DISCLAIMER: I own nothing.
A/N: This one's from a prompt given to me a long, long time ago by Got Tea.
Hannibal
by Joodiff
It's been a while since Boyd last stayed so late alone at work without an exceptionally urgent reason to do so, but even the relative unfamiliarity of the stillness and the empty silence doesn't quite account for the edge of restless unease that's been nagging at him for at least the last twenty minutes. He doesn't suffer from an over-active imagination, nor is he easily spooked, not by anything – he's been a copper for far too long for that – but he has a very highly-developed instinct, almost a sixth sense, that infallibly warns him when something isn't quite right. It's more than a ghostly prickle down his spine, less than the short hairs on the back of his neck literally standing on end, but he recognises it when it happens, and though he is a gruff, no-nonsense sort of man who prefers to trust tangible evidence rather than a vague, inexplicable feeling, it's generally an exceptionally reliable warning. He trusts that mysterious instinct – after all, it's saved his life on more than one occasion. Trusts it and doesn't easily dismiss it as a mere flight of fancy, yet he has no idea what's unsettling him as he sits alone in his office, half-heartedly shuffling the paperwork occupying most of the surface of his desk from one untidy pile to another.
Maybe it's every bit as simple as it seems. Maybe he's simply fallen out of the habit of being on his own so late at night in the cheerless, claustrophobic semi-subterranean space that's occasionally been known to cause nightmares in those of a less stout disposition, particularly when coupled with the kind of gory, graphic images too often on open display out in the main squad room. Whatever the reason, Boyd can't seem to shake the uncomfortable feeling that he's not alone, that he is being watched by someone. Or something.
Ridiculous. Unnerving, but ridiculous. Eve was the very last to depart, delivering a sheaf of routine test results straight into his hands before leaving, and even she's been gone for well over an hour now. Every last member of his team – bar one – is somewhere out there in the big city, getting on with… whatever it is they do when they're not at work… while he lingers in solitary state, not achieving much, yet finding himself unwilling to go home to the boring reality of all the routine household chores that he really can't put off any longer. Groceries to buy, bills to pay, shirts to iron. The unexciting, mundane things that are mind-numbingly tedious, yet essential to modern life. Bachelor living isn't all it's cracked up to be, Boyd muses, his already morose mood darkening even further. Certainly not at his time of life. Something that's become increasingly clear to him over the last couple of months. There's a lot to be said for –
The loud shrilling of the phone on his desk cuts through his gloomy introspection, and he snatches up the receiver with just a little too much enthusiasm, answering the call with a sharp, "Boyd."
"Caught you," a triumphant female voice responds.
Damn. That's what he gets for failing to even glance at the caller ID display. Leaning back a fraction in his chair, he gazes into the mid-distance, not really seeing anything. "Grace."
"Why are you still at work?" she asks, a touch of challenge lending the words a slight sting. "You promised, Boyd."
He did. Not that he was given much choice in the matter. The urge to defend himself makes him shrug, even though it's a futile gesture. "I must have lost track of time."
"I see." It's clear Grace doesn't believe the half-hearted excuse for a moment. Damned woman has always been far too good at seeing straight through him. Right from the very start, in fact, when she quickly realised that his bark was – generally – far worse than his bite, and that despite strong assertions to the contrary he did, in fact, possess the kind of dark, abstruse sense of humour that made her laugh. Though doubtless often against her better judgement.
"How's Newcastle?" he inquires, attempting to deflect at least some of the wrathful censure he expects to receive.
"Bloody cold." Pithy. Followed by, "And London?"
"Also bloody cold. Good journey? Nice hotel?"
"Quit while you're ahead, lover," is her droll advice. Boyd can picture her shaking her head. "You're absolutely abysmal at small-talk."
He is. He understands its function, its social importance, but it's a skill he's never really bothered to master properly. Too impatient for it, maybe. Unaware of doing so, he runs a long-fingered hand through his hair as he admits with a weary, self-aware grin, "Yeah, I know."
"Fortunately for you," she continues, and he's damn sure he's not imagining the sudden deliberate, arch note in her voice, "you have other talents..."
"Great time to start flirting, Grace," he grumbles, just because she expects it, "when it's gone nine at night and you're two hundred and fifty bloody miles away."
"Mm. I thought you'd appreciate it."
"Thanks."
"Think of it as an appropriately safe distance." Deadpan.
He can play the game every bit as well as she can. "Who says I want to be safe?"
"Safe for me, Boyd."
"I wouldn't put money on – " but he breaks off, his attention caught by movement right on the edge of his peripheral vision. His head snaps round in response, causing a momentary stab of pain in his neck, but there's nothing to see. No sign that there ever was. He frowns, well-aware of what his finely-tuned senses are still telling him.
"Hello…?" A little bemused, a little irritated.
"Sorry," he apologises perfunctorily, more intent on scowling at whatever it is that isn't there. Perhaps she's right. Perhaps he really does need a decent holiday. His sister's holiday villa in Tuscany is looking more appealing by the minute. Gathering his thoughts, he asks, "What time's kick-off in the morning?"
