Simple Twist of Fate: AU Big Bang Fic

[tears_of_nienna]

Title: Simple Twist of Fate
Author: Sarah K (tears_of_nienna)
Artist: Mella68
Fandom: The Professionals, FlashForward
Pairings: Bodie/Doyle, Janis/Betty
Rating: Mature
Warning: Descriptions of destruction and violence, sexual content.
Word Count: 21,780
Summary: In the wake of the blackout, Bodie and Doyle have to deal with their contradictory flash-forwards. Present-day Professionals AU; FlashForward is AU from "Revelation Zero."
Note: Thanks to mella68 for the amazing art, and squeeful for the beta. Any errors that remain are my own.

Cover Art

What Did You See?



October

Ray Doyle woke up on the concrete in front of headquarters. His first hazy thought was that he usually picked more convenient places to have a kip. The second was that he was glad he hadn't fallen on the side of his face he'd broken once already.

Then everything else kicked in--the screams, the sirens, the smell of smoke and charred meat. In a sudden burst of adrenalin he climbed to his feet and wavered there, taking in the carnage that had formerly been a quiet London street.

Every car on the road had crashed. There were people on the pavement sitting up, looking as dazed as he did. There were others who weren't moving yet, and still others that he didn't imagine were ever going to move again.

Bomb. Had to be a bomb of some kind, suicide or planted. Could be a dirty bomb--there was no way to tell until they got the bomb squad out here with their Geiger counters. He ought to report the explosion in to CI5, but since he was standing right in front of the building, he imagined that they already knew.

On the street in front of the building, a man was yanking at the crushed side door of his car, shouting that his kid was inside. If he had noticed that he was bleeding where his head had hit the dash, he didn't seem to care.

Doyle jumped down off the steps of the building, tugging his jacket off as he went. He wrapped it around his arm and bashed open the cracked window of the car. The little boy in the safety seat was wailing in terror, but he seemed all right otherwise. Doyle murmured comforting nonsense while he knocked the rest of the glass out of the window and wriggled his upper body inside.

"Hey, there, lad. It's all right. We're going to get you out of here, don't worry..." The car-seat was at the far end of the car, which had fetched up against the side of a building, so Doyle had to reach to unfasten the seat. "Come on, out you go," Doyle said, lifting him out of the seat and pulling him carefully out of the broken car window.

Doyle handed the child over to his father, only half-registering the man's thanks, and looked around for the next person he could help.

Four cars were on fire, and people were gathered around them like fools. Doyle herded them away, knowing that the petrol tanks could go at any time if the fire department didn't get there soon.

Where the hell was everyone? The fire department, the ambulance-men, the police, the rest of CI-bloody-5 for that matter? He didn't have any idea what was going on, but he was doing something, in contrast to most of the other people in the street, and so they assumed that he must know what had happened.

"Was it a bomb?" somebody asked.

Doyle shook his head as he looked in the window of one car--nothing he could do there. "I don't know." A bomb was the most likely explanation, but it didn't quite fit. They should all have been half-deafened by the noise of the blast, for one. And he hadn't seen anything that resembled the centre of a blast radius. "What do you remember from before it happened?"

The woman shrugged. "I was just walking, and then I woke up on the pavement. If I'd been crossing the street..." She looked a little sick as she gazed at the dozens of wrecked cars.

"Lucky you weren't, eh?" he said. She gave him a shaky smile, and he moved on.

In CI5, you saw a lot of things you never wanted to see. These weren't the first mangled bodies Doyle had passed by to get to the people who could still be helped. He knew it would come back to haunt him later--the first night after a hard job was always sleepless--but he didn't have time for introspection now.

The voices around him began to grow in number and volume, until Doyle had to say something to get them to stop following him through the debris like an apocalyptic pied piper. "I can't tell you what happened yet, because I don't know. Just stay calm, all right? Everything's going to be all ri--"

"How the hell is it going to be all right?" an American voice screeched. "Look at that!"

Doyle looked in the direction she was pointing, and had to admit that he wasn't at all sure anymore.

Big Ben was on fire.

Something must have crashed into it, a helicopter or a small aircraft. Coordinated attack, he thought. They'd hit a ground target, at least one aerial target, and they'd probably planned for the Underground, too. An EMP, maybe? That would explain the crashed helicopter and the cars, but it wouldn't have knocked out the people on the pavement. Gas? But then why non-fatal gas?

He wondered where Bodie had been when all this had happened.

Not hoping for much, Doyle pulled out his mobile and rang him. Engaged. He couldn't be chatting with a girl--Bodie could be a bit single-minded when it came to the pursuit of women, but he'd hardly be able to ignore the fact that someone--likely several someones--had just bombed a large portion of London.

No, more likely the lines were jammed by people calling family members and loved ones. Maybe Bodie was ringing his mum, and that was why he hadn't answered.

Or maybe he'd been in the Underground when the bombs had gone off, or driving somewhere in a blast zone, or--

Doyle wrenched himself back to the present. He could help here. Worrying about his partner wasn't going to do anyone any good. He left a brief message on Bodie's mobile, saying he was at headquarters and to ring him as soon as possible. Then he hung up and went back to the job. He made his way slowly down the street, checking cars and damaged buildings for injured people, and he resolutely did not worry about Bodie. Nor did he check his mobile every few minutes for messages.

They weren't even close, the two of them, but as he bound up wounds and pulled people from mangled cars, he couldn't quite stop thinking about all the things that might have gone wrong. Sometimes Bodie's old SAS mates went skydiving together on off-days. Suppose they'd been on a jump when this had happened? What if it was their bloody plane that had crashed into Big Ben? But it didn't have to be as dramatic as that. Bodie could have died in a smash-up on the motorway, and it might be days before Doyle found out.

It had been an hour or more since the--whatever it was. Doyle was bent almost double, peering into an empty, overturned car, when he heard a footstep crunch on the broken glass behind him.

"You planning to save London all on your own, mate?"

Doyle turned around to see Bodie standing in front of him, pale and soot-streaked, but in one piece. Without a second's hesitation he grabbed Bodie in a tight hug, and was surprised to find it returned. Maybe he wasn't the only one overwhelmed by all of this.

When Doyle pulled back, he saw the blood staining the side of Bodie's black polo-neck. "Christ," he muttered, reaching for him again, this time in triage mode.

Bodie caught his hand. "It's not mine," he said grimly.

"Yeah? What about this?" Doyle poked at a cut on Bodie's forehead, and he flinched back.

"All right, that bit is. I was in the kitchen; think I must've hit me head on the worktop when I went down. All this--" he gestured to his jumper-- "belonged to the bloke downstairs. He was in the back garden when it hit, fell on the shears he was using."

