Day care and Roses © by Elsa

This is a Lyric wheel story: a story in which certain phrases from a song have to be used.
The lyrics had to originate from somewhere between 1978 - 1983,
the period in which the Professionals were on TV.

Unedited and un-betaed so have a good laugh if this sounds a bit odd at times… I do!

*

"Bodie? Bodie?! Bodie, where are you?!" Doyle shouted while he ran through the abandoned apartment complex. Practically all doors, decaying and rotting away because of the humidity, were open and offered 4.5 a look at the sad remains of what once were upper class households. Doyle knew from questioning the suspects that Bodie was held in one of these apartments - the most logical assumption was that that specific entrance wouldn't be open. His intuition told him to look further.

One door was sealed off with crude, hastily put up timberwork. This is it, he knew with unexplained certainty. He banged his flat hand on the wood and shouted out to his partner, whom he firmly believed to be in there.

Impatiently he began tearing at the woodwork, meanwhile shouting to the drip constables who were still looking in the adjacent apartments to help him. With combined efforts they finally managed to rip off the last plank and Doyle rushed inside, gun in hand, ready for unexpected surprises.

He found Bodie, with only a pair of jockeys on, in the corner of a dilapidated bedroom. The room was dusk because of the crude shutters on the outside, but even in the scarce light Doyle could see how he was tied to a rusty radiator, his faced etched with lines of exhaustion. He didn't react to Doyle's voice. When 4.5 carefully touched his shoulder and bent sideways to cut the thick ropes, a horrified look flew over the face of the big man and unseeing eyes flew wildly from one side of the room to the other. He didn't recognise Doyle at first. Once released of the ties, unexpectedly and with all the force he could gather, Bodie tried to swing out to Doyle in a desperate attempt to free himself from his attackers. Only Doyle's quick reaction prevented a blow to his head and he grabbed his partner's wrists in an iron grip. Beneath his sensitive fingers he could feel the raw skin where the rope had cut cruelly into the flesh.

"Sure you don't - I can tell from your coherent speech and your flamboyant appearance. Don't mind me being the judge of that now, do you?" Doyle took off his coat and covered his almost naked friend with it. The kidnappers had left him undressed in this cold, humid and filthy environment. His body shivered from the moist chill that was all around - even the filthy carpet he had been lying on reeked of fungus. He tried to sit up and Doyle helped him, not missing the flinch as he propped him against the mouldy wall. Bodie coughed vehemently, the raw rasping coming from deep. But there was a flicker of his old spark in the blue eyes, a signal that he knew he was safe now, and softly he mumbled: "… the kid…?"

"Safe and sound. We found him almost instantly after you called. But you were missing by then - now we had to find you."

"… glad ye did…. ta…," came the almost unintelligible 'thank you' . A shudder followed and again Bodie coughed. Doyle let his eyes glide through what had been Bodie's confinement for two weeks and then a faded painting on the ceiling caught his eye.

"You're a lucky sod, you know that?" he tried to sound cheerfully, knowing it was probably ridiculous.

"When that Miller brigade beat me up, I woke up in a hell hole. There were no angels up there looking after me, you know."

"Yeah, those angels on the ceiling. Very artistic. A bit flaked off, but still they're there. Just imagine how perfect every single day would be with that over your head when you wake up in the morning." He pointed at the painted decoration on the ceiling. Bodie didn't follow his finger.

Doyle talked small talk - a tiny way to offer some comfort. Maybe he could distract Bodie a bit, chase away the spooks that had caused those eyes to look so haunted.

He kept talking and talking until the paramedics arrived, who hauled Bodie onto the stretcher, carried him downstairs and into the awaiting ambulance.

Doyle woke when somebody shook him. It was Cowley. Judging from the dimmed lights in the corridors, it was way past visiting hours. The Major took a seat next to Doyle, who drowsily pushed himself up from the three chairs he'd been sleeping on. When the blood circulation began to restore itself, he could feel the needles and pins in his leg. And -ouch- his neck… those plastic chairs weren't designed for a good kip, that much was sure. He rubbed his sore muscles and looked wearily with sleep drugged eyes at Cowley.

"Well yes, Doyle, that's what I came here for. I just spoke to the doctor - seems our boy has once again crawled through the eye of the needle. He'll be alright."

"Yes. The first stage of a pneumonia but with proper medication and a few weeks rest he'll be good as new."

"Now and then, I wonder when his luck will run out. Our luck," he said. He did feel relief but also the awareness that next time either one of them might not be so fortunate, began to settle and itch under his skin.

Cowley nodded slowly. From his inside pocket he pulled out a small bottle and poured a little bit of the strong liquor into two plastic coffee cups, one of which he offered to Doyle.

