DISCLAIMER: I own nothing.
Happy New Year, folks!
Stay With Me
by Joodiff
"You're wasting your time," Grace says firmly as they walk steadily up the second flight of stairs. "I'm not rising to it."
"Rising to what?" Boyd asks her, a patently-feigned note of innocence in his voice. "I'm simply pointing out that I'm not the only one who's of the opinion that Hayden's a twenty-two carat nut-job."
"Oh, stop it," she says, infuriated but also reluctantly amused by his tenacity. He's just in that kind of mood and has been since arriving for work that morning in a whirlwind of boisterous energy and unnecessary shouting. It's one of those days when he has the devil in him and he will bicker and torment relentlessly. The kind of day his junior colleagues generally dread, given just how unpredictable and impulsive he can be. "Honestly, Boyd, you're like a four-year-old sometimes."
Snatching hold of the handrail, he bounces rapidly up the next few steps and then turns to look down at her with a sly grin. "Fifty quid says that by the time we've finished talking to him you completely agree with me."
She shakes her head and continues her ascent. "I'm not going to be drawn, so you might as well give up now."
"Where's the fun in that?"
True, he's not easy to deal with when he's in such an incorrigible mood, but on balance Grace far prefers his reckless exuberance to the deeply sullen, brooding moods when getting more than two words out of him is near-impossible. When the dark despondency settles on him it can become virtually impenetrable for days on end until he spontaneously snaps out of it for no readily apparent reason. She's become something of an expert at predicting the inevitable cycle over the years, and she suspects his current ebullience is a harbinger of something infinitely gloomier to come. When – or if – the black cloud descends on him she will cope with it. They all will. They always have.
As they start up the third set of stairs, she complains, "Why are the lifts in places like this always broken?"
"The exercise will do you good," Boyd tells her with an irritating smirk.
Grace ignores him. It's often the best thing to do. As they reach the next landing, she says, "Try not to upset him, Boyd. There's nothing to suggest he's anything more than a completely harmless bystander who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. A little tact and diplomacy would go a long way."
"Oh, you know me, Grace."
She does. Indeed she does. She sighs deliberately. "That's exactly why I'm worried."
The door to Tony Hayden's flat is one of the first they come to. Ordinary, anonymous, just like every other door in the building. They exchange glances, a question asked and answered in silence. Grace nods and Boyd raises his hand and raps firmly on the door. A definite police officer's knock – loud and decisive. Unconsciously mimicking each other, she searches for her Home Office identity card at exactly the same moment that he reaches into his jacket for his warrant card. A practised manoeuvre that neither of them needs to think about. They've been interviewing suspects, witnesses and victims together for years.
A slight scuffling behind the door heralds the eventual emergence of a thin, sallow face framed by lank dark hair. The eyes that dart rapidly between them are large and pale. It might be an unfair comparison, but at first sight, Hayden reminds Grace forcibly of an undernourished rodent. She can easily picture him with twitching whiskers.
Boyd says, "Hello, Tony. You remember me? Detective Superintendent Boyd. This is my colleague, Doctor Foley. We'd like to have a quick chat with you."
"Boyd," Hayden says in a tone that suggests he thinks the name should mean something to him, but that he can't quite place it. "Quick chat?"
"If we may," Grace says with a smile. "Can we come in for a few moments, Mr Hayden?"
"Come in," he echoes. It's not an invitation, but as Boyd looms towards him, Hayden steps back and pulls the door open to admit them. He seems very compliant and more than a little bemused. Following Boyd into the small flat, Grace makes a rapid assessment of Hayden's home environment. Extremely cluttered and very untidy, but reasonably well-kept. Disorganised rather than dirty. The presence of pillows and a duvet on the low, cheap sofa seem to indicate he's not using the bedroom for its intended purpose, but that, as the old saying goes, is hardly a crime. The television in the corner of the room is switched on, but the volume's muted. Wryly, Grace realises she recognises the popular morning magazine programme being transmitted. Not something she's keen to admit to anyone. If her colleagues want to imagine she spent the better part of her medical leave earnestly reading thick academic tomes, well, that's fine by her.
