So much, yet again, for the workplace legend that is a ‘day off’.  As per usual, twenty-four hours free from the assorted perils of working for CI5 didn’t quite eventuate.  I’m beginning to believe that free time really is a myth.  One of those things -- like Malone actually showing some appreciation -- that gets talked about in hushed, hopeful tones, but is never really going to occur.  According to my planned timetable, I should still be at the gym, just having finished twenty laps of the pool; but no, I’m standing outside a TV studio after just helping save the life of someone who, in hindsight, seems to have deserved the threat of death.

Not that I’m complaining though.  Not really.

Running around like an idiot, constantly risking my life, is all that I’m good at.  I mean, what are the other options?  Stagnating in front of a computer screen in a dreary little office somewhere?  I don’t think so.  I prefer to think big.  Why get caught up in office politics when there are world politics out there…

Besides, it’s highly doubtful that a desk job would ever have put me in contact with the love -- and sometimes bane -- of my existence that is standing, opposite me, scowling in the direction of our boss.

Chris Keel, I can tell, is currently ensnared in the patented ‘I’m not in pain, not at all’ act that he has perfected for Malone’s benefit.  I can see right through it and know better.  Simply by glancing at him, I can tell he is in pain and wonder what he ran into on the roof.  Chris’ stance is too rigid and his attention is focused entirely on Malone.  ‘Never show pain’ being rule number fuck-knows-what in the unwritten list of unbreakable CI5 laws.

"Mr Curtis."

I reluctantly tear my attention away from my partner’s BAFTA-winning performance and turn to my commander, who is standing near the driver’s side door of the Nissan.  "I trust Mr Keel will give you a lift home."  This is said, not as a question, but as a statement.  As far as Malone is concerned, if Chris can’t take me home then I can walk for all he cares.

Chris, hearing his name, walks over to us and nods.  "Not a problem.  Taking the Nissan are you, Sir?"

"*Obviously* I am taking the Nissan, Mr Keel, how highly observant of you. I knew there had to be a reason you are in my employment."

Malone glares at Chris before opening the door to the car.  "Now, go home, the pair of you and get some rest.  I expect you in the office, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, at eight on the dot for debriefing."

"Yes, Sir."

Chris *almost* manages to keep the tetchiness out of his voice.

"’Night, Sir," I offer blandly as Malone gets into the car, starts the engine and without so much as a backward glance, roars off.  Chris waits until the tail-lights of the Nissan have totally disappeared from sight before dropping his charade.  His whole body slumps, and he winces as he gingerly touches an abrasion at the corner of his mouth.

"What happened to you?"

"PCs Plod and Plonker are what happened to me!"  Malone now out of the way, Chris allows his tetchiness free reign.  He sounds positively livid and I almost feel sorry for the two PCs who would have had no idea what they were getting themselves into.  The fact that he is standing, albeit somewhat slumped, in front of me tells me that the other two would have come off far worse.

"PCs?  What were…"

"Yeah, the fucking Met!"  Chris interrupts.  "You know, those turkeys in blue that are supposed to protect the public.  They jumped me on the roof. I very much doubt that the concept of a fair fight exists in their microscopic excuses for brains."

He pauses for breath and I quickly jump in.  "They were that bad?"

"Bad?  Well, I don’t know about you, but two on one, getting hit on the back of the head and punched four or five times in the stomach is a bit excessive to me ."  We start to walk towards the Mondeo that Chris drove to the studio in as he continues his tirade.  "Fucking ironic that we’re supposed to be on the same side, isn’t it?"

"Uh-huh."  I agree as we come to a halt upon reaching the car.  Even if I didn’t agree, which in this case I definitely did, I know better than to argue with Chris when he’s in a mood like this.  Fortunately though, I also know that said moods are usually short lived and will be quickly replaced by a tiredness bordering on melancholy.

Chris digs around in his pockets until finally, triumphantly, he locates the car keys and extends them towards me.  "Here, you can drive."

I take the keys from him with a grin.  "Feel that bad, do you?"

"Like I’ve been run over by a Humvee."  He smiles briefly and I realise that Chris’ temper has already given way to tiredness.

"Yeah, well, I’m sure you’ll feel better after a shower."

I unlock the car and we both get in.  Chris barely suppresses a groan as he pulls the seatbelt on.  "Maybe.  Depends on how good the shower is though…"

Putting the key in the ignition, I start the car and begin to drive out of the carpark.  "Where to?  My place or yours?"

"Yours."  Chris answers quickly before sighing.  "I have this awful feeling that if we went to mine we might just discover my beloved cousin… aah… *entertaining* a certain Spanish barman."

For a moment I don’t know what Chris is talking about, but then remember that one of his cousins is in London on a stopover before embarking on a working tour, or ‘fuck-around’ as he so delightfully put it, of Europe.  I also remember that he’d begrudgingly -- there appeared to be little family love between the pair -- been going to take her out tonight.

"That’s right, I’d forgotten you had a guest.  How was your evening going before the siren call of work dragged you away?"

