![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
przedTitle: The Persistence of Memory, Part 2
Author: P.R. Zed
Fandom: Pros
Pairing: Bodie/Doyle
Note: Continuing on from Part 1
After a week of grey and miserable weather, the morning arrived with sunshine and blue skies. Brian had checked in on his guest—still sleeping, and looking as guileless as a small boy—and then taken Banshee for his morning walk. It had been a pleasure, feeling the rising sun on his face and not worried about drizzle or worse getting down the back of his collar. He made it back to the cottage feeling better than he had in weeks, if not months.
It was while getting breakfast ready that he heard a car turn into the driveway. He froze, as he always did, and listened to the sound of the engine. There'd been more than one time that knowing the sound of different cars had saved his life, and he'd never lost the habit of paying attention to such small details. But now he was in Wales, not Northern Ireland, and it wasn't the RUC, come to drag him away for yet another round of questioning, but Denny in his old Peugeot, rumbling up the driveway.
It was unusual, Denny visiting this early, but not unheard of. He reckoned that Denny must want to look in on his charge; he'd been equal parts concerned and curious about the man since Brian had called him two days ago. He automatically put the kettle on, knowing that whatever the reason for his visit, Denny would more than welcome a cup of tea.
The back door clicked, and Brian looked up as Denny let himself in and entered the kitchen. Denny was a big man, though not as imposing in his sixties as he’d been in his youth. He smiled as much as he ever did, though he wasn’t smiling this morning. Brian steeled himself for another lecture about their guest and how it was foolish for him to get involved in something that was none of his concern.
"Tea?" he asked.
"Yeah. That'd be lovely." Denny looked around without even an attempt at subtlety. "He's not up yet?"
"It's not even gone eight. And Mike's recovering from a gunshot. He needs his sleep."
"Mike? Did he remember his name?" Denny looked hopeful.
"No. He hasn't remembered a thing, but I had to call him something. I thought he looked a bit like my cousin."
"He does a bit. But I hope he's not a tosser like your cousin."
"No one's as big a tosser as Mike McGowan."
"You're right there."
They sat in comfortable silence as the kettle started whistling and Brian occupied himself in putting the tea on to steep. They talked of nothing in particular, the weather, old Mrs. Jones' arthritis, as Brian poured them each a cup and then put the right amount of sugar, but no milk, in Denny's tea.
Denny took an appreciative sip and then sat back and looked at Brian.
"How's Mike doing?"
"Coming along. His headache had gone by last night. The bullet wound seemed clean when I changed the dressing."
"Mmm." Denny's answer was automatic and Brian could tell he wasn't paying a lick of attention to him.
"He grew a second head overnight," Brian said, wanting to catch Denny out. "But he seems to be adjusting."
"That's good," Denny said distractedly.
"All right," Brian snapped, his patience abruptly vanishing. "Out with it."
"Out with what?"
"Whatever's bothering you. You're not going to tell me you only came over here for a cuppa."
"I could have."
"But you didn't."
"All right." Denny took another deep sip of tea. "You do make the best tea, though."
"Spit it out."
"Fine. I was in at the Riverside in Pwllheli this morning."
"A bit early for a drink. Even for you."
"Not to drink, you idjit. Davey's mum's not well. He's the manager at the pub."
"I know who Davey is," Brian said impatiently.
"Well, you're so seldom out of this cottage I wanted to make sure you hadn't forgot. Anyway, he was tending bar last night and these three blokes were in. Up from London. They're staying at Maggie Call's place."
"What do I care where they're staying, Den? Get to the point."
"The point is that they're looking for Mike."
"Police?"
"Worse. Davey said one of them told him they're CI5. Fucking CI5, Brian."
"Christ." He clutched his cup of tea harder, wondering that it didn't shatter in his grasp. "Did they say what he'd done?"
"Davey said they told him he was a friend of theirs, but they would do, wouldn't they? If CI5 are looking for him, he's a bad one. Not someone you should be involved with."
"I've talked to him, Den. He's a good lad."
"A good lad who has the spooks after him. And if they find him, they'll find you."
"Brian Reynolds is a law abiding man."
"It's not Brian Reynolds I'm worried about."
"Connor McGowan died five years ago. And anyway, I can look after myself."
"Connor McGowan is the other problem."
"What other problem?"
"The CI5 fellows. Davey said they had a picture of you. An old one, but he just about recognized you."
"Jesus Fuck." Brian, no, Connor, no Brian, felt the solid foundation he thought he'd built for his new life begin to shift under him. He'd always known that someday, someone might find him--the authorities, the IRA, a family member of someone he'd blown up--but he'd started to hope…
"You have to leave, Brian. Leave the cottage, leave Mike, even leave Banshee. Get out before they catch you up."
"No." He shook his head. "I'm not going to leave."
"You have to. If you don't..."
"If I don't, I'll get what I deserve. Maybe that's what should have happened all along."
"No one deserves what you'll get, you stupid bastard." Denny's dudgeon was up, his voice was ragged and his eyes were glassy. "You never could look after yourself. No fucking sense, that always was your problem. It was why you had to get out."
"You know why I got out, and that wasn't it."
"You stubborn…" Denny stopped in mid-rant and turned to the door. Brian followed his gaze, and discovered Mike standing there, wearing the jeans and sweater he'd given him yesterday to replace his wet and torn clothes. His feet were bare, his hair was still tousled from sleep and he was wearing a look of concern and worry.
"I'm sorry to bring trouble to you, Brian." His voice seemed to crack on each word. "I'll leave right away."
"Good," Denny said, just as Brian blurted out "You can't!"
Denny turned a look on him that was as disapproving as any he'd managed since he was a teenager and Brian was an awestruck ten-year-old, following him around with a serious case of hero worship. Forty odd years later, and Brian was amazed that Denny could still make him feel like a right fool. It didn't make him back down, though.
"You're not going anywhere, Mike. You don't have anywhere to go. Not unless you've remembered who you are. Have you?"
Mike dropped his eyes and shook his head.
"And you," he whirled on Denny. "Call yourself a doctor and you want to send a man out the door who's just had a bullet pulled out of him?"
"You said he's getting better."
"He's got a hole in him, Denny. It'll take more than a good night's sleep and a cup of tea to heal it."
Denny stared at the ceiling, and Brian felt a brief surge of power at finally silencing the man.
"Now you," he pointed at Mike. "Sit down and I'll make you breakfast. And you." He directed the finger at Denny. "Finish your tea and get back on your rounds. I'll not have your patients saying it was me that made you late."
"But..."
"No buts. Mike's staying and so am I. The folk around here don't trust outsiders. It's taken them this long to accept me. I doubt anyone will tell CI5 I'm up here. And if they do, well, I'll take that as it comes. But in the meantime, I'm staying in my home. Now get going."
Denny, clearly knowing when he'd been defeated, drained his cup and left without further word. Mike sat at the table quietly while Brian poured him a cup of tea, then busied himself with making oatmeal for them both. The silence between them wasn't a comfortable one.
Brian struggled to appear calm, even as he felt panic welling up inside him. CI5 in Pwllheli. As he choked down his breakfast around a golf ball sized lump in his throat, he hoped they didn't catch up with either him or Mike. The object of his concern sat stock still, curly head bowed, his breakfast untouched.
Brian finished his oatmeal, threw the bowl in the sink with a clatter and then stood staring at his guest.
"You need to eat. You won't recover without fuel in your system."
"I should turn myself in," Mike said, his head still bowed. "They won't find you if I just turn myself in."
"They won't find either of us, if you stay put."
"But..."
"Never argue with the Irish. They'll have the last word every time."
That finally got a smile out of Mike.
"I'll stay. But only until my memory comes back."
"Have you remembered anything?"
"Bit and pieces. One man in particular, a smug bastard with dark hair and blue eyes, but I can't tell if he's friend or foe. I always seem to be yelling at him. Or him at me."
"Definitely a friend. An enemy'd never put up with that." Mike laughed, and rich, throaty sound that did Brian's heart good to hear. "Don't laugh too hard. You don't want to open up that wound again. And eat that oatmeal before it turns into glue."
"Yes, mum," Mike said, before he got stuck into the bowl.
Brian smiled in spite of the anxiety that beset him. It felt right to keep Mike here, keep him safe. And keeping someone safe, someone who seemed a decent man in spite of having Her Majesty's bullies on his trail, seemed a noble thing to do.
The previous day, they'd started their search from Pwllheli. This day, Bodie, Murph and Jax started from the place Doyle's car had been found. The car was still there, the local police not having got around to towing it away yet. Bodie searched the car, finding nothing more than a discarded Cadbury wrapper and a few stray footprints that might have been made by Doyle's trainers.
They walked to the campsite where Doyle's wallet had been found. There was a confusion of footprints, there, though Bodie picked out a few that matched the ones at the car. He ignored the fact that several of those footprints led toward the cliff. Murphy did not. He gave Bodie a determined look, then made his way to the cliff's edge, checking the area thoroughly while Bodie waited at the campsite with Jax.
Bodie refused to believe that Doyle had gone over the edge. It couldn't have happened and he wouldn't behave as if it had. Murphy returned from the cliff without a word, which was both a relief and a curse. He'd have said if he found evidence one way or the other. No evidence meant they were still in the limbo of not knowing a fucking thing.
They headed back to the car and spent the day checking every farm and cottage they came across. Unlike the area close to Pwllheli, no one here had seen Doyle before, though Bodie noted that a few gave the picture of McGowan a second look before assuring them that they'd never seen him before in their lives. No one had seen a big, ugly Irishman, either.
They drove to Aberdaron for a pub lunch, then back to the main road to begin their search again. And then, in the late afternoon, when the sun was beginning to descend toward the horizon, they caught a break.
They were at a farmhouse outside a tiny village with too many L's and W's in its name. Neither the farmer nor his wife had seen Doyle nor anyone who looked like Logan, but the wife sparked up when she saw McGowan's picture.
"Look, Jim." She pointed at the picture. "Doesn't that look like…"
"Nothing like him," Jim said quickly, cutting off his wife before she could complete her thought.
"No, I definitely think that looks like Mr. Reynolds," she continued on, oblivious to the black looks her husband was giving her, even if Bodie wasn't. "A few years younger, and a stone or so lighter, but it's him."
"Is he Irish, this Mr. Reynolds?" Murphy asked carefully. He and Jax had taken on the duty of talking to the locals after Bodie snapped at the first rambling farmer they'd run into. Not that it was Bodie's fault if he hadn't wanted to listen to the problems of a fucking sheep farmer before the man got around to answering his fucking questions.
"Yes. Moved here from Dublin, wasn't it?" Her husband gave a reluctant nod. "Nice man, Mr. Reynolds. Retired accountant."
"And where does Mr. Reynolds live?" Jax took the lead this time.
"Just go back to the main road and drive north. You'll want the second right and then the first left off that. Mr. Reynolds' cottage is the first one on that road. But you’ll have to hurry if you want to beat the fog."
Fog. Bodie nearly laughed. The crap weather of the past week had finally broken and it have had been sunny all day. But then he saw Murphy’s face and turned to the west where he was looking. It was as if the world ended five hundred yards from where they stood. An impenetrable bank of grey fog rose from the ground and seemed to entirely envelop the sky. It was eerie how completely it hid everything inside its mass.
“Gets like that, sometimes,” the woman said. “Rolls in off the Irish Sea and seems to swallow everything. The wind will blow it away in a few hours, but the driving’ll be hard until then.”
They thanked the woman and quickly made for the car, politely ignoring the screaming match that was taking place between husband and wife as Jax took the wheel and drove away.
