DISCLAIMER: I own nothing
Happy birthday to Scription Addict. xx
Forbidden Fruit
by Joodiff
He brushes his lips softly against the side of her neck, and Grace shivers in response. It has a profound physical and emotional effect on Boyd, her involuntary reaction. His instinct – ruthlessly suppressed at least for the moment – is to tighten his grip on her slim shoulders, turn her to face him and kiss her deeply and thoroughly until they're both too stunned and breathless to worry about the possible consequences of his actions. Outside, the night is cold and dark, an empty, uninviting place. Inside, the lights are low in the warm and comfortable house, and there's a real chance that after the intense stress of the last few days all the boundaries and barriers between them could finally fall under the increasing weight of all the unspoken things that are becoming more and more difficult to ignore.
Grace's hands are gripping the back of the old-fashioned dining chair she so recently vacated, a grip so tight that her knuckles are bone white. Just as he's trained to, Boyd notices all the moment's tiny details. He can feel how fast and shallow her breathing is; can hear it, too. All his senses seem to have become hyper-aware of her. The light flowery perfume that he noticed the moment she got in the car and again when he stepped into the house after her now seems much heavier, far more beguiling and sensual.
He wants her. The timing's incredibly bad, and the very notion is stupid, dangerous and unprofessional, but he wants her, and for the very first time in a great many months he doesn't attempt to scoff at the ridiculous idea and push it roughly away to a safe distance. Caught in a complex web of thoughts and feelings, he needs her to shrug his hands away, to make a mocking joke at the expense of the dangerous tension crackling between them. He needs her to tell him to leave, to order him out alone into the chilly mid-week night.
She doesn't. She leans back a tiny fraction, her shoulder-blades pressing lightly against his chest, and he feels her swift intake of breath every bit as clearly as he hears it. He's an idiot. A reckless, untrustworthy fool, and a serious danger to both of them. Compelled, Boyd lowers his head, his lips again seeking the gentle curve of her neck, and she shivers once more. Huskier than he intends, he murmurs, "Grace…"
In response she makes a quiet noise somewhere between a whimper and a moan, and arches back a little more. He's not naïve and he's a long, long way from inexperienced. He can feel the unconscious surrender in her, the tacit acceptance of what inevitably lies ahead unless one or other of them recovers some measure of willpower – and soon. He knows she's not naïve either, very far from it; knows that there's no way on God's green earth that she's unaware of what could – what will – happen here tonight if they don't very quickly do something to break the suffocating erotic spell they both seem to be falling under.
Grace turns of her own volition, and Boyd finds himself looking down into familiar eyes that appear smoky and seductive in the room's subdued artificial lighting. There's bitter conflict written in those tempting blue eyes, though; apprehension, desire and common-sense fighting an unmistakable and bloody battle. He knows then that she's every bit as aware of the precarious edge on which they are poised as he is. He sees fear and indecision, he sees greed and need. Desperation. Acceptance. This is not a one-way street. This is not just his folly, Boyd suddenly understands, but hers, too. She reaches up tentatively, her fingertips surprisingly cool against his cheek as they trace down his skin to his jaw and the dense stubble of his beard. Cool fingertips that somehow leave a blazing trail of fire in their wake. He welcomes the imaginary burn, his heart thudding heavily in his chest.
"Tell me to go," he instructs, searching her expression for some clue as to whether she will or not.
Her reply sounds every bit as resigned as it does wretched. "Boyd..."
The last tattered remnants of chivalry and professional integrity are still nobly battling against base animal instinct, but her failure to comply with his request deals both a final, fatal blow. He wants her too damned much. Whether Grace is aware of it or not, her fingertips are now running lightly down his neck, sliding beneath the collar of his dark shirt. The sensory feedback is too startling, too intense. Boyd gives in to temptation, stoops to kiss her, animal instinct claiming a decisive victory. There's absolutely no hesitation in her response. No hesitation, no timidity. In fact, for a moment she's far more aggressive than he is, shattering any remaining hope he might have had of preventing the situation escalating beyond more than a single impulsive kiss. Dimly, he realises that her free hand is on his hip – stationary for now, but unexpectedly intimate. It briefly occurs to him that there's absolutely no way Grace could miss the potent physiological reaction of his body to her enthusiastic contribution to the insanity that's overtaken them… and then all lucid thought is lost in an escalating frenzy of sensation.
