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It was all because of Doyle's holster—or more accurately, the strap of Doyle's holster. It stretched across the width of Doyle's back, bunching the t-shirt underneath it—Bodie's t-shirt. The shirt was large on Doyle's frame, yet it clung to him, thanks to the heat in the attic they were stuck in. Bodie had had little else besides Doyle's back to look at for the past two hours. At first he'd only wanted to smooth the folds created by the holster strap, but gradually he found himself thinking of Doyle's back under the t-shirt, and what it would feel like to touch his smooth skin. Bodie looked away, but inevitably his eyes returned to Doyle's back, and the strap that stretched and eased with his movements.
Doyle had refused to wear his own shirt from last night. 'Do you know how much this shirt cost?' he'd asked. That shirt was fine cotton, and when he moved it revealed as much as it concealed. Doyle had worn it open-necked, tucked into his dark trousers. He'd looked crisp and cool, with a promise of wildness underneath. Only Bodie had known how close Doyle had come to dying that day. It had all added to the heat of the evening, the rising ardor between himself and Chloe, and Doyle and Susanna. There had been a glitter behind the lazy lids of Doyle's eyes, and they'd been in perfect accord when Bodie had suggested they all go to his flat for a nightcap. Bodie closed his eyes for a moment, breathed in the musty air in the attic. He'd always been aware of Doyle's sexuality; always enjoyed feeling him up—half wind-up game, half...something else. It was like playing with fire—he never knew when he might go too far and risk an explosion. But he'd never before wanted to merge with the fire, or have it for his own.
It was that damn holster strap and the way it defined Doyle. It was just part of the job, wasn't it? It was as mundane as a typewriter. And yet it represented the reason behind Doyle's intensity last night, and it made Bodie remember the look of him—the image Bodie had taken with him when he'd led Chloe to his bed. Doyle had been dishevelled, high on sexual heat, his body languid and urgent at the same time. The shirt had stretched across Doyle's back as he'd bent over Susanna, and she had pulled it loose from his trousers, exposed his skin to her touch and Bodie's gaze—
Bodie turned his eyes to the dingy wall of the attic. If the phone hadn't roused him from an erotic dream; if he had had time to take Chloe once more, he wouldn't be thinking about Doyle. They hadn't even been on call, but two operations had blown up at once. Giddings—arms dealer and new supplier to a splinter IRA group—had slipped away in a botched raid; meanwhile the splinter group was holed up in a Docklands building, surrounded by CI5 agents and armed police. He and Doyle had been sent to a sodding attic over a garage, with orders to watch the house opposite until told otherwise. It was unlikely Giddings would come to his ex-sister-in-law's house, but it had to be covered.
The R/T chattered—Anson reporting no movement at Gidding's ex-wife's house in Essex. Giddings was an ex-mercenary with a lot of contacts, but there were few that would hide him with this much heat on his tail. Bodie itched to be in on the Docklands siege, but here they were sat, and had been since before dawn. The heat had built ever since. Doyle currently straddled the chair by the window, arms propped on the chair back, binoculars held to his eyes, back presented to Bodie.
God. He closed his eyes and thought of Chloe. The feel of her breasts in his hands; how it would have been that morning—moving in her; taking her from...yeah, from behind, feasting on her back— Doyle's back. Oh, Christ he could see it—vulnerable, waiting for his touch; a shiver— Bodie snapped his eyes open as he heard Doyle shift in his chair. But Doyle stayed glued to the binoculars—unaware. He trusted his back to Bodie. And maybe that was part of the turn-on. Doyle always seemed to be on the simmer—his temper, his passion always lurked just below the surface, almost like a dare. He'd seen women and men drawn to it, some to their regret. What would Doyle think? How would he react if Bodie turned up the heat on the simmer? The holster caught his eye again—innocuous in itself, but carrying lethal power. Doyle often drew his gun with his left hand, occasionally surprising opponents with it, just as he surprised with his strength and quickness. Bodie knew what some of his own former colleagues would have thought of Doyle: too light of weight, easy prey. But Doyle never hesitated in a fight, never lost his focus, never gave up. He moved with a deadly grace that was in itself a turn-on. It never paid to underestimate Ray Doyle.
But then, it never paid to underestimate Bodie, either. And what would it be like to have all that concentrated, unpredictable energy of Doyle's under his control? To sink into him? To—
"Would you bloody well stop burning a hole in my back."
