Discovered in a Round Robin Part II - the story continues here!

[byslantedlight.livejournal.com]

Writers, we hit lj's maximum entry length at the previous post (over 65,000 characters - nearly 12,000 words - we'll have written our own Pros-Big-Bang-length story if we're not careful... *g*), so Part Two is here - please continue the story in comments to this post not the other one. I'll close new comments to that post so that it doesn't get confusing as to where the next installment is - I know that means readers won't be able to comment there either, but hopefully they won't mind coming here instead. It's continuing, anyway! *g* And now I'll stop taking up all the new space with pre-story prattling...

(If anyone new would like to jump in, please see the intro post and the start of the story over at Part One)

...continued from Part One

“Bodie!” Cowley stormed into Doyle’s hospital room. “What is the meaning of this?”

Bodie held Lucas against the wall, his arm across Lucas’ throat. Ignoring the blood dripping from the man’s forehead, Bodie continued to berate the stunned agent.
“This incompetent imbecile allowed Doyle – drugged and injured – to just walk out of here.”

“Release him, Bodie,” Cowley ordered. “Now, 3.7.”

“And not only let him escape, but let him take his clothes and his gun.” Bodie paid the controller no attention.

“Bodie, I’m warning you. Release him.”

Cowley’s glare finally penetrated Bodie’s anger and Lucas was allowed to slide inelegantly to the floor.

Offering him a hand, Cowley eased Lucas onto a chair and handed him a glass of water.

“Now, what’s happened here.”

“I told you – sir.” Bodie snapped. “He let Doyle just walk out of here. Damn fine work, mate.” The last directed at Lucas.

Cowley didn’t respond. He let the silence speak for him and saw that it had the intended effect on his agent.

Bodie looked down at his shoes. “Doyle’s badly hurt sir. The doctor implied that without the antibiotics he’ll likely develop pneumonia. And when the pain killers wear off – well – he’ll be in no shape for anything. We need to find him.”

“Aye, and standing around here fighting amongst yourselves isn’t helping him, is it?”

“No, sir.”

“So what are you going to do? Think, man. Where would Doyle go?”

“Don’t know. Doyle’s not Doyle right now. Not sure what he remembers. He thinks its CI5 after him. He’ll go to ground.”

Cowley rolled his eyes. “And how will he get wherever he’s going?”

“Taxi, bus, tube.”

“Well then get moving. Check with the taxi service first. He has money hasn’t he?”

“Ah, yes, sir, he does,” Lucas admitted quietly.

Cowley looked at Bodie. “What are you waiting for? On your bike lad.”

o0o

The man was well spoken and expensively dressed in understated Savile Row tailoring. The top notes of his quietly exclusive aftershave drifted across the restrained nouveau riche elegance of the room.

"I have spoken to my client, she feels events to date have been characterised by a certain...I hesitate to use the word 'ineptitude'...but you take my meaning."

John Coogan's smile was full of civilised charm, the eyes above it held nothing but violent disdain.

Unperturbed the lawyer continued "My client would be most disquieted, were her faith proven to be misplaced."

"Your client had her chance and blew it; she should have put Doyle six feet under–"

"–I am assuming, by that colourful use of idiom, that you are seeking only to refer to my client's determined, albeit thus far sadly unsuccessful, attempts to discredit Doyle's testimony against her, based on his wholly inappropriate advances towards a vulnerable young woman seeking his aid."

"Lawyers" snorted Coogan derisively.

"Nevertheless, if I were to infer any other meaning–"

"–Yes" snapped Coogan impatiently "I get it, need to keep those pasty mits of yours lily white, don't we?"

"Mr Coogan–"

"–Well you can tell her Highness that she doesn't mess with John Coogan, I'll see she gets what she wants, but she'd better hold up her end of the deal."

"I assure you Mr Coogan, my client will see to it that you are furnished with irrefutable witness testimony, from an impeccable source, that Doyle admitted culpability for your brother's death on numerous occasions and was protected from prosecution, in what can only be viewed as a grandiose misuse of power, by the Controller of CI5, George Cowley."

Coogan smiled delightedly and snatched an imaginary flying beast from the air "Gotcha."

o0o

The cab's interior was familiar, smoke and sweat and petrol, the faint drone of one of the BBC's plummy announcers. Doyle's eyelids didn't want to stay up, the warm fug was relaxing. Too relaxing, yeah, but who was going to jump him in a cab on the move, anyway? Something wrong with that line of thought, maybe, but he couldn't quite work it out.

The ride took a while, the streets filled with typical London traffic every time Doyle got his eyes open to look. Even the periodic squawk of the radio and the cabbie muttering back in a peat-thick, unintelligible accent didn't much penetrate Doyle's own mental bog. It was the drugs he'd been force-fed in hospital, of course, had to be. Christ, what had been done to him – what was he – that everybody'd doped him up so much? What the hell had he done for CI5 of all people to be out after him?

He'd get to Crompton Avenue and he'd be safe there, he knew it. Didn't know how he knew it, but … or did he? That mate of his, he'd take care of things. And it was a mate, he was suddenly sure; a good mate. His best mate, best friend, best bloke, his –

Partner. Doyle got his eyes open, stared unseeing at the abused upholstery dividing himself from the cabbie. Partner. Yes, that felt right, felt safe, felt – warm. A good cup of tea from a black-gloved hand. A sturdy arm about the shoulders after she'd driven away and his whole world gone to shit. Dark and pale and blue, blue eyes but the face wouldn't come, the name – Doyle squeezed his own eyes shut again as the headache roared up again behind his temples, Christ, a name, please, he needed a name, something like, started with a, a B, maybe? B, Bo, Bill – no. No, he was sure of that, his mate didn't like Bill, wasn't him, didn't use it, went by –

The cab swerved and lurched to a stop and Doyle's eyes flew open again. “Here y'are, guv,” the cabbie said, accent still thicker than mud. “Forty-four Crompt'n Ave.”

“How much?” Doyle asked, reaching for 'his' wallet and barely keeping the groan behind his teeth as every muscle he had seemed to wake up and scream a protest at the movement. A few minutes later he stood on the street and gazed blearily at the building, an older house obviously broken up into flats. The area seemed quiet but not expensive; the cars parked nearby were an older Vauxhall grocery getter and a Ford Capri, both in need of a wash. He turned back to the building. Three stories. Bloody wonderful. Which one?

Third floor front. Doyle blinked. How the hell did he know that? Never mind.

The entry door yielded to some gentle persuasion with a small tool from his borrowed wallet, but it took about all he had to get himself up the stairs. The pain was increasing in fits and starts, much like his progress upward, and he was panting by the time he reached the top. Blinking the sweat from his eyes, Doyle reached for the knob of the left-most door to try it, and sobbed in relief when it turned easily. And that was wrong, wrong, the locks should have been set, why were they not? Bloke could get hurt, get shot, shot, Jesus, something was wrong, his partner wouldn't leave the locks undone, wouldn't – He opened the door and lurched through, stumbled, and was caught in strong arms before he hit and lowered to the floor.

The door crashed shut behind him and the arms were back, shifting him up and he moaned as the pain spiked again, seemed to coil virulently in his head and his groin. Something hard against his back and then fingers against his jaw and in his hair, steadying his head. The touch was gentle, and warm. Shaking just slightly. “Hello sunshine,” said a dark voice and familiar, familiar, so familiar. “Who's got themselves in trouble, then?”

Bodie grimaced as he felt the grit in the matted curls, evidently cleaning the patient up hadn't been high on the hospital's list. Doyle was a mess, the gash on his skull barely scabbed and bruises on his face coming up nicely, raw skin showing at the edges where Lucas' clothing didn't quite fit him. Much more worrysome though was the knowledge that there hadn't been time to pump nearly enough antibiotic into him to counteract the ocean of God-knew-what pathogens he'd swum with in the Thames, wriggling their evil way into every cut he had. Including the one down there.

Pain-filled green eyes met Bodie's own. “Doyle?” Bodie asked softly. “Come on, angelfish, you know me, right?”

Doyle's brow furrowed, and it looked like it hurt. “Y-yeh? You … live here.”

“For the last eight months, yeah.” The knots in Bodie's stomach wound tighter. This was bad, very very bad. If the cab company hadn't been able to reach that driver and confirm the passenger, confirm the address Doyle had been running to, Bodie might have missed him altogether, lost in the great maze that was the city. Bodie would have bet on Doyle's flat, or even far and away to Derby. How flattering and terrifying to find that safety, to Doyle, meant Bodie's own space.

o0o

Geraldine Mather absently strummed her pencil in an impatient rhythm against the blotter on her desk as she eyed the bulky green telephone and meditated on the wisdom of contacting George Cowley.

She had no regrets about her crusade against everything for which CI5 stood; civil liberties were too precious to be sacrificed on the altar of civil obedience.

But John Coogan had lied to her.

At first his vehement denial of the charges brought against him had been enough to convince her that they had been trumped up in order to silence both his voice and hers.

But as the weeks wore on and she attempted to build a case, John Coogan had become reticent and then evasive, until finally he had dispensed with her services altogether.

Instead he had hired to defend him Cecil Pennington-Wright, a man destined for the bench if ever there was one, and had obtained his services via Peterson and Greig, solicitors notorious for their unproven links to gangland glitterati.

Coogan was not naive; he knew who he'd hired. They were good, a few words in the right ear, the old boy's network of funny handshakes, and the charges had dwindled to almost nothing, a few months on remand, a sentence so light it had all but floated and then parole, with almost no strings attached.

No, Coogan was not naive, but he was manipulative, vindictive and vengeful. And Geraldine Mather did not appreciate being used. Or taken for any man's fool.

She had no qualms about destroying CI5 by means fair, but she became the thing she despised if she allowed it by means foul. Had that not been her very argument, that the end did not justify the means?

And now her clerk informed her that Peterson and Greig were representing Jill Haydon, and that Jill Haydon was rumoured to be linked to Henri Tudore, an ex-mercenary wanted on two continents for dealing in murder, drugs and guns.

And Henri Tudore, in his youth, had been a close family friend of the Coogan brothers, before his mother had spirited him away to join her relatives in what had once been the Belgium Congo.

Decision made, Mather dialled the number she had memorised, a private number known to very few. A woman's voice answered with a cheery "good morning."

"Hello. May I please speak to Mr. Cowley?"

Silence for a good ten seconds before the woman spoke, her tone wary. "May I ask who's calling, please?"

Mather smiled. No denial about this being Cowley's number, no questions either. "Yes. This is Geraldine Mather. I'm sure he'll remember me."

Again a long stretch before there was a click as she was put on hold. It was only a few moments before the receiver was lifted.

"Miss Mather, to what do I owe the pleasure of this phone call?"

Cowley wasn't at all happy to be speaking to her but he must have been curious enough to put aside his dislike of her for the moment. He knew she'd never contact him unless it was of the utmost urgency. After all, she'd made her distaste, dislike and disgust for him and for all things CI5 quite clear.

"I have some important information."

"Why would I believe any information you have to divulge?"

Cowley's tone was cold enough to chill her hand as it held the receiver. She took in a small breath, expelled it. "Contrary to what you thing of me, I believe in justice, in truth, and in the law. I won't waste your precious time." She could do cold as well, maybe even better, than Cowley. "I have information about John Coogan that I am sure will get him sent to prison."

There was a long silence before Cowley said, "What about your client's professional privilege?"

"He lost that privilege when he lied."

"I didn't realise that bothered you." Before she could muster an appropriate retort, Cowley said quickly, "I'm sorry, Miss Mather. That was uncalled for. I'm interested in your information. Shall we meet in say... thirty minutes?"

"Yes," she said curtly. She might have to have Cowley's help but she didn't have to like it.

"My club. It's on-"

"I know where it is." She hung up before she said something she would surely regret. Strike that. Something she would surely enjoy. She played it in her head. "I didn't know that your hallowed club allowed the lower class to grace its halls. What lower class you might ask? Anyone without a penis, of course." Mather laughed coldly as she gathered up her handbag, coat and umbrella, and left to meet Cowley. She planned on being exactly 9 minutes late.

o0o

A little awed and unnerved, Bodie hauled Doyle to his feet and pulled him in close. Doyle snuggled into him and buried his head in the crook of Bodie's neck. Bodie raised a hand to cradle the filthy curls "Hey now, what's all this about, eh mate? No need to worry, I've got you."

