1. Worthy

He knew his worth, and it was not in the bedroom. State politics, international intrigue, assassinations, war – in these things, he was confidant of his abilities to come out the victor. Not that he did not know his way around a seduction, but it had been a long time since he had needed to get pillow talk out of an ally or an enemy. He was an elder statesman now, reduced to "appreciating" girls half his age from a distance or taking advantage of random offers from men in nameless pubs. Even that was something of a security breach he simply could not afford to humor most of the time.

One of his personal heroes was Queen Elizabeth I, and like her he both had a copy of Machivelli's The Prince by his bed and a history of politically-driven romances that faded along with his looks. He was still called "stately" and "handsome" on occasion, but that was often rank flattery and he knew it. His strengths and skills were those honed by age, not weakened by it, and it was a trade off he had paid the Devil to buy. When an operation wrapped up successfully with no one but the bad guys dead, and his agents wallowing in their triumphs, he felt justified and righteous. The celibacy of his waning years was a small price to pay for the safety of Queen and Country.

But none of that forestalled his own personal recriminations, the thoughts and fancies he bullied himself about because that was all he could do. He was still a living, breathing man and his libido was no more dead than he was. Neither, for that matter, was his heart.

Flirting with Bodie was dangerous, less for the agent (to whom indiscriminate flirting seemed a genetic predisposition) than for Cowley himself. Playing with fire, as in the colloquialism, and as much as Cowley chastised himself for it he could not stop.

There were no favorites in CI5, that was the rule, although everyone knew who was at the top of the pecking order. No different than the military world he sharpened his own claws in, and Cowley knew how to balance his obvious preferences for agents 3.7 & 4.5 against the need to keep the playing field fair for everyone. It was that much harder, then, to hide his favor of Bodie, to keep his aching desires held firmly under the cover of jesting, suggestive banter. He did it, of course – Cowley was always results oriented, and he always got the result he wanted.

Or, rather, needed. Because what he wanted was something he rarely admitted to himself late at night in his own bed, protected behind brick and mortar and plaster and paint and drapes over the windows, his body rebelling against age and taboos. What he wanted was young and bright and clever, a strong man with beautiful dark hair and eyes full of the amusement of youth. Cowley had his share of the type through the years – he had his preferences, and knew them well – but that hardly slaked his thirst. Bodie was special, the kind of man Cowley kept track of, perhaps one of four he had ever met with that rare combination of looks, skill, experience, wit, charm, and efficiency. Bodie was just damn good at his job and damn him if Cowley did not think that was lethally attractive in and of itself.

But morning would arrive with an accusing sun rising to hold Cowley accountable to his night-time sins. He was barely a religious man at this point, but some days he woke up praying to God that he be given strength to stay his hands for just another day as the early rays of sunlight pierced his eyes and reminded him that what he wanted could never, ever be what he needed. He would spend another day convincing himself that he did not need anything – like the regent he based his own autocracy on, Cowley had no intention of aging gracefully nor allowing any weakness of character affect his rule.

Even if he knew full well that it did.