Title: Only With Joy

Author/pseudonym: Patti

Fandom: The Professionals

Pairing: William Andrew Philip Bodie/Raymond Doyle

Rating: PG

Status: Complete

Archive: I would like for this story to be included in the WWOMB.

E-mail address for feedback:: mac_moms@postoffice.pacbell.net

Series/Sequel: No.

Other websites: None

Disclaimers: Alas, they do not belong to me, but rather to some Brits who hadn't the sense to take good care of them.

Spoilers: Yeah, but darned if I can remember the episode names. That never was my forte. None are really terrible spoilers, I think.

Summary: The surviving partner has a hard time finding a reason to live.

Warnings: Death

Note: I finished this story 3 years ago and have been waiting for a certain editor, who shall remain nameless, to publish it in a promised zine I don't believe her anymore, so here it is. I no longer feel it's any good, but I may have simply lost interest in that fandom. Do let me know, either way.

Only With Joy
by Patti

It should have been a nothing job. Babysitting a witness until trial was something they did reluctantly but faithfully several times a year. It was exhausting because one had to maintain a high level of alertness for extended periods of time while literally nothing happened. This time, however, on the way up the rear steps of the courthouse, hell came into session. Even as he whirled to aim his gun, Doyle was aware of Bodie crushing their charge to the steps with his own body. Hearing a muffled cry, half of CI5's best team grieved, knowing Bodie was at least hit, perhaps dead, but Doyle went on firing, reloading and firing until there was an exclamation from a roof opposite, and the gunman fell two stories to the ground.

Typically, Doyle thought, Bodie was still trying to do his job, attempting to rise and pull the young lady to her feet while she fought him hysterically. Cold rage gripped Doyle, who yanked the girl free of Bodie's weak grasp and shoved her at Anson, who dragged her inside. Calling for an ambulance, 4.5 reported Bodie's injury, the extent of which was still unknown. Automatically, he put an arm round Bodie's waist, lifted one of his mate's arms over his own shoulders and walked him past the heavy steel door, which he closed.

There was a bench there, where Bodie permitted himself to be seated, but then began to slide down until he was lying with his feet still on the floor. Doyle opened Bodie's coat to see if there were an exit wound, though he'd known there was, because there was blood everywhere.

"No, Bodie, you can't lie on your back," Doyle said, his voice shivering. Doyle took off his scarf and stuffed it up under Bodie's poloneck, then ripped out of his coat, shoulder holster and t-shirt, the latter of which he folded and shoved under Bodie's shirt in the back. Please, no, he thought. When a cold, bloody hand gripped his, Doyle forced himself to look into Bodie's face, into the bluest eyes he'd ever seen. He leaned close, as Bodie seemed to be trying to speak. "Thanks, love," the faint sounds came. "Never had a... Nobody ever... before."

Doyle struggled for control. Nobody ever loved me before. Bodie had said that to him more than once. Doyle couldn't see how it could be true. Maybe Bodie just never believed it before. "Gave you the shirt off me back, didn't I," he observed, resuming his holster and jacket. "Can't afford to lose you, mate."

"Ray," Bodie breathed. "Remember..." and he passed out.

"Where the hell's that ambulance?" Doyle roared, pushing open the door, completely forgetting that there could be another sniper out there.

Murphy came through and pulled it shut, bodyblocking Doyle away from the opening. "Jesus, Ray, you trying to get shot, too? They've not finished the sweep."

"Where's the bloody ambulance?" His shout frightened the girl, and Doyle glared death at her. Anson moved her deeper into the building, out of his sight. Good, he thought viciously. Like to do more than scare the little bitch.

Just then they heard the siren. Remember, Doyle thought. What? Remember waking up beside someone who loved him? Remember the solid strength and shocking speed which had saved his life so many times? If Bodie dies, Doyle reasoned, "I'm going to have to quit the mob."

"What did you say?" Murphy asked, peering out through a slit in the doorway. Doyle grunted a non-answer. The door opened then and the ambulancemen were there with their stretcher and box of tricks. Doyle was pushed to the wall to give them room, where he kept sight of the white face he might never see awake again. Don't die, Bodie, he thought. It was pathetic, really, he admitted, that he'd allowed Bodie to become so necessary to his mere ability to live. He had permitted Bodie to become his strength when he had none, his courage when he was shivering in terror, his ability to clown around when he felt like retreating into depression.