"Coffee," Hayden says abruptly. "I need to make coffee for you."
"Please don't go to any trouble," Grace says.
Hayden simply stares at her and repeats, "I need to make coffee for you."
Boyd, a little way behind the smaller man's shoulder, pulls a face at her that perfectly manages to convey 'I told you so'. She's just grateful he isn't tapping his temple indicatively. His terminology may leave a lot to be desired, but he's right – there's something very odd about Tony Hayden. Which doesn't remotely prejudice her against the man, but definitely makes her study him rather more shrewdly than she might otherwise have done. He retreats to what she assumes is the kitchen, and as she glances around to determine the best place to seat herself, Boyd ghosts to her side. He can move very quietly when he wants to, and she almost jumps at his sudden proximity. Close to her ear, he mutters, "I told you; twenty-two carat nut-job."
"Shut up," she whispers back fiercely. Boyd raises his eyebrows at her and moves away, starting to circle the room slowly. She knows what he's doing. He's picking out the fine details and committing them to memory. It's something he's very good at, though whether from instinct or just plain experience she's never been quite sure. Her own attention is drawn to the several tall, unsteady stacks of books leaning precariously between the only armchair in the room and the adjacent wall. The titles are an eclectic mix, cheap thrillers, autobiographies and popular novels jostling with reference books and general non-fiction. It appears that there's no particular theme to Hayden's reading matter. Maybe he's simply one of those people who will read anything and everything.
Avoiding the big armchair, Grace chooses one of two isolated wooden dining chairs and settles herself with her bag on her lap. It's a slightly defensive posture, she realises, but that doesn't matter. Boyd has come to a standstill by the rain-spotted window, and he's looking out at the dismal view of other blocks of flats and great stretches of asphalt occupied by haphazardly-parked vehicles. The earlier bullishness has been replaced by a perfectly calm and professional demeanour and when he glances in her direction his expression is completely neutral. He's far too good a police officer to allow whatever he may really think of Hayden to show through in front of the man himself. At least in this kind of relatively informal interview.
On cue, Hayden reappears carrying a single plain brown mug that is gently steaming. He walks towards her and passes it to her solemnly, almost as if he is bestowing the most precious gift in the world. Accepting the drink with a murmur of thanks Grace waits to see if he returns to the kitchen to fetch another couple of mugs. He doesn't. Hayden is not having coffee, and apparently neither is Boyd. It doesn't strike her that he's being deliberately rude, just that he's rigidly adhering to some kind of internal check-sheet of what to do when an unknown visitor arrives. He sits down on the sofa and simply looks at her. It isn't a challenging stare, it's just a steady but almost completely empty gaze.
Following her own unwritten script, Grace asks, "How long have you lived here, Tony?"
"December nineteen eighty-seven," he says promptly.
It's an answer, and it may be factually correct, but like everything else about him, it's slightly out of kilter. Giving him an encouraging smile, she says, "That's a long time. More than twenty years."
No response. Just the same blank look.
Grace is peripherally aware of Boyd folding his arms as he holds position by the window. He won't interrupt her, not yet. He will watch and listen, absorbing everything. To Hayden she says, "I used to have a friend who lived not far from here. He used to walk his dog in the little park over the road."
There is no friend, of course, and never was. It's a tactic they sometimes use during initial conversations, the strategic deployment of the mythical friend to help create at least a tenuous bond with the subject of their interest. It doesn't seem to work with Hayden. Again, he says absolutely nothing. Grace risks the briefest of glances at Boyd; he lifts his chin the tiniest fraction in response – her cue to continue. They are very good at this, between them. If her velvet glove approach fails, Boyd will eventually provide the iron hand. When he chooses to do so will depend on just how impatient he gets.
