DISCLAIMER: I own nothing.

Don't Ask, Don't Tell

by Joodiff

"I just think…" Eve starts boldly, but then her words trail away to nothing and she simply stares reflectively into the depths of her glass leaving Grace to raise her eyebrows quizzically. The silence stretches, but Grace has patience and she waits, knowing that in the idle melee of conversation the unfinished sentence is significant. Eventually her companion continues defiantly, "Well, if you want me to be perfectly honest, I just think this is bloody stupid."

"I see," Grace says mildly.

"No offence," Eve adds after a moment.

"None taken," Grace assures her with the considered gravity of one who has certainly had a couple of drinks but is nowhere near inebriated.

It's a delicate matter, this one. There's a lot – an awful lot – carefully and deliberately being left unsaid between them. All sorts of suppositions, half-truths and tacit acknowledgements. They regard each other cautiously for a second or two and then both automatically glance away. It's foolish behaviour, really, for two mature professional women. For a moment Grace lets her eyes wander the unexciting beige room. Clean, basic and bland; nothing to distinguish it from any other room on the same floor, or even in the same building, come to that. Roadside hotel chains, everything exactly the same from one town or city to the next. Relatively cheap and reasonably comfortable in a very practical, modest sort of way.

Eve declares, "I mean, it's bollocks, really, isn't it? All this 'professional propriety' stuff."

Grace can't help thinking that her colleague may already have had at least one large glass of red wine too many. Not that it matters, given the lateness of the hour. Smiling slightly, she counters gently, "Well, it's not really; not when you think about it."

Glaring at her balefully for a moment, Eve then grudgingly concedes, "Oh, I'm not that naïve; I know it has its place. But this… this is just bloody stupid. We're a hundred and fifty miles away from London, there's just the four of us, and there's no-one else around who knows any of us from a hole in the wall."

"True," Grace admits placidly, picking up the half-empty bottle and replenishing both glasses. A reasonable Cabernet Sauvignon, not her first choice, but the best thing available that could be quickly and easily acquired without arousing too much suspicion during one of their short breaks earlier in the day.

"So why, exactly," the younger woman demands in a plaintive and simultaneously querulous tone, "am I sharing a hotel room with you…?"

Which, of course, is the sixty-four million dollar question. The one no-one's ever supposed to ask.

-oOo-

Boyd's temper is fraying. He doesn't know it, but his grim thoughts very closely mirror Eve Lockhart's. He's tired, he's stressed and the very last thing he wants to see is Spencer Jordan shamelessly marching out of the twin room's cramped bathroom wearing nothing apart from a ridiculously small white towel that appears to be none-too securely fastened around his waist. In retaliation, Boyd growls bad-temperedly and pointedly ignores the highly unwelcome vision. Edicts from on high about economising be damned – he's a fully-fledged Detective Superintendent, head of his own autonomous police unit, and if there was a single unoccupied room anywhere in the building he'd be in it right now. Not necessarily alone, but certainly not with Spencer. Fond as he is, in a gruff, laconic, heterosexual male sort of way, of his right-hand man, as far as Boyd is concerned there's very definitely such a thing as too much enforced proximity. As has been proved more than once in the past when they've been forced to endure long, tedious stake-outs together.

Resentfully, he tells his subordinate, "If you start snoring like a bloody chainsaw, I'm kicking you out to sleep in the corridor."

"Hey," Spencer retorts, in a dark tone that suggests he's almost as annoyed with the highly unsatisfactory status quo as Boyd himself. "You're no Prince Charming yourself, buddy."

"Fuck off, Spence. I'm not the one who spends half the night farting and scratching his balls."

"Actually…"

"Piss off," Boyd promptly grumbles back.

A long, despondent silence descends on the room. A room almost identical, in fact, to the one a little further along the corridor where the conversation might be a little more refined but the overriding thoughts are pretty much the same. Boyd drops down onto his chosen bed, puts his hands behind his head and glumly stares up at the featureless ceiling. He thinks about the investigation in hand, he thinks about the tedious journey back to London in the morning, but most of all he thinks about the harsh unfairness of his current situation.

Spencer announces, "This is fucking ridiculous; you know that, don't you?"

