Cowley was momentarily taken aback when he stepped off the lift to his office, and ran into Ray Doyle.
"What are *you* doing here?" he asked, almost annoyed. He maintained his brisk pace. "I hadn't received word that you were intending to return to duty."
"No sir, I just decided this morning. I'd really like to get back to work. I think it's what I need."
"I'm not confident that you are ready. I'd like to have you evaluated before I return you to anything more than desk duty. Will you speak with Dr. Ross?"
They had reached Cowley's office, where Bodie was just entering to present Betty with something for the controller of CI5. He seemed visibly shocked to see his partner. "What are *you* doing here?"
"Will everyone please stop saying that?" Doyle demanded testily. "I need to get back to work if I'm going to keep my sanity. Is that acceptable to everyone?" Betty quickly looked down at her paperwork. Bodie shrugged.
"Spend a few moments with Dr. Ross. Then come back and see me at eleven a.m. We'll discuss the matter then." He looked quizzically at Doyle. "Are you certain you want to do this?"
Running a hand through his unruly hair, he tried to rein in his exasperation. "I'm certain sir. I have to get out of the house, I have to be doing something that matters."
He turned and left the room to head downstairs to Dr. Ross' office. In some ways, he looked forward to talking with her. There wasn't much she hadn't heard before when it came to grieving people. He liked her more when she was in the normal headshrinker mode than when she was conducting those bizarre personality tests during evaluations. It would almost be a relief to be honest with her, for once.
"So you think you're actually ready to return," the dark-haired woman asked, distractedly. She had been in the middle of squad evaluations and hadn't planned on taking the time to talk to him.
"Look, it's like getting back on the horse. I can't just sit around bemoaning my fate, now, can I? Besides, it's not the best way to honor her memory, being a basket case and all." He looked at her hard, to see if anything he was saying was penetrating.
"What do you think you'll do if you encounter a victim of an explosion? Or a gunshot, say? How do you think you'll react?" She shuffled papers from one file to another and punched in some numbers on her computer.
"Why do I get the feeling you could tell me the answer to that?" His long-time antagonism of her had grown into a fairly friendly sparring match after his marriage, as though some of his sexual energy had been channeled away from her and she felt more comfortable bantering with him. But now, she was more formal.
She fixed him with an irked stare. "Don't try to play mind games with me. I'll beat you every time."
"I reckon you would. Okay. I guess it would be hard. I still fixate on a lot of memories. I think about her all the time, and I keep playing the first few days of our relationship over and over in my head. I hate what happened and the fact that I couldn't protect her eats away at me. But isn't it better that I admit all that? Shouldn't it help that I recognize it?"
Ross smiled softly at him. When you looked at her away from work, Doyle thought, she really could be very pretty. "Yes, you're actually quite right. You've obviously thought about it a lot." She snapped a file closed and stuffed it in a drawer. "Look, I'll call Mr. Cowley. Go see him in a few minutes." She left the room and Doyle realized he had no idea what her prognosis had been.
At eleven, Doyle returned to Cowley's office as instructed. The old man was waiting for him, offering him a scotch. Doyle took it without comment on the early hour.
"Dr. Ross has indicated she thinks it will be acceptable for you to return to work. She did indicate, however, that you may have negative reactions to...certain types of assignments. This concerns me. The case your partner is currently assigned to is a series of bombings. If this is too close an area for you..." Ray knew the next words without them being spoken. Desk duty was always a possibility.
"No, sir, I think I'll be fine. Really. Bodie's talked a little about it. I want to deal with this. I want to get back to work."
"If that's truly the way you feel, then I'll allow it. I will still continue to have Murphy assigned to this case as well. And I want you to know...they have strict instructions from me to watch you for any signs that this is getting to you in any way. If they think you can't handle it, I'll have you taken off active duty. Is that understood?"
"Yes sir," Doyle said, smiling. "Thank you, sir." He made for the door, but Cowley stopped him with an abrupt clearing of his throat.
"I want you to know, Doyle, that we are all very sad about your wife's death." He quickly put his glasses back on and looked studiously at his papers.
Doyle opened the door. "It's been easier to deal with this knowing I have such support and friendship." And he was gone quickly, not used to talking like this with the old man.
Everyone was at attention when he went into the rest room. "Welcome back!" they shouted in unison, a few back pats, arm squeezes here and there, before they all just as quickly dispersed. That left Bodie and Murphy sitting casually across their chairs, smirking at him.
"Well, are we just going to sit here, drinking tea, or are you going to fill me in on this case so we can get going?" They did fill him in, and they did get going.
He enjoyed being back in the car again, racing along, doing things that felt important. Murphy and Bodie were in the front, he sat relaxed in the back seat. The two of them bantered back and forth and Doyle enjoyed listening to it, passively.
He closed his eyes. It reminded him of the day he and Bodie had taken Gillian to her first day of testimony. She and Bodie had already been going at it when he got in the car after checking their route with Murphy.
"Boot." Bodie had put the car in gear.
"Trunk," she'd said back.
"Windscreen."
"Windshield."
"Bonnet."
"Well, now that always mixes me up. Is the bonnet the front or," she motioned to the top, "this up here?"
"The front."
"The hood. No self-respecting American would ever name a car part anything as silly as a bonnet."
"La di da!" Bodie had said sarcastically.
"Would you mind telling me what you're doing?" Doyle had asked, feeling the intruder.
"I'm practicing my Americanisms."
"Ah."
It was the childishness of both of them that had made him laugh, hours later when it flashed into his brain suddenly during her testimony, earning a glare from Cowley that made his insides shrivel. He now sat in the back seat enraptured by the fragrance of the past, before realizing Murphy and Bodie were still up front, bickering.
He realized he'd always liked watching Bodie interacting with other people, when he could have fun with them. He enjoyed teasing, did Bodie. And it made Doyle's heart feel light, seeing him, remembering all the times he'd watched Bodie have someone on.
Being in a car again with his friends was just right. He knew Murphy and Bodie were keeping an eye on him, wondering if his reluctance to banter with them was a sign he was still too weak, but he didn't mind. He smiled at Bodie in the mirror, and the concerned blue eyes suddenly flashed with the smile that was growing on Bodie's face. "I'm all right, mate," Doyle was telling him, comfortable with just a look that spoke volumes. It would be good again, he knew.
The next few days were like light breaking through morning clouds. Doyle felt as though he'd been a drowning man coming to the surface, rescued from waves of dark blue and grey, swimming slowly to the glittering edge of water helped by an unseen hand.
Bodie had helped him climb to the surface, and Cowley, and Murphy. He was coming closer and closer to breaking free, to feeling air in his lungs and the tug of gravity releasing him. Now the rest of the desperate grapple towards the surface would have to be his own.
They had spent days questioning everyone. Putting together scraps of information about lives, about habits and confidences, cherished memories and deeds, now lost to someone's mad scheme. Doyle concentrated on putting the puzzle pieces together, focusing on the task of solving a crime. He left the piecing together of lives to Bodie and Murphy, knowing it was too soon for him to sit with bereaved family members or colleagues and hear them tell of the people who were now dead. He remained removed but involved as much as he could bear, concentrating on the forensics of the case. He knew his strength had always lain in dealing with people; more so than either Murphy or Bodie he was quick with a kind word or a protective arm. But this time he left it to the other two agents, keeping a distance so that he could remain on the case and not break down in front of anyone.
Nights and weekends, Bodie would come over to the house, keep him company. They would take in a film, see a football match, play squash or practice fencing. Bodie worked almost as hard at keeping Doyle busy as he worked at his job. Doyle could tell it was fatiguing Bodie to keep both ends of the candle burning. He hadn't had a regular date in months, Doyle knew. And yet he couldn't relax his selfish hold on Bodie's life.
Keeping Bodie near him had never been so important; even when he had been shot he did not feel so strong a need and attachment. And at the back of it all was the letter, the avoidance of reading what Gillian had wanted of him. As long as Bodie was keeping him busy and work taxed him, he had not to go back into that pull of deep, dark water that called to him, stealing life and light.
It had been going on for weeks, and still they were no further in the bombings. Until Cowley came in at them, waving paper.
"Once more! It's happened once more, and I said it wouldn't happen again if I had anything to do with it!"
They had barely entered the building when the old man had charged past them, his hands going through his hair over and over, a sure sign of worry.
"Where?" the partners had asked in unison.
"Right under our noses! Right here in London. Again!"
