First Impressions #4 – Cowley's POV
With many thanks to inlovewithboth for her superb beta help
Lessons
by Allie
Cowley was beginning to think he'd made a mistake. Oh, nothing had gone wrong thus far. The volatile Doyle and the arrogant Bodie hadn't fought or rebelled or even started jockeying for position yet. But then, Doyle had been in the hospital for most of the time.
That concerned Cowley as well. The man should not have got pneumonia—the course wasn't that difficult, surely—and since Doyle had, was he continually going to be pushing himself past his limits and ending up in the hospital? Cowley didn't need that, a fragile agent.
Doyle had certainly done well on all the tests he'd had, especially for a sick man. He was also underweight, extremely depressed and had severe anger issues. The best agent in the world might turn out to be useless if he allowed these things to get the better of him.
It was difficult to tell whether or not he would, since he'd just got out of the hospital today. Cowley had kept a close eye on things, and the moment he thought the doctors were being too cautious, had ordered Doyle back. He didn't need someone who had to be coddled—or would come to expect it. The doctors said he should really stay for a few more days, but Cowley said nonsense, he was only going to be doing class work at present anyway.
Doyle's face was haggard, he still had a cough and he looked dreadfully thin, but his eyes were a little clearer and Cowley thought he was glad to be out of the hospital and working at CI5.
Bodie was positively buoyant. He'd been kept out of class work for those few days while his partner was in hospital and used the time to jaunt around, training further and putting extra practice in on his weapons. Especially, Cowley had noticed, with handguns. He put on airs with the other students, grinning because he had the run of the place and no class work yet, and had got the overall best scores during training.
There was a maniacal cheerfulness about him if he had a weapon in his hands; he loved testing himself physically against any and all challenges.
He had kept his temper under control, except for the one time when he'd shouted at Macklin. But Cowley held that to his advantage, leading as it did to a tenuous partnership with Doyle. If Bodie could be teamed with someone instead of working as a loner, Cowley had more hope for him lasting in this gruelling and sometimes frankly unrewarding profession.
Cowley still had his doubts about Bodie, however. The man thrived on adrenaline and action, and seemed to feel the need to be the best at everything. He was quite happy when he seemed to think his superiority was assured and the novelty of CI5 hadn't worn off yet. But what about when he wasn't the best, or the novelty wore off?
What about the long hours on stakeout, the boring paperwork, the frustrating and dull cases without satisfactory resolution and the times when he wouldn't be superior to anyone? Would he quickly throw in the towel then? His past had showed him as someone who had quite a flair for running off. The Merchant Marines. Africa. The army. Now CI5. Always somewhere new, no ties, Bodie glad to drop anchor in any new port, stay as long as he wanted and then take off again cheerfully, apparently glad to break any ties—if he'd made any in the first place.
Oh, and there was a darkness in him, as well. It was there, hidden in Cowley's reports and the interviews with Bodie. He'd conducted some of them himself, watched others from behind two way glass. He'd read the transcripts and seen the arrogant, hard face of a man who did not look back—who refused to regret any decision he'd made, no matter what.
Someone so hard and unyielding had his place, of course, but was it in CI5? Perhaps Bodie was fit only to be a soldier. It was what he was brought up to be: a man who listened to orders and didn't have to gauge his own level of response or ferocity, simply do as he was told. Could he be trusted when it came time to show initiative?
Bodie didn't have Doyle's propensity to go off like an angry rocket, but he had a danger inside him that could not but affect his job. That was well and good, if he learned the limits. If he used his skills to get results (without breaking heads simply because he decided they needed broken, without finding malicious joy in the deed for its own sake), then he could be a fine agent, one of the very best.
In short, Cowley wanted Bodie and Doyle to both work out—separately if they must, together if they could—but he was by no means certain that they would. They were still very much untried.
#
Cowley noticed that, with the return of Doyle, Bodie looked extra pleased with himself and with Doyle—as if with the novelty of a new toy. How would he view the partnership once that wore off? They would have to work it out themselves, but Cowley was certainly keeping an eye on things.
Doyle was still touch and go, but he had the heart to be a lion at this job, if he put his shoulder to the harness. And could contain his anger.
They'd be a good team: perhaps. Cowley hoped he'd been right, but it wouldn't be the first time he'd made a mistake. No indeed. But how could he do otherwise than try to team them, when Bodie revealed for the first time his ability to look after someone beside himself?
Macklin said he could really make something of them if Cowley gave them a free hand. Cowley said no. He would decide when and how much training.
