Siren


This is a dark series, full of torment, and did not go down too well with some readers, particularly Bodie fans, who felt he had to put up with too much and was not loved enough. The first I agree with, the second, never. In my B and D universe, there is never a lack of love.. these men are bound together, forever, however much they beautifully suffer along the way. It's seldom picked out as a favourite of my stories by readers, but still, there are things I love about it - particularly the shootout with the young recruit where I tried to capture, for once, some life-or-death struggle outside the bedroom, the knife-edge danger and excitement of CI5 we see onscreen, which drew me to the series in the first place.

It also contains the worst line written by any slash writer ever, in the history of fandom. I've left it in, for nostalgia. I hope you spot it, and smile...

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" - you fancy one?"

"Nah, you go ahead." Bodie put down his pen, slowly; leaned back in his chair.

"So bloody stuffy in 'ere," Doyle said briefly, loping through the restroom en route for the small shower cubicle. "Needs a fan installed - gonna write the Cow a memo about it - " The brown tousled head disappeared momentarily around the thin plastic wall of the shower, then re-emerged. Inside the cubicle a trickle of water began, faltered, then gathered into a steady rhythm as it pattered hissingly down onto the plastic floor.

Doyle was still complaining as he began to strip. The holster was the first thing to go, draped over the back of a chair - Bodie noted abstractly that it was faintly grubby; and had, at one time, frayed and been mended - "Takes ages for it to run hot. It's something to do with the pipes runnin' so close to the drawer where the ol' man keeps our expense chits - temperature's freezing in there, too - "

For once, Doyle was wearing a tie. Bodie watched as his partner's thin fingers plucked speedily at the drooping knot, effecting a magical release; then Doyle yanked it around so it flew and danced like a flat dun snake, dropping it carelessly to the couch in one corner where it lay instantly still, divested of its feigned animation.

"'ow long d'you think we'll be tied up here?" He was starting on his shirt buttons now, standing squarely in front of the desk Bodie occupied, feet planted apart, watching him with thoughtful green eyes.

"Oh, I dunno. All night, probably."

Doyle grimaced, undoing the last button and pushing the pale shirt back off his slender shoulders; his skin looked nicely tanned in comparison to the pastel beige cotton disarranged over it. Apparently arrested by a sudden thought, he froze in the position and gazed down at his partner.

"Maybe I better not shower. Say 'e wants us in a hurry - "

"Nah, you got time," Bodie assured him too quickly, "he's gone out to see the Commissioner - be at least an hour, 'e said -"

And if Doyle didn't know that perfectly well, if he had forgotten the message relayed to them not ten minutes ago, then he had no place in this job.

Bodie's hands were sweating as he clenched them tightly together beneath the desk - oh Christ... He ought to stop this, now, but -

Doyle had resumed undressing, wriggling out of his shirt, holding it between finger and thumb for a moment before throwing it at Bodie, an accurate toss which took the other man thoroughly by surprise.

"Should've brought fresh clothes. Next time we're on one of these all-night jobs, remind me, will you? Nothin' worse than putting the same ones back on when you're all clean - "

Bodie had extricated himself by now from the folds of Doyle's shirt: still warm from its recent contact with Doyle's skin the scent of it filled Bodie's senses, sweat and radiant Doyle-musk. It was, touchingly, wet beneath the armpits. Bodie folded it carefully in hands that were not quite steady; laid it on the desk.

Doyle had swung away from him now, was studying the pinboard on the wall; it was studded with lurid holiday postcards. His back to Bodie, he whistled, hands stilling on the belt-buckle which he had begun to unfasten. "Murph's in Barbados? Christ, he must've found a rich woman." Head tilted back so the curls fanned out over his shoulders, his fingers began to work at the buckle. Bodie watched the ripple of delicate shoulderblade beneath honey skin; the indentation of the flexing spine, pricked out down the tapering length of his narrow back.

Anger shot through him, like an arrow coldly flensed with steel; anger at Doyle's blatant exhibitionism - for he knew all too well Doyle did it out of a very calculated purpose indeed - and anger at his own helpless desire, the shaming lust that led him, every bloody time they played one of these very private little games instigated by Doyle, to gorge his eyes on Ray while he had the chance, greedily feeding on the sight of him, stashing impressions away in his memory with indecent haste, piling small detail on small detail, to be brought out at leisure, and alone...