The agents steered him towards his office. Bodie grabbed the paper and read the message. A parcel bomb had gone off in a barrister's -- a prosecutor -- home. The parcel had apparently waited in his office at home all day, brought in by his daughter. Both the man and the child had been killed, he instantly and she dying four hours later in hospital.
Cowley sat down in his chair, hard. "I can't accept this," he said, quietly. "I want you over there, go over his life with a fine-tooth comb, I want everyone he's ever known and everything about him." He paused, visibly shaken. "I've put an agent on each case individually. When each of you, McCabe and Lucas, and Murphy, have gathered every single detail of each of these lives, I want to put this together. We will start charting the patterns of the victim's lives. We are going to find out what -- or who -- this is all about." He ran his hand through thinning sandy hair, eyes squinted as the sign of a headache came on. "Everything, about everyone who's been killed by this madman."
"Or madmen," Bodie said quickly.
"Yes, Bodie. That is a possibility. But I won't discuss theory now. Get going!"
Another two days passed and they were nowhere further. After acquiring as much information about daytoday activities, files, names, dates and places as they could, they began coordinating the information in an operations room. Each agent, including Lucas and McCabe, was assigned an individual as his case. They began drawing up charts and graphs with Ruth's assistance. Each point of possible intersection was charted. Then they would be checked out.
Cowley was using the most basic of premises: that someone, or some group, was targeting legal people who had some connection. The problem was that the connection was utterly elusive. Some prosecuting barristers, a judge, a defense attorney. Three from different cities. How could they be connected to the same person?
As the search became more grueling, Doyle felt the weight of the past few months creeping up on him. His mind would sometimes wander down paths of light where memories dwelled. It did not take Bodie long to recognize it; although there were no obvious signs to anyone else, he was attuned to Doyle's slight shifts in mood.
After one late, exhausting evening, Bodie drove Doyle home.
"You want me to come in?" he asked, cheerily, although he felt as far from cheery as he could be. The faint distraction in Doyle's eyes was like a hair trigger. The slightest flinch, and it could turn into complete withdrawal, Bodie knew.
"You know, I don't know." Doyle's fingers went up to his lips, he chewed absently on the thumb and nail of his index finger. His eyes were unfocused.
"I can leave you off here. That's okay."
For a moment Doyle paused, then answered. "Maybe it's time to be alone for an evening." He turned suddenly to look at Bodie. "I think I have some things I must deal with."
Bodie's heart had been suddenly encased in dry ice. He felt the words come out of his mouth, but it was as though they came from a far-off galaxy. "No problem, mate. I understand."
Doyle opened the door, then snapped his head round to face Bodie. His eyes glinted forest green in the dark of night and yellow streetlamp. They bored into Bodie's soul.
"It's not you. I want to be with you, I need your support. But there is something I have to do. I have to do it alone. There are some things that need...clearing up."
Bodie could only nod, words having left him. Then Ray was gone, fading into the shadow of the doorway. Bodie put his head on the driving wheel and fought back the bitter tang of tears. If he shuts me out I've failed him, he thought. I've failed Gil and I've failed Cowley, and most of all, I've failed myself. His knuckles white on the wheel, he raised his head and put the car in gear, and began driving automatically as though programmed, unaware of where he headed. Somehow he ended up in a pub unfamiliar to him and drank mechanically, replaying the fear of losing Doyle to this pain over and over in his mind.
Doyle sat for a while on the edge of the bed mentally gearing up for the task. First, he would begin by putting clothes in the boxes that lay scattered around. Those would go to charity. Then he would collect all the things that were totally hers, not shared, and box them up too. Last would be jewelry, keepsakes. He would keep photos, letters, manuscripts. But he would box them, put them in the closet.
And when he was done, only when he was done, would he read the letter. Even if it took all night. He knew each thing would be cried over, that memories would wash over him like dark water. But he had prepared for this; it was time to do it.
The snapshots and videos of their holidays together were hardest to deal with. He looked at and labeled each one, carefully putting them away in a box and placing them in the back of the closet. In most of them there seemed to be Bodie, only a few holidays were ever taken by the two of them alone. She enjoyed Bodie coming along with whatever girl he was seeing at the time; Gillian usually liked his girlfriends enough to tolerate them for weekend trips. But it seemed odd, now, as he looked everything over, to notice this ongoing triangular pattern.
At first he'd been a little frightened of Bodie and Gillian's friendship, then it had turned to jealousy. In the back of Ray's mind was the running thread that women and men just couldn't be friends. Oh sure, he was friends with Susan and Sally, perhaps even Betty to some degree, but he had grown up in an era that saw male/female friendships as suspicious. Women got along with their husband's friends, but that was it -- tolerance. Things had changed somewhat as he got older, many men and women were friendly in art school, he knew, but he never felt like ringing up a woman to go out and see a match and have a pint later, as he would a bloke.
But then, he realized, he'd never really felt that way about any man either, until he'd met Bodie. And Bodie's fatal charm with Gillian kept him on edge until he realized one day what was going on with them.
Comprehension hadn't sunk in for some time. He'd watched the two of them banter and bicker and had recognized right away that there were great similarities in their behavior, their outlook on life. But then the daring started, and the pranks, and everything settled in the relationship. Bodie had ignited it by daring her to go parachuting once; she accepted immediately and, naturally, ended up with a dislocated shoulder. Gil reciprocated by making him go to a posh, very frou-frou salon to get his hair cut and a manicure. It went on like that for months, some of the dares bordering on absurdity, until the day Ray, in complete exasperation, tried to prevent a practical joke. He realized, as they both descended on him in anger, that they enjoyed this tremendously and had no intention of quitting.
They were, he'd finally figured out, like little kids, having a sibling rivalry they'd never had the chance for before. Because of their similar personalities they were accepting each other as family, creating a relationship where they existed as siblings to no one but themselves. After that, he let them have their games, and tried to enjoy them as best he could, all the while feeling as though he'd somehow become their father rather than friend and partner.
Most everyone in CI5, as they got to know Gillian, watched the constant give and take between her and Bodie with amusement. Doyle found he liked their amused acceptance. As one of the few married agents, he valued their reception of her, their tacit approval of his choice. He had never known himself to be the kind of person who needed reassurance, but in this instance, it did comfort him to see how her eccentric relationship with Bodie, and with him, was taken.
Ray wondered, casually, if Bodie had ever thought much about the way the three of them interacted. Judging from the pictures and the videos, probably not. They were usually too busy laughing.
It was past 4:30 a.m. when he finally finished, and could avoid his promise to himself no more.
With trembling fingers, he pulled the envelope out of the drawer. It was sealed and he pulled the knife out of his pocket and slit it open, shaking and breathless.
***
Dear Ray,
I suppose it seems morbid to sit down and write a letter for your death, but with the running around we both do, it seemed important to tell you so many things I may not have time to say.
You are my life. I've never known so much happiness and joy at any time as I've known with you. You take my breath away almost every time I look at you. And it makes me sad to write this, to know that the reason you're reading these words is because I can never know that joy again.
But I want to be happy thinking of you being happy. I know you. Don't hate yourself or hate life because I'm gone. You're too valuable to this world and too wonderful a heart to lose. You've touched so many people, you need to touch so many more.
So here comes the strange part.
I once told you to let Bodie take care of you if something happened and I wasn't around. I hope you do. But there's something more important here than just letting him care for you. I know there is more to Bodie's love for you than just partnership, just friendship.
And I think you know it too, or at least, knew it once before.
I myself think sexuality is kind of strange, an odd way to define ourselves. For most of us, we box ourselves into rigid roles -- I'm this, I'm that.
You two are together for a reason. For years Bodie's recognized that reason, but it was the wrong timing. Maybe now it will be the right timing. Only that is up to you.
He once told me that you couldn't really share the same feelings. And he was fine with that, he has a tough heart. But what if, alone, you changed your mind? Oh, I can hear your objections. But the simple fact is, there are no rigid rules to our feelings. They just are. It's what we impose on ourselves from outside that makes us say: this is right, this is wrong.
Didn't you ever wonder why you chose to love the things about us that you love? Doesn't that sameness between me and Bodie that you always comment on make you wonder: is it just that I was packaged properly, and Bodie wasn't? What if the packaging didn't matter any more? Is it such a leap to make, to think of him that way?
You deserve nothing but happiness. Nothing but love, devotion, adoration. I miss you, Ray. Wherever I am, I miss you, and whatever my last moments were, know I was thinking of you. Please, think of me and smile when you do. I had a great ride.
