This one is Joodiff's fault. She sent me a photo from social media and told me to fic it. So I did.
Here's to all the glorious kitties out there. :) xx
AWOL
...
Boyd wakes from a pleasant but confusing dream of bright colours, abstract lines and a very peculiar sense of spatial awareness because there is a hand on his chest. A hand whose fingers are idly playing with one of his nipples. It takes a moment to process what is happening, to slip back from the unreal into the real, but only a moment. And then a delicious shiver of anticipation runs through him. His cock, always an opportunist, is already semi-hard. Not necessarily unusual first thing in the morning, but with the added provocation…
Boyd yawns and scratches his beard, then rolls over onto his side.
Blue eyes, tousled hair, an intriguing smile; now his favourite sight in the mornings.
"You're feeling okay," he murmurs.
"I am," is the mischievous reply.
Who kisses whom then is immaterial; it is only the result that matters. Soft, wandering touches that become more focussed and more determined, lips and tongues that explore with mounting heat, bodies gently rocking together as passion envelops them both, the sensations and tension building and building, and then eventually leaving them breathless and sated, Grace tucked possessively against Boyd's chest as he closes his eyes and simply drifts.
Mornings like this are far too few and far between.
Returning to himself a little, he idly wonders what his horny teenage self would have thought if he'd known then that his much older self would be partnered with a woman not only older than him, but also living with a terrible disease.
He'd have scoffed and laugh it off, adult Boyd knows. But he'd have also grown into the kind of man who thinks that the way Grace is almost melted into his chest, completely trusting, baring all her secrets and imperfections, and simply loving him for who he is, is far more valuable than any quick tumble behind the bike sheds.
"We do have to get up, you know," he eventually sighs, regretfully.
Grace grumbles something indistinct, but it's enough to tell him she's refusing to move. He doesn't want to point out that she has an early morning blood test, because that'll lead them both to the inevitable thought process that the next round of chemo is only a few days away.
It's hell.
That's the only way he can describe it. But it is a hell that they are slowly and surely navigating their way through.
Mercifully, before he finds himself opening up the inevitable battle of fighting the demons or wallowing in dark thoughts, there is a slight scratch of wood on carpet and then bedroom door swings open a fraction. For a couple of seconds there is silence, and then something small and very sure-footed lands on Boyd's legs.
"I'm going to put a bolt on the outside of the kitchen door if you keep escaping," he threatens. Grace makes another indistinct noise, one that he has no trouble identifying as a mark of disbelief, but otherwise doesn't so much as twitch. Freyja purrs and kneads his shin through the quilt; even through the thick fabric he can feel it. He moves one leg, hoping to topple her and save more holes, but she's too wise to his tricks after a series of morning escapades far too similar to this one, and she deftly hops behind him.
"Five more minutes," he mutters to the vanished cat, kissing the top of Grace's head. "You can wait that long."
It transpires that Freyja disagrees, as she lets him know by suddenly landing on his shoulder and planting one paw squarely in his ear.
"For fuck's sake," he growls, shaking his head to dislodge her. "What does a man have to do to enjoy an uninterrupted aftermath to a good shag?"
Against his chest he feels the first signs of laughter in the form of trembling muscles, and a sudden catch in the steady breathing that has been pleasantly tickling his skin since Grace buried herself in his arms.
For a couple of minutes, he tries valiantly to ignore the small feline's insistent approaches, but eventually he has to concede. Sitting up, he brings Grace with him, still cuddling her against him.
"And to think you used to want to let her sleep on the bed overnight," his lover yawns, stretching languidly.
"Yeah, well," he grumbles, catching hold of their offending pet and turning her upside down so that he can stroke her luxuriously soft spotty belly, "not anymore!"
…
The blood test over and done with, Boyd walks Grace back inside the house. She could have used public transport, but he'd rather be a few minutes late than risk her being unnecessarily exposed to other people's germs, and besides, he enjoys her company, enjoys being company for her. Likes to try and lighten the mood of monotony for her at these seemingly endless appointments.
Watching her as she moves, he thinks she's probably going to need a quiet morning and a nap later, but he doesn't say anything. She doesn't like to be reminded of her limitations, and besides, she looks good today. Her cheeks are a warm shade, her eyes bright, and she's moving with relative ease, not shuffling with pain and exhaustion.
As usual, Freyja meets them by the door, meowing and making a fuss. Still not used to both of them leaving the house, there is always an enthusiastic greeting from her and a lot of noise when they return. They both grant her their attention, stroking and tickling, and for a couple of minutes Boyd even gets out their pet's favourite length of string and plays an amusing game of chase around the kitchen with her. Given her rough start in life, they are both firmly of the opinion that spoiling the little feline is both hardly a chore and the right thing to do.
