An Old Married Couple.
''With or without sugar for Boyd?''
Kat's question is addressed to Grace. To get information from the direct source is complicated at the moment, Boyd being engaged in a very angry and shouty phone-call with some poor soul from another unit, whose failure to pass information on quickly enough is the main reason their team is drowning in work, has to skip lunch break and make do with coffee and sandwiches.
''We haven't got enough sugar to calm him down,'' Grace gives a sigh, throwing a look towards Boyd's office. ''He really doesn't need the phone, does he? I bet they can hear him loud and clear on the third floor just the same.''
She shakes her head discontentedly before continuing and finally answering the question of her new colleague. ''He takes one sugar usually. But the coffee has to be really strong to match his taste.''
''I've heard that Stella had a knack of making excellent coffee...,'' Kat starts cautiously, not sure whether mentioning her name is OK.
''She really did,'' Grace agrees with a deep sigh, the recollection of their tragically lost team member bringing sad smile on her face. ''And she managed to spoil us all a bit, I'm afraid.''
''I'd better make some tea instead, if the standard is set so high,'' Kat decides quickly.
''Tea would be very nice. With lemon for me please. But not for Boyd – he hates lemon. Oh, and take that parsley off his sandwich right away,'' Grace warns, blinking her eye slyly, ''otherwise we'll have to hear his loud rant about being forced to eat hay like some ruminant.''
''You really know the man well!'' the younger woman chuckles.
''The unavoidable outcome of working side by side for almost a decade,'' Grace offers with a shrug.
''Apparently so,'' Kat agrees. ''And it's clearly mutual. Last week when Boyd took us all to that fancy Italian restaurant to celebrate solving that old murder case he knew exactly what to order you without having to ask. I bet the waitress got an impression that you two lived together.''
''Well... we just as good as do,'' Grace smirks, ''spending better part of the day at work, not escaping out of here to have a lunch-break even!''
''It's still quite exceptional that you two have grown to know each other so thoroughly,'' her colleague continues with admiration, ''the way you can always predict his reaction and how he sometimes finishes your sentence intuitively...''
''Boyd likes to have the last word, he finishes everybody else's sentences as well,'' Grace admits to fend her off.
''It's completely different with you, he does respect you and your opinion.''
''You think so!?'' Grace's eyebrows rise in astonishment. ''Well, once in a blue moon he probably does,'' she concedes, ''but you've been with us long enough already to hear our fierce arguments and know that we spend considerably more time bickering and fighting.''
''That reminds me my next door neighbours,'' Kat makes a rather unexpected notice. ''They just celebrated their silver wedding and I'm pretty sure there hasn't been a single day in past 25 years they've managed without squabbling, being totally fond of each other despite all that. You and Boyd are very much the same... just so 'married' sometimes.''
''That's the most ridiculous thing I've heard! Me and Boyd!? Not in this universe! He is anything but my type!''
Grace stops guiltily, realising that such a vehement reaction may suit to a teenage girl, but in no way to a woman of her age and profession.
The amused snort right behind them makes her turn around abruptly and discover that the man in question is no longer behind the closed door of his office. She feels a highly age-inappropriate flush starting to rise to her cheeks.
Boyd's devilish expression predicts that he's going to make the most of her predicament.
''Don't look so startled now,'' he mocks her, grinning wickedly, ''I have no intention to argue anything - that's certainly one of the few occasions I agree with you one hundred percent. The merest idea of a wedlock with a shrink - '' he gives a theatrical shudder, ''my self-preservation instinct would never let that happen! Sorry to disappoint you Kat, I know that your intentions are good, but your match-making skills really need a lot of improvement!''
It's poor Kat's turn to blush and be embarrassed. Grace feels sorry for the girl, but relieved as well that the attention gets drawn off her.
