(Written in response to a lyric wheel challenge on the Prosfanfic list)

It's freezing bloody cold, and I feel like I've been in this car half my life. Huddled inside a leather jacket that doesn't do much to ward off the elements, and just this once wishing that I wasn't quite so thin. It can't be much more than four degrees Celsius outside.

Bodie of course, just to annoy me, doesn't seem to feel anything at all. Must be all the extra layers of padding he has. He's whistling quite happily to himself, munching on a sandwich and playing with the radio. He keeps flicking from one station to the other, and the bursts of static that appear in between the droning of the various DJ's feel like they're drilling through my skull.

Needless to say, I'm not in the most cheerful of moods. To be fair, though, it's got nothing to do with Bodie, or the weather. If I'm honest, even a sudden, inexplicable heatwave wouldn't do a whole lot to lift my spirits. I sigh, and Bodie responds by leaning forward and changing the radio station.

Doyle sighs again, and I feel the cold air blow past the back of my neck. Even if it wasn't the middle of winter, the atmosphere inside the car would be icy. Doyle's been brooding ever since Cowley told us about Wilson, and what he expected us to do. Not that I'm particularly surprised. This is just the kind of thing that gets Doyle on his moral high horse, where he always seems to feel the need to worry the situation through in his head, looking at it from every different angle and then some, before deciding how he's supposed to react to it.

Doyle could brood for England, and has been practising ever since I first met him. In a way it's almost reassuring - some things never change. Still, it takes every kind, I suppose.

He frowns again, and I can't help but laugh. He looks so serious. "There's no point getting yourself worked up about it, Doyle. S'all part of the job."

"Bringing in one of our own? It's not a prospect I relish, Bodie."

"Neither do I, sunshine, but we don't have a whole lot of choice."

"Mmm."

He falls silent again, (he's been doing that a lot this morning), and the air turns colder still, if that's possible. I gaze back out of the windscreen, staring longingly at the pub we're supposed to be watching. At the very least it'd be warm in there, and I could get a round in.

Then again, Cowley never said anything about us having to wait outside, did he?

"Look, instead of sitting out here, why don't we go into the pub and wait for him inside? I'll buy you a pint."

Doyle just looks at me as if I've gone crazy. "Oh, that'll help. Just what do you suggest we do when he shows up and notices us? Cowley'll go mad if we mess this up."

I think for a minute. There's a slim chance I could talk him round to my way of thinking. A few pints in him and he'd soon start cheering up. "We could always pretend that we're on the take as well."

"Don't be ridiculous."

I'll take that as a no, then. Never one to flog a dead horse, since Doyle does enough of that for both of us, I drop the idea.

"Just a thought."

There's silence in the car again, and I watch the clock tick past midday, drumming my hand on the steering wheel before Doyle speaks again.

"Would you?"

I stop drumming in the middle of a rendition of some cheesy pop song. Couldn't guess at the name, but the tune's been stuck in my head for days. "Would I what?"

"Go on the take. Could you do that?"

I just shrug. "It depends."

Even as I'm speaking, I know it's the wrong answer. Doyle visibly bristles, his expression growing darker than before.

"It depends? Depends on what?"

"On why I was doing it."

"What could possibly make selling out acceptable, Bodie?" he all but spits out.

I bite my lip in thought, staring back out the window while I think about it. "If I really believed in what I was doing, then I wouldn't consider it selling out."

"Selling out is selling out, Bodie, whatever the reason."

"Oh, come on Doyle, think about it! All the snitches who pass us information, they don't all do it for money. Some of them actually believe in what we do. Do you think they're selling out?"

"That's different," he mutters sullenly.

"Why? Because they're on your side and Wilson isn't? Because it's us he's selling out on instead of some scumbag on the wrong side of the law?"

"Exactly."

"Don't be a hypocrite, Doyle. A few years ago you and I were on different sides of the law. Society changes; what's seen as acceptable, what's not, it's all subjective. The only thing people should worry about are their own convictions."