-oOo-
Reality does not return gently. It slams back with punishing speed and force, plucking Grace out of a hazy spiral of warm satisfaction and leaving her staring up at the shadowy bedroom ceiling in numb shock as her breathing steadies and the rapid beating of her heart gradually decelerates. Madness and arousal burnt away, there's nothing to insulate her from each and every unforgiving physical sensation as it asserts itself. The unfamiliar heat and weight of Boyd's body is somehow less intrusive than the moist feel of his breath on her bare skin; the musky male smell of him more disturbing by far than knowing that he is still deep inside her, still part of her. Despite her cold sobriety, her head starts to spin in a slow, drunken waltz, and even she isn't sure if the phenomenon is entirely psychological or not. She's grateful when he finally moves, the oppressive weight bearing down on her disappearing as he slips free of her body and collapses inelegantly at her side. His eyes are closed and she's grateful for that, too. The thought is ridiculous given their proximity, but she doesn't think she can face him, not yet.
She's wanted him for so long, always keeping the guilty secret hidden behind impenetrable walls of brittle humour and barbed words, and now it feels as if she's plummeting helplessly into a raging torment of fear and regret. Everything she knows is suddenly skewed out of alignment, the wrongness of the situation threatening to overpower her. She swallows hard, trying to ease the choking constriction in her throat, and his eyes snap open at the soft sound. Impossibly dark in the half-light, they are fathomless and unreadable. For a taut moment they simply stare at each other, as if neither of them has any real idea of how to process what has happened. The moment stretches, each fraction of each second increasing the uncomfortable tension between them.
"I need to use the bathroom," she announces into the awkward silence, the prosaic words flat and hard as they brutally expose human frailty. It's not even the truth. Just a ploy, an excuse to escape from the humidity, the tangled covers, the embarrassing exposure of soft flesh and emotional weakness. Boyd rolls onto his back as she sits up, determinedly not looking at her. She's thankful for it, quickly wraps herself in cool blue satin that slides every bit as soft and gentle over her skin as the palms of his hands. Everything's so very wrong, and she despises herself – despises both of them – for it.
"Grace," he murmurs as she stands up, and now he is looking at her, expression closed and guarded.
"Don't," she tells him, and she means it. Doesn't want to hear the words, whatever they may be. Apology, explanation, reassurance. None of it could possibly help. Later, perhaps, but not now. His smooth chest gleams like marble where the shadows caused by subtle undulations of muscle and bone don't fall, but it rises and falls steadily… and statues don't breathe.
Nor do the dead. He is not Harry. Grace doesn't know if she's glad or not. Neither of them says another word as she slips from the room and into the welcoming cool dark stillness beyond.
-oOo-
Boyd doesn't move, not for several long minutes. The voluntary immobility soothes him, helps him steady and overcome each and every reckless new impulse as it dawns. When he thinks he can trust himself not to bolt from the room and the house, he sits up and swings his legs off the bed, his bare feet finding the worn wooden floorboards. The bedroom reflects her personality, he finally notices, its décor and furnishings both feminine and quirky, but not in an ostentatious or overbearing way. Under different circumstances he would survey the room with far more curiosity, committing all the interesting details to memory and dismissing the rest. As it is, his mind captures little more than a snapshot, a broad representation of everything surrounding him. His eyes travel without pause over the books, the jewellery, the mysterious pots and potions on the antique dressing table, their focus drawn to the partially closed door.
Post-coital depression, presumably that's what she'd call it as a psychologist. Or would she? Boyd isn't sure. It doesn't matter, he doesn't need a name for the thing twisting in his gut, the unwelcome thing crawling spitefully round the edges of his consciousness. It feels a lot like guilt, a familiar companion for more years than he can remember, but more urgent, more visceral. Impatient to shake the feeling off, he stands up and moves to the window, parting the heavy curtains a fraction. The glass is streaming with condensation, but through the distorting beads and runnels he can see the distinctive outline of his big silver Lexus, pulled in tight and neat to the kerb, a strangely alien presence in the unexceptional but rather genteel residential street just a stone's throw from East Finchley. Too big, too brash. Like him.
Somehow, he realises, he has to attempt to make things better. Not easy given his lack of patience, his inability to deal well and sensitively with emotionally-charged situations. Walking – running – away is not an option, Boyd knows that. If he can't put things right he at least needs to smooth them over, to blunt the jagged edges that will otherwise cause untold problems in the days ahead. He turns from the window, the movement enough to bring her scent back into his nostrils. The sweat has dried on his skin now, and he smells overpoweringly of her. Not unpleasant, but disturbing. That floral perfume again, and more. Much more. Perversely, it's enough to send a renewed hot rush of blood to his groin, to cause a hopeful stirring a long way beyond his conscious control. Reflexive, but hardly appropriate. He catches sight of himself in the long mirror on the wardrobe door, raw and brutish in his naked masculinity. Scowling, Boyd turns his back on the image, moves to gather his discarded clothes and then stops. He distantly understands that if he goes to her – and he will – he has to go every bit as exposed and vulnerable as she is.
