przed

Title: Descent
Author: P.R. Zed
Fandom: Pros
Pairing: Bodie/Doyle
Note: A timed out zine story, originally published in Roses & Lavender 6. Thanks to

earthdogue for giving me a push to finally post this.
Warning: I'm not generally in favour of labels, but let's just say if you want reassurance you should highlight the next line...
Not a death story. Honest.

I didn't expect it to end like this.

Come to that, I didn't expect it to begin like this, either.

It had been a miserable spring day. I know you're supposed to think how wonderful spring is, growth of new life and all that, but this wasn't like that. It was cold and raining and everything looked more grey than green.

In his infinite wisdom, Cowley had assigned us a surveillance job. Peter Malloy was an Irish no-hoper. Just out of his teens and he'd decided his burning ambition was to be an IRA hard man. Cowley reckoned he was in the big talk, big dreams category, but he wanted him tailed anyway. There'd been hints of the Irish mob planning something nasty and he wanted to see if Malloy knew anything about it.

So, there Doyle and I were, following the stupid tosser all over the South Bank and across the river into the West End as the sky chucked it down. Hardly seemed worth the trouble. He talked to no one we didn't know about, went nowhere we didn't have under at least casual surveillance.

I was about to suggest we call it a day when the little bastard ducked into a sandwich shop on Old Compton. At first I just reckoned he was getting out of the rain, like I desperately wanted to. But then I noticed the bloke he was talking to: Stavros. Bomb-maker extraordinaire and wanted by every security force in Europe.

I looked over at Doyle and he was looking as gobsmacked as I felt. I couldn't believe it, a stupid git like Malloy leading us to a truly big fish like Stavros. You never know what the day will bring you in a mob like ours.

As we watched, Stavros handed Malloy a package wrapped in brown paper and string, looking rather like a bomb and more than big enough to cause havoc in London.

I went to pull out my R/T to call in our find when one of them must have caught wind of us. My money was on Stavros; Malloy wasn't that bright. But before we could do anything, they both legged it out of the shop, Malloy heading deeper into Soho while Stavros made for Charing Cross.

Doyle went after Malloy, his scrawny legs eating up the distance between him and the little gobshite. I took Stavros. He moved fast for an old geezer, but it still only took me half a block to catch him. A punch to his jaw laid him out and I quickly had him handcuffed to a pipe and made the call to headquarters about where to find him.

I shouldn't have done it, called in the reinforcements and left Stavros where he lay. I should have stayed with him, made sure he didn't manage a miraculous escape as he'd done so many times before. But I couldn't do it. I had a bad feeling in my gut that something was about to go very wrong. I've long since learned to respect my hunches - they kept me alive in the jungle - and this was the strongest I'd ever had. I didn't know what was wrong. I just knew I had to get to Doyle. Now.

I checked Stavros' handcuffs one last time to make sure they were secure and then ran back in the direction I'd seen Doyle heading.

I don't know how I found them - blind luck or divine intervention - but find them I did. Doyle had Malloy trapped in a blind alley and the kid had pulled a shooter on him. A gun in one hand, a bomb in the other and he still looked about as threatening as a schoolboy with a waterpistol. Doyle had his own gun pointed at the kid. I didn't bother with my weapon, thought I could defuse the situation better without it.

What a laugh that turned out to be.

I approached Malloy, my hands up, an easy smile on my face.

"Just put the gun away, son. Then we can talk."

"Don't want to talk to you bastards, do I?" Malloy was clearly not a reasonable sort.

"We're all right, aren't we Doyle?"

"Yeah," Doyle said, never taking his eyes off Malloy or shifting the aim of his gun. "We're all right."

"C'mon, Malloy. We all just want to go home to our dinner." I moved forward slowly, hoping I could get close enough to grab the stupid sod's gun.

I never made it.