Chris sighs again.  "It was going *wonderfully*," he replies sarcastically. "I was running out of anecdotes and I think she’d finished mentally undressing the barman and was onto imagining what he’d taste like."

"Don’t tell me, let me guess, you were left with no choice but to share the atrocious ‘failed music career’ *anecdote* with her…"  I snort back laughter, having been on the receiving end of the tragic tale before.  "No wonder she was bored!"

"Well, you know, as *atrocious* as that story may be, it’s one of the few things I can share about my life that doesn’t involve bloodshed or national secrets…"

A degree of quiet sadness has crept into Chris’ tone and I’m suddenly sorry for having sounded so facetious.  "Sorry.  I didn’t mean it like that…"

"It’s okay."  He shrugs slightly before adding with a laugh, "The music industry’s loss was CI5’s gain."

Taking my hand momentarily off the gearstick, I pat Chris softly on the knee.  "And mine…"  I try to keep my voice light but mean what I say.

"That goes without saying."  Chris turns towards me, a happy smile lighting

I think he must be asleep and turn my thoughts to the evening’s case.  It isn’t until we’ve nearly reached my place that Chris shifts and blinks at me.  "You know, you can talk to me."

"Do you think Risha is guilty?"

"Unquestionably."

"You sound adamant about that."

"You didn’t see his reaction to the woman, Pia.  He recognised her.  You could see it in the bastard’s eyes.  He was probably even remembering raping her."

"Oh."

There’s not much I can say to that.  He’s right, I didn’t see Risha’s reaction to Pia and, as much as it pains me to admit it, I also think that Chris is right about Risha being guilty of the alleged atrocities.  The thought of us risking our lives for his is an unpleasant one.

"Still, there’s always the cold comfort offered by the studio head that Risha’s political career is as good as dead."  Chris tries to find a positive to our evening’s activities, but he doesn’t exactly sound convinced.

"Wonderful.  That is *so* going to help me sleep better tonight."

"Me too."  Chris replies mock cheerfully before yawning.  "Are we nearly there yet?"

"Better than that, we’re here."  I pull up outside my apartment and stop the car.  "Come on, the healing powers of the shower are beckoning…"

"Mmm-hmm, I can hear them now…"  He yawns again as we both get out of the car and walk towards the front door.  Chris’ bootlaces flap around him as he walks and I’m amazed that he doesn’t trip himself over.  Then again, if he’s planning on doing what I suspect he’s planning on doing -- what he usually does -- then it would serve him right.

Still, whilst it never fails to bug the hell out of me, I would never try and stop him.  It’s as much a part of Chris as his inane refusal to eat frog ’s legs -- apparently the ghost of Kermit would haunt him...  Deep down, although I’d rather spend a weekend at a beach resort with only Malone for company than admit it, I’m rather fond of Chris’ quirks.

Opening the door, I gesture Chris in and watch in resigned bemusement  as he makes a performance of taking his boots off.  Unlike ‘normal’ people, Chris doesn’t stop moving in order to remove his footwear.  Bending over, he hops around on one foot as he tugs the boot off the other.  Once he has succeeded,  he throws the boot casually behind him and I bite back a sigh as it narrowly misses the wall.  This action is then repeated for the other foot, only this time the boot hits the coat rack and I fail to suppress the sigh.

"God, you’re a slob."

"Yeah, yeah…"

Chris hardly sounds remorseful. Just for my benefit, he puts a little twist into his sock removal and carefully ensures that one lands in the lamp near the sofa.

"How would you like it if I came into your home and used my clothing as abstract art?"

"*I* wouldn’t care.  Unlike some people who will remain nameless, I’m not retentive about tidiness."  Chris looks over his shoulder and smirks at me before disappearing into the bathroom.

Shaking my head, I laugh softly and wonder, not for the first time, how I ended up loving such a raving lunatic.  As is always the case when I think this, I then decide that it must be pure luck…  There are still times when I can’t believe how much Chris means to me.  I’d convinced myself, and was content with the conviction, that I didn’t need anyone in my life.  Then he came along.  All blue eyes, pale skin and seemingly boundless energy and that was just that.  I fell in lust.

I then fell in love.

And that is the only reason I can offer for the fact that I just picked a sock out of my lamp and *didn’t* throw a tantrum.  Greater love hath no man and all that rubbish.

Detouring by the kitchen, I put the kettle on before wandering into the bedroom.  There, I grab a clean pair of tracksuit pants and a t-shirt to put on after my shower.  I then remember that Chris will need something to put on and find a pair of black silk pyjamas that will more than adequately perform the duty required of them.

Clothing decided and obtained, I leave the bedroom and head towards the bathroom.  Reaching it, I enter the room silently, place the garments on the towel rack and then take time out to admire the vision in my shower.

Chris’ eyes are closed, and, although he’s holding a bar of soap in his hand, he’s not moving and is just allowing the water to beat down on his tired body.  The heat of the shower is making his pale skin glow pink, but even that can’t disguise the rapidly forming bruises that disfigure his flat stomach and waist.  Lividly black and blue, they differ in size, but all look nasty.