Doyle grimaced. "Has he got a chance?"

Bodie shook his head. "He was dead when I got to him. Never even woke up."

"Poor bastard," Doyle muttered. "I can't figure this out. It can't have been a regular bomb--a pulse bomb and gas, maybe? Take out the airplanes in the area, any cars with computerised systems, and then gas to knock the rest of us out. But why this part of London? It doesn't--"

Bodie shook his head. "It's not just London."

"What?"

"A couple of the news stations are still up. I passed an electronics shop on the way down here. France, Russia, America--it's the same everywhere."

"Everywhere," Doyle echoed hollowly.

"Yeah. Has the Cow given us any orders?"

Doyle shook his head. "Haven't heard a word. I was just leaving when it happened. Woke up in front of headquarters, and I came out here instead of going back inside for orders. I assumed they already knew."

"Maybe we should go in and che--"

The dull crump of an explosion sent them both ducking down, reaching out to cover each other, and they looked up to see that another wrecked car had gone up in flames. Without a word, they took off in the direction of the explosion.

They barely spoke over the next several hours, moving along at a crawling pace, exploring buildings and pitch-dark streets for injured survivors. Doyle had spent most of his life, and all of his career, more concerned with the possibility of violent death than accident; he'd never really considered how many truly mundane ways there were to die. Car crashes, for example, or falls. Three of the buildings on the first street had bodies at the foot of the stairs.

Just before midnight, both mobiles beeped at the same time. Alpha wants you at HQ in 30. --Betty.

They glanced up at each other, nodded, and then went back to work.

***

They were among the last to arrive at headquarters, having detoured down a side road after hearing someone cry out. No one chided them for being late.

The first thing Cowley did was order the gathered agents to stand down for a six-hour rest.

"But, sir--"

"Cowley!"

Bodie and Doyle weren't the only ones to protest, but Bodie was the loudest, and Doyle the least polite.

Cowley shook his head. "I'll not have you working yourselves into exhaustion out there. Let the others take your place for a few hours, lads." His tone was level, even kind, in a way, but the look in his eyes implied that further argument would be utterly in vain. So they subsided and let him get on with the briefing.

There was more information to be had than Doyle had expected; after all, six hours had passed since the event, although it had felt both longer and shorter than that.

"I'm sure you will have worked out some of this for yourselves, but I'm going to give you everything we know at this time. The incident appears to have been both worldwide and simultaneous. The nature of the event is not known--it appears to have affected only people, not animals, and any damage done to property or machinery was incidental. Casualties will be difficult to determine for a number of weeks, although they're likely to be lesser in non-industrialized countries, as well as in any nation where the event occurred during the night. The Prime Minister has been reported to be safe, and so have the Queen and Prince Charles. There is no word yet on Princes William or Harry."

He paused. "It appears, however, that three of our own agents have been lost in the disaster. Matheson and King were on a flight to Moscow that had left only half an hour before the event. Their plane went down in North Sea. Tony Miller was tailing a drugs suspect at the time, and his car veered into a barrier when he lost consciousness."

Doyle winced, his hands clenching into helpless fists. Matheson and King had been in the job longer than he had, and they knew all the risks that the job entailed. But Tony? Tony had hardly been a fully-fledged member of the squad for twenty-four hours; tailing the drugs man had been his very first job. He hadn't been more than--what, twenty-five, twenty-six? Just a kid, and now...

Bodie nudged him gently, and Doyle forced his attention back onto Cowley, who had already moved on. "...the aftermath of this event is clearly our foremost concern, but its duration is also to be considered. Some members of other agencies are reporting memories from the time that they were unconscious. If any of you remembers anything, an image or a date, we need to know it."

Murphy frowned. "You think there's more to it than dreams, sir?"

"There's a remarkable synchronicity between accounts," Cowley replied. "One of our MI6 agents reported a vision of a meeting with an American called Al Gough, whom she had never met; before she could find him to ask, he called her and reported a vision that perfectly matched hers."

"Coincidence," Bodie muttered.

"We cannot afford to exclude any possibilities," Cowley countered. "If you remember anything, I want to know about it."

Murphy volunteered something about an obbo, a job that didn't yet exist. "Gun runners, I think, in Birmingham. Jax and I were coming off the overnight shift--April 30, I remember. I had a date that night, so I'll want the evening off, sir."

Half-hearted chuckles were heard around the room. Cowley made a note and then turned to the next agent. "Three-seven?"

Bodie shook his head. "Nothing." He leaned back against the wall, letting his eyes fall closed, and Doyle sucked in a breath at the weight of a sudden memory.

Of course Cowley caught the reaction, though thankfully he made no connection to Bodie. "Four-five? Anything to add?"

Doyle frowned. "Not much, sir. Just the time: six am. I was--" he half-smiled, "turning off my alarm clock, trying to cadge a few extra minutes of sleep before coming in here..."

Murphy laughed. "Now when you're late that day, you won't be able to make an excuse."

Doyle grinned, but he wondered at how they'd so easily accepted the idea that these visions were prophetic.

"All right, lads, get some rest," Cowley ordered. "If you remember anything else, come to me."

***

Bodie had lost out on the first round of showers, and Doyle was sitting in the ready room when Bodie wandered back in. Doyle was half-curled on the sofa, his attention focused on the stunned reporters on the television screen, but Bodie's presence was obvious at the corner of his eye. He looked somewhat less exhausted now, and he'd found a black t-shirt to replace the bloodstained jumper.

"Ray?"

Doyle blinked and looked up; Bodie didn't make a habit of using his given name. "Yeah?"

"Need to talk to you--unless you're really planning to sleep?"

He shook his head. "Every time I close my eyes, I just see..." He trailed off with a vague gesture towards the screen. "Doesn't matter." He got up from the sofa to fill the kettle and plug it in.

Bodie stuffed his hands in his pockets and stood in the centre of the room, drawn inexorably to the dire news reports still sounding from the telly. He jumped when Doyle thrust a cup of heavily-milked tea at him.

"Ta."

Doyle sat down, picked up the remote, and turned the television off. "So talk."

Bodie settled on the other end of the sofa, his mug looking absurdly small cradled in his hands. "Look. I'm not close with my family, but my mum's still around, in Liverpool. I'll write down the address for you--you'll check in on her, won't you? Just now and then, make sure she's getting on all right. I've got things set so she shouldn't ever have trouble, but I want to make sure there's someone to look after her. And I've got a drop, in the city--cash, guns, passport, car key--that you'll want to clean out, so that nobody gets hold of it who shouldn't. The car's in good shape, you could probably sell it. As for the rest of it, I don't much care. Burn the lot, if you like."

