Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Doyle awoke first, opening his eyes to see Bodie lying next to him. It hadn't been a dream. Even if he hadn't been sure about that, he was fairly certain his dreams didn't usually include an urgent need to piss. He extricated himself carefully, picking up Bodie's hand from where it was curled around his arm, smiled to himself as Bodie immediately clutched at the pillow instead, then shuffled as silently as possible to the toilet.

He may have been upright, but he was dreamily half-asleep, and he remained standing in the bathroom for a while. It had been real. He'd—he'd fucked Bodie. And loved it. Him. And he wasn't afraid any more. There was nothing to be afraid of, because —

A tremendous crash, the sound of something shattering, shocked him into full awareness, and he ran back into the bedroom to see the pieces of the bedside lamp on the floor, and Bodie sitting up, dead white, staring into space. He'd seen Bodie look calmer holding a nuclear bomb.

"Bodie!"

Bodie blinked once, and then seemed to see him, the colour coming back into his face. "Ray."

"What the bleeding hell was that?"

Bodie looked down, scrubbed at his eyes, clammed up. "Nothing."

Doyle picked his way around to the far side of the bed, avoiding the broken lamp, and perched on the edge of the bed. If you don't want to tell me, then you don't want to tell me," he said quietly. "But I saw your face. Don't tell me it's nothing."

"It's stupid."

"Stupid's not the same as nothing. And if it got you looking like that, it's not stupid, either. Do you want me to guess? I'll guess."

Bodie knit his hands together and stared at his fingers, not looking at him. "Go ahead."

Doyle had no idea what he was going to say until he'd said it. "The man you fell in love with." Bodie's head shot up. "The first one. The one who isn't dead. The carpenter."

"He—" Bodie paused, swallowed, and then his eyes narrowed. "I didn't tell you he was a carpenter."

"Your friends were worried about you, the other day," Doyle said. "They wanted me to come back. They thought if they told me about your last relationship, I might change my mind."

"How much did they tell you?"

Doyle shrugged. "You were seventeen. He was straight. He left you for his wife. You ran off to Africa." He carefully left out everything Hull and Rutter had mentioned about the emotional impact. Bodie knew his own heart well enough; didn't need him telling him how he felt.

"That's... accurate," Bodie said, slowly, after a long silence. "Did they tell you how he left?"

"They didn't say." Doyle shook his head.

"We'd docked in Southampton," Bodie said, slumping back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling as he talked, like it was a story, something that hadn't happened to him. "We were due to leave the next morning. First port was Dakar. So that night, the last night in dock, we got together like always. And he told me he was leaving. Thanks for the memories, it was fun, buy you a drink sometime, now I've got to get home to the wife. As if he thought I'd actually understand. I thought he—never mind what I thought. Asked him to stay with me anyway, for the night, and he said yes, and I tricked myself into thinking, you know, that it was more. That I could make him change his mind."

Oh, Bodie. Hull had been right; he hadn't ever healed, Doyle knew, hearing the catch in Bodie's voice. He longed to hold him. But the tale wasn't over.

Bodie's voice rasped, dry. "So we did what you usually do, which is take an unused stateroom, make yourself at home for the night. It was one of these first-class deluxe cabins. They look more or less the same as they did then, too. Took him to bed. Pulled out every trick I knew. He wouldn't even kiss me, but I was a stupid kid, and I thought, well, if he came, that was as good as gold, eh? So he did, and I didn't, of course, as he hardly even cared to touch me, and we fell asleep together. Or at least I fell asleep. And when I woke up in the morning, he was gone. He'd left, and the ship had already left port while I was asleep. Didn't even say goodbye. So I got out of there, as soon as I could, jumped ship. Begged Llewellyn to keep it off my record first, and he did."

God. No wonder. That would do it, all right. "And when you woke up this morning, it looked like the same place, and you thought I was gone..."

"Yeah." Bodie shut his eyes. "Told you it was stupid."

Doyle lay down next to him, the bed settling under his weight, and brought a hand up slowly to stroke Bodie's face. Bodie looked at him like he was offering a second chance at life. "I'm still here."

Bodie's jaw worked, muscles moving under his fingertips. "I see that."

