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The End Of The Path

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He knows this is a mistake. Knows that he should turn around and walk away. But still he stands there on the pavement, in the light drizzle which has started to fall.

He tries to reason with himself that if he just leaves now, there will be no harm done. The whole thing will be ignored, given time, swept under the carpet so they can just carry on as before. It's not too late to avoid making things worse. Much worse.

But still he stays, gazing up at Doyle's flat.

Despite the lateness of the hour, there's a light on in the bedroom and Bodie tries not to dwell on the images that conjures up… of Doyle naked in bed, restless, horny…

But then it occurs to him that perhaps Doyle isn’t alone. And that really should be the impetus he needs to leave, because the humiliation would be tenfold if he interrupted Doyle mid-shag with some bird. But instead, against all common sense, he forces his legs to take him to the front door and he presses the buzzer. Just like he has done a hundred times before.

Only this time Doyle will know it's different. He'll know this isn't just Bodie dropping by because he's bored, hungry, run out of booze…

“Yeah?” Doyle's voice is unwelcoming over the speaker.

“It's me,” Bodie says, surprised he sounds quite normal.

There's silence. Bodie can picture Doyle pausing, finger hovering over the door button as he considers whether to press it or not.

After an agonisingly long wait - though in reality it's probably only ten seconds - the door releases, and Bodie pushes it open.

He takes the stairs, glad of the extra minute's delay it gives him.

Doyle's standing in the doorway, coolly watching his ascent up the final flight. He's dressed only in a pair of stripy pyjama bottoms sitting low on his hips, and Bodie awkwardly brushes past him into the flat.

He heads down the hall, glancing briefly into a thankfully empty bedroom which is softly lit by the bedside lamp, and on into the lounge.

Doyle follows, flicking on the overhead light. He stands a few feet away, clearly waiting for Bodie to speak, his expression unreadable. He seems quite comfortable to be standing there half-naked, while Bodie fully dressed is extremely uncomfortable. He wants to take his jacket off, the heat of the flat adding to his discomfort, but that would suggest he was staying, and there’s a very high chance he’ll be kicked out at any moment.

As the seconds tick by, Bodie finds he’s staring at the cut on Doyle's lip. It’s been three days, but it still looks sore.

“I'm sorry,” he mutters, indicating vaguely to his own mouth by means of explanation. “Shouldn’t have happened.”

He expects Doyle to use the old classic silence technique to force him into saying more, but surprisingly Doyle responds. “Want a drink? Look like you could do with one,” he says tonelessly, padding over to the sideboard with its array of un-opened colourful liqueurs brought back from various holidays, and a half-empty bottle of Bells.

Bodie can only stand dumbly watching Doyle as he pours the whisky, his thoughts tumbling with things he’s too afraid to say. He feels perilously close to doing a runner, but manages to keep his feet planted where they are. He’s here, now. He has to follow it through.

Doyle hands him a glass and they both take some of their drink. Bodie somehow resists downing the whole lot in one go.

Doyle gives him a searching gaze. “That it?” he asks. “That all you got to say?”

He looks disappointed, Bodie thinks. Not surprising really, he’s deserves a bigger apology than that. And an explanation.

Bodie shakes his head. “No,” he says. And this is it, the moment he has to decide. Whichever words he chooses to speak now will determine whether he wants the chance of happiness or the guarantee of misery.

He decides to go for the former, because he's been through fucking SAS selection, and he's been imprisoned in a fucking Congo jail, and he's been tortured, and he's been shot, and he's been stabbed. He's been through all those things – more than once, in some cases - and survived, so surely he can survive anything Doyle might say to him, can't he?

He finishes the rest of his whisky, and puts the glass down. “Doyle... ” His heart is pounding, and he briefly wonders if he might pass out, because wouldn't that be just brilliant. “The other night...” The memories flash through his head. His lips on Doyle's, tongue gently teasing, the answering response... and then he remembers the fear he felt, the panic, like a tidal wave of terror slamming into his chest.

His stomach churns with remorse. “Oh fuck, I'm sorry,” he says hoarsely, dropping to sit on the sofa, his legs no longer willing to hold him. He looks up at Doyle, who is still as impassive as a bloody sphynx. This indecipherable air around his partner is too unsettling. “I'm sorry I hit you, but I'm not sorry I kissed you,” he blurts defiantly.

Doyle puts down his drink and goes to stand by the window. As the silence stretches almost interminably, Bodie’s about to get up and leave, to escape from this unbearable tension and humiliation… but then Doyle turns back to him. “Why did you do it?” he asks.

