Title: Game Favours
Rating: T
Disclaimer: Don't own anything. Just have fun.
Summary: It's a game they play and only the know the rules. But on maybe, on this special occasion, it's time to stop playing.
A/N: I'd just like to send a resound THANK YOU to ShadowSamurai83 for the continuous encouragement and work on my stories.
Game Favours
When she arrived at the hotel, Grace had been in a take-it-or-leave-it attitude towards the party. She wasn't overly keen, but didn't mind it either. Not her idea, but the publishers and other illustrious figures who made sure that there was a rather astonishing amount of money dropping into her bank account every month voiced it and she just went.
Smile and make polite conversation, have a drink or two, eat a few hors d'oeuvre and then go home in the knowledge you've done something constructive for your future. It sounded like a lot of crap, but she'd always been able to keep a polite face. In addition, you never knew what such a gathering might bring.
In this particular case, it had brought him.
If she only went for profane reasons, there was no fathomable cause for him to be there. Yet, he was.
The dress code had been set as "dressy casual" which was a contradiction in itself, so she had laxly interpreted it as "quirky". The result she had seen in the mirror looked good, Grace knew that. Fashion was kind to her these days and life had been even kinder lately. She knew she looked good, younger than her years by far. And she knew, though they had never lost a word over it, that he noticed. Always had.
Surprisingly his entrance was a quiet one, which couldn't be said about his companion. Everybody noticed, focussed on the young woman, who was too loud in everything - voice, clothes, make-up. Nobody really took notice of him and therefore nobody realized that his gaze was fixed on her. He was appraising her, just as she was him, and the result was a lot more in her favour than his.
The party goes on as Grace circles and he does as well. They are avoiding the inevitable, or maybe prolonging the anticipation. They've never defined exactly what it is. But inexorably their circles drift closer to each other.
It's like a well-choreographed dance taking a good thirty minutes until they are finally so close together that they can hear each other's voices without having to raise them. Still, they keep communicating with looks only, which is due to people clamouring for their attention, and his date.
Grace knows she will ask the question of "What were you thinking?" later on, and Boyd will give her an answer that tells everything and nothing. It will be the truth, but only half of one. Of course, he is aware that Grace won't be satisfied and needle and maybe, just maybe, this time he will actually go all the way and say the words they have branded as unspeakable.
It's been three years, for God's sake. Three years during which they've drifted away from each other - partially because it is what happens when you stop working together, partially because there was Frankie for him and Neal for her - both long over, but not forgotten - but mostly because they've never admitted what they both know to be true. Three years and maybe now they are at the turning point.
They are still caught in their individual conversations, though neither can really say what they are talking about. Senses are already alert, taking in, cataloguing.
"Who is this woman?" a shrill voice asks and Grace raises her eyebrows, along with at least half a dozen people standing near. Boyd's date is...well, whatever she is, polite isn't it and neither is quiet.
It is as if Boyd wakes up from a dream, easily visible by the light shake he actually gives himself. He doesn't answer the question, instead declares, "I'm getting a drink." It isn't polite either and he doesn't need to look at Grace to know that she's rolling her eyes at his antics.
The small crowd disperses after that, new groups forming, and thankfully 'the date' doesn't consider Grace interesting enough to bother her. If you aren't even thirty, you probably immediately dismiss a woman way over fifty, even if your date has been staring at her for some time. Grace doesn't dwell on it and sips on her wine.
It's the cheap version, just like the food is.
"Spent too much money on the location and went cheap on anything else, eh?" Even if Boyd doesn't look much like his former self, his voice is the same; deep, low and potent.
She looks up at him, though the height difference seems to have shrunk, and gives him a knowing smile. "Seems so."
There is a pause, in which she continues to smile, genuinely amused by the situation, and he slowly and half-pained returns it. "Hello Boyd," she says.
"Grace."
It's a game they are playing. Their game. The one nobody else ever mastered. They one nobody else ever understood.
"You are here?" she asks, and it isn't much of a question, more of a statement. He's never been one for butt-kissing and political bullshitting, as those parties tend to be. His physical appearance is probably his way of making this clear.
He shrugs, his smile now just as amused and enigmatic as hers. "The monthly cheque is big enough."
Code. The words translate into 'I'm showing my face because people pay silly money, but I'll be out of here first chance. Are you with me?' and Grace is the only person on the planet who understands.
Therefore, her reply is perplexing, but Boyd just smiles. "Now?"
He nods, his hand automatically going to the small of her back to guide her, but Grace stands firm.
"What about...?"
He'd be hard-pressed to really remember the name, isn't bothered either. Not the most charming way to treat a woman and there will be scathing messages on his mobile come morning. But by then those won't even be a blip on his radar anymore. They aren't now.
He shrugs, Grace shrugs as well and then nods.
Their leave-taking happens so quietly that it will be at least twenty minutes before anybody notices.
Outside on the street, they gaze at each other. October is chilly this year and Grace's dress not too thick. She shivers, giving Boyd the official reason to put his arm around her shoulder as he leads her away from the hotel. They know the area well enough to head for the right place.
Wordless agreement.
Sitting at the table they peruse the menu, though they will both go for the different day specials. But it's part of the game, to prolong, to draw out. The real question is the level of seriousness.
"You look good," Boyd finally opens, once the waiter is gone. It's the understatement of the week; she looks bloody gorgeous, and they both spot it as the strategic opening it is.
"So do you," Grace parries, though her tone of voice leaves no doubt that this is a lie. Her next comment proves it. "Taking shaggy a little too far, I'd say."
"Don't like it?"
He looks like some old motorbike-hippie, hair too long and wind-blown, beard untrimmed. It's unkempt at best, disgusting at worst. It's a statement, probably.