"It's an academic symposium, not a football match, Boyd. Ten o'clock. And no, before you waste any energy summoning up what few remaining shreds you have of what might just about pass for charm, I'm not going to half kill myself driving back tomorrow night."
That's one definite drawback of… getting involved… with someone who's known him far too long to be easily influenced by a few glib words and a tempting promise or two. Getting his own way is far from impossible, but it's not easy. She makes him work for it. Every single time. He likes it. Appeals to his innate obstinacy, his wilful streak. Which Boyd is certain Grace knows. Well, of course she does. She's not a damned psychologist for nothing.
For a moment he's tempted to try anyway. He likes a challenge, after all. But something is still making him restless and uneasy, and his heart isn't really in it, not tonight. Instead, he offers a simple, "Okay."
"'Okay'?" Grace's sceptical voice echoes. "All right, now I know that there's something wrong. What aren't you telling me, Peter?"
Too sharp. Far, far too sharp. He shrugs again, and it's still a futile exercise. "It's nothing."
The exasperated sigh is very clear, even from such a long distance away. "Boyd…"
He swears he's not alone in his office, which is clearly madness. Funny, the intense stresses of the job usually manifest themselves in brooding irritability and uneven spikes of temper, not in strange feelings of… Boyd shakes his head. "It's nothing, Grace. I'm just tired, that's all."
"Exactly why you were supposed to go home, not sit around in your office moping."
"I'm not moping."
"Of course you're not."
He's known her a long time. A very long time, in fact. "Oh, leave me in peace and go and find the damned hotel bar, will you? With any luck you'll get picked up by a nice, wealthy, and highly respectable psychiatrist, or something."
"What, and let you off the hook, you mean?"
Despite his grin, he keeps his tone level; downbeat. "Exactly."
"Nice, wealthy, and highly respectable has never really done it for me. Hard luck."
Really, it's not a surprise that they eventually ended up together, exactly where everyone seemed to expect them to. He really doesn't know how or why, and he's pretty sketchy on the precise moment when, but such trivialities don't matter much to Boyd. All that matters is that if he wasn't due in court the next day, he'd already be in his car heading north at rather more than conservative speed. It's the way he is. Impulsive, not given to wasting his time talking when he can simply act. But he's not a fool, and he takes his responsibilities seriously. He won't leave London, not tonight. However tempting the idea might be. Instead, he says, "My mother warned me about women like you, you know."
"If only you'd bothered to listen, eh?"
He gives in and lets her hear his answering chuckle. "You know me, Grace."
"I certainly do," is the dry retort. It's followed by, "Well? Are you going to go home?"
"Soon," he says, and he thinks he means it, too. A long hot bath, a couple of glasses of whisky, and then the blissful comfort of his large, extravagantly expensive bed. Heaven on earth. Pretty much. "When are you driving back, then?"
"Friday morning. I'm just going to be too tired to – "
"Grace," he interrupts before she can offer a full explanation, "you don't have to justify what you do, not to me. I'm not your bloody keeper."
"Sorry."
He wonders, sometimes, whether there's any truth in the darkest of his private suspicions about the turbulent marriage she apparently tried so hard and for so long to save. Whether he's right about the reasons why sometimes, in unguarded moments well away from the rigors of work, she flinches if he moves just a little too fast, or swears just a little too loudly. Wonders whether he should make an effort to find the man she barely mentions and teach him a lesson or two about the consequences of bullying women and children. Then, if he did, she –
A rustle of movement makes him look towards the shelves to his left just as she continues, "I'd better go, I suppose. Get an early night, ready for tomorrow."
There's no way he's imagining the quiet scratching and scuffling he can hear just a few feet away. Distracted, he replies, "Yeah."
"Since you obviously have other things on your mind."
"Mm."
"Well… Goodnight, then."
The sudden ice is unmistakable. It immediately draws his attention back to the foundering conversation. "Sorry, Grace. Sorry."
"What is going on there?"
A good question. A bloody good question. One he's going to get an answer to. Decisive, he stands up and simultaneously says, "I'll call you back."
"Boyd – "
He won't be popular for cutting her off, he knows – understatement – but as he returns the receiver to its cradle he has other things on his mind. Finding out what the hell is responsible for those disconcerting noises by far the most urgent amongst them. Maybe the damned place really is haunted, as a young junior officer or two has been known to suggest on occasion. He doesn't believe it, of course, but there's something about knowing that there's more than one rotting cadaver currently in the building…
Get a grip, Boyd tells himself, irritated by the fanciful turn of his thoughts. He's spent far too much time with the dead to be frightened by them. It's the living who are dangerous, a fact he knows only too well. Light on his feet, he closes in on the floor to ceiling shelves that seem to be the source of the unexplained sounds, but something must betray his presence because the noises suddenly stop. He stops, too, and listens hard. Nothing. Just all the usual quiet sounds he associates with the building at night. Normal, everyday noises that are so familiar he generally doesn't notice them. As stealthy as he can be, he edges forward an inch at a time, closing in on his target with something akin to the focused delicacy of a hunting cat. Senses heightened, nerves jangling, the sudden burst of scuffling less than a foot away from him comes close to making him yelp in surprise. Glaring, he lunges forward, plucking a large box file from one of the middle shelves.