“Kiss you?” Bodie frowns, because surely it’s obvious? But no, perhaps it isn’t to Doyle, given the way it ended. “Because I wanted to. Because I wanted you,” Bodie says honestly.

“That your normal seduction technique?” Doyle asks levelly. “Kiss someone, punch them straight after, then leg it?”

Bodie winces at the blunt, but accurate summary of his actions. “No.” He glances at the carpet briefly, before looking back at Doyle and taking a deep, fortifying breath. “Only when I feel more than I want to... when it feels too much... means too much.”

Doyle nods slowly. “I see,” he says, and some of the tension in the room seems to ease.

Doyle comes to sit next to him on the sofa, and Christ, he must know what that's doing to Bodie, must be able to hear Bodie's heart pounding, feel his longing.

“And how often does that happen, then?” Doyle asks matter-of-factly.

“Only the once,” says Bodie, deciding he’s come this far now, might as well go the whole hog. “With you.”

“Right.” There's a quirk of a smile as Doyle says, “And is it likely to be an on-going problem? I mean, I don't mind the kissing bit, if you wanted to do more of that, but I could do without the punching...”

Something warm explodes in Bodie’s chest and he bites his lip, trying not to smile. Because if he dared to hope, that sounded a lot like he was about to get his chance at happiness, and that would be too easy, wouldn't it? His heart's still going like the fucking clappers, and he tries to dampen down his hope. “It wouldn’t be an on-going problem,” he says carefully. “I think the opposite might be the problem, in fact... if we did more kissing, that is,” he finishes.

“The opposite to punching?” says Doyle thoughtfully. “Can't say that sounds like a bad thing.”

The hope Bodie’s trying to suppress won’t be told, and it surges up through him. Everything he wants is sitting less than a foot away in stripy blue pyjamas with an amenable expression, and Bodie can resist it no longer. He tentatively reaches out his hand to cup Doyle’s face, his bravery rewarded when Doyle presses his cheek into the caress, like a beautiful, exotic cat.

Doyle smiles at him, encouragingly. It’s like he understands this difficult, bumpy path Bodie has been on… which can’t be right, because Bodie doesn’t understand it himself. Falling for your partner – your male bloody partner – isn’t the kind of thing you expect to happen, nor is it the kind of thing said male partner just happily accepts, let alone encourages.

But then memories of Doyle from the last few months slowly slide together. Images, scenes, things Doyle’s said, the way he’s reacted at times… they all suddenly slot into place, and with a jolt of comprehension that sends prickles down his spine, Bodie realises that perhaps Doyle has understood for a long time, and has been patiently waiting for him at the end of the path.

This gives him the final spur to lean forward and touch his lips to Doyle’s. Just like the first time it’s like nothing he’s known before. A beautiful cataclysm of sensations and emotions tingling all the way through him.

Doyle’s arms come up and around him, holding him, hands gently stroking him. The kiss deepens, Bodie falling back into the sofa and taking Doyle with him.

He manages to rid himself of his jacket without breaking their kiss, briefly letting go of the man straddling his lap, which earns him a mumble of protest until his hands are back on Doyle. Doyle’s skin is warm and smooth under his fingers, and he tastes of whisky, and he smells of soap and Doyle. It’s an intoxicating assault on Bodie’s senses.

After a long time, Doyle pulls back slightly. They’re both breathless, and Doyle regards him silently a moment. “All right?” he asks. “No urges to thump me or anything?” he checks, lips quirking at the corners.

Feeling light headed with desire and happiness, Bodie smiles, accepting that Doyle will be taking the piss about all this for a long time. “Plenty of urges,” he assures Doyle, “but not to thump you.”

“Well, that’s progress. Speaking of which, there’s a perfectly good bed next door,” says Doyle, carefully untangling himself from Bodie and standing up. “How about we relocate there and see about these urges.”

He looks so gorgeous standing there, the thin cotton fabric of his pyjamas tented by what promises to be a big thick cock, hair riotous curls, gaze heated with desire. Bodie takes his outstretched hand and cautiously stands up, his tight trousers not as forgiving as pyjamas.

The lamp is still on in the bedroom, casting a golden light over the ruffled bedding, and over Doyle as he slips off his pyjamas and starts to help Bodie undress. It’s terribly distracting to have Doyle naked and fully aroused standing in front of him, the promise beautifully fulfilled. Bodie finds himself unable to stop touching and kissing him, leaving Doyle to undo his buttons and zips and peel off his clothing, while mildly chastising him for being unhelpful.

