DISCLAIMER: I own nothing.
Happy birthday to Gemenied! :) x
Storks
by Joodiff
Over the years, Grace has become something of an expert at picking exactly the right moments to tell Boyd the sort of things he won't want to hear. Or perhaps, more accurately, something of an expert at not picking exactly the wrong moments. Either way, her enviable talent for imparting bad or contentious news is well-known and respected throughout the CCU's subterranean headquarters, and today is not the first time one of Boyd's subordinate officers has sought her out to request her help as an intermediary. It's always the junior officers – Spencer generally having no compunction about facing down his notoriously quick-tempered boss – and most often it's the civilian staff or the ordinary constables, the non-detectives assigned to the unit, the ones not afforded the same privilege of access as the central team, who shuffle into her office looking sheepish and worried. Sometimes it's difficult not to be amused by their carefully-worded requests that she "have a quiet word with the Super" for them, but she's perfected a serene, sympathetic approach to such visits that combines understanding and kindness with just a touch of firmness, an approach that largely conceals whatever she really thinks, good or bad.
Today was notably different, because her cautious, uncomfortable visitor was not one the unit's support staff, civilian or otherwise, but Detective Sergeant Kat Howard. Grace was initially surprised, never having viewed their most recent recruit as any kind of shrinking violet, but after listening to what the young woman had to say, she had no trouble at all understanding Kat's reluctance to speak directly to Boyd. Accordingly, she agreed to be the conduit, with the firm proviso that she was left in peace to choose the right moment – or just not the wrong moment – to confer the bare bones of their hushed conversation. The speed with which Kat agreed perhaps the only really amusing thing about the whole brief meeting.
Grace certainly didn't expect the right moment to arrive quite so soon, but it's getting late, there's only the two of them left at their desks, and by some inherent instinct she simply knows that while tonight might not provide the perfect moment, there's unlikely to be a better one looming anywhere in the near future. It's not entirely instinct, if she's completely honest. The way Boyd is lounging back in his chair, jacket off, hands behind his head, eyes closed in thought, is an unmistakable cue to act. It's likely he will be even more relaxed and amenable rather later that same evening, but Grace is in no hurry to break one of her own firm rules regarding their off-duty hours, and what does and does not constitute appropriate pillow-talk. Like the discussion of traumatised victims and dismembered corpses, debate about staff politics and problems doesn't belong in the bedroom. The living-room at a pinch, but…
Catching herself procrastinating, Grace gets to her feet, stretching slightly to ease the weary ache in her back. Cancer be damned, she thinks with an inward grimace, it's getting old that's the true test of one's mettle. She can't picture herself a decade from now, let alone two decades from now. Then, she still can't quite accept that forty was a just fading memory the first time she ever set eyes on Peter Boyd – let alone that fifty had already come and gone when she agreed to join his then embryonic Cold Case Unit. Shaking off such depressing thoughts, she pauses to rummage in the bottom drawer of her newly-reinstated filing-cabinet. Give Boyd his due, it may have taken him months, but he did eventually get the building's maintenance crew to re-establish the private office space he'd faithfully promised to return to her since the upheaval of the last major relocation of all their facilities.
Extracting a corkscrew, and then the bottle not quite deliberately hidden behind an extraordinary array of books, files and general clutter, Grace heads out into the empty and eerily quiet squad room. Brutal full-colour images of the Southwark murder scenes around which their latest case are focused dominate the big Perspex evidence board, but she barely notices as she taps lightly on his closed office door, and then walks in without waiting for an invitation.
"Arson," Boyd says, not moving a muscle. It's an unusual greeting, but then he is, in many ways, an unusual man. Which, since she's always been described as a rather unusual woman, suits Grace just fine.
"Mm," she responds. They both know that a fair proportion of serial killers have a well-documented background history of fire-starting. "Drink?"
"Why not?" he says, finally opening his eyes. "Mackenzie's a firebug. Did two years in Borstal for it back in the early 'seventies."
"Glasses…?" she inquires; then, as he gestures towards the shelves that hold all manner of miscellaneous things, mostly neatly boxed, in addition to the impressive array of essential books, box-files and paperwork, she adds, "He still doesn't profile as our killer, Boyd. Whoever murdered those women planned each attack in meticulous detail, and that's just not Mackenzie, whichever way you look at it."
The reply is a dismissive grunt. It's likely they will continue to agree to disagree on the matter until either solid evidence to prove or disprove Mackenzie's involvement in the unsolved quintet of murders surfaces, or Boyd's fragile patience snaps and the matter becomes a heated and no-holds-barred argument. As Grace applies herself to opening and pouring the wine – a rather good Shiraz that was a gift from Eve – he asks, "You okay?"
