2232 wds
Warning: Contains attempted-suicide. It's about the journey back from that place for one of the main characters.
Note: Written to expunge a death fic I read by accident.
One Phone Call
by Allie
Not a gun. Too messy. He'd seen the damage a gun did. Drugs could be messy too—he'd seen that as well—but it was on a whole other level from walking in and finding—splatter.
No, he couldn't use a gun.
He didn't know why he was still thinking about it. He'd known for almost a week now what he'd use, got it on hand and everything.
Simple overdose, slip into a coma, death. Finally he'd be through. No more killing people, no more heartrending decisions or not making it in time—no more CI5 and the small print that said Cowley owned them, body and soul and never a moment's rest—real rest.
Another swig of vodka, to get his courage up—it tingled and burned all the way down, joining the rest of it—and he grabbed for the bottle, took a handful, and chased it down with more.
The pills settled like a prickly lump. Oh. What had he done? Bodie. That laughing face, by his grave—not laughing now. How would he ever forgive Doyle?
Selfish. He was the most selfish person who'd ever lived. Hadn't even left a proper note. He'd gone through five, all now in the bin. He grabbed for the phone—twice—and dialled clumsily, the number he knew by heart. He could feel himself going, but he had to, this was the most important thing he'd ever done.
What if he wasn't there? Bodie.
"Bodie."
"What? Hullo?"
"I'm sorry, Bodie. I'm sorry."
#
Pain. Pain, in his hand and face, while someone slapped them. His stomach—his head—he hurt so badly.
"You bloody fool." Bodie's voice, tense and thick. "Don't you leave me. Don't you dare leave me."
Even before he heard the sirens wail, Doyle knew he would not be allowed to die.
#
He awoke the first time, properly, feeling emptier than he ever had and very sore from having his stomach pumped. He wished he could just close his eyes again and get away from the embarrassment and pain—of having done this to himself, and having everyone know it. And not being able to fool anyone any longer.
He couldn't pretend things were all right anymore.
He heard Cowley's angry rumble in the background, fighting with someone. And Bodie's voice, angry but bleak. Defending Doyle, even without a leg to stand on. Doyle slipped off again. He wished he wasn't such a bother to everyone.
#
Bodie sat by his bed.
They didn't talk much.
He recognized in the tight, controlled movements and looks of Bodie, how he was holding himself in, how he wanted to explode with all the anger and fear, and all the gratitude as well.
He didn't.
Doyle didn't know what to say. He'd said it all on the phone that night.
He was sorry, that was all.
#
When Cowley put him on medical leave, the old man seemed angry about it. Seemed almost begrudging, as though Doyle had done this for attention.
Doyle wanted to say he hadn't meant to fail, and he would be out of Cowley's hair by now if he hadn't.
When it came time for Doyle to go to the mental hospital to be watched and to get therapy till he could be trusted on his own, it was Bodie who drove him. Bodie, competent and powerful, driving the car, still contained, his jaw tight, his words brief. Doyle huddled on his side of the car, guilty, bleak, blank. It would be over now, if he were dead. And yet he wasn't sorry he'd called Bodie. It had been the one thing, the only thing over the last months that he was sure had been right.
They didn't say much. They didn't say goodbye. It had different meanings now.
Bodie walked away fast, his shoulders tensed and angry.
#
Doyle slept a lot. It felt good to sleep. The men and women in white wanted to know when he had started feeling this way, when everything had become hopeless and he had wanted it to just end.
He couldn't tell. He didn't know. A collection of cases gone wrong; too much pressure, too many mistakes, weariness that went soul-deep. But that shouldn't be enough; Bodie hadn't cracked.
Doyle had never been the type for this—giving up. And yet, somehow, it had all gotten too deep, too—much. He'd needed a way out, and only seen one. Even as he grew more and more ashamed of that, he wasn't sure what he should've done differently.
Try to talk to Bodie? Ask Cowley for some time off? Or talk with Dr Ross? (What could he tell her? What could he tell any of them?) Everything would've sounded like an excuse. But all the same, he should've tried.
#
He stayed longer than he meant to. Longer than he wanted to. Longer than Cowley wanted.
Every time he mentioned Cowley and Bodie and being needed for the job, the doctors seemed to want to keep him here longer. Especially if he insisted he was doing better, he wasn't going to off himself; it had just been a mistake. Yeah.
Bodie came to visit. Bodie, working with Murphy now. Watching Doyle with careful eyes, not knowing what to say. Not so angry now, but more like a stranger. As though he had to back up and take another look at Doyle, because he hadn't seen him clearly in all these years.
"I'm still me," said Doyle, and Bodie looked embarrassed to have his thoughts read so clearly. "You know me," said Doyle, reaching out to fake-punch him in the arm. "I take things to heart too much. Always did. Won't happen again, though." It wouldn't. How could he have even thought of killing himself? The decision, months old now, seemed stranger and stranger, seen as through a fog of distance. And yet it had been so real, and seemed so right at the time. It had seemed so obvious: his death was the only solution for everyone.
Except that even then, he'd known he owed Bodie an apology.
"Shouldn't have happened at all, mate," said Bodie. "Bloody hell! Why didn't you say something? To me, if you couldn't tell the Cow it was that bad?"
"What could I say? 'I want to die?'"
Bodie stared at him. "Yeah. Yeah, if it ever happens again, you damned well better."
"Okay," said Doyle, feeling somehow safer with Bodie's outrage.
"Promise," said Bodie, glaring at him, worried, angry, and yet wanting to trust him.
