DISCLAIMER: I own nothing.

Happy Christmas 2015 to everyone! Have a great holiday season. :) xx

Le Gui

by Joodiff

The Shipwright is always very busy in the early evenings, as befits its status as the largest and least corporate pub in the immediate area, but tonight both the number of people crowded into it and the associated decibel level are considerably higher than usual. For most of the current patrons it is the end of the very last working day before Christmas and that's more than enough cause for some serious celebration – a sentiment that Grace absolutely shares. Barring some great crisis, no-one, not even Boyd himself, will be returning to the CCU's basement headquarters until the beginning of January, and that's given rise to a giddy mood of festive joy and goodwill that took hold around lunchtime and still has them all in its firm grasp. Friends and colleagues from other units and departments that share the same building are also present in abundance, and if there's any fly at all in the metaphorical ointment, it's the equally large and rowdy group of office workers from one of the larger commercial buildings nearby who are also crowded into the limited space. Like oil and water, the denizens of the big Metropolitan Police building in the next street and the anonymous drones from all the numerous local business establishments do not mix well.

"Bunch of pissed-up twats," is Spencer's scathing judgement as he returns to the corner table long-ago commandeered by the CCU. It's clear he's been jostled on his way back from the bar, just from his glower and the beer dripping off his hands and the three straight pint glasses he puts down amongst the flotsam and jetsam of empty glasses, crumbs, discarded snack packets and all manner of other accumulated rubbish. From the way she seizes one of the newly-arrived pints, it seems Eve has made the switch from vodka to beer, and jolly good luck to her. A smiling Stella appears at Spencer's elbow, a fresh glass of white wine in each hand. She looks a little flushed, but whether from the heat or from the alcohol – or both – Grace can't tell.

As she accepts one of the wineglasses, Boyd speaks out, his tone uncharacteristically mild and lazy. "They'll get what's coming to them, Spence, don't you worry. One of the lads from Fraud Squad just tipped off the black rats."

Eve raises her glass in salute. "To schadenfreude."

Doubtless more than a couple of the increasingly drunken merry-makers pushing and shoving near the bar will eventually make the unwise choice to attempt to drive home, and will duly be shocked and surprised by just how quickly they find themselves being breathalysed at the side of the road by Traffic units that suddenly and mysteriously appear apparently from nowhere. There's no excuse for such irresponsible behaviour, none at all. Besides, everyone knows that at least half the Shipwright's regular customers are serving police officers, so anyone willing to try such a foolish things can also be justifiably accused of sheer rank stupidity, and that's a serious crime all on its own, as far as Grace is concerned. Dismissing the thoughts from her mind, she sneaks a crafty glance at Boyd. Seated next to Eve on the padded bench against the wall, he looks more relaxed than he has for a long while, and even if it's merely the effect of the amount of alcohol his subordinates have been thoughtfully plying him with on and off all afternoon she's glad to see it. He catches her looking at him and winks at her, eyes dark and unreadable in the pub's soft lighting. Flustered, she forces a brief return smile and then looks away, pretending to be very interested in whatever it is Stella's saying about the two burly and good-looking CID officers who offered to buy her a drink.

It's one of those evenings where grudges and annoyances are forgotten, where boundaries of rank and professional etiquette are a little more flexible than usual, and time passes quickly amongst the chatter and laughter. Christmas plans are discussed, funny anecdotes regarding previous holiday seasons are shared, and there's little discussion of work. A little moment out of time, one that won't last, but will become a fond memory. One, Grace thinks, to look back on the next time she's grimly asking herself why on earth she stays with the CCU, or finds herself wondering just why she continues to put up with the foibles and unpredictable whims of its quick-tempered, highly-strung commanding officer.

She jumps as a heavy hand falls on her shoulder, jerked out of her moment of introspection. The man himself is looking down at her, expression calm and just a touch amused. "Drink?" he inquires, in a tone that suggests it's not the first time he's asked the question.

She nods. "Please. Do you want some help at the bar?"

"I've got it," Eve says, getting up. "Stay where you are, Grace."

