This story is set around two months after where Discombobulate left off. This story focusses on Doyle and how he tries to come to terms with his abduction and subsequent torture at the hands of Antonov.

The quotation that inspired me is at the end of the story.

The Professionals do not belong to me.

The bar was very noisy, and Doyle was tired. He didn't want to be here. He shifted in his seat as Bodie prattled on at him about his latest bird and the fact that his team was doing better than Doyle's in the league. Doyle suspected he was trying to cheer him up; Harry's shooting had shocked them all – there was still lingering guilt but it wasn't just that it could have been prevented. There was more guilt there. There was guilt because he wasn't deeply affected by the tragedy. "Whose round is it?" It took Doyle a moment to realise that Bodie was speaking to him. He smiled craftily and said;

"Yours," after a quick repartee Bodie left. Doyle leaned back in his chair and stared distastefully at his pint knowing – and loathing – that he needed to be sober. He hated Cowley's triple thinks and he hated what he had to do in the morning, but most of all he hated lying to Bodie.

Pretending to be a traitor wasn't exactly his longed for dream but he had to do it didn't he? It probably wouldn't be long anyway. He could always talk to Bodie afterward couldn't he? He nearly snorted into his drink – Bodie? Talk? Not words often in the same sentence.

There was some sort of fuss being kicked up at the bar. Doyle's copper senses were tugging at him, something was wrong; he could almost taste it in the air. He started to rise when the world around him went mad.

Doyle ducked underneath a clumsy fist and neatly chopped the man away. The drunk reeled backwards and collapsed with an unhappy sigh. He heard a yell and his head shot up towards the bar. Bodie's voice. "Bodie!" he bellowed as he started through the free-for-all. Suddenly an arm encircled him from behind, the brawny strength nearly lifting him off his feet. He twisted and brought his elbow into his attacker's guts – or tried to. Something clamped over his nose and mouth, a sickly sweet smell invaded his senses and he immediately fought to get away, to escape the drug, attempting to hold his breath. Someone hit him hard in the stomach and he was forced to inhale. His mind stumbled dizzily and everything slowly faded to black. It faded too slowly for him to be unaware of being hauled over a shoulder and his petrifying, claustrophobic helplessness…

He woke up. He was breathing heavily, his heart hammering away inside his chest. Automatically he groped for his bedside light switch. Pain suddenly flared in his chest and he only just bit down on his agonised yell. "Doyle? You ok?" Bodie stood silhouetted in the doorway in his pyjamas; Doyle could imagine his expression, worried and yet hesitant to help. He must have made some noise. It took Doyle a moment to catch his breath, his ribs burning a hellfire through his torso.

"Yeah, I'm fine;" he mumbled ashamedly, "go back to bed."

"No you're not," Bodie's voice sounded stressed, "I'm gonna turn on the light, ok?" Obediently Doyle shielded his eyes. The room illuminated in a yellow flash and he could see Bodie standing there. Doyle struggled to sit up as Bodie crossed to stand at the foot of the bed, something between anger and concern flickering on his face.

"I'm ok Bodie," he winced as he made the wrong movement, "really." Bodie was having none of his partner's pitiful but well-meaning gallantry, instead he demanded in a no-nonsense voice,

"When did you take your pain pills?" Doyle threw a cursory glance towards the clock. 1: 26 AM. A spasm of guilt crossed through his belly.

"'Bout eight hours ago," he made to swing his legs out of the bed, gritting his teeth against the ache.

"I'll get 'em," Bodie said forcibly, "don't get up." He left the room with an odd, loping gait; it was like he was trying to get the pills before Doyle did anything to hurt himself. After he had gone Doyle settled himself gingerly back against the pillows, trying not to think about what he'd just seen. Ever since he'd been rescued everyone had been pussyfooting around him; acting like he was going to break any minute. Bodie was the worst offender, doing things for Doyle that he was sure he would've been able to do himself. He didn't want to be handled with kid gloves; he just wanted everything be normal again.

Bodie hurried to the bathroom, barely noticing his fatigue from the early hour and the frequent awakenings. Bodie reckoned that neither he nor Doyle had had a full night's sleep for… how long? To be fair Bodie knew that he had been sleeping better since Antonov died, the sleep terrors mostly gone. But Doyle looked like death warmed up. He stumbled into the bathroom and pulled open the cabinet, catching sight of his unshaven face in the mirror. There were two small bottles that drew his gaze; one of them was the pain pills, the other… Bodie swept the first bottle into his hand but he lingered reluctantly over the second. He shook his head. There was no way that he could persuade Doyle to take them and he had brought it up on two or three separate occasions. Doyle could be as stubborn as a mule – no scratch that, as stubborn as a mule with all four hooves nailed to the ground. A quick smile flitted across his face before it disappeared. Bodie turned on his heel and stalked out of the room, deliberating over whether he should leave the pills in Doyle's room so that Doyle wouldn't have to suffer as long.

