DISCLAIMER: I own nothing.

Dedication:
for CatS81, shadowsamurai83 and Gemenied for being truly nice people,
and for Scription Addict just because.

Unconditionally

By Joodiff

It's only because Grace looks so happy that Boyd silently grinds his teeth instead of giving voice to his mounting irritation. Really, it was better earlier in the evening when he was merely excruciatingly bored by the tedious, fatuous conversation around the dinner table. Now the conversation, fuelled by a little too much good wine, has become exceedingly pompous and opinionated and he is genuinely struggling to bite back his sarcastic exasperation. The fact that he is largely succeeding speaks volumes not about his patience – he has very little – but about the depth of his feelings for the woman sitting next to him. For her, and for her alone, he is keeping his temper in check and his own opinions firmly to himself.

Boyd hates this sort of dinner party, and he can't imagine why she was so keen to accept the invitation. Or maybe he can. He thinks, just a touch wryly, that whether she would ever admit it or not, it has just a little to do with her wanting to show off. To show him off, to be more precise. But maybe he can live with that, given what she's been through; and just as long as he can stop himself from getting seriously pissed off by the tide of superficial gossip and pretentious discussion the evening will probably pass off all right. Boyd glances sideways at Grace, but her attention is all on the woman opposite – a fellow psychologist called Julia, he recalls – and she doesn't notice his look. She does seem incredibly happy, though, so he keeps his mouth shut and makes an effort to look at least vaguely interested in the inane conversation.

One of the men – stout and balding – suddenly asks, "And what does our tame policeman think?"

Boyd sees Grace's quick, slightly worried glance out of the corner of his eye, but he simply settles his gaze on the man and makes a show of considering the question. At length, he says, "I think that law enforcement matters a great deal to the general public and shouldn't be regarded as a political football."

"Oh, jolly good answer," the man says with a wide, insincere smile. "You should be a diplomat, Peter."

He resists the urge to snort in derision, just smiles tightly. "Hardly."

But – just as he knew it would – the question opens the floodgates, and all the expected jokes, questions and comments start to descend on him from every side. Someone launches into a very long, very complicated and exceedingly boring anecdote about being arrested for theft in a clear case of mistaken identity, and Boyd only just resists the powerful urge to groan loudly. He doesn't particularly mind genuine curiosity, but he definitely resents being regarded as some kind of interesting sub-species to be relentlessly cross-examined due to his chosen career.

The same stout man – Boyd thinks his name is Roger – eventually says, "Surely, though, the very existence of a Cold Case Unit indicates that the Met could be doing a far better job…"

"Oh, shut up, Roger," the slim brunette at the end of the table says, thus proving Boyd right about the man's name. "I find it all rather fascinating. So, tell us, Peter, is it anything like it is in the movies? Do you really spend all your time chasing serial killers and getting shot at?"

He looks at her. Pretty woman. Elegant. Late-forties. Curves in all the right places. What nearly makes him grin, though, is the quick, slightly frosty look that comes his way from Grace. Clearly, he has been noticed noticing those curves. Smoothly, he says, "I can safely say that generally it's nothing like that exciting."

It surprises him slightly that the brunette laughs. Her eyes – very, very blue – fix on him and she says, "Why do I think you're sick and tired of people asking you that sort of thing?"

"It can get," he pauses, thinking about it, "a little tedious."

The psychologist woman – not Grace but her friend, Julia – says, "But being a specialist in such a unit must be absolutely fascinating, eh, Grace?"

Boyd suspects that the question is a deliberate attempt to take some of the attention off him, and he's extremely grateful for the fact. He doesn't want to be studied and questioned. He doesn't want to be in this painfully stylish dining room. He doesn't want to be wearing a suit – even an Armani suit – off-duty. He really, really doesn't want to be wearing a tie, either, and without thinking about it he starts to fiddle absently with the much-hated Windsor knot. He wants to be at home – his or hers – preferably with his feet up and a drink in his hand. He does not want to sit through this… polite ordeal.