She's not going to argue the point. The crowd hasn't thinned out at all, and there's still a lot of noise and horseplay amongst the clique of office workers – mostly men – who are monopolising the pub's recently refurbished pool table and the area around it. Boyd has both the shoulders and the attitude to get to the bar and back unscathed, and if Eve doesn't have anything like the same physical presence, well, she certainly has the attitude, carefully concealed though it often is. They move away from the table together, Boyd shaking his head and grinning at whatever it is Eve has just said to him. Such a damnably attractive man, despite his uneven temperament. It is, of course, just as that thought goes through Grace's mind that Stella returns from a quick trip to the Ladies – via her two would-be CID paramours, one of whom seems to have given her a small, slightly wilted sprig of mistletoe with a few semi-crushed white berries still attached.

Flopping back into her chair, she announces, "In France we give le gui – mistletoe – at New Year. For luck."

"Our tradition's a lot more fun," Spencer tells her, plucking the small piece of distinctive greenery from her grasp. Like everyone else, he's had a fair bit to drink, and he is, if not quite intoxicated, certainly much more cheery and loquacious than usual. Spencer, like his superior, is inclined to morose bouts of monosyllabic reflection, and – also like his superior – he takes his job very, very seriously. It's nice – awful word – to see him relaxed, even a little playful, Grace thinks. When he leans towards her, mistletoe held aloft, she can't help laughing.

"Give over," she tells him, fending him off with good-natured swipes that don't actually land, "I'm old enough to be your mother, for goodness' sake."

"Never," he responds, gallant but twinkly-eyed. "Quick Christmas kiss under the mistletoe…?"

"Such an incorrigible flirt," she chides, not bothering to hide her smile – or to continue resisting as he plants a firm kiss on her cheek. Spencer's grinning, Stella's chuckling, and –

The easy, fun moment is interrupted by a sudden loud commotion by the bar. Grace looks round instinctively, frowning as she does so, and she's just in time to see Boyd lashing out at a stocky, besuited man with slicked-back dark hair. It's a single fast, accurate blow straight to the jaw, tightly and decisively delivered, and it sends the man staggering backwards, a shocked expression on his face. He stumbles, loses his footing and goes sprawling to the floor amidst a dense forest of his friends' legs.

It's all so quick that it takes a moment for the inevitable hue and cry to start, but Grace is less aware of the sudden hubbub than she is of the look on Boyd's face. Just for the few seconds it takes to floor the dark-haired man he looks wild, murderous. Every bit as out of control and dangerous as the very worst rumours about him suggest.

Spencer is already on his feet and moving, leaving a wide-eyed Stella to exclaim, "Merde. What the hell just happened…?"

It's a good question. A very good question. One Grace wants to know the answer to as soon as possible.

-oOo-

Like all loyal families, the sizeable police contingent in the pub immediately closes ranks. Internal struggles and rivalries are forgotten, personal feelings are put aside, and every last warranted officer and hard-working member of ancillary staff stand together, literally or figuratively, in the face of what's happened. It's a very small scuffle as scuffles go, nothing like as violent or extensive as the ones many of the men and women present are called to deal with on any and every average Friday night, and it doesn't matter what rank Boyd is, or how difficult and demanding he's known to be to work for, he's a copper, and coppers always look after their own. End of story. Likewise, the Shipwright's long-suffering landlord is a wise and pragmatic man who both knows where a fair amount of his profit margin comes from, and also understands the advantages of remaining on extremely good terms with the local nick, so he wisely looks the other way for the duration and lets things sort themselves out. Which they do, after a fashion.

Spencer, who's possibly the only member of Her Majesty's Constabulary who'd ever stand even half a chance of physically strong-arming a riled-up Peter Boyd away from a fight, does his self-appointed job quickly and efficiently, dragging his angry superior well back into the restive crowd of their fellow officers, many of whom are still trading jeers and insults with the angry and agitated group of businessmen. Just as angry herself, Grace forces her way to Boyd's side, her single-minded intention to thoroughly castigate him for his disruptive, aggressive behaviour. She baulks on reaching him, however, as she realises just how irate he still is, how unlikely he is to hear a single word she says, good or bad. Despite the explosive mix of alcohol and pre-Christmas madness, the risky situation is beginning to calm down as the injured party is picked up, dusted down and given a complementary drink, and his friends begin to understand the foolishness of continuing their abusive tirade against such overwhelming opposition.

