DISCLAIMER: I own nothing.

November 2014: This is just a bit of fluffy Boyd 'n' Grace fun for Scription Addict's birthday. Happy birthday! xx

Best Birthday Present Ever

by Joodiff

DCI Michael Marshall is a short, pugnacious Mancunian with close-cropped silver hair and the kind of ice-grey eyes that should look cold and unfriendly, but somehow don't. Though their acquaintanceship has so far been brief, Grace already likes him enormously. A tough little man with a broad Northern sense of humour and a reputation for being more than a touch too honest and outspoken, it's not difficult to see why he is one of a small and select band of people for whom Boyd will willingly go that proverbial extra mile, and accordingly why she has spent the last four and a half weeks working with Wood Green CID in Haringey. An entirely unofficial arrangement based entirely on goodwill, it's been an interesting experience, but as fond as she has become of Marshall, Grace is definitely looking forward to re-joining her CCU colleagues in the gloomy semi-subterranean space that comprises their headquarters.

She will miss Marshall's friendly and hard-working team, she reflects, shoving the very last few odds and ends into her large bag, but the case she's been advising them on – a particularly gruesome ritualistic double murder – has reached a satisfactory conclusion and she's more than ready for a new challenge. Besides, more selfishly, it's her birthday in just a couple of days and it's become something of an annual tradition for the CCU to enthusiastically celebrate the event – mainly at Boyd's expense. Whether or not his largesse is some kind of tacit yearly repayment of debts accrued, Grace has never been quite sure, but whatever his reasons she's not the sort of woman to willingly turn down a happy day of on-and-off celebration shared with some of the most interesting and idiosyncratic people she's ever known.

A firm tap on the door of her borrowed office brings her out of her reverie, and she smiles at Marshall as he steps into the room, a bottle of something that looks suspiciously like a very good quality single malt in his hand. He smiles back, the expression softening the square, belligerent planes of his face. "Ready to return to the lions' den, then?"

"As I'll ever be." It's a light-hearted riposte, and they both know it. She nods at the bottle. "For me? You really shouldn't have."

Marshall chuckles. "If I thought for a moment you'd actually drink the evil-tasting stuff…" Stopping in front of the desk, he hands the bottle across its span to her. "Tell the cantankerous old bastard to make it last, because that's all he's damn well getting."

"There, and I thought I was worth so much more."

"Oh, Glenfiddich's finest really doesn't come cheap, Grace," he tells her in a solemn tone. The striking grey eyes sparkle at her. "So, what fun awaits you back at the Cold Corpse Unit, then?"

"The usual," she says putting the bottle carefully in her bag. "Murder, mayhem and mummification – that sort of thing. We've been promised a really gory case of pre-war dismemberment if we all behave ourselves and submit our expenses on time. He's good to us like that."

"Bunch of bloody freaks," he mutters, deliberately loud enough to be heard. "Madness. Absolute madness. You know, he never was quite right in the head, that one. Not even as a fresh-faced young beat bobby. No wonder the Yard insisted on having a tame psychologist on the team."

Grace can't help chuckling. "I'll tell him you said that."

"Do." He extends his hand, the gesture every bit as gruff as his voice as he says, "Thank you. It's been a genuine pleasure, Doctor Foley. Any time you fancy a change of scenery…"

She shakes his hand gravely. "You might regret saying that one day, you know, Michael."

"Oh, I think I'm reasonably safe," he assures her, releasing his grip. A slight, almost playful grin tugs at the corners of his mouth. "Rumour has it that there's at least one bad-tempered reason for you to stay with the CCU indefinitely."

The unsubtle inference doesn't offend her in the slightest. Straight-faced, she replies, "You know what they say about rumours."

"Just because they're rumours doesn't necessarily mean they're untrue?" His grin fades and he becomes more serious as he adds, "Look after him, Grace. He may not exactly be popular at the Yard, and he may be a bit of a bull in a bloody china shop most of the time, but he's a good bloke and a damn fine copper."

Something she's very well aware of. Picking up her bag in preparation to leave, Grace nods. "I know."

Marshall gives her a look that can only be described as inscrutable. "Yeah; I guess you do."

-oOo-

"Grace," Spencer declares, when she arrives in the CCU's squad room early the following morning. Smiling broadly in greeting, he continues, "How was Haringey? Did you have fun with Manc Mike and his Satanists?"

