9 - True Colours
The thoracostomy tube that snakes out from beneath Grace's hospital-issue gown reminds Boyd far too much of his late father's last few days. It shouldn't, given that Douglas Boyd suffered from emphysema for years, long before he was finally diagnosed with advanced lung cancer, and that Grace's general health has never been anything other than robust in all the time they've known each other, but it does, and he finds it both troubling and disconcerting. He stays dutifully at her side, however, as the sedation wears off and she alternately dozes and grumbles about the inconvenience, the discomfort, and just about anything else she can think of to protest about. She's irritable, restless and not at all herself, but he tells himself that she's earned it, that the least he can do for her is stay at her side until someone in authority actually orders him to leave. Twice he excuses himself to stand outside in the main corridor with his phone clamped to his ear as he is simultaneously berated and updated by the DAC's office, and on both occasions he returns to find her just as tetchy as when he left. It tests his patience, but he does his best to remain calm and reasonable, to listen to her moans and groans without criticism or complaint. It's his fault, after all, he repeatedly tells himself, that she's in hospital and in pain, so…
"How long have we been waiting for the doctor now?" she asks him, and though she sounds weak and breathless, there's a steely bite to her irritability that doesn't bode well for anyone who even slightly annoys her. "Boyd. I asked – "
"About an hour," he informs her, not needing to look at his watch. "You know what these places are like. He's probably been called away to an emergency."
"Why are you so calm?" Grace demands, both wheezy and bad-tempered. "Why aren't you pacing about and swearing your head off?"
"Would you like me to?" he inquires, leaning back in the uncomfortable chair in a vain attempt to stretch his aching back.
"It would be more characteristic," she sniffs. Then, "I don't understand why they have to leave this damn tube in. I mean, it's not as if…"
Despite his best efforts, Boyd's attention wanders as she grumbles. She's not saying anything he hasn't heard more than once already, and if she's not exactly rambling, she's certainly not as sharp and focused as she usually is. He assumes it's the fault of the extensive cocktail of drugs still in her system, so he murmurs occasional vague responses until she starts to drift again, and then he gets up and goes to look out of the room's small window. The view is uninspiring at best, but it reminds him that there's a world beyond the increasingly claustrophobic confines of the hospital. A world, in fact, where there are still a lot of difficult questions he's going to have to find plausible answers to, and soon. All part of the weight and responsibility of command, a burden he's used to bearing, and rarely regrets accepting, but one that seems to keep costing him.
It's the nature of the damn job, he reflects, watching a pair of straggly London pigeons squabbling over some meagre morsel of food they've found. Too many working hours in every single week. Been that way for years. Maybe for his entire career. If he'd gone to work on the docks like his father… but no, he was far too bright, and far too ambitious for that. Grammar school on a scholarship, exams instead of the queue for the Labour Exchange. Besides, the docks are almost all long gone now, the valuable waterside land repurposed all along the city stretch of the Thames. Perhaps he should have stuck it out at law school, become a solicitor or a barrister instead of a weary, over-worked copper.
The sound of quick, quiet footsteps makes him turn towards the door. Mary.
She says, "I was about to go home. Thought I'd check on you first."
Boyd isn't certain if the pronoun is singular or plural, but it doesn't matter either way. Keeping his voice low, he responds, "She's sleeping."
"Good. Best thing for her. Alex – Doctor Kennington – thinks they'll remove the chest tube in the morning, all being well. If everything looks good, they'll probably think about discharging her."
He frowns in surprise and concern. "Tomorrow?"
Mary nods. "Or the day after. It's very unlikely the lung will collapse again, and she'll recover much faster at home. She'll need someone to look after her for a day or two."
"That," he admits, "could be a problem."
"Why? Unless you've radically changed, you've probably got years' worth of leave stacked up."
It's a deliberate dig, one he ignores. "I can't not be at work; I need to be seen to be fronting it all out, Mary."
"Same old story," she replies, "work comes first. You never learn, do you?"
A mumble from the bed makes him nod towards the door. "Outside."
Mary precedes him out into the main ward, leads him to a quiet, half-concealed spot outside what appears to be a storage area packed with medical supplies. She says, "You're lying to yourself, Peter. You realise that, don't you? You're telling yourself you love her because it's easy; convenient."
Irked and astounded by her temerity, her glares at her. "You think so, do you?"
"I know so. I know you."
"You don't," Boyd contradicts, "and sometimes I think you never did. Not really."