Boyd's notorious reputation for forcing his team work overtime constantly doesn't do him justice. This Friday afternoon proves to be a very good example that he has no problem with letting his subordinates home earlier to compensate the hard nerve-racking week and missed lunch-break. Everything is naturally masked with due brusqueness, so no-one would suspect any benevolence behind the loud marching orders. Though the surly command is unquestionably directed to everybody, Grace ignores it. A mixture of sense of duty - she's got a report to finish - and solidarity – she knows well that Boyd's going to stay here himself and far longer than he should. A couple of hours later she has to regret her decision to stay though, long day behind the computer screen starting to take it's toll and the dull ache that started from her eyes now rapidly spreading all over her scull. She takes off her glasses and closes her eyes, massaging her forehead and temples in hope of improving the blood circulation and alleviating the painful pressure in her head.
When she opens her eyes again, she finds Boyd standing in front of her with a sympathetic smile, holding out a glass of water and a plastic container of painkillers for her.
''That pain won't go away by itself. Trust me, I know all about that gnawing headache. A couple of these should help.''
Grace takes two of the offered pills and swallows them obediently.
''I hate getting old,'' she sighs wearily, tilting her head from side to side to fight the stiffness of her neck. ''I could sit behind that bulky typewriter of mine whole night long without any complaints back in the day.''
Boyd regards her clumsy gymnastics with concern. ''You need a proper neck rub,'' he decides. Before Grace manages to offer any protest he's behind her and his hands start to work on her neck and shoulders.
Her initial fear that he might be too rough turns out to be completely unfounded. Boyd's fingers move with surprising expertise, almost sensually, finding all the right spots and gently kneading the tension out of her overtired muscles. The sensation is utterly pleasurable. As is the scent of his cologne and the warmth she suddenly feels, not being entirely sure whether it's the result of his expertly massage or their unusual closeness. Grace doesn't allow herself to dwell on that.
She can't still help leaning backwards and closing her eyes instinctively. Boyd's just too damned good at what he's doing and undoubtedly aware of it. She doesn't have to open her eyes to picture his smug grin.
''Feel free to take a nap if you like,'' Boyd offers slyly, ''I won't be taking advantage of the situation in any way - I'm a gentleman after all!''
''Are you?'' she retorts.
''Trying my best to be, but not very successfully, I'm afraid. According to what I heard today I've got a very poor rating on the marriage market. My ex would give her stamp of approval right away and she probably has some solid reasons to do that too, but I'm really interested on what your firm opinion of me is based. You see me almost exclusively at work only, that's a bit one-sided, isn't it? How can you be so sure I haven't got some hidden qualities that you'd find very favourable?''
''Your masseur skills really come as a surprise,'' she can't but agree.
''There might be much more to discover, if you'd give me a fair chance, instead of listing me as particular type...''
The conversation is heading in some very dubious direction. Suspecting that Boyd's apparently attempting some wry joke at her expense, Grace's response is in accordance with that.
''I hope you're not trying to propose me here, Boyd, are you?''
Boyd's hands leave her shoulders instantly.
''Dr. Foley, either you're seriously overworked or do the painkillers have some nasty side-effect, but you're getting delusional already. I have no other option than sending you home right away.'' Steely and bitter, definitely no easy banter any more.
Opening her eyes and seeing Boyd's expression, Grace realises she's made an inexcusable miscalculation. Maybe he was seeking for reassurance to patch some unexpected cracks in his usually rock firm self-confidence or maybe... That other possibility is so improbable, she can't even formulate in her head. I any case she shouldn't have ridiculed him the way she did.
''Look, Boyd...''
He gathers himself quickly, resuming a nonchalant grin. ''Just joking. We both need to call it a day before we start talking absolute rubbish. Go home, have a bath, get some rest - there's no need for you to torture yourself here any longer. I've got some documents to sign and then I'll get the hell out of here myself.''
Leaving really seems to be the best way to end the awkward situation and that's what she does. With uncharacteristic haste and being a bit distrait, though.
Grace decisively turns her car around at the junction, berating herself for being so absent-minded. She definitely needs the files she forgot on her table, otherwise she can't work with her report during the weekend. She has no choice but to return to the office to get them.
The car park is almost empty, but Boyd's silver Audi is still firmly in it's place. So much for calling it a day then.
To her surprise she finds the basement headquarters of the CCU deserted, Boyd's office locked and dark as well.