"Weren't they number one in the charts sometime in the late 'sixties?" Eve inquires, hands behind her head as she lounges comfortably in Kat's chair. Of its usual occupant there is no sign. "Welcome back, Grace. We've missed you."

"I bet," she drawls, but she's pleased by the spontaneous warmth of their welcome anyway. Nodding towards Boyd's ostentatiously closed office door, she asks, "So, do I need to have words…?"

"Nope," Eve says with a casual shake of the head. "He's been every bit his usual charming, meek and mild self."

"Oh dear. Who do I need to start damage limitation measures with?"

On cue, Boyd's office door opens and the man himself appears. "I can hear every bloody word, you know."

"Good," she says, not at all intimidated by his mock-forbidding glare. Producing the expensive bottle of Scotch given to her by Marshall, she waves it temptingly in his direction. "I come bearing gifts."

"In which case, it's good to have you back. Come into the office and stop distracting the workers."

"It's all right," Eve calls as Grace does so, "we know our place."

Boyd's office is nothing like Marshall's. True, both are seen as the command centres of their respective operations, but the latter's is not a sleek, functional space where personal possessions are kept to a bare minimum and everything necessary to facilitate the daily running of the unit is tidily arranged on ramrod straight shelves. But then, she reflects, Marshall's office doesn't have the benefit of a – sadly rather uncomfortable – couch. Handing over the bottle and settling herself, she says, "He said to tell you that he owes you."

"Big time," Boyd agrees, somehow vanishing the Scotch into a desk drawer before she can even blink. "Told you that you'd like him, didn't I?"

"You did, and I did." Grace regards him with complacent ease. "You somehow failed to mention that the two of you have known each other for the better part of thirty years, though."

"Didn't think it was important," he says with a shrug of his broad shoulders. He sits down behind his desk and fixes her with a steady dark gaze. "Well done, Grace. Excellent result."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome." He studies her for a moment. "Rough case, eh?"

"Wasn't the easiest," she admits, disturbing and too-recent images flashing through her mind with brutal clarity. "The stuff of nightmares, to be honest. The younger victim was only just fifteen. Parents are beyond distraught."

"Mm, I can imagine." Another quiet, reflective moment. "Glad to be back?"

"I am, rather. Michael and his team were great, but…"

"Better the devil you know?" he suggests, deliberately lightening the mood.

"Something like that." She can't maintain her sober expression, has to smirk at him. "So, did you miss me?"

"More than you'll ever know," Boyd replies, solemn and velvet-smooth. The eyes, though… the deep, expressive eyes are suddenly twinkly and full of incorrigible mischief. Highly inappropriate for a man of his age. She adores it. And, rather unwisely, him. Most of the time. He clears his throat and gestures vaguely at the door. "Go on, bugger off and find some work to do. Trust me, Grace, I'm going to have my money's worth out of you before you arbitrarily decide to down tools because it's your damned birthday."

"Oh, is it my birthday?" she asks, deliberately ingenuous. "I'd quite forgotten about that."

"Of course you had. Anyway, you're not getting away with a two-day festival, so don't even think about skiving off early. Out. Work. Now."

Grace chuckles as she gets to her feet. She likes Michael Marshall, likes him a lot, but he is not, and never will be, the quick-tempered, infuriating, capricious and often surprisingly engaging Peter Boyd.

-oOo-

As birthdays long after the exciting days of childhood go, this one starts well. Even the usually horrendous traffic that normally mars her journey to work seems lighter than usual, and by mid-morning Grace is of the opinion that barring major accident or incident, very little could spoil it for her. It's silly, really, to have so much made of the day at her age, but her colleagues seem to enjoy doing it and not even Boyd does much to dissuade them. He grumbles at the fuss, of course, at the time wasted on congratulations and gift-giving, but she's damn sure she knows who ordered and paid for the extensive bakery order that arrives in time for mid-morning coffee.

"You're such a fraud," she says, sidling up to him as their younger colleagues decimate the contents of several small, neatly-packed boxes of diabetes-inducing treats. "If I didn't know better, I might be tempted to think you were going soft in your old age."

"Outrageous suggestion." Boyd shakes his head. "Never going to happen, Grace."