"Oh," he says, suddenly remembering something as Grace drops a couple of slices of grainy bread into the toaster. Much to Freyja's disgust, he rolls up the string and walks back out into the hall to where he abandoned his work bag last night. It's irritatingly oversized and bulky compared to his old one, but the recent IT upgrade that saw him being issued a new, faster laptop came with it at the insistence of the technician who delivered the device to him. Unzipping the large main compartment behind the computer slot, he extracts the item he's looking for, then takes it back to the kitchen.
"Here." Boyd places the thick old hardback on the small kitchen table. "I remembered to pick it up for you last night when I checked on my place. It's a good read, I think you'll enjoy it."
Looking up at him as she lifts something out of the fridge, Grace smiles. "Thank you. I have half a chapter left to finish in that mystery novel, then I'll start that one."
Boyd sniffs in faux outrage, decides he's got time for a quick cup of coffee with her. After all, it's his unit. His rules. "You do read some rubbish," he tells her, taking charge of the kettle.
"It's not rubbish. You should try it – I think you'd like it."
Stirring milk and coffee as the water heats, he continues to resist purely on principle. He knows full well that he will eventually end up reading the damn thing she's been buried in for the last few nights, and that he will more than likely thoroughly enjoy it. Experience has taught them both over the last few months that when it comes to literature, they can easily predict what the other will like and dislike.
Still, they squabble because they can. Because they always have.
It's a turn on, too.
Not in a jump-on-each-other-and-immediately-rip-off-all-clothing kind of way, but in a much more subtle way that lets the tension rise over the course of hours.
Perhaps, when he calls to check on her at lunch time, he will leave a suitably riling message afterwards if he thinks she's still feeling well enough. And then he will sit back and see what happens.
In the midnight hours of better days, when Grace is tucked beside him, sound asleep, Boyd has quietly fantasised that when she is better, properly better, they will still argue. Ferocious, all-out disagreements where they will both rage and storm at one another. And that they will later resolve such differences with fiercely passionate make-up sex. It's gut instinct, maybe, but he's sure it will happen. He hasn't known her for so many years without becoming acutely aware of just how feisty she really is, how sharp her temper can be when she's truly irked.
By sheer coincidence Boyd turns for the sink at the same moment she twists away from returning the butter to the fridge. They meet in the middle, and he smiles when her hands land on his waist. The temptation to touch her is simply too much.
"You're going to be very late," is all she says.
Boyd shrugs. "It's just work. And who's going to challenge me over it?"
Grace gives a half shrug, half shake of her head. "Not me!"
Their coffee ready, he settles himself in the surprisingly comfortable kitchen chair that has, over the months, somehow become his. Grace doesn't immediately elect to take her own chair, instead drifting towards him and pressing a gentle kiss to the top of his head and pausing to lean against him. Maybe she's feeling a little insecure, he muses, then abandons the thought. Most likely, she just wants to extend the feeling of gentle intimacy the morning started with. Either way, he's not going to complain. Instead, he folds his arms around her, using just enough pressure to ease her against his legs, leaving him in a position to rest his chin on her shoulder and remain acutely aware of all the places their bodies are touching, even as he listens as she quietly relays what Eve has told her about her most recent date with Alex.
It's funny, but he's come to be interested in the gossip she provides him with. Despite being away from the office, all sorts of weird and wonderful information is still managing to reach her. Grace offers him a bite of toast, and obediently he opens his mouth. When she rolls her eyes at him and uses a thumb to wipe a blob of jam from his lip, he catches the digit between his teeth, pretending to bite down on it.
"You're such a child," she accuses, the merriment clear in her face.
"I am," he replies gravely. "Never grow up, Grace, it's vastly overrated."
In contradiction of his words though, he looks up at the clock and decides that he really should make a move. Holding on to her, he leans to the left, reaching for the box tucked beside the microwave. Grace grimaces as he straightens, and that alone is enough to tell him that she has indeed forgotten her morning dose of medication.
"Come on," he coaxes, nudging her and then flicking open the little tab and dumping the pre-sorted contents out into her grudgingly offered palm. Grace sighs, then reaches for her coffee cup, trying to down the little pills in one go. She chokes, so he takes the mug from her and then rubs her back slowly and smoothly, refraining from starting an argument about taking them one at a time.
"Disgusting," is the eventual mutter before she takes another, more cautious, sip of her drink. Boyd tugs the scarf from her head to distract her, plays with the ludicrously short strands of hair. Kisses her side of her head and pulls her closer as she returns the mug to the table.
"It's not forever," he promises.
"I know." There's no resignation in her tone, no complaint of how vile the pills taste if she accidentally catches them on her tongue, just quiet acceptance.