Doyle burrowed more tightly against him and snuffled indistinctly "Saved me."

Something very unmanly pricked at the back of Bodie's eyes and his voice had an unaccustomed rough spot as he affirmed "Yeah, that's right Goldilocks, safe as houses. You stick with your Uncle Bodie, mate. Everything's gonna be just fine."

"B-Bodie?" repeated Doyle hesitantly.

"Yeah, that's right, 'Bodie'. You remember me, don't you, eh? C'mon, you came here, you must remember me."

Bodie's stomach wrung itself into ever tighter knots as Doyle's non-committal silence stretched.

"Never mind" offered Bodie when he could stand it no longer "let's get you cleaned up a bit and then back to the hospital."

Doyle's body stiffened in his arms.

"Ray, you have to go back. You're too ill to stay away, you've got cuts, lots of 'em and, oh God sunshine, if what they did to you gets infected, it'll finish the job they started. Don't want to end up being the only crotchless angel in heaven, do you?"

Doyle peeled back a little to look at Bodie with wide trusting eyes, empty of any recognition, operating on some distant visceral instinct.

The unmanly pricking behind Bodie's eyes became an insistent ache as he herded Doyle towards the bathroom "C'mon on, you know I'm making sense, let's get you into a bath and then you be a good little Golly and let me take you back to where they have the technology to rebuild you, eh?"

Doyle's feeble resistance melted away as he said "But you'll stay with me, won't you?"

"I'll kill the first bastard who tries to stop me" replied Bodie with implacable force.

"It's okay to be scared sometimes, isn't it?" Doyle asked absently as Bodie helped him from his borrowed attire.

The prickle behind Bodie's eyes finally won and he rubbed a savage hand across his eyes "Together, Ray, we'll be bloody terrified together."

Right then, first things first. “Let's get you washed, Ray-mate,” Bodie said, voice rough with the effort to keep it even, “more than a bit of river pong about you. Give us a chance to get the fish bits out your hair.” And a better look at the rest of – ah, God, what they did to you.

But Doyle was looking, truly looking at him now, studying Bodie like he was the last few squares of the Times crossword. “I … you're ...” The full mouth compressed, lips forming a letter, soft puff of sound. “B – “

Bodie mimicked him, urging him. “B – yes. B for Bodie. Come on, mate, surely you can't forget this face.”

Doyle's brow furrowed again, eyes narrowed, and then widened, and Bodie literally saw a light come on. “You're me partner.”

“Yes.” Bodie grinned at him, relief unwinding a knot or two even as it started that damned prickling up again. “Partner. Tall, dark and – “

“Engagingly modest,” Doyle finished with him, a smile of sorts breaking over the battered face. “Knew this was the right place, live here, don't we. Ah, Christ,” he broke off, lifting a hand to his temple and squeezing his eyes shut again.

“Ray.” Bodie grabbed him, walked him slowly into the shower and leaned him against the wall. “Stay on your feet for a tick, yeah?” At Doyle's faint assent, Bodie let him go and stripped in record time, kicked his own clothes away before stepping into the cubical too. Aiming the head straight down, he twisted the knobs and winced as the cold flow splattered him, shielding Doyle from the most of it. And then it hit him. We? “Ray – "

“More water,” Doyle muttered, “y'd think I'd had enough of that.” Green eyes opened, squinted at him. “Why're you calling me that?”

Something in Bodie's brain was still stuck on we; a hope, dream, a beautiful impossible 4am fantasy. He gave himself a hard mental shake. “Call you what?” The water was warming, and Bodie reached up to re-aim it and splash some across his face.

“Ray. S'not my name.”

Christ. “It is your name, sunshine. Raymond Doyle, no middle name, that you've ever copped to, anyway. Here, lean back on the wall and we'll clean you up.”

“Name's Duncan, not Ray.” Said with a ghost of the usual Doyle temper, which made Bodie grin as he picked up the soap.

“Duncan's one of your cover names, mate, when you need one.”

The wiry body went taut under Bodie's hands, and he looked up sharply. The green eyes were wide. “Cover?”

Bodie stilled. “Cover. Work. CI5.”

Doyle grabbed Bodie's arms, fingers digging in hard, eyes impossibly wider. “CI5! They, they're after me, Bodie, got to, to get away from them!”

Bodie twisted out of Doyle's quickly weakening grip and stepped in close, so close, where he'd wanted to be but not like this, skin touching from knees to nipples as he cupped his partner's face in wet, soapy hands. “You are them, mate, we both are. We work for CI5.”

o0o

At nine minutes to the appointed time, Geraldine Mather’s car pulled up at the entrance to Cowley’s club. Leaving the vehicle she was surprised to see George Cowley himself backed against his own vehicle by an older, platinum haired woman dressed to the nines.

Mather watched with amusement as one of Cowley’s agents, Murphy if she recalled the name correctly, stood silently by, trying to suppress his own laughter.

“If anything happens to that young man, George, you’ll be hearing from me.” The woman stepped back and poked a sharp, red lacquered finger at Cowley’s chest. “I mean it.”

The woman signaled to a car waiting across the road. As the door was opened for her by a rather large man she turned back to Cowley. “And that lout that is always following Ray around, he needs to do a better job of watching out for Ray.” The car door slammed and the vehicle sped away.

Cowley had a quick word with his agent and started for the club entrance. He stopped when he saw Ms. Mather on the steps. She wasn’t positive, but she thought his face was a bit pinker than usual.

They entered the club together.

o0o

Doyle stared into blue, blue eyes, shock almost cutting through the pounding ache in his head. He worked for CI5? He and Bodie both? That couldn't be true, could it? But Bodie was his mate, his partner, he was sure of that. Bodie wouldn't lie to him. Bodie loved him – that was clear as the nose on his partner's streaming wet face.

“I believe you,” he whispered, and watched as Bodie closed his eyes and breathed out, his relief obvious. The hands holding his face pulled gently and Doyle closed his own eyes as Bodie pressed a kiss to his forehead. “So why do I wanna run away?”

“Don't know, mate, but we'll figure it out.” Bodie cleared his throat and got back to the job of soaping up Doyle's skin. And he loved that, didn't he, loved it every time they bathed together but his body hurt too much to enjoy it like he should. Hurt, and getting worse. His head was throbbing and his groin was bloody well on fire.

“Bodie, I'm – “ he swallowed. “I'm cut bad, I think,” he managed as big hands slipped lower, washing, hurting.

“Know you are, sunshine, and I'm sorry but I've got to see it,” Bodie said softly. “No outraged cries of maidenly virtue from you while I look at your best bits, yeah?”

Doyle almost laughed as Bodie knelt down. He braced his hands on Bodie's shoulders, wondering distantly how much longer his own knees would hold. “Why? Seen 'em before, you have.” Then he was sucking in air to gasp with as Bodie touched and lifted. Gentle as it was, the touch was like bubbling acid. “Stop. God, Bodie, stop!”

“Ray!” Somehow Bodie caught him as his knees gave, held him up against the wall. “Right then, hold onto me and I'll quick wash your mop and we're back to hospital, me lad.”

Doyle wanted to protest, hated hospitals, full of drugs and sickness and pain, but. Bodie would stay. “You'll stay, with me.”

“Forever, sunshine. You want me, I'm yours.” It sounded like a vow.

o0o

The guest lounge in Cowley's club - the only room in which women were allowed, excepting Ladies Dining on a Wednesday evening - was nothing like as comfortable as the rest of the establishment. In deference perhaps to some idea of feminine taste, the chairs were covered in a taut damask rather than the yielding leather of the other rooms, and the occasional tables held tall and elegant vases of flowers that were all very well in their way, but there were far too many of them, so that a man could hardly move without risking life and limb and a deluge of cold water across his lap.

Geraldine Mather, Cowley noted, was looking approvingly around as they were led to a pair of armchairs in a discreet corner. He waited until their drinks had been brought, settled himself as best he could on the damned chairs, and raised his glass in her direction.

"Your health, Miss Mather."

She lifted an eyebrow at that, but returned his salutation politely enough.

"I'm afraid I don't have much time, Miss..."

"Krivas."

Now that was a name he hadn't expected to hear for a long time. "Krivas?"

"Enrico Krivas," Mather confirmed, cradling her whisky in both hands, leaning forward slightly. "A colleague of one of your men, I believe."

"An ex-colleague, Miss Mather, as I believe we established quite some time ago."

"An ex-colleague," she conceded. "Now a colleague - a working colleague - of John Coogan."

"But that's impossible..." Krivas had been sent to prison for far longer than the few years since the Sinclair case.

Mather was shaking her head. "I'm afraid not. It's remarkable the difference that can be made to a prison sentence if a prisoner is described as well-behaved."

"Och, I can't imagine anyone describing Krivas as well-behaved!"

"Not without encouragement, certainly." Mather leaned back again, took an elegant sip from her glass. The damned woman was enjoying this. "Careful, professional encouragement."

So that was it. Easy enough to do if you had the contacts, although he would have sworn that Krivas didn't have those kind of friends. Unless... "Sinclair himself?"

An elegant shrug of one shoulder. "That would be for you to prove - although I doubt somehow that they belonged to the same club. No, Krivas was hired by a middle man-"

"Henri Tudore." The name Bodie's snitch had given them, the man they were even now trying to trace. The pieces was falling into place, but he only had one side of the puzzle - Krivas would want revenge on Bodie, surely, not Doyle. Coogan might well have hired a mercenary like Krivas if he'd found him - but Krivas wouldn't go after Doyle first. He eyed Mather thoughtfully. "There's a third connection."

"There is indeed, Mr Cowley - Jill Haydon, another one of Doyle's victims."

Also out on good behaviour, and that one he had known about - they'd been keeping an eye on Miss Haydon after last time, but to all intents and purposes she seemed to have settled into a quiet life with a maiden aunt at Windsor. Their eye was either lazy or compromised, and it didn't matter which.

He finished his drink in a single, satisfying mouthful, turned his head and caught the butler's eye, nodding for their coats. "You've been very helpful, Miss Mather."

"I didn't do it for you," she said, finishing her own whisky without blinking. "I did it because without a fair and open system of justice, uncorrupt, we are nothing. You may wish to look into Peterson and Greig Solicitors." She turned to accept her coat, waited while he settled his own, and then preceded him from the room, and out to the cool morning air. It looked like rain again.

"We're not so different, you and I," he said, appreciating her direct gaze. She might be sheer hell in a court of inquiry, but she would be a good woman to have on their side. She didn't bother answering him, except to look him up and down, but she nodded civilly before she turned away and left him, down the steps and then disappearing into the passers-by on the street.

His car drew up in front of the club, and he opened the door, settling himself into the back and opening his briefcase. Ruth looked enquiringly at him through the rear view mirror. "Sir?"

He knew those two - Bodie was useless to him until he was sure Doyle was alright, there was no good trying to send him anywhere, and yet he was best placed to pinpoint what they needed to know. Mohammed would have to go to the mountain. "Woolwich ferry," he said to Ruth. He'd get some paperwork done on the way, and then talk to the man who not only knew both Krivas and Bodie, but owed Bodie - and CI5, after that business with the 180 - as many favours as they might ever need to call in. "We're going to send Marty Martell to talk to Bodie."

o0o

Bodie got his still-damp, half-conscious partner buckled into the Capri and raced around to slide himself into the driver's seat, just managing not to slam the door. Twisting the key and revving the engine, he took a deep breath and another look at Doyle, and then pulled away from the curb more smoothly than his usual Formula One-style starts.

He grabbed the radio. “3.7 to Alpha, 3.7 to Alpha, over.”

Static, and he was about to call again when it was replaced with less than dulcet Scottish tones. “3.7 this is Alpha. It's about time, laddie – report.”

“I've got 4.5 and we're en route back to hospital, sir. He needs every drop of antibiotic they've got.”

