Round Robin - Start

[empty-mirrors.livejournal.com]

The crowd milled, mindless government employees chattered, drinks were supped. Feeling like a cross between a stuffed shirt and a spare groom at a wedding, Bodie worried at his bow tie and tossed a hopeful look at his partner. For two hours they'd suffered the slings and arrows of outrageous speeches, surely no one would miss them if they slipped out now. Duty done. They'd had plans for this evening, and none of them involved the brainless blondes from the Home Office that Doyle was busy chatting up.

Much to Bodie's annoyance, Doyle ignored him. That would never work. If he wanted to Doyle to himself - and the aforementioned plans had included just the two of them in Bodie's bed - he had to at least get Doyle to listen.

In such circumstances, there was only one solution, and that was rhubarb.

Leaning forward, so his chin propped uncomfortably on Doyle's shoulder, Bodie gave the idea a whirl. "Rhubarb."

The conversation ground to a halt as all attention turned his way. Bodie grinned. Mission accomplished. "It's what extras say in crowd scenes," he offered by way of explanation.

Comments

Part two

[veronicaluv.livejournal.com]

Doyle shook Bodie off and turned, propping his shoulders against the darkly paneled walls. His own bow tie had long since been stuffed in a pocket and the top stud of his shirt was undone. To Bodie he looked utterly edible and entirely untouchable, a gleam of unspoken challenge in his green eyes that sang through Bodie's blood and made the world around the two of them fade to insignificance.

"Full of useful information as always, sunshine," Ray murmured with pinpoint disdain. The girls tittered uncertainly and backed away, unconsciously aware that a formidable player had entered the game and had taken the field unopposed.

Bodie only had eyes for Doyle. Though his demeanor remained deceptively casual, to Bodie's watchful eye he saw that Ray was appraising him beneath lowered lashes. It was a slow, sensuous burn of a glance that encompassed Bodie from shined shoes to satin lapels before meeting Bodie's questioning glance with the only answer Bodie would accept.

"Ready?" Bodie reached over and brushed a non-existent speck of dust from Doyle's shoulder.

Ray caught Bodie's fingers and gave them a squeeze before releasing them. Pushing away from the wall, he settled his shoulders and nodded.

Part Three

[callistosh65.livejournal.com]

It was nothing more than a hand in the small of his back, a gesture he’d done a thousand times himself. In and out of a pub, a door, a crowd; he would drift his hand to the small of Ray’s back and keep it there until they were through. A habit; a courtesy, maybe. Nothing more. But that evening, when he felt the press of Ray’s fingers through the cotton and silk on his back, he’d never felt something so electric and full of meaning.

He found himself slowing as they wound their way through the chatter and press of secretaries and suits, wondering if Ray’s hand would slip or stay as he did so. It stayed, warmer and heavier, until they were nearly at the door and a voice said low, but vehemently in his ear.

“Bodie, if you slow down one more step, exchange one more pleasantry, I swear to God, I will de-ball you with a fucking teaspoon.”

As Bodie turned, bemused and appalled in equal measure by just what the hell his partner had meant by that, a commotion in the back of the room caught his attention.

Part four

[myrebelcat.livejournal.com]

There was a ripple through the crowd, bodies pressing back against them just as those behind moved forward. Bodie heard nervous laughter interwoven with insistent questions.

“What’s happening?”

“’Ey!”

“Move over, I can’t see!”

“Oh, god!”

Bodie was tempted to grab Doyle and leave. Almost certainly it was nothing to do with them. Let someone else deal with it.

But Doyle had spun on his heel and was already muscling his way back through the crowd, knocking party-goers to either side irregardless of class or gender. Resigned, Bodie followed in his wake, apologizing to the trampled, outraged souls Doyle had left in his wake.

Abruptly, the crowd cleared, and the cause of the commotion was visible. Bodie reached forward, but his fingers barely brushed Doyle’s shoulder before his partner was in motion again.