It's the little things, like this, that make it bearable. The way she holds on to him, makes him feel loved. Reminds him what it feels like to be the heart of someone else's universe, the first person they reach out to.
Inevitably, he has to go. But when he rises, he sees her reach for a tall glass beside the sink, lift it to her lips and sip. He lifts an eyebrow, and then grins at the look he receives in response; she can look after herself, thank you very much. It's been a bone of contention between them, her tendency to slide into dehydration and his determination to all but force liquid down her throat.
It all boils down to love, though, and they both know it.
"Are you going, or what?" she demands, lowering the glass. "I have a book waiting for me, you know."
"And I have a decades-old forgery to dig into," he retorts, reaching for the coat he abandoned over the kitchen door.
"Don't be late for dinner, I'm going to cook later." It's an autocratic order, but one without any bite.
Resting his fingers under her chin, he tilts her head back, kisses her in an altogether more slow and sensual manner than he would normally when saying goodbye. "I wouldn't dream of it."
And then he's gone. He knows as he stashes his laptop bag behind his seat that she's watching from the living room window, so he looks up and winks at her, absurdly happy that she's looking so well today.
It's the little things, it really is.
…
Normally, Boyd hates fraud with a passion. All sane police officers do. It takes a very special kind of madness to want to voluntarily wade through the ludicrously complex investigations and the disgusting amount of paperwork and exhibits even a small fraud case can generate. But in this instance, he's fascinated. Perhaps its due to the old-fashioned nature of the crime, and the sheer lengths it is quickly becoming apparent that Iain Wall and Glen Mulholland went to to cover their tracks. Either way, he's enjoying the early stages of digging into the mystery, so much so, that time passes quickly as he reads and before he knows it, it's gone lunch time.
Stomach growling, he glances at his watch, and then sits back in surprise. It's past time for his sandwiches, and long, long past time for a coffee.
"Have you managed to track down Wall?" he asks Spencer, as he heads for the fridge.
Mouth full, his colleague shakes his head. He swallows, then says, "I've left a message on the last known number for him, but he'll be in his early eighties by now, so…"
The rest of the sentence remains unspoken, but Boyd knows what's being left unsaid. So many of their investigations stall because the prime suspects or witnesses are now long dead or incapacitated by age and infirmity.
He shrugs. "You never know, perhaps we'll get lucky."
Spencer stares at him.
Trying his best to work the damn coffee machine, Boyd frowns. "What?"
"Nothing, nothing," Spence tries, clearly wanting to evade discussing whatever his thoughts were just moments ago.
"No, go on," pushes Boyd, his irritation with the overly complicated contraption before him beginning to rise.
Spencer sighs. Then, parrots, "'Perhaps we'll get lucky'".
"And?"
There's a pause, then, "That's very… optimistic… of you, sir. Not exactly your usual style."
Boyd shrugs to himself, thinking, that he likes to wrong-foot the troops occasionally, even as he glares at the coffee maker.
"Nothing wrong with a little optimism every once in a while, is there?" He looks up, finds his subordinate staring at him as if he's grown a second head.
Spencer is saved from answering by the clang of a door as Kat returns. "No luck with that address for Mulholland," she tells them in greeting, "but the neighbour said he moved with his third wife to Maidstone about six years ago. I'll get on to Kent Police after I've had some lunch. I'm bloody starving."
"Can you make this thing work first?" asks Boyd, scowling at the inert coffee maker.
"Do I look like a barista?" demands Kat, but she steps up and takes control, and within seconds the machine is making noises that sound rather promising to Boyd.
"I don't give a damn what you look like, as long as it's professional and you can do your job. And you help me make coffee."
Kat laughs, rolling her eyes at him.
Taking a seat at the central tables, Boyd starts to make headway into his lunch and asks, "So what have we got so far?"
Spence launches into a recap of everything Boyd has read for himself already, along with his own actions trying to trace one of the suspects. Kat hands over Boyd's coffee, and then seats herself at her desk with her own mug.
"Where's the love?" asks Spence, pausing in his monologue to raise his hands in protest.
"Did you ask?" says Kat, bluntly. Then, "What the hell have you done to my desk?"
Spencer frowns. "I haven't touched your desk."
"Don't even," snaps Kat, her face darkening with anger. "Look at this mess – I left everything orderly before I went out."
Her papers are indeed strewn across the workspace, and her jar of pens and pencils has been upended, the contents scattered across the documents, the chair and the floor. One has even made it as far as the giant plexiglass board, which at this stage in their investigation is still fairly blank.
Asserting his authority, Boyd snaps, "Enough, you two." Before he can get any further though, his mobile rings, the sharp tone catching his attention even from behind the walls of his office. He knows who it is even before he reaches his desk.
Even with the door shut, he keeps his back to the window and his voice low. "Hey. How are you?"
