Let me tell you about this torch I carry,
It's not much of a career
And it won't make my fortune, I fear
But it stays alight and won't be buried,
And it's brighter year by year
Some day it will surely disappear.
When it does I'll know I've laid to rest
The ghost of your unhappiness...
--Everything But the Girl
"Shadow on a Harvest Moon"
Ray Doyle was exhausted when he arrived home after the long flight from Santa Barbara. There were two gifts awaiting him on the table in the foyer: a small spray of lovely spring flowers with a note of condolence from Bodie; and a bottle of very old, very expensive scotch from Cowley.
He smiled at the thoughtfulness and set his bags down heavily. He might just take the scotch to bed and never get up again. He picked up the flowers for setting in a vase and noticed under them a small frame with a picture inside: Gillian and Bodie, she having just jumped on his back and clutching wildly at his neck, he laughing hysterically as he nearly toppled over the railing of the pier they were standing on. From their day trip to the sea those few years ago. He pocketed the frame and let the flowers lie on the table.
Doyle felt the hot tears creep back into his eyes. Time for the scotch. He grabbed the bottle and went upstairs. Everything still smelled of her, everything still looked like she lived there.
He lay down on the bed and took out the snap Bodie had left for him. *The way those two got along,* he mused. *You'd think they'd been separated at birth.* He took a deep pull from the bottle and rested the photograph on his chest.
He was torn between calling Bodie and just leaving it alone for now, readjusting to British time and space. On the back of the frame he noticed a note taped there. "We all miss her, mate," it said. In Bodie's tightly curved handwriting. Leave it to him to know just what to say, and just what to give him. Leave it to Bodie ... isn't that what Gil had said to him?
"If you ever need help or someone to lean on and I'm not around, let Bodie take care of you. He loves you more than he'd ever let on, you know. " She'd said it with a knowing, gentle smile. Doyle knew she meant even more than that, but he left it there between them. Yeah, he thought. Separated at birth, those two. Why he loved them both.
The memorial service had been a nightmare. They had not anticipated the sheer volume of well-wishers and the curious onlookers who come to the services of the famous or mildly famous. Everyone in the family, including Doyle, had been trying to settle in to this newfound sense of loss, as was to be expected, but none had experience with grief, and were newcomers to the world of funerals, sorrow, and the odd sense of community that springs up among friends and relatives of the dead.
Because Gillian traveled so much, in strange places and often away from normal modes of communications, it was as if they were all still waiting for her to get back. There was such a heightened sense of unreality about the whole thing that it wasn't until a few days later, standing on the beach with Gil's sister Fiona, that he realized she was truly gone for good. He watched the blue-grey waves of the Pacific crash against the shore, looked out at the wide expanse of blinding, sun-bright blue sky, and felt her absence so keenly -- as if he were to travel the width of that ocean and know she were on the other side, yet could never reach the land she stood upon.
Not that he hadn't already known she was gone, at least intellectually. When Fiona had first called trying to reach him, he'd been working on the Manchester drugs case and hadn't been home for days. He and Bodie were surveiling two suspects holed up in an abandoned terraced house. It didn't take much to know something was wrong, Cowley so rarely bothered them without something specific. He'd known it was wrong, all wrong, the minute he heard the old man's voice. "It's about Gillian..." the old man had said, leaving it at that.
Three journalists in an exploded Jeep. A sniper, possibly, or a land mine. The Nicaraguan government played it close to the vest, refusing more details, a job Cowley took on because of his diplomatic skills.
Cowley had been kind and understanding. "It's your wife," he'd said, in a gentler voice than Doyle had ever heard him use. "She's been killed. She and two other journalists. In a village near Managua. I'm so sorry." They just sat in his office, neither one moving. "I've taken the liberty of making arrangements for her ... body ... to be brought home to London. I will of course make all the other necessary arrangements for you, and her family."
Doyle had nearly finished the bottle of scotch. He was beginning to drift off, the bottle slowly slipping out of his hand, rolling off the side of the bed and to the floor. Before he fell asleep he looked at the photograph in the frame and smiled.
****
"You two are babysitting Miss Bailey until the trial is over. I estimate it to last two weeks. One of you will take days inside safe house eleven, the other will have nights. Murphy and Anston, Lucas and McCabe will take perimeter stations outside. I can't emphasize how important her testimony is to putting Hamad behind bars for the rest of his life."
"Gillian Bailey? The journalist?" Doyle asked, obviously intrigued.
"GIL-- lian, with a hard g. Not Jill." Cowley tossed papers his way. Doyle was annoyed at the need to be reprimanded about something so trivial as a pronunciation mistake. He flashed a vexed glare at his boss and looked at the file.
"So you've met her?" he finally asked, still sulking.
"No, merely spoken with her on the phone. We've talked often since the incident."
Cowley was shoving papers into Doyle's hands as the car sped to the airport. Doyle only glanced at the photo. He'd seen her picture in the Times once when she was promoting her first book about modern religious fundamentalism and the growing tide of religious terrorism.
Bodie nodded approvingly. "She's okay. Attractive enough." He gave the photo a quick glance as he sped along. Not his type, but okay enough. Might be fun to get stuck with in a safe house for a few days, but not someone he'd want to grace his arm for an evening at the Royal Albert.
"Mmm, yes, you would say that," Cowley mutteredd, giving him a sideways glance of disgust, partly paying attention to Bodie and partly making notes to himself.
"Yeah, not your type at all, mate. Her IQ's bigger than her bra size," Ray commented. Bodie's eyes met his in the rear view mirror, and he mouthed "hah hah," while moving his head back and forth in sarcastic disgust.
Doyle settled into the back seat and closed his eyes. "What the devil are you doing?" Cowley snapped at Doyle.
"Well, if we'll be baby-sitting, might as well get some shut-eye now before we end up pulling night duty. Besides, if she's a journalist, she's bound to be a talker." He flapped his fingers and thumb open and closed a number of times.
"Rrmmm," Cowley growled. He was doing his best to ignore the two agents. Both had been getting up his nose in the past few months. Something about their behavior had changed after Doyle's shooting, and it annoyed Cowley that neither he, Macklin, nor Kate Ross could identify just what it was. There was almost an arrogance in the way they shut themselves off from the rest of the world. As though they were alone, together, and the only two on earth who mattered.
What Cowley had begun to understand, although he would not go so far as to link their isolated behavior to it, was that Bodie had developed an infatuation for Doyle. It had been clear to him after the Lin Foh case, a sudden change in Bodie almost from the moment the situation had wrapped up with the death of the girl. It had surprised Cowley to realize that this did not bother him, that if anything, he saw it as an interesting development. He did not have a prejudice against this, not where consenting adults were involved, and in fact had two other homosexual agents in CI5, albeit quietly. But never two agents partnered together; in any case, he did not suspect Doyle to be either aware of or reciprocating Bodie's feelings.
When they reached the airport they went through security to a cordoned-off area. "Miss Bailey's plane is due to arrive with heavy guard. She will have FBI agents with her, who will then entrust her to our care. And I do mean *care,*" Cowley barked the last word.
Bodie and Doyle habitually made light of nursemaid duty, but this time he would have none of it. Not when he finally stood the chance of getting the terrorist leader who had bombed the TWA flight to New York those two years ago. The one person who could secure a conviction was Gillian Bailey, and he'd be damned if those two would ruin this for him.
"Her testimony is crucial in this case, and I don't doubt that anyone connected to Hamad's cell wouldn't do anything to stop her from reaching that courtroom." He paced nervously around the door area.
"Isn't that a double negative?" Bodie quipped, oblivious of the angry face that whirled around to glare at him.
"You know, sir, what I'm having trouble with is why she's talking about something told to her in confidence," Doyle commented. "I thought American journalists would do anything, including going to prison, to protect sources."
"That's the neat trick of the whole thing," Cowley said, smiling. "She didn't make contact with him to discuss any future actions on his part. She was interviewing him for a magazine piece about the conflict of Western ideology and Middle Eastern beliefs. The issues of bargaining for terrorists, that sort of thing. She made it clear when he began talking of his plans to bomb an airliner that she would under no circumstances keep such information protected. There is a rule of law in America that attorney-client privilege extends only to past criminal enterprises." The craggy face split in a grin.
"The discussion of ongoing or future criminal enterprises is not privileged communication. Repeatedly, she emphasized that journalists follow those principles. Yet he told her anyway. And now we've got him by the short and curlies."
Bodie stuck his head down and snickered. It never failed to amuse him when the usually diplomatic old man used vulgar expressions in gleeful tones.
"And so she called you," Bodie said.
"A great many people -- she was obviously very concerned. We first spoke over four years ago when she first met him. It took him more than two years to act on his plans, and nearly two more before his arrest."
The plane taxied toward the terminal and the airway was attached. When Gillian stepped out of the airway Doyle almost burst out laughing. She set her luggage down and reached out to shake Cowley's hand. "Miss Bailey ..." Cowley positively purred at her. Both agents shook their heads in amused disgust. It was nauseating to watch him butter someone up; they preferred him barking at them, in some ways.
"Please, call me Gil." She flashed Cowley a charming smile.
There was something predatory about it, Bodie decided. Calculated.
"These are the two agents who will be assigned to bodyguard duty for the duration of your stay. Bodie, and Ray Doyle."
She reached out to shake hands, stopped for a moment to stare at Ray, and laughed, too. They were wearing the same green flight jacket. "You have excellent taste in clothing."
Bodie burst in, taking her hand. "Very pleased to meet you."
She smiled at Bodie as she shook his hand. "Is it just Bodie?"
"Well, I never use the word "just" when I'm describing myself. But yeah, that's what I'm called."
"Bodie it is, then." She was grinning at him as they locked eyes, and Doyle immediately thought, *well, there goes another female victim.*
Cowley finished a brief conversation with the FBI agents. He turned to them, motioning for movement. "Let's go. I only have so much influence where I can cordon off an entire wing of Heathrow."