He doesn't move again for a long time.
-oOo-
It's chilly in the little bathroom, but Grace barely notices. Perched on the edge of the old enamelled bath, it's the past that suddenly matters to her, not the present. Mocking visions of all the things that might have been gibe at her, their only purpose, seemingly, to remind her of her ridiculous naïveté. Sometimes she looks back and she doesn't recognise the woman she used to be, but not tonight. Tonight, the Grace that was and the Grace that is are the same weak, foolish creature. Harry is dead, Harry's child is dead, and all she has left are the memories of love and betrayal that hurt more now than they've hurt for years.
The tap on the bathroom door is diffident, and Boyd's voice is quiet as it inquires, "Grace…?"
Heaven knows, he is not a bad man. Flawed, most definitely, but not a bad man. Nor was Harry. She closes her eyes for a moment, trying to summon herself firmly back into the present. "I'll be out in a minute."
A dozen heartbeats pass before he says, "Are you decent? Can I come in?"
Ridiculous, given the night's events, but she understands. Greedy sensual exploration of willing flesh is not as intimately embarrassing as cold artificial light bouncing off shining white tiles. Pulling her light robe a little tighter around her, she admits, "Door's not locked."
He looks much bigger, framed in the doorway. Broad shoulders, narrow hips. Long, well-muscled legs. Sober dark trunks hiding what she doesn't want to see. Maybe he understands, too. He looks pensive and for a moment she thinks that perhaps everything will be all right. He says, "I'm sorry, Grace."
It's not clear what he's apologising for. She looks at the floor, at the faded old linoleum that she keeps meaning to replace. One day, when she has time for such mundane things. Not looking up, she says, "I didn't know he was married."
"I know." He doesn't seem fazed by the non sequitur. Moving forwards, he settles next to her on the edge of the bath, just a very few inches separating them. His shins are hairy, she notices; angular and sharp, nothing disguising the bone beneath. Gruff but gentle, he adds, "It wasn't your fault. You did what you thought was best."
"Did I. I wonder sometimes." The admission comes from nowhere, surprising her. "Abortion is a mortal sin."
"Catholic guilt," he says, an edge of weary contempt underscoring the words. "This has been a bitch of a case for you, Grace. Take some time off. Go on holiday, finish your latest book, whatever you feel like doing. Just have some downtime and get your head straight."
"Pastoral care, Boyd?" she needles, momentarily hating herself for mocking his clumsy kindness, his quiet, infinite compassion.
He doesn't rise to the provocation. "Believe it or not, it is part of my job."
"He let me fall in love with him," Grace tells him, looking down at the floor again, "and then, when there was no way back, he…" She can't finish the sentence.
"I'm no saint," he says, his tone calm and measured. "I cheated on my wife. More than once. You know I did. But what Taylor did…"
"Don't," she murmurs. "I just… I don't want to think about it anymore."
"Sorry." He sounds as if he means it, as if its not just an automatic response. "Look, Grace, I meant what I said. Take as much time off as you need."
She can't bear it. Would rather face his legendary temper than his pity. Voice tight, she says, "I know you're trying to be kind, Boyd, and I do appreciate it, but honestly, having even more time to brood over everything isn't the answer, is it? It all happened years ago. I need to just pull myself together and get on with things."
"Normally, I'd say you were right," he replies, "but you've been through a tremendous ordeal. Hoyle had you trapped at gunpoint, for God's sake. You're entitled to be a bit… wobbly… after that."
"Oh, I know." Blinking against tears she doesn't want to shed, Grace sighs. "Everything's just… such a mess."
She hears him take a slow, deep breath. It's followed by, "Up to, and including tonight?"
"What have we done, Boyd?" It's barely more than a whisper.
He doesn't tease the way she half-expects him to. Instead, his reply is a sober, "Honestly? Right now, I'm not exactly sure. But… it doesn't have to be a disaster, does it?"
"I'm sorry," she says, the words sudden and unplanned.
He sounds bewildered as he replies, "For what?"
Helpless, she shrugs. "For the Greene case. For all the… complications."
"Oh." A moment's heavy silence. "Not your fault, Grace. Nothing to apologise for."
He could have died. He really could have died, right there in the hallway of Hoyle's house, his chest blown apart by a close-range shotgun blast. Grace shivers, tormented by terrifying visions of something that never happened. Boyd, spread-eagled on the floor, staring up at nothing as blood starts to pool around him…
Didn't happen. It was Hoyle who died, not Boyd.