Boyd does. He most certainly does. However, he also knows there are lines and boundaries, and things that may very well be quietly understood but which can't ever be openly voiced. He grunts noncommittally in response. He's not gullible enough to be drawn into a discussion that could incriminate him – and not just him – forever. He reaches for his phone and checks the display. No messages. Not listening to Spencer's continued grumbling, he starts to press the tiny keys.

-oOo-

The wine is nearly all gone now. Probably for the best, Grace decides, setting the bottle aside. Neither of them is anywhere near drunk, but tongues have already become much looser than they should be given their professional relationship. Halfway through Eve's melancholy soliloquy about why nothing that possesses a Y chromosome can ever truly be relied on, a sharp beeping noise cuts through the gathering gloom. Text message. Grace picks up her phone. One message received from DSI Peter Boyd. Still vaguely listening to Eve's tirade, Grace presses the relevant key combination. He's a man of few words, her irascible lover. In this case, just two: bloody and stupid.

She smirks slightly, well able to imagine the confrontational scene in the room at the other end of the second floor corridor. Too little sleep, too much irritable testosterone. If the two men don't come to blows – at least metaphorically – by the morning, she'll be very surprised indeed. She taps out a quick response and immediately presses the send button, but as she does so Eve shoots her a glower and demands, "Grace, are you listening to me?"

"Of course I am," Grace solemnly reassures her. Which is at least partially true.

"Oh, God," Eve says in sudden bitter comprehension. "You're texting each other. You and He Who Shall Forever Remain Nameless."

"Might be," Grace unwisely admits, more amused than perhaps she should be by her colleague's perception.

"That's outrageous," Eve complains. "Talk about adding insult to sodding injury."

The beep that heralds the second incoming message makes the innocent explanation Grace was about to attempt seem more than a little specious. She looks at Eve and Eve looks pointedly back.

"Go on, then," Eve eventually prompts with a fierce scowl. "Read it."

Grace does. And really can't help smirking again at the pithy turn of phrase employed. Their unit commander is a past master at conveying everything he wants in remarkably few words – most of them containing four letters or less. There is something refreshing about just how blunt he can be without actually descending into adolescent crudity.

"I don't want to know," Eve says quickly, apparently able to accurately decipher Grace's expression. She shakes her head and underlines her declaration with, "I really, really don't want to know."

"That's all right, then; I wasn't going to tell you."

Silence. Then, in a deliberate, speculative tone, "Hypothetically…"

Grace looks up from her phone, her attention wavering. "Mm?"

Eve gestures ambiguously. "Hypothetically, if I felt the need to stretch my legs before going to bed… and if – hypothetically – someone else not a million miles away coincidentally decided at exactly the same time that he really should go out and check on the car given the amount of expensive forensics gear stashed in the boot…"

"Yes…?" Grace inquires unnecessarily. Perception is what she does and her innate ability to immediately comprehend what's being deliberately left unsaid is her professional raison d'être. She knows better than Eve does what's coming next.

"Well, I mean, it wouldn't actually matter to anyone – least of all to the taxpayer – if I didn't spend the entire night in here with you, would it?" Eve continues. "And if you were… distracted… it might not even occur to you to wonder where I'd got to until the morning."

"Hypothetically, I suppose it might not," Grace agrees, straight-faced.

They regard each other cautiously for a moment, as if they are both trying to decide whether or not they can really trust each other with rather more than just a fleeting glimpse of all the things they are never supposed to openly admit to. And then, without exchanging another word, they both start to grin, just a little.

-oOo-

There's a cheap and cheerful water cooler in the unmanned hotel foyer. For Eve, it's an absolutely ideal diversion. She heads straight for it, fills a small plastic cup and loiters, feigning great interest in the many untidy racks of brightly-coloured leaflets brashly announcing the apparently many and varied local attractions. Museums, theme parks, shopping outlets, wildlife parks – so many allegedly wonderful and exciting things to see and do. She finds herself cynically wondering about the future of mankind sometimes. Still, if she wants to see penguins or learn more about the exciting industrial history of the area, she now knows exactly where to go. She's almost on the point of starting to hum ironically to herself when she catches sight of movement out of the corner of her eye. Boyd. No doubt about it. Even on the peripheral edge of her vision, the tall, powerful silhouette is unmistakable.