"Not too bad."
He knows her well, and she knows it, too. "Grace?"
"I had a nap not long after you left. I felt a bit faint, I don't know why."
Alarm rises, but he pushes it down. "Define 'a bit'."
There's a tiny sound at the other end of the phone. One that tells him she knows he's worried. "It's was just a bit, I promise. I could walk steadily, and my vision wasn't blurred like before. I just lay on the sofa and nodded off for an hour and a half, and when I woke up, I was fine."
"You're sure?"
"Peter, you'd see right through me if I was lying." It's a pointed response, but one without any sting.
"Well, yes, my ability to see through phone lines is well renowned."
The chuckle that meets his ears makes him smile.
"I'm fine. I'm more concerned that my nap buddy was absent when I woke up."
That catches his attention. "Really? I must have words with her later. It's in her job description."
"I thought that was to get rid of the mice? Without going outside." There's a pause, then, "You haven't let her out again, have you?" The question is accompanied with an audible smear of anxiety.
Guilt gnaws at him, but on this occasion, he's in the right. "No. I didn't even open the back door this morning."
"Well, I haven't seen her since we got back from the clinic."
It's unusual, but not totally unheard of, he muses. "Little ratbag must be hiding somewhere. I'm sure if you shake the treat box, she'll come out from wherever she is. Probably with one of my socks in her jaws."
That sparks a laugh. "How's your day going?" asks Grace.
"Okay. Seems like an interesting job. Spence and Kat are fighting."
"Why?"
He shrugs, completely forgetting she can't see him as he delves into his desk drawers. It's like that with her; he's so attuned to her, so familiar with her voice that he can easily forget he's on the phone when it's just the two of them in their sphere of quiet togetherness. "Dunno. Something to do with Kat's desk being a mess." Locating the small notebook of useful contacts he's been digging for, Boyd straightens.
"You'd better go then, I suppose," she sighs, her voice soft.
"I had," he rues. "Make sure you –"
"I've already eaten lunch," Grace interrupts, pushing straight through one of his eternal concerns. "And had another glass of water."
"Have a third," he prods, because it's what he does, who they are. He can picture her perfectly, shaking her head at him in mild exasperation.
"Whatever you say."
He barks a short, amused laugh. "As if! See you later, then."
"Bye."
There's a lot hidden in that short goodbye for both of them, but that's okay. They like subtle, private communication. Always have. And that's what leaves a faint smile playing on Boyd's lips as he makes his way back into the squad room and the petty squabble that is threatening ominously to turn into a full-scale battle.
"Enough," he barks, voice edged with a trace of anger. It catches their attention, makes both Kat and Spencer sink wordlessly back into their respective chairs like petulant school children. "Where the hell is Eve?" he demands.
"In her lab," responds Kat automatically. "Said it would take her most of the day to make an assessment of what there is in terms of forensics, and how to prioritise them."
"Well, great." The earlier amiability is now starting to fade in favour of irritability. Pretty standard, really. Reaching for what remains of his food, he waves at Kat to continue talking, not wanting to waste precious time. Realising he's left his daybook in his office, he growls and goes to retrieve it.
His pen is missing. The heavy silver refillable pen that was a gift many moons ago, complete with inscription. It has lived on his desk at work ever since, and has always been his preferred writing tool. Resisting the urge to shout in frustration when a quick sweep of the surface of his desk reveals nothing, he grabs a cheap plastic replacement emblazoned with the Metropolitan Police logo from his top drawer and stalks back to towards the door, anger burning.
"Have either of you," he begins, but then stops as his toe catches something and there is a clatter against the door. His pen is lying on floor, paces in front of him where his toe has just caught it and sent it skittering across the hard, industrial carpet tiles. "What the fuck?"
It was on his desk, he knows. And he'd have heard it fall to the floor if he'd accidentally knocked it off, which he knows he didn't.
Whatever, he has more important things to worry about now. "Go on," he instructs, waving vaguely at nothing in particular as he returns to both eating and trying to prioritise based on what he's being told. A picture starts to emerge, giving him thoughts, ideas. Still, as the impromptu meeting drags on, he's starts to become fidgety and bored. He knows all of this. Has read through it himself. His list of actions in his daybook isn't growing any longer the more his colleagues talk.
He needs to talk to Eve. Barking instructions at Spence and Kat to crack on with the enquiries they've just discussed, he pockets his pen and gets to his feet. He's just about to stride out for the doors when something moves in the far edges of his peripheral vision. Instantly swinging his head around, Boyd fixes his stare on the entrance to Grace's relatively recently created office. The door is ajar, just as she left it after her last day in the building. There's nothing there though, so Boyd scans across to the window, looking for whatever it was that caught his attention.
