DISCLAIMER: I own nothing

For Got Tea, just because.

The Elephant in the Room

by Joodiff

The elephant in the room is, in fact, a penis. An excessively large tumescent bronze phallus that calls attention to itself firstly by being attached to a smooth, eighteen-inch high sculpture of an otherwise lanky and unremarkable standing male figure with only the merest passing suggestion of facial features, and secondly by the bold placement of that minimalist upright figure in the very centre of the mantelpiece above the fireplace that dominates the sparsely-furnished room.

Jason Cox – possibly an unfortunate name under the circumstances – doesn't glance once in the direction of the fireplace throughout their entire three-way conversation, Grace notices. Then, why would he? It's his room, doubtless familiar to the point of contempt after so many years. Nothing in it to surprise him, to catch and hold his attention.

They are not so lucky. More than once, Grace finds her gaze sliding past the corpulent, broad-faced Cox to the ostentatiously priapic sculpture. It's like having an itch one is forbidden to scratch. The infuriating temptation just won't go away. She catches Boyd doing the same thing, his expression never changing from stony neutrality despite the way his sharp eyes flick back and forth between Cox and… well, cock.

Forthcoming as he is, Jason tells them nothing that they don't already know. Yes, he was in Duke Street on that sunny day back in 'seventy-nine when a bleeding and battered Julie Parsons staggered out of her flat and collapsed on the street. Yes, he immediately went to her aid, and no, she didn't give any clue to the identity of her attacker in the scant three or four minutes before she died. Could have been the estranged husband, could have been the quick-tempered, jealous boyfriend. Could even have been the disgruntled neighbour. He had no idea then, and he has no idea now.

They eventually leave him with the solemn reminder that they may return, if such a thing becomes necessary, and walk the short distance between front door and garden gate in absolute silence, neither glancing at the other. In fact, not a single word is spoken between them until they are both seated in Boyd's car with the doors firmly closed.

"What the fuck…?" is his explosive opening gambit, as he starts the engine. He sounds genuinely perplexed, as if he really can't reconcile what he has just seen with the insipid impression they formed of Cox from the old witness statements that have so recently been retrieved from the CCU's extensive archive.

Grace is in no doubt as to what he is referring to. They've worked together for years, have seen a lot of things together, some more bizarre than others, but she can't recall anything quite like that startlingly over-endowed sculpture. An irreverent touch of devilment makes her respond with, "Feeling inadequate?"

In return, Boyd gives her a disdainful sideways look. "No."

It's an effort not to laugh at the taut pithiness of his response. Waiting until the car is in motion, she admits, "It was a little out of-place, I'll give you that."

"A little?"

"Well, all right… quite a lot, then. I mean, there was no obvious sign of any other erotica, was there? No nude paintings, no artistic photographs, that sort of thing." Considering for a moment, she adds with a slight shrug, "Maybe he just likes… sculpture."

The loud contemptuous snort from beside her couldn't be more telling. "Yeah, in the same way that maybe I just like tits."

She's known him for far too long to wince. "Thanks so much for sharing that, Boyd."

"What?" he asks, suddenly all injured innocence as he slows the car for the junction ahead. "I can't help it, Grace, I just do. Red-blooded male, that sort of thing."

"I'd noticed." It sounds drier than she intended. She pretends not to notice his answering smirk. In retaliation, she says, "If it makes you feel any better, remember the old adage about it's not what you've got, it's how you use it."

Again, the answer is quick and cool. "I'm quite happy with what I've got, thank you."

"If you say so," she murmurs, knowing it will needle him even more. "I'm not in a position to comment."

"Thank fuck." It sounds unnecessarily heartfelt.

Sometimes Grace wonders what would happen if they stopped running as fast as possible in opposite directions every single time they end up anywhere near crossing the firm line of professional propriety that has always existed between them. She lets him drive in reflective silence as she once again ponders the thorny question.

"I mean," he says, loudly and very suddenly, "why would you even own something like that, let alone put it on open display?"

"It's art, Boyd."

"Says who?" he challenges.

Grace shakes her head, amused by just how scandalised he seems. "You're being very parochial, you know."

