A Widening Gyre
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world.
Bodie realized he was in trouble the moment
he tried to step away from the shelf table attached to the window
and almost fell on his face. He’d only had a pint. Not nearly enough
to set the bar spinning and make him feel weak at the knees.
And it wasn’t true love, either.
Which meant someone had to have slipped something questionable into
They would be waiting for him. Out front? Maybe. It was hard to think.
Bodie braced himself against the table and considered his options.
There was a phone in the back. He could call HQ. Get someone to come
and pick him up.
Embarrassing as hell, but better than a knife in the ribs.
Mustering all of his focus and control, Bodie pushed off from the
table and headed for the back of the pub. He tried very hard not to
draw attention to himself, tried to blend into the babble of voices
and the clink of glasses. The important thing was to not get himself
tossed out on his ear. Outside he’d be twice as vulnerable to his
His head felt bad. But not the way it should feel if someone had slipped
him a mickey. This was different. Colours seemed to be bleeding into
each other at the very edge of his vision. Bodie pushed open a door
only to find himself standing in the bog. Somehow he’d missed the
He stopped and began to turn, one hand on the wall. The door flew
open suddenly, colliding with his shoulder and knocking him off his
already precarious balance. He stumbled backwards and caught himself
on a box fastened to the wall. Oh, hello, he thought, distractedly.
Condoms, extra large. The girl on the advert seemed to be smiling
right at him. Nice.
He felt a hand grasp his shoulder, and then he was being hauled around.
A grinning face took over his field of vision.
“Cost me a pretty penny to bribe that bartender. You must have the
constitution of a horse. Remember me?”
To be perfectly honest, he didn’t. He rather wished the girl would
The face lost its smile. “You killed my mates!”
Now that doesn’t make any sense at all, thought Bodie. He remembered
that he needed to get to a phone, but there was a lunatic standing
in his way. He was hissing something about red armies and fractions.
Fascinated, Bodie stared at the man’s face. His eyebrows seemed to
be travelling all over the place, independently of each other, like
a couple of hairy caterpillars. One moment the right one would be
way up his forehead, almost to his receding hairline, and in the next
moment it’d be down over his eye and the left one would be hiking
its way up.
And now the man was saying something about a trial. And an execution.
Bodie wasn’t sure about many things right there and then, including
the location of the phone, but he knew beyond any doubt that he did
not want to be executed.
The man drew a gun and pointed it at Bodie.
Bodie smiled. This was something he understood. Not just in his mind,
which didn’t seem to be functioning well at the moment, but in his
body, down in the very fibres of his muscles and tendons. He didn’t
need to think. He watched with detachment as his arm automatically
knocked the gun to one side. As the man turned to the left, trying
to bring his weapon back around, Bodie caught the side of his head
and forced it the other way.
There was a snap. The gun hit the floor first, thudding dully onto
linoleum tile. It was followed a moment later by the lunatic, his
limbs suddenly unstrung by a broken neck.
Bodie peered down at the twitching body on the floor. He wrinkled
his nose as the dying man’s bowels emptied. Not good. So, scratch
the idea of calling HQ from here.
There were sirens already, playing in his head, but he suspected those
were more memory than reality. The coppers wouldn’t be onto him yet.
The short hall outside the door was empty. All he had to do was walk
away, casually. No one had seen him make the kill, no one could connect
him to it. The sirens wailed continuously in his mind, trying to make
There was another door next to the bog. Bodie tried it, and found
himself outside in a back alley. The shadows were deep among the bins
and boxes, and for a moment he hesitated, half inclined to return
to the reassuring light and noise of the pub. He thought of a darker
continent where shadows like these hid things with claws and fangs.
But he wasn’t there now. He was in London, and safe enough for the
moment. He took a deep breath and walked out onto the street, joining
the light evening crowd.
The phone box almost smacked him in the nose. One moment it had been
all the way down at the other end of the street, and the next it had
dashed forward and planted itself right under his feet.
Deeply suspicious, Bodie checked the interior before stepping inside.
He wasn’t enamoured of trapping himself in a box, but there weren’t
many other options if he wanted to use the phone.
It turned out to be a more difficult than he’d anticipated. He dropped
half his change on the ground, trying to fish it out of his pocket.
The numbers on the dial were playing silly buggers, swapping places
with each other. Four and five in particular appeared determined not
to accept the dictatorship of the Roman numeral system.
