DISCLAIMER: I own nothing.

Dedication:
Written entirely for Gemenied… because we will never agree on this.
Though the arguing is a lot of fun. ;)

In Loco Parentis

by Joodiff

Twenty to one in the morning on a quiet north London street and there are no visible lights showing in the modest Victorian terraced house. Worse, parked almost exactly outside the dark, silent house is a newly-familiar dark saloon upon which a heavy dew has already settled. Sitting in her own car, the engine still running, Frankie Wharton debates her options. She wants, more than anything else, the calm, reassuring and distinctly maternal presence of the owner of the house, and despite the lateness of the hour she almost has the courage to go and knock on the door. But the saloon is very definitely a complicating factor. An extremely significant complicating factor. One that she hasn't consciously considered – until now.

The house belongs to Doctor Grace Foley. The anonymous, unmarked saloon belongs to the Metropolitan Police… but is temporarily assigned to Detective Superintendent Peter Boyd.

Blinking fiercely against fresh tears, Frankie slips her car back into gear. There are far too many reasons not to knock on the smartly-painted front door. Far too many reasons just to drive quietly away into the night. But the pain and the sorrow are welling up so intensely that she hesitates. A moment later she takes the car back out of gear and switches off the engine. She draws in a slow, deep breath, looks at the house again. Mechanically, she reaches into her jacket pocket for her phone, but abruptly changes her mind. This is an all or nothing situation.

Almost in a dream, Frankie gets out of the car, locks it and walks across the road. Just a few seconds later she is ringing the doorbell. Whatever happens now cannot be as bad as spending another sleepless night alone with her anger and grief.

She's about to ring the bell again when the hall light comes on. Frankie waits, and moments later there is movement behind the front door's frosted glass panels. She hears bolts being drawn back, the sound of a key being turned in the lock, and just a second or two later the door is opened. It opens far wider than she expects, security chain ignored, and it is not Grace who looks out at her, but Boyd. A dishevelled and irritable looking Boyd wearing grey drawstring pyjama bottoms and what looks to be a very hastily donned rumpled white tee-shirt – hardly the mode of dress expected from a casual visitor who might simply have had a glass too many and then prudently decided to spend the night on a friend's sofa.

The dark brows are drawn down in a forbidding frown, and they lift slightly in surprise. His voice is gruff as he growls, "Frankie. For God's sake… it's the middle of the bloody night. What the hell…?"

The very last thing Frankie wants to do is start crying again, but she's fighting a losing battle. The tears she has only just been managing to suppress start to roll down her cheeks – cheeks that immediately begin to burn in mortification. Incapable of saying a word, she simply turns away, but before she can start walking back to her car a strong but surprisingly gentle hand catches her by the arm and turns her back, guiding her through the open door and into the small hallway beyond. She hears the door close just before she hears a loud and still very gruff, "Grace! Grace, get down here…"

-oOo-

Mel would have loved this...

The stray thought simply appears fully-formed in her mind, and the resultant pain it causes is so strong that it becomes a physical thing that twists desperately inside her. Hating herself for it, Frankie continues to sob, but now she is sobbing against a slim, warm shoulder and she is being held quietly as a soft voice says soothing, reassuring words. Grace, of course. Matriarch of the team, everyone's surrogate mother. Almost everyone's surrogate mother. Clearly not the role she fulfils in Boyd's life – and that's exactly what Mel would have loved. The final, concrete proof that all those idle, gossipy speculations were – are – true.

It is Grace who offers comfort, but Boyd is still there in the room with them, a motionless, silent presence on the periphery. A quick, teary glance confirms it. Perched on the arm of the sofa, head down, arms folded across his broad chest, his own thoughts and emotions firmly hidden. Frankie knows he's hurting as much as any of them, and maybe that, and the overwhelming sense of responsibility he feels for the people under his command, are why he hasn't fled the dismal scene completely leaving Grace to attempt to pick up the pieces alone. Wise, caring matriarch; stern, stalwart patriarch. The pair of them so often unwittingly and unofficially cast in loco parentis to their younger colleagues.

The tears have abated a little. Sniffing, Frankie draws back slightly and mumbles, "I'm really sorry."

"Oh, Frankie," Grace says, her tone as gentle as her expression. "There's nothing to apologise for."

But there is. She has no right to be trespassing here in the early hours of the morning. None at all. She tries to explain, says, "I just… I was driving around and I… God, I'm so sorry..."

