The Professionals Circuit Archive - Reflections Over Midnight Tea	 
Reflections Over Midnight Tea

 

by Anne Higgins

  
 **NOTE:* Not something you'd expect from me, but this is as close to a
Death Story as I've ever written. I do not consider it true DS because it
does not involve the death of a main character (in Pros case that would be
Bodie, Doyle and/or Cowley). It does, however, deal with two people in
love helping each other cope with loss.

I wrote this for an edition of Chalk & Cheese that served as a memorial to
the actor who played the character of Murphy. I was never fond of Murphy,
but I drew on how I felt when I got the call telling me my ex had died of
cancer, and I've always hoped I did a decent job of it. This might not be
the best time to post up this piece, but then again, it might be the best
time for it. I've decided to leave it to each reader to figure out what
she can or cannot take right now. 

Dedicated to everyone who has ever received a similar phone call.* 

******

William Andrew Philip Bodie walked through the front door, and, though
their trip had required no luggage, claimed his usual pack horse rights of
first in the loo, leaving his lover to deal with the locks and alarms.
Feeling like something a cat would turn its nose up at it, he cleaned his
teeth, stripped off his clothes, then stepped into the shower. 

Exhaustion quickly won out over the pleasure of hot, soppy water, and he
shut off the shower as soon as he felt reasonably clean. When he stepped
out of the tub, Raymond Doyle enfolded him in a large, soft towel. 

The long, graceful fingers guided the cloth over Bodie's body with a
practical touch that made it difficult for Bodie to believe sometimes the
mere sight of a towel in Doyle's hands could make him come. However,
tonight they were both beyond the ability to enjoy anything, but a long
night's sleep, and Ray was merely pampering him. 

For that he kissed the auburn brushed curls when Doyle bent to the task of
drying his legs. 

Doyle finished with his feet, then looked up at Bodie and said, "I know
you're all done in, pet, but you'd feel better if you'd eat something. I
could make up some eggs. Only take a minute." 

It was tempting airline food being neither satisfying or filling. "Thanks,
sunshine, but I'm too tired to chew." 

"All right, then." Doyle stood, then hung up the towel. "Off to bed with
you." 

Bodie reached up and caressed a gray temple. "You coming?" 

"Just as soon as I wash up." 

Satisfied he would not be alone for too long, Bodie gave him a quick kiss,
then padded off to the bedroom. Tired as he was, he knew he couldn't hope
to sleep until Doyle joined him. The last day had shaken Bodie to a level
he didn't even begin to understand., but he hoped a decent night's sleep
would let him put things in perspective. 

He slipped into bed with a grateful sigh. Two nights had gone by since
he'd left the bed. The first had passed without so much as a brief kip,
while he and Doyle had coordinated a joint CI5/SAS move on an IRA
stronghold. Theoretically, he'd had ten hours to sleep since then, but the
quality of sleep on an airplane matched the food, and he'd done nothing
more than drift off into brief, dreamless rests. 

He stretched hard. Christ, flying took it out of a bloke. He'd felt better
after sessions with Macklin than he felt now, and more than once he'd
longed for a parachute and solid ground beneath his feet. Next time he had
to make a fast trip to Hong Kong, he vowed he'd bribe an ex-RAF mate into
flying them in something a lot faster than civilian aircraft. Fast trip,
now there was an understatement. They'd flown in, spent less than three
hours there, then had flown back to London. It was those three hours on
the ground he was doing his best to avoid thinking about. As much as he
hated flying for hours on end, he hated hospitals far more. 

Fortunately for his faltering quest not to think about it, Doyle chose
that moment to crawl into bed. The golli switched off the light, then
opened his arms for Bodie. 

They'd been lovers almost to the day in 1975 when George Cowley had made
them partners, and they'd considered themselves married since 81. Bodie
snuggled up against the body that at forty - one was still as strong and
fit as it had been at thirty. Macklin and a host of other CI5 trainers saw
to that, but Bodie reaped the benefits, and even after six years of
monogamy no one could make his pulse race like Doyle. No one was a better
cuddle either, he thought, felt Doyle's lips brush his forehead, then fell
fast asleep. 

******

Bodie woke abruptly, his eyes snapping open, while his heart pounded, but
he managed to stay still and not disturb Doyle's sleep. He wanted to wake
him up, wanted to feel those strong arms hug him until his ribs threatened
to break, but he knew he was being a prat and Doyle need his sleep as much
as Bodie did. 

