DISCLAIMER: I own nothing
Happy birthday to Scription Addict! xx
Gifts
by Joodiff
"Don't you like it?" The question is quiet, pensive.
"I love it," Grace assures him, not needing to lie. The necklace is quirky, striking, very much to her taste. Lapis lazuli in a bold, asymmetrical silver setting. More than a hint of Art Nouveau in the eye-catching design. Definitely an antique piece. She already knows it's going to be a firm favourite, worn often and with affection. Letting its heavy chain run through her fingers, she continues, "Where on earth did you find it?"
Even though he is recumbent, Boyd manages a nonchalant shrug. "One of your favourite places - Portobello Road."
Some considerable thought and effort have gone into the choice and acquisition of her birthday present this year, she reflects. This is not something vaguely appropriate hurriedly snatched from a convenient shop at the very last minute as has been the case on many of the years when he's actually remembered to buy her anything at all. He's generous enough, but birthdays and the like have never rated high on his list of priorities. By any standards, this year is a triumph.
"It's gorgeous," she says. Treating him to a sunny smile she adds a heartfelt, "Thank you."
Rustling recently-torn and discarded wrapping paper as he does so, he shifts position enough to bestow an obligatory sort of kiss on her lips. Dutiful, even loving, but without the heat and intensity of the previous night. It doesn't worry her, the notable difference. He draws back to study her, his gaze intent and thoughtful. "What's the matter?"
He's too perceptive sometimes.
Grace considers dissembling, but what would be the point? After so many shared years and tumultuous events they're long past such casual deceit. She sighs, returns her attention to the necklace, again threading the silver links back and forth through her fingers. "Tonight."
"Tonight," he echoes, starting to frown. "Dinner at Eve's?"
"It was a lovely idea," she says, trying to assuage distant pangs of guilt, "and it's very kind of her…"
Boyd leans up on an elbow, a stray shaft of thin morning light striking him from the side, sharpening his brooding features. "But…?"
How can she explain? He will understand, she's almost sure of that, but the idea of dealing with the… difficulties… that might arise because of the conversation is not appealing. Her answer is oblique. "Perhaps it would have been better if we'd all just gone to the pub after work last night, like we usually do when it's someone's birthday."
He studies her for a few more contemplative seconds. It's impossible to guess what he's thinking. She's about to speak again when he says, "It's for them as much as for you, Grace."
Much too perceptive. More empathic than most people realise, too. It's not just dinner for someone's birthday, it's a celebration of life, of hope. A touch wry, she pats his bare forearm. "Well done. I'm proud of you."
He snorts. "It may be your birthday, Grace, but that does not give you licence."
"To tease you?"
"Quite."
She chuckles. "You love it really."
The sceptical look does not fade. "Hm."
"We should get up," she says, hoping she's sufficiently distracted him from pursuing what could be a very thorny discussion.
She hasn't. Head still propped on his hand, he asks, "Why don't you want to go to Eve's? You were all for it when she first suggested it."
Grace sighs again. "Oh, I know, I know. Perhaps I just hadn't thought it through properly."
"What is there to think through? It's dinner with your colleagues, Grace, not an invitation to bloody purgatory."
"I thought that was exactly how you viewed it?"
"How I view it is irrelevant," he tells her, sitting up. He stretches, interesting lines of muscle and bone momentarily sharply delineated, then scratches a stubbly cheek for a moment before running his hand over his beard and then to his hair, smoothing some of the wilder silvery spikes and tufts. His interrogative gaze settles on her again. "Come on, out with it."
She's not the only one to have noticed that he's mellowed a little over the last few years, but neither is she the only one to have observed that he can still be every bit as impatient and irascible as he ever was. Easing herself up against the pillows, Grace glances at the clock on the wall above the achingly modern chest of drawers. Very much his taste, not at all hers. It's only just past nine. Wondering if it will be enough, she ventures, "Well, for a start, it's Saturday…"
"So?" Boyd looks perplexed. "What's that got to do with anything?"
"Doesn't it feel a bit weird to you? Meeting up with your colleagues at the weekend?"
Again, he shrugs. "Maybe. Hadn't really thought about it."
