Doyle hated feeling like this, the tight constriction around his chest, the panicked sensation of being unable to breathe, the muscles in his throat straining to get air flowing into his lungs. It felt too much like being shot, bringing back the hazy, terrifying memory of losing control of his body and the inability to make his limbs obey his order to move.
Yes, it was a lot like being shot only this time, instead of milk and blood soaking into his clothes, it was mud. Oozing into his ears, plastering his hair to his head, seeping beneath the edges of his clothing, it was black and cold and thick enough to keep his body buoyant but thin enough to drip into the corner of his mouth. His chest ached from the impact of the ball but he knew there wasn't any real damage done—unless he counted the possibly irreparable damage done to his dignity.
It didn't help that Bodie was standing less than five feet away, no doubt untouched by any mud splatter that was impertinent enough to fly his way. Though Doyle's eyes remained closed as he concentrated on getting his breath back, he could easily imagine the expression on Bodie's face. Initial concern would quickly give way to a grin that in turn would be swallowed by a look of mild interest that would be at odds with the wicked gleam in the dark blue eyes.
"Ray."
Doyle stifled a groan. He knew that tone of voice, almost meek in its delivery, disguising the amusement that Ray knew lurked beneath the surface. This was going to serve as fodder for Bodie's inventive sense of humour for weeks unless Doyle figured out a way to defuse the situation immediately.
The pain in his chest receded and Doyle drew in a careful breath. When it didn't devolve into a fit of coughing, he peeled open his eyes, annoyed that the mud in his eyelashes had dried enough to make it difficult. The sun was slanting low across the horizon to shine in his eyes and as he raised a hand to shield his face, a large dollop of mud landed on his nose.
"Ray?"
"Shut it, Bodie. Not one fucking word."
"Right. I'll just wait over here."
It took far more effort that Ray had expected. The mud clung to his back and shoulders like glue, weighting him down as he struggled into a sitting position, the obscene sucking noises accompanying this difficult feat garnering a smothered chuckle from Bodie that Ray chose to ignore.
He hadn't minded this assignment, not really, but that hadn't stopped him from whinging to Bodie the entire drive to Larkhill. Ongoing anti-terrorism training with other departments was an important part of their job, but rarely did it take them outside of the friendly confines of London. For Bodie, it was a homecoming, having trained at the Royal School of Artillery many years earlier, but for Ray, it meant bad food, lumpy cots, ungodly wake-up calls and many highly suspect stories of military heroics. But for all that, it also meant time with Bodie that didn't involve someone shooting at them or the fate of the free world or, most especially, the complications of female companionship.
When, exactly, he'd started marking time by the moments he had Bodie to himself, Ray really couldn't say. It'd been a gradual thing, an unsettled feeling when they were apart, a sense of contentment when they were together. It wasn't something he questioned or even thought about consciously, but the pleasure he received from watching Bodie stomp around the grounds with some of his old mates was undeniable. It was only after manoeuvres had ended for the day and someone had brought out a football that Doyle's peace had been shattered in a very abrupt manner. Comfortably tired from rollicking around the fields in ill-fitting camo, he and Bodie had been heading toward the mess hall and making plans to meet up with the others at the pub in Durrington. Some of the lads had started kicking the ball around and one particularly enthusiastic participant had aimed his kick toward a makeshift goal—and had scored a Doyle, instead.
The ball had caught an unwary Doyle square in the chest and knocked him down a small incline that ended in an impressive pool of mud. His breath had flown out of him in a painful whoosh, which left him able only to acknowledge the muttered apology thrown his way with a limp wave of his hand before the kicker and now mud-stained ball had rejoined the game. A considerably worse for the wear Doyle had been left behind, a snickering Bodie in loyal attendance.
Finally free of the mud's pulling effect on his arms, Doyle squinted up at Bodie, a reluctant smile playing around his lips.
"Yeah, all right," he muttered. He held out a filthy hand in Bodie's direction. "Give us a hand."
Bodie brightened and began to applaud enthusiastically, then faltered at the stare Doyle levelled his way.