She chuckles. "Hard-as-bloody-nails right to the bitter end, eh? Thank you for the ruinously expensive Barbaresco, by the way."

He looks down at her, something unfathomable behind the bland expression. "I'll even help you drink it if you're a very good girl."

Sometimes, just sometimes, Grace wonders what he would do if she simply seized hold of his lapels and kissed him until they were both dizzy and senseless. That, too, is never going to happen, but it's an entertaining thought. Doubly so when she's standing close enough to smell the sharp spice of his aftershave. Like most things, she's fairly sure the reality wouldn't be half as much fun as the fantasy. Still…

"Someone else seems to be trying to get in on the act," Kat announces, returning to the squad room after a brief absence. A number of large brown envelopes are tucked under one arm – internal mail – and she's holding up an anonymous-looking package a little larger than an ordinary paperback book. "Wood Green nick. F.A.O. Doctor Grace Foley from the office of DCI Marshall."

"Uh oh, looks like Boyd's got a rival." Eve is grinning in a distinctly Cheshire Cat-like manner.

The man in question makes a disparaging noise. "Haven't you got a human jigsaw to finish reassembling?"

"Playtime's over, children," Grace tells them, reaching out to take the proffered package. It doesn't weigh very much and it rattles slightly. Feels oddly rigid, too. She is intrigued, but deliberately doesn't investigate. "Come on, back to work before daddy gets cross and loses his temper."

Boyd grimaces. "Don't, Grace, for the sake of my bloody sanity."

"Lost cause," she informs him with an impish grin as she heads for the artful arrangement of books, possessions and furniture that currently constitutes the closest thing she has to an office.

-oOo-

There is garish birthday-themed wrapping paper beneath the package's plain brown exterior. Cheap, cheerful stuff probably hastily acquired by a very junior officer tasked with the job. There's a card, too, similarly cheap and cheerful, but it makes Grace smile, and that's what matters. Marshall has signed it, and beneath, in spidery scrawl, he's written, I hear that football is very much your game… The cryptic words are followed by a single bold cross, and that, too, makes her smile, imagining the stoic determination behind the gesture. Like Boyd, Marshall is not a sentimental man. Briefly glancing up to check whether or not she's being watched, she returns her attention to the gift. Attempts to neatly tease the paper loose are thwarted by the copious amount of sticking tape someone – no doubt male – has conscientiously applied. Too impatient to waste any more time, Grace gives up and simply rips the paper away. She is left somewhat perplexed.

It's a video tape. Not even a commercially-recorded video tape, either. The thin cardboard cover is worn and dog-eared, and shows signs of being relabelled several times. The latest simply says Southwark, Sept 1983. When she extracts the plastic cassette itself from the box, it bears exactly the same scribbled legend. Enigmatic at best. Gazing at the tape, she ponders the nature of its contents. Could be anything, though the deliberate reference to football is clearly a clue. The obvious answer, naturally enough, is to play it. It's been several years, however, since she owned the technology necessary to do so. Somewhere in her furthest recesses of her loft there's a dusty cardboard box or two of discarded tapes awaiting conversion to a more modern format, but aside from that…

Inspiration strikes and Grace reaches for her desk phone, choosing the third speed dial button. Just a few moments later Eve's voice says, "Lab."

"Eve. Am I right in thinking you've still got a VCR up there?"

"Yeah." The reply sounds faintly bemused. "Of course. More than one, in fact. Why?"

"I have a tape here I need to play."

"Now?"

Grace glances towards Boyd's office. The door is ajar. Too risky. "It's not a work thing. I might be pushing my luck a little too far. Lunchtime?"

"Sure, no problem. What are we watching?"

Although she's well-aware that her colleague can't see her, Grace shakes her head. "I have absolutely no idea."

"Sounds like fun. See you later."

Ending the call, Grace puts the mysterious cassette in the top drawer of her desk before she returns to the mammoth task of ploughing through the backed-up contents of her in-tray. There's no point in soliciting awkward questions from her ever-curious co-workers.

-oOo-

"Quality's not very good," Eve comments just a few seconds after pressing the play button on the slim remote control. "I've got some software somewhere that could probably clean it up a bit. It's rather grainy and the saturation could do with decreasing, but – "

"Eve."

"Just a thought." A slight frown. "What is this, anyway?"