"Eve," he says gravely, drawing to a halt next to her.

"Boyd," she acknowledges. Deadpan, she asks, "Going out to check on the car?"

His expression is completely, beautifully composed. "Yeah. I really don't fancy having to explain to the DAC how we managed to lose several thousand quid's worth of kit on the way back from the middle of bloody nowhere."

"Could be tricky," she agrees mildly.

Nothing in that neutral expression changes, but there's an unmistakable glint in his eye as he inquires, "Fancied a stroll did you?"

"Thought I'd stretch my legs," she blandly tells him. "Maybe have a sneaky fag while Grace isn't looking."

"Bloody smokers."

"Bloody ex-smokers," she counters without ire. It's a largely good-natured battle, one that's been going on ever since she joined the Met's Cold Case Unit. Like many former smokers, Boyd is afflicted with a crusading sort of zeal for stamping out the contentious habit, one that only ever succeeds in raising her hackles when it manifests itself. "They're always the worst."

"Moral high ground," Boyd informs her, starting back into motion. "See you in the morning, Eve. And don't bloody hang about, I want to be out of this Godforsaken dump and on the road by seven at the latest."

"Seven? That's brutal," she complains.

He glances over his shoulder at her as he reaches the big double doors. "Better make sure you get a good night's sleep then, hadn't you…?"

She's about to protest, but Boyd is already pushing his way out into the night. The final glance he gives her comes with the briefest, cheekiest and most telling of boyish grins. Completely inappropriate for a man of his age and station. Suits him, though; actually causes a brief, ridiculous flutter in the pit of Eve's stomach. Shaking her head in dry amusement, she watches him striding purposefully away and wonders exactly when – and why – she started to become so genuinely fond of him.

-oOo-

"Trust me, Grace," Boyd says as he sits down on the edge of the bed to remove his highly-polished shoes. "Whichever way you look at it, you definitely got the better end of the deal."

"I don't know that Eve would altogether agree with you," she tells him, hanging his suit jacket up in a completely unconscious display of easy domesticity. She has yet to start ironing his shirts for him on a regular basis, and although she has no intention of ever doing so, Grace rightly suspects he lives in hope. Neither of them would ever admit it, but after so many years of conflict and misunderstanding there's something very comforting about the slow, inexorable adoption of all the very ordinary rituals of coupledom.

"Did you know Spence talks in his sleep?" Boyd continues, taking his socks off. He glances up. "I say talks. It's more like incomprehensible muttering with a bit of stray moaning and groaning thrown in for luck. And I'm far too much of a gentleman to discuss some of his other unfortunate nocturnal habits in front of a lady."

"I'm sure he speaks very highly of you, too."

"It's like sleeping in a damn zoo," he complains, starting to unbutton his shirt.

"I imagine he was just as happy about the prospect of having to share with you."

"I'm bloody angelic compared to him."

Sitting down and leaning against the headboard of the bed nearest the window, Grace says, "I wouldn't know about Spence, of course, but I think I should point out that not only do you snore, but you fidget and you grind your teeth. And you've been known to – "

Glaring, Boyd says, "Thank you, Grace. Let's just leave it there, shall we?"

She chuckles and then gestures at the empty bottle abandoned on the featureless dressing-table that's really not much more than a wide, deep shelf with a modestly-sized mirror above it. "'Fraid all the wine's gone."

His reply is sardonic. "Is that really supposed to surprise me? What do you think this is, some kind of jolly?"

"A trip to Manchester to study intriguing crime scenes entirely paid for by the Met? Oh, I should say so."

Boyd shakes his head. "You're a very strange woman, Grace Foley; you know that, don't you?"

"I must be," she agrees with a sage nod. "After all, look who I eventually ended up with as a significant other."

"Hilarious," Boyd says dryly, but his attention is clearly drifting away from the bantering conversation. He stands up and gives Eve's bed an experimental push with his knee, his expression contemplative.

For a moment Grace is bemused, but as ever, she catches on fast. Chuckling, she says, "Oh, please don't tell me you're actually thinking of pushing the beds together? Not that old chestnut?"

"Well I'm not sleeping in a bloody single bed with you, not after the last time. I'll be black and blue by the morning."