"Why?"
Boyd shrugs. Maybe it's the job, or lack of one. Consulting pays silly money, but it's a short rush and then a long period of tedium and inertia. It's far removed from the constant challenge of the CCU. It's not him, really, just something to fill his time.
He says as much, though not in those precise words and interspersed with a few disparaging comments towards his former superiors.
Grace takes it in, comments at face value and analyses between the lines. It's also part of their game, but the result can only be voiced if they reach a level of intimacy that they haven't had since the day, when he sat down in her office and asked her to paint him a picture. But maybe today is the day when they reach this level again.
Their food arrives and they both clear off half of it before they speak again. It's part of the game too, but this time of regrouping takes very long this time. Different than any other before.
"How's Neal?" he asks, the hostility barely masked. The question is pointless, because it's common knowledge that Neal and she have split just after the New Year. Not a pleasant experience, but it needed to be done. Something to do with education levels and social standing. The silent add-on to the list was another man.
Boyd knows all that, even knows - deep down - the identity of 'the other man'. He didn't ask his question to receive a real answer, but to create another round.
"And the young lady you've so callously abandoned?" Grace shoots back. They are both smiling, because it's all part of the game, but her query is a lot more based in real interest.
"Just somebody I've met," Boyd replies. Evasive doesn't begin to cover it, but it is another move in their game and the words are of no consequence. It's his expression, the look in his eyes that determines how they go on.
Grace is an expert, therefore she places her arms on the table, steeples her fingers and gives him an expectant look. "So?"
"I met her on the last job."
"I see."
"She was impressed with how I handled it."
"Crush on the hero?"
"Apparently."
Grace nods and sips her wine. Pulling teeth is easier than pushing the conversation forward. Any outside spectator has probably already screamed in frustration or simply given up, but they are still in the warm-up rounds.
"And the hero?"
He doesn't take offense to term, too busy to focus on a reply. They are sidestepping a few rounds and enter the 'serious business'-part.
"Ego, I guess."
"Elaborate."
Like every other person, Boyd has his own devil and angel on his shoulders. For years they've shown a remarkable resemblance to Grace Foley and now, as she sits across the table and eyes him expectantly, it's only the devil who's made an appearance.
"Come on, Grace! You don't really want me to dissect that statement, do you? I'm not one of your bloody patients!" The statement is issued without real menace. In fact, it's oddly good-natured. He's willing, if only she doesn't give up.
Then today is the day.
As perceptive as she is, Grace realizes that. "No, you aren't." The teasing smile has slipped off her face, earnestness replacing it. Instinctively, they reach out, their hands intertwining in preparation of what they are about to reveal.
As always, there is something, and this time it's the waiter, asking for further requests.
The man knows his job, knows when he's been clumsy and obtrusive. He knows he's disturbed a certain atmosphere, possibly destroyed any chance for progress. Professionally mortified, he apologizes and rushes to offer the bill to settle.
He needn't have worried.
Their exchange is interrupted, but not broken, for their hands remain entwined
Outside it is colder than before, but they've reached a level in their game where Boyd just pulls Grace close as they begin to meander the streets of the city. Around them people rush to get home or to their own dates, but they've always been some sort of an island in the sea. They don't notice.
"You didn't think twice of abandoning her." Grace looks determinedly ahead. Boyd doesn't.
"Didn't seem worth it," he says after a long pause, during which he's studied his companion. Reacquainting himself is probably more correct, because Boyd could describe every detail of her in his sleep.
"Why?" If this word isn't the bane of his existence yet, it will surely become that. Grace always needs to dissect each and every statement, each and every situation. Made her a damn brilliant profiler, but on a personal level it's frustrating. The only thing that would shut her up is telling her the truth.
The whole truth.
And nothing but the truth.
But they are still playing their game and Boyd doesn't plan on conceding defeat so early.
"You've seen her."
"I've definitely heard her," Grace snorts, both a truthful statement and an acknowledgement of the diversion.
"See."
Silence falls. They've hit an impasse. They could stop their game now and talk about safe topics - work or their former colleagues (except Frankie, because that's just as much a part of the game as Neal still is) - or they go on, dancing around the issue, like they've done for years. To perfection.
There's a third option, of course.
"Did you know I'd be there?" he asks and it's not just idly said.
"No, I didn't."
"I did."
This time Grace looks up at him, even stops to turn and face him fully.
"Why then?"
He shrugs, but his slow sheepish smile gives him away.
"Why her then?"
Boyd shrugs again, the sheepishness intensifying. "Dutch courage or some such crap."
"Did it help?" she asks, her smile amused and just a tad bit sheepish as well. She's lied, knew that he'd be there. Which he is fully aware of.
"Does it ever?"
"Do you believe in it?"
"Do you?"
They've reached the point where every question is answered with a counter-question. They've also come to stand on the platform under Waterloo Bridge, which still stinks to high heaven, because no city services deem it necessary to clean off the junk.
It's their place, inevitable finishing point of so many talks and non-conversations over the last three years.
Though Boyd speaks first, it's a mutual decision. "I believe in something else, Grace."
In the end it's a wordless communication, for he doesn't know the words and she's lost them too. It's too momentous. Too long in coming. Too obvious from the first day together. There are no words to express what they both know.
And there don't need to be.
A long while later, Boyd finally breaks the physical replacement for words. He wants, no needs, to set the record straight.
"You look gorgeous tonight, Grace," he whispers.
Though today is the day when they stop playing this kind of game with each other, there'll still be plenty, because it's some sort of intellectual PE-class for both of them. Grace smirks widely and brushes her fingertips against his beard.
"You don't, but I think I can deal with that."
Point.
Set.
Match.
Thank you for reading. Comments would be greatly appreciated.