For Marcelle.

Well over an hour after he should have been asleep, Raymond Doyle gave up on the notion. He gave the dark head resting against his shoulder a kiss, then carefully slipped from beneath the heavier body and out of the bed.

Bodie made a sound of protest at his abandonment, almost a whimper, and Doyle waited a moment, ready to lie awake all night, his own needs unmet if Bodie needed him tonight. But his lover and partner settled back down, his sleep apparently too deep to escape.

Satisfied that Bodie would sleep through the night, Doyle pulled on his robe, then went out into the front room, carefully closing the bedroom door behind him.

He switched on the lamp next to the sofa, then flinched at the painful brightness. It only took a moment to recover, and he found himself staring at the reason he had left the warmth of his bed and his lover's arms.

It was a faded photograph, resting on the coffee table where he had left it -- more interested at the time in seducing Bodie. But the image had followed him to bed and had kept his dreams at bay. He picked it up, thinking he must have imagined what he'd seen. But no, it was there.

His artist's eye had seen it, even when his body had demanded different priorities. But now his body's needs had been appeased, and his eye ruled.

To anyone else it would merely have been a picture of Bodie as a child. All dark hair and large blue eyes, he had been then. A beautiful child, he was. Any fool could see that.

But it was also a picture of a very sad child. Anyone else might have thought the child was merely obeying some instruction to behave for the camera, but Doyle could see the sorrow in his eyes. This was a child who seemed to know the future in store for him. The ship, Africa and Krivas, Parker -- he could see it all in those eyes. And it made Doyle hurt.

It was as if he was looking into Bodie's soul -- the little boy inside the man. He could protect that man, but the hurts to the child still made Bodie cry out in his sleep some nights. Made him all but scream himself awake, until Doyle soothed him with soft words and gentle caresses.

If only he could soothe the child as well. If only he could....

He was halfway to the back closet before he realised he had even stood up, and he sighed. No sleep for this lad tonight. Instead of calming his thoughts, the second look at the photo had made his mind spin and his fingers itch. It only took him a few moments to find the items he needed, then he returned to the front room and the faded photograph.

Bodie woke to an empty bed and a morning sun well on its way to afternoon. Touching the sheets that should have cradled Doyle's sleeping body, he frowned when he discovered they were cold. Doyle had been every bit as exhausted as he was by two long back-to-back ops, followed by the move to this flat. He'd expected the golly to have the sense to sleep in, but he guessed Doyle had left the bed hours ago.

He got up, pulled on his robe, then went in search of his missing lover. He wasn't hard to find.

Doyle was sitting on the sofa, staring at his sketch pad. Leave it to Ray, Bodie thought. First day off in months, and he'd worn himself out by staying up all night sketching. Daft bugger.

"Shall I make us some breakfast or just put you to bed?" Bodie asked, already mourning the loss of a day spent in Doyle's company.

His lover didn't even seem to hear him at first, then he looked up, his green eyes shining brightly. "Have something for you," Doyle said, his voice hoarse with exhaustion.

"A prezzie?" Bodie asked, suddenly very interested. He couldn't help it; he just loved presents, and it didn't matter how small or inexpensive they were. It just made him feel good to know someone cared enough to think about him when they saw something he might like.

But Doyle shook his head. "Not a prezzie. A promise."

Puzzled, Bodie took the offered pad, then looked down at a drawing done in coloured pencils. He recognised his own image first -- but only because Doyle had found that damned picture when they were unpacking an old box Bodie usually didn't bother with. He'd remembered the day it had been taken -- his birthday actually. It was also the day he'd realised just how much his mother hated the English. Some incident in Ireland he had been too young to understand had sent her into a rage, and she'd used language more vile than anything he'd ever heard on the Liverpool docks.

Oh, yes, she had hated the English -- he had not been too young to understand that. And he had also known that he had the names of English princes. Names that she had given him. For a moment, the memory of that pain threatened to overwhelm him, but he forced himself to concentrate on the sketch instead.

At first he thought Doyle had just sketched the photo but no, he'd altered the image a bit, tilting the head to rest against the shoulder of a second boy. A boy who was a few years older, and had curly auburn hair and big, green eyes -- Doyle.

Young Doyle's arm encircled young Bodie's shoulders -- one boy offering comfort to another. No, not comfort, he realised. The expression was too determined for that. The older boy was a protector -- wary of the world, but determined to provide safety against it.

As he realised that, Bodie felt his chest tighten, felt tears threaten his eyes. Doyle had told him a hundred times that he loved him, but for some reason Bodie had never felt it so keenly.

"Ray?"

Doyle drew him into his arms, into the safe haven of his warm strength. "I'll keep you safe, Bodie. Even from the past, I'll keep you safe," he whispered. "For the rest of my life -- I swear it."

And somewhere inside Bodie a little boy began to smile.

End

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