"What was that all about?" Grace demands, her voice raised against the noise. She looks from Boyd to Spencer and back, but neither man seems to be listening, and that fuels her annoyance. Sharp and shrewish, she snaps, "Boyd. Was that really necessary?"

He turns his head to look at her, and there's absolutely no trace of the languid good-humour of earlier in his closed, hostile expression. His eyes look flinty now, and they flash a clear warning at her. One she recognises – don't push me, Grace – but chooses to ignore as she demands, "Well…?"

Intervention comes from an unexpected source. Eve is suddenly at her shoulder, and her voice is clear and calm as she says, "Grace. Leave it for now, hm?"

She's surprised. To say the least. Although she's settled into the team well, Eve Lockhart hasn't been with the CCU long, and she surely can't imagine it's her place to step right into the middle of the kind of firestorm that could be unleashed at any second. Grace blinks, bemused, startled, and a touch offended, but before she can say anything, Spencer is steering Boyd away from them, his voice firm as he says, "C'mon, buddy – time to get some air."

With Boyd no longer in her sights, Grace turns her attention back to Eve. Still annoyed, she snaps, "Since when – "

"I'm sorry," Eve apologises before she can grind the rest of the sentence out. "It's just… Well, it wasn't entirely Boyd's fault."

Sceptical, she raises her eyebrows at the younger woman. "That's really not something I hear every day of the week."

"Yeah, I can imagine." A tentative smile, both wry and uncertain. "Let's just say that he was… provoked."

"Provoked." She lets the word settle before continuing, "I see. By the man he hit?"

"Yes."

Realising that getting to the truth is going to be more difficult than she first thought, Grace takes hold of Eve's elbow and guides her through the crowd and towards the table where Stella is still sitting, her eyes almost completely round as she tries to make some sense of what's going on. Stopping by the pub's long-disused cigarette machine where there seems to be a temporary oasis of relative calm, Grace looks straight at Eve and prompts, "Well? I really can't wait to hear this. How, exactly, was he provoked?"

"Does it matter?" Eve asks, her attitude cagey. "He just was. Trust me."

Something – something that could quite possibly be important – is very definitely not being said. Narrowing her eyes an unconscious fraction, Grace asks, "What happened?"

Eve gazes back at her, expression calm. "Nothing. The guy's got a big mouth, that's all, and Boyd… took exception."

"Boyd," Grace tells her, "has a temper, and he flies off the handle far too easily when he's under stress – but punching a complete stranger in a pub? That's just not his style. So, either you tell me exactly what happened, or I'll go and ask him – whether it's a good idea, or not."

Eve hesitates, then offers, "Look, Grace, it's Christmas, everyone's had a few… best just forget about it, don't you think?"

"Boyd it is then," she says, preparing to head in the direction Spencer disappeared in with his recalcitrant charge. She's not too surprised when Eve snags her arm, staying her. Once again raising her eyebrows, she says, "Well?"

The answer is given only grudgingly. "They were watching Stella, really. Making sexist comments about what they'd do if she came near them with mistletoe… you know the sort of thing. Then they were, um… well, they were saying stuff about Spence."

"'Stuff'?"

"Offensive stuff."

"Oh, I see." And, sadly, Grace does. Casual racism, thinly disguised as laddish humour. Far too common, even now in supposedly more enlightened and egalitarian times. Some of her annoyance with Boyd ebbs away, but she remains serious as she continues, "Well, that's still no excuse for – "

"No," Eve interrupts, shaking her head, "I don't think Boyd heard any of that. I was much closer to them than he was, and I didn't catch it all, it was so noisy by the bar. I don't think he had any idea anything was going on until he saw me glaring at them, and then the guy he eventually hit started, and…"

"'And'…?" Grace inquires when no effort is made to complete the sentence. There's something Eve can't quite bring herself to say, she's sure of it. Adopting a less antagonistic tone, she continues, "Look, Eve, if you don't tell me, I will ask Boyd, and he has a tendency to tell things exactly how they are, so if you're trying to spare my blushes…"

"It's not that," Eve says hastily, looking more uncomfortable by the moment. She sighs, the sound lost to the considerable background noise, but the associated movement of her shoulders clearly visible. "He was being offensive, and Boyd lost his temper. End of story. Can't we just leave it at that? Please?"

