Chapter Text
"Oi, Bodie!"
Bodie looked up from the notes he was writing to where his partner had the newspaper spread across the rest room table. Doyle grinned at him and shook the page he was holding. "Want to see a film tonight? The Lion in Winter's at that little cinema by King's Cross. Katherine Hepburn--you'll love it."
Bodie grinned back. "Sorry, things to do. Take yourself off to the pictures, like a good lad." He put his pen down and stretched his shoulders, knowing what would follow.
"C'mon, Bodie. It's no fun alone. It's a good film!" Doyle hated going to the cinema alone, and would rather spend hours cajoling his partner, his date, or a hapless workmate to join him. "Besides, what have you got to do? You've got to be done with those notes by now. Bastard didn't say more than a page's worth."
Bodie had to agree with that. Much of CI5's manpower had gone north, investigating four town councils with ties to drug money, and he and Doyle were stuck minding the store. Looked at one way, the assignment was a compliment; they were responsible for keeping in touch with nervous informants, watching over slow-developing cases, all the details of other agents' ops left on hold while the northern situation took priority. Bodie reminded himself of that, frequently. More often, the job was a ruddy pain. He was sick of spot-checking the surveillance op that had been a round-the-clock post last week, sick of trying to keep his temper in check while nursemaiding other peoples' grasses and the two newest agents who, with a handful of others, had also been left behind. He squared up his notes and shoved them into a folder marked "McCabe."
"Yeah. Mac can talk to him himself when he gets back. I'm fed up with the little git." He glanced at the clock; it was half past five. Cowley had told them in the morning briefing that most of the squad would be returning soon, and that he and Doyle should be prepared to spend the next day or two filling them in on what had happened during their absence. "That'll be quick," Bodie had muttered, and earned a kick from Doyle and a sour glare from his boss.
"So? We've done all our work and prepared our summaries like good lads, and I want to see a film tonight. What have you got on that's so important?"
"Shopping. Get some food in, hoover the flat..." Bodie grinned at his partner's scowl.
"Don't know why you bother, I'm always feeding you anyway. C'mon, Bodie."
"And why so insistent on my company, 4.5? None of the softer sex in view?"
Doyle's lips tightened, and he stared into his cup of lukewarm coffee. "Lisa's broken it off. And she wasn't any fun to see a film with, anyway. You are, when you're not too busy bein' sarcastic, and I think you'd like this one." He was about to go on when Bodie jerked around, listening to the babble of voices spilling down the hall.
"Hey, that's Jax! They're back!" Bodie shoved his chair back and came to his feet as a dozen agents clattered into the room, clearly fresh from Cowley's office and spilling over with adrenalin and high spirits. Jax was sporting a bandage on his right wrist which didn't keep him from slapping Doyle's back hard enough to make him spill his coffee, and the paper was knocked to the floor by McCabe and Susan Harrison in their dead heat for the last cup's worth in the pot.
"Hoi, you two! Come on and buy some real men a drink!" Murphy crowed, and the whole crowd of them swept the pair away and down the road to the nearest pub. Between the description of the final raid Murphy was trying to give them, jumbled with shouted arguments and contradictions from everyone else, and Jax's exaggerated pleas for sympathy for a wounded man, which he seemed to think should take the form only of prime single malt, it was only when he pulled out his wallet that Bodie managed to struggle free from the crowd, dragging Doyle by one arm, and give his order to the barman. Coming back with his arms, and Doyle's, laden with glasses and packets of crisps, they were besieged by grabbing hands. Doyle relieved Bodie of the last beer, hooked a foot around a chair, and settled in to join the conversation, making room for Bodie as he did so; the noisy chaos had moderated somewhat as the agents began talking, gesticulating, burning off tension, and drinking with almost equal ferocity. Bodie and Doyle listened, taking more kidding than they felt was strictly fair about 'people who spent the week lazing about,' but making all the right admiring noises. They knew what it was like.
Doyle bought the next round, to general cheers and his partner's exaggerated surprise, and Susan the third; after that, the drinking degenerated into something of a free-for-all. As Doyle began on another pint, wiping the froth of foam from his mouth, Murphy swaggered up behind them and dropped a heavy hand on his shoulder. "How about a game of darts, then?"
Doyle twisted around to look up at the tall agent. "Go 'way, mate, you're much better than me."
