DISCLAIMER: I own nothing.
Dedicated to… shippers far and wide.
Cinderella
by Joodiff
A woman should soften but not weaken a man. – Sigmund Freud
The sound of Grace laughing makes Boyd look up. His office door is open, and he can see her clearly; she's sitting next to Eve in the squad room, evidently deep in conversation and her expression is open, animated. Happy. It makes him smile, just a little. He doesn't expect it to also momentarily tighten his chest, but it does. Studiously, he looks back down at the paperwork spread across his desk. Incredibly tedious stuff; reams of reports that he has to read carefully and then laboriously initial. Painfully dull. He glances surreptitiously at his watch. Almost eleven in the morning. Definitely time to indulge in a break, but he finds himself curiously hesitant to disturb the two women who are talking in such an absorbed, friendly way. Boyd almost feels that with Spencer and Kat out of the office, he would be an unwelcome intruder.
They have become very close in the last six months, the two CCU consultants. It doesn't surprise him, and he's glad that Eve has been there to offer friendship and support, but there is a tiny, unworthy part of him that is just a little jealous, and that makes him angry with himself. Boyd realises abruptly that his gaze has unconsciously lifted, that he is watching Grace again. She looks healthy; strong. And yes, happy. The haunting fear that was in her has gone, and he's intensely glad. But he still wishes it had been him, not Eve, who'd been with her to hear that final positive verdict from the hospital. Would have been him, had it not been for unfortunate circumstance.
Grace glances up, catches him watching and smiles. Smiles straight at him, and the slight tilt of her head and the quizzical raise of her eyebrows are a clear invitation for him to join them. Conflicted, Boyd allows a very faint smile in return and looks back at his paperwork. He is head of this unit, a senior police officer who has worked incredibly hard for the position and responsibility he now holds. He is the one who summons; he is not summoned. Even as the thought goes through his head, Boyd mentally kicks himself for such an idiotic response. He is well aware that he has far too much stupid pride, and that it sometimes leads him down ridiculous roads.
It's just morning coffee. She's hardly attempting to issue orders to him. And even if she was, in reality wouldn't he actually capitulate in a heartbeat? Not a good thought. Not at all.
Grumpily, Boyd gets to his feet. Something in his back twinges sullenly, reminding him why he hates sitting stationary behind his desk for too long. He's getting old, and he doesn't like it one little bit. It's been slowly creeping up on him for years and it's getting harder and harder to ignore with every birthday; with every ache and pain. He flexes slightly, easing his spine, and walks across his office. He makes it to the doorway before Eve's voice says, "There's your answer. Ask Boyd."
They are both looking at him reflectively. One gaze very blue, one very dark. Both equally intense. That focused female stare is just a little intimidating, even though Boyd would never admit it to anyone. Suspiciously, he says, "Ask me what?"
"Cinderella wants to go to the ball, but she hasn't got a Prince Charming to take her," Eve says, her tone so nonchalant it is clearly feigned.
"Stop it," Grace says, directing a sharp glare at the younger woman. "Ignore her, Boyd."
"Perfect solution," Eve continues blithely. "He'll scrub up okay, and if you're really lucky he won't bite anyone."
The look Grace gives him is apologetic, but there's something else there, too, something that's being carefully, but not quite successfully concealed. Something a little… wistful. Boyd is still considering the fact when he hears his own voice say, "I'd comment if I actually had a clue what you were talking about."
"Grace has been invited to one of those fancy black-tie charity dos on the river," Eve says promptly. "But it's Doctor Foley plus one and she's being stubborn about the plus one. For heaven's sake, Boyd, do the gentlemanly thing, will you?"
"Eve," Grace protests, but again, Boyd detects a touch of the same wistfulness.
Peter Boyd is not a man to be pushed into things. In fact, his hackles are already rising in response to Eve's words. He's an idiot. He knows he's an idiot. Once again, he mentally kicks himself. Hard. Trying for an easy sort of insouciance, he says, "Plus one, eh?"
"Don't listen to her," Grace says hurriedly. "It's not my sort of thing, anyway."
Eve snorts.
Boyd is not the most perceptive man in the world when it comes to women, but he's wise enough and experienced enough to recognise the traditional female ploy of saying one thing and meaning something else entirely. And that hint of wistfulness has a powerful effect on him. Too powerful, maybe. He is, by nature, an impulsive sort of creature, rightly notorious for rushing in where the proverbial angels fear to tread, and he speaks out before he can dwell too closely on the matter. He says, "Prince Charming might be a push, but I can probably just about manage 'plus one'."
