DISCLAIMER: I own nothing.

Happy birthday 2021 to Got Tea and missDuncan.

Inopportune Moments

by Joodiff

The foggy memories of the previous night are mixed and muddled by stress and exhaustion, but the room in which Grace Foley finds herself as she slowly surfaces from a deep and heavy sleep is so bland and so ordinary that she can't be anything but soothed and reassured by it. Non-threatening cream walls and a pristine white ceiling; good quality furniture of the solid, ageless, unpretentious type. A big framed print of a rustic landscape paired with an antique mirror. Beige carpet, brown rug. Neutral. Calming. The window just a few feet away from the bed is almost completely obscured by long curtains of a similar unremarkable shade to the carpet, but from where she's lying, Grace can clearly see a thin bright stripe of blue sky accented by a few fluffy white clouds. It must be late morning, she thinks, looking at the quality of the light, and reaches out a hand towards the bedside table, intending to fumble for her watch to confirm it. A soft tap on the closed bedroom door distracts her.

Propping herself up on her elbows, she manages a sleepy, "Hello…?"

The door opens inwards to reveal a slight, elderly woman carrying a china cup and saucer in her free hand. Carefully styled white hair frames expressive, lined features that relax into a gentle, encouraging smile as their eyes meet. "Good morning. I thought I'd come and see if you were awake and ready for a cup of tea."

Somehow the situation manages to be simultaneously banal and bizarre. Sitting up straighter in the large, comfortable bed, Grace nods. "That's very kind of you, Mrs – "

"Lydia," the woman interrupts with another smile, adding, "I do so hate fuss and formality."

"Lydia," Grace confirms, not quite embarrassed, but certainly awkward. Last night she'd been far too tired and far too emotionally raw to argue much about being wheeled out of the hospital, unceremoniously bundled into a waiting car and driven to a quiet residential street of sizable detached and semi-detached houses that she dimly recalls is somewhere in the vicinity of Wandsworth Common.

"And you're Grace," Lydia says. It's a statement, not a question. She approaches, sets down the cup and saucer on the bedside table, and continues, "My son's… colleague."

The hesitation is tiny, but it's there. Grace notices. Not sure what else to say, she confirms, "Yes."

Alert hazel eyes regard her with steady interest. "I've heard a lot about you over the years."

Forcing a small smile of her own, Grace says, "I'm not quite sure if that's good or bad."

"I'll let you judge that for yourself," is the amused reply. It's followed by a more serious, "As I'm sure you know extremely well, my son doesn't say anything behind people's backs that he wouldn't say to their faces. Hasn't won him many friends over the years. Shall I open the curtains?"

"Please." Disentangling herself at least partially from warm bedclothes that smell faintly of lavender, Grace reaches out for the cup and saucer. Becoming more alert and awake by the moment, she starts to wonder why on earth she didn't put up more resistance to the rapid plans made without her the night before. Also, what would be the quickest, easiest, and most polite way to escape from the difficult situation she now finds herself in.

The curtains open with a sturdy swoosh, letting in the full light of a sunny autumnal day. Her hostess – Lydia – remarks, "The forecasters were wrong again. It was supposed to be pouring with rain this morning."

"Was it?"

"Oh yes. An absolute deluge, they said on the late news last night."

Really, there couldn't be a more trite and quintessentially English conversation.

Revived and emboldened by the first few mouthfuls of tea, too sweet and strong though it is, Grace steels herself to offer a clumsy, "I'm so sorry about all of this. I really – "

"He told me what happened," Lydia interposes, turning away from the window. Her expression is calm and thoughtful. "The bare bones of it, at least. The last few days must have been terrible for you."

Understatement, Grace thinks, but she manages a wry, "I've had better weeks."

"Hm." Bright, intelligent eyes study her for a moment. Their owner seems to come to a decision. "It was on the early news. 'Escaped serial killer dies evading police'. There will be no end of trouble over it, I assume."

"Perhaps," Grace agrees, her response guarded. What she can say without fear of breaching confidentiality is, "There will certainly be an official inquiry."

"No doubt." Seeming to lose interest in the subject, Lydia frowns. "Anyway. The lady with the cheekbones…?"

It's unexpected, but not difficult to work out who she means. "Eve?"

