A/N: Here is the next chapter. Hope you enjoy. Many thanks to my lovely betas.
1st - Day 16 (January 22th)
Nobody who knows him would be surprised by the mood he is in. The day's been abysmal in every way imaginable and he's not dealing well. The average number of snow days in this place is supposed to be only one in January, yet they've been having white sleet for four days now. Not the real thing that covers the land and stays for a few hours at least. It would improve the looks of the place, some actual colour over the depressing grey-brown of the city.
Instead it's sleeting and the dust that hasn't frozen flat tumbles with the ever-blowing wind, forcing itself into eyes and nose and mouth. It causes constant snottiness, which Boyd finds disgraceful. As a result, there's also a lot of nosebleed involved, which a man of his age simply should not have to deal with anymore.
Since it is also freezing cold, Boyd's general disposition is dark. Despite his recent trip all over the world, he finds that his previous words are true. He wasn't roughing it back then, finds that it is no longer his kind of thing. If it ever was. Maybe he's become soft, a creature dependent on his comforts. It's not a pleasant thought for his ego, but he's already found that his ego must take the blow and get on with it.
It's a strange realization and not one he likes particularly, but this place has different rules. He wasn't naive enough to think of this as an adventure camping trip, but reality is even harsher than he imagined.
It's been a hard day today. Not the worst, Boyd thinks, but far from the best too. They've not lost any men throughout the day, but there were two already dead in the morning. He's grateful for small mercies, not having to see a man being blown up in front of his eyes is a lot better than the alternative. But his mind isn't eased.
They are losing men and fast. The fact that they are not soldiers, but simple policemen bringing back some order... But that's the political limbo that is spouted on the big TV channels everywhere in the world. Kabul is just as much a war zone as other areas of this country. It's quieter than other places and he wouldn't want to switch, but anybody thinking that this is just an outdoor adventure trip organized by Hendon is laughably wrong.
Wearily he runs an ungloved hand over his tired face and barely swallows his curse, as his hand falls limply back to his side. There's been dust in his glove, bound by his clammy hands and now he's rubbed it over the skin of his face. A free peeling certainly, but not something he fancied having.
He wonders if there'll be hot water enough for him not only to be warm, but clean as well. It never lasts long, but it would be good. They'll have to share and that's nowhere near romantic as it sounds. Grace doesn't complain, not about her icy limbs or the basic state of their living arrangements. She just smiles and goes on. Somehow.
In this moment, Boyd is sure that she will endure it here a lot longer than he does, but can't explain why. It's hard and it's drab and any romanticised sort of heroics has already gone out of the game.
Today leaves him weary. The two scenes they've visited - one actual and planned crime scene investigation, the other close to home. Their own men. Both face down. Unarmed, in a sidestreet between rubble and rubbish.
Interviews brought the result of bugger all - a pub brawl. It sounds ridiculous, considering that alcohol is still publicly abhorred. In addition, though not overly well, he knew the two men as rather pious Muslims and family men. Unless they were on a stakeout, they'd have had no reason and no inclination to be anywhere near a pub.
He had none ordered.
It's too early in his tenure to risk that. Too early for many things.
It goes against all he is, to go slowly, to make those small baby-steps, to tread carefully. He rails and rages against it, in the small amount of privacy he shares with Grace.
But he isn't there yet, they are still packing up from their day's work and it's still a good hour until his work day is done, even longer for Grace.
He focuses on the proceedings again, taking a deep breath to centre himself. He's in charge, but the men are not yet loyal to him, do not yet trust him the way they need to for this to work.
"Remember the radio-box, Abdul!" he calls, making sure to keep his voice polite, yet firm. Shouting is not the easy ticket here, he's already learned that.
The men expect something from him - actually, both sides of men expect something from him. His employers expect to have Afghan police forces trained with a snip of their fingers, at barely any expense, but with democratic and Western individualist rights fully ingrained into the future policemen. The recruits expect a leader, who doesn't abuse them, but at the same time takes no shit from them. They want a dictator without the violence and the threats.
And they don't want to get blown up at any given moment.
That's easier said than done.