Doyle gave him a searching look. "What's brought this on, then?" Everything that had happened tonight could easily have anyone pondering their own mortality, but he knew Bodie well enough to know there had to be something more to it than that.

"I didn't see anything," Bodie said flatly. "Everybody else saw something. Murphy, Betty. Jax just called in from the conference in Paris and corroborated Murphy's story--the gun-runners' obbo, even Murph's date that night. You saw something, too. The thirtieth of April, six a.m. Saw where you were, what you were doing. And I saw nothing. Not hard to figure out what that means, is it?"

"Maybe you were asleep. Six a.m., that wouldn't be unusual, would it?"

"Sure," he said, obviously unconvinced. "Or I could be dead."

Doyle shook his head. "Don't start thinking like that, Bodie. We don't know anything about these visions, if they even are visions. It could all be nonsense. Mass hallucinations, only as real as we let them be."

"Or they could be the future."

"I don't believe in predestination," he said flatly.

Bodie chuckled. "You trying to convince me, or yourself?"

"Maybe both of us." Doyle took a long slurp of tea. "Don't let it get to you, mate. You're going to be around for a while. April and a long time after, I know it."

"Yeah?" Bodie snapped. "And how the hell would you know that?"

Doyle gave him a shaky smile. "Just trust me, all right?"

***

The alarm bleats insistently; Doyle slaps the snooze timer with the easy aim of long practice, and he shivers. Last day of April--ought to be spring by now, but the breeze from the half-open window is cold. There will be frost in the garden when he leaves.

But the bed's warm, and so is the person beside him. Still asleep, so he'd got to the alarm in time. He spends a moment studying his lover's profile, the long lashes resting on pale cheeks.

Doyle slides his arm around Bodie's bare hip and settles in for another eight minutes of sleep.

***

They hardly had time to worry about their visions, or lack thereof; it seemed like Doyle had barely closed his eyes on the sofa when he was being nudged awake again.

"Come on, sunshine," Bodie muttered. "It's our turn."

A six-hour rest followed by a twelve-hour shift. It was CI5 emergency procedure, and everyone was aware of that, but it didn't make it any easier crawling out from under the thin, fleecy blanket. "What time is it?" he asked, the words breaking over a yawn.

"Just gone six." Bodie gave him a faintly amused look. "Coffee?"

"God, yes."

He stood up and crossed the rest-room towards the kettle. Doyle heard the slosh of water and the faint ring of coffee mugs on the countertop, and finally heaved himself upright.

"At last, Sleeping Beauty awakes," Bodie said brightly, holding out a mug. Doyle took a careful sip of coffee and found that it helped somewhat.

He rubbed a hand across his face, wincing as his palm rasped over the cuts and bruises he'd got falling down during the blackout. Bodie caught Doyle's chin and tipped his head to one side, examining the injuries. "How's your face?"

"Feels about how it looks, I expect."

"You should get that checked out--might have got a concussion."

Doyle shrugged, using it as an excuse to gently pull away from Bodie. "If I haven't died of a haemorrhage yet, I doubt I'm going to."

"And your cheekbone's always been out of place, then, has it?" he teased.

Doyle aimed a half-hearted cuff at Bodie's shoulder. Trust Bodie to know he was the only one who could get away with making a joke about Doyle's broken cheekbone, and to abuse that fact at every opportunity.

"What about you?" Doyle asked. "I didn't knock my head against a kitchen worktop like some people I know."

Bodie made a face. "I'm all right. With a head hard as mine, it'd take a lot more than that to do me any damage."

"Fair point, that."

Bodie clapped him on the shoulder and stood up. "Finish that fast," he said, pointing at Doyle's coffee. "We're meant to be back on the job in ten minutes."

Doyle promptly scalded his mouth on the coffee and spent a great deal of the ensuing ten minutes cursing Bodie creatively.

But he quietened as they walked down the hall towards the front door. It was morning now, after all, and a vague apprehension gnawed at his stomach. It didn't make sense; it wasn't going to be any worse out there than it had been the night before. Still, he wasn't sure he wanted to know what the city looked like in the daylight.

Bodie gave him a playful shove out of the door. "Come on, then. No point putting it off any longer, is there?"

Doyle grimaced, wondering when exactly Bodie had learned to read him so well. They stood on the front steps of CI5 headquarters and surveyed the street in front of them.

It wasn't any worse than Doyle had expected, but it was no better, either. There was still a smoky scent to the air, but the car fires had burnt themselves out by now, only a few left smouldering sullenly in the sunrise. But the air still smelled like smoke, and the eerie silence of the street was broken only by a last lonely car-alarm wailing in the distance.

Some of the bodies had been removed--Doyle wondered what would happen when the mortuaries were full. Others were still lying in the street, covered with sheets or blankets in an improbable range of colours. One very small blanket had a pattern of dinosaurs on it, and Doyle looked away.

They were meant to spend the day going door-to-door through a nearby neighbourhood, checking up on the residents of each flat and making note of the numbers where nobody answered. It was "police work," as Bodie muttered with distaste.

Of course they were also to be on the watch for looters and thieves, though Doyle didn't expect that it would be much of a problem. The day was warm for October, so they'd left their jackets behind, and the sight of the guns in their shoulder rigs should be enough to deter most would-be criminals. Things in London hadn't deteriorated to the point of martial law--other cities in other countries had been less fortunate--but the weight of the guns was a familiar comfort.

Bodie, as always, had to make a sarky comment. "So how does it feel to be back on the beat, PC Doyle?"

"Fuck you," Doyle replied without heat.

"Thought your walk was around here."

He shook his head. "Nah. But I grew up just a few blocks over. I remember some of the riots, when I was little, the smell of the smoke from the burning cars. That's what all this reminds me of--the aftermath."

Bodie didn't say anything for a few moments, and Doyle realized that he'd actually surprised his partner. "Anyway, my beat was in a lousy neighbourhood, but I never had to patrol an apocalyptic wasteland."

Bodie didn't even crack a smile. "You think that's what this is, then? Apocalypse?"

"What? No. I'm sure there are loonies out there who think it's the End Times, same as there's loonies who think it's aliens, but I'm not one of them."

"I can understand why they think that, though," Bodie said. "The loonies."

"Mate, I've never expected you to have any trouble relating to loonies."

Bodie dug an elbow into his side. "It's comforting. They want to think there's a plan to it all, don't they? Of course, it also relieves them of any responsibility, which is a bit cowardly, but..."

