Sarah
Eighteen Months Later...
He doesn't recognise her. It's the biggest blessing of this entire fiasco. She can't imagine having to work with him if he knew who she was, if he remembered that awkward moment in the pub when she'd tried to win him over.
Counter terrorism. The grief that is haunting her, the memories that are stalking her… And yet, there is something to be said for all the trouble she went to with changing her appearance all those times, it seems.
A real flair for accents on top of coloured contact lenses, hair dye, different wardrobes… Perfectly able to disguise herself and hide in plain sight, she was a natural in that job, right from day one.
She wonders how his wife is. If she survived treatment and made a full recovery, or if he's now widowed. Wonders how she could find out. Not for any spurious reasons – she's not callous, and she certainly has no interest in him in that way anymore – but she's curious.
It's been eighteen months. Maybe a bit more.
There have been other men since.
Should she tell him, she wonders, though it's a brief thought that she quickly rejects. There's just no way she will willingly revisit that awkward moment. Besides, the humiliation of it now, when she has to work with him…
Under him.
The anger rises again, makes her ball her fists and clench her jaw. This is just such a stupid, awful situation. But… she's in no condition to be fronting a team, to be doing anything else right now, and she knows it. It's a grudging admission, but she hasn't made it this far through her career without forcing herself to see the truth, always.
The fear though, the terror…
For just a moment she's back in that room, can hear the guns, can smell the blood. Can feel the terror swamping her as she sees her colleagues on the floor.
They're dead, and she's going to die too…
Sarah gasps, chokes. Leans forward, clutches her thighs. And stares at the cold, grey industrial carpet tiles that spread out endlessly under her boots. They're solid. Fixed.
Non-threatening. Just like this place is supposed to be.
The Cold Case Unit. Her new placement, new team.
Non-threatening. Easy.
A place to recuperate, get her head back together. Recover herself, hide away for a while.
Plan how to get her career back on track.
Footsteps startle her, and she turns quickly, makes a show of appearing to concentrate on the computer before her. Look as if she's working.
Boyd strides past. Long legs; very long. Tall man. Big feet. Fearsome, dedicated.
Marches to his own beat, always.
She's heard of him, of course. Whispers and snippets over the years. Improbable tales of bravery and near impossible results with limited resources.
Smith and her cronies would love to sink their claws into him. As she well knows.
She's still attracted to him.
The knowledge startles her, and Sarah blinks at the computer screen. Risks a glance upwards, into his office.
Behind his desk, ensconced on the phone and scowling into the middle distance, he's just a picture of broad shoulders, spiky hair and a deep frown replacing the devilish grin she's already seen hints of.
He's older than her, too, but that's never stopped her before.
Terrible, inappropriate taste in men, that's what her sister always tells her with a disgusted sigh. When will she settle down and find herself someone complementary, someone fitting?
He's handsome and fiery, and, she suspects, quite possibly extremely entertaining between the sheets.
But none of that is hers to worry about, anyway. He's married, and therefore untouchable.
Besides, she hates everything he stands for. Resents – intensely – that she's here and he's… in charge.
It's abstract, anyway, her attraction. Not the sort of thing she would actually do anything about, even if he weren't married.
If he still is.
What? Sarah gives herself a quick mental shake, staggered by how much this move to the CCU basement seems to have shaken her.
Why, she asks herself, is she even contemplating all this?
She knows why.
Shame.
The lingering, uncomfortably prickling burn of shame.
She still doesn't know why she did it. Why, when he left the pub and took a meandering route down side streets and through a park, she followed him. Why she kept a careful distance, making sure he never saw her, never had any clue that she was there.
Maybe she didn't believe him, maybe she was too entranced by him. Maybe she was still angry with him for rejecting her. Maybe it was all three.
It stung, because she wanted him.
Whatever the reasons, she followed him, and when he arrived at the hospital she'd closed the deliberate gap, kept herself behind a tree as she watched him approach the entrance and then suddenly pause as a woman emerged from behind the glass doors. From across the road he'd lifted his hands in clear exasperation, the silent 'why didn't you wait inside for me?' easy to read. The woman had simply shrugged and walked towards him, and Sarah had been left with no doubt that it was all exactly as he'd said it was.
Slow and unsteady on her feet, the other woman was clearly undergoing treatment of some kind; heavy coat, carefully arranged headscarf, unnaturally pale, unhealthily thin.
Weak.
Old.
Radiant smile; battle worn, but still beautiful in his eyes, she could tell. Watched as the woman melted into his arms as he approached. Saw the way he enveloped her, wrapped her up, held her tight, head lowering to rest against hers, eyes closing as he seemed to shut out the world and focus only on her.
Envious.
That's the only way she could describe her feelings in that moment. Deeply envious of this woman. This weak, ailing woman.
Fifteen odd minutes in a pub, talking to the man, observing him, and trying to entice him. Just fifteen minutes of realising how much she wanted him, only to be politely knocked back.
A valid explanation given, too. Not a man to lie to her, or push her away just because he could. No, he was a gentleman about it, but she's still jealous.
Of a woman she doesn't even know.
Present tense, because she is still jealous. It's a startling truth, for she hasn't thought about him at all since maybe a week after that day. Forgot about him, and her. Whoever she is. That old, worn, washed-out woman.
Now though…
Idly Sarah wonders if she could look him up, then immediately halts that thought. She can't, and she knows it. They are strictly forbidden from using police systems for such activity.
God, this is all so ridiculous. She doesn't want him, isn't interested. It's just her head – it's such a mess. She can't sleep, her body hurts all the time, her mind never rests easy. She works out, but it is punishing, not healthy, and she knows it. She's hurting herself more than she's helping, and she knows that too.
Can't let it go.
Doesn't know how.
Hates her shrink.
Is barely hanging on.
He doesn't recognise her though, and that can only be a good thing.