Grace tries another approach. "I'd like to ask you some questions about the night Alan Hughes was killed. Would that be all right?"
"Yes," Hayden says simply.
It occurs to her that perhaps he will only respond to direct questions rather than broad statements that require a more abstract sort of response. It's entirely possible. Carefully, she says, "You told Detective Inspector Jordan that you didn't see which of the two men had the knife. Is that right?"
"Yes."
She goes gently, more interested in his reactions than in trying to learn anything new. Her job is not to extract the bald facts of the case, but to interpret whatever it might be that Hayden is not actually saying. Her task isn't made any easier by his monosyllabic replies or by his idiosyncratic speech patterns when he does answer in more detail. It doesn't take her long however to quietly conclude that there's something that he's either deliberately not saying, or that hasn't yet been successfully extracted from him. The minutes tick slowly by, and without having to look at him she knows Boyd is getting restive. He remains by the window, but he might just as well be pacing. She knows the tiny signs only too well. The impatient fingers running through the grey hair, the absentminded rubbing of the neatly-trimmed goatee beard; the way he subtly shifts his weight from one foot to the other. Oh, yes, Boyd is getting impatient.
"Coffee," Hayden says suddenly, staring at her now-empty mug.
Startled, Grace makes an effort to smile politely. "Not for me, thank you."
"I need to make coffee for you," he says – exactly the same phrase as before – and he's almost immediately on his feet and heading back to the kitchen, leaving the mug behind. Grace looks at Boyd. The look she gets back in response is heavily loaded with meaning.
She gets to her feet and joins him at the window. Below them, parked amongst the battered saloons and the small, souped-up hatchbacks Boyd's sleek black Audi is an expensive and menacing presence. Quietly, he says, "So what do you think? Is he for real?"
"Oh, yes," she murmurs in response. "I have no doubt about that. But there's definitely something we don't know. Something he's not saying for one reason or another."
"You're sure?"
Grace understands the reason for the question. If she's absolutely certain, Boyd will act accordingly. For all his faults he trusts her judgement in such things implicitly and she knows it. She nods. "Absolutely sure."
"Then I think we should take him in and question him with an appropriate adult present."
"I agree," Grace says. "But let me deal with it, hmm?"
Boyd shrugs his broad shoulders. "All right. But don't beat around the bush with him, Grace. I'm getting sick of all this pussy-footing around."
Grace gives him a look. "When did you ever pussy-foot around anything?"
"Not throwing him around the room until he starts talking sense counts as pussy-footing in my book," Boyd says dryly. Sadly, she knows he's quite serious. "Go on, then. You handle it. But my patience is wearing very thin."
"No, really? I hadn't noticed."
Hayden re-emerges from the kitchen, a different mug in his hand. Again, the contents are gently steaming. He looks faintly bewildered to find that Grace is no longer seated, and he visibly hesitates, his pale gaze flicking from her to Boyd and back. Quietly, Grace says, "We were wondering if you could come with us so we could talk to you for a bit longer. Would you mind?"
Hayden frowns. His grip on the mug tightens perceptibly, his knuckles growing white. Stubbornly, he says, "Coffee."
"No, thank you," Grace says firmly. "Mr Hayden – "
"Coffee," he says, his tone suddenly very bleak.
"I don't – " Grace starts, but Hayden's already moving. He swings his arm forward in a sharp arc, showering her with the contents of the mug. It's an unpleasant shock, but fortunately the liquid is nowhere near hot enough to scald her. She gasps, automatically attempting to swipe the coffee from the front of her soft blouse.
Boyd is past her almost before she realises it. His voice is harsh. "Fucker."
He's considerably bigger than Hayden. Taller, broader through the chest and shoulders, and undoubtedly a lot more physically powerful despite the notable age difference. He seizes the man roughly by the front of his scruffy sweatshirt and hauls him up until Hayden seems to be only just balancing on his tiptoes – and he still isn't quite eye-to-eye with Boyd. It happens too fast for Grace to lodge a protest, and in reality she's still too distracted by the liquid that's soaking rapidly through her clothing to worry too much about Hayden.