"And just so we're on the same page here," he said, feeling light-headed, "I'm beginning to get the impression that you might want more than a one-night stand out of this. Correct me if I'm wrong."

"You're not wrong," Bodie said, looking a little uncertain. Could he really not know how Doyle felt?

"Wonderful," he said, and leaned over to kiss Bodie thoroughly. When they broke apart, Bodie was smiling. "I'd like that too. I'd really like that. I don't know what's going to happen when we get back to land—"

Bodie's smile dimmed a little. "We'll worry about it as it comes. One day at a time."

"All right," Doyle said, hopeful and scared at the same time. "But what about—"

Someone knocked on the door, and they looked at each other in confusion for a few seconds until the knock came again.

"Shit," he spat out, scrambling off the bed.

"Trousers!" Bodie called to him, fumbling through the pile of lamp shards and throwing Doyle his jeans. "Don't want to frighten the horses, sunshine."

"Yeah, yeah." He hopped across the sitting area, pulling the jeans up as he went, as Bodie was pulling on his clothes from the night before.

Opening the door, he found Hull and Rutter, glaring balefully at him. He wasn't particularly surprised.

"We were wondering," Hull began, "if you had any news about our roommate." Oh.

Bodie waved an arm at them from across the room, buttoning his shirt up as he did. "Hello. Suppose you're wondering why I didn't show up to work today." He didn't sound apologetic at all.

Rutter looked back and forth between the two of them, then poked Hull in the arm. "You owe me five quid."

"Actually," said Hull, ignoring his lover, "the passengers couldn't care less about their rooms when we make Southampton in an hour. We were wondering if you were dead."

"Dead?" Bodie frowned and tossed Doyle a t-shirt as he came into the living area. Doyle caught it easily, without looking, and pulled it on. "Who's saying I'm dead?"

"Someone," Hull looked pointedly at Doyle, "came by the peak yesterday and said we had to help him find you or you would die. When we didn't see you since, we were naturally concerned as to your well-being."

Doyle returned the look Bodie gave him, unflinching. He'd done the right thing. "I didn't know where you were."

"Suppose you'd better come in, then," said Bodie, shutting the door firmly behind Hull and Rutter after they did so. "It's a long story."

The two of them sat down.

There was a pause as they looked around the room, waiting, then —

"Bodie?" Rutter's voice was strange. "There are guns on the table over there, Bodie." Dammit. They hadn't put them away. "What the hell are you mixed up with?"

Two pairs of eyes settled accusingly on Doyle, and he had to laugh. The cover had worked so perfectly. They had trusted Bodie so much that this strange and threatening thing naturally had to be Doyle's fault.

"It's all right," said Doyle, but coming from him it of course did nothing to allay their suspicions. "He's with me. I'm with him. Whichever. Both."

Bodie half-smiled. "We're on the side of the angels. CI5."

It was hard to tell which of them was more shocked. "You're joking," Rutter said, quickly. It was the sort of thing you said automatically, without thinking whether or not you could believe it, just denying it.

Doyle shifted the guns on the desk until he found their IDs underneath and tossed them to Bodie, who passed them over for inspection.

"I'll be damned," Hull said, squinting at the picture, and then at Bodie, and then at the picture. "Really?"

"Absolutely," Bodie said. "I wouldn't lie."

Rutter looked at him, mouth a thin line. "If that's not a fake, then you've spent nine days lying to us."

"I don't believe I said anything untrue," Bodie defended himself. "Can't speak for Doyle, there."

"Your name's really Ray Doyle, then?" Rutter asked, and Doyle nodded.

"And I am a civil servant. Of a sort. The same sort Bodie is. We've worked together for years now as partners, which is why we're both here."

Hull stared at him. "Aren't you a little far from home for your work?"

Bodie looked a little uncomfortable. "We can't talk about the details." Was that really all he was going to say? They could say more than that, surely.

"But there was someone aboard we were looking for," Doyle put in, "and we needed agents in the passengers and the crew. MI6 didn't have anyone who could fool you, whom you would trust. We had Bodie."

Rutter was still looking angry. "I don't much care for being fooled."