"What was he saying?"

"Grace…"

"You haven't been with us for that long," Grace says, changing her angle of attack again, "so perhaps you haven't quite come to terms with the fact that we deliberately don't sugar-coat things in the CCU. If something needs to be said, we try to just go ahead and say it. It doesn't necessarily make us popular, but it's one of the reasons we all know we can trust each other. Implicitly."

Eve looks at her for a moment, evidently considering her reply. When she speaks again, her voice is quiet and steady, each word very carefully delivered. "Boyd punched him because he was saying things about you, Grace. Unpleasant, derogatory things. Things it would hurt you to hear. Do you really want me to say any more?"

Age and wisdom don't provide much defence against the barbed tongues of others, not for Grace, at least, but though something unpleasant twists in her stomach and she feels her pulse and breathing quicken, she forces a similar level of calm to Eve's into her voice as she replies, "No. I think I get the picture, thank you."

"I couldn't stop it happening," Eve tells her, "it was just too quick… one moment the guy's having a good laugh with his mates, the next he's flat on the floor with a bloody nose."

"I suppose," Grace suggests, "that it would be wrong of me to even think of saying that it sounds as if he might have deserved it, wouldn't it?"

A conspiratorial sort of smile appears on the younger woman's face. "Probably."

Grace nods. "Thought so."

"So… you're not going to confront Boyd about it, then?"

"I didn't say that."

"Oh."

"Chivalry is all very well, Eve," she says, "even if it's an outdated concept, but Boyd… well, he has form for this sort of thing. He lashes out first, asks questions later. Not good character traits in a man of his rank and position."

Eve is silent for a moment. When she speaks, there's very definitely an impish gleam in her brown eyes. "There's something a bit… special… about it, though. Don't you think?"

"Behaving like a hooligan?"

"Or like a knight in shining armour."

Grace laughs, can't stop herself. "Just how much have you had to drink? You'll be telling me he's got a heart of gold next."

Despite the lingering trace of amusement, Eve's gaze is steady, and something about its character suggests she sees and understands an awful lot more than Grace has thus far given her credit for. She says, "Well, he has, hasn't he?"

For a moment she feels pinned by that intent, intelligent stare. Pinned by it, and exposed by it. She's startled to hear herself reply, "Yes. He has."

Eve nods. Doesn't say another word, just nods. It leaves Grace feeling unsettled, as if all her carefully-constructed defences have been rendered pointless in the face of her colleague's ruthless perception.

-oOo-

The CCU's two most senior officers are standing on the pavement not far from the pub's main door. Grace spots them immediately, but that's not difficult – they're hard to miss. Boyd, silver-haired, tall and square-shouldered, and Spencer, younger and shorter, but stocky, and with an equally assertive, pugnacious stance. To her, at least, they look exactly what they are – a tough, uncompromising pair of very experienced London police officers, well able to handle themselves and anything else that might come their way. She's incredibly fond of both of them, if for completely different reasons. It amuses her the way Spencer hastily throws his half-finished cigarette away the moment he sees her, suddenly much more guilty schoolboy than world-weary detective. She shakes her head at him reprovingly, more to see his resulting sheepish expression than anything else, but all she says is, "Eve and Stella are feeling a little abandoned, Spence – why don't you go and cheer them up?"

He spares Boyd only the quickest of glances before nodding. "Sounds like a plan."

"Don't worry," she continues, before he can ask, "we'll be right behind you."

He nods again and heads back into the pub, leaving Grace standing in the evening chill gazing at Boyd, who stares back at her with more than a hint of challenge. She's well-aware of how this goes – how it can go. When he knows he's in the wrong, but can't or won't admit it, his instinctive reaction is to fall back on belligerence, and if she's not in the mood to waste the time and effort required to disarm him, it's inevitable that they will clash. It seems to be becoming more frequent, too, as if it's getting harder and harder for them to spend any length of time together without angrily knocking sparks off each other. Grace the psychologist has formulated some likely theories about the phenomenon. Grace the woman… well, she finds it difficult to accept what her feminine instincts repeatedly tell her about exactly why they are finding it more and more difficult to be alone together.