It's a lucky guess. He forms a quick, sketchy impression of something small and dark that scuttles away behind a neat stack of colour-coded folders as he lets loose a loud, sharp volley of curses spurred by shock and disgust. An instinctive reaction, hard-wired into his DNA and augmented by a visceral fear and loathing rooted firmly in childhood trauma.
Rat.
For some people it's snakes or spiders. For Boyd, it's rats. He recoils sharply, his heart hammering in his chest. Sweaty-palmed, he retreats as far as his desk, dumping the box file from the shelves there, but never moving his gaze from the cheerful reds, yellows, and greens of that pile of folders.
It's there. He knows it is.
Knows it… they… were. Scuffling and skittering in the damp darkness; nightmarish, oily-looking creatures from the Victorian sewers that form a vast labyrinth beneath the city. Danger upstairs where tempers fray and fists fly, terror down in the dank cellar where he huddles, a tear-stained little boy cowering alone in a corner as he listens to the unseen rats and tries to wait out his punishment without giving in to the urge to scream himself hoarse.
A thousand years ago.
Feels like it, anyway.
A fucking rat. In his damned office.
Deep breaths. He's not a scared kid trembling in the darkness, not anymore.
Can't be that difficult to… despatch. A swift, accurate strike. Easy. Swift and humane.
"Don't kill Hannibal!"
A vivid, echoing memory of Eve's voice, strident and anxious as she tried to recapture her errant pet.
Hannibal. Elderly and arthritic now, but still bright-eyed, greedy and full of curiosity. It's entirely possible that he has – yet again – escaped from his cage tucked away at the rear of the CCU's lab and made his way to the squad room where there are biscuit crumbs aplenty to feast upon.
Don't kill Hannibal.
How the hell is he supposed to distinguish one bloody rat from another?
A soft scrit-scrit noise from behind the folders causes an involuntary shudder that Boyd is far from proud of. Like it or not, he's going to have to do something. There's no-one else, no-one he can instruct to deal with the matter. Won't be until the morning, and the damage to important documents that might be done by then…
He takes a few more deep breaths. Slow and deliberate. In-out, in-out.
The telephone on his desk starts to shrill again, the harsh, unpleasant noise making him jump and setting his heart racing again. He snatches up the receiver, barks, "What?"
"Charming," Grace's disdainful voice says. "You said you'd ring me back."
"I know," he grinds out, "and I would have done, if you'd given me half a bloody chance."
"What on earth," she demands, "is going on there?"
Scrit-scrit-scrit.
This time the shudder the noise causes is more controlled, but before he can stop himself, he says, "Rat."
"Rat?" She sounds astonished. Understandably so.
"Rat," Boyd confirms. "In my office."
"Oh." Hard to decipher that tone – it's a mixture of surprise, amusement, and, yes, some concern. Before he can say more, she inquires, "Are you… all right?"
It's not the sort of… fear… that's easy to keep hidden, given the sort of places their investigations often take them to. And the incredibly perceptive Doctor Grace Foley is not the sort of person it's easy to hide anything from for long. She knows. Knew long before they ever had a conversation about it. Male pride makes him start to bridle, but something – maybe simple common-sense – stops him from biting at her. She is, after all, the only ally he currently has. He admits, "I've had better evenings."
"Call the maintenance team," she says, ever-practical.
"It's the middle of the fucking night, Grace," he tells her. It's an exaggeration, of course, but he knows he's right as he adds, "Catch them doing anything useful until the bloody morning."
"Point taken." A brief hesitation, then, "Are you sure? That it's a rat, I mean?"
"I'm sure. I saw the damned thing with my own eyes."
"Okay." Calm. Quiet. Not at all condescending or confrontational. "It's a primal fear, Boyd. The fear of rats. One lots of people suffer from. It's nothing to be ashamed of."
"Don't," he warns, still watching the shelf for signs of movement. "And don't tell me it's more frightened of me than I am of it."
"Deep breaths," she instructs.
As if he hadn't thought of that for himself. Unconsciously tightening his grip on the phone receiver, Boyd says, "It might be that fucking disgusting creature of Eve's."
"Hannibal?" Another tiny hesitation. "Perhaps you should go and check his cage…?"
"Fuck that," he tells her. "I'm not letting the bloody thing out of my sight. Who knows where it might end up?"
"You can see it?"
"Not exactly. But I know where it is… it's… making scratching noises." Breathe… nice and slow…
"Peter?" The same calm, quiet tone, deceptive in its unparalleled power to catch hold of him, anchor him. "Tell me what you can see."
Shelves. Boyd can see shelves. But suddenly they're old and bowed, and filled with crusty cans of paint, rusty tools, and a hundred and one other miscellaneous objects that look unfamiliar and frightening in the near-darkness of the cellar… No. No.
