I know, I'm only coming on to post stuff... I'm grabbing internet time where I can, but I don't anticipate having the time to do any reading until 4 January, when I plan to absolutely gorge myself on all the posts that have been made this month.

To be honest, I'm getting a bit frustrated that I have so little computer time and almost zero writing time. :( I promise I'll be reading and commenting in January!

Title: Happy Christmas Mr Doyle
Author: Liriel
Format: short story
Circuit Archive: yes
Pros-Lib: yes
Slash/Gen: slash
Pairing: Bodie/Doyle
Warnings:Cowley is dead in this story.
Summary: It's never too late for a Christmas miracle.
Disclaimer: Created out of tinsel and pixie dust. I don’t own these characters.


banner by the absolutely awesome catlover2x



Half an hour to midnight on Christmas Eve, Ray Doyle finally staggered up the stairs to his flat. Once more good (CI5) had triumphed over evil (terrorists) and England was safe to wake up Christmas morning with no more concerns than what Father Christmas had left for them.

There’d been no chance to make his own preparations for Christmas and that was fine with Doyle. All he wanted to do was crawl into bed and stay there for the next two days. He didn’t care what anyone else was doing, he just wanted to sleep and sleep until he was tired of sleeping.

He opened the door of his flat and flicked on the light switch, but the room remained in darkness. His senses on high alert, Doyle pulled his gun and cautiously edged into the flat, making sure he always had cover. One time of being caught flat-footed was enough to make him very cautious when things weren’t as he expected them to be.

It might have been quite a few years since he’d been on the street, but Doyle had lost none of his skill with a gun and while he might be a little slower thanks to the bullet that had almost taken him off the streets, he was still fit. He peered around the edge of the door frame, gun at the ready.

“Put it away, laddie.”

Doyle froze at the sound of the familiar voice. He’d not heard that voice since Cowley had passed away five years ago. He retreated, putting his back to the wall while he tried to puzzle out the conundrum of Cowley’s voice coming from his lounge when the man had been dead for years.

“It’ll be easier to have a wee chat if you would come in and sit down,” Cowley’s voice came from the lounge. Doyle was relieved that it didn’t sound any closer, but also worried about who – or what was in his dark lounge.

“Who are you?” Doyle demanded.

Cowley chuckled. “You’re not going to tell me you’ve forgotten me already, are you, Doyle?”

“I know who you sound like.”

“Come inside, Doyle. I’ll not hurt you.”

Keeping his gun in his hand, Doyle reluctantly entered the lounge. “Why have you got the lights disabled?”

“I was being mindful of the last time you returned home to find an unexpected occupant of your flat,” Cowley replied.

The lights flared on and Doyle squinted against the sudden brightness, swallowing against the knot in his throat when he saw Cowley standing in front of the fireplace looking ten years younger than he had when he’d died. “I don’t understand. You’re dead. I saw your body. I was there when they closed the coffin and you were lowered into the ground.”

Cowley chuckled. “Aye, I’m dead, Doyle. Where’s Bodie?”

“Not here.”

“Aye, even a dead man can see that. Sit you down then, and tell me why.”

“Why would you care?” Doyle asked, finally holstering his weapon. “You never cared when you were alive.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Doyle.” Cowley moved to sit in the armchair, leaving the couch for Doyle. “Yes, I drove you hard, you and Bodie both, but it was because I cared that I did so. You two were my best agents, always thinking about the angles, working together like a well-oiled machine. So I will ask you again, where is Bodie?”

Doyle sat on the couch, clasping his hands between his knees. He raised one eyebrow when the bottle of scotch and two glasses were levitated from the sideboard and placed on the coffee table. Invisible hands poured a measure into each glass and then one drink was placed in front of Doyle.

“You haven’t answered my question, Doyle.”

“What question was that?” Doyle asked, picking up his drink and relaxing back in his seat. He took a sip of the scotch and stared blandly at Cowley’s ghost.