I don't know what Doyle did, or if he did anything, but Malloy pulled the trigger. The sound was shockingly loud; gunshots always are, but I was used to it and Malloy wasn't. He froze as the report echoed around the alley, and I made my move. I rushed him and grabbed the gun out of his hands, then clipped him across the head with its butt. It was harsh treatment, but the bastard had just shot at us and I wanted to make sure he was down for good.

Malloy safely dealt with, I turned to Doyle, a joke on the tip of my tongue. The words froze in my mouth as I saw what lay behind me: Doyle crumpled on the ground, a great bloody hole in his chest and a shocking amount of blood pooling on the ground around him.

Part of my mind was screaming, but it was a small part and I ignored it. Instead, I paid attention to the bit of me that was all trained soldier. I called the priority A-3 in to Control, amazed at how steady my voice sounded. As soon as I thumbed off the R/T, I was at Doyle's side applying pressure to the wound. Blood welled up around my fingers, and Doyle winced at the pressure.

"Bodie," Doyle said, his voice a whisper, red foam flecking his lips. He'd been shot in the lung, then.

"Don't talk, Ray," I said, surprised at how calm I sounded. "Help will be here soon. Just stay with me."

"Can't," he said, shaking his head. "Hurts."

"Ray, don't you dare fucking die on me."

"Sorry," he said, and then he smiled. Shot in the chest and the bastard smiled.

"Ray," I said, the name catching in my throat.

"See you on the other side, mate."

"No. Don't leave me." But even as I spoke the words, I could tell it was too late. Death and I are intimately acquainted and I could tell you the exact moment when It collected Doyle. The moment when his body went lax and his struggle to breathe ended. The moment I felt Ray die.

I didn't scream, though I wanted to. Didn't cry, didn't yell, didn't rail at the gods. I just sat in that fucking alley, drenched from the rain, Ray Doyle dead in my arms.

And here's the really stupid thing. Up until then, I hadn't realized that I loved him. Really loved him. Loved him to the depth and breadth and height my soul could reach, as Barrett Browning said. Old Liz was never one of my favourite poets, but she got some things right.

After a time--I don't know how long, but the ambulance hadn't shown up yet--I looked up. And that's when I saw it. When I saw him. Ray Doyle, walking down the alley, his lithe figure unmistakable, even in the rain. The same Ray Doyle whose body was cradled in my lap.

What else could I do? I got up and followed. Or part of me did, anyway. As I reached the end of the alley, I looked back and saw myself still sitting on the ground, still holding Doyle in my arms. I didn't have time to think about what that meant, though, because Doyle was disappearing into the gloom ahead of me. So I ran.

The alley disappeared, and so did anything resembling Soho. I found myself in a winding, dark corridor with barely enough light to see Doyle ahead of me. I called out and ran to catch him up, but no matter how fast I ran, I never quite reached him.

Several times I lost sight of him entirely and was afraid I'd lost him forever. But then I'd see a glimpse of curly hair and long legs, and I'd be off after him again.

We weren't stuck in that corridor forever, thank Christ. Gradually, the light began to brighten and I could see Doyle more clearly in front of me; and then we emerged into a bright summer's day. The countryside was like the best of northern Wales, rolling hills and fields with old mountains in the distance. But it was Wales as I'd seldom seen it, blue sky clear and bright, not a cloud to be seen.

Ahead of me, Doyle stopped and turned his face to the sun, like a flower seeking out the source of its energy. He didn't seem to notice me at all.

"Ray," I called out, moving towards him. And was immediately blocked by two big blokes armed with Ingrams who I would have sworn weren't there two seconds before.

"You don't belong here," one of them said.

"Your kind isn't welcome," said the other one.

"What kind would that be?" I asked Tweedledum and Tweedledee.

"The living," Tweedledum answered. "You stink of mortality."

"You must return," said Tweedledee, pushing his point home by sticking his gun in my face.

Fortunately, I don't scare easily. And besides, what could they possibly threaten me with that was worse than my partner's death?

"I'm not going anywhere. Not without him." I pointed at Doyle.

