Spring

The Bisto Kids.

He had heard it from the first lecture Cowley had directed at them as new recruits.  Doyle had heard it, but not believed it.  Not then, and not now.

That'll be the day.

Bodie, it was obvious, didn't know one thing about being a partner.  For all his training and posturing, this was one area Bodie couldn't fake, couldn't bluff his way through.  Every day had become a competition between them, a battle of wills and a battle of wits that left Doyle feeling tired and edgy.

The Bisto Kids?  Nah.  Not likely.  Not with him.  Bodie only cared about one person—himself.

Doyle shifted restlessly, willing the now-stale pep talk to be over.  Each time Cowley brought in a few new agents, it was the same routine. Gather the troops and give the sermon.  The damn Bisto Kids.  Face it, Doyle.  It ain't gonna happen.

The rest of the expressions Cowley used made sense when Doyle thought about them.  Nitro and glycerine.   Chalk and cheese.   Bodie had one type of experience, he had another.  Together, yeah, he could see the advantage.  Pooling knowledge, that sort of thing.  Guns.   Underground.  Drugs.  Pimps and prostitutes.  Mercenaries and military life.

But the Bisto Kids?  Not in my lifetime.

Doyle shifted again, uncomfortable in the close atmosphere, and seconds after they were dismissed, he mumbled a good-night to his partner, scrambled out of the lecture hall, relocated his jacket, and escaped into the freedom and bondage of London.  At least this time he didn't have to stay and listen to another round of the propaganda being fed to Cowley's latest batch of recruits.  He'd heard it all that first day, foolishly believed the Chief, only to have it all thrown back at him.

He fished his keys from his jeans pocket as he walked, his face tilted back to feel the dying warmth, catching the last few rays of sun for the day.  Behind him, the door to the CI5 building opened and he could hear the newly-familiar sound of Bodie's boots on the cement steps as he strode out of the building; then a car door opened, slammed shut, gunned to life, and peeled away from the curb.  Bodie's Escort tore by Doyle as he was unlocking the door of the Triumph TR7, the gold compact car already at full speed in less than half a block.

Bloody maniac.

Yet when the car passed Doyle, he automatically lifted his hand in an acknowledging wave as his partner disappeared into the distance, off to God knew where.  Bodie never apprised him of his plans.  Birds and food and wine, most likely.  His partner's appetite more than surpassed his own.  The bloke dressed like he was a damned barrister, instead of a CI5 agent.  Immaculate suits and ties and dry cleaned shirts.

Not my style.  Doyle scratched at his cropped curls as he dropped into the sports car.  His own jeans were worn and unraveled at the hem.  The plaid jacket had been mended several times by an old girlfriend's mother, who still liked him and was thrilled when he brought her his threadbare clothes.  They were comfortable.  And he hated to shop for new ones.  These clothes moved with him, fit his body like an expensive glove.

He sighed and turned the motor on, listening to the easy purr of the engine.  The car had been an unexpected windfall Cowley had dropped his way.  It wasn't Doyle's, of course.  Little besides his clothes and a few boxes of books and records were his, but he could pretend it was, for now at least.

It had surprised him when Cowley had given him custody of the sports car.  Bodie looked more the type to drive something like this, not him.  Bodie in his suits and feigned upper class snobbery.  Doyle was convinced the man came from no better background than he did, but somewhere along the line Bodie had learned to affect the mannerisms of the wealthy, and to do so remarkably well.

Bodie did a lot of things remarkably well.  Marksmanship.  Martial arts.  The subtle art of bullshitting.  That and the ability to speak the same language as Cowley.  Cowley, Doyle had learned early on, did not like copper expressions.  Cowley, as a matter of fact, hated most of the usual terms of the enforcement trade and instead used what sounded more like military codes that Bodie seemed to understand.  Bodie would look over at Cowley and smile that little knowing smile of his, as though they shared some private secret that the little copper wasn't privy to.

Nah.  It wasn't like that.  But it certainly felt like that some days.