Nothing.
He frowns. There was definitely something; he's never been given to jumping at shadows. Moving steadily, he makes his way to the door and looks inside, but it's cold and empty, bare but for his lover's possessions and furniture.
Feeling a brief, sick feeling in the pit of his stomach at the desolate atmosphere of the room, he backs out of the doorway and heads for the lab, dismissing his twitchiness as tiredness.
A wave of loneliness washes over him as he walks the serviceable, no-frills corridors. It's not an unfamiliar feeling these days. There's just something missing without her that goes beyond her physical presence. Almost like the sun has been turned down.
"Why are you here?" demands Eve, a frown on her face as she looks up from the piles of boxes on her work table.
"Because I live in hope?" he suggests, amiably.
Eve laughs, the frown vanishing as her brown eyes fill with amusement and she shakes her head. "Sorry, Boyd. I'm still assessing what's here and trying to prioritise. The originally investigation actually saved a lot of stuff. Come back to me tomorrow. By lunch time I'll have some options for you."
He fights back a sigh, not wanting her to think that he thinks she isn't doing enough. "Okay, thanks." He's about to leave, when something occurs to him and he adds, "You spoken to Grace today?"
A nod precedes, "Yeah. She seemed in good spirits. We had a good chat, actually. It's nice to hear her sounding so positive."
Boyd stops by Eve's desk, surveys Mr Bones, whose empty eye sockets stare steadily back at him. "It's the good week this week," he acknowledges. Then, "I'm glad you two talk," he finally concludes. "It does her a lot of good to have someone other than me she can off-load to."
"I miss her." Eve's voice is quiet, but he doesn't fail to pick up on how genuine her words are.
"You and me both," he admits.
When he looks up, Eve is gazing at him. "Are you okay?" There's no judgement, no prying. Just an open question, and offer for him to talk.
Boyd smiles. Inclines his head. It's the truth, too. He's kept up his side of the bargain. Has been spending time with his brother to bleed off some of the poison, as they call it. "Yeah."
Still working, Eve replaces several bagged items into a box, reattaches the lid, and then reaches for the next box. "I'd like to take Grace out to lunch before she starts the next cycle," she announces.
Boyd knows what she's asking. Permission to take a much longer than usual lunch for the sake of getting Grace out of the house. It's an easy decision. "Sure, she'd like that. Just let me know when."
Eve moves over to her desk, flicks through the pages of her diary. "Thursday?" she suggests.
"Yeah. I'll be in court all morning anyway, and so will Spence. Pre-trial hearing for the Simmonds case."
"Fun." It's a dry assessment, one that makes his lips twitch. "I'll call her back later and ask." Eve reaches to her right, then frowns, searching the surface of her desk. "Have you filched my pen?" she accuses.
"No," protests Boyd, producing his own for her. "But mine went missing earlier, too."
An eyebrow rises. "How odd. You haven't pissed off any ghosts or poltergeists lately, have you?"
Boyd makes a small, disparaging noise in the back of his throat. "Very funny." He holds his hand out, gesturing to the pen. "I'll have that back please, if you're quite finished."
"Are you going to get out of my hair now?"
"Would I dream of keeping you away from your evidence for a moment longer than necessary?" He sees the sceptical look on her face and laughs. "Don't answer that. See you later."
…
Back in his own office, the door left open in case anyone needs to talk to him, Boyd turns his attention to the slew of emails that are demanding his attention, and the phone calls he can't put off any longer. Eventually, he's halfway through Spencer's six-month review when a commotion from the other side of the double doors makes him look up. Deciding it's well past time that he stretched his legs – and let his spine move – he gets to his feet and makes his way towards the central desks to investigate. If it's nothing, he'll take a trip to the gents and then see who he can coerce into making more coffee.
He's just made it past his office threshold when the left of the two doors suddenly swings open. Eve enters, followed by PC Aaron Wright, normally a response officer attached to the local policing team based on the ground floor but currently on a three-month attachment with the CCU, gaining experience of investigations as he makes up his mind about the future of his career. For a split second, everything appears normal. And then Boyd's eyes pick up on the one peculiar anomaly about the scene.
"Constable Wright," drawls Boyd, both amused and curious, "you are issued by the force a baton, handcuffs, and incapacitant spray, which I can see are all present and correct. Why, therefore, are you also armed with a cat?"
Despite being a nearly seven-year veteran of the streets of London, Aaron Wright is painfully shy. Doubly so when speaking to anyone over the rank of sergeant.
Accordingly, he stutters, "I, well, sir, we found… that is…" before grinding to a halt and flushing a shade of bright red that a tomato would be proud of.
