A/N: This little piece was languishing unfinished on my PC until I read CatS81's exquisite
"You Owe Me Nothing". This is my own personal, fluffy antidote. YMMV. ;)

DISCLAIMER: I own nothing.

Walkabout

By Joodiff

It's been three months since Sarah Cavendish's funeral, and over two months since Grace last saw Boyd, last spoke to him. She's well aware that his house in Greenwich is gone, sold to a wealthy professional couple with young children, just days after he put it on the market, and as far as she knows all his possessions are in storage somewhere. She has an email address for him – a webmail service he can access from anywhere – but so far none of her messages have elicited a reply. His mobile number is no longer recognised, and his landline has been disconnected since the sale of the house. To all intents and purposes, Peter Boyd has simply vanished. Grace has no idea where he is, or what he might be doing. All she knows is that the last time she saw him, he was trying to say goodbye and that she wasn't listening properly to the subtext.

"There's nothing anyone can do, Grace," Spencer Jordan tells her earnestly as they meet for a quick lunch in a small Soho restaurant. "He's not listed as a missing person and he hasn't committed a crime."

"Oh, and you're telling me you've left it at that?" Grace demands. "Come on, Spence."

He stares at her for a moment, and then admits, "Okay, so I've made a few inquiries – strictly unofficial."

"And…?"

"All the proceeds from the sale of the house are in a high-interest deposit account which hasn't been touched at all, but his current account's active. His Met pension's going in, and he's drawing regularly against it. Mostly cash withdrawals from ATMs."

"Is that all?" Grace asks, disappointed.

Spencer shakes his head, "There are some credit card transactions, too, mainly for flights booked via the internet. Looks as if he zig-zagged down through Europe and then went across the Med. Three weeks ago he was in Botswana."

"Botswana?" Grace says, astonished.

"His card was used twice in the same week in Gaborone. I've spoken to the bank, and they're happy that the transactions weren't fraudulent. They also told me they were instructed to send all his correspondence to a PO box in Knightsbridge. And that's all I know, Grace. Sorry."

"So he's gone walkabout," Grace says quietly.

Spencer shrugs, "Looks like it."

-oOo-

Two days before Grace's birthday, a postcard arrives with the morning bills and circulars. The unmistakable shape of the Sydney Opera House towers impressively against a vividly blue and cloudless sky, and on the reverse, alongside her name and address, a typically pithy message in completely unmistakable handwriting: 'Sun too hot, beer too cold. Enjoy your birthday.'

And Grace isn't too sure whether to laugh or cry as she remembers how many cryptic, amusing and sometimes downright peculiar messages have come across her desk over the years, all written in that distinctive scrawl and all lacking a signature. Office memos, case notes, requests for reports and all manner of other official correspondence always used to arrive signed simply 'Boyd', but the kind of random scribbles that arrived when he was bored or simply had the devil in him were generally anonymous. It used to be a light-hearted, unacknowledged code between them, designed purely to indicate a particular state of mind, not to conceal his identity – after all, anyone from the CCU could have instantly identified his handwriting at a glance.

The card cheers her, because not only does it confirm that he's out there somewhere, safe and sound, but the lack of a signature is a very deliberate message – don't worry, Grace, everything's fine. But the card also saddens her because it reminds her just how much she misses him. It's more than simply absence making the heart grow fonder. It's realising what a large part of her life he's been for so long, it's regretting all the hundreds of missed opportunities. It's understanding – finally – that he's always been so much more than a friend and colleague. It's coming to terms with the fact that there's a large, Peter Boyd-shaped hole in her life that she simply has no idea how to fill.

-oOo-

It's almost the end of the afternoon, and Grace is sitting at her desk writing up the day's case notes. It's now six months since Sarah's funeral, and for the last two of those months she's been employed as a lead clinical psychologist by a large nationwide charity that offers help and support to offenders and their families. It's interesting and rewarding work, and very different from the nature of the work she undertook for the now-disbanded CCU. Her new boss – Thomas Hayward – is a jovial, patient family man who has never, ever been known to leave the building later than five thirty in the afternoon. He's quiet, intelligent and kind, but although Grace likes him well enough, she has so far been unable to forge any sort of meaningful relationship with him.

Hayward's an administrator first and foremost, and although he seems to thoroughly respect who she is and what she does, he doesn't seem to particularly understand either. Grace is wise enough to know that she is making unfair comparisons, but she sincerely misses all her old colleagues and Boyd in particular. Thomas Hayward does not arrive in a whirlwind of chaos and energy every morning, he does not work obsessively into the small hours fuelled only by coffee and whiskey, and he most certainly doesn't believe that shouting at his staff is an acceptable form of inter-office communication.

The telephone on her desk starts to ring, and when she answers it, the receptionist says, "Doctor Foley, I know it's late, but there's a gentleman in reception asking to see you."