Bodie almost dropped the phone. He’d been expecting to hear the mechanical
click and whirr of HQ’s switchboard.
“If you’re another sad bastard who gets his jollies breathing heavily
“Ray?” asked Bodie. He wondered what Doyle was doing answering phones
Bodie nodded. Wasn’t Angela supposed to be on duty tonight, he wondered.
That was why she couldn’t go out. Or so she’d said. Maybe she was
Why did Doyle keep saying his name? Bodie could hear sirens in the
distance. Real ones this time.
“Where are you? Are you hurt?”
Now Ray was shouting. Hair-trigger temper, that one had. Always getting
shirty over nothing. “M’right here.”
“Bodie, where are you?”
“Come pick me up?” There were lights now. Flashing blue and red down
at the end of the road. Bodie let his forehead rest against the Plexiglas,
and watched the shadows dance. “I think I killed someone.”
“Bodie,” said Ray, now using that immensely appealing ‘talking to
morons’ voice. “Where. Are. You?”
“Phone box,” said Bodie, annoyed. “Bateman Street. West End. London.”
“England, Earth, and Milky Way,” snapped Doyle. “Where on Bateman
“Jus’ look for flashing lights.” Bodie’s tongue felt strangely numb.
He closed his eyes, and then opened them quickly just in case the
shadows took his momentary lapse of attention as an invitation to
sneak up on him.
There was an oddly monotonous sound in his ear, and it took him a
moment to realize it was a dial tone. He dropped the handset and let
it dangle by the cord.
Stay put. Keep moving. Keep clear of the cops. Find help. Can’t trust
I don’t feel good, Bodie thought as he pushed the door open.
Doyle didn’t know what to think. Since answering the phone, he’d gone
from half asleep, to irritated, to outright panicked in a matter of
mere moments. And then sense had reasserted itself. Bodie sounded
confused, not seriously injured. If he was taking the piss…
Best to find him, first. Then he could decide if Bodie needed murdering.
Bodie had been right about one thing, though. The flashing lights
on Bateman Street were impossible to miss.
Doyle’s identification card got him past the line of coppers keeping
patrons out of the pub. A sergeant stopped him at the door and filled
him in on the situation. A man had been murdered in the toilets, no
Doyle asked for a description of the victim, whose body had already
been removed from the scene. Dark hair, tall, beefy build, thick eyebrows,
Not Bodie then, thought Doyle, whose heart had taken something of
a plunge when the sergeant had started his description with ‘dark
hair and tall’.
After a brief look at the crime scene, Doyle took his leave of the
sergeant and walked outside. Pushing past the crowd, he looked up
and down the street. There was a phone box on the corner, but it was
Firmly tamping down his anxiety, Doyle walked toward the phone box.
Bodie was more than capable of looking after himself. On the other
hand, he wasn’t prone to leaving dead bodies in pub bathrooms.
Bodie was just around the corner, leaning up against a street light,
his arms crossed over his chest. He appeared to be deep in thought,
studying the ground. He did not appear to be injured in any way.
Drunk, thought Doyle, his anxiety turning to anger. The rules were
clear. No fighting off duty. If Bodie had gone and killed someone,
he would be kicked off the squad. Or worse.
He planted himself in front of Bodie, his hands on his hips. “You’d
better have a good explanation for all this, sunshine!”
Bodie looked up, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Hello,
“Don’t you ‘hello, Ray’ me! What happened back there?”
A line appeared between Bodie’s eyebrows. “I tried to call HQ. What
were you…?” He stopped, frowning. “I think I called the wrong number.”
There was something odd about Bodie’s eyes. Doyle stepped closer and
took hold of his chin, tilting his head back into the light. Bodie’s
pupils were enormous and black. “You’re high!”
Bodie nodded, his chin scraping against Doyle’s hand. “Feels like
LSD. I thought maybe PCP at first, but… Stupid git. LSD doesn’t put
anyone out. Suppose it was his recreational stash.”
Doyle felt a giddy sense of relief. Bodie hadn’t been fighting after
all. It was a clear case of self-defence.
“Who was he?” Doyle slid his fingers down the side of Bodie’s neck.
His pulse was trip hammering and his skin was cold. Bodie had looked
relaxed leaning against the lamppost, but Doyle realized now that
it was all for show. He was holding himself rigidly still, every muscle
“I don’t know,” said Bodie. “He remembered me, though.”