A brief, satisfied nod. "Eve, that's right. I was asked to let you know that she would be bringing some things over for you later."

It dawns on Grace for the first time since waking that she's still dressed in the crumpled pink patterned pyjamas that she was wearing when she was… abducted. Her mind shies away from following the thought any further in that direction. Glancing down in distaste, she mutters, "Oh dear, I must look dreadful."

"Don't be silly," Lydia says with the quiet authority of a much older woman. "You simply look like someone who's been through a terrible ordeal, which by all accounts you have."

A distinct hot prickling of welling tears makes Grace give herself a firm mental shake. She's never been the kind of woman to crumble easily, not under pressure, and not in relief. Crying in front of a virtual stranger is not a palatable thought. A deep, slow breath helps considerably. Exhaling, she shakes her head. "I really don't know what I was thinking last night. I'm really sorry about all of this."

A dismissive shake of the head is followed by, "I'm quite sure that I don't need to tell you that my son has an impetuous streak, but ever since he was a little boy, he's never asked me for anything unless it was important. If he rings me late in the evening asking if I can have a house guest for a few days without asking too many questions, well, I know there's a very good reason for it."

"Even so," Grace protests. "It's a terrible imposition, and I – "

"It's no imposition," Lydia tells her in a firm no-nonsense tone that suggests further argument would be both pointless and unwise. "Now, you just rest there while see what I can rustle up in the way of a light breakfast. I'll bring a tray up directly."

Realising she's well and truly beaten Grace murmurs her thanks and sinks back against the pillows. Once Lydia has retreated, quietly closing the bedroom door behind her, Grace reaches for the handbag she vaguely remembers being reunited with in the car. The phone she hasn't seen since before her abduction is still safely nestled in its depths, and to her huge relief the screen's tiny battery life indicator is still above halfway. A few presses and she raises it to her ear, her indignation and annoyance starting to simmer with a vengeance as she waits for her call to be answered. She has a few extremely pithy things to say, and every intention of saying them. At considerable volume, if necessary.

"Boyd," is the sudden impatient, familiar response. "Leave a message."

"Where are you?" she demands peevishly, barely resisting the urge to mutter abuse. "Call me when you get this. You've outdone your-bloody-self this time, you really have."

-oOo-

Now wearing the dull purple fleece dressing-gown she has no memory of being parted from the previous night, and thankful for her thick bed-socks, Grace weaves her unsteady way to the top of the stairs from the family bathroom she found on just her second attempt. Lydia – or whoever last decorated the house – has a penchant for earthy, natural colours, she notices. Sage green carpet of more than decent quality adorns the landing and marches down the stairs to the accompaniment of fawn paint with a gentle hint of peach about it. Warming, unthreatening colours. Starting her wobbly descent, Grace clings onto the polished wooden bannister rail and does her best to ignore the creeping nausea in the pit of her stomach.

It's a big house, she realises. Bigger than the fleeting impression she formed on arrival led her to believe. Victorian, she suspects, though she's really no architectural expert. The hallway at the foot of the stairs is long and wide, its black and white tiled floor worn but immaculately polished. Stray details poke into her consciousness. An old-fashioned wooden hatstand adorned with coats, scarves and umbrellas; a shallow hall table decorated with a sumptuous display of colourful dried flowers. Another antique mirror, larger and more fancy than the one in the bedroom. A few framed prints, one of which is a large black and white photograph of a dapper, handsome young man dressed in an old-fashioned army uniform.

The door at the far end of the hall is ajar, and the soft sounds emanating from within suggest that she has successfully located the kitchen. Still fighting low-level waves of sickness and dizziness, Grace pads determinedly towards it, the cool of the immaculate tiles noticeable even through her thick socks.

As she enters the room, her hostess looks up, clearly startled. Standing at an incongruously sleek and modern work surface, she appears to be buttering fresh toast. She frowns in consternation. "I'm sure I told you to stay in bed."

"You did," Grace agrees trying to sound disarming as she gestures at the round glass-topped table situated in the corner of the big, bright kitchen. "May I…?"

"Well, of course," Lydia tells her, putting down her butter knife and bustling forward. Despite her greater age, she is a fraction quicker than Grace. "Here, let me help you."

She's grateful for the guiding arm that helps her to settle. Managing a genuine smile, she says, "Thank you."