"Impossible," a new voice said. I looked beside me, and found a bloke that wouldn't have been out of place in the Home Office. He was wearing a three-piece suit and a bowler hat. His voice was as plummy as the Home Secretary’s, his face as stern as Cowley's. "The living cannot stay here and the dead cannot leave. Those are the rules."

"The rules can be broken. They can always be broken." As I'd done so many times before, I tried to brazen it out.

"The rules are inviolate," said Bowler Hat.

"Not completely," I insisted. "They have been broken before. Once or twice."

He didn't say a word, just cocked an eyebrow at me.

"C'mon," I said. "I've heard the stories. Orpheus. Bloke with a lyre. Cocked it all up in the end." I was making a big assumption, taking myth as fact. But since I seemed to be in some updated version of the Elysian Fields guarded by the Special Forces instead of a three-headed dog, I decided I couldn't go too far wrong. And my risk paid off.

"That was thousands of years ago, and allowed only because the people involved shared a great love. Can you say the same?"

"Bloody right, I can," I said. "I may not be a bard or a poet, but I love Ray Doyle more than you could possibly imagine. I won't go anywhere without him. So, either let him go or get used to the pleasure of my company."

"You cannot stay," Bowler Hat said, shuddering.

"Then let him return with me."

"His time has come. The thread of his life has been cut."

"Tie it back together."

"It is not that simple."

"Make it that simple."

"I'm not in charge."

"Talk to whoever is."

"Hmm," Bowler Hat said, looking at me as if he would like nothing so much as to cheerfully order my neck wrung, except that would land him with me forever. "Wait here." He turned to Tweedledum and Tweedledee. "Watch him. Do not let him talk to the other one. And don't let him leave." Then in the blink of an eye he was gone, as if he'd never been there in the first place.

The Tweedles took their boss at his word, pointing their weapons in my face and making sure I didn't twitch a muscle.

I ignored them and took the time to examine Doyle, standing not ten feet away from me. His face was still turned to the sun, and he showed as little awareness of me as he had during our journey to this place. He seemed diminished, the fire within him extinguished. Doyle without his fire was not quite Doyle at all.

Finally, I had to look away. Watching this Doyle who was not Doyle hurt something deep inside my chest, something that even watching him die had not touched. Instead, I stood at parade rest and looked at the Tweedle brothers, issuing them a challenge with my eyes.

Bowler Hat reappeared just as I reckoned I was going to get into a bit of an argy-bargy with the Tweedle brothers out of sheer frustration. He looked as sour as Cowley going over an expense chit.

"Well?" I asked.

"Your request has been granted."

Relief flooded through me, a cooling balm to the grief that had so recently threatened to burn me to ash.

"But there are conditions."

"I wouldn't expect anything else."

"First, Raymond Doyle must agree to the arrangement."

"No worries there."

"Perhaps." He turned to Tweedledum. "Bring the other to me."

Doyle came forward. The same Doyle I knew and loved, but a Doyle who was strangely subdued.

"Raymond Doyle, do you know this man?"

Doyle looked at me with eyes lacking all recognition. Doubt niggled in my gut. What if death took memory as well as life? What if he didn't know who I was?

He stared at me for a long minute, and I held my breath, willing him to recognize me. As I began to give up hope, a flash of knowledge appeared in his eyes. A small flash, it was true, but it was there.

"Bodie?" Doyle's voice was troubled with uncertainty.

"Ray," I said, relieved that I had not failed so early in the test.

"You will not talk to him," Bowler Hat said to me before turning back to Doyle. I buttoned it. No use pissing off a man who worked for Death. "Raymond Doyle, this man has demanded the chance to return you to the living, but you must agree. Before you answer, know this: your injury was grievous and your recovery will be difficult. We can offer no guarantees. Do you accept?"

A blunt talker this one, like the Cow. And his words gave me pause. What was I asking of Doyle? Would he experience appalling pain merely to satisfy my selfish need for him? Would he be better off if I did walk away, returned to our world and left him here, in this country of perpetual sun? After all, I'd be down here myself, and sooner rather than later if I kept working for George Cowley's mob. We'd be united in death even if we'd been parted in life.