"Look," he says, after too many silent seconds have ground past, "we've all had times when our… private lives… have become tangled up with an investigation, for whatever reason. It's not ideal, but it happens. I'm the one responsible for deciding which of our cases get referred, not you. It was my decision to go ahead, not yours. In hindsight it might have been less… traumatic… for you if I'd passed the whole thing over to CID after we discovered why your bag was snatched, but – "
"No," she interrupts. "No, it wouldn't. It was always about me, wasn't it? Charles… his obsession… It was about me, and his misguided belief that all those years ago Harry and I conspired to secure Greene's conviction. It wouldn't have made any difference who investigated Kevin's disappearance. It was all just about getting me to admit…" She lets the words trail away, realising how pointless they are. She's not telling him anything he's not already well aware of.
"Even so," Boyd says, after an appropriate pause, "I'm sorry it happened on my watch, Grace."
"I'm not," she tells him, realising that she means it. Better that her past was eviscerated in front of a sympathetic friend than a complete stranger. "No-one could have treated me with more respect, more compassion."
He grunts, clearly embarrassed. Clears his throat, says, "Take some time off, or don't take some time off, it's entirely up to you. I'll support whatever decision you make."
"I know." On impulse she reaches out a daring hand, clasps it around the nearest of his. The living warmth of his skin is a welcome anchor to the present. "I know we have our ups and downs, Boyd, but you've been such a good friend to me over the last few years. Don't ever think I don't know that… or appreciate it."
Another disparaging grunt followed eventually by an almost-hesitant, "Grace…"
She glances at him and waits, but Boyd remains silent, stares fixedly at the mirror above the basin opposite, no trace of what he's thinking or feeling visible to her. There's something preying on his mind, no doubt about it. Something that he's starting to brood about and is refusing to share. The past or the present? Grace doesn't know. Too tired to play games, she tries the direct approach, gambling on the element of surprise. She squeezes his hand, says, "Tell me."
He blinks, casts her a brief glance. "What?"
"Whatever it is you're not saying."
Boyd gazes straight at her for several long, silent seconds. It tests her patience, but she waits, forcing the onus to speak onto him. He looks away. "It's nothing."
She sighs, letting her exasperation show. "Aren't we a bit beyond that sort of prevarication now?"
A slight shrug. "It's not important, Grace."
"Clearly it is," she contradicts. "Well?"
It takes him a long time to look her in the eye and say, "Taylor."
"Harry?" Surprised that he's returned to the subject, she frowns. "Well? What about him?"
"What he did." The words are tight, reluctant. "When you… you know."
Ah. The old wounds, the ones so recently torn open, sting fiercely again for a moment as the past once more flickers briefly back into the present. Attempting to keep her tone neutral, Grace says, "When I told him I was pregnant, you mean?"
Boyd looks away, mutters, "Yeah."
Considering her reply, she settles on a simple, "It was a long time ago, Boyd."
His attention snaps back to her, and his reply is quick and vehement. "Doesn't make it all right, though, does it?"
"No," she agrees, distantly surprised by his sudden intensity. "No, it doesn't. But Harry's dead, and the past is the past."
"I just…" Boyd stops. Seems to force himself to think carefully for a moment. Shrugs again. "As I said, I know I cheated on my wife but – "
"After she cheated on you first," Grace interrupts, not sure why she feels the need to defend his actions. She's heard a few stories over the years – though none from Boyd himself – about Mary's repeated… dalliances… with other men. Has wondered more than once if his crippling guilt over the break-up of his marriage and the apparently catastrophic effect it had on his son is entirely justified.
Oblivious to her thoughts, Boyd says, "Well, that's not the point, is it? Two wrongs don't make a right. No, what I'm trying to say is that I'm in no position to take the moral high ground over someone who has…"
"An affair?" she suggests as he lets the sentence fade into silence. "Because that's what we're talking about, isn't it? I was the other woman, Harry's dirty little secret."
"Not what I meant," he says, rather too loudly. "Christ, Grace, no-one gets to our age without having made a few mistakes along the way, but the very worst you could be accused of is gullibility. Taylor, he knew exactly what he was doing, and then, when it all threatened to blow up in his face…"
"And that's what's been bothering you? How Harry treated me when I told him about the baby?"
Boyd looks incredulous. "Shouldn't it bother me? The man wasn't just a snake, he was a fucking coward."
