Autumn Rain

Autumn Rain
The Seasons Series - Fall

        Slapping the motor's reluctant heater, Ray Doyle scowled at the
misty outside world, then snuggled deeper into his fur-lined jacket. His
tired, red-streaked eyes stared miserably out through the smudged glass
at the bar across the street. Fog settled into the London air. Cold rain
dripped on city streets. Pedestrians huddled beneath umbrellas, cowering
within their overcoats. Buses splashed through muddy puddles. The
world was terrifying normal, and yet nothing seemed right.
        Licking at dry lips he thought hopelessly of a large flagon of
ale, and sighed dramatically. Beside him, McCabe squirmed in the driver's
seat, rubbing at the back of his neck, then checking - yet again - his
wristwatch.
        "Only been five minutes since the last time you looked," Doyle
said nastily. He didn't like the sound of his voice, but he liked this
situation even less.
        McCabe gifted him with a look of sheer disgust.
        "Not my fault the Cow assigned Bodie to that diplomatic
conference in the States, so don't take it out on me just because you're
feeling....frustrated!" The sneer in that voice sent Doyle's temper
flying. The sparks in his green eyes could have set the rain-soaked
streets on fire.
        "Why don't you shut your bleedin' mouth for five minutes," Doyle
retorted.
        "Oy, and why should I? Considering you 'aven't said a word in the
last two hours. Worse than a bear with a sore tooth, you are."
        "And you're stupider than a...a blind elephant." Blind elephant?
Good grief Raymond, Doyle thought, you're losing it - and fast.
        Luckily McCabe was already lost, evidenced by his reaction to the
fumbling insult.
        "Oh - and look who's talking. Just can't manage without your
partner to 'old your 'and, can you, Doyle. Poor little boy..."
        And that was that.
        No one - and Doyle meant *no one* - ever got away with impugning
his abilities, much less his masculinity. Whatever his relationship with
his partner might be, he was still the toughest, fastest, meanest
agent this side of Hong Kong. And he demonstrated so with a sharp left
hook straight for McCabe's jaw.
Pain lanced up his arm as his knuckles struck bone.

        "DOYLE!"
        The so-named agent cringed mentally beneath his boss' ire. Cowley
on a rampage was enough to scare anyone, even one of the most fearless
men in all of the British Isles. And Doyle wasn't that man. Not right
now, perhaps not ever.
        "Sorry sir?" he mumbled.
        Cowley glared.
        Doyle cringed physically. His shoulders slumped, and he cast a
sheepish look up from under heavy eyelids.
        "I'm sorry I hit McCabe. Really. He just....well..." Doyle
stumbled to a halt, struggling to find a way to avoid the necessary. He
had absolutely no desire to admit the cause of his explosion to anyone,
much less Cowley. It was bad enough that he and Bodie'd had to admit
their relationship to the CI5 controller; there was no way he was going
to discuss the specifics.
        "Oh aye...and whatever he did, you still shouldna've hit him."
Despite the tough words, Cowley's ire suddenly fled and he eased back
painfully in his chair. With a jolt, Doyle realized how tired Cowley
appeared. The lines of travail on his face seemed deeper now than they
had ever been, and his eyes were sunk into deep caverns.
        "Are you all right, sir?" Doyle asked abruptly.
        That surprised Cowley; he looked up sharply, then half-smiled
wryly.
        "Aye, man, I'm fine. Just tired. And I know you are as well. It's
been a busy year."
        Doyle nodded agreement. The caseload appeared to have nearly
doubled in the past few months. The heat wave of the past summer had
thrown the entire populace on edge causing tempers to flare at a
moment's notice. The slide into a wet and chilly autumn had only made
matters worse. The Organization had flared up again, as had a rash of
terrorist activity. Corruption flourished in the nation's police forces,
and the Home Office was no better off. CI5 had been run ragged all year,
and the strain was beginning to tell.
        Cowley took a deep breath, the glint of decision flashing in his
bloodshot blue eyes.
        "Well, there's no use ye sitting around here. McCabe and Lewis
can handle the rest of the stakeout on Richtman. Ye'd better get
packing."
        "Packing?" Doyle questioned, confused, feeling as though the
conversation had just left him behind. Talking to Cowley could do that to
you sometimes, but usually Doyle was able to keep up. And between
him and Bodie....but that thought was like pulling a sore tooth. He
missed his partner, missed the ease of his company, the sense of not
having to always speak his mind because it would be understood without
having been said aloud. And knowing that when he did - and he often did -
want to have his say, Bodie would listen. He might not agree, but he
would care to listen.
        Oh God, he missed Bodie.
        And Cowley's words flew past him until one got stuck in his ear.
        Washington.
        "What?" he questioned, jerking his head forward like a bloodhound
seizing a scent.
        "Don't you ever pay attention, 4.5?" Cowley demanded. But before
Doyle could give the requisite apology, the Controller picked up a small
envelope on his desk and tossed it at him.
        "Here are your tickets and your itinerary. Your plane for
Washington leaves in four hours. I suggest you go pack at once. You and
Bodie are to take a full week's vacation. I do not expect to see hide
nor hair of you for at least seven days. That's on Dr. Ross' orders."
        "Uhh, yes sir!" The concept finally sunk in, and Doyle's entire
face lit up. "Yes, sir, thank you sir!"
        "Oh aye, Doyle," Cowley waved his hand through the air, then
pointed towards the door. "Get going with ye now."
        "Yes sir. Thank you sir!" Doyle repeated. Turning on his heels,
he fled out the door as fast as his weary feet could take him.

