DISCLAIMER: I own nothing.

The Third Time's The Charm

By Joodiff

1975 - The Party and the Red Mini

Strangely, it's the kind of party that Grace actually enjoys, good music – though she's slightly disappointed that someone's just cut John Lennon off in his prime and replaced him with Marc Bolan – plenty of drink and an extremely interesting selection of people to talk to. The basement flat's a bit of a dive, though. Surprisingly big, but quite shabby, and the décor owes a lot to the last decade – the wallpaper in the living room, for instance, definitely belongs in the psychedelic 'sixties. Still, Grace isn't complaining, because either Richard – who's currently dating her friend Emma – or his even scruffier flatmate owns a surprisingly expensive stereo system, and tonight, being one of those long, summer Saturday nights, is a good night for loud music and laughter.

For a while she sits talking to a trio of post-grad students, and although her own university days aren't exactly a hundred years behind her, Grace is a little envious of their boldness, their freedom. Their conversation is interrupted by the roar that goes up as Richard starts to play the guitar. Grace isn't too sure about Richard – he's loud and brash, a little too fond of the ladies, and although he talks a lot about his great plans for the future, he still works for his father in the family business, a small printing firm in Bethnal Green. But Emma likes him, and that's what matters. And, Grace realises, he can certainly play the guitar.

For just a second there's a gap in the throng of people and a break in the thick swirl of tobacco smoke, and Grace is surprised to see that it's not actually Richard playing, but his flatmate – a tall, lanky young man who appears to only be on the briefest of nodding terms with his razor. But, as she's previously noted, he plays very well indeed. The throng shifts again, and her view of him is lost. A moment or two later, a dark, good-looking young man she knows vaguely starts determinedly trying to chat her up. Which is flattering, but not really what she has in mind for the evening.

At some point the guitar gives over and the stereo comes back on. Nobly, Grace declines another drink – it's already late and she has to drive home. She spends a few minutes chatting to Lorna, an old friend from university days, and then she goes in search of Emma, planning to make her excuses and leave. Emma is heavily entwined with Richard on the battered sofa, and Grace wisely decides against interrupting. She says her goodbyes and makes her way out of the flat into the night air. The searing heat of the day has gone, but it's far from cold. She walks up the steps to the pavement and heads for her car, a little red Mini, slightly dented and quite a few years old, but fun and easy to drive around London.

The nearside front tyre is flat. It doesn't altogether surprise her, since she's been meaning to replace it for weeks, but it's extremely infuriating. Grace is not dressed for wheel-changing, and even if that doesn't really matter, she suddenly remembers with a distinctly sinking feeling that there is no wheelbrace in the car. Which is just a great way to end what has been, until now, a good evening. There's nothing else to do but return to the party and ask for help. So much for Women's Lib.

Richard and Emma are still firmly tangled together on the sofa. Grace looks around for her would-be paramour from earlier, but he's nowhere in sight. It's Lorna who finally seems to notice that Grace is looking slightly lost and uncertain, and it's Lorna who disappears for a few minutes and finally returns to say triumphantly, "I've found you a knight in shining armour, Grace, but you'd better behave yourself 'cos he's a policeman."

It's the tall, scruffy, guitar-playing flatmate. Well, of course. It would be, wouldn't it?

-oOo-

"You don't look like a policeman," Grace says dubiously as they ascend the steps outside the flat.

He shoots her a look that can only be described as quizzical and says, "No? What are policemen supposed to look like, then?"

She shrugs, a little defeated by the question, "Actually, I'm not sure."

He grins at that, and she simultaneously realises two things: first, his eyes are very, very dark, and second, he has the most astonishingly feral grin she's ever seen. He says, "I'm a DC. Plain clothes."

"DC?"

"Detective Constable. Which one's yours?"

"The red Mini," Grace tells him. "I'm really sorry about this."

"It's okay. I'll go and get the tools out of my car. Wait a minute."

Grace watches him lope away, slightly amused by the way he seems to be entirely composed of long planes and sharp angles. It's almost as if he hasn't quite grown into his height, which is ridiculous, because at a guess he's only a few years younger than her. And, in his faded old jeans and T-shirt, he still doesn't look anything like any policeman she's ever seen. But at least he's sober and amenable.

He returns and sets to work. Apparently, it doesn't occur to him that she could change the tyre herself, given the tools. But that's okay, because Grace is quite willing to temporarily sacrifice emancipation for not getting her clothes dirty. Which may, indeed, be a little shallow, but it's late and she's tired.

Looking over his shoulder, he asks, "What's your name?"