"Ah." Murphy nodded, raised one finger with awful solemnity. "Very true. But, my son, I am also much drunker than you, which evens the odds." He dramatically finished off his own drink, much stronger than Doyle's beer, in demonstration. "Shall we?"
Doyle shrugged and got up, punching Bodie's shoulder lightly. "Guard that for me with your life," he said, indicating his beer. "I'll be back." The two headed off together, and the noise abated somewhat as several others noticed the game. Bodie slouched back in his seat, watching as Murphy took the darts and fingered them, eyeing the dartboard speculatively.
Jax pulled up a stool, straddled it, and nodded a greeting, which Bodie returned. "'Lo, mate. Hear you'll lose that arm, eh?"
Jax agreed mournfully. "Infection for sure, unless it's sterilized. Alcohol's good for that," he added. Bodie smirked at him.
Laughing cheers sounded from the group that had gathered to watch the match, and Bodie turned to see his partner shaking his head ruefully as Murphy turned away from the throwing line with a broad grin on his face. He caught Doyle's eye and mimed heartfelt commiseration, then grinned as Doyle scowled at him.
"How about a bet, then?" Jax asked. "Five quid says Murphy beats him." He reached for Doyle's beer, which Bodie automatically defended.
"Not likely," answered Bodie genially. "Put a pistol in Ray's hand and I'd put an apple on my head and bet he could take it off. But not at darts." Hoots and whistles sounded from the crowd, and he heard Doyle curse; he shook his head at Jax. "See what I mean?"
Jax affected horror. "No loyalty to your partner, that's your problem! Won't stand up for him an' all." He stretched a hand for Bodie's beer; Bodie neatly moved it out of range.
"Buy your own, lazy sod. 'Sides, it's too late anyway; here they come back." Murphy and Doyle were threading their way past the others back toward Bodie's table, and a grin of muzzy satisfaction was spread across the taller man's face. Bodie made room for his partner, passed him back his drink.
"Here y'are, mate, no thanks to Jax. Lost, did you?"
Doyle scowled, drinking deeply. "No justice. He shouldn't be able to see straight with what he's drunk, let alone throw."
"But that's my secret," Murphy confided in a stage whisper. "Relaxes the fingers, don't you know."
"Ahhh," Jax said in mocking consolation. "Want to take me on, then?" He held up his splinted wrist. "Maybe you'll be able to beat a cripple."
"An' graduate to taking sweets from children. No thanks." Doyle pushed his chair back and got to his feet. "C'mon, Bodie, let's get out of here. It's gettin' late." Murphy pulled a face in mock sympathy, and Doyle scowled at him. "Leave off, Murph. Some of us haven't got the weekend off."
The tall Irishman cuffed his head as Doyle jerked away. "Some of us were working hard all week! You're a bad loser, that's all."
Doyle swigged the last of his beer without answering and set the glass down. "You coming, Bodie?"
Bodie followed him as he pushed his way through the groups of loudly talking men toward the door. Elbowing his way past Marriot's gesticulatory explanation of his part in the final raid, he caught up to his partner and called, "What's the rush, Doyle?"
Doyle stopped and looked at him briefly, then looked down. He seemed oddly quiet for a moment in the clamor of the pub. "Got a headache coming on, that's all. It's too late for the film. Want to grab some dinner?" His voice trailed off, a little.
"Right, then." Bodie prodded him between the shoulderblades and headed him out the door. He had no aversion to leaving, himself; the frustration built up in a week's inaction was only worsened by the gleeful atmosphere of the other agents' unwinding. Let them get on with their celebration of their survival. He walked with Doyle to his partner's car, waited for the door to be unlocked and slid in. "You cooking? I've got no food in, you know--never got my shopping done."
"I don't feel like cooking. We'll pick up a Chinese or something, take it back to your place." Doyle drove well but inattentively, fingers loose on the wheel. Bodie eyed him covertly; he seemed despondent. Drink sometimes had that effect on him, though, and he'd put away a few pints. Bodie decided it was nothing he need concern himself with.
The food bought, Doyle drove them to Bodie's flat. He followed his partner inside, then dropped onto the sitting room sofa as Bodie, paper bag of takeaway Chinese in hand, headed into the kitchen. The food was quickly dished out, and Bodie put the kettle on before carrying the loaded plates out to his partner. "Your dinner, m'lud."
Doyle had sprawled on the sofa, his boots and socks pulled off and tossed aside. He was flipping through the tv pages.