There was a sense of recognition for Doyle when he first spoke to her, as if he'd been merely waiting to meet her and, oh yes, here she was. But he had not been able to identify it then, this sense that she was someone he already knew; in fact, could not identify it until much later. She did not look so much like Bodie -- though they both had dark hair, blue eyes, and milky skin, she was thin, tall, and gangly -- as seem like him, exuding a sly sense of humor, a quiet confidence, a lack of concern for the situation she was in, and a toughness that likely concealed loneliness. All this Doyle could grasp only emotionally, some time later, when he watched them together. Not seeing it intellectually at all, he could understand that there was something about her that drew him in, just as he felt drawn to Bodie, without ever having understood why.
****
Light was dimming in the house when Bodie walked in. He still had keys, having taken care of the place while Ray went to Santa Barbara. He leapt up the stairs two at a time, almost colliding with the suitcase when he reached the top hallway that led into the bedroom. Ray was sleeping, he could see, or else was passed out drunk, sprawled across the bed in an interesting, twisted position.
He bent down to pick up the dropped bottle and put it on the dresser, then took the framed snap from Ray's hand, taking a moment to look at it before setting it down.
Bodie stood above Doyle's sleeping form, a warm, almost tingling sensation rising up around his heart, through his chest. He was glad to see his partner asleep, even if it was alcohol induced. Ray's face was restful, the lashes feathering over his high cheekbones, the full lips parted slightly, a fist curled under his cheek. That would hurt once he woke up, Bodie thought, and then reached down with gentle, precise fingers to move the hand out from under Ray's face, slowly uncurling the fist.
Even asleep his friend was as tense as piano wire. It was probably the first time in the past three weeks the poor fella *had been* asleep, Bodie acknowledged. When this nightmare had begun, Doyle had stayed at Bodie's flat until he went to Santa Barbara for the family's memorial. He hadn't been alone to deal with this, not even for a moment.
During the first few days after the news, Doyle had been in a perpetual state of dazed confusion, responding to cues from others in a mechanical way, as though he were a child dutifully following the orders of adults. Bodie's flat was a revolving door of people -- CI5 colleagues, old friends from the Met, Gillian's contacts and news bureau cohorts who were all strangers to Bodie and Doyle but equally welcomed.
With news of death came food, flowers, and small trinkets or tokens of remembrance such as each person felt important, and Doyle automatically thanked everyone in turn. Yet while they hovered, hoping for conversation from him, something more than bewildered silence, they were disappointed.
Each person had come bearing their own brand of sympathy or advice on the situation, and Bodie watched all at some point offer vague sentiments of help and willing response to any need, however great or small, which Doyle accepted in the perfunctory way a bereaved spouse does. Bodie, however, jealously guarded Doyle and any talk of his immediate future, the guard at the gate of Ray's life, his paladin.
During the few hours they were alone, when the need for sleep had become apparent to the guests, Ray would pace around the flat for hours, jumping back onto the sofa, pretending to be asleep if Bodie stirred or came out to check on him. And Bodie checked on him frequently. He'd even thought of going to Santa Barbara with him, just to keep an eye on him, but realized that Doyle's almost pathological need to handle it alone would end up causing a huge row, so he'd never broached the subject. He'd talked to Fiona enough to know she would keep an eye on his friend.
The California sun seemed to have done Ray some good at least. Doyle's face had a bit more color, and now at least he would have a little rest, trying to get used to being back in the half-empty house.
An aching gnawed at Bodie; he longed to reach out to Ray, to wipe away all the pain that was consuming him. Bodie knew early on he was not faring much better after the loss of Gillian, who was as much his friend as Ray was, and wondered helplessly how much assistance he could really offer Doyle in the long run. If Ray recognized that Bodie himself was grieving, he had not said anything about it, and Bodie tried as hard as he could to manfully hold them both up, while at the same time wanting to shout, "What about me?"
*If I could just hold you,* he sighed to himself, as he looked down at his sleeping partner. *I would ease it away, I would make you want to go on with life.* Almost shocked at his maudlin thoughts, the felt himself begin to go cold.
*What if this whole ordeal sends him away from me? What if he withdraws? Please don't leave me, Ray,* he thought. *Please don't go away without me.*
Doyle began to stir, perhaps sensing Bodie's presence. He reached out a hand, the long thin fingers grasping Bodie's strong hand, curling slowly around it, his eyes still closed, half asleep on his side. Bodie remained motionless for some time, drinking in the sounds of Doyle's slow breath, the sight of his parted lips, the feeling of his warm skin against Bodie's own.
No, he won't leave me, Bodie thought, calmed. He won't leave me because we belong together. *I know this, I just know this.*
In the years that Ray had been with Gillian, Bodie had watched him grow as a person. He'd become more accepting and open with people, less likely to judge and dismiss. The Ray he'd known of old didn't want to be caught out by letting too many people into his heart. He would walk away when what he really wanted to say was that he cared. But Doyle had been forced to change, having two people in his life to care for who were even harder to get to know than Doyle himself was.
Bodie had felt, more than seen, the changes, as Doyle pushed Gillian to open up and let him into her life. It was something he recognized from his own past with Ray, the slow wearing down of the walls and screens he hid himself with. This mature openness, this strength of love that had grown in Doyle the past few years had, of course, only served to draw Bodie further and further into love with Ray. Always the silent watcher, wondering if he would ever grow enough to be worthy of Ray's love.
As he gazed at him, his partner stirred again. Ray moved a hand over his mouth and slowly opened his eyes. "Bodie?"
Bodie released his hand. "Yeah, it's me, mate. Come on then, up and at 'em." He pulled Doyle into a sitting position, and fluffed the pillows behind him, then lay him back slowly.
The soft, deep blue of Bodie's eyes was comforting to Doyle. He looked at Bodie for some time before speaking. "You're a sight for sore eyes," he said, his voice breaking and tears forming in the deep jade.
"I'd say those eyes definitely are sore," Bodie said gently, sitting down on the edge of the bed. "And I'm not sure," he continued, pointing at the bottle, "that that's exactly the way to cure the condition."
"I know," Doyle said, casting his eyes down. "It just seemed the thing to do ... at the time. First time I've come back to the house all alone." He brushed the tears away and wiped his hand on his jeans.
"I would have picked you up at the airport if you'd let me. You insisted it was what you wanted." He patted Doyle's knee, lightly.
"I did. At the time. I'm glad you're here now." *Let Bodie take care of you.* He heard her voice as if she were sitting next to him. "I was dreaming, or remembering ... I'm not sure which. Of the first time we met. At the airport, d'you remember? She had the same jacket on. Probably for the best, she would've pinched mine eventually anyway." He steadied himself on the bed as he tried to shift up, get more of his weight onto his legs.
"Oh yeah, I remember. Who could forget? The hormones were flying so thick you'd think we were trapped in fog. Even Cowley commented on it later." Bodie's eyes drifted slowly to the other side of the room, as the gentle haze of memory took over.
"Did he? You never said."
"Yeah, well, didn't seem appropriate at the time, did it? He remarked that 'It looks like our Miss Bailey has an admirer.' " Bodie's impression of Cowley could be deadly accurate at times, mimicking the low, plummy voice and the softened Scots burr.
Doyle laughed softly. "Leave it to him. He was pretty smitten himself."
"Yeah, well, she's a professional charmer. It's her job, y'know, and she can always do it when she wants to. She's like a cat that way." His mouth snapped shut. "God, I'm sorry." He winced and moved away. "This place smells like a distillery."
"Gift from the old man. Medicinal, y'know."
Bodie made a face of suspicious disbelief. "Well! Tell you what. I'll unpack your stuff, cook you some dinner ... I know, you're not much up to eating, but you've got to put something in that scrawny body because it's getting scrawnier by the day ... and you take a shower. You'll feel better. I've brought a few videos, we'll watch them and it will be complete mindless entertainment so you won't have to think of anything. Okay?" He gave Doyle his most piercing look, and rubbed his hands together as if cooking up a plan.
A listless shrug was all Ray could muster. "Yeah, whatever you say." He put his hand to Bodie's arm and squeezed it. There was more to say about that touch than he was prepared to deal with, but for now he had to make some kind of physical contact with his partner. "Thanks, Bodie. I really need your friendship now more than ever."
In his chest Bodie felt a stabbing, an opening wound. *Oh, the green eyes. In them the sun, the stars, a constellation.*
Bodie patted his hand lightly. "You've got me, Sunshine; I'm all yours. She left me some personal responsibilities, you know, and I have to see to them." He winked.
Ray stood and was met immediately by a blinding headache. "Oh God, here's the whisky talking. Great. Just what I need. Grief and a hangover, there's a charmin' combination."
Bodie chuckled softly as he hauled one of the bags onto the bed. "You're way ahead of the game if you can make jokes, though." He began to sort through clothes, putting some in the drawer and others in a pile on the floor. As Doyle grabbed a robe, Bodie pulled a grey envelope out of the small fold on the inside of the suitcase.
Doyle suddenly lunged at him and grabbed the envelope from his hand. "No! Don't!"
"Hang about, I wasn't going to read it!" Bodie said, his voice rising higher. "What the bloody hell is the matter?" he said, much softer than such words deserved.
Doyle put the envelope into a drawer. "It's a letter from Gillian. Fiona gave it to me a few days ago. Gil gave it to her about a year or so ago. Told her that if anything ever happened to her to give it to me. I can't bear to open it. I just can't right now."
He sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, his head hanging down. Bodie reached over and gently stroked the dark auburn waves salted here and there with grey. "It's all right, mate. No one will make you. You read it when you're good and ready. It's okay."
In another time and place, Doyle would have pulled away from Bodie's caressing touch. But now it felt warming. Much like the time Bodie had first done something like it, stroking his partner's head while he lay near death in hospital, shot near the heart.
Bodie clenched every muscle in his body to keep from trembling as he touched Ray. A small tornado of emotion whirled around him, his mind and body fighting not to take advantage of the situation, of Ray's grief, and push for too much. *I owe it to Ray, and to Gil.*
Bodie let his hand lie for a moment on the other man's head, then took it away and went downstairs. He had practiced for years the art of loving someone just enough, and knowing when to let go. There could be more in the future. For now it was time to let go.