It's a conversation she could only ever have with him, Grace realises. No-one else would have the temerity to address the matter so directly, to say so clearly what they thought. Only him. Blunt, forthright; impulsive. Not always an easy man to get along with, let alone to like, he has nonetheless become one of her closest, most trusted friends over the time they've known each other, and that's why – one reason why – she so often allows him the liberty of expressing himself so openly without unduly censuring him for it. Releasing her grip on his hand, she says, "I loved him."
"Which makes the way he behaved doubly despicable."
"Until recently," she tells him, forcing herself to consider the matter, "I hadn't consciously thought about him for years. If you want to feel outraged on my behalf, Boyd, that's entirely up to you, but it really isn't necessary."
He shakes his head but doesn't reply.
When she's certain he's not going to say anything more, Grace shrugs again. "You said it yourself, no-one gets to our age without making a few mistakes. We learn to live with them. Or we don't."
"Like Taylor?"
"Not what I meant," she tells him, refusing to think about it. Harry is dead. Doesn't matter how or why. Not anymore. Deciding it's time to turn the tables, she adds, "Why are you so interested in Harry, anyway?"
The look Boyd gives her is enigmatic at best. "Why do you bloody think?"
"Is this about what happened tonight?" Grace asks, surprised by how dry her mouth suddenly seems to have become as she remembers why they are sitting together near-naked in her bathroom. "Because if it is, you don't need to worry. I'm more than capable of putting it down to experience and moving on."
"Really." It doesn't sound like a question.
"Really," she snaps, harsh and defensive as she interprets his taciturn reply as growing regret. Too many thoughts, too many questions. Snapping to her feet, she steps away from the bath, heads rapidly for the door. "Oh, I need a drink."
-oOo-
I wish the bastard was still alive so I could bloody kill him… The childish thought hammers through Boyd's skull as he stamps his way down the steep staircase. It's an absurd overreaction and he knows it, but the night's already so screwed up that he doesn't bother to temper his raging, conflicting emotions. What would be the damn point?
Pursuing Grace at a dogged, determined pace, he barks at her retreating back, "You might not want to have this conversation, but I do. It's the middle of the fucking night, and less than an hour ago we were – "
"I know what we were doing," she throws over her shoulder at him as she marches into the living room and heads towards the collection of bottles standing on the sideboard. "Believe me, I'm well-aware of what we were doing."
"So?" Boyd demands, following her across the small, cosy room at the front of the house. "Oh, come on, Grace – do you really expect me to believe that you're prepared to just forget all about it?"
"Why wouldn't I be?" she challenges. There's real defiance in the way she adds, "We had sex, Boyd. That's all. It happens."
Irked by her antagonistic, dismissive tone, he snorts. "Well, of course it bloody does. It happens all the bloody time. Just not to us."
"As far as I can tell," she says, pouring a healthy measure of what looks like brandy into a heavy glass, "it happens to you on a fairly regular basis."
"For God's sake," he mutters, halting next to her, "that's not what I meant, and you know it. I'll have a Scotch, thanks. A large one."
Picking up her drink, Grace gestures towards the small cluster of bottles. "Help yourself."
"Why are you so angry with me?" he demands as she stalks away towards the long, thick-cushioned sofa. "What the bloody hell am I supposed to have done this time?"
"Nothing," she tells him, settling herself and immediately drawing up her bare feet. She sounds every bit as tired as he feels as she adds, "Just get yourself a damned drink, Boyd."
He'll never understand her. Women, though they fascinate him to an alarming degree, bewilder him. Grace Foley, doubly so. Sometimes he thinks he's beginning to work her out, and then she says or does something that confounds him. Every single time. Pouring whisky – a cheap and unremarkable blend given her complete indifference to the spirit – Boyd shakes his head to himself. Infuriating bloody woman is far more trouble than she's worth. Except… she's not. Of course she's not.
Turning to face her, he announces, "Look, I'm sorry, all right? What happened tonight was… unfortunate. The timing, I mean. The timing was unfortunate. I'm happy to apologise for that, but as for – "
"Don't," she says, still sounding weary to the point of complete exhaustion. "Don't, Boyd. I can't deal with it. Not on top of… everything else."
Not knowing what else to do, he claims the old-fashioned leather armchair set at an angle to the long-unused fireplace. Perches right on the edge, not able or willing to relax. Staring into the amber depths of the liquid in his glass, he says, "I've never taken advantage of a woman in my life, Grace."
"I believe you."
"It's true." Vehement without really knowing why. "Christ, I'm not that sort of man. What happened tonight wouldn't have happened if…"
Grace stares across the room at him. "'If'?"
"If…" Boyd repeats, trying to find the right words. "If… it hadn't always been on the cards. That's what I think, anyway."
"You're probably right."
