DISCLAIMER: I own nothing.
A/N: This was written as a "missing scene" from S9 "Solidarity" part 2. It takes place after the team have watched the videotape Murray Stuart gives Grace, and before Boyd goes to see Jane Hussey from MI5 the following morning.
On the Couch
by Joodiff
Even now, they don't spend many evenings together during the working week – at least, not the meagre parts of the evenings that are usually left once they finally head home from the CCU's basement headquarters. It's not something they've ever really discussed, more a situation that has evolved naturally, and seems to work quite well for them. There are exceptions to the rule, of course, but since it is only Tuesday and they didn't part company on the best of terms, Grace isn't expecting the loud bombardment of brusque knocking that echoes through the house just ahead of the late news. It makes her jump, then scowl as she gets to her feet and goes to answer the imperious summons. He has a key, of course, but he also knows that at this time of night she will have shot home the deadbolts, preventing him from simply walking into her home as if it were his own. He approves of such measures, too, so it isn't his inability to gain easy access that's at the root of the irritable assault on the heavy brass doorknocker. But it doesn't occur to her that it might be. She knows exactly why Boyd's in Finchley not Greenwich, and it has nothing to do with her night-time security and everything to do with the reason for the simmering tension still so evident in his posture and expression when she said a curt goodnight to him and walked out of his office without another word.
She's still scowling as she opens the door, and she knows she doesn't sound friendly as she snaps, "For God's sake, Boyd; are you trying to disturb the whole damn street?"
Already in motion, he glowers at her as he more-or-less barges past her into the narrow hall. His car is parked out on the street, exactly where he usually leaves it on a Friday night, and she doesn't doubt its atypical presence there tonight will give her neighbours something else to gossip about when they notice. Which they will, of course. Sighing to herself, she closes the door against the increasing chill of the night just as he demands, "Why aren't you answering your phone?"
Not the opening gambit Grace was expecting. Frowning, she responds, "What?"
"It's a bit bloody childish, isn't it?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about," she tells him honestly.
The level of belligerence doesn't decrease. "I've been calling you on and off for the last hour, Grace."
"You have?" She heads past him back into the living room, locates the offending item amongst the flotsam and jetsam of papers, mugs, glasses, mail and books piled on the coffee table, checks it, then holds it up for inspection. "Battery's flat. It didn't occur to you to try my landline?"
The disparaging noise Boyd makes in response, something between a grunt and a growl, indicates that it didn't. It's not the way they usually communicate, so it's not a great surprise, but it does allow her the satisfaction of rolling her eyes at him. His glare intensifies in response. "How many times have I told you to put the damned thing on charge as soon as you get home?"
"I'm a big girl," she snipes back, "I can make momentous decisions like that all by myself, thank you."
"And yet your bloody phone's still dead."
There's no point in continuing such an absurd argument. Picking up the remote control and switching off the television, she sighs and asks, "What do you want, Boyd?"
"Piers Kennedy," he says, already prowling across the room towards the collection of bottles on the small antique sideboard. "I think – "
"No," Grace interrupts, settling herself back on the sofa. "I'm not discussing it with you at ten o'clock at night in my own living room. You had your chance earlier, and you told me – in no uncertain terms – that you wanted to talk to Jane Hussey again before we talked about any of it any further."
His back still to her, Boyd says nothing. She hears the soft clink of glass on glass and guesses he's pouring a decent measure of Scotch into one of the heavy tumblers that were a wedding gift more years ago than she cares to remember. It's her first clue to his intentions. His real intentions. He doesn't drink when he's intending to drive soon after, not even a single glass, not anymore. Not since the Eddie Vine case and Sheryl Palliser's near-successful attempt to compromise both the re-opened investigation and his professional integrity. If he's drinking this late in the evening, then, consciously or subconsciously, he isn't intending to go home.