After a few frantic minutes, they loaded Bodie into the ambulance, and tried to stiff arm Doyle so he'd stay out. Coldly, he advised, "I've got a gun, mate. And he's my partner."

They backed off then, and Doyle seated himself inside, picking up Bodie's hand to hold, regardless of what the witnesses might think. Bodie died before they reached hospital.

* * *

Only bits of the next few days touched Doyle. He'd known it would be a mistake to go to the morgue, but he couldn't seem to help it. It wasn't fair to send Bodie into what he'd believed was an eternity of nothingness without saying goodbye. The old man was with him, and Doyle noted with an odd objectivity that Cowley seemed ten years older. Was true, then, he supposed. Bodie had been the son he'd never had. Everyone had thought so. Otherwise Bodie would have been out on his attractive rear end years ago.

Doyle had seen a lot of dead men in his life. Like all of them, Bodie was already cold as the grave, and his pallor, always pronounced, was nearly a blue, waxen color now. Until this very moment, Doyle had harbored some mad hope that his Bodie was alive somewhere, romancing some bird down river while he prepared to surprise everyone with his reappearance. Near collapse, he held on hard to the frigid metal table which held the best of him and was glad Bodie's eyes were closed. He wanted to remember that amazing color lambent with love, not filmed and empty.

"Oh, mate," he heard himself say. "Damn you, we were supposed to go together!" Someone took his arm, but he shook loose. "Get off me! If you can't deal with it, don't look."

One last kiss. So cold. Hard as stone. Bodie could be that sometimes. But he was as soft as butter inside, at least where Doyle was concerned. And Cowley. Doyle sought the old man's face. Was he all right? No, he wasn't. He was grey with fatigue and could no doubt use a good malt scotch. Doyle wished he were the kind of man who could take Cowley in charge and see that he got what he needed. Perhaps he had been, once, but now he was only half alive. And besides, it had been Bodie who could get Cowley to do what was good for him, not Doyle.

Fists clenching against a tidal wave of rage, Doyle turned away from the body. Bodie, you unmitigated bastard! How dare you do this to me!

Instantly, he heard Bodie's ironic voice chiding him, "Wasn't deliberate, y'know." Of course it wasn't. Bodie loved life, drank it up in great gulps. It was Doyle who tried to beat life into the shape he wanted, then beat himself when it didn't work. Remembering that Bodie had actually said those things to him, fairly early in their acquaintance, Doyle went to his knees and sobbed. His life was over.

* * *

His next memory was of the graveside service. He'd somehow dressed himself, or someone had helped him...he had a peculiar idea it was Susan. Now he stood beside Cowley, with an old friend of Bodie's at his left. He kept stealing glances at Willie Caine. Always, he'd wondered whether their relationship had ever been more than that of friends while they were in the Paras together. It was Caine who held the umbrella which kept Doyle dry while the vicar muttered some words or other that Bodie would have found amusing. Not caring if his voice carried, Doyle said, "He would have hated this." Caine responded, "Nah. Just found it irrelevant." The man turned to face him, head cocked slightly. "You were good for him, Doyle. You helped him stay human."

"If he were here, I'd shoot him myself!" Heads did turn then, but most quickly looked away again.

Caine nodded, his eyes a pale imitation of the ones Doyle loved. "I know. He didn't leave you purposely. He'd never have hurt you."

Doyle turned and walked away into the rain. Not really thinking, he walked for hours, finally fetching up in a bus shelter. When someone sat down beside him and wrapped a blanket around his soaked shoulders, he said dully, "Bodie would have wanted a military band and everyone to adjourn to dance and drink the night away."

"Aye, lad, he would. Come wi' me now." Doyle hunched his shoulders, content to sit here and die, but the old man spoke again. "He'd call this self-indulgent, 4.5. You know he would." Tears rose yet again, side by side with anger, but Doyle got up and followed Cowley to the car. With the motor on, the heat started up and Doyle began to shiver. Cowley handed him a silver flask. "Here," he said. "It'll help a bit."