I’ve never met anyone that bruises as easily as Chris.

The first time I’d witnessed such bruising on him was about only a week into our partnership.  We’d had a fist fight with a couple of thugs, and only a few hours later, Chris looked like he’d just lost seven rounds with Mike Tyson.  He noticed my curiosity at the livid bruising on his face and arms and explained that he simply bruised easily.  He then went on to add that if I thought it was bad now, I should have known him as a child.  Apparently he then only had to look sideways at playground equipment to bruise…

Later, after we’d become lovers, Chris shared another anecdote with me. Once, whilst young and impressionable, he’d allowed his boyfriend to spank him and that the admittedly light paddling caused such bruising that it was enough to put the boyfriend off the activity for life.  I’d laughed, but at the same time felt oddly protective of Chris and had to ask whether he’d enjoyed it.  His answer, the same as mine would have been, "No…  I already knew there was enough pain in the world without having to have it carry over into my sex life," reassured me.  I doubt I could hurt Chris even if he wanted me to.

Gradually I come out of my reverie and discover that Chris’ eyes are open and he is gazing at me intently through the glass shower screen.  Smiling, he gestures for me to join him.

Not needing to be asked twice, I quickly strip off my grimy clothes and join Chris under the warm spray of water.  Reaching out, I lightly trace my finger along the abrasion near his mouth before leaning forward and kissing him softly.

Chris returns the soft kiss without altering his position, tiredness still evident in his stance.  Breaking the kiss, I trail light kisses down his chin and throat before reaching his collarbone and pulling back.  He watches me closely as I gently remove the soap from his hand and, starting from his shoulders, begin to wash his body.

The soap glides over Chris’ smooth body with ease and he obligingly lifts his arms to allow me greater access.  What I’m doing is more sensual than sexual and we both know it.  Neither of us is really in the mood for sex but more for simple, comforting, closeness.  This is often the case after assignments.

Carefully, I wash Chris’ torso, very gently over the bruising.  He sighs with contentment, "Mmm… Nice…," as I continue lower and gently lather a very familiar part of his anatomy.  Crouching, I plant a quick kiss on his navel, eliciting a gasp of surprise, before continuing on with my self-imposed task.  I slide the soap over his legs and then rise, slowly turn him around and finish off on his back.

Assured that Chris is clean, I plant another quick kiss at the base of his neck and then turn him back around.  "There!  Would I make the grade as a professional body-washer?"  I snicker softly at Chris. He appears dazed and is blinking slowly at me.

"Oh, absolutely,"  he replies eventually and reaches languidly for the soap in my hand, "I wouldn’t bother grading me though because I know I’m not going to be at my best."

I hold the soap out of his reach and smile.  "That’s okay, I’d rather test your coffee-making skills anyway…"

"Trying to get rid of me, are you?"  Chris smiles back.

"More like trying to conserve energy.  If you make the coffee while I finish in here then, presumably, we can collapse on the sofa at the same time, yeah?"

This seems to take a moment to permeate through Chris’ daze, but then he indicates his agreement with a nod.  "Okay.  Coffee-making it is."

I step back to let Chris out of the shower and as he passes he surprises me by initiating a deep kiss.  His eyes twinkle as he pulls back and I suspect that it is now my turn to look dazed.

"Thank you," he offers for nothing in particular, quickly stepping out of the shower and shutting the door on me before I can ask for elaboration.

Whatever.  I currently lack the inclination to chase the subject and, after watching Chris dry himself, turn my attention to my own body.  Without rushing, I wash myself and try not to think about how much mess Chris can achieve in the simple task of coffee-making.  Once I’ve finished, I step, with no small amount of reluctance, out of the shower and dry myself off. As is to be expected, the towel Chris used is on the floor, and I pick it up and hang it over the towel rack before pulling on my clothing.

Walking out of the bathroom and into the living room, I find Chris sitting on the sofa.  Two mugs are on the coffee table and the TV is turned, sound muted, to a twenty-four-hour news station.

Looking away from the flickering images, Chris turns towards me and smiles. "Coffee ready for tasting, Sir!"

I sink down on the sofa alongside him and reach for the mug.  "How are you feeling now?"

"Tired, but instead of having been run over by a Humvee, I think I’d now settle for having been run over by a Panda…"

My confusion as this response must be evident because Chris laughs.  "You know, Panda, that peculiar Brit term for a small police car…"

Ah, that makes more sense to me and I nod.  "A bit better then?"

"Much."  Chris slides over and leans into me, resting his head on my shoulder.  I bring my free arm around him and he snuggles closer as the TV shows images of our earlier job.

"Hey, are you ready for your fifteen seconds of fame?" I ask, waiting for a response that isn’t forthcoming.  Obviously comfortable, Chris has fallen asleep.

Not wanting to wake him, I gently as possible take a mouthful of coffee and savour the taste.

"Perfect," I whisper to the silent room.