On any given day, this sort of behaviour would be enough to infuriate him and probably cause his already meagre patience to snap, but today, Boyd is still holding on to that unusual good humour. Watching the young man, who he knows is only just twenty-six, Boyd is struck by how ungainly he looks; six-foot four and so scrawny and long-limbed that he just knows the force tailors had a devil of a job finding uniform to fit him.
Aaron clears his throat and tries again, but doesn't get much further.
Eve takes pity on him. "We caught her red-pawed trying to escape the lab."
Boyd steps closer, wondering how on earth a cat managed not just to get into the building, but also find its way all the way down to the CCUs lair.
It is Spencer, though, returning from the upper floors, who stops in his tracks, Kat bumping straight into him – and grumpily voicing her displeasure as she does so – as he demands, "Where the hell did that come from?"
For some unknown reason, Eve is smirking. There's no mistaking her mirth as she looks at Boyd and says, "I'm pretty certain that this is your pen thief."
"What makes you think –" he begins, and then he trails off as he takes another step forward, the cat turns to look at him, and the light conspires to let him see exactly who the alleged thief is. "Freyja," he gasps, incredulous, the name barely more than a whisper as it crosses his lips. "What the hell are you doing here?"
There's no doubt about it, Eve is highly amused now. And suddenly it makes sense, because she quite clearly can't wait to see how he's going to get himself out of this one without incriminating both himself and Grace.
Well fuck.
Aaron seems to rally himself. "I found it trying to sneak out of the lab."
"Her," corrects Eve, helpfully, just as Boyd says,
"Out of the lab?"
Looking at Freyja seems to help him, because without shifting his gaze to Boyd, Aaron manages to say, "Yes, sir. I was going back in and she was trying to come out. Doctor Lockhart told me to catch her, and bring her to you. After she stopped laughing."
"The cat, or Doctor Lockhart?" requests Boyd.
"Doctor Lockhart, sir."
"Oh, for heaven's sake, Aaron, how many times? It's Eve," protests Eve.
"Sorry, Eve."
Boyd keeps his tone even, decides to play his current adversary at her own game. "And why, pray tell, was Eve laughing?"
Aaron looks deeply uncomfortable as he risks a glance up at the most senior officer in the room, before very quickly looking down at Freyja again and tickling her under the chin. "I'm not sure, sir."
Boyd shifts his gaze to the resident pathologist. "Eve?"
"Hang on," interjects Spencer, a look of recognition dawning on his face. "Isn't that the cat that we found in Keely Walker's flat?"
"Yes, it is," confirms Eve, the glee all too evident on her face.
"The one Boyd gave to Grace?" pushes Spence.
Boyd clenches he teeth for a moment, then agrees. "Yes."
"Then how the bloody hell did she get in here?" exclaims Kat, stepping a little further forward to stare, though still keeping a healthy distance between her and Freyja.
It's the sixty-four-million-dollar question, thinks Boyd, who's mind has been in overdrive since the moment he recognised his mischievous pet.
As he's thinking, he becomes aware that there are four pairs of eyes fixed expectantly on him. "I have no idea," he tells them brusquely. Except…
He stares at Freyja, who is now lying upside down in Aaron's arm having her belly tickled. "You little fucker," he whispers, before striding into his office and grabbing his laptop bag. He dumps it on the central desks and yanks the compartments wide open. Sure enough, there is an amount of silvery fur inside the main section.
Spencer is now staring at him in what he can only describe as abject horror.
Words form in his mind, and he sifts through them carefully to avoid incriminating himself. "Grace can't drive at the moment," he announces. "So, I took her to an appointment this morning. I left my bag in her house so it wasn't unattended in the car."
"And you think the cat stowed away in the bag when you left?" guesses Kat.
Boyd nods, gestures. "There's fur in here." Reaching up, he rubs his beard in an absent, thoughtful sort of way, still thinking back over the morning's events. "Freyja," he adds, looking at his DS.
Kat looks confused. "What?"
"Her name," supplies Eve.
Spencer's hands are on his hips now. "And how the hell did you not notice the weight difference when you picked the bag up again?"
Boyd runs a hand through his hair, asking himself exactly the same question. Freyja isn't very big, even with several months of good meals behind her, and she doesn't exactly weigh very much, but surely he should have felt something was amiss when he made his way out of the house?
"The book," he mutters, realisation dawning. Spence, and now Kat, too, are eyeing him with scepticism. "I took a book with me that Grace wanted to borrow. It's a big old hardback I've had for donkey's years. I must have left the bag unzipped when I took it out."
He stares at Freyja, who is now wriggling in joy as Aaron plays with her paws, teasing her.
Little tart, he thinks, mildly disgruntled. That's my trick.
Spencer, it seems, is still not happy. There's an odd look in his eyes and a lot of disbelief in his voice as he half asks, half states, "You took Grace a book?"