“Put him on.”

Bodie grimaced, cutting around a too-slow car almost without thought. “No use, sir, he couldn't tell me who he is even when he was awake, never mind where he was or why. All I got from him were two phrases, 'arms dump' and 'Traitor's Gate.'” The rest of their conversation – well, that was nobody's bloody business but his own and Doyle's.

“Traitor's Gate... Aye, then, get him to hospital on the double, I'll alert their staff. And stay with him, Bodie, whoever is after 4.5 may try again. There will be an old friend come to talk to you. Alpha out.”

An old friend? The hell? Bodie grimaced – the ways of the Cow were mysterious to mere mortal men, after all. He dropped the radio down on the seat and his foot down on the accelerator. Beside him, Doyle shifted and muttered something, head rolling against the headrest. His skin was pinked, Bodie could nearly feel the heat coming off of him.

Hang on, mate. Just you bloody well hang on.

Bodie pulled sharply into the ambulance bay outside Guy’s emergency department, flinging his arm out as he did to stop his non-compos partner from slamming forward into the dashboard. He glanced at the onlookers who’d stopped to gape at his abrupt maneuver daring them to challenge him for parking in the restricted space. In the mood he was in he’d snot ‘em as sure as look at them.

He flung his door open and jumped out, the Capri’s suspension still rocking as he raced around the front to the passenger’s side, shouting at the hospital doors as he did.

“Need a hand out here!”

Carefully he lifted the door latch and pulled it open, reaching in to stop his boneless super-heated partner from sliding out. Doyle looked terrible, flushed and sweaty, his curls flattened against the window trapping the condensation leeching out of his body. Christ! He unfastened the seatbelt as rushed footsteps approached accompanied by the rattle of a hospital barouche.

“Hang on Sunshine, you’re going to be fine.”

Bodie leaned, in feeding his hands in under his partner’s armpits, “Come on ya great lump, help me.” But there was no help forthcoming. It was awkward manoeuvring the limp body within the confines of the car but he managed to haul him out, lowering him gently onto the trolley, supporting his head as a hospital attendant lifted and settled his legs but despite their care Doyle groaned and his head lolled sideways. The sides of the barouche were snapped up and a white blanket was placed over the patient in quick time. Bodie followed the trolley at a brisk pace as it was propelled through the double doors into the hospital, producing his ID as he briefed the white coated female doctor who kept pace with the procession, her long slender fingers pressed firmly into the pulse point under Doyle’s jaw.

“Karen, admission records from St Mary’s Hospital for Ray Doyle, Mr Ray Doyle, quick as you can.” As the doctor spoke she unbuttoned Doyle's shirt quickly and efficiently while the nurse snatched up the phone and began dialling.

“How did he get into this state?” the doctor snapped as she moved her stethoscope to his chest.

“Tied up and beaten. In that order.”

“What makes you say in that order?”

“The gutless wonders wouldn’t have succeeded otherwise.” His lips thinned, distracted by thoughts of unholy revenge when he realised the doc was still looking at him, waiting for more. “Seems he escaped somehow and ended up in the bloody Thames, oh and doc, he’s confused, didn’t even know his own name but I’ve convinced him who he is and that he's safe. Its why he broke out of St Mary’s, the daft bugger thought we were after him, god knows why.”

“Well he’s in good hands now Mr Bodie, intravenous antibiotics will knock the infection on its head, he’ll be as good as new in a few days.”

Bodie looked at her dubiously.

“I know he looks like he’s at death’s door but I promise you he’s not.”

The doctor issued further instructions to the nurse as Doyle was wheeled into a cubicle and Bodie stood like a sentinel at the curtain edge, scrubbing his face with his hand as he watched the drip go into the unresisting arm.

Stay put this time mate.

He pulled out his RT and stepped back into the corner so he still had obs on Doyle.

“3.7 to control.”

“Send 3.7.”

“Get someone competent down to Guys to take over from me, and tell ‘em, if they lose Doyle again I’ll bloody brain ‘em myself!” He didn't wait for an acknowledgement before abruptly signing off.

"Mr Bodie, I’ll ask you to head out to the A & E waiting room, someone will let you know when Mr Doyle is moved to a ward, you can sit with him then.”

Bodie motioned the doctor aside and spoke in a tone that brokered no argument, “I’m not leaving his side doc, whoever did this to him might try again.” He patted the bulge in his jacket.

She nodded curtly. “Well make sure you stay out of our way then.”

Bodie watched intently as she checked Doyle from head to toe, noting a fleeting look of shock as she lifted the blanket. ”What sort of people would do this to a man?”

“The sort who have a death wish,” he replied bitterly.

o0o

Marge Harper had spies everywhere. Unlinked to organised crime, save for her willingness to fence its proceeds, her sources were nonetheless impeccable.

And they had informed her of two things; that Raymond Doyle had been savaged with vindictive brutality and that something big was in the air.

Far bigger than she cared to involve herself in, there were certain kinds of limelight which could wreck a girl's complexion.

But her Ray was a winning lad, once she'd got him away from the malign influence of his thuggish partner. Oh, he'd made an ungallantly hasty escape to 'finish his report', the night she'd cornered him in her car, but two days later he'd turned up with a dozen long stemmed roses, a sheepish grin on his face and a bottle of very respectable scotch.

He'd put the flowers in water himself, arranging them automatically with a deft hand, while she'd poured the scotch.

He'd been polite and charming and, as the scotch had vanished like morning mist, he'd leaned in and kissed her.

Marge had never been the sentimental sort, she appreciated the trappings of femininity, but had never been made soft by them. But Raymond Doyle was a sweet boy, and had taken her to bed with the morning sun barely waning into afternoon and had let her teach him the gentle pleasures the years he had yet to live had taught her.

She didn't trust his partner, had little more regard for the spurious civility of his boss, but the woman who had been waiting for him at his club, now she had looked like a woman she could do business with.

In a man's world, sometimes it took a gentler touch to get things done.

o0o

“Bloody hell,” the doctor muttered, almost under her breath, and Bodie had to grin at that.

The next minutes were a blur of all things hospital. Bodie watched like a hawk as Doyle's borrowed clothes were cut off and another IV went in, saline this time, and shots injected into the lines. Blood was drawn. Doyle lay limp and unresponsive through it all. Salves and bandages appeared, as did needle and thread. Bodie moved to the other side as the doctor, whose nametag said Connell, he noted absently, pulled the blanket down to Doyle's knees and touched his genitals with delicate care.

That got a response. Doyle moaned and thrashed, one leg kicking out. The doctor jerked back as Bodie darted forward to catch Doyle's leg and shoulder and press him back down. “Ray! Easy, mate, steady on, she's trying to help.”

“Bodie?” Doyle gasped, eyes open now and glistening.

“Of course it's me,” Bodie said, leaning in close. He motioned Connell back in and put his hand back on Doyle's thigh, squeezing it a little. “Said I'd be here, didn't I? Got to get you cleaned and bandaged, sunshine, so you just lay there and let the pretty lady touch you up, yeah?” The edge of the doctor's coat brushed Bodie's arm as she worked over him, swabbing with something white.

Doyle's breath hissed in through clenched teeth and one hand jerked up to lock tight around Bodie's wrist. “God.” Salty moisture ran down to dampen his temples.

“I've just used a local anesthetic, Mr. Doyle,” Connell said, “you should be feeling relief fairly quickly, and there's painkiller going into you as well. Breath deeply for me, can you do that?”

“Come on, put all that new-age meditation bollocks to good use,” Bodie said, holding Doyle's gaze. “Breath, mate, come on. Together. Yeah. Again. Again.” Willing Doyle to follow him. Stay with him. Be with him. Together.

“You can talk,” Doyle managed after the fifth breath, “about meditation bollocks. Met your sensei, you know.”

Bodie smiled, relief creeping in. “Remember that, do you?”

“Of course I … remember.” Green eyes widened. “I do remember that.”

“Can you feel this now, Mr Doyle?” the doctor broke in, her hands once again on Doyle's groin.

Doyle took a sharper breath. “Yeah, but not – not like before.”

“Excellent. I'm going to have to stitch this, I'm afraid. Whoever it was took a disliking to you had a dulled knife or an unsteady hand: you are torn and badly abraded but I believe you are intact.”

Bodie let out a breath he hadn't even realized he'd been holding, and Connell looked up with a half-smile. “I would suggest you forego any heavy romantic enounters for a while, though.”

Bodie looked at her with a half-smile and raised eyebrow. “I'll take over for you, sunshine, should the lovely doctor be so inclined,” he said, the flirting automatic as breathing.

Connell's own half-smile broadened. “And I'm sure you'd be lovely, too, but my girlfriend wouldn't approve.”

Doyle's bark of laughter was the best thing Bodie had heard in two days.

o0o

He slept eventually, eyes closing to the sight of Bodie, slumped in the chair beside his bed, eyes watching him steadily. Blue eyes... blue eyes watching him...

...eyes watching him.

He was tied up in the dark, and someone was watching him.

Movement in the dark, in the dark behind him... if he could open his eyes, if he could see... He needed to see.

He could hear the river lapping gently at the shore, water slapping closer and closer... it would get him in the end, if he didn't move, lapping and slapping at his body, rising higher, rising higher and... no! Not yet... But he couldn't move...

And there was someone else moving in the dark...

"Just getting you ready for the surgeon, Doyle..."

How could they operate when it was so dark, when there was something moving in the dark? His heart was beating too fast, he couldn't stay quiet much longer, but he had to stay quiet because...

...because if he didn't stay quiet, the man with the knife was going to cut him.

His arms ached, and his shoulders ached, and his neck ached, because they'd tied his hands so tightly behind his back, because he was lying on them, because... Christ, because they'd pulled his jeans down and the man with the knife was smiling, and he didn't want the surgeon, couldn't they see that...

The water lapped around the boathouse, and the man with the knife slid it down Doyle's face, down his shirt, over his chest, down to his prick, and... Bequietbequietdon'tmakeasound...

He whimpered.

"Doyle? Ray? Alright sunshine...? You're alright..."

There was a weight on his forehead, warm and heavy and right and safe, and a flash of light as he opened his eyes, but it was too bright. Bodie was there, but it was too bright, and...

...there was light from a torch, lying on the ground near his face, too bright, but the day slid in too, around the river around the water - lap, lap, lap - and he could see the man with the knife smile even more, and then there was pain across his leg, across his thigh, a burning searing pain, and the cold feel of trickling blood...

"The Surgeon will be here soon Mr Doyle, and he'll soon change that, won't he..."

Scratch-scratch-scratch against his skin, pulling at it, not cutting, but Christ not there, too close... Christ not that...

"Are you ready Mr Doyle? Are you ready for the Surgeon? You really shouldn't have pissed her off..."

The cold blade of the knife, scratch-scratch-scratch-cut! Slash! "No..."

"I have to leave you for the Surgeon, but you need to know what's going to happen, don't you...?"

No...

"You know what we did to the little whores who wouldn't lie still for it, don't you?"

Why couldn't he move, why couldn't he move... he-was-tied-up... and the man was pushing him onto his face, and scratch-cut scratch-cut and the blade was... no, not there, hecouldn'tmovehecouldn'tmovebecausetheknifewould...

"You really shouldn't have pissed her off..."

Coldbladecoldbladecoldblade...

"Just wait until the Surgeon gets here."

Coldsharpblade-scratch-scratch-nick-nick-coldsharp...

"Now look what I've got for you - get you good and ready for your operation..."

The cold blade slid into his veins, slid all along his veins, and he was heavysoheavyandhecouldn'tmove and the Surgeon was coming and...

"Haydon!"

He woke with a gasp, heart pounding, blood rushing in his head, aching everywhere, feeling the pull of stitches around his groin, the padding of cotton wool and bandages and... was he still a man? Had she done it? Had the Surgeon come...?

"Doyle - Ray!"

Bodie perched on the bed beside him, one hand reaching out to his shoulder, the other other cupping around his face.

"You're alright - it was just a dream..."

His breath was still coming hard and fast, and he pressed his lips together, forcing himself to calm down. It was just a dream, he was in hospital and they'd patched him up, and Bodie was there, and... No.

