FIC: The Professionals/For the Greater Good - An Even Greater Good

[fajrdrako_fic]

Title: An Even Greater Good
Author: fajrdrako
Fandoms: The Professionals and For the Greater Good
Characters: Bodie/Peter Balliol
Genre: AU, Slash, Crossover
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Not mine, no claims. Property of ITV and Brian Clemens.


An Even Greater Good

Life was a series of shadows. Sometimes those shadows resolved themselves into faces or machinery, sometimes not. Sometime he thought there were dreams as well, but he couldn’t be sure.

Once he awoke, with a stranger beside him. The stranger said, “You have been shot, Minister. Can you hear me?”

He might have made an answer, perhaps not. He did not remember his own name, and when he woke again the man in black was sitting beside the bed.

This man was familiar, though there was no memory attached, no name to match identity in this world of no names. Instead there was a flash of feeling. Connection, warmth, in a world of cold shadows.

He tried to speak, but could not.

Something warm and strong surrounded his hand. Another hand. He could feel its strength flowing into him.

Although he did not know why he said it, he said, “You’re alive?” The voice was a croak.

“So are you,” said the beloved stranger.

There were other questions to ask, but he could not frame them. They vanished as fast as he tried to think of them. Eventually he said, “Who am I?”

“Dr. Peter Balliol, M.P.”

He thought he had heard that name somewhere in his past, as if it were long ago. The man in black stood. He seemed very large, standing by the bedside. Somehow that largeness was comforting.

He must have looked puzzled, because the man said, “Peter. You are Peter.”

“You are here,” said Peter, with the first inkling of understanding of identity. He was Peter.

“Of course I am,” said Bodie.

Memory came back in stages, with growing strength. The power to open his eyes came first. Sips of water, his head lifted by friendly, efficient nurses. The ability to think without falling asleep in the middle of every thought came more slowly.

“You were shot,” explained the therapist, making notes on a clipboard. “Do you remember anything about the incident, Minister?”

“You were shot,” said one of the friendly young nurses, in awe. “You almost died, Dr. Balliol. The whole country is thankful you survived.”

“You were shot,” said his ex-wife Naomi, her lip trembling as she clutched at his hand. The touch did not comfort or warm him, as had the other touch, from the man in black. “Oh God, Peter, I was so afraid for you.” He did not have the energy for her pain. He pulled his hand away. She was part of the life he had once had, and had discarded.

“It’s all right now,” he whispered, and she took his hand back. He was too weak to reclaim it, though he wasn’t sure if this was a weakness of body or of spirit. He found himself looking for the man in black. He must be somewhere near.

No. He’d be out doing his job. Did he think Bodie had nothing better to do than to linger about the intensive care ward to watch him sleep?

Bodie had been shot. No, he himself had been shot. An ugly thing, a shooting. But Bodie was alive and well so it was all right.

Mark said, “They shot you, Dad.” His voice held pain and wonder. His horror was not draining, as his mother’s had been. Peter thought how Mark had stood by him during the troubles, defended him against the world. In the past, he had hidden his weaknesses from his son, but it was his weaknesses that had earned him his son’s love by proving he was human.

Unlike Bodie, Mark was not dressed in black. His garments included swirls of purple and indigo edged with silver. The hat was perplexing. Peter tried not to be distracted by the hat.

Peter said, with an attempt at humour, “Think they’ll listen to what I have to say in the House now?”

Mark grinned. Peter was gratified as he slipped off to sleep.

------------

The dull edges of memory came back, polished themselves to clarity. Long-lashed blue eyes, the scowling face of his bodyguard, the CI5 man, who was there to keep him alive. He had been mesmerized by that face, conditioned to hide the fascination even though the whole world knew he wasn’t straight, knew he’d slugged a copper in a gay bar. Everyone knew him as the bent Member of Parliament, the bisexual one. Sometimes he heard whispers behind him: “He swings both ways, you know.” Everyone who read the tabloids knew he’d been to bed with half the population of London. He wished it were true. His luck had never been that good.

Sometimes he enjoyed the notoriety. Sometimes he thought it his only achievement.