"I told you, I have no idea," Grace reminds her, as they stare at what appears to be an empty asphalt rectangle of small urban car park. Several young men are having some kind of heated debate on one side of the frame while a few others are impatiently cat-calling from the other. The scene makes no immediate sense, and Eve's right – the footage is definitely of poor quality, no doubt in-part due to its age. The volume is also decidedly uneven. Wind and traffic noise predominate. She shrugs. "It was in the package Marshall sent."

"Ah ha."

Grace eyes her companion with suspicion. "What does that mean – 'ah ha' in that tone?"

"Nothing." Eve's expression is wonderfully innocent. "Mind if I smoke? It's been absolute bedlam up here all morning and I – oh. Football."

She's right. Something is finally happening on the suspended screen in front of them, and it definitely involves two sets of bright orange traffic cones standing in for goalposts and a football being kicked around. Some kind of rough and ready five-a-side game, perhaps? There's some rude and enthusiastic shouting, and then without warning the sound crackles, fades and disappears completely. Dubiously, Grace shakes her head. "Perhaps there's something else further on? Maybe we need to fast-forward?"

"Maybe, but if the content was mixed, wouldn't you have cued it to the bit you actually wanted watched?" Still gazing at the screen, Eve produces a packet of cigarettes from her lab coat pocket and nimbly extracts one.

"Well, yes; I would, and you would, but…"

The distinctive noise of a cheap lighter being sparked into life precedes, "…but this came from Manc Mike, and the average man – let alone the average detective – doesn't have that much common-sense?"

Grace chuckles. "Oh, so cynical, Eve."

"Oh, don't get me wrong," her colleague says, collecting a Petri dish to use as a makeshift ashtray, "I think men are wonderful creatures. A bit like Labradors, only less easy to train."

"And they don't dribble all over you, or leave mud and hair on the furniture."

"Well, that largely depends on the man, I suppose. Oh… we have sound again."

They do. Distorted sound, but sound nonetheless. Traffic, loud shouts of censure and encouragement – entirely unintelligible – and the inevitable wind noise. The players, none of whom are wearing any kind of sports clothing, lack any noteworthy talent, but a considerable amount of energy and alpha male aggression seems to be making up for the deficiency. When the camera's position changes slightly, it's possible to see both the edge of a squat concrete building and a couple of parked police cars, both of which are the old-style Rovers that Grace remembers being in common usage throughout the Met in her early days as a consultant.

"Oh, look, it's The Sweeney," Eve deadpans. "When was this recorded?"

"'Eighty-three, according to the label."

"Hm. I was probably busy revising for my O-levels."

An unpalatable thought. "Thanks. That makes me feel so much better about having to endure yet another birthday."

"Sorry. Never mind, you're – whoa!" Eve fumbles for the remote control, freezes the picture. "Bloody hell, that's Boyd."

"What?" Grace sits up straight and peers at the screen. Looking at the grainy image, devoid of any fine detail, she has no idea how Eve has come to such a bizarre conclusion. She shakes her head. "Are you quite sure that's just tobacco you're smoking?"

"I'm telling you," Eve says, rewinding the tape a short distance and pausing it again. It doesn't help much. "There, on the far right. Put your glasses on, Grace."

"Just play it, will you?" Grace demands, ignoring the instruction. Without a word, Eve dutifully does so. The picture quality remains dubious, and the camera's zoom doesn't appear to have been very good even for the 'eighties, but now Grace knows where she's supposed to be looking… "Oh, my good God…"

This time Eve manages to freeze the picture at exactly the right moment. And, unbelievably, she's right; the tall, slim man off to the side of the picture, the one just running in to make a tackle, is, without any doubt, Peter Boyd. A much younger and much scruffier Peter Boyd, resplendent in stonewashed denim. Frozen in time, head slightly turned away, there's absolutely no mistaking the distinctive aquiline profile.

"I think," Eve says in a strangled tone that suggests she's trying hard not to laugh, "that we've just established why your friend DCI Marshall thought you might enjoy watching this."

Grace shoots her a sideways glare. "I don't know what you mean."

"Of course you don't." The laughter finally breaks through, joyous and unrestrained. "Oh, Grace, look at the hair. It's George bloody Michael."