"Hm." A long, searching look ends in a sorrowful shake of the head. "You really shouldn't try to do too much. Trust me, I speak from experience."

"You do?"

"My husband had cancer. Twice, actually." Lydia's tone is matter-of-fact. "Chemotherapy is terribly hard on the body."

"I don't feel too bad at the moment," Grace tells her, finding that it's almost true.

"Hm." Clearly unconvinced, Lydia continues, "Give it another day or two, maybe more. That's why it's important that you take all your medication on time and rest as much as possible. You need to look after yourself."

Without actually meaning to, Grace smiles slightly, and at Lydia's quizzical look explains, "You sound exactly like my mother."

"I should hope so," is the imperturbable response. "I raised five children of my own, and fostered more than half-a-dozen others over the years. I know a thing or two about motherhood."

"Five children?" Grace can't help but be intrigued. She has heard mention of siblings now and again, naturally enough, but somehow she always assumed –

"Stephen," Lydia says, returning to the counter and the toast, "Peter, James, Caroline," a pause, "and Mark."

Interesting. "Four boys? Must have been quite a handful."

"Stephen lulled us into a false sense of security," Lydia says, her tone and expression both deadpan, "and by the time we realised what a hellion Peter was, James was already on the way. He was so angelic as a baby that I'm afraid we rather let our guard down again."

Appreciating the dry humour evident in the words, Grace allows another smile. "It's easy to forget what little monsters they can be, isn't it?"

"In the heat of the moment, as it were?" Lydia says, with a mild grimace. "Oh, yes, I'm afraid so. After Carrie, we definitely weren't going to have any more. Mark came along a year or two later."

"And you fostered, too?" Grace says, impressed by the woman's calm fortitude.

"When the older boys had flown the nest." Picking up the plate bearing the toast, Lydia returns to the table. "Marmalade? Strawberry jam?"

"Just butter is fine," Grace assures her. "I really am very grateful for – "

"Please," Lydia cuts in with a decisive wave of her hand, "let's not go through all that again. You're here because Peter thought it was for the best, and that's a good enough reason for me."

Unable to think of a suitable response, Grace settles for letting her curiosity have free rein. "Was he really that bad as a boy?"

The hazel eyes show a sudden glint of amusement. "Oh, no. He was far, far worse. The most wild, headstrong, recalcitrant child you could possibly imagine. Always in trouble with someone, at home or at school. There was never an ounce of malice in him, though. Alasdair used to say he simply suffered from an excessive amount of energy and curiosity. Nowadays they'd probably say he had some sort syndrome or something."

The thought has occurred to Grace. More than once. "It must have surprised you when he became a police officer."

"Not really," Lydia says, moving to the kettle plugged in near the sink. Over her shoulder she continues, "Alasdair wanted him to go to university, but in our hearts we both always knew that it really wasn't for him. Trying to push him into it would have been an exercise in complete futility. He left school and got a job at a printing firm in Streatham. That lasted all of three weeks. After that…" Lydia's words trail away, and Grace can almost see the older woman gather herself together and give herself a mental shake. "Listen to me prattling on. More tea, my dear?"

"Please." Grace starts to eat her toast, mulling over what she's heard. Fascinating insights into a veiled earlier life she has often wondered about, and never dared inquire too deeply into. Swallowing, she then says, "That was one of the very first things that anyone ever told me about him, you know. That he was wild; a loose cannon."

"Carrie was exactly the same," Lydia says, not looking round. "There's six years between them, but they might just as well have been twins. It was always Peter and Carrie, and James and Mark. As for Stephen… well, I always felt a little sorry for him. He was the sensible one dutifully doing his best to keep the others out of trouble."

"And now he's abroad," Grace says, watching as Lydia fusses with cups and saucers.

A quick, surprised glance. "Bahrain, yes. They have a great life out there, but I do miss him terribly. And the boys, of course. We thought Will would stay here after he graduated from Edinburgh, but it wasn't to be."

Hoping her curiosity doesn't seem too intrusive, she asks, "What about your other children?"

"Carrie still lives in London. And Peter, of course. As for the other two, James and his wife have a business in Swindon, and Mark…" Again, there is a hesitation. "Mark is in Scotland."

Grace wonders what isn't being said. It's not a question she feels she can ask. For want of anything better, she says, "There were only three of us; me, my sister, and our younger brother. I can't imagine being one of five."

