The Fight
Boyd is more disciplined than most people think. When he needs to be. A rigorous upbringing and a life spent in service of the public have ensured that. The surging adrenaline of the moment and the ever-present rage that wells inside him both give him the will to keep going forward despite the heavy blows that land, but it's the iron core of discipline that few credit him with possessing that prevents him from dropping his guard or over-reaching. And the blows coming his way are heavy. Jackson's a big man, only a little shorter than himself, marginally younger and several pounds heavier, and Boyd quickly finds he's a force to be reckoned with. He pushes tenaciously back, gets in a few hefty shots of his own, but by the end of the very first round Boyd definitely knows that he's in serious trouble. His injured right shoulder is protesting savagely and his knees seem to be inexorably turning to jelly.
Retreating to his corner, he's not really aware of much beyond the square of canvas, the coloured ropes bounding it and the two men waiting there for him. He's barely aware of his gum shield being quickly removed, of cool water being poured into his mouth and over his face; hardly notices the rough but capable hands that seize his shoulder and knead hard.
Spencer's angry face looms in front of him. The words are lost until the younger man leans in closer and all-but bellows in his ear, "What the fuck are you doing? Dancing a bloody waltz with him? Stop pissing about and concentrate on fucking hitting the bastard!"
The level of aggression directed at him by his subordinate is startling. Spencer Jordan is not renowned for being meek and mild, but despite his well-known belligerence he generally has a healthy respect for the chain of command. Some part of Boyd's brain that isn't already fogged by pain and exhaustion vaguely understands that the antagonism is quite deliberate, designed to fire him up, to send him back out against Jackson with all guns blazing. Psychology. Grace would be proud.
Grace.
He tries to look for her in the ever-changing gaps between ropes and torsos and arms, but the lights are too bright and there are simply too many faces ranged around too many big circular tables. Before Boyd can turn his head to look any further, the gum shield is being none-too-gently replaced, someone is slapping him firmly on the back before stepping away and he's back on his feet.
Six minutes. Two already down, four to go, with another minute's blessed reprieve still to come.
Jackson comes forward too fast, already swinging for a target that's no longer there. It gives Boyd an inordinate amount of satisfaction to drive one, two, three clear shots straight into the other man's ribs. Bodywork. That's what will win what's looking more and more like becoming just a ruthless war of attrition. Not precise jabs to the jaw, but rib-breaking punishment that will remorselessly grind them both down. There's nothing fancy about this fight. Nothing balletic about the way they crash and clinch and pummel.
-oOo-
It's so much worse than Grace expects. It's harsh and it's brutal, the two big men sweating and grunting, and grappling hard between punches that sound every bit as bad as they look when they land. The crowd is becoming increasingly restless, too. To most, this is just a novelty bout – novel more for both combatants' senior rank than for their age. Two thick-skulled old war-horses facing each other down with grit and brute strength rather than with any kind of finesse, and the largest share of the audience is getting impatient, desperate to see the night's main event, one that promises a display of far more skill and dexterity than is currently being demonstrated.
Despite the noise, Grace doesn't miss Frankie's sharp declamation as Jackson pushes Boyd back against the ropes again. A simple, heartfelt, "Fuck…"
It could still go either way. Of course it could. Neither man seems to have a clear advantage over the other. Boyd is taller with a slightly longer reach, and he is a fraction quicker, but he is also lighter than Jackson and Grace can clearly see that he's favouring his damaged shoulder – and she can see that his opponent sees it, too.
This is Boyd, she realises. This is the energetic, stubborn, overbearing man who didn't so much sneak under her defences as bulldoze straight through them. The man who can – and will – laugh uproariously at the darkest and most inappropriate of jokes. The man who's been known to casually throw a suspect right across the interview room and think nothing of it. The big, handsome man who has a fondness for Armani suits and Gucci shoes; the man who casually wears a two-grand designer watch to work every day. The angry, haunted man who still automatically searches the faces in every crowd for some sign of his missing son. The man she didn't ever intend to fall in love with, but stupidly – and irrevocably – did.