Bodie lifted his eyes to see Doyle turning to look at him before he had time to clear his own expression. Doyle's eyes widened, and then he stilled.
"Or is it my shirt?" Doyle's voice was soft, but there was a dangerous edge to it.
"It's my shirt."
For a moment longer Doyle stared at him, then his eyes flickered to the R/T, and he turned back to the window.
Bodie rose to his feet. The attic was hot and stuffy. They were on open mic. But Doyle had retreated and Bodie gave in to the urge to take advantage. He moved towards Doyle, noting the tension in Doyle's back and his tight hold on the binoculars. He put his hands on Doyle's shoulders, and leaned on him. "What do you see?"
The muscles in Doyle's shoulders twitched, but otherwise he didn't react. "Same as before. No one home. Milk bottle still sitting by the door."
"Check." He massaged Doyle's shoulders, but the tension didn't ease. He leaned closer, right against Doyle's back. Doyle was sweating, and yet Bodie felt him shiver. He slid an arm around Doyle, like a second holster, and rubbed his thumb over Doyle's cloth-covered nipple. Doyle's breath hitched. Bodie felt a warm throb of arousal through his own body. Doyle hadn't thrown him off. He slid his hand lower, and touched Doyle's hardness through the soft material of his dress trousers.
Doyle made a small, suppressed sound, unlikely to be picked up by the R/T. Yet Bodie paused, allowed himself only the one touch while his mind was filled with images of turning Doyle, kissing him, taking him. He breathed his desire, and then he moved his hand to Doyle's thigh, and with his open mouth he brushed against Doyle's neck. When this was over, he promised himself, and knew Doyle would understand his intentions. When they got home; when they got rid of the girls—
"No." The word was whispered, but there was strength underneath it. Bodie froze. Doyle moved his thigh away from Bodie's hand.
Dammit, only a moment ago— "Ray." He dared not risk more with the open mic.
Doyle said nothing. He didn't look around.
Bodie straightened, eyes narrowing. He touched Doyle's neck and felt the heavy beat of his pulse. He knew—
"Movement." Doyle's voice changed completely.
Bodie reached for the R/T. "Where?"
"Curtain. First floor."
Bodie spoke into the R/T. "Sir. Movement."
"I heard." Cowley's voice came back right away. "You saw no one—"
"No."
Doyle stood, and Bodie aimed the R/T towards him. "The morning milk is still by the door."
"Go in."
"Yes, sir." Bodie reached for his jacket while Doyle set the binoculars aside. There was no need to speak; the plan was already determined. But he touched Doyle's shoulder as he passed him on the way to the door.
Doyle stopped and looked at him. His expression was remote, unreachable. After a moment Doyle shook his head, and then he headed for the door. Bodie's stomach clenched as he followed him, anger beating in his blood. This wasn't the end of it.
While Doyle slipped around to the back of the semi-detached house, Bodie approached the front door. He rapped on the door with his ID in hand. There was no answer. He knocked again, harder. Just as he was about to knock a third time, the door opened part way to reveal a short, dark-haired woman.
"Good morning, madam. Gas inspector." He held out his ID. Her eyes flicked to the door. Bodie slammed into the half-open door and heard a cry as it struck something. He barrelled around the door, barely registering the woman's scream. There was a man behind the door, a gun in his hand—Bodie grabbed the man's arm and forced him to drop the gun. He evaded a kick and put the man down with a blow to his stomach and neck. There was silence for a moment, and then the sound of a gunshot from the back of the house spun him around. That wasn't Doyle's gun—
"Peter!" The woman shrieked the name and moved towards the hallway.
Bodie grabbed her arm, wrenched her back, and drew his gun. He started down the hallway, but was brought up short as a man emerged from the back, a young boy held fast to him. It was Giddings.
"Drop it," Giddings said.
Bodie heard the woman moan behind him. The boy's eyes were fastened on him. Bodie's heart beat fast. He moved a step to his right, then extended his arm sideways, with the gun held out. "Let the boy go."
Giddings' gun was against the boy's head. "I said drop it!"
There was a flicker of movement in the hallway behind Giddings. Bodie dropped the gun, then dove to the right, knowing Giddings would move the gun to follow him. He heard the bark of Doyle's gun, heard the woman scream again, and then he rolled against the wall. He looked up. Giddings was on the floor, the boy was crying, and Doyle was walking forward, gun in his hand, his face hard and fierce. Bodie's throat went dry, and his balls tightened.