Cowley glared at him, but Doyle refused to be intimidated. He was no longer that young man who’d thought the controller of CI5 had all the answers. Being the controller himself now, he knew Cowley’d had no more answers than any of them.

“Do you think I don’t know how close you and Bodie were? I half-expected you and Bodie to move in together once you got more into the administrative side of the operation.”

“You must have forgotten to give Bodie that brief.” Doyle’s lips twisted into a bitter smile.

“When did it start to disintegrate?”

Doyle stared at Cowley for a long time, and then he sighed heavily. “I don’t know. I can’t really pinpoint any one moment and say that – that was the beginning of the end. I’ve thought about it backwards and forwards and I still can’t work out what happened.”

“Where is Bodie now?” Cowley asked in a sympathetic tone.

“I don’t know.” Doyle shrugged as though it didn’t matter. “He quit four years ago and left London without saying a word.”

“You didn’t try to find him?”

“Of course I did! I tried every avenue I could think of, but you know as well as I do, if Bodie doesn’t want to be found, you could look until the end of time and never find him! He’s gone to ground somewhere – or maybe he’s gone back to being a mercenary…” Doyle hefted the empty glass in his hand. It was one of a set Bodie had given him – the last thing he’d ever given him.

His hand gripped the glass tightly as rage suffused him and Doyle abruptly flung the glass against the wall. The heavy crystal shattered against the wall, glittering shards littering the floor.

“I would have thought you were both smart enough to learn from my mistakes,” Cowley said, pushing the second glass across the table towards Doyle.

Doyle ignored the drink, his attention focused on his hands. He clenched them into fists to hide the way they were shaking. He’d thought he was over the pain of Bodie’s leaving.

“The job should never have become all there was to life for you,” Cowley said heavily. “I’d thought with the two of you sharing the responsibility, you’d have more time to live.”

“You could have four people sharing the job, but the minister will only talk to one,” Doyle said bitterly. “It would have been far better if you’d made the choice rather than forcing us to decide who was going to be the top man.”

He glanced up at Cowley and then back down at his hands. They were no longer the strong, capable hands of a young man. The skin was pale with age spots peppering the backs of his hands, arthritis made moving a painful experience, particularly when it was rainy. If he’d had any option, Doyle would have quit working already, but there was nothing else left for him to do any more. “Bodie and I always worked as a team. That was your creed – there was no seniority in the partnerships, both were equal and held equal responsibility. How were we then supposed to adjust to one of us being more equal?”

Cowley remained silent and Doyle sighed, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. “It’s nearly midnight and I have two days to myself for the first time all year. I’m going to bed. Let yourself out the same way you came in.”

He dragged himself to his feet and plodded out of the room.

“If you could do it over, what would you do differently?” Cowley’s words halted Doyle in his tracks.

“What’s the point in what ifs? It’s too late and if I ever had any optimism, it’s been ground down to nothing.”

“Humour me.”

Doyle closed his eyes, lifting his face to the ceiling. “I would listen to Bodie when he suggested it might be time to get out after I was shot. But there’s no point to this, sir. Someone has to lead the department now that you’re gone.”

“No one is irreplaceable, Doyle.”

Doyle’s chin dropped to his chest and a great well of sorrow filled him. “Bodie is,” he whispered. Without looking at Cowley or acknowledging his presence again, Doyle walked down the hall to his bedroom, his footsteps heavy with a tiredness he thought he would never recover from.

The ghost of George Cowley glanced at the clock on the mantle and smiled as he listened to Doyle’s plodding footsteps. “Happy Christmas, Doyle,” he said softly as he faded to nothing. There was a brief glittering sparkle in the air where he’d stood, and then the room was silent and empty.



Insistent nagging pain drew Doyle to wakefulness. His chest hurt. It hadn’t hurt that bad since just after he’d come home from hospital thirty years ago. He groaned with pain as he struggled to sit up in the bed.

“You grunted?” Bodie poked his head around the edge of the door frame, grinning cheerfully.