Shaking her head, she explains patiently, "Boyd, we don't have to sleep in the same bed, you know. It's not actually compulsory."

"I see. Planning on taking advantage of me and then kicking me out to sleep on my own, are you?"

"Sex isn't compulsory, either."

He grins ferociously at her. "Conjugal rights, Grace."

"We're not married," she points out equably.

Boyd gives her a sideways look. "We're not? You could've fooled me."

-oOo-

"It's just something I'd really rather not think about," Spencer grumbles into the quiet darkness. There's a long, long pause, then, "I'll tell you what, though, if they have been sleeping together for a while – "

"Which they undoubtedly have."

" – Grace deserves a bloody medal. He snores."

"So do you," Eve tells him helpfully. It's far too cramped in the narrow single bed, but the pleasant amount of alcohol in her bloodstream takes the edge off any real irritation, and not for a moment does she regret the artful but discreet manoeuvres that have ultimately brought her to the room at the other end of the corridor.

"No, I mean he really snores."

"It's the nose," she says, settling herself more comfortably against Spencer's bare chest. She likes the way his arms immediately tighten around her.

There's another long silence, followed by an intrigued-sounding, "Really?"

"No, Spence," she counters tolerantly. "I was kidding. Though it might be, I guess. ENT was never my strong point at medical school."

"Well, whatever. She still deserves a medal for putting up with him."

Eve smiles to herself. "Oh, I don't know..."

There's an incredulous note in Spencer's voice as he replies, "Come on. This is Boyd we're talking about."

Even though she knows he won't see it in the dark, Eve rolls her eyes. "The same Boyd who worried himself half-to-death while she was ill…? The same Boyd who carried her out to his car and drove her straight home the day she keeled over in the lab…? Oh, and who stayed with her all day – and all night presumably – until she felt better? Open your eyes, Spence. He's in love with her."

Spencer grunts sourly. "If you say so. For the sake of my sanity, I'd rather not dwell on any of it too much."

She shrugs against him. "Well I say good luck to them."

There's yet another long and meaningful silence. Sounding uneasy, Spencer finally asks, "Do you really think they…? You know…?"

Eve snorts, wondering if he is really that naïve. "Of course they do. They're not that bloody old, for heaven's sake. Besides, you've only got to see the way Grace looks at him when she thinks no-one's paying attention."

"Oh, God…"

She chuckles, enjoying his obvious discomfort. "You asked. Don't think about it, Spence – you're in serious danger of acquiring some kind of Oedipus complex. And why the hell are we still talking about what they're up to when we could be…?"

-oOo-

"You knew," Boyd accuses rather too loudly.

"I guessed," Grace corrects, idly threading her fingers through his thick silver hair. His head is in her lap and for the last few minutes they have been debating the nature of the relationship of the couple down the corridor. "Not the same thing at all."

"Which isn't the damn point. Either way – it somehow didn't occur to you to tell me?"

"Should it have done?"

Irritably fending off further lazy caresses, he glowers at her. "Of course it bloody should. For God's sake, Grace!"

The indignation is so strident that she simply can't help laughing – which only increases the strength of the baleful glare being directed up at her. She diplomatically hides a further smile as she cautions, "Careful, Boyd – you're on extremely thin ice with this one."

His expression – sullen and thunderous – tells her that he's far from happy, but also that he's very well aware that unless he watches his step he could be heading into very dangerous territory indeed. He sounds just as bad-tempered as he looks as he complains, "Spence and Eve…? You really don't think I should have been appraised…?"

"Oh, stop it," Grace chides as she gazes down at him. "For a start, I didn't know for sure until tonight, and whichever way you look at it it's absolutely none of our business."

"How can you say that? Two of my staff are shagging each other and – "

"As I said, very thin ice," Grace interrupts, eyebrows raised.

He glowers. "This is not a bloody democracy."

"'Do as I say, not as I do'?"

"Essentially, yes," is the petulant reply.

Grace sits up a little straighter and snorts in response. "Don't be ridiculous, Boyd. They're responsible, professional adults, and as long as they continue to behave that way at work it's nothing to do with us what they're getting up to together in private. Just turn a blind eye, for heaven's sake. Anything else would be ridiculously hypocritical. And incredibly stupid."

