DISCLAIMER: I own nothing.

A/N: this is the sequel to "Obtuse" that I determinedly wasn't
going to write... until I struck a very good deal with Never Stop
Believing in Love. If you haven't read "Obtuse", you probably
should before reading this. ;)

Dedication: if you wanted a sequel, this is for you.

Resolution

(Sequel to Obtuse)

by Joodiff

Grace is almost ready to leave for the night – the psychological profile of Thomas Dawson that only really needed a final read-through is on Boyd's desk as promised, she's spoken to the uniformed PC on the building's main reception desk about the visitor she's expecting first thing on Monday morning, and now she's on her way back to her office to collect her coat and bag. The basement is very quiet now, most of the CCU's staff having quietly slipped away for the weekend, and as she walks back into the squad room she's slightly surprised to see Boyd's tall figure standing in her office doorway.

Frowning, she says, "Boyd?"

He visibly starts and quickly turns to face her. "Grace."

"You're very jumpy," she observes.

"Sorry," he says immediately, and for a fraction of a second he looks… haunted. Or perhaps that's simply her imagination.

Tilting her head, she asks, "Seriously – are you all right? You've been very… odd… all afternoon."

Boyd seems to gather himself, nods firmly."Yeah, I'm fine. Just tired."

He looks it. Tired and drawn. Careworn. Fighting the desperately unwise urge to simply put her arms around him and cradle his head on her shoulder, Grace says, "Go home. Eat something that doesn't come from a takeaway, have a drink, get some sleep."

"Is that what you're going to do?"

She pulls a face. "I'm afraid so. I lead such an exciting life."

For a moment he gazes steadily at her, his expression unreadable, and then he says, "Go on, then. Bugger off home before I hold you to finishing that damned profile."

"It's done," she tells him. "Done and on your desk, as ordered."

"Requested," he says, his tone dry.

Grace hides a smile. "Requested in a very forceful sort of way."

Boyd raises his dark eyebrows at her. "I thought you liked your men to be a bit forceful?"

"Oh, I do," she says, wondering how he can fail to catch the deliberate meaning behind her words.

He sighs heavily, apparently as obtuse as ever, and says, "Go home, Grace. Call your friend. Tell him he's a fucking idiot and sting him for the best restaurant you can think of."

The hollow note in his voice worries her. Frowning, Grace asks carefully, "Are you sure you're all right, Peter?"

His reply is gruff. "Yeah, I'm sure. Go on, get out of here."

Against her better judgement, Grace suggests, "I could stay for a bit…"

But his response is unexpectedly curt. "Go."

It stings, his brusque dismissal. She knows him so well, knows just how terse he can be, and yet it still stings. He walks away, heading into his own office, his shoulders very square under his grey suit jacket. For just a moment Grace is tempted to follow him, to do what she can to find out what's causing his odd mood, but common sense takes over – she simply doesn't have the energy for the sort of argument that would inevitably result, given how unusually touchy he seems to be. Frustrated, she dons her coat, picks up her bag and casts a final glance around her office – no, nothing forgotten. It's time to go.

From the squad room, she calls, "'Night, then."

The only reply is a noncommittal grunt. He doesn't even look at her.

She's a fool. Peter Boyd is not interested in her, and he never will be. Not in the way she wants. Why would he be?

-oOo-

He is… wilful. There are dozens of other words Grace could use to accurately describe him, but tonight wilful suits her purposes admirably. Peter Boyd does exactly what Peter Boyd wants to do, regardless. Sometimes he's slightly less intractable than others, but the end result is always the same – he marches determinedly to the sound of his own drum, and those who don't obediently fall into step behind him get left at the wayside. She's seen it happen over and over again through the long years of their often unstable friendship. Friends, colleagues – lovers, even; all of them left behind as he forges ever-onwards in stubborn pursuit of something he probably can't even name, their only crime a refusal to follow blindly on his terms.

He is wilful. And insensitive. And unpredictable, angry and…

Wounded. Gentle. Protective. Vulnerable.

Stop it, Grace tells herself sharply as she approaches her car. Damn the man.

In her bag, her phone abruptly starts to shrill, and for one ridiculous moment she actually allows herself to imagine that it is Boyd calling her. She knows it's not before she even sees the caller identification. She just knows. Forcing a bright note into her voice, Grace answers the loud, imperative summons with, "Hi, Eve."

"Grace," the younger woman's voice says. "I've been trying your office extension… Are you on your way home?"

"Almost. Problem?"

"No. At least, not in the way you mean. Have you seen Boyd recently?"