"I don't think she was supposed to say anything," Jax said.
"You know places like this," Murphy said. "They look after their own. Don't want any Londoners making trouble for their neighbours."
"Even if their neighbours are IRA bombers." Bodie was in a murderous mood, the encroaching fog only adding to his fury. If he couldn't vent it on whoever had taken Doyle, he'd take it out on Connor McGowan.
"Cool it, Bodie," Murphy said. "This bloke might really be a retired accountant from Dublin."
"And I might be a fucking panto genie. You've seen the looks the locals have given that picture of McGowan. This has got to be him. And if it is, then maybe he knows something about Doyle."
"Maybe it's him, and maybe he knows about Doyle," Murphy said, his eyes fixing Bodie with a hard stare. "But remember, we follow the rules, Bodie."
"Oh, I'll follow the rules," Bodie said, bitterness infusing his voice.
"See that you do." Murphy turned back to face the road, leaving Bodie to spend the rest of the drive in silence, nurturing the urge to fight, to hurt, to do something, anything, to make sure Doyle was safe.
Connor McGowan didn't have a fucking chance.
After breakfast, Mike spent the better part of the morning on Brian's sofa while Brian puttered about in his shed, tuning his aging Land Rover. It had packed it in shortly after Brian had rescued him from the cliff and hadn't run since.
He'd taken one of the pain pills that Denny had given him and it had left feeling muzzy and stupid. He'd liberated a thriller from Brian's shelf, but it spent more time splayed open on his chest than being read. Doped as he was, he could barely follow the story, with its square-jawed hero and the dewy, drippy girl who loved him. He did wonder, however, how he knew that the writer's portrayal of a ruthless African mercenary was utter bollocks. Maybe Brian was right. Maybe he was a villain.
Lunch was a friendly affair, soup and sandwiches that Mike put a token effort into helping prepare, though he couldn't do much with one good arm. During the meal, Brian complained about his repairs, swearing he was going to drive the Rover off a cliff and be done with it.
"Can I help?" Mike asked. Even with the pills wearing off, his shoulder was paining him less than even this morning and inactivity was beginning to wear on him. Whoever he was, he doubt he’d gone in for the quiet life.
"No you can't." Brian's voice raised in outrage. "Quite apart from the fact it's a stupid idea, Denny'd have my head if I put you to work when you've just had a bullet pulled out of you."
"Two days ago."
"No." Brian was firm.
"What if I just watch? Supervise what you're doing?"
"You can't remember your own name. How could you repair a car?"
"I know that much. How to repair a car." He frowned, remembering taking apart an oil pan while his dark-haired, blue-eyed companion stood by his side. "Well, a motorcylce, really, but the principles are the same."
"Well..."
"It might help me remember more. Being around something I'm familiar with." He gave Brian a hopeful look and prayed he wasn't overplaying it.
"All right." Brian pointed a finger at him. "But you don't so much as lift a spanner. And the slightest twinge and you're back inside." He made a move to go outside, then turned back. "One more thing. If Denny asks, it was all your idea."
"It was my idea."
"Just make sure he knows that. He may not approve of you staying here, but he'll have my bollocks if you suffer a setback because you were working on my car."
Bundled in one of Brian's old jackets, he spent an hour looking over the Rover's engine. He watched as Brian checked the oil and then showed the older man how to adjust the idle. He supervised Brian checking the radiator, where they found a minor leak, and was in the middle of helping Brian decide whether to try and fix it or order a new one from the garage in the village when they heard a sound coming from the road.
"Is that Denny?" he asked. They'd heard no other cars come this close all day.
"No," Brian said, radiating a sudden tension. "His car doesn't sound like that." Brian started wiping his hands with rag and moved carefully out of the shed. Mike followed, afraid that the dreaded CI5 might have landed on their doorstep.
They couldn't see anything at first. While they'd been in the shed, a thick, grey fog had rolled in from the sea and surrounded them. Mike could barely make out the bulk of the cottage, twenty feet away. They could hear the engine, though, getting closer and closer, and finally slowing down.
There was a gust of wind as the vehicle made its way up Brian's long drive, and the fog parted enough that he could see it, however briefly. It was a ramshackle, pea-green Ford Cortina. Not CI5, then, though he wondered where the sudden knowledge that a CI5 agent would be driving a late model Capri came from.
The fog swallowed the car again almost immediately.
"Did you see who it was?" he asked Brian.
Brian didn't respond, didn't move, but only kept on watching the place where they'd last seen the car with an intensity that was disturbing. The sound of the engine finally stopped.
"Brian?"
The fog broke again, and he saw a big man get out of the car and start walking toward them. Another gust and the man disappeared.
"Mike, I want you to walk back to the house." Brian spoke calmly, but he wasn't taking his eyes off the place where they'd seen the man.
"What..."
"No arguments. Go up to my bedroom and look on top of the wardrobe. There's a shotgun there."
"I won't..."
"Shut up, Mike. The shells are in my sock drawer. Top left. Load the gun and wait in the bedroom."
With Brian following him, Mike began walking back to the house. He didn't know who the man approaching them was, but he knew Brian did. He also knew, using an instinct that didn't bear thinking on, that the stranger meant them harm. They were perhaps ten steps from the door when the fog swirled one last time and they saw the man less than twenty feet away from them.
"Run," Brian said quietly. Then much louder, "run!"
Heart pounding, breathing harsh and fast, Mike ran. He knew Brian was following him, and their uninvited guest not far behind them both, but he didn't look back. The wound in his shoulder throbbed and tore with each step, each breath, but he ignored it as unimportant.
As he reached the back door, he heard the first shot, wide and over his head. He gave thanks for the fog as he ran through the door and headed straight for the bedroom upstairs as Brian burst through behind him and locked and barricaded the doors, front and back.
It took some doing, reaching it with only one good arm, but the shotgun was where Brian had said. It wasn’t the weapon he would have chosen, covered in dust and looking like it hadn't been cleaned in eons, but beggars couldn't be choosers. He rummaged through Brian's drawers till he found the shells and began quickly loading it. He had two shells in when there was an explosion of gunfire and breaking glass downstairs. Brian bounded up the stairs as he pushed home the last shell.
He wished he had his own gun. He wished he had backup. He wished Bodie were here.
Ray Doyle glanced up as Connor McGowan entered the room, Banshee in tow.
"The doors are locked and barricaded, but that won't hold him for long. He'll be through the windows soon enough. We'll have to keep him from getting up the stairs." He petted the whining, growling dog as he looked down the stairs.
"Who is he?" Doyle said, clutching the shotgun's barrel hard enough that he could feel it digging into his palm.
"I've no idea," Brian said. He looked at Doyle with narrowed eyes, his mouth thinning to fine line. "What's going..."
"Is it Gav Logan?" Doyle pulled back the gun's lever, loading a shell into the breech.
"How do you know Gav Logan?"
"I've remembered."
"Remembered what?"
"Everything." Doyle tried to raise the gun to firing position as there was another crash against the front door. He winced as the wound in his shoulder pulled with the action. He'd overdone it--going outside, running to the house--and he was going to pay for it now. With his life, if he wasn't lucky. "I'm CI5."
"You can't be." McGowan went white and clenched his jaw.
"I can be, and I am. I was sent here to find you, in fact. But Gav Logan found me first."
"Gav shot you?"
"Yeah."
"And threw you off the cliff?"
"Well, no. I did that to myself. Stumbled in the dark."
"Bloody CI5," McGowan said to himself.
There was a bigger crash from downstairs, this time of breaking glass, and a thump and then it all went quiet. Doyle strained his senses, while beside him, Banshee growled and tried to pull away from McGowan's grip.
"Logan's in," Doyle said in a whisper. He crouched at the doorway, taking what cover he could from the wall and waved McGowan down. "Keep behind me, and don't let go of Banshee."
He pulled the gun up once again to firing position. The pain was excruciating, and he found his vision greying out at the sides and narrowing in to a pinprick.
A hand caught him as he began to sway.
"Stupid English bastard," McGowan said, even as he was taking the gun away and easing Doyle back into the room. He pushed out the wardrobe, so if offered more protection, and got behind it with Doyle and the dog. "You can barely hold the bloody gun. The recoil'll probably kill you."
"I'm all right," Doyle insisted, ignoring the fact that he very clearly wasn't.
"Shut up." McGowan took position at the door. "Shut up and keep my dog safe, would you."
Doyle crouched behind McGowan and wrapped his arm around Banshee's neck, while keeping a firm grip on his collar with his other hand. The dog was reassuringly warm and alive under his touch. He only hoped they all stayed that way.
They sat like that for several long minutes, the only sounds Banshee's panting and the soft crunching of feet walking on broken glass as Gav Logan prowled around downstairs.
"So, is he after you or me, our Gav?" McGowan finally whispered, breaking the silence.
"You, I think. He seemed surprised to see me before. But it would make sense if he got the same tip-off we did that you might be up here."
"I don't suppose it'll make a difference. He'll kill us both if he gets up here."
"Cheery thought." Doyle looked around the room. "Don't suppose you have a second gun up here. Or a phone?"
"No other gun. You won't believe it, but I've never liked the things. Only got the shotgun for rabbits, and I've barely had the heart to use it on them. The phone in the kitchen's the only one. And since Gav's a thorough sort, he's probably cut the line."
"Marvellous."
The sound of the movement downstairs changed. This time they heard the creak of a foot on a stair tread.
"Here he comes," Doyle said, holding his breath, even as he held Banshee tightly.
"Wish me luck." McGowan didn't look back, but Doyle could see him take a deep breath and relax his shoulders. Then there was the clatter of Logan running up the stairs and Doyle wondered if it would be easier or harder, dying knowing who he was, knowing who wasn't here with him, knowing how alone he was.
"Oh, Bodie," he breathed out into Banshee's ruff, and then there were bullets zinging through the air and punching into the wall behind him and no more time to think of love lost or love missed. There was only time to duck and hide and hope.
They nearly didn't find the Reynolds cottage. They’d barely gone two minutes when the fog caught up with them. Unable to see more than a few feet in front of them, Murphy slowed the car to a crawl. Even at a snail's pace, he managed to miss the first turn off twice.
The slowness of the trip only fuelled Bodie's rage, his impotent fury at not being able to find Doyle. He cursed the fog and Wales, George Cowley and Connor McGowan. Most of all he cursed Ray Doyle for putting him through this, for leaving him alone, for leaving him not knowing if he were alive or dead, the stupid bastard.
They only noticed the cottage when the fog parted briefly to give them a glimpse. Murphy turned up the drive, to find a battered Cortina parked ahead of them.
"Reynold's car, do you think?" Bodie asked, looking for signs of trouble in the dense, unyielding fog.
"Possibly." Murphy eased out of the car, he gun drawn. Bodie and Jax followed suit. They moved carefully toward where the cottage had appeared, occasionally seeing its dark shadow in the fog. Then the wind stirred again and the cottage became briefly visible.
"Murph."
"I see it." Murph's voice was low and serious. The front window of the cottage had been smashed in. Looking closer, Bodie could see the front door had been banged up as well, though it appeared to have held.
Bodie's anger evaporated in the face of coming action. Never go into a fight angry, his first sergeant had told him. It only makes you stupid and guarantees your opponent will win.
They approached the cottage in skirmish order, each covering the others in case someone opened fire from the windows. When they reached the cottage, Bodie automatically took the lead, clearing the glass out of the smashed window and rolling in through the empty frame. He covered their approach as Murphy and Jax followed him.
They were all three in the room when there was clattering from outside the room, and then the first shot was fired.
