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discoveredinaljpart 1 here:
http://discoveredinalj.livejournal.com/208310.html
“Sir!” said Bodie. “You can’t leave him like this. It’s far enough. You didn’t make me jog this long—”
“No, but I will if you’d like. Doyle will be finished when I say so, and not before.” He sat down at the desk, and began to page through his papers, glancing up again at the dismayed face of Bodie and the agonised, pale face of Doyle.
“But sir, it’s not fair. I was the one who misbehaved, not Doyle.”
“And maybe you will think of that next time you decide to horse around when there are serious things afoot,” said Cowley. Even if Doyle didn’t learn his lesson about submitting from this, Bodie might learn an even more important lesson. “It could very well cost your partner far more than you. In the field, even his life.”
Bodie looked like he’d been slapped upside the head. He blinked, and Cowley could see the comparison had hit home. Inwardly, he smiled. Bodie wasn’t dumb—you just had to get his attention with something that mattered to him. And apparently, that something was Doyle.
“Then let me carry the buckets, sir,” said Bodie. “I’ll jog with them too, if you want.”
“Guilt, Bodie? Will guilt help you, if he dies when you’re not paying attention in the field?”
“Sir, but that’s the field,” said Bodie desperately. “Of course I pay attention in the field. It’s just that class can be so—”
“Boring, Bodie? What happens when you get bored in the field, eh, lad? Suppose you’re on a stakeout, and nothing interesting is happening. You decide to cut up a few larks—have a few beers—disappear for a bit. And when you get back, he’s dead. Yes, Bodie, it’s happened—and in trades less dangerous than ours. I’ll not have such disrespect again for this classroom, or you’ll find I’ve no need for men like you in CI5. The classroom is here for a reason—to keep you alive, and help you keep civilians and each other alive. Violating the integrity of that is like spitting on the graves of those who died when we learned what we know the hard way.”
Okay, so he might be overstating things a bit, but Cowley was angry, and he wanted this to sink into Bodie’s thick, classroom-hating skull. He pointed at the ex-SAS man, and thundered, “Now you, Bodie, get out of here and to your next class!”
“Yes sir.” Bodie saluted, cast a singularly worried look at his partner, and left. He didn’t want to leave, but he left. This man, at least, knew how to follow orders.
Cowley bent his head over his papers, and set to some work. He’d have them re-tested on hostage crisis this week. You couldn’t go over that too much, as it was one of the trickiest situations and often left you with little or no time to think, and the stakes too high for mistakes.
He’d almost forgotten about Doyle completely, with one part of his brain at least, when the voice spoke, still defiant but also a little shaky. “Am I to stand here all night?”
Cowley ignored him, then slowly removed his glasses and looked up. “What was that?” he said in a foreboding tone.
“Am I to stand here all night—sir?” This time Doyle’s voice cracked a little, and there was a definite defiance to the ‘sir.’ But he was no longer half as defiant as he had been. Perhaps that would have to do.
Cowley fitted his glasses back on. “Had enough have you?”
“Yes sir.”
Cowley stared at him, and Doyle stared back, for nearly thirty seconds by the ticking of the clock behind him. He was well aware that he’d made the man stand for over an hour, his muscles screaming, enduring a slow, torturous sort of punishment that wouldn’t leave a mark afterwards, but that had made strong men break down and confess before this.
“Then you may put them down and go join your partner. Doyle!” he snapped, as the man let down the buckets—leaning over, trembling, working his hands open painfully slowly. Doyle jumped a little, and pulled himself back to attention, pain and relief and fear all three on his face now.
“Yes sir?” There was definite wariness in that voice now.
“Maybe in the future, you’ll think about picking your battles, to use that gift of stubbornness on, laddie.”
Doyle blinked, looking shocked and startled as the message sank in: he could’ve been done much sooner if he hadn’t insisted on shooting defiance at Cowley with every look.
Cowley jerked his head towards the door. “Go. Catch up with your partner.”
#
He heard about it later: after this, they’d gone to class, sat through it in silence, and then got into a raging fight afterwards. In the locker rooms, Doyle had called Bodie every name in the book for not paying attention, and Bodie had told him he was too stubborn to live, deserved whatever the Cow did to him, and should’ve been drowned at birth.
The fight ended with Doyle punching Bodie, and Bodie catching him by both arms and crushing him tightly close, holding him like that till Doyle’s struggling and trembling wore down.
The man who told Cowley added with a course laugh, “Ended up petting his hair, too, and trying to quiet him.”
“And you find that funny, do you?” asked Cowley, giving the man a hard stare. He had use for his jackals, his informants—he needed to know what was going on, after all—but he found the running commentary, judgmental attitude and superiority distasteful.
“Eh, no sir,” said the jackal, obviously confused, dropping his gaze.
#
Doyle retained a sullen attitude short of outright defiance from that point, and Bodie was more protective of his partner and less likely to cut up. Cowley couldn’t help wondering, however, if he’d handled the situation exactly wrong, at least on Doyle’s account. Forcing a confrontation that the policeman thought was unfair and simply authoritarian had made the issue about more than it was—about authority in general, about submission and obedience instead of simply behaving in class.
The ex-detective constable needed handled with kid gloves, and Cowley wasn’t used to that. You couldn’t make a soldier out of a man at this age; had to get him young enough. Which meant Cowley would have to learn other ways of dealing with Doyle that wouldn’t have such a high cost or put needless strain on the partnership.
One good thing—or possibly one good thing—that came from the debacle was a marked protectiveness from Bodie towards Doyle. He was tender with his partner, something Cowley wouldn’t have thought he’d see in this lifetime. When Cowley caught sight of them together, walking and talking, and saw Bodie’s smile, he saw it. When they were seated near each other and the big rough soldier twined a curl or two around his finger and give a gentle tug to teasingly catch his partner’s attention, Cowley saw it. Bodie not only protected Doyle, he was sometimes very gentle with his partner, too.
But for all his expressive face and moments of high emotion, Doyle was sometimes very difficult to read. Cowley couldn’t tell how much he reciprocated Bodie’s growing attachment and affection.
Their personalities were very, very different.