He dropped down to kneel beside the body on the floor – and it was clearly a body. No doubt about that, though Doyle was still searching for a pulse. Habit. Ingrained, even when it was obviously pointless.

Bodie looked at white foam on whiter lips and at the bright splash of red wine staining the front of the man’s shirt.

“Poison,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

[faramir-boromir.livejournal.com]

Too many people. Too many suspects. This was one for the Met...unless George Cowley said otherwise, of course. And then Bodie's well-planned evening would be up the spout.

With his eyes, he signalled to Doyle, who began the usual patter--return to your seats, no one leave, no one touch anything until authorities arrive--while Bodie made for a corner and pulled his r/t from a pocket to call one hardened Scotsman with the good news.

[byslantedlight.livejournal.com]

"And what were you two doing at the Pondham-Smythe-Jones residence?" Cowley snapped at Bodie's report, and Bodie could imagine him gesturing to Betty, being handed his coat and hat and briefcase in an efficient bustle of activity, stretching his bad leg after sitting for hours behind his desk. The old bugger was probably pleased as punch to have some excuse to get out.

"We do have some friends outside the squad, sir," he managed in a hurt tone.

"I wouldn't have thought the husband-to-be would approve."

Bodie grinned. "That's a slur on…"

"Whatever you do, don't let MI6 in the building!"

MI6? Bodie winced as Cowley's phone crashed in his ear, and surveyed the room again. He spotted at least two other men, surreptitiously speaking into R/Ts, and one woman with a hand hovering close to what was probably a shoulder holster under her pale linen jacket. A couple of blokes he thought he recognised as MI5 stood eiher side of the door. A high-ups' do like this, and Cowley thought there'd be no one else from the services here?

He sighed. No Met then, and no easy get away this night. Why in hell did this always happen to them? He looked more carefully for Doyle, almost missed him behind the six foot bulk of the dead groom-not-to-be's mother.

[myrebelcat.livejournal.com]

“This is all your fault, you miserable little toad!”

Lady Pondham-Smythe-Jones had a voice like a operatic banshee. Bodie cringed, deeply relieved that her ire wasn’t directed at himself or his partner. His Right Honorable Justice Pondham-Smythe-Jones was a small grey man, who even now appeared to be crumbling under his wife’s assault.

Bodie might have had more sympathy, except that he was currently dealing with an armful of hysterical bride.

“He’s not dead!” she wailed, in blatant denial of the evidence.

Bodie tightened his grip on her struggling form. “There, there,” he said, distracted.

“If you hadn’t involved us in that Pellingham affair!” Lady Pondham-Smythe-Jones burst into tears, collapsing into her husband’s arms. He staggered.

Bodie’s eyes met Doyle’s, over the top of the weeping bride’s head.

“Pellingham?” mouthed Bodie, silently.

He got no answer. There was a commotion at the door, and Doyle was already pushing his way through the crowd. The ambulance men had arrived with the local Met.

Bodie gave the bride a comforting pat, tuning out her wailing. Pellingham had been one of MI6’s high profile cases. Spy games. All over the papers, and Bodie hadn’t bothered to read any of it.

Hopefully, Doyle had.

Part 8

[izzie7.livejournal.com]

Doyle had. He remembered it only too well, and shared the pertinent details in an undertone with his partner as they both leant against the wall watching the dead body being loaded onto a stretcher and the police begin to take down names and addresses. No one was leaving, and Bodie reflected absently that this was probably less to do with the request from the police on arrival than it was to do with the fact that both doors had looming members of the security forces resting against them.

"Viscount Pellingham was an equerry to the Prince of Wales until MI6 discovered he was a bit more than an equerry to the new Cultural Attaché at the Soviet Embassy." Doyle's breath was warm in Bodie's ear, distracting him from the words.

"Seems he may have been feeding information on – Bodie, are you are paying attention?"

"Hm? Yeah, I'm listening. Pellingham – Prince of Wales – Soviets. This isn't really our thing though, is it? Why would Cowley want to keep MI6 out of something like this? Doesn't make sense."

