DISCLAIMER – I own nothing.

A/N: This one was a mini-challenge set by Never Stop Believing in Love when I was struggling with a nasty case of writer's block... so I guess it's all her fault! Dedicated to her and the rest of the FB OHT - and to B/G shippers far and wide.

You and Me, Babe

by Joodiff

A lovestruck Romeo sings a streetsuss serenade

Laying everybody low with a lovesong that he made

Finds a convenient streetlight steps out of the shade

Says something like you and me babe how about it?

- Dire Straits, "Romeo and Juliet"

Boyd does not like being cold-shouldered. Not at all. A fact Grace is well aware of. There's very little that catches his attention faster than being pointedly ignored and as the long working day slowly passes she resolutely continues to treat him with the sort of remote, glacial courtesy absolutely guaranteed to pique both his temper and his interest. He deserves it. He thoroughly deserves it. He, of course, appears to be completely mystified by her sudden, uncharacteristic coolness, and that's just another reason why he so richly deserves everything he's getting. Impatience and bemusement have already been and gone, as have sarcasm and sulking. The clock's ticking for Boyd, even if he doesn't know it, and if he doesn't make some move towards contrition very, very soon…

From her position seated behind her desk Grace can see him very clearly. He's centre stage in the squad room, and she feels a slight twinge of sympathetic guilt as she watches him irritably throwing his weight around. She accepts that it's entirely her fault he's in such a foul mood – even though as far as she's concerned he's brought it all on himself – and that Spencer and Mel really don't deserve to be the main focus of his considerable ire. But she's not going to give in now. Even if she is currently in some danger of ending up behaving almost as childishly as he so often does.

So Boyd doesn't like being ignored? So what? It's his own damned fault.

Pointedly shuffling papers for the benefit of anyone who might care to glance in her direction, Grace continues to covertly study him as he growls at his patient subordinates. Studying Boyd is always a diverting pastime. From a psychologist's point of view, he's a very interesting man; an enigmatic and contradictory mix of wildly opposing thoughts and emotions, all of which can tumble over each other at any given moment. He's smart, he's funny and he's attractive, but he is also proud, stubborn and volatile. The tenacity and uncertain temperament of a pit-bull on the one hand, and the gentle vulnerability of a trusting child on the other. Contradictory. Contrary. Infuriating.

She likes him a lot.

But it's still all his own fault that she's cold-shouldering him.

Greta Simpson. She can't even think the name without an almost imperceptible but definitely contemptuous curl of the lip. Before Greta, everything seemed to be moving slowly but surely in the right direction, and then…

Grace glowers to herself. It's definitely time to pack up and go home for the weekend.

-oOo-

Twenty-four hours later, as the evening draws in, Grace is comfortably ensconced on her sofa with a glass of wine, an interesting book and the gentle, unintimidating sound of Radio Three playing in the background. The day has been pleasant – lunch with an old friend from long-ago student days a definite highlight – and she isn't predisposed to think about work or Peter Boyd, let alone about Doctor Greta Simpson. Most of her deep annoyance has passed and become rueful frustration – which is too often her default position where Boyd is concerned. The world continues to turn, and on Monday Grace knows she will return to the CCU's gloomy basement headquarters and grudgingly accept the haughty olive branch Boyd will inevitably wave in her general direction. He will still have absolutely no idea what he's done to incur her displeasure, and she will simply wearily shake her head and put the whole ridiculous thing behind her. It's the way they usually do things.

Accordingly, the loud, unexpected knocking on her front door that makes her jump doesn't automatically make her think of him. Even though they have steadily moved from being merely colleagues to being good friends, they still very rarely have much contact at the weekends unless the CCU is involved in the kind of high-profile investigation that requires extended working hours and much impromptu discussion. No, getting to her feet and heading for the door, all Grace is really wondering is whether or not to firmly admonish her unidentified visitor for the unnecessary amount of noise being generated. The barrage of knocking is solid, determined, and it reverberates unpleasantly through the lower floor of the small, quiet house.