"But it makes sense."

"Yeah. Almost wish I could believe in that, you know?"

Doyle nodded. "So do I."

***

It had been more than forty-eight hours since the blackout when they were finally given a full day's rest. All Doyle wanted after a night--and a day, and a night, and another day--like this was a drink. He gave Bodie a sidelong glance as he shrugged on his coat. "Red Lion?"

Bodie shook his head. "Won't be open. Nothing is."

"Back to mine, then? I've got beer in, and some Top Gear recorded from...before, if the power's back. You can fall asleep watching like you always do--I won't tell."

"Kind of you," Bodie said dryly. "But I should go back to my own flat..."

"And what, sit in the dark and pity yourself because you didn't see anything during the blackout?"

Bodie's lip twisted. "That, and clean the blood off the kitchen worktop where I hit it."

"It can wait, can't it?"

"The worktop, or the pity?"

"Both," Doyle said. "Come on. The roads should be clear enough to drive now, and we're allowed." It was stretching the notion of 'emergency vehicles' rather far, in Doyle's opinion, but Cowley had handed over the keys himself.

He walked down the street to the car park with Bodie, and their boots crunched on the broken glass that still lay scattered across the pavement. The streetlights were back on, and the light caught the shards, making them flash and glitter in the dark. Almost pretty, if you forgot how they came to be littering the streets. If you forgot the fear and the panic and confusion and suffering--and the fact that there was still no explanation for what had happened, and no guarantee that it wouldn't happen again.

Doyle looked down at the key in his hand and laughed. "Christ, I'm going paranoid already."

"Hm? Why?"

"What if it all happens again? Don't tell me you haven't thought about it. Maybe it wasn't a one-time thing; maybe it could happen again, at any time."

"Like while we're driving back to your flat?"

"Yeah," he said ruefully.

"Then we'll wrap the car around a lamppost, and that'll be the end of it. Come on."

Doyle glared at him. "You don't mean that."

Bodie rolled his eyes. "Of course I don't mean it. But think about it, Ray," he said gently. "If it keeps happening, over and over...then it's only a matter of time, really."

"You think it's going to?"

"I don't know. But worrying about it all the time will just drive us mad that much faster."

"I don't think I'd notice if you went mad. You're close enough as it is."

Bodie grinned and snatched the keys from Doyle's hand. "Exactly. And if you can't bring yourself to do the driving, let the madman do it, eh?"

Doyle chuckled and surrendered, moving round to the passenger side. "Has anyone ever told you," he said, slamming the car door, "that you're a very pushy individual?"

"You know you love it," Bodie simpered.

"Oh yes, I live for it, you prat."

Bodie turned the key, and the radio blared to life along with the engine.

--engines stop running, the wheat is growing thin
A nuclear error, but I have no fear
'Cause London is drowning, and I, I live by the river!

Somewhere in London, a disc jockey was about to lose his job. Doyle looked over at Bodie, met an answering expression of disbelief on his partner's face...and burst into helpless, wracking laughter.

It seemed to go on for hours, until they were slumped breathless in their seats, still giggling on the very edge of hysteria. The song had long ended by the time they calmed down enough to consider actually putting the car in gear.

Finally Bodie pulled out of the car park, navigating around the cars that still littered the streets. Every half-mile or so, Doyle would start to hum the tune again, without realizing it, and Bodie would reach over to smack him. "Don't you bloody start or I will, too, and then we really will crash."

But they didn't; after most of an hour, they made it to Doyle's flat. Bodie found an unmarred stretch of kerb to park the car, and they went upstairs.

Doyle opened a window to relieve the stuffiness of the flat, even though it was starting to get cold outside. He scrounged around in the cupboards and came up with the fixings for a decent meal while Bodie took a quick shower. He had a few things stowed in Doyle's flat, the same as Doyle had a few things of his at Bodie's--some nights it was easier to crash at one flat than to drive back separately, especially when they often had six hours or less between one long job and the next.

When Bodie wandered into the kitchen, damp hair dripping onto his shirt, Doyle handed him the spoon, ordered him to stir, and then headed for the shower himself.

He washed in a hurry, well aware that Bodie's cooking skills didn't extend much beyond beans on toast and the numbers of the local takeaways. It was still nice to have a shower that wasn't tepid, to put on clothes that weren't musty from being kept stored in the lockers, to drink a cup of tea at his own table--even if the milk had started to go off. He dressed in a t-shirt and a pair of tracksuit bottoms and made his way back to the kitchen barefoot.

The sauce hadn't burned, but it was no thanks to Bodie. The shaky levity of the car had worn off, and he was staring off into space, so distracted that he didn't even hear Doyle's approach until he was halfway across the kitchen. Doyle grabbed the spoon from him and nudged him in the direction of a kitchen chair. "Stop moping, will you?"

Bodie dropped into the seat with a mild glare. "Bugger off. I've got a bloody good reason to mope, and you know it."

"No, I don't know it--and neither do you. None of us know anything about all this. You could have been asleep, Bodie. At six a.m., that would be perfectly normal. Shagged-out, hung-over, and fast asleep. Nothing to remember."

"Then why wasn't I dreaming?"

"I don't know," Doyle sighed, switching off the stove. "Maybe you were, and forgot it when you woke up from the blackout. Or maybe it wasn't REM sleep--you only dream during REM sleep, right? So it doesn't mean anything."

Bodie shook his head. "No. I'd rather meet it head-on than spend the next six months--or six days--trying to find loopholes."

"So you're just going to resign yourself to a death that might not even happen."

"Sure. That way, if it happens, I won't be disappointed. And if it doesn't, then I'll be pleasantly surprised."

Doyle dumped pasta and sauce onto two plates and set one down in front of Bodie with a little more than the necessary force. He grimaced at the look on Bodie's face--the sarky talk was mostly bravado. Bodie was as worried as Doyle had ever seen him.

He gave him a little nudge on one shoulder. "Come on, Bodie. Do you think I'd let anything happen to you?"

Doyle could see him planning to argue, to start naming the myriad deaths from which Doyle wouldn't be able to save him. And then he saw Bodie's lips curve into a small smile, accepting the question as it was intended. "Nah," he said. "You need me for the rifle-work, don't you?"

"Exactly." Doyle pulled two slightly-warm cans of beer from the refrigerator and slid one over to him, and they ate.

Just as predicted, Bodie fell asleep on Doyle's sofa before the programme was over--though Doyle couldn't really blame him. He could barely remember the name of the show himself, let alone what had happened on it. He switched off the telly, draped a blanket over his partner, and slipped off to bed.