Ray Doyle sat for a few minutes alone, staring at the drawer that held the letter. How could he ever read it? He knew well enough what it would be about: loving him, going on without her, making a good life. As if he could, he acknowledged bitterly.
But he did want to do right by her memory. She would want him to work, to have good times with friends, to go forward. And for her sake he had to. Yet he was flooded with memories almost every time he breathed, painful memories that took on more significance than they possibly deserved each time he thought of them. Or sudden flashes of things, things he hadn't remembered or given pause to for years. Things he'd buried that now wanted to crawl out of his brain.
Of the way her black hair flowed like satin down her neck. Her typing madly away when possessed by a story. The curve of her back as she lay sleeping. The slow, sardonic smile. The bad things, too -- the outrageous temper tantrums, the petulance, her general recalcitrant nature. Not so charming, but memories all the same...
Was it so wrong to be consumed by memory? Or was it healing, like Cowley had said it would be. Revel in her memory, the old man had said with avuncular certainty. Perhaps he was right. But memory made such a bad substitute for the real thing.
Doyle had always been slightly mesmerized by her in his life -- his wife had been more than an enigma to him. He sometimes realized, at odd occasions, that he was in fact married, that he'd made a commitment to another human being. From the beginning he'd tried to make sense of it, but had realized early on that there was no sense to love. Startled at times by his own ability to feel it, but content to have it there.
He had been, he knew, in awe of her. Not only for what he saw as her sheer raw talent, but also because of her energy, her complete focus on what she wanted, and her mystery. She rarely spoke of her own feelings, kept things at a distance; going to her family's in Santa Barbara had been important to Doyle partly because he saw them, or talked with them, rarely, so separate was she in her own life.
What he'd not known, and would never know, was that she was equally in awe of him. What at first had been a breathlessness at his beauty and rough magnetism turned quickly to an admiration for his mostly self-learned intelligence, his wit, his ability to go out each day to an uncertain future, his strong belief in his ideals.
It had never occurred to Doyle that anyone could see him the way Gillian saw him, and be moved by it. And he was as unaware of Bodie's own devotion as he'd been of Gillian's, understanding only that there was something about him they appreciated, and that was enough.
Doyle rubbed a hand over his face, then went into the shower, loosening his muscles in the heat of the water cascading upon him. *What were the stages of grief?* He tried to remember: denial, anger, acceptance. *Wasn't there another one? And where am I?* Somewhere between anger and acceptance, he assumed, although he'd be hard pressed to figure out what. *How could you begin to know when you'd passed from one to another,* he wondered. *Where did it all fit in?*
Here, all around him, small signs of her. The scent of shampoo, a half-used bar of soap, her razor. He picked the silver tool up, moved it around in his fingers, then quickly put it back on the shelf. Before he even knew it, his chest filled with racking spasms, silent sobs hiccuping through his body. Doyle leant against the cold tile, pressed his face and chest against the shocking iciness. His fingers mashed against wet tile, grasping, as if he were trying to claw his way out. After a time, the sobs slowed to deep gasping, then to slow breaths.
Dimly he became aware that the water was still running. He stuck his head under the spray and washed tears away. *Why'd you leave me?* he asked silently. *Why'd you go and do this?*
He finished the shower and wrapped a towel around himself. It still smelled of Gil, of her perfume. He breathed in the scent of the towel, went into the bedroom and opened the drawer that held the letter. He touched it, felt the paper and smelled it. No perfume. Very businesslike, this. Then he put it away and quickly pulled on a light cotton sweater and jeans for this gentle spring evening, put on a strong face, and went down to Bodie.
Bodie, only the most basic cook, managed to deliver a decent fettucine Alfredo. By the time Doyle had come downstairs, hair damp and clinging to his head, the house smelled warm and inviting again. They ate in relatively companionable silence, then Bodie made them both tea and sat them down in front of the television for some makeshift cinema.
They commented off an on about the film, made jokes over the coppers-and-villains escapades of the two lead characters, but both had thoughts that took them elsewhere.
At one point, Bodie brought up work. "When you're ready mate, some interesting things going on at work. But I'm not pushing you. Just saying I miss your expertise."
Doyle smiled. "Probably will try it out soon. Don't know how much of this I can take, being round here all day. But not tomorrow or the day after, eh?"
Bodie nodded. They went back to watching the videos.
It was towards the end of the second film that Bodie noticed Ray's hands in his lap, sitting there together, lifeless, palms up. He hadn't moved in over an hour. His watchful gaze traveled upwards to Doyle's face. Again, the head was bowed, a dark glistening in the eyes. Bodie moved over next to him on the sofa, and slowly, tentatively put an arm around his shoulder.
Half expecting Ray to move sharply away from him -- for this was much more than the usual physical contact the two had engaged in over the more than ten years they'd been partners -- he was genuinely shocked when Ray leant nearer him, turning his face into Bodie's warm neck and resting his head there in the crook between neck and shoulder.
Bodie could feel the wet eyes against his shirt, and he brought his hand up tighter round Ray's shoulder, pulling him close. Ray's hands still didn't move from his lap, but Bodie felt him give slightly, turning into the supporting embrace.
They sat that way for some time, neither hearing the television as the videotape clicked off. Bodie felt the gentle heat of Ray against him and his heart almost burst from the longing. For years he'd dreamed of a day when he could hold Ray this way, touch him without the guise of just-best-mates or partners ruling their lives.
Having learned to accept that that day would like as not never come, this closeness, this perfection pulled at his insides until he thought Ray could surely feel the pain inside him. This was what he'd wanted: not sex, not just comradeship -- although they were certainly a part of his dreams -- but this physical closeness, the trust of true friendship and love, the fact that Ray *needed* him and would allow him inside his tightly covered heart.
Doyle's crying was slowing now, the silent tears beginning to dry up. *Let Bodie take care of you.* Needing this contact and comfort right now was too important, and Ray would not be bothered with thoughts or memories of the way he knew, deep inside, that Bodie felt about him. Let Bodie take care of you. His thoughts turned to a different time, before Gil, before any of this.
It took him back to the time Bodie took care of him. When his world changed, and Bodie's. The aftermath of his shooting.
1982
Life had been, for Bodie, ordinary until that day. If he'd been able to reflect on it, he would have been shocked that such a commonplace day could change everything so dramatically in his life. The loss of his best friend, his partner; the realization that Doyle was everything and more to him; the knowledge that his life no longer belonged just to him, but to Ray as well.
He'd gone in to buy a paper. Just a paper, to check out the horses. The beeping, the flashing light on the radio transmitter could in no way mean that Ray was really in trouble. It would be a mistake, and he remained methodical in his approach to Doyle's flat, certain everything would be fine. Nothing would change. It was only when Bodie reached the top of the fire escape and saw the window open, that he realized everything in life had been shattered.
Bodie had felt so helpless in the face of his partner's possible death, a feeling that was not common to his life. To find him on the floor like that, breathing shallowly, looking for all the world like a wounded animal, was too much to bear. He had done everything his CI5, para, and SAS training had taught him: stanch the flow of blood, clear the airway, make sure they don't move. But he'd of course forgot his R/T, done other stupid things that lengthened the time it took to get help for Ray.
And then to watch as Ray fought with himself whether to live or die, the hours stretching into days until he gained enough strength to tell Bodie, by the slightest motion, who'd done this terrible thing. When Bodie knew he'd come out of the woods, he couldn't be budged from Ray's side. Still, there were nights when it was dangerous going. Infections, the weakened muscle of Doyle's heart, all took a heavy toll on him and Bodie wondered if his friend would ever get better.
As Doyle slowly regained some speech, he would try to talk some, Bodie leaning close to listen carefully. Mostly full of recriminations for his own stupidity. Bodie had seen it before. Blame himself for the invention of gunpowder, Bodie had said about him. And Doyle would. How can you give confidence to someone, he wondered? Especially someone who is lying in a hospital bed, hooked up to machines and who has just come from looking death in the face.
Sometimes he questioned himself: Was Ray aware of the times Bodie spent by his bedside while he'd been raving, hallucinatory, nearly comatose? Did he know that Bodie had sat silently, weeping to himself, for his beloved friend?
Part of Bodie wished that he did. And the other part of him, the loner, the stone-faced man who couldn't let anyone into his life, wanted to be certain Doyle never knew.
That first night, holding his hand as the machine beeped quietly, Bodie had rubbed Ray's long, tapered fingers against his cheek, pressing them to his mouth. "Don't you die on me, you son of a bitch. Don't you dare leave me." He had stayed there almost as long as Cowley would allow. Everywhere were tubes and wires, Ray's chest bandaged tightly and wrapped in layers of gauze. Tears sometimes fell from Bodie's eyes, dropping onto the sheet.
And he was alone, confronting a feeling he'd never imagined he'd had.
Bodie had begun to realize, slowly, that there were other feelings growing inside him. He'd come unglued plenty of times over things with Doyle, but the utter rage and helplessness he'd felt when Doyle lost contact during the Van Niekerk affair had convinced him something was very, very wrong with his emotions. He'd been willing to risk everything, throw CI5 away, the one good thing that had happened in his life. All because he couldn't help the one person he cared for most in the world.
Now that man lay helpless on a bed in front of him, had lain in a pool of his own blood, dying. And all Bodie could do was will him to survive, and he wasn't sure that was enough.
Could a man like him really love someone this much, anyone? Let alone another man? Bodie had questioned himself. Did it really matter if it was another bloke? It could never be another one, anyway. It was only Ray.
Bodie had always felt alone, even though that solitary part of his life had really only started when he was seven. It wasn't enough that fate had separated him from his family, but that he later chose to isolate himself as he grew older. He began to rebel against the world in first small, then larger ways. He developed a bleak, black sense of humor that manifested itself at the most exquisitely inappropriate moments, bringing dismay and discomfort to anyone around him. That only further served to separate him from others, completing his detachment.