Bodie moved, his actions honed by years of training and experience. He ran from the room, heading in the direction of the gunfire, even as he was categorizing the shots. Handgun, then shotgun, probably small shot. Then the handgun again.
He moved through the house quickly, gaining the hallway with no interference, and climbing the stairs, pushing himself to take three at a time. At the top of the stairs was his first target. Gav Logan was turned partially away from him, firing into what must be a bedroom.
Bodie didn't hesitate, didn't call for the man to stop. He simply put three bullets into him and dropped him where he stood. Then he moved into the bedroom that Logan had been shooting into.
At first, he could only see a large wardrobe pushed out into the room as a makeshift barricade. Then a man peeked around the corner, a shotgun aimed firmly at Bodie. Connor McGowan, he realized after a moment.
"Drop it, McGowan," he said, taking firm aim at the man and placing his finger lightly on his trigger. It was a battle of wills, and not one Bodie was planning on losing. But just when he'd decided he was going to have to pull the trigger, McGowan was pulled out of the way and another man stepped in front of him.
"'Lo, Bodie." Doyle emerged from his hiding place, one hand raised, the other hanging limp at his side and a grin on his face.
The fury that Bodie thought he'd banished rose up once again within him as he struggled with the knowledge that not only was Doyle alive, he seemed to have formed some sort of alliance with Connor McGowan.
"You stupid fucker," Bodie raged. "Where the hell have you been? Dropping out of sight with not a word, and now we find you here with this bastard." Bodie aimed a finger at McGowan, though he didn't take his eyes off Doyle.
"Sorry," Doyle began, only to be cut off.
"Sorry? We find your car abandoned and your wallet near a cliff and all you can say is sorry? What the fuck were you thinking, Doyle?" Furious he might be, but even as he was yelling, Bodie was evaluating Doyle's condition: face bruised, contusions on hands and face, left shoulder bleeding, though he'd guess the wound wasn't fresh.
"Wasn't thinking at all, as it turns out," Doyle said, nearly sheepishly. "Got a bump on my head, falling from that cliff. Couldn't remember a blessed thing. Not until Logan showed up here just now. I'm still only half making sense of it all."
"Jesus." Bodie felt the wind abruptly taken out of his sails and stood there gaping at Doyle, trying to process the roil of emotions surging through him.
"He on your side?" McGowan asked, as Murphy and Jax entered the room. He seemed unconcerned about the handcuffs Murph put on him, concentrating instead on Doyle. Bodie felt a strand of jealousy join the anger and fear and worry racing through him.
"Yeah, he's on my side." Ray Doyle moved toward him, battered and bloody, but alive, goddamn it, alive. "He's my partner."
"I hope he's smarter than he looks."
"Only just," Jax said as he and Murphy took hold of McGowan. "You'll have to come with us, McGowan."
"Could you wait a minute? Just long enough for me to have a word with Mike...Christ, I don't even know your real name, do I?"
"It's Ray Doyle."
"Ray, would you look after Banshee? See he finds a good home?"
"'Course I will. He saved my life, didn't he." He shook one of McGowan's shackled hands. "You both did."
"Come along, Mr. McGowan," Murphy said, pushing McGowan out of the room before looking back behind him. "We'll be waiting downstairs, you two."
Bodie stood staring at Doyle, still struggling to find the words to say, the words that would adequately convey what he was feeling. Which was bloody difficult when he had no idea what that was.
"'Aven't you got anything to say, Bodie?" Doyle was close enough now to take hold of Bodie's elbow, his grin sliding into a look of concern.
Bodie swallowed and stared and then finally thought of something he could say without looking like a complete idiot. "Who's Banshee?" he asked, just as a great black beast of a dog sprang from behind the wardrobe.
"This is Banshee." Doyle grabbed at the dog's collar, wincing when he tried to pull away from him and snarled at Bodie. Doyle calmed the creature with a sure hand.
"That creature saved your life?" Bodie was sceptical. Banshee looked more capable of snapping a man's hand off with one bite than saving anyone.
"Yeah." Doyle crouched at the dog's side and enthusiastically petted his ruff. "Twice over. Found me on the cliff and then convinced McGowan I was worth saving."
"I take it McGowan didn't do that." Bodie nodded at the shoulder, with the slick of blood showing through.
"Nah. That was Logan. Bastard shot me and left me for dead." He stood, looked down and poked experimentally at the bloody mess. "It was healing nicely."
"Keep your mucky hands away from it." Bodie grabbed at Doyle's hand, meaning at first only to stop Doyle inflicting any further damage on himself--he didn't have the sense of a small child some days--but then found himself holding the hand with both his own, concentrating on Doyle's warmth, the feel of his skin, the life of him.
"Bodie…" Doyle started, and suddenly Bodie knew he couldn't talk now, not yet. Not when he was still sussing out how he felt. Not when he wasn't sure if Doyle was going to make another joke or share his darkest secrets.
"We need to get you to town," he blurted out. "That shoulder needs seeing to."
"It's not so bad." Doyle carefully flexed the shoulder, grimacing only slightly with the movement. "The bloke who patched it up didn't do a bad job."
"It's bleeding, Doyle. Probably opened up again. That's bad enough."
"Bloody nursemaid, that's what you are."
"That's what you need."
"Smug bastard."
"Stupid git."
"Christ." Doyle gave a great exhalation and fixed Bodie with a clear, evaluating gaze. "All right. I'll get it seen to. You'll only whinge on about it if I don't. But only if you stay with me. Jax and Murphy can see to Brian...I mean McGowan. I don't think he'll give them any trouble."
"Friend of yours, is he?" Bodie struggled to stamp out the flare of jealousy that lit up inside him once again, and failed.
"I know what he's done, Bodie. But he's a decent sort for all that."
"A decent sort." Bodie couldn’t help but explode. "He blows up a bunch of kids and you call him a decent sort."
"We've all made bad choices, Bodie. He's made worse ones than most of us. But I think he knows it."
"Never thought I'd hear you make excuses for a man like McGowan. Next you'll be telling me Gav Logan was only misunderstood as a boy."
"Nah. Logan's an utter bastard, through and through. Or he was." Doyle glanced through the door and must have seen Logan's body. "That your handiwork?"
"Yeah."
Doyle's face took on a particularly grim cast. "Good," was all he said. Then he grabbed Bodie by the jacket and pulled him downstairs. "C'mon, then. If I'm going to let some bloody Welsh witchdoctor patch me up it might as well be sooner as later."
Bodie followed meekly, still reeling at how events had turned out and not entirely sure how it was all going to end.
They formed a convoy to Pwllheli, with Jax and Murphy taking McGowan in their car, followed by Bodie, Doyle and Banshee in Logan's appropriated Cortina.
Doyle slumped down in the Cortina's passenger seat, content to let Bodie drive as he concentrated on not thinking about the pain in his shoulder. And not thinking about the man beside him. He focussed on listening to Banshee try to get comfortable in the back of the car, on trying to penetrate the fog and see the fields and cottages he’d become so familiar with in his few days here.
He was nearly asleep by the time they arrived in Pwllheli, the pain draining his energy more than he'd like to admit. He'd have been happy to simply go to sleep on any convenient surface and deal with his shoulder in the morning, but Bodie wouldn't hear of it. The annoying pillock dropped Banshee with the local coppers—McGowan’d been glad to see him and one of the PCs said his family was looking for a dog-- asked them where the nearest doctor was, and then drove them two miles out of town to the nearest hospital.
The place turned out to be little more than a day surgery and not at all promising. The nurse had already gone for the day and the doctor was closing up when they got there. As Doyle watched, Bodie used his not inconsiderable charm and his rather considerable menace to convince the doctor to turn everything back on and stitch Doyle's wound back up.
Doyle suffered through it all as silently as he could, which is to say with gritted teeth and the occasional choked off scream. By the time the doctor started with the sutures—he needed four of them to repair the damage inflicted by the day—Doyle felt like an old suit of clothes being patched up by a none too gentle tailor.
When he'd done with the sutures and applied a new dressing, the doctor tried to convince Doyle to go to the hospital in Llandudno for an overnight stay. Doyle was having none of it.
"Just want to go home," he said, fighting the fuzziness of exhaustion made worse by the painkillers the doctor and Bodie had both insisted upon.
"I'm not driving to London tonight," Bodie said forcefully. "So you can forget it."
"Not London, you pillock. Pwllheli will do. You got a room booked there?"
"Yeah. Your old one at the B&B, actually. Your bag's there and all."
"Sounds perfect."
"I really should insist..." the doctor began, but Bodie staved him off with a raised hand.
"Don't waste your breath. Our Raymond is a stubborn sort. But I'll look after him."
There was a tone to Bodie's voice, something beyond the indulgent good humour, that made Doyle look at his partner. Made him notice his eyes, cobalt blue and somehow simultaneously hard and tender, cold but with the promise of an underlying heat. It made him wonder…
He didn't say anything, kept mum as the doctor gave Bodie instructions for his medications, the antibiotics that he'd take, and the pain pills that he'd take only as long as they were necessary. He stayed silent as Bodie packed him into the car and made the bumpy drive back to the B&B. He didn't say a word as Bodie gave him the first of the antibiotics and a stern lecture about taking the pain pills if he needed them, a lecture that was rich coming from Bodie, considering he’d turned avoiding pain medication into a fine art.
The first time he said anything was after Bodie'd tucked him up in the room’s queen-sized bed and turned away from him.
Doyle reached out and grabbed Bodie's arm before he could slip away.
"Where you sleeping, then?" Doyle asked.
"Thought I'd take the chair." Bodie pointed at the chintz-upholstered monstrosity in the corner.
"Don't be daft. You'll do your back in, sleeping in that. There's plenty of room in the bed."
"I don't want to jostle you."
"You won't jostle me." Doyle pulled at the hand he still had hold of, even as he moved over to make room in the bed.
So they ended up side by side, Doyle finally allowing himself to drift on a wave of medically approved narcotics, Bodie beside him, shifting about as if he were sleeping on a bed of nails.
"Go to sleep, Bodie." Doyle put a hand on his partner's shoulder, feeling the tension in the muscles.
"Told you this was a bad idea," Bodie said, sitting up.
"It's not." Doyle made a quick grab at Bodie's arm, ignoring the pain that radiated through his own body at the sudden movement.
"Let go, Ray."
Doyle never knew what was responsible for his next actions, whether it was the doctor and his pain pills, or his increased awareness of how fragile life was, or simply an attack of bloody-minded stupidity on his part. In the end, it didn't really matter what was to blame. What did matter was that he sat up, pushed Bodie back down to the bed, leaned over him and kissed him.
It wasn't a great kiss. He was tired and hurting and desperate and searching for the reason why he didn't want Bodie to leave the shared warmth of the bed. Epic poems would not be written about this kiss. Even the two participants would remember it only as clumsy and awkward and astonishing beyond words. But it did serve one purpose: it stopped Bodie from running away.
Bodie lay beneath him, still at first, then moving slowly, opening his lips slightly to allow Doyle to taste him, bringing a hand up to gently touch his broken cheek. Finally, when he was certain Bodie wouldn't run, Doyle broke off the kiss. He pulled back and looked down at his partner in the muted light of the bedroom.
"What'd you want to go and do that for?" Bodie asked, his voice sounding almost plaintive in the dark.
"Don't know why," Doyle said honestly. "Just had to." He let his own hand drift up to brush across Bodie's lower lip.
"That's not good enough."
"Probably not." Doyle stilled the hand exploring Bodie--the curve of his throat, the join of his shoulder, the feel of his skin--fought off the pain and fatigue that was trying to pull him under, and considered Bodie's question.