        There was little that could make a transatlantic flight bearable.
Doyle shifted uncomfortably in his seat for the thousandth time, then
turned to stare out the tiny window at the empty stretch of sky. Then he
shut his eyes, and focused on the memory of his partner's face. He'd
barely had time to leave a message at Bodie's hotel to tell him he was on
his way. By the time he'd thrown some clothes in a suitcase, found his
passport, and driven rapidly to Heathrow, he'd had to run to make his
flight.
        But now the rush of energy had spent itself, and he was
exhausted. Too tired to sleep, especially in an airplane seat. A steady
ache throbbed between his shoulderblades, and his right foot was falling
asleep again. The only thing that kept him from hitting something in
frustration was the thought of a whole week alone with Bodie without work
to distract them.
        That brought a fleeting, but quirky-sweet smile to his mobile
lips. His eyes shut as he slipped into a daydream. Perhaps they'd go to
Florida and sun themselves on the beach. Or up north to rent a log cabin
with a large fireplace and a big bed. Yes, the light would flicker on
Bodie's neat cap of ebony hair, glow on his perfect skin. Their bodies
would warm each other, sharing the heat of the burning logs. The wind
would whistle through the trees outside. The air would smell clean and
fresh, full of life.
        Doyle could do some painting. Maybe he'd even manage to get Bodie
to pose for him. The smile lingering on his mouth widened as he began to
position his model. On a soft rug before the fireplace. Naked as the day
he was born, long legs stretched out. One knee should be drawn up, though
not enough to hide Bodie's best attributes. Just enough to throw the
right angle of shadow to tantalize the viewer. One muscular arm
supporting his head, the neck tilted to the side. The blue eyes
half-hidden by heavy eyelashes. A smile, or not. No, a serious look, with
that mouth in full concentrated pout. Just thinking about that mouth made
the would-be artist squirm in his seat.
        Closing his eyes, and arching his back to relieve an ounce of
pressure, he didn't notice the hungry look sent in his direction by the
passing stewardess.

        They'd had to settle for an shabby, inexpensive hotel room in the
mountains, Cowley had paid for the plane tickets - the rest of the
vacation was out of their own meager savings. But just the promise of the
entire week to themselves was more than Bodie and Doyle could have hoped
for. The first night in New York had been full of excitement, Bodie
meeting his partner at the airport with a clever gleam in his dark
blue eyes. Sweeping up his jet-lagged lover, he'd hustled them both back
to his hotel room and dumped them into his bed.
        It was a good thing that New York hotels used solid bedframes,
for this one took a beating. Bodie teased Doyle by considering the idea
of offering to do a commercial for it, like the ones he'd seen on
American TV for the Timex watches. Doyle gave him a dirty look, then
stole the shower - for at least five whole mimutes before his partner
jumped him.
        The shower stall took a beating too.

        The Blue Ridge Parkway arched up through the Appalachian
mountains, a long windy stretch of brightly colored asphalt. The autumn
leaves flamed above their heads, a canopy of reds and oranges and
yellows and browns and purples rippling in the breeze. The sun shone
through the breaks in the foliage, offering spots of warmth within the
autumn chill.
        It wasn't really cold, and both men were quite comfortable in
windbreakers and sweaters. And even when the weather broke and rain
poured down from a darkened sky, it was a far sight better than the
London damp. Somehow, here, it didn't creep into the bones and ice the
spirit. Here, it left room for curling up in a large bed with mugs of hot
cocoa, and making love long into the daylight hours.

