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Sleeping Beauty

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Bodie relaxes, eyes closed, on the rest room couch, aware of his partner's movements as he takes his turn in the shower.

Doyle emerges in twenty minutes, towelling his hair and humming softly. The lower half of him is dressed, the upper half clad in a shirt he has yet to button. The hair on his chest is still slightly damp. So is the hair forming a trail from his navel, disappearing under his waistband.

Cream-coloured trousers adhere closely to Doyle’s slender, hard/soft frame. He's clearly not wearing underwear.

Bodie can’t handle it. He pretends to be asleep.
* * * * *

Doyle nudges the door shut with his shoulder. Slumps casually. Back pressed against the door, he dips his head forward and pushes the towel up from the nape of his neck, fingers stretched as he pulls it across his hair and rubs busily.

Bodie's eyelids are down, but fine flickers reveal the movement of his eyes beneath them. Following.

Doyle's eyelids are down, as he immerses himself in the awareness of the rough cloth on his skin. One leg takes his weight. He folds the other against the wall, knee bent. His hip presses into the handle of the door.
* * * * *

Through his shuttered eyelids, Bodie can see the impression of the handle on Doyle's skin. A mark. Flesh coloured by unyielding pressure. Already. Doyle has showered off the grime and muck of the day, the job, the knowledge of what they do, day in, day out. The scrapes are washed down. The bruises aren't blossoming yet. So why is Doyle so careless? So unbothered? Already he is letting the world mark him again. He needs to work out his priorities, thinks Bodie.

If Doyle is going to carry marks, Bodie will damn well be the one to put them there.
* * * * *

Bodie looks at Doyle's downcast eyes. He knows Doyle knows he's awake. But he makes a show of it anyway: a sleepy little 'mmm' in the back of his throat, a long, languid stretch, and his eyes flicker open. Doyle's smile is slight, but there is warmth in his eyes.

'And I didn't even have to kiss you.'

'Hmm? Oh, I get it.'

'Not just a pretty face, then.' Doyle flashes a grin as he finishes with the towel, then starts buttoning his shirt. He tucks it into his waistband and buckles his belt. Coverup complete.

But Bodie knows what's underneath.
* * * * *