Doyle turned his head slightly and grinned. "Why don't you ask him yourself?" Bodie followed the direction of his partner's gaze, to see a somewhat disgruntled man he guessed to be MI6 moving away from the door he had been pinning shut with his not-inconsiderable weight. Through the reluctantly-granted gap appeared the small powerhouse that was George Cowley.

Part 9

[empty-mirrors.livejournal.com]

One sharp-eyed glare around the room was all it took. The MI6 goon wilted like a pansy on a hot day and the reaction spread like so much weedkiller around the rest of the assembled masses. By the time Cowley had finished, the only ones not inspecting their shoes were Doyle and himself, and Bodie was only half a breath away from following suit. But he was made of sterner stuff. Or possibly stupider stuff.

Pulling himself up by his metaphorical bootstraps, he stood at ease as Cowley approached, aware of the man's gimlet gaze flicking from them, to the body, and then off round the room in search of the culprit.

"Everything's under control, sir," he offered once Cowley got within hearing distance.

All he got in reward was the full force of Cowley's somewhat acerbic tongue.

"Control, 3.7? Not what I would have called it. I thought I said not to admit MI6?"

"Was a bit late, sir," Doyle stuck in, "since they were already here. Looks like half the security services got invited to this shindig."

That caused a slight hiatus as Cowley's eyes narrowed and he took another look around the room. Bodie could almost see the old man's brain churning. Then it came. "You know, Doyle, you might just be right," Cowley said. "But the question remains, if you're going to assassinate someone, why do it in front of so many expert witnesses?"

[byslantedlight.livejournal.com]

"Probably just wanted to get on Crimewatch," Bodie suggested, absent-mindedly watching the curvaceous behind of the ambulance-man-who-turned-out-to-be-a-woman as she bent over to lift one end of the stretcher.

"Eh?" Doyle looked puzzled.

"You know – that programme that was on the other night. "We were watching it when…" He stopped abruptly.

" Och, that travesty?" Cowley hadn't noticed a thing, though Doyle was suddenly smiling directly at Bodie.

"They actually caught someone last year…" Bodie began to protest, stumbling to a halt as their boss raised his eyebrows at him, then glared around the room once more. Bodie turned and muttered in Doyle's ear instead, "They should play it round the clock, we could retire to this private beach I know…"

A size nine foot landed heavily on his dress shoes, and he winced, but Cowley was thoroughly distracted as Lady Pondham-Smythe-Jones, happily recovered and set back on her feet, bore down upon him.

Part 11

[myrebelcat.livejournal.com]

Lady Pondham-Smythe-Jones' tirade was interrupted by a shout across the room.

“Ah, George! Just the man I was looking for!”

Cowley made hasty apologies to Lady Pondham-Smythe-Jones, and hurried through the crowd over to where the Home Secretary was conversing with the directors of MI5 and MI6.

“Was that a look of unfettered relief I saw cross Father’s face?” said Bodie into Doyle’s ear. Doyle’s reply was a sharp elbow in the ribs, silencing him as they stopped behind Cowley.

The Home Secretary cleared his throat. “Well, now. We have a suspicious death on British soil involving a young man of high standing. As well as certain complicating factors of which I know you are aware...”

Cowley nodded.

“This investigation needs to be above reproach, and it needs to be conducted by a neutral third party. I am appointing CI5 as the lead.” The Home Secretary looked pointedly at each of the other two directors. “I expect your agencies to provide their full cooperation.”

The director of MI5 looked outraged. “Sir, I respectfully--.”

“With all due respect!” interrupted the director of MI6.

“That didn’t go over well,” Bodie murmured to Doyle.

“Cowley looks none too pleased, either,” replied Doyle.

[solosundance.livejournal.com]

"I blame you," Bodie said several hours later.

The building was quiet now. Lady Pondham-Smythe-Jones and her miserable little toad had left them to it. More to the point, so had George Cowley.