He woke slowly the next morning, vaguely aware that he'd pre-empted the alarm by a few moments at least. He reached out beside him, half-expecting to find--

Nothing. The alarm blared, and he jolted, waking up entirely. He slapped the timer and sat up, raking a hand through tangled curls. He knew exactly what--or rather, who--he'd expected to find in bed with him.

That was just what he needed, recurring dreams about what he'd seen in his vision. He snagged a robe from the back of the door and knotted the tie. Did he even bloody want to sleep with Bodie? He hadn't exactly had trouble coming to terms with his vision. But if it was nothing more than acceptance, the old keep-calm-and-carry-on, then why would his subconscious bring it up again?

Well, considering the other things he'd seen in the past few days, it was certainly one of the more pleasurable images his mind could drag up. He ought to be grateful on that basis alone. He could have dreamed about far worse things than waking up warm next to--

He shook his head and padded to the loo, turning the shower on and hoping that the stinging spray of hot water would keep him from thinking. It didn't.

He sighed. It wasn't that strange, a dream like that. He'd been with men in the past--after all, it wasn't illegal, was it? Of course, it was still frowned upon in some areas, and even considered something of a blackmail risk, so he'd curtailed any activity of that sort once he'd joined CI5. It was part of his record; Cowley knew, and Doyle rather suspected that Bodie did, too. But if he did, he'd never said anything about it.

And it would be a lie to say he'd never looked at Bodie and wondered, but it had never gone beyond idle speculation. Sure, he wasn't hard to look at, but partners were off-limits; you didn't mix the job with pleasure unless you were looking for trouble. And the job gave them quite enough trouble as it was.

He dressed and crossed the flat to plug the kettle in. Bodie was already gone, the blanket folded neatly and lying over the back of the sofa. Doyle wasn't surprised, but he was faintly disappointed. It looked like the bakery across the way was open again, and he'd been planning to needle Bodie into buying them both breakfast.

Doyle looked outside to find that Bodie had, of course, taken the car with him. Doyle hoped he was planning to change at his flat and then come back to pick him up; it would be a long walk otherwise.

But even as he considered the distance, the car made its careful way down the debris-strewn road and stopped in front of Doyle's building. Doyle pulled on his rig, snagged his jacket from the back of the sofa, and darted down the stairs to meet Bodie.

***

Within a week, London had started to show signs of its former self. The roads were cleared, downed power-lines fixed, and damaged buildings cordoned off for repair or scheduled for demolition. If you ignored the prevalence of funeral processions, London was all but back to normal.

Normal enough, in fact, for Cowley to call the agents in for a meeting before the shifts changed.

But when Bodie and Doyle slipped into the back of room, Cowley wasn't alone at the other end. There was a woman with him, a vaguely familiar figure with curly brown hair.

Cowley glanced over at Bodie and Doyle with a wry expression, as though they'd been the last to arrive and the rest had been waiting on them--and they probably had. Cowley's gaze shifted, and he addressed the gathered agents.

"I've had you all meet here for a briefing on what we know so far about the blackout event. This is Fiona Banks, from MI6."

She stepped forward, a wry smile on her face. "Thank you all for repressing your groans. I understand that the relations between our agencies have often been strained, but in the aftermath of this event, I think we are all going to need to work together.

"At the moment, of course, our priority is to keep the peace and help restore London to its status pre-blackout. Any other concerns must be secondary to the safety of the public, and I expect it will be at least another week before normality is fully restored."

She took a deep breath. "As for the event itself, I wish I had more to tell you, but I'm afraid I can only corroborate what you no doubt already know. The blackout occurred at the same instant all over the world, and we do not know what caused it. As far as we know, no one was left unaffected by the event, although we have put out appeals for any such people to come forward.

"We've also begun using the Internet as a way to collect and examine the data that each person's blackout memory--or flash-forward--contained, searching for patterns and key terms. The Americans at the FBI office in Los Angeles are at the head of the program, which they are calling the Mosaic Collective. I encourage you all to submit an account of what you saw; the FBI has promised to alert us in case they discover reports of future crimes or accidents."

Doyle frowned. "What exactly are you planning to do about reports of future crimes?" he asked. "You can't very well arrest someone for something they haven't done yet--and may have no intention of actually doing."

"Of course not," Fiona said smoothly, "but if we're in the proper area at the proper time, we may be able to prevent the crime entirely."

Doyle nodded, not entirely reassured, and he was aware that Bodie was looking askance at him. Fiona took up her talk again, making more noises about teamwork and cooperation that her own people probably resented just as much when she gave them the speech. A half-hour later they were dismissed, and Doyle stepped outside into the wan sunlight, aware that Bodie had followed him.

"What were you arguing with her for, anyway?"

"I wasn't arguing. I was just trying to be sure of where MI6 stands on this whole business. We start arresting people for things they might do in the future, and this whole thing turns into a Philip Dick novel."

"You're paranoid, sunshine."

Doyle smiled thinly. "Doesn't mean I'm wrong, does it?"

"I suppose not." Bodie sighed. "So do you want to pick me up this evening, or shall I swing round your place?"

"For what?"

He shook his head. "For an ex-copper, you rate pretty low in observation, mate. Tony's funeral is tonight--Cowley's taken us all off our jobs to attend."

"Nice of him," Doyle said ungraciously.

"It is nice. With things still as they are, even giving us two hours is a lot to ask."

"Sure it is."

Bodie rolled his eyes. "Just try to look like you haven't just rolled out of bed, eh?"

"Fuck off," Doyle said, aware that Bodie would do no such thing. He fished his keys out of his coat pocket and stalked off to the car.

***

Contrary to the beliefs of everyone in CI5, Doyle did in fact own a suit. A nice suit, even, though it didn't hold a candle to Bodie's, the vain bastard. Doyle didn't have a clue where he got the money, and he probably didn't want to know, but the suit was immaculate and fitted him perfectly.

He looked bloody good in it.

This was not, exactly, an appropriate thought to be having while one was walking into the church for a friend's funeral. The guilt distracted him quite nicely from his contemplation of Bodie's appearance, and he didn't think any more about it.

It wasn't the first CI5 funeral they'd been to and Doyle supposed with a chill that it wouldn't be the last. The bit in the church and churchyard was mostly for the family; for the other agents, the real ceremony was held at the Red Lion afterwards. They toasted Tony's memory, but it was something of a subdued gathering. Tony had so recently joined the squad that they only had a few stories to tell, and none of them really racy enough to get much of a laugh.

Given the situation, Tony probably would have forgiven them for the conversation turning from him to the blackout in general after the third or fourth round.