Doyle made his way home, stopping at the market to pick up a few things, trying to picture his partner doing something as mundane as shopping.  Need toilet paper. Hs bread had gone stale, he had noticed that morning.  And the light bulb was out in the flat's loo, which had made his shower rather interesting.  He rounded the aisles in the grocery, staring at the shelves half-heartedly, hoping that whatever else it was that he needed would leap out at him.  A can of stew was dropped into his wire basket.  A can of tuna.  Soup.  Liverwurst.  Some milk.  Fresh vegetables.

He was already queuing for the cashier when he remembered the toilet paper, and he reluctantly left the line and returned to wandering the aisles.  A display had been knocked over; Doyle bent and picked up the box, absently straightening the shelf.  Figures.  Bisto gravy mix.  The children on the box stared back at him, and he shook his head in honest regret, one figure gently tracing their faces on the package.  Enjoy it while you can, kids.  It doesn't happen twice in a lifetime.

He added some yogurt to his basket and then some cheese and another loaf of bread, and forgot about the toilet paper until he was back at his flat, standing on the rim of his tub, screwing the light bulb in the bathroom socket.

The evening shadows cut through the flat; the record on the stereo had ended half an hour before.  Doyle stood alone at the stove, stirring his can of soup, adding the chopped vegetables one by one, and watching it begin to bubble to life.  It came to him then, that he had never been lonelier in his life.

 The Bisto Kids.  Right.

Three weeks later, Doyle watched as his partner sat at the table across the room staring at his little notebook, probably trying to make some sense of the interview notes he'd made earlier that afternoon.  While trying to get some idea of the character of the man in the herb and vitamin shop next door, Bodie had questioned the owner of a bookshop for an hour.  He had gone around in circles with the man, both playing some strange game of inserting quotes from poets and authors every time they spoke, trying to out-do the other.  Strangely though, Bodie seemed to revel in the challenge; after a while Doyle had drifted away to some art books gathering dust on the upper shelves, leaving the two men to verbally battle each other in peace.

So why did a mercenary know Keats, anyway?  Bodie never made any sense.  Rifles, yes.  Machine guns and warfare, yes.  But Browning?  Dante?  Still, Doyle had to admit it made him a little proud of his partner sometimes.  Bodie had the strangest collection of information lodged in that closely shorn head of his.  If there was just a chance of any of it ever meaning anything to him...

Bodie seemed personable enough, but the man hid behind his comfortable mask and made shots at the world around him, letting no one in.  Only Cowley seemed to be comfortable with him, and Bodie with Cowley; they spoke the same language.  Bodie could yell at the man when he was upset, disagree with his orders, or throw in a flippant remark, and Cowley never seemed to blink at it.  Yet, if Doyle so much rolled his eyes, Cowley would reprimand him as though he were an obstinate child who had stepped out of his place.

Doyle watched Bodie now as he fiddled with the typewriter, crumbling his last piece of paper.  He got up and fetched Bodie more sheets, dropping them beside him.

Bodie glanced up, looking almost puzzled.

"For your report," Doyle had muttered, then retreated to the other side of the room.

He had gotten in a row with Anson the other day when the other agent had made a rude comment about Bodie brown-nosing with Cowley.  Like it or not, Bodie was his partner and no one was going to talk about him that way.

The lounge gradually filled as others drifted in.  A big case had broken two days before, and the A Squad was taking a well-deserved breather, tidying the final reports and catching up on new developments on other cases.  Bodie would at least acknowledge each as they came in with a short nod, then turned studiously back to the typewriter, as though unaware of the steady drift of agents to the far end of the narrow room.

Rumor was that Bodie didn't mix with the lower classes... but Doyle was starting to suspect the man just didn't know how.   Doyle had gradually gotten to know some of the other agents who worked for CI5.  A nice lot, all with the varied experiences and backgrounds that Cowley seemed to go for.  Murphy was the latest one in.  The young bloke towered over them, but yet was still wide-eyed as a kid as they discussed their cases.  He would be good, and Doyle could see why the Cow had scooped him up before some other unit grabbed him.  Straight out of the Paras— Murphy had that at least in common with Bodie, although he never heard them talking about it.

