DISCLAIMER: I own nothing.
A/N: This is my response to the "Bizarre Pairings" FB challenge issued by Scription Addict. It kind of fails miserably, though, because I've busted the word limit by a good three and a half thousand... Oops.
It will probably help if you're familiar with the S8 episode "End of the Night". If you're not, you may want to find an episode synopsis. The original episode deals with rape, and accordingly, this story touches on the subject, too.
One last thing – even the most diehard B/G shipper should find something here to like, even though the whole point of the challenge was to write something non-B/G. So, er, give it a chance, eh? (Yes, OHT, I'm looking at you...)
He Falls
by Joodiff
Grace has known Peter Boyd for far, far too long not to recognise all the signs, and when he arbitrarily dismisses all of them from his presence just after six o'clock with the languid suggestion that they simply all go home for the night, she's absolutely certain her growing hunch is right. She exchanges a quizzical look with Eve and mouths silently, "Cherchez la femme…?"
Eve's answering grin makes it quite clear that she agrees absolutely with Grace's assessment of the situation, but in everyone's sudden haste to make it safely out of the CCU's offices before their notoriously unpredictable commander changes his mind, nothing further is said. Avoiding the eager stampede, Grace lingers unobtrusively, pointlessly rearranging papers, and when the last of her colleagues have made good their unanticipated early escape from the basement, she heads straight for Boyd's office, taps on the door and marches in without waiting for a reply. Any vague, remaining doubts she may have are instantly banished. Boyd is frenziedly multi-tasking, apparently trying to file reports away, clear his desk and log off from the Met's intranet whilst simultaneously having a shave. It occurs to her that if his concentration lapses and he makes a mistake, his neat, jaunty goatee beard is likely to pay the price.
Highly amused and more than a little curious, Grace asks, "So come on, then. Who is she?"
Boyd glances up, and just for a moment there's a very definite look of the guilty schoolboy about him. Dark eyes settle on her and he asks disingenuously, "Who is who?"
Grace snorts. "Do I look as if I was born yesterday, Boyd?"
He grins briefly, but ignores the challenge. Instead, he says, "Chuck that shirt over, will you, Grace?"
There is indeed a clean white shirt now hanging up next to his long coat, one she knows for certain wasn't there just twenty minutes previously. Grace snags it deftly, very deliberately ignoring the fact that with his free hand he is now unfastening the light blue shirt he's been wearing all day. She says, "Tell me who she is and you can have your shirt."
"Attempting to blackmail a senior police officer is a very serious offence," Boyd tells her, finally switching off the electric razor and dropping it carelessly into the open top drawer of his desk. "Tie or no tie?"
"Depends on where you're taking her."
"Not stupid enough to fall for that one," he says with another quick grin. "Tie? Yes or no?"
"No," Grace tells him. It's difficult not to notice the flex of muscle in his wide shoulders as he shrugs out of the shirt and throws it over the back of his chair. As he turns to face her, it's equally difficult not to notice the familiar pale, grooved scars on his flanks, the legacy of his long-ago encounter with Reece Dickson. Boyd holds out his hand, snaps his fingers irritably. Ignoring his impatience, Grace says, "Please tell me it's not the Scott woman?"
"Are you out of your mind?" Boyd asks, sounding utterly incredulous. "She'd eat me alive."
Thinking of the intimidating and ferociously successful CPS barrister, Grace has to chuckle sympathetically. It's no secret to anyone in the Cold Case Unit that Carla Scott has her sights firmly set on Boyd, nor that he is obstinately doing everything he possibly can to evade her clutches. Grace doesn't doubt that his already robust ego enjoys the attention, but she is also aware that the formidable Ms Scott really doesn't stand a much of a chance with him. Boyd likes his women feisty and independent, that's true enough, but he's not the sort of man who's ever likely to be attracted to a woman with balls arguably bigger than his own.
"So who?" Grace asks, deliberately holding up and waving the captive shirt as bait.
"Strictly need to know basis, Grace," he says, taking a step forwards and snapping his fingers again. "Shirt. Now."
She lets him take it. "So there is a woman?"
Boyd smiles, the expression suddenly making him look years younger, and finally agrees slyly, "There is a woman."
