Hold your breath, Sunshine

Keep him from thinking. About the growing panic in himself whenever his thoughts strayed towards realising just how long Bodie had been away. About what might be going on for all this time. About whether his partner would ever come back, and what the hell he would do when Bodie did.

He was standing in front of the open wardrobe in his bedroom contemplating getting out of his clothes and into the bath but really staring at the space where Bodie had left some things. Shirts and trousers that he had dragged from the hangers, stuffed into a carrier bag, and dumped inside Bodie's locker at work. So much for knife-edge pleats.

The trouble with temper, like adrenaline rushes, was that when the moment was over, you were just left feeling empty. An emptiness rather like this space in the cupboard where Bodie's few things had hung. He'd removed the clothes, removed Bodie's presence from here, from his room, his own place, but there was no removing the space left behind. It lingered, a canker of nothingness at the heart of his home and he couldn't seem to do anything about it.
. . . . . .

And his dark nemesis, his dark desire, the dark need in his soul, pushed away from the wall and walked to stand in front of him and gently, oh so gently, cupped his face in both hands and lifted until their eyes met.

"You look terrible."

Aaaahhh, the schmoop in me goes wild...
. . . . . .

Bodie's eyes, still set on him, suddenly crinkled and his mouth hitched up at the corners. "First a low blow, then an argument about semantics. Now I know I'm home."

He felt a bloom of warmth treacherously threatening to unfurl within himself at the possessive, protective, desirous glow in the dark eyes.
. . . . . . .

And caught there, in a light that seemed too dazzling and a darkness that was too alluring, he spoke more of his truth because he had nothing else. Just as he'd spoken his truth months before, which had made Bodie leave him. And he kept his eyes open, awaiting the same result, drawing on the calmness of the self-immolator even as he wore the executioner's hood.

"I never said it was a bird. Or a stranger."

"What? But...."

Only a moment until Bodie had his breathing under control. He felt the old surge of pride in his partner's strength, in the way the will matched the body. He met the narrowed eyes evenly, recognising the slightly manic light in them now, awaiting the inevitable next question.

"Who?"

I *cannot* resist Doyle, in this excruciating situation, still seeing Bodie's strength, still feeling it...
. . . . . . .

Need your strength in my arms, and you at my back, and the bright hard spear of your mind piercing me and prodding me. Even need you taunting me to jog with you on those bleeding cold mornings, always challenging me, you are. Never had a challenge like you before in my life.

All the adventures I thought I'd had, all the life I thought I'd lived, and I found more challenge in the little finger of a difficult sod of an ex-copper than I'd ever imagined possible.

This bit of Bodie's unspoken declaration to Doyle always hits me. I'm amazed at NH, being able to incorporate phrases like "bright hard spear... piercing me" which are usually laughable...

.

He's just too -------- for belief!   (Fill in the blank with whatever words you can think of...)
But, but, who is this other slag man in the car with him? Get out! And doesn't he just ooze the slashy sensation?
Okay, I prefer his hair another way, but look at the vein in his arm, the tones that red brings out in his skin, the softness of his lips, the cocky tilt in his posture... ahhhh.

The picture is from The Martin Shaw Scrapbook, from the page on "The Most Dangerous Man in the World".
(Exceedingly dangerous to me, that is in no doubt!) 

I was reading Courtney Gray's story Griffin but I haven't seen Cassidy, and I kept having trouble figuring out who is who in the story, and ran into this picture while researching.