"And your relationship," Hull said, "that was a fake too? You'd pretend to be together so that you could find this person you were looking for better, and we'd think nothing of finding you wandering about the ship?"

"That was the original plan," said Bodie. "Much to my surprise and happiness, it ended up more real than that." The smile he gave Doyle was full of pure affection, jolting him to the core. It was like mainlining delight.

"This bloke here, my partner," Doyle chucked a thumb in Bodie's direction, "had apparently been nursing a secret passion for me for eight years. Didn't think to tell me beforehand, can you believe it?" Bodie jumped a little at the words; he'd said nothing of the sort to Doyle, but Doyle knew it had to be true. Bodie'd never looked at him any differently—because he'd always loved him, when he looked at him.

But Bodie was shaking his head and grinning. "Seven years."

Doyle frowned at that and counted again in his head. '75, '76... "No, it's been eight years since we were partnered."

"I know it's been eight years," Bodie clarified. "But the first year you were a prat."

"Oi!" Doyle moved closer, hit him lightly in the arm.

Bodie held his hand out, stroked along Doyle's jaw with his finger. "Didn't say I didn't fancy you, though. You were still bloody gorgeous, sunshine. Always have been."

"That explains it," Rutter said, and Bodie looked at him curiously.

"Explains what?"

"How you acted," he said.

Bodie's face fell. "All that and we didn't fool you?"

"He did," Rutter said, indicating Doyle. "Trade omi, confused, interested, falling in love, coming out, oh, that was perfect. Spot on."

Doyle winced and said, "I didn't have to act much."

"We know," Hull said. "You, on the other hand, Bodie—you looked at him like you wanted him but you weren't fucking yet. It was reasonable enough the night you met him, but then you kept on doing it. And I couldn't figure out why you weren't when you said you were and it was obvious that you both wanted to."

Bodie looked chagrined. "Do you think anyone else noticed?"

"Don't think they knew you well enough. Not as well as we did."

"Out of curiosity," Rutter asked, "when did you start fucking? You had to have been by—"

"The soiree," Doyle said. That was something they clearly hadn't faked.

"That, I'm afraid," Bodie added, half-camping, "was the wedding night, darlings."

Rutter blinked a few times in surprise. "Christ, Bodie, I'm sorry that had to be it."

"No, don't be sorry," Bodie said. "If it hadn't happened then, we'd never have done anything about it. And I'm glad for it, even if it was a bit of rough going there."

He smiled over at Doyle, and Doyle smiled back, conscious of the eyes on them. He was getting the feeling, though, that they approved.

"Hate to say it," Hull said, "but we've got business to get to. We'll bring you your things before you disembark, if you like. You probably have better things to do than run back down to the peak."

"You're off already?" Bodie frowned. "I'll miss you."

"You'd miss us less if you talked to us more than once every twenty years," Rutter pointed out, affection with a hint of acidity. "Don't just disappear. You know where we live. You could write us. And we're in Southampton often enough these days, since they took us off the Australia run. Come by."

"Maybe we will," Bodie said, and a shadow passed over his face. "Maybe tomorrow. After CI5 sacks us for committing sodomy I'll probably need a new job, wouldn't you say?"

Hull regarded him gravely. "The world's changing, Bodie. Might not be as bad as you think."

"Good luck," Rutter said.

Bodie embraced them both, hugging them hard for a long time. "Safe travels."

When they were done with Bodie, they shook Doyle's hand in turn, Hull first.

"Hurt him and we'll make your life hell," Rutter said cheerfully, gripping Doyle's hand hard enough to bruise.

"I'll take good care of him," Doyle vowed. "I swear it."

"See that you do," Hull said.

And then they were gone, and it was him and Bodie alone in the cabin. The holiday was over. Time to face the real world.

It seemed like hardly any time passed at all before they were standing on the dock, luggage in hand. They'd waited for everyone else to disembark, of course, because MI6 was certainly going to, and they could at least keep an eye on the final disposition of their assassin.