"Well, it was a nice block," he offered weakly. He began to extend his hand, then pulled back, a considering look on his face. "Now, Ray, you know I'd do anything for you, but—"
"C'mon, quit messing about. Help me up."
Bodie backed up a few steps, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Trust you with my life, actually, but I'm not so sure you wouldn't use this as an excellent opportunity to get back at me for any number of previous sins."
Doyle sighed and swiped at his cheek with the back of his hand, feeling a smear of wet mud slide over the dirt that had already dried there. The prospect of tossing Bodie into the mud beside him hadn't occurred to him until his partner had brought it up, and any other time it may have had some appeal, but the cold mud was beginning to soak through his camo pants and numb his arse.
"Bodie, I swear I won't—"
"Must be something around here I can use." Bodie turned away, scanning the ground. "A long tree branch should work nicely, or, barring that, I can go back to the barracks and get some rope. Oh, and a Jeep. Should have you sorted in half an hour or so." Then, over his shoulder, "Don't go anywhere."
Doyle wasn't sure what possessed him in that moment and if pressed, would have only expressed admiration for the accuracy of his aim. The actual lump of mud that flew from his hand should've burst apart once airborne, but some reason, it kept its shape, landing with a squishy thud against Bodie's left shoulder and splattering across his neck.
Bodie froze, his hands rolling into fists as Ray watched wide-eyed from the vantage of his mud puddle. Pivoting slowly, Bodie turned back toward Ray, allowing him to get a good view of the chunks of mud decorating his ear and jaw. Suddenly inspired, Ray scrambled to his feet, slipping in the mud as he held out a placating hand, trying to keep the laughter bubbling inside him from escaping.
"Now, Bodie, no need to get angry, yeah? It's just a little mud."
Bodie lifted his hand to his chin and swiped at the sludge dripping on to his shirt. "Just a little mud," he repeated quietly. He looked at Doyle with a gentle smile full of teeth as he began to advance toward the edge of the puddle. Doyle, sensing more than a bit of menace in Bodie's bland expression, started to back up but immediately lost his footing and landed once again on his arse. The slick surface of the puddle acted like a launching pad and before he could prevent it, he slipped forward, his upraised legs connecting with Bodie's ankle and knocking him sideways into the puddle with a gooey splash that coated them both in black mud.
For a moment, there was nothing but early evening birdsong and the faint shouts of the impromptu football game that had moved up the field. Bodie had landed on his side, slightly further down the incline than Ray and angled away so that his left elbow was submerged in the slime. Doyle cleared his throat, desperately trying to suppress the laugh that was begging to be let out.
"Um, Bodie? All right, mate?"
Instead of answering, Bodie rolled onto his stomach with a loud squelch, facing Doyle with an expression that didn't bode well for Ray's immediate future. Ray bit his lip and then smiled, eyebrows raised as he hoped to appease the worst of Bodie's temper.
That smile vanished when Bodie's hand shot out, his cold, wet fingers wrapping around Ray's ankle and dragging him down. Before he could react, Bodie was straddling him, pinning his wrists into the soggy soil.
"Doyle, you bastard," Bodie gritted out between clenched teeth.
"Bodie," Doyle began, but couldn't continue. Bodie's patrician features were smeared with mud, greatly impeding his attempt to be intimidating. Even with the cold mud that now plastered Ray from ears to toes, the bulk of an irate but equally filthy Bodie easily negated the ferocity of Bodie's reaction and he began to laugh.
Bodie's expression darkened, his grip on Doyle's wrists tightening. Unperturbed, Doyle laughed up at him, making no attempt to free himself. Within seconds, Bodie was fighting a smile of his own, the corners of his eyes crinkling with reluctant amusement as he began to snicker before finally giving in to a full-throated roar.
"Damn you, Ray," he gasped. "This isn't funny!"
"Speak for yourself, you great, clumsy oaf!"
Bodie gawped at him. "I'm clumsy?"
"There, you admit it!"