Grace looks surprised, slightly apprehensive. Eve merely looks insufferably smug.
-oOo-
So here he is, several days later, staring at himself in the bathroom mirror as he shaves and wonders whether it's too late to change his mind. He could still call her, could claim an unexpected emergency; a call-out to a crime scene, perhaps, or an urgent plea for assistance from another unit. Grace Foley is not the sort of woman who would create a fuss about such a thing; he knows she would be polite and philosophical, wouldn't complain or get angry. Perhaps he would actually be doing her a favour by cancelling…
He's not going to cancel. Boyd finishes shaving, runs a hand over his smooth cheek, over his neat goatee beard. Good enough. Turning his back on the mirror, he steps into the shower. He tries not to think about the night ahead, tries not to think about what he is doing and why. Shave, brisk shower, get dressed, get out to the car. Don't think too much. That's the best way. Don't think about Grace and the tentative happiness in her eyes as he casually formalised the details of how, when and where. Don't think about the part of him that is far too eager to do this little, inconsequential thing for her.
Shaved and showered, Boyd starts to get dressed. The slight vexation his expensive cufflinks cause him is nothing compared to the eternal, unfathomable challenge of the traditional black silk bowtie. But he is too proud, too stubborn and simply too vain to settle for the clip-on variety, so he ties and reties until it's right, even though it tests his patience to the absolute limit.
The very last thing he does before picking up his car keys and heading out of the house for the evening is to look at himself appraisingly in the hall mirror. A handsome, rather solemn and ruthlessly well-groomed middle-aged man in a dinner jacket looks back at him. He wonders vaguely what happened to the energetic, amiable young detective who invariably used to wear jeans and a scuffed leather jacket on a Saturday night, and then he walks towards the front door, his shoulders set absolutely square.
-oOo-
"Eve was right," Grace says, as he steps past her into the hallway of her comfortable Victorian terrace. "You do scrub up okay."
Quite deliberately, Boyd raises his eyebrows at her. He knows he looks good, and he knows she knows he knows it. It's a game. A game they seem to have fallen out of the habit of playing. He's not the only one who looks good he finally realises. He's no expert, but it strikes him that some considerable effort has been made. For him, or just for the evening in general? Boyd isn't entirely sure. Grace is looking at him in a steady, slightly amused fashion and it suddenly occurs to him that he is expected to say something appropriate. He doesn't mean to sound quite as gruff as he does as he says, "You look… nice."
"'Nice'?" Grace echoes.
Boyd winces. He is not good at this sort of thing. Never has been, never will be. He's told he is capable of a certain easy charm, but he's never really mastered the art of superficial flattery. He tries again. "Very… attractive."
She laughs, plainly far more amused than irked by his ineptitude. "Quit while you're ahead, Boyd; that's my advice."
He doesn't quite know how to deal with her in this kind of situation. At work, they are insulated by propriety and the presence of their colleagues. Idle flirtation between them at work is a given, though even that seems to have dwindled away over the years. This is an altogether more dangerous state of affairs. Deliberately self-deprecatory, he says, "I told you Prince Charming would be a stretch."
"Hmm," Grace says, sounding very non-committal.
She seems to be able do this to him far too easily – turn him from a mature, experienced man with a notable list of conquests to his name back into an insecure teenager with no idea of quite what to do or say. It irritates him – a lot. And it fascinates him, too. Boyd has no idea why she has such an effect on him. Or perhaps he does, and he simply doesn't dare examine the reason too closely. Or at all, in fact.
He clears his throat. "Come on, then, Cinderella. Let's go to the ball."
-oOo-
Boyd knows just how lost he actually is when he realises he is not staring at the striking, long-legged redhead in the unbelievably tight – and short – dress, but at the older woman on her left. The woman he sees every single working day; the woman who fearlessly defies him when he's wrong and supports him with truly astonishing ferocity when he's right. The redhead is very tall, very slim and very pretty. At a conservative estimate she is at least twenty-five years his junior, and even though she seems to be fiercely guarded by a stocky, pugnacious older man with virtually no neck, Boyd is fairly certain he could persuade her into giving him her phone number in fairly short order. He has an enviable collection of female phone numbers. Tragically, he enjoys the chase far more than the conquest – most of those numbers will remain forever uncalled.