"Well, pardon me for not enjoying spending half the afternoon staring at a massive great – "

"I knew the proportions were bothering you," she interjects, not bothering to suppress a chuckle.

"Oh, please," Boyd retorts, sounding disgusted, "I was fourteen the last time I spent any time worrying about the size of my – "

"Cox," Grace interrupts, before he can really get into his stride.

The reply is quick. "Well, just the one, actually, but, yeah."

She rolls her eyes. It's expected. All part of the never-ending game. "You're so immature, Boyd."

He bares his teeth at her in a ferocious grin. "I'm a man, Grace."

"Never has a truer word been spoken," she says with a sniff. "As I was saying, Cox – "

"Is no bloody use to us. I know. Complete waste of fucking time."

Glancing at her watch, Grace tends to agree. The city's heavy traffic is beginning to snarl up as rush hour starts to bite, and the way things are going she doubts they will reach headquarters before their junior colleagues take their chances and quickly and quietly disappear for the night. A stray thought crosses her mind, and she says, "Maybe it's of him. The sculpture."

"Cox?" A moment of appalled silence. "Jesus, I hope not. No, it can't be. I don't believe he was ever that skinny."

"Might have been. In his youth." She's always enjoyed playing the role of Devil's Advocate.

"Or that well-endowed."

"Oh, I don't know…" she drawls, more for the fun of watching his reaction than anything else.

Boyd does not disappoint her. "Oh, God… Please, Grace, spare me that hideous mental image." A pause. "You're a little too interested, if you ask me."

"Red-blooded female, that sort of thing," she counters, not bothering to remind him who it was who returned to the subject first.

Boyd turns his head, offers her the open, artless grin that never fails to knock years off him. "Touché."

"Besides," she says, glancing at the road ahead and then at the car's speedometer, "he does have very big hands."

She waits for him to scoff, to deride the popular theory, but the only reply is a noncommittal grunt. She's on the verge of pressing home her perceived advantage when her gaze shifts from the speedometer to the steering wheel, and the hands loosely gripping it as they crawl behind the slow-moving traffic bunching up in the approach to the major roundabout ahead. Big, capable hands. Oh.

"Of course," she says, far too quickly, "that's an Old Wives' Tale."

A sly sideways look accompanies, "Presumably told by extremely satisfied old wives."

Damn. Retreating into haughty dignity, she retorts, "I really wouldn't know."

It's a mistake. Boyd pounces mercilessly. "I take it Ray didn't have big… hands… then?"

The best way to get him to drop any unwanted subject is to play along, Grace knows. He's just like a child, sometimes. Prodding and poking for a reaction, delighted when he gets one, soon bored when he doesn't. "The fact that I was married to him for well over sixteen years, Boyd, should be answer enough to the indelicate question you're alluding to in your usual schoolboy way."

He laughs, the sound warm and genuine. "Fair enough."

It's become so easy again, their banter, and she's thankful for it. Bickering in the good-natured way they always have is a long, long way from the spiky bitterness that somehow took hold between them and threatened to permanently sour their relationship. Bickering and bantering she can live with. Enjoy, even. It's a relief to be able to relax with him, knowing that their friendship is solid, that the odd cross word here and there won't matter at all mere moments after being uttered. The dark, strained days are over. Thank God.

As the car rolls to a gentle standstill, Boyd holds up his left hand, palm outwards, fingers splayed. Staring at the raised appendage with interest, he says, "Big hands, eh?"

"Sure sign, so they say," she tells him, comfortable now. "And big feet, too."

"Size ten?"

"Big enough," Grace agrees, "or so I would imagine."

Boyd turns his head, and for a moment she finds herself staring straight into the fascinating depths of his striking dark eyes. It's still there between them, that innate, unpredictable spark of attraction. He smiles then, slow and easy, and doesn't say a single word. He doesn't need to. Everything between them has always remained unspoken. The elephant in the room.

"Dinner?" he suggests as he returns to watching the traffic. "Paolo's? My treat?"

It's enough. For now. Grace nods. "Why not?"

- the end -