When it seemed like all the passengers had gone, Doyle finally saw Gladys and Smith coming up behind them. There were dark circles under Smith's eyes, and he glared at them as he passed. Four cars were waiting in the direction they were going, and next to three of them, men in neat dark suits were standing at the kerb and watching Smith's every move. MI6. In almost no time at all, Gladys was settled into the back seat of one of the cars, and another two men in dark suits ran past Doyle, from the ship, carrying boxes. The weapons, probably. MI6 must have got everything.

Doyle watched as the first three cars pulled away. "Do you think we'll actually see her again?"

"Does it matter?"

It was like Bodie knew that wasn't the question he'd wanted to ask. "No."

"I know." Bodie smiled, just a little. "Time to meet our fate." Doyle caught one last glimpse of Bodie's emotions before he shut down, formed his expression into something perfectly businesslike, and they started walking.

The last car in the line, the one that hadn't left, had Cowley standing next to it, Doyle could tell from afar. They hadn't needed personnel in the numbers MI6 had mustered; it wasn't necessary if they weren't taking Gladys. So there was only the one car. Inside, a slight figure sat in the front, whoever was being Cowley's driver today.

"3.7, 4.5," Cowley acknowledged as they came up to him.

"Morning, sir," Bodie said, as they piled their luggage into the boot. Perfectly normal. Like it was an ordinary day, an ordinary op, and nothing different had ever happened.

"You did good work, lads."

"We didn't get her," Doyle pointed out.

"No," Cowley said, "but you found her. We'll discuss the rest at headquarters."

Cowley clambered into the back seat, and Doyle slid in next to him. Bodie came around to the front, passenger side, and got in. Doyle watched intently as he turned his head to the right, saw the driver—

"6.7!" Bodie said, pleasantly. "Haven't seen you in ages." It was Julie. Bodie'd always liked her, and Doyle felt a knot of worry in his stomach begin to tighten. What if what they'd done had just been something you did at sea, not real life? What if Bodie'd expected them to pretend like nothing had happened, go out and chat up birds, fuck birds, and leave nothing but stolen moments and lies for themselves? What if?

Julie gave Bodie a lovely smile, brushed a lock of red hair out of her face, gripped the wheel, and the car pulled away from the kerb. "How was the holiday, 3.7?"

"It was lovely," Bodie said, shortly. Maybe he wasn't going to pretend...?

Cowley started filling them in on the events they'd missed that week, a recital that took a good bit of time, and Doyle hmmed and nodded and said the appropriate things in the pauses. Neither Bodie nor Julie said anything until some time later, when they were well on their way, having been on the motorway for almost an hour.

"Have I come all over in spots, Bodie?" Julie said, lifting a hand from the wheel to pat at her cheek. "You don't want to tell me how you've missed seeing my beautiful face, or how you wish I'd been on the op with you?"

"No spots," Bodie said quickly, still polite. But not flirting. "Did you really want me to tell you all of that?"

Julie shrugged, and Doyle thought he saw her frown. "It's what you usually do. A girl gets to expecting it."

"And I can't change?" asked Bodie. Doyle held his breath. He knew that the flirting never meant anything, not with Julie. It was how Bodie related to women. Or, maybe, he realised, it was how Bodie pretended to. He'd been pretending to be straight; maybe he'd always tried too hard on purpose. But more importantly, he also knew Bodie was doing this for him. To show him. He meant it.

"No, you can," she said, hesitant. "I just didn't expect you to."

"I didn't either," said Bodie, slowly. "So, have you read any good books lately?"

Julie didn't say anything for a while, no doubt waiting for Bodie to follow it up with a leer, a recommendation of dirty magazines, the sort of thing he would usually say. But he didn't. It was a real question, the sort you'd honestly ask a friend, and not because you wanted to fuck them. It was as if he'd been actually paying attention to her hobbies.

"Not anything new," she said, finally. "Just, you know, rereading old Agatha Christie mysteries."

"Oh, Doyle brought one of those along," Bodie offered. "I skimmed it a little. Something about a dinner party. I can never figure out who the murderer is in those things. Give me thrillers any day."

"It's always the least likely person," Doyle said, seeing that now he was included in the conversation. "The one you think absolutely couldn't have done it."

His heart leapt as Bodie turned his head back to him, parted his lips just a little in a smile. The way Bodie looked at him—it was real, he still meant it, and he wasn't going to chase birds. "If only we'd known that this week, eh, mate?"