Anson and Betty, Tyler and Thorne.  All good agents.  Yet, Cowley had put him with Bodie for some reason only known to the old man himself.  Well, at least others were there.  Doyle missed the sense of camaraderie that had been present during his days at the police station, sitting in the squad room, talking about the beat, griping about the cases they were on.  Sometimes they would laugh and joke, or sometimes rant and rage, but what Doyle missed the most is that he could relax there.  He was one of them.

It hadn't lasted.  A couple months or so after Syd had died, it all started going bad.  His new partners never clicked with him.  He was moved from one department to the other.  Corruption in the force sickened him, and then almost got him kicked off the force when he reported it.  In the end, the offer from CI5 was a rope thrown to a drowning man.

Once in a lifetime, one of the coppers had said about his partnership with Syd.

Still, there were moments here in the CI5 agents' office/lounge that left him nostalgic for the old days.  Anson told the punch line of the long tale he had spun, and perched on the arm of a couch, Doyle almost choked when he tried to drain his mug.

Wiping his mouth with his shirt sleeve, Doyle groaned at the joke with the others, then pulled himself to his feet and sauntered off to the kitchen area of the rest room.  He looked across the room, but Bodie's head was still buried in that bloody notebook.  Wound tighter than a coil, aren't you?  When are you going to learn to be more human?  We're all human, mate.  Even you. "Tea, Bodie?" he called out as he headed to the pot.

"That's what it's called," Bodie responded, adding immediately, "Sure, why not?  Got to finish this off before I can get anything more substantial."

Doyle deposited the steaming mug beside the typewriter, making sure he had fixed it the way Bodie liked it, then he went back to the other conversation, chuckling over something that was being discussed, but still feeling the loss of Bodie's presence.

Face it, Doyle.  Not again in your lifetime.

Summer

Doyle sat in icy silence, staring out the side window, an angry depression hovering around his tight-lipped features.  One white-knuckled fist grasped the door handle, the other periodically slammed against his thigh as he damned himself.  How could he have been so stupid?  How could he have missed the clue that had eluded them all along?  If he had thought of calling his contact in Bristol earlier, he would have gotten the news and figured where the family was being held.  Instead, they got there too late.  The mayor of the village had been assassinated, along with his wife and daughter, and all because he couldn't put two and two together in time.

I should have figured it out.  I fucked up the raid on the cottage.  Anyone with half a brain would have...  Police procedures would have...  Bloody hell!   Doyle felt like screaming, like beating the hell out of someone.  His head was about to explode from the pressure.

Beside him, he was scarcely aware of Bodie sliding the car in gear as they prepared to return to CI5 and make their reports to Cowley.  The air was stifling, raising Doyle's body temperature and his temper as the sun beat through the window.  The Escort drove silently through the village, past rows of summer cottages, mothers chatting as their children played in the sand, untroubled by terrorists, unaware of the massacre just two miles down the road.

I should have been able to do something...

Once on the main motorway, Bodie sighed quietly, reached across the front seat to rest his hand on his partner's right forearm for a moment, squeezing it reassuringly before returning it to the steering wheel.

It had felt so much like Syd Parker, that Doyle froze in shock.  On assignment, Syd used to do that.  Just letting you know you aren't alone, mate, Syd would say.  We're partners.  We share the blame.  We share the glory.  We share the pain.  The good guys don't always win.

But Syd was gone.

And Bodie was there, eyes fixed on the road ahead.  The anger dissipated around him, robbing Doyle of his fury at himself.  Bodie knew what had happened.  Bodie had been there the whole time and had not blamed him.  Had been with him driving the car as they had tried to get to the cottage before the bloodbath.