He took a deep breath, looked up at Bodie. "No - it was real. That bastard wanted to..." He swallowed. It was obvious to them all what they'd wanted to do to him. The Surgeon hadn't come, but... "Haydon. Jill Haydon."

Bodie's hand tightened on his shoulder, and his face closed.

“The bloody little bitch,” he said, low and even, in the voice that always promised GBH would be laid on something or someone very, very soon. “S'what Swinson said when we had our little chat.” He sat back a little, hand sliding away from Doyle's face and Doyle wanted it back, wanted Bodie's cool palm against his own too-hot face. He reached up to keep the hand on his shoulder just where it was.

“Her old man is dead, it seems,” Bodie said after a pause, “and maybe that snapped the last thread holdin' her wits together. What I don't get is how she set it up from inside.”

“She's not.” Doyle started to shake his head and immediately regretted. “Christ, me neck.”

“That'd be the whiplash you've got along with the nice concussion, says the doctor. Had it once in the Paras after a not-so-graceful landing; you're in for a treat. Not to mention the infection.” Bodie's other hand returned, slipping beneath to cradle Doyle's nape, wonderfully cool. “Could power the grid with the heat comin' off you. But what do you mean, she's not? She's out?”

No urge to nod this time. “Yeah. The Cow mentioned it … somewhen.” Just when, he couldn't remember.

“Memory back, then?” Bodie's face closed again but this time, this time it was too late. Doyle didn't have everything back, he knew, but Bodie's shower-wet face, his touch and his words – all of those were crystal clear. As were the words his partner hadn't said. Out loud, anyway.

“Mostly, I think. Thing is, memory's funny.” Doyle swallowed. What the hell. He could put his next words down to fever, if he had to. “Sometimes it takes a dream, you know, something that you really, truly want but can't say, and makes it into something you think you do have. In the real world.”

A moment of complete stillness, punctuated by the muffled rattle of a cart in the hall outside. Bodie's expression didn't change, but something in his eyes broke wide open. “You – thought you lived with me. That we lived – together.”

Doyle nodded, slowly and carefully, his throat abruptly very dry.

The thing in Bodie's eyes slipped out onto his face and he smiled – not the half-crazy adrenaline-high one he wore in a firefight or the knicker-melting one he turned on the birds, but the full, sweet, real one that Doyle saw only rarely and the rest of the world, he suspected, never saw at all.

“You're a bit of a slob, angelfish,” Bodie whispered, his voice rough. “Gonna make it worth the aggro?”

Doyle smiled broadly enough to make his face ache and a prickle start in the backs of his eyes. Or maybe that was just the infection. “I'm an excellent cook and I don't hog the bedclothes, or so I'm told. That do you?”

Blue eyes took on a sudden sheen. “Oh, I think it will.” Bodie leaned down and kissed his forehead and then his mouth, slowly and sweetly, and then dropped his own head to rest it against the skin of Doyle's upper arm.

There was a light knock on the door and Bodie sat up, taking Ray’s hand in his and sliding them both under the sheet.

Anson poked his head in the door and said, “Visitor for you, Bodie. Cowley’s cleared him.”

“Well if he has our lordship’s approval, by all means, send him in.”

“No need to get uppity, Bodie.” Marty Martell entered the room.

“What brings you here, Marty?” Suspicion was ripe in Bodie’s voice.

“I was accosted, or should I say, paid a visit by your esteemed boss earlier. It seems your friend here has upset quite a number of people.” Martell turned to Doyle. “How are you, dear chap?”

Doyle turned to Bodie with a questioning look. Bodie squeezed his hand reassuringly and slid his own from under its cover. “Been better,” Doyle replied.

“He’s not quite up to rehashing Viking history, but he’ll be fine.”

“Glad to hear it,” Martell choked on the reference to his first meeting with Doyle.

“Bodie?” Doyle looked even more confused.

Bodie winked at him. “S’ok, Ray.”

Bodie stood and faced Martell. “So why are you here?”

“Cowley reminded me that I am in CI5’s debt. This information should pay it off in spades.” Martell began to pace. “Your old friend Krivas has teamed up with John Coogan. Word is they are planning on moving a rather large arms shipment. This all came about because Jill Haydon befriended an IRA sympathiser in prison. The woman, impressed with Haydon’s connections, asked if Haydon could hook her up with anyone selling arms. Seems the IRA has plans. Haydon relayed the request to her solicitors. Peterson and Greig represent many, shall we say less than honourable clients. It is rumoured that they sometimes indulge in questionable practices.”

Bodie started to interrupt.

“Patience, old friend. We’re getting to the good part.” Martell sat on the end of Doyle’s bed. “Peterson and Greig use a middleman - Henri Tudore – who happens to be an acquaintance of John Coogan’s.”

Bodie started at the name.

“The pieces are all starting to fit, now, yes?” Martell smiled. “The price Jill Haydon charged for the information was your friend’s, excuse the expression, balls. Tudore was the man to arrange that.” Martell glanced with sympathy at Doyle. “Peterson and Greig worked a deal with Coogan, who also wasn’t opposed to Doyle’s fate. Krivas wanted to include you in the deal, Bodie, but was finally convinced that taking care of Doyle would be the most effective means of hurting you.” Martell met Bodie’s cold, angry glare. “Of course this is all rumour.”

“Cowley had already figured most of this out, Marty,” Bodie’s voice was flat. “How does this square your debt to CI5?”

“Ah, now that’s the thing, Bodie. You see, I know when and where the arms deal is going down.”

o0o

The door closed slowly behind Martell, an interminable hiss of compressed air, and Doyle waited, frowning at it. When he looked at Bodie, Bodie was looking back at him.

"We've got a week then," he said, reaching out to punch Doyle's arm, but gently, so gently. "Reckon you'll be fighting fit by then?"

"Try and stop me. So - who was that?"

"Marty Martell. Owes us a favour or two. Related to the 180 automatic? Amer-"

"Laserlock sight," Doyle said absently. There was something...

"Ah well, you remember the important things, that's what counts."

"Does Martell know Krivas?"

Bodie looked slightly put out. "Only by reputation. Look maybe you...."

"How does Krivas know Coogan?"

Bodie shrugged. "Who knows? Maybe they share the same hairdresser." He frowned in his turn. "Look, maybe you should get some sleep, sunshine, get a few more memories back, power up those muscles... start making sense."

"Yeah..." Doyle lay back, moving carefully until he was all but flat again. There was something... "Yeah, maybe I should." He closed his eyes, not tired, but needing the dark to think, where Bodie's face didn't pull at him. He lifted his arm, closing the world away with the crook of his elbow.

Something...

o0o

Doyle woke the next morning to the news that they needed his bed, and that he was considered fit to go home if he did nothing more strenuous for the next few days than sleep and take his tablets. Bodie came to collect him of course, wheeling him decorously enough in the obligatory chair to the front door, and then made old-man jokes to hurry him up as Doyle moved carefully into the passenger seat of the Capri.

"You sure you don't want to borrow that bloke's zimmer?" he asked, gesturing to a man in blue and white pyjamas who must have been ninety if he was a day, inching himself back into the hospital under the watchful gaze of a nurse.

Doyle finally managed to seat himself, reaching back for the seat belt he hadn't worn in months. "Look Bodie, if I tear these bloody stitches..."

"Alright, alright, keep your curly little locks on. I'll have you home in no time!"

"And what are you grinning about?" Bodie's smile was getting on his nerves. Anyone'd think he wanted to go into the arms drop-off half-cocked. The something hadn't come to him over night, but it was still there, a dark sense whispering danger, not letting him go.

"Ah well, know you're alright now, don't I - you've snapped at everything I said since I got here. That's my Ray of sunshine..."

Doyle turned away from the streets rushing past, the ones he remembered and the ones he didn't, and the ones in between. Bodie was concentrating on the road, the traffic heavy even after morning rush hour. His smile had faded, but he didn't look unhappy, and he didn't look angry. He looked...

"When you said home, did you mean...?"

"I meant your place." Bodie reached the top of the t-junction, turning his head from side to side as he looked for a gap in the flow of cars, his tongue stuck out just a little in concentration.

"Right... Might be a few days before I can make it worth the aggro." Bodie would remember, wouldn't he?

Bodie looked away from the road, grinned at him. "Nah - bought some mince, didn't I. You can cook without busting your stitches, right?"

Doyle grinned back, reached out a quick hand and squeezed Bodie's thigh. Bodie jumped, satisfyingly, and stalled the car, to much honking of horns behind them.

o0o

Doyle's current flat was only the second floor rather than Bodie's third, and had a mercifully working lift, for once. Bodie shepherded him up and in, locked the door behind them and then went through every room in the flat. CI5 would have been over it, of course, but Bodie was taking absolutely no chances.

He returned to the lounge and had a bad moment before he spotted Doyle, flattened into the couch with little evidence of his usual sprawl. “Okay, sunshine?”

“Yeah.” Doyle sounded worn and all he'd done was ride home from hospital. But he smiled as he looked up at Bodie. “Make us a cuppa?”

“Back in a tick. Got yer meds?”

“Yes, mum.”

Bodie flicked a finger through his partner's tangled curls – there'd be no ruffling until the whiplash eased up – and went to make tea.

Returning shortly with a tray full of tea and biscuits, Bodie set it and himself on the coffee table, and handed Doyle a cup.

“Ta.” Doyle slurped, then paused, eyebrows pulling together. “I've got milk in?”

“Murph, probably; bless 'im.” Bodie took a quieter sip of his own. “Told him I was going to get you sprung, he said he'd come check your flat out. You've milk and bread and eggs and cheese, at least. And biccies,” he added with a grin, grabbing one and all but inhaling it.

“Not for long,” Doyle commented, eyeing him. “Smurph, right? Tall, dark, quiet; crack shot with a rifle.”

Bodie grinned at him. “Yeah. You'll be fine, sunshine, it'll all come back. Drink your tea and take your pills.”

“Yes, mum,” Doyle snarked, glaring at him, which only made Bodie happier. Doyle made a few more bilge-pump noises before he stopped and peered down at his tea again, then up at Bodie. “Whiskey?”

“Just a drop, not enough to bother your meds. We're celebrating.” Bodie swallowed, holding Doyle's gaze. “Lots of things.”

Slowly, Doyle smiled. “We are, aren't we?” He set his half-full cup carefully on the small table by the side of the couch, and then patted the cushion next to him. “C'mere.”

A twisting started in Bodie's stomach. “Ray.”

“I can't lean forward very well, Bodie, puts pressure in a tender spot. Come here, will you?”

Bodie set his own cup back down on the tea tray, then moved himself to sit carefully at Doyle's side. Doyle smelled like antiseptic and stale sweat and beneath that, his own wild self, the scent that had featured in more than a few of Bodie's dreams. The skin beneath Doyle's eyes was bruised, but was no mistaking the warmth in his gray-green eyes. “So, let's start celebratin', shall we?”

Bodie took a breath. “Ray – No romance, the doctor said.“ Which was possibly going to strangle Bodie, slowly, over the next few days.

Doyle shook his head, slowly and carefully, and smiled again. “Bodie-mate, I couldn't lift it with a crane right now, from the painkillers if nothing else. 's not what I meant.” He lifted one hand and curved his fingers around Bodie's skull and gently pulled him in.

The kiss was soft and dry and almost chaste, just a pressing of lips with a hint of more. Parting, to press again, a tasting this time, lips parting gently and tongues barely there, a new world trembling open between them. It was ridiculously, achingly sweet; it was a promise and a vow, and the truest thing Bodie had ever felt.

He pulled back a little, blinking hard, and saw Doyle's eyes so close, warm and bright. “That's what I meant,” Doyle said softly, a husk in his voice.

Bodie grinned at him, helplessly. “I can do that,” he murmured, and leaned back in.

o0o

They had ten days before the arms drop was due, and Doyle was determined that every minute was going to be put to good use. He couldn't jog until the stitches came out, and even when he thought he was standing still boxing twisted him in ways he'd never imagined it did, neck and groin both, so he resigned himself to more gentle exercise, trying to stretch his whiplash out, and convinced Bodie to bring over his dumb bells. He went through every cupboard and drawer in the flat when Bodie wasn't there, and now and then, usually when he wasn't paying attention, things slipped back into place, until he thought he probably remembered more than he'd forgotten.

