; played ruthlessly on Bodie's weaknesses, over-ridden and outthought him at every turn. No wonder the poor guy, confused by the depths of his own feelings and fazed by his own lack of ability to hold the reins of the relationship, had not found it easy to deal with.
In fact, Bodie had been left in a position where he could only drift along, blindly following Doyle's lead, and he had come to believe he had no free will, no rights to exert his own personality, his own wants. Then Doyle had compounded that, unwittingly making Bodie feel sexually inadequate beside his own free-spirited sensuality. They had both made mistakes; Doyle was not idealistic enough to believe they could all be wiped out just by persuading Bodie to take the dominant role in bed. But that would be part of the healing process. No rules, not any more; and they no longer needed promises.
He held Bodie close against him, not speaking, his heart oddly full. Strange thoughts, emotions he was unused to, but he didn't mind them. He had been given so much, and nearly thrown it away. They couldn't afford to waste any more time, for who knew how much they had left?
Bodie was there, patient and still; Doyle drew back a little so he could look into his face. "You're quiet," said Bodie softly; his breath on Doyle's face was sweet.
"Thinking," responded Doyle; he slid his hands into Bodie's hair.
Bodie's lips curved in a little rueful smile. "The same as last time I asked you?"
Doyle shook his head, very serious. "How much I love you. More important."
Bodie shut his eyes. Watching him, Doyle said, a little unsteadily: "You know how they say 'love you so much it hurts'?" He continued before Bodie had the chance to reply. "That's how I feel about you."
"What's happened to you," Bodie accused gently, "you've gone all soft?" But his arms wrapped tighter around the smaller man, his heart so full he was stupidly afraid he might be going to cry.
Doyle, watching him, was threatened anew by a rush of emotion. "Cry and I'll bloody kill you," he murmured on an indrawn breath; but it was too late, he was weeping himself.
"What is it? Ray?"
He clung to Bodie, taking in the low reassuring voice without hearing the words, his wet face turning into Bodie's broad shoulder.
Bodie stroked his hair and talked to him; he did not quite know how to deal with this. He turned to instinct, and just held him close, feeling the warmth of the other man's tears soaking through his shirt, his own eyes wet.
"What's the matter?" he finally risked saying again, choked. "For godsake, Ray--?"
Doyle gave a sound between a laugh and a sob, and wiped his nose on Bodie's shirt. "I'm happy, you daft sod. Just happy."
"Happy?" said Bodie, incredulous, the beginnings of a vast hysterical relief sweeping through him. "You lie on top of me sobbing like I've just died or something, and you tell me that really you're happy?"
Doyle snorted, and sniffed. "Yeah." The curly head tipped back. Bright tear-wet eyes peered up. "Yeah, I'm happy. You love me, so I'm happy. Very."
In answer, Bodie threaded a hand through soft hair and brought him close to kiss him, his insides clenching into a hard knot of desire, passion, pleasure, as he tenderly took Doyle's willing mouth with his tongue, drinking him in, hungry for the taste of him. A terrible, wonderful surge of need made him want to explore the lean male body thrusting against his thoroughly, seek out every entrance with gentle probing fingers, make it his, and the old fear was rising too, but Doyle, expecting it, met it and turned it away.
"Oh, Bodie," he whispered, sliding one hand shakily up to pull loose the buttons of the other man's shirt. "I want you so bad, fella. Please..."
Bodie, dazed, gently pushed his hands aside and undressed, fingers fumbling with the suddenly unwieldy buttons. Doyle wrenched his own clothes off with far less ceremony, and they fell together, naked at last, on Cowley's velvet couch. Bodie, every sense alive and throbbing and utterly enchanted with the feel of the warm softly-furred body heavily sprawled on his, the hard probing evidence of Doyle's excitement pressing like a snub lance into his own belly, began to think in a semi-coherent way that, after all, he would, could do whatever Doyle wanted...
Hands gripping Bodie's upper arms, Doyle knelt over him and kissed him with loving, avid care, never pausing long, mouth, throat, eyes, light fleeting caresses of lips, tongue, and teeth that had Bodie writhing; the slim strong hands moving too, flying over warm skin, leaving a trail of sensitive stimulated skin. Finally Bodie captured the slender wrists, in agony, ecstasy, and pulled his restless partner close with a hand at the nape of his neck.
"Don't," he whispered painfully. "You'll make me come...please, Ray, not yet."