"I remembered you." He rested his hand over Bodie's chest where he could feel the rhythm of his heart. "Didn't know who I was or what I was meant to be doing, but I remembered your face. I knew you were important to me."
"'Course I'm important," Bodie said. "I'm your partner."
"You're more than that."
"I'm your mate."
"More than that."
"Listen," Bodie said, and Doyle could detect the beginning of hysteria in his voice. "You're not going to start chucking flowers and chocolates at me, are you? It's bad enough when you do that with your birds.""
"Shut up, Bodie. I'm trying to tell you..."
Bodie stopped his words with a finger to his lips. "Don't say it, Doyle. Don't say anything you don't mean."
"I do mean it, Bodie. Every bloody word you don't want to hear. I've meant it for a long time, even if it took forgetting myself to realize it."
"Daft bastard," Bodie said, but there was no sting in the words, only affection. Doyle lay down on the bed and smiled as Bodie settled down beside him.
"If I feel this way about you, I must be."
"If you weren't hurt, I'd thump you for that."
"Promises, promises," Doyle mumbled, even as he stopped fighting the drugs and allowed all his defences to drop.
"You'll be the death of me, Ray Doyle," he heard Bodie whisper. Which wasn't quite right, he thought as he drifted off to sleep. The way he reckoned it, they'd be the making of each other.
Bodie entered his flat with a bounce in his step and a grin on his face. He could hardly believe they'd made it. A month since Ray'd been shot and today he'd be done with the physio and ready to be back on the squad full time. And none too fucking soon, either.
Since Doyle had been out of commission, Cowley had been getting his jollies by sending Bodie out on assignment with every member of the new intake of agents. He'd given Bodie some old bollocks about training him to evaluate new personnel. Well, you couldn't evaluate someone if he or she were dead, and if he had to go out with one more wet-behind-the-ears infant, he was going to throttle him. Or her. They'd all seemed bloody hopeless to him, male and female alike.
But as of tomorrow, there'd be no more of wondering if his partner was going to drop his gun, or trip over her own feet. As of tomorrow he'd be back working with Doyle. And tonight…
He was going to make sure tonight was very special indeed.
He entered his kitchen and put down the sac he'd been carrying. A six pack of lager went into the fridge and the two bottles of a very nice red plonk Doyle was fond of stayed on the counter. He'd better be fond of it, at the price of the stuff. Still, he didn't grudge the cost. Not when it was going to be drunk celebrating the fact that Doyle was alive and well and ready to be his partner once again. And if they celebrated by doing a few other illicit things they'd been practicing for a few weeks now, so much the better.
But no need to get ahead of himself. First things first. He threw his jacket over the kitchen doorknob, pulled cutlery out of the drawer and had the table set by the time there was a buzz at the door.
"What's the password?" he said, knowing it had to be Doyle.
"Hit the fucking button, Bodie, or I'll kick your fucking door in," Doyle said with no preamble.
Bodie buzzed him in with a grin. Even Doyle in a temper couldn't dampen his spirits today.
He was waiting at his open door when Doyle appeared two minutes later.
"Your lift's out," he said, before shoving a carrier bag full of takeaway cartons into Bodie's hand. "Here. They'd run out of pakoras so I had to get samosas. And I decided to get saag lamb instead of the tandoori chicken."
"How was your day, Bodie?" Bodie put on his poshest accent, the one guaranteed to get up Doyle's nose. "Smashing, Doyle. How was yours? Just wonderful."
"Shut it, Bodie. I'm knackered and I'm not in the mood."
"Not in the mood?" Bodie abandoned the accent and put on his best little boy lost expression. Had gone down a treat with the birds. And it worked every time with Doyle.
"Oh, not that way," Doyle said, still cross, but getting less so by the moment, Bodie could tell. "Here, give that over." Doyle took the bag out of Bodie's grasp and deposited it on the floor, a bit cavalierly for Bodie's liking
"Oi, watch the food."
"You watch it," Doyle said, and then proceeded to throw his jacket on the floor, push Bodie against the nearest wall and kiss him rotten. Bodie considered fighting him to rescue the badly treated takeaway for all of five seconds. Then he gave up, wrapped his arms around Doyle, and revelled in the feeling of the scrawny little bastard grinding against him.
It didn't take long before he wanted more. He used the hand not on Doyle's arse to pull the shirt out of his perpetually too tight jeans. It took some doing, but his payment for the effort was an expanse of gloriously exposed skin. He ran a hand up the bare back while the other squeezed Doyle's arse. His efforts were rewarded when Doyle arched back, his groin and swelling cock pushing into Bodie's own.
"Oh, Christ," Doyle gasped as he pulled his mouth away from Bodie's, then pushed Bodie away and pulled his poloneck off in a single easy motion. "That's better," he said as he dragged both hands down the front of Bodie's chest, sending sparks down Bodie's nerve endings all the way to his cock.
"If that's the way you want to play…" Bodie lunged at Doyle, initiating a struggle that ended in the lounge, with both of them on the sofa and not a stitch of clothing between them.
"You were saying?" Doyle straddled Bodie's hips and leaned into him, pressing their swollen cocks together even as he moved forward and delicately licked first one nipple, then the other.
Bodie thought the top of his head might come off from the sensations blazing all through his body. He moaned and tried to move in to kiss Doyle, as his skin screamed its need.
"Oh no, you don't," Doyle said, pinning his arms to his side. A month ago, even a week ago, Bodie would have let the greedy bugger have his way. He'd never have risked inflicting pain on Ray, not when he was recovering. But now, with Doyle healed and cleared by CI5 to return to duty, he reckoned all was fair in sex and war. He wriggled, freeing one arm, then the other. Before Doyle could respond, he'd wrapped him in an unbreakable hold with arms and legs, then twisted and rolled them both onto the floor. Doyle broke his fall, and his furry bedspread--thank Christ he'd let Doyle talk him into moving it to the lounge--broke Doyle's.
"Christ, you weigh a ton," Doyle complained, though he was smiling.
"Me? Nah, I'm a delicate flower, me." Bodie kissed Doyle, deeply and mercilessly, even as he stretched his body till every inch of skin possible was in contact with Doyle's. His breathing sped up and almost all he could hear was the pounding of his own heart.
Bodie writhed sinuously and moved one hand down, then took both their cocks in a firm hold. Doyle moaned and thrust into his grip, driving his cock against Bodie's own, and sending Bodie's reactions spiralling ever higher. He thrust his hips to match Doyle's rhythm, found the sounds he was making complemented Doyle's own. One last push, and he felt himself break through that invisible barrier, felt his bollocks tighten and his cock pulse. And then he was coming, his seed coating Doyle's belly and his own, with Doyle not far behind him.
As the last shudders of completion swirled through him, he rolled off Doyle, sprawling beside him with what he imagined was an all too satisfied smirk.
"Think you're marvellous, don't you?" Doyle graced him with a grimace.
"Yeah," Bodie said, in no mood to deny the obvious.
"You're bloody lucky you're right." Doyle stood and started looking around the lounge. Bodie propped his head up on one hand as he was treated to a completely unselfconscious display of male flesh. "Now, where are my fucking pants?"
They retrieved Doyle's pants, draped over a table lamp, and the rest of their clothing, and rescued the food from the hall. Bodie whinged about them having let the food get cold, more because he knew Doyle would expect it than from any real ill will. Doyle tossed the foil packages in the cooker to warm up, to shut Bodie up, he said, though the kiss he gave Bodie did that even better.
They spent the rest of the evening eating, drinking, flirting, and making ever more outrageous double entendres that they both knew would end up with them in bed. Only this time they would take their time, do things properly. And as often as they could both manage. Bodie sometimes felt as if he'd been handed the ultimate winning ticket in the football pools.
Not that it was all hearts and flowers. Even in a month, they'd had a few scraps, the odd screaming row. But then they'd always had that. Just went to show that they were both men of strong passions. But now a large portion of all that passion was directed firmly at each other. Thinking of the plans he had to focus that passion tonight, Bodie felt a smug smile creep across his face.
"What are you thinkin'?" Doyle asked from where he sat sprawled on the sofa, his legs draped comfortably over Bodie's lap, an empty wine glass dangling loosely from one hand.
"How do you know I'm thinking anything?" Bodie stuck out his tongue and crossed his eyes, but Doyle wouldn't be distracted.
"I can always tell when your brain's working. I can smell the smoke."
"Ha ha," Bodie said, but he couldn't suppress a chuckle. And he decided to indulge Doyle with an answer to his question. "Was thinking I might send a wreath for Gav Logan's grave, actually."
"Are you stark raving mad?" Doyle put the wine glass on the floor and sat up, clearly outraged. "He nearly killed me."
"Yeah, but if he hadn't tried to kill you, and if you hadn't knocked your head on that cliff, we might not be where we are."
"On your sofa?" Doyle was clearly enjoying taking the piss.
"No, you daft pillock. I meant we might not be doing this." Bodie leaned over, took Doyle's already crumpled shirt in one fist and gave Doyle a thorough snog.
"Oh," Doyle said with an infectious grin. "That." He licked his lips and Bodie had a sudden suspicion that if they didn't make it to the bedroom soon, the lounge floor was going to see a repeat of their earlier performance. "You'd do better to thank Connor and Banshee for that. Logan only tried to kill me. They saved my life."
"Perhaps I'll send Connor a care package in prison."
"You'd do better to send one to that PC in Pwllheli. I hear Banshee's eating him out of house and home."
"I'm not surprised. That great beast probably eats his weight in food a day."
"You're one to talk, the way you put away the saag tonight." Doyle leaned in to run a tongue along Bodie's ear.
"I'm a growing lad," Bodie said, taking the bait even as he turned his neck to allow Doyle greater access.
"But what part of you is growing?" Doyle ran a hand down Bodie's side, letting it linger on his crotch, where something was indeed swelling.
Bodie growled deep in his throat, even as he grabbed Doyle's hand. "Wouldn't you prefer the bed to the floor?"
Doyle grinned in reply. "Thought you'd never ask."
They made the trip down the hall in record time, shedding clothes as they moved. Bodie pulled Doyle down on top of him, his body marked by one more scar and yet still beautiful for all that, and set about making a memory that even a fall from a cliff wouldn’t banish from either one of them.
Author: P.R. Zed
Fandom: Pros
Pairing: Bodie/Doyle
Note: Continuing on from Part 1
After a week of grey and miserable weather, the morning arrived with sunshine and blue skies. Brian had checked in on his guest—still sleeping, and looking as guileless as a small boy—and then taken Banshee for his morning walk. It had been a pleasure, feeling the rising sun on his face and not worried about drizzle or worse getting down the back of his collar. He made it back to the cottage feeling better than he had in weeks, if not months.
It was while getting breakfast ready that he heard a car turn into the driveway. He froze, as he always did, and listened to the sound of the engine. There'd been more than one time that knowing the sound of different cars had saved his life, and he'd never lost the habit of paying attention to such small details. But now he was in Wales, not Northern Ireland, and it wasn't the RUC, come to drag him away for yet another round of questioning, but Denny in his old Peugeot, rumbling up the driveway.
It was unusual, Denny visiting this early, but not unheard of. He reckoned that Denny must want to look in on his charge; he'd been equal parts concerned and curious about the man since Brian had called him two days ago. He automatically put the kettle on, knowing that whatever the reason for his visit, Denny would more than welcome a cup of tea.