"I want you two to go through the guest list with a fine-tooth comb," he had said before he left. "And have something on my desk first thing."

"How's that?" Doyle grumbled, feeling it grossly unfair. He was draped over a leather chair in the library with the much-thumbed and scribbled-on list in his hand. Bodie had been prowling around fiddling with artefacts.

"You were the one who had to go and poke his nose in," Bodie said. "We were on our way to paradise up until then."

Doyle's jaw cracked in a yawn. Ah, Paradise. He flapped the pages.

"Political assassination my arse," he said. "It was clearly Colonel Bufton-Tufton in the conservatory with the cocktail shaker."

Bodie's eyes crinkled. He wandered over and planted his hands on the arms of the chair. "Fancy a quick one, Poirot?" He had that glimmer of madness about him that suggested he was very tired.

Doyle opened his mouth to reply when they both heard the sound of a phone ringing mournfully out in the hall.

[myrebelcat.livejournal.com]

“Wrong number,” said Bodie, replacing the handset.

“Yeah?”

“Sounded genuine. Some kid, looking for his Angela. Party sounds in the background.”

“Oh.” Doyle glanced around the dark hall. There was an almost suffocating quality to the silence. He could hear Bodie breathing, and the subtle creak of the floor as he shifted his weight. “Bit creepy, isn’t it?”

Bodie moved behind him, his hands landing on Doyle’s waist. “Old place like this? Got great atmosphere...”

“Sure,” said Doyle, discouragingly. “For a monster movie.” He stifled a yelp as Bodie’s teeth suddenly fastened themselves on the side of his neck. “Gerroff!”

“Ah vant to suck your--,”

“Shut up! I hear something.” There. Down the west hall. Doyle turned blindly, trying to track the subtle sounds. “There’s someone else here...”

“Zombies?” suggested Bodie, cheerfully.

part 14

[callistosh65.livejournal.com]

“Bodie, don’t…just…Christ, listen, will you?”

But the only thing Bodie was interested in taking seriously at that particular point in time was the skin behind Doyle’s left ear. He took full advantage of the fact that Doyle seemed reluctant to shout at him, and consequently found himself body-slammed against the oak panelling.

“Will you bloody be still, you maniac?” Doyle’s head tilted, like a cocker spaniel’s on the hunt, and Bodie thought he’d never seen anything quite so adorable or distracting. Perhaps if he made another noise, Doyle’d press against him a bit more.

He did, and got a hand across his mouth for his pains. And he also got a lean into his pelvis to press it there. He groaned, spontaneously this time, and caught the flicker in Doyle’s composure.

Doyle moved in. “Listen, you cretin. We are on the job, Bodie. On the fucking job. So stop tying me up in knots and…and don’t do that!” Doyle took his hand off Bodie’s mouth. Bodie had licked him.

The grin was unrepentant. “Sorry.”

“Yeah, can see that.” But Doyle was smiling too. “Look, let’s go do as Father says, and get out of-”

This time they both heard it.

Part 15

[crimson-37.livejournal.com]

“What the…”

“Shh!” Ray canted his head to focus on the sound.

Tearing his eyes away from the sight of Ray’s soft neck and re-arranging himself within restrictive clothing, Bodie tried hard to focus on the sound and not on the temptation before him.

“What’s down there?” Ray whispered.

“The study.”

A loud thud sent an eerie echo rippling throughout the inky dark halls.

Feeling the hairs on the back of his neck lift, Bodie’s fingers ran over the butt of his gun just inside his jacket.

Ray looked back, his eyes wide. “I don’t like this.”

“Come on.” Moving off, Bodie drew his gun and silently led the way down the dark corridor.

Either side of the doorway now, their eyes met in what little light there was. The vibration of each thud resonated through the wooden door.

Counting back silently together, Bodie kicked it open, as Ray threw himself into a roll coming up on his knees just inside the room, ready to fire.

Books littered the floor, but there was no one there. Both sets of eyes met in confusion, then as one, were drawn to the net curtain as it billowed in the breeze.