How could anyone die unhappy knowing you cared for them? So take what's there, take all the love you can get. It's right there at your feet if you want it.
All my love,
Gillian
****
Doyle walked out into the faint pink of early dawn, down the cold streets with their few cars moving about at that hour, to the park. He welcomed the chill, huddled into his jacket. It kept him braced and awake, a light shiver tremoring through his wiry frame.
When he reached the bench he'd been sitting on the same day Bodie followed him from afar, he sat down and stared ahead. A few brave early morning joggers flashed by, but for the most part it was silent as the world around him slowly woke up.
He could not come to grips with the letter. Oh, he'd expected the advice on getting his life in order. He had not expected that the advice would contain instructions to become Bodie's lover. Even to the last, she was full of surprises.
Doyle thought back to Gillian and Bodie's friendship. At times, he almost thought they were lovers, they became so close. When Doyle wasn't around, or didn't want to do something she eagerly wanted to do, she inevitably brought Bodie. This also often caused jocular speculation from the other CI5 agents, but Doyle always shrugged it off with a smile. He enjoyed the fact they got along, his worst fear before his relationship with her had really started was that Bodie and Gillian would hate each other. How wrong he'd been on that, he'd found almost immediately.
It was there in the odd smiles, the odd glances, that try as he might he couldn't pierce. Not at all in the way a friend interacts, more like the way a lover would. Yet he felt strongly that they couldn't have been lovers. Besides, they often behaved like five-year-olds when they were in each other's company, enacting their sibling roles, which once he'd figured that out, made him quite happy. Both had a tendency to complain endlessly about almost everything, could whine in the most charming way possible, were greedy, confident to the point of arrogance, and often displayed badly inappropriate humor for the situations they were in.
And both were steadfastly loyal, tough survivors, lifeloving hedonists with generous spirits and yes, *joie de vivre,* as Bodie always called it. People were drawn to them, yet they kept most people at a safe enough distance. Except for me, he thought.
*Is that it? Would Gillian tell me that I should love Bodie because they were so alike, I might as well have one as the other?* He couldn't believe that, couldn't believe she could argue something so sophistic. No, she would only tell him such a thing if she truly believed he harbored sentiments deeper than he'd ever been cognizant of. She knew him better than anyone else, even sometimes better than he knew himself, except maybe for... Bodie. Well, there it was again.
He rubbed frozen fingers across his mouth, lost in concentration. The sun had fully risen now, but he was unaware of it slowly beginning to spread its warmth.
What is love all about, anyway? Did Gillian really think feelings were so interchangeable, so malleable that he could just happily jump into a new romance, especially with another *man*? He certainly could never go back to work with Bodie without constantly thinking about the contents of that letter. And she'd known that when she wrote it, he was positive.
All the time she had spent alone with Bodie. Had they talked about these things, gone over Bodie's feelings in minute detail? What secrets did she know that she never shared with him? Only once had she ever hinted at an understanding of what dwelled in Bodie's heart. It had been in the midst of an argument.
Doyle had shut her out, refused to discuss a particular case they'd worked on. He said she couldn't understand. The cop's daughter had exploded in his face.
"Have I ever made you feel as though you couldn't share your work with me? Have I worried excessively about the danger you face every day? I don't think so. I figure I'm pretty darn lucky to have found you and whatever you choose to do with your life is your decision, just so's you come home to me when it's over. I have never complained about your time away from me, and I expect you to do the same for me. But don't tell me that I can't expect to understand, when you don't tell me what it is!"
She had looked down at the floor. "Sometimes I think that it's a way to keep Bodie to yourself. That this whole, 'no one outside CI5 truly understands us' is just a way to keep everyone at arm's length, and get even closer to your partner. I've seen it with cops before. Don't tell me it's not like a marriage of its own." Her voice became suddenly quieter.
"If you shut out everyone, you're going to make it very hard for Bodie. He can't maintain something like that and not want it all. And if what you really want is that private life with Bodie then take it all, don't do it halfway, because yes, he does understand you in ways I *never* will."
And she had left the house, leaving him no room to discuss it. When she had returned, he'd told her about the case. And all the time he wanted to ask what she meant, to find out what secret was being shared away from him. But when he probed, she had only answered, "It's just past minutes from the meetings of the Ray Doyle fan club."
The fan club. If two people could share feelings for him, could he share feelings for two people already so dear to him, he wondered?
What is it about someone that makes us fall in love with them? Is it the slight turn of the head or the brush of hair from the forehead? The curve of lip as it changes into a smile?
Do we fall in love with the flash of a blue eye in the sun, or the milky white of skin as it glows in moonlight?
It can't be merely a chemical reaction, the fire of pheromones as they break through the senses of another, mingling, creating a new chemistry.
Or is it in the way a finger feels brushed against the cheek, that sends nerve messages racing through to the mind and the heart? The way a hand grasps another hand, squeezing it tightly, that binds one soul to another?
Why love? Was there really need to feel more than sexual urge? To feel his heart stop at the sight of hair cascading over his pillow as he woke in the morning. To feel his breath escaping as a soft, gentle finger played across his lips. To feel his bones disappear, leaving him paralyzed, as a voice breathed tender fire in his ears, whispering his name.
What was the purpose of such feeling? And could it happen again, now, so differently?
Bodie could get no answer for his incessant ringing of the bell. He finally pulled out a key and went in, calling out Ray's name. No answer.
Where was the bloody bugger, anyway? They were horribly late, Cowley would have their heads for this, he knew. Of all the cases, this was not the one to be late for work on.
He went upstairs and saw what looked like to him an un-slept-in bed. Something else was wrong, he thought. The place was missing something...he looked wildly around the room and realized there were empty spaces that had not been there yesterday. Gillian's clothes! He peered into the wardrobe. So that's what last night had been about. He'd been putting away her things.
Bodie didn't know whether to feel glad or miserable. The finality of those empty spaces where her jewelry box had been, the way the wardrobe suddenly seemed so large... It held a remarkable sadness for Bodie that the funeral had not. This was more permanent, more barren.
For all the emptiness in the house, it was remarkably untidy. Again, he felt her absence very clearly. She had been a nearly pathological housekeeper, much like Bodie -- everything in its place and a place for everything. It had always been obvious when she was out of town, the place gradually got sloppier and sloppier with Doyle left to his own devices.
He sat down on the bed and heard paper crinkle. Standing up, he reached down for the paper, thinking it a note from Ray, then realized with a shock that it was Gillian's sloped, sloppy journalist's writing. Oh Christ, the letter.
He saw one quick phrase before he dropped it as though burnt by a match. "*Is it such a leap to make?"*
He walked out of the bedroom. He would not, absolutely not, breach this trust and read this letter, no matter how much he wanted to understand what that meant. Always a curious person, an opened letter near Bodie would be like putting meat in front of a hungry tiger. But with Ray's unrelenting ability to keep secrets, Bodie knew the only information forthcoming to him would be completely up to Ray.
Looking over to his left as he closed and locked the door, he saw a rustle of fabric in the house next door. He'd ask Mrs. Mills if she'd seen Ray. She always watched the comings and goings in this house.
Bodie had formed an odd attachment to the old woman. At first, when Gil and Ray had moved here, he found himself growing increasingly annoyed at the way the old woman would constantly watch them from behind her curtains until one day, when Gil told him that in fact Mrs. Mills had rather a crush on Bodie. Finding this amusing, he finally went up to her on a rare day when he caught her outside.
It turned out they had a great deal in common. She had been born shortly before the end of the Great War, where her mother had been a nurse in France, and her father killed in combat. She had carried on the tradition by becoming a nurse, volunteering in Spain and then serving during WWII in north Africa, later living all around what was called, in her day, the Levantine, and in many of the African states Bodie had been in. They compared information on Jordan and the Congo, and she gave him a wonderful perspective on the war that Bodie had never gleaned from his military history books.
Mrs. Mills and Gillian had also formed a great friendship, and Mrs. Mills frequently gave her gardening advice; the two would often sit amidst the flowers discussing the late Mr. Mills' peccadilloes, particularly his sexual ones. Yet Mrs. Mills never failed to blush whenever Bodie came by.
She saw him coming up the walk and opened the door immediately, still in her matronly dressing gown, which she clutched at the throat.
"Have you seen Doyle this morning by any chance, luv?" Bodie asked in his most throaty voice.
"Oh, I did. He left a while ago. He had flowers in his hands, from the garden. I think he was going to the cemetery. I'm ever so glad he's home, but I do worry about him so much."