Death by misadventure, thought Doyle. The bastard should never have
spiked Bodie’s drink. “Come on. I’m glad you waited for me.”
“I didn’t think you were coming,” said Bodie as Doyle steered him
toward the car. “I was just waiting for the drug to wear off so I
could walk home.”
Bodie could hear Doyle talking to someone on the car radio. Something
about getting an ID on the body and a hospital…
That last word stood out from the others in black and red spikes.
It hurt his skin.
“No hospital,” said Bodie, sharply.
“No, I don’t need. Nothing they can do, is there? Just have to wait.”
Bodie closed his eyes, not wanting to feel the passing lights hitting
his face. A day, maybe two, and all this would stop.
Unless it didn’t.
“Just take me home, Ray.” He tried not to think about permanent brain
damage. Those stories weren’t real. Just lies made up to scare kids
away from drugs. He wasn’t a kid, and he didn’t believe in scary stories.
All it took was a little self control, and the strength of will to
know that none of the sensations buffeting him were real.
Doyle got back on the radio again. Bodie let his eyes open a crack
and watched. He liked Doyle’s voice. It tangled and curled, coiling
in on itself. He thought about reaching out to touch Doyle’s words,
wondering if they’d feel as springy and soft as his hair.
He folded his hands tightly together in his lap instead.
Looking was okay. Touching was not.
A finger prodded his shoulder. Bodie nearly jumped out of his skin.
He glanced over to find Doyle staring at him with an amused smile.
“You’re clear. The dead bloke is Hans Mettler.”
“Cowley won’t be happy. Dead men don’t talk.” He wondered when the
car had stopped. He’d been so distracted watching Doyle that he hadn’t
noticed him turn off the engine.
“Can’t even stop in at your local without tangling with terrorists,
can you?” asked Doyle. “You’re a walking disaster, mate.”
Bodie was having trouble keeping up. Somehow between the first sentence
and the last, Doyle had teleported from the driver’s seat to the street
outside the passenger side door. He opened it, and Bodie felt the
night air turn liquid and pour into the car, soaking him. “Come on,
out you get.”
He had been okay as long as the car was moving, but now that it was
stopped he felt as if it had begun pitching wildly on high seas. The
air was sloshing and eddying around him, and there was a roaring in
Shoving Doyle back, he folded forward and promptly lost his dinner
on the road.
Doyle wanted to be sympathetic, but there
was only so much a man could be expected to endure.
It was four in the morning, and Bodie was showing no signs of slowing
down. He’d vomited once on the road and twice in the kitchen sink.
When Doyle suggested he clean himself up, Bodie had flatly refused
to enter the bathroom, explaining that it was a “bad place”.
What Bodie intended to do when he had to relieve himself, Doyle didn’t
know, but he drew the line at letting him water old Mrs. McGillicuddy’s
“Why don’t you sleep?” asked Doyle, who very much wanted to be unconscious
Bodie was staring intently at the test card girl on the TV, as if
expecting her to reveal all the secrets of the universe. “I told you.
I can’t sleep.”
“You haven’t tried!” Doyle had offered to get him pillows, a blanket
– had even offered him his own bed, in a fit of desperation. Unfortunately,
Bodie appeared to have invisible toothpicks stuck into his eyelids.
“No point,” said Bodie, still staring at the TV, his fingers digging
into his knee. “For every hit of acid, you need about twice that in
weed to bring you down.” He straightened and looked at Doyle, inquiringly.
“You don’t have any weed, do you?”
Doyle was finding Bodie’s black-eyed stare deeply unnerving. “No,
of course not!”
“Didn’t think so.” Bodie’s attention turned back to the TV.
Doyle groaned and slouched back in his chair, rubbing his face. He
should have taken Bodie to the hospital. Let professionals handle
But Bodie hated exposure of any kind. He clung fiercely to his dignity
and his independence. The idea of abandoning him in the hospital while
he was out of his head felt to Doyle like a betrayal of trust. Even
if it would have been the sensible thing to do.
“Scrabble?” Doyle suggested. Anything was better than staring at the
bloody test card girl.
“Sex,” said Bodie.
“What?” Doyle wasn’t sure he’d heard right.
Bodie got up and snapped the TV off. “I don’t trust that kid. She
knows too much.”
“Bodie!” Doyle glared at him. “I asked you if you wanted to play Scrabble!”