"Are you going to add your vision to that Mosaic thing?" Bodie asked, sliding a pint over to Doyle.

Doyle snorted. "What would be the point?"

"I don't know. Maybe you weren't alone in bed...might have had a bird with you."

"Think I'd have noticed that, wouldn't I?" he said blandly, looking away. Bodie was entirely too close to the truth, and he had no idea of it.

"Maybe not. You're not your best in the morning, sunshine."

"Oh, this from the one who's had to be dragged out of his own bed more than once?" Doyle jeered.

Bodie smiled smugly. "If you'd spent the previous night with a pair of Irish twins, you'd never want to get out of bed, either."

"Oh yeah? Girl twins, boy twins, or one of each?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

Doyle snorted. After a moment, he frowned. "What do you reckon the Cow saw?"

"Even if he told us, do you think we could believe him?"

"Fair point."

"Bet he was at his desk, anyhow," Bodie said. "Hardly ever leaves headquarters--and that was before the blackout."

There wasn't much more to be said. After a last round and a toast to Tony's memory, the gathering broke up. After all, they had work to do in the morning.

***

As soon as Bodie and Doyle arrived in the morning, they were called in to Cowley's office.

"We have had a number of clues concerning the case that Jax and Murphy reported in their vision," Cowley said without preamble. It was too early in the day for him to offer them scotch, but it didn't stop a bloke from hoping.

"The arms case, sir?" Bodie asked.

No, the drugs case from their other vision, Doyle thought sourly.

Cowley nodded. "Other agents have traced some of the details, and the individual elements all check out. We've learned that a wealthy Saudi Arabian expatriate has been receiving funds from overseas, which he has in turn been funnelling into a project of unknown intent. We are going to ferret out the details of that project, and we are going to do it without drawing attention to ourselves."

"Sir?" Doyle asked. "Are you saying that we're basing this case on clues that we don't have yet, because Murphy and Jax saw them in a vision?"

Cowley eyed him coolly. "If you are refusing to participate in this operation, four-five, please be clear."

"No, sir. Not refusing, just...commenting."

"Indeed. The suspect is using several small businesses as a front for his operations. I want the two of you to examine his shipping business in Liverpool."

They groaned. "But sir, that's hours away," Bodie added.

"Then you'd best get on your bikes, hadn't you? Go on, lads, and see what you can turn up."

Dismissed, they headed out to the car. After three consecutive ties, Bodie won a last heated round of rock, paper, scissors and slid into the driver's seat. He leaned his head on the steering wheel in mock-despair and sighed. "Liverpool."

"Home, sweet home?"

"Fuck you."

Doyle snorted. "I'm less worried about the location than about the fact that we're doing this at all. How can we even be working on this case? We're not supposed to know any of this yet!"

"Or maybe the only reason we're on the case in Murphy's vision is because we saw the clues from the flash-forward."

Doyle groaned and dropped his head into his hands.

Bodie patted him on the shoulder. "Don't think about it too hard, sunshine. It just makes you dizzy, and frowning gives you wrinkles."

Doyle gave him a quick thump on one shoulder, then Bodie started up the car and peeled out into the rainy morning.

***

Liverpool's weather was no more pleasant than London; heavy clouds occasionally let loose a burst of cold rain, so that by the time Bodie and Doyle had finished circling the warehouse they were both wet through.

The only activity they found was at the back of the building, where crates were being moved inside at a rapid pace. Doyle checked the shipping manifest they'd been given--there were no deliveries scheduled for today.

Bodie gave Doyle a level look, but the excitement behind it was obvious. This was the part he lived for--and Doyle had to admit that there was something of a thrill to it for him, too.

"Shall we give the front door a knock?" Doyle asked, after the last crate had vanished inside the warehouse.

"Nah, let's go in round the back."

"If that's how you like it," Doyle purred, earning a smack on the head. They circled the warehouse again, examining the windows for surveillance and the possibility of snipers.

The paused on either side of the rear door, and Bodie glanced over as he switched off the safety on his gun. "Now, Raymond, just because you saw something in your vision, that's no reason to get careless."

"And just because you didn't see anything--it's no reason to be stupid. Deal?"

"Deal." Bodie reached out and knocked on the door.

There was a flurry of sound from inside, but no response. Bodie knocked again. "CI5," he said loudly. "Like to have a word with you."

Still nothing. Doyle looked over at him. "On three?"

"Yeah."

"One, two--three." Bodie took a step back and kicked at the door. It gave way, and they broke to opposite sides as they dived for cover. The machine gun fire was a few seconds late, shredding a stack of empty crates and giving away the gunner's location.

Bodie and Doyle sent out occasional bursts of fire to keep the gunner from advancing, but there was too much empty space between to risk going out after him. After a few minutes of standoff, the gunner seemed to think the better of the situation. He abandoned his post and darted towards the front door, weaving among boxes and crates as he went. Doyle sent a couple of half-hearted shots after him, but the man vanished around a corner and outside. A moment later a squeal of tyres announced the escape of the whole crew.

They checked the warehouse to be sure that no one had decided to stay behind and surprise them, and then they pried the lids off a few of the crates.

There were enough guns inside to start a small war--and undoubtedly that was their purpose. Bodie's somewhat shady history included gun-running in Africa, so Doyle left it to him to examine the pieces and catalogue them. He looked like a kid on a very twisted sort of Christmas morning.

Doyle holstered his gun. "I'll go out and report in, check and make sure they haven't sent someone round to slash the tires on the car. Or blow it up," he added as an afterthought.

Bodie shook his head. "No C4 in the crates."

"Not a chance I'm willing to take, mate," Doyle said. He stepped out behind the warehouse and rang headquarters. Cowley himself picked up on the second ring. "Four-five?"

"Well, sir, I think it's safe to say that there is something to those visions. We went in to check out the warehouse and nearly got a faceful of automatic fire."

"Good, good. We know they're up to something now." Only Cowley could consider a hail of bullets to be good.

"They dropped the guns and ran as soon as we found decent cover. Left behind a few boxes of automatic weapons, too. Might want to send out a forensics team, too, to see if they've left anything else behind."

"Thank you, four-five," Cowley said, very drily. "I shall take it under consideration."

Doyle rolled his eyes and ended the call without waiting for Cowley to summon them back to London. They might as well find a pub and have lunch while they were here. Bodie would probably know a decent place. Or maybe... Doyle concealed what might have been a wicked grin and headed back out to the car. After all, it was his turn to drive.

The car hadn't been tampered with since they'd gone into the warehouse, and Bodie came out to wait with him for the retrieval team. Fortunately, they weren't coming all the way from London, or it would have been a very long wait indeed.