He frowns in surprise. Quiet agreement was not what he expected. Bewildered, he asks, "So…?"
"'So'?"
Infuriated by her insistence on throwing his inquiries back at him, he can't help growling, "For God's sake, Grace. You're not making this any easier."
"I wasn't aware that I was supposed to be."
Boyd takes a deep breath, holds it for a moment, then exhales slowly. It helps. A little. Warm and empathic as she is, there's a much tougher, sharper side to Grace that he fancies he's seen rather more often than most. She can be every bit as cussed as he can when she wants to be, and twice as awkward. Maybe that's part of the… attraction. Shying away from analysing the thought, he says, "It shouldn't have been tonight, but it was. We can't change that, but…" he hesitates, trying to find the right words to express his complicated thoughts and feelings. "It doesn't have to be an unholy fuck-up. Does it?"
A measured shake of her head. A quiet, "No. No, I suppose not."
He feels a tentative pang of relief. Tries to capitalise on his advantage with, "You're one of the most – if not the most – annoying, frustrating women I've ever met. I never know where I am with you. One minute it's all teasing and flirtation, the next – "
"'Teasing and flirtation'?" Grace interrupts, eyebrows raised.
One thing Boyd has never lacked is courage. Courage, and sheer, bloody-minded determination. He glares straight at her. "Are you denying it?"
Something in her cool, steady gaze seems to turn thoughtful. Another shake of the head. "All right, no. No, I'm not."
"Well, then," he retorts, certain he's won a minor victory, but less certain of what, exactly, that victory might be. "You drive me bloody mad with your complicated theories, and your ridiculous insistence on questioning everything I – "
The thoughtful gaze turns flinty again. "You really should learn to quit while you're ahead, Boyd."
Struggling to keep hold of what's left of his limited patience, he takes another deep breath. It's not as therapeutic as the first, but it has some positive effect. Slow and persistent, he says, "But… and it's a big but, Grace… I wouldn't trade you for anything."
"I'm certain you told me that last year," she says, the tiniest hint of ice creeping into her tone, "right before you started following Greta Simpson around like a lovesick puppy."
The not-quite accusation stings. Outraged and incredulous, Boyd echoes, "'A lovesick puppy'?
Above the rim of her glass, Grace doesn't seem to have any trouble meeting his glare. "Mm. Mel and I were waiting for you to roll over with your paws in the air so she could tickle your tummy."
Jesus-fucking-Christ… Indignation rising fast, he grinds out, "Well, I'm sorry if I disappointed you by maintaining professional standards."
Her reply is as quick as it is pointed. "By managing not to chase after her once we knew what her involvement in the case really was, or…?"
Temper starting to fray, Boyd sends another scowl across the room. "What the fuck has Greta got to do with anything? It's us I'm trying to talk about. You and me, Grace."
A shadow seems to pass over her face. "There is no 'you and me', Boyd – or did I miss something?"
The feel of her bare skin, the scent of her body… "Your memory's really that bad nowadays?"
Her chin lifts a fraction. "Accidentally ending up in bed together following a stressful few days does not constitute the beginning of a… relationship… if that's what you're alluding to."
He really doesn't understand her. Not at all. Doesn't know why she's so angry with him, or what he's supposed to do about it. Doesn't know, either, how long he can control his own rising anger and resentment. He makes a snap decision. Swallowing what's left of his drink in a single impatient gulp, Boyd stands up with a sharp, "Okay, fine. Well, thanks for clarifying the situation for me, Grace. I'll go and get dressed, and then I'll see myself out, shall I?" Crossing the room with long, determined strides, he adds, "Don't bother coming into work tomorrow, or Friday. I'll see you in my office first thing on Monday morning for a final debrief on the Greene case."
He knows Grace is watching him as he stalks towards the door to the hall but she doesn't say a single word. Her silence tells him all he needs to know.
-oOo-
It's her fault, not his. A soft creak above her gives his position away. Bedroom. Her bedroom.
None of this should have happened. He drove her home because he was worried about her, made it quite clear that he didn't think she was in a suitable mental state to drive herself across London on a dark, wet night when her concentration was not, perhaps, as good as it needed to be. She acquiesced without argument, not admitting to either of them that his company was more welcome and important than the unsolicited lift home. He drove her home, got out of the car and walked her to her front door. Concern. Compassion. Quiet, unassuming gallantry. She invited him in, no agenda at all between them for once.
He's a surprisingly good listener. When he wants to be. Grace discovered that early in their professional relationship, found it both surprising and intriguing. Still does, from time-to-time. It's too easy to forget that there's so much more to him than bristling impatience, simmering anger, and a ruthless, single-minded dedication to the job he does. Easy to forget that he's more, much more, than a senior police officer in charge of a controversial and highly-specialised unit that only continues to exist because it gets results where none are really expected.