"Too old," Grace informs her lugubriously, but looking at the luxuriant mane that falls well below the younger Boyd's collar, she has to admit to herself that Eve has a point. Over a quarter of a century later, the shaggy 'eighties look really hasn't worn well. She's just grateful he obviously didn't succumb to the questionable allure of the archetypal mullet.

Still delightedly chortling, her amused companion presses the play button again, and they watch as the heavy incoming tackle is duly made. "Ouch. That's got to be a red card. Where's the ref?"

"I don't think there is one," Grace says, watching the unfolding melee. It isn't clear which team is which, let alone what the rules are supposed to be. Playground football for grown men. Perhaps it was lunchtime. Or a particularly slow day in CID.

Eve is staring at the screen in fascination. "Feisty bugger, wasn't he? Greater little mover, too. Very… athletic."

The sly undertone merits a sharp, "Ahem."

A wide answering grin is followed by, "Just an observation, Grace. Purely scientific interest."

"Naturally." Suitably dry.

"I bet he can still – "

"Eve."

The wicked grin hasn't abated. "I'm finally beginning to see the attraction, you know."

"Stop it." Grace is endlessly tolerant by nature, and she's very fond of Eve, but sometimes the playful teasing becomes too much, hits just a little too close to the mark.

"What?" Wide-eyed innocence. "I'm just saying that he was very easy on the eye, back in the day. In an 'eighties sort of way."

"For God's sake don't ever tell him that. His ego's quite big enough already."

"Just his ego…?"

Grace glares. "I'm warning you, Eve…"

Eve starts to chuckle again, her attention back on the screen. "Best birthday present ever. Oh, Grace, I swear, if you let me digitise this, you can have my place at that historic investigations conference in Amsterdam next month."

Grace shakes her head, resisting the urge to smirk. "Don't listen to what the tabloids say – nowadays Amsterdam's really not what it used to be."

Eve immediately changes tack. "He Who Must Be Obeyed is going. Adjacent hotel rooms. I know, because I booked them."

Piqued by the unsubtle insinuation, Grace glares again. "Did anyone ever tell you that you can be incredibly tactless?"

"All the time. Please, Grace. What we have right here in front of us is twenty-two carat gold." Eve's dark eyes are shining with unholy glee.

"Can I just remind you," Grace says, neatly and decisively extracting the remote control from her clutches, "that if you piss him off enough, Boyd has the means, motive and opportunity to make every last minute of your working life a living hell."

Stubbing out her cigarette, Eve scowls at her. "Oh, you're just no fun."

"Correct," she agrees tetchily, stopping the tape and standing up to remove it from the machine. "I'm a staid old woman who wants to continue to enjoy a relatively peaceful life, thank you very much."

"Rubbish." Eve moves surprisingly swiftly to prevent any chance of a quick exit from the lab. Worse, she reaches out and successfully plucks the tape from Grace's grasp. "Stop trying to pretend that you're not every bit as rebellious and free-spirited as they come. Why do you think you and Boyd get on so well?"

Growing ever more impatient, Grace shakes her head again. "Believe me, my life wouldn't be worth living if I was stupid enough to leave this with you even for a minute. Give."

"But it's funny. Hilarious, in fact. Come on, just picture Spence's face – or Kat's."

"He'd kill you, Eve. And then me. And then probably Marshall, too."

Eve pouts, holding up the purloined tape. "Think about it, Grace; why did Manc Mike give you this in the first place? I'll tell you why – because he's known Boyd since the year bloody dot, and if anyone could get away with it, it's you two. I'd just be… a facilitator."

"No," is her firm response.

"That's your last word?"

"That's absolutely my last word." Grace holds out her hand for the tape. "Now, give."

Eve shrugs, but doesn't move to obey. "Fine. There goes your chance of an all-expenses-paid dirty weekend with Boyd, then. Don't say I didn't offer."

It's meant in jest and Grace knows it, but without warning the last lingering threat of her patience abruptly snaps. With no prior intent whatsoever, she bites out a sharp, "That's enough."

The look of blank astonishment on Eve's face in response to the rebuke is quite genuine. "Oh, come on, I was just kidding. I didn't – "

"I'm sick and tired of it," Grace interrupts, a very real anger she was previously unaware of rising in her chest. Part of her seems to be watching the strange scene from a distance. It's a very odd sensation. As odd as hearing herself declare, "All the unfunny jokes and childish innuendo. Why does everyone seem to think they can – "

"Grace," Eve cuts in, free hand held up in a placatory gesture, "I'm sorry, all right? It was just a bit of fun. I didn't realise you were so sensitive about it."