Jackson is hitting him over and over again in his unprotected right flank.
And Grace is suddenly on her feet, and Grace is screaming, "Hit him, Boyd! Hit the fucking worthless piece of shit…!"
-oOo-
Improbably, Boyd hears her. Whether because he is on the ropes not far from what he has now discerned is the CCU's table or whether because he's so highly attuned to her voice he isn't sure, but it doesn't matter. He hears her, and that is what matters. And she's unapologetically using the kind of language that would make a veteran Sergeant Major blush. In any other circumstance Boyd would find it hilarious, and he definitely wouldn't let her forget it. Ever. But he currently has other things on his mind – primarily trying to force Jackson back enough to enable him to get off the ropes. He keeps seeing glimpses of the white-shirted referee, wonders dimly why nothing is being done to break them apart, but uppermost in his mind is the intense pain in his shoulder.
Any moment the bell must ring to signal the end of the second round. It must.
Jackson smirks at him, the leer made even more prominent by his white gum shield, and as he draws his arm back for another sharp dig at Boyd's injured shoulder, there is a tiny, isolated moment when time seems to freeze; to freeze and rewind not just minutes and hours, but years. And in that frozen moment Boyd sees Jackson as he was, a cocky, good-looking young DS with a blunt sort of Estuary charm and a well-known eye for the ladies. And a keen eye for one married lady in particular.
"…the arrogant son of a bitch!"
Not his own voice. Not even Mary's voice. Grace's voice, strident and furious, cutting through the pain and the memories and the confusion.
It's nothing. It's everything.
Because however stupid and angry and temperamental Boyd is, however much he pointlessly shouts and rages against all the things he has absolutely no power to change, Grace is always there. Sometimes disapproving, certainly, but ultimately supportive, even if he doesn't always immediately recognise it. He does not deserve her. He honestly believes it, and perhaps that's why he too-often pushes her far, far too far, like an insecure child perpetually testing for the boundaries of parental love and tolerance.
She didn't want him to do this. Was afraid that he wouldn't, couldn't, walk away from it unscathed – and not just physically. Was afraid he'd allow his bristling pride and his ferocious temper to master him; that he'd make himself a laughing-stock in front of his peers. But still she is here, she is screaming unreservedly in support of him, and Boyd instinctively knows that if he could catch a single fleeting glimpse of her she would be… magnificent.
He comes roaring back into himself, the searing pain in his shoulder now nothing more than an insignificant irritation, and he starts to let fly with blow after blow, inexorably forcing Jackson back until he finally realises that the ringing in his ears is the bell signalling the end of the round and that the referee is bodily pushing between them.
-oOo-
Now there is blood. Boyd's, Grace is sure, from the way North goes quickly to work in the blue corner. Not much, but enough to perk up the crowd, to firmly focus attention away from chattering conversation and back onto the ring. The tuxedos and the expensive evening dresses are a thin façade, an elegant sham that masks something altogether more primitive and unpleasant. She thinks she understands a little of what the crowd baying for blood in the Coliseum must have been like. Vicious, unruly; hungry. Prurient.
Panem et circenses.
Bread and circuses.
And Grace suddenly despises herself just as much as she despises the wide-eyed, excited voyeurs all around her.
She could have stopped this ridiculous, brutal spectacle. She should have stopped this ridiculous, brutal spectacle.
Should have pressed home her disgust and her disapproval; should have made him listen regardless of the personal cost to their relationship.
Yet, it is definitely not pathos Grace is witnessing, but some kind of savage, elemental glory. The great grizzled lion might be old, but he is very far from toothless.
Only he could be so incredibly stupid. And so stupidly, pointlessly brave.