It sounds casual, but she knows it's not. 'Remission' is not a direct synonym for 'cured'. Neither of them will really relax completely on that score for a long, long time to come. Still, she spares him a brief glance and answers in the same nonchalant vein, "Fine, just a bit tired."
Once he would have leapt on the chance to tease her mercilessly about the penalties of increasing age, somehow able to overlook the fact that he's far closer to her in years than he might ever like to admit, but not now. In fact, if the last six months or more have taught Grace anything, it's that he's a lot less insensitive than she's spent years routinely accusing him of being. Handing him a glass before settling onto the couch – now beginning to look a bit old and threadbare itself – that's long been her place of choice on such evenings, she restarts the conversation with, "There's something I need to talk to you about."
Boyd changes position, no longer lounging at ease but leaning forward, shoulders braced, elbows solidly planted on the surface of his desk. "Words absolutely guaranteed to bring me out in a cold sweat, Grace."
He's no-one's fool. She likes that about him. He's sharp, focused, and singularly unafraid of engaging in abstract debate, even though she generally trounces him with ease – and thoroughly enjoys doing so. In a straightforward squad room dispute, of course, his tactics are far from cerebral, and he usually wins – there's no-one anywhere in the building who can come close to out-shouting him. Smirking slightly, she raises her glass to him, "Cheers."
"Yeah, yeah." He waves off the salutation, impatience clear. "Well?"
"You won't like it."
"Well, that's a foregone bloody conclusion, isn't it?" With his shirtsleeves rolled up, Grace can see the slight, rhythmic flex of muscle in his forearms as he rolls his glass slowly back and forth between his palms. A tiny, insignificant detail that nobody else would ever notice. He looks across at her. "Go on, then. Ruin my day."
After another thoughtful sip of wine, she comments, "This is a very nice Shiraz, isn't it? Very fruity. I must ask Eve where she found it."
"Grace." The warning edge in his voice is more than obvious.
"Kat," she says in return, meeting his dark gaze with placid self-assurance.
His brows draw down into a puzzled frown. "Kat…? What about Kat?"
There's no point trying to be subtle or euphemistic, not where Boyd is concerned. "She's pregnant."
His shocked expression is priceless. It takes a huge effort of will not to laugh as he demands, "She's what?"
"Pregnant," Grace repeats. Helpfully, she adds, "Knocked up. In the family way. With child."
The look Boyd gives her is baleful, and again it's extremely difficult not to laugh. Even more so when he slams down his glass and raps out, "How the hell did that happen?"
It's too good an opportunity. She really can't resist. Intentionally solemn, she replies, "Well, when a man and a woman like each other very much, there's a special cuddle they can have – "
"You know what I bloody mean."
" – and sometimes that special cuddle results in a baby."
"Hysterical." Boyd glares at her again. "Look at me, Grace; I'm splitting my bloody sides laughing."
"I could draw some pictures of storks on the evidence board for you, if that would help?" she offers, and then simply can't restrain herself any longer. She starts to laugh, despite the increasingly aggrieved look being directed at her.
"You missed your damned vocation," he growls at her, picking up his glass again, "you should've gone into stand-up."
It does nothing to help stem her laughter. Breathing is becoming a bit of an issue, however, and that's the only reason Grace finally makes a serious effort to regain her composure. "Oh, Boyd, your face… I wish I'd had a camera."
He haughtily ignores the comment. "Pregnant? How pregnant?"
Trying hard not to start laughing again, she just about manages, "Completely pregnant, I imagine."
Boyd sounds disgusted. "God's sake…"
"Sorry, sorry." Grace takes a steadying breath. It helps. A little. "About seven weeks, I think."
"Jesus." Boyd shakes his head. Words seem to completely fail him for a moment, and then he says, "Well, that's an unexpected pain in the arse. Was it… you know… an accident?"
"Sort of," she concedes. Before he can launch into a ferocious tirade about their younger colleague's fecklessness, she continues, "It turns out that she and her chap, Gary, were seriously trying for a baby a couple of years ago – "
"Wait – Gary? I had no idea she was seeing anyone."
"That's because you've never stopped barking orders at her long enough to find out anything about her," she points out, not altogether unfairly. "Anyway, for whatever reason, it didn't happen, so I think they just quietly got on with things. Then – "
"Bingo."
"Quite." Grace eyes him carefully. "So what happens now?"