But not much, Doyle thought. Nothing is going to help much. Not ever. Nevertheless, he took a respectable swig and gave back the flask, not without remembering how many times Bodie had held that very container.

* * *

Surfacing with a gasp, Doyle yanked at the drenched sheet, automatically reaching toward his mate, and it hit him again. It was still incredible. Bodie was dead. Collapsing to his back, staring up into the darkness, he tried to force himself to accept it. Would the damned dream stop if he did? Did he want it to stop? In it, he was not with Bodie, he was Bodie. Was that really what it had been like for him? Or was the whole thing an elaborate way to have Bodie say goodbye? In the dream, Bodie had managed to finish the sentence, "Remember I love you."

And why in the name of God was he having this dream eight months after putting Bodie in the ground? He checked the clock-5.30. Close enough, he decided. In the shower, he could pretend he wasn't weeping again. Again! Bodie would laugh at him for being such a fool. No. Bodie would hold him and comfort him and promise him things would get better. He lived his life on automatic pilot now, and didn't come aware again until he was on his way in to headquarters. He wasn't driving the gold Capri anymore. It was too evocative of Bodie. He'd managed to get the brown Mercedes, and for some reason no one questioned his need of it. Fucking place was a zoo. Unconsciously grimacing, he remembered he had to address the newest batch of possible recruits today. Join CI5 and lose everything you ever loved, he thought. Tell them that, see how many will raise their hands and volunteer.

Somehow, Doyle had to find the courage to face life without his love. It's like trying to breathe broken glass on a good day, he thought. And when I hit one of our birthdays or anniversaries... He had to blink hard and force himself to pay attention to the traffic around him. A sudden, vivid memory of Bodie's voice ambushed him-deep, rich and tinged with the leaven of humor with which Bodie had always faced things: "'M not brave, not really, sunshine. Just do what I have to do anyway, same as you."

"Not the same as me, love," he said aloud. "You were brave because you loved life and didn't fear death. Me, I just do what I promised you. I just keep breathing." He pulled into the parking area and girded himself for contact with other human beings.

* * *

Self-conscious because of the way the long-time agents looked at him, Doyle tugged at his tie. He had not consciously adopted a more formal dress code, but knew perfectly well it was likely he was trying to "keep" a bit of Bodie by wearing suits unless casual was called for. Still, it kept him warm, and that was a small mercy in this over-air-conditioned environment they'd moved into. That it was the grey, vested "uniform" of the up and coming Whitehall maven never crossed his mind. Betty greeted him as coolly as she always had, and lately that had made him grin. Some things never changed. "Morning, Betty, is he in?"

She nodded, warning, "Hasn't had his tea yet."

"Oh." Doyle pivoted on one foot. "Never mind. I'll try later." He walked toward the rest room, wondering idly how it was that Betty was always here no matter how early he got here.

Someone was asleep on the lumpy settee they seemed to drag around from pillar to post. Ignoring the blanketed figure, Doyle started tea, then threw it out, washed the pot and started over. He always forgot that he was the only one who ever washed it now. The others would just keep using it until the metal wore through.

Waiting for the pot to boil, he sat down, staring at an old issue of the Guardian without really seeing the words. He missed Bodie at these times, too. Waiting, nothing special up except tea, not necessarily even talking. The dream swept over him again, the jubilant, soaring sense of perfect oneness with life which Bodie experienced when in danger. Not born to kill, Doyle realized now; born to defend. Born to protect and to guard that which he loved. A wave of nearly overwhelming grief took Doyle, and he bent double, his face hidden against his knees, hands gripped together against his belly. No tears came, whether because he had finally perfected his control, or because he'd cried himself out, Doyle didn't know. But not until the kettle whistled did he attempt to control the pain. His hands were shaking as he poured out, and he nearly spilled when someone stuck an extra cup under the spout. Bodie used to do that. Rage, swiftly banked, took the place of grief, and he looked up to find Murphy regarding him with compassion.

Unable to speak, Doyle tried to smile and suspected it made him look like a gargoyle. "Rough night," Doyle offered.