He turns back to face her, but still doesn't say a word as he stalks over to his preferred armchair and settles there uninvited. His expression is heavy, brooding, and his dark eyes are studying her with something that's very difficult to interpret. Clearly, his mood hasn't improved one iota since she left work. He's not the only one who's preoccupied, however, and Grace really isn't in the mood to indulge him. When it's clear that he's not going to speak, she offers a challenging, "Well? Is that it? Is that all you wanted?"
"No," he says. She watches and waits as he samples the whisky – a rather good single malt she purchased just for him in an uncharacteristic moment of weakness after he complained vociferously about the poor quality of the supermarket brand it replaced. It takes him a long time to look straight at her and say, "Murray Stuart."
It's been needling him for hours. Well, of course it has. She wouldn't have expected anything else, had she ever had cause to imagine such a scenario. She is not, however, intending to attempt to placate him. Not in any way. Immediately defensive, she retorts, "What about him?"
Her sharp response seems to unlock something in Boyd. His reply is quick and strident. "'What about him?' – for fuck's sake, Grace… this is a murder investigation!"
"And?" she asks, following it with an immediate, "Are you questioning my loyalty, Boyd?"
"No, of course bloody not," he snaps back, less than convincingly, "but if you really can't see that there's a huge potential conflict of interests here…"
"What, because – unlike you – I couldn't possibly keep my personal life separate from my job?" she demands, the brutal level of sarcasm quite deliberate.
The implied accusation is met with a steady glare and, "That's not fair, Grace."
"Maybe not," she admits, "but I'm not feeling very fair at the moment. What the hell was all that earlier? In front of the team? Talk about unprofessional…"
Boyd bristles in response, his voice taking on a harder edge as he says, "If Murray was involved with – "
"This isn't about Piers or the case, and we both know it," she cuts in, before he can begin to bluster, "this is about you being jealous, pure and simple."
"Jealous?" he retorts, his scathing tone cut with more than a touch of righteous indignation – one that instantly tells her that not only is she right, but that he's fully well aware of it. "Oh, come on…"
"'On the couch?'" Grace quotes at him, her annoyance with him from earlier far from forgotten. "Seriously?"
To his credit, Boyd looks less than comfortable, as if he knows that the deliberate gibe delivered in front of Sarah and Spencer was a step too far, even for him. His reply is a gruff, "Well, maybe that was a bit out of order…"
"A bit…?"
"All right," he concedes, tone every bit as bad-tempered as his expression, "it was out of order. Happy now?"
He's not good at apologising. Never has been. The brusque concession is about as much as she's going to get, and Grace knows it. Infuriated, she counters, "Not particularly, no. What may or may not have happened between me and Murray in the past is none of your damn business, Boyd."
"It is when he's a person of interest in an active investigation."
"Except," she says icily, "that's not why you're so damn keen on finding out all the gory details, is it?"
Boyd stands up, the movement abrupt, and heads back towards the drinks tray. Displacement activity, Grace thinks, watching him in stony silence. He's conflicted, torn between the knowledge that she's right, that her previous personal relationship with Murray is nothing to do with him, and his seething jealousy towards the man he suddenly perceives – rightly or wrongly – as a rival. Understanding his behaviour and the reasons for it doesn't make her feel any more charitable towards him. As he starts to refill his glass, she says, "I can't believe you're jealous of a man I slept with almost thirty years ago. It's ludicrous."
He doesn't look round at her. "I am not jealous."
"Yes, you are," she persists, "and we both know it. For God's sake, Boyd…"
He turns then, glass in hand, expression set hard. "Maybe I wouldn't be if you hadn't run off to meet him the first bloody chance you got."
It stings more than it should. Not bothering to hide her exasperation, she replies, "I knew that was still bothering you."
"Well, what do you expect?" Boyd demands. "You're not just putting yourself in an invidious position, you know – put one foot wrong, and you could destroy the whole investigation, put the integrity of the entire unit at risk."
"I'm aware of that. Why do you think I declared an interest right at the start?" Grace counters. "It's not me who's making this personal, Boyd, it's you."
"Did you love him?" The question is as blunt as it is unexpected.