“Bodie?” Doyle gasped in surprised delight, forgetting all about the pain in his chest for the moment. “What are you doing here? Damn, you look so young.”

Bodie snickered as he entered the room properly and crossed to sit on the edge of the bed. “What’s in those tablets the doctor gave you?” He picked up the bottle from the bedside table and examined it. “I think they’re affecting your vision. If anything, I’ve aged ten years.”

“You don’t look a day over thirty.”

“It’s all the fried egg and bacon sandwiches,” Bodie grinned. “Gets the blood pumping.”

Pushing the blankets aside, Doyle struggled to his feet.

“Here, hang about,” Bodie said in alarm. “You’re supposed to be taking it easy, Ray.”

“I’ve got to… Oh my god!” Doyle stared at his reflection in the mirror, shocked when his thirty-three year old self stared back at him. The scar from the surgery to save his life was an angry red slash on his chest and the hair around it wasn’t yet fully grown back.

There was a ringing in his ears and a cold heat washed over him as Doyle turned his head to look at his partner. “What the hell is going on?” he whispered. His vision greyed and Doyle could feel himself falling, and then Bodie’s strong arms were wrapped wonderfully around him, holding him up.

“Bloody hell, Ray! I told you to take it easy,” Bodie said, his voice full of concerned alarm. He half-carried Doyle back to bed, tucking the covers around him to keep him warm.

“This – this isn’t true,” Doyle said, clutching onto Bodie’s hand, fearing that he was dreaming and he’d wake up in a moment and be alone again. “It’s – it’s a dream.”

“Don’t think I care much for your dreams, angelfish. It’s been more like a nightmare from where I stand.”

“No – listen to me, Bodie. I – this – I was shot thirty years ago!”

“I’m going to ring the doctor,” Bodie declared. “I think someone mixed up your prescription.”

“Listen!” Doyle said urgently. “I came home last night thirty years from now and Cowley’s ghost was in the lounge. He did something – sent me back in time somehow. I don’t know…”

“Hate to break it to you, mate, but the Cow’s not dead.”

“Not now,” Doyle agreed. He reached out his trembling hand to trace Bodie’s lips with his fingertip. “We talked about you; and about when I was shot…”

“Are you okay, Ray?” Bodie pressed a kiss to Doyle’s fingertips resting against his lips.

“It’s impossible.” Doyle shook his head in wonder. “I went to bed last night a sixty-three year old man, tired of everything and lonelier than I’ve ever been in my life, and woke up, now, here, with you.”

Bodie stared at Doyle, his expression worried.

“I’m not joking, Bodie,” Doyle said. “I know it sounds crazy, but it’s been thirty years since I was shot, and yet…”

“You only got out of hospital three days ago.”

“Cowley.”

“Cowley?”

“He—his ghost—asked me what I would do differently if I could do it over again.” Doyle’s voice was tinged with awe and wonder. “Somehow – I don’t know how, but somehow he’s sent me back – given me the opportunity to try again.”

“Was it so bad?” Bodie asked. “What you decided the first time?”

“I think…” Doyle hesitated. “I made the worst mistake of my life the first time,” he whispered.

“Do you think you’ll do any better this time?”

“We need to talk about the shooting.” Doyle pushed the covers aside, preparing to get up again.

“Here, hang on,” Bodie protested. “You don’t need to get out of bed for that, Ray.”

“Last time, we were in the kitchen.”

“Well, maybe we should break the pattern and talk about it here,” Bodie suggested. “It’s cold and rainy, Doyle. I don’t want you to get a chill.”

“Yeah, maybe we should.” Doyle made no protest when Bodie tucked him into bed again.

“You sure we have to talk about the shooting?” Bodie asked doubtfully.

“Yes, why?”

“Because…” Bodie paused and placed his hand over Doyle’s heart, resting lightly on the scar. “I’m still pissed off with you, sunshine. You were stupid and lax. It should never have happened – would never have happened if you were in peak form.”