"Thanks. Liverpool's playing; want to put it on?" He tossed the paper aside and sat up, taking a plate from his partner.
"Okay," Bodie assented, then coughed pointedly. "Mind the sofa cushions with that, will you?" He pulled the armchair forward a bit and sat down himself, dinner balanced neatly on his knees. Doyle switched the television on.
The teams were evenly matched, but Doyle didn't seem interested, though it had been his suggestion. When the kettle begin to whistle, he got up and fetched them both steaming mugs, then returned to his place on the sofa, his dinner set aside and forgotten on the floor. He half-heartedly acknowledged Bodie's comments on a few shots, but each time lapsed back into silence, nursing his tea. After a while, Bodie let him alone, turning his attention to the flickering screen. But that too grew boring, his partner's morose silence inhibiting his enjoyment. Bodie slouched back in his chair, half dozing.
Doyle prodded him. "Got any beer?"
"Huh? Yeah, s'pose so. Want one?"
"No," said Doyle with exaggerated patience, "I was just wonderin', that's all."
"Get it yourself, if you want it," retorted Bodie, slightly irritated. Doyle only stared at him a moment, then shrugged and returned to his seat.
The match ended at a little past nine, and Bodie got up and shut the television off. Doyle remained on the sofa, not moving, until Bodie came and stood over him. He didn't like Doyle's odd quiet; his partner had remained still for nearly an hour, hardly speaking, except for things like that crack about the beer, which hardly counted as talking, anyway. What was bothering him? He looked down at the curly head, aware that under his lashes Doyle was watching him in return.
"C'mon, then," Bodie said finally, having failed to discover any clue to Doyle's odd mood. "You campin' out here all night?" He reached a hand down to pull the other man upright; Doyle's palm was sweaty, and instead of coming to his feet he pulled back, bringing Bodie down onto the couch beside him.
"What's up, mate? You sickening for something?" Bodie touched his partner's shoulder, and Doyle met his eyes.
"Bodie..." he said, then fell silent. He leant forward, put a hand on Bodie's arm and kissed him.
Bodie jerked back, astounded. "What the hell--Christ, mate, what're you doin'?" He pulled out of Doyle's grasp. "What the hell's that?"
Doyle looked down, hands twisting in his lap. "Okay. I was just wondering. Sorry."
"Wondering? Wondering what?" Bodie was on his feet now, shock pitching through him; his breath came quick and sharp, adrenalin spiking. "You queer or something?"
Doyle let out a puff of breath, not quite a sigh. "Or something. Look, forget it, Bodie. It doesn't matter."
"Like hell!" Bodie's hands twitched. "You were making a fucking pass at me!"
"Just forget it."
"Crap!"
"Damn it, Bodie, what do you want me to say?" Doyle shouted, coming to his feet. "Yes, I made a pass at you. You've said no, now could we drop the subject?"
"But you're not gay. I know you, Doyle. You're not gay!"
"If you want a word for it, I'm bi. Look, it was a mistake. I'm sorry." He stooped and shoved his feet into his boots, then grabbed his jacket, struggling into it without looking at Bodie, who was rigid, hands jammed into his pockets, full of appalled surprise.
"Forget it, mate," Doyle said, forcing a smile. "It doesn't mean anything. I'll see you tomorrow." And he was out the door, Bodie still staring, wrestling great gasps of breath, wondering what had happened to the man he knew.
. . .
Bodie's car was still at headquarters, and he took the tube to work the next morning, not waiting to see if Doyle would come by to pick him up. He had avoided thinking about the previous night--had spent several hours in the dark not thinking about it--but he felt it better to see him again at work, first.
It didn't matter. If it had never mattered before, it didn't matter now. He'd answered no, and Doyle had accepted it.
Doyle had asked.
But whatever it was he'd been hoping to avoid, it made no appearance. Cowley saw them briefly and sent them off to update the returnees on what had happened to their grasses, their long-term surveillances, their slow-developing cases while they were gone; he and Doyle spent the time together, supplementing each other's reports to Harrison, Murphy, Jax, but always talking to another agent, never to each other. By the end of the day he told himself that he had forgotten about it; two weeks later it was even true. For a while.
