It was always the same. No matter who they were watching, or what was involved, routine observation jobs were boring. Doyle hadn't liked them as a copper, he didn't like them now. One couldn't even read -- it defeated the purpose of the job by distracting one's attention and alleviating the boredom. He glanced impatiently at his watch, noting with relief that his stretch of eyeballing the subterranean carpark was only five minutes from its end. Then he could elbow Bodie, snuffling peacefully at his side, awake, and get some much needed shut eye himself.

The bullet that smashed through the windscreen and into Doyle's chest was so totally unexpected, that for a long moment he stared down at the growing red stain on his shirt in surprise, not quite knowing how it had got there or what had started it. Then the pain began and his brain started functioning. Bodie, instantly awake, could do nothing, momentarily, but stare at the pattern the seeping blood was making on his partner's chest and wonder what on earth was happening. Then he too snapped back into functioning mode, one that was instinctive. He started the car, slammed it into gear, and got them out of there, fast. Bodie glanced sideways, briefly, at Doyle, who lay back in the passenger seat, skin white, eyes closed. Bodie's foot attempted to get more speed out of the car by shoving the accelerator through the floor board.

Afterwards, mechanically writing up the usual detailed report of the incident for Cowley's spiderweb of files and cross files, Bodie made due note of the fact that they had been somewhat sloppy in allowing themselves to be caught off-guard like that. Knowing the case as they did, he wrote carefully, "agents 3.7 and 4.5 should have expected Rivas to do the unexpected..." He ended the report "Agent 4.5 was pronounced dead on arrival at St. Anthony's Hospital, London, at 0300 hours." Then he took the last sheet of paper out of the printer, put it neatly in order behind the seven that preceded it, and handed it to Cowley's latest secretary. Ignoring the sympathy that everyone was so eager to offer, he went home, alone, to bed.

---

The act of sitting bolt upright loosened the dream/memory's hold on Bodie with the abruptness of a switch flipped into the "Off" position. Despite its lifelike intensity, the dream sequence was commonplace by now; even the trembling aftermath, shoving his hands through sweat-soaked strands of hair was done with the abstraction born of habit. He squeezed his eyes open and shut, trying to erase the vision of the vivid red stain of Doyle's lifeblood running out.

September 23rd. Exactly six months, nine days, seventeen hours, and twenty-one minutes since the sniper's bullet had slammed into Ray Doyle, and flung Bodie's carefully built and maintained four year old life into pieces.

He had considered suicide -- not the variety that involved actually swallowing pills or putting a gun to one's head. Just simply allowing himself not to survive. God knew there were opportunities enough to catch a stray bullet in his line of work -- or simply lose control of a car during a high speed chase, or....

Any of these things seemed better than plodding along, having to remind himself -- with a sense of complete wonder -- that it was time to breathe. The motions of pulling in and expelling air had become acts of conscious volition on his part, as had the simple acts of getting up, talking... answering the concerned voices that on occasion gabbled at him from the edge of the mist.

There were a number of things that held him back. Lack of opportunity to limit the destruction to just himself being the primary one. He was not so far gone that the thought of taking one or more innocent lives (or, he reflected with a flickering that passed for grim humor, as innocent as CI5 men ever got... ) along with him was acceptable.

And there was his promise. Damnable thing. Given in a moment, with no thought that it might one day be called into being. Funny, how it held him still -- the only man who knew about it was dead.

"I don't believe in the people left behind wearin' black and gettin' into interesting relationships with sack-cloth and ashes, Bodie. That's not how I live, it isn't how I want anybody else to live either."

Bodie had smiled, his mind and interests on other more important things -- like Doyle's body. At this point he probably would have agreed to anything Ray had cared to stipulate. "Yeh, it's bloody wonderful you are, mate. Now, about the...."

Doyle refused to be dissuaded. "I mean it Bodie -- I don't... want you doing that for me. If anything happens -- and odds are, something will -- I want you to promise me you'll pick up and get on with your life. Find somebody else. Live."

"Ray." Bodie started to launch into his "it's bad business discussing this sort of thing" speech, but Doyle interrupted him.

"Yeh, I know all about that. Just promise me."

"How do you know I won't break my word after?" Bodie had asked curiously.

Doyle grinned. "You'll keep it. I know you. Promise."

Tired of the trend of the conversation and wanting to get on to Other Things, Bodie had given in. "Promise. Now," he bent over Doyle, "about the..."

That was the end of that (and all) conversation for the moment, and the subject had never been discussed between them again.

Bodie recalled it now, thinking it was ironic that Doyle should have died so soon after... perhaps he'd had some subliminal inkling... at any rate, there he was -- held fast, as Ray had confidently known he would be. Held by a personal sense of life, by an honor so ingrained and instinctive Bodie hadn't before acknowledged his possession of such.

Surely, if Doyle knew the struggle it was for him to go on, he wouldn't hold Bodie to his promise??? Yeh, why not get it over with? The only thing stopping him was a vivid picture of himself, contrite and apologetic, confronting a blazingly angry Doyle at the pearly gates. A Doyle, moreover, who by this time had wrangled enough pull with Divine Providence to get him, Bodie, tossed out of heaven on his ear, and sent straight down to the Other Place. The only objection Bodie had to that happening was the fact that in Hell, as on Earth, there was no Ray Doyle. "Besides," Bodie muttered aloud, "knowing that vengeful little toad, he'd make sure I spent eternity sharing a bit of brimstone with Macklin...."

Bodie swore loudly, fluently, in three languages and flung the bedside alarm clock at the opposite wall. It crashed to the floor, brrrzzzzd, gurgled and died. He could HEAR Doyle's dirty chuckle in his ear, and the familiar voice, "Very bright, Bodie -- what do you do for an encore? Breathe fire?"

Doyle had made it sound so easy. Just go out and live, "find somebody else". What am I supposed to do, he cried out silently, when there is nobody else??? The silence of the room pressed in on him, even the hum of traffic seemed to have disappeared. "WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO???" he shouted, out loud this time. His own voice echoed back at him in the emptiness. Head bent, fists clenched, Bodie fought the battle with himself. He would not cry, he had not cried, not once... the wetness on his cheeks didn't count, it was inconsequential; just something to be brushed aside with no more thought than he would give to the rain blowing in his face. Bodie sank back against the wreck of bedclothes and pillows, huddled, body still managing to convey the impression that he was just a second from being poised for immediate flight. Barely more than a whisper, his tiny plea of "help me" wasn't audible to the human ear.

---

Bodie woke up the next morning feeling well rested and physically relaxed, though he couldn't, if put to it, have actually recalled ever going to sleep. He felt... not happy, certainly. What encased him this morning was the absence of pain. He welcomed it as a replacement to the torture that had preceded it, and asked no more than this state of affairs continue. He checked his wristwatch -- 0600, and Murphy would be leaning on the door bell with a vengeance at any moment: they were due at HQ in less than half an hour.

He didn't notice it then, but later on, much later on, looking back he realized that day was the first which he had fully participated in since Doyle's death. It was the first day that it was... easier to breathe. Sitting in their local, listening to Murphy chortling like a drain over one of his own jokes, Bodie knew that he'd be alright. The joy hadn't returned yet, but it would. There would be 'somebody else'....

He would be able to keep his promise to Doyle after all.

-- THE END --