"Well, between you and me, we'll take care of him, eh? Ta luv. I've got to go find him, we're going to be late for a very important date." He leant down and kissed her cheek, as always. She blushed furiously. Bodie didn't know that as he bounced away, Mrs. Mills was watching his behind with great scrutiny.
Ah, that's it, he thought. Where else would he go after reading that letter? He ran out to the car and drove to the cemetery. Dawn had now swept gray light across the sky, but it looked like rain. Morning traffic was as obnoxious as usual, and Bodie would have to call in his whereabouts at least to let them know he wasn't going to be punctual. The military man in him hated tardiness. As he drifted through the streets, attempting to drive as slowly as his natural tendency towards speed would allow, he thought of the letter.
What if she were telling Doyle about Bodie's feelings? What if she were giving away all the secrets he'd shared with her? He wouldn't put it past her. He remembered every word of their conversations about Ray. She would think it perfectly suitable to tell Ray to consider Bodie; he could just see the sparkle in her eyes, cast sideways and up, a "butter-wouldn't-melt-in-my-mouth" expression on her face. That professional charm. She used it all the time to get information from people, could turn it on and off at a whim. It had been her most disconcerting feature to both him and Doyle from the beginning, and Bodie had never failed to fall victim to it even while knowing it was as calculated as a lie.
He shook his head. What if... God, how would Ray respond? She adored shocking him, always said someone so coolly confident about life deserved to be shocked, as often as possible. But would Ray believe it? Would he reject an idea like that out of hand? This will drive me crazy, Bodie thought. *Gil, you liked to mix it up. And you knew all my secrets.*
Bodie had found that all through the wedding reception, he could not take his eyes off Doyle. At least during the wedding, he'd had things to do, a role to play. But now there was just idle conversation with guests, nothing to keep his mind from wandering down paths he knew he daren't take.
He had never seen Ray look so exquisite. The salt and pepper hair, now longer and loose, waves curling down over his neck. The huge, slightly canted emerald eyes alight with happiness. A beautiful charcoal suit Bodie had picked out for him, from Italy, definitely not English tailoring. The snow white of the shirt offsetting the lightly tanned skin of Ray's heartshaped face. The riotously colored tie Bodie had given him, all full of purples and blues and greens, so perfectly Italian once again. It took Bodie's breath away, the completeness of him, the ease with which he flitted among guests, seraphic, contained in happiness.
Bodie thought that if it hadn't been for the slightly chipped tooth that set off the perfect whiteness of the smile, the damaged cheekbone -- still so mysterious to Bodie -- Ray would have looked too perfectly unearthly. The rakishness saved him from an almost toosweet beauty.
Suddenly he looked away, aware that he had not heard a single word his companions were saying, and that they would certainly become aware of how desperately he looked at Ray, if they hadn't already. His eyes swept across the room and for a brief moment, lit on Gil. She was dancing with an obviously very drunk Murphy, happily ensconced in his embrace. She looked right at Bodie then, her gaze locking onto his like a laser sight.
He suddenly lost all the breath in his lungs, then turned his attention to his companions. She knew. Within a heartbeat, she was there at his side.
"Ah. As bad as all that, then."
He stepped slightly away from the others, closer to her. Gillian's eyes bored into his, filled with an expression he couldn't name. Pain? Concern? Or just confusion? Bodie stared back at her.
She moved her head slightly and then he knew the expression. Bewilderment, and love so strong and sharp it could shatter diamonds.
No need to answer that, Bodie thought. He took her hand, and led her to the alcove off the hall's main floor. He stood behind her, and put both arms around her, squeezing tight. Gillian put her arms over his, and leant her head backwards onto Bodie's shoulder.
"Well, I always guessed you knew, but you never said anything," he said thoughtfully. "I assumed Ray would never speak of it."
"He doesn't, not in so many words. But I've heard about the shooting, about your caring for him. Isn't hard to put two and two together. And really, until today, I had never been sure. Wishful thinking, I guess. Makes it a bit awkward, doesn't it?"
"Please do not pity me," he whispered fiercely.
"Oh, I don't. I could never pity you. I adore you. It's only..."
"Only what?"
"Only...the expression on your face when you looked at him. Now I know what I must look like when I look at him."
Gillian turned around, into his arms, facing him. "Is this the most miserable day of your life? Bodie, please forgive me, I didn't know how much -- "
Bodie put soft, tender fingers to her lips. "This is a great day. Because there is nothing in this world I want more than to see Ray happy. God, look at him. He's practically beaming." He shook her shoulders lightly. "Look. I realized long ago that what I wanted in life wasn't always what I'd get. Life is too short for recriminations." He stroked her hair, realizing that for all intents and purposes, they looked like the lovers marrying today. "And I knew a long time ago that what was important was Ray's happiness. He couldn't give me what I wanted, so what I need for him is to be happy. Hell, just being around him day to day is good enough for me."
Burrowing her face in Bodie's neck, she soaked up the warmth of him, scented lightly with aftershave, a spicy smell that comforted her whenever she caught the aroma. She sniffed, trying to fight back tears.
"What about all those girlfriends you're always bringing around?"
"I enjoy the hell out of my life. Like I said, it's too short to go round moaning 'what if?'" He pulled her face up to his, kissed her cheek. "Besides, I get the benefits of both of you. Just don't mind me every once in a while giving a little sigh over the what if, okay?"
"Well, this is turning into a bummer of a day."
Bodie grabbed her shoulders and shook her sharply, suddenly full of anger and frustration. He shook her so hard her teeth snapped together. She looked at him in stunned alarm. "Pack it in, will you Gil? If you keep acting like this I will start to get angry that you got him, okay?"
They were both staring at each other, wideeyed with tears, when Murphy suddenly appeared, put out a hand, and pulled on Gillian. "You cut my dance short."
"Murph, you've monopolized her for the last three dances," Bodie said cheerily, trying to regain control.
The tall agent tugged on Gillian's arm and she let go of Bodie, but quickly put a hand up to his face. Nearly hissing with vehemence, she pointed a finger at him and whispered, "Don't you ever leave my life, or his, not for any reason." And she was gone, practically carried away by Murphy.
Later Bodie watched from the wall as Doyle, now weary of being the center of attention, stole his new bride away from the others and whirled her out to the dance floor. He had asked the band to play Stardust, and they danced slowly, staring into each other's eyes with a look that seemed stolen out of a romantic film. And Bodie felt his heart break with an undefinable anguish; having let these two people into his heart, he knew love and it didn't bring him much joy. He watched them, a hopelessness in his heart that he was looking at two people he was crazy about who were crazy about each other, and he didn't know which one he was more envious of.
Pulling into the cemetery, Bodie was fighting for a moment to remember where exactly her grave was. He had not been back since the burial. Oh yes, near that tree. He pulled the car in but there was no sign of Doyle. He almost drove away, then something called to him to stop the engine, get out. He walked over to the correct area, hunted for a few minutes, then found it. There were fresh flowers, couldn't have been more than a day old. Freesias. It must have been Ray, he always liked the smell of them.
He rested on his heels above the marker, brushed his fingertips over it.
Then Bodie was off like a shot, but when he returned to Doyle's house there was no sign of him, again. *Shit!* he thought. *Am I going to have to chase you all around London, Ray?*
Whipping the car out into the street, he sped over to his own flat. It was tradition, they always, always rode into work together. Ray wouldn't go in on his own, but his car was not there at the house -- it's either my flat or somewhere else entirely that I'll never find him at, Bodie thought miserably. He was still clinging to the fear he'd felt the night before, the haunting feeling that as Doyle grew less needful of his support, the friendship would change, drift apart. And now to throw in the letter, well...
When he pulled up outside the nondescript row of buildings he saw the white car. And there on the steps was Ray, sitting placidly, head resting on hands, musing.
Ray's head snapped up when he heard the tires squeal; it was always easy to hear Bodie coming round any corner. A smile spread across his wide face, his eyes lighting up. He'd been almost a little afraid that after last night, Bodie would desert him, realizing only *after* he'd gone into the house that Bodie couldn't fathom his need to clean out the detritus of a past spent together with her, which must now be a single life.
He hopped into the car quickly and settled in, sprawled out with legs wide and his body slouched down. "Make yourself comfortable," Bodie said irritably. He noticed Doyle was back to wearing his most ripped up pair of jeans and a green tshirt; lately he'd been slightly more formal (for Doyle, anyway), Bodie thought wryly.