“And I asked you if you wanted to have sex.” Bodie’s eyes abruptly
widened, alarm crossing his face. “Shouldn’t have said that.”
“It’s okay,” said Doyle, slowly. “I’m pretty sure I can’t order in
girls this time of night anyway.”
Bodie nodded, very deliberately. He sat back down on the sofa, still
Doyle didn’t want to do anything to further shred Bodie’s composure,
but his curiosity had been piqued. I asked you if you wanted to
have sex. Not quite the same thing as, “Be a good mate and find
me a willing bird?” He nudged Bodie’s knee with his foot.
Bodie moved his leg out of reach. He was gripping his knees so tightly
that Doyle would have put down money on finding fingertip sized bruises
there by morning.
Doyle was torn between wanting to help the poor bastard relax, and
wanting to commit a murder of his own. It wasn’t Bodie’s fault, but
the fact remained that, as long as he was sitting there on the sofa,
strung as tight as piano wire, there was no way Doyle would be sleeping
tonight. Or possibly tomorrow night, either.
And Bodie was not an entertaining companion. He was, in fact, far
less entertaining than even a Bodie shaped monolith. And not much
more of a conversationalist, either.
Something evil took possession of Doyle. “Did you ever make it with
“Yeah,” said Bodie. Then his mouth clamped shut, and he regarded Doyle
with open horror.
Oh, this is rich, thought Doyle, gleefully. He knew he shouldn’t take
advantage of Bodie in this condition, but the temptation was too much
to resist. “When? Was it in the merchant marines? In Africa? I always
thought those paras were a bit on the swishy side.”
Bodie’s hands came up, his palms pressing into his temples. “Bugger
“Hah,” said Doyle. “It’s not ‘Ray’ now, is it? How do you like your
men, anyway? Big and butch?”
“Skinny and mean,” said Bodie. “With a face like a train wreck.”
Doyle started to laugh, and then stopped abruptly. Bodie’s tone had
been light, but his expression was desolate. All of the amusement
value abruptly went out of the game.
You’re a git, Doyle told himself. He stood up, feeling the stiffness
that came with sitting too long in one place. “Do you want more tea?”
Bodie shook his head, not looking at him.
Doyle went to make some more anyway. He needed the distraction. Imagine
Bodie fancying him. That would be an enormous joke. But Bodie
hadn’t looked like he was joking.
LSD could make a man think some funny things. Especially if he was
the kind of man who had done a thing or two with his mates in the
past, under the cover of night. Doyle supposed he could see Bodie
being that sort, making do with whoever was available. There weren’t
many birds to be had out in the jungle, and all cats were gray in
He couldn’t imagine that it had ever gone any further than a blowjob
or a quick screw up against a tree, with Bodie getting all the head
and doing the screwing himself. Much too butch, that one, to ever
take it up the arse. And you’d never see him in the clubs or loitering
in parks. Not so long as there were birds handy.
Interesting to think of him that way, though.
Shaking off a disturbingly vivid image of Bodie on his knees, pale
white arse in the air, Doyle collected his cup and returned to the
living room. He was tired. Beyond tired. Exhausted and hallucinating,
more like. That was the only explanation for it, because he certainly
didn’t have any unsavoury designs on his mate.
Bodie seemed to have recovered his composure while Doyle was in the
kitchen. He was now staring at the ceiling, still tense, the tendons
standing out on the sides of his neck. “I hate LSD.”
“It’s not your first time, then?” Doyle settled back into his chair,
holding his cup.
Doyle waited for more, but Bodie seemed to have used up his capacity
for conversation. Doyle sipped his tea and wished there was something
he could do to help the man unwind.
Bodie brought his hand up to his face and
watched the air move around his fingers, ripples of rainbow colour
bleeding into the cream walls. He knew he should stop, knew none of
this was real. He probably looked a right fool.
On the other hand, the only person watching was Doyle. He wouldn’t
Never should have brought up the sex, though. Doyle had reacted just
the way Bodie had expected, laughing at him and acting like it was
all one big joke. Probably was, to him. Still, he’d left off teasing
before it got to be too much. That was decent of him. It was nice
to know he could trust Doyle not to take things too far.
Sex. Bodie could feel his groin tighten in reaction to his thoughts.
He shifted, trying to make room. He wondered what sex would feel like
right now. What colour would Doyle’s words turn if he was aroused?
He shifted again, uncomfortably.
“If you need to wank, use the bathroom,” said Doyle.
