NOTHING
By
Darby Brennan
Set immediately after Lawson's Last Stand.
Bodie and Doyle drive away from the scene with the certain knowledge that they both almost died.
A pre-slash story.
Written: July 2005. Word count: 600.
Choking.
White light.
Darkness.
Nothing.
That's what it would have been like if he hadn't caught the canister. Hadn't been able to lob it into the Fox. That's what would have happened if he'd failed. Failed London. Failed Cowley. Failed Bodie.
He'd be dead now. They all would. All dead because he, Raymond Doyle, had failed to catch a lousy canister. A bright, shiny, silver, metal tube. Innocuous looking. But then a lot of deadly things often were.
He could have killed half of London. Maybe even more. Him. But he was meant to be the good guy, wasn't he? He wore the white hat. Righted wrong. Brought justice to the world. But one slip and he'd be a killer. Bodie would be dead because of him.
Bodie. Partner. Best mate. Other half. The man whose back he was meant to watch. The bloke he'd die for. Kill for. Lie for. Fight for. Stand up for. Do anything for. He'd have killed him. He'd have died too himself, but that didn't matter. Only Bodie mattered.
Bodie would be dead, and it would all be Doyle's fault. Bodie would be dead, and he'd have died never knowing the truth. That ‘partner', ‘best mate', ‘other half', weren't enough. Not any longer. Maybe they never were.
He'd always reckoned he'd have time. Daft really given their jobs. And yet he always felt safe with Bodie. Secure in a way he'd never felt before. Never thought he'd die on the job, not with Bodie watching his back.
But he could have done today. Bodie could have done. And that was intolerable. ‘Don't put off until tomorrow, what you can do today', his gran had always told him. It was time for him to heed her words.
He opened his mouth.
Choking.
White light.
Darkness.
Nothing.
That's what it would have been like if he hadn't got to the canister in time. Hadn't been able to lob it to Doyle. That's what would have happened if he'd failed. Failed London. Failed Cowley. Failed Doyle.
He'd be dead now. They all would. All dead because he, William Andrew Philip Bodie, had failed to run fast enough to snatch up a lousy canister. A bright, shiny, silver, metal tube. Innocuous looking. But then a lot deadly things often were.
He could have killed half of London. Maybe even more. Him. But he was meant to be the good guy, wasn't he? He wore the white hat. Righted wrong. Brought justice to the world. But one slip and he'd be a killer. Doyle would be dead because of him.
Doyle. Partner. Best mate. Other half. The man whose back he was meant to watch. The bloke he'd die for. Kill for. Lie for. Fight for. Stand up for. Do anything for. He'd have killed him. He'd have died too himself, but that didn't matter. Only Doyle mattered.
Doyle would be dead, and it would all be Bodie's fault. Doyle would be dead, and he'd have died never knowing the truth. That ‘partner', ‘best mate', ‘other half', weren't enough. Not any longer. Maybe they never were.
He'd always reckoned he'd have time. Daft really given their jobs. And yet he always felt safe with Doyle. Secure in a way he'd never felt before. Never thought he'd die on the job, not with Doyle watching his back.
But he could have done today. Doyle could have done. And that was intolerable. ‘Don't put off until tomorrow, what you can do today', his gran had always told him. It was time for him to heed her words.
He opened his mouth.
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