"Thanks. I'm tired, mate." He closed his eyes and rested his head against the window, yawned in his most jaw-cracking fashion. Bodie was having none of this.
"We are going to be late, thanks to you. I've been chasing over half of greater London trying to find you." He whipped the car around a corner fast, jolting Doyle's head. A green eye glared at him sideways, then closed with the other one.
"I had to put Gil's things away last night," Doyle said with some gentleness in his voice, knowing that at this point Bodie needed to hear the thoughts and feelings that drove his actions, or Bodie would fill in the blanks, however incorrectly.
In their years partnering, they had become fairly attuned to each other's emotions, and while Bodie's mask of disinterest and cool removal from the world fooled almost everyone else, Doyle alone knew that Bodie held deep fears of being shut out by people he cared for. His thoughtful nature, coupled with the loneliness of his life, had caused him to walk a knife edge of emotion all his life -- keeping detached, yet wanting desperately to care for, and be cared for by, someone else. It had been obvious to him because of the way Bodie took to Gillian, to any of Doyle's girlfriends, actually. And it had taken him a few years to figure it out, that Bodie enjoyed Doyle's affection. He'd also realized that that was why Bodie clung to him. There was really no other reason why a man like Bodie would get along with, even care for, someone like him. Nearly polar opposites, yet...there the friendship was.
"I saw the house. It looked... somewhat empty." Bodie stared straight ahead, afraid of giving too much of his worry away to Doyle. While still relieved that he'd found out Doyle was not, in fact, rejecting his help, Bodie still felt as though Ray could fade away from him much too easily. Taking care of him had taken on much more importance, each day. Bodie knew it was the only path to having Ray in his life that way, the way he wanted him.
"I don't know. It just seemed...it's been a while since I got back, since the whole thing happened. I felt like I had to do it." No mention of the letter.
"You could have told me. I'd have understood." Bodie shifted by holding onto the stick. This was always a clue to Ray that he was feeling nervous, tense. His usual method was a light touch on the gear knob, as effortless as a racing driver.
"Well...y'know...it's just that you've spent so much time taking care of me lately, you haven't had any social life at all. I bet you haven't even had a date since I got back. And I want to get back on my feet. Get you back into having a life. It's not fair of me to monopolize your time."
"I'll bloody well decide how much time I want to spend on you myself, Doyle!" Bodie shouted at him. This face, this angry face, occasionally scared Ray. He'd seen Bodie out of control before and he damn well didn't ever want that rage directed at him. Cowley may have mastered the art of gentling Bodie back into calm; Ray preferred to stay as far away as possible. Doyle pulled his head back and stared at him with narrowed eyes.
Bodie was acutely conscious of how terrible he sounded. And he suddenly flashed back to a time before when he had bellowed at Ray in rage, covering for what he really wanted to do -- hold him tight, whisper over and over that things would be all right. Don't die on me, I need you, was what he'd really wanted to say that time. Instead he loomed over Doyle, who was helpless, breathing into an oxygen mask. Bodie had shouted at him. "For crissakes, Ray, tell me who did it!" Not what he'd wanted to say. What if they'd been his last words to this one man above all others who he cared for?
"Look. Right now, spending time taking care of you is what I want to do. Do you think you're the only one grieving?" His voice was rising but he couldn't stop it. Doyle clutched the dash, afraid Bodie would hit someone at this rate. "I loved her too, you know, she was my friend. I know you were her husband, but I loved her too. You got to spend time with her family. You have had time away from work. But I've had to sit this out by myself and cry by myself, and if now I want to have something to focus on, to help you get over this, then I will sodding well do it. How in the world could I possibly go out and sit there making idle chitchat with some bird I picked up in a pub or something, someone who doesn't even know Gil or why I loved her, and try to explain why I'm grieving for *someone else's wife*? Why would I even *want* to? I would rather be with someone who loved her and be *miserable!*"
By now Bodie was screaming at him, but instead of recoiling, Doyle sat passively, almost smiling.
They were nearly at the anonymous grey building that housed CI5.
Softly, he said, "I can't imagine you crying, ever." Bodie's head whipped around at him. Blue eyes like the ocean in a winter storm pierced Doyle to the core.
"*You have no idea, Ray,*" Bodie said quietly, ardently. He pulled the car over to the corner.
Doyle, almost unaware of what he was doing, moved to put his hand up to Bodie's cheek. He wanted very much to touch this angry, almost shaking man. The thought sent his heart into cartwheels. Right now he wanted to make contact with Bodie, get inside his pain. "No, I think you're right. I have had no idea."
Bodie quickly snapped Ray's hand down, but held it firmly. "I do cry, Ray. I'm not a machine. You can't even imagine the amount of tears I lost over you when I watched them rip your ribcage open and start cutting into your chest. Or when I could see you literally struggling to decide to live or die. I've had too much time to myself since Gil died and I've spent most of it trying to hold myself together, but it doesn't always work. At least if I cried in front of you, you'd know where it was coming from." He squeezed Doyle's hand. "We're late enough, Sunshine."
They got out of the car and went into the building. Doyle dropped back a moment, and Bodie turned to see him looking at him with an odd mixture of befuddlement and amusement. "You called me Doyle just now. You never call me that 'less we're working on a job." He started smiling now. "I do remember you crying. I remember you telling me you needed me." He moved towards Bodie, their faces close, feeling heat upon heat. "I'd like to take care of you, too. I'd like you to need me, again."
Then he was off, down the hall and into the office, before Bodie could catch back the air that had left his lungs in such a hurry.
Cowley virtually ignored them when they entered the room. That alone made Bodie highly nervous. The pair's continuing punctuality problems were a source of extreme irritation to Cowley, and Bodie had learned to be very wary when their lack of timeliness wasn't mentioned. It was likely he would hit them with something else later when they weren't expecting it.
The old man merely waved at the table, a silent order to sit down and get to it. "Law schools." He was staring at the board, watching Ruth writing all the information on the grid. Lucas and Murphy answered, flipping through their files. Bodie hurriedly picked his up -- Martin Moore, the judge. Papers slipped out as he furiously looked through the notes. Doyle bested him with his file first, on the Plymouth barrister. No connections. "Where did their wives get their hair done?" The men began checking their lists of information.
For the next two days it went like that. Desperately trying to make connections that weren't there. Over and over each other's paperwork. Going over the interviews with family, acquaintances. Endless telephone calls, endless comparisons.
Throughout, Bodie noticed Doyle constantly staring at him. He would suddenly turn to look at the man beside him only to catch him look away. Even when he would stare at his papers, head down, and turn his eyes surreptitiously to Doyle, he would catch a brief glimpse of the cat's eyes watching him, then they would quickly flit away.
It was beginning to drive him slowly crazy. He noticed Doyle paying less and less attention to the case, and he noticed it in himself as well.
And there were no connections, on the third day. The board was a mishmash of names, places, dots that could not be connected. Cowley ran fingers through his hair, took his glasses off and peered out at the grey day. "Let's start in again on private lives. If they went curb crawling every once in a blue moon, I want to know about it."
By late afternoon the room began to smell of the odor of tired men in close quarters. Cowley was repeatedly rubbing his eyes, all the agents were getting edgy. There was nothing, no connections of prosecutions, of business dealings, of anything gone awry. Betty had arranged sandwiches for them, Doyle lazily picked at the remains of his as he stared at the two files in front of him. He couldn't put his finger on it, but something about them -- Blake, the Plymouth barrister, and Moore, the judge -- bothered him. He drifted off in the sounds of everyone still munching away. Bodie had consumed a cake in one bite and seeing Ray's wool-gathering look, quickly picked up the other man's food and stuffed it in his mouth. Doyle was so used to Bodie stealing his food that he didn't even look at him.
"Why are you being so agreeable lately?" Bodie whispered to him.
"What?"
"Why are you so agreeable? You're never this nice when I pinch your food." He took the last bite of Ray's cheese sandwich and smiled. Doyle merely stared at him with the same inscrutable look he'd been driving Bodie crazy with the past few days.
"Got used to it the past few years. Between you and Gil it's a wonder I ever ate anything at all."
He looked away and Bodie watched the drifting expression creep back on him.
Deductive reasoning... Doyle thought. Something about it, the way they were looking at this. He'd once talked about that with Gil, hadn't he?
"Well, you know, we just look at things differently. That's why we're always at odds with each other...not you and me, I mean, the press and police organizations." Gillian had looked at him semiseriously, shrugged her shoulders. They had been arguing about the press coverage of the trial of an American serial killer.