Pursing her lips in irritation, she turns the lock and pulls the front door open. She expects to see a friend or a neighbour; she even expects the hopeful face of an unsolicited commercial caller. She does not expect to see Boyd. She actually blinks quickly in surprise, but he doesn't vanish like some phantom trick of the mind. He simply remains standing on the path to her door, large as life and swaying very slightly. It's the ingenuous half-smile and the amenable look in his dark eyes rather more than that faint swaying that actually betrays him. For want of anything better, Grace says accusingly, "Oh, God. You're drunk."

"I am," he agrees lugubriously, and waves vaguely in the direction of the street behind him. "Taxi."

There are a lot of things she could say. A lot of things. She settles on an exasperated, "What on earth are you doing here?"

He shrugs, shoulders hunching nonchalantly under an expensive-looking casual jacket. "I was passing."

Grace rolls her eyes pointedly. "This is Finchley, Boyd. You live in Greenwich."

"Ah ha," he says, sounding vaguely, childishly triumphant. "But I've been at Bushey all afternoon watching the Met's finest grind the Royal Navy into the dirt."

Things abruptly become much clearer. Rugby. Alcohol. Rather too much of the latter, it seems. Grace realises he's gazing at her expectantly and against her better judgement she hears herself reluctantly say, "Well, I suppose you'd better come in, then."

-oOo-

He steadfastly declines the tartly-suggested black coffee and helps himself to her Scotch. A liberal amount, Grace notices; it's no odds to her. She's not overly fond of whiskey and never has been. Unlike Boyd, she doesn't keep a bottle permanently stashed in the bottom drawer of her desk. Then, in all fairness, he doesn't keep the odd bottle or two of Merlot hidden away in his office for emergencies. Resuming her former position on the sofa, she asks bluntly, "Why are you here?"

Collapsing into the armchair by the fireplace, he says, "Not really up to deep philosophical questions tonight."

Grace sighs. Heavily. "Just how much have you had to drink?"

Boyd seems to consider the question very seriously before answering, "Dunno. Not sure. Ran into some of the boys from Central Ops."

Which explains a great deal. Grace sighs again. "And I suppose they thought it would be absolutely hilarious to pour enough booze to sink a battleship down your throat. You never learn, do you?"

His reply is an artless, "You're really very pissed off with me, aren't you?"

"Whatever gave you that idea?" Grace asks dryly.

"I'm a detective," he tells her solemnly. "I can tell."

"Go away," she tells him, not altogether seriously. "Go home and sober up. In fact, go anywhere that isn't here."

Boyd smiles. Worse, Boyd smiles the slow, gentle smile that never fails to have a very unfortunate effect on her. It's a ridiculously angelic smile, one a whole universe away from the normal wry, boyish grin that's his absolute speciality. Even worse, there's dark velvet in the deep voice that replies, "You know you don't mean that, Grace."

Sadly for her, he tends to be a very engaging drunk. He never gets maudlin or aggressive – quite the contrary, in fact. He usually becomes placid and easy-going, a little clumsy, a little thoughtful; it's as if an excess of alcohol damps down his ferocious temper rather than ignites it. A drunken Boyd is generally a very mellow Boyd. And a very mellow Boyd is potentially a very dangerous Boyd; potentially dangerous for Grace, anyway.

Refusing to allow herself to be quite so easily charmed, she says, "You still haven't told me why you're here."

"I came to see you," Boyd replies, with the over-emphatic air of someone who feels he's patiently explaining the blindingly obvious.

"Why?"

"Because I wanted to." The way he tilts his head slightly to one side as he gazes at her is ridiculously disarming.

"I see," Grace says calmly, but she's not sure that she does; not really. An unworthy, childish touch of malice makes her ask, "Are you quite sure you wouldn't rather be paying Greta a visit?"

The fact that he immediately looks genuinely bewildered goes quite a long way to soothing her residual displeasure. He frowns. "Greta? Why?"

Grace stares at him. Surely he can't possibly be as naïve as his response seems to imply? Of course he can't. Can he? Surely now he must realise what's been needling her so badly for the last few days…?

It appears not. He still looks bemused. Well, she's not going to spell it out for him. She says, "Forget it."