''DSI Boyd left already,'' the young night-shift sergeant at the front desk informs her.
Not sure what to think of it, but feeling too tired and poorly, Grace decides not to trouble her head with something that really shouldn't concern her. She starts the engine with a firm decision not to stop before reaching her house.
She's always been a bit annoyed by Boyd's Mystic Meg and crystal ball jokes, but turning round the corner and noticing the neon sign of that little basement pub she just knows that she'll find Boyd there. And that firm knowledge has much more to do with intuition than logic or behavioural analyses.
She parks the car and cautiously descends the stairs leading to the entrance.
The place is dimly lit and a bit filthy, the dress-code of the house being baggy jeans and faded T-shirts seemingly. A large group of regulars has gathered around the big TV screen with their beers to watch football, vociferously cheering their favourite team and criticizing the judge.
The young barman casts a suspicious glance towards her. A woman of her age and looks certainly doesn't belong here.
Neither does the grey-haired gentleman sitting alone at the bar. Too well-dressed and distinguished-looking and far too melancholy compared with the jovial bunch around the TV. The whiskey in his glass is probably the most expensive brand this place has to offer, but his drinking speed and the fact that he left his car at work leave no doubt that he's come here with a very single-minded purpose.
Grace knows that dealing with Boyd when he's like that is not a good idea. It would be best to leave him be, not to interfere.
Boyd turns around suddenly, driven by some innate policeman instinct probably, and notices her.
''Why are you standing over there!? Come, I'll buy you a drink!'', he orders. The bravado in his voice and his slightly hazy eyes betray that the glass in his hand isn't by far his first.
The chance of easy escape is missed, so Grace takes a seat next to him. ''I'll have to pass, I'm afraid - too many painkillers in my stomach and a car that won't drive home all by itself outside,'' she explains.
''Suit yourself. At least I'm trying to be a responsible citizen and give my modest contribution to the state budget via alcohol excise.''
Drunk enough to not even wonder about her sudden appearance in a most unlikely place, but never for wisecracking apparently.
Boyd gulps down the last drop in his glass and demands for refill loudly.
Grace makes a quick forbidding gesture to the young barman.
The latter has obviously identified her as the long-suffering wife who's come to keep her disobedient husband out of harm's way and considers it better to let the 'spouses' sort things out themselves. He smiles apologetically, excuses himself with an urgent need to bring something from the back room and disappears, giving them some privacy.
''Come on, Boyd, you've had enough for one night. Let me take you home now!'', she suggests quite resolutely.
''Home...,'' he repeats, staring the empty glass in front of him. ''What home!? Four brick walls around big fat emptiness!''
Grace has no idea how to beat such argument so suddenly.
''Well... Let's go to my place then, you can stay overnight,'' she offers a bit hesitantly.
Boyd makes a sardonic grimace.
''Splendid!'', he snarls bitterly, ''So you can sit me down for thorough psychoanalyses and having once again reached the inevitable conclusion that I'm solely responsible for my fucked-up life, leave me to torture my back on that rickety couch of your's till morning in punishment.''
''Would you rather come upstairs and share the bed with me then?'' It just slips from her mouth, without any thought.
Boyd stares her in open-mouthed disbelief for a moment. Then the deep-rooted scepticism settles in.
''Did I hear you clearly – you're going to let a man who's 'anything but your type' into your bedroom? What else is on offer? A session of therapeutic pity sex?'' His eyes flash furiously. ''Go find some other fool for your charity!''
Grace knows he's drunken and depressed and she shouldn't pay attention to his words, but for some reason they cut right through her heart, to a point to bring prickling tears into her eyes. ''You have no bloody idea how self-centred this offer actually is!'', she blurts out, being sick and tired of hiding and pretending and self-deception.
Her brutal honesty gets through the whiskey-induced daze.
''Why are you doing this to me, Grace? Wait until I'm too waisted to be good for anything and then come to me with such talk...'', Boyd complains with genuine exasperation and buries his face into his hands. ''Why, Grace!?''