And in a flash of clairvoyance, Grace instantly knows.

It's completely irrelevant to ask, "Does the gentleman have a name?"

"Mr Boyd," the receptionist says immediately. "Peter Boyd. Shall I tell him to make an appointment?"

"No," Grace tells her. "Give me five minutes, and then ask Robert to bring him through."

"Of course, Doctor."

Grace has given herself five minutes, and now she doesn't know what to do with them. There are too many choices. She settles for a fast sweep of the office, a quick tidy of the papers on her desk, a brief, nervous glance in the mirror next to the tall, amply-stocked bookcase, and a lot of nervous pacing. All too soon, she can hear the voice of Robert Evans – a young community psychiatric nurse who acts as her assistant – saying, "Down here on the left, sir."

There's a polite tap on the door and Robert's head appears. He says, "Doctor Foley? Mr Boyd for you."

And then he's there, stepping through the doorway and making her tiny office feel even smaller. The dark, heavy coat is familiar, but beneath it he's wearing chinos and a crisp dark shirt that looks as if it's probably been purchased that very day. She suspects he's only very recently visited the barber, too, because his hair is shorter than it was the last time she saw him, allowing the few remaining darker streaks to show through clearly. Patently, he's also given up on the clean-shaven look, because the neat goatee beard is back. To Grace, he rather resembles an adult version of a small boy who's been very thoroughly scrubbed for his first day at school. Remarkably, though, he also looks healthy, tanned and far less haggard than he has for years. And there's a bright liveliness in his dark eyes that Grace hasn't seen for a long, long time.

It should be a desperately awkward moment, this sudden, unanticipated reunion, but the tension shatters in the great, unexpected bear hug that Grace finds herself immediately caught up in. She hears the door click quietly closed as Robert Evans discreetly retreats, and then, very close to her ear, a deep, amused – and, yes, much-loved – voice is asking, "So, have you missed me…?"

-oOo-

Despite the years that have passed, this, Grace realises very quickly, is very much the old Boyd. The unpredictable, energetic, eccentric Boyd; the Boyd who laughs as easily as he shouts; the fearless, impulsive Boyd who charges at things head on because he isn't afraid of the mistakes he might make. This is the Boyd Grace used to know, before the crushing weight of increasing guilt and pain drew the suffocating shadows too far in around him. And seeing it she finally understands her own culpability, finally realises that she feels – rightly or wrongly – that both as a psychologist and as a friend she should have done far more to help him escape the darkness that remorselessly took him, day by day, hour by hour.

"You seem to be in a very good place," she comments, as they start to eat an early dinner in a little restaurant not far from her office.

"I am," he says, and his unusual frankness surprises her. "I think I've finally found some perspective. On a lot of things."

"Good Lord," Grace says, gently bantering. "Please don't tell me you've been travelling down the rocky road of self-discovery, Boyd?"

"I wouldn't put it quite like that," he tells her, but his tone is easy, his expression mild. "And I can't pretend I've been exactly roughing it."

There's one thing she has to get off her chest. Without preamble, Grace says, "You didn't reply to any of my messages. Not a single one in almost six months."

"I know."

"And…?"

Boyd meets her gaze squarely, says, "I'm not going to apologise, Grace, because if I did, I'd be lying to you. I can't apologise for something I did quite deliberately. I just needed…"

"Space?" Grace suggests.

He shrugs, "Yeah, if you like. Whatever the hell you want to call it. I needed to be on my own, to work things through for myself. I suppose I finally realised it was down to me, not anyone else."

Grace raises her eyebrows in genuine disbelief, "Okay… Boyd, I really have to ask – did you suffer any kind of head injury while you were away?"

Boyd laughs, shakes his head, "No."

"Then I have to say that this uncharacteristic display of self-awareness is just a bit worrying."

He grins at her, and it's a wonderful grin, crooked and utterly feral, the best she's seen from him for years. Grace watches as he attacks his meal with gusto, and she eventually asks, "When did you get back?"

"Day before yesterday. I was coming to see you sooner, but the jet-lag hit me like a sledgehammer."

"How did you know where to find me?"

Boyd looks up from his plate, blinks in surprise, "I was a police officer for over thirty years, Grace. Give me some credit."

"'Was'?" Grace says, immediately picking up on his casual use of the past tense, "You've accepted your police career is over, then?"

"Oh, yeah. I've accepted it," he replies, and despite the dismissive way he says it, something in his tone makes her believe him. "More wine?"

She nods, "Thanks. So what does Peter Boyd do now?"

"There are offers," he says, filling her glass for her. "One or two look interesting. Consultancy, that sort of thing."

"Can't see it," Grace tells him honestly.