"I'm not going to say sorry," he growls, seeming to tire of the expectant silence. "That little shit in there was way out of line, and I'm not going to apologise for teaching him some bloody manners."

Standing just a couple of feet away from him, Grace fancies she can feel the tension radiating from him as a physical thing that reaches out towards her, simultaneously tempting and threatening. She shouldn't find it anything like as exciting and exhilarating as she does. Aiming for a level of neutrality that hopefully can't be challenged, she says, "Fair enough."

Boyd's suspicion is immediate and obvious. "What does that mean?"

"What you choose to do is a matter for your own conscience," she informs him, "but one day you really are going to go too far. You do know that, don't you? That temper of yours…"

"Oh, spare me," he mutters, loud enough for her to hear. "You know what? Sometimes things just aren't as black and white as you seem to think they should be, Grace."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning…" he starts, but then he sighs and takes a moment to run a hand through his hair, evidently attempting to compose himself. His voice is much quieter when he continues, "Forget it. Look, I'm sorry if you're upset with me, but I'm not sorry I hit him, and I'm not going to pretend that I am."

It's the closest thing to an olive branch she's likely to get from him, and Grace knows it. He's not a bad man, and she likes to believe that there isn't an ounce of real malice in him, that he's simply… volatile. Quick-tempered and unafraid. It leads him into trouble time and time again, but the reason – perhaps the only reason – she can repeatedly forgive him for the most questionable of his actions is the certain knowledge that everything he says and does springs from a deep-seated moral conviction that justice is all-important and that sometimes conventional means and tactics are simply not enough to ensure it. Tonight… well, tonight simply reflects that. Justice, swiftly and strongly delivered, undiluted by argument and excuses. She inquires, "How's your hand?"

A bewildered frown accompanies, "What?"

She nods towards the hand in question. "Your hand. Does it hurt?"

"Oh." He raises it, inspects it in an almost abstract sort of way. "Yeah, it does. Quite a lot, actually."

"Real life's not like the movies, is it?"

"Always a painful lesson to be reminded of."

Grace takes a step towards him, narrowing the gap between them. "Show me."

He holds his hand out for inspection, and in the strong artificial street lighting she can see the dark bruising starting to show around his knuckles. Bone against bone. Not pleasant, and no, not at all like it is in the movies. "A and E?"

Boyd snorts. "Just before Christmas? You're joking – I'll be waiting all night to be seen. It'll be okay. Nothing's broken – it doesn't hurt enough."

"You could let Eve take a look at it," she suggests, "she's a qualified doctor, after all."

"Are you serious? Her bedside manner's atrocious, Grace. No wonder she likes working with the dead so much – they don't complain."

She chuckles, unable to disagree with the criticism. "And I thought you liked her."

"I do like her," he says, dark eyes watching her with an intensity she finds disconcerting, "but then, after Felix…"

"Don't," she chides him, but without real antagonism. "We're an eclectic bunch, Boyd – "

"That's one way of describing it."

" – and not everyone's going to fit in. She told me why you did it."

"Felix?"

"Eve."

"Ah."

"You can't protect everyone, you know," she tells him, "and even if you could, you shouldn't. Fighting everyone else's battles may seem laudable in theory, but in practice…"

"He was being a prick, Grace. A foul-mouthed, ignorant prick."

She nods. "That's as may be. But it didn't directly affect you, did it?"

"Of course it bloody did. You think I'm going to just stand by and let – "

"There you go again," she interrupts. She takes hold of his wrist and raises his hand, inspecting the damage more closely. "That's really going to hurt tomorrow."

"It really hurts now."

"Poor Boyd," she teases, looking up again, and it can only be the amount of alcohol that's still in her bloodstream that makes her cheekily add, "shall I kiss it better?"

"Yes," he says, startling her, and there's no doubt that it's a dare. And not just a dare, if Grace is any judge of men – which she most definitely is.