That set them off again and the moment lengthened as their laughter faded away in fits and starts, though their eyes remained locked on each other. Part of Doyle realised that he should've put up more of a fight, but a greater portion of his attention was focussed on the sudden nearness of Bodie's face to his. Bodie's weight was pushing him deeper into the mud but it was also eliminating any space between them, the sticky mud welding their bodies together.
It should've been uncomfortable or even embarrassing, but Ray was strangely intrigued by this moment of enforced intimacy. Having been physical with each other for years, it wasn't Bodie's proximity that was sending little frissons of heat through Ray but the startled, speculative expression in the dark blue eyes as they gazed down on Ray's mouth.
"Reckon we should head back?" Ray whispered. "Before they send out a search party?"
"What?" Bodie lifted his head and blinked at Doyle. "Oh. Right."
They struggled to their feet, more of a hindrance to each other than a help as they fought to remain upright. Bodie was the first to make it to dryer ground and he offered Doyle his hand which was accepted with a shared grin. An hour later they were damp but clean, sharing a table with a raucous group of RAF officers and detailing exploits that grew more improbable as the night wore on. Training resumed the next day and then they returned to London, but Doyle never quite forgot the mud and the hint of something new in Bodie's warm gaze.
"Anyone seen Bodie?"
It was the fifth time Doyle had asked the question in three minutes, in a voice hoarse with fatigue and unspent tension. The man he'd asked, someone on loan from the Yard, nodded his head toward the National Gallery and then turned away, stepping over one of the three plastic-covered bodies that littered Trafalgar Square.
Doyle turned a burning, bleary-eyed gaze toward the Gallery, peering through the red-streaked gloom of pre-dawn toward the solitary figure sitting hunched at the top of the steps. One hand on his hip, he lowered his head and rubbed at his stinging eyes, weariness dragging at every bone. When he looked again, Bodie was still there, head lowered as if oblivious to the carnage that was virtually at his feet. Behind him, Doyle could hear Cowley alternately barking orders and arguing with his MI5 counterpart, both of them trying to find reasons for the disaster that had befallen their teams. Normally, Doyle would be right in there with them, but at that moment, it didn't matter. He knew that sooner or later they'd suss out the explanation—a grass gone rogue, a leak in someone's department—but right now, he had only one responsibility, and that was the condition of his partner.
Throwing back his aching shoulders like a man about to do battle, he strode across the rainswept square, through icy droplets of fountain water that the breeze caught up and tossed like sharp-edged pebbles. Taking the steps as quickly as his bruised muscles would allow, he reached Bodie's side and sat down beside him, the concrete cold and unforgiving to his abused body. Bodie didn't move, his hands hanging between his knees, his eyes now restlessly scanning Trafalgar Square as if searching for someone he recognized. When he didn't acknowledge Ray's presence, Doyle gave him a gentle nudge with his shoulder.
"All right, Bodie?"
Bodie's eyes flicked toward him, then went back to staring at the scene below them. Doyle didn't push—he didn't know what had upset Bodie, but he knew that patience often worked better with his partner than an out and out interrogation.
A few minutes passed, then Bodie let out a soft grunt.
"Does it hurt?"
Doyle started to lift his hands toward his neck and the circle of burns and bruises that decorated his throat, then stuffed them in the pockets of Bodie's borrowed leather jacket.
Shrugging, Doyle pretended to join Bodie in his ongoing observation of the mop up across the Square. "Yeah."
"You need to see a—"
"Forget it," Doyle growled, then softened his tone. "What are we doing up here, anyway? Cowley's going to go spare if we're not there for the post mortem—"
"Fuck Cowley."
Doyle carefully turned his head to stare at Bodie. The flat tone of Bodie's voice told him that whatever it was going on in Bodie's head, it was bad, but Ray couldn't tell if it was the debacle of this night's work or something else that had Bodie so tense.