Boyd takes a deep swallow from his own glass, says, "You'd be surprised. There seem to be an amazing number of people in this world interested in hiring an ex-Met Super. I've been offered silly money to spend six months in Kabul overseeing instruction of effective crime scene procedure with Afghan police recruits – if I'm willing to go next week."

Deliberately keeping her expression neutral, Grace says, "And are you?"

He shoots her a look, "Trying to get rid of me already, Grace? No. No, I'm not."

"So what are you going to do?"

"Well, that depends," he says with a slight shrug of his broad shoulders.

Faintly irritated by his evasiveness, Grace says, "On…?"

Boyd looks genuinely surprised, "On you, of course."

-oOo-

Grace has lost count of the number of times they have ended up by the river over the years. Maybe it's something to do with the Thames itself, with the way it snakes through London, an ever-present, immutable landmark, or maybe it's something to do with the way it has always somehow symbolised the divide between them – she on the north side, he on the south side. Whatever the reason, there are better places to be in the autumn chill, and yet…

"You can't just drop a bombshell like that and expect me not to be astounded," Grace says, watching the way the lights from the South Bank create fascinating, kaleidoscopic patterns on the river's choppy surface.

"Astounded is all right," Boyd says. He's standing next to her, but his back is to the water. He faces north, she faces south. And that, too, might be symbolic. "It's rendered completely speechless that's a little unnerving."

"You really expect me to believe that you'll plan your entire future around a single word from me?"

"Traditionally, I think it's three words," he says mildly.

"Don't do this to me," Grace tells him, and she's serious. "Not now. Nine years, Boyd. More than nine years, in fact."

His tone remarkably calm, Boyd says, "Nine years of responsibility, Grace. Nine years of signing your expense claims every damned month, nine years of scrabbling around trying to find the money in my budget to keep a full-time profiler. Nine years of trying to be all things to all men. And women. Nine years of getting my knuckles rapped by the Home Office every time you stepped outside the building for more than ten minutes. Nine years of having to be your bloody boss."

Before she can stop herself, Grace snaps, "I'm sorry you found it such a hardship."

"That's not what I meant, and you know it."

There's more than impatience in that retort. There's pain in it, too, and that's what makes Grace look at him. Really look at him. And maybe that's the moment when she truly starts to comprehend what Boyd's managed to achieve in the long months away. He has an odd sort of equilibrium she's never seen in him before, as if he's finally managed to find a way of living at peace with all the things that have hurt him over the years. And in its own way, it's awe-inspiring to see. All the faults and fractures are still there, of that she has no doubt, but if he hasn't managed to totally banish his demons, he's certainly tamed them.

Quietly, Grace says, "Where's all this leading, Boyd? Truthfully?"

He gazes at her steadily, and she can see no trace of fear in him. To her complete surprise, he asks, "Do you love me, Grace?"

And there it is. The question that has never been asked. The question she's always known the answer to, and yet has deliberately never asked herself. She stares at him, lost for words. And as the long, silent moment stretches, Boyd finally looks up at the night sky and closes his eyes. Nothing in his expression changes and for a few seconds he simply stands, still as a statue, whatever's going through his mind entirely hidden.

Too late, Grace realises he has completely misinterpreted her silence. He opens his eyes, lets his head drop forward again and starts into motion, already walking away from her without a word. She acts on instinct, quickly snagging his arm to stop him, and before he can shake her off, she tightens her grip and tells him urgently, "You know I do."

Even beneath the heavy coat, she can feel the tension in him, the tight bunching of the muscle under her fingers. The psychologist in her correctly identifies it as the innate human fight-or-flight response triggering in reaction to the high stress of the situation. Much more quietly, and as much to herself as to him, she repeats, "You know I do."

Thankfully, she knows he doesn't doubt her sincerity. Knows it as soon as he turns his head to look at her. Boyd's not the sort of man who can intuitively read women, which has led to some truly epic misunderstandings between them in the past, but although he's still tensed to flee, Grace can see nothing but absolute faith in his eyes. And that's when she realises she knows – has always known – that there's far, far more behind his ferocious loyalty to her than simple friendship or comradeship. This is the man, after all, who willingly offered to trade his life for hers, and for a moment that memory casts her back to those terrible, dark days when she was so ill and so afraid, and he was the only one she genuinely believed would tear down the whole world to save her if he could.

There's nothing else in the world more important to Grace in those few, charged seconds than keeping her hand on his arm to stop him bolting away from her. Carefully, quietly, "Boyd…?"

For all his failings, the one thing he does not lack – has never lacked – is courage. Grace sees his shoulders drop, feels him make a conscious effort to relax, and in response she releases her tight grip on his arm, a simple gesture of trust. Boyd turns to face her properly, looking very much like a man who's struggling to find exactly the right words, and it's simple, deep affection that makes Grace feel a little sorry for him. If there's a man on the planet guaranteed to say the wrong thing at the wrong time, it's Peter Boyd, and Grace knows he's fully well aware of the fact. She's done a good job of knocking some of the rougher edges and sharper corners off him over the years, but despite considerable effort, she's never quite been able to hammer home the incredibly apt idiom engage brain before opening mouth far enough to make it stick.

