A/N: I seem to like stories of this kind and this one was a long time coming. So I hope you will enjoy! Many thanks go to ShadowSamurai83 for the beta and to the Olympic hugging team. Love ya all.
Title: From The Corner Of My Mind
Disclaimer: I don't own, otherwise this might become reality on our tv screens.
Summary: She is at a party and hod she known he'd be there, she wouldn't have come.
Note: In this story I allude to an idea Joodiff had and which I still plan to pick up some time. After "Waterloo".
From The Corner Of My Mind
There have been times in her life when she wished him the worst. Accidents, fires, illnesses, even pestilence. All that was bad in her life had been down and due to him; her pain and her desperation and all the things that followed in their wake.
She's been to very dark places at times and sometimes it has only been a knife's edge that kept her from doing the final and irrevocable deed. She already had the letter written that was supposed to add fuel to his lifelong guilt.
From friends and acquaintances, she knows that he's had a rough go for quite a while and to a point she has relished that. In her mind, he deserved it all.
Of course, now she knows that wishing him the worst was self-destructing herself. She's managed to come out of it - not forgive, but live with it. It's better like that, without the thrown things and the screamed words and the alcohol that went down too easily.
Fact is, though, most of the time her thoughts of him aren't charitable. Still.
But this kind of experience she didn't wish on anybody, especially after her almost stepson has been killed in action. It forced her out of her own dark place, and face the world in support of others. It was a horrible thing, devastating the family. Such a young life, so mindlessly killed by the gun of a sniper.
Not the kind of thing you wish on anybody.
Maybe that's why she's here tonight, despite the fact that she could have cancelled and nobody would have blamed her. She still has friends in the force, hence the invitation. The same friend, Maureen, also informed her that he would be there, for some sort of hero celebration, despite the fact that he's been retired for close to two years.
'They don't make coppers like that any more seems to be the current line of thinking, which accounts for his post-retirement promotion and the very, very honourable discharge.
He's gone off to pastures new, dusty and dangerous as they are, and in a small corner of her mind, she can't help but admire that.
She's sitting at the bar, nursing her one glass of wine, when he enters the room and she can't help but swallow. He's still incredibly handsome. There's no doubt about it. But he has changed, she realizes right away, very much so. He has aged too, force of nature, obviously.
The last time she saw him in person his hair had already been mostly silver, but now there is no spot of dark left. It suits him. He's also leaner again than she remembers, which is probably due to the excursion of the last months. His left arm is in a sling and though he fiddles with it, it looks like he'll actually keep it on. Of course, as a shout-out to his eccentricities, it's not a medical cloth, but some colourful scarf. It looks odd against his black dinner jacket, but he'll probably revel in that too.
His appearance turns into a happening, everybody and their uncle rushing forward to greet the returned hero, and naturally, he basks in it. People flock around him, eager to catch a glimpse or a picture of and with the hero.
Peter Boyd is in the house and the rest of the world just stops and takes notice.
Typical.
What surprises her is that he doesn't deal with it for long, singling three people out. The man is easily identifiable as Spencer Jordan, now DCI in CID. The two men hug and it is strangely heartfelt and natural-looking.
The two women take a while longer, in fact, she needs Maureen's help to understand. Two forensic scientists, Lockhart and Wharton. The reunion with the latter is a little awkward, but it melts quickly in a fatherly bear hug and a few quietly exchanged words. She doesn't know what they say, but it has a strong impact on Dr. Wharton, who all but throws herself back into his embrace.
Boyd looks very pleased and very relieved in that moment, she can see it even from this distance.
The other woman, Dr. Lockhart then, jokes first, making Boyd laugh loudly as he gathers her into his arm. There's easy camaraderie between them, with Jordan as well, and with the addition of Wharton it becomes obvious that this is what Boyd now considers his family.
The thought gives her a pang, as she wonders how he can have forgotten. For a moment all the dark thoughts surge up in her again, acidly spreading through her body and then settling in the pit of her stomach. It takes a concerted effort to calm herself down.
Maybe that's due to the woman who has now come into her focus. She takes her time to appraise the woman who - for many years now - rumours consider as her successor. She's never given much to the gossip, knowing his preferences.
Still, the rumour stayed alive for more than ten years, always unconfirmed, but never dismissed.
She watches her across the room, takes in her dress, her jewellery, her make-up. Well-chosen and applied, refined and elegant, but a certain quirkiness, that somehow explains why Boyd is wearing a colourful scarf for a sling.
The thought sticks and gives her pause. It doesn't leave, forcing her to watch the other woman - and him - even closer. It doesn't take long, for they take no pains to be subtle.
Usually, Boyd would have already moved to the nerve centre of the party, a drink in hand, flirting as if it went out of style. Many years ago that was her lot to take and after it no longer affected her, she knows he usually picked up a - younger - woman to take home with him.
All so familiar, all so typical, only it is not happening here and now.
Boyd's not been more than a few feet away from his companion all evening. Most of the time they are standing or sitting next to each other and surprisingly often they touch. Not necessarily romantic gestures - no kisses or cuddles or anything that is far from age-appropriate - but there is something very bonded and very territorial about them. They make a striking couple, he tall and broad, she short and slim.
She gives the impression of a gentle cat...or maybe an even more gentle dog - which is not a derisive judgement, more an attempt to understand her presence. Yet in their single previous meeting, she'd quickly realized that the other woman has sharp claws and they are always ready to strike out in defence.
She knows that is Boyd's strongest and staunchest ally. Yet what becomes easily obvious now and goes along with all the rumours she's heard and all the stories Maureen has shared, the support goes both ways.
He'd kill for her and he'd die for her, which - as rumour has it - is exactly how he sustained his current injuries. It wasn't her fault, but Boyd acted on instinct and jumped in front of her.
Boyd has a hero-complex that is almost as big as his guilt-complex and somehow it doesn't come as a surprise that only a woman of her profession could deal with a man like Boyd.
She sips her wine as she realizes that they have spotted her and once again, she has to swallow. It's a dreaded moment; she doesn't know whether she is ready for the conversation ahead, but it gives her some satisfaction to see that they aren't completely easy with it either.
They have a short, whispered conversation, his mouth almost touching her ear, before they both rise from their seats. In an unconscious gesture, he takes his companion's hand as they walk over and almost instantly, his expression is calmer than before.
It says a lot about his current state of mind.
As they stand before her, only a few inches away, the din of the party recedes altogether. She tries to smile, but it turns into a grimace.
In return, he smiles as well and she's glad to see that it is neither mocking, nor belittling. It is surprisingly gentle and understanding.
"Hello Peter," she croaks, glad that she can hold onto the bar and it doesn't show that she's inwardly shaking. "How are you?"
He smiles again, an artless, friendly one. "I'm good," he answers and she realizes that it is the truest thing he could have said.
He slightly turns to his companion and she begins to dread what he's going to say now. "Mary, you do remember Grace?"
She expects additional two words, the acidic knot in her stomach back at full force, but they don't come.
There is no need for further explanation or classification. The other woman just is...Grace. That seems to encompass all necessary information.
Grace extends her hand in a friendly gesture of greeting and as she takes it, Mary realizes that indeed it does.
Thank you for reading. Comments would be greatly appreciated.