Sleep, yes, he needed to go back to sleep. But the notion no longer
appealed . He could see the clock on Doyle's nightstand and noted with
disgust it was a few minutes after midnight. He couldn't have been asleep
for more than two hours. Long enough to take the edge off his exhaustion.
But that didn't mean he wasn't tired and in need of another six or eight
hours sleep. 

He tried to relax, tried to let himself drift, but his mind was too full,
and he quickly gave up. Careful not to disturb Doyle, he slipped from his
arms, then out of their bed. He grabbed a terry cloth robe, then left the
bedroom, closing the door behind him as quietly as he could. 

Now what? He thought about pouring himself a scotch, but though a part of
him could really have used a drink, he'd always tried to avoid alcohol
when he was feeling maudlin. And he couldn't think of a better word to
describe his current mood. 

Deciding a cup of tea would have to do, he headed for the kitchen. He made
up the kettle, then while he was at it, he fixed a few pieces of toast. He
slathered the toast with butter and strawberry preserves, then practically
inhaled it. He thought about making some more, but he'd never enjoyed
Doyle's metabolism. Between a more inactive job and his aging metabolism,
he'd had to keep a close eye on his waist line. It was bloody annoying,
but one of the newer entries on his list of Things that Must be Endured. 

He poured himself another cup of tea, then wandered into the front room.
He'd been thirty eight years old for two weeks and four days. He found
that ... remarkable. Few would consider him old, but he was no longer
young either. Nor was it an age he'd ever expected to see. 

When he was fourteen the man he'd thought was his father had died, and
Bodie had fled from an abusive mother into a hard, violent life. That had
not changed when George Cowley had finally tracked down his son and
brought him back to England five years later. So he'd always expected an
abrupt, violent end. Instead, with Doyle to watch his back and vice versa,
they'd both survived until Cowley had retired them from the field and made
them his Deputy Controllers. 

In twelve days, his father would reach his sixty fifth birthday and George
Cowley would retire to his wife's country estate, while Bodie and Doyle
would assume the posts of Joint Controllers. Even then the threat of a
violent death would not really end. 

More than one assassin had targeted Cowley in the past, and if Bodie and
his partner did the job even half as well as his father had, a very large
number of dangerous people would want to see them dead. Never one for
hiding behind a nice, safe crime scene barricade, Cowley carried a gun and
had had more than one occasion to use it. They same would be true of his
successors. And given neither of them had a bullet from an old war wound
lodged in their leg, he imagined they'd be even more prone to sticking
their noses into things before the all clear sounded. 

Yes, a bullet or a bomb might still have their names on it, but the odds
were in their favor now, and dying of old age was a very real possibility.
Bodie had just started to come to terms with that, had just gotten to the
point were he thought he might fancy the idea of Doyle chasing him round
the table in the retirement home, when the phone had rung yesterday
morning. 

Tired and more than ready for bed, Doyle had given it an expressive look
before answering the damned thing. "Alpha Two," he'd growled, then looked
surprise. "Esther?" 

As far as Bodie could recall, they only knew one Esther. A detective with
the Hong Kong police, she'd briefly been seconded to CI5 to work on an
international drugs case and had ended up having an equally brief affair
with Doyle. In some ways she had frightened Bodie more than Ann Holly ever
had. 

He'd known Ann was wrong for Doyle, had been his last frantic grasp at a
respectable wife and 2.4 kids. After the relationship had quickly fallen
apart, Bodie had settled back and waited for Doyle to stop pratting around
and realize it had failed because the two of them were in love. It had
taken six months and about as many brief relationships with other birds
for the golli to finally come to his senses. Esther had been the first. 

Unlike Ann, she'd understood Doyle's professional life. Though she didn't
relish violence, she knew it was part of the job and it didn't threaten
her. She understood the security angles, and, in any case, had already
been thoroughly vetted before her plane had even landed at Heathrow. And
she'd needed someone who understood the crazy hours she worked as much as
Doyle had. 

An almost perfect match. One, that if Bodie hadn't been madly in love with
Doyle himself, he would have encouraged. Instead he'd done a lot of
sweating until they'd put her safely aboard the plane for home. He'd been
worried she'd find a position with the Met, or worse, his father might
offer her a job with CI5. Years later he'd found out Cowley had indeed
considered it, but he was Bodie's father and he'd known she threatened
him, so for once he'd put Bodie ahead of the squad and had declined to do
anything to prevent her return to Hong Kong. Of course, he suspected the
fatherly altruism probably had a lot to do with the fact that while she
would have been an asset to the B Squad, she didn't have the
qualifications to make the A Squad. 