The man with no neck is talking to Grace, and strangely, she seems to be listening intently. Maybe there is more to the man than Boyd has given him credit for. Grace is unfailingly courteous, but she doesn't suffer fools gladly. He watches as she smiles and nods, and it strikes him how incredibly lucky he is that she is still in his life. His stomach still tenses reflexively when he thinks of that terrible word… cancer. He does not want to think about that, not tonight. Not as they glide majestically down the Thames with a band playing, champagne flowing and an exhilarating nip of early spring chill in the air.
But, Christ, he's lucky.
Lucky she didn't die, lucky she's never been quite angry enough to walk away forever. Lucky, in fact, that she is prepared to tolerate the worst of him for the good she somehow seems to see in him.
Grace glances in his direction, perhaps sensing the intensity of his stare, and she smiles again. A lingering, limpid smile that is gentle, intimate and meant for him alone. And just for that single moment, Peter Boyd is a very, very happy man indeed.
-oOo-
"You're bored," Grace accuses him gently.
Boyd leans back against the boat's bow rail and shakes his head. "Not bored. Contemplative."
"Too much champagne will do that to you," she tells him lightly.
"I'm driving," he points out. "I've been on orange juice for the last two hours and I'm sick of the stuff."
"Poor Boyd," Grace says and the mischief in her eyes belies her earnest tone. "That's the trouble with boats, there's nowhere to run."
"I'm seriously thinking about jumping overboard," he tells her.
"Into the Thames? I hope you're a strong swimmer."
"I am," Boyd confirms, and it's actually the truth. "Just tell me you're enjoying yourself, that's all."
"I'm enjoying myself," Grace says obligingly. She smiles and pats him lightly on the shoulder. "Actually, I really am. I can't remember the last time I went to something like this. Thank you."
"You're welcome – but you owe me for this. Remember that."
"And knowing you, Boyd, you'll call in that debt at the most inopportune moment. One last big favour?"
Boyd knows that look. It's far too innocent. "What?"
"Dancefloor?"
"Now you're taking the piss," he growls. "Absolutely not, Grace. I don't do dancing, and you bloody know it."
She smiles at him.
-oOo-
It's not too bad, not to start with. The dancefloor is crowded and no-one is looking at them. The band is playing schmaltz, but he can just about tune that out. For Boyd, at least, things start to go wrong when they end up dancing far too slowly and far too closely. It isn't good for him to be so acutely aware of the soft curves of her body, or of the heady perfume rising from her warm skin. Not good for him at all. And the way she looks at him makes the whole thing so much worse. Her expression is knowing and amused, and deeply fond, and he doesn't think he can bear it. And just when he thinks there is no way the experience can become any more uncomfortable, Grace slips her arms around his neck. Which is just about tolerable until he feels her fingertips brushing idly through the short hair at the base of his skull. It's not good. It's not good because it's just… far too good.
Attempting a sort of worldly-wise banter, he says, "I think you may have had just a little too much champagne, Doctor Foley."
Her reply is overly-solemn. "I think you may be right, Detective Superintendent."
"If you end up totally plastered I'm calling Eve," Boyd warns. "This is entirely her fault, so she can put you to bed."
Oh, well done, Peter, a voice in his head says snidely. Shoot yourself in the bloody foot, why don't you?
But Grace just says, "You wouldn't do that for me?"
Get out of that one, smartarse…
Boyd thinks he can. Probably. He tries for a wicked grin. "I really don't think you'd want me to."
"Oh, I wouldn't mind," she says, and rests her head against his shoulder, effectively hiding her expression. "I definitely wouldn't mind."
There's probably a witty, debonair sort of answer to that. But he really can't think of one just at that moment.
-oOo-
"Dance with me," she says, not for the first time.
Boyd sighs. Mustering every ounce of patience and fortitude, he says, "No."
Grace gives him a look that is beautifully, enticingly sullen. "Why not?"
"Because," he says, not unreasonably in his own opinion, "We're standing on the Embankment, it's the middle of the night, it's bloody freezing and you're extremely drunk."
"I'm not extremely drunk," she tells him with considerable dignity. "Extremely drunk was about an hour ago."
Boyd shakes his head. "I'm still not dancing with you."
"You're just no fun, Boyd."