Because Macklin had no 'off' switch, he was not the best to decide such things. Even though Macklin was invaluable and trusted, Cowley had to see the cracks there: the fear that drove the ferocity. He had to use Macklin for best results, as he used all of them: balancing each agent's strengths and weaknesses.
Towser was a help with this. He was so strong and calm, it couldn't help but rub off on Macklin. Cowley thought that subconsciously, having Towser nearby helped keep Macklin's old fears at bay. Towser was protection. Though Macklin knew that he would never again be in field work, never again be captured and helpless at enemy hands, or halfway killed and left for dead...he knew it even more when a strong man he trusted was at his back, training with him.
Of course Cowley never said any of this to Macklin. Surely there was enough in Macklin's folder to keep a psychiatrist busy for years! But he didn't have to hear any of it from Cowley: Macklin knew enough of the things that drove him and haunted him, that had changed him from the man he'd been, and made a fiercer trainer than anything else could've done.
#
Frankly, Bodie seemed even fuller of himself when he was with Doyle. He had a jaunty walk and a smirk; he stuck his hands in his pockets when looking particularly pleased. Cowley watched them from down the hall. Bodie appeared to be teasing Doyle, or telling him a joke about something. From Doyle's expression, it wasn't working too well for him. He was attempting to ignore the other man. He stood quite straight, even if he did look like a wind might blow him over.
He'd changed back into his own clothes, ridiculously old blue jeans and a shirt that looked like it had been bought second- or third-hand.
Bodie bounced slightly on the end of his feet, wearing that big grin that looked like he was going to burst out laughing any second. Well, he liked Doyle, at least. That was something. Or perhaps it wasn't and he just enjoyed teasing the man.
Bodie caught sight of Cowley down the hall and grinned. He turned to face Doyle again and plucked on his sleeve, turning him gently round and pointing down the hall to Cowley. Then he waved childishly and quickly turned it into a salute, trying to swallow his smirk.
That lad would need brought into line, thought Cowley, keeping his gaze hard and stern.
Bodie caught Doyle's wrist and raised it, making his hand wave a little as well. Doyle cast a quick, startled look at him and pulled his arm free, frowning.
Bodie smirked.
"Bodie! Doyle! A little more respect, gentlemen," snapped Cowley, "or I'll send you back to Macklin!"
He returned to his office and shut the door with force. Bodie's smirk had been swallowed and Doyle turned an accusing look on his partner.
Hm. That little scenario led into Cowley's other concern about Bodie.
Since he'd missed out on the classroom work so far, Bodie hadn't heard Cowley's speech about not having ranks in CI5—about being a team, with neither member of a partnership in charge of the other. Bodie seemed, by his buoyant and proprietary attitude, to have the idea that Doyle was his personal possession, a novelty toy that he would look after or boss around as he pleased.
He'd never worked closely with a partner that Cowley could tell from his files. He obviously had no idea how this worked and was going to be in for a shock sooner or later. Cowley hoped they would sort it out. He could only do his best to prepare them for their partnership.
When it was time, they were quiet and paid attention to his speech about chalk and cheese, the Bisto Kids, and nobody having top rank in the partnership.
Then with a few stern words about needing to work twice as hard or they'd be left behind, he turned them over to the other classes, where they would sit in on lectures and play catch-up with their reading and tests in subjects varying from but not limited to weapons' capacities, hostage scenarios, guarding buildings and tailing theory.
But of his own speech and introduction, he had no idea how much they actually took in, understood, or meant to apply. Only time would prove that. And prove whether they were fit to be CI5 agents or no.
#
Later that very day at the far end of the lunch room, Cowley glimpsed a particularly 'playful' stunt from Bodie that made him wonder if the man had been listening at all.
Bodie started teasing his partner with a makeshift sock puppet, 'talking' it in a teasing gruff voice and making it nip at Doyle's arm and hair. He kept it up till Doyle snapped and started at him with his fists, steak-and-kidney forgotten in the uproar. The other agents got free entertainment with their meals. Bodie howled in laughter and fended Doyle off rather easily. Doyle must still be weak from the hospital.
Cowley realised he was going to have to do something, before this got out of hand. One speech was apparently not enough to get through to Bodie.
He called Bodie into his office afterwards and laid into him: first about carrying on like a child during mealtime. Once Bodie seemed properly chastened and in order about that, Cowley began talking to him about how he was behaving with Doyle. "But that's not the worst of it, man. You need to rethink how you interact with Doyle. He's not a toy."
Bodie was wearing his soldier-at-attention face. He looked blank and vague. "A toy, sir?"
"I said, he's not a toy!" said Cowley sharply.