The threat of Esther gone, Doyle had gone on to a few flings with some
rather well-heeled birds, then he'd asked Bodie to move in with him. Still
he'd not forgotten the lovely Esther by the time Murphy had been seconded
to MI5 and assigned to the Hong Kong Station. He'd suggest Murphy give her
a call and almost a year to the day, the two of them had married. 

They'd lost touch with Murph after that. An exchange of Christmas cards,
an announcement after the birth of their son - the usual, infrequent
reminders he'd once been a part of their lives, but now had one of his
own. 

Or rather, he did. A month ago he'd gone into the hospital with what the
doctors had assumed was acute appendicitis. Instead they'd discovered
liver cancer. It had spread with frightening speed and had reached his
brain. There was nothing that could be done, and Murphy was fading fast. 

Bodie had been unable to hear the brief conversation, but he'd watched
Doyle's face drain of color, then Ray had said, "We'll be there as soon as
we can." 

He'd hung up, then as he'd dialed Cowley's private line, he'd filled Bodie
in, then told him Murphy had asked to see them. 

Given CI5's imminent change of command and the aftermath of the terrorist
op, it was not the best time for the two heir apparents to be flying
halfway around the world to see a dying man they hadn't talked to in five
years. But Cowley had approved it, and after a quick shower and change of
clothes, they'd caught the first plane bound for Hong Kong. 

At thirty - five, Murphy was two years Bodie's junior, but his pop star
good looks had always made him look even younger. The gaunt, pain wrecked
figure they'd found in the hospital bed, had looked years older than
Cowley. Shaken as he was, Bodie'd managed to chat with him - some shared
memories about the old days and some current gossip. Murph had laughed a
couple of times, but he hadn't been able to stay focused on the
conversation, a consequence of the rot in his brain. Esther had told them
he often lost track of what year it was and thought himself back in CI5,
recovering from the shoulder wound he'd suffered in 1981. 

It helped explain the sudden importance of the good, old days' to Murphy
and why he might want to spend a part of one of his few remaining days
talking to Bodie and Doyle. Murphy had tired quickly and in less than an
hour they'd said their goodbyes. Nothing maudlin, just a 'take it easy,
Murphy' and a 'nice to see you again, mates, but by the way, could he have
a few words in private with Doyle?' 

While Bodie had liked Murphy, Doyle hadn't always got on with him, but his
lover nodded in agreement and Bodie had stepped out into the hall. Five
minutes later Doyle had joined him. He'd looked sad, but shook his head
when Bodie had given him an inquiring look. Whatever had been said, Doyle
hadn't wanted to talk about it. They'd spent the rest of the time between
flights talking to Esther. Murphy wasn't expected to live another twenty
four hours. 

Two years younger than Bodie, and he'd probably be dead before sunrise.
Bodie shook his head. He'd never really expected he'd be granted a
pleasant death, but he'd always thought it would be a quick one. Then when
he'd grown accustomed to the notion he might die of something as mundane
as a heart attack or a stroke, he found himself faced with a whole new
possibility. One he didn't care for at all. 

The very thought of wasting away like that chilling him, he instinctively
looked toward the bedroom where Doyle slept. He'd dreamed of death and
dying, but not of Murphy. It was Doyle, his father and himself struggling
and losing against a thousand different perils. He wanted to wake Doyle up
for a good long cuddle, wanted to call his father to hear the sound of the
old bastard's voice. Instead he got up and poured himself another cup of
tea. 

It felt strange, almost disrespectful, even callous to be so wrapped up in
thoughts of his own mortality while a friend lay dying. But Murphy wasn't
a part of his life anymore. He was a collection of memories, most of them
good, from years ago. And it did hurt to think there would be no new
memories to add to them - not that there was much chance there would have
been in any case. But the possibility had always existed. And it had
always pleased Bodie to know Murphy was alive, happy and living in Hong
Kong. 

He sighed. The names of those who had survived duty on the A Squad made
for a short list, but Murphy had made it. Of course he'd been on the
roster for less than a year. He'd made the squad only days before a group
of terrorists had kidnapped a banker's family, in a rather complicated
plot to assassinate a VIP flying into Herrodene for secret talks. He'd
left eleven months later, a few days after Jack Stone had turned himself
in, closing a case that had been on the Met's books for years. 