He has that in common with Harry Taylor. Devotion to duty. The charisma to lead and the immense force of character needed to push against impossible odds and succeed.
Harry is dead. Long-dead. Boyd… is not dead.
Boyd is very much alive, and – if she's not mistaken – already heading back down the stairs.
He will leave. She knows he will. Boyd… does not make idle threats. What he says he will do, he does. Many a recalcitrant suspect has found that out to their cost.
It's her decision to make. Let him leave, or…
None of it was supposed to happen. Not just tonight. She wasn't supposed to be attracted to him. Not ever. Chalk and cheese, oil and water. All those ridiculous old clichés that nonetheless sum them up so well. So very different, and yet…
His footsteps in the hall are solid, determined. Neither slow nor rushed.
Make your mind up, Grace. Stop him, or don't stop him, but do it now.
"Peter." The unfamiliar mode of address falls loud into the room. She can count on the fingers of one hand the number of times she's used his first name to his face.
Beyond the open door, the footsteps stop. The reply is terse. "What?"
Grace closes her eyes. A worsening headache nags at her, adding to the stress and exhaustion pulling her towards some psychological black hole that threatens to swallow everything around it. "I'm sorry."
Absolute stillness, absolute silence. Then, a footstep. Then another, and another.
She opens her eyes. Boyd moves into her field of vision, suit jacket draped over his arm, shirt partially unbuttoned. He looks tousled and tired, much more resigned than belligerent. She expects him to speak, but he doesn't. He just stands and watches her, whatever he's thinking and feeling hidden far too deep below the surface for her to see.
"It's not you that I'm angry with," Grace says, the words a brave admission to herself as much as to Boyd, "it's him."
"I'm not Harry." The statement is self-evident, but there's a world of meaning in the way he says it.
She dips her head in acknowledgement. "No, you're not."
"And I'll never be Harry."
"I know." She half-comprehends what he's saying – or thinks she does. "Tonight… was just the wrong time for us to attempt to… explore… anything."
"My fault." No trace of emotion – any emotion – in the words. A long silence, then, "I'm not prepared to be second-best, Grace. Not to anyone, let alone to a dead man."
Bewildered, she stares at him. Does he really think that she…? "Oh, Boyd, it's not like that. Not at all. What I feel for you – " she stops abruptly, realising exactly what she's on the verge of disclosing. Her heart seems to be beating unnaturally fast in her chest, not helped by the apparently involuntary step he takes towards her. Swallowing hard, she forces herself to continue, "Don't think that. Don't ever think that."
"You loved him." It's not quite an accusation, but it's close.
"I was young, Boyd. Young and single, and yes, as it turns out, stupidly naïve." Grace looks down at the floor for a moment, martialling her thoughts. Looking up again, she says, "You loved your wife. Didn't you?"
His expression remains closed. "More than was bloody good for me, as it turned out."
Determined, she continues, "And has every woman you've had a relationship with since been second-best?"
His dark eyebrows draw together in a pensive frown. "It's not the same, Grace. We were married. We had a child together."
"It's absolutely the same," she contradicts, angry with him for missing the point. "If you've ever loved another woman besides Mary, you have no right at all to accuse me of being incapable of loving someone other than Harry. You can't – "
Boyd takes another step forward, cuts across her words with, "Grace."
" – accuse me of…" Glaring up at him, she interrupts herself with an impatient, "What?"
"Do you want to pause for a moment and think about what you just said?"
…loving someone other than Harry. Oh.
He's contemplating her in quizzical, reflective silence, and Grace is struck by an uncanny sense that he's looking straight into her, that everything she's never openly acknowledged, not even to herself, is suddenly open and available to him. That suddenly he somehow sees in her all the things about him and her, about them, that she's only just beginning to have the courage to face up to. It's not a particularly pleasant feeling, and sudden defensiveness drives her to her feet before she's even really aware that she's moving.
"Don't," she says, painfully aware that it seems to have become the night's mantra – for her, at least. "Don't, Boyd."
"People like us," he responds, clearly deciding to ignore her plea, "we hate to appear weak, so we do our best to completely ignore the things that frighten us. That really frighten us."
Stung by his acute perception, Grace shakes her head. "I'm not frightened."
"Yes, you are," he tells her, but his voice is quiet, almost gentle. "You're frightened that history will repeat itself. That you'll give me everything, and I'll leave you with nothing."