Bodie looked up to find Doyle looking at him neutrally. He wondered
if Doyle could read every one of his thoughts and desires. The idea
didn’t seem as implausible as it should. “The bathroom’s bad.”
“You can have my bedroom, then. Just don’t make a mess.”
Bodie shook his head. “I’m okay,” he lied. And then he added, “Rather
not be alone,” which was the truth. His cock felt like it was trying
to drill right through his zip. Good thing evolution hadn’t given
cocks opposable thumbs, or they’d be ruling the earth. He considered
telling Doyle about that, and then decided he’d better not.
Better to just watch the colours and wait. Just had to keep it together
until the drug wore off.
An immeasurable time later, he was almost ready to crack and admit
that he wasn’t okay. Not in the slightest. Doyle was curled up comfortably
in his chair, reading. Bodie, meanwhile, was still sitting on the
sofa, wide awake, and with a hard on that wouldn’t quit.
Christ, what if it never went away?
Cowley wouldn’t approve of one of his top agents walking around like
that, frightening old ladies and small dogs.
Bodie wondered if he’d somehow died without noticing and ended up
in hell, doomed to an eternity of sitting on Doyle’s sofa watching
the walls melt. With a hard on.
It just wasn’t fair.
“You look miserable, mate.”
He did? His control must be slipping. He schooled his expression to
what he hoped was neutral before looking up. Doyle was gazing at him
over the top of his book, his eyes speculative.
“Look,” said Doyle. “It’s not as if I don’t do it myself, right? Might
relax you. I’ll just sit here and read my book.”
“Read to me?” asked Bodie.
“What, out loud?”
Doyle shrugged and began to read. Bodie didn’t know what the book
was, and he didn’t care. A warm russet colour tinged the edges of
Doyle’s words, and they were curling more loosely than they had in
the car, like ivy in the autumn.
He let a long breath out and tried to relax, leaning back on the sofa.
The room was filling with Doyle’s voice. It brushed lightly against
his skin, warm and reassuring. His hand started to drift down to his
crotch, and then he froze. He waited to see if Doyle would react.
Doyle continued reading, never looking up from his book.
Bodie thought of fire flickering in the hearth and the smell of wood
smoke. Memory was almost indistinguishable from reality. He lowered
his zip and discovered that it sounded like the crackle of flame.
His fingers brushed his briefs and he gasped.
All of his nerves ignited at once. It was too much. He felt a moment
of raw terror. He couldn’t see, couldn’t defend himself, couldn’t
feel anything but this…
Then Doyle’s voice wove its way into his awareness, forcing calm words
into the snarled knots of his panic. As his fear dissipated, Bodie
was able to breathe again.
He realized that it was really all right. He could let go. He didn’t
have to watch his back; Doyle would do it for him.
Doyle turned the page on his book, somehow
managing to continue to read aloud even as his attention was entirely
focussed on Bodie. He’d picked the book up on a whim, and it had sat
unread on his shelf for weeks. After tonight, he knew he’d never be
able to think about the art of falconry the same way again.
“The captive did not know that he was being kept awake by an act of
will,” read Doyle. He blinked at the page, noticing the words for
the first time in several minutes. Kept awake? “But only that
it was awake, and in the end, becoming too sleepy to mind what happened…”
He doesn’t look very sleepy, thought Doyle, sneaking a quick peek
at Bodie. But the drug did have him captive, in a way.
Bodie was leaning back against the cushions of the sofa, his cock
in his fist, seemingly oblivious to everything about him.
Doyle felt a slow heat begin to build in his own groin. Sympathy arousal,
no doubt. “It would droop its head and wings and go to sleep on the
Christ, he thought. Fists were the last thing he needed to think about
now. Fists and things clenched in them, and the knuckles turning white.
Bodie’s hand was moving quicker now, his breath harsh in the sudden
Doyle looked down at the page. “It would say, ‘I am so tired that
I will accept this curious perch, repose my trust in this curious
creature, anything so I may rest.’”
As he paused again, Bodie’s head turned blindly toward him. He was
listening to the book, then. Doyle felt his own cock stir again at
that thought, and he groaned under his breath. This was not a good
chapter to read aloud. Flipping ahead randomly, he tried a different
“When he was like this it was possible to calm him down by slipping
the bare hand over his crop, down his breast and under his stomach.”
Oh dear God, what kind of book was this? Doyle checked the front cover.