Doyle had worked Stone's case before joining CI5, and when someone started
threatening the Stone family, the man had turned to Doyle for help,
agreeing to turn himself in if he could be certain his family would be
safe. Stone had almost reneged on the deal and had given Murphy the slip
when he'd made his escape. The fact Stone turned himself in a few hours
later, didn't change that, and Murphy had decided to hand in his
resignation. 

Cowley had refused to accept it and had instead approved his transfer to
MI5. Murphy had been a competent CI5 operative. Not an outstanding one,
maybe not even a very good one, but a competent one. And CI5's competent
operatives were any other organization's treasures. So no one in CI5 who
noted Murphy's successes had been only slightly more numerous than his
failures was surprised when he'd had a brilliant career with MI5. Word was
his name was even on the short list to head the Hong Kong Station when the
current chief retired. Had been. It had been on the short list. 

It all seemed a very poor reward for a life time spent in the service of
his country. It hadn't been Murph's fault he could work with everyone, but
he'd never bonded with anyone on the squad. Unable to find him a partner,
Cowley had relegated him to solo agent status, but Murphy wasn't a good
undercover operative. Solo, non-undercover work meant group ops and
administration work. Made it hard for a man to keep his edge, and Bodie
certainly hadn't helped matters when that first investigation had led to a
bank within missile range of Herrodene. 

"Bodie?" 

Doyle's call broke into his train of thought, and he answered, "Out here,
angelfish." 

A moment later a sleepy-eyed Doyle appeared in the doorway, all wrapped up
in his own robe. 

Bodie recognized the sheepish look on his lover's face as a reflection of
what he'd felt every time he'd considered waking Doyle, and he held open
his arms. "Could use a hug myself, love." 

A few quick steps brought Doyle to him, and he found himself in the midst
of the bruising embrace he'd wanted. "Christ, I needed that," he
whispered, nuzzling Doyle's neck. 

"Me too," Doyle murmured, his hands caressing Bodie's lower back, right
over the location of two blade-thin scars. 

Bodie couldn't stop his own hand from moving to Doyle's chest and the
scars of a bullet's entry and the surgery performed to save him. "Had a
few nasty dreams myself." 

"Funny thing is, I'd rather have gone that way." 

Never liking to tempt fate - never knew who or what might be listening -
Bodie shuddered, but had to agree. "Know what you mean. We've not lost one
this way before." 

Old timers now, few of the faces they saw these days in the halls of CI5
dated back to their time on the A Squad, but those who hadn't died in
firefights or explosions were all alive. Anson had taken over Jack Crane's
training center; Charlie ran CI5 building security; Ruth was an MP; Stuart
had utilized all his time on undercover work and become a successful
actor; while Susan and Jax had married, then set up a security firm with
Lucas and McCabe. One by one, they'd all died on the streets or left for
jobs with more promising futures. Murphy would be the first of them to
just die. 

"You never liked him much, did you?" Bodie asked, softening the question
with a kiss. 

"Liked him just fine as long as he kept his distance from you." 

"Eh? Raymond, don't tell me you were jealous?" 

Doyle snorted. "Chance'd be a fine thing." He drew Bodie's head down to
rest on his shoulder and snuggled up against him. "You need a keeper, pet,
and Murph wasn't up to the task. Every time the Cow let you two work
together, you'd get yourself into trouble." 

Bodie sighed. He could still remember the rollicking Doyle had given him
about going into the bank were the terrorists were hold up alone. He'd
stopped them from blowing up the VIP, but had broken his wrist and
dislocated his shoulder in the process. The pain had been so bad he'd
actually passed out before Murphy had reached him. Fortunately only a few
seconds had lapsed and all's well that ends well. Except Doyle hadn't seen
it that way. 

Bodie'd had no business going in alone and getting his damned fool self
hurt, let alone almost killed. Yes, his ears still burned at the memory of
that little discussion, but it had seemed like the cooing of a dove
compared to the strip Doyle had tore from Murphy. 

How could he have been stupid enough to stay outside when Bodie had told
him to? Being on the A Squad meant knowing when to tell someone 'not
bloody likely' and getting after them. If Murphy wanted to stand around
and follow a dozy prat's sodding orders then he should get his fucking
arse back to the Boy Scouts or whatever sewing circle he came from and
leave the work to the 'grown ups' had been the polite way of translating
it. 

