DISCLAIMER: I own nothing.

Happy (early) Christmas/Festive Season everyone! Have some B/G fluffy fluff with the compliments of the season. :)

Santa Claus is Coming to Town

by Joodiff

He's too old to be doing this sort of thing. Far too bloody old. But the thought doesn't strike Boyd until he's more than eight feet off the ground, and trying to locate a more secure handhold. Heights don't bother him, but he's not terribly keen on the idea of falling and breaking an ankle. Or worse. It briefly crosses his mind that this may, indeed, be one of the stupidest things he's done for a long, long while, and not just because if he's spotted and the police are summoned, he will never live the whole thing down. No, depending on what happens, this evening's exploits may yet go down in history as one of the most foolhardy, and potentially most embarrassing, moments of his entire adult life. Momentarily distracted, he scrapes his knuckles on the rough brickwork and has to work hard to keep the resultant cursing at a suitably muted level. Muttering expletives under his breath, he hauls himself into a slightly less precarious position and pauses for a moment of contemplation.

This is a very stupid thing he's doing. A very, very stupid thing, in fact. And it's all her fault. Sort of.

But it might be worth it.

It had better be worth it.

Just so long as he's not spotted by anyone.

He's not built for this sort of thing. This sort of thing really requires a supple sort of wiriness that just isn't him. He's too tall, too long-limbed for it. Regrettably just a little too stocky for it, nowadays, too. He imagines he looks clumsy and uncoordinated as he works his way towards his objective. But hopefully there's no-one watching to make that sort of judgement. Strength, he has; tenacity, he has. Athleticism, too, in a late-middle-aged sort of way, but he's hardly lithe and graceful. Rather more ursine than feline. Grace would agree with that, no doubt about it.

A loud chattering of rails heralds the passing of a train at the bottom of the embankment at the end of the garden, and though he's fairly certain he won't be seen by any of the very last passengers making their way home to the northern suburbs, Boyd freezes into complete stillness again. Stationary, the biting cold of the evening is more than unpleasant, numbing his hands and face. As the illuminated carriages clatter by, he eyes the partially open bedroom window above him. She never seems to learn, no matter how many times she sees for herself exactly how easy it is for a determined intruder to gain access to the average London home. Downstairs, the windows are closed, the doors are locked, and all the deadbolts have been securely shot home – hence his current position – but upstairs…

She doesn't even sleep at the back of the house. He should know, the number of times he's shared her wide, comfortable bed in the last few months. No, Grace sleeps at the front of the house in the biggest, brightest bedroom, but still happily leaves the back bedroom window open with no regard for her safety. For good air circulation, she always claims whenever he challenges her about it. She may not worry too much about her overnight security, but he does. Still, her obstinacy is working in Boyd's favour tonight. If he doesn't fall and break his damn neck.

Finally reaching the stone window ledge, he edges himself into a halfway comfortable and secure position, and then goes to work on the window, every movement deft and silent. Poachers make the best gamekeepers, so they say. In his view, it follows that police officers should therefore make the best housebreakers. And even if they don't, after thirty years' service, Boyd, at least, is pretty damn good at it. Sometimes it just isn't convenient to waste time getting a warrant from the magistrate. Usually leads to some superbly creative paperwork afterwards, of course, but he's very good at that, too.

The window isn't as large as he'd like, but once he's defeated the flimsy security latch and opened it wide, it's obvious that he'll just about be able to squeeze through it without causing either it or him any lasting damage. Twenty years ago – even ten years ago – this would all have been much easier, but Boyd is stubborn, and he likes a challenge. Besides, the concept of giving up on anything without a bloody, toe-to-toe battle, metaphorical or otherwise, is completely alien to him. Sure, on-duty he automatically expects Spencer to provide any muscle required, but that's just the privilege of age and rank, and nothing to do with his ability to break down doors and suspects alike for himself. Consequently, he is quickly, if not exactly elegantly, through the window and into the dark, shadowy room beyond.