        Doyle woke to see strands of sunlight fighting the rain, seeping
through the window and he turned over to snuggle up against Bodie's bulk.
His partner groaned and shifted in his sleep, responding unconsciously to
Doyle's closeness. Smiling at the sleek expanse of flesh before him,
Doyle began to lick at the velvety skin.
        "Mmmm," he murmured, tracing the long line of the spine with his
tongue.
        The man now laying beneath him shivered in his sleep. The thick
muscles in his shoulders bunched then relaxed. An involuntary groan
passed his lips, even as he sank deeper into the mattress.
        Doyle leaned over further, and added his hands to the exploration
of Bodie's so familiar body. He knew every inch of his flesh, where to
touch to stir the maximum response, how to tease and to excite. And
it worked, as he had known it would.
        With a sudden burst of motion, the sleeping tiger beneath him
exploded. Doyle was shoved up and over. He gasped as a heavy weight fell
down upon his chest, pinning him to the mattress. Green eyes blinked
upwards, and meshed with sparkling blue. Bodie's mouth was wide with
mirth, and his deep chuckle sent welcome shivers racing downward into
Doyle's groin. His hips arched upward in reply, only to be shoved
back downwards by Bodie's own body.
        Laughing aloud, Doyle rocked upwards again, delighted to see the
burst of desire in those baby blues. His own fires flamed into life; his
own groan was swallowed into Bodie's mouth. Their tongues tangled in a
familiar play of sensation, each drinking deep of the essence of the
other.
        Long arms stretched and bunched, hands reaching, fighting, aiding
each other in a game of shared dominance. They ended up even, as they
always did, mingling their needs into one single pursuit of ecstasy,
reading each other's desires without conscious effort or speech. Twisting
sideways, Bodie pulled Doyle into his mouth, then screamed aloud, a rush
of heated air across painfully engorged skin, as his partner returned
the favor.
        That sent Doyle bursting into release, his mind shrieking with
the sensations flooding his body. However many times they did this, each
time seemed as precious as the first, as necessary as the last. And, as
they often did, his powerful, vocal response sent Bodie flying over the
edge to join him. They shook together, hands digging into flesh,
thrusting into welcoming heat, then sliding into blessed satiation.
        Bodie righted himself, and shared the taste of himself and Doyle,
letting the mingled tastes settle on their tongues. He suckled on Doyle's
lips, then drew his partner's lanky form into his side and closed his
eyes.
        Like a well-fed housecat, he curled up around Doyle and slept.
Enclosed in those arms, his face nestled against Bodie's broad chest,
Doyle stayed awake. The rain fell in a steady pitter-patter on the roof,
a rhythmic counterpart to the steady beat of Bodie's heart. The sound of
that organ was a sweet music to Doyle's ear and he let himself drift to
that living drum. He closed his own long arms around the length of
Bodie's closing his elegant hands over Bodie's muscled forearms. Knowing
only too well how fleeting such moments could be, he savored this one,
locking it down in his well-trained memory.
        Life on the edge left little room for such precious instants of
joy, yet that only made them all the more special. That understanding was
one of the greatest gifts Bodie had given his melancholy, broody
partner -- the ability to seize each offered moment of joy and experience
it to the utmost, then hold it in a secret compartment in your soul. Then
when the world broke in shattered, bloody fragments around you, those
secreted moments could be brought forward, turned over in the memory like
shimmering diamonds. Apparently fragile, yet stronger than steel. And in
the light of those memories, the pain could recede, just far enough to be
borne until another such moment could be created and added to the private
store.
        It was a very Bodie philosophy, but one that had slowly crept up
on Doyle until it was as much a part of him as his partner was. He'd
still brood; he'd still question; he'd still fight his doubts and
uncertainties about himself and the path he'd chosen. But the one thing
he'd never question, never doubt, never regret, was the act of fate that
tied his life and soul to that of this man who now held him enclosed in a
sleepy embrace.
        It might not last until tomorrow, but he'd have it forever. For a
part of Bodie was sealed within Doyle's soul, and he could feel the piece
of himself he'd given in exchange, singing in synchrony with the
beat of Bodie's heart and the rhythm of the autumn rain.

End

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