"So sensitive about what?" she demands, shocked to find that she's actually shaking. "The continual bombardment of recycled gossip and juvenile remarks, or the fact that – true or not – everyone seems to find it bloody hilarious that at my age I could possibly be fond of someone?"

The pale look of remorse on Eve's face is stark. "It was just meant to be silly banter. Maybe it was a bit thoughtless and a bit too much, but… Look, I'm sorry, okay? I really am. I wouldn't deliberately upset you for the world, Grace. Here, have the tape back."

"Screw the damn tape." In a flash of temper worthy of Boyd himself, Grace seizes the proffered video cassette and dashes it straight down onto the lab's hard concrete floor. Maybe age has made the plastic unusually brittle, but for whatever reason, it shatters on impact into a mess of jagged black plastic shards. Entrails of spooled magnetic tape spill out amongst the wreckage.

Tellingly, neither of them dares to break the sudden absolute silence.

-oOo-

Just moments after her return to the squad room, Boyd suddenly appears at Grace's shoulder like an irritable jack-in-the-box, startling her. Still angry and unsettled, she can't help jumping. Really, she has no idea how such a big, boisterous man can manage to move quite so quickly and quietly. He is glowering. "Where have you been?"

"Lunch," she snaps back at him, in no mood to be censured, "upstairs in the lab with Eve. I am allowed a lunch-break, you know."

"Yes, you are," Boyd agrees, "but standing up the boss is rarely a good idea."

Realisation hits hard and much of her residual fury instantly melts away. She grimaces. "Oh, God. Sorry, Boyd, I completely forgot. Why on earth didn't you call me?"

"Now why didn't I think of that? Check your bloody voicemail."

"Well, why didn't you… Oh, never mind. Sorry."

"Andino's at one-thirty." Boyd raises his eyebrows at her. "And you say I'm bloody useless at remembering anything that doesn't have a crime number attached."

"I really am sorry." Her contrition is real. "Did you wait for me long?"

"Long enough to try the ossobuco." He puts his hands in his pockets, regards her with contemplative exasperation. "You okay? You look a bit fraught."

He is a past-master at choosing the most inopportune moments to be unusually perceptive. Sometimes Grace is sure she could throw half the contents of her desk at him, and he somehow wouldn't notice she was even slightly irritable. Other times… Composing herself, she nods. "I'm fine. Just a little tired. I don't think the peripatetic life agrees with me anymore."

"Hm." Boyd doesn't look convinced, but he seems to decide to drop the matter because he continues, "Well, since I seem to have escaped buying you lunch – "

" – you'd love to buy me dinner at that new Lebanese place Kat was raving about instead?"

"Lebanese? Really?" He sounds sceptical and not at all enthusiastic.

Amused, Grace nods. "I'm game if you are."

The sparkling mischief is suddenly back in his eyes. "Oh, Grace, if only that were so."

He does it just because it amuses him. She's always known that. A touch of harmless flirtation to spice up the long working day. Doesn't mean a damn thing. Yet, no matter how hard she tries, she just can't seem to force herself to become totally immune to it. Used to it, yes; immune to it, no. It's hardly surprising someone as sharp and observant as Eve long ago put two and two together and came up with a big fat four. The anger's all gone now, leaving just a bitter taint of embarrassment. She'll apologise later, Grace decides. Blame it all on the stress of the last few weeks. Eve will understand.

Settling behind her desk, she says, "It's okay, I'm joking. The 'swift birthday drink' at the Nelson will probably go on half the night anyway. You can buy me a packet of pork scratchings instead."

Boyd shrugs. "Fair enough. Never let it be said I don't know how to treat a lady."

-oOo-

The afternoon progresses steadily and without incident. The pile in Grace's in-tray becomes a manageable hillock instead of a terrifying mountain. Most of it is what Boyd would certainly term 'administrative bollocks' – forms that need signing, reports that need initialling. Tedious stuff, but soothing in a way. The calm before the storm. Or between storms. One or the other. Kat brings coffee, Spencer alternately moans and jokes; Boyd appears and disappears at whim in his usual unpredictable fashion. Completely normal. When Eve passes through the squad room, Grace makes a point of smiling and exchanging a few casual words, but she senses a certain coolness, a distance between them. It's understandable, and she is still determined to apologise, if not to try and explain. She's not sure she can explain the unexplainable.