Lydia spares her a long, penetrating look. "Do you see them? Your brother and sister?"

Not as much as I'd like, Grace thinks, but all she says is, "Two or three times a year, usually. Christmas and birthdays, you know. Things like that."

"Are they still up North?" Lydia asks, returning her attention to the cups and saucers.

"Faith is," Grace says, thinking of her slightly younger and much spikier sister. "She and her husband live just outside Preston. My brother lives in Wiltshire now."

"Families," Lydia says, bringing over a gently steaming cup. "Sometimes I don't know if they're a blessing or a curse."

"Well," Grace begins, but she's cut short by the sudden impatient warbling of a telephone. Landline, connected to hardware that was probably brand new at some point in the early 'eighties. A wired extension, no less. How things have changed.

Lydia moves to answer it, offering a calm, "Hello?"

Outside the kitchen window, Grace can see a long stretch of neatly-manicured lawn and a thick, thriving herbaceous border. Someone is obviously keen on gardening. Sipping her tea to the accompaniment of murmured monosyllables, she reflects once again on the bizarre situation she finds herself in. Stranded in someone else's mother's house at her age!

"All right," Lydia says, her voice raised a little and her tone decisive. "No, you can't; she's having some breakfast. Yes. All right. I'll tell her. See you then."

As the older woman ends the call, Grace raises a questioning eyebrow. It doesn't altogether surprise her when Lydia looks briefly skywards and shakes her head. It surprises her even less when she says. "My son. He's changed his mind. He's coming over instead of… Eve, was it?"

"Eve, yes." A faint chill runs down her spine. "Bo… Peter's bringing my things?"

Lydia gives her a knowing look. "Don't worry, it appears he hasn't been rifling through your underwear drawer himself. He has merely appropriated the bag the lady with the cheekbones was bringing."

-oOo-

"What," Grace demands, well-aware that she sounds querulous, "on earth were you thinking? Your poor mother!"

They are sequestered together in a comfortably-furnished south-facing living room, decorated very much like the rest of the house, but a little less tidy. A lived-in sort of room. Books, ornaments, newspapers and magazines. A modern and rather large flatscreen television faces a large, thickly-padded couch covered in many, many cushions. Boyd is standing by the French windows, hands nonchalantly shoved into his trouser pockets. He shrugs, apparently not at all intimidated by the thorough scolding he is receiving. "It was the best option available. You were adamant you weren't staying in hospital."

She thinks she remembers. Snatches of heated argument. Spencer's strained expression. Eve hovering nearby trying to calm everything down. Shouting. Impatience. Bright lights and the smell of antiseptic. "Yes, but presumably what I meant was that I wanted to go home."

He snorts. "Well, that wasn't going to happen, was it? Not after everything."

As ever, his high-handedness infuriates her. "Why the hell not? I'm not a child, you know. I can look after myself."

"Did I suggest you couldn't?" is the vexed response. "Oh, for heaven's sake, Grace. Don't you think you may be overreacting, just a little?"

It's the proverbial red rag. "'Overreacting'? I woke up in a strange bed in a strange house, with your elderly mother – "

Again, he snorts, but in amusement this time. "She won't thank you for calling her that."

" – bringing me cups of tea."

He's still not fazed. "Yeah, she does tend to do that. Sometimes at highly inopportune moments."

"Oh God." Grace closes her eyes for a moment. "I really don't want to know. Look, if you were that worried, you could have taken me back to your house. I know damn well you have a spare room."

"Two spare rooms, actually. And no, I couldn't. Quite apart from the scandalous rumours that would have started – "

"Oh, as if you've ever cared about that sort of thing!"

" – I had to be at the bloody Yard first thing this morning for an eight-o'clock meeting with the DAC."

Grace is determined not to be defeated, however. "Well, I could have gone to Eve's then."

Starting to scowl, Boyd shakes his head. "Nope. She has her sister staying. And before you suggest it, Spencer's flat was ruled out by everyone on health grounds."

"Your mother, though, Boyd!"

The scowl intensifies at that. "What's wrong with my mother?"

"Nothing!" Grace takes a deep breath and then exhales slowly. "Your mother is perfectly charming, and a damn sight more self-possessed than I would be in her shoes – having a complete bloody stranger foisted on me. But that's not the damn point, is it?"