Cowley was beginning to see, in his every interaction with them, that Bodie thrived under the pressure and punishments and challenges. Doyle was too obstinate to ever give in and so in that sense he thrived, working his way doggedly through things that he had never been trained to, nor which came naturally to him. At the things he was skilled at, he really shone. Yet there was always this holding-the-world-at-arm’s-length attitude about him, and a stubborn will to question anything that seemed wrong to him. He took instructors to task when they mentioned trying to find the way with the least casualties—he would only think about no casualties. And so on down the line. Ray Doyle was a one-man army for reform.
He was certainly not army in any other sense of the word. He stayed off Cowley’s bad list as much as he possibly could, and there was a wary respect in him for Cowley and all his rules now. But—there was also distrust.
Bodie could shake off any punishments, any demands—grumble his way through them, testing himself, emerge stronger and never give them another thought. He had a military man’s ability to not take any of it personally.
Doyle, on the other hand—Cowley was willing to wager large that he had not forgotten the bucket punishment—would never forget it, and not because he had been hurt or ashamed, but because he felt it had been unfair.
Well, you couldn’t make omelettes without breaking a few eggs. Cowley felt that the results from the rest of the student body over witnessing that punishment, and from Bodie particularly, were all that could be asked. If a green gaze occasionally watched him, carefully trying to hide the accusing, distrusting look in it—well there was not much he could do about that at this point, was there?
Unintentionally, he found himself softening with Bodie sometimes, while being sterner with Doyle. Doyle still did not have, would probably never have, the respectfulness for authority that Cowley could have wished. Even when he obeyed without question he always left one with the thought that he was quite open to disobeying if he felt the order was wrong. Whereas Bodie cheerfully bulldozed ahead like a tank, trusting Cowley implicitly (except where the punishing of his partner was concerned). He did anything he was asked, spending himself on Cowley’s orders—whims, if need be.
Cowley supposed it was the best he could hope for. Bodie obedient, Doyle wary, thinking things through. But Bodie, he suspected, might not always obey, if he felt he had reason enough not to. And he could only hope that Doyle’s distrust would ease in time.
#
As they made the transition from training into the field, Cowley was impressed with their results. He kept as close an eye on them as he could, as indeed he did with all new agents. But from the first, they proved his best hopes for the partnership. They were all that could be hoped; in their first five cases together, they performed admirably. From all reports, they were quick to read each other’s minds on the job, and while they might bicker and squabble sometimes, they backed one another up amazingly well for new agents.
Both of them proved to be perfectionist about getting results, though their mindsets, experiences, and abilities often differed widely. Sometimes one, sometimes the other seemed to vie for the spot of Man Most Likely to Break The Rules. There was competition between them too, but it brought out the best in each. They got results. In fact, he’d never had such good results from a new team before.
With a start like this, they might become Cowley’s best team. Or his worst, if they could concentrate only on keeping each other safe. This would have to be a balance they’d find, the loyalty weighed against the need to do their job, and do it well. He couldn’t see it yet, and it could go either way. Bodie’s growing fondness for Doyle—if reciprocated—could either make or break this partnership. Right now, it seemed to be on the knife’s edge, Doyle’s caution making it hesitate between a good working relationship with an edge of competition and humour between them, and something more permanent.
Before he sent them on a sixth case together, Cowley knew he had to handle that which he had been putting off for far too long.
He called Bodie into his office one day and let him stand stiffly at attention and give a report—on Doyle. His monosyllabic, searched-for answers spoke of his caution and protectiveness. They showed his loyalty. They didn’t say much about Doyle. Very good agent, of course he’d say that, and Cowley already knew as much.
“Och, at ease man,” he said at last, feeling he’d put Bodie through his paces enough that the man would now be able to relax. “Have a wee scotch with me.”
He saw reflected in the dark blue eyes how much this surprised and pleased Bodie. In some ways, Bodie was far easier to read than Doyle. His loyalty, once won, would be long-lasting. Cowley was certain that he, Cowley, had already proved himself to Bodie somehow or other—by being a stern boss but also trying to be fair, or perhaps for something specific he’d done. Cowley might never know. He did know that Bodie was now committed to CI5, when he hadn’t been from the beginning. And a large part of that commitment was to Cowley and his leadership. How much was to the job, and how much was to Doyle—and whether he would stay without Doyle—Cowley couldn’t begin to guess. Yet.
Seated with a whisky in his hands, Bodie looked a bit smug, and quite content, as if all was right with the world. He sipped slowly, obviously savouring not just the liquor but the privilege.
“Now Bodie,” said Cowley in a friendly, just-us-men tone. “Tell me the truth about Doyle.”
Bodie blinked. “I have, sir. He’s a good agent. I’m glad to work with him.”
“Good.” Cowley nodded. “Would you work with him permanently—permanent partners, if he agreed to it?”
Bodie nodded cautiously, drink forgotten in his hand. His knuckles, however, had whitened around the sturdy glass. “If he agreed to it, sir.”
That, Cowley decided, was a big admission. Bodie the loner who disliked policemen was now willing to commit to Doyle the ex-policeman. Even though from the somewhat tense look on his face this was not an easy admission, it was an admission—and it was obvious he would rather deal with any discomfort from being tied down (as it were), than deal with the discomfort of losing Doyle.
That was good enough for Cowley. Now he had to test the waters with Doyle.
Cowley might not be the most tactful of men. He’d been known to burst in on the minister at any hour of the day or night, if he felt the need, and let him know the lie of the land, and demand to know anything he felt obliged to ask about. But the bluff answers and the tactful drink would not work with Doyle; Cowley could see that. He would simply send Doyle’s hackles us, and he’d more likely than not refuse a partnership point-blank—if not because of his emotional wound regarding Syd Parker, then to tweak Cowley’s nose—saying ‘no’ out of pure, cussed stubbornness. Doyle certainly seemed less committed to CI5 than Bodie, and less committed to his partner as well. Or at least that was the impression he gave off. To find out the truth, Cowley would have to test him.
So when he called Doyle into his office, there was no report on Bodie asked for, and no drink offered. He got right to the point. He spoke crisply to Doyle’s distrusting green eyes. “Doyle, the temporary partnership has gone on long enough. I’m assigning you separate cases tomorrow. If one of you needs backup, I’ll send along another agent. You need to start learning to work with others—since this is, after all, a temporary partnership.” He stressed the word slightly.