Grace thinks he's on the overnight flight from New York. She thinks she's picking him up from Heathrow early on Christmas morning, a fiction he has carefully fostered despite being repeatedly berated for his tardiness in getting himself back to England following a ridiculously badly-timed law enforcement symposium arranged by the NYPD. Probably there's more than just her annoyance at his decision to be on the other side of the Atlantic for a few days just before Christmas behind how sharp and abrupt with him she's been during their quick phone calls. Anywhere but New York, and she might have been a little more tolerant. Maybe. It's not the where, of course, it's the who, never mind that the so-called Big Apple is a city of eight and a half million people, and the chances of him running into that certain somebody who's still occasionally a source of some considerable friction between them are so low that they might as well be bloody zero.

A floorboard creaks ominously under Boyd's weight, and he pauses, his heart thudding in his chest. Stupid, really, the involuntary rush of adrenaline coursing through him. Then again, he wouldn't altogether put it past Grace to clout him with something large and heavy if she woke thinking he was a burglar. She'd probably do a damn good job of it, too. She might be tiny, but she's a hellish spitfire when she's angry. Which he most definitely likes. Not so much fun when he's on the receiving end, admittedly, but it certainly beats being bored to tears by the sort of mousey, submissive women who always seem to be far more interested in getting to know him than he is in having anything whatsoever to do with them.

Certain that there is no hint of movement anywhere in the house, he silently prowls towards the bedroom door. He's much lighter on his feet than before, not willing to take any chances. It's not just the being-hit-over-the-head-with-something-heavy scenario that makes him proceed with considerable caution, it's also the possibility of an unfortunate police-car-turning-up-to-investigate-reports-of-an-intruder situation. He thinks that if Grace suspected the presence of an uninvited guest, she'd probably take action herself instead of immediately calling the police, but it's quite possible that she could do either – or both. Boyd doesn't fancy having to explain himself to a grinning uniformed PC half his age, one who would doubtless go on to dine out on the story for years. A fully-fledged Detective Superintendent caught breaking into a police consultant's house in the dying moments of Christmas Eve? Not good. Not good at all.

The enclosed landing is darker than the rear bedroom, but it's much more familiar territory. He knows where all the obstacles are, including the infuriating little wooden stool he's barked his bare shins on more than once. One day, if Grace doesn't listen to him and move it to a less hazardous location, Boyd will accidentally and very thoroughly break it. Until that day, he will attempt to remember to carefully manoeuvre around it. He ghosts past the bathroom door and pauses by the stairs. He has two options now, one substantially riskier than the other. Sadly, that's also the option that he's got his heart set on. Then, he's never been known as the kind of man who ever intentionally makes things easy for himself.

It will be worth it. If he can get away with it.

Moving with inordinate care, Boyd removes his jacket and hangs it on the carved wooden newel post at the top of the stairs, and then he removes his shoes for good measure. Disencumbered, he checks he has what he needs before padding towards her closed bedroom door. He knows where the loose floorboard is – the one he keeps meaning to fix for her – and successfully avoids it, not altogether easy in the dark. Hand now on the polished brass door knob, he lowers his head, listening hard. Grace rarely snores, but he can just about hear the slow, regular breaths that indicate she's very deeply asleep. Good. Makes things easier for him. Boyd is a light sleeper, easily woken by even the slightest noise, but he sometimes thinks that Grace could sleep peacefully through the end of the bloody world and somehow not notice. He turns the door knob slowly, knowing the elderly wooden door will creak a little whatever he does.

It's like that party game he remembers playing sometimes as a kid. Statues. Creep forward and freeze, creep forward and freeze. Move slow and steady, try not to get caught.