"How do you reckon that?" Doyle asked, suspicious.
"Well, it's deductive versus inductive reasoning. In deductive reasoning, which I think is primarily what cops would use, you're making conclusions from the general idea, creating a specific. Jane Doe is murdered, there's our general situation, now we work backwards to the specific. Who did it? How was it done? You start with a general -- the mystery -- and work inward to solve it.
"But in inductive reasoning, you derive general principles from particular facts or instances. So journalists tend to say, this woman was murdered, did her husband do it? Was he abusive? If so, why wasn't she helped, was she trying to get away from him? How is it that society allows such things as spousal abuse to happen? Once you nail the guy who did it, what everyone wants to buy a paper for is, *why*? So we go around poking into the missing pieces of the big picture. We just work forward, you guys have to work backwards."
Working backwards, he thought. Maybe that's what the problem is. We want to find the missing pieces but maybe the answer is more in the big picture. He stared at the files, flipping the words over and over in his head. Finally he looked up.
"Sir," he said to Cowley, almost meekly. Everyone turned their attention to him, his voice was oddly soft. They were used to the rougher Doyle, the one who never asked, only told.
Cowley looked at him with tired eyes. "Eh?"
"What if we're looking at this in the wrong way?" he said.
He was met with an exasperated glare. "What are you getting at, Doyle? Just spit it out, I haven't time for games."
"Well, I mean...what if we looked at this, and said, 'what's missing,' rather than, 'what have they done that connects them.' Maybe it's not something they've done at all, or somewhere they've been, but something they've *failed* to do." He saw he now had Cowley's attention.
"This is sort of what I mean. I've looked at these two files for the past hour, and I keep noticing these two cases. Totally different yet -- " He pulled out the paperwork and laid it on the table. "Both of these men were involved in child molestation cases within the past two years. Here, the judge allowed a dismissal of this case for lack of evidence. And Blake, the barrister, defended a child molester who was acquitted. That man later murdered a child. What if it's something they *didn't* do that connects them? What if all these men in some way, for instance, were involved in a molestation case, and what if...well, those people went free? A lack of a conviction, say, or a judge throwing out the case?"
Everyone was staring at Doyle with dawning belief. Cowley sat up straight and grabbed the papers. Each agent looked at his file. "I don't see anything in this case log right now, but let me go to computers and get more information on his files," Lucas said, excited.
Cowley stared hard at Doyle. "I think you have a very good idea there, laddie," he said, a smile quirking his lips. "A very good idea indeed." It was times like this, he reminded himself, that he was in fact glad he'd hired those two.
"It's the bigger picture, sir. Remember Mickey Hamilton? Something like that? Only on a more...moral level, a personal problem gone bigger. He thinks he's saving society, not just getting revenge like Mickey."
Murphy looked up from his file. "I've got another one sir. The London attorney. Unsuccessfully prosecuted a child molestation case three years ago. In front of...the honorable Justice Moore. It's just a footnote here." He looked up at Cowley, then at Doyle. The tension level and excitement had risen one hundred percent in the room. Ruth immediately called to the computer room, started giving them instructions.
Cowley looked at all the agents. "I want every case on file for all these men in the last -- say, five years. And I want everyone involved in this -- police, CID, everyone. We want to look for any letters to police or the victims that may be on file, telephoned threats against any individuals involved, letters to editors of newspapers about such topics, anything that fits this. My guess is this man -- or these people -- have not acted anonymously. It wouldn't fit their intentions to randomly kill people without first attempting some sort of warning or threat. They want to change the world, so there must be some message out there."
Looking hard at Doyle, he snapped up the files and then cracked a very broad smile. "I don't know what wee bit of insight led to this but I think I owe you one very large Scotch."
Doyle shrugged. "I guess I could say I was just inspired." He noticed Bodie looking at him from the corner of the room, standing there with files in his hands. A wonderful, wry smile played over his lips, and his eyes were fastened tight on Ray.
Doyle smiled back, aware that Bodie was quite striking in his black poloneck sweater. His blue eyes blazed with what Doyle would have sworn was pride. As Cowley moved toward his office, Bodie cocked an eyebrow at him. "Well, Sherlock, looks like you've done it again."
His best "it was nothing" nod didn't earn any points with Bodie. "Oh, you're too modest, old son. Pretty soon you'll have cracked this case. We may make a detective out of you yet." He walked to Ray, put a warm hand on Doyle's shoulder. Bodie always had warm hands, Ray thought. His shoulder tingled. He realized, as he watched Bodie move toward the door, that his face was flushed red. Bodie paused at the door, looking over his shoulder at Ray, a hint of something on his face, but Ray couldn't place what. Then Bodie was gone, and Doyle put a hand up to touch his cheek, which was quite hot.
Embarrassment? *No,* he thought, *it was the way he complimented me. My god, I'm acting like a schoolgirl.*
Suddenly he was acutely aware of his actions and responses to Bodie. This is why someone thinks I'm capable of being in love with Bodie. This is exactly what she must have meant.
It was definitely time to get back to work.
The CI5 building was abuzz with activity. Bodie informed the CI5 controller that most of the expected information would arrive from all points by midday tomorrow. All the other departments they had contacted had put people on the search, and promised reports immediately.
The old man smiled at Bodie and Doyle. "Ah...good lads. You've earned an evening off. Why don't you go on home tonight, you deserve the rest. Then get back here in the morning -- *promptly*!" He took his glasses off and looked hard at the two agents.
"Yes, sir," Bodie said in crisp military style, happy to be alone with Ray. He'd had a good feeling about this evening.
Cowley couldn't help but smile after them as they left. They were often unorthodox; Bodie was a loose cannon and Doyle had not only a terrible temper but a moodiness as well, yet they were the best agents he had ever chosen for CI5. He spared a moment to think of their futures. It had been over ten years now that they were partnered together, and they were both reaching an age where running about chasing criminals could be too taxing -- or too dangerous. Cowley tended to view street operatives the way the sports world viewed athletes -- once past thirty-five things went downhill; after forty you were completely marginalized. Yet he himself never minded a bit of field work, even at his advanced age. He would have to think about what to do with them now that the time had come to consider it. They were too valuable to lose, but at that age... *And truth to tell, I'm terribly fond of them,* he thought.
"Like the sons you never had," Gillian had remarked once, watching the way he looked at them with a mixture of vexation and admiration, after her testimony had been finished. And she had been right, only he'd never have admitted that to her, he thought, a small smile tracing his lips.
It had been no secret to either of the agents that once her usefulness was up, Cowley had not been terribly attached to Gillian Bailey. He considered her constant challenge to the rules and order he'd created in the CI5 world a nuisance, and had not liked the feeling that at any time, she could paste CI5 all over the pages of the newspaper if she so desired. He knew that was unlikely, but Cowley had never been at ease around the press, and knowing a journalist personally did not change his uneasiness one bit.
George Cowley was a pragmatist, if anything, and knew that his agents cared little for achieving any knowledge of his personal history, or of achieving a personal knowledge of *him*. He was the controller, in more ways than one, and he recognized their fear of him, tinged with a dismissal of his private life. To them, he *had* no private life, he was the boss, and insofar as he made the rules, that was all they needed to know. The closest any of them had come to knowing him was Bodie and Doyle's discovery of his past with Annie Irvine, but even that had stopped at the end of that case, and they had never bothered to find out about his young life as a husband, soldier, a man with hopes and dreams and a future. For all they knew, he was born this age, and would die exactly as he was now.
This suited him to some degree, yet there were times, like this, when he wished he could express the almost paternal regard he held for his top team. But there were rules, Cowley had created them, and he followed them to the letter.
"I think this calls for a drink," said Bodie, squeezing Doyle's shoulder. "C'mon, let me buy you a round. Then we'll put it on the expense chit and the Cow can pay for it." He grinned widely, his eyebrows wiggling up and down.
"You're on!" It was the first time that Doyle had felt like being in public, in a pub or anyplace else noisy and full of life.
They entered the busy pub, crawling with afterwork types, Bodie spying one lone tiny table in the back corner. He moved quickly to grab it. Doyle watched him then weave through the crowd to the bar, pick up the drinks and weave back, never spilling a drop. The grace of the man, Doyle thought admiringly. He's like some jungle cat, never loses his footing, never loses his style and skill.
Snapping fingers in front of his eyes brought him out of his reverie. "Earth to Doyle." Bodie sat down and pushed the drink in front of Ray. "Where were you, Sunshine?"