The back door clicked, and Brian looked up as Denny let himself in and entered the kitchen. Denny was a big man, though not as imposing in his sixties as he’d been in his youth. He smiled as much as he ever did, though he wasn’t smiling this morning. Brian steeled himself for another lecture about their guest and how it was foolish for him to get involved in something that was none of his concern.
"Tea?" he asked.
"Yeah. That'd be lovely." Denny looked around without even an attempt at subtlety. "He's not up yet?"
"It's not even gone eight. And Mike's recovering from a gunshot. He needs his sleep."
"Mike? Did he remember his name?" Denny looked hopeful.
"No. He hasn't remembered a thing, but I had to call him something. I thought he looked a bit like my cousin."
"He does a bit. But I hope he's not a tosser like your cousin."
"No one's as big a tosser as Mike McGowan."
"You're right there."
They sat in comfortable silence as the kettle started whistling and Brian occupied himself in putting the tea on to steep. They talked of nothing in particular, the weather, old Mrs. Jones' arthritis, as Brian poured them each a cup and then put the right amount of sugar, but no milk, in Denny's tea.
Denny took an appreciative sip and then sat back and looked at Brian.
"How's Mike doing?"
"Coming along. His headache had gone by last night. The bullet wound seemed clean when I changed the dressing."
"Mmm." Denny's answer was automatic and Brian could tell he wasn't paying a lick of attention to him.
"He grew a second head overnight," Brian said, wanting to catch Denny out. "But he seems to be adjusting."
"That's good," Denny said distractedly.
"All right," Brian snapped, his patience abruptly vanishing. "Out with it."
"Out with what?"
"Whatever's bothering you. You're not going to tell me you only came over here for a cuppa."
"I could have."
"But you didn't."
"All right." Denny took another deep sip of tea. "You do make the best tea, though."
"Spit it out."
"Fine. I was in at the Riverside in Pwllheli this morning."
"A bit early for a drink. Even for you."
"Not to drink, you idjit. Davey's mum's not well. He's the manager at the pub."
"I know who Davey is," Brian said impatiently.
"Well, you're so seldom out of this cottage I wanted to make sure you hadn't forgot. Anyway, he was tending bar last night and these three blokes were in. Up from London. They're staying at Maggie Call's place."
"What do I care where they're staying, Den? Get to the point."
"The point is that they're looking for Mike."
"Police?"
"Worse. Davey said one of them told him they're CI5. Fucking CI5, Brian."
"Christ." He clutched his cup of tea harder, wondering that it didn't shatter in his grasp. "Did they say what he'd done?"
"Davey said they told him he was a friend of theirs, but they would do, wouldn't they? If CI5 are looking for him, he's a bad one. Not someone you should be involved with."
"I've talked to him, Den. He's a good lad."
"A good lad who has the spooks after him. And if they find him, they'll find you."
"Brian Reynolds is a law abiding man."
"It's not Brian Reynolds I'm worried about."
"Connor McGowan died five years ago. And anyway, I can look after myself."
"Connor McGowan is the other problem."
"What other problem?"
"The CI5 fellows. Davey said they had a picture of you. An old one, but he just about recognized you."
"Jesus Fuck." Brian, no, Connor, no Brian, felt the solid foundation he thought he'd built for his new life begin to shift under him. He'd always known that someday, someone might find him--the authorities, the IRA, a family member of someone he'd blown up--but he'd started to hope…
"You have to leave, Brian. Leave the cottage, leave Mike, even leave Banshee. Get out before they catch you up."
"No." He shook his head. "I'm not going to leave."
"You have to. If you don't..."
"If I don't, I'll get what I deserve. Maybe that's what should have happened all along."
"No one deserves what you'll get, you stupid bastard." Denny's dudgeon was up, his voice was ragged and his eyes were glassy. "You never could look after yourself. No fucking sense, that always was your problem. It was why you had to get out."
"You know why I got out, and that wasn't it."
"You stubborn…" Denny stopped in mid-rant and turned to the door. Brian followed his gaze, and discovered Mike standing there, wearing the jeans and sweater he'd given him yesterday to replace his wet and torn clothes. His feet were bare, his hair was still tousled from sleep and he was wearing a look of concern and worry.
"I'm sorry to bring trouble to you, Brian." His voice seemed to crack on each word. "I'll leave right away."
"Good," Denny said, just as Brian blurted out "You can't!"
Denny turned a look on him that was as disapproving as any he'd managed since he was a teenager and Brian was an awestruck ten-year-old, following him around with a serious case of hero worship. Forty odd years later, and Brian was amazed that Denny could still make him feel like a right fool. It didn't make him back down, though.
"You're not going anywhere, Mike. You don't have anywhere to go. Not unless you've remembered who you are. Have you?"
Mike dropped his eyes and shook his head.
"And you," he whirled on Denny. "Call yourself a doctor and you want to send a man out the door who's just had a bullet pulled out of him?"
"You said he's getting better."
"He's got a hole in him, Denny. It'll take more than a good night's sleep and a cup of tea to heal it."
Denny stared at the ceiling, and Brian felt a brief surge of power at finally silencing the man.
"Now you," he pointed at Mike. "Sit down and I'll make you breakfast. And you." He directed the finger at Denny. "Finish your tea and get back on your rounds. I'll not have your patients saying it was me that made you late."
"But..."
"No buts. Mike's staying and so am I. The folk around here don't trust outsiders. It's taken them this long to accept me. I doubt anyone will tell CI5 I'm up here. And if they do, well, I'll take that as it comes. But in the meantime, I'm staying in my home. Now get going."
Denny, clearly knowing when he'd been defeated, drained his cup and left without further word. Mike sat at the table quietly while Brian poured him a cup of tea, then busied himself with making oatmeal for them both. The silence between them wasn't a comfortable one.
Brian struggled to appear calm, even as he felt panic welling up inside him. CI5 in Pwllheli. As he choked down his breakfast around a golf ball sized lump in his throat, he hoped they didn't catch up with either him or Mike. The object of his concern sat stock still, curly head bowed, his breakfast untouched.
Brian finished his oatmeal, threw the bowl in the sink with a clatter and then stood staring at his guest.
"You need to eat. You won't recover without fuel in your system."
"I should turn myself in," Mike said, his head still bowed. "They won't find you if I just turn myself in."
"They won't find either of us, if you stay put."
"But..."
"Never argue with the Irish. They'll have the last word every time."
That finally got a smile out of Mike.
"I'll stay. But only until my memory comes back."
"Have you remembered anything?"
"Bit and pieces. One man in particular, a smug bastard with dark hair and blue eyes, but I can't tell if he's friend or foe. I always seem to be yelling at him. Or him at me."
"Definitely a friend. An enemy'd never put up with that." Mike laughed, and rich, throaty sound that did Brian's heart good to hear. "Don't laugh too hard. You don't want to open up that wound again. And eat that oatmeal before it turns into glue."
"Yes, mum," Mike said, before he got stuck into the bowl.
Brian smiled in spite of the anxiety that beset him. It felt right to keep Mike here, keep him safe. And keeping someone safe, someone who seemed a decent man in spite of having Her Majesty's bullies on his trail, seemed a noble thing to do.
The previous day, they'd started their search from Pwllheli. This day, Bodie, Murph and Jax started from the place Doyle's car had been found. The car was still there, the local police not having got around to towing it away yet. Bodie searched the car, finding nothing more than a discarded Cadbury wrapper and a few stray footprints that might have been made by Doyle's trainers.
They walked to the campsite where Doyle's wallet had been found. There was a confusion of footprints, there, though Bodie picked out a few that matched the ones at the car. He ignored the fact that several of those footprints led toward the cliff. Murphy did not. He gave Bodie a determined look, then made his way to the cliff's edge, checking the area thoroughly while Bodie waited at the campsite with Jax.
Bodie refused to believe that Doyle had gone over the edge. It couldn't have happened and he wouldn't behave as if it had. Murphy returned from the cliff without a word, which was both a relief and a curse. He'd have said if he found evidence one way or the other. No evidence meant they were still in the limbo of not knowing a fucking thing.
They headed back to the car and spent the day checking every farm and cottage they came across. Unlike the area close to Pwllheli, no one here had seen Doyle before, though Bodie noted that a few gave the picture of McGowan a second look before assuring them that they'd never seen him before in their lives. No one had seen a big, ugly Irishman, either.
They drove to Aberdaron for a pub lunch, then back to the main road to begin their search again. And then, in the late afternoon, when the sun was beginning to descend toward the horizon, they caught a break.
They were at a farmhouse outside a tiny village with too many L's and W's in its name. Neither the farmer nor his wife had seen Doyle nor anyone who looked like Logan, but the wife sparked up when she saw McGowan's picture.
"Look, Jim." She pointed at the picture. "Doesn't that look like…"
"Nothing like him," Jim said quickly, cutting off his wife before she could complete her thought.
"No, I definitely think that looks like Mr. Reynolds," she continued on, oblivious to the black looks her husband was giving her, even if Bodie wasn't. "A few years younger, and a stone or so lighter, but it's him."
"Is he Irish, this Mr. Reynolds?" Murphy asked carefully. He and Jax had taken on the duty of talking to the locals after Bodie snapped at the first rambling farmer they'd run into. Not that it was Bodie's fault if he hadn't wanted to listen to the problems of a fucking sheep farmer before the man got around to answering his fucking questions.
"Yes. Moved here from Dublin, wasn't it?" Her husband gave a reluctant nod. "Nice man, Mr. Reynolds. Retired accountant."
"And where does Mr. Reynolds live?" Jax took the lead this time.
"Just go back to the main road and drive north. You'll want the second right and then the first left off that. Mr. Reynolds' cottage is the first one on that road. But you’ll have to hurry if you want to beat the fog."
Fog. Bodie nearly laughed. The crap weather of the past week had finally broken and it have had been sunny all day. But then he saw Murphy’s face and turned to the west where he was looking. It was as if the world ended five hundred yards from where they stood. An impenetrable bank of grey fog rose from the ground and seemed to entirely envelop the sky. It was eerie how completely it hid everything inside its mass.
“Gets like that, sometimes,” the woman said. “Rolls in off the Irish Sea and seems to swallow everything. The wind will blow it away in a few hours, but the driving’ll be hard until then.”
They thanked the woman and quickly made for the car, politely ignoring the screaming match that was taking place between husband and wife as Jax took the wheel and drove away.
"I don't think she was supposed to say anything," Jax said.
"You know places like this," Murphy said. "They look after their own. Don't want any Londoners making trouble for their neighbours."
"Even if their neighbours are IRA bombers." Bodie was in a murderous mood, the encroaching fog only adding to his fury. If he couldn't vent it on whoever had taken Doyle, he'd take it out on Connor McGowan.
"Cool it, Bodie," Murphy said. "This bloke might really be a retired accountant from Dublin."
"And I might be a fucking panto genie. You've seen the looks the locals have given that picture of McGowan. This has got to be him. And if it is, then maybe he knows something about Doyle."
"Maybe it's him, and maybe he knows about Doyle," Murphy said, his eyes fixing Bodie with a hard stare. "But remember, we follow the rules, Bodie."
"Oh, I'll follow the rules," Bodie said, bitterness infusing his voice.
"See that you do." Murphy turned back to face the road, leaving Bodie to spend the rest of the drive in silence, nurturing the urge to fight, to hurt, to do something, anything, to make sure Doyle was safe.
Connor McGowan didn't have a fucking chance.
After breakfast, Mike spent the better part of the morning on Brian's sofa while Brian puttered about in his shed, tuning his aging Land Rover. It had packed it in shortly after Brian had rescued him from the cliff and hadn't run since.