Doyle chuckled, a little at the comment, but mostly out of relief. Bodie loved him. They could do this. "Well, if I'd known life would mirror art..."

"Could have nabbed her right away. Hey, did you ever beat her at shuffleboard?"

Doyle made a face. "No."

"Shuffleboard?" Julie asked.

Bodie laughed and started telling the story, Doyle's story, really, of the endless shuffleboard matches, along with how Gladys had behaved as Bodie cleaned her cabin every day, and it kept them all entertained—even Cowley—until they made it home, pulled up into the familiar CI5 car park. It had almost kept him from thinking about what happened now. Debriefing. They'd have to tell Cowley what happened. They had to tell him something. What were they going to say? They hadn't concocted a story together; they'd have to come up with something as the Cow quizzed them...

And it got even worse, as Cowley opened his mouth while they were getting out of the car. "3.7, in my office. 4.5," he eyed Doyle, "don't go anywhere. You'll be after Bodie."

They were being debriefed separately. Bodie first. No time to come up with something to say, present a united front, make sure their stories matched. He had no idea what Bodie was going to say. Was Bodie going to tell him? What would Bodie say?

"Understood," Doyle finally managed.

Getting out of the car, his eyes met Bodie's, and for an instant a pulse of fear passed through them. They both knew what was at stake. Then Bodie turned and followed Cowley into the building.

There was nothing to do now but wait for Cowley to be done with Bodie. He hauled their luggage out of the boot. He waited. He went to the lounge, where he ate a packet of crisps and drank three cups of sludge-like cold coffee in rapid succession. The caffeine, of course, did absolutely nothing to calm his nerves and even less for his bladder. He went to the loo. He had another cup of coffee. He pondered taking up drinking. Or smoking. A new vice. He imagined Bodie in Cowley's office, resigning. Being sacked. Promising he'd keep away from him forever. Sorry, mate, he could just imagine his partner saying. I'd promised the Cow, you know. No hard feelings. What was he saying to him?

The door opened, and his caffeine-addled heart hammered against his chest before he could turn and see who it was. Anson. McCabe. Murphy. Not Bodie.

"Heard you were back," Murphy said. "And tan, I see." His eyes narrowed, a bit of jealousy. "Enjoyed your cruise?"

Doyle rolled up his shirt sleeve to display his newly-bronzed arm. "Mmm-hmm. Life of leisure in first class, Murph, let me tell you. Course, the shootout wasn't so leisurely." It was the usual banter. Act cool, act tough, act like nothing you did could hurt you or upset you or frighten you.

"First class?" Anson said. "You two have all the luck."

"Not quite. Bodie had to clean cabins all week," Doyle said, and the three joined him in laughter. "That's rotten luck, isn't it?"

"Oi," McCabe said, "so where's your other half then?" It was the usual joke, something they'd always said, because everyone knew Bodie and Doyle, right? So close they were practically married. Some weeks McCabe called them husbands. Boyfriends. And Bodie had—Bodie had never thought it was funny, Doyle realised. He'd always told him to cut it out. And now Doyle knew why. It wasn't funny when someone taunted you with what you thought couldn't be true.

Doyle tried not to let it show. "He's with the Cow. I'm next, so I'm just waiting about."

"Fancy a game of poker?" Anson asked, grabbing the cards. It was better than nothing.

Three hands later, he at least had his mind a little off Bodie and was losing miserably—what was it with him and games lately?—when the door to the lounge opened again.

This time, it was Bodie. Standing in the doorway. Completely unreadable. Maybe he would have looked different if they could have been alone together, but they couldn't. He had no idea what Bodie had said, what Bodie wanted him to say. What he should say.

"Your turn, 4.5," Bodie said and looked at him like everything was perfectly normal. Doyle stared back and remembered, suddenly, last night, the look on Bodie's face as he came.

Doyle stood up. "All right."

Bodie moved past him, took his seat at the table, and took Doyle's cards over like they were the same person and it didn't really matter which of them played. He still had a shoulder holster on with his gun in. Hadn't surrendered his firearm. Of course, it had been Doyle's gun to begin with, so maybe he felt he couldn't surrender it. But on the other hand, he was still here, sitting down to a game of poker.