He later developed a toughness that he projected throughout his body, with a set mouth, shuttered, cold eyes, and a hard, muscular form. As an adult, he looked to all the world as though he could never have been a child, never been soft and needful. The shield effectively separated him again from anything in his past.
Running away to join the merchant marine while still a teenager, then later to join a gang of mercenaries, only severed completely any ties Bodie had once had to family or friends, and an innocence of childhood.
Not that he had become an automaton. He had at times allowed himself the luxury of feeling, developing easy-going friendships with shipmates or a few of his fellow mercenaries. And he had loved Isabelle, before Krivas had taken her life.
Bodie had once more opened his heart to Marikka, but it was a casual if intense affair, renewed again only briefly in the machinations of a political plot, its brutal ending engineered by the type of ruthless men Bodie had seemingly always worked for or with. In his few attempts at building a bridge to someone else, he had become more convinced that it didn't matter, that it was impossible to breach the distance between people. He hadn't counted on meeting Ray Doyle and watching years of camaraderie develop into the strongest bond he'd ever known, causing a continual struggle within himself against the dissonance of loving someone, and knowing love was fatal.
Doyle's casual, easy charm, blatant sexuality, gentle, open nature and fiery temper all combined in a way that Bodie found irresistible, even though he had tried hard to resist most people throughout his life. In a way, the struggle to understand and connect with one so different than himself helped lead him to the feelings first of friendship, then of love, then desire.
Gradually, he had found himself confronted by something that he could not name, an emotional response that eluded him night after dark night until Cowley had named it for him. That day, some time before Doyle's shooting, Bodie had lost all semblance of sanity, threatening to quit, threatening everything for the way CI5 had endangered Doyle's life in an undercover operation. Cowley had quietly pointed out how important his partner obviously was -- and that Bodie had finally learned to need someone. And it sometimes frightened Bodie half to death to realize that Cowley was right.
As much as he'd tried to keep his thoughts to himself, Bodie noted that he'd begun slowly, cautiously wanting something different from his partner.
There was a sexual undercurrent, certainly. He'd begun to see small signs. The day they took their new bikes out, the huge-engined monsters that forced you to lean far forward. Bodie had noticed himself staring fixedly at Ray's bum, shocked to find an erection growing that wasn't helped by the throbbing of the bike's engine. Or the way he always wanted Ray's approval or presence, that no longer was a date alone good enough -- Ray had to be there. The way he wanted to keep his hand on Ray when he touched him, fingers tingling.
But there was also a feeling of tension, of fighting not to be sucked into Ray's world. It wasn't a strain in their relationship, but something else. More like an annoyance at what Bodie felt he was losing, of wanting other things but not having the right words for them. An annoyance with himself. Why couldn't he put what he was thinking into words?
Articulating these thoughts and feelings was not a skill he had been taught in his long, lonely life. Give him a knife and set him loose in a jungle and he could do anything. Give him love, and he didn't know what to do; blind, stumbling, lost.
Until that day, seeing Ray so still and bloody on the floor. Then suddenly knowing it wasn't about words or learned knowledge. It was only something from the heart, and he would have to feel his way along this as though he were lost in the jungle, at night, alone.
He wanted Ray, he loved him. Built on friendship, it was so much more. A surprise, realizing that you could be someone's friend and yet still more. So different than loving someone in your family -- not that he'd experienced that much. Something deeper. Trust that only a partner could feel for someone who watched his back in the most dangerous of situations. Caring for someone who was kind and gentle, funny and intelligent, temperamental and challenging, giving and supportive. Desire for someone who was beautiful, sensual and stimulating. All the things that made Ray lovable -- lovable to Bodie.
At first the realization of what he was feeling was too dark for Bodie to accept. But as he sat beside Ray hour after hour he knew that his ideas of acceptable feelings and standards of desire had been built on a faulty foundation.
Bodie sometimes smiled thoughtfully to himself. Oh, if only the Cow could hear the thoughts running through his brain these nights! If there was one thing Bodie was, it was practical. His calm acceptance of the rotten way the world worked had got him through more than a few bad episodes in life.
And he knew that this one perfect person, Ray Doyle, would not be perfect enough to accept Bodie loving him, and to love him back. *Whatever would happen,* Bodie thought, *I have to deal with it myself, come to terms with this, and learn to live with it.*
The closeness of the job, of relying so much on one individual who sometimes held his life in your hands, was partly to blame for these feelings, he knew. And it would probably only make dealing with those feelings over time even more arduous. But Bodie had been through worse. Worse was right now, waiting for his friend, his partner, his soul mate, to come round and get well, to return to the living.
When Doyle *had* first come round, able to focus for more than a few minutes at a time, it had been his great relief to see Bodie there at his side. He'd motioned for something to write on, and shakily scrawled, "Feel awful." Bodie had laughed out loud.
"Oh, you're back amongst the land of the livin', aren't you, Sunshine?"
Doyle managed a weak smile and a slight nod. Bodie had been holding his hand before, Ray now took Bodie's and squeezed it. Everything in the room had suddenly turned to gold right in front of Bodie, so bright and perfect.
"Now listen, Ray. You're going to take a long time to get better. You don't go rushin' into anything, you take everything slowly and do just as the doctor ordered. And the nurse," he added as a pretty blonde woman entered the room to check on Doyle. The quizzicalness in the other man's eyes made his heart ache. Clearly Doyle was trying to piece the fragments of the past few days together.
"You know what happened? You were shot nearly in the heart. And the back. It's been pretty touch and go, but now you're back you have to take care. Because this one'll be a long recovery, not like the other times you've been in hospital." He squeezed Ray's hand again, as "mate-like" as possible so he wouldn't convey truer feelings, and then let it fall to the bed.
He would come every day, as much as Cowley let him get away without interfering in his ability to do the job. Temporarily he was partnered with Murphy, and Bodie would burst in each day, full of news of what was happening with the squad, what ridiculous thing Murphy had done that day, what new bird he'd been stringing along as the latest victim of his charm. But underneath the talking, what he really wanted to do was sit quietly with his partner, with his newfound sense of longing, and just *be* with Ray as much as he could.
Yet, to keep to conventions, he talked and joked, helped Doyle move around and work on getting his atrophied muscles back into shape, enough to hold himself so he could leave this awful place.
First Doyle had been moved from the critical care ward to a regular room, then to another room nearer physiotherapy, as he would take a long time to get back into shape. Bodie sometimes showed up when Ray had therapy, the woman's skilled hands helping him work the torn and wounded muscles of his back and shoulder. Bodie was shocked at how much of Doyle had wasted away.
Always slender, he bordered on skinny now, the normal strong curve of bicep and sinew of forearm wasted away as his body had lain there, consuming energy to recover. It made Bodie's heart twinge to see the sharp pain movement often caused Doyle; always lithe, energetic, he was now stiff, awkward and visibly slowed. Constantly Bodie fought the urge to run to him, pull him away from the therapist's hands, to hold him and keep him in comfort. Yet this was what had to be done if he wanted Ray back to full condition; he wanted him back in his life.
Doyle would fight hard anyone who tried to help him, Bodie knew that. Yet there was a look about him, something of the waif, that just screamed out to Bodie for help and comfort. He often found Ray looking at him, as though figuring out some difficult equation, and Bodie wondered if he were anticipating, even aware of, Bodie's desire to coddle him.
In fact, Ray would think to himself, watching Bodie helplessly dance around the therapy room as though a fire were lit under his feet, that Bodie was changing before his eyes. Something off, not quite as dramatic as the change that came over him when Marikka had shown up in town, but a slightly off-kilter way of speaking, of just *being* around him.
Sometimes, when Bodie had gone for the evening and Doyle was alone with his thoughts, he found himself going back over the same events to things he couldn't quite remember for sure but believed had happened. He clearly remembered being brought in in the ambulance, he remembered the shooting, and he remembered some of the events surrounding the surgery. He certainly remembered the dark nightmares as he struggled to live, turning over and over in his mind what kept him on this earth in the first place.
But had he really remembered Bodie stroking his hair, stroking his cheek with such gentle loving? Did he really remember the strong fingers as they played along his parched lips, or as they covered his hand with warmth? Would Bodie really have brushed the sweat-soaked curls away from his forehead and kissed him gently above his eyes? Could Bodie actually take his hand and kiss the back of his fingers? Or was it all feverish imagination, wishful thinking?
Doyle had never before considered the possibility that Bodie could feel such a way about him. It pleased and comforted him to think Bodie might care about him as more than just a mate, yet troubled him.
So alone all his life. Could someone like Bodie really put aside the walls that blocked him from everyone and everything, including Doyle? Could Bodie open himself up to caring for one person so much that he showed such tenderness?
Or maybe ... it had all just been his dream state.
Bodie never took thank yous or obligations seriously. How could Doyle ever say the appropriate words for saving his life, for his devoted caregiving during all these days? He thought back to the time his gun had stopped as another man's pointed directly at him; Bodie had arrived in the nick of time and blown the other man away. When Doyle tried to thank him he ignored it and went about his duty, neglecting the look of gratitude in Doyle's eyes. How could he begin, then, to say thanks for returning him from death?
And if he wasn't living for Bodie, who for, then?
But did that mean Bodie should love him?
As the days went by and Doyle began to feel stronger, he waited for some sign that Bodie had somehow changed in his feelings. He couldn't ask him, no matter how much he wanted to, whether Bodie had ever truly exhibited such tender caring.
No sign would be forthcoming, not if Bodie could help it. Sometimes he wondered if Ray had ever been conscious of his actions as Ray lay fighting for his life. What if his partner was aware of how much guard Bodie had let down? Would it affect their partnership?
Bodie was determined that it wouldn't. It would be far better, he reasoned, to live with these feelings, to keep them like bright jewels tucked neatly away, than to lose Ray forever if he couldn't cope with the changes in Bodie. Nothing would hurt Bodie more, not even flat out rejection. Just please, he thought, please let him stay around me, forever.