“I was just tired, Bodie,” Doyle protested. “We’d been burning both ends of the candle, trying to get a handle on the case…”

“It wasn’t only that.” Bodie’s expression turned grim. “You’re not going to want to hear this but, you’re slowing down, Ray. A few years back, you could have been asleep on your feet and you still wouldn’t have forgotten to set the second locks. And you never would have let that bitch get the drop on you. You’re slowing down in your reaction time. Oh, it’s not really noticeable when you’re rested, but it’s worse when you’re not getting enough sleep. We’re both getting older. This is a young man’s game.”

“It’s not a game.”

“No, it’s not,” Bodie agreed. “And maybe it’s time for us to get out, before we both wind up in a box.”

Doyle stared at Bodie wordlessly for a long moment. This was it, could he do it over – make the choice he’d told Cowley’s ghost he would? It wouldn’t be easy to let it all go, but it would be harder to stay, knowing that eventually he would lose Bodie. “You’re right,” he said quietly. “It’s time for both of us to hand it over to the younger lads. I don’t want to lose you again, Bodie.”

“You haven’t lost me at all, Ray.”

Tears filled Doyle’s eyes as he looked into Bodie’s gaze. “I did,” he said simply.

“You remember everything that happened from this point forward?” Bodie asked.

Doyle nodded. “It’s starting to get hazy, so that I’m not sure if I’m remembering correctly, but I remember that when I refused to even consider leaving CI5; that was the beginning of the end. I’m sorry, Bodie.”

“Well, you’re not going to make the same stupid mistake this time around, right?” Bodie smiled. “I don’t remember you choosing the job over me, sunshine, so how about if I go and get the coffee and we can write our letters of resignation. The sooner we get them in to the old man, the better.”

“Yeah, we need to get them done straight away,” Doyle agreed.

“Think you’re going to change your mind?” Bodie teased.

“Not this time.”

“Be right back.” Bodie went to collect the breakfast he had keeping warm for when Doyle woke up. He returned quickly with coffee, toast, and a boiled egg on a tray. He settled the tray over Doyle’s lap.

“Aren’t you having any?” Doyle asked as he smeared butter on his toast.

“Had mine ages ago,” Bodie replied. He handed Doyle the stack of mail he’d had tucked under his arm. “Had to go out to the shop to get some milk, so I picked up your mail too.”

“Anything interesting?” Doyle munched on his toast, content to be having breakfast with his lover again, even if Bodie wasn’t actually eating anything.

“Mostly junk.” Bodie tossed the flyers onto the floor. “And this.” He handed Doyle an envelope with no return address on it.

Doyle frowned as he opened the envelope and pulled out a Christmas card.

“Somebody’s getting in early,” Bodie snickered. “It’s only the middle of October.”

“Happy Christmas, across the miles,” Doyle read. “Blimey!” He looked up at Bodie. “It’s signed ‘George’.”

“George? Our George? Cowley?” Bodie asked in surprise.

“I don’t know any other George.”

Bodie took the card from Doyle and examined it carefully. “What was the date when you went to sleep, Ray?”

“Christmas Eve,” Doyle said quietly. “It was almost midnight when I told Cowley’s ghost to let himself out and went to bed.”

“It defies all logic, but I’m almost beginning to believe you.” Bodie frowned. “Did you really choose the job over me?”

“I didn’t think I was at the time,” Doyle replied. “I didn’t know until… You’d finally had enough and told me to shove the job – and the minister, up my arse four years ago. I’ve missed you, Bodie.”

“Well you’re not going to miss me this time,” Bodie said firmly, wrapping his arms around Doyle. “If you decide to be an idiot, I’ll just tie you up and take you with me.”

“Please do.” Doyle laid his head against Bodie’s shoulder and sighed contentedly. He still didn’t understand how it had happened, but he was very grateful to Cowley for giving him a chance to correct the wrong decision he’d made. “Happy Christmas, George, and thank you,” he whispered.