For a moment she holds his steady, anticipatory gaze, suddenly aware that there's a lot – an awful lot – hidden behind the lively spark of devilment and challenge she can see in his eyes. Flirtation, mischief, anticipation, and so much more. It's every bit as confusing as it is inviting; confusing and potentially disastrous. But Grace isn't the sort of woman who runs away from the very first hint of trouble – as evidenced by her continued presence in the CCU's tight inner circle. Nor is she the sort of woman who'd ever be scared to call the bluff of a man as attractive, aggravating and downright annoying as the infamous DSI Boyd. Maintaining eye-contact, she presses a gentle but very deliberate kiss against his bruised knuckles, wondering what his next move will be. She says, "Better?"

He shakes his head. "Again."

Her heart is beating very fast, but for a very different reason than before. The pub, the drunk revellers, their colleagues – none of them are in Grace's thoughts as she repeats her action, the second kiss lingering much longer than the first. And still she holds his gaze, hyper-aware that something is happening between them, something that could be both very significant and very dangerous. Something else, though, be it instinct or experience – or both – keeps her silent. Whatever the next move is, good or bad, it has to be Boyd who makes it, and he's still watching her with a characteristic level of intense concentration – one that sends tiny tremors down her spine. It's stupid, she knows that, and it's unprofessional and singularly unbecoming of a woman of her age, but in those few moments she wants him so ferociously that she knows she'd sacrifice just about anything and everything she needed to just to have a single chance at –

"Fuck it," he says, his vehemence shattering her train of thought. She only has a split-second in which to give him a bewildered, quizzical frown. Just a fleeting moment of reality before he pulls his hand away from her, as if the fingers still lightly encircling his wrist are somehow hurting him. The wildness she saw when he lashed out earlier is back in him, scorching through him so fiercely that she can feel its destructive power. She's afraid he's going to kiss her, afraid that he's not. He's blazing, something nameless but completely elemental burning him from the inside out. "Grace…"

"We really need that mistletoe of Stella's," she says in a rush, not sure if she's trying to sabotage the moment or not. It feels like the most stupid, inane thing she could possibly have said, and she cringes inwardly in the wake of the words. How the hell does he do this to her? Reduce her to –

"No," he says, tone still rough-edged, "we don't. Trust me."

It's not the sort of chaste Christmas kiss it should be, given their status as long-term friends and colleagues. It's much deeper, much rougher, and much, much more desperate, as if they are trying to convey everything they think and feel about each other in those few crazy seconds of intimate skirmishing. It's love and hate, frustration and desire, anger and lust and acknowledgement, all fused together and absolutely inseparable. Everything they want and yet fear to take, all the complicated, contradictory things that divide them on a daily basis despite whatever it is that keeps drawing them ever-closer together.

That it also feels so right and natural is what really tears at Grace's heart when they draw slowly apart. It's not fair, and stubborn and childish though the thought is, she can't let go of it. Not while Boyd is looking down at her with so many conflicting emotions clearly visible in his expression, not while he's still gripping her upper arms in such a fiercely possessive way. Not while she still has the taste of him, the smell of him.

"Come back to my place with me," he says, an urgent huskiness making his voice sound much deeper and throatier than normal.

The unexpected words hit her with incredible force, shattering layer upon layer of brittle defences and threatening to lay bare so many intimate secrets and emotions. But… he's serious. He's actually serious. Grace can see it in the way he's looking at her. The temptation to acquiesce is enormous, so strong that she almost reels under its weight, but she still doesn't need to think about her reply. It's brusque and it's automatic. "I can't."

Boyd frowns, clearly taken by surprise by her negative answer, and his response is an immediate and petulant, "Why not?"

"You know why not," she tells him, as steadily as she can manage with such a strong surge of contradictory emotions threatening to swamp every last residue of wisdom and common-sense. "Boyd – "

He releases his grip on her arms so suddenly that she's momentarily unbalanced. "Go back inside, get your bag, and tell them you're calling it a night."

It would be so easy to obey… So easy to surrender. To have – briefly – what she wants so very much. What she's wanted from him for such a very long time. But she can't. She won't. Too much danger and devastation lies along that road, she's absolutely sure of it. How to tell him that, though? How to get him to understand? "Peter…"

"Tell me you don't want to," he challenges, pouncing on her tiny hesitation. "Fuck's sake, Grace, we're not kids, we're consenting bloody adults, and we're both perfectly capable of – "

"You're drunk," she accuses, because it's far easier than facing up to the rapid escalation of the situation.