"Correct. I am a bad-tempered, misanthropic spoilsport. And you're still very drunk."
"And you're still very handsome, but I'm not complaining."
He can't help laughing. "That statement makes no sense whatsoever, Grace."
She looks at him for a moment, then starts to laugh herself. It's quite genuine, that laugh, nothing to do with the copious amount of champagne she's managed to consume. Not for the first time in their long acquaintanceship, Boyd is faintly awed by her ability to hold her drink. When he gets drunk he gets maudlin and eventually falls over. When Grace gets drunk she gets affectionate and just a little uninhibited, yes, but there is never a suggestion that she isn't completely, wryly aware of what she's doing. Which makes her next words more than a little unsettling.
"Forgiveness in advance, Boyd?"
He sees the trap – but walks into it anyway. "For what?"
"For this, obviously," Grace says, and Boyd isn't altogether surprised to find himself being briefly but quite deliberately kissed.
-oOo-
"I know you're angry," she says mildly from the passenger seat. "You always grind your teeth when you're angry."
"I'm not angry," Boyd says. True, he has been unconsciously grinding his teeth, but he's definitely not angry. He's deeply uncomfortable, he's restless and he has no idea how to extricate himself from the situation he finds himself in, but he's not angry. He concentrates on driving, hoping that everything will just go away if he ignores it long enough.
"I'm sorry I took advantage of you," Grace says. As an apology it would, he feels, be marginally more effective if she didn't sound quite so much as if she was about to start laughing again. "I faithfully promise never to make such an outrageous assault on your virtue ever again."
"That doesn't actually make me feel better, Grace," Boyd says. Which probably isn't the wisest retort, under the circumstances. He hopes she doesn't pick up on the ambiguity of the statement.
She does. Of course she does. "You don't want me to promise never to make an assault on your virtue again?"
"Oh, shut up," he tells her, but without asperity. "Go to sleep or something. Just don't throw up in my car."
"I'm really nowhere near as drunk as you're implying, Boyd."
"I hope you bloody are," Boyd mutters sotto voce.
She hears him. Shoots him a surprisingly incisive look. "Why? Because if I was extremely drunk you could convince yourself it was just the champagne talking?"
"Exactly," he says. There doesn't seem to be any point in lying. "And stop looking at me like that."
"Or…?"
Boyd keeps his eyes firmly on the road ahead. "Shut up, Grace."
-oOo-
"It's just a night-cap," she says, looking at him askance.
He wonders if she has any idea of what she's doing to him. He thinks not. Grace can certainly be mischievous, just as she can be flirtatious, but she is never cruel. Presumably she thinks she's bantering with him, playing that arcane, age old game that they both thoroughly enjoy; Boyd doesn't believe for a moment that she is deliberately tormenting him. Wonders how she would react if she realised just how uncomfortable every idle, throwaway comment is making him. Fatalistically, he says, "Not a good idea, Grace."
She frowns. "Oh, come on, Boyd. It was just a silly, spur of the moment thing. Surely you're not actually offended? I've said I'm sorry – what else do you want me to do? I'm well aware that you'd far rather be pounced on by someone only just out of university but – "
He can't stop himself groaning. "Oh, God, here we go…"
She gives him the innocent look. "What? I'm just stating a fact."
"Hyperbole, Grace."
"And the last woman you slept with was how old?"
A flash of memory makes Boyd wince. The gleeful celebration of a successful prosecution, a little too much whiskey, a little too much flirtation with a particularly attractive young barrister. A definite moment of quite deliberately ignoring his better judgement, and the subsequent climbing into a taxi headed for a rather nice flat in Maida Vale. Actually, Grace may have a point. Grudgingly, he admits, "Thirty-something."
She snorts. "Barely thirty-something, from what I heard."
Thanks, Spence…
Aloud, "It was nothing."
"Exactly my point," Grace says, sounding vaguely triumphant. "It was nothing; so stop behaving like a traumatised adolescent and come in and have a night-cap. Or a coffee, at least."
"It's gone two in the morning, Grace…"
"And…?"
Grumbling, Boyd gets out of the car.