Boyd's voice again. Hard, cold. "I'm arresting you for assault. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention – "
The smaller man squeals. It's a loud, eerie, almost completely inhuman noise. A primitive, desperate sound of fear and panic. He flails wildly for a moment, still making the same piercing, hysterical sound. Boyd does exactly what Grace might have predicted if she'd had time to think about it. He shakes Hayden hard, apparently trying to break through the man's sudden overriding panic. Grace starts forward instinctively. "Boyd!"
The squealing stops in the same instant that Hayden twists in Boyd's grasp. The snatching motions he's making behind his back make absolutely no sense to Grace until she sees the sudden gleam of metal in his hand. It happens too fast. Far too fast. Hayden grabs the knife from the waistband of his jeans and swings it round in front of him. Instinct rather than intent. There's the sound of scuffling and then a single dull thud. For a moment the scene is a frozen tableau. Boyd still gripping Hayden's sweatshirt, Hayden still gripping the knife firmly embedded in Boyd's chest. The tableau shatters as Boyd releases his grip and staggers back. Hayden jerks the blade free, and suddenly he's squealing again, the same raw, desperate noise as before. He drops the bloodied knife instantly, and it falls to the carpeted floor, hardly making a sound as it lands.
Boyd's expression is one of complete, blank shock. One hand moves to his chest, and he seems astonished when it comes away bloody. They are all motionless, just for those few seconds, all of them sharing the same moment in a perverse kind of kinship, then Hayden bolts across the room towards the front door, still making the same unearthly noise. He jerks it open and flees through it, but Grace barely notices. Her attention is all on Boyd as his knees give way and he collapses clumsily onto the floor, his shoulder striking the arm of the sofa on the way down.
Bizarrely, though, her focus is momentarily diverted by the knife that's lying between them. It's a cheap kitchen knife; an ordinary, everyday kitchen knife, nothing fancy. Black plastic handle, stainless steel blade, now heavily smeared with blood. Perhaps Hayden collected it when he went to make the second mug of coffee. It doesn't matter. It's not important. What is important is Boyd, and Grace lurches back into motion mechanically. She is not a medical doctor, but she has a basic knowledge of first aid, and she's witnessed more traumatic events in the course of her long career than she cares to think about. Dropping to Boyd's side, it's immediately clear that he's conscious and breathing, and the way he's clutching his chest so tightly tells her that injured or not, there's still plenty of fight left in him. She glances around quickly, spies a crumpled white teeshirt bunched up on the sofa and immediately reaches out to grab it. With more force than is probably necessary, Grace forces it against his chest, makes him grasp it hard against the wound. There's not as much blood as she feared, not yet, but the crimson stain on his light blue shirt is spreading slowly and relentlessly.
Her phone is somewhere in her bag. No time. Without a word she starts to rummage through Boyd's jacket pockets seeking his. It doesn't take her long, but her hands are slippery with a mixture of coffee, blood and nervous sweat and she fumbles her first attempt at dialling. It's easier and quicker to hit the speed dial, and not many seconds later Spencer Jordan's voice says in her ear, "Sir…?"
"It's Grace," she says urgently. "Spence, we're at Hayden's flat. Boyd's been stabbed – call an ambulance."
"What…?" Spence's voice says, but then he cuts himself short. "Okay, we're on it. Kat!"
There's a brief exchange between her two unseen colleagues, but Grace isn't really listening. Her initial composure is starting to ebb away, just a little, and the first tendrils of genuine fear are beginning to take hold. Boyd already looks deathly pale, deeply shocked. Spencer's voice pulls her back to herself. "Grace? Are you okay? What happened?"
"Hayden," she says. It's the only explanation she needs to give. "I'm fine, Spence… but Boyd…"
"Ambulance is on its way," he assures her. "Is he conscious…?"