She thinks she hears a faint snort from the other side of the room and she very definitely sees the sharp, warning glare that Grace shoots in Boyd's direction. He is not unkind, Frankie knows that almost better than anyone, but he is often unbelievably tactless. He seems to defer instantly to the look sent his way, however, because he stands up and simply says, "I'll make some tea."

The unexpected, uncharacteristic statement adds another jarring note of domesticity to the increasingly surreal situation. Frankie glances helplessly at Grace who shrugs very slightly as he paces away – still barefoot. As soon as they are alone, Frankie says again, "God, I'm sorry, Grace. I don't think I really knew what I was doing… I didn't mean…"

"Frankie, it's not a problem," Grace says. "I'm just glad that you felt you could come here instead of driving round all night in a state."

"Boyd – " Frankie ventures cautiously.

" – will be fine," Grace tells her firmly.

-oOo-

It is Grace, of course, who insists she stays. Frankie unintentionally witnesses the preceding debate that takes place in the hall. The door is part-closed, but the angle of the glossy, dark surface of the television screen in the corner of the room conspires against all of them, and she sees most of the scene reflected there. She certainly sees the way Grace talks and Boyd simply listens, just as she sees him shake his head, gesture and finally shrug in apparent acquiescence. She sees, too, the quick, affectionate embrace that is his reward, and her thoughts turn once again to Mel. Mel who would have loved all of this so very much.

She doesn't want to stay, knows she has already imposed where she shouldn't. But the tiredness mounts and the brandy that has replaced the tea takes hold and she hears herself drowsily agreeing that she's in no state to go anywhere. Prudently, it seems that daddy has already confiscated her car-keys. Frankie doesn't remember her own father – he's just a blurry figure from early childhood, a frozen face captured forever in a few old photographs. Cancer. Her mother never re-married, never seemed interested in associating too closely with any of her gentlemen friends. No father-figure for the young Frankie. Ironic that she accidentally acquires one in her early thirties. One that she's definitely not supposed to have.

That neither of them… was… supposed to have. Daddy's girls, her and Mel both. Quite capable of twisting him round their respective little fingers. Sometimes. Grace has more sense. Maybe. But in the right hands, Boyd, for all his terrifying reputation as a quick-tempered tyrant, is… what is it that Mel says? …that Mel used to say? …Boyd is a pussycat compared to Grace. If mummy says no, go and ask daddy.

Time and common-sense are sliding away from her. Frankie's more asleep than awake when daddy picks her up and carries her up the stairs. Possibly, that's a very good thing, saving them both from the inevitable acute embarrassment as it does.

-oOo-

Frankie wakes in darkness, but as her eyes adjust and she realises she's in a strange bed in a strange room, the memories start to filter back. She remembers driving, remembers crying. Remembers… things she'd really rather forget. Grace in her dressing gown, the quilted shoulder damp from tears. The smell of Grace, subtle, floral, delicate, cut with something sharper, something very masculine and just as familiar. The scent of Boyd's designer cologne on Grace's skin. Things that Frankie definitely shouldn't be party to. Things that are amusing as idle workplace gossip, but that should never have been allowed to become so irrefutably real to her.

Her head is aching, but whether from the brandy or the tears, Frankie doesn't know. Her eyes are gritty and sore, and she suddenly longs for the comfort and reassurance of her own bed, her own things. The spare room is very… Grace. Hard to define accurately – a touch of the traditional, a touch of the avant-garde; a little 'sixties, a little intellectual. A little… unconventional. Very Grace. Not a Boyd sort of room. Presumably. Not if their respective offices are anything to judge by.

Grace and Boyd.

We were right, Mel, Frankie thinks as she sits up. We were right about them all along… God, I wish you were still here to enjoy it…

She needs water and something to dull the throbbing pain behind her eyes. A quick squint at her watch – still on her wrist because it appears that apart from her shoes, she is fully clothed – tells her that it's far, far too early to disturb her hostess. Or her… partner. Lover. Whatever-the-hell-he-is. Best to attempt to see to her needs herself. Quietly. The landing is dark and empty. Halfway down the stairs Frankie suffers an isolated flash of shame – did Boyd really carry her up the stairs? She has a nasty feeling he did, because Grace certainly couldn't have managed it, and she has no recollection of ascending them independently. Just one more reason to wince to herself and wish – fervently – that she'd just kept on driving indefinitely through the night.

Downstairs, it becomes clear that the sun's beginning to rise. The rooms are filled with grey dawnlight. Frankie thinks she will write a brief note and slip away, saving the stilted verbal explanations for later. First, there's the matter of water and aspirin. Or any kind of painkiller. Kitchen. Rear of the house.