Next to him, Grace is warming to her subject, broadly explaining her professional role, and he finds that entertaining, at least. Normally Boyd is so invested in her professional analysis that he doesn't have time to contemplate the degree of intuition, perception and sheer tenacity she directs at whatever conundrum is facing her. It isn't that he doesn't listen – he listens to her far more carefully than she would ever believe – more that he's usually too caught up in trying to integrate her ideas with his own. Listening to her confidently holding forth when he is not distracted by his own responsibilities is surprisingly interesting. And more than a little captivating. There's something about her self-assurance, her sharp, challenging insight that catches and holds his attention, and not just because he's intrigued by her view of her role in his team.

Boyd leans back in his chair, turns his head slightly to watch her more intently. Most of her attention seems to be on her fellow psychologist, but she glances round as she talks, and he's struck by her poise, her ability to hold the attention of all her fellow diners. It's a strange sort of thought to have, but he remembers, quite suddenly, why he pushed so very hard for her to join his embryonic team all those years ago. Quietly, unobtrusively, he sits and admires her, and he's quite self-aware enough to recognise that the way he does it is more than a little territorial. It doesn't bother him. Not anymore. A lot has changed between them in the last few months, and Boyd has reached a point of personal equilibrium regarding their relationship that allows him to be gently wry about his own reactions.

Roger, who is beginning to grate on Boyd's nerves in a potentially dangerous sort of way, says, "Psychology is all very well, but surely criminal profiling is a pseudo-science at best? Surely it owes its current popularity solely to how it has been portrayed in the media? Popular culture – "

"Criminal profiling is a complementary tool," Grace says, smiling. Boyd does not miss the fact that the smile goes nowhere near her eyes. "It's use is – "

"Oh, come on," Roger says with a laugh that is as false as her smile. "Is it really any better than – "

Boyd remains leaning casually back in his chair, but he cuts across the other man without compunction. "Human behaviour – even aberrant human behaviour – is largely predictable within a given set of parameters. Offender profiling is often as useful to us in ruling out potential suspects as it is in helping us to identify them."

"Well, that's reassuring," Roger says with the same sardonic laugh. "I'm sure we'll all rest easier in our beds tonight knowing that our heroic boys in blue…"

Wisely, perhaps, Boyd ignores the rest of the man's discourse. Instead, he looks at Grace, willing her to pick up on his thoughts. She glances at him, and he suspects she has done just that. There's a quiet promise in her eyes, a touch of understanding that soothes him. He doesn't doubt that she knows just how irritable he's getting, however well he's managing to control the impulse to jump to his feet and start prowling the room as he tells the insufferable and gently inebriated Roger exactly what he thinks of him.

The conversation has turned again. One of the women is discussing the intimate details of some third party's illness. The sympathy on offer seems rather too gleeful. Boyd starts grinding his teeth again, and he jumps slightly when he feels a hand settle on his thigh under the table. Grace is not looking at him, but her touch is both firm and gentle, and it is designed to soothe and reassure. In some ways it has entirely the opposite effect, but fortunately he is old enough and wise enough to immediately side-track himself. He is not a teenager, he is a mature, experienced man, one who is, somewhat tragically in his own opinion, rather closer to sixty than fifty, and he has no intention of disgracing himself at a dinner party just because –

The curvy brunette suddenly says, "And what about you, Grace? I hear you're still going backwards and forwards to the hospital?"

Boyd feels himself start to bristle even as Grace says serenely, "Oh, it's just routine, Frances. Check-ups, that sort of thing."

"You're so brave," the brunette – Frances, apparently – says.

Oh, for fuck's sake, Boyd thinks. Loudly. But he keeps his mouth firmly shut.

"Not at all," Grace says. "There's nothing brave about doing what has to be done."

Boyd has had enough. Finally, he has reached the absolute end of his tether. For her sake, he does not allow his rising temper to explode, he simply looks ostentatiously at his watch and says, "Pleasant as this has been, we really should be making a move…"

He isn't sure that Grace will back him up, but he feels her squeeze his thigh slightly before letting go. She says, "I'm afraid Peter's right… One of the downsides of police work is the need to be at work unbelievably early in the mornings."