Boyd glares at him, affronted. "We've been swapping books for ages," he snaps. "Grace is one of my best friends, has been for years. Is it so bloody hard to believe that I call her every day? Or that I'm doing my absolute level best to support her through this fucking nightmare, Inspector Jordan?" he barks, patience evaporating.
To his credit, the younger man looks appropriately abashed. And perhaps even a tiny bit guilty, too. "No," he mutters. Then, stronger, "No, not at all."
The tension is broken when Freyja suddenly twists in Aaron's arms and leaps. She lands on the desks and makes a beeline for Kat's recently re-ordered workspace. Before any of them can catch her, she attacks the pens and pencils, sending them skittering in all directions and then launching herself after them, lightning-fast paws swiping them back into movement as they still, initiating a game of chase as several plummet to the floor and she leaps athletically and delightedly after them, a cloud of papers flying into the air in her wake.
Kat swears angrily, Eve starts to laugh, and, sitting alone on his desk yet again, Boyd's mobile lets out a piercing shriek. He knows before he even turns around who it's going to be.
…
The journey home is nowhere near as peaceful as the one to work was. "Sit bloody still," growls Boyd, "or I'll zip you up inside the bag again."
Perhaps they both know his threats are empty, though, because Freyja shows no sign of giving up her new game of examining the inside of his car. Fending her off as she tries to climb into his lap, Boyd sighs and indicates to turn right.
"Fucking work, Freyja," he grumbles. "Really?" She disappears into the passenger footwell, only to return a few moments later. "What on earth possessed you?"
It's fruitless, his irritable, one-sided conversation, and he knows it. If anything, it's actually kind of funny, what's happened. Not that he'll admit it to Freyja. No, she's getting far too curious and strong-willed to be egged on by his grudging support of her inventiveness.
And at that thought, he stops himself cold. She's a fucking cat, not a child.
Boyd sighs. He's clearly becoming rather too soft as he ag… as the years march onwards. Either that, or some of Grace's abundant tolerance is finally, inevitably rubbing off on him.
Yeah, maybe that's it.
Far more palatable than the other option, he reckons.
"Oh, for Christ's sake, will you sit still?" he snaps as the cat pushes past his arm and disappears between the seats. "Of course not," he continues, deeply sardonic. "Do you know how much trouble you could've caused? You nearly blew the damn secret, you know."
He falls silent for a while. "And bloody Eve," he mutters under his breath, scowling. "What the hell was all that about?"
She definitely didn't mean any harm, he knows that. But even so…
Shaking his head, Boyd shifts his foot towards the brakes as he scans his mirrors and indicates. Thankfully, it's not too much further. Junction safely negotiated, he makes the automatic motion of another mirror check, but instead of seeing the traffic behind him, his eyes locate a striped, silvery tail moving from left to right in the reflection.
Great, just great.
"You do realise," he continues, well aware that there is an accusatory tone to his words, "that you've spectacularly failed to fulfil your duties today, don't you?" He flinches when a pair of front paws abruptly land on his shoulder and a cold nose pokes its way into his ear. "Shit, Frey', what was that?" There's a rumbling sound from the small feline's chest, one that makes any trace of irritation begin to ebb.
Bloody cat.
She's just so damn cute though.
And the fact that he even allows that particular word to cross through his mind…
Definitely going soft.
A rough tongue strokes the edge of his ear, but it's nowhere near as grim as he would have predicted. Even so, he tells her, "Don't you dare try and eat me. It's entirely your own fault you're hungry, you were supposed to spend the day looking after Grace for me."
Small, incredibly sharp teeth begin to nibble. "Freyja!" he barks, more out of shock at the sensation than anger as he yanks his head away. "You do your job, you get crunchies, you know how it works."
He continues to drive, wondering quite how his life managed to come to this; arguing with a cat. And for the remainder of the journey, Freyja stays where she is, front paws on his shoulder, observing the world passing by.
…
The contents of a large glass baking dish are bubbling merrily to themselves inside the oven, emitting a delicious scent that is slowly permeating through the room, there's a cold beer in his hand fresh from the fridge, and his woman is standing in front of him, leaning back into his chest as he keeps an arm snared firmly around her. It's pretty close to perfect, muses Boyd, as the pair of them watch Freyja determinedly munch her way through her dinner as he regales Grace with the afternoon's office antics, including Kat's horrified expression when he flatly refused to leave early to return their feline visitor to her home.
"She was running riot," he laughs, finally able to really see the funny side of it all now that he's away from work, Freyja is safe, and their secret is still intact.
"I was so worried," admits Grace.
"Oh, I know," Boyd tells her, eyeing the cat darkly for a moment. "We had words about it in the car. So much for keeping an eye on you for me."