"Peter!" The woman rushed to the boy, gathering him in her arms. Doyle checked on Giddings, then signalled Bodie that he was dead. Bodie climbed to his feet as Doyle moved on to check the first man. Bodie pulled out his R/T.
"Three-seven to Alpha. It's over. Giddings is dead. Everyone else is fine. We've also got an unknown accomplice."
"Jimmy Barton." Doyle said, dragging a groggy Barton to his feet. "I've nicked him before. Moved up, have you, Jimmy?"
"Well done," Cowley spoke from the R/T. "Report back to HQ. Out."
"You're welcome, sir." Bodie sent a glance Doyle's way.
"George-bloody-Cowley." Doyle steered Barton towards Bodie, then moved towards the woman and child. "Mrs Gidd—?"
"Thompson now," she said. She looked at Giddings' body, then away. "I divorced his bloody brother—didn't want their name."
Doyle nodded. "I'm Doyle, he's Bodie—CI5. Are you all right? We'll have you taken to hospital for a check. Is there someone—?"
Bodie left it to Doyle to get the full story from Mrs Thompson while he took Barton to the Capri. His heart had slowed, but the adrenaline was still coursing through his body. After securing Barton in the car, Bodie headed for the attic to retrieve their equipment. He found Doyle already there.
"The siege is over." Doyle held up his R/T.
"Casualties?"
"Three of them, one policeman, and Turner."
Bodie looked away, his mouth compressed. Turner had sometimes been a dozy sod, but he'd done the job, and he'd faced the enemy.
"Three others injured, none seriously." Doyle jammed the binoculars into the carrying case.
Bodie sighed. "What about—?" He nodded towards the house across the street.
"On their way to hospital."
"That was quick."
"Cowley. They'll be fine."
Bodie nodded. He watched as Doyle walked towards him. Doyle's gun was back in its holster, like a sheathed sword, like Doyle himself—deadly potential under a decorative cover. Only a few dared to unleash it. "Ray."
Doyle stopped. "Leave it out, Bodie."
He moved towards Doyle, who stood his ground. "But I know you." He put his hand on Doyle's chest. "You've thought about it, haven't you? You and me?" He stepped in closer. The beat of desire was in his body, augmented by adrenaline. "We've seen each other in action." And when Doyle opened his mouth, Bodie moved in, pressing his lips to Doyle's. At first there was no reaction, and then it was as if Doyle came alive in his hands, like a sudden spark, a flame. Bodie moaned and pressed even closer—but Doyle pulled back, wrenched his mouth from Bodie's.
"Don't." Yet Doyle's voice lacked strength, and he didn't move away.
Bodie cupped Doyle's head, his thumb traced his mouth. "I want you."
"Cowley—"
"Isn't here." He leaned close. "It's just us. Just today." His other hand found Doyle's cock. "Just—"
"No. Dammit." Doyle stiff-armed him, and turned away.
"Why?"
Doyle looked at him as if he were mad.
Bodie crossed his arms. "Don't try and tell me you don't fancy the idea."
"It's not worth it." Doyle started pacing, moving towards the window.
"But we both know you want it."
"You want it."
"In sync as always. Tell me why I can't have it, then."
"Don't push it." Doyle reached the wall and turned back. His face was set, guarded as if he were on the job.
"Okay." He looked down, then up, and purposefully relaxed his stance. "Just...tell me why, Ray. The truth?" He said it softly. He said it in just the right way to get under Doyle's guard.
Doyle turned and stood still, as if at bay. The sun lit the room from behind him. Their eyes met. "I love you."
Bodie blinked, and wiped all expression from his face.
Doyle swung around to the window. His back was straight, but his arms were folded tightly around himself.
Bodie turned on his heel and left the attic.
*******
Bodie shoved his gun into his holster. He used his hands to spring to the top of the wall, straddled it, and grabbed Waring's arms as Doyle hoisted him up. Doyle followed them onto the wall, and they got Waring over and down to the towpath. They ran, Waring slowing their pace, although fear for his life was keeping him moving. Still, it wouldn't take Petrov's men long to find them. Doyle was on the R/T, arranging for their backup to meet them. Bodie ducked as he heard a gunshot and a bullet struck the wall just behind him. He pushed Waring down the path ahead of him.