Both lying naked on the bed, Doyle pulls something out from his bedside drawer. Like a bullet through glass, Bodie’s happiness suddenly shatters as he sees that it’s a well-used tube of lube, the implications hitting him like little darts all over his skin. He swallows, berating himself for being so naïve, trying not to wonder how many men Doyle does this with, how often…

“Which way do you usually prefer it?” he asks lightly, striving to sound normal and not spoil the mood, trying not to feel crushed that he’s got this all wrong, that he’s been stupid enough to open himself up, when Doyle’s just shagging his way through every bloke in London...

But his thoughts must be written all over his face, because Doyle looks him sternly in the eye and says very clearly, “Usually, there’s no choice because I’m with a bird, and we use this if she’s up for a bit of backdoor action.” He leans over and kisses Bodie very thoroughly. “Not like you to leap to conclusions,” he teases softly. “Jealousy going to be an issue, Bodie?”

Awash with relief, both that he’d got it wrong and that Doyle is so readily forgiving him, Bodie sighs. “Very probably,” he admits.

Doyle smiles. “That’s OK,” he says. “I suspect I’ll be a possessive bastard, just to warn you.”

Bodie decides he’ll quite like that. He slides across to lie on top of Doyle, his fingers tangling in curls.

“But in answer to your question,” Doyle continues, his hands stroking down Bodie’s back to cup and caress his buttocks, “I like it both ways. Been a few years, mind.” He gives Bodie a ridiculously sexy smile. “Want to do me first?”

Only Doyle could suggest being fucked so nonchalantly and make it sound like the most erotic proposition Bodie has ever had. Which it is.

“OK,” Bodie says, aware that’s the biggest understatement of his life and fairly sure Doyle knows it, too.

He lowers his head and kisses Doyle, starting a gentle rhythm with his hips, erections sliding together with a delicious, light friction. He’d been right to fear this, he realises vaguely, this is his everything. Now he’s going to make sure it’s Doyle’s everything, too. He hasn’t been with a bloke for a long time, but he knows he’s a good lover, and he’s going to be the best Doyle’s ever had. He’s going to take him apart and make him forget everyone he’s ever known.

Moving to the tender skin just below Doyle’s ear, he kisses down his neck, leaving a hot trail of wet breath in his wake as he kisses across his throat and down his chest. He tongues Doyle’s nipples, making Doyle arch up to him with soft moans, as he slowly kisses his way further down.

Doyle’s fingers are running through his hair, soft caresses over his neck and shoulders, gentle encouragement.

His hands skimming over Doyle’s ribs as he kisses his way lower, Bodie’s aware this isn’t just for Doyle’s pleasure, it’s for his own. It’s his chance to learn Doyle’s body, taste it, touch it… revere it. He takes his time exploring every inch, lips tracing an arousing trajectory ever downwards.

“Where’s that lube?” he murmurs between sucking kisses.

Doyle squeezes some onto his fingers, and Bodie presses hot lips along the soft crease of Doyle’s thigh, down one side and up the other, before sliding a finger into him as he swallows his cock wetly.

“Jesus, fuck,” Doyle grinds out, tilting his hips down onto Bodie’s finger and up into his mouth.

Doyle feels deliciously hot and tight at first, gradually relaxing as Bodie sucks him up and down and gently finger-fucks him. Arousal is thrumming through Bodie’s veins, Doyle’s litany of curses and groans sexier than he could ever have imagined, as he slides in a second finger. He turns his fingers this way and that, crooking them gently every so often to have Doyle arch off the bed with an “Oh fuck yes, there, just there...”

Bodie can’t get enough of this, the feel, taste and smell of Doyle all around him. He ducks his head down to lick and tease at Doyle’s balls, fingers twisting inside him, before trailing his tongue back up the length of his cock, licking at his slit and slowly swallowing him whole again.

Doyle’s writhing on his fingers now, murmuring incoherent pleas. It’s an extraordinary sight and sound, enough to make Bodie come, if he let himself.

With one final wet suck, he releases Doyle’s cock and gently withdraws his fingers. He looks at Doyle lying there, legs spread, arse relaxed and ready to be fucked, cock hard and needy against his belly… Christ, he’s so fucking beautiful.

Bodie kneels up, wanting Doyle to watch as he strokes lube onto himself, wanting to make a show of it for him. Doyle’s heavy-lidded gaze is confirmation of his appreciation, eyes sweeping hungrily over Bodie’s bare chest and down to his cock, glistening big and hard in his hand.

Doyle’s hand strays to his own cock. “Fucking get on with it, Bodie,” he says, his voice low and husky. “Want you in me.”