They'd been separated for most of this operation, with Doyle working undercover and Bodie assigned to work as liaison between the various departments involved. It'd been a gruelling two weeks for Doyle, who'd had to walk a fine line playing his role—a drug-addicted dock worker with terrorist connections—while maintaining contact with his CI5 handler. Something had gone wrong the night before and Ray's cover had been blown, and for the first time in a long time, he'd feared for his life. Grabbed from his undercover apartment wearing only a ripped under shirt and jeans, he'd been trussed up with rope and tossed into the back of a lorry, his only hope that someone on his side knew what the hell had happened.
In the end, someone had, resulting in a chase through the empty London streets that had terminated at Trafalgar Square, with the lorry carrying Doyle overturning and crashing into the steps of St. Martin-in-the-Fields. He'd had no idea what was happening, trying desperately to follow the sound of gunfire as he lay as flat as he could inside the lorry. He'd barely had time to realise that the noise had stopped before there was a loud crash, followed by the sliding door of the lorry being wrenched aside by a white-faced Bodie.
The bodies scattered across the Square had told their own story. Ray had accepted the offer of Bodie's jacket after he'd been untied but shrugged off his helping hand once he'd crawled out onto the street, heartsick and angry at the loss of life. His kidnappers were both dead, as well as an MI5 man, and all the work they'd put into the last weeks was irretrievably lost.
None of which really explained the silent rage pouring off of Bodie as they sat together on the National Gallery steps, a grey, hazy dawn blotting the sky in the east. Doyle had survived worse and so had Bodie, but this was different. He'd rarely seen Bodie like this, this cold, granite-edged fury that turned his eyes to ice. He was on the verge of trying to get Bodie to move when Bodie stood up and ran down the steps, directly toward a man who'd just shown up to the scene. His muscles having stiffened up from the brief rest, Doyle had just made it back on his feet when he watched Bodie grab hold of the man's suit coat lapels and shove him against the car. Before any of the other agents or Cowley could reach him, Bodie cocked his fist and smashed it into the man's face.
That got Doyle's feet moving and he ran down the steps, his only goal to reach Bodie as quickly as possible. Shoving aside the gathering crowd, Doyle found Bodie held fast by Cowley, who was yelling at Bodie to stand down as he dragged him away from the other man, who was in turn being restrained. Doyle didn't spare his bloodied face more than a glance as he advanced on a still struggling Bodie. Placing himself squarely in Bodie's path, he waited until Bodie finally looked at him, the anger fading from his eyes to be replaced with an emptiness that scared Doyle more than the blind rage.
"Bodie! What the hell's wrong with you?" He glanced at Cowley, who nodded sharply and released his hold on Bodie's arm, though he stayed close. "Who is he?"
"Kramer there," Bodie spat, "is the reason you ended up wearing a rope necklace."
Doyle whirled to stare at the other man. "What?"
"S'not true!" Kramer yelled back. "Cowley, get your man under fuckin' control!"
Bodie lunged at Kramer and Doyle placed his hands on Bodie's chest to shove him back. "Wait, Bodie! Listen to what he has to say!"
"It was an accident," Kramer continued more calmly, "a slip of the tongue about Doyle's fake background. We didn't think they'd notice—"
"But they did, didn't they?" Bodie sneered. "Now three men are dead!"
"Bodie, that's enough!" Cowley stepped into the fray as everyone started talking at once. His sharp voice rang through the noise, stilling it instantly. Into the silence, he spoke quietly to Bodie as Ray stood by, ready to tackle his partner to keep him out of trouble.
"Listen to me, Bodie. We'll get to the bottom of this but right now, you've got an injured partner who should've been taken to Casualty an hour ago." Doyle started to baulk at that, but bit his lip instead as Cowley continued. "If you feel you are unable to provide that service, I'll have someone else take Doyle in."
Bodie was still staring daggers at Kramer, but Cowley played it well, going so far as to gesture toward another agent before Bodie relented. He gave Cowley a weary nod before gathering Doyle with a glance and a jerk of his head toward his car.