Bodie said, "No sir," but his eyes were cast down and Cowley glimpsed a mutinous disbelief under those long lashes—one he hadn't displayed when scolded for making a scene during lunch. Apparently Bodie had quite accepted his guilt about the former, but refused to do the same about provoking Doyle.
Cowley sighed inwardly. He would try to explain more clearly. "This is a new arrangement for you, but it's not for him. He knows what it means to have a partner—to trust someone with your life every day. But you are acting like it's all a game—as if he's here to amuse you. He's not. He's here to trust with your life, Bodie."
"Yes sir, I'm working on it, sir." Bodie looked so full of himself, for a moment, Cowley wanted to smack him. It wouldn't help, of course. He needed reasoned with; he simply couldn't see anything wrong with the way he was behaving.
"Yes, and you're also amusing yourself by trying to gain his trust. Visits to the hospital, sneaking food in to him. Don't think I didn't hear about that."
Bodie pretended to look ashamed, but anyone with half a brain could see he wasn't. "No sir."
Cowley sat back down. "If you do get past his barriers and he decides to trust you, then what? Have you thought about the permanency of that arrangement? You don't make or undo a partnership—not a real one—on a whim. It's fine and well to say this is temporary, but if it works out, it isn't, not at all.
"If he's really your partner, then you're stuck. You belong not just to me and CI5, but to him—permanently. He will see it that way, if you don't, because he knows what a partnership is. And if you create that on a whim, you'll break it on a whim—and ruin a perfectly good agent in the process. Are you ready for a real partnership, or does Doyle have the right of it? He doesn't trust you, you know. I can see it in his eyes."
Bodie's eyes flashed. "I know that, sir. But he will. And maybe I am ready for that—that real partnership, sir. Maybe I want that."
Cowley stared at him. "But you're not sure, are you?"
Bodie's face became animated with a sudden, almost shy look. "Sir, I thought it had been a few months since Syd Parker died. It hasn't. It's been years. He'll be loyal to that man as long as he lives." Enthusiasm shone on Bodie's face, and a kind of awe. "Only think, if I can gain his trust, he'll be that loyal to me, too!"
Cowley sighed. "Loyalty works both ways, Bodie. Sometimes life is not a simple mathematical problem—addition and subtraction. Sometimes it is calculus. Sometimes it's rocket science!"
He sighed and rose. "The partnership needs tested and if it can't endure those tests, then it's better it should end." He motioned for Bodie to leave, tired of trying to make the uncomprehending ex-soldier understand.
Bodie left with a respectful 'yes sir,' and a thoughtful but stubborn look about him. It was quite obvious that he couldn't see past the new toy stage of Doyle.
Ah, but laddie, the Doyle you think you have isn't the real one. It's not a game to him...
#
Cowley made certain to ask the teachers about them. Those reports were... mixed, to say the least. Bodie did well at any studies he applied himself to, but was just as prone to clown around like a schoolboy or write silly answers in the margins of his tests. The boy who had run away from home (and school) at fourteen apparently still retained his childish attitudes towards anything related to books and classrooms.
Doyle was better in this way; though he fell asleep in his classes several times, he seemed to be paying attention. He also didn't handle the tests very well, though. He worked hard at anything he wasn't familiar with, but on subjects where he should've shone, he chose wild answers as often as not, making his worst grades in what he should've been best at.
The teachers quickly grew frustrated with both of them and Cowley could tell, would be glad when they were sent for more physical training, failed at CI5, or were put on standby and out of their hair.
Cowley didn't mind a few youthful larks, if they didn't interfere with learning and the job. However, it seemed likely they did, and were. So the next time he was called on to lecture to a class he kept a special eye on the two of them. Their regular seats were towards the back of the class, but Cowley asked the instructor to move them towards the front for today. He intended to make an example out of them, if either misbehaved.
All the men filed in, hiding their nerves at being lectured by Cowley under a layer of quiet that was often missing from the beginnings and endings of a class. Cowley had often heard arguing impassionedly about one point or another, sometimes not even letting up over lunch. Today all were quiet and orderly, and very much at attention. It made Cowley smile inwardly. Good. They needed to have a healthy respect—fear, even—of their boss. It would wear off soon enough; he was no plaster god. But they needed to start out with the right attitude of respect and obedience.
Doyle, Cowley noted, was looking a little healthier: still peaked and pale, but his clothes fit him a little better, no longer looked like they were falling off a scarecrow; he was gaining weight. He sat still and kept his eyes on Cowley—except for when he kept glancing at his partner's papers, or shifting one leg over the other, or leaning back, or otherwise moving about restlessly.