He runs a hand slowly through his hair and sighs. "I'll have to inform HR first thing in the morning. There's any number of risk assessments to be done, and a bloody mountain of official paperwork to complete..."
"But she'll be able to stay with the unit?" Grace inquires, suspecting she won't like the answer.
"I don't think so." Apparently able to read her expression perfectly, Boyd shrugs. "Come on, we're woefully understaffed as it is. I can't afford to lose one of my handful of front line officers to admin duties for God knows how long. Anyway, it'll be HR that will ultimately make that decision, not me."
"Surely she can stay with the unit for a while, though?"
"You're not serious?" Boyd looks horrified. "Grace, I know you think I'm capable of just about anything, but I'm not sending a pregnant woman out to knock on doors, detain suspects, or process crime scenes. Christ, there are all sorts of strict rules and regulations regarding this sort of thing. She wouldn't even be able to travel on blues if required to, for God's sake."
Grace knows he's right, knows the Met's rules regarding pregnant officers are both very specific and rigidly enforced. Doesn't make the situation any more palatable. She sighs. "Poor Kat. She really doesn't want to leave, you know."
"I'm sorry about that," he says, and for once she thinks he really is. He finishes his wine in a couple of quick, deep gulps. "Well, I suppose it makes a bloody change. Losing someone from the unit under happy circumstances."
She winces. "Don't go there."
A brief and heavy silence descends, and Grace knows that they're both thinking about all the former team members who've come and gone over the years – most of them in difficult or tragic conditions. For a moment she pictures Stella lying pale and still on her hospital bed, and then her thoughts turn inexorably to Mel and the terrible moment when –
"Refill," Boyd orders, holding out his glass.
It's his way of distracting them both, she realises, and that's why she doesn't object to the imperious instruction, why she dutifully gets up to oblige. This time she goes round the desk to stand next to him as she pours the wine. It's every bit as deliberate as his haughty command, and she's not in the least surprised when he places a hand on the small of her back and starts to rub gently. His voice is quiet. "I suppose you're going to tell me I need to have a meeting with her?"
Smiling to herself, she doesn't look at him as she replies, "Wouldn't dream of it. I know just how much you'll already be looking forward to it; how much you really enjoy the pastoral side of your job."
He tries a hopeful, "You do it, Grace."
"Who's in charge of this unit, you or me?"
Boyd grins up at her, amused and just a touch sly. "Ah, well; that's generally open to debate, isn't it?"
On impulse Grace nudges him to move his chair back a fraction, and when he obliges, she settles herself comfortably on his lap. It's not usual behaviour for either of them, and certainly not here in the gloomy confines of headquarters, not even afterhours when everyone else has long ago departed for the night. Tonight, though, they've accidentally stirred up a few restless ghosts, and maybe they both need the tacit reassurance of physical contact. Staring at him reflectively from close quarters, Grace wonders – not for the first time – why it took them so very long to get to where they are now. There are too many possible answers, and the truth is probably a confusing, intricate tangle of all of them.
"Storks…?" Boyd asks suddenly, straight-faced.
It takes her a moment to catch up. When she does, she can't help smirking. "Well, you know… I didn't want to shatter any illusions you might have."
"I'm confused," he tells her, his voice suddenly taking on the smooth, velvet quality that never fails to lead her into all sorts of inappropriate temptation, and though he ostensibly remains completely serious, there's more than a hint of wolfish mischief visible in his dark eyes. "Where do storks fit into to the whole 'special cuddle' thing?"
She heaves a loud and deliberate sigh. "The stork visits after the special cuddle. Obviously. Keep up."
"Hm. Funny, I don't remember any storks when Mary had Luke. Quite a lot of impressive cursing and threats of bodily harm, but no storks."
"Maybe they're invisible?" she suggests.
Boyd nods gravely. "Ah. Of course. That must be it."
He's ridiculously handsome. Really. And – regrettably – Grace knows she's far from the only one who thinks so. The brooding symmetry of his features only seems to become more rugged and distinguished with every passing year, a phenomenon that does little to discourage the kind of speculative female interest that makes her instinctively flex her claws. She can be every bit as territorial as Boyd himself when provoked. Momentarily lost in her intent contemplation of him, Grace reaches up to run a single finger softly down his cheek towards his jaw, watching him watching her. The rasp of coarse evening stubble gives way to the altogether softer bristle of his beard – almost completely silver now – as she traces her way to the point of his chin. It feels like the most natural thing in the world to lean in and press her lips gently to his. It's a light, almost chaste kiss, perhaps in due deference to their surroundings, but when she draws back Boyd catches her firmly around the waist, preventing any chance of escape. His voice is edged with amusement as he says, "Still not quite clear on the special cuddle, Grace."