... but even anger could do nothing to quell the growing, insistent excitement as he watched Ray undress, the intensely heightened sexual awareness, the tense alertness of anticipation...

If he stops now - oh God, don't let him stop now...

As if he had been waiting for that silent plea, there was the rasp of a zip and Doyle began sliding his jeans down over his thighs, still continuing to talk seemingly unaware that it had been a monologue for a minute or more -

" - bring us a souvenir. Somethin' in a grass skirt would be nice - "

He kicked his feet free of the jeans; they flew into the air and landed on top of the tie. He wore small green briefs beneath, the material of which had been caught in the cleft between his neat round buttocks so that each was clearly defined and separated; it was perhaps uncomfortable, for as Bodie watched Doyle reached behind, inserted a finger beneath the elastic and ran it along to lift the material, an automatic, unplanned gesture.

- so - bloody - beautiful -

Oh Christ. Bodie blinked, winded, and found that he was pinching a portion of his own upper thigh between finger and thumb, a desperate gripping assertion of tension barely held in check. He let it go, massaged the abused flesh with disinterest - have a bruise there tomorrow, mate - then, inexorable, demanding, almost against his own will his fingers drifted across his thigh to the hard knot of flesh trapped alongside it. He was sweating. He drew in a ragged, quiet breath as his fingertips made little, swirling motions on the sorely stretched fabric of his cords, barely brushing over his aching, pulsing cock; the other hand lifted nervously to wipe a trickle of sweat from his forehead. God, but it was hot in here.

The noise of water showering down somewhere close at hand had long since ceased to impress itself on the senses other than as a background noise, easily ignored, but now Bodie could see a cloud of steam beginning to curl around the plastic cubicle, misting the walls. "You better get a move on, sunshine," he said in a voice that was tight with need, husky with sexual tension; but there was only Doyle to hear, Doyle the wicked provocative author of it -

"water's getting hot - "

Ohgod, mourned a little, keening voice deep within; want him so much, so goddamn much; Christ but I want him...

It happened so often.

Crying inside, he needed massive self-control to hold off, stay where he was, the diffuse help of his own hand now pressed open-palmed to his groin assuaging the ache a little; but not enough.

Doyle didn't move for a moment, still seemingly absorbed in his perusal of the noticeboard - oh, far too long Doyle: you're pushing realism way out the window, mocked the little cynical corner of Bodie's mind, even as the rest of him ached and yearned for touch as he watched Doyle standing there, legs apart, skinny, muscular thighs downed with dark hair - and Doyle stretched, hands knotted behind his head, long and luxurious, his compact body a study in sinuous sculpture.

Then he dropped his head, plucked off the pants in one swift, sure movement, and tossed those too towards the couch; he went to the door and snapped off the main overhead light.

Naked, eyes dark and shining with his own excitement - for Doyle too got off on this game - he came and stood in front of the desk. "Yeah, you're right," he said, but Bodie, slumped back in his chair, had long since lost the conversation and was past caring in any case, "mustn't waste Cowley's water, must we? Put CI5's bills up no end..." His voice was very soft, very intense, and he watched Bodie all the time: a skinny naked sprite with glowing green eyes and an angel's mouth; haloed with brown curls, staring at Bodie very deliberately.

Bodie's hand had left himself with reluctance, come to rest harmlessly on the desktop as Ray came even nearer, so close that Bodie's hypersensitive nerves were flooded with the scent of him,

first hand now, warm and living and so - bloody - desirable - that Bodie wanted to seize him, bury his nose all over him, rubbing at him, frenzied as a dog on mindless heat...Voiceless, he stared up at Doyle, eyes dark with need, and despair; saw the answering, glittering excitement clear in Doyle's own eyes, in the fast rate of his breathing, lifting and dropping the ribbed convexity of his thin chest. They were not even touching.

If anyone walked in on this scene, what would they think, Bodie found himself crazily wondering; what would they see? Ray Doyle, CI5, about to take a shower to while away the time of a sitting job, wash away the day's sweat; and his partner, bored, sitting at the desk idly waiting for the phone to ring, everything usual, normal, half-alert in the dead of night...

