AUTHOR'S NOTE: Written for the Compass Points challenge. I've used the Gaelic/Scottish tradition of Airts with their associated colour correspondences - East = red, dawn. South = white, midday. West = Brown-grey, twilight. North = black, midnight.

First three parts betaed by Slantedlight. The last part is unbetaed thanks to my impatience. :-D

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Even a fool knows when to stand at bay, and despite his partner's chiding Bodie likes to think he's no fool. His legs are leaden, and every breath slides a red-hot knife beneath his ribs, but he's still got energy enough for a fight.

A car roars into the deserted alley, headlights bleaching night into day. Heart thundering, he dodges behind a stack of pallets and, braced on his uninjured leg, clenches his fists, waiting for discovery. For his last hurrah.

Soft, almost silent footsteps approach. Click of safety released…

---

“Sunshine? You in there?”

At that familiar voice, air whooshes from his lungs and his knees give up the ghost. He slides down the pallets and lands with a thump. Doyle’s there immediately, holstering his gun and kneeling down, hands reaching to check for serious injuries.

“Said not to wear that shirt,” he’s saying, but the humour does nothing to hide his concern.

Bodie grins obligingly, then grunts at the probing fingers. They brush the deep contusions but he’s pretty sure nothing’s broken. There’s no shifting grind when he moves.

“You’ll live.” Doyle stands, holding out a hand that Bodie takes in relief. But he puts his weight on his bad leg, gasps, and doubles over, clutching at where the knife sliced in, feeling the warm trickle of blood as the wound reopens. Doyle’s back on his knees, shoving Bodie’s hands aside. “Daft sod, why didn’t you say?”

“S’nothing.”

“Course not.”

White agony as the long slice is found and corduroy is ripped away.

“Christ, Bodie!”

He looks, and wishes he hadn’t. An inch higher and he’d be singing soprano.

---

Who'd have thought the front seat of the Capri could be so comfy? Leaning against the window, wrapped in Doyle's jacket with a rag pressed against his leg, Bodie relaxes and counts his blessings. If it'd been the gang who tracked him down, he'd be lucky to still be alive.

"Dropped me gun." He flexes his fingers, remembering the iron bar that'd come crashing down.

Doyle shrugs.

"How's Jacky?"

"Don't ask." Doyle's shoulders are hunched and his hands grip the wheel.

Explosion imminent.

"You dumb crud!"

Bodie winces.

"Why didn't you wait for me? Could've easily taken `em between the two of us."

He's right and Bodie knows it. But he also knows that when he saw that glint of steel, he had to do something, and wading in had seemed like the best option. He tries to explain.

"They had knives."

"That makes it better?"

"The kid was getting the shit beaten out of him."

"You could've been killed."

Doyle's not listening. Bodie slumps further down in the seat. "Make a change from the rest of the week then."

"Not while I'm watching your back."

So that's the problem. He should've guessed. Closing his eyes against the orange rush of streetlights, Bodie says, "S'not your fault, mate."

Silence. Then, finally, a deep sigh. "Yeah, I know. Just…" A pause, long enough for Bodie to peer over and see the pallor of Doyle's face. He looks grey. "Next time don't bloody run."

"Okay."

Now he gets a frown. "Okay? That's it?"

Bodie shrugs. "You're right. Next time, I'll stand by me handbag `til you get back from the bog."

"Prat."

---

Never send a boy to do a man's job - Cowley's words, not Bodie's, but they come back in a rush when he sees flashing lights and a crowd gathered around the small figure lying on the kerb.

"You call the ambulance?"

"Yeah."

Doyle flashes his ID and the crowd parts, opening a blue lit pathway to where the kid's lying. Questions ring out as they pass; 'What happened?', 'Is he dead?' Bodie ignores them, he's fixated on Jacky, on his open eyes and the way blood's pooling around him, glistening black on dirty tarmac, reflecting the ambulancemen in sluggish bursts.

"Christ," he says as they get close.

One of the ambulance men glances up. "One of you the guy who radioed in?"

"Me," Doyle answers. He's reduced to monosyllables. Bodie's speechless. He can't think beyond, 'So bloody young'. Hardly a year out of the cadets and seconded to CI5 just for this op.

"Keep an eye on the lad," Cowley had said. "We've only got him for a week."

It's times like this Bodie feels his mortality. When he was Jacky's age, he'd believed himself immortal. Now he knows different. Now he feels time grinding his bones and the aches and pains of impending doom. Sooner or later it's gonna be him, wasting what's left of his life on the ground. And only Doyle'll mourn him.

Doyle's squatting down, close enough to reach out and touch the kid's hand.

He must've hit his head when they shoved him away, interrupted by Bodie's high-handed challenge. Not that it lasted long. He remembers exchanging a few punches and then not much before he upped-sticks and ran, getting the gang to follow him and putting as much distance between Jacky and those knives as possible. Trying to save the kid's life.

"Sorry, mate. Too late."

Bodie shakes himself awake, back to neon glare against a midnight sky. Someone's thrown a red blanket over the body. Around them, a quiet susurration of voices ask just who it was playing Good Samaritan tonight. Not that anyone'll tell. They're CI5. Zorro, the Lone Ranger, Batman. Riding in to save the day…

Except when they don't.

-- THE END --

June 2006