Doyle wasn't sure what woke him. He lay on his back, eyes wide open, wondering what had disturbed his sleep: dream or nightmare or a backfiring car. Night had dispersed the heat of the day and a chill had raised goosebumps on the one arm thrown free of the covers. The grey half-light of the pre-dawn sky hitting the blinds cast stripes of light and dark across the room.
There was a rustling sound, making Doyle sit up and turn to the man beside him. Whatever had woken him had not affected his partner. Bodie was still asleep, hair tousled, covers pulled all the way up to his nose. The sight made Doyle smile. Even in late summer, even sleeping, Bodie didn't like to expose an inch more skin than was absolutely necessary….
He ruffled Bodie's hair, enjoying the sensation of the silken strands, still astounded by what this man could do to him. He'd never felt pleasure with another like he did with Bodie, never before achieved the euphoria that Bodie could bring him with mouth and hand and cock.
And heart.
Because that was it, wasn't it? He loved the bastard. Loved fucking him, loved being fucked by him, and just fucking loved him.
He loved lying with him after sex, feeling Bodie's strength surrounding him, and offering his own strength in return. Loved listening to his breathing drop into the easy rhythm of sleep. Even loved the feel of his morning beard and the taste of his morning breath.
Christ, he was hopeless.
But not so hopeless that he was willing to confess it to Bodie. Not yet.
Soon.
For now he wanted to enjoy his secret, enjoy the knowledge that the pleasure he got from Bodie went beyond the purely carnal. He wanted a few more days to turn that knowledge over in his mind, aware that he shared it with no other human being, not even the half-Irish bastard sleeping next to him. A few more days to let the anticipation build, to burnish his emotions to a fine sheen so they'd be a golden hue when he at last presented them to Bodie.
The Cow was firmly ensconced in his office, tie and jacket on in spite of the rising heat, and a glass of scotch in front of him. At nine in the morning. "Isn't it a bit early for that, sir?" Bodie asked, nodding his head in the direction of the glass.
"Sit down, lad." Cowley's voice was tight with strain. Bodie knew without being told that this was going to be anything but a friendly visit with Uncle George.
He sat down, his back ramrod straight, his hands clutched tightly at the arms of the chair.
After several long moments, Cowley pulled himself from whatever thoughts had taken him away, took a last swallow of scotch and looked Bodie straight in the eye. "We have a situation," Cowley began. "MI5 are on to a very nasty faction of the IRA. The Home Office wants to send someone with very specific skills undercover."
"What skills would those be, sir?"
"Special Services training combined with a dubious past."
"Sounds like me." Bodie kept his voice steady, but he was beginning to feel a chill run down his spine.
"They're also looking for someone with an Irish background." Cowley paused and looked down at the folder in front of him. "With a very specific Irish background."
"Christ," Bodie said. Because he knew, knew in his blood, in his bones, what this had to be about. "You can't be serious."
"Deadly serious." Cowley looked at him with a sympathy that was nearly Bodie's undoing, and passed him the folder. "This contains the details on an IRA brigade in South Armagh. A brigade that includes two brothers with the family name of Bodie."
"Noel and Liam," Bodie said, as matter-of-factly as he could manage. "My cousins."
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