Doyle blinked, and Cowley had the satisfaction of reading his face easily. Alarm suffused his features—then wariness—then distrust. Now he looked sullen and angry. He gave a short, sharp nod. “All right. If you think that best—sir.”
Sullen little git.
Cowley realised he could not allow himself to be angered simply by those green eyes held at a stubborn half mast. Doyle would probably like nothing more than another test of wills and an excuse to walk away from CI5. Or, if Cowley let him stay, then to prove that he could get away with such things.
No. His test was not personally against Cowley—it was simply this: was he ready to work without Bodie? If he was, then it was best he do so before Bodie got any more attached to the partnership. The ex-SAS man would be hurt, of course, but the omelettes and eggs theory still held true. If the partnership was not going to work in the long term, then the sooner it was dissolved the better for all parties concerned. Including, which was of course the most important, CI5.
“All right, sir,” repeated Doyle. “Is that all?”
“Yes, yes. Dismissed, man. And be on time tomorrow.” He waved him away.
“Aren’t I always—sir?” shot back Doyle.
Since the man was very often early, and had never yet been late, Cowley could only scowl at him. “Then be early!”
Doyle left with the hint of a smirk round his mouth—and a thoughtful, worried look round his eyes that for a moment looked almost like a wounded animal’s fears. Sometimes, the prickly agent could seem absurdly vulnerable. If only he were not so emotional.
But his emotions were what powered him. Without them, he’d have nothing left inside. He’d be just a sock puppet like the one Bodie had teased him with, empty and incapable of movement on his own. And he’d be no use to CI5 like that, either.
Cowley shook his head. He never used to have to worry about the emotional makeup of men such as Bodie and Doyle. He simply hired agents, and told them what to do. And if they broke, they were gone. If they kept up, they stayed.
However, having had a couple of breakdowns in recent months, he’d learned it might be time to start paying attention not just to the physical details of an agent’s life and past, but to the mental and emotional ones. Bodie and Doyle weren’t the first to need this, but in some ways they were the most complicated.
Perhaps it was time to take the suggestion he’d been given recently and hire a staff psychiatrist, someone on a permanent basis to help analyse and keep track of the agents and prospective agents before finding out the hard way that they were unsuitable, or on a self destruct path that would ultimately hurt CI5.
Doyle had been seeing the man Cowley sent him too diligently, but from reading the reports, Cowley couldn’t see any marked improvement, simply that the sneaky little swine knew what to tell psychiatrists, stonewalling all the while.
Cowley got up and stared out his window, thoughtfully. And then he wished he had not, because he saw Bodie, who had been leaning against a parked car, straighten up. His face lit with a friendly smile and he stepped forward, saying something.
Doyle, just now leaving the building, brushed past him and the friendly arm extended to find his shoulder. “Doyle!” said Bodie, sounding concerned, his voice loud enough now to hear even through the window and the distance. He tried to follow. “What is it, mate? What’s wrong?”
His head down, Doyle hurried ahead. When Bodie called, Doyle started to run.
Bodie stopped and stared after him in bewilderment. Then he got in the car and drove off.
He’d been waiting for Doyle. Of course he had.
Cowley wondered how a big, strong soldier could have made himself so vulnerable after only a few short months. Perhaps Doyle’s vulnerability had dragged it out of him. Doyle had needed him—needed protection, needed cheering up—and that had made Bodie unwary.
Sighing, Cowley returned to his desk. They would have to sort this out themselves. Or rather, Doyle would: he was now fighting a battle against himself. All Cowley could do was watch and hope for the best.
#
The next day Cowley gave Doyle his assignment early, a simple job he could’ve done in his sleep. Once he was gone and Bodie came in, Cowley broke the news, ordering him out on his own on the most dangerous mission Cowley could find, without backup.
Bodie’s lips thinned; he was obviously not pleased. He wanted his moppet by his side. But he didn’t argue; Cowley approved.
After he left, Cowley called Murphy and another man, set them to watch Bodie from a distance and step in instantly if he needed backup. He wasn’t going to risk his best agent just for a test.
And Bodie was the best. Until and unless Doyle put both feet in the water for certain—or in the unlikely event that Macklin was ever again field-ready—Bodie was quite simply the best.
Cowley found himself awaiting impatiently Doyle’s return. Doyle slapped the neatly-typed, double-spaced report on Cowley’s desk, his eyes hooded, his face dark. “Anything else—sir?”
“You may wait in the rest room. I’ll call you if I need more.”
Doyle nodded, but his eyes held a question. He turned reluctantly to leave, but then hesitated, his hand on the door. “Sir.” He turned back abruptly. “What’s Bodie doing?”
“Bodie? Och, I sent him out to deal with the Marlito Gang. These drugs that are coming in have to be stop—”
“The Marlitos?” burst out Doyle, his eyes flashing with rage. His lips curled in a snarl. With effort, he contained himself. “Is he at least working with Murph?”
“No,” said Cowley, in utter honesty. He wasn’t working with Murphy: not WITH him.
In that moment, Doyle looked like he wanted to kill Cowley. He was nothing but restless, chained energy, awaiting only one thing to fly from this room after his... partner. “Where is he?” demanded Doyle.
Cowley gave him the address, blandly. He didn’t smile until Doyle’s wrathful long strides had taken him away, and the door had slammed behind him with finality.
Cowley poured himself a large whisky and leaned back, toasting himself. That was the sound of a partnership.
#
Eventually, both men came back, battered and a bit bloody. The situation had certainly been a dangerous one, and even with Murphy and the others providing backup they had got knocked around.
Bodie looked smugly content, despite having to have his hand bandaged by one of the office girls. Doyle, ashen and shaken, walked with singular purpose, striding right up to Cowley. “Sir—I need to talk to you. Now.”
Cowley met his forthright gaze, smiling inwardly and trying not to let it show. Regular spitfire. Oh, he was going to be a fine agent, someday. As good as Bodie.
“Of course, lad. In my office,” said Cowley, gesturing. Doyle strode angrily in. As soon as the door was shut, he turned on Cowley.