The days grew into weeks as Doyle progressed with physical therapy, soon to be released. Each day, Bodie urged him on to more strenuous work, sometimes hanging just out of reach so Doyle would have to sprint forward to try to wrap his hand around Bodie's neck for some remark or other. "All this aggro is good for you, mate!" he'd cheerfully taunt.
Over time Doyle graduated from a wheelchair to a cane, then to his own two feet. Bodie would sometimes try to get the injured man to chase him back to his hospital room. The nurses were driven to distraction by Bodie's games, but whenever one tried to chastise him they were immediately put under the inimitable Bodie spell, and eventually all left him to his devices. Secretly they were pleased to see Doyle recovering so well with this friend's help. When Bodie left each day, they noticed the melancholy that overtook Doyle.
Doyle had, while part of a reasonably large family, learned early on that he was alone. Constitutionally different from almost all his siblings, and polar opposites from his working class, conservative parents, he had dreamed of something different and found himself ridiculed for his goals.
So he had learned to be his own best friend, often finding a companionable solace in pens, charcoals, pads of paper, and tubes of oil. He developed an artistic talent even as he developed a reputation for arguments and fist fights with other kids. While he was encouraged by some teachers to continue his artistic pursuits, he found himself drawn towards the police rather than art school, without ever really fathoming why.
But even as he became a police officer, he continued his friendship with paints, brushes, and canvasses. He met women constantly through the classes, and his striking looks, lithe, wiry frame, and green, wide, feline eyes meant he was never at a loss for dates or models to sketch. Because he seemed so open and friendly, many people mistakenly thought they knew him well, but it was a fact -- which Doyle considered only rarely -- that people only knew the surface of his life, even his beat partner.
He came to realize how alone he truly was one night when he was leaving a pub frequented by his artist friends and was attacked, artwork scattered everywhere, by a gang of toughs who had decided he and his friends to were too queer and arty-farty. Although trained in self-defense and an expert at kendo, he was no match for the sheer number, and Doyle awoke hours later in the alley, his cheekbone shattered, his tooth chipped, a concussion drumming rhythms of devastating pain in his head. No one had noticed he'd been missing a night and morning, he realized as he dragged himself to a hospital; as it was his day off, he had no one to notice the long absence.
He gradually tried to open himself up to more long-term relationships, but was still the self-contained, solitary man until his joining CI5. It was here he felt himself almost physically choose to follow a new path. That path led to Bodie, and its eventual destination was trust.
It had been Cowley who had seen the same characteristic in both men. A desire to avoid needing, trusting anyone else. And it had been obvious to him that pairing them was the only way to teach them that need and trust were not necessarily evil things. At first they would detest each other, he'd known, but he was as certain they'd recover from that as he was of his own life.
Had he not known Bodie, Ray often wondered, could he have taken the steps toward loving someone, loving Ann, in the one true relationship he'd ever really had as an adult? He had doubted that, since he could honestly say he'd not truly loved anyone, not even his family. Until he'd realized that he'd given himself over to the exasperating, arrogant, elegant, childish and mysterious man who was his partner. There could be trust with another human, he discovered, and it didn't have to hurt.
Bodie cold barely stand the anticipation of knowing Doyle would be back. Turning his energy into something positive, goading Doyle into a speedier recovery, was the only way he knew how to make his nervous energy work for him.
He had been taking care of Doyle's flat, had it cleaned and swept free of every reminder of the shooting.
The first time he'd faced the white rug where Doyle had lain, bleeding, Bodie had felt like throwing up. He'd quickly arranged to have the rug disposed of.
Part of him had wanted to completely move Doyle away from the place, start clean with no hint of what had happened. But Ray had not liked that idea. Get back on the horse, he'd said. So Bodie did the best he could to make sure it would be welcoming for him.
Doyle had started slowly into the foyer, then carefully moved into the lounge. He felt hot suddenly, weak. Bodie was right behind him, he could feel his warmth and strength. He pushed further into the room. Then he suddenly turned to Bodie.
"It's hard to believe it happened. I can remember so much, but I don't remember the pain."
Bodie laid a hand on his shoulder. "Don't you think that's for the best?"
Doyle almost cracked a smile. He looked at the hand out of the side of his eye. "Bodie ...."
Bodie took the hand away and moved towards the kitchen. "Yeah."
"When I was out of it ... I thought you were there at my bed. I thought I remembered you ... taking care of me." That was as close as he could come to saying it.
Bodie's insides were suddenly gone. He felt lighter than air, helpless, no substance. "I was, mate. You needed some very serious looking after."
"Did you ... take my hand?"
"Yeah. Seemed the thing to do at the time." He stared at the faucet, trying to remember what he was doing. *Oh yes, getting a glass of water.*
"Well, I want you to know... it made a difference to me. You made a difference."
And Bodie knew it would be all right. It wouldn't be what he wanted, but it would be all right. They'd almost spoken about the unspeakable: Doyle knew. The fact that he hadn't rejected Bodie said everything, and he could live with that.
*******
Doyle's breathing had slowed as he had fallen into sleep, remembering the aftermath of the shooting and the beginning of Bodie's feelings. It shouldn't have comforted him as he fell into dreaming, but it did.
Bodie took his arm away from Doyle eventually, pulling the thinner man gently away from his shoulder and laying him down on the sofa. He stared for a few moments at the sleeping form, then quietly got up to find a blanket. He put the blanket around Doyle and turned off the television, then silently let himself out of the house to go home.
His step was light as he walked to his car, the confident bouncing on the balls of his feet that marked Bodie's whole attitude about life.
For so long he had wanted to touch Ray in the way he had tonight, to offer him this most intimate of emotional contact. It had begun out of grief, but Bodie knew that in time, it would change. This was the first, the easiest of distances to bridge. There would be more in the future, he was certain.
It was Saturday and Bodie had no special case to follow, so he sat around his flat for a few moments before deciding. Not that Ray would feel even remotely happy about what he wanted to do, but he felt compelled to do it anyway. It wasn't that he was worried Ray would jump off a bridge or anything, just that Bodie wanted to see what he was getting up to, keep an eye on him to make sure he was okay. And right now, okay for Ray seemed very far off to Bodie.
Caring for Doyle was always treading a fine line. On the one hand, he had expectations that you would acknowledge in some way events in his life, decisions that were difficult, personal problems. If you didn't, he sulked. But woe to the man, or woman, who cared too much. He would curse you for babying him, take you to task for attempting to smother him, and shut you out completely. And an annoyed Ray Doyle was not pleasant to deal with.
Very few people managed to tread so carefully, to know just how much to take care of him, share concern and comfort, and yet give him the breathing room he required. Gillian complained over and over that she had never got it quite right; Bodie sympathized because he was still trying to puzzle it out. The capriciousness that was Doyle was both appealing and endlessly exasperating.
Bodie pulled up outside Doyle's house about half eleven, and settled in to wait. Not long after noon, he saw the door open and Doyle came out, locked the door, and walked off down the street. If he wasn't taking the car, Bodie figured, he was likely headed for the park. Bodie got out of the car and quietly tailed Doyle.
He did in fact walk over the bridge to the park, found a bench along the water, and just sat. That was okay with Bodie, he found a spot farther away and behind, and sat down himself, his eyes on Doyle.
Doyle had had to get out of the house. It wasn't that he couldn't live there anymore, he would stay there, but right now the quietness and emptiness were too much for him to cope with. All the skills they taught you in CI5, but the death of a loved one wasn't one of them.
Ray was still thinking back to the lovely dream, remembrance, of yesterday, of when they'd first met. How he and Bodie complained whenever they pulled nursemaid duty -- and how different this one had turned out to be.
He smiled at the thought of how annoyed he'd become when he drew the short straw for night duty. Two men outside the safehouse, one in, two shifts. He'd gone home after the airport, to get some sleep and ready himself for an allnighter. Gillian had been asleep when he got there, tired from talking to Bodie and dealing with severe jet lag. She'd flown through a tremendous number of time zones in the few days before London, coming home hurriedly from Tokyo, then going from Washington, D.C. and the FBI headquarters there, to London a few days later. But she'd wakened in the middle of the night, hungry, completely off schedule.
She had come out of the bedroom, just off the safe house's lounge, wearing a large men's shirt and not much else, Doyle had supposed. She started, having forgotten someone would be there. Then she went to the kitchen. "I'm starving, I think I'll have some breakfast. Would you like something, Mr. Doyle? I'm not much a of a cook, but breakfast I'm pretty good at."
"I might take you up on that. Haven't had much besides a sandwich today, in fact. And please, it's Ray. Mr. Doyle's me father -- *Ms.* Bailey."
She'd laughed, insisted on Gil. A laugh like champagne, sparkly and full of light. A smile like a sliver of moon in the dark. She moved around the kitchen as if she'd lived there for years, picking things up, mixing, moving pans around. There was a quiet confidence about her, he noticed immediately, and liked it. He'd never enjoyed small talk, but it was tolerable now.
They'd had a pleasant time, talking about books, music, the many small things that make up a conversation between people thrown into unusual circumstances. She would fix him occasionally with a serious blue stare, as though assessing him for his value. It was disconcerting, reminded him very much of his first meeting with Bodie, who had spent more than a few moments sizing him up, seeming to think Ray was wanting in certain areas. Was she thinking the same, he'd wondered?
She'd retired again, worn out from the time changes. But when he left in the morning, he realized with a slight jolt, he looked forward to coming back that night.
Bodie and she had been laughing when he got there. Sitting close together on the sofa, face to face, curled up, both of them nearly teary-eyed from laughter. Bodie had been telling his tall tales again. Doyle felt a pang of disappointment -- Bodie would like as not sweep Gillian off her feet. He didn't stand a chance against that Liverpool Irish charm. Most of the time the two were happy to flirt with the same women, sometimes even trade girlfriends. It was mildly disturbing to Doyle to realize that this did not feel like one bird he'd want to share, almost as much as he'd tried to keep Ann to himself the first few times he'd gone out with her. As though he were taking a stand to himself, away from Bodie and his fatal charm.