"Shelves," he tells her, hating the way his voice sounds so hoarse, so strained. "Files and folders, my CD player, a picture of my son…"
"You're in your office," she says, "and you're safe, Peter. You're safe."
Fucking rats…
"He wasn't well," Grace's urgent, disembodied voice tells him. "Your grandfather wasn't well. He didn't know what he was doing. Peter?"
Thirty-six hours. Nearer forty. Shouting overhead. Doors slamming. His grandmother's thin, terrified face. Bread and water. The stench of rats and fear and his own piss. Numb. Chilled to the bone. Blinking in sudden harsh light. His mother's hysterical screams as she –
"Boyd." Female voice. Remnants of a northern accent. Grace.
"I'm… okay." Cold sweat is sticking his shirt to his back under his suit jacket, he realises. Clenching his free hand into a tight fist, he repeats, "I'm okay."
"Call Eve," she instructs. "Tell her Hannibal's escaped again, and she needs to get back there and sort it out."
"What if it's not Hannibal?"
"What if it's not?" Grace echoes. "Doesn't matter, does it? Just swear that you thought it was, and you didn't want to risk hurting him."
"Fucking thing," he mutters. "How many times have I told her to leave it at the body farm?"
"Well, she can't do that, can she? He needs looking after. Food and water, that sort of thing."
"So? If she wants to keep a bloody pet, she should do it at home, not at fucking work."
"Boyd."
Subsiding, Boyd grumbles, "Oh, fine. Fine. No-one listens to a single word I say – why the hell should they? I'm only the one in bloody charge here."
"Call her," Grace tells him again, ignoring his petulant outburst. "Then call me again when it's all sorted out."
"All right, all right."
"Good," she says, a palpable trace of relief in her voice. "And, Peter…?"
He only just manages to refrain from sighing loudly. "What?"
"I miss you."
The line goes dead before Boyd can reply. He's not surprised. It's a peculiar quirk of hers – the ability to say without a single qualm the sort of things she can't easily force herself to listen to. It's indicative of the deep, well-hidden touch of insecurity most people would be surprised to find in her. Not him. He saw it from the start, and somehow she knew it. Another reason, maybe, why they've always worked so well together. An innate grasp of each other's strengths and weaknesses.
"I miss you, too," he says to empty air, then replaces the receiver again. He's not a sentimental man, never has been, but he's never been afraid to wear his heart on his sleeve. Gruff, but not uncaring. Never that. Most of the problems in his life have stemmed from caring too much, not too little. About all the wrong things at all the wrong times, perhaps.
Rat. Hannibal?
Eve.
It's a bit of an ongoing team joke, his well-known aversion to rats. One Boyd's never gone out of his way to entirely eliminate. Something to do with hiding in plain sight, probably. They don't know how deep his visceral fear and revulsion goes, and they don't know the root cause of it. Let them enjoy their good-natured teasing. It's good for morale, and it means he never has to explain himself when he all-but jumps out of his skin whenever something scuttles past him at a less-than-salubrious crime scene. Staring at the shelves, from whence occasional scratching sounds are still emanating, Boyd makes a decision.
Taking a solid, heavy-footed step towards the shelves, he announces, "Okay, Hannibal, it's just you and me."
Maybe it's not Hannibal. Maybe it's some vicious, sharp-eyed sewer rat that's somehow found its way into the building.
No. Don't think like that.
Grandpa was ill. Very ill, as it turned out much later. Blinding headaches, seizures. Sudden, unaccountable mood swings. Wouldn't go to the doctor, wouldn't listen to the people who loved him, and were desperately worried about him.
Brain tumour. Inoperable.
They used to go fishing together… before.
Boyd takes another firm step, feels his pulse quicken.
He's not a frightened little boy, he's a grown man who's faced down countless dangers and lived to tell the tale. He's been stabbed, beaten, shot at…
His palms are clammy. His heart is pounding hard in his chest. He feels sick, dizzy. Hot. As if he's about to pass out.
PTSD. That's what Grace called it. Post-traumatic Stress Disorder. Almost two days locked in his grandparents' cellar, frightened half to death, not knowing when – or even if – the terrifying confinement would end. Absent father, erratic, heavy-drinking mother. Quiet, clever older sister that everyone doted on. Bewildered grandparents who did their best to look after their wayward daughter's virtually abandoned offspring, right up until…
Don't think about it. Any of it.
Rat bites on his hands and feet.
"Fuck's sake…" A sudden, necessary explosion. One that pushes him forwards in three, four quick, harsh steps. Snatching the first two of the coloured folders off the shelf, Boyd throws them in the direction of his desk. Hears them skid across the polished wood and send an avalanche of paperwork to the floor. He doesn't care. Grabs another folder, and another, sends them flying after the first two. It's therapeutic, in a way.
He snatches up the last two folders – red and blue – and an easily-identifiable dark shape skitters away behind a cardboard storage box. Hurling the folders at his desk, he growls, "Gotcha."