Murphy nodded, rubbing his face with one hand. "An' me. That sofa is an implement of torture. We never get rid of it because Macklin loves the idea of our tryin' to sleep on it."

"Why don't we ship it to Macklin," Doyle suggested, "if he loves it so much?"

In the outer hall, Doyle heard Betty's voice, "This way, ladies and gentlemen. Mr. Cowley and Mr. Doyle will be with you shortly." Doyle wasn't aware he'd groaned aloud until Murphy chuckled. "Better you than me, mate."

Doyle punched his arm, part of his mind observing that it was Bodie who had liked Murphy; it was Bodie who had punched people's arms. "You'll be next, you just wait."

There was an odd, silent moment. Murphy then smiled. "You'll make it, Ray." He immediately hunched his shoulders as he walked away, as though Doyle might attack him.

Doyle, however, was wondering how much of his new behavior was an adaptation to life without his heart. Bodie had been that, he knew. For all he'd been an efficient, deadly war machine, Bodie had been the softest, most gentle, generous man Doyle had ever known. Doyle considered himself to be nearly heartless, his compassion and caring largely intellectual, his behavior dictated by principles. Surely he couldn't hurt this much if Bodie hadn't taught him something about love.

Cowley appeared in Doyle's field of vision, and Ray suddenly saw how much more grey was in the old man's hair; how he seemed to limp all the time now. "Tea, sir?"

Cowley shook his head. "No thank you, lad. I'm not up to it just now."

"Sir?" Doyle found himself at the old man's side. "What's wrong?" He couldn't help the edge of anger in his voice, or the instant, fierce resolve to fix whatever it was. For Bodie, of course. He was completely unaware that he had sirred Cowley twice.

Cowley studied his face, the hard blue eyes softening, then blanking out again. Doyle might have imagined the swift pat on the shoulder. "Can't take tea, or anything, with the new medication." He turned, calling back, "Come on, lad. You're to do most of the talking."

Doyle followed, reflecting that while he had never entirely trusted Cowley with his life, he did trust his devotion to the job. Bodie had pointed that out to him after the Molner affair, when Doyle had nearly resigned. Bodie, who might also have died on that stupid train, had still trusted his commanding officer not to sacrifice troops needlessly.

The old man's really old now, he thought. Bodie's death nearly did for him. I'll have to go when he does. I'd never be able to stick this job with anyone else in charge. Bad enough as it is.

Just as they entered the room of hopefuls, Cowley said quietly, "Stay, afterwards, 4.5. I want to speak with you about the future." And on that note, Cowley strode to the front of the room with no sign of a limp and began to speak.

* * *

Turning the recruits over to Anson for movement through the bureaucratic maze necessary even to be tested for CI5, Doyle returned to the controller's office. He hoped he was wrong about what the old man was going to say. Doyle had always expected Bodie to succeed Cowley, but failing that, he'd suspected the old man had his eye on him for the job. He wasn't old enough, and he wasn't the right social class, but Cowley would consider those matters minimally relevant. Tapping lightly, he opened the door and entered, walking to the window while Cowley finished a phone conversation. Grinning, he vastly enjoyed listening to an expert flay someone who probably considered himself Cowley's superior with both delicacy and deadly accuracy. One of a kind, our George, he thought.

"Sit down, lad," Cowley said.

Reluctantly, Doyle did so, unable to read anything at all in Cowley's face. "The old man would be deadly at poker," Bodie had once remarked. He'd been right, Doyle considered.

"A job?" Doyle asked.

Cowley gestured toward a large portfolio on his desk. "I want you to take this and read it, Doyle. You may remember a certain spy who came home to die..."

Doyle sat up straighter. "Thomas Darby. That's the manuscript?"

"The very same. It's the source of much of my leverage, and when you read it you will see why."

Doyle was suspicious, as usual. "Why do you want me to read this?"

Cowley gave a ghostly smile. "I want you to be my successor. For whatever time I have left, I intend to train you, and you'll need to know... Sit down, 4.5."

Doyle shook his head. "No, I'm sorry. I don't want it. I'm not suitable, and even if I were, I want no part of the place if you're not running it."