"Grace," she tells him. "Grace Foley. And you're…?"

"Peter Boyd."

"Hi, Pete," she says.

"Peter," he corrects her.

Slightly taken aback by the implied, if gentle, rebuke, she says, "Sorry. Peter."

He looks at her again, and that heart-stopping grin is back, "Actually, no-one calls me that, either."

"Terrific," Grace says. "Shall we start again? I'm Grace."

"Yes, you are," he agrees, standing up. He's a lot taller than she is and when he picks up the wheel he's just removed, the street lighting conspires against her and she can't help noticing the strong definition of muscle in his arms and shoulders, clear under the tight T-shirt. She tries hard not to keep noticing, and fails. Miserably.

"So," he says, swapping the flat for the spare tyre and crouching down again, "What does Grace Foley do? Teacher? Secretary?"

She can't help a wry smile as she says, "I'm a psychologist."

That catches his attention. He looks round at her, and for the first time she sees something else in his expression aside from the easy, jaunty charm. There's curiosity there, and surprising intelligence, too. "Psychologist, eh? Clinical or forensic?"

She's honestly surprised by the question. Grace hasn't met many people beyond academic circles or professional colleagues who are aware of the different disciplines. She says, "Clinical, but I'd like to move into forensic work one day."

"What's stopping you?"

She pulls a face, "Opportunity. It's still perceived as a relatively new science over here, and a male-dominated one at that."

He doesn't comment, returns his attention to the car. She watches as he tightens the wheel nuts, standing on the wheelbrace for extra leverage. When he steps back, he says, "You need a new tyre. Don't put it off until you get nicked for it."

"Don't you have better things to do than harass innocent motorists?" Grace asks lightly.

"I do," he says, leaning against the car and gazing at her, "but I can't speak for my uniformed colleagues. They don't need any extra incentive to stop a pretty woman in a car without any road tax."

"Ah, you noticed that…" she says, and hates herself for blushing slightly as she hastily adds, "The road tax, I mean."

"I notice everything," he says, and she believes him. He's still watching her intently and she isn't altogether surprised when he says, "Why don't you come back inside? Unless there's someone waiting up for you?"

A distinct prickle tracks up and down her spine. Those dark eyes are incredibly compelling. Grace shakes her head slowly, "No, there's no-one."

His gaze remains steady as he holds out a hand to her. Somehow, she can't stop herself taking it, and he pulls her towards him, gently but relentlessly. There's a lot of strength in his grip, but it's tightly curbed. Grace doesn't resist – doesn't remotely want to. His eyes are even more fascinating at close quarters – immeasurably deep – and she doesn't think it's just the low light level that's making his pupils dilate so much. He lowers his head and what surprises her is not that he kisses her, but how he kisses her. He's remarkably gentle. Thorough and insistent, true enough, but where she expected a rough sort of urgency there's an easy sensuality that makes her pulse race.

When they break apart, Grace already knows where the rest of the night is going.

-oOo-

Peter-not-Pete is still soundly asleep when Grace wakes the next morning. He's sprawled on his front, dark head buried in the pillows, long limbs haphazardly arranged. She looks at him for a moment, and then stares up at the ceiling, trying not to remember the exact moment when she willingly followed him through the bedroom door. More than willingly, in fact. It's definitely time to leave. Carefully, she sits up and glances around. Peter-not-Pete's bedroom is surprisingly tidy, but that's almost certainly due to the minimal amount of furniture and personal possessions. Clearly, he is not a man who appreciates clutter.

He stirs slightly and she almost literally holds her breath. Grace is utterly determined to avoid the inevitable morning-after-the-night-before embarrassment. The gods are not smiling on her. He rolls onto his side, blinking slightly in the sunlight filtering in through the small, high basement window. He clears his throat, says, "Running away?"

Grace isn't sure how she's supposed to answer, so she settles for, "Is that an arrestable offence, officer?"

"Why?" Peter-not-Pete asks. "Would you like to see my handcuffs?"

The tragedy is, of course, that Grace likes him. She likes him a lot. She likes his distinctly predatory smile and his undoubted if understated oddness. But she's not a psychologist for nothing, and she understands, intuitively, that he is trouble of the kind that she really doesn't need in her life. There's something a bit too wild about him, something a bit too intense. She says, "I don't usually do this sort of thing."

"I know."

She looks at him suspiciously, "What do you mean?"

A slight hunch of his shoulder, "I just know."

Grace shakes her head slightly, "You're a very strange man, aren't you?"

The grin breaks through again, making him look even younger, "Is that your professional opinion, Doctor Foley?"