"Well, what is?" he demands, his remaining patience visibly ebbing. Louder, he continues, "You were in no state to be taken home and left on your own. I did what I thought was best."

Raising her own voice, she counters, "And how many times has that got you into trouble over the years? Honestly, Boyd. You never think things through, do you? You get an idea in your head and – "

A not-at-all-subtle knock on the door interrupts them. Startled, they both look round as Lydia steps into the room. She surveys them with what looks a lot like parental disapproval. "The Carters three doors down can't quite hear you, Peter. Perhaps you'd like to shout just a little louder?"

"Sorry," Grace says, the response automatic but genuinely contrite.

Next to her, there is a low but distinct mutter of, "Fuck's sake…"

Lydia, it seems, still has excellent hearing. "Not in this house, thank you very much, as you well know."

Under other circumstances it would be funny. Hilarious, even. Grace doesn't even think of smiling, much less laughing. She's beginning to realise just how formidable Lydia Boyd, mother-of-five, really is beneath the calm demeanour and the warm smiles. Boyd's upper lip curls a fraction, but he stops noticeably short of the full infuriating sneer Grace knows so well. His silence, though, is even more telling.

Eyes narrowed, Lydia continues, "Squabbling like children won't get either of you anywhere, which at your age you should damn well know. Peter, take Grace's bag upstairs for her. She's in Carrie's old room. Grace, go upstairs and sort yourself out while Peter helps me prepare lunch."

"I have to – " Boyd starts.

Lydia glowers at him. "Yes?"

"Nothing." The reply couldn't be any more sullen and bad-tempered. It takes him a moment longer to stoop and snatch up the large bag he deposited on the floor when they first entered the room. He doesn't say another word to either of them as he stalks past Lydia and disappears from view.

Grace opens her mouth, then closes it again. She feels exactly like her nine-year-old self did whenever she was berated by her fearsome paternal grandmother. It's not a feeling she likes, not at all. Rallying, she offers, "I'm sorry. Things just got a bit… heated."

The glower has been replaced by an expression of complete serenity. "When Peter was nine, a new family moved into that nice house across the road – the one with the big oak tree. Their daughter, Amanda, was seven or eight, I forget which. Pretty little thing. Long blonde hair, bright blue eyes. He teased her mercilessly for years. Absolutely tormented her. Made her cry so often her father was round here complaining on almost a daily basis."

Grace regards her for a moment, then says, "Well, I know he didn't marry her."

"He didn't," Lydia agrees, "more's the pity, but when he was seventeen he asked her to go to the pictures with him one Saturday night. They dated for over two years. He was heartbroken when she broke it off."

Grace has always been good at reading between the lines. Resisting the urge to sigh, she says, "We're just friends."

"Are you," Lydia says, and before any response can be given, she turns to walk away. Over her shoulder, she says, "Be careful with the hot water. There's something wrong with the thermostat. Don't scald yourself."

-oOo-

"She was a teacher," Boyd says. He is standing at the bedroom window looking out, hands stuffed back into his trouser pockets. Sparing Grace a brief glance, he adds, "At a pretty rough middle school in Peckham, in fact. Married my father just after the war, and carried on working until Stephen came along."

"She's mildly terrifying," Grace tells him. It's an olive branch of sorts. "In the nicest possible way."

"Just be grateful she didn't clip either of us round the ear," Boyd says, returning to his study of the garden.

For want of anything better to say, she asks, "This was your sister's room?"

He doesn't look away from the window. "Actually, it was mine first. Then James had it, and I was moved to the front of the house with Stephen. Then my sister came along. In the end I was up in the attic, Stephen had the little box room, James and Mark were at the front, and Carrie was in here on her own. Lots of complicated logistics required."

"You were up in the attic?" In a way, it doesn't surprise her at all.

"Mm," he confirms. He turns to face her, expression quizzical. "Must have been the maid's room originally, I suppose. The house dates back to the eighteen-seventies. Would you like to see?"

It's an answering olive branch, she realises. Best to accept, and besides, she's intensely curious. "All right."