Minutes later Eve rematerialises from Boyd's office and heads for the stairs without sparing anyone a glance. Not altogether unusual. It's highly possible she's caught him at a bad moment with news he didn't want to hear, and he's not a man to mince his words at the best of times. It is a surprise though, when he almost immediately appears in the doorway of his office and barks, "That'll do for today. Go on, get off to the Nelson before I realise what the time is." Startled glances are exchanged, but no-one seems interested in arguing. Grace raises her eyebrows just as he looks in her direction and adds, "Grace. A word."

A cold, heavy weight seems to tumble through her, ending up in the pit of her stomach. Surely Eve hasn't made some sort of complaint? The idea is plainly ridiculous, but…

"Can't it wait?" Spencer asks, already on his feet and pulling on his topcoat. "Can't have birthday drinks without the birthday girl, sir."

"She won't be far behind you, Spence. Go on, get the hell out of here, and collect Eve on your way." Turning back towards his office, Boyd throws over his shoulder, "Grace."

No point in trying to delay the inevitable. Her body seems to be reluctant to move, however, and it's more of an effort than it should be to drag herself to her feet and head across the large gloomy space to Boyd's lair. She doesn't know whether it's a good sign or not that he isn't sitting behind his desk waiting for her, but is leaning against it, arms folded across his broad chest. He watches her approach and instructs, "Shut the door."

She does so. "What's on your mind?"

He doesn't waste any time. "Eve. I hear there was a bit of an altercation earlier."

Struggling to believe that her colleague would actually go to Boyd with such a thing, she tries a nonchalant shrug. "It was nothing. Just… a silly misunderstanding."

The deep dark eyes are watching her intently. "One that involved a breakage, I gather."

Simultaneously outraged and mortified, Grace shakes her head. "I can't believe she bothered you with something so trivial."

"She didn't. I caught her trying to effect repairs when I went to see how she was getting on with the Balham remains." Boyd straightens up and reaches behind him, picking something off his desk. A moment later he's holding up a – remarkably complete – video tape. "Apparently if you know what you're doing you can re-shell these things."

Staring almost mesmerised at the tape, Grace manages, "Oh."

"Though," he continues, "after doing so, it's advisable to transfer the contents to a more stable type of media as soon as possible."

Dawning suspicion makes her give him a narrow-eyed look. "You knew, didn't you? You knew all the time what was in that package. Michael told you what he'd sent over."

Boyd shakes his head. "Not exactly."

"What, then? I warn you, Boyd, I'm not finding this remotely funny."

"Oh, Grace," another slow shake of the head, "sometimes you really disappoint me. I asked him to send it to you."

Not at all what she expected to hear. "You…? What? Why?"

"Well, not that specific tape," he clarifies. "I knew he had a load of pictures and stuff from the old days squirrelled away somewhere, so I asked him to find something… suitable… for your birthday."

"Why?" she repeats. It makes no sense. "Why on earth would you do that?"

"Because I thought it would amuse you?" He shrugs, his manner now surprisingly diffident. Rubs a hand over his neat goatee beard. "I don't know. It just seemed like a bit of fun. There was no Machiavellian agenda, Grace."

She stares at him for a long moment before reaching out to take the tape from his hand. "I'll never understand you, Boyd. Not if I live to be a hundred. Thank you."

His pensive expression brightens. "Did it make you laugh?"

"Oh, yes – but not nearly as much as it made Eve laugh." Her smile fades. "I really should go and apologise to her."

"Not like you," he comments. "Losing your temper like that."

He knows her too well. "I told you, I'm tired. Always makes me irritable."

Boyd's reply is sardonic. "Really? I'd never noticed that."

It's time to change the subject. Before he starts to ask awkward questions about the reasons for what happened in the lab. Straight-faced, Grace holds the tape up. "I never realised you were so lanky."

He snorts. "You should have seen me in my twenties, Grace. Nearly six foot, and thin as a rake. Looked bloody ridiculous in uniform."

"Now that's a photo I'd love to see."