"No?" Playing along with him seems harmless enough. For the moment. "Shall I explain it to you?"
He shakes his head sorrowfully. "No good. I'm strictly a kinaesthetic learner."
"True," she agrees, mildly surprised that he knows the term. "Well, there's something to be said for the hands-on approach, I suppose."
"Let's go home." Sudden, impetuous. Typically Boyd.
"So you can further your education?"
"Something like that."
The way he's looking at her causes a distinct flutter in the pit of her stomach. Not altogether… seemly… at her age, Grace suspects, but damn, there's just something about the man… Something about his urgency, his impulsivity; something about the intense, single-minded way he focuses everything on the things he wants – including her. It's flattering, it's startling, and it's very, very addictive. Hastily pulling herself together, she asks, "Threats of bodily harm?"
The non sequitur doesn't faze him. "Apparently it was all my fault."
Grace smirks, easily able to imagine the scene. "Was castration mentioned?"
"Several times, as I recall." A reluctant grin breaks through. "Mary might look like a sweet, timid little thing, but she's as hard as nails, trust me; absolutely bloody fearless. And she's got the lungpower – and vocabulary – of a sergeant major when she's really pissed off about something."
She believes him, even though her only encounter with the woman concerned was exceedingly brief, and hardly took place under the best of circumstances. Amused, she says, "You know what they say, Boyd – don't mess with the Irish."
He snorts. "Something I've most definitely learnt the hard way, Doctor Foley."
She pats him on the shoulder, her implied condescension quite deliberate. In truth, it's been several generations since any of the Foleys on her branch of the family tree could legitimately claim direct Irish descent, just as it's been a long, long time since the well-heeled Boyds of Blackheath crossed Hadrian's wall, leaving Kilmarnock far behind them, but it's been a staple of their banter for so long that she doesn't offer any contradiction. A stray, unconnected thought makes her say, "It's odd, I never saw Kat as the maternal type, did you?"
Boyd's response is a dry, "Funnily enough, I don't tend to think about that sort of thing when I'm assessing the merits of the officers under my command."
"She was far too scared to tell you herself, you know," she continues, idly brushing her fingers through his hair. It's soft and dense, wonderfully tactile. "She thought you'd hit the roof."
She feels his rueful sigh more than she hears it. "I can't pretend I'm delighted about all the hassle it's going to cause, but I'm not that bloody heartless, Grace."
"That's what I told her."
There's more than a hint of suspicion in the sharp look he gives her. "Oh? Do I want to know what else you might have told her?"
He's so easy to needle. It's a sport Grace doubts she'll ever tire of, however old they get. "Probably not."
"Thought so."
She waits a beat. "It's common knowledge, anyway."
The instant frown is predictable. "What is?"
She's very fond of elegantly delivering a shattering coup de grâce. Boyd knows it, too, which almost makes it even more satisfying. "The fact that the big grumpy lion is really a – "
"Don't say it," he growls, substantially tightening his grip on her waist as if to reinforce the words. It has an effect on her – the casual demonstration of just how strong he really is – but Grace seriously doubts it's in any way the effect he intends. Or perhaps it is.
Feigning complete innocence isn't easy, but she gives it a good try. "What?"
Boyd doesn't fall for it. He never does. "You know damn well what."
"Pussycat…?" Coup de grâce, perfectly dealt.
He scowls and shifts his weight beneath her, effectively expelling her from his lap. "Right, that's it. Go on, bugger off back to your own office and leave me in peace."
Game, set and match, Grace thinks with an inward chuckle. Straightening up and then looking down at him, she says, "I thought we were going home?"
"Changed my mind."
He looks petulant, beautifully sullen, the straight, perfectly-drawn mouth set in sulky pout. Grace knows he's playing her, knows he knows she knows. It's all part of the idiosyncratic way they relate to each other. She leans forward to murmur in his ear. "I'll explain all about the special cuddle – with numbered diagrams."
As expected, Boyd's gaze doesn't leave her artfully-positioned cleavage. "What about with pictures?"
Barely managing to keep a straight face, she chides, "Naughty boy."
He shrugs, his easy nonchalance strangely appealing. "If you like."
"I do," Grace admits truthfully. In her reasonably extensive experience, naughty boys are much, much more fun than good boys. If rather more difficult to keep on the straight-and-narrow.
Boyd finally looks up at her. The dark eyes have taken on a familiar, feral look. Predatory. Exciting. He smiles the slow, heart-stopping smile that she's never quite been able to resist. "I know."
- the end -