Grabbing the box – contents unknown – he spies his foe. Rat. Whiskers. Tiny paws. Long, scaly-looking tail. Could be Hannibal.
They stare at each other, neither blinking. The rat seems to decide Boyd is not a threat and sits up on it's haunches, whiskers twitching as it sniffs the air.
Got to be Hannibal. Only a tame rat would react in such a way, surely?
Feeling his brows drawing together in a frown, Boyd says, "Hannibal…?"
The rat stares at him.
"Hannibal." It's a statement this time. "Well, what the fuck am I going to do with you?"
The answer is in his hands. Literally. The cardboard box. Removing the lid, Boyd up-ends the box, emptying its contents – miscellaneous bits and pieces long forgotten about – onto the seat of the visitor's chair almost next to him. A roll of sticky tape and a trio of marker pens end up on the floor, quickly followed by a chewed-up cassette-tape and a long daisy-chain of paperclips that indicate he must have been very bored sitting at his desk at some unremembered point in the distant past.
Tucking the box under one arm, he takes the final cautious step up to the shelves. The rat continues to regard him with quizzical indifference. It looks clean and well-cared-for, Boyd notes. He's almost certain it's Hannibal.
"Trying to escape the basement, eh?" he says to the rat – Hannibal – in a conversational tone that is only lightly edged with a touch of incipient hysteria. "You and me both, mate. Life's a bitch, isn't it?"
There's a thin but fairly rigid legal directory within arm's reach. If he held the box against the edge of the shelf, Boyd thinks, he could use the directory to… encourage… Hannibal towards it.
Seems a bit cruel. Not the sort of thing to do to an elderly gentleman.
"If I try to pick you up," Boyd says, fixing Hannibal with a stony glare, "are you going to bite me?"
He had a pet rabbit once, when he was very, very young. Before his hollow-eyed father disappeared for good and everything changed. Big grey fluffy thing with a comical bent ear. Sir Wilfred. Used to bite like a bastard. Terrorised the neighbour's green-eyed tabby cat for several memorable years before shuffling off to bunny heaven. Or hell, of course. Which might be more likely, given the long-deceased creature's malevolent character.
Get it done, Peter.
His heart starts to pound again as he slowly extends an unwilling hand towards his placid-looking nemesis, and clammy sweat breaks out across his back again. He half-expects the room to start to spin around him, but thankfully it doesn't.
"It wasn't my fault," he informs Hannibal, surprised by how steady his voice sounds. "It was an accident. I tripped, and I broke grandpa's favourite mug. He wasn't well, but we didn't know that. Not then. He hit me so hard, I swear I saw stars. Then he grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and chucked me down the cellar steps. I could hear my grandmother crying. I've never told anyone that before, not even Grace."
Hannibal blinks, but doesn't move.
"Used to have terrible nightmares," Boyd continues. "Stopped after the Henderson case. Maybe seeing how Sharman died…" He half-shrugs. "Who knows?"
His fingertips are barely an inch away from the animal now. A powerful wave of nausea hits him, but from somewhere he finds the sheer bloody-minded tenacity to hold position, to overpower the instinct to wrench his hand back.
Rattus norvegicus. Brown rat. Hanover rat. Lab rat. Hannibal.
"Everyone has at least one fear they believe is unconquerable," he tells the rat, "that's what Grace says. Heights. Snakes. Spiders. Rats. Doesn't matter what it is. Maybe we all need to be afraid of something."
Fur. Surprisingly soft and fine. Body heat. Life. Reality. Rat.
Fighting the tenacious grasp of sickness and giddiness, Boyd traces one finger gently along Hannibal's flank. He can feel the delicate ridges of tiny ribs. Still, the rat doesn't move, just continues to watch him with polite curiosity.
"All right," Boyd says, concentrating on his breathing, "I'm going to pick you up now. Believe me, mate, it's going to be far more traumatic for me than it is for you. Bite me, and this isn't going to end well. For either of us. Understand?"
He doesn't know how much pressure to apply, not at first. Adjusts his grip carefully and then freezes for a moment as Hannibal's head swings round towards his knuckles. There's no attempt to bite, just a delicate, inquisitive sniff that's accompanied by a faint tickle of long whiskers. Boyd's heart lurches but carries on beating. Nothing terrible happens, despite the involuntary shudder that runs through him and the continuing strong urge to vomit. Teeth clenched so hard his jaw muscles start to ache, he transfers his tiny captive from shelf to box without incident. Rarely has he been so happy to embrace an anti-climax. Aloud, he says, "'You do not have to say anything. But, it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned…'"
Crossing the room at a good pace, he puts the box on his desk, retrieves its discarded lid and replaces it with considerable alacrity. There's a brief scuffle of protest from inside, then silence.
Knees suddenly weak, Boyd retreats to his comfortable executive swivel chair. Sits there breathing heavily as he stares at the cardboard box.