-oOo-
There are an infinite number of places he'd rather be at that moment, Boyd quickly decides. In the car. At work. Safely tucked up alone in his own bed. Interviewing a suspect. A genuinely infinite number of places. The house feels uncomfortably warm after the chilly spring night air, but the last thing he wants to do is remove his dinner jacket. He's already struggling without compounding things for himself. He stays firmly in the kitchen doorway watching Grace as she sets about making coffee. The steady confidence with which she moves tells him that she's far more sober now than she was. Which is either very good, or very bad.
Grace looks round at him, "Black or white?"
"Black," he says. "Might have half a chance of staying awake long enough to get home safely."
"You're getting old, Boyd."
He thinks it's fairly safe to allow himself a slight smirk. "But you will always be older, Grace."
"You're so gallant."
"I am," Boyd agrees, wishing the curve of her hip wasn't quite so enticingly outlined by the material of her elegantly understated evening dress. It doesn't help that he can almost feel both the dress and the curve beneath it. Not to mention the warmth of her arms round his neck and the sensation of her fingers playing with his hair. So lost in her, and so deeply in trouble.
Not looking at him, she says, "I know I've said it once already, but thank you for tonight."
"Pleasure," he says, but dryly.
That makes her look, just as it makes her frown. "What's the matter with you? You're all over the place. One minute everything's fine, the next you're in a mood."
"Technical term, Grace?"
"Don't start that," Grace tells him, her impatience clear. "Look, I had a nice evening, I had a few drinks. I enjoyed the chance to celebrate being fit, healthy and alive. I liked having you there with me. I know it's not your sort of thing, but I don't understand why you're so… edgy."
"I'm tired," he says truthfully.
But it seems that Grace is not in the mood to let the matter drop. She says, "I thought we'd got past all this? I thought we were friends again?"
"We are friends."
"So why do I feel like we've spent half of this evening in a sort of strained armed truce?"
Brazenly, Boyd dodges the question. "Kettle's boiled."
-oOo-
It gets worse. The living room is warm and cosy and Boyd finally has to take his jacket off just to cool the sweat he can feel gathering remorselessly between his shoulder blades. And it's really quite inevitable that Grace only switches one table lamp on, thus giving the room an achingly intimate feel. But nothing is as bad as the moment she puts the radio on and of course it immediately gives forth the kind of soft night music that is terrifyingly seductive. Boyd is seriously tempted to simply stand up and bang his head repeatedly on the nearest wall until all the myriad temptations go away. But she's been convinced he's more than half mad for years, and he suspects that such an action will only result in further demands for him to 'go and see someone'.
The way she looks so intensely fragile in the soft lighting doesn't help. He really, really doesn't need any more provocation.
And then she throws down the gauntlet with, "You don't have to drive home tonight. You could stay over. On the sofa."
Boyd again considers banging his head repetitively on the wall. Preferably until he can't remember who the hell she is, much less what she does to him. It's tempting, but on balance probably not a very good idea. Some idiot is saying, "On the sofa. Right."
Well done, Peter…
The look Grace gives him is definitely one of curiosity. Curiosity and bemusement. "Yes. What did you think I meant?"
You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention…
"Nothing," he says, which is neither articulate nor honest. Black coffee, scaldingly hot. Drink it and get out, that's his plan. Get out, go home and retire to bed until the horror of it all becomes less intense. Maybe with a bottle of Scotch for good measure. It's a plan. She stands up again, unconsciously smoothing down her dress as she does so, which only makes his gaze linger more dolefully on the inviting curves beneath the fabric. It occurs to him far too late that those curves are drawing closer. Grace stops, looks down at him, and for a moment he wonders what she would do if he simply pulled her gently down into his lap. Not a good thought. But it's too late; the thought has already registered in his bloodstream.
"I don't understand you," she says quietly, as if it is news to both of them.
Boyd can't remember the last time he wanted a woman so much. He shakes his head, "No, you really don't."
And, damn, suddenly she's reaching out and her fingers are brushing lightly against his cheekbone; it feels as if her touch is burning him, blistering his skin. Boyd speaks without thinking, speaks from the heart. "Don't."
She withdraws her hand. Her expression is indecipherable – to him, at least. Her reply is soft but her voice holds a touch of weary exasperation. "Just what's going on in that head of yours, Boyd?"
He bristles instinctively and Grace silently steps back, allowing him to get to his feet. She's so much shorter than he is, so much slighter, and yet he feels ridiculously intimidated. Boyd feels like he's cornered, feels like a hunted animal at bay. His instinct – his only instinct – is to run.
-oOo-
Continued…