But then I started thinking, what if we didn't end up together. I'd always reckoned that Doyle was the heroic one, destined to spend the afterlife awash in milk and honey. Me, I'm bound for the other place, call it Hell or Tartarus. What if Doyle and I were doomed to separation in death? What if life was all we had? The thought of not only life but death without Doyle made my chest ache so deeply I nearly couldn't breathe.

If there was one thing I was convinced of, it was that Doyle and I were a matched pair. Chalk and cheese we might be, but we belonged together in ways I was only beginning to understand.

No, selfish or not, I knew I had to bring him back with me. He was a fighter. He'd fight to recover, if I knew my Doyle. He'd fight with me too, but I didn't care about that. The fight made him who he was.

And that was another reason I had to bring him back. He'd lost his fight, being in this place. Doyle without his fire wasn't Doyle at all. I had to give that back to him.

If he wanted to take it.

I examined him closely. His uncertainty was clear in his face, in the line of his shoulders. "I..." Doyle said, then hesitated. He looked at me, examining my face as if the answer could be found there. And perhaps he found it. For at last he smiled, a pale thing compared to his usual grin, but better than the blankness, and nodded. "I accept."

Bowler Hat just sniffed and turned to me.

"William Andrew Philip Bodie, you have requested the privilege of returning Raymond Doyle to the upper world. Your request is granted, but you must follow these rules." I knew what was coming, but I listened closely anyway. Wanted to make sure I didn't miss anything. "You will return the way you came, but you must not let go of Raymond Doyle's hand, and you must not look back at him until you are in your own world."

"That all?"

"If you fail to follow either rule, Raymond Doyle will return to us and you will be refused entry to this realm until your time has come."

"I'd best not fail then, had I?" I looked at Doyle and held out my hand. "Ready, Ray?"

He nodded and took hold of my hand, his skin cool against mine.

"Right, then. Let's go."

The corridor appeared in front of us, a shocking darkness against the brightness of the surrounding summer day. One final look at Doyle, and then I began to move forward into the gloom.

Up we travelled, through the corridor. I could feel Doyle's hand, comforting in my grasp, but I forced myself not to look at him. No army training, that was Orpheus' trouble. He'd never had an RSM to whip him into shape and make sure he followed orders. I wasn't going to make his mistake. I wasn't going to let go of Doyle's hand, and I sure as fuck wasn't going to look behind me.

Higher and higher we went, until I knew we must be getting close. I could see the light growing brighter in the tunnel, could hear the sound of sirens, could smell the garbage in the alley.

Elation flooded through my heart. We were going to make it. It was going to be alright.

And then Doyle stumbled.

I felt his hand slip from mine, felt him begin to pull away.

"Bodie," he said, and I heard the panic in his voice, even as I felt an answering panic wash through my body.

"No." With that one word I exerted my own will against the universe. I held tight to Doyle's hand, not allowing it to slip from mine, refusing to turn my head to check on his progress. Failure was not an option I'd allowed myself.

A few more steps and we'd made it, the tunnel casting us out into the alley, its black nothingness yielding to the grey of a rainy London day.

A flash of light, and we were back in our bodies, back in the muck, back in the blood, back in the pain.

And alive. Both blessedly alive.

I woke up to a touch on my shoulder. The chair I'd fallen asleep in was digging into my back like a medieval torture device. Blinking to clear the sleep from my eyes, I looked around the hospital waiting room that I'd haunted for the last two days. Murphy stood in front of me, a cup of the sludge masquerading as coffee from the hospital caff held toward me. I took it, swallowing the vile liquid and hoping it would clear the cobwebs from my brain.

"Thanks, Murph."

"I reckoned you needed it. You look like shite."

"Cheers. You really know how to make a bloke feel better." I rubbed a hand across my face. "Any word?"

"He's awake," Murph said.

"What?" I stumbled to my feet. "Fuckin' hell, Murph. Why didn't you get me sooner?"