"Mm, just a few minutes ago. He's in his office if you want him… but he's in a bit of a… strange… mood."

"Yeah," Eve says. "And I think I can tell you why. He overheard us talking, Grace. Earlier, in the evidence room."

Snippets of their earlier conversation flash rapidly through Grace's mind, and she automatically says what she feels, "Oh, God…"

"It's not as bad as you think – "

"How?" Grace interrupts quickly, the cold, sinking sensation in her stomach very real. "How can it possibly not be as bad as I think?"

"Because he's a man," Eve's voice comes back clearly. "And even slower on the uptake than most. That's why I've been trying to get hold of you – he was in here trying to put the thumbscrews on me. Specifically, he was trying to find out who your mystery man is."

Astonished, Grace says nothing for a moment. When she speaks, she has a suspicion her voice is a little higher than it usually is. "He… thinks…?"

"He does."

"But… Oh, God."

"Look," Eve says. "It's none of my business, but there was more than a hint of the green-eyed monster involved. That's one very jealous man currently sulking in his office. Make of that whatever you want."

Incredulous, Grace snorts. "Jealous? Boyd? Oh, come on…"

"Don't shoot the messenger, Grace."

"But this is Boyd we're talking about…"

"Mm. The same Boyd who's slowly driving you mad with his abject stupidity."

"But…"

"Grace," Eve's voice says patiently. "The whole star-crossed thing? It's only fun in Shakespearian plays and bad romance novels. Get back here and sort it out."

"But…"

"I'm beginning to get seriously worried about your vocabulary, you know."

"Eve," Grace says, the name trailing before she makes a concerted effort to continue, "So – what did he say?"

"Doesn't matter. Trust me, Grace, if you actually want the damned infuriating man, you'd better turn round and get yourself back in here…"

-oOo-

Eve wouldn't lie, Grace knows that. Wouldn't lie, wouldn't exaggerate, and most certainly wouldn't let her imagination run away with her. Eve is logical, perceptive, down-to-earth and eminently trustworthy. But… but surely she must somehow be mistaken. Yes, that's almost certainly the answer – she has evidently misinterpreted Boyd's mood, his reactions. Easy enough to do – he's very rarely an open book where his emotions are concerned, and a lot – an awful lot – gets concealed behind impatience and annoyance. Protective, Grace is perfectly willing to believe; suspicious, too. But jealous… no. That's a different matter entirely. A totally different matter.

But her feet are relentlessly taking her back to him, towards the possibility of further heartache and humiliation.

What the hell am I doing?

Grace doesn't even really know what it is about him that's taken a progressively stronger and stronger hold on her over time. Doesn't know why she feels the way she does, or how or when it started. The whole thing is mystifying and more than a little embarrassing. And sometimes it is also very, very painful.

Why him?

Because, a quiet voice at the back of her mind answers, he is a strong, loyal and attractive man, one who you know would defend you with his life without a second thought, and one you honestly believe you could love forever.

And there he is, still sitting behind his desk, whiskey tumbler in hand, eyes closed, head inclined back. As she approaches, Grace can see him quite clearly through the glass partition, and the strongest image she forms is one of silent isolation. He is completely alone, master of an empty domain – but perhaps he finds the quiet, shadowy basement less lonely than his big, empty house. Stopping in the doorway, Grace taps softly on his open office door. "Boyd?"

His eyes open, his head tips forward, and he gazes at her with a steady, courteous sort of impassivity, his earlier abruptness seemingly forgotten. "Grace. Did you forget something?"

She shakes her head. "No."

Reluctant comprehension dawns in the depths of his eyes. His tone is tired. "You've spoken to Eve."

There doesn't seem to be any point in denying it. Not yet willing to advance, Grace lingers in the doorway and says quietly, "She called me."

She wonders if he will bluster. He doesn't. He nods almost imperceptibly. "I see. I don't suppose apologising will stop you tearing strips off me for eavesdropping…?"

Boyd is visibly gathering himself for the storm he thinks is coming, she can see it. Tired as he is, he will fight if he has to. It's just the nature of the man – right or wrong, he doesn't back down easily. Grace is tired herself; tired and unwilling to get into an inevitably debilitating fight with him. Whoever wins, they will both end up bloody and bruised – they always do. His bark may often be worse than his bite… but when he does bite, he bites hard. Sadly, she's never been able to simply walk away without striking back, and her claws are sharper than his by a long, long way.

Trying to avoid the confrontation, she says, "Putting aside how you heard… maybe we should talk about what you heard."