But the memory surfaced, still, at odd moments: as Doyle turned from the shooting range to grin at him, ostentatiously blowing non-existent smoke from his gun barrel before holstering it; watching Doyle head off with a decidedly stacked blonde for a weekend of lewd enjoyment; and once in the car, going to meet some VIP at Gatwick, Bodie lost all sight of the road for a moment as his vision filled with the memory of Doyle's face, pale and close to his own. The car swerved slightly as his hands tightened on the wheel, and he grimly ignored the inquiring grunt from the passenger seat.
He could never settle with himself what it had meant. Doyle was no queer, he knew that as well as he knew himself. Ray Doyle a limp-wristed pansy? Ha.
But if Doyle had made a pass at him--and he had, he had admitted it--was it something about Bodie himself, then?
No. Absolutely not.
They were at the Rose and Thorn one evening, work having been so dull that Bodie had announced the need for some off-duty excitement and dragged his partner out. The pub was a new one, just opened and doing its best to pull in customers by hiring what Murphy had described as "the bustiest waitress this side of Page Three." Watching with a connoisseur's eye, Bodie had to agree. He pointed her out to Doyle in a stage whisper, and was surprised when Doyle only nodded and went back to his beer. Having done his best to give the woman business, Bodie was on his second double scotch, and in a mood to thoroughly enjoy the view.
"C'mon, mate, what's wrong with 'er?" He leered and prodded his partner in the ribs. Doyle flinched from the sharp jab and scowled, ineffectually.
"Not interested. Leave it alone, Bodie."
"Why not? Nice tits," Bodie eyed them appraisingly as the woman bent to hand a drink to someone further down the bar. "Wouldn't mind a grab at 'em myself."
"They are, aren't they?" Doyle nodded, smiling a little at Bodie's open admiration. "Why don't you make a move on her, then?"
"Nah." Bodie waved a hand expansively, indicating Doyle's freedom in the field. "Got Cindy, haven't I? Tits the size of footballs..." He leant back in his chair, a drunkenly muzzy expression of pleasure on his face, contemplating the memory. "Mmm, 'n' the way she likes to go at it--"
"Yeah?" Doyle prompted, grinning.
"Huh-uh, mate. Y'wanna hear the dirty stories, buy me another drink first." Bodie folded his hands and attempted to look prim, but failed to keep from snorting with laughter as Doyle eyed him and shook his head slowly.
"Sorry, Bodie. You're past the limit already, and I don't feel like springing for a taxi--and I'm damned if I'm going to buy you a drink while I sit here drinking ginger ale so I can chauffeur you home."
"Come home now, then?" Bodie suggested. "Plenty of booze at my place, and we won't get chucked out at closing time."
Doyle tilted his head, looking at him, then drained his glass and wiped his mouth with the back of one hand. "Okay," he said. His eyes remained on Bodie's face, and as Bodie pushed himself away from the table and up, a moment of queasiness roiled his stomach, as the unwelcome memory surged.
Leave it alone, damn it, he told his brain. Doyle's no queer.
Half of one? A bi--
Shut up!
But he couldn't get the thought out of his head, as Doyle took his keys and drove them, in Bodie's car, back to Bodie's flat. He undid the security locks with Doyle standing close by his shoulder, and headed for the drinks cabinet. The scotch was crisp and smooth along his throat, and he poured himself another while Doyle was still opening a bottle of beer for himself.
Ensconced in the sofa and Bodie's overstuffed armchair, they made a little small talk. Bodie tried to linger over the barmaid's ample charms, but his words fell flat, Doyle shaking his head with tolerant disinterest. Well on his way to being drunk, Bodie began to feel defensive. There was a short silence.
"You're bisexual, then?" he said abruptly.
Doyle looked over at him, startled. "Yeah." He said nothing more, only regarded Bodie with wary inquiry.
Bodie's fingers tightened on his glass. He swallowed the remains of his drink and set it down hard on the side table, looking only at it.
"You fuck men?" The image the question brought to his mind was unbearable.
Doyle's eyes narrowed. "Why do you want to know?" he asked with knife-edged humor.
Bodie jerked to his feet. "Dammit, how can you?" The neck of the bottle rattled against his glass as he poured himself another, needing the liquor's support. "You're no fairy!" Did you want to fuck me, he almost asked, and shied away from the words. The scotch was smooth and burning, and spread thickly from his stomach throughout his body. None of this made any sense...
"You're drunk, Bodie. Drop it," Doyle said evenly. He stood up. "I'm leaving. You can get pissed on your own."