"Take it easy, mate," Murph put a steadying hand on my elbow. "He's only just come 'round."

"I'm sorry. It's just..."

"Don't worry about it. I understand." Murph patted me on the arm. "You should get in there. He's asking for you and the doctor's said you can have five minutes with him. Better hurry before she changes her mind."

"I suppose I'd better then." Dr Brooks was a forceful woman, with steel-grey hair and a firm jaw. She could have instructed the Cow on the ordering around of underlings and CI5 agents.

I made my way to the intensive care unit, wanting nothing so much as to sprint through the corridors.

I paused at the threshold of Doyle's room, struck yet again by how frail and insubstantial he looked. He was off the ventilator that had kept him breathing the first 24 hours after he'd emerged from surgery, but he was still surrounded by a tangle of tubes and wires. Machines that monitored his heart, his breathing, machines that drained his wound filled the room.

He looked bad. Looked worse even than after Mayli had shot him.

There had been more than one time in the last 48 hours that I'd wondered if it wouldn't be a kindness to let him go. Wondered if the pain, the struggle that stretched in front of him was worth keeping him here with me. But then I'd tell myself, of course it was. I always was a selfish bastard.

Doyle's eyes were closed and for a minute I thought Murphy'd gotten it wrong, that Doyle hadn't really woken up yet. But then his eyelids flickered open.

"Bodie," he said, his voice low and rough, but strong.

"Ray." I took his hand in mine. His grip was weak, but his skin radiated a comforting heat.

"Thanks," he said.

"You'd have done the same for me."

"What, chased you down to the underworld and brought you back to the land of the living?"

My breath caught in my throat at that, and I had to steady myself against the bed's railing. Because, you see, I'd half convinced myself that it had all been a hallucination, a trauma-induced fantasy my brain had thrown up to cope with Doyle being shot. But if Doyle shared the memory...

"It was real."

"'Course it was. I was stone dead, mate. I'd be on a slab in the morgue if it weren't for you."

"Don't say things like that." The memory of Doyle, dead in my arms, was suddenly too close.

"Why not? It's true." Doyle squeezed my hand and his green eyes bored steadily into mine. "Why'd you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Come back for me."

"Didn't want to break in a new partner. Not when I've got you so well trained."

"Silly sod," Doyle said, his eyes showing he didn't believe a word of it. "Why'd you really do it?"

"You're my mate."

"Murphy's your mate, too, but I don't think you'd brave Hades for him. Why'd you do it, Bodie?"

I couldn't dodge the question a third time. But I could delay answering a bit longer.

"Did you hear what I told the bloke in the bowler hat down there?"

"No, I couldn't understand a thing. All I knew was that I was dead and that it was beautiful there. Then I saw you, and I knew I had to go with you, however much beauty I'd be leaving behind."

"He asked why they should break the rules for me. For us."

"What'd you tell him?"

"That I love you. That he'd better let you go or get used to me as well. Because I wasn't going to leave you there."

"Tell me the first bit again," Doyle said, smiling.

"That he'd better let you go."

"Nah, the other first bit."

"I love you."

"That's it." He squeezed my hand as tightly as he could. Which wasn't very tight at all, but it was enough. "Christ, Bodie, why'd it take me getting shot, again, for you to work that out?"

"Always said I was beautiful. Never said I was bright."

"Positively thick, you are."

"And you're so much smarter, are you?"

"'Course I am. I worked it out ages ago. Was just waiting for you to catch me up."

"Well, now I have done, haven't I? And now I suppose I'll have to hang about for you to recover to do anything about it."

"I'm worth the wait."

"I'm sure you are." I looked up to see Dr Brooks hovering in the doorway, looking severe. "I've got to go, Ray. Or they'll throw me out of the hospital."

"You come back, as soon as they let you."

"They can't keep me away. You know that." I know he did. We both now knew exactly how far I'd go for Ray Doyle.

That was the beginning. We've got a lot of work to do on the middle. And I hope the end is a long time coming.