The half-time break of the TV football match is filled with endless boring commercials as usual. Temporary lack of entertainment results in numerous curious looks and sneering comments in their direction.
''Please, Boyd, don't make a scene... Let's just get going,'' she tries to persuade him, desperately wanting to get away from there.
The young barman returns and decides to offer her some assistance.
''You'd better listen to your wife and let her take you home, sir,'' he suggests politely, ''I'm afraid I'm not allowed to sell you any more alcohol - you're too drunk already.''
''You think so!?'', Boyd bites back in angry drunken defiance, lifting his head. ''Some strong whiskey you must have got here then – just a couple of glasses and no matter how hard I try I can't quite remember marrying this 'wife' of mine!''
Grace starts to loose her temper with him. ''Either you get on your feet right away or I'll go and tell those rowdy blokes over there that you're a wholehearted supporter of the rivalling team!'' she threatens him in earnest.
Boyd glowers at her. ''First thing tomorrow morning I'll file for a divorce! That's a promise!'', he grumbles, but to Grace's relief gets up nevertheless and pulls out his wallet. He takes a couple of notes from it and shoves them into the barman's chest pocket.
''Keep it! I'm sure my wife approves a generous tip for your fervent back-up.''
Boyd is still surprisingly steady on his feet, so getting to the car is not a problem. He fastens the seatbelt without protest when she orders him to do that, closes his eyes in resignation and seems to doze off when the car starts moving. It suits Grace fine. This short nap will hopefully be enough to extinguish her melodramatic revelations from his memory and helps to avoid potential argument over the destination of their journey as well. She can't trust Boyd on his own tonight, not in his current depressive state of mind. Naturally she won't force him to sleep on that couch he's so afraid of - there's a perfectly comfortable bed in her guest bedroom with clean sheets, duvet and an extra pillow for his liking.
But things are never easy and predictable when Peter Boyd is concerned. The minute the front door of her house closes behind them, he decides to throw a drunken tantrum.
"Where's that main bedroom I was promised a night in?" he demands obstinately and starts climbing up the stairs without waiting for permission, stumbling twice on his way. Grace follows him, frowning with concern.
Having reached his destination, Boyd lets himself fall backwards on the bed triumphantly, tossing her a challenging look.
''I was going to ask you to make yourself at home, but you manifestly have no problem with that,'' Grace makes a stinging comment, rolling her eyes at such a juvenile provocation. ''Well – enjoy yourself then! I'm going to have a bath.'' She grabs her pyjamas and dressing-gown from the back of the big leather armchair and disappears to the bathroom before he manages to say anything, bolting the door firmly behind her.
Hot water is wonderfully relaxing, both physically and mentally. Grace takes her time to thoroughly enjoy it. When she finally returns to the bedroom, she discovers that Boyd has passed out, having discarded most of his clothing and crawled under the bed covers. He is breathing in deep sleep pace and she's pretty sure that there won't be any more trouble with him until tomorrow morning. She is about to turn off the light and go and sleep in the guest bedroom herself, but out of nowhere sudden rebelliousness overcomes her. It's her bloody bedroom and bed after all and this is not some stranger she's picked up from a pub. For ten years they've sat side by side in the car, in the squad-room, in each other's offices, interviewed suspects, faced danger and tragedies and death. Big deal if they sleep that one night side by side in a bed large enough for two people to spend a night without getting in each others way! She takes herself an extra blanket and curls up on the vacant side of the bed snugly. Boyd's soft snoring isn't in any way unpleasant, rather lulls her to sleep instead.
She wakes up well-slept next morning, the dull pain she had in her head last night gone without a trace. Her 'bedmate' is still snoring face down in the pillow, in pretty much the same position he passed out yesterday and she has a grim premonition that when he finally wakes up, it'll be with a headache triple as bad as her's was.
Time to make some preparations to help to mitigate his expectedly painful recovery.
She steps into her slippers, pulls on the dressing-gown and sneaks downstairs quietly to make some coffee.