He thought of how they'd stayed up to talk, how the conversation seemed never to end. How she'd looked as she moved around the kitchen, graceful and intent, creating another meal for him. How they'd brush against each other occasionally, his body catching fire when she passed closely -- the touch of an arm as it grazed his chest, the feathering fingers as they whispered over his when he handed her something.
When morning had come and she'd gone off to sleep, how crushed he'd felt that it was over. Realizing how alive he'd been that night, more alive than any night since he'd nearly lost his life to a bullet in the chest.
How the next night when all hell broke loose she'd handled herself exactly as the agents had instructed her to in case something went wrong. The attack on the safe house had begun when she heard a sound at the window. She had used the R/T they'd provided her, whispering to Doyle: "Someone's trying to come in. I'm under the bed."
Doyle had tapped the door open, rolled to the floor, hitting the man in the window with at least four slugs. Then night had erupted into chaos. And it was all over within moments, but the cleanup went on for hours. He'd reported to Cowley; they'd agreed to move her in the morning and beefed up the perimeter patrol to four agents. Cowley was furious at the mistakes, the very fact that someone had discovered her whereabouts, convinced there was some kind of leak. By the time it was all over, it was nearly dawn. He had forgot to check on her, after the first commotion had died down and he'd been assured she was all right.
He remembered how she'd been sitting up on the bed, wearing that same man's shirt, one leg up, one down, making notes on a manuscript. How he had sat down on the bed, putting a hand on her forearm, which she did not shake off. "Are you all right?" he had asked, and remembered the clear, steady blue of her eyes. The warmth of her skin.
"Apart from having lost all the hearing in my left ear, I'm fine," she'd replied, her face moving towards his. He kissed her softly, her lips parting under his. He had drawn away, feeling almost as if he had become paralyzed from his neck down, so on fire was his body.
She had spoken words he'd never heard before. "You are the most beautiful man I've ever laid eyes on." The fingers stroked his cheek. "The cat eyes, the mysterious face, the way you move. Your character." She had kissed him softly, her arms moving to encircle him. Then coming up for air and feeling the world suddenly spin him around.
He had stared at her for what seemed like hours, fingers playing in the silken hair, caressing the rounded shoulder. Struggling with words he felt he had to say but were like nothing else he'd ever said or thought in his life.
Doyle had kissed her again, running his numb hands over the smooth skin of leg, hip, neck. And then he'd kissed her and kissed her, falling down into a bright, white light, farther and farther into love.
Doyle rubbed a hand across his eyes as he sat, the sun warming his face, drying the tears that streaked his cheeks. What was the good in all this, he wondered. What the hell was it worth remembering for? How would he ever get back to work if he remained in such a sorry state about every little thing?
Bodie was forgiving, but this kind of maudlin remembrance could affect his judgment, put Bodie at risk. He had to get over this! He knew it would annoy Gil to see him so dispirited. She'd had such a forward-thinking outlook on life, not like him; he who liked to churn things over and over, who seemed to carry guilt with him for everything.
Joie de vivre, Bodie had said about her. A good antidote to Doyle's own seriousness. Bodie had appreciated that quality in her most. His partner hated sulking, had no patience for guilt and worry. Life just had to be dealt with, and he preferred being around people who wanted to get the most out of it. They'd both had that in common, among other things.
Bodie had laughed that morning when he'd returned to duty at the safehouse, when he'd found out that Ray was in the bedroom getting dressed. He could hear the two of them. The way Bodie had paused for the longest time after she'd said "in there...", then he saw, through the crack in the door, Bodie take her face in his hands, shake her head a tiny fraction, and laugh, "Be gentle with him!"
They had moved to the kitchen and he couldn't see what was happening. When he came into the room she was holding Bodie's shoulder, staring intently at him. Another twinge of jealousy stabbed his heart, worrying that he might be losing to Bodie's allure, then Bodie grabbed Gillian and hugged her tightly, chuckling. It had seemed to be lighthearted.
Doyle realized later, as time went on, that that moment had been the beginning of a strange friendship between Gillian and Bodie, something he never could understand or penetrate. He'd tried, through the years, to pinpoint what exactly they knew about each other that made them respond so quickly as friends. Knowing they were keeping it a secret between them only made him more curious.
He'd thought Bodie would be hurt by a new relationship. Things had sometimes been iffy between them when Doyle had been with Ann; there was the underlying tension when they didn't know her level of involvement on the case, and he'd hated Bodie briefly for trying to pull information from her. Doyle still struggled with the feelings that had permeated their friendship, those expressed -- and unexpressed -- desires that Bodie had shown Ray during his recovery. Yet Bodie seemed accepting of what had happened that night.
What would happen between the three of them in the future? Doyle had wondered as Bodie and Gillian both had turned to look at him, then burst out laughing. It was something he knew instinctively even then he would have to get used to.
Bodie had always been amazed at the strength Doyle could put into being sad. He himself was beginning to ache from sitting so long, he couldn't imagine how Doyle had remained virtually motionless for hours, except to wipe at his eyes with his hands. He detested stakeouts, which was almost what he felt like he was doing. Just as he was beginning to give up and head off home, Doyle moved, and Bodie got up stiffly to follow. Right then, his R/T bleeped. "Bloody...."
"Base to 3.7 ."
"3.7." He hoped Doyle wouldn't hear the damn thing, even at this distance the man seemed to have radar ears.
"Alpha one wants to see you in his office. Something important. And pick up 6.2 on your way."
"Right, 3.7 over." Well, duty called, and Ray would be on his own. Whatever it was, Bodie hoped it wouldn't take overnight time, so he could get back to check on Ray by evening.
He went back to the car by another route so he wouldn't run into Doyle, in case he'd decided to return to the house. He gave one last backward glance to see Ray, but couldn't find him in the crush of people out to enjoy a lovely spring afternoon. It would have to wait.
Doyle, who usually preferred to hole up in silence when troubled, was enjoying the surge of people out enjoying their Saturday. It reminded him that there were in fact lives being led. He tried to smile at people as they passed, sometime succeeding, sometimes not. His heart would leap occasionally at the sight of long black hair, then sink as realized it was not Gil. Would not ever be Gil again.
After a while he realized he'd come back to his car. He got in and found himself driving to the cemetery. At first he balked as he realized what he'd been doing unconsciously, but then kept on. If his heart were directing him here, he should follow.
He pulled in at the spot nearest her grave. He hadn't been here since the service. Two services had been two too many. This first one, to bury her here in London, was a blur to him. He could not remember anything but the sight of the grave. The memorial in Santa Barbara, he had remembered that. By then, he had grown more conscious of what was happening.
Of course, this grave wasn't what she'd have wanted. She once joked that he should just put her in the backyard to feed her flowers. Doyle had ignored her more serious wish to be cremated, selfishly. But he had wanted a grave. He wanted a physical, tangible place to find her name, her memory, when it might otherwise be scattered on the wind.
He knelt at the small, unassuming marker. "Gillian Bailey Doyle. 1952-1986. Live each day as if it were your last, for one day, you're sure to be right." Bodie had seen to it that got put there. It was perfect; Bodie had known. They were both such hedonists. Neither one of them could be bothered thinking about the future, and no matter how many times Doyle tried approaching them, they shrugged him off. Bodie had put it succinctly: "What's the use in planning anything? I could never have planned the way my life turned out. If I'd have tried, I'd probably not have ended up here with CI5 and you." Whenever Doyle tried arguing with Bodie, Gil usually defended him.
She had never legally taken his name and it looked strange to him on the grave, but Bodie had assumed to use it. Somehow neither of them had ever bothered to discuss it or do something about it; Ray had merely presumed that she wasn't the kind of woman to take another's name. But Bodie had decided to use it, and the thought touched Ray deeply.
And yet when the time came, Doyle had been in no condition to decide anything about what do; now, at least, the marker seemed very right. There was a profusion of flowers atop the marker, which he tidied up. From Bodie, no doubt about that.
After a while, he realized that his legs had grown numb and sore from squatting for such a long time. He stood uncomfortably and looked down at the marker. Without realizing it, he had shredded the petals from one of the carnations.
"Well, love, guess I have to go for now. I'll be back though. Still haven't read your letter. I'm sorry, but I just can't right now. Will when I'm up to it, but you understand, don't you? Bodie's been helping me out. Just like you said. Hope he'll be by tonight." He kissed his fingertips and blew the kiss to the ground. "Be back." He turned on his heels, and went home to his lonely house.
Bodie and Murphy entered Cowley's office and sat down, uninvited. Bodie and the old man had developed such a funny relationship, Murphy pondered. They were very much like an uncle with his favorite, but nevertheless annoying, nephew.
"And just what took you so long, 3.7?" Cowley asked, without looking up.
"I was... keeping an eye on Doyle, sir."
"Oh? And how's he doing?" Cowley asked, with true concern.
"He's toughing it out. But it's taking a lot out of him. He's not in the best shape."
"Aye, well, it's taking a lot out of all of us, I daresay." He looked straight at Bodie.
"Yes, it is sir. But right now how I feel takes less precedence than Doyle's well-being." Sometimes he hated the way the old man seemed to know what was going on in his mind.
"Yes ... you have a point there, Bodie." Cowley tossed a folder his way. "Three bombings in the past eight months. Initially, no one believed they were connected. In fact, the reports of them have barely trickled out of their respective areas. One in Birmingham, one in Portsmouth, one in London. All letter or parcel bombs. And not a hint of a why or a wherefore. "
"If you don't mind me asking sir, why a CI5 case? Wouldn't this be more..."
Cowley cut him off, as usual. "Not until today. All three have been connected to the courts ... two barristers, and today, a judge. One a prosecutor, the other a private defense attorney. What connection could there be? Is it terrorist? Is it a revenge killing for a criminal case? I don't have any answers for these questions, and that is why it's a CI5 case. Right now I want you two to begin finding out. Let's have a chat with people who knew the judge. I don't want another one of these parcel bombs anywhere in this country."