She blinks, startled by his sheer audacity. Fighting her rising anger, she grinds out, "I knew him for two weeks, Boyd. Two weeks. Then he simply disappeared."
"That's not an answer."
"Tough luck, because it's the only one you're getting," she snarls. "And before you say another word, I'm warning you – don't you dare start judging me because I'm not in the mood to tolerate double-standards."
He glares at her. "What's that supposed to mean?"
If he wants her to spell it out for him, well, so be it. She's not afraid to speak out. "You know damn well what it means. Sex, Boyd. You're angry because I slept with him – and don't bother trying to deny it."
"I'm angry because you weren't honest with me," he growls. "Asking Sarah to – "
"Oh, I might have known she'd run straight back to you to tell tales."
"Don't blame Sarah – you put her in an impossible position."
"And don't change the subject," she retorts, knowing how good he is at evading things he doesn't want to talk about. "We're talking about the problem you seem to have with Murray – with me and Murray – not about the case itself, or what I may or may not have asked Sarah to do."
To her surprise Boyd holds his free hand up in an impatient gesture of surrender. "Oh, fine."
Narrow-eyed, she surveys him for a moment. When he says nothing more, she risks asking, "Why has Murray got under your skin so badly?"
His answer is immediate and vehement. "Why do you bloody think?"
"I don't know," she lies, needing him to make the admission, "that's why I'm asking you. Come on, Boyd, surely neither of us is naïve enough to believe that at our age we're not both carrying a lot of baggage in the previous relationship stakes? You're at least forty years too bloody late to be the one-and-only, you know."
He winces, puts down his glass and starts to prowl again. "I'm aware of that, thank you. I just…"
"…don't like to be reminded of it?" Grace suggests.
His reply is instant and irritable. "Well, would you?"
She snorts. "I don't have to be reminded of it, I was there, remember? I had to witness it first-hand. Every pretty girl that ever caught your eye, every new conquest that you raced off to meet on a Friday night…"
"Not the same thing," he growls.
"How?" she demands, tracking him as he roams the room, his sharp, quick movements all speaking of frustrated, pent-up energy. "How is it not the same?"
Boyd halts long enough to scowl at her again. "We're not right in the middle of a bloody case strongly featuring one of my exes, for a start."
"Jess Worrall…?" Grace reminds him, her tone snide. The investigation concerned may have been years ago now, but she hasn't forgotten how much the other woman's peripheral involvement rankled.
"Oh, for…" He stops, visibly takes a deep breath. "Fine. Okay, you're right. I'm jealous. The thought of you with another guy… I hate it, Grace. I'm sorry, but I do. The thought of him… touching you… it makes my skin crawl."
His raw honestly takes the edge off Grace's anger. She knows how difficult it is for him to talk about how he feels about things. How he really feels. So much of his anger stems from his crippling inability to express himself in a calm, straightforward manner. Shaking her head she says, "It was years ago, Boyd. Nineteen eighty-three, for heaven's sake. I was in my thirties."
He slumps down onto the sofa next to her, leaving a small but perfectly-judged gap between them, and he sighs. Not looking at her, he says, "I know, I know. I told you, I can't help it. It's just… well, he's turned up again, hasn't he? Out of the fucking blue."
Studying his strong profile, she asks, "What, and you think I'm going to leave you and go running back to him? A man I knew for barely a fortnight?"
A half-shrug. "I don't know."
The response irritates her. "You don't know? You really think that little of me?"
"It's not you, Grace, it's – "
"I swear, if you finish that sentence, I won't be responsible for my actions," she warns him, and she means it. When Boyd takes the hint and remains silent, she continues, "What do I have to do to get it into that thick skull of yours that I'm with you because I want to be with you? Because – surprising though it may seem – I somehow managed to actually fall in love with you?"