"I must admit I wonder if I had the chance to do it again, would I send Bodie so unprepared on the job again? Perhaps I should tell MI6 to go and find some other organisation that's foolish enough to do their dirty work for them - every time they ask for our assistance at least one of my agents gets into trouble."

Doyle sighed and shivered as sleep was still in his body and it tried to prevent his temperature to come back to normal.

"It was a haste job, sir. The child wouldn't have been alive today if you had taken time to brief him. Bodie acted as he always does - straight from the heart."

"With all due respect, you would, sir. You want to walk tall with peace of mind, arriving home to always find things just as you expect them to be - in control, with the realisation that you've done everything possible."

"Sometimes, sir, I wake up, when it hits me like a ton of bricks that I fill my life chasing scumbags who kidnap little children and murder innocent people. I want to do something nice with my life… work in a day care centre for children, or be a gardener and grow exquisite roses."

Cowley smiled - of course he had heard more of these pleas. Every agent on the job was bothered by his conscience at times, sick and tired of it all and longing for peace and quiet and a 'normal' job. Doyle was no exception. In fact, Cowley had expected him to burst out into this kind of confession-like revelations more often but up till now they had been scarce.

The commander held the bottle up and poured another sip of whiskey in both cups.

"If it were possible, Doyle, I wish I could vanquish foes with nothing more than just a glance."

"Very profound, sir," Doyle mumbled a bit crabbily "quite an eloquent way to put it. But it doesn't change a thing - beneath that smooth talk it still means kill, death, exterminate."

"Aye, lad, that it does." the Major nodded thoughtfully and repeated softly, "it does."

"I'm going home and get some sleep. I assume you want to stay here? And I take it there's no use in trying to convince you to do the same?"

Doyle allowed for a little grin to appear. The morose mood seemed to dissolve with the liquor.

"Hang on, sir. Bodie'll forgive me if I swap the chairs for a decent bed. It's pretty unfair that he's in a comfortable bunk and I only get the imprints of these seats in my arse…"

They walked past the room where Bodie was supposed to be. Doyle stopped Cowley and peered inside. His partner slept - calmly, so it seemed.

"This wouldn't have to do with the fact that you're without means of transportation, would it now?"

"The wrecked Capri that I saw late this afternoon, Doyle," Cowley replied sternly. "And don't give me that innocent look. You're beginning to sound like him."

"Yes, like Bodie. Same smooth comments and the same way of avoiding a reprimand - you two are more alike then you think."

"Nah, sir. If I were like Bodie, I'd say something like: I’m quite content and happy being me."

"Content and happy being me?" 4.5 held the door open to his boss and followed him outside.

"It's not often that I am, more often I'm not. But I suppose you're right, sir. I realise it’s me who has to take the licks - I also realise I'm trained for that, unlike others. As long as I do what I'm good at, I keep on fighting those bastards - 'xcuse the language. The knowledge that I'm taking the beating to bring the scumbag to justice…That might ease my conscience."

"Well spoken. Emm… I take it you'll postpone your future job interview for janitor at a day care centre?"

"Janitor?! I didn't say janitor, sir!" Cowley saw Doyle looking up before closing the door of the car. Somewhere up there, Bodie slept and would be up and about in a couple of days. Once again, they managed to survive.

A janitor! Doyle thought as his boss drove the Ford Granada away from the hospital - so far for confiding... That's how wild stories are born, Ray. Sometimes, Bodie, I wish I could be a bit more like you. Find a different way around this day with nothing more than simple words, so I can say to myself - sleep well tonight. Let tomorrow be tomorrow. But I'm not like that - the Cow is wrong. We're not alike.

"Stop worrying, Doyle. The day care centres will still be there in twenty years and so will you."

Now and then,
I must admit I wonder if I had the chance
to vanquish foes with nothing more than just a glance
how perfect every single day would be.

To never wait in driving rain for the bus that never came
not to be the one to blame for anybody else’s misery.

Now and then, I contemplate a different way around this day
with nothing more than simple words, so I can say
I’m quite content and happy being me.

Walking tall with peace of mind to leave no childhood dreams behind
arriving home to always find things just as I know they ought to be.

Now and then,
I must admit I wonder if I had the chance
to vanquish foes with nothing more than just a glance
how perfect every single day would be.

To never wait in the driving rain for the bus that never came
not to be the one to blame for anybody else’s misery.

Now and then,
I wake up, when it hits me like a ton of bricks,
I realise it’s me who has to take the licks,
no angels up there looking after me.

No rainbow with a pot of gold, no cloak to shield me from the cold,
no pill to stop me growing old, dreams fading into stark reality.

Elsa, May 2001. - Lyrics provided by Rosie. Feedback is always welcome - mail me!