Lights will guide you home

And ignite your bones

And I will try to fix you

Fix You – Coldplay

"Come in, Bodie." Taking a deep breath Bodie stepped into Cowley's office. Things looked the same as usual and Bodie welcomed the normality. Cowley looked up from the report that was in his hand and nodded to Bodie, turning away from the window. "Sit down," he indicated a chair but Bodie stayed standing – it was a matter of principle.

"Did you get my request?" he asked.

"For some time off?" Cowley said, "Aye, I got it," he eyed Bodie shrewdly and said; "When does Doyle come out of the hospital?"

"Tomorrow," Bodie wasn't surprised that the Old Man had detected his lie. That was why he was the chief of CI5 and his triple thinks were infamous. "It's just that Ray's not going to be able to cope on his own and since his flat's been reassigned and I'm about due for a move I can help, 'cause he's not going to be able to drive or…. stuff like that and..." Cowley held up his hand to cease the flow of increasing gibberish that blurted out from Bodie's mouth.

"I understand, Bodie but I can only spare you two weeks, we're short-staffed as it is," as Bodie began to protest he interrupted firmly, "The next two weeks after I'm sure I can see a lot of report writing in your future." Bodie immediately brightened and Cowley watched as he walked towards the door. "Bodie?" his agent turned around, confusion tinging his features. "I didn't mean for this to happen lad. None of it." Bodie jerked his head in acknowledgement.

"I know," he said, "but it still did."

He crouched behind the prison door, his pulse jumping like a rabbit's. The rope that had been binding his wrists was clutched in his hand, Doyle wasn't sure if it would be any use as a garrotte but he kept it – just in case. They'd come for him soon, that he was sure of. But this time he was ready for the bastards. He shifted his body, grimacing at the five-day-old bruises that were just beginning to discolour. He was getting out of here. Suddenly his gaze snapped back to the door as the sound of bolts being slid back echoed menacingly in the almost-silence. He tensed, his muscles coiled in anticipation. The door opened and one of his tormentors (the one he privately called Odd-Job) stepped inside. He had just enough time to register that their prisoner wasn't restrained when Doyle rammed into him, his head steamrolling into Odd-Job's groin. He took a moment of fierce triumph as the man collapsed before he was hurtling out into a dark corridor. He made for the stairs, aware of the chase beginning behind. He just had to hope that Odd-Job was unarmed and the door leading out of the cellar was unlocked. His plan was riding a lot on hopes…

For once his luck seemed to be holding – the door popped against his charge and he stumbled through into a brightly lit hallway. The brightness confused Doyle briefly but he kept sprinting on, desperate to escape. He'd nearly made it to the stables when someone tackled him from behind. He went down; turning as he fell to grapple with the man but the damage was done. Odd-Job and Crop-hair reached them at the same time. It took all three to finally pin him and even then it was a struggle. "Ah Mr Doyle… what shall we do with you?" the smooth accented voice broke over his red-mist and he opened his eyes to see Antonov standing over him, a polished revolver resting in his fist. Antonov crouched by the agent, reading the fury in his eyes with a malicious air. "I wonder Mr Doyle –" Doyle spat and the man stopped momentarily as he wiped the spittle off his face. It didn't seem to bother him. He hefted the gun and pressed it to Doyle's throat, Doyle abruptly found he could barely breathe. "I wonder," Antonov began for the second time, "is if you are more trouble than you're worth, Mr Doyle." Doyle stared at him, tension churning in his stomach. Antonov pressed the barrel harder under his Adam's apple and pulled the trigger.

He woke up. The explosion that never came rode through his mind and he doubled over, nausea burning in his throat. He forced it down, squeezing his eyes shut against the image that threatened to choke him. Finally he opened his eyes, panting from the strain. He lay against the pillows laxly, trying to convince himself that it was just a dream – and that the dream meant nothing. It failed, the memories rushed back to fill the void in his head and he barely made it to the toilet before he vomited. He stayed crouched there for a while as he tried to control his shaking limbs. Sweat gathered clammily between his shoulder blades. It cooled his back making the night even colder.

Finally he pushed himself up holding onto the wash basin for support. He started as he came face-to-face with his reflection. His face looked wrong under the shorn curls; it was too pale, too thin. Was it even his face anymore? He couldn't answer that. As he was about to turn away he caught sight of his chest. Most of the slices were healing – fading out of existence but a few were scarring into long white blemishes, the most telling was one that went from under his sternum around to the second rib down on his right. He could still remember the knife sliding painfully to etch the mark into his skin. The scars made him feel ashamed; ashamed at his uselessness, his inability to escape, to save himself. "Ray?" He didn't turn around. He was Ray now? Was he showing that much weakness? Why the hell was Bodie still bothering with him?