Brigid came to see him. It surprised him. He’d thought she’d had enough of him, after the David West business. West was dead, unlike Bodie, unlike himself.

Or maybe, having been shot, he was her new lost cause.

She didn’t tell him he had been shot, which he was thankful for, because he already knew that now. She said, “I talked to the CI5 agent. He thinks they can find the man who shot you.”

“Bodie?” he said.

She frowned. “No. The other one.”

“Murphy.”

“Yes.” She took his hand, too. A cool, kind, caring hand that had nothing personal in its caring. He remembered that she had kissed him once. It seemed an unlikely thing. He could not remember his desire for her, but it had been there once. He thought how strange it was that she, the social rights advocate, would be talking, on friendly terms, with agents of CI5 -- the closest thing to a secret police that England had. This organization, above all others, had a reputation for trampling on suspects’ rights and the agents killed, sometimes, in the line of duty. His operatives were armed policemen with powers no police should have.

From time to time in the past he had attacked CI5 in the House. A nation that valued human freedoms had no call for such an organization. He was coming to see that such a force had its place.

She said, “I think they feel guilty because they failed to save you.”

“Didn’t fail,” he said, coming to Bodie’s defense. “I’m alive.

She smiled. “My dear, you don’t look it. You look like death warmed over.”

“Thanks.” He managed to smile back.

After that he slept again, hoping to see Bodie when he woke.

When he was very young, his mother had told him on Christmas Eve that if he went to bed and slept like a good boy, when he woke up, Father Christmas would have come and there would be presents under the tree. It was a magic that had always worked. Perhaps it would work again. He had lived for many years now in a world without magic.

It worked. When he woke, groggy from drugs and pain, Bodie was there.

Dressed in his black turtleneck and trousers, Bodie was pacing by the window. He did not notice at first that Peter had opened his eyes. Silhouetted against the light, he moved back and forth with visible energy and tireless grace.

Peter watched him, marvelling without thought how bones and muscle, genetic fortune and a lifetime of training had come together to make this living perfect man.

Then Bodie said sharply, “Peter. You’re awake.”

“Love you,” said Peter.

Bodie moved too quickly for Peter’s tired eyes to follow. Then his face was against Peter’s face, not for a kiss but for a touch, cheek to cheek, more gentle and more welcome than the warmth of sunlight. “Peter,” he said, his breath as soft against Peter’s face as the tickle of his eyelashes. “Get better. Come back to me.”

Peter said sadly, “When this is over, I won’t need a bodyguard any more.”

“Maybe the bodyguard needs you,” said Bodie.

He had first become aware of Bodie almost a month ago. He had noticed him when he was on his way to get a haircut at his regular place on Knightsbridge. A stranger crossing the street. Beautiful.

He saw him again the next day, talking with one of the security men at Westminster.

The third time, on his way to work in the morning.

He went straight to the Home Secretary’s office. He broke through the barricade of assistants surrounding the Home Secretary by insisting on the urgency of his message, its assured brevity, and -- this was bringing out the heavy guns -- its personal nature. He had discovered that since the fiasco of the gay club raid, the lower ranks were in awe of his personal life, one way or another.

Little did they know how dull it was.

The Home Secretary rose unnecessarily on his entrance, alarmed. “Peter. What’s happened?”

No new scandal, no new disaster, no leaked documents. “I’m being followed.”

“Oh, is that all.” The Secretary sat. He cleared his throat. “Sit down. I suppose I should confess I knew about that. It was thought better not to tell you about it.”

“Thought by whom? Why? For God’s sake -- “

”CI5.”

That silenced Peter, and frightened him. CI5: the notorious agency run by a Grey Eminence named George Cowley, who accomplished dark miracles in the name of the greater good of England. His small elite force was known for its fierce loyalty and talent for success.

“It’s for your own good, Peter. They think your life is in danger.”

“How?”

“Assassination.”

Peter pushed his glasses back on his nose. “That’s nonsense. This isn’t some banana republic and I’m not significant enough for my death to constitute a major political statement. Kill me, all my projects will still go on. Kill me, and a few people might mourn, but most would yawn and the homophobes would cheer.”

“That’s hardly fair,” said the Home Secretary. “Not true, either.”