Doyle lifted his head and Bodie caught the gleam of his eyes in the half light as he too whispered, "Don't worry, mate, think I'd let you go too far? Not -- bloody -- likely --" He sat up, pushing one hand through his hair. The other he trailed on Bodie, from root to tip. "When this shoots off," he promised, very low, very intense, "it's gonna be inside me."
The words and the idea made Bodie shiver.
As they stood up, with less than perfect composure, Doyle moved into the protective warmth of Bodie's encircling arm, and they stayed that way, leaning against each other, until they reached the bedroom. Bodie would have gone straight for the bed, but Doyle stopped him with a hand. "Look."
There was a full-length mirror on one wall and Doyle moved to stand in front of it, drawing Bodie with him. They made an abandoned picture, tousleheaded and naked; Doyle leant back against Bodie and considered himself gravely in the mirror. Bodie was looking over his shoulder, all but obscured, eyes very dark, no reflection in them. Doyle saw himself naked, semi-erect; and smiled, involuntarily amused by the obscene beauty, the hopeful unknowing vulnerability of the aroused male body. He took one of Bodie's hands from his hip and slid it around and down himself, his eyes closing luxuriously as the warm fingers touched his swollen flesh, watching through half-closed lids the movements of Bodie's clever fingers exciting him, rubbing through the slick moisture dribbling from him. Bodie's lips moved round to nibble his earlobe. "It's a two-way mirror, Ray," Bodie murmured, tongue tickling against the shell of his ear, and he choked on laughter and flaunted himself, turning this way and that in Bodie's hands for the benefit of the mythical voyeur, and it was beautiful to watch, exciting for him. He wanted to come, badly, felt the rising tide gather, and pause, and he wanted to push Bodie's hands tighter against himself so he could let it go, spurt wantonly far and high onto the surface of the mirror, watch it happen in seeming duality...
He caught Bodie's hands, swept them aside and safely away from himself; and Bodie, understanding, was laughing -- so good, to hear Bodie laugh, and he knew everything was going to be all right. Bodie tumbled him on the bed and stood over him, unconsciously menacing, a tall, phallic figure, and he shivered and pretended to be frightened, curling into a ball and having to be coaxed forth and then he exploded out of it and fastened around Bodie like a leech. The discreet murmur into his ear "Would Cowley have any KY?" he answered with something crude, delighted by the picture, and then they were laughing again, and they settled for something soft and creamy Bodie unearthed from somewhere, and he shivered as Bodie smoothed it into him carefully, making it a sensual delight in itself, not wanting the slippery-fingered touch invading him to end, his body melting, opening out. He spread his thighs to welcome his lover, pulling him close with desperate hands, wriggling and shifting his hips, tantalised and frustrated by the teasing friction of Bodie's cock playing with the entrance to his body; until Bodie, exasperated, caught his hands and pinioned them high above his head -- "If you don't lie still I'm gonna have to tie you to the bed" -- and that idea made him laugh and shiver and throb with wild crazy desire. When Bodie, serious now, his face laid on Doyle's, finally pierced him it was sweet, bitter-fierce pleasure; and with Bodie filling him right to the very heart, his heavy body pressing him deep into the bed, pushing deep inside him, his panting breath close to Doyle's ear, it was all more wonderful and more terrible than he'd imagined. He wanted them to come together, but he couldn't wait, he'd waited too long already, and he dug his fingers into Bodie's back and came in great beautiful straining pulses, his body stretched wide by Bodie's, his eyes open, lustily yelling his ecstasy to the universe; and the involuntary closing and unclosing of his body's delight in the final spasms around Bodie sucked forth his pleasure in turn. So, sweating and spent and panting Doyle felt Bodie's seed spurt forth deep inside him, giving him one last throb of pleasure, and his arm curled tight around Bodie's neck so he was holding him, kissing the side of his face as his lover came.
"I always thought it was a joke."
"Uh?" Bodie wiped his mouth on Doyle's cheek, opened one sleepy eye to look at him.
"The earth moved --" explained Doyle, with a languid wave of his hand.
"Oh." Bodie tried to be cool about it, to carry it off with nonchalance, but it was no good. His lip wavered, and an expression of bashful self-satisfied delight spread across his face. "Good, was it?" He knew it was.
Doyle punched him. "Smug bastard." And he added: "If only you cooked like you fuck, darlin' --"
Bodie grabbed him and he shut up. Not for long. "You're good at that."
-- THE END --