Sure enough, Bodie was the only one flagrantly not to be toeing the line. Whenever Cowley's back was turned, he bent to doodle, smirking. Sometimes when he thought no one was looking, he nudged Doyle—who tried to ignore him, then glanced at the paper and tried not to laugh. It was a look he could barely swallow in time to look innocent if Cowley's attention returned to him. Then they looked like angels, the pair of them—Bodie more so than Doyle.
Doyle's scarred cheekbone and expressive eyes made it difficult for him to look entirely innocent. His face and eyes revealed him too much, and the scar made him look as if he'd seen too much to be a choirboy. Bodie, however—who'd certainly lived a rough and chequered past—had the Innocent Schoolboy expression down pat. Even when he was the one causing trouble—getting Doyle to almost laugh out loud, or paying not the least bit of attention—he managed to look completely innocent a moment later, while Doyle had to struggle manfully for anything like the same effect.
It would have been instructive, even amusing, to witness their efforts at duplicity had not the setting been so serious. Cowley was giving a talk—one they needed to hear. They were cutting up and acting like children instead of paying attention. And if this was how they acted with Cowley—what hell must they put the regular teachers through?
If they had been small boys, he'd have put them over his knee one at a time and spanked them till they howled. As it was, they were men, and he had to find a man's way of dealing with them.
He glanced back at them again from the corner of his eye and saw Bodie, with an expression of wicked glee, reaching up behind Doyle's back. Slowly, slowly—none of the students were paying attention now, their gazes locked in horrified fascination on Bodie's foolhardiness—the hand eased up, behind Doyle, then grabbed a big handful of curls and gave a quick tug.
Doyle, whose eyelids had been drifting sleepily, jerked upright with a strangled snort. He looked wildly around. Bodie, innocent, angelic, sat with his hands folded, and raised an enquiring eyebrow at the dark look his companion cast him.
Cowley stared at them both. "Ahem. If you two have quite finished larking about like infants?"
"Sir?" said Bodie, enquiringly. Very innocent, that lad—but completely syrupy, would never fool anyone.
"All right, Bodie. Since you've had enough of the class, why don't you go run laps till we're finished?"
Bodie's face lit with a cheeky smile. "Yes SIR!" He popped from his seat and saluted, eagerness on his features.
Cowley started to turn back to the board and then hesitated, as if remembering something. "Don't forget to don your scuba gear first."
Dismay crossed that cheerful face now. Across the room, the faint laughter was stifled behind hands.
"Yes sir," said Bodie, dismay showing clearly on his face. He went without hesitation. He could at least obey orders like a soldier, even if he couldn't stop clowning.
Cowley looked at Doyle consideringly. Doyle looked him back frankly, meeting his gaze, not standing at attention. He looked a bit like a rat terrier that was cornered but wasn't going down without dragging you with it by the ankles. In a way, his silent, returning stare was more disrespectful than anything Bodie had done.
But, he wasn't a soldier and Cowley hadn't picked him to turn him into one, he reminded himself. You had to give civilians a little slack concerning military protocols.
Cowley had been thinking hard, and one thing was for certain, he couldn't give both men the same punishment. Doing anything together would make them a team—us versus Cowley—and let them joke and bluff their way through it together. While he wanted them to be bonded, this was not the way, and he didn't intend to let them off easily. This punishment was meant to catch their attention, and then perhaps they wouldn't need it again. It had to be humiliating. For Bodie, what could be more humiliating than flopping around the outside of the school in scuba gear?
For Doyle, still weak but fiercely defiant about his strength and ability to do anything and everything, restless and trapped, what could be worse than...
"Doyle, on your feet, man. To the back of the classroom, and you will hold those two buckets while you listen. Mind you don't drop them."
Doyle's face was a picture as he picked up two sand buckets, left there for fires and cigarette butts. He held them and stood there looking confused. This isn't too hard, he seemed to be thinking. Cowley did not smile, just got on with the lesson.
Every few minutes, he took note of Doyle's growing discomfort. Doyle was not only restless standing in one spot all the while, but also hurting quite badly. The weight of the buckets, nothing for a quick jaunt, or if you could put them down every few minutes, quickly grew torturous if you had to stand in one position, very still, at the back of a classroom.
Doyle's arms were tiring, trembling a little now, and his face was a mask of pained determination. He shifted from foot to foot, trying to relieve the strain. Cowley's gaze snapped up to him at the back, and Doyle froze again, then slowly lowered his right foot. His face was red; half the class had looked back at him, too. He kept his eyes raised and didn't meet anyone's gaze, but even from here Cowley could see the fury burning in his eyes. Bodie might be teased later about wearing scuba gear, but Cowley wouldn't like to stand in anyone's shoes who laughed at Doyle later over this.