He looks at her then, and if his expression is largely impassive, his eyes aren't. Dark and soulful, they convey so much about his normally well-hidden insecurities, his lack of belief in his ability to forge and maintain a strong, happy, and healthy relationship with someone prepared to love him not for what they think they can make of him, but for who and what he really is. Or, she thinks, who and what he perceives himself to be. He has a lot of critics, but Grace knows better than anyone that no-one judges Peter Boyd as harshly as Peter Boyd does. Quiet now, she continues, "Insofar as it has a bearing on the case, I'll tell you anything and everything I can about Murray – but I won't do it to satisfy some prurient desire you have to torment yourself."
"You really think that's what it is? That I somehow get off on imagining you… with someone else?"
"Don't twist my words, Boyd. That's not what I said, and it's certainly not what I meant."
His jaw tightens perceptibly for a moment. Then he snarls, "Well, what did you mean, then? Come on, Grace, I'm fascinated. Tell me the complicated psychological reason why I feel like finding him and knocking his teeth down his fucking throat."
Ignoring his anger, she shakes her head. "I really wouldn't advise you to try it – Murray's a Falklands veteran, in case you'd forgotten."
"And I couldn't possibly compete?"
Too late, Grace realises her mistake. Boyd is glaring at her now, and she can clearly see the cold, bitter anger glittering in his eyes. Before he can rise, she snatches hold of his hand. It's a laughable thing to do, really – she has no hope of holding onto him if he doesn't want to be held. He might not have been in the Royal Marines, and he might not be as young as he once was, but he's far fitter than he looks, and she knows from experience that he's very, very strong. Pitching her voice low, trying to force calm into the volatile situation, she says, "There's nothing to compete for, Peter. Don't you understand? There is no competition. No need for you to try to prove anything – not to me, not to yourself… and certainly not to Murray."
He doesn't relax, but nor does he pull away from her. His answering words are delivered with an intensity that tells her just how badly he needs to know the answer to his repeated question. "Did you love him?"
Grace doesn't have to think about it, and she doesn't need to lie. "No. I liked him. I fancied him. Anything more than that… well, there wasn't time to find out. He was gone long before we really had a chance to get to know each other."
"And now?"
"I have a man," she tells him, keeping her voice absolutely level, "a man I love, admire, and trust. A man I've spent years getting to know. A man I fell in love with a little bit more every day, no matter what he did, or how much I told myself it was a very bad idea. Murray… is a ghost. A bittersweet memory from years ago. Nothing more."
"He's rather more than that now," Boyd contradicts, but his voice is surprisingly soft. "The past… sometimes it comes back, Grace. And sometimes you find out that things aren't quite as dead and buried as you thought."
"Voice of experience?"
"If you like." He gazes at her for several long seconds. "Your… prior association… won't stop me arresting and charging him if it comes to it, you do know that, don't you?"
"Yes," she says. "But I trust you, Boyd. If he's guilty, so be it, but if he's innocent…"
He holds her gaze. "If he's innocent he has nothing to fear from me, Grace. Not as a police officer."
"That's all I need to know." She studies him for a moment longer. "And as a man?"
Nothing in his expression changes. "I can't answer that."
"Promise me one thing," she says in return, squeezing his hand.
Boyd frowns. "What?"
"Don't let misplaced jealousy blind you to the truth. Whatever that may be."
He grunts, and Grace suspects it's the closest thing to a grudging assent that she's going to get. Nothing about his mood and his reactions surprises her, not really. Boyd is a territorial creature, a fiercely protective alpha male who doesn't easily tolerate anything – or anyone – he perceives as a possible threat or a potential rival, either in his personal or professional life. It's often both infuriating and endearing, but today… today she has found it considerably more wearing and trying than usual. It's the Piers Kennedy case, of course, and all the old memories it's brought with it, but…
"I'm sorry," he says, the words falling stark and hard into the physical space between them. As Grace raises her eyebrows, he continues, "You're right. I was out of line this afternoon."
"You were," she confirms. "And, just to answer your original question, no, of course he didn't spend the night on the bloody couch."
He takes it better than she expects. "I didn't imagine for one moment that he did."
"You were just being a prick." She doesn't intend it to sound like a query.