Probably, it's the only admission he's going to make. Rolling her eyes at him, Grace simply says, "Do try to make it into work on time tomorrow, won't you?"
-oOo-
"You're still a prick," the woman says in a reflective tone of voice, her attention apparently more on her half-finished glass of wine than on him. "But I guess it's entirely thanks to you I'm not locked up somewhere."
"So maybe not that much of a prick?" Boyd asks mildly, leaning back in his chair. Good food and drink, good company. He's feeling distinctly mellow as he watches her. Not quite mellow enough not to notice the way the candlelight reflects in her eyes; eyes almost as deep and dark as his own.
"No, you're still a prick," she tells him. She sips the wine for a moment and then frowns. "This is all right, isn't it? I mean, you're not going to get your arse kicked for it?"
The thought makes Boyd smile a little wryly, given the recent extensive mauling he's had from his infuriated superiors over the Linda Cummings debacle, but he shakes his head. "It's fine. So what does Gemma Morrison do now?"
She shrugs her slim shoulders. "Haven't really thought about it. Everyone keeps saying it's a new chapter of my life, all that sort of crap. I'm thinking about going back to college. Mature student. God, doesn't that sound weird?"
"Is that what you want?"
"Dunno," Gemma says succinctly. For a moment she's silent, once again staring broodingly into the depths of her glass. "For so long my life's been about just making it through the days, you know? Now…"
"You have what a friend of mine would call 'closure'?" Boyd suggests. The need to reassure her is very strong, and he adds, "Neither Mitcham or Bloch are going anywhere for a very, very long time, Gemma. Your life's your own."
"Thanks to you."
"All part of the service," he tells her easily.
She frowns, looks up at him. "If Mitcham had died, would I have gone to prison?"
Boyd shrugs. "Who can say? The CPS would almost certainly have decided it was in the public interest to prosecute, but what the judge and jury would have made of it…"
"Best guess?"
He considers the matter for a moment before answering, "Worst case scenario? Voluntary manslaughter… three to four years; out in half that. Best case scenario… acquittal."
Gemma pulls a face. "Know your stuff, don't you, Detective Superintendent?"
Amused, he says, "I've been a copper for more than thirty years. It would be a bit tragic if I didn't, by now."
Sounding genuinely curious, Gemma asks, "So, is it like it is on telly? Being a detective?"
"Do you really want me to shatter your illusions?"
She leans back in her chair and asks with a grin, "Do you have a gun?"
Boyd shakes his head. "No."
"Disappointing."
He snorts softly, still faintly amused. Something makes him say gravely, "I'm an AFO, if that helps. An Authorised Firearms Officer. That means I'm trained and authorised to carry a gun in certain circumstances, if I think it's necessary. Any good?"
"Not quite as sexy, though, is it?" Gemma says, pulling a face at him.
He raises his eyebrows a fraction. "I hadn't really ever thought about it in those terms."
"Have you ever shot anyone?"
Less amused, and unwilling to stir old memories, Boyd avoids answering the question directly, just asks her, "Why? Would that be sexy?"
"Might be, I guess," Gemma says with another shrug. Perhaps she senses it's not a subject he wants to pursue, because she abruptly asks, "So what do they call you? 'Skip'? 'Guv'? 'Super'?"
"'Sir'. Or just Boyd."
She sighs in a deliberately dramatic fashion. "Well, that's boring."
Picking up his own near-empty glass, Boyd simply says, "Most modern policing is, Gemma. Sorry to disappoint you."
-oOo-
He's an idiot. He knows he's an idiot. When Gemma suggests they take a walk along the Embankment even though the night is bitterly cold, Boyd falls into step with her without a word of protest. Something in the knowing way she looks at him as he does so tells him that she's every bit as aware of the extent of his folly as he is. Which is a far from comforting thought. They walk, and the cold by the river is every bit as harsh and damp as he expects. When she stops, he stops; they lean on the railings looking at the dark, choppy water.
"You going to tell me about you and the doctor?" Gemma asks him, her tone nonchalant.
The question surprises him. He looks sideways at her. "Doctor Foley?"
She rolls her eyes very much in the manner of the woman in question. "Obviously. What's the story?"
"There's no story."