"Wait," Boyd says slowly, and Grace has a horrible feeling the truth is finally beginning to dawn on him. The bemused expression gives way to a mixture of incredulity and sly delight. "Hang on… That's why…? Greta…?"

"Stop it," she grumbles. "Just stop it."

He snorts in obvious amusement. "Greta…?"

Her remaining patience ebbs away completely. "Injured innocence doesn't suit you, Boyd. I know damned well you fancied her."

Boyd is grinning. Infuriatingly. "I fancy lots of women."

Not something Grace needs or wants to be reminded of. Anyone who knows him knows he has a more than healthy eye for the ladies. Sourly, she says, "And don't we all know it. Can we change the subject now?"

"I fancy you."

"Stop it," Grace tells him again, this time putting a sharp edge on her tone. It irritates her that her pulse seems to have quickened.

The grin hasn't abated, but suddenly there's more than a touch of heat in his gaze. "Why? It's perfectly true."

"You're drunk."

Boyd nods amiably. "Drunk and dis… disinhibited? Uninhibited? Yeah. That. Doesn't mean it's not true."

"I don't think we should continue this conversation," Grace says, alarm-bells tolling loudly in the back of her mind. There's a whole minefield of trouble ahead unless they turn back very, very soon – she can see it quite clearly in all its deadly hazards.

Evidently Boyd either can't see it through the drunken fog, or he doesn't give a damn about it, because his reply carries a note of amused complaint. "Why not? It was just starting to get interesting."

Grace gives him what she hopes is a withering look. Unsurprisingly, he doesn't wither. In fact, he just grins back at her again. Schoolboy grin, full of wild, deliberate mischief – but there's something more than mischief showing in his eyes. Something that looks very astute despite his considerable inebriation. More defensive than she intends, Grace says, "Grow up, Boyd."

He doesn't say a word, but the grin doesn't subside. For a moment she seriously contemplates getting up and slapping him. He polishes off the last of the whiskey in his glass in a swift, practised manoeuvre. She wonders how he does it, how he can possibly drink the wretched stuff neat. He holds out his glass. "Refill?"

"Aren't you drunk enough?" she chides.

"Being sober as a judge isn't compulsory at the weekends, Grace."

"You want it, you get it."

"Some hostess you are," Boyd complains as he gets to his feet. Long legs. Faded old Levis that cling in all the right places. Grace shouldn't pay too much attention, but she does. Can't really help it. She's so used to seeing him ruthlessly well-groomed and immaculately dressed in his sleek, expensive suits. The casual, slightly tousled look is a refreshing change. It absolutely suits him she decides, and mentally kicks herself for her weakness. He's fairly steady on his feet, but not particularly well-coordinated. She winces at the sound of the antique glass decanter colliding far too heavily with the whiskey tumbler, but thankfully nothing actually shatters.

Alarmingly, he now seems to be heading straight towards her with his replenished glass. She doesn't think sharing the sofa with him is a good idea – not while he's so drunk and she's so reluctantly enchanted. He's too good-looking, too charismatic. And incredibly annoying. As if to prove the point Boyd gestures with his glass. "Shove up."

"There's plenty of room. Over there."

"But I want to sit with you."

Grace almost gives in and laughs. For a grown man in his fifties, he's doing a very good impression of an extremely sulky little boy. One who's been refused access to a favourite toy. Before she can say anything, however, he flops down next to her in an untidy sprawl, his proximity so sudden and so startling that she moves automatically to prevent any further chance of accidental contact. He smirks, apparently sensing her discomfort, and offers, "You can sit on my lap if you want."

"For God's sake, Boyd," she says, forcing herself not to examine the invitation. "Appropriate behaviour…?"

"Bollocks," he says cheerfully. "It's the weekend and I'm off-duty. I mean it."

Confused, she asks, "What?"

"I fancy you. Always have."

She fidgets awkwardly, says, "You're going to hate yourself in the morning, you know that, don't you?"

He blinks slowly, owlishly. "Why is that so hard for you to accept?"