"It very well might be," Grace says, adding for good measure, "Detective Constable Boyd."

Lazily, "Just Boyd."

"Well, Just Boyd," Grace says, finally finding the strength to leave the too-comfortable bed, "I have to go."

"I know," he says again, rolling onto his back and putting his hands behind his head. The dark eyes are intent, intelligent, and they watch her in much the same way as a well-fed cat watches a mouse – speculative, interested, but indolent, too. He says, "Even if I give you my number, you won't call me, will you?"

Something prevents Grace from lying to him. She shakes her head, "No."

"I think you've just dented my fragile male ego," he complains, but there's devilment in his eyes.

"Call it a hunch," Grace tells him, "but I'm guessing there's nothing fragile about your ego."

He laughs, sits up and runs his fingers through his tousled hair, and for just one tiny moment he looks so young and so vulnerable that she wants nothing more than to get back into bed with him and stay there. Permanently. And maybe he senses her weakness because he says, "Come back to bed, Grace."

"Why?" Grace asks, and regrets it as soon as he starts to grin again. "I mean – "

"I know what you mean."

Grace raises her eyebrows, "Is it just me, or do you know everything?"

"I know everything about you that I need to know," he says, and quite suddenly the cheeky banter falls away, and he's just a young man looking at her with an odd mix of hunger and resignation in his eyes. And Grace knows in that instant that although she will definitely walk away from him long before the day is done, she will always regret it.

-oOo-

1989 - The Police Station and the Green Ford

Grace isn't given to unnecessary outbursts of temper, but when she turns the ignition key and the little Ford does nothing but give a single asthmatic cough, she can't help pounding on the steering wheel and cursing loudly. Luckily, there is no-one in the police station's cramped car park to witness her uncharacteristic behaviour. She is not having a good day, and any rumours about aberrant behaviour that might filter back to the chauvinistic and supercilious Detective Chief Superintendent Casey aren't going to make it any better. She's already late for an appointment with a particularly boorish defence barrister, and she really, really doesn't need car trouble.

Releasing the bonnet catch, she gets back out into the cold autumn air, resists the urge to kick the nearest tyre and goes to the front of the vehicle, raising the bonnet and peering hopelessly into the engine bay. There are wires and tubes and lumpy bits of metal. There are the places where she puts various fluids on a semi-regular basis, and there's a cheap, non-branded battery, and that's about as far as her knowledge goes. But Grace isn't going to walk back into the building and ask for help. Like hell is she. Casey already thinks she is a waste of space that should be at home safely chained to the kitchen sink, and she's not going to give him any more ammunition.

No. What she'll have to do is lock the car up and walk to the nearest bus stop. And eventually she'll get a garage to collect the car and fix whatever the problem is. Anything rather than ask one of Casey's grinning constables for assistance.

She's still staring at the engine when a police car turns in from the road and rolls past her. Which is both irritating and potentially useful. Perhaps the sting won't be so bad if help is freely offered rather than plaintively requested? Out of the corner of her eye, she sees the car draw to a stop. Driver and passenger disembark. The former is uniformed, the latter not. Brief words are exchanged and the uniformed man walks away, heading into the building. His passenger starts to walk in her direction. Grace focuses her gaze firmly on the car and listens to the approaching footsteps.

She's preparing a nonchalant smile when a deep voice says, "I'm guessing it's more than just a flat this time."

It's him. Fourteen years on, and it's him. Life is like that, sometimes. Unbelievable, but true.

Grace turns to look at him, says, "DC Boyd."

"DI Boyd," he says, and the grin's every bit as engagingly wicked as it always was. "Hello, Doctor Foley."

He's just as tall as she remembers, but he's stockier now, nowhere near as lanky as the young man she left behind so long ago. The hair is shorter, and there's a touch of grey showing at the temples, but the dark eyes are exactly the same, intense, curious and gently mocking. A particularly… intimate… flash of memory makes her momentarily uncomfortable. She's seen fire burning in those eyes, and she can suddenly feel its heat again, even after so many years.

"You're based here?" Grace says, and even to her own ears it sounds inane.

"God, no," Boyd says, shaking his head. "Just visiting. If I had to answer to Casey I'd be doing time by now. Man's a complete prick. As I'm sure you know."

Grace can't help narrowing her eyes a fraction, "Meaning?"

"Only that I heard on the grapevine the Home Office had sent along a forensic psychologist to help with the Wandsworth murders. And since you're a psychologist and you're here…"

"Oh," Grace says, a little deflated.

He tilts his head to one side, an oddly endearing mannerism. "Am I your knight in shining armour, Grace?"