A couple of their fellow diners laugh politely. It is Roger, stout, balding Roger, who smirks and says, "Surely one of the perks of screwing the boss is – "

It's a very stupid thing to do, of course, but Boyd isn't renowned for thinking too much before acting. He's on his feet in an instant, and while one hand grabs Roger's shirt and tie and hauls, the other forms a fist which snaps forward with truly astonishing speed. It's just one punch. But just one is enough.

-oOo-

Grace doesn't talk to him as he drives them steadily northwards through the dark streets. He understands – of course he does – but he can't help feeling slightly aggrieved by the heavy, disapproving silence being directed at him from the passenger seat. It takes him a while, but eventually he grudgingly says, "Look, I'm sorry, all right? But the man's a complete – "

"He was drunk, Boyd," Grace says sharply. "For God's sake… I hope you know how lucky you are that Rachel was sympathetic. I just wanted a quiet night out with my friends – "

He can't quite stop himself retorting, "Yeah, well some of your friends are pretentious, supercilious – "

"Oh, stop it. I'm sorry they wound you up, and I'm sorry you hated every minute of it, but – "

For a moment his temper rises again. "Do you really think I'm ever going to let a jumped-up little prick like him talk to you like that?"

"Boyd."

Something in her tone makes him bite down hard on the rest of what he's got to say on the subject. Instead, he growls, "What?"

"Stop the car," she instructs him.

He blinks. "What?"

"You heard – stop the car."

"Oh, come on, Grace," he says impatiently, but he glances in the rear-view mirror and then pulls the car tight in to the kerb. He has a nasty suspicion he knows where this is going, and he has no intention of letting her get out of the vehicle to make the rest of her way home alone. Even if it means enduring a spectacular fight. "I don't – "

But she cuts him short. Her voice is calm and quiet. "You're not a white knight, Boyd, and I am most assuredly not a damsel in distress. That was a thoroughly appalling thing to do."

"Fine," Boyd says wearily. He knows this is not a battle he can win. He stares gloomily ahead, wondering, not for the first time, how on earth two such fundamentally different people could ever find themselves so deeply, powerfully attracted to each other. It's a puzzle he doesn't think he'll ever solve.

"Boyd," she says again.

He sighs and glances at her. "What?"

Boyd expects further censure at the very least. He expects a long, thoroughly comprehensive list of his flaws and failings to be thrown at him. He expects to be told a few home truths that he undoubtedly won't want to hear. He does not expect her to lean in and kiss him with a very gentle but very startling sensuality. He does not expect the instant, answering response of his body to her unexpected action. He doesn't expect the blaze of fire that heads straight for his groin or the sparking electricity that seems to race up and down his spine. He doesn't expect it, and nor does he understand it, not really. But it doesn't stop him responding instantly and unequivocally to it.

When she pulls back, he can see the sharp arousal clear in her eyes, even in the gloom. It does nothing at all to assuage the heat suddenly coursing through his veins. She says, "I knew you were trouble the moment I met you."

He thinks perhaps the worst is over. The dinner party… incident… may yet come back to haunt him, but he thinks she's probably prepared to drop the matter – for now, at least. He risks a slight grin. "Didn't stop you agreeing to a CCU contract, though, did it?

"I think I had some naïve idea I might be able to get you under control. Eventually."

Boyd can't quite resist the gamble. "I thought it was because you fancied me?"

"That, too," she tells him, absolutely deadpan. "Shame it took you quite so long to notice."

"Got there in the end though, didn't I?"

Grace smiles slightly. "In the end."

-oOo-

Something about her gentles him. It is not a conscious thing, it simply… happens. It might be something to do with how small and slight she feels in his arms, or it might be something to do with the way she looks at him with quiet, absolute trust. Boyd doesn't know. It's just one more of those completely impenetrable mysteries that seems to surround their relationship. He goes to her like a ferocious lion, and somehow without seeming to do a solitary thing she turns him into a big, placid kitten. Every single time. That's all he knows. He doesn't even know whether it should bother him, the spontaneous transformation she seems to cause.