The short, loaded silence she receives in response is followed by a surly, "This is all your fault."

Grace blinks, not sure if she's angered or amused by the irritable accusation. "And just how, exactly, do you come to that conclusion?"

"I should be down the corridor considering the relative merits of suffocation over strangulation, not lying here trying to get my head round the fact that you and Eve have been colluding – "

Grace laughs. "'Colluding'? Do we need to have another conversation about unwarranted paranoia?"

"Shut up, Grace," he tells her, pointedly closing his eyes.

She smirks slightly to herself, knowing she's won. Forbearing and just a little complacent, she says, "Peter…?"

His reply is brusque. "What?"

"Be a good boy and do what you do best – just lie there and look pretty."

Boyd growls, but Grace simply laughs softly and settles back down against him. Despite everything, they fit together surprisingly well. In more ways than one.

-oOo-

"It's no good, I'm going to have to text Grace," Eve finally says decisively, many hours later. She sits up and stretches, trying to ignore the nagging cramps and stiffness caused by a long and largely extremely uncomfortable night.

Spencer opens his eyes and peers at her. He looks sleepy and a touch disorientated. He frowns. "Why?"

"Because," she says patiently, "we didn't think this through half as well as we could have done. All my stuff's still in there with them, and all Boyd's stuff is still in here with us. I might get away with wearing his boxers, but I really don't think he'd take too kindly to the idea of putting on my frillies. Though I guess you never know. Grace might like it."

Shutting his eyes again, Spencer groans. "Please. Don't. Just don't."

"Well, I suppose he could just go commando…"

He shudders. "Stop, Eve. I'm begging you – for God's sake stop."

"See?" she says, a note of triumph in her voice. "That's why I need to text Grace."

"It's too early," Spencer complains with an exaggerated yawn.

Eve swings her legs out of the bed, puts her feet firmly on the floor. And she ignores the hand that gently snags her wrist. "Boyd said he wanted to be away by seven."

"You really want to wake him up just to remind him he said that?"

"I'm not texting Boyd, I'm texting Grace."

"Same bloody difference," Spencer mutters tartly, but he releases his grip.

-oOo-

Truth be known, both other parties are already wide awake, though their attention is neither on the unexpected logistics required to facilitate an early exodus from the hotel, nor on Grace's phone which beeps forlornly to itself several times before returning to staid silence. Significantly older than their compatriots down the corridor, they are firm believers in not wasting any opportunity for misbehaviour that blatantly presents itself – in this case an opportunity triggered by both a fierce spike of mutual early-morning enthusiasm and the pervading sense that the whole situation is highly illicit. And all the more exciting because of it.

In fact, in the intimate, breathless aftermath of that dogged enthusiasm – and in a clear triumph of hope over experience and common-sense – when they're rudely interrupted by a tentative knock on the door there's actually a renewed amount of half-serious grappling going on under the rumpled bedcovers. They both freeze instinctively at the sound, and regard each with a mixture of rueful amusement and peevish exasperation. The knock is repeated, less diffidently, and Eve's voice – heavily muffled – inquires, "Grace…?"

Boyd's reaction is succinct. "Fuck's sake…"

Rapidly disengaging herself, Grace orders, "Go and see what she wants."

"Bollocks."

Irritated, dishevelled and almost completely naked, she frowns at him. "Oh, come on, if I go – "

"Yeah," he says pointedly, "and if I go…"

Reluctantly comprehending the nature of his potentially embarrassing predicament, Grace sighs. "Great. Terrific. Thanks a lot, Boyd."

"You woke him up again," Boyd reproaches, his tone far too smug.

"Oh, just… pretend to be asleep or something, will you?" Grace tells him tetchily.

-oOo-

"I'm really sorry," Eve mutters, eyes downcast, and only rarely has she ever meant anything quite so sincerely. She's almost more sorry on her own behalf than she is on theirs. In fact, on reflection, she's definitely far more sorry on her own behalf than on theirs. Eve is both highly intelligent and highly perceptive, and there's no doubt in her mind about what she's interrupted. The evidence is palpable, and not just in Grace's uncharacteristically unkempt appearance. Trying her best not to dwell on the evidence, she makes vague gestures towards the shadowed room behind the partially open door. "All my stuff…"

"Oh," Grace says, her tone almost as blank as her expression. "Oh, yes. Sorry."