Cowley's lecture was a long one, and he deliberately paced himself. The growing tension in the room—each time the ridiculously-suited Bodie flopped past the window on another lap, each tiny shift or muscle-tremble from Doyle—was actually a conducive atmosphere for learning, Cowley felt. It stimulated their minds something wonderfully to know what could happen to them if they didn't pay attention. The ingenuity of his punishments ought to frighten and inspire them. Nothing like keeping them off balance to get the best out of them!
It was just past three o'clock, the normal end for the lectures (though Cowley was still going strong), when silly-sounding flapping footsteps approached the classroom. He heard a few clunks, a metallic clang, a rubbery stretching sound. Then Bodie blundered into the classroom, disarrayed and obviously fresh from his run and his hot wetsuit. He was completely bathed in sweat and breathing hard. Otherwise, he didn't look worse for the wear. It had taken the edge off him, and he definitely needed a shower, but it hadn't harmed him any. With a civilian Cowley might have been more hesitant to put him out in the hot sun in such conditions, but he knew what Bodie could handle, and it hadn't hurt the ex-soldier any—the man who had worked in African heat for several years.
Bodie stopped at the sight of the class still in session. He caught sight of his partner at the back and did a double take, blinking.
"Ah, Bodie, done so soon? The class is still in session," said Cowley. He kept his voice mildly enquiring, but could almost hear the class holding their breath, fascinated at the train wreck developing, and wondering what Bodie's next punishment would be.
"Sorry sir, thought it ended at three. Shall I go back?"
"No, sit down and pay attention for once in your life." He turned back to the chalkboard, and continued his lecture.
Bodie meekly took his seat, glancing back once at his partner with what might as well have been a huge question mark over his head. The edge was certainly off Bodie—he sat drained and quiet in his chair. You could almost hear the class wondering about Doyle, how long his punishment (and the rest of the lecture) would last.
"Doyle." Cowley raised his voice. Everyone was paying minute attention, whilst trying to pretend to be focusing on their notes. "What would the correct weapon be in this situation?" He called on the ex-policeman as if he were sitting in class taking notes like the rest of them. Everyone turned to look at Doyle. He looked decidedly pale, arms visibly jerking with the effort to not drop the buckets, even his fury eaten up by his stubbornness as he used both to keep himself in position.
"The knife," said Doyle in a very strained sort of voice. "Too close and dangerous to use a gun, too many civilians about. Sir," he added, with a defiant twist of his lip.
"Very good, Doyle. At least someone has been paying attention." He turned back to the chalkboard, wrote another note and continued talking for another five minutes.
By now Doyle must want to scream from pain. It had been a long time, and at this point every second felt like minutes, every minute like hours. Cowley had suffered this punishment himself in his younger years, but it was no good letting up too easily. He knew very well the ex-detective constable was more defiant now than when he'd started. The defiant Doyle very well might sooner die than give in at this point—but he'd learn not to cross Cowley, even if it cost him something today.
Bodie had had worse behaviour in class, but Cowley could see Doyle was the one who most badly needed brought into line. Something in him simply refused to submit.
Cowley finally finished the talk—slowly—after a few instructive reminisces that brought smiles to his face, and ended the lectures on a high note that had to mix frighteningly with the knowledge of the punishment still being meted out. "All right, dismissed. And I expect to hear good reports from your teachers from all of you, regarding the next test." The other agents filed out in relief, hurrying, casting frankly curious looks at Doyle as they passed. They would have something to talk over today—and they would have an example not to cross their boss.
Doyle's punishment seemed to be working best for that purpose, brought home as it was by his pale face tight with fury and agony. Bodie's punishment, though sounding worse and with an element of the ridiculous about it, had been carried off well by the ex-soldier. He would receive good-natured ribbing about it later, and carry that off well, too. Whereas Doyle...
Bodie hopped from his seat and strode back towards Doyle. "C'mon, mate, let's go," he said in a low voice.
Doyle ignored him. His chin jerked up and forward, and he was staring straight at Cowley. Even from here, the shaking of his muscles was visible.
"Doyle," said Bodie, in a low, serious voice. There was no laughter in him now, none at all. "Not now. C'mon mate." He caught one of the buckets, and tried to pry Doyle's fingers loose from it. The muscles had clamped tight and stiff; it was hard to get his hand open.
"Bodie," said Cowley, his voice like a whip. "Leave him." He collected his notes, and tamped them into place.
"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.
the end