It's nowhere near as dark in Grace's bedroom as it is on the landing. The curtains are closed, but there's a street light just outside her house that robs the room of real darkness, even on the blackest and cloudiest of nights. He always grumbles about it, of course, but it doesn't seem to bother her. Maybe she's just so used to it that she simply doesn't notice it anymore. Tonight, however, it's a good thing. Boyd knows the room well enough to navigate in complete darkness, but he likes being able to look at her. She's lying more on what's become his side of the bed than on her own, which doesn't surprise him at all. Grace is nowhere near as big as he is, and she doesn't sprawl out like he does, but somehow she still seems able to steal just about every last inch of mattress from him. Practically every inch of the damned duvet, too, but that's another story altogether.

Standing at the foot of the bed, Boyd takes a moment to gaze at her, well-aware of the warm swell of affection that rises inside him. For all their differences of opinion, he's been very fond of her for years, no question about it, but it's been this year, with all its unwelcome and unexpected shocks, that's really made him recognise and accept the nature and depth of his feelings for her. Nothing like the threat of losing someone forever to focus the mind on what's actually important. Looking at her now, as she sleeps so peacefully, it hardly seems possible that he endured so many lonely, restless nights on her account; nights when he drove himself half-crazy worrying about her. A dark, frightening chapter in their long association that Boyd doesn't ever want to revisit.

He wonders if she's fully aware of how strong his feelings for her are; if she knows just how deep they go. It's not exactly difficult for anyone to say those three little over-used words that can mean so much – or so little – but never in his life has he said them glibly, not to anyone, and especially not to her.

She probably does know. The inner workings of people's minds are her stock-in-trade, after all.

He hopes she knows.

"Stay," she'd said, the night everything changed between them. No drama, no artifice. One quiet word, part-invitation, part-instruction. It hadn't crossed Boyd's mind to question, much less to argue. Not then, and not when she'd taken him by the hand and led him upstairs.

Grace stirs slightly, as if she's somehow suddenly aware of his presence on some deep, unconscious level, but a moment or two later she settles again, one arm stretched out towards the space where he should be. He's almost tempted to forgo his mission, to simply strip off the remainder of his clothes and slide into bed next to her. It's a far more appealing idea than creeping downstairs to sleep on the sofa, but…

Mind made up, Boyd moves quickly and stealthily, completing his task and withdrawing from the room just as silently as he entered it. The sofa it is, then.

It had better be worth it.

It will be. Probably.

-oOo-

The muted sound of the bedside alarm chirruping scrapes across Grace's nerves, dragging her unwillingly from her dreams. For a second or two she's disorientated, her mind still sluggish and foggy, but it doesn't take long for full awareness to take hold. It's six o'clock on Christmas morning, and instead of having a tranquil lie-in before embracing the day, she has to get up and drive to Heathrow. She can't quite remember why she volunteered to pick him up from the airport – it's not as if he can't afford a taxi, after all. Damn the man. Who else but Peter-bloody-Boyd would think it perfectly acceptable to arrive back in the country early on Christmas Day itself following some totally unnecessary last-minute professional jaunt? No-one at all, that's who.

"But I'll be back for the actual day," he'd complained before he left, his petulant tone suggesting he thought it was completely unreasonable of her to be absolutely furious with him for heading off to New York so close to Christmas. In the end she'd simply given up arguing about it. What would have been the point of continuing? He always does exactly what he wants to do, regardless of anyone else. Well, perhaps not always. Mostly.

Happy Christmas, Grace, she thinks now, looking up at the shadowy ceiling. The room is still gloomy, the thin winter sunrise not yet materialising over the capital. The situation's not all bad, she decides, after some further contemplation. Knowing he's still firmly in the doghouse will make Boyd unusually amenable and solicitous for the duration. Once he gets over the inevitable bad-tempered jet-lag.

Maybe she'll just stay in bed, and claim later that she must have slept straight through the alarm.

It's not worth the resulting tantrum.