"Actually..." He decided to go for broke. He was in a jolly mood after the heady success at the office. "I was admiring your gracefulness. You move like a cat. I've often thought that when you run."
And Bodie found himself drawn back in the most ugly way to something he preferred to forget, when Gil had said nearly the same thing to him. He'd been leaning over Gillian's hospital bed, staring tiredly at the face almost covered with tubes. Doyle was now asleep in the next bed, dozing fitfully, in and out. They had been so stupid, Cowley had shouted, more at himself than at the agents. How could they have let their guard down just because her testimony was over? It wouldn't be the first time a terrorist group had killed just for retribution.
And they *had* acted, shot at them when they were moving out of the safe house, hitting Gillian in the chest just as she was getting ready to step into Bodie's car.
Bodie had run after their car, senselessly, opening himself up to being shot as well.
At her hospital bedside, he had watched her, feeling he'd let her down, let Ray down. Momentarily her eyes had flickered, then opened on him. A trace of a smile played across the pale lips. "Hey," she'd whispered.
"Hey yourself," he'd said, trying for cheer but realizing he was failing miserably.
The eyes closed, then opened again. " 'm I gonna be okay?" Her eyes tilted toward him but she did not seem strong enough to move her head.
"Oh yeah, you'll be up and around soon. Bullet hit just under your collarbone, above the heart. Enough to spin you around and put you right out of harm's way." He stroked her hair.
"You're a real ball of fire, y'know?" A long pause for breath. "I remember you running and shooting. You look real good doing that." She'd tried for a chuckle but it wracked her with spasms.
"You should really try to rest," Bodie said. It seemed he was spending too much time recently leaning over wounded people he cared for.
"Where's that cute guy with the green eyes?"
Bodie'd nodded in the direction of the other bed. "Fell asleep. Been up round the clock the past two days wearing holes in the lino." She hadn't turned to look but shifted her eyes in that direction.
"Let him sleep." A deep intake of breath. "I'll catch up with him later." Then she drifted off. "You look real good running, you know..."
"Earth to Bodie," Doyle said sharply, snapping fingers in front of the dark man's face. "Now it's your turn. Where were you?"
"Thinkin' about Gil. She once said something like that, too. 'bout the running." A flush of embarrassment colored the high, proud cheekbones. In profile, in the low light, Doyle thought: he's too beautiful. The embarrassment only made him seem more attractive.
Doyle wiped a hand across his eyes. Jesus. I am not going to do this. Not just because she put this thought in my head. This isn't the way it should be.
Both of them were silent in their reveries for a few moments, drinking. Then Doyle said, "Oi. How 'bout another round?" Bodie obediently got up and went to the bar. Ray watched him go, again, admiring him from behind, how tight his black cords were. He'd never seen Bodie in blue jeans and wondered what he'd look like. Then just as quickly put the brakes on. *This is absurd,* Doyle thought. *Get a grip.*
"About what you said..." Bodie began. "About being graceful. Thanks. It's nice to get a compliment like that from you."
Doyle looked very seriously at Bodie, expecting to see his smirk, finding instead only a genuine smile. The deep blue of his eyes was turned black by the low light, the rich pout of mouth exaggerated by shadow. Was it really so hard to imagine caring for Bodie that way? He already felt such a strong love for him as a friend, as his most trusted companion. Could it be so impossible to make another step forward, to imagine him as more than friend?
A part of him wanted to curse Gil for putting such an insidious little thought in his head; the other part of him wanted to see just what she was on about. She always did know me better than anyone else...except for Bodie.
And there was the crux of the matter, Doyle thought. What was he looking for? Did he love Gillian because she was a female representation of Bodie, and therefore more acceptable to him? Or did he now have feelings for Bodie because he was just another version of Gil? Were the two interchangeable to him? Maybe it was all based on some strange chemical order in his brain. What was he looking for, a type? The cockiness, the risqué humor, the takechances attitude, the quiet, secretive nature, the cool, detached air hiding passion and fire, the blue eyes, milky skin, aristocratic face, hypercharged sexuality? Was that all there was, and any variation, male or female, would do?
He couldn't believe it was so cut and dried. It was more than that, had to be. But he knew the very things that drew him to Gillian were now drawing him to Bodie in a way he'd never imagined.
Or was it all just because they'd spent such an intense time together recently, Bodie pulling him out of the deep, dark water of grief he was drowning in? *Why did you leave me to this?* he thought angrily. His fist clenched and smacked the table.
Bodie drew his head back and blinked his eyes twice, then opened them in exaggerated surprise. "What's all this, then?"
Unclenching his fist, Doyle answered slowly. "I guess... I'm angry at her for leaving me. Is that terrible, to be angry with her?" Bodie shook his head in response. "I didn't want her to go to Central America. I thought things were too...violent there. We argued about it. And now, it's like, our last words were harsh words. I can't forget that, and it makes me angrier still. That I never got to tell her I was sorry we fought. It seemed like we did that a lot." Bodie had, in fact, begun calling her terrible temper the spontaneous combustion. She had been known to blow up, stalk out, and not return for hours, sometimes days. The last one had been like that. He paused, searching for something else. "I feel like I'm having a lot of things swooshing around in my brain right now. Conflicting messages."
"Like what?" Bodie asked softly, leaning in. He was wondering if this had to do with the letter. *Mustn't push too hard, though.*
Doyle thought for a moment. *Well, here goes.* "About you and me. About something Gil said, about how close we are. About how much I loved her and how I don't want to just replace her in my life. I miss her so much!" His voice rose sharply on the last note and a number of other drinkers turned to stare at the two men. Ray rubbed the heels of his palms into his eyes.
Bodie stroked a hand lightly over Ray's arm. "I know. I know. It's going to be all right. It will all sort itself out." A pause, in which he thought, *oh you little minx, you really did do it, didn't you? You told him.* "What did she say?"
"I can't explain it." He looked down at the table, drawing a shaky hand over his eyes. "You...you'd have to see it...for yourself. Read the letter, I mean." Huge green eyes that held all the promise and pain of love stared up into Bodie's.
"D'you want me to? Is that really what you want?" He took his hand away, and under the table put it gently on Ray's left hand, which rested on a knee. "You can decide to turn back, if that's what you want. I can pretend we never had this conversation."
"No." Doyle shook his head, the long grey and auburn waves floating loosely around his lovely face.
*Right now,* Bodie thought, *I know I have never seen anything so heartshatteringly beautiful as this face.* "C'mon then, let's go back to the house."
The two stood up to leave, stepping out of the smoky bar and into the warm air of early summer. For Bodie, the darkness was alive with color and light.
As they walked, Doyle wondered if she had always known something about him, about them, that he couldn't see. It had completely slipped his mind until last night, the time he had first seen the knowing look on her face. She'd come round a corner of Doyle's flat; she was staying with him at the time, just back from Africa. Bodie had said something to egg him on, and Doyle had leapt upon Bodie, beginning a friendly tussle that involved much flailing of limbs. He had looked up suddenly, half his shirt being pulled off by Bodie, the other man's body turning under him in order to flip him over. Gil was simply standing there, arms folded across her chest, the slow smile that was her trademark inching her lips upward.
Doyle froze, embarrassed at being caught out like a schoolboy by the headmaster. Bodie looked up, then quickly stood and smoothed out his shirt. She had looked at Bodie for some time, the smile turning into a grin, then outright laughter. Finally she turned her gaze to Doyle, shook her head and walked back around the corner. "Boys will be boys."
Oh, I bet you thought that, Doyle now said to himself. *You were thinking this whole thing through even then!* He shook his head, a laugh beginning to bubble up inside him. *Even from the beginning you were plotting this out.*
Not that it should have surprised him, Ray realized. He'd always liked Gillian's tendency to rile people. When he'd thought about it, it was something he'd been drawn to in any of the people he stayed around for longer than a few days. He'd liked Ann's combative disagreement when no one else had, and had been amused by Anita's nervy prickliness; of course, the girlfriends who didn't last longer than a date or two always had that air of helplessness or girlishness about them, were too sweet or agreeable. And there was his relationship with Bodie, he thought as he watched him walk beside him -- his verbal sparring partner, his match in sarcasm and explosiveness. Obviously, no matter what he liked to admit, there was a pattern in his life.