"She felt sorry for you, didn't she?" Mary says then, echoing her earlier sentiments, "You more-or-less admitted that you needed someone, and she was there. That's not love."
"What the hell would you know about any of it?" he demands, his defensive belligerence increasing by the second.
"I'll tell you what I know," she tells him, the words delivered with a calm precision that belies the look in her eyes, "I know that it won't work between you, because whatever happened, and whatever you try to claim, I know that you're still in love with me."
Boyd laughs, short and sharp. "You're seriously bloody deluding yourself if you think that, Mary. You were the mother of my son, and yeah, I'll always love you for that, but as for anything else…"
He doesn't realise what her intentions are until it's far too late. She moves swiftly, decisively, and then her lips are on his, and her fingers are threading themselves roughly through his hair, preventing him from instantly jerking his head back. Too many things assault him at once – the strange familiarity of her kiss, the immediate rush of powerful, potent memories, the very real spike of angry indignation that tears hot and fast through him. A crazy mix of surrender, rebellion, need, and disgust, each pulling his heart and mind in different directions. Stunned, Boyd doesn't react as fast as he should, and the resulting stab of guilt makes him more savage than he intends as he both steps back and seizes her hands, forcing them away despite the brief flare of pain as she tugs at his hair.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" he growls at her, somehow managing to refrain from bellowing the words at her. "Jesus… are you completely insane?"
Her eyes… Oh, Christ, look at her eyes…
They look molten in the strong artificial light, the normal strong green tones bleached away leaving only the fascinating tigerish tawny shades that he remembers far too well. "Pete…"
"No." Boyd puts everything he has into the word, follows it with a fierce, "Back off, Mary. I mean it."
Her anger, every bit as strong and dangerous as his, rises in response to his clear rejection. "Fuck you, Peter. Fuck you."
"You wish," he snaps back at her. "You bloody wish."
"Oh, go to hell," she snarls. "She's bloody welcome to you – you never were worth a damn, anyway, not as a husband or as a father. You know what? I'm not sorry about Rob at all. At least he didn't screw me and then rush off straight back to work… every single fucking time."
It hurts – exactly the way it's designed to. Boyd holds his ground and takes it, however, regarding her with as much dispassionate contempt as he can muster. "Nice. Showing your true colours again, eh, Mary?"
"Fuck off."
"It's been great seeing you again, too," he retorts, and for a second he's certain she's going to slap him. It wouldn't be the first time.
She doesn't. Still scowling, Mary turns sharply on her heel and stalks away without another word. Boyd watches her go, not moving a single muscle until she's long out of sight. Angry and unsettled, he takes the time to draw repeated steadying breaths, not prepared to return to Grace's side while he is still so close to losing his temper. Something in his heart is rapidly hardening in direct reaction to the scene that has just played out, all the reluctant tolerance he has acquired in relation to Mary over the last few years transforming once again into deep resentment and hostility. It's strange how she's conveniently never seemed to remember just how many extra hours he worked solely to provide for them both while she was still an impoverished medical student, or once she was a recently-qualified and thus poorly-paid junior doctor. Or how she's never bothered to recall how hard he struggled to keep food on the table and the bills and mortgage paid while she looked after Luke in his pre-school years. He doesn't resent a single one of all those long, difficult additional hours, but to have all the time he was absent repeatedly thrown in his face still hurts as much now as it did then.
He takes another deep breath. It's over. All of it is over. The past is the past, he reminds himself, firmly set in stone, and all that matters now is the present – and the future. And, if the powers of the universe are kind to him, his future is with Grace.
Gathering what equilibrium he can, Boyd heads back to the quiet side room, ready to resume his stoical vigil at her side. He stops dead in the doorway, however, as he realises she's awake – and no longer alone. The chair he vacated to go and stare out of the window is occupied again. Eyes several shades darker than his own regard him with a veiled antagonism he can't quite account for.
"Spence," he says by way of wary greeting. "I didn't see you arrive."
His subordinate's steady, contemptuous gaze doesn't waver. "No. You were… occupied."
Oh, fuck…
Boyd looks towards Grace, but she only looks faintly bemused. Clearly, Spencer hasn't reported what it's quite obvious he saw. If he had…
"Right, I see," he says. It's a ridiculous response, but what else can he possibly say? Any variety of 'it wasn't what you think' is going to provoke a debilitating exchange he simply doesn't want to endure, and a long and complicated explanation he doesn't want to have to make. Boyd knows what he can see burning in the younger man's eyes, though, and he knows that the matter will have to be addressed one way or another before the day is out.
-oOo-
cont…