"Nothing to do with me," Boyd says promptly, but he is already bristling, all his defences up. "As Eve was so quick to remind me, we're all entitled to a private life."

And Eve is right, Grace realises. Boyd is jealous. In fact, instinct tells her that he is very jealous.

Jealous? Boyd?

But that would mean…

Still holding position in the doorway, Grace says, "But…?"

"There is no 'but'," Boyd says sullenly. "God's sake, Grace; are you going to hover in the doorway all bloody night, or are you going to come in here and just get on with ripping my balls off?"

Watching him, she doesn't move. "How much did you hear?"

It takes him a moment, but he grudgingly admits, "All of it."

"I see," she says calmly, finally stepping into his office and taking the nearest chair.

Boyd is evidently waiting for her to comment further. When she doesn't, he sighs heavily. "Who is he, Grace?"

"Does it matter?"

"Oh, for… that's exactly what Eve said. What is this, some kind of female conspiracy?"

There's something behind the impatience, something more than jealousy, even. Something that might even be a touch of hurt. Experience tells Grace to step very lightly and very cautiously to avoid igniting his ferocious, explosive temper. But there are things she needs to know. Carefully, she says, "All right. Let me rephrase the question. Why does it matter?"

It's a familiar and well-choreographed dance, one they've perfected over many, many years. Only the context ever changes.

Grace waits for Boyd's quick side-step, waits for him to counter, question for question. To her surprise, he simply stretches out to place his empty glass on his desk and says wearily into the loaded silence, "We could play this game all night."

He's right. Grace nods. "We could. Or you could tell me what's really getting under your skin."

"I'm your friend, Grace," he tells her solemnly, leaning forward, elbows on his desk, fingers steepled. "Is it really so surprising that the idea of someone messing you about pisses me off?"

There's the grudging but absolutely expected admission of over-protectiveness. Grace shakes her head. "No."

Boyd sounds exasperated as he immediately demands, "So why won't you tell me who he is? Frightened I'll go and knock his teeth down his throat?"

"Would you?"

He glares. "Maybe."

Grace shrugs. "There you are, then; there's your answer. I don't need you to fight my battles for me, Boyd."

To her surprise, he laughs at that – but there's no humour in the sharp bark. "Tell me something I don't know, Grace. Let's be honest, you don't need me at all, do you?"

It's definitely hurt, that thing that's half-hidden by the impatience and the jealousy. They're going round and round in circles but getting nowhere – not an altogether unfamiliar situation – and Grace suddenly wonders if Boyd is as deathly tired of it as she is. Give an inch, take an inch; take a step forward, take a step back. Mean what you say, but never say what you mean. Reach out, draw back. She stares unapologetically at him, asks quietly, "Is that what you think?"

Boyd gazes back, the depths of his dark eyes unfathomable, and he says… nothing.

Like a puppet being pulled by invisible strings, Grace rises to her feet. She says, "Ask me about him. That's what you want to do, isn't it? So go ahead – ask."

Boyd pushes away from his desk fractionally, as if trying to keep a constant distance between them. "Who is he?"

"Wrong question."

"Grace – "

"Ask me."

It's a dangerous strategy, but it seems to pay off, because he grinds out, "Fine. Tell me."

It's the best she's likely to get in the way of an opening, Grace realises. Dryly, she says, "Sometimes I think he might be the most infuriating, frustrating man I've ever met – he's contradictory, thoughtless and obtuse, but he's a man of integrity, too. A very decent man. I like him. I like him a lot. And I think he likes me."

"Wonderful," Boyd says unenthusiastically.

The impulse to forget about age and decorum and launch across the room with the intention of strangling him is almost as powerful as the impulse to likewise launch and simply kiss him. Thoroughly, deeply, lingeringly. Grace settles for sighing heavily. "Oh, for God's sake, Boyd… you can be unbelievably stupid sometimes. Do I really need to spell it out for you?"

Boyd evidently thinks she's deliberately and spitefully mocking him because the answering flash of anger in his eyes is hot and intense – but very quickly hidden. There's belligerence in the way he gets so quickly to his feet, though. Belligerence and something that reminds Grace of a large, wounded predator – something that's feral and completely unpredictable. He moves a lot faster than she expects too, and although there's still space between them, suddenly his desk is no longer forming a protective barrier – for either of them.

It should frighten her, the tightly coiled aggression that he could so easily unleash, but it doesn't. It exhilarates her, revitalises her, fills her with hope and want and need; makes her blood run quick and hot in her veins.