It passes in an odd dream, her short conversation with Spencer. Questions asked and answered while Boyd lies still and silent and bleeding. She can see the gleam of clammy sweat on his face and neck, and his eyes look almost black against his sudden unnatural pallor. Dilated pupils. Grace is hardly aware of dropping the phone as the call ends. Her attention is entirely focused on Boyd. From somewhere she finds the presence of mind to claw back a measure of equanimity, and she asks, "Boyd? Can you hear me?"
Just the way his gaze instantly centres on her tells Grace than he can, but he tries to nod anyway. "Yeah…"
"The ambulance is coming," she tells him. "You're going to be fine."
"Whatever… you say… Doctor."
It's so like him to attempt to banter even in the most dire of situations, and it gives Grace some hope that perhaps he's not as badly hurt as she first thought. She knows, though, better than most, just how tough and just how stoical he is. He's simply too proud and too stubborn to easily admit to any kind of weakness, physical or emotional. She's seen it so often before in him, the instinct to wave off any concern, to keep everything he thinks and feels locked tightly within himself. Maybe Boyd sees it as courage and fortitude, but to Grace it is just rank stupidity.
"Idiot," she says, too aware of the sudden hoarse, emotional edge in her voice. "You just never learn, do you?"
"Told you… he was a nutter…" Boyd manages, sounding very breathless.
Instinct makes her reach out to touch him, and as she does, all the self-imposed boundaries that go beyond professional propriety abruptly shatter. There's no warning, none at all, she's just suddenly assaulted by a deluge of forbidden thoughts and emotions crashing forcefully through the broken barriers. Everything she's never dared to openly think and feel, every complicated, contradictory feeling she's kept ruthlessly subjugated for so very long. Things she's always known, things she's never known. Things she's suspected and things that astound her. All of it hitting her like a ruthless tidal-wave that sweeps everything before it.
"Boyd…" his name escapes from her like a prayer, like a plea. Like the answer to everything.
He coughs, and she hears, quite distinctly, the unpleasant liquid noise deep in his chest. The cough causes an intense grimace of pain, one that tells her more than she wants to know. Cold fear reaches into her, seems to grip her stomach with icy fingers. For a few seconds time seems to slow down again as Boyd's bloodied hands fall away from his chest and his head lolls alarmingly, but before raw panic takes hold of Grace he coughs again, producing the same hideous bubbling sound. She doesn't know if she's doing the right thing or not, but she grasps his shoulders firmly and starts to heave. "Sit up. Come on, Boyd, you've got to sit up…"
He's so heavy. So heavy and so solid under her hands, but just as Grace fears she'll never be able to move him, he seems to rally a little; enough, at least, to put some effort of his own into the manoeuvre, and at last she's able to prop his back against the edge of the sofa. It seems to help his breathing immediately, but the blood-soaked teeshirt falls away from his chest and she's alarmed by the sudden wet sheen of fresh blood soaking his own shirt. Seizing the balled-up teeshirt Grace clamps it back into place, bearing down hard. Boyd moans in response, a sound that tears into her. She doesn't want to hurt him, doesn't want to cause him any more pain than he's already in, but she knows she needs to control the bleeding.
The desperate urgency of the situation retreats a little. His breathing is quick and shallow, but at least he is breathing, and at least he's still conscious. There's a wildness in his dark eyes that frightens her, though, a very real desperation, as if he's very well aware of just how serious things are becoming. Not knowing what else to do, she uses her free hand to stroke his dishevelled hair back from his forehead. She doesn't like the coolness of his skin, the clamminess of it. She thinks he's probably moving deeper into shock with every minute that passes. Trying to force false irritation into her voice, Grace says, "I told you not to upset him, but you never listen to me, do you?"