Boyd picks up another of the rusty boxes, not for the first time wishing Eve was there, or Frankie, or even Felix, but there's no money and no interest in forensic science here, and even less the opening for a woman performing it. The case ends up on the back of the SUV with a little more force than necessary, but it's not entirely due to his bad mood.
The wind has picked up, driving the dust around faster, flinging it against everything in its way. The man standing there, just as much as the walls and the cars. It's cold and harsh.
"Lets get out of here," Boyd orders, climbing onto the back of the other SUV. The recruits have to use this kind of transport too, and though he is the ridiculously high-paid English bloke who's supposed to be teaching them the ways of policing, he knows that getting onto some common ground will help him a long way.
Enduring the hardships together, creating a bond and all that crap. Sounds like typical Grace and not for the first time does he wonder whether doing an actual relationship is such a good idea. She might rub off on him too much.
He suppresses the thought quickly, just as the smile threatening to accompany it. It's shortly before evening prayers, the muezzin will call in a few minutes, and somehow it seems...well, it seems odd, thinking about his...woman...while in the back of a truck with a bunch of Muslims.
The drive is short and they make it just in time for the prayer call. The recruits scramble off urgently, but not without at least a polite nod. It isn't much, but it's a start.
Boyd climbs onto the passenger's seat, now that it's just the driver, the interpreter and him. He gives the man cool nod as he climbs out again. Having to rely on somebody to translate his words doesn't sit well with him. He won't keep 'the voice' for much longer, feels it disturbs the connection he built with his men. They all speak basic English and they will learn as things progress. Besides, something bothers Boyd about having to rely on the words of somebody else.
Inside the cabin it is comparatively warm and within minutes exhaustion creeps up on his body. Being outside so much, in this bracing conditions, wears him out, though he'd never admit to it. It wouldn't do any good for his image - the old man who can't take the pace anymore. Yet there is no denying it, only the potholed ground that makes the mile or so to the camp more of a rollercoaster ride than anything else keeps him from succumbing to sleep.
He'll be glad to reach his humble abode and put his feet up. He also wouldn't mind a snifter of good whisky or, alternatively, some of that heavy red wine that Grace has stocked in her house. But the only thing they have is tea and small drops of brandy to go with it.
This is a Muslim country. Alcohol is an affront. If he came to work in the morning and his recruits could smell the remnants...
Boyd shakes his head, tries to bury the thought. Tonight, he thinks, he deserves something and a foot rub, if possible. Grace will silently provide him with the first, but the latter is probably too much asked. She'll raise her eyebrows at him and if worst comes to worse she'll want an explanation, one Boyd isn't willing and capable to give.
Of course, she'll have heard about the two dead men already. This is Grace and at least to him it doesn't come as a surprise that she has already built up lines of underground communication. There is very little in the camp she doesn't hear about before the day is out, and surprisingly much from what happens in town. The grapevine is very active, even in Kabul, and Grace Foley has already redirected the lines to her advantage.
She's a miracle, he muses, as he slowly marches towards the little structure that people euphemistically call a bungalow. It looks and feels nothing like the bungalows he's encountered on his rare holidays. But it's more than the soldiers get, and it's his and Grace's.
Inside, it's dark, the shutters not having been open all day. It's the only way to keep the dust properly out, but with no sunlight the rooms are always dim, always a little unfriendly. It strikes him as odd, how the dungeons of the CCU-offices seemed to be so much warmer, so much brighter. So, the first thing he does is to turn the heating higher and turn on a few lights.
Once this is done, he sheds his utility parka and stumps around the room to check on their evening supplies. It's not much, but he dreads going out again and getting something from the Mess. He will, of course, if Grace doesn't bring any, mainly because he doesn't want her to have to brave the elements again.
Boyd hasn't forgotten, though she seems to have, that it's been two years, barely more, since she was in hospital battling cancer. Since then she gets cold more easily, her lithe body providing less resilience. This weather is absolute horror for her. But she doesn't complain.
Grace never does.
As if on cue the door opens again, admitting Grace, and before she even says anything, he reacts to the visible shivers, pulling her into his arms.
For a few moments they are quiet, absolute silence filling the room. It feels peaceful, for the first time since the morning.