All or nothing. Take the gamble and live with the consequences, whatever they may be, or meekly turn away and wonder forever what might have been. She stares at him, her challenge totally silent but full of meaning.

Finally, he gets it. Grace sees the proverbial penny drop. Sees the edge of hostility turn to blank incredulity.

Later, when she thinks about it, the note of sheer astonishment in his voice will entertain her for a long, long time. Boyd stares at her. "It was me you were talking about…?"

Under different circumstances, Grace wouldn't be able to refrain from mercilessly teasing him for his palpable bewilderment, but there is a dangerous tension in the air, and she doesn't misjudge how volatile the situation is. She can feel her heart pounding rapidly in her chest, feel the sudden clamminess of her palms. Now is not the time for barbed, witty banter. Now is the time for simplicity and honesty. A dozen possible replies chase through her mind, but none of them seem to be remotely adequate. She jumps slightly as Boyd takes a single, unexpected step closer towards her, and for a moment she's almost – almost – tempted to retreat under the weight of his gaze, and perhaps he senses it, because he says, "Grace…"

All or nothing. After all, what has she got left to lose?

She does what she perhaps should have done a long, long time ago. Light on her feet, she closes the gap between them and she boldly reaches up to place a hand on his cheek, fascinated by the way his pupils are so widely dilated that his eyes appear almost completely black. Even on tiptoes it's a stretch, but she is suddenly very determined, and even though he seems either unable or unwilling to cooperate, Grace kisses him firmly enough and assertively enough to leave absolutely no room for any hint of misunderstanding.

Drawing back slowly, she says, "Ridiculously handsome… but so obtuse."

-oOo-

"I'm still not sure how it's possible for anyone to be quite so oblivious," Grace says, looking sideways at him. They are sitting together in the bright morning sunshine, the remains of breakfast lying between them on the elderly and slightly rusty garden table, and although the subdued rumble of North London traffic is clearly audible, there's an odd sense of tranquillity about the scene – despite her gentle needling.

"Piss off, Grace," Boyd grumbles in response to her taunt. "I'm a detective, not a bloody clairvoyant."

She laughs softly – objective achieved – and shifts position just enough to be able to gaze at him reflectively. Still faintly damp from the shower he might be, but he looks unusually dishevelled. Yesterday's shirt is crumpled beyond redemption – though she definitely likes the number of buttons that are left carelessly unfastened – and there's a significant amount of rough grey stubble encroaching on his goatee beard. Unshaven, yesterday's clothes – it's a clear giveaway, Grace decides. He unquestionably looks like a man who somehow accidentally and unexpectedly failed to go home for the night… but there's no-one to notice, and she doesn't care much what anyone else thinks anyway.

Inside the house behind them, the telephone starts to ring, the sound reaching out through the open kitchen door. Grace glances round automatically, but doesn't get up. Fairly sure she's right, she says, "Eve."

"On a Saturday morning…? Oh. Oh, God... Spare me."

"I'll have to tell her, Boyd."

"What is it with you women and gossip?"

Grace rolls her eyes. "Because, of course, men never gossip."

Boyd doesn't rise to the bait. "Go on, answer it, then."

Grace shrugs nonchalantly. "She'll leave a message. I'll call her back later. Assuming you don't want to eavesdrop…?"

"You're just so funny, Grace."

She smirks for a moment, and then becomes serious again. "I'm going to have to tell her something."

"Tell her whatever you bloody like – I just don't want to know about it."

"So…?"

He frowns. "What?"

Patiently, Grace asks, "What do I tell her?"

"You can tell her you had your evil way with me on my damned desk for all I care – "

"Ah, but that's not strictly true, is it?"

" – just try not to totally destroy my credibility as head of the unit, hmm? I need to be able to look her in the eye on Monday morning."

"Boyd."

He looks at her. "What? Oh, for heaven's sake, Grace. Just tell her… it was a lot of fun finding out."

A flash of memory. Eve's voice the previous day asking, "Seriously, do you think you could actually cope with him? I mean, really?" …and her own response: "No idea, but I suspect it would be a lot of fun finding out..."

The telephone is still ringing, but Grace is thoroughly distracted. His lap is a lot more comfortable than the old metal garden chairs, and there's something intoxicating about the way he kisses her neck, the way he runs his hands down her back…

"Eavesdropping," she scolds, drawing away momentarily. "You're a bad, bad boy."

Boyd grins suddenly, absolutely unrepentant. "So? I thought you had a weakness for bad boys."

"I do," Grace agrees. "Oh, I definitely do…"

Inside the house, the ringing finally stops. But they're far too busy to notice.

- the end -