She knows he has. Professional boundaries, all that sort of thing. Then, he's never been a conventional sort of boss to any of them, and with one exception they've been together a long time as a team. Friendships have inevitably formed, never more so than in the last six months. The thought is a sobering one, bringing to the front of her mind many of the things she spends a lot of time consciously trying not to think about. Trying to escape the inevitable avalanche, she reaches out to take his hand. His skin is warm, and the strength in the fingers that interlace with hers instantly grounds her. It's a good feeling. "We could cancel… I'm sure Eve would understand."
"Understand what?" he demands, a deepening frown creasing his brow. "Last night you were – "
"I know, I know," she interrupts. "Oh, ignore me, Boyd, I'm just being silly. Come on, now, we really should – "
She's not the only one who can interrupt. "Silly about what? Talk to me, woman."
He has a gentle side, she knows that better than anyone, but even away from the stress of work his tolerance can ebb fast when it's tested. Ebb, and then vanish completely. She's not interested in arguing with him, not today of all days. Retrieving her hand, she sits up properly, ready to swing her legs out from under the covers and head straight for the bathroom if he becomes even testier. "It's my birthday."
"Yeah, I'm aware of that, Grace. Hence the gift and the bottle of Premier Cru waiting downstairs in the fridge. So?"
"So…" she says, drawing the word out. "I'm going to have to spend the whole evening at Eve's pretending that my… partner… is nothing more to me than a long-standing colleague and an old friend."
Boyd looks perplexed, as if he really doesn't understand her predicament. "And? Christ, we play that game at work quite successfully every single bloody day without a problem, don't we?"
"That's exactly my point," Grace tells him, watching as he rises from the bed and paces across the room to retrieve and don the comfortable, threadbare dressing gown hanging on the back of the door. Since the moment she first saw it she's had a strong suspicion that its acquisition predated his tenure at the CCU by a significant margin. Burgundy with faded pinstripes that might once have been white. "Don't you ever get tired of pretending?"
Hands thrust deep into the pockets of the elderly garment he regards her with thoughtful bemusement. "Whether or not I do is irrelevant, isn't it? We've talked about this, Grace. More than once."
"I know," she says, absently smoothing out creases in the silky fabric of her light pyjamas.
"And on every single occasion we agreed, did we not, that discretion was the best policy?"
"But what we talked about didn't cover a situation like this evening, did it?" she points out. "We've never once talked about what we would do if we were faced with an entirely social situation like tonight."
"True, but…" Boyd shrugs, as if he's not sure how to continue the sentence. "We didn't plan this, Grace, any of it. It just sort of… happened."
"So romantic," she drawls, unable to pass up the opportunity to needle him.
He scowls at her in response. "You can dress it up all you like, but it's the truth, and you know it. We stumbled into… this… whatever you want to call it, and we've been figuring it out as we went along ever since."
Not the way she would have described their situation, but his assessment is essentially true. The dark, confusing days after Linda, the fear that overtook them both when it seemed that the endless cancer treatments were doing nothing; the loneliness, the need to turn to someone – anyone – to hold onto in the empty hours. The numb shock of breaking down all the barriers that existed between them. The strange reality of becoming them. Easing from the bed, she goes to him with a surprising lack of self-consciousness, lets him gather her up into an embrace that is clumsy but incredibly secure. Head resting on his chest, she says, "I told you I was just being silly. Sometimes it's… difficult… that's all."
"I know," he says surprising her. "Believe me, I know. But what other choice do we have? You know just how well received the news would be in certain quarters."
"I'm not talking about taking out a full-page advert in The Guardian, Boyd."
"Or yet The Telegraph."
More irritable than she intends, she retorts, "Whatever. I'm just saying – "
His arms don't loosen around her. "I know what you're saying, Grace. You think it's any easier for me? I've had it with clandestine relationships. At least, I thought I had."
Not sure how to react, she peers up at him to say, "I really hope you're not comparing me to Jess Worrall."
"Completely different situation," is his brusque reply. "I was married back then, in case you'd forgotten."
She's heard the whole sorry story. More than once. "I hadn't."
He grunts, then says, "Turned out being an adulterous son-of-a-bitch didn't suit me. Not one little bit."