[byslantedlight.livejournal.com]

Doyle was the first to reach it, brushing the fabric aside to let in the moonlight as he gazed out, and he was the first to slide through, elegant as shadows, into the night. Bodie followed, caught a glimpse of movement by the distant corner of the house at the same time as Doyle did, and then they were off, footsteps hard on the frost-white ground, breath streams of cloud in front of them.

He laid a hand on Doyle's shoulder as they reached the corner, not wanting him to career madly around into death-waiting, and Doyle glanced back, the light of the chase in his eyes. Mad bastard was enjoying himself.

"My turn," Bodie whispered, pulling his partner back so that he could inch cautiously around the edge of the brickwork, the muzzle of his gun leading the way.

All was still.

"Bloody 'ell!" he managed. He felt Doyle lean up against him, so close that their faces were nearly touching, and for no reason he knew, he wanted to pull back into that safe, soft warmth.

The cemetery fanned out in front of them, a soaring scape of slabs and tombs and columns, stone angels at flight, and graves chained to the earth.

And the moon laughed down above them.

Part 17

[myrebelcat.livejournal.com]

“There!” said Bodie suddenly. He used his pistol to point, and Doyle followed the line of his arm to see something dart silently behind the statuary.

One shared glance, and then together they charged. The spooky atmosphere of the graveyard receded. Monuments and mausoleums became simple terrain. The darkness shielded them, and the moon created shifting shadows to throw off the enemy’s aim.

Bodie ducked under the spreading wings of a larger than life-sized stone angel. “Halt!”

His target dove sideways. Bodie heard a grunt and a thud. Rounding the wall of a tomb, he found Doyle on the ground grappling with the man – who appeared to be making a surprisingly good account of himself.

Bodie jammed the nose of his Browning under his target’s ear. The man froze, the heel of his palm half an inch from Doyle’s nose. Then, slowly, he sat back on his heels and lifted his hands.

Doyle climbed to his feet, dusting himself off. “All right, who the hell are you? And what are you doing sneaking around here in the middle of the night?”

“I vas not sneaking!” replied their prisoner in a heavy Russian accent. “Und I do not appreciate being man-handled!”

Re: Part 17

[empty-mirrors.livejournal.com]

"You're not being man-handled, you're getting nicked," Doyle retorted.

"You cannot do that."

"Try me." Handcuffs appeared from nowhere - Bodie really hadn't a clue where Ray kept them in those jeans - and were jangled in front of the Russian's nose. "Answer the ruddy question."

"I have diplomatic immunity."

"Prove it."

"I demand that you contact my embassy!"

As tempting as it was to stand back and enjoy the Doyle and prisoner show, the old man would probably prefer they got this one back in one piece. Bodie put a restraining hand on Doyle's chest. "Look, just tell us what you're doing creeping around in a graveyard at this time of night and maybe we'll have a good reason to let you go," he tried.

The Russian seemed to deflate. "You vould not believe me if I told you."

"Try us." Bodie kept his eyes and his gun barrel firmly fixed on the prevaricating prisoner. Or he did until Doyle, who had wandered away a couple of steps, called out, "Erm… Bodie?"

"What." It was a snap. He was busy here. Couldn't Doyle see that?

"Bodie… Some of these graves are empty."

Part something...

[myrebelcat.livejournal.com]

Bodie felt a chill crawl up the back of his neck. He shook it off, mentally ordering the small hairs to stand down. “Since when have the Russians gone into grave-robbing? Hey?”

The man answered him with dignity. “Obviously, I did not steal vhem. Unless you see them concealed about my person some-vhere?” He lifted his arms away from his sides, causing Bodie to raise his gun sharply.

“What’s your name?” Doyle demanded.

“I vill give you my identification?” asked the man, gesturing carefully towards his inside pocket.

“Don’t move!” His gun still trained on the Russian, Bodie reached forward with two fingers to pull his jacket open. As Doyle extracted a slim leather ID case, Bodie said, “What do you want the bodies for? Are you lot experimenting on British citizens?”