Though he's really rather magnificent when he's in a towering rage…

But it's Christmas Day, and the shouting and storming could quite literally go on for hours. Best just get on with it. At least that way she won't lose the moral high ground.

Grace sighs, still not moving. He may test the absolute limits of her patience sometimes, but the sad truth is that she loves him. Despite his unpredictability, and his random thoughtlessness. For all his many flaws, he's fundamentally a kind and decent man, one whose heart is very definitely in the right place. And, anyway, she reflects, she's always had a strong penchant for the wild ones; the exciting, singular ones who determinedly march to the sound of their own drum. Too late now to decide that she should have paid much more attention to the kind of staid, dependable men who can be relied on never to do something so incredibly exasperating purely on a whim. No, if Grace had ever wanted that kind of steady – boring – man, she would have found and settled with one years ago.

At least the roads won't be too busy. All being well, they'll be back at the house well before lunch. They'll have a light snack at midday, and she'll serve up the full traditional Christmas meal in the evening. In a moment of what seemed to be grudging contrition, Boyd half-heartedly offered to take on the task, but tempting though the idea was… Well, she knows what sort of horrendous mess he's capable of making even when cooking the simplest thing, and since it's her kitchen that will suffer…

She stretches, still trying to will herself into getting out of bed. Stretches, and is startled when her foot comes into contact with something solid that most certainly shouldn't be there. The ceiling above her is perfectly intact, so nothing's collapsed and fallen onto the bed overnight. Bewildered, Grace props herself up on her elbows, and stares in complete disbelief at what she sees. On the end of the bed, on top of the duvet, there's what appears to be a very large woolly sock. The sort of long, thick sock that might be appropriate for a fisherman if it wasn't garishly patterned in traditional Christmas colours.

There is a lumpy, woolly red and green sock on the end of her bed.

It's been considerably more than fifty years since Grace believed in Father Christmas.

She sits up properly and leans forward to gingerly prod the offending item. It's definitely real. Unless she's still asleep and dreaming. Which seems doubtful.

Admittedly, the house does have a chimney, and yes, there is a fireplace in her bedroom, but it's been sealed since well before she bought the house, twenty odd years ago. Added to which, there's no such thing as Santa Claus. Or his elves. Or his bloody reindeer. But there's still someone's idea of an old-fashioned Christmas stocking sitting there waiting for her attention.

Maybe it's all been too much for her, and she's finally lost her grip on reality? It would certainly explain a lot.

Tentatively, Grace draws the bulging sock towards her. It's so full it doesn't seem likely another thing could be rammed into it, however hard anyone tried. Someone has gone to a lot of trouble, she realises… but the obvious suspect was in New York, and he couldn't have got into the house anyway. True, nowadays he has his own set of keys, but she distinctly remembers tackling the deadbolts before heading up the stairs to bed. They're stiff and awkward, and she chipped a nail irritably wrestling with the top one.

Cautious investigation results in the discovery of two vividly orange and very inviting-looking satsumas that roll out onto the duvet. Very traditional. Nuts, too, she discovers. Walnuts, with their wonderful, brain-like shells, Brazil nuts, hard enough to break the hardiest of nutcrackers, and some also-ran cashews and almonds. For a moment Grace is taken straight back to early childhood, to bright frosty Christmas mornings, and the simple delights of a few extremely rare treats. To the halcyon, half-remembered days before her father left, when the family was still together and still happy.

There are plenty of other treats worth delving for. Chocolate seems to feature heavily, as do the kind of cheap, silly novelties much beloved of small children. She finds whimsical things, festive things, pointless things. Things that make her chuckle, and things that make her shake her head in bemusement. She's smiling broadly now, entranced by every tiny new delight that she finds. She knows exactly who's responsible, no question, but just how he managed it remains a complete mystery. One that will doubtless be solved in the fullness of time.