Bodie glanced through the file. "Right. We'll get what we can." He and Murphy stood, Murphy as usual making his presence known without uttering anything.
"Oh, and Bodie... while I stress the urgency of this information... I won't insist on twenty-four-hour duty." Cowley had put his glasses back on but was studiously avoiding looking at the two agents.
Bodie and Murphy smiled at one another as they left the room.
All the way to the victim's home, the two agents had tossed ideas back and forth about what a motive could be for the rash of parcel bombings. It eventually degenerated into the topic of blackmail and just what a judge could be doing in chambers, or what he'd been wearing under his robe.
However, Bodie sobered quickly once they'd arrived. The front door area was a shambles, the family a helpless bundle of wailing grief. Murphy immediately focused on the fact that according to the file, all the bombs had been delivered to the victims' homes, not to their offices. With the events of the past month, Bodie had a hard time not flashing back to Gillian's death.
"Their vehicle exploded ... and they careened off the road..." Cowley had told him later, out of earshot of Doyle. She had survived long enough to crawl from the jeep before it exploded. The burns and destruction weren't as bad on her body as the others, but they were bad enough. Bodie had specifically kept Doyle from seeing her body, knew that Doyle could not handle it.
Bodie said a silent prayer that Ray wasn't too keen to come back to work. This might send him over the edge. Not that it was doing Bodie any good. He surveyed the area and saw the small but deadly destruction a bomb like this brought, then thought instantly of Gil, what it must have been like for her to crawl away from the vehicle in those few seconds she lived. He shuddered and banished the thought for the time being.
After questioning the family, getting what little they could, they moved on to talk to colleagues. CI5's forensics expert was there, poking around, talking with the local police. He raised an eyebrow at Bodie and Murphy. Typically that was all anyone ever received; Bill was not a friendly man and had a short fuse for the field agents, whom he thought of as rather thick.
"What've you got?" Bodie asked cheerfully, bouncing on the balls of his feet, hands in pockets.
"Typical homemade bomb. Little clever with the wiring but otherwise nothing special. Your basic recipe: black powder, blasting caps, a fuse, and -- pow!" He clapped his hands together and Bodie winced. "I'd like to know where he got the caps, though. They look like black powder caps from the old guns, but I need to examine this more."
"Isn't a letter bomb sort of unreliable?" Murphy asked laconically.
"Not if you know what you're doing, and our friend obviously does." Bill turned his attention elsewhere and left in his usual brusque manner. In all his years with CI5 Bodie had not once heard him say so much as a "hello," "good morning," or "goodbye."
Murphy and Bodie looked at each other with wry amusement and moved off to talk with some of the local police to find out what they could about the family. Being a Saturday, they had trouble finding all the individuals they sought, and Bodie seemed to grow more exasperated with each phone call they made from their make-shift office at the local constabulary. Seemed half of them were golfing or away for weekends in the country, Bodie'd grumbled to himself, growing even more agitated as it grew closer to evening.
Finally, Murphy said, "Hey, let's call it an evening, shall we?" His dark eyes stared into Bodie's heart, and his hand rested lightly on the other man's shoulder.
"Yeah, okay. Should probably get back home, have a date tonight."
"Aw, come on Bodie. You're going to check on Ray and you know it, and I know it. It's not so terrible to want to take care of the guy, you know. Won't start any rumours about you, I swear. 'Bodie actually has a heart! ' That sort of thing." He grinned.
"Okay, okay, you're right. But don't let this get around. People might start thinkin' I'm a caring sort of fella." They got in the car and drove quickly back to town, Murphy noticing that Bodie was speeding even more than usual.
Bodie enjoyed working with Murphy whenever they were together. He appreciated Murphy's low-key style, his athleticism, and his utter, rock-solid reliability. While he wasn't as military-precise as Bodie preferred in a partner, he'd grown used to an appearance of sloppiness through his years with Doyle, and he accepted Murphy's on face value because he knew Murphy was so dependable.
He also knew, without it ever being spoken between the two of them, that Murphy had long since sussed out Bodie's feelings for Ray, and said nothing. Murph teased him sometimes, in a friendly way, but never gave away what he thought of such a thing. Neither Bodie nor Doyle knew much about Murphy's private life, other than that he'd joined CI5 quite young, only a few years out of university with a few years in Intelligence under his belt.
For all Bodie knew, Murphy could be so accepting of Bodie's devotion to Ray because he himself was gay. Murphy simply never talked out of turn about others, refused to gather in the gossipy circles that seemed to spring up in the rest room at headquarters, and kept his own private life extremely private. "Don't see any reason to kiss and tell," he'd said simply once, shrugging in his usual way. Bodie felt good about calling Murphy his friend, and counted him as once of the few people he'd trust his life with.
Now, speeding back to the office with his friend in the passenger seat, he felt comforted by his presence, and hoped that when all this was over, he could find a way to get up the courage to tell Murphy how much he appreciated him.
Bodie pulled up outside Doyle's house and killed the engine. A part of him was almost afraid to go in. After the closeness of last night, would Doyle be welcoming to him? It would be like him to pull back, go on the defensive. He'd be met with that green fire flaring at him, telling Bodie to back off, he'd get by on his own, thanks very much.
Bodie sometimes envied Doyle's self-containment. He was melancholy often, funny and wicked other times, but no matter his mood he seemed aware of himself, of who he was. His expectations of what others wanted from him were minimal, but he was always ready to give to others. It didn't mean he let them in, just that he was willing to share of himself.
For Bodie, this was something both admirable and a little fearful. He'd been so alone his whole life, had built a series of satisfactory walls that kept everyone, including his latest girlfriend du jour, away. Except the odd person who seemed to pass some mysterious test even Bodie had no idea of the rules of: Isabelle, Marikka, Susan to some degree, Doyle, Gillian, Murphy ... and possibly Cowley. What a small circle of people he'd let into his life! And three of them dead, three lovely women who had stormed Bodie's fortressed heart only to leave him alone, unprotected, empty.
Doyle was the world now, completely. Picking up the grocery bag, he shut the car door and strode confidently to the house.
He didn't enter on his own this time, pressing the buzzer to be let in. Doyle answered, looking relatively unscathed from his day out. Dressed in jeans and a white shirt, his hair still wet from the shower, but, Bodie noticed, with dark circles under the jade eyes, the cheeks looking hollow.
"Brought some more grub," Bodie said cheerily, barging past Doyle to the kitchen. "Thought you might not be eating again, so Nanny Bodie is here to see you do."
He began pulling items out of the bag. Doyle followed him to the kitchen and stood staring at him, a slight smile playing across the full lips.
"Promise I won't try to shove a beefsteak down you, but I do want to see you get something in that scrawny body of yours."
Doyle sat down on one of the dining room chairs. "You're a good nanny, Bodie," he said quietly. "Thanks."
"What did you do with your day?" Bodie tried not to look at Ray. Why is it he could spin elaborate yarns to perfect strangers but he had to be so very careful not to give away the slightest fib to Ray?
"Oh, this and that. Went out for a while, just walked. Went to the cemetery."
Bodie rolled his head, his eyes crinkling shut and a grimace playing across his mouth. "Oh, Jesus. I'm sorry. I shouldn't..."
"No!" Doyle interrupted. "It was fine. I think I needed to be there. I like what you put on the marker. I know she would, too."
Bodie looked seriously at Doyle. "You really all right?"
"Yeah, I'm fine. Fine as I can be, considering. I'm not saying it was an easy day but I have to get on with this thing." The unspoken phrase in both their minds: She'd have wanted me to.
Bodie began cooking dinner and Doyle stared off into space. He set the table around Doyle, worrying whether he should move him into the lounge or not. But Doyle was enjoying the activity, it made him feel more like this was really home again. The house had been too empty today.
As they began to eat, Bodie tentatively began to speak, his mouth slightly open, then he closed it, then opened it again. At least five times he tried to speak, but thought better of it, and went back to the business of his food.
Finally, Doyle couldn't stand it anymore. "Please, if you've got something to say, say it. I can't take all this treading on eggshells. It's worse than talking about it."
Rubbing a hand over his weary eyes, Bodie said, "I got something in the post. I just don't know if it's a good idea to bring it up right now." He looked up sheepishly under the dark brows, his head bowed slightly, only one eye cocked up towards Doyle.
"Well, what is it?" Ray seemed genuinely curious.
"It's from Fiona. Something that once belonged to me. It was in Gil's personal effects when ... you apparently asked her to take care of them ..." he let his voice trail away, awkward and confused about how to say this. He put his hand in the pocket of his beige cords and pulled out a silver chain with a gold ring attached.
Doyle took it from his hand, gently, with eyes wide in awe and pleasure. "Oh, the ring!" He played it around in his long, beautiful fingers, the gold glinting in the light, contrasting sharply with the silver chain. He looked up at Bodie, emerald eyes alight.
"You know, I'd forgot she had it. Totally forgot. I never imagined she'd have worn it all this time," Bodie said. "Something old, something borrowed. Only she borrowed things like this and she never gave it back."
"Yeah, she kind of took it for granted that once she got something, it was hers for life. Territorial."
"God, that was a wedding, wasn't it? Never seen anything like it in my life and I doubt I will again." Bodie's indigo eyes were dancing. He took the chain from Doyle's hand. "William Andrew Philip Bodie," he read aloud from the inside of the ring. The words fit perfectly inside the ring, not a space lost. "It was my grandad's. Mum and dad wanted this for when I was older, because I was named after him. Always wondered how they engrave so small and so perfectly circular..."
"I remember now when you gave it to Gil."
"Something old, something new, something *borrowed,* something blue."
"What was the blue? Oh yeah, the garter. Which you caught." He grinned devilishly at Bodie. "Only you pushed everyone else out of the way."
Bodie smiled back. "She told me to."
Doyle threw back his head and laughed. The sound of it once again filled Bodie with inexpressible joy.
"God, you two,"Doyle said. "Sometimes I think *you* should have married her."
"Naw, too much alike, we were. Can you imagine? Couple of emotional cripples, whining and complaining all the time."