"Follow me," he says, already heading towards the bedroom door. Dutifully trailing after him, Grace lets him lead her past the door to the bathroom she found earlier, and past the closed door next to it. Tucked back into a little alcove at the very end of the long landing, there is another door, narrower than all the others. When Boyd opens it, a steep, equally narrow staircase is revealed. "Up you go," he instructs, flipping a light switch and stepping back to allow her to pass. Frowning a little, Grace does as she's told, glad to realise as she goes that she is far steadier on her feet than she was earlier. The stairs end in a tiny enclosed space illuminated only by a low-wattage ceiling light. Two featureless doors face each other. There is nothing else.

"To the left," is the helpful advice from several stairs below her.

Not sure what to expect, she opens the indicated door, and finds herself looking into a small, surprisingly bright room with a fiercely sloped ceiling. There is a narrow single bed tucked into the corner by the angled window, and next to it a small wooden desk and chair. A squat basic wardrobe rests against the tallest section of interior wall, and an elderly chest of drawers nestles against it. More cardboard boxes than she can easily count are stacked over at least a third of the remaining floorspace. Otherwise, the room is almost featureless, lacking any hint of the character of any of its former occupants. It's a disappointing anti-climax.

Boyd appears at her shoulder, looking far too big for the small space. "Stephen and I tossed a coin to see who got the attic room. He lost."

"It's very you," Grace comments. "Skulking up here right at the top of the house on your own."

"I thought you'd say something like that."

"Attics and basements, Boyd," she teases. "You seem to have a natural affinity for both."

"They're just a bit different."

"Like you."

Moving past her, he abruptly says, "I really did think it was the best thing to do, you know. Christ, after everything you've been through in the last few days…"

"I'm tougher than you think," Grace tells him, walking across the small room to perch on the edge of the bed. "I'm not going to try to pretend that none of it has affected me, but I'm not in bits. Far from it."

"That fucking bitch took you from the hospital just hours after you'd had exploratory surgery, Grace."

"Minor exploratory surgery," she corrects him. A vague, dull ache in her side reminds her that it will soon be time for her to take another dose of the limited number of painkillers the hospital supplied her with.

He snorts. "Like that makes a bloody difference. She took you, tied you up, fucked about with the doxorubicin – "

"Boyd," she interrupts, unable to keep the weariness out of her voice. He looks at her expectantly and she sighs. "I know you mean well, but not now, eh? Right now, I just want to get clean, get dressed, and feel halfway human again. I'm going to have to process it all properly, and I know that, but not yet. You do understand?"

He stares straight at her, and for the first time she notices just how tired he looks. How tired, and how strained. How old, too. Every single one of his fifty-whatever years, and more. He shakes his head. "No, I don't think I do. Not at all. But I suppose I don't need to. Your life, your trauma."

"Don't say it like that," she says. Fighting with him has zero appeal. Sometimes it's an entertaining diversion, an amusing battle of wits, but not today. "I'm not cutting you out of it, any of it. I'm just not ready to go there. Not yet."

Boyd studies her for a moment, his features set, then he turns away. For a moment she thinks he's going to stalk from the room, leaving her sitting on his old bed, but instead he moves to the wardrobe. The vigorous jerk he gives the visibly warped door indicates that he's well-used to it sticking. She can't see much of the jumble of contents, though she's sure she identifies an ancient, cracked pair of boxing gloves amongst the clutter. He rummages for a few seconds, muttering to himself. When he turns back to face her again, he is holding a saggy, misshapen and distinctly battered-looking creature of uncertain vintage and species. Beady glass eyes stare at her from a semi-flattened face.

"This," he says gravely, "is Euripides. Don't ask; I was a strange child."

It's too good an opportunity to miss, Grace feels. "Well, to be fair, you're a fairly strange adult, too."

He ignores the predictable gibe. "Conventionally, at this point, I should give him to you with some ridiculous cliché about how he will look after you. Unfortunately for you, I am nowhere near that sentimental."

"I see."

"He's a lion."

"He is?" she questions, not at all convinced, but yes, there does seem to be some remaining evidence of what once might have been a luxurious mane.

Boyd gives the shabby creature a long, considering look. "Admittedly, he has seen somewhat better days."

Not sure if she's closer to laughing or crying, Grace manages a thick, "Haven't we all?"

"You can borrow him, if you like," he says. His tone couldn't be more dismissive. Then he adds a notably firmer, "Temporary arrangement only. Not like my bloody clock that you've never given back."