"I'm alright Bodie."

"Ray…"

"I said I'm alright!" he burst out. Bodie paused in the doorway, unsure of how he could answer, "just… leave me alone. I can cope." He heard Bodie shift uneasily and he wouldn't – couldn't – turn to see the pity in Bodie's eyes. "I can cope." Bodie backed away, giving him space.

Then Doyle was left in the bathroom listening to his own harsh breathing.

I'm tired of waking up in tears,

'Cause I can't put to bed these phobias and fears

I'm new to this grief I can't explain;

But I'm no stranger to the heartache and the pain.

Silhouette – Owl City

The sunlight streamed through the shuttered window. Doyle shifted uncomfortably in his chair hating every minute of this interview. Dr Kate Ross sat opposite him, fingering her pen. The paper in front of her was filled with scribbled notes and Doyle was inexplicably reminded of the doctors' observations. "I want you to tell me about what happened." Doyle shrugged, careful of his ribs.

"I got caught and tortured. What else do you need to know?" there was venom behind his words, no matter how he tried to conceal it. He shifted and her gaze was drawn to the long-sleeved shirt he was wearing. It was unlike Doyle, she noted, to cover himself up. Usually he was too happy to parade around with his shirt open to the chest – much to the pleasure of some of the female agents. Dr Ross tried again.

"What methods did they use?"

"Does it matter?" Doyle snapped angrily. This stupid woman, why did she have to poke old wounds and take your brain and dissect it for her own amusement? He'd never had the privilege of being pleased with her results; psychoanalyses seemed to be one long string of questions which no matter how you responded pointed to something being wrong in your mentality. He peeked at enough of her reports to know! Trips to Dr Ross were at best tiresome; at worst they were downright invasive.

"I would like to know."

"I'm not answering that." Dr Ross laid her pen on the table and stared at him steadily. Doyle got out of the uncomfortable chair that he was sitting in and began to stalk the room like a caged tiger. "I've already told Cowley, I'm sure you could compare notes."

"How did you feel?" Doyle halted suddenly and stared at her. Fury bubbled up inside his stomach and he couldn't stop the flow of words that erupted from him.

"How did I feel? How do you think I bloody felt? Have you ever been interrogated? Starved? Electrocuted? Beaten? Do you know what it's like? If you're asking if I was scared then yes! I was terrified!" he lowered his voice but his words were still just as heated, "if this marks me as a lunatic then why don't you try it? See how bloody brilliant you feel afterwards." He grasped for the door handle.

"Doyle, the session is not over," Dr Ross said calmly. Doyle swung round to face her.

"Yes it is," he said. He yanked open the door.

"Just one more question," Dr Ross called. Doyle slowly pivoted, a false smile plastered on his face.

"What?" he demanded.

"Have you talked to Bodie about this?"

Doyle stormed out without another word.

Dr Ross knocked politely on Cowley's door. "Come in," he told her, "what is the verdict?" Dr Ross slid her notes over towards him before making herself comfortable in the chair. Cowley read the neat handwriting carefully.

"4.5 appears to be trying to cope with his imprisonment in two ways. Minimization and suppression," at Cowley's blank look she explained, "That means 4.5 is refusing to discuss or even admit that the incident is a problem. He thinks that if he doesn't talk about it then it didn't happen." Cowley laid the notes down and took his glasses off. Rubbing his eyes he said,

"Is it important? If he's coping with it, does it matter how he does it?" Dr Ross regarded him coolly.

"The problem is that he is not coping, this is a stopgap solution and until he comes to terms with what happened I'm not sure he can go out in the field again." Cowley tilted his head, thinking it through. "The main problem with this is if you lose Doyle then you lose Bodie as well." Cowley glared at her and said heatedly,

"No Dr Ross, the problem is one of my men has been interrogated and tortured!" he looked like he was about to say more but at that moment Betty knocked on the door.

"There's a phone call from the PM sir, he says it's urgent." She paused, biting her lip at the tableau she was faced with.

"Alright Betty," Cowley stood and began to walk out of the room, "Dr Ross, we will continue this conversation at a later date."

He curled in on himself trying to conserve body heat but the will just wasn't there anymore. The pain had become a constant background to the hell he was in. His head felt cold due to the loss of most of his hair, why that was one of the worst things they'd done was something he couldn't explain. He just wanted it to end. He failed them all, CI5, Cowley, Bodie…

It was too late now, he'd told them. Maybe not everything but he'd talked. He could barely hold out anymore, maybe it was better if he was never rescued. He deserved to die. They didn't need to restrain him now; he was too weak to fight properly anymore. The pain was too intense even for tears. He heard the door open and out of habit he swivelled his gaze to look. Antonov appeared to be alone for once, he didn't need subordinates. "Hello Mr Doyle," the tone was curiously light and Doyle watched him with the air of a cornered mouse. "Have you thought about your answer?" Doyle didn't respond, clamping his lips together. Antonov's hand landed Doyle's head, making the stricken man jump, his fingers playing with what was left of the bush that signified Ray Doyle. "I want names, Mr Doyle. Operatives' names, place names, I don't care. You are going to tell me what I want to know."