“Sir, I know what that was. I know what you did. It was all a bloody test, wasn’t it? Except you could’ve gotten him killed.”
“Could I?” asked Cowley.
“Yes. Murphy was there—you sent him along to watch—but he wasn’t fast enough. If I hadn’t burst in, gun drawn...” His voice cracked a little from the strain. Suddenly he looked as if he were about to collapse, the pressure, danger and strain catching up with him in something like shock.
“Sit down,” said Cowley abruptly.
“Let me finish.” Another spark of wrath illuminated those green eyes. But he was leaning on Cowley’s desk just to stay upright. (Had he lost much blood? If so it didn’t show. Cowley wondered, though.)
“I’ll be his partner. Even though you tricked me,” said Doyle, leaning forward, face white, bracing himself on the desk. “I can’t leave him to—to do the job alone, and I’ll be a better partner for him than anyone else you’d find. I’ll watch his back and—and it’ll be the partnership you damn well wanted, only DON’T sent him out again with—without me. Sir.” His voice was breaking. It held a wringing quality not unlike sobbing and he had only barely remembered the sir.
“Doyle,” said Cowley in a mix of exasperation and something he was beginning to suspect could turn into fondness, “sit down.”
“No, I won’t, sir, not unless—”
Cowley got up, stepped around the desk, ignoring the twinge in his leg, and pushed Doyle none too gently by the shoulders, guiding him back to plop into a chair. The man was breathing heavily and raggedly. He face looked a bit glazed.
Cowley suddenly had the appalling suspicion that Doyle might burst into tears at any second. Cowley quickly poured a whisky and thrust it into the agent’s shaking hand. “Get that down you, lad. If you think you’re going to faint, put your head between your knees.”
“I don’t,” gasped Doyle, swallowing a quick gulp, “faint.”
And indeed his colour returned with the whisky. Cowley made a mental note to have him looked over by a doctor anyway.
He certainly wasn’t going to start worrying about the lads—this would, of course, stay business and not personal—but all the same, Doyle was an asset to be protected. Now he was doing it, too. Perhaps it was no wonder that Bodie had taken to this infuriating, contradictory, emotional, prickly, vulnerable man. There was something about him that made him difficult to ignore. Love him or hate him—you wouldn’t feel nothing.
“Another whisky?” offered Cowley, more for something to say than because he was feeling THAT generous. Indeed, the young man already looked much better.
“No thanks,” croaked Doyle, his voice rougher and deeper from the drink. He set the glass down on the chair’s arm, his hand still round it. “You haven’t answered my question—”
“Oh, was that a question?” asked Cowley. “It sounded more like a demand, laddie.” He heard the thickening in his accent, and was amused to see a flit of alarm and caution in Doyle’s expressive, worried eyes.
Normally, Cowley’s accent only thickened if he was angry. Doyle couldn’t know the other reasons that it sometimes thickened—and he never would.
Cowley smiled then, and put Doyle out of his misery. “All right. You can have him for your permanent partner.”
Doyle jumped to his feet, a smile springing immediately and whole-heartedly to his face. He didn’t say anything, but the rush of gladness he displayed made Cowley understand a little better why Bodie seemed to go out of his way to provoke this man’s smile.
Still, Doyle swayed a little on his feet.
“Go see the doctor,” ordered Cowley.
Doyle nodded. “Yes sir.”
“Oh, and Doyle—” Cowley rose from behind his desk, smiling, and stuck out a hand.
Doyle turned back to him.
“Welcome to CI5. For real this time.”
A rush of surprise and warmth filled the ex-policeman’s face. He returned the handshake in a burst of what looked like honest respect for the first time. He didn’t—Cowley suspected he couldn’t—say anything. A moment later, the slim man left the room, forgetting to shut the door, his curls bobbing in his hurry.
Through the doorway, Cowley glimpsed him making a beeline for his partner.
Bodie, sitting at a desk and flexing his bandaged hand, looked up. He smiled easily and quickly in response to seeing Doyle’s face.
Betty, hurrying to correct Doyle’s oversight, apologetically shut the door to Cowley’s office, effectively blocking him from seeing whatever communication passed between the two men.
But Cowley had seen enough. Warm with triumph, he poured himself a congratulatory drink. And silently toasted his new top team.
<<<>>>
............end First Impressions...........
Title: "Lessons" (part 2)
Author: Allie
Slash or Gen: Gen
Archive at ProsLib/Circuit: if you like
Author's Name for Archiving (if different to above): same
Disclaimer: They aren't mine.
Notes: Cowley's POV!!!! Yay!!! :D I can hardly believe that this is done under the deadline. I owe Shirl a big thank-you for her swift and helpful beta work. I also really appreciate every comment I got. Thanks for letting me play. :)
First Impressions Series:
#1: Broken Reeds
http://discoveredinalj.livejournal.com/207295.html
#2: Maniacs and Men
http://discoveredinalj.livejournal.com/207802.html
#3: In Hospital, or Chocolates and Chips
http://discoveredinalj.livejournal.com/207941.html
#4: Lessons (part 1)
http://discoveredinalj.livejournal.com/208310.html
Author's Note:
I had so much fun writing this series. I'm thankful for the opportunity, even the kick in the pants that this challenge provided. I guess I work better under pressure than I thought; I don't know if I'd have managed to write it without this challenge. Yet this is the story I most wanted to write for Pros, when I fell in love with it, but didn't think I possibly could. For several nights and mornings in a row, in that half awake state that's almost dreaming, I had images of the men meeting under the sort of tough training that Cowley might provide for new recruits, to test them. Thanks to this challenge, I got to 'see what happened' from my imagination, play with the characters, and get to know them better. Even Cowley! :)
http://discoveredinalj.livejournal.com/208310.html
“Sir!” said Bodie. “You can’t leave him like this. It’s far enough. You didn’t make me jog this long—”
“No, but I will if you’d like. Doyle will be finished when I say so, and not before.” He sat down at the desk, and began to page through his papers, glancing up again at the dismayed face of Bodie and the agonised, pale face of Doyle.
“But sir, it’s not fair. I was the one who misbehaved, not Doyle.”