Peter shrugged. “So CI5 is playing nursemaid?”

“You have an unseen bodyguard with you day and night.”

“How embarrassing.”

The Home Secretary chuckled. “Can’t fool me. I know you’re sleeping alone.”

“That’s not what the tabloids say. According to them, I’ve bedded half London.”

“I won’t ask which half. Read a better class of paper, Peter. Do you want me to talk to CI5? Tell them what?”

“I’d like to know who is out to get me.”

“So would they.”

Peter rose. “I won’t take any more of your time, sir.” He went to the door.

“Tell me something,” asked the Home Secretary. “I know the man who was following you. By reputation, if not personally. He is very good. How did you come to notice him?”

Peter answered with a touch of malice. “I spotted him because he was beautiful.”

“Ah,” said the Home Secretary. “I hadn’t noticed.”

The world of shadows was becoming the real world again. Peter could sit, read a newspaper, drink a cup of tea with his morning toast and eggs. He had his personal assistant Alice bring notes and papers from the office. It wouldn’t do to fall behind. The public might be sympathetic to a shooting victim, but his constituents expected results. So did the Home Secretary.

“Don’t tire yourself,” said the friendly nurse.

He had less strength than he had hoped. He fell asleep over the transcript of a speech. The cause might be as much the monotony of the document as the state of his health. He was glad he had not been present. It was one of those monologues he would not have been able to keep his mind on. Instead, he would have been sitting and dreaming of Bodie.

Stupid, to fall for a security agent he’d never see again when the job was over.

Or would he? Bodie had said something, hadn’t he, about needing him? He wondered what Bodie had meant by it. Or had he, in his state, been dreaming?

He awoke on Bodie’s arrival. He was disoriented. Papers littered his bed. Others littered the floor, where Bodie had tossed them, clearing a space to sit on the side of the bed where they had been. “If you’re well enough to do work,” said Bodie firmly, “You’re well enough to kiss me.” He kissed him, thoroughly but with a gentleness that made it clear he was still thinking of Peter’s condition. Peter didn’t let him get away with it. He pulled the muscular body close to him, kissing him hard, using a strength he didn’t think he had. The kiss brought life and energy back into his tired body.

When he let go, Bodie said, “You’re feeling better.”

“I certainly am.”

“I would have hated it,” said Bodie, “if you had died for my sake.”

“Didn’t you understand?” said Peter. “That’s why I did it. That’s why I had to do it.”

The fog of forgetfulness was lifting. It was important to remember. He’d accosted Bodie on a park bench -- “Might as well speak to each other,” he’d said. “Since you are following me, you know I am Dr. Peter Balliol. You are either Murphy or Bodie, CI5.”

“Bodie,” the dark-haired man had said. Close up, his eyes were stunning. “It may be unwise for us to be seen talking. We are being watched by men who want to kill you.”

“You don’t know that for sure.”

Bodie’s enigmatic smile was neither confirmation nor denial. Part of Peter’s brain was still resisting the possibility of death by violence, or the possibility that someone felt that kind of antipathy for him, even as a figurehead. For political reasons. Or personal? Some homophobic madman, someone whose agenda he had opposed, some fanatic with no cause at all? He could not believe he had such enemies. He had never been strong enough to make strong enemies.

But somehow, recently, his life had taken another track.

He said, “Come back with me for a drink. I want to talk to you about this.”

Bodie said, “Minister, we have the situation in hand. You have no cause for alarm.”

“Tell me that over a drink, then.”

“And blow my cover?”

“They won’t think you’re my bodyguard, they’ll think this is a pick-up. They’ll think you’re my lover. Call it an unexpected advantage of having everyone in England know you’re gay.”

Bodie said promptly, “You aren’t. You’re bi. If it’s scotch, I accept the invitation.”

“Scotch it is,” said Peter.

So Bodie had become a shadow at his side, a familiar presence. His partner Murphy stayed in the background, searching for the suspected killers. They’d had a tip-off from a grass. Peter began to feel he had inadvertently stepped into the middle of a novel by Jeffrey Archer.