"Car park," Doyle shouted. "Less than half a mile!"
Bodie set his jaw. Half a mile was a fucking long way when— He stumbled, and pain blossomed in his arm.
"Bodie!"
"Keep moving!" The shooters were behind them; if they could make it round the bend in the path, they'd have some protection. He and Doyle each took one of Waring's arms and forced him to run faster. They made it round the bend, stopped in the lee of the wall.
"How bad?" Doyle was breathing hard.
Bodie probed at the ruin of his jacket sleeve. "Crease." He leaned against the wall, regaining his breath. Beside him, Waring gasped, his face red. "They'll be coming."
"Yeah."
The path jutted out again ahead of them. They'd be easy targets for the men behind as soon as they rounded the bend. Bodie looked up, but the wall was higher here than it had been before. Even if they managed to scale it, they'd be sitting ducks as they scrambled over it—and Waring would need help. "Reinforcements?"
"We have to get to them." Doyle was eying the barge tied up near the path a bit further on. "Good angle, there."
"Yeah, as long as they're behind us. But if any of them have gone ahead—"
"You'll have to watch my back."
His stomach tightened. "Doyle—"
Doyle nodded. "See you later." He started to move and Bodie grabbed his wrist.
They stared at each other. Doyle's eyes were like the sea. "How long?"
Bodie saw by the flicker in Doyle's expression that he understood the real question. "Forever. The day we met. Today." After a moment, Doyle smiled slightly. "Make a ruckus, sunshine." He took off at a run.
Bodie breathed in, then edged around the wall at the bend, and fired his gun. He pulled back as answering shots told him they were still there. He took some more shots, mainly to drive Petrov's men into cover. "C'mon!" He pushed Waring ahead of him down the path. They broke into a jog. Bodie kept himself between Waring and their pursuers as they cleared the lee of the protecting wall. Waring squeaked as gunfire erupted behind them, but Doyle fired back from the barge, covering them. "Go!" He shoved Waring forward. They passed the barge at close to a running pace, and then the shooting stopped. Bodie glanced round. Doyle was crouched against a cargo container, reloading—no. Cold swept through Bodie. Stoppage. He turned, started back to Doyle—and heard Waring cry out. Bodie's head whipped round. A man ran onto the path from a gap in the wall ahead of them. He was armed—levelling the gun—
Waring. Doyle. I love you.
Bodie turned and fired. The man ahead on the path fell, and Bodie heard shots behind him. He spun round, shot a man near the barge. There was no sign of Doyle. A sound escaped him—ugly, helpless—he took a step towards the barge— Two men ran around the bend in the path behind them.
Bodie turned away, clamped a hand on Waring. "Run, damn you!" They ran for the gap in the wall, ran faster than they had before. The gap had to lead to the car park Doyle had—Doyle— Blood pounded in his ears, in his heart, choking him. Doyle.
"P—please—" Waring gasped.
Bodie tightened his grip, manhandling Waring through the gap. There was a battered Rover in the car park, and Anson was half in, half out of the car.
"Here!" Anson slid back into the driver's seat. The car was running, ready to accelerate away.
Bodie bundled Waring into the car just as the men behind them reached the gap. Anson fired out the window. Bodie slammed the car door behind him and pushed Waring to the floor. They sped out of the car park.
Bodie raised his head and shouted to Anson. "Get on the radio and get a team and ambulance. Doyle's down." His voice cut off, and he clamped his jaw shut. He had to go back, had to— He had to get Waring to the fucking court first. The objective; the bloody damn objective. Waring gasped. Bodie eased his grip on the man.
There were no more attacks. Anson roared into a protected car park at the court. Waring was handed over to the police. He was red-faced, obviously exhausted, but he was still on his feet. And he paused a moment, looked at Bodie, and gave him a short nod. Bodie turned away; he felt gutted and exposed—caught unaware. He didn't have to tell Anson where to take him.
They found cars and an ambulance in the car park by the river. Bodie saw a team of men carrying a stretcher with a covered body on it. His heart pounded in his throat, but he knew his face was under control when he stopped them and lifted the sheet. He didn't recognise the dead man. His breath left him in a sigh.
"Bodie."
He looked round and saw Cowley approaching him. He waited in a soldier's stance.
"Doyle's alive. He's in hospital."
Bodie nodded.
"I'll want a full report. We've cordoned off the area, but a running gun battle in London...."