They both went back to eating. Bodie's heart was lightened considerably to see that Ray was still smiling.
"Wherever did you get all the sabers, anyway?" Doyle asked suddenly. When they'd left Cowley's house, where they were married, they went out under the crossed sabers of all the CI5 agents, perfectly lined up, just like a military wedding. He had nearly lost it over that one. Bodie's idea once again.
"Stage props and collectors," Bodie said smugly. "You have no idea how hard it was to do that. We practiced for days. And it was very steep -- some people still owe me. But you had to figure something unusual, or she wouldn't have gone through with it. I suppose it doesn't give you much in the way of elegant photographs, but it sure gave us some great memories."
"Yeah. Great memories."
Bodie waited for some time to see how Doyle would accept this conversation. When after a while his partner didn't move, he spoke, slowly and deliberately.
"You know, I have only a few memories of my family. My dad was a bastard, not much worth remembering. Mum, she was special. I suppose today I might have been angry ... or disappointed in her ... at how she took his abuse. But as a kid, I thought the sun rose and set on her. I only vaguely remember my sister. It was all gone in a flash, quick as that," he snapped his fingers, "took just one car. Now, why was I the only one who didn't go out that day? Why was I left alone? I had only a few memories, this ring, some clothing. I chose to push those memories away. It wasn't until I was older that I realized those few memories were my friends, not my enemies."
Doyle looked up at him with gleaming eyes, a tear pooling in the corner of one, quavering, before finally spilling out on the flawed cheekbone.
"That must have been hard."
Bodie knew exactly what he meant -- Doyle was not crediting Bodie's ability to get by as an orphaned child. He was acknowledging the difficulty of opening up, telling this story.
"I've told only three people anything about my childhood. Isabelle, before Krivas... butchered her. Gillian. And you."
They were silent a time, before Ray finally spoke. "I don't mean to canonize her, y'know. She was, to put it kindly, a bit of a task. But it was usually worth it to me, to put up with her."
Bodie nodded. "Yeah. She was a right pain in the arse. A lot of the times. I've never known anyone who could be such a pain in the arse and so charmin' at the same time."
"I have," Doyle said, a kind but sly gleam in his eyes. "Sometimes I wondered if it was because she was American. I mean, let's face it, she looked at things a bit differently."
"Oh, listen to you! The United Nations of dating! You had a thing for foreign girls."
"What d'you mean?" Ray squinted at him skeptically.
"Oh! Well, for *starters,* Gillian wasn't the only Yank you ever slept with. There was Shelly, the air hostess-stroke-terrorist --"
"No fair! That was in the line of duty!"
" -- and then there was fair Meghan, the Irish-American lass from Boston, and then Anita Cabreros, and Birgitta the Swedish au pair girl -- which, I might add, was barely legal -- and that lovely Australian bird, whatever her name was. Oh, and don't forget Esther from Hong Kong."
"And what, those saucy foreign girls like Marikka and Isabelle don't count?" They both stared at each other, eyes wide, as tension crackled in the air around them. It was a joke Doyle had not really thought about, and the two of them looked away from each other finally, and down at the table, aware of how much they'd lost in their lives.
Doyle reached out and squeezed Bodie's fingers. Bodie's heart leapt in his chest as though he'd touched a live wire. "Would you do me a favor?" Doyle asked.
"Anything." He tried to make it sound casual, but he worried that his voice was betraying him.
"Would you stay here tonight? I could throw some sheets on the sofa. I won't be miserable all night, I promise. I could just ... use the company." He looked at Bodie with timid eyes.
"Of course." He tossed the remark out casually. But inside his heart was aching with the need to comfort Ray. He would do anything Ray asked. "I am completely at your disposal. " He squeezed the elegant fingers in return.
Bodie found himself dozing in the overstuffed chair as the football match droned on. Usually alert, he didn't hear Ray get up and wander over to the window.
Doyle had been attracted by the sound of rain pattering quietly on the window. He pressed his face against the cool glass, stretching slim fingers against the pattern forming in the light from the street. She always liked the rain, he thought. As long as she was safe inside, the rain was wonderful, a comforting sound that made her feel cozy, locked up tight with him.
Gradually the hot tears fell down his face, then the soft crying turned to choking sobs. Bodie snapped awake and looked wildly around for Doyle, then caught sight of him standing against the window near the kitchen. He jumped up and went over to stand behind Ray, placing warm fingertips against the thinner man's shoulder. Doyle attempted to reign in a heavy gasp, and then his knees suddenly buckled under him.
As he slipped down Bodie's reflexes took over, and he caught Ray under the arms. Bodie's own heavily muscled arms wrapped tightly around Ray's too-thin body, and he supported the other man gently as they sank to the floor. Bodie knelt behind Ray, holding fast to him as Ray gradually ceased crying, his legs sprawled in a half-out position. Bodie pressed his cheek into Ray's hair, resting there, allowing his warmth and solidness to work their comforting magic on Doyle. He said nothing, made no soothing noises, at first, just held him tight.
Finally he whispered, his cheek next to Ray's ear, "You know I told you earlier about when my mum died?"
Ray nodded slightly, his hair tickling Bodie's nose. "I went to live with my aunt Janice for a few months at first. They told her that she was too young to keep me, but I got to stay with her for a while, anyway. We still write to each other, and she lives in Miami now. But when I was sad, or wouldn't talk, she'd play a game with me. She made me list off some of the things I loved about mum, so I wouldn't forget the good things in all my anger."
Ray sat silently for awhile, absorbed in Bodie's strength. A faint noise like a hiccup escaped from Doyle, which Bodie took to be assent and that Ray was thinking this over. "She had beautiful big blue eyes, with that funny yellow ring in the middle."
A slight smile crept to Bodie's lips, which Ray could feel against the side of his forehead. Bodie began a slight rocking motion.
"She played Monopoly better than anyone else, but she was terrible at poker. So you could win more money from her." This time a low, rumbling chuckle burbled up from Bodie's chest.
"She loved my work and wasn't fussy about it."
"Mmmm, that's true," Bodie said, petting Doyle's shoulder. "Anything else?"
Doyle sighed heavily, wearily. "She loved *you,*" he said, as his slim fingers came up and wrapped themselves around Bodie's heavy wrist, tightening. Bodie battled to control his trembling. "Yes, she did, didn't she?" and Ray laughed out loud, followed with a quick sniffle. They sat that way for a time, until Ray was able to shake it off and get up, moving slowly towards the sofa. Neither said a word, pretending to watch the match.
When Doyle had fallen asleep in front of the television, Bodie actually picked him up and carried him upstairs to put him under the covers. He took off Doyle's shoes, pulled the shirt off over his head, but left him in his jeans. He lightly brushed fingers through Ray's salt and pepper waves, then turned out the light. "You and me against the world," Bodie said softly as he left the room.
Later, trying to sleep, Bodie tossed the ring around and around on the chain, watching it catch the gleam of streetlights from the window. He still remembered what had led him to give it to Gillian. It had happened long before the wedding, before anything, almost.
***
It was only the third day of nursemaid duty. They had been talking, laughing through a game of chess which neither of them could really remember how to play well. He had thrown out a tidbit about being a mercenary.
"A mercenary! No shit!" Her eyes were wide with excitement.
"Not a glamourous life," he'd said, seriously.
She had fixed him with a doubting look and it took his breath away. It was exactly a mirror of the way he often looked at people when he was prepared to distrust or question them. The same cocked eyebrow, the other eye slightly squinted. The lips playing at a smirk. The blue of the eye. And he knew then that she knew all about him, could see him as if he held a glass up to his life.
"Don't you think sometimes we may as well just wear a badge on our chests?" she'd asked. "We seem to recognize each other, anyway. But then everyone would know, just like a scarlet A."
He'd finished her thought for her. "Lonely, miserable children." He was suddenly reminded of Susan Grant, how she had also pegged him as another one who'd grown up alone and too early.
"Well. Someday tell me your story. I'll tell you mine," he'd said.
And he had told her. About being orphaned, living first with relatives who didn't want him, then home after home with total strangers until he joined the merchant marine. Of hating everyone who tried to do anything for him. Of abuse everywhere he went, a pretty young boy with vicious, older men. Of finally belonging, first in the SAS, then CI5. Feeling like, yes, this is where I belong. Of finally knowing trust with Ray Doyle.
He recognized that scarlet letter in her, too. But never pressed for the story, until one day while the two sat baking in sun, watching Ray wander his way along a hot beach, she had said suddenly with no warning about the conversational turn, "My father was a raging alcoholic, so was my mother. I watched him beat her to death. I was seven."
He had turned to look at her, his steady gaze falling on her like heavy fog. "I went to foster homes ... I don't know if they have those here, or call them that. I ran away, time after time. I lost my sister, she went to different homes. Then Sean and Margaret Bailey got it in their heads they wanted to adopt a troubled kid. Had two of their own -- Fiona and Peter -- but wanted to help someone else. He'd picked me up for being a runaway a number of times. Decided that a little fourteen-year-old with a good Irish name like Riordan -- that was my original name -- was a perfect fit. Took me years to learn to trust them all."
Bodie had reached out, taken her face, delicate and fair-skinned, in his hands and kissed her forehead. "And here we are, the members of our little club," she'd laughed.
He had never felt so connected to people before: Ray with him always, his soul mate; Gillian and their strange bond; his admiration for the almost paternal Cowley. He knew what it was like then to say, finally, "I have loved ones."
He showed her the ring, which he kept in a pocket. She had understood immediately its connection to his past life.
"We're not alone anymore. You're not alone anymore," Bodie said darkly.
"And that's enough for you, isn't it?"
"It's more than I ever thought I wanted. Or needed." And he'd squeezed her hand.
***
Now, as he lay in the silent darkness of Ray's lonely house, he put the chain and ring into his pocket, and wiped the tears that were damming up inside the red edges of his tired eyes.
"Oh Gil," he said aloud. "Why'd you leave? And how can I fix Ray when I can't even fix myself?"
End Chapters 1-3