The Goshawk, by T.H. White. Nice picture of a bird. Nothing to indicate
the kind of erotica contained within the pages.
Of course, he might be reading too much into the words. It was just
a man and his hawk, after all.
“Then, with four fingers between his legs…”
Bodie’s legs were quite lovely, elegant even, stretched halfway across
the living room rug like that.
Doyle shook his head sharply. He did not just think that.
“One could hold up the beating heart which seemed to fill the whole
of his body.”
If Doyle had known this was a love story, he’d never have picked up
the book in the first place. He gritted his teeth and kept reading,
even as Bodie’s back arched right up off the sofa, and white liquid
spilled over his knuckles.
A towel landed in Bodie’s lap, startling him badly. He’d been occupied
with trying to figure out how he had managed to turn inside out without
his internal organs actually ending up all over the carpet.
He looked up to see Doyle standing over him, his customary scowl in
“Clean yourself up,” said Doyle. “I’ll not have you making a mess
of my sofa.” He looked irritated, but his voice was still coloured
with warm shades of red. Bodie glanced down at Doyle’s crotch and
found himself suddenly quite sure what that colour meant.
He was even more certain a moment later when Doyle abruptly excused
himself and headed for the bathroom.
Bodie concentrated on wiping himself clean. One of Doyle’s paintings
was trying to slide down the wall, but since it didn’t seem to be
making much progress, he decided he could ignore it.
He dropped the towel and stood up. The floor rippled, massaging the
soles of his feet in a way that wasn’t entirely unpleasant as he made
his way over to the bathroom door.
Raising his fist, he knocked and then settled back on his heels to
watch the sound waves move out from the point of impact.
“What!” Doyle’s voice was full of sharp edges, but it was also gloriously
red, glowing with frustrated desire.
“Got to take a slash,” said Bodie, pushing the door open. He watched,
amused, as Doyle leapt up, trying to cover himself.
Bodie casually pushed past him, positioning himself in front of the
“What the hell are you doing?” demanded Doyle.
“You were having a wank.” Bodie lowered his zip and aimed for the
toilet. The mirror gleamed threateningly, but as long as Doyle was
here, he was sure he could handle it.
Doyle yanked his pants up. “I’m leaving!”
“Wait!” Bodie tried to grab him.
Doyle howled and shoved him back at the toilet. “Bloody hell! Watch
where you’re pissing!”
Bodie began to laugh. “Sorry,” he managed, as he zipped himself back
“You can go back to your wank now,” said Bodie helpfully.
“I’ve gone off,” said Doyle, sourly.
Bodie slung an arm over his shoulder. “I could help you with that.”
“No thanks.” Doyle shook his arm off. “Go wash your hands.”
Bodie glanced at the mirror and shuddered. “Not here. I’ll use the
sink in the kitchen.”
“What is it with you and that mirror?” demanded Doyle, impatiently.
Bodie shoved him back against the wall, pinning him with a hand on
his chest. He patted Doyle’s cheek with rough affection. “I trust
you.” He pointed at the mirror. “I don’t trust that.”
Bodie was asleep, finally. Doyle could feel his own fatigue dragging
him down. He’d been barely coherent on the phone with Cowley,
and he was looking forward to collapsing into bed.
Still, he paused by the sofa to look down at Bodie, who had one
arm flung over his head, while the other was dragging on the carpet.
There was something strangely endearing about the sight.
White had described the goshawk as the perfect assassin, one moment
a remorseless killer, the next a clown. Tonight Bodie was rumpled
and bedraggled, his face lined with exhaustion. Doyle imagined
a dusty bird asleep in the mews, broken tail feathers drooping.
Come morning, he’d comb his feathers back into place, and he’d
look as sleek and deadly as ever.
Doyle was looking forward to having his partner back. It had been
a long night and a longer day, and Bodie’s continuing ham-handed
attempts at seduction hadn’t made things go any faster. It was
all perfectly ridiculous. Doyle was not much taken with the idea
of being the nearest warm body, and Bodie was in no shape to consent
to anything anyway.
The last thing he’d said before falling asleep was, “I’ve made
a fool of myself, haven’t I?”
“It wasn’t you,” said Doyle, feeling unaccountably like he was
taking the coward’s way out. “It was the drug.”
Bodie’s smile was slightly crooked. “I knew you’d say that.”
Still, Doyle rather liked the idea that there was a connection
between them. Not sex, something better than that.