He attempts a smirk, but it's a desperate parody of his usual grin. "Sometimes…"
"Idiot," she says again, and suddenly not all of her anger is feigned. "Why do you – "
Boyd's head drops forward and for a moment she's terrified. Genuinely, coldly terrified. Moving her free hand to his neck, she tries to locate his pulse, and though she fails to find it, the touch makes him moan, a tiny moment of reassurance. "Boyd…?"
"Grace…" a soft sigh, hardly a word at all.
"No," she says, snatching hold of his shoulder. "No, you don't do this to me. Come on. Stay with me, Boyd."
Pivotal moment. A moment of everything. Everything there ever has been or ever could be between them. The moment when she sees the truth with absolute, startling clarity. The moment when she wonders why things aren't different. The moment when she knows. She just knows. The knowledge fills her with wonder and fury, and she shakes his shoulder hard. Shakes him until he groans in protest. "You don't do this. You don't die on me, you stupid, infuriating, thick-skulled… Don't you dare. Don't you bloody dare."
The rage welling up inside her unleashes itself in a volley of blows delivered with her free hand. She pounds his shoulder, oblivious to the hot tears welling in her eyes. Boyd groans again, tries feebly to flinch away from the brief, fierce assault, and when he finally raises his head again she can see something of her own emotions reflected in his eyes. She's sees something else, too. Comprehension.
Grace has no idea where he summons the strength from, but as his eyes close Boyd manages a breathless, guttural mutter of, "Stop… hitting me… woman..."
She loves him. Loves him despite – or perhaps because of – all his faults, all his many eccentricities. She won't let him die. Not here, not now. Not in this small, untidy flat, right in front of her. For a moment she's caught in the past, an unwilling voyeur watching a terrible scene unfolding in a very different room. Then, she was a helpless spectator; now, she's not. She presses harder on the blood-soaked teeshirt, and places her other hand back on his shoulder – far more gently. She says the only thing that's echoing in her head. "Peter."
His eyes flicker open again, and though they are strangely dull, he seems to focus on her. The question comes not in words, but in silence. Yet Grace understands it perfectly. There's the slightest catch in her voice as she says, "Stay with me now and I swear I'll never leave you. Never."
It's not a flippant thing, the promise she gives. It's the most serious vow she could possibly make, and she understands the ramifications perfectly. Boyd never goes back on his word, and neither does she. The whole world's in chaos and the only thing she's got left to lose is the thing that's the most precious to her. The clarity and purity of the moment burn through her. Grace doesn't think she will ever forget it. Won't forget the shabby brown sofa, the tired cream walls or the wild patterns on the old-fashioned carpet. Won't forget the congealing blood on her hands or the haunted look in Boyd's eyes as he's pulled remorselessly further and further away from her. The light hasn't quite gone out in those deep, hypnotic eyes. Not yet. Nor, it seems, has the fire inside him. She sees it, the extraordinary effort he makes to drag himself back from the brink. Sees the wild, angry heart of him as he forces himself to come raging back, spitting blood and defiance.
There's a siren wailing in the distance. First one, then two. The sound of hope and salvation, drawing nearer with every second. Grace tightens her grip on Boyd's shoulder reflexively. "Hear that? They're coming, Peter. They're coming."
Boyd growls, low in his throat, and his left hand comes up to clamp over hers – the one holding the makeshift dressing in place. The stubborn strength of his grip astounds her. Grace isn't consciously aware of shifting position, but suddenly she's kneeling up and his head is resting on her chest, the cold sweat on his forehead icy against the skin just below her throat. Her arm is around his shoulders and she's holding onto him so, so tightly. The sense of liberation flooding through her is startlingly intense. No longer constrained by anything, Grace speaks in a husky whisper. The same three words over and over until the first of the paramedics dashes into the room.