Bodie turned and headed towards the towpath.
"Bodie!"
He didn't pause. It was dusk. He couldn't see very well. He walked to the towpath, then along it, back towards the barge. He took off his jacket, unbuckled his holster and pulled it off. Without breaking stride he flung holster and gun as far across the river as he could manage. He heard the splash when the holster landed. He kept walking.
*******
It was going to be a hot day, even at the seaside. Bodie walked back to his B&B through the steep, twisting streets of Hastings. He had walked through most of the town and out along the cliffs of East Hill in the past three days. He knew the route the postman took on his bike; knew The Royal Oak was popular for lunch and the Robert de Mortain wasn't. He knew the path he would take to escape an enemy. But he couldn't escape from himself.
He'd got in the car and he'd gone south to the sea. And here he had stayed. He walked every day, and sometimes into the night. Each morning, he disposed of the whisky bottle he had emptied, not wanting to cause Mrs Tibbles any distress. He ate breakfast in the little dining room, and ate little else through the day. He watched the townspeople, and didn't wonder what he was doing there. He would leave soon enough. He would go to Dover or Plymouth.
He walked up the steps of the B&B and into the small reception area. The sound of movement from the dining room told him his fellow guests were starting their day. He was tempted to skip breakfast, but Mrs Tibbles expected him. He turned away at the thought: bloody expectations.
"Oh, Mr Bodie."
He paused on the stairs leading to his room.
"There's a package arrived for you."
He frowned, and walked down the stairs.
"Here 'tis. Came this morning. Hand delivered, it was." She held out a medium-sized box.
Bodie took the box. There were no postmarks on the plain brown wrapper. But his name was there—and his heart twisted as he recognised the writing. Doyle. His fingers tightened on the package, and then he ripped off the wrapping.
Inside the box, sheathed in its holster, lay Doyle's gun. Bodie's breath left him in a rush, as if he'd been hit. There was no note. He put a hand on the butt of the gun. It was cold.
"Oh...my...." Mrs Tibbles' voice was faint.
"I've got a licence for it, Mrs Tibbles." His own voice sounded as if it came from a distance. Doyle was alive. Doyle was here.
"Are you—?"
"I have to go." He grabbed the holster and gun and walked swiftly out the door. He looked up and down the street—half fearing and half wanting to see Doyle. There was no one. Bodie turned and headed for Tackleway and the steps that would lead to the top of East Hill. His pace increased as he walked and climbed. He took the last flight of steps two at a time. He gasped as he reached the top, and cursed at how close it was to a sob. He broke into a run, taking the cliff path, trying to escape the images that cascaded into his brain: Doyle's grin after the shootout with Maroney, Doyle sharing his dismay when they'd been called in unexpectedly, Doyle in that bloody attic, patiently still, and sweating. Doyle staring at him with everything in his eyes after he'd killed Giddings—everything Bodie hadn't wanted. Everything Bodie had feared. And he saw Doyle hunched on the barge, desperately trying to clear a stoppage. He hadn't called for Bodie—hadn't a fucking hope— I love you.
Bodie stopped with a jolt—just stopped, breathing heavily and far too noisily. He looked down at the holster in his hand. The gun was Doyle's protection—when it didn't fail him. His face twisted, and he turned and looked out at the sea. Distance, such a vast distance—the sea granted the gifts of perspective and peace. Long ago, he'd found his home confining, so he'd gone to sea, and the turmoil he'd felt had slipped away with the outgoing tide. When the ship had begun to seem small, he'd crossed the water to land, but he'd known he'd go back to sea one day. And so he had—returning to England, but with the sound of the sea in his ears. Distance. Perspective. Freedom. He'd known the army wouldn't hold him, nor the SAS, nor CI5. He'd discovered the secret when he was fourteen: distance would heal; distance offered the only sure protection. He held Doyle's holster as he'd held his own that night, and felt the urge to cast it out to sea. But he hadn't yet left England, and his hand closed on the worn leather.
He had to face Doyle and see it out. He hadn't said goodbye to his parents; he hadn't told his captain he was leaving. No one had cared in Africa. But he owed it to Doyle to let him close the door. Maybe then Bodie would be able to leave. He turned and headed back the way he'd come.