"I did try texting you…"

Quickly looking away, Grace mumbles, "I… we… must have… still been asleep."

"Mm," Eve agrees, deciding it's very definitely in everyone's best interests to maintain the polite fiction. There's a suspicious red mark on Grace's throat, low down, near the point of her collarbone. One that will probably fade very quickly – but sadly not quite quickly enough to avoid detection. Eve gestures again. "Um… Can I…?"

"Oh. Oh, yes. Yes, of course."

Deciding that the excruciating situation really can't get any worse, Eve indicates the battered leather holdall resting at her feet. "Thought he might need this."

"Thanks," Grace says. She steps back. "You'd better come in and grab your things."

Easier said than done, all things considered. "Ah…"

Grace gives her a distinctly old-fashioned look, evidently reading her thoughts perfectly. "Just ignore sleeping beauty. He won't bite."

Not altogether reassured, Eve opts for humour, asking, "Sure about that, are you?"

"Not entirely," Grace admits, stooping down to retrieve the holdall.

Thankfully the room is still reasonably dark. Dark enough for Eve to at least determinedly pretend she can't see the way the two beds have been pushed together. Dark enough to do her absolute best not to see the back of the familiar head buried firmly into what should have been her pillow. Of course the gloom does nothing to disguise the sultry hint of musk and aftershave hanging in the air, but from the way the light curtains are stirring in the early morning breeze at least the window appears to be wide open. She doesn't think she's ever tried to collect her things together quite so quickly and quietly.

Turning, she can't stifle an involuntary and highly undignified squeak of surprise when she finds herself being steadily regarded from the other side of the room. And not by Grace. Even in the half-light Boyd's features are remarkably distinctive. Dark brows, dark eyes, aquiline nose and neat goatee beard all present and correct. He's sprawled out on his back, watching her without any particular expression. Thank God, the covers are pulled high enough up for most of what lies beneath to remain a complete mystery. Eve makes a rough throat-clearing sort of noise. "Er… sorry, Boyd. Didn't mean to wake you up."

Anyone else would play along. Anyone else would fervently lie through their teeth to help maintain the dignified deceit. But Boyd is Boyd, and thus a complete law unto himself. His level gaze doesn't waver, just becomes obliquely amused as he slowly puts his hands behind his head. "That's all right, Eve. You didn't."

-oOo-

"I don't want to talk about it," she says determinedly as she walks back out of the tiny bathroom, hands full of male and female toiletries that need packing away in their bags. "Not now, not ever."

Half-dressed, Spencer pauses and looks over his shoulder at her, his expression pained. "Yeah, but you're not serious, are you? They weren't actually…?"

"Not ever, Spence," she firmly reiterates.

He grins. "Hang on, I thought you were the one who said 'good luck to them'?"

"I still say good luck to them. I just don't want to think about that part of this morning ever again. Much less discuss it."

Spencer shrugs and returns to buckling his belt. "Okay."

"You know he actually had the nerve to wink at me as I left? Talk about balls."

Again, he looks round, startled this time. "God, you didn't actually see those, did you?"

"No I did not," Eve says sharply, barely supressing an inward shudder. "And then Grace said – "

Spencer's tone is mild as he interrupts, "I thought you didn't want to talk about it?"

Collapsing on the nearest of the two beds, she declares with some vehemence, "I'm traumatised, Spence. Completely bloody traumatised. I've always said that the dead are a lot easier to deal with than the living. Oh, God… how am I going to sit in a car with the two of them all the way back to London?"

"They're probably saying exactly the same thing about us, you know."

"I'm going to have to resign," Eve says plaintively.

Spencer turns round to face her properly, eyes wide with surprise. "Oh, come on… You're not serious?"

She sighs. Heavily. "Of course I'm not serious, idiot. Christ, they'd even pushed the damned beds together."

He looks thoughtful. "Why didn't we think of that?"

Eve glares at him. "Not helping, Spence."