Doyle swallowed, caught his breath, and nodded briefly, feeling like he had been granted a reprieve.  He rolled down the window, letting the cooler breeze calm him, and stretched his cramped muscles.  The depression was still there, but not nearly to the same extent it had been. It was as if the burden had been lifted from his shoulders alone, and Bodie now shared the load.  His partner was quiet the rest of the way in, but talked readily enough about the case that needed to be written up.

But something was different, something had happened that day.

Over the next few weeks, Doyle noticed the change.  He was now included in Bodie's personal space.  He wasn't sure how to respond yet, but it was strange realizing Bodie was finding one excuse or another to work in some contact each shift they worked.  A playful slap on the bum, an elbow casually resting on Doyle's shoulder, a pat on the back.  Before his eyes, Bodie was slowly dropping the mask.  Somehow, in that brief touch in the car, Bodie had realized that he could be a partner, that he could care.

The boundaries were slowly being tested, but Doyle still wasn't convinced this was going to last.  It was too calculated on Bodie's part.  An interesting concept the ex-mercenary was trying on for size, not sure if he was ready to commit himself to anything yet.

One of Bodie's new missions was finding ways to make him laugh.  Doyle found himself roaring with laughter one day, unable to stop, throwing back his head and gasping until his eyes were watering and his stomach ached.  Bodie was having fun, springing silly antics on him when Doyle wasn't prepared, trying to catch him up.  There were times he would look at Bodie and shake his head, wondering where on earth this man had been during the first several months of their partnership.

A few times now, he had exploded at Bodie, raging at him, and Bodie had yelled back.  The kid gloves had come off, and the world hadn't come to an end.  Bodie had known he needed to get it out of his system.  Sometimes a touch on the arm would do, but other times he needed to rant and rave and punch a few walls.

Yeah, they were working it out, Doyle decided, clinking Bodie's glass of ale in the pub after a shift ended.  He had talked Bodie into going fishing with him the previous weekend, during a rare three days off.  Cowley had approved the time, and had even suggested the location.  It had been good.  Bodie didn't know the first thing about fishing and had grinned like a ten-year-old when he caught his first fish.  They had stayed in a tent in the rain and talked about nothing, but it been okay.  Relaxing being there, in a way.  Bodie wasn't half-bad.  He was a good agent and, considering his background and everything, a damn good partner.  With his head anyway.  With his heart?  Well, that got burnt out too many raids ago.  How many did you have to kill to lose the ability to feel?

Yeah, it was okay now.  Maybe not the Bisto Kids, but at least there was a real person to relate to now, and not a stiff cut-out character.

Autumn

We're still alive. 

It had been too close.  He couldn't breathe, couldn't catch his breath.

Doyle stood among the bodies of the men they had just fought, watching the blood slowly pool beneath them on the broken cobblestones.  The alley stank of decay and garbage.  Buzzing flies swarmed around, drawn to the scent of death, the steam of once-living men whose body heat now rose impotent into the cooling night air.

He swallowed, gulping in both oxygen and the sick smell that overpowered his senses.  His mind was whirling, the fear and horror of the last ten minutes beginning to tickle the edges of where he had trapped it while he used up his entire concentration on his job.  His eyes teared over, turning the scene into a smeared watercolor of gray and black and blood red.

He could see a blurred Bodie walking around, crouching to bend over the bodies, kicking at them to make sure they were dead, making casual comments on the shot Doyle had made through the center of one man's forehead.  Bodie, unaffected by death.  Reduced to cool blue splotches on a canvas, moving through the crimson and sooted world around him.  Impervious to what had just happened.  It was this aspect of Bodie, this callous, uncaring machine, that scared Doyle most of all.

Then suddenly, Bodie stood, turned to him, and opened his arms wide. The face was smiling, that much Doyle could tell, even as his eyes struggled to blink away the moisture.  Bodie was focused on him, aware of what was happening, and accepting him.  Happy they were alive.

Doyle stepped over the body and walked into those arms, his eyes closing as he rested his head on the wide shoulder.  Bodie's arms closed around him, wrapping him in a saner reality, a living, breathing human.  Trembling—fatigue and adrenalin—surfaced, then gave way immediately to balm his senses with a warm strength that he hadn't known Bodie even possessed.

