The Rules According to Doyle by Rimy
Bodie closed his eyes again, ground his teeth, and castigated himself for hanging onto that thin, persisting, painful thread of hope.
He could guess the rules, every damn one of them.
Don't think this means anything, Bodie, it's physical, is all. Doesn't mean a thing to me.
Just this one time, Bodie. No strings. Only doing this to shut you up, really, like tossing a bone to a dog that won't stop yapping. Don't want to hear the words 'Come to bed with me, Ray' ever again, got that?
And watch what you say, Bodie; heaven forbid you tell me something I don't want to know.
When he risked a look, Doyle was leaning against the worktop, arms folded, ankles crossed, face expressionless and aloof. He should tell the cold-hearted bastard to go to hell. He knew that, damn it. If he had any sense, common or self-preserving, he'd tell his shuttered, standoffish partner to go fuck himself. Then he'd walk out of Doyle's flat and keep right on walking.