His flat was being watched, of course, a shadowy presence lurking across the street, sometimes dark haired, sometimes fair, but always a woman. They were followed in their turn by Murph or Anson or Ruth, who tracked them to a single address in North Kensington, took photographs, and let Bodie pass them on.

He didn't remember the dark haired woman, and a glance at Bodie over the top of the eight by twelve convinced him he wasn't expected to. Which meant...

The blonde was pretty, hair cut short and falling over her eyes in a long fringe. She'd been caught coming out of a shop, and seemed to be staring straight into the camera, and her eyes were hard, and bitter and angry.

"Jill Haydon."

Opposite him, perched against the arm of the sofa, Bodie let out a sigh. "Doesn't give up, apparently."

"Yeah, I remember." He took a deep breath of his own, pursed his lips tight against everything that had come rushing back at him, and let the air rush back out. "She always was tenacious."

"And by tenacious you mean a fucking bitch..."

"That's my Bodie." He slanted a look upwards, liking that the aggro was all on his side, and managed to scare a faint blush on Bodie's cheeks.

"If anyone's going to thump you, it's going to be me." Bodie pushed himself off the sofa, reached over and planted a mock punch across his jaw, though he ended it with a caress. "And I had plans for what she tried to take."

Despite himself Doyle winced. It had been too close. "But what's she doing hanging around here? She must know I'm not feeling much like reminiscing. And who's the other woman?"

"Moira Halloran," Bodie said. "They shared a cell together, and they must have got friendly because they're sharing a flat together now."

"What was she in for, then? Overdue library books?"

"She helped plant that car bomb down Pall Mall the other year. Couldn't pin her on anything more than providing the vehicle - but we've got her down as a demolition girl."

"Oh, great... Just what Haydon needed, a girl chum." That something was back, as he stared at Haydon's face. "So we've got the IRA, Coogan, Krivas, the crooked lawyers..."

"Ah, come on Doyle - we know where the arms are going to be, and Krivas and Coogan - give it a rest until then, eh? You don't need this..."

And everything suddenly shifted, and the something was right there.

"That's it!" He snapped his fingers. "There's too many connections. What do Coogan and Krivas want with Haydon?"

"The IRA deal - she's brokering it."

Doyle shook his head gently, one hand raised to his neck. "She thinks she is. Sounds like your Moira had a good lawyer, doesn't it?"

"Peterson and Greig..." Bodie caught his eye. "You're not just a pretty face, are you angelfish? It's a double-cross..."

o0o

Benny had decided to shave for his date with Jill Haydon, but the morning air was cold, and he half-regretted it now. He tucked his hands further into his jacket, as if pulling it more tightly around his shoulders might help. He didn't mind the break from his current case - allegedly a long weekend away with a bird, somewhere McAllister wouldn't bother tracking him - but he could have done with a real weekend off. Sometimes all you wanted was to be yourself for a while, before you forgot who that was...

Haydon was exactly where Bodie had said she'd be, lurking in the path opposite Doyle's place, all jeans and denim jacket and attitude as she paced up and down, nothing like her pictures in the file. He approached her from the park end, knowing she wouldn't want to show herself on Doyle's street, to draw attention to herself.

"Alright, love?"

Haydon glanced at him, then paced away again.

That was him told.

"Got the time?"

"Piss off."

He raised an eyebrow at that. "That's not very friendly."

"I'm not your friend. And I'm busy."

"We've got mutual friends," Benny offered, leaning casually against the tall fence that bounded the path on one side. "Mr Petersen and Mr Greig - you know them, don't you." He watched with interest as she paused in her steps, glanced at the ground, and then looked sharply up at him.

"So?"

"So - I happened to overhear them talking about a... um... " Come on Benny, make it believable... "...transaction that they're hoping to make with a certain Mr Coogan. Thought you might like to skip the middle men and get the... equipment for a bit less. Like maybe a hundred grand instead of two?"

That was it, she closed the ground in front of him, all but crowding him against the fence. "What do you know about it? Two hundred isn't the price."

"No? That's what they said - they were giving the girl two hundred grand. Mishear it did I? I'd make it worth your while..."

"I don't know what you're talking about - leave me alone." She turned away again, went back to her pacing, but there was something else in her face now, something even more angry.

"Look..."

"I said piss off!" Haydon spat out, and this time Benny decided discretion was the better part of valour. Just a hint Cowley had said, Don't go in too heavy, just enough to make her question things...

He raised his hands in the air, shrugged a shoulder. "Your loss," he said, as if he really didn't care, and then he walked away.

All he had to do now was bug Halloran's flat, and then maybe he really could take the rest of the weekend off...

o0o

Comments

Part 2.1, perhaps? :-)

[jessebee.livejournal.com]

Right then, first things first. “Let's get you washed, Ray-mate,” Bodie said, voice rough with the effort to keep it even, “more than a bit of river pong about you. Give us a chance to get the fish bits out your hair.” And a better look at the rest of – ah, God, what they did to you.

But Doyle was looking, truly looking at him now, studying Bodie like he was the last few squares of the Times crossword. “I … you're ...” The full mouth compressed, lips forming a letter, soft puff of sound. “B – “

Bodie mimicked him, urging him. “B – yes. B for Bodie. Come on, mate, surely you can't forget this face.”

Doyle's brow furrowed again, eyes narrowed, and then widened, and Bodie literally saw a light come on. “You're me partner.”

“Yes.” Bodie grinned at him, relief unwinding a knot or two even as it started that damned prickling up again. “Partner. Tall, dark and – “

“Engagingly modest,” Doyle finished with him, a smile of sorts breaking over the battered face. “Knew this was the right place, live here, don't we. Ah, Christ,” he broke off, lifting a hand to his temple and squeezing his eyes shut again.

“Ray.” Bodie grabbed him, walked him slowly into the shower and leaned him against the wall. “Stay on your feet for a tick, yeah?” At Doyle's faint assent, Bodie let him go and stripped in record time, kicked his own clothes away before stepping into the cubical too. Aiming the head straight down, he twisted the knobs and winced as the cold flow splattered him, shielding Doyle from the most of it. And then it hit him. We? “Ray – “

“More water,” Doyle muttered, “y'd think I'd had enough of that.” Green eyes opened, squinted at him. “Why're you calling me that?”

Something in Bodie's brain was still stuck on we; a hope, dream, a beautiful impossible 4am fantasy. He gave himself a hard mental shake. “Call you what?” The water was warming, and Bodie reached up to re-aim it and splash some across his face.

“Ray. S'not my name.”

Christ. “It is your name, sunshine. Raymond Doyle, no middle name, that you've ever copped to, anyway. Here, lean back on the wall and we'll clean you up.”

“Name's Duncan, not Ray.” Said with a ghost of the usual Doyle temper, which made Bodie grin as he picked up the soap.

“Duncan's one of your cover names, mate, when you need one.”

The wiry body went taut under Bodie's hands, and he looked up sharply. The green eyes were wide. “Cover?”

Bodie stilled. “Cover. Work. CI5.”

Doyle grabbed Bodie's arms, fingers digging in hard, eyes impossibly wider. “CI5! They, they're after me, Bodie, got to, to get away from them!”

Bodie twisted out of Doyle's quickly weakening grip and stepped in close, so close, where he'd wanted to be but not like this, skin touching from knees to nipples as he cupped his partner's face in wet, soapy hands. “You are them, mate, we both are. We work for CI5.”

RE: Part 2.1, perhaps? :-)

[byslantedlight.livejournal.com]

Wee keep crossing emails! Thanks for moving over though, hopefully it'll make sense to everyone and everyone'll be able to find it - I've linked where ever I can on the original post to part two...

Yes - Part 2.1 - I like it! And now I'm going to go and catch up with some reading... *g*

Part 2.2

[merentha13.livejournal.com]

At nine minutes to the appointed time, Geraldine Mather’s car pulled up at the entrance to Cowley’s club. Leaving the vehicle she was surprised to see George Cowley himself backed against his own vehicle by an older, platinum haired woman dressed to the nines.

Mather watched with amusement as one of Cowley’s agents, Murphy if she recalled the name correctly, stood silently by, trying to suppress his own laughter.

“If anything happens to that young man, George, you’ll be hearing from me.” The woman stepped back and poked a sharp, red lacquered finger at Cowley’s chest. “I mean it.”

The woman signaled to a car waiting across the road. As the door was opened for her by a rather large man she turned back to Cowley. “And that lout that is always following Ray around, he needs to do a better job of watching out for Ray.” The car door slammed and the vehicle sped away.

Cowley had a quick word with his agent and started for the club entrance. He stopped when he saw Ms. Mather on the steps. She wasn’t positive, but she thought his face was a bit pinker than usual.

They entered the club together.

RE: Part 2.2

[jessebee.livejournal.com]

LOL!

Part 2.3

[jessebee.livejournal.com]

Doyle stared into blue, blue eyes, shock almost cutting through the pounding ache in his head. He worked for CI5? He and Bodie both? That couldn't be true, could it? But Bodie was his mate, his partner, he was sure of that. Bodie wouldn't lie to him. Bodie loved him – that was clear as the nose on his partner's streaming wet face.

“I believe you,” he whispered, and watched as Bodie closed his eyes and breathed out, his relief obvious. The hands holding his face pulled gently and Doyle closed his own eyes as Bodie pressed a kiss to his forehead. “So why do I wanna run away?”

“Don't know, mate, but we'll figure it out.” Bodie cleared his throat and got back to the job of soaping up Doyle's skin. And he loved that, didn't he, loved it every time they bathed together but his body hurt too much to enjoy it like he should. Hurt, and getting worse. His head was throbbing and his groin was bloody well on fire.

“Bodie, I'm – “ he swallowed. “I'm cut bad, I think,” he managed as big hands slipped lower, washing, hurting.

“Know you are, sunshine, and I'm sorry but I've got to see it,” Bodie said softly. “No outraged cries of maidenly virtue from you while I look at your best bits, yeah?”

Doyle almost laughed as Bodie knelt down. He braced his hands on Bodie's shoulders, wondering distantly how much longer his own knees would hold. “Why? Seen 'em before, you have.” Then he was sucking in air to gasp with as Bodie touched and lifted. Gentle as it was, the touch was like bubbling acid. “Stop. God, Bodie, stop!”

“Ray!” Somehow Bodie caught him as his knees gave, held him up against the wall. “Right then, hold onto me and I'll quick wash your mop and we're back to hospital, me lad.”

Doyle wanted to protest, hated hospitals, full of drugs and sickness and pain, but. Bodie would stay. “You'll stay, with me.”

“Forever, sunshine. You want me, I'm yours.” It sounded like a vow.

RE: Part 2.3

[merentha13.livejournal.com]

You write a caring Bodie so very well!

[ci5mates.livejournal.com]

Great work gals!

Part 2.4

[byslantedlight.livejournal.com]

The guest lounge in Cowley's club - the only room in which women were allowed, excepting Ladies Dining on a Wednesday evening - was nothing like as comfortable as the rest of the establishment. In deference perhaps to some idea of feminine taste, the chairs were covered in a taut damask rather than the yielding leather of the other rooms, and the occasional tables held tall and elegant vases of flowers that were all very well in their way, but there were far too many of them, so that a man could hardly move without risking life and limb and a deluge of cold water across his lap.

Geraldine Mather, Cowley noted, was looking approvingly around as they were led to a pair of armchairs in a discreet corner. He waited until their drinks had been brought, settled himself as best he could on the damned chairs, and raised his glass in her direction.

"Your health, Miss Mather."

She lifted an eyebrow at that, but returned his salutation politely enough.

"I'm afraid I don't have much time, Miss..."

"Krivas."

Now that was a name he hadn't expected to hear for a long time. "Krivas?"

"Enrico Krivas," Mather confirmed, cradling her whisky in both hands, leaning forward slightly. "A colleague of one of your men, I believe."