And Doyle promised.
#
It was a long road back, longer than any of them expected. Long time before he got all the counselling and therapy the doctors wanted him to have. Long time before they passed him, and after that, more rest, more work.
Finally, he was passed by Dr Ross, with frequent sessions scheduled to be sure he wasn't buckling under again. Longer still till he was up to Macklin's standards. And even then, it was desk duty for a time, as he chafed at the bit, indignant and angry that Murphy was still the one guarding Bodie's back, when it should've been Doyle.
He was angry about that, thought he was being punished by Cowley, till Bodie buttonholed him in the hall one day, and told him off.
"He's worried about you, you daft git. You broke one time without him noticing. He's not going to let it happen again." Then to soften the words, he gave Doyle's arm a tight squeeze. Almost cutting off his circulation. His eyes looked dark and intense. "We've got to know you're better first, mate. And I'm being careful out there with Murph."
#
That was the worst of it, in a way: that he'd lost trust. With others, and with himself. He now knew a little more clearly where the cracks lay inside him, the breakable areas. He'd always wanted to be invincible, had even fooled himself into believing he nearly was sometimes. Perhaps that had been part of the problem. A superman can never ask for help. Now Doyle knew he could do nothing but.
If the symptoms and thoughts returned, he would run for help, instead of trying to pretend everything was okay or handle it on his own.
But trust is earned, and it took time before he and Bodie returned to the comfortable levels they'd had before, relaxing with each other, laughing and sparring verbally in the continual but good-natured contest between them. Even so, he saw Bodie watching him carefully sometimes, and had to give him a thump to get him out of it.
And at last, Cowley came around. Doyle went back on duty. He'd keep up the counselling. He and Bodie would look after each other.
"And Doyle, if you want leave—there are better ways," Cowley scolded in that rasping Scots accent.
Doyle said "yes sir" and returned happily to the dangerous and addicting job of CI5. Knowing his weaknesses more than ever, but using them to make him stronger.
#
When he talked a man out of jumping off a roof in his first week back, he used the things he'd learned, both the things the doctors had said that helped him, and the things he'd figured out slowly and painfully on his own.
He told the would-be jumper that when you're depressed, you can't trust your feelings. They'll lie to you. Think of someone—just one person—who would miss you. Whom your dying would hurt.
For the man, it was his daughter. For Doyle—well, it was Bodie, of course. Only Bodie.
When they came down off that roof, the bystanders gave him a round of applause. And Doyle, for once in his life, stood stunned. Unused to public acclaim for his job—or often even private—he'd frozen for a moment. It was Bodie who stepped forward and tugged his hand into the air to jauntily accept the praise for him. And Bodie who steered him back to the car.
"I heard what you said." Driving, Bodie didn't take his eyes off the road.
Worn to the bone, those harrowing memories ploughed close to the surface again, Doyle ached inside. He curled on his side of the car, remembering another ride and an angry, constrained Bodie.
"I heard what you said," repeated Bodie. "And that's why you called me. You didn't really want to do it." He sounded so happy at the thought.
Doyle felt his brow crinkle, as he tried to remember and sort through the confusing memories. "Yes and no. I did want to—but I also didn't want to hurt you. I wanted to say sorry."
"You did say sorry. But if that was all, you'd have written it. You wouldn't have called me in time to get help." He sounded so utterly certain—and so happy with it. His grin seemed to fill up the car.
"I guess you're right," mumbled Doyle, surprised yet again, to catch insight into that painful time and that incomprehensible, pain-filled decision he'd made. He had picked up the phone, hadn't he? Maybe Bodie was right. Maybe he hadn't meant to do it.
But all he could remember was the pain, and wanting out. And yet also not wanting to hurt Bodie. He scrunched down in his seat, fitted on his sunglasses and closed his eyes.
"That's right, old son," said Bodie in a low voice. "You take a rest if you need one." He reached over, driving one-handed, and ruffled Doyle's hair.
Doyle tried to scowl at him, and failed. He fell asleep to the thrum of the engine.
#
Doyle wrapped his arms around himself and looked out over the cliff. He shivered at the cold wind.
"Tuppence for your thoughts," said Bodie, not quite teasing, but trying not to sound too serious.
"I don't know," confessed Doyle. "I'm afraid, standing here."
"Scared of heights, old son?" Bodie reached out, and squeezed his arm, half tease and half reassurance.
"Scared of what I might be tempted to do, if I got much more tired or depressed."
He didn't dare look at Bodie during this confession. He could feel Bodie staring at him, eyes like diamond-tipped steel, boring to the very core of him, seeing more than he'd like. Those old cracks again, resurfacing with the recent strain of caseload, disillusionment, and pain.
Then, gently but firmly, Bodie took his arm and steered him back from the cliff's edge. "Let's talk to Cowley, mate. Maybe we need some time off."
"Both of us?" Doyle dared to look at him. The Bodie he saw was brooding, but neither tightly controlled nor angry.
"You're not the only one who gets tired, Ray," said Bodie quietly.
"So—we can say it's for both of us? Not just me?"
"It is," promised Bodie. Then he turned a half wicked, half cherubic smile on Doyle. "And he'll have to give it, because he doesn't want one of us to end up in the nuthouse."
"Yeah, well, it's your turn!" protested Doyle.
Bodie reached out and tweaked his nose. And Doyle chased him all the way back to the car.
They flung themselves back inside it, breathing hard, safe again. A precarious safety, but a real one: watching one another's backs, as they'd always done, but in new ways all the time now.
the end