"I don't need keeping an eye on," is the immediate protest, as he fully expected.
"Hm. That's debatable."
"Peter, I – "
Swiftly, he interrupts. "Grace, humour me on this one, okay? I'm just a busy, stressed, concerned man who would prefer to think that you at least have some sort of company whilst I can't be here with you."
She yields in an instant, and though it's gratifying that she sees his point, it's also a little sad that she's not continuing to argue with him. "Oh, all right."
He rests his head against hers, closes his eyes for a moment and simply soaks in her presence. "I'm not for one second suggesting that you can't look after yourself under normal circumstances, but we both know that… this… is not normal. I only have to close my eyes to think of all the disasters and complications." He doesn't mean to, but Boyd shivers as he delivers the last sentence. The memories are still too raw. Against his chest there is an almost imperceptible increase in pressure as Grace unconsciously leans just a little bit further back into him.
There's a sudden frog in his throat, and he has to cough to clear it before he can go on. "I have to go to work, maintain the façade. So, please, grant me the illusion that there's at least a bloody cat here with you, so I know you're not alone."
"A bloody cat?"
He grimaces, glad she can't see it. "Yeah, well, after today…"
"It's funny."
"Yeah, riotous."
"I thought you loved her?" It's a deliberate needle.
"I do," Boyd protests. "But seriously? Stowing away in my bag, trashing the office, almost revealing our secret, tormenting Kat this afternoon – though that was funny, I'll grant you – and let's not even talk about her behaviour in the car on the way home." He tries to affect an air of disgust, but he knows he's failing miserably. Freyja is just too… Freyja.
She's laughing at him. There are no two ways about it. Grace is laughing at him and there's nothing he can do about it because the whole thing really is hilarious. Boyd gives in. Shakes his head in disbelief, and chuckles.
"What are we going to do with her?" he finally asks, watching as their feline noses her way around her bowl, searching for any crumbs she might have missed.
"Nothing," says Grace promptly. "We're just going to let her be herself and enjoy it. Besides, she's a cat."
Nonplussed, Boyd tilts his head slightly, and takes a long sip of beer. "Eh?"
There's silence for a moment, then, "You've never had a cat before, have you?"
"My mother had one when I was very small," he remembers, "and there might have been a, uh, lady friend or two in the dim and distant who had a cat, but no. I haven't. Why?"
"You can't do anything with cats. They're free spirits. They have their own logic and their own rules, they do what they want, when they want and us mere humans just have to sit back and observe, I'm afraid. Cats are just… cats."
Boyd considers her words. "So, you're saying I should have got you a dog?"
The response is immediate. "Never!"
"Really?"
"Really."
"A dog would be a damn sight more obedient, and a hell of a lot less likely to go AWOL."
"A dog would also need walking twice a day, and a frightful amount of training, neither of which either of us have the time for."
"True," Boyd concedes. He thinks for a moment of the old adage about dog being man's best friend, but then he also thinks about the woman whose neck is blatantly inviting him to nuzzle the warm, soft skin that's on display. Strong, independent, feisty, determined. Traits it seems she very much shares with Freyja.
The cat it is then.
The cat in question has finished her meal, and after effortlessly stretching all the way from her toes to her spine and the tip of her tail, she saunters along the length of the counter completely ignoring both of them and disappears into her box, turning around once to make herself comfortable, and then sprawling out with the clear intention of going to sleep.
"Charming," mutters Boyd. "I bring you home, you stuff your face, and then go straight to bed."
Grace rocks her head back against his shoulder, clearly inviting him to carry on kissing her just above the collar of her sweater. "Have you never heard the saying, dogs have owners, cats have staff?"
"No," he admits lazily, far more focused on the scent of her, the feel of her beneath his lips. "Seems apposite," he eventually agrees. "She certainly seems to think that."
Laughter again, a sound he adores. "She does."
His beer is empty, but that doesn't matter. As he abandons the bottle on the counter beside him, Boyd concentrates on turning Grace carefully in his arms. Thoughts of their vexatious but lovable pet have faded from his mind now and instead he's thinking about kisses. Deep, unhurried kisses.
This time he finds her lips, taking his time to explore, to slowly, steadily build the fire he knows he will see in her eyes when they part. It's glorious, every moment of it, and when the oven timer breaks into their reverie, jarring them back into the present, she's weak-kneed enough that he has to help her sit whilst he serves up their tea, his smugness overriding even the disapproving green eye peering steadily out at them from the box in the corner.
A/N ~ A daybook is the detective equivalent of a uniformed officer's pocket notebook. In some forces, uniformed officers in supervisory roles also maintain daybooks as their larger size affords more space for notetaking when dealing with a team of staff members and managing multiple live incidents at the same time.