Now what? he asks himself. He can't leave the rat in the box overnight – it would surely chew its way out. Besides, it's probably in need of food and water, and no matter how much he detests the species, deliberately causing unnecessary suffering to a living creature is an abhorrent thought.
The answer is as obvious as it is unpalatable. He's going to have to return Hannibal to his cage.
"Fucking Eve," he mutters to himself. She's a damned good scientist and an even better pathologist, but in terms of… well, weirdness… she's in a league of her own. Frankie was sparky and funny, Felix was cool and competent, but Eve… Eve is something else. A body farm, for fuck's sake. He's all in favour of people having hobbies that keep them out of mischief, but…
Weird or not, Grace is incredibly fond of her. That alone is enough for Boyd. There are few people who are a better judge of character than Grace Foley, and she liked Eve from the very start.
Attractive woman, he muses, aware that he's procrastinating. Dark eyes, incredible cheekbones. Long, graceful limbs. Curves in all the right places. Not at all his type, but still. The day he stops breathing will be the day he stops noticing such things, even if with only hypothetical interest.
A pet rat, though…
Addressing the cardboard box perched on the corner of his desk, Boyd says, "Thanks for not resisting arrest. Appreciate it."
There's no reply. If there had been, he thinks, his already shattered nerves simply wouldn't have been able to take it.
The phone on his desk starts to ring again. Reaching out, he answers its summons with a mechanical, "Boyd."
"It's not Hannibal," Grace's slightly breathless voice informs him. "Boyd? Did you hear me? The rat in your office – it's not Hannibal."
It's the very last thing he wanted to hear. "What?"
"It's Clarice."
He's too traumatised to make the connection. "'Clarice'?"
"Clarice," Grace confirms. "Eve brought her over from the body farm last week."
"What?" he says again.
"She's a she," the voice speaking straight into his ear elucidates. "It seems our esteemed colleague decided to try for a litter of baby Hannibals before it was too late."
Boyd can't help himself. He really can't. "What?"
"Do stop saying 'what'," Grace scolds. "Your rat – it's Hannibal's new girlfriend, Clarice. Believed to already be expecting."
"You have got to be fucking kidding me," he manages, staring at the cardboard box in numb horror.
"I'm not," she says. "Eve called me to see how I was getting on up here, and I asked her if she'd heard from you."
"And…?" Boyd demands.
"I explained your predicament – just the bare bones of it – and she admitted that she had Clarice with her in the squad room earlier while she and Spence were reviewing the photographs from Lawrence Road. When she picked up the carrier again… it was empty. It seems her plan was to get into work early tomorrow and track her down before anyone else found her."
Wrestling with a mixture of growing anger and gut-wrenching shock, Boyd grinds out, "I can't believe I'm bloody hearing this."
"She's on her way over now," Grace tells him. "Look, I know you're furious – "
"Really? And how, pray, have you managed to come to that remarkable conclusion?"
" – but," she continues, ignoring his sarcasm, "do try not to fly off the handle. It wasn't intentional – she was taking Clarice up to the lab when Spence waylaid her. She didn't tell anyone what had happened because she knew you'd go spare if you found out. She thought she'd be able to lure her back into her carrier with some chocolate before there was a real problem."
He's still struggling. "Before there was…?"
"She's on her way to you now," Grace informs him. "Be nice, Boyd."
"'Nice'?" he echoes, not bothering to hide his incredulity. "I've just been through fifteen minutes of pure fucking hell, Grace, and you're telling me to be nice?"
"That's exactly what I'm telling you. Poor Eve thinks – "
"'Poor Eve'?" he interrupts, volume and indignation both increasing. "Poor fucking Eve? What about poor bloody Peter? I picked the damned thing up!"
"Did it bite you?" Grace inquires.
He scowls, picturing her serene, amused expression. "Well, no, but…"
"Well, then," she says, still infuriatingly calm. "Look, I know how traumatic – "
"No, you don't," Boyd snaps back at her, blood starting to pound in his ears. "You have no fucking idea how traumatic it was. I swear, I'm going to personally wring the bloody woman's neck. Keeping one fucking pet rat in the lab is bad enough, but deliberately trying to breed more…"
"Peter." Grace's voice is quiet. Quiet, but firm. "Calm down. Breathe. You don't need the extra stress, and neither do I. Just hand Clarice over to her when she arrives, and I'll have a quiet word with her when I get back."
A clatter of doors not too far away makes Boyd grimace and say, "Sounds like she's just arrived."
"Nice, remember?" Grace reminds him. "For me?"
It's a dirty trick. A very dirty trick. But it works. Growling, he retorts, "Fine. I'll be nice. But I want those disgusting things out of my lab as soon as possible. Clear?"
"Our lab. And yes, quite clear. I'll deal with it."
"You'd better, because if you don't…"
"I'll deal with it," Grace insists. "Call me back."
"Yeah," Boyd mutters, and puts the receiver down without waiting for a goodbye. He's being childish, and he knows it. But, for heaven's sake, breeding bloody rats at work?