-oOo-

"'What happens on tour stays on tour?'" Grace suggests, preparing to put the finishing touches to her make up. She doesn't need to look round at Boyd to know that he is glaring in response. Remaining pragmatic and philosophical, she continues, "Look, we always knew it couldn't stay a secret forever, not in a unit like ours. Besides, Eve had more or less worked it out for herself. You don't need to worry – they're not likely to gossip about things that are just as incriminatory for them as they are for us, are they? Why are you suddenly so bothered about it, anyway?"

Boyd stops pacing, halting behind her, hands buried deep in his trouser pockets. She studies his reflection in the mirror as he says, "Cold light of day, Grace. Cold light of day."

"So I gather. You were fine about it last night. Last night it was a case of 'what the eye doesn't see…'"

"Precisely. I don't like being caught practically in flagrante by my staff. It makes plausible deniability rather difficult."

"For heaven's sake, Peter… So they know for certain that we're sleeping together? So what? So are they. We're all consenting adults who know the score. If you get on your high horse over this… Well, you'll only end up alienating them and making yourself look stupid."

"Thanks, Grace."

He sounds surly and sceptical. She's not surprised. She allows a casual shrug. "You should be happy, if anything."

"How the hell do you work that out?"

With admirable patience she explains, "Spence could do with learning a bit about the responsibility and commitment that goes with a serious relationship, and Eve… Well, Eve could certainly do with a bit of comfort and stability after what happened with Stefan. Those two are going to be the making of each other, you'll see."

Boyd looks far from convinced. Taking his hands out of his pockets, he folds his arms across his chest. "Yeah, well I wouldn't start listening out for wedding bells just yet, if I were you, Grace."

Despite his obvious bad mood it's too tempting an opportunity to pass up. She smiles limpidly at him in the mirror. "Theirs… or ours?"

The dark eyes glint at her, but the reply is smooth. "As far as I'm concerned, Grace, marriage is rather like lobster thermidor. Vastly overrated, criminally expensive and really doesn't agree with me."

She sympathises, at least in some ways, but teasing him is a sport Grace very rarely tires of. "Ah, but as you pointed out last night, we're practically an old married couple already."

His answer is a nonchalant, "There you go, then. No need to bother the vicar."

"Foley-Boyd has a certain ring to it, though, don't you think?" she inquires, just to needle him.

"Boyd-Foley."

She smirks. "See? You have thought about it."

"Are you anything like done with the warpaint yet?" he demands impatiently, but the harshness of his voice is belied both by the tolerant look in his eyes and by the way he stoops to kiss the side of her neck with an unaffected tenderness that makes her want to forget all about driving back to London.

"It's a work in progress," Grace informs him, resolutely subduing several exceedingly inappropriate impulses. However infuriating, obstinate and downright bad-tempered Boyd can be, she adores him. It can be a dangerous weakness sometimes. One he's certainly not too noble to ruthlessly exploit when it suits him. Focusing her attention on the mirror again, she adds, "You can take all our stuff out to the car if you're bored."

-oOo-

Spencer is loitering outside the hotel's main entrance enjoying an illicit cigarette purloined – with permission – from Eve's coat pocket. It's still early and the sharp breeze cutting across the large parking area is decidedly chilly, but he doesn't mind. It won't be long, after all, before he finds himself trapped in a confined space with nothing better to do than listen to Boyd and Grace bickering continuously about everything from the route back to London to the car's uneven fuel consumption as the former puts his foot down far too heavily on the accelerator. It astounds him that after so many years they can still find so many inconsequential things to squabble about. He wonders if they ever stop, a thought that leads him unwillingly to places he really doesn't want to revisit.

He can't picture it. Actually, he really doesn't want to picture… well, it… but that aside, Spencer really can't picture them together. As a couple. He thinks they're just too different in too many ways. It's Grace who surprises him the most. He likes Grace. More than that, he thoroughly admires her. An intelligent, attractive, sparky older woman who is both compassionate and courageous, she has long filled an important maternal role in the unit. Always ready to listen and advise, equally fast to praise or admonish, he simply can't imagine the CCU functioning without her. She may not exactly be the power behind the throne, but she certainly has the tyrant's ear, and the ability to sway him. Always has had. And yet Spencer simply can't comprehend what it is about a man like Boyd that could possibly attract a woman like Grace.