After a few minutes, he saw Doyle walking towards him. Bodie took in a deep breath and found a rock to sit on. While he waited, he glanced out across the sea. The sun sparkled on the water—blinding for the unwary, but he'd learned to avoid its dazzling brilliance. He never wanted to be taken unaware. He heard Doyle approaching, and turned his eyes to the holster in his hands.
"Lewis is unhappy with you," Doyle greeted him.
"Why's that?"
"Cowley told him to keep an eye on me."
Bodie looked up. Doyle was dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. His left arm was in a sling. He wore no gun. "Lewis didn't have a prayer." Doyle was pale, but he seemed steady enough on his feet.
"Lewis isn't my partner."
Bodie looked away.
"Do you want to know the damage?" Doyle's tone was conversational. "The bullet hit the fleshy part of the arm. Bled like a pig, they said. I didn't know—was too out of it. I must've hit my head on the dive off the barge. Managed to stay afloat, though. Had to wait for help."
Shut up, shut up, Bodie thought, but he knew he had to endure it. Let Doyle have his say, and gain strength from it. Eventually, distance would work its magic. It had never failed him.
"Came to, and found Cowley waiting for me. Gave me quite a shock. He said you'd walked away. But then you would, wouldn't you?" Doyle's voice turned hard on the question.
They'd never said a word about it after Doyle's revelation in the attic. None of it had happened—Bodie hadn't wanted him; Doyle hadn't...hadn't revealed anything. Everything was as it had been—like a placid sea above depths better not explored. The agreement had been reached between them in one sustained glance over the Capri's bonnet: Stay, and I won't say anything; Hide it, and I won't take advantage. But the glance had blinded him to danger, just like the sun on the sea.
Bodie turned the holster over in his hands. "Why this?"
"You wouldn't look right without a gun and holster. You need it if you're on your own."
The words shouldn't have hurt. "I've always been alone."
"You've always had your gun." Silence stretched between them. He heard only the cry of gulls. "Now you've got mine. You can have it, Bodie, if that's what you want. Or you can give it back to me and reclaim your own." Bodie raised his eyes. Doyle's expression was the same as it had been that day in the attic: unflinching, honest, demanding nothing—but the price, the price if he said yes…. "It's all or nothing, sunshine. Your choice." Doyle turned and walked away from him.
He let him go, but forced himself to watch—to witness. Doyle's back was straight. The strength that had allowed Doyle to say the words would see him through. The distance grew between them. Doyle would live; Bodie would survive. They'd find peace from turmoil. It was a clean cut, it would heal. But there was a pain in his hand where he held the holster too tightly. Doyle had left something of himself behind. And Bodie couldn't throw it away. He'd carry it with him, and the distance wouldn't matter, wouldn't work— Oh, Christ—he couldn't match Doyle's strength—couldn't—
Doyle stumbled on the path.
Bodie was on his feet in an instant. "You fool. You stupid, fucking—" Bodie reached him, grabbed Doyle's right arm to keep him steady. "You should be in hospital."
"Yeah, well—" Doyle looked at him, his face strained. "You weren't there, were you?"
"Ray—" He was drowning—awash in emotions he'd tried to deny. He'd been dazzled in the attic, lost on the river.
Despite Bodie's hold, Doyle put his free hand on Bodie's shoulder. His grip was hard, secure, like a towline. "It's too late, you know."
His jaw felt tight. "I would kill for you." He grated the words out.
"I know."
Bodie's hand tightened, but Doyle didn't flinch. "You don't fucking know! I wanted— I would have killed Waring."
"You would have let him die." Doyle's voice was steady. "But you didn't." He held Bodie with his eyes. "Tell me why."
Tell me why, Ray.
Bodie stood at bay, with the sea at his back. The vast and empty sea. Doyle would reach him, even there, call him back like a siren. "I hate you, Doyle. So goddamn much."
A smile trembled on the corner of Doyle's mouth. "Yeah. Hoped so."
Bodie felt a tug, like a ship pulled to anchor, and Doyle leaned towards him. Their mouths met, and the spark was there, as it had been before—like gunpowder exploding, lighting up everything that was dark or secret or hidden. He would die for Doyle. He would kill for Doyle. He would choose not to kill for Doyle—if that was what Doyle demanded. Even if it meant he couldn't save him. Never again would he be the cause of hope dying in Doyle's eyes, as it had done that day in the attic. He'd live with the flame, and let it burn him. "I'm yours," he whispered into Doyle's mouth. And never again would he go to sea.
END
June 2009