After a moment, he was aware that Bodie was as scared as he was.  Bodie had no idea what to do next.  Here he was standing in a stinking back lane, his arms wrapped around his partner, holding him.  This was way out of Bodie's field of experience.  But, Doyle admitted as he lifted his head, gave a big sigh, and backed away from a speechless Bodie, the man had tried.

Now he had to find a way to put it in perspective.  To make sure that Bodie understood what had just happened.

"Thanks, mate.  Needed that.  Want to get a beer before we go to HQ?  Don't know about you, but I could use a quick stop."  Doyle turned and tried to walk calmly towards the panda car as it careened around the corner, the last question tossed over his shoulder.

Bodie followed him after a moment, awkward as hell, unable to look him in the eye, instead bending to check the bodies for identification.

You silly sod.  You won't fall apart by caring for someone.  It's not going to contaminate you and ruin you for the job.  It's just being human.  "Hey, Bodie?  Do you want a beer?" Doyle repeated, letting his voice register impatience.

"You're buying?" Bodie asked, rolling over one of the terrorists and pulling a gun from the dead man's grip.

"First round.  You've got the second," Doyle called back, adding a machine gun to the pile of weapons they were collecting.  "And if we're lucky," he added with a chip-toothed grin, "the Cow will provide the third when he gets our report."

Bodie strode across to the Scotland Yard detective, flipping out his identification, and gesturing at Doyle.  "He's clear.  He's my partner."  Bodie turned around deliberately and looked Doyle full in the face.  "Right, mate?"

"D'y'hear me arguing with you?" Doyle retorted, but he was smiling as he turned away.

 Winter

Doyle collapsed backwards, a cry of pain lodged in his throat.  He had been fighting for several minutes, trying to stay conscious, but he was fast losing the battle.  His grasp of what was happening around him was fading into a patchwork of murky memories.

The KGB agent...

Doyle had pursued Turkoff  down into the dimly-lit parkade.  The Soviet agent had Ann Seaford's daughter, and the ex-copper knew that if they couldn't rescue Sara in the next few minutes, she was as good as dead.  There was no way that the KGB agent would let her live out the hour.

Then Turkoff had shot Doyle, and Bodie, in turn, had materialized and had shot and killed Turkoff.  Blackness threatened now, nausea swarming over him.  Doyle had no idea where his partner was.  He couldn't hear him, couldn't track what was happening.

Cowley's voice from somewhere.  "Doyle, are you all right?"  Footsteps, and then Cowley was kneeling down beside him.

Doyle clutched at his leg, the fire of pain building with each beat of his heart.

"All right, boy.  All right."

"At least I haven't got your trouble," Doyle panted.  "It's gone right through." 

Bloody hell—

He must have passed out.  He drifted back to painful awareness, secured in his partner's arms.  Bodie's cheek was pressed against his short curls, as proprietary a gesture as the ex-merc had ever shown.  "Easy, mate," Bodie whispered, wrapping himself around Doyle's shivering body.  He had both of Doyle's hands in his, keeping Ray from trying to clutch his injured leg, Bodie's arms crossed over the smaller man's chest.  It was warm for January, but the underground parking garage was cold, the cement floor below them drawing the heat from Doyle's body except where it was propped up against his partner.

Beside them, Cowley muttered to himself, keeping pressure on Doyle's wounds.

Doyle tried to see what the problem was, remembering suddenly as he stared at his leg that Turkoff's bullet had torn right through his upper thigh.  Blood stained his jeans dark.  Dark.  Blackness began to close in on him again, and he squeezed Bodie's hands, wanting to feel the aliveness of his partner.

"Och.  Where's that ambulance?"  Cowley's head came up, staring reproachfully at the garage entrance.

"B-B-Bodie," Doyle stuttered, eyelashes flickering as he tried to fight his way out of the lethargy that was numbing his senses.  "Where?" He moved slightly, enough for the pain to lance through him again and he cried out.