Pyrrhic victory. That's the only thing Stuart Jackson can possibly salvage now. And maybe Boyd is smart enough to have known that all along. That win or lose, the dignity ultimately bestowed by the overt demonstration of sheer courage and defiance will be his, not Jackson's.
The bell rings again.
-oOo-
Despite the head-guard, it only takes a glancing blow to open the cut over his eye again, and that injustice enrages Boyd. He does not want the fight stopped. Not now, not so close to the final bell. The referee takes his time looking, but finally gives the curt nod to continue and the barrage of blows – both given and taken – begins again. There's not much left in him now. His knees are weak, his shoulder is just a blaze of agony and he is half-blinded by sweat and blood, but – and it's a significant but – he can sense the commensurate weakness in his opponent, too. Grace was – is – right. They are both far too old for this sort of epic stupidity. This is not a quick struggle to get handcuffs on a recalcitrant suspect; this is grim self-destruction on a grand scale for the most inane of reasons. For both of them.
Jackson's lip is split, one cheekbone is hugely swollen and his cocksure grin is now just a distant memory. And he's no longer pushing forward. He's grimly holding his ground, but he's not advancing. Not anymore.
It was all so long ago. A whole lifetime ago. And yet here they are, face to face like the most brutish of animals, for the sake of a feud that ceased to be important to anyone else years ago.
The eyes that look at back Boyd from the swollen, hated face are grey and washed-out and tired. No enmity, no aggression, no self-satisfaction. Just another weary, over-worked middle-aged man who's made some lamentable mistakes over the years and has the bitter regrets to prove it. But whether he wins or loses, Jackson's going home to a dark, empty flat. No-one to chide him, to love him, lecture him, laugh with him. No-one to share the good, the bad and the downright ugly with him.
Just for a moment, Boyd drops his guard. Literally.
And Jackson hits him squarely on the point of the jaw.
-oOo-
Knock-down.
The crowd roars. Near-apathy has become genuine enthusiasm. Oh, yes, the crowd are getting their money's worth now, and suddenly they are wholeheartedly following every bloody, dramatic moment that's left. The turgid, straightforward brawl that was little more than a private grudge-match has become a genuinely captivating spectacle.
Grace hates it. Hates all of it. The noise, the savagery; the blood and the sweat, the voyeuristic hunger of the audience.
She hates his stubbornness, his taciturn refusal to ever seek a compromise. Hates his pride, his stupidity. Hates the remaining walls and boundaries she still can't break through no matter how hard she tries to love him, understand him, support him.
Boyd's chest and shoulders are heaving and he looks blank and dazed, as if he doesn't really know where he is or what's happening as he stands docile in his corner waiting for Jackson to rise or the steady count to conclude. He looks incapable of continuing, as if the last frenzy of retaliatory blows that concluded with the powerful uppercut that put Jackson down on the canvas took absolutely everything he had left, and more.
Someone's fingers – Mel's – are digging painfully into Grace's forearm, the grip desperately tense as they wait, all of them, for the officially-sanctioned amount of time to run out.
Jackson makes one last feeble, shaky effort to regain his feet, but it's not enough. Not nearly enough. Seconds before the final bell, he is solemnly counted out by the referee.
-oOo-
Not for Grace; not for the perfidious Mary. For the boy.
It's always been for the boy. Boyd understands that now, as he moves mechanically through the formal conclusion, as he lets his arm be held aloft by the referee and exchanges a grudging tap of gloves with Jackson in the expected gesture of sportsmanship. For the lost boy who may not even be out there anywhere to be found. Not anymore. The misunderstood but much-loved boy who may now never come home, no matter how hard his heartbroken father tries to move heaven and earth to make the impossible possible.
"Boss?" Spencer's voice says quietly. He hasn't used the once-familiar epithet for several years. Boyd doesn't know or care why. "Come on, let's go."