"No, wait!" Blurred memories, faded by time and alcohol--a leather man in Soho who had groped at his crotch and then offered hoarsely to suck him off, a thin, smirking black guerrilla with a hip-shot pose and a wilting tropical flower behind his left ear, calling after him in a piercing soprano... He grabbed Doyle's arm, hard. "What d'you want that for? It's not you, it's--" He felt betrayed. How could Doyle be one of those?
"Christ, Bodie, leave it alone, can't you?" Doyle jerked away.
"But why men, Doyle? Dammit, why?" Bodie was persistent, fuzzily sure that if he could only understand, get some kind of reason, everything would be okay--somewhere in the back of his head was the idea that he could talk Doyle out of it, show him what an idiot he'd been and then everything would be safe again...
"Because I sometimes want to! Is that what you wanted to hear? I like men, sometimes."
"But why? Is it that--Christ, you can't--" He couldn't begin to imagine it...Doyle, racked and helpless under--no, never, not Ray... the other way, then? Doyle and--someone--face down, smothered, and Doyle looming over--
"Bodie, you're drunk." Doyle's voice was tired. "You don't know what you're saying. Get some sleep and forget about it."
"Forget? How can I forget when you--you wanted--" The memory slammed back, leaving him reeling. "You made a pass at me--you wanted--"
"Bodie, no." Doyle's voice was firm. Bodie found himself staring at Doyle's hands; he'd seen Doyle shoot, punch, kill a man with those hands... He was suddenly aware of his partner's body, close, too close, with his chest rising and falling and the pulse jumping in his throat. Bodie backed away, shaking his head. His face--muffled and choking--did Doyle want--?
"What do you want?" he found himself asking.
"I don't want anything from you," Doyle answered, and Bodie shook his head violently.
"You're lying!" he shouted, and Doyle started in surprise. "You wanted me--you wanted to--" He didn't have words for it, for the vague images that were filling him with fear, with horror... Doyle had wanted something from him, to dominate, hold him down--he knew what those thin, wiry hands would feel like, biting into his flesh, he had felt them before. He stared at Doyle, shirt open, breathing heavily, before him, and knew just how Doyle would take him, off balance and thrown to the floor, and then--was that how Doyle saw him? Was that what he wanted, really? He couldn't have it--Bodie swore he wouldn't let him take it --
"I won't let you!" he shouted, and threw himself at Doyle, surprising both of them, bringing them tumbling to the floor with a jolt that left Doyle gasping for breath, half-stunned, and Bodie was flailing at his head, his chest, random wild blows that hurt him as much as they did Doyle, his head spinning, yelling strange jumbled threats and curses and promises--"I won't let you--I'll show you, I'm not--you'll see, you'll see--" knowing only that he had to stay on top, he had to keep Doyle from getting above him, and then his hands were ripping at Doyle's clothing, at his own. Doyle was shouting something now, beginning to fight him, and Bodie hauled at Doyle's belt, his jeans, fumbled for his own with the one thought of showing Doyle, proving that he, Bodie, wasn't like that, that Doyle couldn't do--what he'd been thinking--
Doyle's fist slammed his skull and he toppled sideways, clawing out through red-streaked vision at the other man, and then Doyle hit him in the stomach and he crumpled around the blow, sprawling half-conscious on the floor and retching helplessly.
When he could see again, Doyle was gone.
Bodie picked himself up slowly, his head exploding with pain and an acid soreness in his gut. The sour taste in his mouth echoed the smell. Oh, Christ... Moving carefully, carefully without thought, he fetched towels and a sponge, cleaned the floor. The towels went into the rubbish bin, along with his stained shirt. He turned his head too quickly getting into the shower, and for a moment thought he would pass out--the red haze at the edge of his vision turned black and surged in one great pulse until his sight was gone; he clung white-lipped to the towel bar until, grudgingly, it cleared. He was sick again, a little, but in the shower it didn't matter.
Two aspirins, with a full glass of water; if he could keep it down it would help the hangover. Pajamas--he rarely wore them, but he was cold, so cold, and he was reluctant as well to touch himself, to let flesh touch flesh...and shivering he crawled into bed, pulled the covers around himself and tried not to think some more. He woke several times during the night, from shallow half-remembered dreams in which he was pleading in anger, shouting in fear.
. . .