It's only us that knows about this, knows what it means - our secret, never spoken, how he turns the situation like this, so the whole room's tense with the atmosphere of a sparking powdercellar; and a lit match on a very short fuse...

His heart was pounding so fast, as fast as Doyle's - he could see the leap and flutter of the other man's pulse clearly beneath translucent brown skin, so close to him -

He met Doyle's eyes again, fierce and sad and desperate all at once, saw twin emotions in Doyle's absorbed, excited fallen-angel's face. Watching him all the time, Doyle lifted the back of one hand to his mouth, pink lips parting so Bodie heard him swallow, caught a glimpse of his flicking tongue, before it slipped out from beneath the chipped white tooth; and licked over the narrow wrist.

Bodie drew in a sharp, hissing breath, and nearly, so nearly, orgasmed there and then. Only the tight, almost painful hold he had on the corner of the desk served to distract his delirious, fiery delight at the wanton, erotic sight of Ray Doyle naked, perched in front of him, one knee casually drawn up; head tipped dreamily back as he savoured the taste of his own skin, that wrist still artistically pressed to the full mouth...

Then he opened his eyes, looked straight at Bodie, his hand falling carelessly away. "Mmm - I definitely need a shower," he said distantly, thus passing off the extraordinary, unnecessary action; "won't be long, okay mate?" And with a suddenly sharp, measuring glance over Bodie's body, taking in the straining press of flesh at its centre, he slipped off the desk, balanced on the balls of his feet for a bare second, watching the direction of Bodie's gaze with brightly sensual, knowing eyes, totally satisfied with what he saw.

Then he was gone, a scant whisk of blurry naked flesh, yelping with surprise as the rush of drenching water first hit him.

Past anything but the need that gripped him, clawed at his vitals, with a little whimper Bodie wrenched at his trousers, scrambling the belt and zip clear with furious haste. He leaned back in the chair as far as he could, spreading his thighs as far as was possible given the restriction of encumbering corduroy, and slid his hand down into his pants, fingers seeking out and curling at last - oh god, at last - around the hot distended flesh, freeing it from throbbing discomfort. His cool palm pressed down over the slippery engorged head; and with a sigh of relief, of need, he rubbed the flat of his hand sensuously down its length, spreading the slickness, his palm working gently, sweetly. Looking down, he could see the rosy tip standing out and up from his briefs, arching over his belly; a single, silvery trail of moisture drooping to fill the shallow cup of his navel: his left hand impatiently pulled his shirt up and out of the way.

Doyle had started to sing as he soaped himself, soft and lilting in his not-unattractive voice; the song of Bodie's personal Siren. So Bodie listened to that, shutting out all else, eyes dwelling hazily on the smoky plastic screen, searching desperately for the scant glimpses he was afforded of moving, clouded flesh; and as his hand moved on himself, pressed his moist hard sex down into the welcoming softness of his belly, ground it around, half-opened unfocussed eyes caught a glint of white. His free hand went out, grasped Doyle's discarded shirt, fingers twining helplessly, lovingly in the material; he brought it up to his face, breathed in Doyle's lingering scent all over again. The shock to his dazed, overloaded senses drove him over the edge, his cheek rubbing blindly over the soft cotton, and he was filling with a sweet lush yearning spreading outwards from his groin, right up to his heart, almost unbearable in its poignancy because he loved Ray, loved him, loved him, and it was all so sweet and so exciting and so desperately, hopelessly sad...

Oblivious to the fact that Doyle's voice had long ago faltered and ceased, Bodie's eyes fell shut, a small helpless whimper and then another leaving him as his fingers clutched convulsively on himself, and his sex pulsed strong warm spurts of ecstasy over his hand, his belly, his clothing... and his lips formed the single word 'Ray', but did not let it fall...

When Doyle, gasping and dripping, finally turned off the taps with swift, sure twists, stepping out and reaching for a towel, Bodie, immaculately attired and very pale, rose from the desk.

"Think I will have a bloody shower after all," he commented roughly, pushing past him; and did not even know that tears, shining evidence of his betrayal, stood out clearly on his face.

-- THE END --