"An ex-colleague, Miss Mather, as I believe we established quite some time ago."

"An ex-colleague," she conceded. "Now a colleague - a working colleague - of John Coogan."

"But that's impossible..." Krivas had been sent to prison for far longer than the few years since the Sinclair case.

Mather was shaking her head. "I'm afraid not. It's remarkable the difference that can be made to a prison sentence if a prisoner is described as well-behaved."

"Och, I can't imagine anyone describing Krivas as well-behaved!"

"Not without encouragement, certainly." Mather leaned back again, took an elegant sip from her glass. The damned woman was enjoying this. "Careful, professional encouragement."

So that was it. Easy enough to do if you had the contacts, although he would have sworn that Krivas didn't have those kind of friends. Unless... "Sinclair himself?"

An elegant shrug of one shoulder. "That would be for you to prove - although I doubt somehow that they belonged to the same club. No, Krivas was hired by a middle man-"

"Henri Tudore." The name Bodie's snitch had given them, the man they were even now trying to trace. The pieces was falling into place, but he only had one side of the puzzle - Krivas would want revenge on Bodie, surely, not Doyle. Coogan might well have hired a mercenary like Krivas if he'd found him - but Krivas wouldn't go after Doyle first. He eyed Mather thoughtfully. "There's a third connection."

Part 2.4 cont.

[byslantedlight.livejournal.com]

"There is indeed, Mr Cowley - Jill Haydon, another one of Doyle's victims."

Also out on good behaviour, and that one he had known about - they'd been keeping an eye on Miss Haydon after last time, but to all intents and purposes she seemed to have settled into a quiet life with a maiden aunt at Windsor. Their eye was either lazy or compromised, and it didn't matter which.

He finished his drink in a single, satisfying mouthful, turned his head and caught the butler's eye, nodding for their coats. "You've been very helpful, Miss Mather."

"I didn't do it for you," she said, finishing her own whisky without blinking. "I did it because without a fair and open system of justice, uncorrupt, we are nothing. You may wish to look into Peterson and Greig Solicitors." She turned to accept her coat, waited while he settled his own, and then preceded him from the room, and out to the cool morning air. It looked like rain again.

"We're not so different, you and I," he said, appreciating her direct gaze. She might be sheer hell in a court of inquiry, but she would be a good woman to have on their side. She didn't bother answering him, except to look him up and down, but she nodded civilly before she turned away and left him, down the steps and then disappearing into the passers-by on the street.

His car drew up in front of the club, and he opened the door, settling himself into the back and opening his briefcase. Ruth looked enquiringly at him through the rear view mirror. "Sir?"

He knew those two - Bodie was useless to him until he was sure Doyle was alright, there was no good trying to send him anywhere, and yet he was best placed to pinpoint what they needed to know. Mohammed would have to go to the mountain. "Woolwich ferry," he said to Ruth. He'd get some paperwork done on the way, and then talk to the man who not only knew both Krivas and Bodie, but owed Bodie - and CI5, after that business with the 180 - as many favours as they might ever need to call in. "We're going to send Marty Martell to talk to Bodie."

RE: Part 2.4 cont.

[merentha13.livejournal.com]

Hee!!! Martell. Miss Mather was well portrayed here. Nicely done!

Part 2.5

[jessebee.livejournal.com]

Bodie got his still-damp, half-conscious partner buckled into the Capri and raced around to slide himself into the driver's seat, just managing not to slam the door. Twisting the key and revving the engine, he took a deep breath and another look at Doyle, and then pulled away from the curb more smoothly than his usual Formula One-style starts.

He grabbed the radio. “3.7 to Alpha, 3.7 to Alpha, over.”

Static, and he was about to call again when it was replaced with less than dulcet Scottish tones. “3.7 this is Alpha. It's about time, laddie – report.”

“I've got 4.5 and we're en route back to hospital, sir. He needs every drop of antibiotic they've got.”

“Put him on.”

Bodie grimaced, cutting around a too-slow car almost without thought. “No use, sir, he couldn't tell me who he is even when he was awake, never mind where he was or why. All I got from him were two phrases, 'arms dump' and 'Traitor's Gate.'” The rest of their conversation – well, that was nobody's bloody business but his own and Doyle's.

“Traitor's Gate... Aye, then, get him to hospital on the double, I'll alert their staff. And stay with him, Bodie, whoever is after 4.5 may try again. There will be an old friend come to talk to you. Alpha out.”

An old friend? The hell? Bodie grimaced – the ways of the Cow were mysterious to mere mortal men, after all. He dropped the radio down on the seat and his foot down on the accelerator. Beside him, Doyle shifted and muttered something, head rolling against the headrest. His skin was pinked, Bodie could nearly feel the heat coming off of him.

Hang on, mate. Just you bloody well hang on.

[ci5mates.livejournal.com]

Hang on, mate. Just you bloody well hang on.

Bodie pulled sharply into the ambulance bay outside Guy’s emergency department, flinging his arm out as he did to stop his non-compos partner from slamming forward into the dashboard. He glanced at the onlookers who’d stopped to gape at his abrupt maneuver daring them to challenge him for parking in the restricted space. In the mood he was in he’d snot ‘em as sure as look at them.

He flung his door open and jumped out, the Capri’s suspension still rocking as he raced around the front to the passenger’s side, shouting at the hospital doors as he did.

“Need a hand out here!”

Carefully he lifted the door latch and pulled it open, reaching in to stop his boneless super-heated partner from sliding out. Doyle looked terrible, flushed and sweaty, his curls flattened against the window trapping the condensation leeching out of his body. Christ! He unfastened the seatbelt as rushed footsteps approached accompanied by the rattle of a hospital barouche.

“Hang on Sunshine, you’re going to be fine.”

Bodie leaned, in feeding his hands in under his partner’s armpits, “Come on ya great lump, help me.” But there was no help forthcoming. It was awkward manoeuvring the limp body within the confines of the car but he managed to haul him out, lowering him gently onto the trolley, supporting his head as a hospital attendant lifted and settled his legs but despite their care Doyle groaned and his head lolled sideways. The sides of the barouche were snapped up and a white blanket was placed over the patient in quick time. Bodie followed the trolley at a brisk pace as it was propelled through the double doors into the hospital, producing his ID as he briefed the white coated female doctor who kept pace with the procession, her long slender fingers pressed firmly into the pulse point under Doyle’s jaw.

“Karen, admission records from St Mary’s Hospital for Ray Doyle, Mr Ray Doyle, quick as you can.” As the doctor spoke she unbuttoned Doyle's shirt quickly and efficiently while the nurse snatched up the phone and began dialling.

“How did he get into this state?” the doctor snapped as she moved her stethoscope to his chest.

“Tied up and beaten. In that order.”

“What makes you say in that order?”

“The gutless wonders wouldn’t have succeeded otherwise.” His lips thinned, distracted by thoughts of unholy revenge when he realised the doc was still looking at him, waiting for more. “Seems he escaped somehow and ended up in the bloody Thames, oh and doc, he’s confused, didn’t even know his own name but I’ve convinced him who he is and that he's safe. Its why he broke out of St Mary’s, the daft bugger thought we were after him, god knows why.”

“Well he’s in good hands now Mr Bodie, intravenous antibiotics will knock the infection on its head, he’ll be as good as new in a few days.”

Bodie looked at her dubiously.

“I know he looks like he’s at death’s door but I promise you he’s not.”

[ci5mates.livejournal.com]

The doctor issued further instructions to the nurse as Doyle was wheeled into a cubicle and Bodie stood like a sentinel at the curtain edge, scrubbing his face with his hand as he watched the drip go into the unresisting arm.

Stay put this time mate.

He pulled out his RT and stepped back into the corner so he still had obs on Doyle.

“3.7 to control.”

“Send 3.7.”

“Get someone competent down to Guys to take over from me, and tell ‘em, if they lose Doyle again I’ll bloody brain ‘em myself!” He didn't wait for an acknowledgement before abruptly signing off.

"Mr Bodie, I’ll ask you to head out to the A & E waiting room, someone will let you know when Mr Doyle is moved to a ward, you can sit with him then.”

Bodie motioned the doctor aside and spoke in a tone that brokered no argument, “I’m not leaving his side doc, whoever did this to him might try again.” He patted the bulge in his jacket.
.
She nodded curtly. “Well make sure you stay out of our way then.”

Bodie watched intently as she checked Doyle from head to toe, noting a fleeting look of shock as she lifted the blanket. ”What sort of people would do this to a man?”

“The sort who have a death wish,” he replied bitterly.

[ci5mates.livejournal.com]

sorry I had to post in two lots

[golden-bastet.livejournal.com]

Never be sorry about the awesome job you're doing! :D

[ci5mates.livejournal.com]

awww thanks

2.8

[fiorenza-a.livejournal.com]

Marge Harper had spies everywhere. Unlinked to organised crime, save for her willingness to fence its proceeds, her sources were nonetheless impeccable.

And they had informed her of two things; that Raymond Doyle had been savaged with vindictive brutality and that something big was in the air.

Far bigger than she cared to involve herself in, there were certain kinds of limelight which could wreck a girl's complexion.

But her Ray was a winning lad, once she'd got him away from the malign influence of his thuggish partner. Oh, he'd made an ungallantly hasty escape to 'finish his report', the night she'd cornered him in her car, but two days later he'd turned up with a dozen long stemmed roses, a sheepish grin on his face and a bottle of very respectable scotch.

He'd put the flowers in water himself, arranging them automatically with a deft hand, while she'd poured the scotch.

He'd been polite and charming and, as the scotch had vanished like morning mist, he'd leaned in and kissed her.

Marge had never been the sentimental sort, she appreciated the trappings of femininity, but had never been made soft by them. But Raymond Doyle was a sweet boy, and had taken her to bed with the morning sun barely waning into afternoon and had let her teach him the gentle pleasures the years he had yet to live had taught her.

She didn't trust his partner, had little more regard for the spurious civility of his boss, but the woman who had been waiting for him at his club, now she had looked like a woman she could do business with.

In a man's world, sometimes it took a gentler touch to get things done.

Part 2.9

[jessebee.livejournal.com]

((“The sort who have a death wish,” he replied bitterly. ))

“Bloody hell,” the doctor muttered, almost under her breath, and Bodie had to grin at that.

The next minutes were a blur of all things hospital. Bodie watched like a hawk as Doyle's borrowed clothes were cut off and another IV went in, saline this time, and shots injected into the lines. Blood was drawn. Doyle lay limp and unresponsive through it all. Salves and bandages appeared, as did needle and thread. Bodie moved to the other side as the doctor, whose nametag said Connell, he noted absently, pulled the blanket down to Doyle's knees and touched his genitals with delicate care.

That got a response. Doyle moaned and thrashed, one leg kicking out. The doctor jerked back as Bodie darted forward to catch Doyle's leg and shoulder and press him back down. “Ray! Easy, mate, steady on, she's trying to help.”

“Bodie?” Doyle gasped, eyes open now and glistening.

“Of course it's me,” Bodie said, leaning in close. He motioned Connell back in and put his hand back on Doyle's thigh, squeezing it a little. “Said I'd be here, didn't I? Got to get you cleaned and bandaged, sunshine, so you just lay there and let the pretty lady touch you up, yeah?” The edge of the doctor's coat brushed Bodie's arm as she worked over him, swabbing with something white.

Doyle's breath hissed in through clenched teeth and one hand jerked up to lock tight around Bodie's wrist. “God.” Salty moisture ran down to dampen his temples.

“I've just used a local anesthetic, Mr. Doyle,” Connell said, “you should be feeling relief fairly quickly, and there's painkiller going into you as well. Breath deeply for me, can you do that?”

“Come on, put all that new-age meditation bollocks to good use,” Bodie said, holding Doyle's gaze. “Breath, mate, come on. Together. Yeah. Again. Again.” Willing Doyle to follow him. Stay with him. Be with him. Together.

“You can talk,” Doyle managed after the fifth breath, “about meditation bollocks. Met your sensei, you know.”

Bodie smiled, relief creeping in. “Remember that, do you?”