-oOo-
He dislikes hospitals. Dislikes even visiting them, much less being confined to them, and nothing that's happened in the last year or more has helped modify his opinion. Stella's death, Grace's illness… both only adding to what's well on the way to being a deep pathological hatred. Accordingly, he's a very difficult and bad-tempered patient. For the first day he's heavily sedated, and for the next three days after that he's still so festooned with wires and tubes that all he can do is stay put in his uncomfortable hospital bed and growl tetchily at anyone who comes anywhere near him. No-one escapes his ire, not the doctors and nurses, not those of his friends and colleagues brave enough to visit him, not even Grace. He barks and snarls and complains and isn't remotely surprised that he ends up spending a lot of time alone.
Boyd discharges himself late on the afternoon of the fifth day, and is faintly amused that none of the medical staff make any great effort to make him change his mind. He knows they're glad to see the back of him, and he doesn't blame them at all. He's told to expect six months of recovery time following the traumatic pneumothorax, but he lets the words roll meaninglessly off him. As far as Boyd is concerned if he can walk, he can work. It's just the way he is, and it has very little to do with recklessness or courage – it's duty and responsibility that motivate him.
He leaves the hospital quietly and discreetly, and as soon as he's out on the street he flags down a black cab. He's stiff, sore and irritable, and he's a lot weaker than he cares to admit even to himself, but he's alive and free from the unwelcome attentions of the doctors and nurses who have valiantly been trying to look after him, and that's all that really matters. His short-term plans are very simple – go home, eat something, have a shave and a shower and collapse gratefully onto his own comfortable bed where he fully intends to sleep until he feels better. In the longer-term…
Boyd doesn't want to think about that too much. Not yet. Truth be told, he simply has no idea how to approach the awkward conversation that inevitably has to happen. No idea how to broach the subject, no idea what to say if he manages to do so. He thinks there might have been a few things said on both sides that should never have found a voice. In fact, he knows it. He remembers far too well the words Grace kept whispering in his ear like a mantra. Remembers, too, the unwise promise she made to him. It's a promise he has no intention of attempting to hold her to. Best let the whole thing become an uncomfortable memory that will eventually fade. So far he's managed to evade all her attempts to discuss the matter, but he knows the time will come when he can't run away from it anymore. No, far better to force the conversation himself on his own terms. If it ends in a spectacular argument, so be it. Better that than holding her to something that will only cause her pain and misery.
Sleep first, face Grace tomorrow. It's a good plan. A simple, straightforward plan. The only trouble is that it all goes to hell as the taxi enters his street and he immediately recognises her car parked across his driveway. Boyd has no idea how or why she's there, but she is most definitely there. He can see her sitting in the driver's seat, watching the street with characteristic composure. Well, so be it. It may be sooner than he wanted or expected, but Boyd is not going to delay the inevitable any longer, not now it's come to him. As he leans forward to pay the driver through the open partition, Boyd catches a brief glimpse of himself in the rear-view mirror and what he sees startles him. He looks pale and haggard, every single one of his years and many more. He wonders momentarily when so much of his hair and beard turned to silver, and how long the furrows on his forehead have been etched so deeply.
He gets slowly and painfully out of the taxi and starts the walk towards Grace's car. Before he's halfway she gets out of the vehicle and moves to stand on the pavement, patiently waiting for him. Her expression is unreadable, and he finds himself trying to search for clues in her blue eyes as he draws closer to her. No luck there, either. He takes a gamble, opts for an easy, bantering tone. "I discharged myself."
"Evidently," she says.
"I hate hospitals, Grace."
"From what I hear," she says, "they're not too keen on you, either."
"What are you doing here?"
"Strangely enough, I was on my way to visit you when a little bird told me you'd taken to your heels."
The explanation doesn't really surprise him. Grace Foley has a lot of friends, and even more casual acquaintances, and a good many of them are involved in healthcare in one way or another. It doesn't matter. He says, "Are you going to come in? We need to talk, and I really don't think the middle of the street is ideal."
There's something very enigmatic about the look she gives him, but she nods. "All right."
"That's it?" Boyd asks her. "No lectures on what an idiot I am, discharging myself?"