A slim human shape crosses the darkened squad room, and seconds later a sheepish-looking Eve appears in his office doorway. It's clear she's expecting the worst from the guarded way she greets him with a simple, "Boyd."
"Eve," he responds, gruffer than perhaps Grace would like, but more controlled than he feels he should have to be, under the circumstances. He nods towards the cardboard box on his desk. "Yours, I believe."
"Yes," she admits. "Clarice."
"So I gather. Read the book?"
"Seen the film," she says. "Many times."
He grunts. "Doesn't fucking surprise me. Go on, take it away before I change my mind and feed it to A Section's drug dogs."
Eve advances, her long black leather coat adding a sinister overtone to her appearance that Boyd thinks is particularly apposite. She offers a slight, tentative smile. "Thank you for catching her for me. I know you're… not keen."
He's really not in the mood to be placated. "No, I'm bloody not. Remember that the next time you think that bringing vermin into the workplace is a good idea."
"I will," is her meek reply.
Boyd glowers at her across the width of his desk. "No more bloody rats, Eve. I'm serious. Take them back to the body farm, and if you can't look after them there, either take them home or get rid of them."
"But Clarice is pregnant," she protests. "At least, I think she is."
"Not my problem," he informs her. The accusing look she gives him in return makes him continue, "It's just not appropriate, keeping them here. Surely you can see that? Oh, look, I'm not a bad guy, you know that. I don't like the damned things, but I don't wish them any harm. I just don't want them in my lab."
Eve looks crestfallen. "I can't take them home, Boyd; I'm not allowed pets in my flat."
"You're not allowed pets at work, either, but it's never stopped you before," he points out, not liking the doleful way she's watching him. Reminds him too much of every other bloody woman who's managed to wrap him around their little finger in fairly short order. "Don't you have a friend who can look after them for you?"
She shakes her head. "Well, no, not really. Most of my friends have either moved away or work the same ridiculous hours that I do."
Tenacity is one of Boyd's defining characteristics. "What about that technician of yours? The dozy one with all the hair that always drops things whenever I'm around?"
"Maxine? She's like you – can't bear rats."
"Good for her. Disgusting bloody creatures."
"I suppose," Eve suddenly says, drawing the words out in a slow, thoughtful sort of way, "I could try asking Grace…"
"No," he says, the word a quick, automatic reaction. "No. Absolutely not."
"But she doesn't mind Hannibal."
Boyd scowls at her. "If she told you that, she was just sparing your bloody feelings. You are not asking Grace."
"Why not?" Eve inquires. "It's not as if you'd have to see them if she took them home for me, is it?"
Her expression is ridiculously innocent, but her eyes… her eyes have a knowing, gimlet-sharp quality about them that's impossible to miss. Aware that he's on the verge of being completely out-manoeuvred, Boyd lets his scowl deepen into a ferocious glare. "Be careful you don't cut yourself, Eve."
She has the audacity to smirk at him. "I don't know what you mean."
"Of course you bloody don't."
"I'm sure she wouldn't mind, you know," Eve then ponders aloud. "Maybe I should give her a ring and ask…"
"All right," he capitulates, loud and bad-tempered. "Fine. You can keep the bloody things in the lab until the… happy event. After that, I never want to see any of them ever again. Anywhere. Understood?"
"Understood," Eve tells him with a bright, sunny smile. "Thank you."
"You're fucking welcome," he growls at her. "Now get the repulsive thing out of my office. And, Eve? If either of them escapes again…"
"They won't," she assures him, picking up the cardboard box, "I promise."
"They'd better not. Go."
Walking back to the door with the box in her arms, Eve glances over her shoulder at him, expression full of mischief and amusement. "Grace is right. Underneath it all you're a real pussycat, aren't you?"
Great. Terrific. Thank you very much, Doctor Foley. Never has the urge to strangle both of the wretched women been quite as strong. Pinning the only one actually currently accessible with what he hopes is a dark, inimical glare, Boyd replies, "Yeah? Well, don't forget, Eve: cats kill rats."
"Not always," she contradicts with a final exasperating grin. "'Night, Boyd."
Grunting, he watches her leave. Not for the first time, he has an uncomfortable feeling that the close friendship that has developed between the unit's two well-paid female consultants is not as good for him on a personal level as it is for him on a professional one. He – mainly – trusts Grace's discretion, but Eve… Eve is every bit as perceptive as she is fearless. What Grace hasn't openly told her in so many words, she has doubtless worked out for herself, and that… could yet prove problematic.
Grace. Reaching out to the phone on his desk, Boyd lifts the receiver and presses the most-used of the speed dial buttons. She answers in just two rings, her tone placid as she inquires, "All done?"
"The creepy vampire lady and her attendant pet rat are now both heading for the lab."
She chuckles, but then reproves, "You really shouldn't call her that, Boyd."
"I know. After all, despite my long-standing suspicions, I have no empirical proof that she's really a member of the undead." Settling back more comfortably in his chair, he continues, "You wouldn't happen to know where she picked up the absurd notion that I might, on any level, be a complete bloody pushover, would you? A pussycat, in fact."