“Vhy don’t we go inside? I vill explain everything. You vill believe me, or you vill not.”

The Russian was sounding entirely too reasonable. “I say we take him straight to Cowley,” said Bodie. “He was after something in that house. And there might be more Reds here somewhere.” He glanced around the graveyard, uncomfortably.

It felt like they were being watched. And not in a friendly way.

[asymphototropic.livejournal.com]

"Please to understand. I am scientist. Not diplomat. Not, how you call it, spook?"

"Except that you were haunting a graveyard. Rather spooky, you ask me," Bodie ran his fingers across the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache forming there.

They were seated at a tiny rustic table in a kitchen of vast dimensions. Doyle had scared up some tea bags. Probably for the convenience of the servants. Unimaginable that the regular upstairs inhabitants would drink of any offering so very plebeian.

Bodie was surprised to note, his partner's hostility already had melted into sympathetic interest.

"It is molecular biology, this problem. Oh, not my invention, I do assure you, citizens. I am 'clean up person', you understand, da? A virus, very subtle, very complex. It acts on each individual, different ways. Sometimes, death is like flu that progresses to pneumonia. Sometimes sudden heart problem, or clotting to look like stroke. And sometimes, death looks like..."

"Poisoning!" Doyle's excitement was tangible, his green eyes brilliant with enlightenment.

[myrebelcat.livejournal.com]

Bodie didn’t want to hear about molecular biology and mysterious viruses made him itchy. He just wanted to know where the bloke came from! But Borislav Putin, a short, dark-haired man in a cheap, ill-fitting Eastern European suit, took that simple question as an excuse to regale them with his life story.

“My fvather vas Russian, my mudder was Transylvanian, but I vas raised in a Hungarian orphanage...”

And Doyle was encouraging the little git!

“Well, that explains the mishmash of accents,” said Doyle. He took another sip of his tea, and leaned forward with an interested expression. “So, about this virus...”

Bodie thought sourly, It’s his pet Russian. First time he’s ever caught one in the wild.

“No, but I vent to Cambridge! I barely have any accent, da?”

“Da, comrade,” said Bodie. “The point is what the hell were you doing sneaking around in the study at--.” He checked his watch. “3:17 in the bloody morning!”

“Study? I vas not in study! I vas in graveyard!”

“We heard you!”

All three of them looked up as a loud thud sounded above their heads.

Shit, thought Bodie.

Borislav smiled. “It appears ve are not alone...”

[crimson-37.livejournal.com]

Stirred into action, they raced upstairs. Stopping to press up against the wall either side of the door. Bodie tested the handle and watched as it swung open slowly. Turning into the doorway, he stealthily crept into the room, gun poised ready to kill. Peering around in the seemingly empty room, lit only by shafts of moonlight streaming in through the bare window, he wondered what lurked in the darkness. Bodie reached out a hand to flick on the light switch, catching movement out of the corner of his eye; then all hell broke loose.

As Bodie had turned something dark and feral pounced onto his head and scratched at his face trying to make it‘s getaway. Finally getting a hold on the slippery creature he threw it to the floor. It yowled loudly and set off at speed through the doorway, hissing at Doyle as it passed.

“Vladimir!” Shouted Borislav, trying to grab the animal before it shot down the stairs.

Ray lifted his partner’s head to the light to examine the large scratch that streaked down one cheek. “You know that beast?” He asked the Russian, not taking his eyes off of Bodie, using his hanky to staunch the flow of blood.

“Da. It vas part of the experiment.”

Part 22

[solosundance.livejournal.com]

"So how do you feel now?" Doyle asked for about the fourteenth time.

"Like I want to rip out Vladimir's whiskers," Bodie growled, leaning his cheek into yet another wad of gauze.

Doyle's face was pale as moonlight.

"Has that bloody cat poisoned him?" he demanded.

"Is not my problem," Borislav said apologetically.