Bodie still felt badly about it. He'd got used to Doyle guarding his back,
so he'd opted to go it alone. Dumb. He'd known it before he'd even started
breaking bits of himself, but by then he'd been committed to solo action.
If Cowley hadn't ordered Murphy to come after him instead of watching the
street as Bodie had told him, things could have had fatal consequences. 

Hardly an auspicious beginning to Murph's CI5 career, and for weeks the
poor sod had taken stick about shifty characters lurking about so perhaps
he should go guard the street to make certain no one stole it. 

To make it up to him, to prove he'd known Murphy was a good man and could
guard his back any day Doyle wasn't available, Bodie had made his second
great mistake with Murphy. But ... "Climbing that smokestack was a good
idea," he muttered. 

Doyle sighed. "Whatever you say, pet. But I still think your old man
should have handcuffed you to the nearest heavy object when you suggested
it." 

"Wouldn't be saying that if you hadn't found the getaway chopper and made
the whole thing a mote point." A nutter had built a foxhole on a warehouse
roof and used it to hold a hospital ward hostage. The only higher point in
the area had been an old smokestack. Leaving the investigating to Doyle,
Bodie had convinced both Cowley and Murphy climbing it was the only
answer. 

It had worked too. Murph's skill as a climber was undeniable and the whole
thing would have been over with as soon as they'd reached the top, except
for Bodie's mistake. Class A Marksman was the highest shooting
classification anyone could earn, but it did not mean everyone who held it
was of equal skill. Bodie had pretended it did and, when they'd got into
position, he'd let Murphy take the shot. 

He'd missed. Then he'd compounded the error by not immediately shifting
his position and had gotten himself shot. Bodie hadn't missed, but by that
time Doyle was in the helicopter the nutter was hoping to escape in, so it
hadn't mattered. "I don't think he ever got over the loss of confidence
that op caused." 

"No, but it wasn't your fault Bodie. Told me yourself he'd suggested you
take the shot, but let you talk him into doing it." Doyle gave the top of
his head a kiss. "He got you hurt by not acting when he should have, and
got himself shot by acting when he shouldn't have. He was a good man,
Bodie, but he didn't have what it takes to thrive in CI5. And he knew it."


"He did?" 

"Told me so himself a few hours ago." He tightened his grip on Bodie,
hugging him close. "Was the reason he sent for us - he wanted to tell me
he was sorry he let you go into the bank alone. Jesus, what a waste of a
man's final hours." 

"No, Ray, maybe that's the only good thing about dying that way. Gives you
time to say the things you never got around to saying. Time to say
goodbye." 

That got him another kiss. "Come back to bed, Bodie. Even if we can't
sleep, we can still hold each other while we rest." 

" kay," Bodie agreed, and they got to their feet. 

They were halfway across the room when the phone rang. They both stopped
and stared at it for a moment. There were a hundred reasons why someone
would be calling Alpha Two and Three at this time of night, but whether it
was one of those weird near psychic moments or simply the timing, a shared
glance confirmed both knew it was either Esther or member of her family
calling to tell them it was over. 

Doyle answered it on the third ring, while Bodie headed for the bar. In
the morning they'd arrange a wreath, approve leave for anyone who wanted
to attend the funeral and notify those who were no longer in CI5, but
would want to know. The two of them had exchanged any thought of going to
the funeral themselves for the opportunity to say goodbye, and he didn't
regret that for an instant. 

The news spread, a few sad words exchanged, then life would go on as it
always had. They'd still have those memories, mostly good ones, from years
ago, but there would be no more Christmas cards, no birth announcement of
the second child Murphy had wanted, and there would be one less person in
the world who would look forward to their Christmas card. It didn't seem
like much of a difference, but it felt like a very large one. 

He took two glasses out, then poured a splash of scotch in each. When
Doyle hung up, he handed one to him. 

They looked at each other, and Bodie raised his glass. "To Murph." 

"To a good man." 

The glasses clinked together, then they drank. 

-- THE END --

*AUTHOR'S NOTE:* In the series, George Cowley has a fairly paternal
relationship with Bodie. However, while it is never stated Bodie isn't his
son, it was most certainly never said that he was. In most of the Pros fic
I write, I assume the blood relationship exists, but it is pure fanon.

   Archive Home