Boyd is shadowy in the half-light, and the sound of his voice makes her jump as he says, "Frankie…?"

He's seated at the small kitchen table, and there's a stillness about him that she finds more than a little unnerving. The whiskey bottle is as predictable as the empty tumbler at his right hand. Even in the grey light he looks as bad – if not worse – as she feels. Frankie doesn't think about her response, just says wearily, "Hey, dad."

He smiles equally wearily in response. "Okay?"

"No," Frankie says honestly. "You?"

"No."

"Painkillers?"

Boyd jerks his head in indication. "Cupboard by the back door."

Painkillers. Water. For a moment she looks out at the back garden. Morning dew. Thin light. Not looking at him, she says, "It's all fucked up, isn't it?"

"Yeah."

It's no surprise to Frankie that he's so laconic. She sits herself at the table, ninety degrees to him, studies her glass of water. "The Silvers want to know when they can… have the body…"

"I know."

"It's a Jewish thing."

"I know, Frankie. I know. It's down to the Coroner."

Frankie lapses into silence for several long moments. Eventually, she asks, "How's Grace?"

"How do you bloody think?"

The sharpness of his tone upsets her and she glares in response. "Christ, do you have to be such a prick, Boyd? We're all hurting. Mel was one of my best friends…"

He leans back in his chair, folds his arms. Defensive. "Fuck's sake, Frankie, cut me some slack. I'm the poor bastard who's getting it from both sides."

There's no trace of self-pity in the declaration, just pain and infinite weariness and for a moment she forces herself to pause and consider his position. His command, his responsibility. She says, "It wasn't your fault, Boyd."

"That's for the internal investigation to decide," he says.

Frankie shrugs. There's nothing she can say. Nothing she wants to say. She looks at him and he looks steadily back. There's only emptiness between them. She says, "So what happens now? We just carry on as if nothing's happened?"

"We carry on, Frankie. That's all."

"Spence is in bits."

"I know."

"How can you be so bloody calm?" Frankie accuses. "She was twenty-eight, Boyd. Twenty-eight. Everything still ahead of her – husband, kids, whatever. How can you – "

"Frankie," a new voice says from the doorway. Gentle enough, but with a hint of real steel beneath the deceptive calm. Grace.

Frankie looks up at her. Understands the quiet warning in the look she receives. Sullenly, she mutters, "Sorry."

Grace walks forward, stops beside Boyd. Frankie isn't sure whether Grace is actually aware of the hand she puts on his shoulder. It seems like an automatic, unconscious gesture. One that isn't resisted. Grace says, "Turning on each other won't help. We have to do this together."

"Yeah, sure," Frankie says, not quite able to hide her cynicism. "Mum, dad and the kids. Peter Boyd and his willing acolytes against the world. Oh, but wait a minute, he's an acolyte short…"

Boyd stands up abruptly. "I don't have to listen to this shit."

It is Grace who says, "Boyd…"

It doesn't stop him walking out of the room. A moment later Frankie hears his footsteps on the stairs. She looks at Grace, raising her eyebrows just a fraction. If she expects some kind of empathy, she's disappointed. The reaction is surprisingly sharp, a stinging, "He didn't deserve that, Frankie."

"He's the one who's always telling us the buck stops with him."

"What are you saying? That you think Mel's death was somehow his fault?"

Frankie baulks under the intense gaze. Shakes her head slowly. "No. No, of course not."

"Good," Grace says calmly. "Do you think he doesn't care?"

Uncomfortably, Frankie admits, "No. I just… He's so…"

"Stoical?" Grace suggests. "Because he has to be. Because, yes, he's the one who has to answer all the questions, he's the one who went to see the Silvers; he's the one who went in early and cleared Mel's desk so no-one else would have to do it."

"I get it, Grace. He's a bloody hero."

"Don't be so childish, Frankie," Grace tells her curtly. "I know you need someone to blame – we all do – but taking it out on Boyd just isn't fair. I meant what I said; we have to do this together; we have to support each other through it."

Frankie stares blankly at the table-top. "Nothing's ever going to be the same again, is it?"

Grace sits down, filling the space so recently vacated by Boyd. She says, "No. No, it's not. This is the harsh reality of what we do. Sometimes people – good people – get hurt, get killed."