“And maybe you will think of that next time you decide to horse around when there are serious things afoot,” said Cowley. Even if Doyle didn’t learn his lesson about submitting from this, Bodie might learn an even more important lesson. “It could very well cost your partner far more than you. In the field, even his life.”
Bodie looked like he’d been slapped upside the head. He blinked, and Cowley could see the comparison had hit home. Inwardly, he smiled. Bodie wasn’t dumb—you just had to get his attention with something that mattered to him. And apparently, that something was Doyle.
“Then let me carry the buckets, sir,” said Bodie. “I’ll jog with them too, if you want.”
“Guilt, Bodie? Will guilt help you, if he dies when you’re not paying attention in the field?”
“Sir, but that’s the field,” said Bodie desperately. “Of course I pay attention in the field. It’s just that class can be so—”
“Boring, Bodie? What happens when you get bored in the field, eh, lad? Suppose you’re on a stakeout, and nothing interesting is happening. You decide to cut up a few larks—have a few beers—disappear for a bit. And when you get back, he’s dead. Yes, Bodie, it’s happened—and in trades less dangerous than ours. I’ll not have such disrespect again for this classroom, or you’ll find I’ve no need for men like you in CI5. The classroom is here for a reason—to keep you alive, and help you keep civilians and each other alive. Violating the integrity of that is like spitting on the graves of those who died when we learned what we know the hard way.”
Okay, so he might be overstating things a bit, but Cowley was angry, and he wanted this to sink into Bodie’s thick, classroom-hating skull. He pointed at the ex-SAS man, and thundered, “Now you, Bodie, get out of here and to your next class!”
“Yes sir.” Bodie saluted, cast a singularly worried look at his partner, and left. He didn’t want to leave, but he left. This man, at least, knew how to follow orders.
Cowley bent his head over his papers, and set to some work. He’d have them re-tested on hostage crisis this week. You couldn’t go over that too much, as it was one of the trickiest situations and often left you with little or no time to think, and the stakes too high for mistakes.
He’d almost forgotten about Doyle completely, with one part of his brain at least, when the voice spoke, still defiant but also a little shaky. “Am I to stand here all night?”
Cowley ignored him, then slowly removed his glasses and looked up. “What was that?” he said in a foreboding tone.
“Am I to stand here all night—sir?” This time Doyle’s voice cracked a little, and there was a definite defiance to the ‘sir.’ But he was no longer half as defiant as he had been. Perhaps that would have to do.
Cowley fitted his glasses back on. “Had enough have you?”
“Yes sir.”
Cowley stared at him, and Doyle stared back, for nearly thirty seconds by the ticking of the clock behind him. He was well aware that he’d made the man stand for over an hour, his muscles screaming, enduring a slow, torturous sort of punishment that wouldn’t leave a mark afterwards, but that had made strong men break down and confess before this.
“Then you may put them down and go join your partner. Doyle!” he snapped, as the man let down the buckets—leaning over, trembling, working his hands open painfully slowly. Doyle jumped a little, and pulled himself back to attention, pain and relief and fear all three on his face now.
“Yes sir?” There was definite wariness in that voice now.
“Maybe in the future, you’ll think about picking your battles, to use that gift of stubbornness on, laddie.”
Doyle blinked, looking shocked and startled as the message sank in: he could’ve been done much sooner if he hadn’t insisted on shooting defiance at Cowley with every look.
Cowley jerked his head towards the door. “Go. Catch up with your partner.”
#
He heard about it later: after this, they’d gone to class, sat through it in silence, and then got into a raging fight afterwards. In the locker rooms, Doyle had called Bodie every name in the book for not paying attention, and Bodie had told him he was too stubborn to live, deserved whatever the Cow did to him, and should’ve been drowned at birth.
The fight ended with Doyle punching Bodie, and Bodie catching him by both arms and crushing him tightly close, holding him like that till Doyle’s struggling and trembling wore down.
The man who told Cowley added with a course laugh, “Ended up petting his hair, too, and trying to quiet him.”
“And you find that funny, do you?” asked Cowley, giving the man a hard stare. He had use for his jackals, his informants—he needed to know what was going on, after all—but he found the running commentary, judgmental attitude and superiority distasteful.
“Eh, no sir,” said the jackal, obviously confused, dropping his gaze.
#
Doyle retained a sullen attitude short of outright defiance from that point, and Bodie was more protective of his partner and less likely to cut up. Cowley couldn’t help wondering, however, if he’d handled the situation exactly wrong, at least on Doyle’s account. Forcing a confrontation that the policeman thought was unfair and simply authoritarian had made the issue about more than it was—about authority in general, about submission and obedience instead of simply behaving in class.
The ex-detective constable needed handled with kid gloves, and Cowley wasn’t used to that. You couldn’t make a soldier out of a man at this age; had to get him young enough. Which meant Cowley would have to learn other ways of dealing with Doyle that wouldn’t have such a high cost or put needless strain on the partnership.
One good thing—or possibly one good thing—that came from the debacle was a marked protectiveness from Bodie towards Doyle. He was tender with his partner, something Cowley wouldn’t have thought he’d see in this lifetime. When Cowley caught sight of them together, walking and talking, and saw Bodie’s smile, he saw it. When they were seated near each other and the big rough soldier twined a curl or two around his finger and give a gentle tug to teasingly catch his partner’s attention, Cowley saw it. Bodie not only protected Doyle, he was sometimes very gentle with his partner, too.
But for all his expressive face and moments of high emotion, Doyle was sometimes very difficult to read. Cowley couldn’t tell how much he reciprocated Bodie’s growing attachment and affection.
Their personalities were very, very different.
Cowley was beginning to see, in his every interaction with them, that Bodie thrived under the pressure and punishments and challenges. Doyle was too obstinate to ever give in and so in that sense he thrived, working his way doggedly through things that he had never been trained to, nor which came naturally to him. At the things he was skilled at, he really shone. Yet there was always this holding-the-world-at-arm’s-length attitude about him, and a stubborn will to question anything that seemed wrong to him. He took instructors to task when they mentioned trying to find the way with the least casualties—he would only think about no casualties. And so on down the line. Ray Doyle was a one-man army for reform.
He was certainly not army in any other sense of the word. He stayed off Cowley’s bad list as much as he possibly could, and there was a wary respect in him for Cowley and all his rules now. But—there was also distrust.