In that same month, his divorce went through without much fanfare or publicity. Naomi was free, as she had wished. Or as she had half-wished, torn between love and the desire to escape.

Legally free, he was too busy with work on the latest Commission to pay attention. He stopped believing there could be a true death-threat against him. CI5 was suffering from displaced paranoia. He was not the kind of man anyone would shoot.

Nor did he have time for socializing, though he went back once to the gay club. The only person there that he wanted was the bodyguard he had brought through the doors with him, the CI5 man wearing the gun in its shoulder-holster under the brown leather jacket. Bodie was the most attractive man there, outshining those half his age in fitness and style. All the more so that he didn’t seem to notice or care, and he brushed off all approaches.

Peter was a hero there, now, for the same reason he had been reviled in the papers: he had slugged a copper raiding the place, he had put himself in the same danger as they. Vulnerable. All the more vulnerable because of his position, his power. Power as insubstantial as a daisy petal.

Peter soon became tired of being offered drinks he had no taste for and companionship he did not want. He left early, Bodie in tow.

He could not sleep. He gave up the effort and left his bed to go into the front room of his new flat. It was the first time in years he had lived somewhere without Naomi’s stamp of bright design on it. He had gone for tawny colours, subdued, suitable to his own taste and character.

He looked out a window. He could see the traffic; London never slept. He could see the lights around Kensington Gardens, making the trees a stage set of mysterious shapes.

From the chesterfield where he was lying, Bodie said, “Couldn’t sleep?” It was impossible to tell from his tone or his position whether he had been sleeping and was quick to wake, or had been awake all along.

“No.”

Bodie sat. “You’ll be speaking in the House tomorrow. No fear the assassin will strike then. Security’s good.”

“I’m not afraid of the assassin,” said Peter, realizing with surprise that it was true. He added calmly, “I can’t sleep because I am alone.”

“Alone?” said Bodie. He stood. He understood. But then he always understood, didn’t he? Didn’t say much, but the brain knew everything. He had understood the difference between gay and bi, understood why Peter had taken up the cause of David West and ultimately that of the Home Secretary, understood why he had needed to strike the policeman who had come to destroy the precarious stability of his life.

“I hope not,” whispered Peter.

He felt Bodie come close to him, a warm, powerful, body. Bodie was dressed to sleep in a T-shirt and jogging pants. The cloth was warm against the silk of Peter’s pajamas as Bodie embraced him. Bodie had left his gun where it lay by the chesterfield, close at hand if he had wakened from sleep to need it.

Given Bodie’s lifestyle and temperament, Peter expected an aggressive move. Instead Bodie’s hand caressed his hair gently. He said, “Peter, what do you want? What do you need?” He had never called him Peter before, only Minister.

Peter shivered, not from cold. Bodie’s nearness made him tremble. He wrapped his arms around Bodie’s muscular back, holding him, feeling something that reassured him and aroused him at the same time.

“Come to my bed,” he said. “Love me.” He kissed him, touching the solid, strong body against his.

Bodie smiled as he kissed his face, running a hand up Peter’s back, down his spine, under the elastic of the waistband. The electric touch made Peter groan.

In bed, it was better still. Before an hour was over he realized he was in love with Bodie. In love with a man who killed in his line of work, and revealed little of himself, and had a smile like Christmas morning.

After several hours, he understood without thought just how far gone he was.

Afterwards, Bodie had said, with sleepy happiness, “I never did a Minister before.”

Peter reached over to play with the short, curling hair. “That’s okay. I never did a CI5 man.”

Bodie laughed. “Cowley will kill me. Never get involved....”

Peter shrugged, pulling back a little. “It isn’t too late. He doesn’t need to know. You can forget this happened -- ”

“No,” said Bodie firmly.

In the hospital, those were the good memories. Those days -- four days, four nights, a few hours extra -- when he had walked in the radiance of Bodie’s love.

The case was almost over now. He wondered how long Bodie would stay, would want to see him. He wondered how it could be that Bodie had been a catalyst to so many things in his life, bringing brightness and meaning where none had existed before. He had not realized he was looking for clarity of purpose. He had thought that all these years and months he was looking for comfort -- a little sex to relieve the tension of a stagnating marriage, a little excitement to give life meaning, a little variety to relieve the loneliness.