"Well, let me see," she says, falling back on heavy sarcasm. "Maybe it's because I know you. You're congenitally incapable of not flirting with any female between the age of eighteen and eighty."

"So?"

"Shut up and drink your Scotch, Boyd. You're such hard work."

He smiles that slow, captivating smile again. "I'm a pussycat."

"You're a pain in the backside; that's what you are."

For several long moments he regards her with drunken solemnity, and Grace wonders what he's thinking. What he's really thinking. He says, "I thought you liked me?"

"I do like you," she says patiently. Perhaps if she humours him…

"So…?"

There's a worrying intensity in the way he's watching her. She reminds herself firmly that he's drunk. Very drunk, in fact. But she's seen the way he sometimes looks at her when he's stone cold sober. A frisson of something dangerous and exciting runs up and down her spine, but she says flatly, "Too much whiskey, Boyd."

"You think I'm joking?"

"I think you're going to wake up with the mother and father of all hangovers tomorrow."

He ignores the castigation. "You're very good for me, Grace, you know that?"

That makes her laugh softly, ironically. Raising her eyebrows, she says, "Oh, come on… Now I know you've had far too much. I drive you absolutely mad."

"Yeah, you do," Boyd agrees. He takes a deep swallow of his drink and then says, "Always talking. Always spouting psycho-babble. Full of hypoth… hyp…"

"Hypothesis?"

He finds his way through the words, shakes his head. "Hypotheses, plural. Many of. And I thought having a permanent criminal profiler would be a good idea."

"You're heading for very thin ice, Boyd," Grace tells him, half-amused, half-irked.

"I knew you'd be trouble," he says, apparently oblivious. "Moment I first saw you, I knew you'd be trouble. Too clever by half; far too independent. I knew you'd run bloody rings round me."

It's her turn to smirk. "Still offered me the job, though, didn't you?"

Boyd grins, more to himself than at her. "'Course I did. And you took it."

"I did," she allows.

He let his head drop slightly to the side, apparently to study her better. "Why?"

"You know why," Grace says, trying not to roll her eyes. "It was a unique opportunity, a chance to – "

Boyd interrupts with, "What did they tell you about me?"

Sometimes his thoughts seem to run far too rapidly. She frowns. "Who? The Home Office?"

"Amongst others."

Choosing her words with care, Grace shrugs and says, "Highly-motivated, highly-decorated; impressive service record."

It seems he's not easily fooled, even when drunk. "And?"

"Individualistic," she admits.

"Doesn't play well with others?" Boyd guesses, a definite glint in his eye.

"If you like."

"Difficult? Hard-to-please? Borderline workaholic?"

Grace nods. "That, too."

"Divorced misfit with a missing son and a big chip on his shoulder?"

Not liking the direction he's heading in, she says, "Boyd – "

"Just asking," he says. He shrugs, finishes his drink and leans forward to place his glass on the floor. "Thing is, Grace, for all that, I'm not a bad guy; not at heart."

"Oh, I know that," she says. Determined to change the subject, she offers, "Look, why don't I make you some coffee and call you a cab?"

"No."

The laconic response surprises her. "No?"

"I might be a bit too drunk to spell this out properly for you, Grace, but I'm doing my best."

She sighs in frustration. "Spell what out?"

Boyd sighs, too. "God's sake… I like you, okay? I really like you. And I'm pretty sure you like me, too. So why don't we stop pissing about and just…?"

How it's happened, Grace isn't sure, but he somehow seems to be much closer to her than he was a few moments before. Closer than he should be; certainly closer than is wise. Not as close as she wants him to be. Can't happen, she tells herself firmly. Not going to happen. Flustered and desperately trying to hide it, she says, "I'm going to make that coffee."

Faster than she could ever have predicted, Boyd catches hold of her, preventing her from rising. His grip is firm, but drunk or not, the amount of strength required to stop her leaving the sofa is perfectly calculated. She's categorically not going anywhere, but he's nowhere near hurting her. She stares blankly at the sinewy fingers clamped around her wrist for a moment. Carefully, she says, "Boyd…"

"Grace."