"What, look after number one regardless of who it hurts?" Now his voice holds the slightest tinge of contempt, and I feel myself getting annoyed in return. Doyle has an annoying tendency to act superior at times, and it never fails to wind me up. He used to drive me crazy when we were first teamed up, but I guess I'm used to it now. In fact, if he ever stops these ridiculous guilt trips he indulges in, I'd probably miss them.

"Not exactly Doyle, no. If your convictions are sound, then the way you act wouldn't harm anyone else. Not without a reason, anyway."

"And you'd call Wilson's convictions 'sound', would you? Selling out your friends for money?"

"You're making assumptions, 4.5," I reply in my best Cowley voice. Pretty good if I do say so myself. "We don't know that that's why he's selling out."

"Why else would he be doing it?"

This is getting repetitive. "Convictions, Doyle. You're not the only one in the world with high ideals. Just because his may not agree with yours, doesn't mean they don't exist."

"So you think we should just let him get on with it, do you?" he mutters sullenly.

"Of course not! Cowley sent us after him, and I'll do my job regardless of my personal feelings." His eyes widen, preparing for another outburst, but I hold up my hand to silence him. "As it happens, I don't agree with him, but it wouldn't make the slightest difference if I did. Cowley sent us to do a job, so I'll do it."

Movement over the road effectively ends our conversation, and Doyle subsides back in to mutinous silence as Wilson finally makes an appearance. He glances nervously around him, and I'm suddenly glad Doyle talked me out of taking the Capri. Everyone on the squad knows who they belong to, Wilson included, and he'd have spotted us in seconds. We need this to go without a hitch, for Doyle's sake as much as anything. He's going to be sullen and awkward - even more so than usual - until his sense of justice has been restored.

The R/T crackles into life, and Jax's voice speaks. "Wait till he comes out, then move in."

Cowley doesn't want the Russians to know that Wilson has been sprung, which means we have to let this last meeting go ahead as planned - something else which annoyed Doyle at the briefing.

A few more minutes pass in tense silence before Wilson appears and scurries off down the road. Jax gives the signal, and we both get out of the car and jog over to our target. Nice and low key, Cowley said, don't attract attention, but my hand is resting on my gun all the same.

Four of us converge on him from different sides, and when he sees us he looks even more panicked, if that's possible. Even his hands are shaking.

"Oh, n...no!" he stutters. "Please...she'll...they'll hurt her!"

Huh?

Half an hour later we're all back at HQ, and everything has changed.

I was right, as it turned out. Wilson didn't turn traitor for money, the Russians have kidnapped his wife, and were using her to blackmail him. He should still have come to us instead of giving in to them, but we can all see why he did, and Cowley shouldn't be too hard on him.

Right now, we're trying to find out where they're holding her, so we can go in and save the world again.

Doyle is still storming around like a bear with a sore head, but his anger is now directed at the Russians, as he tries to figure out how they can justify holding an innocent woman hostage. I did consider pointing out that we've done it before, with that schoolgirl when we were going after Krivas, but decided against it. Just because we wouldn't have hurt the kid, her father didn't know that, so I don't see it as being any different.

I do, however, feel the need to point one thing out to Doyle, and when we find ourselves alone in the Recreation Room, I tap him on the shoulder to get his attention.

"See Doyle? Not everything is black and white."

He glances up from his lukewarm coffee with a frown. "What do you mean?"

"Wilson," I reply. "He wasn't just in it for the money was he? He was protecting what he feels is right. His family."

-- THE END --

---

Every Kinda People
Robert Palmer, 1978

They said the fight to make ends meet
Keeps a man upon his feet
Holding down his job
Trying to show he can't be bought

It takes every kind of people
To make what life's about
Every kind of people
To make the world go round

Someone's looking for a lead
In his duty to a King or creed
Protecting what he feels is right
Fights against wrong with his life

There's no profit in deceit
Honest men know that
Revenge does not taste sweet
Whether yellow, black or white
Each and every man's the same inside

You know that love's the only goal
That could bring a peace to any soul
Hey, and every man's the same
He wants the sunshine in his name