No-one else would do something like this for you, Grace, a quiet little voice in her head remarks. Only him. Only your big, gruff Detective Superintendent; the one who never thinks twice about manhandling suspects, and who can put the fear of God into criminals and subordinates alike at twenty paces without even trying.

Contradictory, quick-tempered, infuriating, ridiculously endearing man.

It's definitely time to get moving, she realises, glancing at the clock. His flight is due to land within the next half hour, and it will take her the same amount of time to reach Heathrow. The time it takes Boyd to reclaim his luggage and clear customs is the only leeway she has, and she doubts it will take him very long. If she's late, well, so be it. He'll just have to wait. Reluctantly abandoning her unexpected bonanza, Grace finally makes the effort to get out of bed. A brief look out of the window reveals that it is raining. A cold, depressing winter drizzle. To the east, the first grey hint of daylight is just beginning to reclaim the city. On the other side of the road, lights are blazing merrily in several bedroom windows. Excited children, presumably, desperate to find out what Father Christmas has brought for them.

"I hate to break it to you, Boyd," she'd said during a quick lunch break in the squad room, her tone grave, "but there's no such thing as Father Christmas. It's best that you hear it from a friend."

"That's an unforgivable thing to say," Eve had chipped in, inadvertently dropping crumbs all over Spencer's desk, "Don't listen to her, Boyd. Of course Santa's real."

"Well, if he is," she'd countered sourly, "he certainly never bothers to pay me a visit."

"That's because Santa only comes if you've been a really good girl, Grace," Boyd had replied with a sly wink that had made Eve smirk knowingly.

Somehow the light-hearted lunchtime conversation had turned more serious, and she'd eventually told them both about the year that her father had come home from sea for Christmas, but not to his wife and children. The year when money became tighter than ever, and her mother had stopped smiling. She'd told them – with very little emotion – how overnight a formerly happy home had become a place of tension and tears. That was the year, she'd said, when she found out the hard way that Father Christmas, or Santa Claus, or whatever they wanted to call him, wasn't real. She was six, her little sister just four, and their brother still a baby. For them, Christmas that year, and for many years thereafter, was a sad, empty affair, barely celebrated at all.

There have been a lot of wonderful times since, Grace reflects now, pulling on her dressing gown, plenty of happy festive seasons spent with friends and family, but the memory of those quiet, melancholy childhood Christmases still lingers somewhere at the very back of her mind, in the wounded, frightened place where she is still a little girl desperately trying to understand why her much-loved father doesn't come to see her anymore.

Psychologist, heal thyself, she thinks with a wry grimace. She makes a determined effort to cast off the sudden edge of gloom. The past is the past; it's the present that matters – and in the present she is somehow lucky enough to find herself with a friend and lover who thinks enough of to do something so wonderfully kind and ridiculous because... Well, just because.

Coffee. She needs coffee, then a brisk shower. No time for breakfast, but that doesn't matter – later there will be more food than either of them can eat. Good food, good wine, good company. They might end up squabbling over something silly, but they will laugh a lot, too, and neither of them will waste much time thinking about the past, or just how tough the last year has been for them both.

Descending the stairs, Grace notes that the deadbolts on the front door are still firmly closed, just as she expected. Well, she'll find out how he managed it all soon enough. Heading towards the kitchen, she stops dead by the open living room door. The curtains are closed, just as she left them, but there's just enough light for her to see the supine figure sprawled out on her sofa. Most of her uninvited guest is buried under the heavy wool blanket she keeps downstairs for the colder winter evenings, but she can clearly see the top of his head, the tousled, spiky silver hair.

It seems she was wrong. Father Christmas is real after all, and she suspects he looks an awful lot like DSI Peter Boyd, head of the Metropolitan Police's controversial Cold Case Unit.