And then there he is, the man in question, shouldering his way through the main doors, both hands full of luggage, jaw set square in that familiar, stubborn manner that suggests he's not in the best of moods. Caught fair and square with the half-finished cigarette halfway to his lips, Spencer manages a sheepish mumble of, "Morning, boss."

"Don't let Grace catch you smoking that thing," is the churlish retort. "She'll nail you up by the balls for lying to her about quitting for good. Where's Eve?"

The question is blunt, the accompanying stare challenging. Spencer drops the cigarette, grinds it out under his heel. "On her way. I hope."

"Bloody women are all the same – always takes them at least six times longer to get ready than they say it will."

Not sure how he's supposed to answer, Spencer settles for a neutral, "Sir."

If he thinks Boyd is going to walk away towards the car, he's wrong. The older man puts down the luggage he's carrying – his and Grace's – thrusts his hands into his coat pockets and looks up at the pale sky. The cool early morning light picks out rough, silvery stubble beyond the clean edges of his beard. It appears Spencer is not the only one who hasn't bothered to shave for the journey home. For several moments neither of them says a word. Very male in their determined silence. Then Boyd seems to gather his thoughts and without looking away from the thin clouds scudding above them he says, "My unit, my rules."

"Sir," Spencer says again. He has a good idea of what's coming.

"I don't give a fuck about what you get up to after hours, or who you get up to it with," Boyd tells him. "But the moment your private life threatens to cause a conflict of interest at work it ceases to be your own damn business and no-one else's. You understand me?"

Spencer does. It's more of an implicit warning than a reprimand, but he knows Boyd too well to imagine that he won't act on his words if he ever deems it necessary. He nods stiffly. "Yes, sir."

Boyd finally lowers his head and gazes at him. "I don't want to have to notice you. Either of you. Quite clear?"

"Quite clear."

"Good. Don't fuck her about, Spence. She could do a lot better."

"I know."

Boyd grunts, removes his hands from his pockets and bends down to pick up the luggage at his feet. Spencer doesn't debate his next move. It's instinct, pure and simple, that makes him say, "Boyd…?"

His superior looks up, then straightens, recovering his significant height advantage. "Spencer."

"You and Grace."

"Well?" Boyd asks impatiently. "Spit it out, man."

The half-formed threats die away as Spencer realises just how ridiculous they will sound to the big, imposing figure in front of him. Boyd's got maybe fifteen years on him and Spencer still wouldn't take him on lightly. He shrugs. "To coin a phrase… don't fuck her about."

To his surprise, the older man looks more amused than incensed. "And that's the very best you can do, Spence? Sometimes you disappoint me, you really do."

More defensive than he would like, Spencer mutters, "You know what I'm saying."

For just a second the braggadocio disappears and the response is an unexpectedly quiet and sober, "I do."

"Right."

They regard each other warily for a moment before Boyd once again reaches down to pick up his and Grace's bags. As he does so, he growls, "Get in there and round them up, for God's sake. If they're not at the car in five minutes, I'm going without them and they can make their own damn way back."

"On it," Spencer confirms, glad to be back on more familiar territory.

He is almost at the door when Boyd's voice stops him with, "Spence."

"Sir?"

"Live and let live. Or, as our American cousins would say, DADT."

Spencer nods. Doesn't need to say a single word. He understands. Don't ask, don't tell.

What he still doesn't understand, however, is why Grace, who has always been an eminently sensible woman and a very good judge of character, would choose to allow a man like Boyd into her private life. He suspects that Eve could explain the enigma to him, but he also suspects he really wouldn't like it. Women. They remain a complete mystery to him – but like Boyd, Spencer enjoys the challenge. Which is just as well, given that he now has to find and escort not one but two independent, feisty women to the car before Boyd makes good his threat.

…But somehow Spencer instinctively knows that the chances of Boyd abandoning Grace in the middle of nowhere in a fit of pique are somewhere in the region of zero. He might – almost certainly will – shout and storm, but he'll still be stubbornly waiting for her even if it takes her another hour to finally make an appearance. Every man has at least one major weakness, and like it or not, Spencer has learnt that Boyd's has intense blue eyes and the kind of bewitching smile that makes all kinds of dangerous promises.

Squaring his shoulders, he stoically shakes his head and embarks on his mission.

- the end -