“Of course I … remember.” Green eyes widened. “I do remember that.”

“Can you feel this now, Mr Doyle?” the doctor broke in, her hands once again on Doyle's groin.

Doyle took a sharper breath. “Yeah, but not – not like before.”

“Excellent. I'm going to have to stitch this, I'm afraid. Whoever it was took a disliking to you had a dulled knife or an unsteady hand: you are torn and badly abraded but I believe you are intact.”

Bodie let out a breath he hadn't even realized he'd been holding, and Connell looked up with a half-smile. “I would suggest you forego any heavy romantic enounters for a while, though.”

Bodie looked at her with a half-smile and raised eyebrow. “I'll take over for you, sunshine, should the lovely doctor be so inclined,” he said, the flirting automatic as breathing.

Connell's own half-smile broadened. “And I'm sure you'd be lovely, too, but my girlfriend wouldn't approve.”

Doyle's bark of laughter was the best thing Bodie had heard in two days.

Part 2.10

[byslantedlight.livejournal.com]

He slept eventually, eyes closing to the sight of Bodie, slumped in the chair beside his bed, eyes watching him steadily. Blue eyes... blue eyes watching him...

...eyes watching him.

He was tied up in the dark, and someone was watching him.

Movement in the dark, in the dark behind him... if he could open his eyes, if he could see... He needed to see.

He could hear the river lapping gently at the shore, water slapping closer and closer... it would get him in the end, if he didn't move, lapping and slapping at his body, rising higher, rising higher and... no! Not yet... But he couldn't move...

And there was someone else moving in the dark...

"Just getting you ready for the surgeon, Doyle..."

How could they operate when it was so dark, when there was something moving in the dark? His heart was beating too fast, he couldn't stay quiet much longer, but he had to stay quiet because...

...because if he didn't stay quiet, the man with the knife was going to cut him.

His arms ached, and his shoulders ached, and his neck ached, because they'd tied his hands so tightly behind his back, because he was lying on them, because... Christ, because they'd pulled his jeans down and the man with the knife was smiling, and he didn't want the surgeon, couldn't they see that...

The water lapped around the boathouse, and the man with the knife slid it down Doyle's face, down his shirt, over his chest, down to his prick, and... Bequietbequietdon'tmakeasound...

He whimpered.

"Doyle? Ray? Alright sunshine...? You're alright..."

There was a weight on his forehead, warm and heavy and right and safe, and a flash of light as he opened his eyes, but it was too bright. Bodie was there, but it was too bright, and...

...there was light from a torch, lying on the ground near his face, too bright, but the day slid in too, around the river around the water - lap, lap, lap - and he could see the man with the knife smile even more, and then there was pain across his leg, across his thigh, a burning searing pain, and the cold feel of trickling blood...

"The Surgeon will be here soon Mr Doyle, and he'll soon change that, won't he..."

Scratch-scratch-scratch against his skin, pulling at it, not cutting, but Christ not there, too close... Christ not that...

"Are you ready Mr Doyle? Are you ready for the Surgeon? You really shouldn't have pissed her off..."

The cold blade of the knife, scratch-scratch-scratch-cut! Slash! "No..."

"I have to leave you for the Surgeon, but you need to know what's going to happen, don't you...?"

No...

"You know what we did to the little whores who wouldn't lie still for it, don't you?"

Why couldn't he move, why couldn't he move... he-was-tied-up... and the man was pushing him onto his face, and scratch-cut scratch-cut and the blade was... no, not there, hecouldn'tmovehecouldn'tmovebecausetheknifewould...

"You really shouldn't have pissed her off..."

Coldbladecoldbladecoldblade...

"Just wait until the Surgeon gets here."

Coldsharpblade-scratch-scratch-nick-nick-coldsharp...

"Now look what I've got for you - get you good and ready for your operation..."

The cold blade slid into his veins, slid all along his veins, and he was heavysoheavyandhecouldn'tmove and the Surgeon was coming and...

"Haydon!"

He woke with a gasp, heart pounding, blood rushing in his head, aching everywhere, feeling the pull of stitches around his groin, the padding of cotton wool and bandages and... was he still a man? Had she done it? Had the Surgeon come...?

"Doyle - Ray!"

Bodie perched on the bed beside him, one hand reaching out to his shoulder, the other other cupping around his face.

"You're alright - it was just a dream..."

His breath was still coming hard and fast, and he pressed his lips together, forcing himself to calm down. It was just a dream, he was in hospital and they'd patched him up, and Bodie was there, and... No.

He took a deep breath, looked up at Bodie. "No - it was real. That bastard wanted to..." He swallowed. It was obvious to them all what they'd wanted to do to him. The Surgeon hadn't come, but... "Haydon. Jill Haydon."

Bodie's hand tightened on his shoulder, and his face closed.

Re: Part 2.10

[jessebee.livejournal.com]

BRILLIANT

Part 2.11

[jessebee.livejournal.com]

Bodie's hand tightened on his shoulder, and his face closed.


“The bloody little bitch,” he said, low and even, in the voice that always promised GBH would be laid on something or someone very, very soon. “S'what Swinson said when we had our little chat.” He sat back a little, hand sliding away from Doyle's face and Doyle wanted it back, wanted Bodie's cool palm against his own too-hot face. He reached up to keep the hand on his shoulder just where it was.

“Her old man is dead, it seems,” Bodie said after a pause, “and maybe that snapped the last thread holdin' her wits together. What I don't get is how she set it up from inside.”

“She's not.” Doyle started to shake his head and immediately regretted. “Christ, me neck.”

“That'd be the whiplash you've got along with the nice concussion, says the doctor. Had it once in the Paras after a not-so-graceful landing; you're in for a treat. Not to mention the infection.” Bodie's other hand returned, slipping beneath to cradle Doyle's nape, wonderfully cool. “Could power the grid with the heat comin' off you. But what do you mean, she's not? She's out?”

No urge to nod this time. “Yeah. The Cow mentioned it … somewhen.” Just when, he couldn't remember.

“Memory back, then?” Bodie's face closed again but this time, this time it was too late. Doyle didn't have everything back, he knew, but Bodie's shower-wet face, his touch and his words – all of those were crystal clear. As were the words his partner hadn't said. Out loud, anyway.

“Mostly, I think. Thing is, memory's funny.” Doyle swallowed. What the hell. He could p ut his next words down to fever, if he had to. “Sometimes it takes a dream, you know, something that you really, truly want but can't say, and makes it into something you think you do have. In the real world.”

A moment of complete stillness, punctuated by the muffled rattle of a cart in the hall outside. Bodie's expression didn't change, but something in his eyes broke wide open. “You – thought you lived with me. That we lived – together.”

Doyle nodded, slowly and carefully, his throat abruptly very dry.

The thing in Bodie's eyes slipped out onto his face and he smiled – not the half-crazy adrenaline-high one he wore in a firefight or the knicker-melting one he turned on the birds, but the full, sweet, real one that Doyle saw only rarely and the rest of the world, he suspected, never saw at all.

“You're a bit of a slob, angelfish,” Bodie whispered, his voice rough. “Gonna make it worth the aggro?”

Doyle smiled broadly enough to make his face ache and a prickle start in the backs of his eyes. Or maybe that was just the infection. “I'm an excellent cook and I don't hog the bedclothes, or so I'm told. That do you?”

Blue eyes took on a sudden sheen. “Oh, I think it will.” Bodie leaned down and kissed his forehead and then his mouth, slowly and sweetly, and then dropped his own head to rest it against the skin of Doyle's upper arm.

RE: Part 2.11

[golden-bastet.livejournal.com]

D'AWWWWWWWWWWWW ~

Although I'm still at work and really shouldn't be doing this right now, LOL

Part 2.12

[merentha13.livejournal.com]

There was a light knock on the door and Bodie sat up, taking Ray’s hand in his and sliding them both under the sheet.

Anson poked his head in the door and said, “Visitor for you, Bodie. Cowley’s cleared him.”

“Well if he has our lordship’s approval, by all means, send him in.”

“No need to get uppity, Bodie.” Marty Martell entered the room.

“What brings you here, Marty?” Suspicion was ripe in Bodie’s voice.

“I was accosted, or should I say, paid a visit by your esteemed boss earlier. It seems your friend here has upset quite a number of people.” Martell turned to Doyle. “How are you, dear chap?”

Doyle turned to Bodie with a questioning look. Bodie squeezed his hand reassuringly and slid his own from under its cover. “Been better,” Doyle replied.

“He’s not quite up to chasing Vikings, but he’ll be fine.”

“Glad to hear it,” Martell choked on the reference to his first meeting with Doyle.

“Bodie?” Doyle looked even more confused.

Bodie winked at him. “S’ok, Ray.”

Bodie stood and faced Martell. “So why are you here?”

“Cowley reminded me that I am in CI5’s debt. This information should pay it off in spades.” Martell began to pace. “Your old friend Krivas has teamed up with John Coogan. Word is they are planning on moving a rather large arms shipment. This all came about because Jill Haydon befriended an IRA sympathiser in prison. The woman, impressed with Haydon’s connections, asked if Haydon could hook her up with anyone selling arms. Seems the IRA has plans. Haydon relayed the request to her solicitors. Peterson and Greig represent many, shall we say less than honourable clients. It is rumoured that they sometimes indulge in questionable practices.”

Bodie started to interrupt.

“Patience, old friend. We’re getting to the good part.” Martell sat on the end of Doyle’s bed. “Peterson and Greig use a middleman - Henri Tudore – who happens to be an acquaintance of John Coogan’s.”

Bodie started at the name.

“The pieces are all starting to fit, now, yes?” Martell smiled. “The price Jill Haydon charged for the information was your friend’s, excuse the expression, balls. Tudore was the man to arrange that.” Martell glanced with sympathy at Doyle. “Peterson and Greig worked a deal with Coogan, who also wasn’t opposed to Doyle’s fate. Krivas wanted to include you in the deal, Bodie, but was finally convinced that taking care of Doyle would be the most effective means of hurting you.” Martell met Bodie’s cold, angry glare. “Of course this is all rumour.”

“Cowley had already figured most of this out, Marty,” Bodie’s voice was flat. “How does this square your debt to CI5?”

“Ah, now that’s the thing, Bodie. You see, I know when and where the arms deal is going down.”

Re: Part 2.12

[merentha13.livejournal.com]

If parts of this don't follow what's already been written - please feel free to fix it! I reread what we've written so far and I think everything fits, but...

RE: Re: Part 2.12

[byslantedlight.livejournal.com]

“Your old friend Krivas has teamed up with John Coogan ... on moving a rather large arms shipment. This all came about because Jill Haydon befriended an IRA sympathiser in prison. The woman ... asked if Haydon could hook her up with anyone selling arms. ... Haydon relayed the request to her solicitors. ... “Peterson and Greig use a middleman - Henri Tudore – who happens to be an acquaintance of John Coogan’s.” ... “The price Jill Haydon charged for the information was your friend’s... balls. Tudore was the man to arrange that.” ...“Peterson and Greig worked a deal with Coogan, who also wasn’t opposed to Doyle’s fate. Krivas ... was finally convinced that taking care of Doyle would be the most effective means of hurting you.”

Hee - I had to make a little diagram-y thing the other day when I took the backplot from Fiorenza's parts of the story to carry on plot-ish bits! I've added yours into it, and it's definitely grown some extra (IRA) legs. *g* There's one thing I'm not sure about now - so - when Jill Haydon demanded Doyle's balls, she was demanding it from the IRA girl then, right? So it must have been the IRA that tied up/arranged to tie up Doyle etc., not Tudore after all... I had Tudore down as the link to Krivas cos of his Congo background,but it turns out that Coogan and Krivas had met outside all of this, just by coincidence, then, and Tudore knew Coogan rather than Krivas...? Does that sound like what was in your head, or have I missed a bit? *g*

[ci5mates.livejournal.com]

well done for drawing it together so cleverly :) Its ripe for the finishing...nearly!