"Again?" Grace says with a slight smile. "I really do hope so. I'm already running late and – "

"Keys?" Boyd says, cutting across her. He holds out his hand, and as she gives him the car keys, she sees the unmistakable gleam of a wedding ring. And she's astonished by the sharp pang the sight causes her. If he notices, he shows no sign of it. He simply gets into the driver's seat and tries the ignition. He gets out again almost immediately and says, "What you have here, Doctor, is what is technically known as a completely shagged battery. Did you ever get that new tyre, by the way?"

"Eventually. Can you do anything?"

"Do I look like a mechanic?" Boyd asks. She looks at his sharp designer suit and shakes her head. The day just isn't getting any better. He says, "I'll do a deal with you."

"What?" Grace asks, already knowing she's going to regret not saying no immediately.

"I'll get your car started if you agree to have a drink with me tonight."

Reproachfully, Grace says, "You're married, Boyd."

His gaze remains steady, "I'm separated."

-oOo-

He takes everything, but he gives back even more, and for a while nothing else matters. There's heat and sweat, and cheap hotel sheets that bunch damply in her fists as she fights not to shout his name into the night. And maybe they've both learnt a trick or two over the years, because she's not the only one who breaks under the sheer intensity of it all. Somehow the balance is even better than it was all those years ago; maybe she's lost a few inhibitions and maybe he's gained some patience. And maybe they've both started to understand something about whatever it is that sparks the flame between them. Whatever it is, it works. And it works well.

It's in the gentle moments, though, that she begins to fully understand the changes in him. There are shadows now, shadows and regrets, and there's a quiet unhappiness in him that lives just under his skin, carefully disguised but no less painful because of it. The carefree, golden young man who's lived for so long in her memories is gone, erased by time and bitter experience. And perhaps it's that, more than anything else, which makes Grace realise that he's far more important to her than she ever imagined he could be.

Tracing idle circles on his bare chest with her fingertips, the memories make her say wryly, "I don't usually do this sort of thing."

"Yeah," Boyd says mildly, "I think you may have mentioned that once before."

"It's true," she tells him simply.

He smiles, and it's a very gentle, very honest smile, "I know."

"Repeating patterns of behaviour," Grace says. "There's a theory – "

Boyd groans, "Please… I'm a simple man, Grace. I catch bad guys, I don't do psychology."

"No? Maybe you should. Did you know that – "

"Stop," he says, twisting himself round to bring his body over hers. "You think too much."

It doesn't take much to turn the lazy flames back into a fierce inferno, but the sharp ecstasy of it all is cut with sadness, because both of them already know what the rise of the morning sun will mean. Sometimes the right people always meet at the wrong moments.

-oOo-

2011 – The CCU Headquarters and the Silver Toyota

It's dark, and if Grace isn't mistaken it's going to start raining at any minute. And – of course – just because she's impatient to get home to a warm house and an evening of peaceful solitude, the rear tyre that was looking faintly soft when she parked that morning is now completely flat. And she's simply too weary to even think of changing it herself. Even though the ever-thoughtful Peter Boyd has mitigated his complete failure to force her onto a Metropolitan Police vehicle maintenance course by buying her possibly the largest book on automotive repair and maintenance ever published. It's a good book. Just the right size to stop the airing-cupboard door swinging open every time a truck drives down her street.

And anyway, flat tyres are what fit young men like Spencer Jordan are for.

She makes her way back to the squad room, but both Spencer and Sarah seem to have vanished completely. Which is both irritating and perplexing. She tries an experimental, "Spence?"

Silence. She looks round. Boyd is behind his desk, watching her over the top of his reading glasses. She walks to his office door, asks, "Do you know where Spence is?"

"He left just after you did. Why, is there a problem?"

"No," Grace says, deliberately bright. But then she remembers the rain she thinks is probably coming, so she grits her teeth and says, "I was hoping he could change a tyre for me. And don't – "

It's too late. He's already smirking. He takes his glasses off slowly and deliberately. He says, "Do you want to use my phone to call the recovery people?"

"Oh, ho ho ho. You're so hilariously funny, Boyd."

He leans back in his chair, puts his hands behind his head, and just for a moment all she can see is a handsome, athletic young man reclining against tumbled pillows, hands placed behind his head in exactly the same manner. The eyes are still the same, more than thirty-five years on. Dark, speculative and indolent. She has a feeling that they've just come full circle.

"Well?" Grace says impatiently, raising her eyebrows at him. "Are you going to offer to help, or not?"