It's actually terrifying, for a moment, how accurate the observation is. Instinct makes her lash back with, "And you actually believe that, do you, Boyd? That I might, on any level, think even for a moment that… getting involved… with you would be a good idea?"
"I do." Infuriatingly calm. "You can't kid a kidder, Grace. That's what they say, isn't it? You're trying to run away, but a part of you – a big part of you – is thinking about what happened tonight and wondering what it would be like to take the risk and consciously step over that line."
He's right. Damn him. "Even if that were true – "
"Which it is."
" – it would be a huge mistake. For both of us."
His reply is simple. "Why?"
Incredulous, Grace snorts. "Oh, come on, Boyd…"
"I'm serious," he says, and she knows he is, "whatever might happen if we did, how could it possibly put us in a worse position than we're in now? Wanting what we endlessly tell ourselves is impossible and driving ourselves more and more crazy because of it."
His unwelcome perception grates across her nerves. "It doesn't occur to you that you might be presuming too much?"
"No." The denial is delivered without drama or arrogance. "I was there, remember? Despite the bad timing, you wanted it every bit as much as I did. Or am I wrong?"
She can't lie to him. Even if she did, he wouldn't believe her. He's his own witness, after all, and it wasn't only him who was thoroughly caught in that crazy, unexpected maelstrom of lust. Wasn't just him who… Moving past him at an angle calculated to keep him at arms' length, she says, "It wouldn't work, Boyd. Couldn't work."
"You and me?"
"What else would I be talking about?" Picking up the antique decanter that's something of a family heirloom, Grace pours a fresh measure of brandy into her glass. Her back to him, she says, "It's human nature to want what we can't have."
She hears him take a step towards her. "And that's all you think this… thing… between us is? The allure of forbidden fruit?"
She turns to face him. "Don't you?"
Boyd frowns, as if he is giving serious thought to the idea. It takes him a few seconds to reply, "I think… that there might have been an element of that. Once upon a time. But not now."
Despite herself, Grace is intrigued. Could it be possible that she's not the only one who's had to fight to keep dangerous, inopportune desires hidden? If that's the case, then… "Oh?"
He drops his suit jacket onto the arm of the big leather chair he chose earlier, puts his hands in his trouser pockets. His stance is solid and square, almost defiant. He holds his ground without moving. "I like the pursuit. Always have. The more challenging the woman… Well, you get the picture."
"That doesn't encourage me to think again, Boyd," she tells him with the merest trace of irony.
He shrugs his broad shoulders. "Wasn't my intention. When we first met, I thought you were an exasperating pain in the arse. An interfering, pointless waste of my precious time."
"You did make that fairly clear, as I recall," Grace informs him, well-aware of just how displeased he'd been to find an offender profiler foisted on him and his team in the middle of a highly-sensitive murder investigation. "I, on the other hand, merely thought you were a conceited, pompous man-child with an overinflated ego."
A muscle high in his cheek twitches, and she realises that – impossibly – he is trying not to laugh. Solemn, he says, "Seems we were both right."
The wry chuckle that rises in her throat strips away some of the tension surging between them. Shaking her head, she sighs. "Oh, Boyd. Boyd. What are we doing?"
"What we always do," he tells her, still not moving. "Getting under each other's skins because arguing is easier than – "
"Facing the truth," Grace finishes for him. He's right. Not every reason for all their fights and squabbles is an obvious, straightforward one. "Do you want to know what else I thought about you?"
Boyd shakes his head. "Almost certainly not."
"Probably for the best," she says, briefly remembering what she'd thought about the intense, quick-tempered detective who'd repeatedly told her in no uncertain terms what he thought of her and her methods – right up until the moment he had apologised and given her a slow, disarming smile that had instantly changed her entire perception of him.
Harry Taylor is dead, but Peter Boyd is alive. And Boyd, despite his darker, more unpleasant side, is fundamentally a very decent man.
The thought swirls in her head for a few moments as he watches her with vague bemusement, as if he's not sure whether or not she's going to turn on him again.
"I'm too tired for any of this," she suddenly says, not caring how abrupt the words sound. The brandy disappears in a couple of fast, enthusiastic swallows, burning its way towards her stomach. Setting the glass down on the sideboard, Grace meets his eye, holds his gaze without fear or embarrassment as she says, "Let's just go back to bed and worry about it all in the morning."
It's not much of a gamble, she's certain, but her heart is once again pounding hard as she waits for his reaction.
Incisive, Boyd surveys her for a long, drawn-out moment before he says, "Sure?"
Grace knows what he's asking. What he's really asking. Nodding, she holds out a hand to him. "Sure."
- the end -