By the time the team had arrived to relieve them, Bodie was dozing in the passenger seat, and five minutes after they'd left the warehouse, he was asleep. Doyle pressed a few icons on the GPS screen, and he grinned. Half an hour's drive, that was all. It even looked like the weather might clear.

Bodie didn't wake up until Doyle stopped the car outside a low brick-fronted house. He sat up, blinking. "Ray, where are w--oh, bloody hell."

"We weren't far. Thought you'd want to stop by."

He scrubbed a hand across his face. "No, you didn't. If you thought I'd want to stop, you'd have asked. Instead, you shanghaied me."

"Yep," Doyle said brightly. "Go on, go see your mum. I'll find a coffee shop, and you can ring me when you're done."

"Hell, no," Bodie countered. "If I have to go in, then so do you."

"Bodie--"

"I mean it. This way she'll know you, when..."

"If," Doyle insisted.

"Fine, if something happens."

"All right." Doyle turned off the car and climbed out, then followed Bodie up the narrow walk to the door. Bodie sighed, shot another quick glare at Doyle, and knocked on the door.

A moment later, they heard the sound of footsteps, and the door opened to reveal a woman with flyaway hair that was once dark and was now mostly grey. But her eyes were the same dark blue as her son's. Her gaze lit on Bodie, and she grinned, pulling him into a tight hug.

"Billy!"

Bodie tried not to cringe at the nickname; he was not entirely successful. "Mum." He returned the hug and then stepped back.

"Well, come in, already," his mother said, stepping back to let them inside.

Bodie nodded to Ray. "Mum, this is Ray Doyle, my partner at CI5."

Doyle held out a hand. "Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Bodie."

"Just Lydia, please," she said, clearly charmed. "No need to be formal here. Go on and sit down--I'll just put the kettle on." She darted off to the kitchen, leaving Bodie looking incredulously at Doyle.

"Since when do you have manners?"

"Since always," Doyle said. "I just don't bother wasting them on you."

They sat on a comfortable, faded sofa, and Bodie's mum brought in the tea things. "So what brings you all the way out here, then?"

"The job," Bodie said, giving no details of the op itself. "And since we were here, we thought we'd stop by."

Lydia rolled her eyes. "We. I suppose I've you to thank for it?" she asked, turning to Doyle.

"Yes, ma'a--er, Lydia. I kidnapped him for you."

She grinned at him. "Oh, I like him," she told Bodie. "You might have mentioned he was gorgeous, though."

"For Christ's sake, Mum!"

"Well, he is." She turned back to Doyle, who was trying not to flush and failing. "I'm very glad to meet you at last, Mr. Doyle, and even gladder to see you're in one piece. Billy called me up after it happened, you know, and then he all but hung up on me, he was so worried about you."

"I did not hang up on you."

"I'm not criticizing. I thought it was sweet that you were worried about him."

Doyle suppressed a chuckle. Bodie was many things, but sweet was not often among the terms used to describe him. "We'll have Cowley put that in your file, Bodie. 'Agent three-seven is sweet when concerned.'"

"You do that, and I'll show you what an inappropriate description of my character it really is, you b--"

"Billy."

Bodie trailed off under his mother's glare, and Doyle couldn't help laughing at him. Bodie gave him a poisonous look, but before he could say anything else, his mobile buzzed. Bodie pulled it out to check the number.

"Cowley?" Doyle asked, resigned.

Bodie shook his head, his eyes alight. "Susan. Be right back." He stepped out into the kitchen to answer the call.

Lydia turned to Doyle with a wry smile on her face. "Girlfriend?"

"Apparently. She's also a CI5 agent."

"Is that going to get him into trouble?"

"It should, but it won't. He's our boss's favourite, you know."

Lydia chuckled and filled Doyle's teacup again. "He's always had more charm than was good for him."

"Don't I know it," Doyle muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

"I haven't asked him what he saw...do you know?"

"He...hasn't said much about it," Doyle said diplomatically. "But I do try and look out for him, just as he does me. We're partners, after all."

"Good," she said firmly. "I hate to think of the work you have to do, how dangerous it must be. I'm glad you lads have each other."

"Yeah," Doyle said. The temptation to unburden himself was almost as unbearable as it was absurd--By the way, Mrs. Bodie, I'm going to be sleeping with your son in the future; were you very set on grandchildren?

But Bodie chose that moment to return, a trace of a smug smile on his face.

"Got a date, have you?" Doyle asked.

"Not your business," Bodie said coolly. "But I'm afraid we've got to go. Cowley caught Sue on the phone and told her to remind me that we still have reports to make tonight."

They could be back to London by ten o'clock, maybe--sooner, if the traffic wasn't bad. Doyle sighed and climbed to his feet. "Glad to have met you, Lydia."

"You too, Ray. Thank you for dragging my son over to see me."

"Any time," Doyle said over Bodie's protest. "Come on, sunshine. Those reports won't write themselves."

Bodie allowed his mum to kiss his cheek, laughed and shoved Doyle when he tried to do the same, and followed his partner out to the car.

Doyle was grinning when he climbed into the car. All in all, it had been a good afternoon's work.

November

When the shooting range was booked, and they felt like specifically irritating the neighbours, Doyle and Bodie would go out to the back garden at headquarters and practice shooting, with tin cans as targets. In the first few weeks after the blackout they had refrained, figuring that the last thing the shaken citizens needed was a sound of gunfire echoing around the buildings, but things had calmed sufficiently that they felt justified in stirring them up a bit.

As usual, they matched each other shot for shot, and Doyle was attempting to figure out how to make the contest more difficult when Cowley called to them from the back gate. They lowered their guns and looked up.

"Sir?" Bodie asked.

"There's an FBI agent in California who fell from a seventeen-storey building."

Bodie shrugged. "That's FBI business, then, isn't it?"

"He jumped from the roof."

"That's his business, then," Doyle corrected, with an entirely inappropriate smirk in Bodie's direction.

Cowley's eyes narrowed. "He killed himself in direct contradiction to the images he had seen during his flash-forward."

Doyle whipped round to look at Cowley again. "Sir? He had a vision, and he--"

"Killed himself to prevent it. Aye, that's how it seems. Do I have your attention now, lads?"

"Yes, sir," Bodie said.

"The agent's name was Al Gough. Betty will be in charge of liaising with the FBI's Los Angeles branch. If she needs your assistance, she'll ask for it." Cowley turned and went back inside the building.

"If Betty's going to be running the op, why'd he come out and tell us?" Bodie asked.