"Do you know how much this suit cost?" Boyd asks her, hands still behind his head.

"You're such a gentleman," Grace tells him.

-oOo-

"Fuck's sake," he shouts, and in a not altogether uncharacteristic moment of temper he throws the wheelbrace across the car park, narrowly missing the nearest of several marked police cars.

Grace can't actually find it in her heart to blame him. It's raining steadily, and he's already looking like the proverbial drowned rat. His top coat and suit jacket are safely dry in the car, but his wet shirt is stuck to his back and rainwater is soaking his hair and running down his face. From under her umbrella, Grace fights hard against the impulse to laugh aloud. If she fails in her efforts, she knows he will reach critical meltdown almost instantaneously. The older he gets, the shorter his fuse becomes.

"You might want to go and get that," Grace says in a deliberately ingenuous tone, nodding in the direction of the recently airborne wheelbrace.

He draws himself up to his full height, and the glare he gives her is truly magnificent. With an incredible amount of dignity, he stalks away in search of the errant item.

"Okay," a faintly sardonic female voice says from behind her. "Grace, am I seeing things, or is that really Boyd you've got changing your tyre for you?"

"It is," Grace says, moving her umbrella slightly so Eve can join her under it.

"Wow. I've so got to get a picture of this…"

Grace puts her free hand on Eve's arm, preventing her from reaching for her phone. She says, "Might be a step too far."

A touch of reluctance in her voice, Eve admits, "Yeah, he does look pretty pissed off."

He's on his way back, swinging the wheelbrace in a way that suggests it really won't take very much for him to deploy it in a particularly violent and unpleasant manner. Probably against the side of the building. He gazes at them, expression completely unreadable. Quietly, "Doctor Lockhart?"

Innocently, "Yes, DSI Boyd?"

"Go away."

Eve chuckles and says, "Going away. 'Night, Grace."

-oOo-

The wheel is changed, the tools are safely put away, and he hasn't – quite – reached the end of his tether. He's so wet now that he simply leans against the car in the rain, hands in his trouser pockets, and again, Grace has a flash of memory. A tall, unkempt young man leaning languidly against a little red Mini parked on an anonymous London street. So many years ago. Another lifetime ago. She can hardly believe all the things they've both been through since that distant summer night. Still sheltering under her umbrella, Grace takes a step closer to him, watching him watching her.

Quietly, she says, "We've been here before."

"A long, long time ago," Boyd agrees.

Some moments are pivotal. This is one of those moments.

She can see everything in him – the past, the present and the future. He's the handsome, energetic young man from that long summer night, the damaged, driven man she sees every day and tries hard never to touch, and he's the gruff, gaunt old man she'll see out the last of her days with. She knows it, and she can see in his eyes that he knows it, too. Some people just belong together, however long they spend dancing cautiously around each other.

There aren't any words. How could there be? She just says, "Get in the car, Boyd."

He doesn't say a thing, doesn't protest about needing to return to the office, doesn't ask where they're going. He just pushes himself away from the car and walks round to the passenger door. By the time she gets behind the wheel, he's already got his seatbelt on. He's utterly soaked, and all the car windows immediately fog up in protest. Grace starts the engine, switches on the headlights. Not looking at him, she says, "I've always loved you."

Boyd doesn't look at her either, just replies, "We've always loved each other, Grace."

-oOo-

It's different. Of course it is – they're both a lot older and perhaps a little wiser. But different isn't better or worse, it's just… different. The chemistry's just as strong, and the flame ignites just as fast, but they don't need to cling to each other with such urgent desperation any more. The passion is there, but there's no longer any need for the frenzy to fill every single second as time ticks relentlessly away. This time, neither of them is going to leave alone when the night finally runs out on them.

It's Grace who says fatalistically, "We won't be allowed to live together, will we?"

"Not unless one of us agrees to be reassigned."

"Like that's going to happen."

Flat out on his back, Boyd shrugs, "You wouldn't want to live with me anyway."

Curious, Grace asks, "Why not?"

That oh-so-wonderful grin, "Apparently I'm completely impossible to live with."

"Boyd, you're completely impossible to work with, too, but I manage it somehow. Most of the time."

He gives her a sideways look, "'Repressed, depressed and in denial'?"

She winces – the fact that he still remembers her exact turn of phrase tells her a lot about how deep the scars from her impetuous, angry words still go. Meekly, she says, "I wasn't having a good day."

"I did notice that at the time. You said I was unloved."

She kisses his shoulder gently, "I lied."

"I know."

"I hate it when you say that."

Something wicked glints in his dark eyes, "I know."

-the end-