"Hello, sailor," McCabe chortled in something that was supposed to be camp but that Doyle knew now was absolutely nothing like it. He made a limp-wristed gesture.

Bodie bared his teeth. "Shut up." He looked back at Doyle. "Come find me when you're done, eh?"

Doyle was still standing in the middle of the room, transfixed, and Murphy nodded over at him. "Better get a move on, Doyle."

"All right, all right," Doyle said. "I'm going." He took one last lingering look. This could be the last time he—

He went.

Doyle'd managed to push aside most of the anxiety at the beginning. He'd told himself it was just like any other debriefing, and, in a sense, it had been. He'd come in. Cowley'd offered him a seat and some scotch, both of which he'd accepted. He'd sipped the amber liquid, relaxing ever so slightly as Cowley changed the tape on the reel-to-reel and pressed the record button.

The questions had been perfectly standard, and he went into great detail on Gladys. He described the shuffleboard games, the sleepwalking, the nosy behaviour, the access to keys that everyone had—all the things that should have clued him in, but hadn't. He talked about the other people they'd suspected, how they'd investigated Michael from the pool, how he'd thought Maria was suspicious, how he'd thought Smith, the MI6 agent, was really involved. Cowley chuckled dryly and told him it hadn't been the first time someone had mistaken MI6 for assassins. He told him about Ivanov, how they had found him everywhere they were investigating. Cowley said MI6 had suspected him too and that he'd been right about the heroin. Lucky guess. Ivanov wouldn't be a purser much longer. He told him how Bodie hadn't shown up at his door, how he'd asked the crew where Bodie'd been, how he found him tied up. He told him how he'd disarmed the explosives, how they'd confronted Gladys. Cowley nodded approvingly.

His throat was hoarse, having talked for at least half an hour straight, and as he wound down the story he took another drink. He'd told Cowley everything. He'd told Cowley nothing. He didn't tell him about Bodie's plan. He didn't tell him he'd met Bodie's friends. The deckhand Bodie had been with. How Bodie had kissed him, the first time, in the closet. How he'd kissed Bodie, the second time. The soiree, and everything after. Their conversation on the deck. How they'd spent last night. He said none of it.

"So I think that's all I have to say about it, sir," Doyle said, hating himself for lying. It wasn't lying. It was omitting. No. It was lying. And what if he couldn't be with Bodie? What then? Was it worth admitting to any of it?

"Are you certain there is nothing else you wish to add?"

This was his chance. "I am." As soon as he'd said it, he knew he'd made the wrong choice. He should have said something. Too late.

"Very well." Cowley leaned over, pressed stop, then sat back and looked at him. He had the feeling the debriefing wasn't over. This was it. He still had a chance. He was going to say something. He couldn't lie. At least it didn't have to go on tape. No poor secretary would have to transcribe the details. He reached for his ID, ready to drop it on the desk when Cowley would ask for it.

"Would you like to hear 3.7's interview?"

That hadn't at all been the question he was expecting, as he was steeling himself to confess. "What?"

"Bodie's debriefing," Cowley repeated, already changing the tape in the machine to the one that had been in there before, hitting rewind, as if he'd already said yes. "Would you like to listen to it?"

Doyle's heart pounded. Where was this going? "If you think it's pertinent, sir."

"Pertinent?" Cowley sat back and regarded him, inscrutable. "I suppose that's one way of putting it. Have another drink, lad." He refilled Doyle's glass and pressed play.

Bodie's voice came tinnily through the speakers. "...and that's how we got her, sir."

A pause, then Cowley's voice. "Is there anything you wish to add?"

"Yes, sir." Bodie sounded determined. Brave. Christ. He was going to tell him. He'd already told him. Doyle took a drink.

"And that would be?"

A longer pause, very long, as the tape hissed and Doyle held his breath.

Bodie, perfectly calm: "Agent 4.5 and I are involved in a romantic relationship, sir." He'd said "romantic," Doyle's brain babbled, idiotically. Romantic. Not "sexual." He'd said it. He'd said it. Cowley knew.