It's so characteristic of the man. A ridiculously touching gesture deliberately wrapped in dull, protective thorns. She swallows hard, hoping he doesn't notice. "I think he belongs here."

"He does. That's the point." Boyd's dark eyes regard her with a familiar unblinking intensity. When he speaks again, it's with steady force. "Let her look after you. At least for a day or two. I know it's not ideal, but I'm completely tied up with the fucking investigation into what happened up on that bloody roof, and – "

"I do have friends outside of work who could help out, you know," she interrupts, more than a little indignant.

He's a step ahead of her, it seems. "But you won't ask any of them for a damned thing, will you? C'mon, Grace, you can't kid a kidder."

Maybe that's one of the things that's always formed part of the core of the solid bond between them, even in bad times. The intractable desire for independence that drives them both to decisions others find incomprehensible. Self-reliance to the point of downright obstinacy. He's right, and they both know it. Looking down to break their stare-off, she mutters, "I can't, Boyd."

"Why?" He couldn't sound more exasperated.

She wonders why he can't – or won't – understand. "I just can't, okay? It wouldn't be right."

"Why?" he demands again at greater volume. "Chances are, you're going to feel a damn sight worse tomorrow, and even worse the day after that. Chemo is like that."

She's been trying so hard not to think about it. Trying to convince herself that she will be one of the lucky few who escapes the worst side-effects of the poison pumped into her veins. "So? I'll deal with it."

Boyd is scowling again. "Oh, and just what do you think Eve and Spence are going to say if I go back and tell them that I let you run off to your place to go through it all on your own?"

Calm. She must remain calm. "I expect they will be extremely displeased. But you can simply tell them that you've never been in a position to 'let' me do anything. Your authority over me begins and ends at work."

"Something I'm very well aware of, believe me," he snaps at her. He begins to pace in the tiny area available to him, a sure indication that he's trying hard to control his quick, unpredictable temper. "Why do you have to be so – "

"Stubborn?" she suggests. "That's rather the pot calling the kettle black, isn't it?"

"Fuck's sake, Grace." It's clear he's edging closer and closer to the inevitable explosion. He seems to make a heroic attempt to force himself back to some level of calm. "Forty-eight hours, okay? After that, I'll drive you back to your house myself."

"Why is this so important to you?" she demands. It's just petulance, really. They both know how many things lie unspoken between them. Don't they?

"Oh, why do you bloody think?" he demands, depositing Euripides on the desk next to her as he turns to pace in the opposite direction.

"I honestly have no idea," she tells him. It's not the truth, not really. It's safe, though. Determined, she forges on, "We've never interfered in each other's private lives. I'll be back at work on Monday, so – "

Boyd stops pacing to glare at her. "Not unless I'm certain you're up to it, you won't, and right now you've got a long way to go to convince me."

She stares at him for a long, silent moment. It doesn't surprise her that he stares unflinchingly back. Irresistible force meets immovable object, as the old saying goes. She can't afford the brutal, gruelling fight that's brewing. For her own sake more than his, she takes a calming breath, and then another. "Look, I realise you have my best interests at heart, Boyd, and I really am grateful, but – "

"But nothing," he interrupts. "This is not a good time to decide to stand on your bloody principles, Grace. Either you agree to stay here for a day or two, or I'm taking you straight back to the hospital, even if I have to drag you there kicking and screaming. And don't tell me I wouldn't dare, because you know damn well I would."

He would. She knows he would. A sharp stab of anger makes her snap, "Bullying me is not the way to show that you care, Boyd."

"Oh, so you do admit you realise that I care, then?" he challenges.

There it is, she realises. The crux of the whole matter. He cares. He cares a lot, but the only way he feels he can express it to her is brusque and typically heavy-handed.

Less than twenty-four hours ago he was quite prepared to sacrifice his own life to save hers.

She only has to think about that and what it means for a moment. Capitulation is sudden and easy. "All right."

Boyd looks bewildered. "'All right'? That's it?"

"That's it," Grace confirms, privately enjoying she way she has so completely wrong-footed him. "I'll stay here for a couple of days, but only on the condition that your mother is absolutely happy with the idea."

"She will be."

She shakes her head. "Not good enough; I need to talk to her about it myself."