Even closer now, she realises. Dangerously close. Too close. He's definitely going to kiss her, and heaven help her, she thinks she's going to let him. Knows she's going to let him, in fact, however much regret she already foresees in the near future. Perhaps Boyd senses her tacit acquiescence because he slowly releases his grip and reaches up to stroke her cheek with the back of his fingers. Light touch; surprisingly light, surprisingly gentle. Dark, dark eyes, very close. Whiskey fumes and the warmth radiating from his skin. Even closer.

Bad idea.

But.

He's kissing her. And it's… a little rough, a little clumsy. But it's… okay. Okay and getting better. Actually becoming very… nice. Nice? Stupid word. Definitely a bit rough, his beard harsh against her skin. But suddenly it doesn't matter because he's finding his way with increasing dexterity, determinedly cajoling a response from her. Something's happening and Grace isn't sure either of them really has any control over it. The kiss is getting deeper, more demanding, and her heart seems to be pounding faster and faster.

Very bad idea.

Feels so good; feels so damned right.

But he's drunk.

And she's not.

Pulling away from him feels completely counterintuitive, but Grace forces herself to do it and puts her palm flat on his chest to maintain the suddenly-regained distance. She reads confusion in Boyd's expression – confusion, frustration and annoyance. He leans towards her again, and she increases the strength with which she braces against his chest. Her sudden resistance irritates him, she can see that quite clearly. Quietly, she says, "You're drunk, Boyd."

"So?"

"I think your judgement may be a little… impaired."

He groans. "Oh, God… Why do you always do this? Come out with – "

"Boyd."

He grumbles, but he backs off. Sullenly. They watch each other in wary silence for what feels like far, far too long.

He says, "I want you."

The words hit Grace low in her stomach, momentarily causing a deep, needy ache. It takes a lot of steel to say, "I'm not a mountain for you to climb, Boyd. Not a challenge for you to conquer."

His reply is a sulky, "I thought you said you liked me?"

Caught on the proverbial double-edged sword, Grace says, "I do like you. It's just… not that easy."

"Of course it bloody is. C'mon, Grace, we're both consenting adults here…" Boyd snaps back, characteristic stubbornness and intolerance momentarily taking hold.

Quietly, she tells him, "I think you should go. Before one of us says or does something we both end up regretting."

She expects a tantrum. Expects him to growl and storm. He doesn't. He abruptly switches tactics, gives her a look that she can only describe as deliberately woebegone and says, "I thought you… we… You know."

Refusing to make it easy for him, she enquires, "What?"

He shrugs in a helpless sort of way. "You and me. We get along, don't we?"

"Boyd, we fight like cat and dog."

He gestures impatiently. "Yeah, but that's just work, though, isn't it? Come on, you know how I feel about you."

She laughs without any real humour. "I assume that's a joke?"

Boyd shakes his head in obvious bemusement. "No. Why would it be?"

"Seriously?" Grace asks, not able to keep the incredulous note out of her voice.

He slumps back, all the fight apparently knocked out of him. "Women."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Why are women so complicated? Why do you say one thing and do another? It's not exactly fair, is it? How the hell is a poor dumb copper like me supposed to know where the hell he is? One minute I think you're giving me all the right signals, the next…"

Haughtily, Grace asks, "This is all somehow my fault?"

"I came to see you," he says, as if it explains absolutely everything. "I'm a very simple sort of guy – "

"Ha."

" – I work like a bloody dog, and I don't ask for much in return. I thought you liked me."

"Will you stop saying that?" Grace snaps at him. "I do like you. But getting drunk and trying to leap on me – "

His mood shifts abruptly and he grins, seemingly unfazed by her admonition. "Oh, come on… I couldn't leap if I tried. The whole world's spinning as it is."

"Exactly my point. You're only here because you got drunk and it seemed like a good idea at the time."

He gazes at her remarkably steadily. "Wrong. I'm here because I wanted to see you. I'm here because I'm a bloody idiot who doesn't know what the hell to do about the mess he's got himself into."

"That's easy – go home and sleep it off."

Boyd abruptly sits up straight again and runs his fingers through his hair, the brilliant silver strands gleaming amongst the darker grey. "That's not what I mean. You're the mess I'm in."