Another long pause. The sound of a glass clinking. Cowley'd probably needed a drink.

"I don't suppose you'll tell me," Cowley's voice was slow, measured, "that this was entirely for the benefit of the operation and not something you hope to continue."

"It was initially for the benefit of the operation," Bodie said. "It's become something more. Much more."

Another pause, then:

"I ought to have you sacked, you know," came Cowley's reply. Not a threat, more a statement of fact. Doyle heard the sound of something dropping on wood. Bodie's gun and ID, probably. "Och, laddie, put that away. You couldn't resign before I dismissed you. Not without notice."

Another sliding sound, as Bodie took the gun back. "I know." Bodie's voice was practically a whisper, blending into the tape hiss.

"What the hell were you thinking, 3.7? With Doyle? You know better than anyone that it's against regulations." Cowley's voice snapped now, turned angry.

Bodie's voice matched his, steel against steel. "If you'd like me to be sorry, sir, I won't. I'm not sorry, and I'm not ashamed, and I knew exactly what I was doing. And so does Doyle. And if you're going to think that I seduced him, turned him, made him do this, you are absolutely wrong. He was more than willing, and I didn't make him into anything he wasn't already, except maybe aware of it."

"You're my best team!" Cowley roared back. "And I won't have you endangering others, endangering yourselves. Suppose you get into a lovers' spat and get yourselves killed for your trouble. Suppose you get innocent people killed. You want to sacrifice lives because you can't keep your trousers zipped? This is why you made that promise."

"It could happen anyway," Bodie said, turning calm against the anger. "We've had spats before, just as mates, and it came out all right. And I know exactly what I promised and why, and up until now I've kept it. Don't want blackmail material. Don't want me seducing ambassadors and kings. And I won't. Just Doyle. And I don't particularly care who knows."

"And what about when you part ways?" came Cowley's question.

"What?"

"As long as you're together, perhaps, your work might remain unimpaired. But your file has a list of girlfriends as long as my arm, 3.7. A week, two weeks, a month, you'll be over him. You'll either refuse to work with each other, or you'll get killed, or you'll get someone else killed. Or all of the above."

"That won't happen." Bodie's voice was firm.

"Why shouldn't it?"

"I'm not leaving him. He's not leaving me." The confidence in Bodie's voice warmed him, even as listening to the tape made him shake.

"Given your past record, 3.7, I find it hard to believe you. No matter how sure you are. What's different about Doyle?"

Bodie said something so quietly that the tape didn't pick it up, and Cowley seemed not to have either.

"What was that?"

"I love him." Bodie's voice was strong, defiant. So he knew. He knew exactly what he felt. "And I know he loves me. This isn't a passing fancy. And if you're going to sack me, then do it. I've killed more men than I can count for CI5, for queen and country, and I get commendations for it, every one a note in my file. And you're going to sit here and tell me that I can kill a man, hundreds of men, but that I can't love one? That this is wrong? You'll never make me believe it. I'll leave CI5 before I'll leave Doyle. I don't need this job. I need him."

Doyle knew his mouth was hanging open. Bodie never said anything like this, about anyone, always put the job first. Bodie—loved him.

"Well." Another long pause. "How long has this been going on?"

A sort of laugh from Bodie. "Three days. Or eight years. Take your pick."

"I don't understand." Cowley's voice, confused.

"We've loved each other since the day we met. We just didn't know it."

A long sigh from Cowley. "All right. Go fetch your partner, Bodie. Send him over."

Now it was Bodie's turn to be confused. "You're not going to—"

"I know what the policy says. But good agents are hard to come by. If it doesn't interfere with your working relationship or embarrass the country, I... fail to notice... many things. I officially have no knowledge, you understand. Do you think you're the only ones in CI5?"

Another silence. "Who else?"

"That's their business." A pause. "They'll probably tell you themselves soon enough. Go on with you."

The sound of a chair shifting, Bodie standing up.

"Thank you, sir."

The sound of footsteps, moving away.

"And Bodie?"

"Yes?"

"Congratulations."