Mercifully the hangover held off, hovering sullenly over his head like the heavy air before a storm but not descending. He showered again, cleaned his teeth ferociously. It was Doyle's turn to pick him up for work.
He didn't know if he should wait, or go in on his own.
Christ, what a mess. He'd been drunk, of course, but that was hardly an excuse for trying to beat up his partner. Stupid thing to fight about, anyway; if Doyle would just stop--stop shoving it at him, he could ignore it and things would be fine. He didn't blame Doyle for walking out. Now maybe he'd drop it and they could get back to normal.
At six minutes to eight he cursed, grabbed his jacket and locked up hurriedly, then broke speed laws all the way to headquarters. He was fifteen minutes late nonetheless, and already planning what he'd do to Doyle for not picking him up.
Anson caught him on the way to the rest room in search of his delinquent partner. "Wrong direction, Bodie. The Cow wants you, first thing."
"Missed a briefing, did I? Where's Doyle?" He was reasonably sure the two questions sounded equally casual.
"No, and dunno. The Cow said right away." A shove from Anson, a wave through from Betty, and Bodie found himself in Cowley's office, quite unprepared. The Controller glanced up at him, squared the papers on his desk and set them aside. "Sit down, Bodie."
What the hell was this about? Bodie sat, and waited.
"Doyle has requested that the two of you be assigned new partners. Accordingly, from this morning you will be working with Murphy. He has your assignment."
Appalled, Bodie jerked forward. "Doyle what? Why the hell--" With stabbing suddenness he cut himself off, remembering things whose existence should never be admitted. Here, or anywhere... "What reasons did he give, sir?" The hangover loomed, and his stomach twisted uncomfortably.
"I consider his reasons sufficient, Bodie. That will be all. You'll find Murphy in the rest room, no doubt."
"Is this permanent?" Bodie demanded.
"All my decisions are permanent," Cowley said sharply, "until I decide otherwise."
"But what the hell--what did he tell you?" Bodie half-shouted in betrayal and fury, and guilt. "Did he tell you he's a fucking queer?" And, horrified, he clamped his mouth against his own outburst and froze rigid in the chair.
Cowley's eyes flicked up at him. He held the silence for a moment, while Bodie, sweating, could do nothing but curse himself, and Doyle, and wait while something clicked its way to completion behind the pale blue eyes.
"I consider his reasons sufficient," Cowley repeated, finally. "Dismissed."
Bodie fled from the room.
Murphy didn't ask the reasons for the reassignment, for which Bodie was pathetically grateful, until he thought to wonder what Murphy had been told that kept him from asking further. After that he had a hard time meeting his new partner's eyes. Murphy glanced sideways at him once or twice during that first day, perhaps wondering at Bodie's uncharacteristic silence; or perhaps it was something else.
They worked well together, as they had before on group ops or temporary reteamings. Murphy had a way of moving that seemed slow and lazy, generously lanky, but that was as deceptive as a snake's lassitude in a patch of sun; he was snake-fast, and canny in a way that complemented Bodie's straight-forward approach, if not as Byzantine as Doyle occasionally became.
Doyle had been teamed with Jax. Bodie found the fact out from the posted duty roster; everyone assumed he knew, and he couldn't bear to ask. The two of them had been sent west, to Devon, on an information-ferreting trip; a pack of Syrians that Harrison was trailing had been showing a suspicious interest in the area. They were already gone by the time Bodie and Murphy left the building that first morning. Under normal circumstances, Bodie would have expected word in a day or so; when working apart, except under deep cover, one of them would generally slope off to phone the other for a quick update or a few minutes' friendly chat. Now there was nothing, except a sickness in his stomach, partly the memory of sour alcohol, partly anger and guilt. He missed Doyle's slanted smile, his quick wit, his company. Murphy was a good bloke, but not his partner. His one invitation to lift a pint or two after work was moodily refused.
Doyle and Jax were back at the end of the week. Bodie had no warning; the first he knew of it was when he and Murphy ran into them on their way to the rest room for coffee, and the shock of seeing Doyle, for the first time since that ghastly night, mortified him. He stumbled to a halt, while Murphy shouted and went forward to pound first Doyle and then Jax on the shoulder, welcoming them back. Doyle was standing close to Jax, in his new partner's shadow, and as Murphy was asking about the connections they'd turned up he looked steadily past the taller man at Bodie, his face waiting and expressionless. Bodie forced himself to move, and walked forward woodenly, sweating inside.