"Thank you," Grace says tartly. "You have such a way with words."

"Stop it, for fuck's sake," he growls. "I'm trying to tell you how I feel."

"I really wish you wouldn't."

He glares at her. "Why, because I'm plastered?"

"That's not helping, certainly," she says wryly.

"You're so… verbose."

Grace laughs again, but this time she is amused. Most definitely. "'Verbose'? Well, that's a new one, I suppose."

Boyd shakes his head and glares at the floor. "Christ, what the hell is it I see in you?"

"I have no idea."

He lifts his head and stares straight at her. "That's it, isn't it…? That's the answer."

"What are you talking about?" Grace asks him patiently.

"You have absolutely no idea what I see in you, do you…? Oh, for… Grace, I may be very drunk, but for such an intelligent woman you can be incredibly dense sometimes."

"That's it," she says decisively, and gets to her feet too quickly for him to lean forward and stop her. "I'm calling you a cab."

Grace actually has her hand on the phone before his hands fall on her shoulders. She jumps, both from the unexpected touch and from what it conveys. Behind her, Boyd's voice is remarkably soft. "You can send me away with a flea in my ear, and when I wake up tomorrow I'll be painfully sober – but I'll still feel the exactly same way about you."

"Don't," she says, but she makes no attempt to pick up the receiver.

"You think I don't know what I'm saying, is that it? Or that I'm just telling you what I think you want to hear to get you into bed?"

"Don't."

"You're wrong," he says. "Don't ask me to explain it because I can't – but you're wrong."

Too many things are churning inside her – hope, doubt, confusion, fear…

She wants to shake him off, but the feel of his hands on her shoulders is beguiling. She thinks her voice sounds stupidly timid as she says, "Boyd…"

"Look," he says quietly. "If you want me to go, I'll go. But it won't change a damn thing. I'll still lie awake at night thinking about you, and you'll… Well, whatever."

Grace closes her eyes for a moment. When she opens them again, she stares determinedly at the blank cream wall in front of her. "Why now? Why tonight?"

A slight chuckle precedes, "Dutch courage? Maybe I was still smarting from yesterday, I don't know."

"Greta."

"Greta," he agrees quietly. She thinks that's it, but he continues, "Yeah, of course she caught my eye. You know damned well she did. You know what I'm like…"

Grace snorts. "And you wonder why I'm having difficulty with whatever it is you're not quite managing to say?"

"That it's you that I want? That I think you and I could be very good together? That – "

"All right, I get the picture," she interrupts quickly.

"And still you can't bear to hear it, can you? And I'm supposed to be the dysfunctional one."

Stung, she says, "I never said you were dysfunctional."

"I can read between the lines. And stop changing the subject – my head's splitting and I'm having trouble keeping up with the conversation as it is."

Silence falls between them. Tense, uncomfortable, but not hostile. The weight of his hands remains on her shoulders, unfamiliar but strangely natural. Grace feels him shift his weight slightly, closes her eyes again as she feels the prickle of his beard against her neck, feels his lips trace a soft line between ear and shoulder. Delicately, gently done. Very precise. It makes her shiver despite herself, that caress – the one that not only speaks of affection and arousal, but of experience. He knows what he's doing. He knows exactly what he's doing. In a way, that hurts. Foolish.

She's close to surrendering. Very close. But a spark of real defiance makes her say, "I'm not jumping into bed with you just because you fancy a drunken fumble."

Boyd chuckles softly, kisses her neck again. "That's right, Grace – break it to me gently."

She starts to turn, and he lets her, but his hands don't fall away. He's so close that she's forced to look up at him, and she does, studying his strangely neutral expression. The eyes, though – the eyes tell a different story. They are alert, amused and far more genial than she expects. Slowly, she says, "We need to talk about this."

"Why do we?"

"Don't be naïve, Boyd. We work together, we have all sorts of professional obligations and – "

Again, his mood changes, impatience replacing amused tolerance. "Why the hell do you think I've tried so hard to keep away from you? Don't tell me what I already know."