"Go to hell." The insult was barely more than a whisper but rage seemed to grip Antonov in a sudden, mad rush. He seized him by the arms, hauling him upright. Doyle shrieked in pain and for once his arms seemed to be coordinated but Antonov dragged him out as easily as a kitten. Doyle saw the white door and redoubled his efforts. It was all for naught as he was pulled inside.

"Last chance Mr Doyle," Antonov growled as he pinned him down. Doyle shook his head desperately just as a blindfold was wound around his eyes. Antonov grabbed him by the throat, "give me names."

"No!" Antonov plunged Doyle's head into the cold water. He didn't even have time to take a breath.

He woke up. "Ray!" he stumbled – disorientated – almost crashing into the table. He caught himself just in time, his palms flat on the wood. He gasped air weakly, still reeling from the memory. Then he realised where he was standing. Bodie stepped into the room, cautiously, like you would approach a frightening animal. "Ray?... are you alright?" he asked just as he mentally kicked himself for being so stupid. Doyle spun round, panic clear on his face.

"How'd I get here?" He was starting to hyperventilate, "Jesus, I was asleep!"

"Doyle – " Bodie started as he took a step towards his friend.

"Get away from me!" Doyle lurched away, crashing against the kitchen work surface; the panic had slipped into hysteria. He yelped in pain and slid to the ground, his legs trembling too much to hold him upright anymore. Bodie ignored him and hurried over. "Get away!" Doyle yelled at him.

"Like hell I will," Bodie retorted gently. He crouched beside his partner. Doyle shifted away from him.

"Stay away Bodie, you don't know…"

"What?" Bodie asked softly.

"What if I've been – been rewired? What if I'm a sleeper? And I can't even remember? I could be dangerous, and oh god, I should be dead… I deserve to be dead…" He curled in on himself, trying to stop the fear and the panic.

"Shut up," Bodie ordered fiercely, "You're alive, they're dead. Dammit Doyle, do you know what I went through? I thought I'd lost you, you know that? I thought I'd been careless and you paid the price for it!"

"But I talked Bodie, I told them…" Doyle protested thickly through his tears. "I failed…"

"So?" Bodie challenged heatedly, "A month of that? Hell, sunshine, I'd talk. I bet even Cowley would've talked."

Doyle barely heard him as nearly two months of fear and shame and hopelessness came pouring out of him. Bodie kept his hand on his shoulder through it all, keeping a silent, comradely reassurance that needed neither explanation nor understanding.

"It wasn't your fault Ray," Bodie finally said quietly. Doyle nodded, rubbing his eyes.

"S'not yours either." Bodie smiled at his obstinate tone.

"I've got an idea, mate, might help, might not, but I'd bet it'd get you back to being you again."

"What?" Doyle asked. Bodie told him. He grinned.

A week later:

The sun was shining far hotter than it should have been for the end of March. Bodie lounged outside the garage putting the finishing touches on a report, enjoying the heat. "Hey Bodie!" Doyle wandered out towards him, wiping his hands on an old rag he'd found. He was covered in oil and grease but he was a happy man. Bodie noted happily that his shirt was unbuttoned down to the chest. "Help me push it out?" Bodie grinned and stood up from his comfortable position and sauntered over to help his friend. "Have you been lazing about while I've been working hard?" Doyle asked with a teasing tone.

"Hey, report writing is very hard!" Bodie retorted in an injured tone as he took the handlebars, "It takes a lot of effort."

"For you maybe," Doyle grunted in response. They wheeled the bike out into courtyard and panting a little, stood back to admire it. It gleamed in the sunlight and Doyle felt a surge of pride in his (and admittedly Bodie's) handwork. "It looks great." Bodie casually slung a matey arm around his partner's shoulders.

"Now Raymond," he said in a mock serious tone, "it looks great, but here's the important question. Does it work?" Doyle grinned at him.

"Wanna try it out?" Bodie considered this musingly.

"Are sure it won't damage your ribs?" he asked. Doyle gave him a look.

"I promise not to do any stupid tricks," he laughed, "and – and I'll wear a helmet. How's that?" Bodie nodded happily.

"You're on sunshine. You're on."

Scars are not signs of weakness; they are signs of endurance and survival.

Rodney .A. Winter.