She doesn't fall for it. "Bollocks. I've seen the way you look at each other. Old flame, am I right?"
"Something like that," Boyd agrees mildly, not intending to be drawn on the subject.
"I bloody knew it. So, what… you used to shag and now you don't?"
"Eloquently put. Essentially true. Happy now?"
"Yeah. Think she'd see me if I asked her to? As a… client… I mean?"
Boyd shrugs. "That's not for me to say. Grace doesn't really do much clinical work nowadays. I tend to keep her too busy."
"So to speak."
He ignores the innuendo. It seems a wise choice. They walk a little further, then stop again, and at length he finally says gruffly, "You do realise I'm at least twenty-five years too old for you, don't you?"
"Old enough to be my father," Gemma agrees. "How much do you earn a year?"
"About eighty grand," Boyd says noncommittally.
"Result," she says, her voice light. "Sugar daddy."
He can't help chuckling for a moment at her blasé impudence. Becoming more serious, he says, "What's this all about, Gemma? Really?"
"I like you," she states, as if everything between them could really be so simple.
Deadpan, Boyd says, "I thought you said I was a prick?"
Gemma nods. "You are. Doesn't mean I don't like you. What? You think just because I was raped I can't like a guy?"
"Did I say that? Did I even imply it? You shouldn't make assumptions."
"So? Do you like me?"
Boyd looks at her, holding her dark, intent gaze steadily. "You know I do."
-oOo-
Grace is genuinely surprised to find Boyd already at his desk when she arrives early for work the next morning. She stops next to his open office door and makes a great show of peering at him in a bewildered fashion. He looks back at her with an air of injured innocence. For a moment or two, she contemplates. Finally drawing her own conclusions, most of them based on her intimate knowledge of the habits and routines of the man in question, she says, "Poor Boyd; better luck next time."
He gives her a magnificently haughty look. "I don't know what you mean."
"Oh, I think you do," Grace says with a deliberate smile. A little more boldly than is probably appropriate, she adds, "I have certain… insider information, remember? And I'd stake a month's overtime on the fact that someone not a million miles away didn't get lucky last night."
"Don't you have any work to do?" Boyd grumbles at her.
"I always have work to do; my unit commander is a slave-driver. Are you seeing her again?"
"Go away, Grace."
As a parting shot, she says, "She doesn't know what she's missing."
"Out."
Laughing, Grace retreats. Truth be told, she's happy for him. It's taken them a long, long time to re-establish the warm, close friendship they so easily allowed to shatter under the weight of recrimination and regret, and now that they finally have, she's delighted to realise that she feels no twinge of jealousy towards the unidentified woman Boyd is evidently still intent on pursuing. It seems a lot of water really has passed under that particular bridge. Still, the stray memories that go through her mind as she walks through the squad room are far from unpleasant. Very far from unpleasant, in fact. And that's good, too, that she can finally remember and smile fondly rather than wince at the bitter sting of pain and embarrassment.
Grace is still vaguely thinking about her engaging, infuriating erstwhile lover when she settles down to work. And that, in fact, is nothing at all out of the ordinary.
-oOo-
"Peter?" Gemma says, the following evening.
Coat collar turned up against the chill, Boyd glances at her, half-smiling as he courteously holds the restaurant's heavy glass door open. "What?"
"Nothing. Just seeing whether it works or not."
Boyd raises an eyebrow. "And does it?"
A dubious note in her voice, she says, "Doesn't really suit you, does it? Don't you have another name?"
"Timothy," he admits brusquely.
Gemma snorts derisively. "God, that's even worse. Peter Timothy? What, were your parents working alphabetically through the New Testament, or something?"
"Could be. My older brother's John Matthew."
"Weird."
"Thanks," Boyd grumbles at her.
The grin she flashes at him is spellbinding. As he follows her into the restaurant – her choice of venue this time – there's a loud voice ringing clearly in his head. It says, There's no fool like an old fool, Peter…
-oOo-
Into the meaningful silence inside the stationary car, she abruptly says, "You pity me, don't you?"
"I admire you," Boyd says, and it's the simple truth. Sensing it's not quite enough, he adds, "Don't mistake humanity for pity, Gemma. They're not the same thing at all."