The tape ended. Cowley, staring at the reels, rewound it yet again until he found the point where he'd started playing it for Doyle. He pulled out a pair of scissors and some sellotape from the desk drawer and without looking up cut the tape at that point. He wound it back to the end, cut it again, and taped the two pieces together.

Then he looked up. "I'll be denying all knowledge of that conversation, of course." He smiled.

"I—" The words stuck in Doyle's throat. "I don't know what to say, sir."

"Take the weekend off, 4.5. Both of you. But I want to see you both here bright and early Monday morning, 8 am."

"Thank you," Doyle murmured. Thanking him seemed so pitiful now, like it wasn't enough for what he'd done. Somehow it hadn't quite sunk in, the magnitude of what he had just heard. He could have Bodie. He could have his job. He could have both. He didn't have to choose. "Thank you so much, sir. I could never have dreamed—"

"Och," Cowley looked faintly embarrassed. "No need for all that."

Cowley stood up, came around from the desk, and offered his hand. Doyle, brimming with gratitude, pulled him into a hug. "Thank you," he said again.

"Off with you now, lad," Cowley said stiffly, extricating himself. "Go see your partner."

"I will," Doyle said, and he darted out the door.

Doing what Cowley had told him to proved harder than Doyle had thought it would be: Bodie was nowhere to be found. Not in the hallways, not in any of the offices, not the computer room, not the loo. He looked everywhere. Where was Bodie? He started worrying as he raced down the hallway, looked in every room. Where was he? He couldn't just say all those things and leave.

Maybe he could. Maybe Bodie was afraid. It wasn't every day you declared your love for people. Bodie never had before, after all. Maybe he had run. Maybe he was already gone.

In the lounge, McCabe, Anson, and Murphy looked up from the game of poker, still going, as Doyle stuck his head round the door.

"Bodie still here?" He tried to sound casual.

"Yeah, he's invisible," Anson hooted, and McCabe elbowed him in the side.

Murphy squinted in thought. "He left about twenty minutes ago. Said he was going home."

"Ta," said Doyle, though he was anything but thankful. Bodie'd left. Couldn't take it. Changed his mind.

His steps were slow, dejected as he plodded toward the car park, signed out the keys to his favourite gold Capri, picked up his suitcase from where he'd left it. Bodie hadn't waited for him. He'd ring Bodie, he supposed, when he made it home, but what would he say? "Thanks for telling the Cow, he's all right, wish you'd meant it?" No.

He closed the door behind him and stood in the car park. It was a bright, clear day, and the sunlight sparkled off hundreds of windscreens. It didn't quite cheer him up. Not without Bodie. Well, he knew where the Capri was, over on the far side, behind a couple of vans.

As he moved past the other cars he could just about spot his, gleaming in the sunshine. Couldn't make out the details from this far away, but he knew what it looked like well enough.

A familiar figure, black-clad, was sitting on the bonnet, uncurling his legs and starting to stand up. Must have caught sight of Doyle. Was that...?

Doyle's heart raced, and he felt himself smile so widely he thought the muscles in his face would be sore for days.

"Took you long enough," Bodie called out.

"Bodie!"

Doyle sprinted the last twenty yards and ran into Bodie's arms. The Cow was probably watching them from out the window. He didn't care.

"Can't breathe, mate," Bodie said after a minute, and Doyle relaxed his grip just a little. "What's all this, eh?"

"Couldn't find you," Doyle mumbled into Bodie's neck. "Murph said you'd gone home, and I thought—"

Bodie stroked his hair. "You thought I'd left?"

"That's what he said. And it really did a number on me after hearing what you'd said."

He felt Bodie's fingers twist one of his curls. "What I'd said?"

"The Cow played me your tape. The end of it. And then destroyed it."

Bodie tensed a little under him. Probably remembering exactly what he'd said. Waiting for his reaction. "And?"

Doyle brought his head back, looked Bodie full in the face. "I love you too. Why don't you try telling me these things, idiot?"

His partner's smile was brilliant, dazzling. "Thought it was implied."

"Suppose so," Doyle said, then kissed him, right in the middle of the CI5 car park, where anyone could see. Let them look.

Bodie laughed joyfully and took his hand. "Come on, sunshine, let's go home."

It was a beautiful day.