"Welcome back."
"Thanks."
Bodie swallowed. "How was it?"
"Fine." Doyle glanced at the other two agents, who were discoursing on terrorist cells and paying them no attention. "How's Murph?"
"Fine." Bodie hesitated a moment, then muttered, head down, "Are you staying with Jax?"
"Yes." And that seemed to settle that, as Jax and Murphy came back to them and Murphy dragged Bodie along to walk the other pair down the corridor to Cowley's office to deliver their report.
After that they saw each other as much as any two agents, except that Bodie found himself watching Doyle at odd moments, in a briefing or over a cup of coffee in the rest room. And sometimes he saw the green eyes flick furtively away from his. It warmed him, that Doyle was watching him as well. He wanted to invite him out for a drink, a film; but the choking memory of one night for which no apology could suffice, and still more the knowledge of Doyle's desire, Doyle's unspeakable secret, closed off his throat.
Somehow he got through the next week. On the Friday, he and Murphy were cruising aimlessly through Lambeth in the late afternoon when the car radio sounded and the dispatcher demanded their location. Murphy leant forward to glance at the street signs Bodie was passing at his habitually high speed, and read a cross street off.
"Get to Frazer Street at the corner of Murpy Street. 4.5 and 1.8 need backup. Alpha will meet you there."
Bodie was already wrenching the wheel around as Murphy acknowledged the order; they were only a few blocks from the corner named. Cowley was just emerging from his car as they slewed in behind him and leapt out, keeping low in the cover of the cars. There was no sign of Doyle or Jax; Bodie scoured the area with a quick, apprehensive glance, thinking of terrorists, and Doyle struck by a Syrian slug.
"Colburn," Cowley said without introduction, expecting them, as always, to have the status of all current CI5 operations memorized, and Bodie relaxed; they had cornered a two-bit drug dealer, not a death squad. Cowley gestured at the run-down house across the street, with waste ground to one side of it and a row of boarded-up storefronts the other, and continued, "He's holed up in there, with at least one other man, maybe two. They'll have small arms only, no rifles. Jax and Doyle were onto them when they bolted for cover, and they know the game's up; but they're terrified, and Colburn at least is high on something. You'll take the front; Jax and Doyle are already round the back. Clean them out. I want them alive--I want their supplier."
"Right, sir." Murphy was pulling out his gun, checking it as he scanned the approach. "They've been in there, what, ten, fifteen minutes?" Cowley nodded, and Bodie joined Murphy in squinting across at the building. The windows were bare, no curtains or shades, but none were broken for shootholes yet. The street was empty. "Bit of a dash. Cut left, Bodie; I'll go right."
Bodie nodded and braced himself for a sprint across the road, when Cowley's radio crackled with an RT signal.
"Sir?" Doyle's voice said. "You'd better get backup here fast. I think they--"
With a harsh squeal, the sound cut off. Bodie stood frozen, staring at the receiver. It was almost the first time he'd heard Doyle's voice in days. He took a jerky step directly toward the house.
"Oi, Bodie!" Murphy grabbed his arm. "Not that way. Around the side!"
Bodie spoke without turning. "I should--"
"He's got Jax backing him up. Come on, partner, let's go." He said the word without emphasis, already moving sideways behind the row of parked cars preparatory to dashing across. Bodie wanted to kill him.
The raid was technically perfect, Murphy and he bursting in simultaneously to meet Jax and Doyle in the front hallway, and sweeping two very out-of-their-depth drug pushers from their bolthole with little trouble. Colburn was hazy-eyed and hardly able to aim the pistol he was holding, and his partner, though clear-headed, was rigid with fright. Bodie scarcely saw them. Instead his eyes were fixed on Doyle, who glanced at him as the four of them took turns up the stairs, then looked away; but Bodie knew where he was at every moment, knew with an aching awareness. It was the same ache he had had every time in the past week when he had glanced over in the car and seen a partner of ten days, instead of four years.
Doyle was uninjured. As soon as it was all over, and the two had been cuffed, Bodie turned to ask, and Doyle laughed a little. "Would you believe it? Shot the RT out of my hand. One in a million." And he flexed his fingers, wincing. Two knuckles were red and swollen, where they had been twisted by the impact.
"Need a doctor?"