"No?"
"No," Boyd says. He stares straight ahead, knowing she's watching him closely. The silence stretches. There's a tension to it, one he really doesn't want to examine too closely. He stretches out a hand towards the ignition. "I'll drive you home."
"Let's go to your place," she says.
He swallows hard, a completely involuntary reaction. "That's probably not a good idea."
"Why?" Gemma asks. "You want me, don't you?"
He does. Far more than he knows he should. Unconsciously echoing the same words he used by the river, Boyd says quietly, "You know I do."
He can hear her shrug, even if he doesn't see it. "Well, then? You want me, I want you. Let's go."
It seems so simple. So impossibly simple. He starts the car.
-oOo-
"Birds of a feather," Gemma says reflectively. They're still sitting in Boyd's car, but now they are parked outside the converted industrial building in Deptford where she's apparently recently rented a small flat. The temperature is very low, even inside the vehicle, but neither of them is really aware of it.
Frowning, he asks, "What do you mean?"
"Your eyes," she says, gazing at him in the gloom. "Behind the mask, they're so sad. Who hurt you, Peter? What's your story?"
Her perception startles him, and for a moment Boyd nearly bridles at it. Something – maybe just her intense vulnerability – stops him from automatically biting back. Instead, he simply sighs. "My story's a very ordinary one, Gemma. Middle-aged man wakes up one morning and finds he's worked so bloody hard for so bloody long that he's lost everything that should have mattered."
"Wife? Kids?"
"Pretty much."
"'Pretty much'?"
Dryly, he says, "My son ran away and my wife left me for a man who remembered to go home at night."
"Nightmare. Do you ever see him? Your son?"
"He died," Boyd says brusquely, surprising himself with the admission. "Eighteen months ago. Overdose."
Even in the semi-darkness he can see Gemma looks mortified as she responds, "Shit. I'm so sorry. I had no idea."
"Why would you? Gemma – "
She interrupts him. "Is this where you give me the whole 'we can't do this' speech?"
"I meant what I said the other night – I'm too old for you, Gemma. By far."
"And I meant what I said. I like you," she says stubbornly. "You know everything there is to know about what happened to me – every hideous intimate detail – and yet you still treat me like I'm completely normal."
He snorts. "Well, you are, aren't you?"
"You know what I mean. You're the one person who should treat me like a victim… but you never have."
"I don't see a victim when I look at you. I see a survivor."
"Even though…?"
Boyd doesn't want to think about the unspoken things. Doesn't want to think of her car crashing off the road, or the look on her face as she ran towards the parapet on the bridge. Doesn't want to remember how hard she fought against him as he attempted to stop her from jumping to her death. He says firmly, "Even though."
"I can't have kids," she says abruptly. "Because of what happened. I guess you know that, too."
He nods, not wanting to lie to her. Carefully – very carefully indeed – he says, "I've seen some terrible things over the years. Sometimes I don't think there's anything left that would surprise me when it comes to what one human being is capable of doing to another. One thing I do know, though, is that it's worth holding on. Worth never giving up. I've seen some astonishing things, too. Incredible courage, dignity and compassion. That's why people like me do what we do – because we know that there's still some hope left in the world."
"You sound like my therapist."
"God, I hope not," Boyd says automatically.
Gemma grins at him, and once again it is a totally bewitching grin. One that grabs hold of him and won't let go. There are so many reasons why he should wait for her to get out of the car and then simply drive away without ever looking back. Boyd waits for her to speak, but she says nothing, just continues to watch, a smile on her face but her dark eyes troubled and enigmatic. Deliberately, he says, "I'm really not a nice guy, Gemma. I work too hard, I'm difficult, obnoxious, autocratic – "
"Yeah, I got all that a while back. You're a total prick. I keep telling you that."
Boyd allows a slight grin of his own. "So you do."
"Know what I see when I look at you?"
He can't help wincing. "I really hate to think."
"I see a guy who doesn't like being told what to do, doesn't like being pushed around. A guy who plays by his own rules and doesn't give a stuff if that gets him into trouble. Right so far?"
"Could be," he says evasively.
"Which is why you asked me out to dinner in the first place. This isn't altogether an… appropriate… thing for you to be doing, is it? Even though it's all over?"