Half an hour later, Doyle was keying the lock to his front door, a silent Bodie behind him. Once in the car, he'd told Bodie he'd no intention of seeking medical assistance and Bodie hadn't argued, a flash of humour in his eyes telling Ray he knew that Cowley had used Doyle's minor injuries as a diversion. Then the anger returned, communicated by the sharp movements Bodie used to manoeuvre the Capri through the quiet streets to Doyle's Chelsea flat.
He'd just tossed his keys onto the counter when he felt Bodie's hands fall heavily on his shoulders. The unusual touch startled him and he froze, waiting to see what this unpredictable Bodie would do next. The gesture wasn't uncommon, any more that a friendly arm slung around his shoulders on occasion, or the infrequent and teasing pat on his bum, but this was anything but a casual touch.
Feeling the tug of fabric across his shoulders, Doyle realised that Bodie wanted him to remove his jacket. Lifting his arms, he allowed Bodie to slide the jacket away, understanding instinctively what was coming next. As the jacket flew past him to land on a nearby chair, Ray turned to face Bodie, the bright red abrasions circling his neck and wrists now in plain sight.
"See?" he said with a small smile. "No real damage."
Bodie ignored him, his eyes narrowing as he inspected the raw skin of Doyle's throat. A single finger was raised to the abused skin, ghosting over the burns but not touching. Doyle stood still through the examination, finding himself caught up in the same strange spell that seemed to hold Bodie captive. This wasn't how they ended any op, good or bad. This wasn't how they dealt with the bruises and the blood and the fear that shadowed their days and nights. To show this kind of vulnerability was a line they rarely crossed, the bending of an unspoken vow to never care so much that it broke you inside.
And right now, Bodie was nearly broken, and Doyle knew he had to fix him. Unless he found a way to take that fear and channel into something manageable, Doyle would lose him.
"Bodie," he said gently, "there's a jar in the loo, under the sink."
Bodie looked up. "What?"
"Get it for me?"
"Yeah. Yeah, sure."
Bodie moved past him and Doyle closed his eyes. He was just about to step toward the cabinet that held his liquor when he felt the lightest touch at the back of his neck, well above the welts caused by the chafing rope. It was so fleeting he was almost sure he'd imagined it but for the telling creak of the floorboard as Bodie turned to walk down the hall.
Doyle swallowed and looked around, almost panicked. He wanted desperately to get them back on their normal footing, to get some kind of typical Bodie response to the situation, because the alternative meant dealing with something Doyle wasn't sure he could handle.
The truth of it was he knew exactly why Bodie was reacting this way. Helplessness, fear, anger—potent, dangerous emotions that came with the job and could be diffused in a myriad of different outlets, but this was different. This long, tragic night had broken down the last of the walls they'd pretended existed between them, the final barrier that had separated partners and friends from something much more.
That's when it clicked for Ray, when the scales of denial fell away from his eyes. Bodie had every reason to believe that Doyle had died in that lorry, and finding him alive had made him more vulnerable than ever. Had their positions been reversed, Ray would've reacted much the same, willing to strike out in anger instead of facing the truth of what his partner's death—or life—meant to him.
Hearing Bodie's heavy tread returning from the bathroom, Ray turned to face him, suppressing a fond smile at the picture Bodie presented. His tough, pragmatic partner had the jar of ointment in one hand, a wet cloth in another, and a dry towel draping his shoulder. It looked as though he'd taken the opportunity to get a grip on his emotions as he set everything aside before turning to Doyle, crossing his arms over his chest.
"Right, let's get this over with. Where d'you want to start, wrists or neck?"
"Neither." Doyle let his smile break through and held out his hand. "I've got another suggestion."
Warily, Bodie took Ray's hand, glancing at the wounds on his wrist before giving his fingers a tentative squeeze. "Yeah?"
With a deep breath and a prayer aimed toward the heavens, Doyle gave the hand in his a firm tug.
"Yeah."
It was a breath of cool air against the bare skin of his back that nudged Ray toward sleepy awareness. He fought against it for only a moment before blinking his eyes open to stare into the darkness, years of waking in strange beds allowing him to quickly orient himself. He was alone—momentarily, he was sure—in a bed that he'd rarely left since he and Bodie had arrived in Yorkshire.