Bodie could shake off any punishments, any demands—grumble his way through them, testing himself, emerge stronger and never give them another thought. He had a military man’s ability to not take any of it personally.
Doyle, on the other hand—Cowley was willing to wager large that he had not forgotten the bucket punishment—would never forget it, and not because he had been hurt or ashamed, but because he felt it had been unfair.
Well, you couldn’t make omelettes without breaking a few eggs. Cowley felt that the results from the rest of the student body over witnessing that punishment, and from Bodie particularly, were all that could be asked. If a green gaze occasionally watched him, carefully trying to hide the accusing, distrusting look in it—well there was not much he could do about that at this point, was there?
Unintentionally, he found himself softening with Bodie sometimes, while being sterner with Doyle. Doyle still did not have, would probably never have, the respectfulness for authority that Cowley could have wished. Even when he obeyed without question he always left one with the thought that he was quite open to disobeying if he felt the order was wrong. Whereas Bodie cheerfully bulldozed ahead like a tank, trusting Cowley implicitly (except where the punishing of his partner was concerned). He did anything he was asked, spending himself on Cowley’s orders—whims, if need be.
Cowley supposed it was the best he could hope for. Bodie obedient, Doyle wary, thinking things through. But Bodie, he suspected, might not always obey, if he felt he had reason enough not to. And he could only hope that Doyle’s distrust would ease in time.
#
As they made the transition from training into the field, Cowley was impressed with their results. He kept as close an eye on them as he could, as indeed he did with all new agents. But from the first, they proved his best hopes for the partnership. They were all that could be hoped; in their first five cases together, they performed admirably. From all reports, they were quick to read each other’s minds on the job, and while they might bicker and squabble sometimes, they backed one another up amazingly well for new agents.
Both of them proved to be perfectionist about getting results, though their mindsets, experiences, and abilities often differed widely. Sometimes one, sometimes the other seemed to vie for the spot of Man Most Likely to Break The Rules. There was competition between them too, but it brought out the best in each. They got results. In fact, he’d never had such good results from a new team before.
With a start like this, they might become Cowley’s best team. Or his worst, if they could concentrate only on keeping each other safe. This would have to be a balance they’d find, the loyalty weighed against the need to do their job, and do it well. He couldn’t see it yet, and it could go either way. Bodie’s growing fondness for Doyle—if reciprocated—could either make or break this partnership. Right now, it seemed to be on the knife’s edge, Doyle’s caution making it hesitate between a good working relationship with an edge of competition and humour between them, and something more permanent.
Before he sent them on a sixth case together, Cowley knew he had to handle that which he had been putting off for far too long.
He called Bodie into his office one day and let him stand stiffly at attention and give a report—on Doyle. His monosyllabic, searched-for answers spoke of his caution and protectiveness. They showed his loyalty. They didn’t say much about Doyle. Very good agent, of course he’d say that, and Cowley already knew as much.
“Och, at ease man,” he said at last, feeling he’d put Bodie through his paces enough that the man would now be able to relax. “Have a wee scotch with me.”
He saw reflected in the dark blue eyes how much this surprised and pleased Bodie. In some ways, Bodie was far easier to read than Doyle. His loyalty, once won, would be long-lasting. Cowley was certain that he, Cowley, had already proved himself to Bodie somehow or other—by being a stern boss but also trying to be fair, or perhaps for something specific he’d done. Cowley might never know. He did know that Bodie was now committed to CI5, when he hadn’t been from the beginning. And a large part of that commitment was to Cowley and his leadership. How much was to the job, and how much was to Doyle—and whether he would stay without Doyle—Cowley couldn’t begin to guess. Yet.
Seated with a whisky in his hands, Bodie looked a bit smug, and quite content, as if all was right with the world. He sipped slowly, obviously savouring not just the liquor but the privilege.
“Now Bodie,” said Cowley in a friendly, just-us-men tone. “Tell me the truth about Doyle.”
Bodie blinked. “I have, sir. He’s a good agent. I’m glad to work with him.”
“Good.” Cowley nodded. “Would you work with him permanently—permanent partners, if he agreed to it?”
Bodie nodded cautiously, drink forgotten in his hand. His knuckles, however, had whitened around the sturdy glass. “If he agreed to it, sir.”
That, Cowley decided, was a big admission. Bodie the loner who disliked policemen was now willing to commit to Doyle the ex-policeman. Even though from the somewhat tense look on his face this was not an easy admission, it was an admission—and it was obvious he would rather deal with any discomfort from being tied down (as it were), than deal with the discomfort of losing Doyle.
That was good enough for Cowley. Now he had to test the waters with Doyle.
Cowley might not be the most tactful of men. He’d been known to burst in on the minister at any hour of the day or night, if he felt the need, and let him know the lie of the land, and demand to know anything he felt obliged to ask about. But the bluff answers and the tactful drink would not work with Doyle; Cowley could see that. He would simply send Doyle’s hackles us, and he’d more likely than not refuse a partnership point-blank—if not because of his emotional wound regarding Syd Parker, then to tweak Cowley’s nose—saying ‘no’ out of pure, cussed stubbornness. Doyle certainly seemed less committed to CI5 than Bodie, and less committed to his partner as well. Or at least that was the impression he gave off. To find out the truth, Cowley would have to test him.
So when he called Doyle into his office, there was no report on Bodie asked for, and no drink offered. He got right to the point. He spoke crisply to Doyle’s distrusting green eyes. “Doyle, the temporary partnership has gone on long enough. I’m assigning you separate cases tomorrow. If one of you needs backup, I’ll send along another agent. You need to start learning to work with others—since this is, after all, a temporary partnership.” He stressed the word slightly.
Doyle blinked, and Cowley had the satisfaction of reading his face easily. Alarm suffused his features—then wariness—then distrust. Now he looked sullen and angry. He gave a short, sharp nod. “All right. If you think that best—sir.”
Sullen little git.
Cowley realised he could not allow himself to be angered simply by those green eyes held at a stubborn half mast. Doyle would probably like nothing more than another test of wills and an excuse to walk away from CI5. Or, if Cowley let him stay, then to prove that he could get away with such things.