"Would it make a blind bit of difference?"
He shakes his head. "Shouldn't think so."
"Then I think I'll save my breath."
As he ascends the stone steps that lead up to his big front door, Boyd can't help feeling that the conversation ahead is going to end very badly indeed.
-oOo-
He does his best. He owes her that much. More than that much, in fact. Hating every moment of it, he stumbles his way through all the things he thinks he should say and does his best to convey all the things he needs to say. It doesn't come naturally to him, this sort of thing. He's articulate when he wants to be, but not in this arena. Never has been, never will be. He tries so hard to explain, but in the end her near-silence reduces him to a final resigned shrug. He says, "I'm sorry."
"I really thought you'd manage to do better than the 'it's not you, it's me' speech," Grace says calmly.
It never ceases to amaze Boyd just how easily she can shoot him down. In flames. He says, "Yeah, well I'm sorry you think it's such a cliché, Grace, but I'm having trouble thinking straight, let alone speaking. I haven't altogether had the best week of my life, and I'm just about dead on my feet."
Grace stands up and moves towards him. He watches her suspiciously, and when she holds out her hand to him, he shakes his head and asks, "Aren't you supposed to be calling me all the names under the sun right now?"
"Would you like me to?" Grace questions in a very mild tone.
He sighs. "Not particularly… but it's sort of traditional."
"Wouldn't be the first time, then?"
"I've had some experience in the area, it has to be said."
Grace snorts softly, letting her hand drop. "I believe you."
Looking up at her, he says quietly, "I really am sorry, Grace."
"Okay."
Growing more bewildered by the second, Boyd frowns at her. "That's it? 'Okay'?"
"I don't know if you're trying to save me from myself, or whether you're trying to save me from you, but it really doesn't matter," Grace says.
"It doesn't? What is this… some kind of psychologist's trick?"
"No trick," she says, and he finally detects the faintest trace of amusement in her eyes. He's being scammed, he's sure of it. Somehow he's very definitely being scammed. She seems to decide to take pity on him, though, because she finally continues, "It doesn't matter because I don't need saving, Boyd. Not from you, not from myself, not from anyone."
If he didn't feel so weak, he'd definitely get up and start pacing, if only to quell his rising frustration. Boyd doesn't quite know how, but he's definitely lost control of the conversation. Then, she's always been very good at running rings round him when it comes to words. He can shout at her, and sometimes she'll back down – grudgingly – and he can occasionally win by default, particularly in situations where he can flaunt his status as CCU commander, but he stands no chance in a straight battle of words. Even if he always wins hands-down in the sheer decibel stakes.
Grace holds out her hand to him again. "Come on. Let's get you up to bed."
He's tempted to keep fighting, but he's even more tempted to surrender. "You've just been humouring me, haven't you?"
"Oh, yes," Grace says indulgently. "For years."
Boyd surrenders abruptly. It seems the most sensible and gentlemanly thing to do.
-oOo-
So here they are, a long, long time later, curled up together under the covers. Boyd has been asleep for hours, and he barely stirred when Grace finally abandoned her quiet vigil for a warmer and more comfortable position in the bed rather than on it. Yet, instinct has made him curl into her, and he sleeps like a child with his head firmly burrowed into her shoulder. Tomorrow she will tease him mercilessly for it, and he will growl in mock bad-temper and secretly relish every moment for its unaccustomed intimacy. Tonight, though, they sleep, the pair of them, and an observer would be hard-pushed to decide which of them looks more vulnerable.
When they wake in the morning they will start to talk and then realise there is nothing at all to say. She loves him, he loves her, and they will agree to deal with everything else as and when it arises. The simplicity of it will appeal to him and amuse her. When the time comes, neither of them will object when the court decides that Tony Hayden is more in need of treatment than punishment.
But all of that, along with the searing heat of passion and the inevitable bitter differences of opinion, is in the future. In the here and now, they simply sleep.
- the end -