He realises she is watching him, her expression faintly indulgent, and when he raises his eyebrows quizzically at her she simply says softly, "What?"

Boyd is not a man for words. They tend to escape him, trip him up, even trick him. But he does not fear them. He fears very little. He shrugs slightly, lets his fingers trail down her stomach, appreciating the softness of her skin. "You bring out the best in me… and the worst in me. It's… ironic."

She catches hold of his hand and raises it to her lips, gently kissing his fingers. "That's not irony, Boyd, that's human nature. It's just…"

Again, he raises his eyebrows, slightly amused by the hesitation. "Yes?"

It is Grace who shrugs this time. "All I was going to say is that you're a creature of wild extremes. The best of you and the worst of you are poles apart."

Boyd considers her words carefully and reluctantly concludes that she is right. "That's just how I am."

"I know," she says, and there is no trace of condemnation either in her tone or her expression. "It wasn't a criticism."

"Maybe it should be."

She kisses his palm and places his hand on her chest. He can feel her heart beating, strong and steady. Softly, she says, "Do you believe it's possible to love someone unconditionally?"

"I don't tend to think in those sort of terms," Boyd admits, and it's the truth.

"Loving someone unconditionally isn't about being blind to that person's faults, or about letting things pass unchallenged, it's about understanding and accepting – but not in an uninformed way."

Boyd grimaces. He can't help it. "Whatever the hell that's supposed to mean."

Grace sighs. "It means that I love you, even if you did punch Roger Falworth in the face."

"See how much easier it is when you speak in a language I can actually comprehend?" Boyd says, reclaiming his hand and setting it back to work exploring the warm, soft curves of her body. "And, to be fair, he has got the sort of face that's just asking to be punched."

"Said the police officer."

"I was off-duty."

Her response is sardonic. "Well, that's all right, then."

"I think you should understand something," Boyd says, rolling over onto his back. He studies her bedroom ceiling for a few moments, considering his words. "I'm aware that it may not have been my finest hour, Grace, but I'm not going to lie to you. Given the same circumstances, I'd do it again."

Her reply surprises him. She simply says, "I know you would."

He looks at her again, frowning slightly. "And that's it? No lecture?"

"What would be the point?" Grace asks him. "Perhaps you need to understand something, too, Peter. I've known you for years and I've seen you do some truly disgraceful things, but if I didn't believe you were fundamentally a very good and decent man, you wouldn't be here. Come-to-bed eyes or not."

"I suspect there's a compliment in there somewhere," Boyd says mildly, and when she smiles at him he puts an arm around her shoulders, drawing her in close to him and kissing her forehead softly. He doesn't bother to attempt to suppress the swell of affection caused by the way she presses herself against him, almost as if she's seeking some kind of reassurance in the warmth and strength of his body. He says nothing, and within minutes he can hear the tempo of her breathing change as she starts to drift off to sleep.

Reflecting on the evening's events, he wonders if she's right – wonders if love can ever truly be unconditional. It's not the sort of question he is used to asking himself. He's a pragmatic man, generally unsentimental about things and about people, but there is no doubt that Grace Foley is very, very deep under his skin. Has been for a very long time, even if he failed to realise it until…

Until.

A very small word with massive significance.

Until… she became ill. Until… he had to face the very real fear of losing her. Until… he looked at her and saw a woman who was terrified and defiant, a woman with a tenacity that easily equalled his own. A woman who… A woman he…

Just a woman, in fact.

Not a friend, not a colleague, but a woman. A woman facing a brutal nightmare of pain and uncertainty. But a woman.

He shakes his head a tiny fraction. Boyd is not impressed by how incredibly obtuse he has been. But he does know one thing – he isn't going anywhere. Not now he's finally come to his senses. And he's already promised her that more times than he can remember.

Knowing she's asleep, he mutters, "Next time I'll break his fucking jaw."

And he means it. Because he loves her.

And she will forgive him. Eventually. Because she loves him.

Unconditionally.

- the end -