He suppressed a groan as he rolled over toward the middle of the bed, pulling the blanket over his shoulders as he settled his head more deeply in his pillow. The cottage was a small vacation rental, consisting of one room that served as lounge and kitchen, a tiny bedroom and an even tinier bath. Ray could hear Bodie in the other room though no lights were on, and as his eyes drifted shut, Doyle idly wondered what his partner was up to in the middle of the night.
A dip in the bed beside him and a quick shuffling of the blanket announced Bodie's return, and before his head had even touched his pillow, Ray was reaching for him. He didn't want to start anything—wasn't sure if he could, to be truthful—but since the moment they'd become lovers, the freedom to touch Bodie had gone to his head like strong drink. Learning and relearning every slope and surface of Bodie, from his sturdy toes to the top of his sleek head, had become Ray's greatest obsession and deepest joy.
The fact that Bodie suffered these intimate examinations and constant caresses with more than just good grace wasn't lost on Ray, and that was another piece of the vast and growing contentment that Doyle carried inside him like a cherished secret. For as much as he loved touching Bodie, as much pleasure as he found in making love with him or sharing the morning paper after a night together, it had become blazingly obvious that Bodie more than returned the sentiment.
In retrospect, Ray should've known that once unleashed, Bodie's affections would be all-encompassing. In public, he was no more demonstrative than he'd been before, his touches affectionate, matey, teasing, and light. In private, when the world was shut away and it was just the two of them, Bodie was the consummate lover, his dedication to Ray's pleasure also bordering on obsession. The passion that inspired both men to be the best at what they did professionally was multiplied many times over in the passion that was now between them as they wove themselves together both physically and emotionally.
The road to this careworn cottage near the moors hadn't been smooth. The introduction of sex into their relationship had not been without its land mines as they'd negotiated their way through the tricky paths of this new and often frightening world. Things that would've seemed to be apparent—the forsaking of other relationships, the decision to inform Cowley, the expectation of a future together—became fraught with misunderstanding and unexpected opportunities to hurt. More often than not, once tempers had cooled and reason reigned once more, they would discover that they'd both wanted the same thing all along, but pride and the reluctant release of the fears that had held them back kept getting in the way. That two men who trusted each other so deeply could get this so wrong so often was a revelation to Doyle and he was coming to understand that he'd never worked so hard at a relationship—but the stakes had never been so high.
Now wide awake, Ray waited while Bodie arranged their limbs until they were comfortably entwined in a loose embrace. Leaning in for a kiss, Ray wasn't surprised to encounter a sticky sweetness on Bodie's mouth. He licked the substance away and smacked his lips before favouring Bodie with a mock glare that was lost in the gloom.
"Those preserves were for our breakfast," he scolded.
Bodie yawned and snuggled closer, his palm spreading warmth where it rested low on Ray's hip. "It is morning," he argued with impeccable Bodie logic, "don't see why I have to wait for a bloody cuckoo clock to tell me when I'm hungry."
Doyle opened his mouth to protest, then thought better of it. "Fine, we have to go into town for supplies anyway. Fancy a hike on the moors after we get back? Some exercise will do us both a world of good."
Bodie tortured his pillow with a pitiful moan, then curled forward to place a kiss on Ray's shoulder. "All right, if that's what you want. No doubt you'll make a suitably tragic Heathcliff, all those curls blowin' in the wind."
"Oi!" Doyle poked Bodie in the ribs. "Heathcliff was a miserable old git who destroyed everything he touched. Probably ate preserves from the jar, just like someone I know."
"Nah, I'm not Heathcliff, either. More of a Rochester, I think."
"Hmm."
"What, you don't agree?"
"Yeah, all right, Rochester. But after the fire."
"Why after the fire?" Affronted, Bodie heaved up on his elbow to frown down at Doyle. "Then he's all scarred and ugly, unlike me, who is most assuredly neither of those things, in case you hadn't noticed."
