discoveredinalj | Discovered in a Nightmare Fic

On The Threshold of a Dream
by LilyK

Bodie woke from a deep sleep, startled by a sound that echoed in his ears. He lay very still, listening intently. Had it been a dream, or was someone in his flat? The noise came again, but this time he could put a name to the sound: a low moan. Human, he knew. Instantly, Bodie was on his feet, his weapon pulled out from under his pillow as he rose. As he crept silently across the room and down the hall, he flicked off the safety.

The sound came again, full of pain. Bodie moved quickly, bare feet quiet on the carpeted floor. Peering around the corner, he gasped.

"Ray!"

Bodie rushed to his partner's side. Doyle lay face down on the floor in the steadily widening pool of blood. The back of his jacket was torn from the bullet that had ripped through it and blood stained the brown material. He could see more of the stuff spreading out from underneath Doyle's body. The redness of the stain made his eyes widen and the smell stuck in his throat. The sight of blood had never bothered him before, but it belonged to his partner, his best friend, and he gagged. He swallowed to avoid vomiting on the spot.

"Oh, Jesus." Bodie tossed his gun aside and hurried to the kitchen. Running back to Doyle, he started packing the wound with the tea towels, trying to staunch the flow that bled away Doyle's life.

As he worked, lips held tightly together to avoid screaming his rage and desperation, Bodie kept himself under tight control. Finished with his preliminary first aid, his next thought was to call for an ambulance.

Bodie reached for the phone. As he touched it, it turned a dark liquid in his hands. He saw the liquid for what it was: blood. It ran down his arms and dripped from his elbows as he watched, great gushes of it, darkening his track suit bottoms and puddling on the floor. He let out a harsh groan, swiping his blood-stained hands on his shirt.

He needed that ambulance! Bodie gave Doyle a quick glance and put a hand gingerly on his back. Still breathing, though shallowly, he noticed, and he could clearly hear Doyle's struggle to breathe, his lungs desperately trying to find enough air to keep his body alive.

Barely able to breathe himself, Bodie lurched for the r/t that lay on the floor next to Doyle's body. As he thumbed the on/off switch, the r/t seemed to waver in his hand. Amazingly, it melted away and somehow became Doyle's Browning. Dumbstruck, Bodie stared at the gun he now held, unable to move.

Bodie had enough wherewithal to wonder what in God's name was going on.

The door bell rang. Bodie jumped out of his skin; the Browning clattered to the floor. Who...? The ambulance? It was here? Had he called for it? Reason didn't matter; all that mattered was that help was here and Doyle needed that help desperately. Somehow the rescue that he'd prayed for had arrived. He had to get Doyle to hospital. Had to save him.

The bell rang again as Bodie rose and started towards the locked front door. His feet slipped out from under him as they slid on something coating the wood floor. Crashing to his back, Bodie lay stunned for a long minute. When he put his hand down to push himself to a sitting position, his palm skidded on the viscous liquid in which he lay.

Incessantly the doorbell rang. Bodie raised his right arm aloft. His entire hand was red with blood. So much so that it ran down his arm and splattered on his face and chest. As it gathered on his shirt, it ran down both sides to the floor. Long rivers of blood tracked from his body and seeped down between the floorboards. Bodie lay frozen in place as the amount of blood grew.

Over and over the doorbell rang, so intense that the sound pierced Bodie's head. Mouth open, he clamped his bloody hands over his ears to try to alleviate the stabbing pain. As he lay immobile on the floor, more droplets of blood, warm and cloying, dripped onto his face. He blinked against the fluid that started to plunk against his forehead. Each drop seemed to sear his flesh.

Swiping at his eyes to clear his vision, Bodie darted a glance upwards. He let out a startled cry. The ceiling was coated with blood. Dark, and red, and sticky. It dripped onto his face; it filled his mouth, choking him. It ran down the walls to puddle on the floors.

So much blood! How could Doyle live after losing so much blood? And why couldn't Bodie move? Doyle was dying and Bodie needed to find help -- too much time was passing. By now, because of Bodie, Doyle was surely dead. He felt a wash of desperation. Doyle had died and it was all his fault...

Panicked now, his lungs filling with the blood that now had risen high enough to engulf him, Bodie couldn't even scream as he drowned in Doyle's life force.

-------------------------------

Bodie jerked awake, the sounds of bells ringing through his brain. He lay very still, blinking dazedly. A look around told him he was in his own room, his own bed. He struggled to sit up. The sheets had become tangled around his limbs, holding him captive.