"Not entirely," Boyd admits.
She nods, continues, "Know what else I see?"
"I'm pretty sure you're going to tell me."
Gemma's voice is quiet. "I see a guy who drove me home without laying a hand on me because even though it wasn't what either of us wanted, he knew it was the right thing to do."
Quietly, Boyd says, "Which has really pissed you off, hasn't it?"
Her answer is a long time coming, but when it does, it's thoughtful. "I guess so. But I'll get over it. You don't realise what a nice guy you are. You've listened to people calling you a jerk for so long that you honestly believe it. That's twelve years of therapy talking, by the way."
"Somehow, I thought it might be," Boyd tells her wryly.
-oOo-
Something's wrong. It isn't just the way he's prowling restlessly or the edginess in him whenever he does settle briefly – or even just the shortness of his temper – that tells Grace something isn't right. It's something else, something far more arcane. Something to do with the past that lies between them and the bond they share. Patiently, she waits, deciding to give him a chance to come to her. By mid-afternoon the atmosphere wherever Boyd goes is so bad that she almost gives in, but just as she's weakening, he corners her by the stairs.
His opening query is completely spurious, nothing he doesn't already know about the prime suspect in the complex murder investigation the unit is currently engaged in, but Grace knows him well enough to pretend to take the question at face value, to follow him into his office and close the door quietly behind her. Insulated from their colleagues, she plays the game for a few minutes before finally asking, "Are you all right, Boyd? You seem… preoccupied."
"Bad-tempered, you mean?"
"I didn't say that. Though now you come to mention it…"
Strangely, Boyd doesn't attempt to keep the banter going. Instead, he sighs and says, "I think I'm heading for a shitload of trouble, Grace, and I really don't know what the hell to do about it."
It's unlike him to be so candid quite so quickly. Sometimes the best and only option is to take the proverbial bull by the horns. Grace immediately asks, "Are we talking professionally… or personally?"
He looks up at her, holding her gaze unwaveringly. "Both."
"I see," she says calmly. Gambling on the fact that he quite evidently wants to talk even if he's not volunteering anything, she continues, "Would this be anything to do with your latest… conquest… by any chance?"
Boyd's dark brows draw together in a frown. "Don't call her that."
Interesting, Grace thinks, definitely surprised. "Okay. But I'm assuming I'm right?"
"Yeah," he admits grudgingly.
A nasty suspicion starts to form in her mind. Deciding just to be blunt, Grace says, "Please tell me we're not talking about a junior officer? Not someone in the unit? Boyd…"
The look he gives her is so sharp and so puzzled that Grace doesn't need him to tell her that she's a long way wide of the mark. Maybe just for the sake of clarity, he says, "No. On both counts."
Trying to be patient, she says, "So what's the problem? For God's sake, this is me you're talking to. Being coy really doesn't suit you. Just tell me what's going on inside that thick skull of yours."
"Grace…"
"Who are you seeing, Boyd?"
He sighs. "You won't like it."
"Just tell me," she says irritably.
Boyd gets to his feet, starts to pace as he admits, "Gemma Morrison."
Stunned, all Grace can do is stare at him.
-oOo-
In some ways the woman's identity doesn't surprise her at all. In other ways Grace can't quite believe that even Boyd could be quite so stupid. Knowing if she shows any sign of being judgemental he will almost certainly lose his temper and slam the door in her face – figuratively and literally – she opts for a more neutral approach. Passing him a steaming mug of coffee and settling herself back down, Grace says, "I'm not suggesting it's in any way deliberate, Boyd, but she's pressing all your buttons – whether you're aware of it or not. You can argue about it as much as you like, but the truth is you're a born protector. She's intensely vulnerable and you're reacting to that."
He glares across his desk at her. "Fuck's sake, I worked that out all by myself. I don't need you to state the bloody obvious."
Patiently, she says, "Well, ask yourself this, then. Are you actually attracted to her? Physically? Sexually?"
Boyd groans. "Oh, God… I'm not having that sort of conversation with you, Grace."
"Why not?"
"Why do you bloody think? Because you and I…" his words trail away and he shrugs. "Because it's not appropriate."
