No additional warnings for this scene.
"Sir?"
"What, Bodie?" Cowley snapped as he gathered his coat.
"This was lying on your briefcase." Bodie said, holding up the book, his comment a question. Was it important? Did it need to travel in the briefcase? Bodie held the handle of the case with one hand, the book in the other. Cowley knew that the boy simply stopped in transit, frozen in the middle of picking up the briefcase to offer it to him, and would not sooner move to open the briefcase himself than shoot Cowley in cold blood. But the book was an anomaly and he did not know if his boss wanted it or not.
"Toss it on the shelf, it's no bearing to anything." Cowley nodded and watched the book arch through the air to plop onto a spare space on the shelf behind Bodie, who swung the briefcase out to hand off to Cowley in the same move. Graceful, precise, and self-aware, Bodie just nodded back and moved towards the door, leading the way. Cowley suffered himself a quick glace at the shelf, memorizing the exact location and placement of the book.
It was a small book, and precious, which was why he treated it carelessly. Kept it out in the front office, sometimes stashed it in his brief case, left it in his car, took it home, propped it on the windowsill at the office. Yet he always knew where it was, because really it was the most important book in his life (short of the Bible, but he tracked that one less carefully), even if it looked to everyone like a worthless curiosity piece.
It was a book of lists of random numbers, published by MIT in the States, generated out of one of their mind-boggling computers. Every year they published a new edition with new lists and every year he bought it and burned the old.
His own numerical assignments were memorized, and had been for years. The number twelve from the list on page ten meant that he was to plan waking up at 5:30am. The number twenty-five meant waking at 5:45am. The number seven stood for taking the long way to work, while the number fifteen meant to stop at a shop for coffee on the way in. There were numbers that dictated where and when he took lunch, and there was even a special list of numbers (151-200 on the 1-500 list) for arranging meetings with members of government. They wondered at his arbitrary nature, stacking it up to eccentricity, and he was pleased about that.
The numbers kept his schedule random, his presence unpredictable. Sometimes he had to fiddle around with the lists, and there were many 'open' numbers that had yet to be assigned a purpose, but he resolutely tried to tie himself to the random numbers, for his own sake if not CI5 itself. He knew he was a target, even though he chose not to make much of an issue about it with the squad. They knew it, of course, and sometimes an agent would get protective during an assignment, but Cowley accepted that as part of the cautious nature of the men who worked for him. He complained about it, of course, because that was his due right, but he accepted it nonetheless.
It was the number sixteen, though, that he loved. He cherished that number, looked ahead in the lists to see when it would appear, and always hoped that it might show at convenient times, not in the middle of crises when it would have to be plugged into whatever operation he was working on like a cog in a wheel. It was symbolic, of course, but nothing so obvious as a date, no, it was an age. Cowley was sixteen when he lost his virginity to a rugby player from the town he grew up near, a player with a broad, lily-white back and dark hair and deep, deep eyes. A player who, for all intents and purposes, could have been Bodie's father….or grandfather, perhaps, although Cowley preferred not to take it back that far. So it was 'sixteen' for Bodie, now, and some days – rough days, when operations failed and he was trumped in the political chess game and his leg hurt all to hell – it was the only thing he lived for.
Sixteen.
He followed Bodie out of the building to his car. The boy drove, unquestioning, through the streets as night fell. This time the number appeared two days after a successful and murderous op, at a point where Cowley could easily invite Bodie out for a private drink under the guise of reviewing 'certain matters.' Sometimes it was a pull to think of 'certain matters' to discuss but Cowley always kept a few on hand. This time, that was taken care of for him, because the case was messy and despite being officially closed, Cowley did have genuine questions he wanted to delve into with his operative. Legitimately, Doyle ought to be present as well, but again the timing worked to his advantage. Doyle made other plans – plans that included Bodie, and probably some nameless women of loose morals, or not, and Cowley simply did not want to know either way. Doyle's plans, though, could move forward without Bodie and neither man was going to question or challenge an invitation from their boss. Cowley wished to speak privately to Bodie about the op, and that trumped all cards. Doyle scowled and tried not to look suspiciously at Cowley while Bodie pretended to preen over the attention, knowing it would annoy his partner. The games those boys played would drive a saint to sin, and Cowley often enjoyed watching them spark off each other because he was old, not dead. But tonight Bodie was his, and the boy was nervous about it despite prideful appearances, perhaps expecting some reprimand or reproof or just an unpleasant interrogation.