Nothing has changed. That's the bitter truth. He doesn't feel any better. But what Boyd has done here tonight, he's done for his son. It's nothing. But in some way it is something. And a distant, lonely and very sad part of him knows what it may yet end up costing him. Not the crude blood and sweat that he's already paid in full, but the sorrowful tears that have yet to be shed. His… and hers.
-oOo-
The blue singlet is dark with sweat and liberally spattered with spots of blood. Traces of both shine accusingly on his skin, gleaming over muscles still pumped rock-hard from over-exertion. Head-guard removed, his hair is wet and matted and his expression is set, grim. Even the dark eyes have a flat, frightening look of the thousand-yard stare about them.
Now is not the time to carp and criticise, to tell him all the things he surely already knows. Despite her aversion, Grace ignores the blood and the sweat and puts a gentle hand on his bare arm, feels him flinch slightly at the unexpected touch. Exchanging a meaningful look with Spencer she says quietly, "Boyd? Let's get you cleaned up, hm?"
The words seem to bring him out of himself a little. He focuses on her and frowns slightly as if only just registering her presence. It takes him a moment longer to speak, but when he does, he's completely lucid. "You were right."
"Huh?" she responds, which is neither intelligent or insightful, but she's rather too preoccupied by his battered, bruised state to worry about it.
"You were right. I'm far too old for this kind of crap, Grace. Next time I get myself into something like this – "
"There's not going to be a next time," she says firmly. Not caring whether Spencer is close enough to overhear or not, she bites out, "You've made your point – to everyone. Now it's time to agree to at least listen to me instead of completely shutting me out."
"If you think this was about making a point to anyone," Boyd says, sounding impossibly weary, "then you don't know me at all."
"And whose fault is that?" she demands, immediately regretting the sharpness of her tone. Less aggressively, she says, "It doesn't matter now. It's done. You wanted to do it and now you have. Congratulations, Boyd. Are you satisfied?"
"No," he says, and the single word is bleak, hollow. He seems to give himself an inward shake. Seems to rally a little. "Go back to the others and watch the main event. I'll join you all in a while."
"Boyd – "
"Not now, eh, Grace?" he says, tired and uncharacteristically quiet. "We'll talk later."
It's a very gentle dismissal, but it's unquestionably a dismissal. It stings, but despite her annoyance Grace grudgingly nods before turning and walking away.
-oOo-
The Small Hours
"It's a metaphor," she says, staring up into the darkness. His bed – very big and very modern – is extremely comfortable, and though tonight she is struggling, usually Grace has no trouble dropping off to sleep despite the unfamiliar masculinity of the room. Sometimes she wonders why they seem to spend far more time at her house than at his, but the only conclusion she's ever been able to draw is that away from work Boyd is incorrigibly lazy and would far rather be a guest than a host. Far less work involved.
Just as she's tempted to loudly repeat herself, he shifts restlessly next to her and demands, "What?"
"I said – "
"I heard what you said. What is a metaphor for what?"
He sounds exceedingly bad-tempered. She's not remotely surprised. Two o'clock is now a distant memory and according to Boyd, despite the liberal ingestion of painkillers, he still feels like he's been hit by the proverbial truck. Several times. Patiently, she says, "Tonight. It's a metaphor for our entire relationship."
"Oh, God…"
"Maybe not exactly a metaphor," she muses. "But it's certainly symbolic."
She expects him to grumble. She does not expect him to say roughly, "You're an intelligent woman, Grace. And that's a bloody understatement. You're probably one of the most intelligent people I know, if not the most…"
Warily, she offers, "So…?"
"So… I have to ask myself, if you so thoroughly disapprove of me – of everything I do and everything I am – why the fuck are you still sleeping with me?"
There's no wry trace of humour in the words. Grace realises that instantly. If anything, they are delivered with a bitter intensity that immediately puts her on edge. Not willing to jump straight into an argument that could easily rage until dawn and beyond, she carefully asks, "Where on earth did that come from?"