"Why, because we spent six months sleeping together? Before deciding it was a really bad idea, I might add."
Refusing to make eye contact, Boyd says, "This isn't about us… but essentially, yes."
Sipping her coffee, Grace studies him carefully. There's something under the surface that she's very rarely seen in him – a real touch of insecurity. "Well? Are you? Attracted to her?"
"Do you really think I'd be putting myself through this with you if I wasn't?"
"Fair point. I'm assuming you don't need me to remind you what she's been through?"
Boyd gets back to his feet, starts to prowl his office again. "You assume correctly."
"Well you're right," Grace says a moment later. "You're heading for trouble. Serious trouble. Mitcham and Bloch could appeal if there's any hint that there might have been an inappropriate relationship between Gemma and an investigating officer."
"You think I don't know that? That's rubbish, anyway, and you know it. She called me after they were sentenced, just to thank me. To thank all of us. That's how it started."
"She's half your age, Boyd."
He glares. "Not quite. And what the hell's that got to do with anything?"
"It's going to colour her view of you. You're her knight in shining armour. Look at it from her point of view; she suffers a horrific ordeal that changes her entire life, and eventually along comes this attractive, charismatic older man to the rescue – "
"Bollocks. I'm sorry, but bollocks."
Grace asks calmly, "So you're not responsible for finding and bringing to justice the men who raped her and murdered her younger brother, then?"
Boyd comes to a standstill, looks down at her. "You're saying this is just a case of hero worship?"
"I'm saying," Grace says quietly, "That Gemma Morrison is incredibly vulnerable and you're incredibly over-protective. In this sort of situation that's a very bad combination. And you obviously know it or you wouldn't have said a word to me. Let me give you two pieces of advice, Boyd. Firstly, don't take this any further unless you're absolutely certain you can deal with all the potential consequences…"
"And secondly?"
"If you do decide to take it further, for God's sake inform the DAC about it as soon as possible. Keeping your private life private isn't worth the risk of Mitcham and Bloch walking free on appeal."
The short, tense silence doesn't surprise her, but Boyd's eventual curt nod does. She waits to see if he is going to dismiss her from his office or not. He doesn't. He sits back down behind his desk and clears his throat. "I need your advice on something else."
"Something connected?"
"Yeah."
Sensing his unease, Grace hides a smile; it's not difficult to guess what's making him so uncomfortable. She says, "I assume you're talking about the… physical aspects…? You don't need to treat her as if she's made of glass, Boyd. Just try to be a bit… sensitive."
"Well, that's that, then, isn't it?" Boyd says, a stray hint of humour finally showing through the embarrassment and tension. "That's me well and truly fucked."
"Or not," Grace says helpfully, more than happy to return to their normal banter. "As the case may be."
-oOo-
The shout goes up just as she's on the verge of leaving for the night. "Grace!"
There's no-one to hear her, but regardless she mutters, "Oh, God…"
She turns and sees Boyd bearing down on her at speed, his expression intense. Hoping to forestall him, Grace puts a hand up, but he continues on the same trajectory. "Grace."
"It's Friday, it's gone nine o'clock and I'm going home," she tells him firmly. "We can't do anything more until Eve's got the DNA results."
Boyd halts just a foot or so away. "What? No, this isn't about the case."
Wearily, she says, "I'm going home, Boyd. You should try it sometime."
"Funny. What you said earlier…"
Grace looks at him expectantly. "Well?"
"About you and me," he elaborates, clearly waiting for her to pick up on his words.
Too tired to make it easy for him, she simply says, "Yes…?"
"Don't try and help me out at all here, will you?" Boyd retorts, sounding simultaneously irritable and sardonic. "Why didn't it work?"
Grace stares at him. "What? What are you talking about?"
"You said we decided it was a really bad idea. I want to know why."
"Shouldn't you have asked me that two years ago?"
He gives her a look. "When? When you slammed your front door in my face? Or when you were tearing strips off me for being... what was it again? …oh, yes. Repressed, depressed – "
" – and in denial," Grace finishes for him. "Are we really going to go through all that again?"
For a moment the tension between them peaks, and she thinks he's going to hit back at her. Oddly, though, he seems to back down a little, because his response is merely to say ruefully, "That wasn't exactly our finest hour, was it?"