"Please, Doyle," Cowley said softly, resorting to a visible vulnerability to get his way-something Cowley rarely did, but it was effective. "Let me explain."

Closing his eyes, Doyle sank back into the chair, knowing it was a mistake. Cowley knew him too well-he'd doubtless be able to play on his weaknesses to get him to do what he wanted. And indeed, the old man began with Ray's worst one.

"I had intended to make Bodie my successor." Doyle's eyes popped open. This was the first time since...well, the first time in months that Cowley had mentioned Bodie.

"Obviously," Cowley continued, "that is no longer an option. I had wanted to use Bodie because he's-he was-capable of the really difficult decisions without tearing himself up over them. You are still something of an idealist, but I have confidence that you will succeed."

Cowley's slip of the tongue called forth one of the scythe-like sweeps of agony that razored through Doyle from time to time. I used to do that, he thought; speak of him as if he's not lying in the ground, probably mostly bones by now. I don't now. Doesn't mean I don't still love him, does it? Nah, I'll love him forever.

"Read the manuscript, lad. We'll talk when you've returned it to me."

Doyle just sat there, staring at his knees. When Cowley put a hand on his shoulder yet again, he looked up at the old man, aware that the controller had touched him twice today, a rare occurrence, though Cowley had often found excuses to touch Bodie. The thought must have been clear in his face, because his employer turned aside swiftly and cleared his throat.

Picking up the bulky manuscript from the desk, he handed it to Doyle. "Please, lad. He'd want you to do it."

Accepting the burden of secrets Cowley gave him, Doyle stood up and moved heavily to the door. Without turning back to the controller, he said quietly, "Yeah. Damn him, he would."

* * *

He'd nearly fallen asleep on the sofa, the pages of the manuscript scattered over the coffee table and the seat, even the carpet. No wonder people jumped when Cowley looked their way. Why hadn't someone had him killed before now? It was still dark around the edges of the curtains. Doyle stretched, yawning, irritated that Bodie wasn't around to massage his neck and back.

"Sorry, sunshine. Do it if I could."

In the way of dreams, Doyle wasn't surprised to hear him, nor to see him, when he looked at the big chair Bodie had liked so much. He looked good, Doyle thought. "I always liked you in that sweater," he said.

Bodie chuckled. "You liked me better in nothin.'"

"Oh, yeah."

"You gonna take the job, mate?"

"Cowley's job? You think I should?"

"Yeah. 'Cause you're incorruptible, just like him. And you're as smart as he is. You'll do better than I could have."

Doyle shook his head. "What about the hard decisions, love? Like Manton. Don't think I could have done that."

Bodie leaned toward him, forearms on his knees, the gold I.D. bracelet at one sturdy wrist gleaming in the lamplight. "Yeah, you would. He'll teach you. And you learned a lot from me."

Doyle's throat developed an ache. "So much," he managed. "Did I ever tell you? How much I learned from you, Bodie?"

Bodie smiled. Doyle's heart skipped. Had there ever been a more beautiful male? Michelangelo's David paled by comparison. Dark and light, soft and dangerous. Contradictory and straightforward.

"You told me," Bodie assured him. "What we had was complete, Ray. Perfectly complete. More time would have been...wonderful. But even so, no one could have loved more or better than we did. You mustn't regret things that didn't happen. It's time to move on. You know that, don't you."

It wasn't a question. "That's why you've come, isn't it? To say goodbye. Really say it this time."

Bodie stood up, still smiling. "Don't be sad anymore, Ray. I was wrong. There is something else to do after this life. And it's-" His smile gained wattage. "It's such an adventure, you won't believe it!"

Doyle laughed. "It would be, just for you. Gi' us a kiss?"

The smile turned down in regret. "Sorry, love. When you get here, right? Now go back to sleep, there's a mate. And when you wake up, you'll start a new life."

"Bodie, I..."

Bodie didn't turn away, or walk away, he just seemed to recede into the distance. "Sleep, love. Remember me. But only with joy."

Doyle had a drowsy, resentful thought: "Just like you, prat. Fare me well with poetry and forbid mourning in the same breath."

In the morning, Doyle collected the manuscript together and went to tell Cowley he'd take the job.

The End