"I bet." He tilts his head a fraction. "Maybe there was a bit of an ulterior motive."

"Ah, now the truth starts to come out. I knew it. So…?"

"So… maybe I wanted to… I don't know…" Another helpless shrug. He's clearly struggling. "Maybe I just… wanted you to see another side of me. To show you I wasn't always such a stressed-out, bad-tempered ogre."

"You're not an ogre, Boyd." She searches his expression for a clue to what's going on in his head. "Why?"

He seems to change his mind, to back off. "It's not important."

"There's something you're not quite saying," Grace pronounces slowly, "but that's okay. I'll get it out of you after a few drinks."

"You think?"

"Oh, I don't just think, I know."

-oOo-

She's a lucky woman. The thought comes to her after several glasses of decent red wine. She may have long-ago waved goodbye to the energy and vibrancy of youth, but she has a good life. A comfortable and reasonably happy life, replete with success and good friends. She has her own home, a job she loves, and friends and colleagues who go out of their way to spoil her. It's all a bit saccharine, and Grace doesn't dare give voice to the thoughts, particularly with Boyd in earshot, but she's a lucky woman, and that's worth a lot. Tomorrow, when everything's returned to normal, and she's frowning at the inevitable friction caused by too much stress in too small a working environment, she will feel differently, but not tonight. Tonight she is happy. Content.

Another glass or two and it's time to go home. Nowhere near inebriated, she is nonetheless extremely relaxed, and it doesn't really surprise her when Spencer gently takes hold of her elbow, helping to steer her towards the door as she says her final goodbyes. She wishes, sometimes, that she had a son like Spencer Jordan. Solid, reliable and kind. Nothing much rattles him, and he's always there when he's needed. One day, when he finally steps out of Boyd's towering shadow, he will really blossom. She hopes he doesn't leave it too late.

"I'll drive her home, Spence," a familiar voice says. He sounds amused and serene. Gentle, even.

"I'm quite capable of getting a taxi," she tells them both with dignified asperity. "I don't need looking after."

"Just let the man drive you, Grace," Spencer advises, stooping to place a kiss on her cheek before releasing his steadying grip on her arm. "Happy birthday."

It's cold outside, an edgy winter cold that bites through her coat without effort and reminds her that Christmas is not too far away. Without daring to think too much about it, she slips her arm through Boyd's. He's solid and blessedly warm. A good excuse to hold on tightly as they start down the street towards his parked car. Falling just little bit more in love with the difficult, infuriating man day by inevitable day is frustrating and disconcerting, not to mention somewhat embarrassing for a woman of her age and professional status, but somehow it's never really a chore.

She says, "So, come on, then, Boyd. Tell me more about this ulterior motive of yours. You wanted me to see another side of you… because?"

They come to a halt beside the car and she slips her arm free. The few other people on the street braving the evening chill don't pay them any attention. Boyd looks down at her, expression unreadable. "Don't you know?"

He's a master of ambiguity. It's exasperating, and never more so when she's damn certain something important isn't being said. It's not fair, the way he expects her to accurately read between the lines, but demands absolute clarity in return. Irked, she replies with a blunt, "No."

"Hm." Boyd doesn't blink. Doesn't move at all, just continues to gaze down at her. It's very unnerving. She's about to challenge him when he says, "I owe you an apology."

Confused, Grace frowns. "What? Why?"

"I forgot something."

"Eh?"

"Birthday kiss," he elucidates. For a moment she's certain her heart has stopped beating. Then, as if to compensate, it starts to pound rapidly. Damn the man. As if it's not bad enough being teased by –

He's serious. The lips that find hers are surprisingly soft, but for once there is nothing ambiguous about the message. It's not rough, not quick and reckless. It's deliberate and persuasive, and she finds herself responding eagerly to it. No conscious decision, no moment of choice, just instinct and long-suppressed desire. Only when Boyd draws back a fraction does Grace feel the heat rushing into her cheeks. She is who she is, can't change now, and accordingly she hears herself say, "Well, that was… unexpected. I don't think – "

Boyd's strategy seems to be simple. Kiss the pointless words away. It's remarkably effective.

Eve was wrong, a distant part of her mind reflects just before it turns its attention to far more interesting things. This might just be the best birthday present ever. Or at least the precursor to it…

- the end -