If he's prepared to back down, then so is she. A little. She smiles slightly. "Hardly."
"'Isolated and unloved'," Boyd quotes in a reflective tone. "That was a hefty kick in the balls, Grace."
"I know. I'm sorry."
"Yeah, so am I."
Only a little scathingly, Grace says, "Didn't take you very long to recover from it, though, as I remember."
"You bruised my ego."
"And Sarah stroked it for you."
Boyd gives her a deliberately quizzical look. "Are we still talking about my ego?"
"You can be so bloody childish."
"All part of my charm."
Condescendingly, Grace asks, "Who on earth told you that? Look, I'm not standing here all night having an endless circular conversation with you, Boyd. You want to know why it didn't work between us? I'll tell you. We had completely different agendas, totally different expectations and we never bothered to learn how to compromise."
He almost grins. "Not because I'm a complete bastard, then?"
"Not entirely. Are you asking me if I think you can make it work with Gemma? Because if you are, I really don't know. The odds are well and truly stacked against you. Not that that's ever stopped you from doing anything."
Boyd sighs heavily. "Tell me not to do this, Grace, for God's sake."
"I can't, and even if I could, I wouldn't. Besides, you wouldn't listen."
"Could your opinion of me get any lower?"
Grace snorts. "I'll let you work that out for yourself. At the risk of pandering to your already over-inflated ego, I'll tell you this – when you want to be, you can be the kindest, gentlest man in the world. But you're too stubborn, too headstrong. And until you finally learn to control that temper of yours you're always going to risk hurting the people who love you."
Boyd folds his arms and gazes at her. "One day, when I'm old and alone, I'm going to come knocking abjectly on your door asking for another chance, you know. You'll tell me to piss off and I'll obstinately sit on your doorstep catching my death until you feel so sorry for me that you let me in."
"Oh? And what happens after that?" Grace asks, playing along.
He raises a single roguish eyebrow at her. "Depends on exactly how old we are by then."
"Get out of here, Boyd. Go and see her. Just… try to be the best man you can be."
"Grace?"
Sighing, she asks wearily, "What?"
"Do you remember the night when – "
"Go," she tells him quickly, but when Boyd grins at her, she can't stop herself grinning straight back at him.
Truth be told, there are a lot of nights from their tempestuous six months together that Grace remembers. Vividly.
-oOo-
So here he is, standing by the solid, anonymous main door knowing that he's on the verge of making one of the most stupid mistakes of his entire life. The knowledge doesn't do anything to stop him reaching out and pressing the small, square button marked simply 'Flat 4'. He approves, just as he understands. No name given. A moment later Gemma's voice crackles tinnily from the little speaker above the buttons. "Yes?"
"Police," Boyd says mildly. Oh, yes, he's an idiot.
He hears her faint chuckle. "Come up."
A faint buzz accompanies the dull mechanical noise of the lock being automatically released. He knows he's not going to walk away. He doesn't. He pushes the door open, walks into the bland hallway and heads for the solid, industrial staircase. It's all very postmodern, the building. Expensive minimalism. Not Boyd's sort of thing at all. In fact, if it reminds him of anything, it's the CCU headquarters with its raw blockwork and unadorned concrete. It's not hard to tell that the place was once some kind of workspace. A small factory, maybe, or a warehouse.
Her door opens as he walks towards it. He assumes she's been watching for him through the tiny spyhole. There's a touch of wary curiosity in her expression as she asks, "Why are you here, Peter?"
"Because I'm too stupid not to be," he says with a shrug.
Gemma smiles. A wise, knowing smile that's gentle, too. "You're as mad as I am, aren't you?"
"No doubt about it," Boyd agrees.
She steps back, opening the door a little wider. He doesn't say a word as he paces past her, nor as she shuts the door firmly on the rest of the world.
- the end -
Scription Addict's "Bizarre Pairings" Challenge: "Max 2000 words, rating of your choice, must be a relationship of any other kind than Boyd and Grace, can be unrequited love or a full-on affair, can be slash or straight, and involve any chracters from any series, and doesn't have to be CCU member, eg Grace's ex-lovers etc."