He'd taken one of the pain pills that Denny had given him and it had left feeling muzzy and stupid. He'd liberated a thriller from Brian's shelf, but it spent more time splayed open on his chest than being read. Doped as he was, he could barely follow the story, with its square-jawed hero and the dewy, drippy girl who loved him. He did wonder, however, how he knew that the writer's portrayal of a ruthless African mercenary was utter bollocks. Maybe Brian was right. Maybe he was a villain.
Lunch was a friendly affair, soup and sandwiches that Mike put a token effort into helping prepare, though he couldn't do much with one good arm. During the meal, Brian complained about his repairs, swearing he was going to drive the Rover off a cliff and be done with it.
"Can I help?" Mike asked. Even with the pills wearing off, his shoulder was paining him less than even this morning and inactivity was beginning to wear on him. Whoever he was, he doubt he’d gone in for the quiet life.
"No you can't." Brian's voice raised in outrage. "Quite apart from the fact it's a stupid idea, Denny'd have my head if I put you to work when you've just had a bullet pulled out of you."
"Two days ago."
"No." Brian was firm.
"What if I just watch? Supervise what you're doing?"
"You can't remember your own name. How could you repair a car?"
"I know that much. How to repair a car." He frowned, remembering taking apart an oil pan while his dark-haired, blue-eyed companion stood by his side. "Well, a motorcylce, really, but the principles are the same."
"Well..."
"It might help me remember more. Being around something I'm familiar with." He gave Brian a hopeful look and prayed he wasn't overplaying it.
"All right." Brian pointed a finger at him. "But you don't so much as lift a spanner. And the slightest twinge and you're back inside." He made a move to go outside, then turned back. "One more thing. If Denny asks, it was all your idea."
"It was my idea."
"Just make sure he knows that. He may not approve of you staying here, but he'll have my bollocks if you suffer a setback because you were working on my car."
Bundled in one of Brian's old jackets, he spent an hour looking over the Rover's engine. He watched as Brian checked the oil and then showed the older man how to adjust the idle. He supervised Brian checking the radiator, where they found a minor leak, and was in the middle of helping Brian decide whether to try and fix it or order a new one from the garage in the village when they heard a sound coming from the road.
"Is that Denny?" he asked. They'd heard no other cars come this close all day.
"No," Brian said, radiating a sudden tension. "His car doesn't sound like that." Brian started wiping his hands with rag and moved carefully out of the shed. Mike followed, afraid that the dreaded CI5 might have landed on their doorstep.
They couldn't see anything at first. While they'd been in the shed, a thick, grey fog had rolled in from the sea and surrounded them. Mike could barely make out the bulk of the cottage, twenty feet away. They could hear the engine, though, getting closer and closer, and finally slowing down.
There was a gust of wind as the vehicle made its way up Brian's long drive, and the fog parted enough that he could see it, however briefly. It was a ramshackle, pea-green Ford Cortina. Not CI5, then, though he wondered where the sudden knowledge that a CI5 agent would be driving a late model Capri came from.
The fog swallowed the car again almost immediately.
"Did you see who it was?" he asked Brian.
Brian didn't respond, didn't move, but only kept on watching the place where they'd last seen the car with an intensity that was disturbing. The sound of the engine finally stopped.
"Brian?"
The fog broke again, and he saw a big man get out of the car and start walking toward them. Another gust and the man disappeared.
"Mike, I want you to walk back to the house." Brian spoke calmly, but he wasn't taking his eyes off the place where they'd seen the man.
"What..."
"No arguments. Go up to my bedroom and look on top of the wardrobe. There's a shotgun there."
"I won't..."
"Shut up, Mike. The shells are in my sock drawer. Top left. Load the gun and wait in the bedroom."
With Brian following him, Mike began walking back to the house. He didn't know who the man approaching them was, but he knew Brian did. He also knew, using an instinct that didn't bear thinking on, that the stranger meant them harm. They were perhaps ten steps from the door when the fog swirled one last time and they saw the man less than twenty feet away from them.
"Run," Brian said quietly. Then much louder, "run!"
Heart pounding, breathing harsh and fast, Mike ran. He knew Brian was following him, and their uninvited guest not far behind them both, but he didn't look back. The wound in his shoulder throbbed and tore with each step, each breath, but he ignored it as unimportant.
As he reached the back door, he heard the first shot, wide and over his head. He gave thanks for the fog as he ran through the door and headed straight for the bedroom upstairs as Brian burst through behind him and locked and barricaded the doors, front and back.
It took some doing, reaching it with only one good arm, but the shotgun was where Brian had said. It wasn’t the weapon he would have chosen, covered in dust and looking like it hadn't been cleaned in eons, but beggars couldn't be choosers. He rummaged through Brian's drawers till he found the shells and began quickly loading it. He had two shells in when there was an explosion of gunfire and breaking glass downstairs. Brian bounded up the stairs as he pushed home the last shell.
He wished he had his own gun. He wished he had backup. He wished Bodie were here.
Ray Doyle glanced up as Connor McGowan entered the room, Banshee in tow.
"The doors are locked and barricaded, but that won't hold him for long. He'll be through the windows soon enough. We'll have to keep him from getting up the stairs." He petted the whining, growling dog as he looked down the stairs.
"Who is he?" Doyle said, clutching the shotgun's barrel hard enough that he could feel it digging into his palm.
"I've no idea," Brian said. He looked at Doyle with narrowed eyes, his mouth thinning to fine line. "What's going..."
"Is it Gav Logan?" Doyle pulled back the gun's lever, loading a shell into the breech.
"How do you know Gav Logan?"
"I've remembered."
"Remembered what?"
"Everything." Doyle tried to raise the gun to firing position as there was another crash against the front door. He winced as the wound in his shoulder pulled with the action. He'd overdone it--going outside, running to the house--and he was going to pay for it now. With his life, if he wasn't lucky. "I'm CI5."
"You can't be." McGowan went white and clenched his jaw.
"I can be, and I am. I was sent here to find you, in fact. But Gav Logan found me first."
"Gav shot you?"
"Yeah."
"And threw you off the cliff?"
"Well, no. I did that to myself. Stumbled in the dark."
"Bloody CI5," McGowan said to himself.
There was a bigger crash from downstairs, this time of breaking glass, and a thump and then it all went quiet. Doyle strained his senses, while beside him, Banshee growled and tried to pull away from McGowan's grip.
"Logan's in," Doyle said in a whisper. He crouched at the doorway, taking what cover he could from the wall and waved McGowan down. "Keep behind me, and don't let go of Banshee."
He pulled the gun up once again to firing position. The pain was excruciating, and he found his vision greying out at the sides and narrowing in to a pinprick.
A hand caught him as he began to sway.
"Stupid English bastard," McGowan said, even as he was taking the gun away and easing Doyle back into the room. He pushed out the wardrobe, so if offered more protection, and got behind it with Doyle and the dog. "You can barely hold the bloody gun. The recoil'll probably kill you."
"I'm all right," Doyle insisted, ignoring the fact that he very clearly wasn't.
"Shut up." McGowan took position at the door. "Shut up and keep my dog safe, would you."
Doyle crouched behind McGowan and wrapped his arm around Banshee's neck, while keeping a firm grip on his collar with his other hand. The dog was reassuringly warm and alive under his touch. He only hoped they all stayed that way.
They sat like that for several long minutes, the only sounds Banshee's panting and the soft crunching of feet walking on broken glass as Gav Logan prowled around downstairs.
"So, is he after you or me, our Gav?" McGowan finally whispered, breaking the silence.
"You, I think. He seemed surprised to see me before. But it would make sense if he got the same tip-off we did that you might be up here."
"I don't suppose it'll make a difference. He'll kill us both if he gets up here."
"Cheery thought." Doyle looked around the room. "Don't suppose you have a second gun up here. Or a phone?"
"No other gun. You won't believe it, but I've never liked the things. Only got the shotgun for rabbits, and I've barely had the heart to use it on them. The phone in the kitchen's the only one. And since Gav's a thorough sort, he's probably cut the line."
"Marvellous."
The sound of the movement downstairs changed. This time they heard the creak of a foot on a stair tread.
"Here he comes," Doyle said, holding his breath, even as he held Banshee tightly.
"Wish me luck." McGowan didn't look back, but Doyle could see him take a deep breath and relax his shoulders. Then there was the clatter of Logan running up the stairs and Doyle wondered if it would be easier or harder, dying knowing who he was, knowing who wasn't here with him, knowing how alone he was.
"Oh, Bodie," he breathed out into Banshee's ruff, and then there were bullets zinging through the air and punching into the wall behind him and no more time to think of love lost or love missed. There was only time to duck and hide and hope.
They nearly didn't find the Reynolds cottage. They’d barely gone two minutes when the fog caught up with them. Unable to see more than a few feet in front of them, Murphy slowed the car to a crawl. Even at a snail's pace, he managed to miss the first turn off twice.
The slowness of the trip only fuelled Bodie's rage, his impotent fury at not being able to find Doyle. He cursed the fog and Wales, George Cowley and Connor McGowan. Most of all he cursed Ray Doyle for putting him through this, for leaving him alone, for leaving him not knowing if he were alive or dead, the stupid bastard.
They only noticed the cottage when the fog parted briefly to give them a glimpse. Murphy turned up the drive, to find a battered Cortina parked ahead of them.
"Reynold's car, do you think?" Bodie asked, looking for signs of trouble in the dense, unyielding fog.
"Possibly." Murphy eased out of the car, he gun drawn. Bodie and Jax followed suit. They moved carefully toward where the cottage had appeared, occasionally seeing its dark shadow in the fog. Then the wind stirred again and the cottage became briefly visible.
"Murph."
"I see it." Murph's voice was low and serious. The front window of the cottage had been smashed in. Looking closer, Bodie could see the front door had been banged up as well, though it appeared to have held.
Bodie's anger evaporated in the face of coming action. Never go into a fight angry, his first sergeant had told him. It only makes you stupid and guarantees your opponent will win.
They approached the cottage in skirmish order, each covering the others in case someone opened fire from the windows. When they reached the cottage, Bodie automatically took the lead, clearing the glass out of the smashed window and rolling in through the empty frame. He covered their approach as Murphy and Jax followed him.
They were all three in the room when there was clattering from outside the room, and then the first shot was fired.
Bodie moved, his actions honed by years of training and experience. He ran from the room, heading in the direction of the gunfire, even as he was categorizing the shots. Handgun, then shotgun, probably small shot. Then the handgun again.
He moved through the house quickly, gaining the hallway with no interference, and climbing the stairs, pushing himself to take three at a time. At the top of the stairs was his first target. Gav Logan was turned partially away from him, firing into what must be a bedroom.
Bodie didn't hesitate, didn't call for the man to stop. He simply put three bullets into him and dropped him where he stood. Then he moved into the bedroom that Logan had been shooting into.
At first, he could only see a large wardrobe pushed out into the room as a makeshift barricade. Then a man peeked around the corner, a shotgun aimed firmly at Bodie. Connor McGowan, he realized after a moment.
"Drop it, McGowan," he said, taking firm aim at the man and placing his finger lightly on his trigger. It was a battle of wills, and not one Bodie was planning on losing. But just when he'd decided he was going to have to pull the trigger, McGowan was pulled out of the way and another man stepped in front of him.
"'Lo, Bodie." Doyle emerged from his hiding place, one hand raised, the other hanging limp at his side and a grin on his face.
The fury that Bodie thought he'd banished rose up once again within him as he struggled with the knowledge that not only was Doyle alive, he seemed to have formed some sort of alliance with Connor McGowan.