"Oh, don't worry, you vain fool, I noticed." Doyle looped his arm around Bodie's neck and pulled him close for a kiss that was meant to be conciliatory, but quickly progressed into something else. Despite his earlier observation that arousal was nigh on impossible, his wayward body was having its own say in the matter.
It was a few breathless moments later that Bodie brought the subject back to the forefront. The fact that his mouth was doing deliciously wicked things to Doyle's right nipple didn't hinder him from prodding Ray on his choice of plot points.
"So why after the fire?" he murmured, his breath hot on Ray's skin.
"Hmm? Oh, yeah." Doyle combed his fingers through Bodie's hair, legs falling apart as Bodie journeyed southward. "Think it'd be—oh, Christ, that's good—obvious."
Bodie lifted his mouth from Ray's navel and grinned. "Let's pretend I'm as thick as you like to say and explain it to me."
"All right," Doyle sighed. "But only if you promise to carry on where you left off."
Sliding his hands beneath Bodie's arms, he hauled him up until Bodie was leaning over him so closely that their noses touched.
"Been a while since I saw the film, mind," he murmured, "but if I remember correctly, it was only after he'd almost lost everything that Rochester sussed it all out."
"Sussed what out?" Bodie whispered, eyes wide with expectation.
"The important bits, the parts about honesty, loyalty, love—you know, the usual," he added with a self-concious chuckle before his expression turned severe. "But I swear to God, Bodie, you call me Jane just once and I'll fillet you like a—"
"Yeah, yeah, point taken. You done threatening me? Good." Bodie covered Ray's mouth with his own in a kiss that conveyed his perfect understanding of Doyle's rather astute assessment. From there the literary discussion continued on a less erudite level, their choice of words reduced to a few indecipherable exclamations and a flurry of encouraging moans. A noisy consensus was reached almost simultaneously, followed by peaceful negotiations, heartfelt concessions, and blessed silence.
"Right, now we can start the ascent from here, here, or here."
"Which one is the most difficult?"
"Bodie—"
"Doctor said I needed to get more exercise and that's why you've dragged me to the godforsaken wilds of the Lake District, right? So c'mon, let's have it, do your worst. I'll just sit here and suffer in silence."
Doyle leaned back in his chair, pinning on a look of patent disbelief at Bodie's aggrieved tone. It was hard to take him seriously with a roaring fire at their feet and two drams of fine Scottish whisky holding down the corners of their walking map. They'd just finished a hearty dinner and wandered into the Hiker's Pub to plan for the next day, Bodie's halting step more pronounced as the hours of travel began to take their toll.
Ascending Scafell Pike had been Cowley's idea, one that Doyle had initially dismissed as too hazardous. The doctors had assured them that it wasn't beyond Bodie's capabilities and, as long as they were cautious, it would serve to strengthen and tone the healing muscles in his hip and thigh. It would be slow going, taking twice as long than if they'd been in their prime, but now that they were committed, Doyle was anxious for the new challenge. It also amused him that Cowley, long relegated to a wheel chair and the terror of his retirement villa, still had the ability to make them do exactly what he wanted them to do.
Looking across the table at Bodie, Ray felt his ephemeral annoyance fade away. Bodie, damn him, was ageing well, the grey at his temples only making him more handsome to Ray's affectionate gaze. His enviable bone structure was holding up well beneath the onslaught of middle age, and the blue of his eyes remained as deep and compelling as the day they'd met. And Ray had to admit, as Bodie tipped him a knowing wink, the Bodie he'd loved all these years hadn't changed at all.
Picking up his glass, Doyle took a sip of the whisky, grimacing with pleasure as he let it slide down his throat.
"Wouldn't want you to suffer," he said with a thoughtful frown. "Could always leave you behind, let you sit here by the fire with a blanket on your lap and a pot of warm milk at your side. Might even find the inn's moggy to keep you company."
Bodie's face screwed up with distaste. "You do that, Doyle, and I'll chase your scrawny arse all the way back to London."