-oOo-

Coffee. That's the first thing Boyd registers. The aromatic smell of freshly-ground coffee. It's good, but not as good as the very next thing that he becomes aware of. Someone – and he's fairly sure he can guess who – is running their fingers gently and rhythmically through his hair. More soothing than erotic, more affectionate than sensual. It's unexpected, and extremely pleasant. He stirs, automatically leaning his head into the touch, and a moment later he feels the soft press of gentle lips against his own. It's enough to bring him fully awake, and he blinks up at her, mildly surprised by the way she is smiling so indulgently. Clearing his throat, he mumbles, "That's one way of being woken up that I thoroughly approve of."

"I thought you'd like it," Grace says, perching herself on the edge of the sofa next to him. The curtains are half open, and the morning light edging into the room makes her eyes look a very deep and piercing blue. "Happy Christmas. Why aren't you at Heathrow?"

He rubs his eyes, yawns, and shifts into a more comfortable position. "Ah. Now that, Grace, is a very good question."

"One I'm sure you'll think of an answer to eventually."

She doesn't seem to be angry with him. In fact, her tone is much warmer than it has been for several days. He sits up a little against the sofa cushions, wincing at the sudden stabbing pain in his back, and gratefully accepts the steaming mug she passes him. Coffee. Black. The good stuff, too, by the smell of it. A careful sip confirms the fact. Definitely not persona non grata, then. So it was all worth it, just as he hoped. Good.

"You're a detective, Boyd," she says, one hand now resting on his thigh, "so maybe you can tell me how Santa managed to get into my house last night, given that both fireplaces have been sealed for donkey's years."

The fond amusement twinkling in her eyes tells Boyd that everything's all right. Probably. He shrugs, blasé. "Santa's been…? Told you he was real, didn't I?"

He's definitely going soft in his old age. Or maybe he's just going – gone – stupidly soft on her. Either way, he'd have a great deal of trouble accounting for his uncharacteristic behaviour to any of his friends and colleagues. He stretches, sips his coffee, and watches her over the rim of the mug. Grace shakes her head, but she's smiling tolerantly, and the hand still on his thigh is intimate and gentle. Her tone dry, she says, "Santa is just a little too good at breaking and entering, if you ask me."

"I've always said that. Distinctly suspicious character."

"Thank you," she says after a very long pause. Her voice is quiet and sincere. "It was very – "

"Don't say it, Grace," he interrupts, holding up his free hand. "I'm not awake enough yet to cope."

" – sweet of you," she finishes, completely ignoring his instruction.

"Now I feel violated," he complains. It's a good sign, though. He risks trying the boyish grin that always seems to either bail him out of trouble with her, or bury him much deeper in it. "So, I'm forgiven for buggering off to the States and missing the office Christmas party, then, am I?"

Her reply is haughty. "I suppose so. You could have told me you were getting an earlier flight, Boyd."

He grins again. "What, and ruin all my fun?"

Grace gives him a look that is both sharp and contemplative. "How did you get in, by the way?"

Scratching idly at the coarse morning stubble encroaching on his neat goatee beard, Boyd shrugs again. "Back bedroom window. I've told you before about leaving it open overnight."

Looking both surprised and mildly horrified, she demands, "How the hell did you get up there? At your age? No, I don't think I want to know. I bet you were really good at shinning up trees as a boy, weren't you?"

He smirks. "The best."

As if looking for something, Grace glances round the room, eyebrows drawn together in a frown. "Where's all your luggage?"

"Garden shed. Unless some little bastard's pinched it." Putting aside his coffee, Boyd catches her by the waist and draws her towards him. She offers no resistance, just eyes him in a way that suddenly makes him a remarkably happy man. It's a damn shame there's no mistletoe, but he's going to kiss her anyway. Gently, but very thoroughly. And then he might just get to his feet and tow her up the stairs. After all, it's still far too early to be up and about on a chilly Christmas morning.

As he closes the diminishing gap between them, he murmurs, "Happy Christmas, Grace."

Really, it's absolutely bloody sickening how wonderful it all is.

- the end -

Happy Christmas/Seasons Greetings 2014!