His response is peevish. "Why? I told you, she's fine with it. She likes looking after people. Rather too much, to be honest."

"People she actually knows, presumably."

Boyd's response is oddly quiet. "She's known you for years, Grace. It doesn't matter at all that you only met last night."

Pieces are beginning to fall into place, but the picture they are forming is a strange, confusing one. One that's a little too frightening to examine too closely. A picture of him and her, and all the things that are quite clearly impossible. Always have been. Always will be. She falls back on impatience. "What on earth are you talking about?"

Boyd sighs, heavily and not at all happily. "Oh, work it out, will you? I heard her tell you about Amanda."

The little girl he persecuted mercilessly as a child. Who he then went on to date as a teen.

Oh, yes, he cares. More than she ever realised, it seems. Looking up at him from her position on the edge of the bed, Grace slowly says, "She thinks that you… have a bit of a thing… for me."

"More than a bit of a thing. And she doesn't think, she knows." He grimaces. "She always was able to read me like a book. Never could get a single thing past her."

It does not settle gently into her consciousness. It hits it like a rock and sinks hard and fast. It doesn't make any sense – much like a lot of the past few days – but it's there. An undeniable thing that isn't going to go away any time soon. Maybe ever. She carries on staring at him, momentarily incapable of speech.

"The penny finally drops," he says, his tone dry. "It's okay, you don't have to say anything. I know it's a stupid, one-sided thing that's never going to go anywhere."

Grace blinks. Feels rather as if she is crawling out of some strange trance. "Did I say that?"

"You didn't need to," he says, starting to pace again. "Some people… they get under your skin before you even realise it. By the time you do work out what the bloody hell's happening, it's already far too late. Trust me, I'm no happier about it than you are."

"You really do have a way with words, don't you?" she says, shaking her head again. "How the hell did you manage to persuade not just one but two apparently sane women to walk down the aisle with you?"

"Pure dumb luck on both occasions." Stopping, he narrows his eyes, and suspicion furrows his brow. "Why aren't you giving me some long, complicated speech about 'transference' or some other psychological bollocks?"

"Would it make you feel better?" Grace inquires.

The restless prowling starts again. "Maybe. Doubt it would make me feel worse."

"So ungracious," she says. She debates with herself for a moment, then offers a delicate, "I suppose it's never occurred to you that there's a possibility that the feeling might be mutual?"

He doesn't even spare her a glance. "Of course not."

She watches him for several seconds before saying, "You really are completely hopeless when it comes to understanding women, aren't you?"

"It has been said," he agrees, halting once again. "By you, in fact. More than once."

"What would you do if I stood up and kissed you?" The words even surprise her, but she lifts her chin a defiant fraction as they land awkwardly between them.

Boyd looks both wary and thoughtful. Less shocked than she might have expected. "I don't know. Why, is it something you're likely to do?"

The idea is ridiculous, of course. Implausible. Impossible.

It might be worth gathering all her courage and composure to give it a try. The timing's all wrong, but then, hasn't that always been the case with them? Always the wrong people at the wrong time. She flexes, prepares to move.

"Hello?" A strident, impatient voice echoes up the stairs and into the room. "What on earth are you two doing up there? I'm waiting to start making lunch."

Grace jumps, but Boyd doesn't startle, and his eyes remain fixed on her. "Like I said, she's very good at picking highly inopportune moments."

The weird, anticipatory tension that has been building between them evaporates in an instant. Getting to her feet, Grace hears herself gabble, "I need to get cleaned up a bit and get dressed."

"Yes." He doesn't move as she edges past him. Before she can slip through the open door, however, he adds, "In case you were curious, I'd probably have kissed you back."

A not-altogether-unpleasant prickle runs up and down her spine. Pausing, Grace looks back at him for a moment. "'Probably'?"

He is impassive as he regards her. "Almost certainly."

"I'll bear that in mind," she tells him, trying to ignore the way her heart suddenly seems to be racing, and then leaves the room without another word. Lydia is at the foot of the stairs looking up expectantly. Mentally squaring her shoulders as she starts to descend, Grace says, "Peter thinks I should stay here for a day or two."

"Well, of course he does," is the imperturbable reply, "and he's absolutely right, you should. Now, shall I get on with lunch, or do you need some help unpacking your things…?"

- the end -