The answering silence is taut and brooding. It takes him more than a minute, but eventually he growls, "Do you really think I'm not painfully aware of my own faults? Do you really think I'm so self-centred and so egotistical that I can't see exactly who and what I am?"
Alarm bells are ringing loudly in her head. Grace turns over onto her side to face him, unable to read his expression in the dark, but well-able to guess what's clearly written across his strong features. Choosing her words with care, she says, "Peter, if I didn't care about you – "
"This isn't about whether you care or not," he tells her sharply. "This isn't even about tonight. This is about you perpetually fucking lecturing me about things that are nothing to do with you. About your continual criticism of my character, my decisions, my methods… Christ, Grace – who the hell set you up in judgement over me?"
She doesn't reply. Doesn't trust herself to reply. The anger and the resentment are too strong. Instead, she quickly and silently gets out of his bed, ignores his muttered imprecations, and she walks away. She doesn't even bother to slam the bedroom door behind her.
-oOo-
Boyd does what he always does. He brazenly steals the darkness away. Literally, this time. He comes heavy-footed into the cold living room and he pauses only to switch on one of the table lamps before walking across to her. Defensively curled in what has always been her favourite armchair, Grace watches his approach without a word. When he is merely wrong, Boyd storms; bluster and sheer volume covering his apparent inability to even think about accepting culpability until he's had time to calm down and rationally consider the situation. And the storm, violent as it can be, is always far easier for her to weather than the occasional notion that he might – just might – have something of a point. But he won't offer a trite apology for his unwelcome candour, she knows that. He never does. Unlike most people, Boyd never feels the need to apologise simply to keep the peace. Not where she is concerned, at least. Nor any of their CCU colleagues.
She thinks he will loom intimidatingly over her. That, or briskly pull her to her feet. He does neither. To her amazement, he calmly settles on the floor beside her chair and rests his head heavily back against her thigh. The cut above his eye is scabbed and swollen now, and the bruises on his cheekbones are still remorselessly darkening. Eyes closed, he says, "I was a Barnardo's boy, did you know that?"
She blinks, confused and surprised by the apparent non sequitur. Not sure if it's an olive branch or the start of another salvo, she replies cautiously, "I've never heard you mention it."
He doesn't stir from his position at her feet, nor does he open his eyes. "No reason to. Difficult child, apparently. Fostered a couple of times. Didn't work out."
Even more laconic than usual. She wonders what secrets lie hidden beyond the missing words. Still inclined to tread very carefully indeed, she asks, "Your parents…?"
"Weren't married. You know what things were like back then."
She does. It seems incredible – even improbable – now, but she remembers very well the scandal, the stigma, the spiteful gossip quickly attached to any poor girl who found herself with a baby and no sign of a husband. Still not sure where the conversation is leading, she murmurs, "Thank God things are different nowadays."
"Quite," Boyd says. Just as she's certain he's not going to say anything else, he continues, "I never had a father. Not even a name on a piece of paper, actually. When my son was born, it was as if everything in my life finally made sense. As if I suddenly knew how things were supposed to be. You understand?"
"I think so."
"The irony was I was so committed to being the best provider I could be… Well, you know what happened. I was always at work; Mary was a young mother trying to cope more-or-less on her own… And I didn't see it. Christ, how stupid was I? I honestly didn't see the trouble I was storing up for myself. And when I was promoted to DS, things just got worse. Out of the house at all hours of the day and night…" he trails into silence. Finally opens his eyes and turns his head to look at her. "I was a fucking useless husband and – as it turns out – a bloody awful father, too. I wanted to give that boy everything I never had, and when things started to go wrong, it was so easy to just throw money at him. But he didn't need money, Grace, he needed time. My time."
"Where are you going with this, Peter?" she asks him gently, confident now that he is not going to lash out at her.
"I have no idea," he says, a simple note of honesty raw in his voice. "Jackson, I suppose. He's a perpetual thorn in my side. A constant reminder of just how badly I managed to screw up all the things that were important."