Henri Tudore

[fiorenza-a.livejournal.com]

If it's any help;

- in my head Henri Tudore's connection to the Belgium Congo linked him with Bodie but not Doyle; he agreed to get involved with hurting Doyle for a) the money (he's a mercenary); b) a favour to Coogan, who he likes; and c) a means of retribution for some grievance he has against Bodie, who he doesn't (I didn't anticipate Krivas' involvement, so its being coincidental sits just fine with my musings).

- Henri Tudore is a pun on Henry Tudor (VIII), closely associated with The Tower of London and whose wife, Ann Boleyn, is traditionally (if not historically) supposed to have entered The Tower via Traitors' Gate. In my head it was a get-out clause, if needed, for the plot. Doyle having jotted down Traitors' Gate as a whimsically cryptic reminder to himself of Henri Tudore's name.

[merentha13.livejournal.com]

Guess I really kind of put an end to things, yeah? :-)

[byslantedlight.livejournal.com]

Lol - not at all! I've not had a chance to write more over the last couple of days, cos of work, but I'm hopeful for later today! It's so close to the end - we can't stop until we get there now! * g*

ETA - love the icon!

[sc-fossil.livejournal.com]

I think it's been a roller coaster of fun, and yeah the thing about a round robin is that it has its own life!

[ci5mates.livejournal.com]

Good grief, I've just confused the hell out of myself reading all these comments (I think being tired isn't helping) I'll have to wait for the next installment to see if I can jump back in without ballsing it all up!

[byslantedlight.livejournal.com]

Hee - that's what happened to me! I'm off out in a bit (sunshine!) but if no one's had a go by the time I get back, then I'll try jumping in and see what happens... *g*

Lucky Part 2.13

[byslantedlight.livejournal.com]

The door closed slowly behind Martell, an interminable hiss of compressed air, and Doyle waited, frowning at it. When he looked at Bodie, Bodie was looking back at him.

"We've got a week then," he said, reaching out to punch Doyle's arm, but gently, so gently. "Reckon you'll be fighting fit by then?"

"Try and stop me. So - who was that?"

"Marty Martell. Owes us a favour or two. Related to the 180 automatic? Amer-"

"Laserlock sight," Doyle said absently. There was something...

"Ah well, you remember the important things, that's what counts."

"Does Martell know Krivas?"

Bodie looked slightly put out. "Only by reputation. Look maybe you...."

"How does Krivas know Coogan?"

Bodie shrugged. "Who knows? Maybe they share the same hairdresser." He frowned in his turn. "Look, maybe you should get some sleep, sunshine, get a few more memories back, power up those muscles... start making sense."

"Yeah..." Doyle lay back, moving carefully until he was all but flat again. There was something... "Yeah, maybe I should." He closed his eyes, not tired, but needing the dark to think, where Bodie's face didn't pull at him. He lifted his arm, closing the world away with the crook of his elbow.

Something...

o0o

Doyle woke the next morning to the news that they needed his bed, and that he was considered fit to go home if he did nothing more strenuous for the next few days than sleep and take his tablets. Bodie came to collect him of course, wheeling him decorously enough in the obligatory chair to the front door, and then made old-man jokes to hurry him up as Doyle moved carefully into the passenger seat of the Capri.

"You sure you don't want to borrow that bloke's zimmer?" he asked, gesturing to a man in blue and white pyjamas who must have been ninety if he was a day, inching himself back into the hospital under the watchful gaze of a nurse.

Doyle finally managed to seat himself, reaching back for the seat belt he hadn't worn in months. "Look Bodie, if I tear these bloody stitches..."

"Alright, alright, keep your curly little locks on. I'll have you home in no time!"

"And what are you grinning about?" Bodie's smile was getting on his nerves. Anyone'd think he wanted to go into the arms drop-off half-cocked. The something hadn't come to him over night, but it was still there, a dark sense whispering danger, not letting him go.

"Ah well, know you're alright now, don't I - you've snapped at everything I said since I got here. That's my Ray of sunshine..."

Doyle turned away from the streets rushing past, the ones he remembered and the ones he didn't, and the ones in between. Bodie was concentrating on the road, the traffic heavy even after morning rush hour. His smile had faded, but he didn't look unhappy, and he didn't look angry. He looked...

"When you said home, did you mean...?"

"I meant your place." Bodie reached the top of the t-junction, turning his head from side to side as he looked for a gap in the flow of cars, his tongue stuck out just a little in concentration.

"Right... Might be a few days before I can make it worth the aggro." Bodie would remember, wouldn't he?

Bodie looked away from the road, grinned at him. "Nah - bought some mince, didn't I. You can cook without busting your stitches, right?"

Doyle grinned back, reached out a quick hand and squeezed Bodie's thigh. Bodie jumped, satisfyingly, and stalled the car, to much honking of horns behind them.

RE: Lucky Part 2.13

[byslantedlight.livejournal.com]

Didn't get quite as far as I meant to, plot-wise, despite all the words! Oh well, there's always tomorrow, and the lads are on their way home... *g*

2.14, anyone?

[jessebee.livejournal.com]

Doyle grinned back, reached out a quick hand and squeezed Bodie's thigh. Bodie jumped, satisfyingly, and stalled the car, to much honking of horns behind them.

~

Doyle's current flat was only the second floor rather than Bodie's third, and had a mercifully working lift, for once. Bodie shepherded him up and in, locked the door behind them and then went through every room in the flat. CI5 would have been over it, of course, but Bodie was taking absolutely no chances.

He returned to the lounge and had a bad moment before he spotted Doyle, flattened into the couch with little evidence of his usual sprawl. “Okay, sunshine?”

“Yeah.” Doyle sounded worn and all he'd done was ride home from hospital. But he smiled as he looked up at Bodie. “Make us a cuppa?”

“Back in a tick. Got yer meds?”

“Yes, mum.”

Bodie flicked a finger through his partner's tangled curls – there'd be no ruffling until the whiplash eased up – and went to make tea.

Returning shortly with a tray full of tea and biscuits, Bodie set it and himself on the coffee table, and handed Doyle a cup.

“Ta.” Doyle slurped, then paused, eyebrows pulling together. “I've got milk in?”

“Murph, probably; bless 'im.” Bodie took a quieter sip of his own. “Told him I was going to get you sprung, he said he'd come check your flat out. You've milk and bread and eggs and cheese, at least. And biccies,” he added with a grin, grabbing one and all but inhaling it.

“Not for long,” Doyle commented, eyeing him. “Smurph, right? Tall, dark, quiet; crack shot with a rifle.”

Bodie grinned at him. “Yeah. You'll be fine, sunshine, it'll all come back. Drink your tea and take your pills.”

“Yes, mum,” Doyle snarked, glaring at him, which only made Bodie happier. Doyle made a few more bilge-pump noises before he stopped and peered down at his tea again, then up at Bodie. “Whiskey?”

“Just a drop, not enough to bother your meds. We're celebrating.” Bodie swallowed, holding Doyle's gaze. “Lots of things.”

Slowly, Doyle smiled. “We are, aren't we?” He set his half-full cup carefully on the small table by the side of the couch, and then patted the cushion next to him. “C'mere.”

A twisting started in Bodie's stomach. “Ray.”

“I can't lean forward very well, Bodie, puts pressure in a tender spot. Come here, will you?”

Bodie set his own cup back down on the tea tray, then moved himself to sit carefully at Doyle's side. Doyle smelled like antiseptic and stale sweat and beneath that, his own wild self, the scent that had featured in more than a few of Bodie's dreams. The skin beneath Doyle's eyes was bruised, but was no mistaking the warmth in his gray-green eyes. “So, let's start celebratin', shall we?”

Bodie took a breath. “Ray – No romance, the doctor said.“ Which was possibly going to strangle Bodie, slowly, over the next few days.

Doyle shook his head, slowly and carefully, and smiled again. “Bodie-mate, I couldn't lift it with a crane right now, from the painkillers if nothing else. 's not what I meant.” He lifted one hand and curved his fingers around Bodie's skull and gently pulled him in.

The kiss was soft and dry and almost chaste, just a pressing of lips with a hint of more. Parting, to press again, a tasting this time, lips parting gently and tongues barely there, a new world trembling open between them. It was ridiculously, achingly sweet; it was a promise and a vow, and the truest thing Bodie had ever felt.

He pulled back a little, blinking hard, and saw Doyle's eyes so close, warm and bright. “That's what I meant,” Doyle said softly, a husk in his voice.

Bodie grinned at him, helplessly. “I can do that,” he murmured, and leaned back in.

RE: 2.14, anyone?

[byslantedlight.livejournal.com]

Oh, I do like a nice bit of leaning in! *g*

[heliophile-oxon.livejournal.com]

Squeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I'm loving this, so much! And as I'm only able to come and read it at intervals, when there's quite a lot in each new-to-me chunk, I'm very struck by how coherent the whole thing is. It's incredible, you'd swear it really was totally planned the way everything fits together!

Huge cheers and applause to all the writers, who are doing such a brilliant job of co-creating a great story!

[byslantedlight.livejournal.com]

Yeay, so glad - thank you on behalf of everyone (and I hope they've seen this too! *g*)

Part 2.15

[byslantedlight.livejournal.com]

They had ten days before the arms drop was due, and Doyle was determined that every minute was going to be put to good use. He couldn't jog until the stitches came out, and even when he thought he was standing still boxing twisted him in ways he'd never imagined it did, neck and groin both, so he resigned himself to more gentle exercise, trying to stretch his whiplash out, and convinced Bodie to bring over his dumb bells. He went through every cupboard and drawer in the flat when Bodie wasn't there, and now and then, usually when he wasn't paying attention, things slipped back into place, until he thought he probably remembered more than he'd forgotten.

His flat was being watched, of course, a shadowy presence lurking across the street, sometimes dark haired, sometimes fair, but always a woman. They were followed in their turn by Murph or Anson or Ruth, who tracked them to a single address in North Kensington, took photographs, and let Bodie pass them on.

He didn't remember the dark haired woman, and a glance at Bodie over the top of the eight by twelve convinced him he wasn't expected to. Which meant...

The blonde was pretty, hair cut short and falling over her eyes in a long fringe. She'd been caught coming out of a shop, and seemed to be staring straight into the camera, and her eyes were hard, and bitter and angry.

"Jill Haydon."

Opposite him, perched against the arm of the sofa, Bodie let out a sigh. "Doesn't give up, apparently."

"Yeah, I remember." He took a deep breath of his own, pursed his lips tight against everything that had come rushing back at him, and let the air rush back out. "She always was tenacious."

"And by tenacious you mean a fucking bitch..."

"That's my Bodie." He slanted a look upwards, liking that the aggro was all on his side, and managed to scare a faint blush on Bodie's cheeks.

"If anyone's going to thump you, it's going to be me." Bodie pushed himself off the sofa, reached over and planted a mock punch across his jaw, though he ended it with a caress. "And I had plans for what she tried to take."

Despite himself Doyle winced. It had been too close. "But what's she doing hanging around here? She must know I'm not feeling much like reminiscing. And who's the other woman?"

"Moira Halloran," Bodie said. "They shared a cell together, and they must have got friendly because they're sharing a flat together now."

"What was she in for, then? Overdue library books?"

"She helped plant that car bomb down Pall Mall the other year. Couldn't pin her on anything more than providing the vehicle - but we've got her down as a demolition girl."

"Oh, great... Just what Haydon needed, a girl chum." That something was back, as he stared at Haydon's face. "So we've got the IRA, Coogan, Krivas, the crooked lawyers..."

"Ah, come on Doyle - we know where the arms are going to be, and Krivas and Coogan - give it a rest until then, eh? You don't need this..."

And everything suddenly shifted, and the something was right there.

"That's it!" He snapped his fingers. "There's too many connections. What do Coogan and Krivas want with Haydon?"

"The IRA deal - she's brokering it."

Doyle shook his head gently, one hand raised to his neck. "She thinks she is. Sounds like your Moira had a good lawyer, doesn't it?"

"Peterson and Greig..." Bodie caught his eye. "You're not just a pretty face, are you angelfish? It's a double-cross..."

Re: Part 2.15

[jessebee.livejournal.com]

Oooo, yes! :-D