"Kids playing cops and robbers," Frankie says. She can feel tears welling again, and she blinks fiercely against them. "That's what it always felt like. Exciting. Fun. Jesus…"

-oOo-

Frankie is still sitting – alone now – in the kitchen when Boyd finally returns. His hair is damp, he's fully dressed and he brings a strong smell of soap and cologne with him. He doesn't say a word, just moves past her and grabs the kettle. She watches as he fills it, plugs it in and turns his attention to assembling mugs – three mugs, she notices. The easy, mechanical way he moves around the room tells her that this is a very familiar task. She says, "I'm sorry."

Boyd glances over his shoulder, expression enigmatic. "Okay."

Succinct as ever. It almost makes her smile. Almost. Striving for normality, she says, "I guess I'm going to be late for work."

"I guess you are."

"You want me to ring the Coroner?"

"I'll do it."

Normal. Agonisingly so. Again, the tears start to prickle. Attempting to distract herself, Frankie gets up, moves to the sink, mindlessly starts to rinse her glass. Outside, the sun has started to burn away the dew. It looks as if it's going to be a pleasant day in the capital. Weatherwise. She starts to cry. Wonders if there will ever come a time when she isn't crying or on the verge of crying.

And this time it isn't mum who embraces her, but dad, and she sobs against his chest until his clean, crisp shirt is damp and crumpled and she feels empty inside. She isn't aware of Grace appearing in the kitchen doorway, nor of Boyd shaking his head silently in response to the questioning look. She's only aware of the overwhelming depth of her own sense of sorrow and loss. The surrogate family – dysfunctional as it is – is irretrievably broken.

-oOo-

She tries. For almost two months, Frankie tries. The shock lessens, the grief follows its natural path, but the empty space never goes away. Mel's gone and she's not coming back. Somehow all the petty family squabbles seem to hurt more, the easy, familiar banter becomes more barbed, and a sense of unspoken resentment hangs like a pall over the unit. Somehow they all seem to find a way to blame each other for the tragedy. It's illogical, but perhaps it's just human nature.

It's the car, in the end. The silver Lexus SUV that has finally been returned to the unit. No-one wants to see it ever again, but someone somewhere in the Met is responsible for the appalling act of insensitivity and for several days it sits in the car park, a haunting, daunting presence. It is Boyd, of course, whose patience snaps and who becomes bull-headed about the whole matter. They have sent him the damned car back, so he'll drive the damned car, just to prove a point. That's his rationale. It causes a wave of contention between them all that for Frankie is just about the last straw.

It starts as a conversation, becomes a debate and ends in a full-blown argument, and if she ever thought that he didn't care, she learns how wrong she is in the way he rears up in absolute fury against her biting attack on him for his thoughtlessness, his selfishness, his refusal to discuss all the things that need to be discussed. It's a firestorm that not even Grace can damp down, though she tries repeatedly, and inevitably things are said that can never be taken back, vulnerabilities are exposed and accusations are thrown.

Frankie knows, on some instinctive level, that it was always going to end like this. In many ways she and Boyd are too alike for their own good. Fiery, impulsive people who can't easily control their outbursts. Rebellious, difficult people, the pair of them – neither afraid to butt heads with the other whatever the collateral damage may be. They roar and they shout and they storm, and Grace and Spencer take all the flak and fallout until in the end there's only an icy silence and bitter recriminations on both sides.

That's the day Frankie resigns and Boyd lets her.

They don't speak very much after that, as she works out her notice and he refuses all entreaties to attempt to talk her out of leaving. They both blame each other, and in a way they are both right to do so. He is too stubborn, and so is she. He is angry and hurt, and so is she. Like father like daughter.

On the very last day he surprises her. There are no apologies, no explanations. He is as haughty and obstinate as he has been throughout, but when Frankie leaves the CCU's lab for the very last time, he is waiting for her. He doesn't break his gruff silence, but he does embrace her, does hold her hard and strong for a few more seconds than he probably intends before he backs off and walks away.

Frankie watches him go, fights against the lump in her throat. Difficult, stubborn, obnoxious man.

Deliberately calm, she calls out, "Dad…?"

Boyd looks back at her, utterly impassive.

She says the only thing that matters. "Look after them all, okay?"

He nods, and it's enough. He turns the corner and he's gone. She won't see him again, Frankie knows that. He won't make an appearance in the pub for her leaving drinks. Too much has been said, too many things hurt far too much for that. Perhaps it doesn't matter.

Frankie thinks of Mel as she walks away. Daddy's girls. That's how it used to be. But everything changes.

- the end -