"You stupid fucker," Bodie raged. "Where the hell have you been? Dropping out of sight with not a word, and now we find you here with this bastard." Bodie aimed a finger at McGowan, though he didn't take his eyes off Doyle.
"Sorry," Doyle began, only to be cut off.
"Sorry? We find your car abandoned and your wallet near a cliff and all you can say is sorry? What the fuck were you thinking, Doyle?" Furious he might be, but even as he was yelling, Bodie was evaluating Doyle's condition: face bruised, contusions on hands and face, left shoulder bleeding, though he'd guess the wound wasn't fresh.
"Wasn't thinking at all, as it turns out," Doyle said, nearly sheepishly. "Got a bump on my head, falling from that cliff. Couldn't remember a blessed thing. Not until Logan showed up here just now. I'm still only half making sense of it all."
"Jesus." Bodie felt the wind abruptly taken out of his sails and stood there gaping at Doyle, trying to process the roil of emotions surging through him.
"He on your side?" McGowan asked, as Murphy and Jax entered the room. He seemed unconcerned about the handcuffs Murph put on him, concentrating instead on Doyle. Bodie felt a strand of jealousy join the anger and fear and worry racing through him.
"Yeah, he's on my side." Ray Doyle moved toward him, battered and bloody, but alive, goddamn it, alive. "He's my partner."
"I hope he's smarter than he looks."
"Only just," Jax said as he and Murphy took hold of McGowan. "You'll have to come with us, McGowan."
"Could you wait a minute? Just long enough for me to have a word with Mike...Christ, I don't even know your real name, do I?"
"It's Ray Doyle."
"Ray, would you look after Banshee? See he finds a good home?"
"'Course I will. He saved my life, didn't he." He shook one of McGowan's shackled hands. "You both did."
"Come along, Mr. McGowan," Murphy said, pushing McGowan out of the room before looking back behind him. "We'll be waiting downstairs, you two."
Bodie stood staring at Doyle, still struggling to find the words to say, the words that would adequately convey what he was feeling. Which was bloody difficult when he had no idea what that was.
"'Aven't you got anything to say, Bodie?" Doyle was close enough now to take hold of Bodie's elbow, his grin sliding into a look of concern.
Bodie swallowed and stared and then finally thought of something he could say without looking like a complete idiot. "Who's Banshee?" he asked, just as a great black beast of a dog sprang from behind the wardrobe.
"This is Banshee." Doyle grabbed at the dog's collar, wincing when he tried to pull away from him and snarled at Bodie. Doyle calmed the creature with a sure hand.
"That creature saved your life?" Bodie was sceptical. Banshee looked more capable of snapping a man's hand off with one bite than saving anyone.
"Yeah." Doyle crouched at the dog's side and enthusiastically petted his ruff. "Twice over. Found me on the cliff and then convinced McGowan I was worth saving."
"I take it McGowan didn't do that." Bodie nodded at the shoulder, with the slick of blood showing through.
"Nah. That was Logan. Bastard shot me and left me for dead." He stood, looked down and poked experimentally at the bloody mess. "It was healing nicely."
"Keep your mucky hands away from it." Bodie grabbed at Doyle's hand, meaning at first only to stop Doyle inflicting any further damage on himself--he didn't have the sense of a small child some days--but then found himself holding the hand with both his own, concentrating on Doyle's warmth, the feel of his skin, the life of him.
"Bodie…" Doyle started, and suddenly Bodie knew he couldn't talk now, not yet. Not when he was still sussing out how he felt. Not when he wasn't sure if Doyle was going to make another joke or share his darkest secrets.
"We need to get you to town," he blurted out. "That shoulder needs seeing to."
"It's not so bad." Doyle carefully flexed the shoulder, grimacing only slightly with the movement. "The bloke who patched it up didn't do a bad job."
"It's bleeding, Doyle. Probably opened up again. That's bad enough."
"Bloody nursemaid, that's what you are."
"That's what you need."
"Smug bastard."
"Stupid git."
"Christ." Doyle gave a great exhalation and fixed Bodie with a clear, evaluating gaze. "All right. I'll get it seen to. You'll only whinge on about it if I don't. But only if you stay with me. Jax and Murphy can see to Brian...I mean McGowan. I don't think he'll give them any trouble."
"Friend of yours, is he?" Bodie struggled to stamp out the flare of jealousy that lit up inside him once again, and failed.
"I know what he's done, Bodie. But he's a decent sort for all that."
"A decent sort." Bodie couldn’t help but explode. "He blows up a bunch of kids and you call him a decent sort."
"We've all made bad choices, Bodie. He's made worse ones than most of us. But I think he knows it."
"Never thought I'd hear you make excuses for a man like McGowan. Next you'll be telling me Gav Logan was only misunderstood as a boy."
"Nah. Logan's an utter bastard, through and through. Or he was." Doyle glanced through the door and must have seen Logan's body. "That your handiwork?"
"Yeah."
Doyle's face took on a particularly grim cast. "Good," was all he said. Then he grabbed Bodie by the jacket and pulled him downstairs. "C'mon, then. If I'm going to let some bloody Welsh witchdoctor patch me up it might as well be sooner as later."
Bodie followed meekly, still reeling at how events had turned out and not entirely sure how it was all going to end.
They formed a convoy to Pwllheli, with Jax and Murphy taking McGowan in their car, followed by Bodie, Doyle and Banshee in Logan's appropriated Cortina.
Doyle slumped down in the Cortina's passenger seat, content to let Bodie drive as he concentrated on not thinking about the pain in his shoulder. And not thinking about the man beside him. He focussed on listening to Banshee try to get comfortable in the back of the car, on trying to penetrate the fog and see the fields and cottages he’d become so familiar with in his few days here.
He was nearly asleep by the time they arrived in Pwllheli, the pain draining his energy more than he'd like to admit. He'd have been happy to simply go to sleep on any convenient surface and deal with his shoulder in the morning, but Bodie wouldn't hear of it. The annoying pillock dropped Banshee with the local coppers—McGowan’d been glad to see him and one of the PCs said his family was looking for a dog-- asked them where the nearest doctor was, and then drove them two miles out of town to the nearest hospital.
The place turned out to be little more than a day surgery and not at all promising. The nurse had already gone for the day and the doctor was closing up when they got there. As Doyle watched, Bodie used his not inconsiderable charm and his rather considerable menace to convince the doctor to turn everything back on and stitch Doyle's wound back up.
Doyle suffered through it all as silently as he could, which is to say with gritted teeth and the occasional choked off scream. By the time the doctor started with the sutures—he needed four of them to repair the damage inflicted by the day—Doyle felt like an old suit of clothes being patched up by a none too gentle tailor.
When he'd done with the sutures and applied a new dressing, the doctor tried to convince Doyle to go to the hospital in Llandudno for an overnight stay. Doyle was having none of it.
"Just want to go home," he said, fighting the fuzziness of exhaustion made worse by the painkillers the doctor and Bodie had both insisted upon.
"I'm not driving to London tonight," Bodie said forcefully. "So you can forget it."
"Not London, you pillock. Pwllheli will do. You got a room booked there?"
"Yeah. Your old one at the B&B, actually. Your bag's there and all."
"Sounds perfect."
"I really should insist..." the doctor began, but Bodie staved him off with a raised hand.
"Don't waste your breath. Our Raymond is a stubborn sort. But I'll look after him."
There was a tone to Bodie's voice, something beyond the indulgent good humour, that made Doyle look at his partner. Made him notice his eyes, cobalt blue and somehow simultaneously hard and tender, cold but with the promise of an underlying heat. It made him wonder…
He didn't say anything, kept mum as the doctor gave Bodie instructions for his medications, the antibiotics that he'd take, and the pain pills that he'd take only as long as they were necessary. He stayed silent as Bodie packed him into the car and made the bumpy drive back to the B&B. He didn't say a word as Bodie gave him the first of the antibiotics and a stern lecture about taking the pain pills if he needed them, a lecture that was rich coming from Bodie, considering he’d turned avoiding pain medication into a fine art.
The first time he said anything was after Bodie'd tucked him up in the room’s queen-sized bed and turned away from him.
Doyle reached out and grabbed Bodie's arm before he could slip away.
"Where you sleeping, then?" Doyle asked.
"Thought I'd take the chair." Bodie pointed at the chintz-upholstered monstrosity in the corner.
"Don't be daft. You'll do your back in, sleeping in that. There's plenty of room in the bed."
"I don't want to jostle you."
"You won't jostle me." Doyle pulled at the hand he still had hold of, even as he moved over to make room in the bed.
So they ended up side by side, Doyle finally allowing himself to drift on a wave of medically approved narcotics, Bodie beside him, shifting about as if he were sleeping on a bed of nails.
"Go to sleep, Bodie." Doyle put a hand on his partner's shoulder, feeling the tension in the muscles.
"Told you this was a bad idea," Bodie said, sitting up.
"It's not." Doyle made a quick grab at Bodie's arm, ignoring the pain that radiated through his own body at the sudden movement.
"Let go, Ray."
Doyle never knew what was responsible for his next actions, whether it was the doctor and his pain pills, or his increased awareness of how fragile life was, or simply an attack of bloody-minded stupidity on his part. In the end, it didn't really matter what was to blame. What did matter was that he sat up, pushed Bodie back down to the bed, leaned over him and kissed him.
It wasn't a great kiss. He was tired and hurting and desperate and searching for the reason why he didn't want Bodie to leave the shared warmth of the bed. Epic poems would not be written about this kiss. Even the two participants would remember it only as clumsy and awkward and astonishing beyond words. But it did serve one purpose: it stopped Bodie from running away.
Bodie lay beneath him, still at first, then moving slowly, opening his lips slightly to allow Doyle to taste him, bringing a hand up to gently touch his broken cheek. Finally, when he was certain Bodie wouldn't run, Doyle broke off the kiss. He pulled back and looked down at his partner in the muted light of the bedroom.
"What'd you want to go and do that for?" Bodie asked, his voice sounding almost plaintive in the dark.
"Don't know why," Doyle said honestly. "Just had to." He let his own hand drift up to brush across Bodie's lower lip.
"That's not good enough."
"Probably not." Doyle stilled the hand exploring Bodie--the curve of his throat, the join of his shoulder, the feel of his skin--fought off the pain and fatigue that was trying to pull him under, and considered Bodie's question.
"I remembered you." He rested his hand over Bodie's chest where he could feel the rhythm of his heart. "Didn't know who I was or what I was meant to be doing, but I remembered your face. I knew you were important to me."
"'Course I'm important," Bodie said. "I'm your partner."
"You're more than that."
"I'm your mate."
"More than that."
"Listen," Bodie said, and Doyle could detect the beginning of hysteria in his voice. "You're not going to start chucking flowers and chocolates at me, are you? It's bad enough when you do that with your birds.""
"Shut up, Bodie. I'm trying to tell you..."
Bodie stopped his words with a finger to his lips. "Don't say it, Doyle. Don't say anything you don't mean."
"I do mean it, Bodie. Every bloody word you don't want to hear. I've meant it for a long time, even if it took forgetting myself to realize it."
"Daft bastard," Bodie said, but there was no sting in the words, only affection. Doyle lay down on the bed and smiled as Bodie settled down beside him.
"If I feel this way about you, I must be."
"If you weren't hurt, I'd thump you for that."
"Promises, promises," Doyle mumbled, even as he stopped fighting the drugs and allowed all his defences to drop.
"You'll be the death of me, Ray Doyle," he heard Bodie whisper. Which wasn't quite right, he thought as he drifted off to sleep. The way he reckoned it, they'd be the making of each other.