"This, Grace," he says, and the words come at a deliberately measured pace, as if he's still thinking them through very cautiously as he speaks, "is the best opportunity we will ever have to find out whether or not we can make each other happy. Not tomorrow, not next week, next month or next year. Now. There will never be a better moment for us. We jump together now… or we agree never to jump."

Traditionally, such a carefully-worded speech from Boyd merits a dry, sardonic sort of reply. A gentle crack at his inability to deal well with anything that remotely touches on the emotional. Grace, however, is too wise and too compassionate to fall into that particular trap – at least on this occasion. The worst thing she could possibly do is attempt to tease him, however gently. He's got a short fuse at the best of times, and if he thinks she is mocking his extraordinary effort in any way, he will let fly at her, and she knows it. And when Boyd's temper really flares even she isn't immune to a hint of fear – despite choosing to stand between him and the object of his fury on more than one occasion. No, this is not the time for witty banter.

She chooses her own words with equal care, "I completely agree with you. But I do have one rather fundamental question…"

Quietly, "Go on."

Grace only just manages to disguise the wry note in her voice as she asks, "I answered your question, so I think that gives me the right to ask whether or not you're actually intending to tell me how you feel about me?"

Boyd stares at her, blank with incomprehension. Finally manages, "For God's sake, Grace… Do you think I'm standing here making a complete idiot of myself at my age just for the fun of it?"

"Take it from an experienced psychologist, that's not the kind of answer you're ever supposed to give to that sort of question," Grace tells him, gentle and slightly amused despite herself. The words are a gamble, but she thinks she's on reasonably safe ground, so she pushes, "So…? Do you love me, Boyd?"

Fortunately, her silent prediction is right – he does not explode into anger, he just throws his head back and laughs. Then he looks at her, something glinting deep in his eyes, "Two things. First, my name is Peter, but if you still can't manage that after all these years, I suppose I'll just have to live with Boyd. Second, of course I love you, Grace. Although, strictly speaking, I think you'll find what you're actually asking me to tell you is whether I'm in love with you. And the answer is yes. Yes, I am."

Sometimes Grace forgets that one of the reasons he's had such a long and successful career despite his abrasive manner is that he can be extraordinarily perceptive when it comes to all the things people don't actually say or ask. Boyd firmly believes that omission can be tantamount to confession, and he's very often right.

"So where does that leave us?" Grace asks. She spots the devilment in his eyes and immediately becomes suspicious, saying, "What?"

"Some things really don't need to be over-analysed, Doctor Foley," Boyd tells her, and she knows, instinctively, that he's going to kiss her. And he does. Gently, but insistently, and suddenly there isn't anything else in the world but him and the way all her senses are suddenly focused on him. There's nothing conscious or premeditated about her own response, she just reacts instinctively, losing herself completely in him, and when they finally draw back to gaze at each other, he looks just about as stunned as she feels. And there's no doubt in her mind that the physical chemistry between them is absolutely perfect.

-oOo-

EPILOGUE

It's a foregone conclusion that Grace will get her own way. She knows it, he knows it, but they have the argument anyway, partly for form's sake, and partly because that's just the way they are. And it ends – as so many of their arguments do – in heat and desire, and maybe that's exactly why they still fight so much about little, insignificant things that don't really matter. He's moody, he's fiery and capricious, and easy to provoke, and she adores him for it. And he may be bullish and contrary, but if she asked him for the world he'd give it to her in a heartbeat, and that's why Grace gets her own way.

She may have won, but Boyd grumbles mutinously in payback. Of course he does. He grumbles and he complains, and he throws their luggage into the car with unnecessary force, and when the Friday-afternoon motorway becomes gridlocked, he mutters and swears and bangs his fists on the steering wheel. And Grace sighs long-sufferingly and looks out of the window until the tantrum subsides back into sullen growling.

Grace loves weddings. Boyd hates them. She's bought a new dress. He's forgotten his cufflinks. By all accounts, it's going to be an interesting couple of days.

Whatever it is they have shouldn't work, but usually does, and over all the long years they've known each other they've fought and bickered, and they've loved and gouged and cried. They've gone through times when they have barely been able to stand the sight of each other, and times when they've been closer to each other than to anyone else in the world. They've gone through testing times of tragedy and fear, his and hers, and through it all they've slowly learnt that they are simply far better off together than they are apart. And everything between them may finally have distilled down to this one single weekend and the quiet ceremony that awaits them in the morning.

- the end -