He had been a success, financially and politically. He had been respected by the public -- until the raid. He had been wealthy by some standards and privileged by any.

On the other side of the loneliness was something so huge he could not understand it.

Why did a glance from a quiet, skilled man make all the difference?

How could he let that go? But how, on the other hand, could he keep him, once this assassination thing was all over?

And why hadn’t he come to visit today?

Mark came to visit, with a get well card made by him and signed by all the students in the design class. He felt shy about it. “They heard what you did,” he said. “I’m getting second-hand admiration.”

“Admiration?” said Peter. He had his glasses on, because he’d been writing. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You saved a man’s life.” Mark smiled quickly. Today he was wearing a kaftan in white and violet. “Glad I don’t have to defend you now. They’re all saying they knew you were great all along.”

“I bet they are,” said Peter dryly.

“Yeah. The public is fickle.”

Political father and apolitical son smiled at each other.

Mark said, “Bodie’s not here?”

“Not yet.”

“You keep watching the door for him.”

“Do I?”

“Yeah. Dad?”

“What?”

“You sleeping with him?”

A hard question, given the source. “Yes.” Then, more honestly, “I mean, I was before I was shot.”

“Thought so.” Mark smiled again. “Good. He’s cool.”

“I think so,” said Peter.

He still wasn’t there. Mark left, supper came, the unrelieved monotony of hospital fare. Peter looked out the window as the sky darkened.

Never thought I could keep him, he said to himself. At least he’s alive. He’ll save many people, do much good.

He smiled to think of him. Missing the man, but content to miss him.

The shot, when it came, had been out of nowhere. From somewhere in Kensington Gardens, from a long-range weapon, as his driver opened the door and he emerged one step behind Bodie.

Bodie thrust him aside, the bullet missing him. Bodie tried to shield him between the car and his body, but Peter had seen a movement, something subliminal, in the park, and he knew what was happening. Without thought he jumped in front of Bodie to protect him just as Bodie, shooting his own weapon, was about to be shot in his place.

There was the impact of the bullet as it entered his back, the sudden fear that the projectile might go through him to kill Bodie anyway. But it did not. He was falling, and Bodie was alive, shooting still. He could hear nothing but the sound of the shots, deafening him.

He was on the pavement, consciousness ebbing. He heard his driver on the cell phone calling for an ambulance. He felt Bodie’s grip. “Peter!” said Bodie.

That was all. Then he was in the land of the shadows.

He watched the sky through his window turn turquoise, then orange. “It’ll rain tomorrow,” said the friendly nurse cheerfully.

“This is London. It always rains,” he answered.

She laughed as if he had said something clever.

He wondered how Bodie had brought magic back to his life and whether, with Bodie gone, the magic would go away as well.

He had to do something about the prison problem; the police administration problem; the health care problem. He had to review the documents.

Instead he watched the sun set. Magenta and crimson vividly streaked the clouds, darkening into burgundy.

Someone came into the room, too late for visitors. He did not look around. He said, “Bodie?”

Bodie said, “I got the man who shot you.”

“Did you kill him?” Peter turned his head now, oblivious to the strangeness of the question. Bodie stood in the doorway of his darkened room.

“No. He’s in custody. It was a killer for hire -- organized crime sees you as a threat.”

“Good,” said Peter, a dreamlike sleepiness coming over him. “Plan to be one. Must review the legislation.”

“Not tonight,” said Bodie fondly. “You can’t fix the world tonight.”

“Don’t need to,” said Peter. “The magic has come back.”

“What?” Bodie sat on the side of the bed, the way he liked to do. “Are you awake or asleep?”

“Awake. Mostly.”

“What magic?”

“The magic you put into the world.”

He reached out. Bodie’s fingers entwined with his. “You’re the legislator,” he said. “You make the world. I’m just a civil servant.”

“Stay for a few minutes,” said Peter. He did not let go of Bodie’s hand.

Bodie reached over, and took off Peter’s glasses. He said, “I’ll stay as long as you’ll let me.”

Peter smiled, his loneliness gone; his happiness complete.

Bodie smiled in return.