She chuckles to herself, recalling her recent conversation with Kat, when she realises that she's made the coffee far too strong, keeping Boyd's preferences in mind and needs to season her cup with extra milk to make it drinkable for herself.
Having returned to the bedroom with two steaming mugs, Grace places Boyd's one within his reach on the bedside table, providently supplementing it with a little bottle of aspirins, and takes a seat in the armchair to enjoy her own hot drink.
The strong smell of coffee starts to reach through Boyd's slumber. He moves, mumbles something incoherent in half-sleep, then lifts his head a fraction, squinting painfully against the morning light. He peeks around cautiously, trying to figure out his whereabouts. Recognizing her, a genuinely exasperated 'Oh God, no...!' escapes his lips.
''Don't be so dramatic,'' Grace smirks.''I didn't take advantage of the situation in any way,'' she comforts him with irony.
Boyd gives a tormented sigh and rolls on his back, grimacing with pain.
''I hope your back isn't too bad, since you've escaped that awful rickety couch as you can see...'' A sting, but not completely without sympathy.
''Not sure,'' Boyd admits honestly, rubbing his temples vigorously, ''my head pounds so bad it blocks out everything else.''
His silvery hair is tousled and spiky, the harsh morning stubble threatening to ruin the usually impeccable goatee, pale face and dark shadows under his eyes clear reminders of week-long over-working and previous night's excessive drinking. She has seen him tired and dirty, blood-stained and battle-scarred before, but never actually in such a dishevelled early morning state.
''There's coffee and aspirin on your left on the bedside table,'' she informs him. ''You need them right away, judging by the way you look.''
He nods in silent gratitude and reaches for the life-saving items.
Coffee seems to bring some life back into him.
''I think I'll need a shower to get me going,'' he mentions, having finished drinking.
''Be my guest,'' Grace points towards the bathroom. ''You'll find clean towels on the upper shelf there.''
The healthy self-confidence Boyd is endowed with allows him to get out of bed and walk across the room without paying any attention to the fact that his attire is confined to boxer shorts. Though not a young man any more, he's still got straight posture and broad shoulders, so Grace unashamedly follows him with her eyes until the bathroom door hides the pleasant view from her.
With Boyd leaving the room the strange spell of domesticity gets instantly broken. Grace notices the reflection of herself in the wardrobe door mirror. Boyd isn't the only one who looks unusually dishevelled in the early morning, the woman in the mirror has jumbled bed hair and no make-up to disguise the blemishes. Harsh morning light makes every wrinkle, every year visible. Every extra year, comparing to Boyd. And the flannel pyjamas she's wearing might be very friendly to sensitive delicate skin, but not quite so to the eyes of someone of the opposite sex. Boyd's former sleepy exasperation doesn't seem amusing at all suddenly. Nothing seems funny any longer. What on earth was she thinking!? She really must have experienced some painkiller-induced delirium last night to put them both in such an embarrassing situation. And now he's about to come out of the bathroom any minute and find her still here, wearing pyjamas… Expecting what!? Pity sex!?
She gets properly dressed as quickly as possible, combs her hair hastily and hurries downstairs.
Boyd can have the bedroom for himself to get dressed in privacy and in the meantime she will do what a good hostess would - cook them some breakfast and then try to get rid of him politely, referring that she has some urgent plans of her own for the weekend.
''What are doing you here?''
''Breakfast is almost done,'' she announces, poking the half-cooked mass of eggs on the pan with a fork, considering his question answered with that.
''The hell with that breakfast! Don't try to change the subject!'' Boyd sounds very clearly discontented, but the reason for that is not so clear.
Grace turns around to look at him and her inquiring expression becomes a disgruntled frown. Instead of getting dressed as she expected him to do, Boyd's taken the liberty of walking around the house half-naked, only a damp towel around his hips.
''You'd better get dressed,'' she remarks quite sternly, ''You'll get pneumonia like that!''
The response is childishly obstinate, ''One man 'anything but your type' more or less in the world, what do you care!?''
Grace gives an irritated sigh, turning her eyes skyward. Boyd's seemingly going to hold that unfortunate spontaneous self-expression against her for eternity.