"Easy," Bodie soothed, securing Doyle's hands with one of his own, then provided a crook in his right arm for Doyle to bury his face within.

Ray opened his mouth and fastened his teeth on his partner's jacket, trying to bite down against the agony that was his left leg.   He didn't want to cry, but the tears spilled from his eyes anyway.

"Try not to move."  Bodie again, his voice hoarse and warm.  Bodie's right palm rested against the clammy side of Ray's face.

Eyes blurred, Doyle tried to look up at him, but shock and loss of blood steadily robbed him of strength.  He wanted to say things.  Thank you for being here.  Thank you for caring.   Don't let me die.

But Bodie heard him, the arms tightening, drawing him closer.  "Hang on, the ambulance is almost here."  In the distance, they could hear the intertwined muffled sirens, police and ambulance, wailing closer to where they huddled.

"Where ... Sara?" Doyle gasped, arching up, the side of his face pressed against Bodie's chest.  He wanted to sit up straighter.  To not be lying on the ground crying like an infant when the ambulance got there.

Bodie helped him, knowing what he wanted.  Cowley muttered and complained in the background, while his partner resettled Doyle, once more securing him.  Bodie's mouth came close to his ear, whispering.  "Sara's in the car.  She's safe."

"Good."  Doyle tried to nod, but his teeth chattered with cold and nerves.  "Thanks, mate."

"Yeah," was the last thing he heard Bodie say for a while.

An ambulance...

Doyle's eyes struggled open and a smile flickered across the pale face as he saw Bodie there with him.  He raised one blood-covered hand and grasped hold of Bodie's, then closed his eyes for the remainder of the trip.  The contact steadied him—steadied them both actually, Doyle realized.

Bodie's face had looked haunted.  Scared.  And way out of his depth again.

Doyle had heard the call into the hospital.  He wasn't going to die.  Would someone please explain that to my partner?  Would someone tell him what's happening?  He doesn't know...

Doyle shivered, the hold of the sedation gradually easing as he fought his way toward consciousness.  A gasp was choked back, the violence of his last memories repeated in his mind.  There had been a chase.  Gunfire.  Someone was hit.  Someone was dead.

Where am I?

A hospital?  Something's wrong.  I've been hit.  It was me?  Where's everyone?  Damn, what's happening? Bodie, are you dead?

He couldn't think clearly.  One hand reached shakily across to his left shoulder, looking for a weapon, his fingers opening and clenching the air.  He was vulnerable, and his gun was gone.  Bodie?  Damn it, where are you?  What's happening?

Someone intercepted his hand and sat carefully on the side of the bed.  "Ray?"

Doyle opened his eyes, but he couldn't get them to focus.  Who is it?  Bodie?  Bodie?  Is that you? What's happening?  Are we under fire?  Was I hit?

The grip on his hand tightened gently.  The voice came again, as though from a great distance.  He couldn't hear properly.  The words faded in and out.  "It's me... in a hospital... got shot... control."

Was it Bodie talking to him?  He couldn't tell.  Had Bodie been shot? Damn...

Can't think.  Bodie, is that you?  My head...

Hands slipped gently beneath his shoulders and he realized his upper body was being raised upward until his head rested on a solid shoulder.  He knew that shoulder.  He'd been there before...

It came to him in a sudden rush of memory that Bodie knew that.  Bodie had remembered holding him before.  Bodie had known he would remember.

Strong arms wrapped around him, enfolding him carefully, and Doyle almost choked with relief.

It was Bodie.  Bodie was okay.  Bodie had him.

"V'rythin' okay?" Doyle mumbled into his partner's ear.  "Hmm, Bodie?"

"Everything's fine, mate.  Why don't you go to sleep?"

It was good to hear that familiar voice.  Ridiculously wonderful and safe.

"The doctors say it's important you get your rest."

"Hmm, yeah."  Whatever tension was left in Doyle disappeared, and he let himself drift towards sleep.

Not alone.

Not in this lifetime, anyway.

- end -