"I was," Boyd agrees. He shrugs his wide shoulders, a little nonchalant, a little defensive. "I meant what I said, Grace, the thought of you with another man…"
"The thought of you with another woman hasn't ever done much for me, either."
He nods slowly, clearly acknowledging her point. "Touché, Grace. Touché. Though, in my defence – "
"We weren't together, and you were too dense to see what was right in front of you?"
"I wasn't going to put it quite like that, but…" Boyd shrugs again.
"Is that it, then?" Grace asks, after several silent seconds have elapsed. "Can we draw a line under this whole ridiculous issue you have with me and Murray now?"
In answer he nods and interlaces his fingers with hers. "Yes. But he's still – "
"'A person of interest'. I know."
The last of the dangerous tension evaporates, leaving them, like the rest of the room, still and silent. It's the most natural thing in the world for Grace to lean closer to him, to rest her head against his shoulder and allow herself to begin to relax. He doesn't comment, nor does she expect him to. She feels an answering loosening of his body, though, and quietly welcomes it. It isn't over, she knows that – how can it be with Murray still at large and so many questions left to answer? – but she thinks they have established some kind of understanding. A delicate, tentative one, maybe, but an understanding nonetheless.
"It's only because I love you," Boyd says without warning, the gruff tone of his voice telling her it's an admission he's been struggling to formulate and declare. Then, a more rapid, "It's just the way I am, Grace. I'm not the sort of guy who can – "
"I know," she interrupts, gently patting his chest. "I know. But you have to trust me."
"I do trust you. It's everyone else I don't bloody trust."
"Enough now," she says, once again confident in her ability to forestall a tirade. "Tomorrow's going to be another long, difficult day, Boyd. Let's not go into it already at war with each other."
The silence stretches between them again, not exactly tranquil, but a long, long way from hostile. Many quiet, reflective minutes seem to pass before he voices a grudging, "I should go home."
"Not after two very large Scotches you shouldn't," Grace reproves. "Not unless you're intending to call a cab, and I really can't see you doing that."
Silence. Then, "Do I have a clean shirt here?"
She nods against his shoulder. "Clean, yes. Ironed, no."
Boyd snorts, the derisive noise very telling. "I can iron my own damned shirts, Grace."
Smirking up at him, she inquires, "Why do you think I haven't bothered wasting my time doing it for you?"
For the first time this evening – maybe the first time all day – he gives in and grins at her. It's momentary, but for a fleeting second the heavy frown is gone, replaced by laughter lines and the mischievous look in his eyes that never fails to work its dangerous magic on her. A silly, banal moment of their own unique kind of bickering domesticity, a timely reminder that what they mean to each other far transcends the boundaries of work. A reminder, too, of how much she has to lose if she lets herself get too lost in the past, in the seductive pull of what might have been all those years ago if Murray –
"Must be bedtime, then," Boyd says, the sound of his voice shattering her sudden reverie.
He's not perfect – far from it – but then neither is she. He really does love her, though, Grace knows that – and doesn't his exasperating jealousy only prove that to her even more?
"Must be," she agrees, matching his nonchalance.
He kisses her then, gently at first, but with increasing fervour as she enthusiastically responds. Reality, not fantasy. What is, not what perhaps could have been. The warmth of his body, the not altogether unpleasant rasp of evening stubble against her cheek, the easy strength of him as he gathers her up into his lap. All of it tangible, wonderful, and yet far too easy to lose with a single poor decision.
She might have loved Murray, if there had been time, but what Grace has now is far too precious to sacrifice on the altar of memory, and she knows it.
Into his ear, she murmurs, "Take me to bed, Boyd."
It's going to be all right. They'll find out who really killed Piers Kennedy, and soon enough Murray will return to being nothing more than a faded memory. Nothing will go wrong. It can't.
- the end -
Boyd: Where was Murray?
Grace: Asleep.
Boyd: On the couch?
Grace: (gives Boyd that look) ...
- WtD S9, Solidarity