''You're my good friend and colleague, of course I care!'' she retorts indignantly.
''So that's why you followed me to that pub and took me home with you last night – to avoid a drunken old friend and colleague from getting into trouble? And let me sleep in your bed next to you just to keep an eye on me, right!?''
''What was I supposed to do when you choose to pass out in my bed!?'' she snaps back, ''Pick you up and carry to the guest bedroom? I was dog-tired as well and had a splitting headache, all I wanted was to lay down and get some rest! As you can see we've managed to survive that night and I can give you my professional guarantee that neither of us will have any permanent damage. So can we please write last night off as a result of over-fatigue?!''
''No we can't and we won't!'' Boyd declares uncompromisingly. ''A couple of glasses of scotch ain't by far enough to cause me amnesia. I remember very well what you said to me at the bar last night.''
''I would have said whatever it took to get you out of there without too much fuss and embarrassment,'' Grace presses out bitterly, ''but in case you feel being allured here on false pretext, my sincere apologies are due of course...''
Boyd takes a step closer.
''Grace... Please don't do this, don't ruin everything like that...''
Grace feels entrapped and endangered suddenly. It's not Boyd she's afraid of, it's her own lack of self-control in his close proximity.
She makes an attempt to escape past him, he tries to stop her and that momentary ridiculous struggle results in Boyd's towel slipping down.
He ignores it completely, desperate and determined in his stark nakedness, both physical and emotional.
''I know it's all crazy and unrealistic... you can can give me a dozen good reasons why any idea of me and you together is very wrong and I can effortlessly add my own dozen... But to carry on stubbornly ignoring what the rest of the world clearly sees – that's not right either!''
Her answer is half chuckle, half sob. ''I know.''
It's very different from the silly forbidden fantasies she has guiltily allowed herself on moments of weakness. The real Peter Boyd wastes no time on cheap romance and needless elegance, just pulls her unceremoniously against him and claims her lips with his. And it's a million times better than she could ever dream. It doesn't matter that their first kiss is a bit clumsy and unrehearsed and therefore has to end prematurely, both needing to pull apart to catch breath. That gives Grace a chance to look him in the eye. Either it has to do with the bright morning sunlight or their unprecedented closeness, but Boyd's eyes don't look as unreadable and impenetrably dark as they usually do. The much softer hazel tone of his irises is dominating and to her surprise she recognizes hopes and fears very familiar to her own in his glance. But there is something more – the pure, unfeigned desire - and that proves to be the most powerful aphrodisiac for her.
Instincts take over. She leans into him, reaching her arms around his neck, burying her fingers in the soft hair at the nape of his neck, and pulls him into another kiss. At this moment she truly regrets putting on all the clothes that prevent the skin-to-skin contact she so eagerly yearns for. Luckily Boyd's already started to eliminate that last barrier between them with greedy impatience.
As much as Grace would love to stay entwined with him for eternity, the pan on the stove with the scorching remnants of their breakfast needs her immediate attention, otherwise every smoke detector in the house will start screaming.
Boyd seems to be blissfully deaf and blind to the surrounding world and wriggling free from his embrace takes some effort. Still feeling a bit dizzy, Grace gathers herself enough to get on her knees. Switching the stove off with one hand, she grabs the handle of the pan with the other and overturns it's smoking contents into the sink.
The loud metallic cling makes Boyd open his eyes and look around in surprise.
''We could have burnt down the house!'' she complains. ''And look at the state of my kitchen!''
His damp towel lays still rumpled on the floor, bits of her clothing are carelessly tossed in various directions. They've somehow managed to pull along an avalanche of white paper napkins from the kitchen counter on their way down and knock a rack of condiment bottles off the table during their short but immensely pleasurable wrestling match under it. Some of the little glass bottles have broken, spilling their contents all over the floor.
Grace gives a sigh, shaking her head reproachfully. ''We're far too old for such foolishness!''
''I don't think so!'' Boyd grins mischievously and stretches himself to give the broken pepper shaker under the table a kick with his big toe. ''An old married couple like us needs to spice up our lives a bit.''