"I'm not," Boyd growls back at her, "and even if I was, it's Christmas. Get off your high horse for once, will you? I want you, you want me, there's no-one to get hurt, so where's the harm?"

"No-one to get hurt," she corrects him, "except us. Or have you really not noticed that just recently we can't be in the same room together for more than two minutes without getting into a fight over something completely ridiculous?"

"And why do you think that is?"

The one question she didn't anticipate, not from him. The one question she doesn't want to answer. The one that's far, far too dangerous to answer. Instead of replying, Grace poses her own question. "What did he say, Boyd? The man you punched? Word-for-word, what did he say?"

Boyd's expression tightens. "You don't need to know."

"Oh, I think I do."

"Grace…"

"Tell me," she demands. "You're a lot of things, but you're not a coward, and we both know it. What did he say about me?"

He stares at her for a handful of taut seconds. Then he shakes his head. "He said… He said it would take more than a sprig of bloody mistletoe for you to ever get laid again, all right? Happy now?"

Painful and humiliating, but somehow no worse than she feared. Later, when she's alone, Grace will have more than enough time to brood over the words, to let them dig their way deeper and deeper into her soul and then start to fester there, but for now… "And is that what you're trying to do, Boyd? Prove him wrong?"

To his credit, he looks genuinely astonished. Astonished – and angry. "What? Of course not. Christ, Grace, do you really think that little of me?"

She always knows when he's being less than honest with her. Now is not one of those times. There's nothing feigned about his growing outrage, about the way his eyes glitter as he glares at her. "No," she admits, "no, I don't, but…"

"I'm not the bad guy here," he barks, "that scumbag in there is. It doesn't matter what the situation is, or what I fucking do, though, does it? You always choose to think the bloody worst of me."

"Well, maybe if you didn't – " Grace starts, but then she interrupts herself. "See? How can we ever move beyond where we are now? We're perpetually at each other's throats."

Boyd surprises her by reaching out and gently taking hold of her hand. "And you know why, don't you? We both do. Admit it or don't admit it, it doesn't matter – either way, it won't change the truth."

He's right, and that scares her. An involuntary swallow eases the tight constriction of her throat a little, and she hears herself say, "If things were different…"

The second kiss is far lighter and gentler than the first, but it causes Grace just as much inner conflict and consternation. Even more, perhaps. She wants to cry, wants to rage childishly at all the things that nothing within their power can change. She wants to hold him and be held by him, wants to put aside all their differences and embrace what they could have if only…

"Go back inside," Boyd says again, the soft words delivered close to her ear. "I'm going to walk down to Brompton Road and get a cab home. I'll tell the driver to come this way; if you're waiting when we drive past, I'll tell him to stop and pick you up. If not…"

Her pulse quickens again. "Boyd…"

"Your choice," he says, and the only thing she can really detect in his tone now is a touch of quiet resignation. "If I don't see you until the New Year… well, have a good Christmas, Grace."

She opens her mouth to speak, but the way he shakes his head makes her close it again, the words unvoiced. She's almost sure he gives her a small, rueful smile before he turns and starts to walk away. Heart hammering in her chest, she watches him in silence for the first fifteen feet or more, then she calls, "This isn't fair…"

Boyd doesn't look round, but she has no difficulty hearing his reply. "You know what? Life isn't."

She watches him until he turns the corner and disappears from sight. Thoughts racing, she doesn't move for several moments. Not until the cold bite of the December breeze starts to make her shiver in earnest. Or perhaps it's not the chill that's responsible, at all. Perhaps it's thinking about all the possible consequences of the decision she's faced with making that's causing her to shiver.

Whatever the reason, she's still trembling when she steps back into the humid warmth of the crowded pub. Still trembling as she returns to the small table where her other colleagues are still sitting. Taking a deep breath, she prepares to speak…

- the end -

Le gui - French, "the mistletoe".

Black rats - Met Police slang for their Traffic Division. Not considered derogatory.