"I'll make it your problem, comrade .." Doyle started, but Bodie reached up and pawed at the back of his shirt.

"Leave it," he said. "Do me a favour, will you?"

Doyle raked a hand through his hair. "What?"

Bodie gave a rather feeble smile. He actually felt like he'd had rather too much bordeaux and several large cocktails. Which he had. "Get us a saucer of milk?"

[myrebelcat.livejournal.com]

Doyle whipped around to stare at Bodie with open alarm. It took a moment for Bodie’s smirk to register, and then Doyle’s expression shifted to disgust.

“You berk!”

Bodie was unrepentant. “The way you’re acting, mate, you’d think I’d been savaged by a werewolf, not clawed by some mangy stray cat.”

“And if it’s carrying the virus?” snapped Doyle.

He had no answer for that. But sitting around belly-aching about it wasn’t going to solve anything. “What’s your pet Ruskie up to now?”

Borislav was prowling around the bookshelves in the study, moving volumes and knocking on the paneling.

“Hey!” said Doyle, sharply. “Those aren’t yours.”

“The description vas quite clear,” said Borislav, calmly. “Is just matter of… finding correct…,” He pushed three books to the side and pressed on the back of the shelf. There was a creak, and his hand sank into the wall. “Ah!”

Bodie watched with astonishment as the bookcase slid smoothly to one side, revealing a dark passage behind.

[crimson-37.livejournal.com]

A sputter of laughter broke free from Bodie's chest. "You've gotta be joking?" He said, staring at the passage, then to his partner and back to the Russian.

"I think, how do you say, you’d better believe it, Kuster."

"That's Buster." Ray corrected. "And no, it's not the kind of thing we see everyday." Walking over, he joined Borislav at the entrance and stared into an unnatural darkness that was as thick as molasses. It seemed to seep into the room leaching the very warmth from it. "How did you know about this?"

"I cannot tell you." Borislav shifted uneasily, then jumped when a hand landed heavily on his shoulder.

"He's not being very helpful." The young Russian turned and flinched when the face full of quiet menace added. "You're still under arrest. We only removed the cuffs to let you drink the tea."

"It'd be shame to have to cuff you again." Ray added with a shrug.

"Well, technically we should, but if he were to co-operate, answer a few questions like." Bodie bore down on the scientist, who shrank back against the bookcase looking from agent to agent.

“They... They vill kill me.”

“Now that’s a shame.” Bodie said, not looking the least bit perturbed.

Crossing his arms and leaning on the bookcase Bodie watched unconcerned as his partner grabbed the smaller mans lapels and bared his teeth in a cruel parody of a smile. He spoke in a thick Russian accent. “How do you say, is not my problem.”

[solosundance.livejournal.com]

Doyle had been playing this game long enough to recognize when abject fear was preventing coherent speech. He slowly released the grip, but kept his face close to the Russian man's.

"I think we'd better have a little explore," he said. "And you can go first." He glanced over his shoulder to where Bodie was still slouched against the bookcase. "Alright, Tiddles?"

"No problem," Bodie said, pushing himself upright. "I can see in the dark, remember?" He came up behind Doyle and gave him a little bump with his hips. "I'll um ... bring up the rear."

Actually, Doyle thought, as they processed into the yawning black, Bodie did have the odd feline characteristic, and making him purr was one of the most rewarding activities he could think of. He was managing to pad down behind Doyle now, without making a sound. Almost like he wasn't really there.

Doyle's gun was pressed into the small of Borislav's back, and his other hand steadied himself against the clammy wall. An overpowering dankness was drifing up with each descending step.

"Is maybe not .. good idea," came a muffled voice from in front, and then all of a sudden the gun was pressing into thin air. Doyle tried to halt his own progress but found his feet gone from under him.

When he landed in a dazed heap he was on top of Borislav who was cursing softly in his native tongue. There was cold stone underneath them, and dark all around.

For a second his voice caught in his throat. "Bodie?" he shouted.

A disturbingly thick silence rolled back at him.