"No idea," is the prompt, shameless reply. "None at all."
"That's strange, you know, because your name was definitely mentioned."
She doesn't sound worried. "Perhaps she misheard me when I said that you were as hard as nails, without a single iota of human compassion to be found anywhere in your dark soul?"
"That must be it," Boyd agrees, absent-mindedly winding the coiled phone cord around and through his fingers. "I can see how one could easily confuse the two."
Grace chuckles again, and then asks, "So, are you going to go home now?"
The idea is less than appealing. "Guess so. Though if I accidentally headed north, I could be in Newcastle by, what, three-ish?"
"Just in time to turn round and drive straight back to be in court by ten."
He grimaces. "Yeah. Doesn't really work as a plan, does it?"
"Sadly not," she says, and Boyd fancies he detects a faint note of genuine regret in her voice. It's vanished a moment later when she says, "Absence makes the heart grow fonder, isn't that what they say?"
Boyd smirks to himself. "Absence certainly makes the – "
"Oh, please," she interrupts, accurately guessing the crude direction of his thoughts. "Sixty, not sixteen, remember?"
"I am not sixty," he bristles, knowing it's the reaction she expects. "I'm still very much in my fifties, thank you very much."
"Your late fifties."
Deftly, Boyd plays his trump card. "Doesn't matter how old I am, Grace, I'm still always going to be younger than you."
"Bingo," she says, laughing. "You're so predictable."
"That's an insulting accusation that I strenuously object to," he tells her. To anyone else the spiky banter might seem hostile; to them it is normal, reassuring. Stretching his legs out under his desk, he changes the subject with, "How much does Eve know? About us?"
The answer is a measured, unflustered, "Whatever she's managed to work out for herself."
"Pretty much everything, then."
"That would be my best guess," Grace's disembodied voice agrees. "Why? Does it bother you?"
"No," Boyd says, deciding it's true. "Not if she keeps her bloody mouth shut."
"Which she will." A pause. "Did she say something?"
Thinking about just how easily he was manipulated by the woman in question into agreeing to the continued unwanted presence of not just one but two – and potentially many more – rats in the CCU's laboratory, he replies with a long-suffering, "Not exactly. I'll tell you all about it when you're back."
"But she did use the 'p' word?" Grace inquires, her amusement evident.
Boyd scowls. "She did. Thanks for that, Doctor Foley. Really."
"Cats and rats," she declares. "What an exciting evening you've had."
Grace is not the only one who's good at needling. "And no-one to help me take a long, leisurely relaxing bath when I get home."
Her response is a sharp, "I should hope not."
Objective achieved, Boyd grins to himself again. "Put your claws away, leonessa mia. I'm strictly a one-woman man."
"Hm."
"One at a time, anyway," he adds, intentionally sly.
There's a distinct moment of crisp, frosty silence. "Were you scared?" she then asks in an abrupt change of subject, one that indicates she's not finding the renewed exchange half as entertaining as he is.
Wrong-footed, Boyd frowns. "Eh?"
"When you picked up Clarice."
"Fucking terrified," he admits, not wanting to dwell on the memory too much. The unpleasant feel of the small, squashy furry body in his hand… "I thought I was going to pass out."
"Good."
He's touched a nerve, then. Serves her bloody right. Pussycat indeed! Unperturbed, he says, "You don't mean that."
"No," she says with a grudging sigh, "I don't. Go on, stop trying to annoy me and go home, Boyd."
"Just about to," he informs her, surveying the scattered papers on his desk and office floor. It's still not a particularly palatable idea, returning alone to a big, dark, empty house. "How late is too late to call you?"
"Why?"
"Rats," he says, suspecting no further explanation will be necessary.
"Oh." Her tone softens. "Well, if you need… want to call, go ahead and call. I'll be here."
"Thanks, Grace." He means it. The nightmares might have stopped, but a tiny, vulnerable part of him still fears their return. Trying not to think about them, or the deeply-entrenched reasons behind them, he adds, "Clarice. I ask you."
There's a quiet chuckle, then, "It's one of Eve's favourite films."
Boyd rolls his eyes. "Of course it is."
"Go home," Grace says again. "And, Peter?"
"What?"
"Well done. It's never easy to face one's fears."
He makes a disparaging noise to hide his gruff embarrassment. "Fucking rats, Grace. In my office."
"Rat. Singular."
"Whatever." With his free hand, he starts to tidy the first of the disrupted pile of papers. "Do you think Eve's got a phobia?"
"I know she has," Grace says.
Interesting. "Oh…?"
"One I'm not telling you about."
He should have known. "I see. Like that, is it?"
"Female solidarity," she tells him. "Now, are we actually going to say goodnight to each other, or…?"
"'Or'," Boyd says, diligently sorting papers. "Most definitely 'or', Grace."
- the end -
The original fic prompt from Got Tea: "In which Boyd is minding his own business in his office, and suddenly finds he has company in the shape of a certain furry brown escapee…"