Bodie entered his flat with a bounce in his step and a grin on his face. He could hardly believe they'd made it. A month since Ray'd been shot and today he'd be done with the physio and ready to be back on the squad full time. And none too fucking soon, either.
Since Doyle had been out of commission, Cowley had been getting his jollies by sending Bodie out on assignment with every member of the new intake of agents. He'd given Bodie some old bollocks about training him to evaluate new personnel. Well, you couldn't evaluate someone if he or she were dead, and if he had to go out with one more wet-behind-the-ears infant, he was going to throttle him. Or her. They'd all seemed bloody hopeless to him, male and female alike.
But as of tomorrow, there'd be no more of wondering if his partner was going to drop his gun, or trip over her own feet. As of tomorrow he'd be back working with Doyle. And tonight…
He was going to make sure tonight was very special indeed.
He entered his kitchen and put down the sac he'd been carrying. A six pack of lager went into the fridge and the two bottles of a very nice red plonk Doyle was fond of stayed on the counter. He'd better be fond of it, at the price of the stuff. Still, he didn't grudge the cost. Not when it was going to be drunk celebrating the fact that Doyle was alive and well and ready to be his partner once again. And if they celebrated by doing a few other illicit things they'd been practicing for a few weeks now, so much the better.
But no need to get ahead of himself. First things first. He threw his jacket over the kitchen doorknob, pulled cutlery out of the drawer and had the table set by the time there was a buzz at the door.
"What's the password?" he said, knowing it had to be Doyle.
"Hit the fucking button, Bodie, or I'll kick your fucking door in," Doyle said with no preamble.
Bodie buzzed him in with a grin. Even Doyle in a temper couldn't dampen his spirits today.
He was waiting at his open door when Doyle appeared two minutes later.
"Your lift's out," he said, before shoving a carrier bag full of takeaway cartons into Bodie's hand. "Here. They'd run out of pakoras so I had to get samosas. And I decided to get saag lamb instead of the tandoori chicken."
"How was your day, Bodie?" Bodie put on his poshest accent, the one guaranteed to get up Doyle's nose. "Smashing, Doyle. How was yours? Just wonderful."
"Shut it, Bodie. I'm knackered and I'm not in the mood."
"Not in the mood?" Bodie abandoned the accent and put on his best little boy lost expression. Had gone down a treat with the birds. And it worked every time with Doyle.
"Oh, not that way," Doyle said, still cross, but getting less so by the moment, Bodie could tell. "Here, give that over." Doyle took the bag out of Bodie's grasp and deposited it on the floor, a bit cavalierly for Bodie's liking
"Oi, watch the food."
"You watch it," Doyle said, and then proceeded to throw his jacket on the floor, push Bodie against the nearest wall and kiss him rotten. Bodie considered fighting him to rescue the badly treated takeaway for all of five seconds. Then he gave up, wrapped his arms around Doyle, and revelled in the feeling of the scrawny little bastard grinding against him.
It didn't take long before he wanted more. He used the hand not on Doyle's arse to pull the shirt out of his perpetually too tight jeans. It took some doing, but his payment for the effort was an expanse of gloriously exposed skin. He ran a hand up the bare back while the other squeezed Doyle's arse. His efforts were rewarded when Doyle arched back, his groin and swelling cock pushing into Bodie's own.
"Oh, Christ," Doyle gasped as he pulled his mouth away from Bodie's, then pushed Bodie away and pulled his poloneck off in a single easy motion. "That's better," he said as he dragged both hands down the front of Bodie's chest, sending sparks down Bodie's nerve endings all the way to his cock.
"If that's the way you want to play…" Bodie lunged at Doyle, initiating a struggle that ended in the lounge, with both of them on the sofa and not a stitch of clothing between them.
"You were saying?" Doyle straddled Bodie's hips and leaned into him, pressing their swollen cocks together even as he moved forward and delicately licked first one nipple, then the other.
Bodie thought the top of his head might come off from the sensations blazing all through his body. He moaned and tried to move in to kiss Doyle, as his skin screamed its need.
"Oh no, you don't," Doyle said, pinning his arms to his side. A month ago, even a week ago, Bodie would have let the greedy bugger have his way. He'd never have risked inflicting pain on Ray, not when he was recovering. But now, with Doyle healed and cleared by CI5 to return to duty, he reckoned all was fair in sex and war. He wriggled, freeing one arm, then the other. Before Doyle could respond, he'd wrapped him in an unbreakable hold with arms and legs, then twisted and rolled them both onto the floor. Doyle broke his fall, and his furry bedspread--thank Christ he'd let Doyle talk him into moving it to the lounge--broke Doyle's.
"Christ, you weigh a ton," Doyle complained, though he was smiling.
"Me? Nah, I'm a delicate flower, me." Bodie kissed Doyle, deeply and mercilessly, even as he stretched his body till every inch of skin possible was in contact with Doyle's. His breathing sped up and almost all he could hear was the pounding of his own heart.
Bodie writhed sinuously and moved one hand down, then took both their cocks in a firm hold. Doyle moaned and thrust into his grip, driving his cock against Bodie's own, and sending Bodie's reactions spiralling ever higher. He thrust his hips to match Doyle's rhythm, found the sounds he was making complemented Doyle's own. One last push, and he felt himself break through that invisible barrier, felt his bollocks tighten and his cock pulse. And then he was coming, his seed coating Doyle's belly and his own, with Doyle not far behind him.
As the last shudders of completion swirled through him, he rolled off Doyle, sprawling beside him with what he imagined was an all too satisfied smirk.
"Think you're marvellous, don't you?" Doyle graced him with a grimace.
"Yeah," Bodie said, in no mood to deny the obvious.
"You're bloody lucky you're right." Doyle stood and started looking around the lounge. Bodie propped his head up on one hand as he was treated to a completely unselfconscious display of male flesh. "Now, where are my fucking pants?"
They retrieved Doyle's pants, draped over a table lamp, and the rest of their clothing, and rescued the food from the hall. Bodie whinged about them having let the food get cold, more because he knew Doyle would expect it than from any real ill will. Doyle tossed the foil packages in the cooker to warm up, to shut Bodie up, he said, though the kiss he gave Bodie did that even better.
They spent the rest of the evening eating, drinking, flirting, and making ever more outrageous double entendres that they both knew would end up with them in bed. Only this time they would take their time, do things properly. And as often as they could both manage. Bodie sometimes felt as if he'd been handed the ultimate winning ticket in the football pools.
Not that it was all hearts and flowers. Even in a month, they'd had a few scraps, the odd screaming row. But then they'd always had that. Just went to show that they were both men of strong passions. But now a large portion of all that passion was directed firmly at each other. Thinking of the plans he had to focus that passion tonight, Bodie felt a smug smile creep across his face.
"What are you thinkin'?" Doyle asked from where he sat sprawled on the sofa, his legs draped comfortably over Bodie's lap, an empty wine glass dangling loosely from one hand.
"How do you know I'm thinking anything?" Bodie stuck out his tongue and crossed his eyes, but Doyle wouldn't be distracted.
"I can always tell when your brain's working. I can smell the smoke."
"Ha ha," Bodie said, but he couldn't suppress a chuckle. And he decided to indulge Doyle with an answer to his question. "Was thinking I might send a wreath for Gav Logan's grave, actually."
"Are you stark raving mad?" Doyle put the wine glass on the floor and sat up, clearly outraged. "He nearly killed me."
"Yeah, but if he hadn't tried to kill you, and if you hadn't knocked your head on that cliff, we might not be where we are."
"On your sofa?" Doyle was clearly enjoying taking the piss.
"No, you daft pillock. I meant we might not be doing this." Bodie leaned over, took Doyle's already crumpled shirt in one fist and gave Doyle a thorough snog.
"Oh," Doyle said with an infectious grin. "That." He licked his lips and Bodie had a sudden suspicion that if they didn't make it to the bedroom soon, the lounge floor was going to see a repeat of their earlier performance. "You'd do better to thank Connor and Banshee for that. Logan only tried to kill me. They saved my life."
"Perhaps I'll send Connor a care package in prison."
"You'd do better to send one to that PC in Pwllheli. I hear Banshee's eating him out of house and home."
"I'm not surprised. That great beast probably eats his weight in food a day."
"You're one to talk, the way you put away the saag tonight." Doyle leaned in to run a tongue along Bodie's ear.
"I'm a growing lad," Bodie said, taking the bait even as he turned his neck to allow Doyle greater access.
"But what part of you is growing?" Doyle ran a hand down Bodie's side, letting it linger on his crotch, where something was indeed swelling.
Bodie growled deep in his throat, even as he grabbed Doyle's hand. "Wouldn't you prefer the bed to the floor?"
Doyle grinned in reply. "Thought you'd never ask."
They made the trip down the hall in record time, shedding clothes as they moved. Bodie pulled Doyle down on top of him, his body marked by one more scar and yet still beautiful for all that, and set about making a memory that even a fall from a cliff wouldn’t banish from either one of them.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2008-04-04 06:53 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-04-05 11:41 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-04-04 11:42 am (UTC)"You're more than that."
"I'm your mate."
"More than that."
"Listen," Bodie said, and Doyle could detect the beginning of hysteria in his voice. "You're not going to start chucking flowers and chocolates at me, are you? It's bad enough when you do that with your birds.""
ooh I love this! The idea of Bodie starting to get hysterical as he realises Doyle is homing in on the truth between them ... Your lads are beautifully balanced, as always. Thanks for this, I really enjoyed it - location, plot, lads shedding clothes ... all good for a Friday afternoon!
no subject
Date: 2008-04-05 05:55 pm (UTC)I'm chuffed you like that bit. I'm rather fond of it myself. *g*
no subject
Date: 2008-04-04 03:01 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-04-05 06:00 pm (UTC)I'm glad you liked the reunion scene. It's always tricky, getting just the right amount of emotion without overplaying it.
That sheep farmer line was a throwaway (of the "how can I inform the reader how narked off Bodie is" sort) but it's nifty you enjoyed it.
no subject
Date: 2008-04-04 05:17 pm (UTC)Thanks for sharing that gem.
no subject
Date: 2008-04-05 06:01 pm (UTC)What more could I want? (Part 3 LOL)
Nooooo!!!!
Unless, you know, the muse beats me over the head and gives me a good follow-up story.
no subject
Date: 2008-04-05 07:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-04-04 10:46 pm (UTC)"Think you're marvellous, don't you?" Doyle graced him with a grimace.
"Yeah," Bodie said, in no mood to deny the obvious.
"You're bloody lucky you're right."
Could that be any more them? *g* Wonderful stuff, as is the village (fabulous intro to the fog, I thought), your OCs, and the tension both Doyle and Bodie feel during their separation. I thoroughly enjoyed it. Thanks!
no subject
Date: 2008-04-05 06:04 pm (UTC)Thank you soooo much for the massively helpful comments.
no subject
Date: 2008-04-04 11:19 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-04-05 06:04 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-04-05 12:25 pm (UTC)Thanks for sharing this with us :D
no subject
Date: 2008-04-05 06:05 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-04-09 04:40 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-04-09 05:32 pm (UTC)As for the furry bedspread, I really wanted to use that move, but give poor Ray a reasonably soft landing. The bedspread sprang immediately to mind. *g*
no subject
Date: 2008-04-09 01:12 pm (UTC)Enjoyed it all, but this line was a doozy!
"I can always tell when your brain's working. I can smell the smoke."
Thanks for sharing.
no subject
Date: 2008-04-09 05:35 pm (UTC)As for that line, credit for it can be laid at the feet of my mom, who's been using variations of it ever since I can remember. *g*