No. His test was not personally against Cowley—it was simply this: was he ready to work without Bodie? If he was, then it was best he do so before Bodie got any more attached to the partnership. The ex-SAS man would be hurt, of course, but the omelettes and eggs theory still held true. If the partnership was not going to work in the long term, then the sooner it was dissolved the better for all parties concerned. Including, which was of course the most important, CI5.
“All right, sir,” repeated Doyle. “Is that all?”
“Yes, yes. Dismissed, man. And be on time tomorrow.” He waved him away.
“Aren’t I always—sir?” shot back Doyle.
Since the man was very often early, and had never yet been late, Cowley could only scowl at him. “Then be early!”
Doyle left with the hint of a smirk round his mouth—and a thoughtful, worried look round his eyes that for a moment looked almost like a wounded animal’s fears. Sometimes, the prickly agent could seem absurdly vulnerable. If only he were not so emotional.
But his emotions were what powered him. Without them, he’d have nothing left inside. He’d be just a sock puppet like the one Bodie had teased him with, empty and incapable of movement on his own. And he’d be no use to CI5 like that, either.
Cowley shook his head. He never used to have to worry about the emotional makeup of men such as Bodie and Doyle. He simply hired agents, and told them what to do. And if they broke, they were gone. If they kept up, they stayed.
However, having had a couple of breakdowns in recent months, he’d learned it might be time to start paying attention not just to the physical details of an agent’s life and past, but to the mental and emotional ones. Bodie and Doyle weren’t the first to need this, but in some ways they were the most complicated.
Perhaps it was time to take the suggestion he’d been given recently and hire a staff psychiatrist, someone on a permanent basis to help analyse and keep track of the agents and prospective agents before finding out the hard way that they were unsuitable, or on a self destruct path that would ultimately hurt CI5.
Doyle had been seeing the man Cowley sent him too diligently, but from reading the reports, Cowley couldn’t see any marked improvement, simply that the sneaky little swine knew what to tell psychiatrists, stonewalling all the while.
Cowley got up and stared out his window, thoughtfully. And then he wished he had not, because he saw Bodie, who had been leaning against a parked car, straighten up. His face lit with a friendly smile and he stepped forward, saying something.
Doyle, just now leaving the building, brushed past him and the friendly arm extended to find his shoulder. “Doyle!” said Bodie, sounding concerned, his voice loud enough now to hear even through the window and the distance. He tried to follow. “What is it, mate? What’s wrong?”
His head down, Doyle hurried ahead. When Bodie called, Doyle started to run.
Bodie stopped and stared after him in bewilderment. Then he got in the car and drove off.
He’d been waiting for Doyle. Of course he had.
Cowley wondered how a big, strong soldier could have made himself so vulnerable after only a few short months. Perhaps Doyle’s vulnerability had dragged it out of him. Doyle had needed him—needed protection, needed cheering up—and that had made Bodie unwary.
Sighing, Cowley returned to his desk. They would have to sort this out themselves. Or rather, Doyle would: he was now fighting a battle against himself. All Cowley could do was watch and hope for the best.
#
The next day Cowley gave Doyle his assignment early, a simple job he could’ve done in his sleep. Once he was gone and Bodie came in, Cowley broke the news, ordering him out on his own on the most dangerous mission Cowley could find, without backup.
Bodie’s lips thinned; he was obviously not pleased. He wanted his moppet by his side. But he didn’t argue; Cowley approved.
After he left, Cowley called Murphy and another man, set them to watch Bodie from a distance and step in instantly if he needed backup. He wasn’t going to risk his best agent just for a test.
And Bodie was the best. Until and unless Doyle put both feet in the water for certain—or in the unlikely event that Macklin was ever again field-ready—Bodie was quite simply the best.
Cowley found himself awaiting impatiently Doyle’s return. Doyle slapped the neatly-typed, double-spaced report on Cowley’s desk, his eyes hooded, his face dark. “Anything else—sir?”
“You may wait in the rest room. I’ll call you if I need more.”
Doyle nodded, but his eyes held a question. He turned reluctantly to leave, but then hesitated, his hand on the door. “Sir.” He turned back abruptly. “What’s Bodie doing?”
“Bodie? Och, I sent him out to deal with the Marlito Gang. These drugs that are coming in have to be stop—”
“The Marlitos?” burst out Doyle, his eyes flashing with rage. His lips curled in a snarl. With effort, he contained himself. “Is he at least working with Murph?”
“No,” said Cowley, in utter honesty. He wasn’t working with Murphy: not WITH him.
In that moment, Doyle looked like he wanted to kill Cowley. He was nothing but restless, chained energy, awaiting only one thing to fly from this room after his... partner. “Where is he?” demanded Doyle.
Cowley gave him the address, blandly. He didn’t smile until Doyle’s wrathful long strides had taken him away, and the door had slammed behind him with finality.
Cowley poured himself a large whisky and leaned back, toasting himself. That was the sound of a partnership.
#
Eventually, both men came back, battered and a bit bloody. The situation had certainly been a dangerous one, and even with Murphy and the others providing backup they had got knocked around.
Bodie looked smugly content, despite having to have his hand bandaged by one of the office girls. Doyle, ashen and shaken, walked with singular purpose, striding right up to Cowley. “Sir—I need to talk to you. Now.”
Cowley met his forthright gaze, smiling inwardly and trying not to let it show. Regular spitfire. Oh, he was going to be a fine agent, someday. As good as Bodie.
“Of course, lad. In my office,” said Cowley, gesturing. Doyle strode angrily in. As soon as the door was shut, he turned on Cowley.
“Sir, I know what that was. I know what you did. It was all a bloody test, wasn’t it? Except you could’ve gotten him killed.”
“Could I?” asked Cowley.
“Yes. Murphy was there—you sent him along to watch—but he wasn’t fast enough. If I hadn’t burst in, gun drawn...” His voice cracked a little from the strain. Suddenly he looked as if he were about to collapse, the pressure, danger and strain catching up with him in something like shock.
“Sit down,” said Cowley abruptly.
“Let me finish.” Another spark of wrath illuminated those green eyes. But he was leaning on Cowley’s desk just to stay upright. (Had he lost much blood? If so it didn’t show. Cowley wondered, though.)