"Are you really that oblivious? He wanted you to know that the visions can change. I think he's worried about you."

Bodie rolled his eyes. "He's worried, you're worried--I'm not. I wish like hell you'd all stop trying to make me feel better about this."

"Cowley wouldn't have told us if it wasn't significant. And why shouldn't you feel better about it? If you can kill yourself to stop a vision happening, maybe you can survive even if you didn't have a vision to begin with."

Bodie holstered his gun and started picking up the cans they'd shot from the wall. "I wish you'd stop playing cheerleader, Doyle. I doubt you've got the legs for one of those miniskirts."

"You wouldn't know, would you?"

"Nah, I know. Seen you in the lockers after a workout, haven't I?"

Doyle posed. "See something you like, then, lover?"

Bodie fought to keep glaring, but a faint smile stole across his face. "I'm not that hard up yet."

"But you'll let me know when you are, eh?"

"You'll be the first to know, petal." Bodie winked at him, and Doyle laughed.

"Come on, maybe we can fit in a cup of tea before London needs saving again."

But of course they couldn't even have that without interruptions. A few minutes after they'd sat down, Murphy leaned in through the ready room doorway. "Oi, Bodie. Dr. Ross wants to see you." He ducked back down the hall before Bodie could find anything suitable to throw at him.

Bodie slumped back onto the sofa and swore.

"Don't worry," Doyle said, "it's nothing special. She's been having us all in, to talk about the 'trauma' of the blackout."

"Yeah, but you saw something, Doyle. She has to know that I didn't."

"So?"

"Oh, never mind."

Bodie was nearly always like this when it came to interviews with the CI5 psychologist, and Doyle had never quite understood why. "You don't even complain this much when we get sent to Macklin."

"Yeah, because I know what Macklin's doing--nice, straightforward, brutal training. Shrinks are always thinking in circles around you, trying to get you to admit to things that aren't even true. It's like being on the wrong side of a bloody interrogation."

"Then be a good lad and crack early. Save us all a lot of time and effort, and then we can go down the pub." He stole Bodie's tea and took a noisy slurp as Bodie left the room.

***

It was more than an hour before Bodie reappeared.

"How'd it go?" Doyle asked, a little more sympathetic than he'd been before.

"I think she's mad at me," Bodie said.

"Can't be. Dr. Ross doesn't get mad. She's a psychiatrist; they don't have real emotions. Sometimes I'm fair sure our Katie's a Cylon."

"A bad 80s Cylon or a sexy new Cylon?"

"New. You've seen her legs."

"Yeah," Bodie said. "Pity about the robot-bent-on-human-eradication thing."

"A tragedy," Doyle replied morosely. "I'll meet you at the pub in ten minutes. I need a drink."

"You do?" Bodie fished the keys out of his pocket and disappeared into the hall. Doyle waited.

Two minutes later, Dr. Ross stalked into the ready room and made for the kettle. She gave Doyle a grim look. "That partner of yours," she warned, dumping sugar into a teacup.

"Still flirting with you, is he? I told you, a knee to the goolies will settle him down right--"

"He's not dealing with his flash-forward, Doyle."

"You mean his lack thereof."

"Exactly. There are stages, you know, and he seems to have skipped them all and just settled on Acceptance."

Doyle shrugged. "Bodie's not really one to do things by the book. Watch, he'll start with Acceptance, then go back through Denial, Bargaining, Sleepy, Doc, and Dopey in his own time."

She didn't even crack a smile. "He's going to have to come to terms with this, or it will all come crashing down on him at the worst possible time."

"That's not going to happen. Look, the bravado--it's a cover, all right? He really is worried about it. He just doesn't like anyone else to see it."

She shook her head. "I can't just take your word about another agent's mental state."

"Give him some time, all right? He'll come around."

"He's had nearly two months now. Doyle, I can't recommend that Cowley keep an active agent who might suffer a breakdown at any time."

"You'd have him taken off the squad?"

"I'd recommend that Cowley remove him from the field until May, or..."

"Or until he dies, you mean," Doyle snapped. "You can't do that to him--it isn't fair."

"Then convince him to deal with his flash-forward. If he doesn't, then I won't have any choice."

"Right." Doyle picked up his jacket and walked out of the ready room. If he hadn't wanted a drink before, he certainly did now.

He found Bodie at a corner table in the Red Lion--even off-duty, they didn't like having their backs to the room--and set the brimming pint glass down in front of him.

"Play along," he said.

Bodie looked up at him. "Huh?"

"The next time Dr. Ross calls you in. Play along, tell her you're worried about things. Don't just act like you've accepted the flash-forward."

"I have accepted it, you berk. You're the one who--"

"Yeah, well, Katie thinks you're on the verge of a bloody breakdown, Bodie. She's going to have Cowley take you off the squad if you don't show some sign of a 'proper grieving process.'"

"She can't do that!"

"You willing to stake your job on that?"

Bodie grumbled into his glass. "Not bloody fair that I should have to play-act, just because I've got used to the idea of dying."

Doyle cut off the instinctive protest--you're not going to die, Bodie--before it could start a row. Bodie would only ask how he knew that, and Doyle wouldn't be able to tell him.

Of course, he could tell Dr. Ross...just walk into her office and say, "Don't worry, I saw Bodie in bed with me in my flash-forward, so everything will be all right." Only Ross would tell Cowley, if she didn't tell Bodie outright, and everything would go to hell.

He held off on the urge to say something about it--to someone, to anyone--until he got back to his flat that night. Then he gave in.

He sat down at his computer and pulled up the Mosaic Collective.

First, the program asked for his name. He checked and found that there were already thirty-six posts by Ray or Raymond Doyles, but he still wasn't willing to risk the chance that Betty's scanning program would pick up on his post. He chose an alias instead, one that he'd used on an op with Bodie not long before the blackout--Mark Layton.

The prompt that followed was simple, black text above a white box: What did you see? Doyle hesitated, then settled his fingers on the keys and began to type.

Six a.m., April 30: It was cold in my flat. I was in bed with my partner from work. He has no idea; he slept through the entire time of the vision. And I can't forget--

Doyle paused, frowning at the screen. He couldn't quite put a word to the warmth of the vision, the comfort and the peace of it all.

Or perhaps he could, and he was terrified of what it might mean. He shook his head and deliberately weakened the statement. I can't forget how fucking happy I was.

Without giving himself a chance to think the better of the matter and delete the whole thing, he pressed Enter and added his note to the Mosaic. Then he carefully deleted the browser history--it paid to be paranoid in this line of work--shut down the computer, and went to bed.

Part 2