"And now," she guesses, "you're starting to realise that tonight didn't give you any of the things you thought it would?"
"You should be a psychologist, Grace."
"All this guilt you're carrying, Peter… in the end it will destroy you, unless you learn how to let it go."
"Maybe I don't want to."
The words aren't a great surprise, nor is the defeated tone of his voice. But Grace isn't prepared to accept either without a fight. Deliberately acerbic, she challenges, "So… what? You're going to spend the rest of your life punishing yourself – and everyone around you – for mistakes you made years ago?"
Boyd closes his eyes again, effectively locking her out. "Guess so."
A tiny, unwelcome hint of contempt unwittingly finds its way into her voice as she replies, "Then you really are a fool."
The silence that falls between them is deeply melancholy, but strangely not at all hostile. Hardly aware of doing so, Grace starts to stroke her fingers softly through his hair. He doesn't move, doesn't make a sound. All she can hear is the sound of their breathing, the quiet ticking of the carriage clock on the mantelpiece and the distant, muffled sound of night-time London traffic somewhere in the distance.
It's a long, long time before he quietly asks, "So where does that leave us? You and me?"
She carries on stroking his hair in a slow, gentle rhythm. "I have no idea."
Boyd opens his eyes again and gazes steadily up at her. "Liar."
Grace tries not to sigh. "What do you want me to say, Boyd? That we're fundamentally too different? That if we carry on the way we are, we're going to end up really hurting each other?"
"Just be honest, Grace. Isn't that the very least we owe each other?"
This time it's Grace who closes her eyes. She's cold and weary; physically and emotionally drained. The words come from some deep, secret place, and though they are stark, they come gently. "I love you, Peter – but there are times when I really don't like you very much. And I think tonight… I think tonight finally proved to me that there are just too many… irreconcilable differences."
He doesn't shout and he doesn't storm. He simply asks, "Is that it for us, then?"
There's a lump in her throat again, one that doesn't disappear when she swallows hard. "Maybe, I don't know."
"Win the battle, lose the war."
"What?"
"Tonight," he elucidates. "I won the fight, but…"
"Oh, I see."
There's another long silence. Then: "If I thought I could ever be the man you deserve, Grace…"
Something fiercely protective that loves him unreservedly makes her respond, "Don't think like that. Don't ever think like that, Peter. You're a good man – do you really think we would have come this far if you weren't? We just… Oh, I don't know…"
"Bring out the worst in each other?"
She nods slowly, adds, "And the best."
"And that's the real tragedy, isn't it?"
Slowly, Grace uncurls herself and lowers herself down onto the floor to sit next to him, gratified when he immediately puts an arm around her and draws her close against him. He's reassuringly warm and solid – heartbreakingly so. She wonders if she will ever stop loving him, wanting him. Caring about him. She sighs heavily. "Peter – "
"Not tonight," Boyd says, close to her ear. He kisses her temple gently. "Not tonight, Grace. Tonight we keep pretending everything's all right."
Somehow managing to press herself even closer against him, she whispers, "You're such an idiot, Boyd."
The reply is gentle, rueful. Full of pain and meaning. "I know."
They sit there together on the cold wooden floor for a long, long time, hardly speaking, just tightly holding onto each other. Only Grace is still awake when the harsh edges of dawn begin to bolster the soft circle of light from the side lamp. And as the morning comes, only Grace is beginning to understand just how dark and dangerous the oncoming storm clouds she has been gloomily prophesying really are.
- the end -
A/N: I mooted the idea of this fic a long, long time ago and promptly forgot all about it until Gemenied reminded me and also provided a few extra stipulations. If you're wondering where on earth the central idea of the charity boxing match came from, well, from the true story of a real middle-aged Met Police DI who nobly went into the ring at a black-tie event. He lost. But with style. All else is pure self-indulgence. Humour me. ;)