“I’ll be his partner. Even though you tricked me,” said Doyle, leaning forward, face white, bracing himself on the desk. “I can’t leave him to—to do the job alone, and I’ll be a better partner for him than anyone else you’d find. I’ll watch his back and—and it’ll be the partnership you damn well wanted, only DON’T sent him out again with—without me. Sir.” His voice was breaking. It held a wringing quality not unlike sobbing and he had only barely remembered the sir.
“Doyle,” said Cowley in a mix of exasperation and something he was beginning to suspect could turn into fondness, “sit down.”
“No, I won’t, sir, not unless—”
Cowley got up, stepped around the desk, ignoring the twinge in his leg, and pushed Doyle none too gently by the shoulders, guiding him back to plop into a chair. The man was breathing heavily and raggedly. He face looked a bit glazed.
Cowley suddenly had the appalling suspicion that Doyle might burst into tears at any second. Cowley quickly poured a whisky and thrust it into the agent’s shaking hand. “Get that down you, lad. If you think you’re going to faint, put your head between your knees.”
“I don’t,” gasped Doyle, swallowing a quick gulp, “faint.”
And indeed his colour returned with the whisky. Cowley made a mental note to have him looked over by a doctor anyway.
He certainly wasn’t going to start worrying about the lads—this would, of course, stay business and not personal—but all the same, Doyle was an asset to be protected. Now he was doing it, too. Perhaps it was no wonder that Bodie had taken to this infuriating, contradictory, emotional, prickly, vulnerable man. There was something about him that made him difficult to ignore. Love him or hate him—you wouldn’t feel nothing.
“Another whisky?” offered Cowley, more for something to say than because he was feeling THAT generous. Indeed, the young man already looked much better.
“No thanks,” croaked Doyle, his voice rougher and deeper from the drink. He set the glass down on the chair’s arm, his hand still round it. “You haven’t answered my question—”
“Oh, was that a question?” asked Cowley. “It sounded more like a demand, laddie.” He heard the thickening in his accent, and was amused to see a flit of alarm and caution in Doyle’s expressive, worried eyes.
Normally, Cowley’s accent only thickened if he was angry. Doyle couldn’t know the other reasons that it sometimes thickened—and he never would.
Cowley smiled then, and put Doyle out of his misery. “All right. You can have him for your permanent partner.”
Doyle jumped to his feet, a smile springing immediately and whole-heartedly to his face. He didn’t say anything, but the rush of gladness he displayed made Cowley understand a little better why Bodie seemed to go out of his way to provoke this man’s smile.
Still, Doyle swayed a little on his feet.
“Go see the doctor,” ordered Cowley.
Doyle nodded. “Yes sir.”
“Oh, and Doyle—” Cowley rose from behind his desk, smiling, and stuck out a hand.
Doyle turned back to him.
“Welcome to CI5. For real this time.”
A rush of surprise and warmth filled the ex-policeman’s face. He returned the handshake in a burst of what looked like honest respect for the first time. He didn’t—Cowley suspected he couldn’t—say anything. A moment later, the slim man left the room, forgetting to shut the door, his curls bobbing in his hurry.
Through the doorway, Cowley glimpsed him making a beeline for his partner.
Bodie, sitting at a desk and flexing his bandaged hand, looked up. He smiled easily and quickly in response to seeing Doyle’s face.
Betty, hurrying to correct Doyle’s oversight, apologetically shut the door to Cowley’s office, effectively blocking him from seeing whatever communication passed between the two men.
But Cowley had seen enough. Warm with triumph, he poured himself a congratulatory drink. And silently toasted his new top team.
<<<
............end First Impressions...........
Title: "Lessons" (part 2)
Author: Allie
Slash or Gen: Gen
Archive at ProsLib/Circuit: if you like
Author's Name for Archiving (if different to above): same
Disclaimer: They aren't mine.
Notes: Cowley's POV!!!! Yay!!! :D I can hardly believe that this is done under the deadline. I owe Shirl a big thank-you for her swift and helpful beta work. I also really appreciate every comment I got. Thanks for letting me play. :)
First Impressions Series:
#1: Broken Reeds
http://discoveredinalj.livejournal.com/207295.html
#2: Maniacs and Men
http://discoveredinalj.livejournal.com/207802.html
#3: In Hospital, or Chocolates and Chips
http://discoveredinalj.livejournal.com/207941.html
#4: Lessons (part 1)
http://discoveredinalj.livejournal.com/208310.html
Author's Note:
I had so much fun writing this series. I'm thankful for the opportunity, even the kick in the pants that this challenge provided. I guess I work better under pressure than I thought; I don't know if I'd have managed to write it without this challenge. Yet this is the story I most wanted to write for Pros, when I fell in love with it, but didn't think I possibly could. For several nights and mornings in a row, in that half awake state that's almost dreaming, I had images of the men meeting under the sort of tough training that Cowley might provide for new recruits, to test them. Thanks to this challenge, I got to 'see what happened' from my imagination, play with the characters, and get to know them better. Even Cowley! :)
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Date: 2011-07-16 06:34 am (UTC)Very well done. Thank you so much for this truly wonderful 'first meeting' series of stories!
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Date: 2011-07-17 11:59 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-07-16 11:11 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-07-18 12:03 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-07-16 04:33 pm (UTC)Your scenario would explain Doyle's mood in Old Dogs With New Tricks.
Exciting, though without any action. Very good!
I had much fun with your stories! Thank you!
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Date: 2011-07-18 12:06 am (UTC)Yes, hm, wonder what would've happened if Cowley had kept pushing...?? o_o;;
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Date: 2011-07-17 03:09 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-07-18 12:13 am (UTC)I really liked his character at first, but after watching more of the series, I find him a bit confusing. He seems sometimes so devoted to protecting his men, and other times utterly ruthless about the danger he puts them in and what he demands of them.
I would like to understand him better. Oddly, writing about him helps (a little). :-)
no subject
Date: 2011-09-11 10:58 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-09-11 07:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-09-21 09:10 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-09-22 08:48 pm (UTC)I did indeed have fun with it. :D
I hope to keep writing Pros for a long time, though perhaps not as ambitious as long series-fics. :)
Thank you again!! :D