"How are you?" she opens quietly, knowing she won't get an actual, comprehensive answer. It's too early in the pattern they are forming. He won't talk before there isn't some food and some hot drink in him.
She has heard about the two dead men, of course, it was part of the daily camp gossip. The psychologist in her wants to resolve the issue, get him to deal with it, but she knows him well enough to give him some time. Things have changed and Boyd is much more open and outspoken than he used to be, but he will never be somebody to wear his thoughts on his sleeve.
Grace doesn't expect that.
"Do we have any food?" she thus asks quietly. "I'm starving."
"Worked through lunch break?" he asks and admonishes at the same time.
"Like you did, I'm sure."
He smiles, feeling the tension in his body recede a little.
"You okay?" he asks instead, earning him a smile and a nod. "What do you fancy for dinner then?"
It sounds inane, this conversation, but Boyd finds it strangely soothing. The normality of an ordinary life, squeezed into a few hours and thirty feet square. For those few moments they could be a couple like any other, anywhere on the planet.
"I doubt the Mess carries proper Ratatouille tonight," breaks the illusion.
He shakes his head. "Don't think so. Anything you absolutely don't want?"
Boyd's willingness to go and fetch their dinner is clearly implied, but Grace shakes her head. "I'll come with you, some actual fresh air will do me good. Clear my head."
He gives her a long look, trying to gauge the reason for her eagerness to endure the weather again. The list of possibilities is remarkably short and he feels uneasy at the thought of how dangerous her patients could be. What if, one day, one of them...cracks?
She doesn't give him the chance to dwell on it for long, picking up his jacket with one hand, while holding onto him with the other and within a minute they are outside again.
They don't remain in company for long, just enough to order and pick up their food. A few short small talks with superiors or people daring to come up to them, but there aren't many. They are still eyed carefully as the new ones in town, the civilians. Many wonder what two people like them - of their age, is silently added, and professional standing - do in such a place. Of course, they know the official information and the first days have brought nothing to doubt the information value, but they are the odd ones out.
It's also noted how much they keep to themselves, which raises a few eyebrows. The youngsters can hardly imagine that those two actually have something going on, even though they aren't subtle or circumspect. Others shake their head at the choice of place for a romance.
For the moment, it doesn't matter though, the couple is gone quickly; it's warm inside the Mess and there's food to be had and hopefully eaten in a few minutes of peace. They all need it, they all deserve that.
Back in their home, Boyd bustles around lighting candles and making tea, while Grace changes and dishes out the food. It's done quietly, instinctively, which is calming and irritating at the same time. Not something Boyd is used to.
There are many things he isn't used to, especially the close living quarters. It's been years for him since he's shared the same living space with anybody, quite a few more for Grace. She didn't say anything, but Boyd knows that it's only a matter of time until they will fight over the mundane and petty of shared living space, and that she has already analyzed every possible angle of this fact. It will irritate him when the time comes, but that's still in the future and not to be dwelt on.
Grace comes out of the tiny bathroom, shrouded in several layers of clothes against the cold that she feels, even though the building is well heated. Hair dishevelled and without make-up she looks years older and years younger at the same time. It's a mystery to him, but Boyd doesn't complain. He likes the contradiction.
She smiles, unhesitatingly stepping into his arms. They stay like this for a while, in the silence, and for those moments the world doesn't exist.
If Boyd had a say in it, he'd keep it like that, but he's seen Grace's appraising looks during their food tour. She'll ask questions sooner or later and she'll want answers.
Even though he isn't completely happy about it, he will talk.
"Bring up the dishes," he says quietly. "I'll bring the tea."
Grace shakes her head. "I'll do it. You'll get out of those clothes."
He smirks. "Propositioning me before dinner, Dr. Foley?"
"And if I were?"
He gives her a long look through narrowed eyes, trying to gauge how serious she is. At the same time, he tries to discern just how greedy he is.
"Missed your chance," she announces and turns away with a laugh. "Make yourself comfortable, Boyd. I'll do the wifely tasks."
"Wifely," he snorts, but obeys.