He had enjoyed watching the changes in Bodie over the past few years. Bodie had learned to open up, to give more of himself to people than just his cynicism and goofy humor. Part of it, Ray assumed, was his own friendship with Bodie, the way Bodie felt about him. But he would also attribute it to the trust necessitated by Cowley for the organization, that made him more willing to give something back to those he knew. And knowing Gillian hadn't hurt -- it was as though Bodie had become aware of his own closed disposition by seeing it mirrored in her, and he had matured into someone more open because of that awareness.
At Doyle's house, Bodie felt such tension in the air it far and away exceeded the nerves he often had on stakeouts or bodyguard duty. Much more was at stake here, he thought wryly, than someone's life.
Doyle threw keys down and went to the kitchen to pour another drink.
"Maybe you should make that coffee, mate," Bodie said with softness. Doyle's hand, suspended in midair with a bottle, stopped, then he put the bottle down.
"Yeah, probably a good idea." While he began making coffee Bodie noticed something large and white out of the corner of his eye, something he'd never seen before.
"What's this? Mind if I look?" But he was already picking up the oversized sketchpad before Doyle could respond.
He lifted the cover before realizing he might be stepping in private territory. On the top page was a charcoal drawing of Gillian. Bodie sat down hard on the floor, staring at it. "My God, Ray, it's beautiful. You did this?"
Doyle handed him a steaming mug. "Yeah. A long time ago. Thinking of framing it."
"You should," Bodie said admiringly. "It's really lovely, Ray. It captures everything about her."
It was from the arms up, in front of a typewriter, one hand moving through upswept hair that refused to stay in its trappings, tendrils falling on her face and neck. The eyes looked off to the left, obviously concentrating on something far away. A pencil was nestled in the hair above one ear, and her lips were parted slightly, as though she might say something at any moment. The strokes were bold but faded lightly into the edges of the picture. Bodie had seen some of Doyle's paintings before, a few figure sketches, but never one like this.
"I took a quick snap once when she wasn't looking, with one of those instant camera thingies. She was furious right after I did it. Writing that book about the shooting."
Lips curling into an ironic smile, Bodie said, "That was so typical of her. Don't waste money on a headshrinker dealing with your problems because you've been shot; just write a book about it and get over it that way."
"Was a good book though, wasn't it?"
Bodie smiled at him and shook his head slightly. They were sitting next to each other now on the floor, the sketchpad on Bodie's lap. "Trust you, Sunshine. You and your scruffy clothes, your stories about your tearaway childhood, your playing at being some yob who'd as soon beat you up as look at you. And who do you marry but an author?"
Doyle smiled down at the sketch.
"How did you know, Ray?" Bodie asked, suddenly serious and quiet. "How did you know when she was the one?"
"Dunno. I guess... I guess it was the morning after our first night together. She could see my scar in the light. She touched it ever so slightly, and then she just said, "That looks like it was very painful for you." That was it. No questions about how or why. And I s'pose I was thinking, *she fits right in.* Just like no one in CI5 would think to question you about stuff like that. They would accept you as you are and move along. You have never asked me about my cheekbone. No one there has. And there she was, just accepting that what I did was painful and yes, dangerous, but it was okay. Almost like...you would."
Bodie turned the page of the sketch book and looked at another drawing of Gil, then turned the next page and sucked in his breath sharply. A black and white sketch, all shadow and light, of him. The tight cap of wavy dark hair, the downcast eyes, almost closed, his head bent slightly as though considering something of great importance.
He turned his face up towards Ray's, their eyes meeting in fiery impact. Doyle's fingers were pushed against his own lips, his face pensive.
"When..."
"Once when we were on surveillance. You were so tired. I couldn't get the image out of my mind, the way you were lit from the street. It was beautiful."
Bodie stared at him, heart shattering in a million pieces and carried away on dove's wings. He couldn't speak, but he wanted to cry. He had never imagined anyone seeing him this way. Finally Ray got up, extended a hand. "Come on upstairs. Something you should see." Bodie followed him, fingers faintly touching Doyle's, held near him as though on some fine silver thread, and with his eyes glistening with too many teardrops.
In the bedroom, Ray dug around in the chest of drawers until he found the letter, and sat down on the floor next to the bed. Bodie flopped, stomach down, on the bed, his head nearly even with Doyle's. The scent of Ray next to him made Bodie slightly giddy. *Steady old son,* he told himself. *Don't go losin' it now.* For a while Ray played with the envelope, then finally took out the letter and handed it to Bodie without looking at him.
The darker man read for some time, carefully and without comment, before handing the letter back to his partner. *Vixen,* he thought. *You always liked to make trouble.*
They were both silent. Bodie's arms were starting to ache dully from supporting himself on his elbows, but right now, nothing would make him move short of a gun to his head.
"How did you know, Bodie? When did you know I was the one?" He said it very cautiously, being sure that Bodie would not think he was mocking his earlier words.
"Dunno." This Bodie said almost lightly, trying desperately to anchor his heart from flying away again. Doyle half turned then, looked at him slightly sideways. Their faces nearly touched. "I suppose it was from the beginning. But I only confronted it when you were shot. Ray, I'm not some fainting flower who pines away for you. You're my best mate, the closest friend I've ever had. I wouldn't jeopardize that for the world."
Now Doyle stood, putting the letter back on the dresser and beginning to pace around the room. Bodie flopped over onto his back, head dangling off the side of the bed. He watched Ray, slightly upside down, his eyes shifting to follow the other man's path.
"Didn't it bother you? Feeling...that way about...a man?"
Bodie shook his head. "Well, at first I wondered what the hell got into me. But look. I've been around the block a few times. I've done things... well, let's just say that when you spend a lot of time with men in a jungle there's not much nature still has to teach you."
Doyle stopped pacing and stared at him. "And it doesn't bother you." This was not a question. Bodie's calmness, his utter casualness about this whole subject unnerved Doyle tremendously.
"One thing does. It's the idea of loving someone so much you'd stand in front of a bullet for them. It's contrary to everything I've taught meself. Sex with another man, who cares. I've been there and done that. But loving another man, loving *anyone*...well, that makes it a different equation."
Shaking his head to clear it, he turned over and stood up. Then he walked to where Doyle stood rooted to the carpet. "You're a couple years older than I am. I thought you're supposed to know everything," he said in his black velvet voice. A smile played across Bodie's lips, and he cocked an eyebrow at Ray. Then he put one hand up to the side of Ray's face, smoothing his thumb over and over the flawed cheekbone. If there was anything more breathtaking in the world than those catlike green eyes, Bodie didn't know what it could be. "It's been only a few months, Ray. You'll not be over this for a long time." His fingers played music on Ray's skin.
"I'm not going to lie to you. I'd give my life tomorrow for just one night to love you, to hold you and touch you in the way I've always dreamt it. And don't think I haven't dreamt it. But you're grieving, I'm grieving, and I'm not going to take advantage of it no matter how tempting. If something happens to change how you feel about me, I'll be the happiest man on earth. But it has to be when you're capable of making those decisions, when your view isn't colored by your feelings for Gil. And if you don't change your mind, then that's okay. I won't jeopardize this partnership -- I've done it this long, I can keep up doing it."
Then he leant forward and brought his lips to Ray's full mouth, gently pressing his heated skin against Ray's. Every muscle in his hard, strong body was clenched, fighting against the trembling that wanted to overtake him.
Ray drew into the kiss, parting his lips to let Bodie's strong mouth control him. Quivering with fear, and what he was beginning to recognize was desire, he moved a hand up to place it on Bodie's waist. His fingers clutched at the black cotton of Bodie's poloneck, wishing he were connecting with skin instead.
Then Bodie pulled his ripe mouth away, moist and nearly red from the pressure of Doyle's own voluptuous lips. Ray opened his eyes to stare at Bodie's face, the eyes shuttered closed against him. Bodie was reeling, using all his skill to stay on his feet. He brought both hands up to cup Ray's wide-open, trusting face. His fingers laced through the silken waves of Ray's hair, sending tremors through the other man's body. Ray suddenly, joltingly, brought both arms up to circle around Bodie's, clutching him tightly. Bodie sank his face into the soft, scented hair, breathing heavily and creating a mist of condensation around his mouth.
"I love you, Ray. I always have done and I always will." He brought his face forward, sapphire eyes locked on green flame. "In your time, come to me. I can wait."
And he kissed the exquisite mouth again, lightly, soft butterfly kisses over each inch of lip, kissed the flawed cheekbone; and then Bodie went from the house, leaving Ray standing there spinning from a tornado of emotion and raw hunger he thought had left him, buried with his wife.
End Chapters 4 to 6