Bodie lines himself up and very slowly pushes in. The tight heat stretches to take his thickness as he gently eases forward, pausing infinitesimally now and then, until inch by inch he’s gradually swallowed into the slick warmth and his hips are pressed up against Doyle.

Doyle gasps, eyes rapt on Bodie. “Finally,” he breathes, and pulls Bodie down into a searing kiss.

At that moment, Bodie truly believes there is a heaven, because he has surely found it.

He starts moving with long, slow thrusts, unable to stifle a groan, the unbelievably sweet pleasure of being inside Doyle is almost overwhelming.

He pushes up on to his arms, and Doyle flings a hand above his head to hold the headboard, his body stretched out beneath Bodie like an erotic fantasy.

Already the pleasure is building too fast, pooling thickly in Bodie’s gut, but he’s going to make Doyle come first, wants to watch him teetering on the cusp of orgasm and take him over.

Bracing himself on one arm, he starts stroking Doyle’s cock. It’s heavy and thick in his hand, his thumb brushing gently over the head, spreading the pre-cum, making Doyle hiss.

“Christ, Bodie…”

“Feels good?” he asks, breathlessly.


Bodie chokes a laugh. “I’ll take that as a yes…” he pants, and changes angle, going deeper now, watching Doyle’s face as the tempo grows, keeping his thrusts smooth and strong.

“Yes… just like that…” Doyle breathes, his eyes squeezed shut, the ecstasy clear on his face.

As Bodie watches, he sees the moment the pleasure crests. Doyle clutches him, his name a sob on Doyle’s lips as he climaxes, pulse after pulse arcing from his throbbing cock as Bodie strokes him through it.

Bodie’s own climax comes suddenly and tears through him like wildfire, blinding, sharp, intense… his hips stutter as he erupts deep inside Doyle, driving all thought from his mind as the pleasure peaks almost unbearably.

Rocked by the force of it, he collapses on Doyle, gasping. He can feel Doyle’s chest heaving beneath him, knows he must be heavy, like a dead weight on his partner, but Doyle seems to welcome it, holding him tight.

After a few minutes, Bodie reluctantly slides free and flops onto his back, waiting for his heart rate to slow.

“Jesus, Bodie…” Doyle says croakily. “That was…”

“Yeah…” Bodie manages, still wobbly with the aftershock of orgasm.

Doyle’s hand blindly finds his and links their fingers together with a weak squeeze.

The hand-holding isn’t enough though, Bodie decides, and somehow finds the energy to turn onto his side, moulding himself along the length of Doyle. Doyle slips an arm round his shoulders, pulling him closer, their legs inter-twining comfortably.

Better, much better.

Bodie lies there in wonder, breathing in the scent of Doyle, revelling in the warmth and feel of his skin against his own. He can hardly believe that he’s actually lying here, naked with Doyle, after the most incredible fuck of his life. To think he’d come this close to bottling it tonight, to not having all this… Christ, the thought is absolutely terrifying. And isn’t that ironic, he muses, when it was fear that nearly stopped him --

“Spit it out,” murmurs Doyle drowsily.


“Whatever’s causing those rusty old cogs of yours to make such a racket, grinding away.”

Bodie smiles, knowing Doyle will feel it against his chest. “Oh, just thinking how lucky you are,” he says.

In one sinuous movement Doyle turns and slides on top of him, his body warm and heavy. “Is that right?” he says with amused affection, a thumb caressing Bodie’s cheek. “And there was me thinking you were the lucky one.”

It’s very hard to dispute that fact right at this moment, especially given the way Doyle’s gazing at him so… so… lovingly. “Me?” says Bodie, as though considering it for the first time. “Well, you could have a point,” he concedes.

Doyle grins happily. “Course I have, I’m always right. But I tell you what,” he says, very magnanimously, “just for now, I don’t mind calling it a draw.”

As declarations go, Bodie decides it’s not a bad one. It’s more than he deserves and it’s certainly more than he could’ve dreamed of when he was standing outside on the pavement earlier…

The magnitude of it all suddenly hits him, making his heart skip a beat, and he’s overcome with an emotion he’s not ready to define. He owes Doyle more than another flippant reply, owes him something sincere and heartfelt to make up for the last few months, to repay him for his patience and understanding. But he’s unable to find the words.

“Draw,” he agrees with a smile, and gently cups the back of Doyle’s head and brings him down to kiss him. Long, sweet, tender kisses that he hopes expresses things he can’t say yet.

There’ll be plenty of time for heartfelt declarations in the future. Years and years, hopefully.

The End