"Nah. Ice'll do it." Jax and Murphy were waiting for them, trading glances as their new partners talked. Suddenly embarrassed, Bodie headed them all down the stairs and outside, back to headquarters and a quick oral report to Cowley, until the phone rang and he sent the four of them away. Bodie made sure he was near Doyle as they left the office. "Come on," he said roughly. "I'll drive you home." Doyle glanced at him, then nodded.
In the car, Bodie was still, without looking, hyperaware of his partner's--ex-partner's--presence. Every shift he made in the seat, every time he breathed, Bodie knew. He straightened a little when Bodie passed the turn to Doyle's flat and kept on toward his own, but said nothing. Bodie was fiercely glad of that; he didn't know what he wanted Doyle to say. All he knew was that he desperately wanted his partner back. Back the way they used to be, before it had all gone wrong.
Letting them in, he was glad that it was daylight and not night, not anything like the last time Doyle had been in his flat. He tossed a clean dishtowel at the other man, and while Doyle was raiding his freezer for ice, Bodie went to the sideboard and poured them both drinks, automatically. Doyle stared at him when he handed him his glass, and, suddenly self-conscious, Bodie did not, after all, drain his own, as he had meant to do. He held the glass tightly in his hand, and did not look at it.
Doyle sat down in the armchair, his wounded hand cradled in the makeshift icepack and the scotch untouched on the floor beside him. He looked up at Bodie, waiting.
Christ. He had to say something. "Been a while."
"Yeah."
Wonderful beginning. "Look," he tried, resenting the position he was in, "I'm sorry I hit you. Can we just forget about it?" Doyle said nothing, only watched him guardedly, and Bodie's ragged temper frayed still more. "For Christ's sake! You're not so fucking pure--"
"What, because I sleep with men?" Doyle snapped, and came to his feet. "Goddamn it, Bodie--"
"No, wait!" Bodie had been trying to push the sick twisting of guilt away, but stubbornly it stayed with him. "Look, I'm sorry. But I was drunk, and when you... Shit, mate!" He slammed his glass down on the sideboard. "You know I didn't mean it!"
"Do I?"
Bodie stood for a moment, breathing heavily, his nostrils flared. Then he slumped. Collapsing onto the sofa, he rested his head on his fist. "Christ. When I... I guess I did mean it. At the time. That's the hell of it."
"Yeah," Doyle said impassively.
"Look." Bodie turned his face away, toward the floor. "I just don't want to have anything to do with it, you know? I don't--I don't like it. I don't want to know about it."
"Okay."
Bodie looked up. "Okay? Is it that easy? Can we really just say 'fine, we'll never think about it again'?"
"You were the one who kept bringing it up, mate," Doyle said, in a low voice. "I wanted to drop it as soon as--as soon as I knew I'd made a mistake. Never mind that.
"Besides," and his voice was steady, "we have to. We have to put it behind us, or break the team permanently. You know that."
"Yeah," Bodie said shakily. "I know. And I don't--want that. I don't want to break the team. You're my partner." He looked up, and Doyle met his eyes, a little uncertain, a little wary, but with hope filtering around the edges.
"Me, too, mate," was all he said, but Bodie felt a great swell of relief. Safe...
"Right, then," he said, forcing the jauntiness, and stood up. "You want something to eat?"
"No, thanks. It's getting late; I ought to be going."
Once Bodie would have pressed him, tried to convince him to stay. Now he only asked, tentatively, "Pick me up tomorrow?"
Doyle grinned, and the relief was as clear on his face as Bodie felt it on his own. "Seven-thirty."
"I'll be here." Bodie walked him to the door, and the goodbyes were a little reluctant, a little awkward: "Night, mate" with their eyes half-meeting, and then Doyle was jogging down the stairs as Bodie closed the door behind him and set the locks, carefully.
The partnership was safe. Doyle was safe. Everything would be all right.
They worked together after that, after Doyle had spent twenty minutes closeted with Cowley while Bodie, abashed and sick at himself, made himself scarce and never asked what his partner had said. Fitting carefully together again, discussing cases, sleeping by turns on stakeout in a freezing warehouse, and finally able again to weave a conversation between them, each catching the thread tossed to him by the other, until Cowley rolled his eyes in annoyance at the famous double act, and the poor man under interrogation grew quite dizzy trying to follow the rapid-fire of questions, accusations, steel-cored cajoling from the men who bracketed him.