From nowhere she seems to have found some equilibrium. Suddenly Grace feels as if she's back in control. She shrugs. "Either we talk or you go home. It's up to you."

Boyd frowns darkly, clearly not pleased with the limited choices on offer. Eventually, though, he growls, "Fine. We'll talk. But I don't know what the fuck you expect me to say."

"What do you want?"

"You," he says with childish tenacity.

She sighs in frustration. "If you're not going to take this seriously…"

Boyd finally releases her shoulders to hold his hands up, palms towards her. "All right, all right. I get it, Grace. I'm too tired and too drunk to do this. I give up, okay? I knew coming here tonight was a bad idea."

"But you did it anyway."

"Yeah," he says, stepping away from her. A ghost of a smile flickers across his face. "Yeah, I did."

"Why?"

"You know why," he grumbles. "I've told you why. Show some mercy, for God's sake. I'm struggling here."

"I'm giving you one chance at this," Grace says serenely, her mind made up. "One chance to explain yourself properly. Don't waste it."

He looks at her, and slowly and against all the odds he starts to laugh. It doesn't last long, his sudden mirth, but it leaves him genial again. A little drunk, a little unsteady, but amenable. "You're really enjoying this, aren't you?"

"I'm beginning to. Well?"

"'You and me, babe, how about it?'"

"Close the door quietly on your way out."

"It's a bloody song, Grace."

"I know."

He tilts his head, suddenly endearing again. "Give me another drink and I might be persuaded to sing it for you."

Grace isn't going to fall for the ingenuous charm. "Another splendid argument for sobriety."

"Well?"

"Well, what?"

"You and me, babe…?"

"You are so drunk."

Boyd just smiles. Angelically.

-oOo-

Waiting for the kettle to boil, Grace stares out into the darkness beyond the kitchen window. Her back garden is shadowy, the details hidden, but beyond it she can see lights in the windows of the houses in the street that backs onto hers. Her thoughts run in predictable directions, ultimately all converging on the man lounging on her sofa. She's not sure she's just made the wisest decision of her life, but she has a strong suspicion that whether the road ahead is good or bad, it will be exciting. Where it will lead, she doesn't know, but she's never been afraid to face the unknown.

The kettle clicks off, and she makes his coffee – black, instant – mechanically, not really needing to think about it. It might sober him up a bit, it might not. If all else fails, she's tough enough and assertive enough to make him pace up and down in the garden until the chilly night air does its job and clears his head. When she's quite sure he's no danger to himself or anyone else, she'll call him a cab and send him home. Or not, depending on just how sober he is, and how hard he works to be allowed to stay.

She doesn't doubt he'll lead her a merry dance given half a chance, but Grace has a few tricks of her own held quietly in reserve. Age and experience are very good allies to have when dealing with a man like Peter Boyd, no doubt about it.

She carries the gently steaming mug of coffee through to the living room, walking in with, "Here, don't say…"

The words trail away. He's no longer lounging. Now, he's sprawled out full-length, one arm hanging loosely over the edge of the sofa, the other clamped firmly over his eyes. And there's absolutely no doubt that he's sound asleep because he's snoring softly to himself.

Grace gazes at him for several long, contemplative moments. Then she shrugs in a very pragmatic, philosophical sort of way. She puts the mug on the coffee table, turns the radio's volume down slightly and switches off the lights. Boyd never stirs, just carries on snoring gently.

So she simply leaves him there and goes upstairs to bed.

It's a very deliberate ploy. If Grace knows him half as well as she thinks she does, the morning will see him not only spectacularly hung-over, but suitably penitent. And a penitent Boyd is a very malleable Boyd.

Grace believes in starting things exactly how she means to go on with them.

- the end -

I can't do the talk like they talk on TV

And I can't do a love song like the way it's meant to be

I can't do everything but I'd do anything for you

I can't do anything except be in love with you

- Dire Straits, "Romeo and Juliet"

A/N: ...And Never Stop Believing in Love's challenge to me was (more-or-less)... get Boyd absolutely plastered and have him attempt to tell Grace in typically ham-fisted and Boyd-like fashion how he feels about her. lol.