Doyle: No man's land.
McKay: Someone's got to cross, if we're to be home in time for tea.
  --From "Heroes"

The bullets tore into him, stitching a neat diagonal of holes over his torso, somehow missing major organs. "Oh, bugger that burns," crawled idly across his brain as he brought his rifle up and got off a couple of rounds at the raider crouched down by his car.

Making note that Doyle and Bodie were pounding down the path toward the river from the house, heedless of their own safety, he rolled and fired again, finally taking down the first raider. "Stupid berks," he muttered, not differentiating much in his mind between the Bisto Kids and the raiders. Didn't Cowley's fair-haired boys know that he was the only one allowed to be crazy? Things got a bit fuzzy after that.

Throwing himself down behind the slight cover of slender tree trunks, Doyle fired on the other raider hiding behind the vehicle's rear fender as Bodie slid in behind him to add his firepower. Numerous discharges later, Tommy finally got his eyes to focus and take in the scene. He allowed that Doyle could shoot, and bloody well, too, to take the bloke out at that angle.

Doyle got up carefully and nudged the raider with one foot while covering him with his semi-automatic. Dead as a mackerel. He turned to Bodie and alarm crossed his face when he noticed that his partner was still down on the ground, leaning at an odd angle against the bullet-scarred tree trunks. So still. So fucking still. A third assailant was face down, bleeding out from the double-tap that Bodie had given, a Sig .45 still held in his outstretched hand, pointing directly where Doyle had lain only a short time earlier.

Despite his own bleeding problems, Tommy noticed a line of scarlet sliding down a corner of Bodie's mouth. "Oh, bloody buggering fuck," his voice sounded strange, slurred and wavy, pondering the dubious miracle of having survived yet again while Bodie looked done for.

Pain-shrouded eyes met Doyle's as Bodie struggled to speak, but Doyle shook his head, "Don't talk," and reached for his R/T.

"4.5 to Alpha 1. We've got an emergency here," Doyle paused to pull in a labored breath that might have contained a sob. "Send two ambulances right away; Bodie and Tommy have both been hit. It...it looks bad," his voice faltering as he finished.

"That's my lad, never sugarcoat it," Bodie managed to rasp out, then coughed, another thin red strand floated down from his mouth, like errant cotton candy.

"Shut-up, you miserable sod," Doyle's gentle touch to Bodie's face belied his harsh words.

"Check on Tommy," came Bodie's faint but determined voice. Blue eyes met green, and Bodie took in Doyle's sorrow, but still demanded. So seldom did this happen, that Doyle found it impossible not to obey.

"Don't move, Bodie. Not a fucking inch." Bodie's slight smile lit his eyes even as the pain in his chest got worse. Ray spun around and crossed over to where Tommy lay sprawled on the damp riverbank.

"Tommy," Doyle bent over the older agent, who lay crumpled to one side, his own trails of blood obscene on the green grass.

"Been known to answer to that on occasion," Tommy replied hoarsely. "You'll forgive me if I don't get up." Then, promptly wasted all that elan on a fit of coughing that turned his face red.

"Bugger that," muttered Doyle as he carefully turned the other man a little to ease his breathing. "Better?"

"It'll do," Tommy replied muzzily. "Look after Bodie, Ray. He's got a lung puncture."

"So do you I imagine. He's the idiot that sent me over to take a look at you."

"Nah, just a few holes," he looked up at Ray, intense and insistent. "Go, be with him. He needs you."

Ray stared back at Tommy. The older agent's eyes held his, and beyond the inevitable pain, conveyed understanding, even approval. "I called it in. Ambulances will be here any moment." Tommy nodded, too spent to reply.

Ray crawled over and looked Bodie over. A greyish pallor suffused his skin and his eyes were dull with pain as he gazed back at Doyle, and his body had slid down the tree trunk to leave him leaning rather precariously to one side.

"How's our Tommy?" he mumbled, lips sticky with blood he longed to wipe away, but his hand seemed far from his arm, and everything except Ray's face was wavering in and out of focus.

"Positively beaming," Doyle's voice could cut glass. "Just a few holes, he says. Could water the flowerbeds with him if you gave him a glass of water." He pulled himself behind his partner and gently eased him so he was sitting leaned again his chest. One hand stroked dark hair back from a clammy forehead while the other grasped an arm to keep Bodie from listing to one side.

"Best stick to whiskey then, eh?" Bodie croaked out, then gave an involuntary moan.

"Sounds like you could use a belt about now, mate," Doyle's voice held just the right trace of snark, but it was at odds with the tears running down his face.

Bodie gave a short laugh and murmured, "Maybe the Cow'll have his flask on him when he gets here."

"Filled with Laphroaig, no doubt," Ray then buried his face in his partner's shoulder, shuddering.

"It'll be all right, sunshine," Bodie crooned. "Just you wait and see."

"It better be," Doyle growled fiercely, finally looking up to see Tommy gazing at them intently.

The pain of his wounds had slid down amongst the things that he paid little attention to. It took dedication, but he'd had lots of practice managing pain. He watched Bodie and Doyle cling to each other as he lay ten or so feet from them on the muddied and bloodied grass next to the dead.

The wail of sirens filtered through the sounds of rushing water.

-- THE END --

October 2005

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AUTHOR'S NOTE: I always thought it was tragic that Tommy died at the end of 'Heroes'. He had such a great naughty laugh and a smashing sexy black Capri. In my Prosverse, he's alive, kicking, and as daft a bugger as ever.