"Then quit complaining and help me plan our hike, you lazy git."
That did it, that brought the pout to Bodie's lips even as his eyes glinted with amusement. "M'not lazy, I'm injured, you insensitive sod, and why you think that gives you the right to order me about, I'll never know."
"You gave me the right," Doyle pointed out. He held up two fingers for the barman then leaned across the table with his half-empty glass. "You gave it to me nineteen years ago this September and I'll thank you to remember it."
"Ah, the day Cowley burdened me with a green copper for a partner." Bodie lifted his own glass and touched it lightly to Doyle's. "Yeah, I remember it. I remember it all."
"You got the better end of the deal, mate. I was stuck with an arrogant SAS man who was prettier than my current bird."
"And every bird since?"
"Every one, I swear." He paused, brow furrowing. "'Cept maybe Marge."
Bodie shrugged. "Reckon I can live with that."
They lifted their glasses in a brief salute and then tossed back the contents, no more than a glance needed between them to convey the weight of meaning that hid behind their nonsense. They'd used every one of those nineteen years to build and refine a world comprised of only two, a world often battered by circumstance and invaded by things they couldn't control, yet for all that had stood every test. They hadn't been easy years, especially in the beginning, when the pressures of their job had made their personal commitment nearly impossible at times, but they'd won through and been the stronger for the battle.
The barman came and cleared away their empties, setting down two full glasses in their place. As the whisky began to loosen muscles still tight from the long drive, Doyle's gaze turned to the fire. Beside him—and with charming predictability—Bodie had skewed the map his way and was already muttering over which path they'd take on their first hike. He even dozed for a bit, the warmth from both fireside and spirits lulling him into a lovely state of contentment.
He roused himself when Bodie nudged his elbow. He looked over to see the map had been folded and set aside, his second glass of whisky replaced with a third.
"Drifted off for a bit," he said with a sleepy smile.
"Could see that," Bodie replied indulgently. "Listen."
At first all Doyle could hear was the crackle of the fire and the low conversation the barman was having with another customer. Then he was able to pick it out, the unmistakeable sound of raindrops spattering against the inn's windows.
"Oh, my God," he moaned. He turned a wide-eyed gaze on Bodie, whose grin had more than a hint of mischief to it. "Do you know what that means?"
Bodie rubbed his hands together, nodding happily. "Mud. Lots and lots of mud."
"Bodie," Ray warned, "don't even think about it. For one thing, you've got a bum leg so you've no business rolling around in a mud puddle, and for another—" His voice trailed off when he saw that Bodie was laughing at him. Rolling his eyes in disgust, he picked up his glass and took a sip. "Serve you right if I did trip you into a mud puddle, you mad bastard."
"Yeah, but I'm your mad bastard. As long as you're rolling around with me, don't really care what you trip me into."
The simple statement brought an all too familiar tightness to Ray's throat. Bodie wasn't one for sentimental declarations or flowery language, preferring instead to blindside his partner with offhand remarks that meant more to Doyle than any profound testimonies of undying love.
"All right," he cleared his throat and affected a scowl, "let's see the plan for tomorrow."
"What makes you think I've got it all planned?"
Ray reached over and tapped his finger to Bodie's nose, a fleeting caress hidden in a teasing touch. "As you said, you're my mad bastard, and that means you've picked out all the spots you want to stop for either a snog or a snack."
Bodie shook his head with regret. "A snog will get us arrested, so we'll have to settle for snacks, instead."
They spent the rest of the evening going over the course Bodie had chosen, with Ray putting up token protests at various points just to keep Bodie on his toes. After receiving assurances from the innkeeper that their path would be clear, they retired to the privacy of their small suite, both comfortably mellow with not only the whisky, but with the sum of the years they'd shared together and the love that had found its beginning in a puddle of mud.
Written for the DIALJ Holiday challenge. My prompt was "We Three Kings," where I obviously took my cues from a specific lyric. The four segment titles come from quotes about Stonehenge, Charing Cross Road, Yorkshire, and Scafell Pike.
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