The buzzing from the bells continued. He could finally identify their sources: the front door and his r/t simultaneously. Still somewhat disoriented, it took him a few seconds to understand what was happening. He was okay. He was safely in his bed, and he wasn't drowning in Doyle's blood.

Christ. Bodie covered his face with his hands and struggled to still his racing heart as he remembered the -- dream? Doyle bleeding out on Bodie's own front room floor. Bodie's futile race to try to save him. What the fuck was all that about?

Thankfully, the dual rings had now stilled. Other than his own harsh breathing, Bodie heard only the normal noise of flat living. A pipe gurgled overhead; the fridge hummed; a car horn blared out on the pavement; a plane flew by on its way out of Heathrow.

Gathering himself together, he derided himself for his fanciful musings. For that was all they were: dreams, nightmares, flights of fancy. Doyle was alive. Bodie sat up abruptly. At least, he'd been alive yesterday. They'd each gone home after making their reports to Cowley regarding their efforts to bring in two suspected terrorists, both now dead. Their failure to capture the two men they'd tailed into a car park rankled Bodie. All the blokes would've had to do was surrender. Instead, they'd taken off, and as he and Doyle had given chase, the blue van had raced down a back alley, swerved around a porter to avoid hitting him, and smashed into a wall, exploding in a ball of flames that had killed both occupants.

They'd done their jobs.

In his rational mind, Bodie knew full and good that Doyle was alive, yet he was very confused as the vivid images of the dream crashed over him once again. He could clearly see the blood on his hands, on his body. Taste it in his mouth.

"Oi! Cloth ears!"

Bodie jumped a foot, a movement that Doyle obviously saw because he froze in place and looked at Bodie with confusion.

"What's up with you, eh? It's gone nine, we're late for Cowley, and I've been laying on the bloody bell for thirty minutes. You didn't answer your r/t. I had to use me spare to get in." Doyle's words faded away as he stared at Bodie. He must have seen something more in Bodie's face because his tone mellowed. "Are you all right?"

Bodie blinked stupidly before he lurched from the bed. He stumbled by Doyle's outstretched hand into the loo and fell to his knees on the floor in front of the toilet. He heaved, retching again and again until he was exhausted.

"Here."

A damp cloth appeared before his eyes and he reached out, his hand shaking. Wiping down his sweat-drenched face, he closed his eyes and leaned his forehead on his hand that clasped the rim of the bowl.

"I'll call Cowley. Tell him you're sick."

Bodie didn't respond, but he listened as Doyle's footsteps receded. He heard the sound of the phone dial turning and Doyle's murmuring voice. With a tired sigh, Bodie pushed himself up and looked at his reflection in the bathroom mirror.

"You look a treat."

Bodie caught Doyle's gaze in the mirror. Doyle looked concerned, which only fuelled Bodie's unease. He still wasn't sure about the nightmare. It was too real to be just a dream. A foretelling? He shuddered. Nah, couldn't be 'cause he didn't believe in such things.

"Cuppa?" Doyle's hand rested briefly against his back. The warmth there permeated Bodie's thin vest.

Tongue thick, Bodie nodded.

"Come out when you're ready." Doyle disappeared, giving Bodie his privacy. He washed his face and brushed his teeth.

Leaning on the basin with both hands, Bodie examined himself in the mirror. He looked tired. Not that he'd admit it to Doyle, but sometimes the job got to him. Like this most recent assignment. He was tired of terrorists and bombs and killing. He was irritated with students taking up arms because of their idealistic attitudes. He was angry with people murdering because they wanted money or power or to make a point. He wanted out. He wanted quiet places and boring times. Bodie sighed and stood up, shaking his head at his own musings.

No sense hurting his brain with all this regret. Doyle needed him to cover his back, to keep him safe. Until something happened to either of them, Bodie was determined to do his best to make sure that Doyle remained alive and happy. He snickered at these thoughts, more proof of his idiocy. Happy... What a joke. He'd like to make Doyle a hell of a lot more than happy. He'd like to make him scream with pleasure. Touch him everywhere. Shag him senseless, to be sure, but even Bodie cringed when he reckoned that something as unwanted as love might intrude on his randy thoughts. Bugger that. Love hurt; love killed. A lesson Bodie had learned well. Still, if Doyle only knew-

"Tea's ready!"

Jolted out of his reverie by Doyle's call, Bodie set a passive face, turned away from the mirror and went to join his partner.

End...

Title: On The Threshold of a Dream
Author: LilyK
Genre: Slash, B/D
Warnings: None
Length: Approx. 1,800 words
Summary: Bodie has a horrible nightmare.
A/N: The title is taken from a Moody Blues album. Thanks to Nik and Chris for the beta work. Please note that this story was written by an American.