They've done the dinner, have progressed now to the tea on the small sofa - both mugs with a healthy dose of the brandy. The sofa is pure luxury, provided to placate the ridiculously highly paid civilian experts with a few creature comforts in this God forsaken place.
It's dark, it's cosy, the perfect romantic setting, but Boyd isn't in the mood for it. In fact, the more time of the evening slips away, the more edgy he gets. Grace won't let the events of the day go unspoken, won't let him escape without some sort of 'unburdening talk'. She knows it pisses him off, knows he needs it too.
What drives him mad this time is the fact that she waits for him to start. He doesn't want to, doesn't know how to express that.
"It's a bloody waste!" he all but explodes finally.
Grace doesn't answer, doesn't even noticeably react to his sharp tone. She waits for more, but once this is said, Boyd doesn't have more words for the moment, isn't sure what to say.
"It feels like some fucking conspiracy! Bring them out and we'll kill them one by one. You get one step closer to us, we move two steps away."
"You think it was premeditated murder?" she asks quietly and looks up at him.
He shrugs helplessly. "Two Muslim men, family men, killed in a pub brawl? Outside the area they live in? Anybody who thinks that is a coincidence is a few cards short of the full pack."
She takes his hands and pulls them against her chest, willing warmth and comfort into him. "What does really bother you about this, Peter?"
"Two men are dead, Grace! After we had one dead yesterday, and one the day before, and before that day... What do you think, bothers me about that, huh?"
"Several things, to be honest," she claims and sits up, all business.
"I don't want to hear it!"
The air is suddenly thick with a tension they both know very well from years of experience. Their eyes locked, it's a silent stand-off. Different from the years before, but it will take only a little thing for them to do exactly what they've done for years.
"Sorry," he growls out, not really sounding like he means it.
Still, Grace accepts the word as such. "You worry that tomorrow it will be the same."
Boyd exhales on a sarcastic laugh, rubbing his face tiredly. "I wonder, if there will ever be a day when I come home at night and not have a man killed. When they said during the pre-briefings that about eight men in Afghan police forces get killed every day..."
"...It sounded like a gross exaggeration then, didn't it?" she finishes quietly for him, while she scoots closer and slips her arm around his shoulder. "I didn't believe it either."
"I don't know, if I can do this, Grace. It's like..."
"...Mel all over again." He nods, unprepared for her to continue. "In more ways than one."
"What do you mean?"
She doesn't answer immediately, weighing the words she wants to say quickly against the result that would have. They are still in the exploratory stages and despite all the progress they've made individually and together, this is a longstanding minefield between them.
"Grace?" Boyd doesn't ask, despite the pitch of his voice.
"They do things without your knowledge, without your...permission even...like Mel did when she followed up on her idea with the medallion..."
"Oh trust me, Grace..." He jumps from the sofa and starts pacing, the frustration of the day manifesting in restless energy. "Those men are nothing like Mel..."
"...Not on an emotional level, no, but..."
"And on any other level!" He turns suddenly, leaning down so that their faces are level. It's imposing, this gesture, even intimidating. They both know it, can feel it. They both know too, that it is entirely misplaced in this situation and setting.
The stand-off lasts for a few moments, without either gaining the upper hand.
"It still gets to you," Grace finally announces the verdict.
Boyd exhales noisily instead of an answer, his hands haphazardly running through his hair for want of a better thing to do with them. "Of course, it does, Grace! For fuck's sake, it's either their death or defection to the Taliban with those men! How can that not get to me?"
"It's not your fault..."
"And I can't fucking change it either, I know!"
She doesn't answer, waiting for the storm to pass. While the room seemed cool at first, then cosy, it now seems to be oppressive. It's one of those situations they were warned against, but those people in the briefings didn't know a thing, did they? Didn't know how personal policing is to Boyd, how volatile their relationship still is. The strain...
"What can I do?" she asks. The inanity of the question makes her cringe, it's a throwback to old times in the office. Grace doesn't need to think hard to imagine how this will play out.
Much calmer than expected Boyd sits down again and suddenly his arm is around her shoulder. If it weren't for the tight squeeze of his hand on her arm, nothing would betray just how worked up he is. "Be here and stay here," he says.
Thank you for reading. Comments would be greatly appreciated.