Bodie drove, and Cowley held himself tensely in the seat next to him, tapping his fingers on his bad knee sixteen times. Bodie noticed, of course, and said nothing, of course, and drove quietly and obediently to the pub. Of course.
They parked and Cowley limped in, trying to play it down and failing because damnit, some days it just hurt. Bodie followed to a booth in the back, darkened and removed from every one else in the mostly empty room. They sat, ordered a couple of pints with chasers, and Bodie waited, tense and uncomfortable.
But Cowley failed, then. This was the sixteenth time 'sixteen' had come up in this particular list over the past three years and it was base superstition to attribute any special significance to it, but he did, like a pagan Pict done up in blue. After too many silent minutes, Bodie pursed his lips, then changes tactics. He sat back in his chair languidly, not quite smirking, looking like the high-end rent boy he could have been. He held Cowley's eyes bravely and cleared of questions or doubt; he was waiting for Cowley to make the move, or set the price, or throw him out, and Bodie was playing to his audience.
"Cat got your tongue, Sir?" Bodie asked, tilting his head and running his tongue over his bottom lip quickly in a manner that was just short of suggestive.
"Planning your next job, are you?" Cowley snapped, his voice cold and professional. Bodie shifted, closing himself up fractionally, but his challenge still open. The problem was that Bodie was unsure of the game and reading it all wrong. That suited Cowley just fine: he never intended Bodie to know his number. Sixteen was for Cowley, but Bodie was never meant for him, not really, and so the boy could gambol through this any which way he chose. Cowley would still win.
"You had questions for me, Sir?" Bodie sampled his beer as if showing off the wares. Cowley wanted to shake his head and grin and play along, but no, he was observer, not participant.
"Yes." Cowley shifted forward meaningfully and showered Bodie with a series of fierce, unforgiving questions about the op, and his partner, and the cleanup, and the possible repercussions. Bodie closed up, sat up, and answered smartly, and finally Cowley got what he wanted. Bodie was tightly wound now, as close to nervous as a CI5 agent could be pushed, explaining his actions and opinions with the precision of a surgical strike. He eventually pulled back from 'defensive' and rested in 'confidant' and he was achingly beautiful, his eyes deep with thought and his skin flushed as if he was an athlete being pushed through his paces.
Which, Cowley mused, he was.
When they finished their drinks, Cowley grunted some half-hearted compliment on Bodie and Doyle's actions – and Cowley was careful to include that name, because Bodie more than most became prickly if his partner was left out of the praise. Bodie finally relaxed, then, his whole body sighing in relief, although only a trained eye would notice the muscle twitches that gave him away. It was the cherry on top, Bodie relieved and comfortable and pleased with himself and Cowley almost, just almost, allowed himself to think that this was how Bodie might look after sex. Sated, pink cheeked, and pleased was a look that suited him. Oh yes, Cowley won this game, as much as he ever could be allowed.
"Good night, sir." Bodie stayed in the car as Cowley got out, back at headquarters.
"Good night, Bodie. Sleep well, I expect something on the horizon for you and your partner soon."
Bodie nodded, but simply stared at him, his expression blank. It was too long a pause and Cowley cursed himself as he spun around to march away from the car.
"Sir? Are you certain you don't want to me to take you home?" Bodie called out softly, teasingly, and Cowley looked back on smiling eyes.
Sixteen plus sixteen is thirty-two, Cowley mused as he watched his victory collapse in his hands. Bodie won, without even betraying that he knew what game was being played.
Sixteen plus sixteen is thirty-two, a number and an age that was surely meaningless to Bodie, but Cowley had held that number aside for years -- unassigned, insignificant, and waiting.