Grace knows he's not lying. Machiavellian he might well sometimes be in his professional life, but not in his private one. Personal integrity is a redeeming trait she has always admired in him. "Well, as you said, this is completely different. Neither of us are cheating on anyone."
Boyd relaxes his hold on her, draws back a little. "So what are you trying to say, Grace? What are you really trying to say?"
"Nothing more than I've already said. I'm going to find it difficult tonight, that's all."
"It's a couple of hours, tops," he tells her, mounting exasperation clear.
"I know." Pulling away from him, she moves across the room to open the heavy curtains. Outside it is a crisp December morning, white frost still lying thick on the lawn, on the shed roof, on the gently decaying net hanging from the rusting frame of the child's football goal. Early winter in London. Not looking back at him, she says, "I'm quite capable of playing the game, you know that. It's just that sometimes I question if it's really necessary."
He snorts. "If it keeps the Yard off our backs, it's necessary."
Glancing round, she says, "But tonight… tonight we're just a group of old friends having dinner together, aren't we? You, me, Spence, and Eve."
"And Kat," he reminds her.
"Well, yes," Grace concedes, "but she's never given us a reason not to trust her, has she?"
Boyd joins her at the window and they stand shoulder-to-shoulder looking out at his neglected back garden. "I don't think I like the way this is going, Grace."
"It's not going anywhere," she tells him, tiring of the discussion.
He sounds wary as he asks, "This conversation, or…?"
She barely refrains from rolling her eyes. "Now you're just jumping to idiotic conclusions. Paranoia is not an attractive quality, Boyd."
He seems to accept the gentle rebuke. "All right, all right. Point taken. So what happens now?"
It's time, she decides, to pull herself together. To get on with what they had both planned to make a special day. "You can go and make breakfast while I have a shower, and later we'll go out for lunch, just you and me, the way we planned."
His reply is reproachful. "That's not what I meant, Grace."
"I know," she says again. Repetition is not original, but sometimes it's necessary. "You're right. The rumour mill is already dangerous enough without adding fuel to the fire. We'll go to Eve's in separate cars, play the game, leave at different times. Keep on pretending."
He's silent for several meaningful seconds. When he speaks, there's a gruff edge to his tone. "But that's not what you want, is it?"
Rueful, she almost smiles to herself. "Sadly, I'm more than old enough to know that we can't always have what we want."
Another silence, longer and even more loaded than the first. It's broken by a heavy sigh and, "They won't take it well, you know."
Bewildered by the non sequitur, Grace turns to look at him. "Take what well?"
"The news that I'm screw – "
The sharp interjection is automatic. "Boyd."
His lip curls a derisive fraction. "Well, they won't. You're the bloody psychologist; tell me Spence doesn't have a nascent Oedipus complex."
"He doesn't," she says firmly, but her mind is racing elsewhere as she tries to analyse what he seems to be saying.
One dark eyebrow rises a calculated fraction. "If you say so. Just don't be surprised on Monday if you find me face down in the interview room with a knife sticking out from between my shoulder-blades."
It's her turn to be impatient. "What are you talking about?"
Boyd turns his back on the window, leans one shoulder against the wall and folds his arms across his chest. His reply is grave. "Repercussions, Grace. I'm naturally assuming that I'll be cast as the villain of the piece. Spence for one will never believe that it was you who jumped on me."
"Have you finally gone completely mad?" she inquires, wondering if it could be a real possibility. He's always had a few screws loose, which, if pressed, would indeed be her professional diagnosis. Probably.
He seems to be watching a large pigeon that has just landed on the shed roof. "Perhaps. I'm not really sure. As I said, you're the psychologist, not me. And you did."
She did. She remembers it quite distinctly. Late at night, arguing alone in the bunker. One of those infuriating slap-him-or-kiss-him moments. The latter won out. Just. "Yes, I'm fully aware of that, thank you, and that's not what I meant."
Boyd doesn't unfold his arms. Still watching the pigeon, he says, "You want to come clean? Fine, we'll come clean. Tell them what's been going on. On one condition."
Time and experience have taught Grace to be wary. "What's that?"
He turns his head towards her. "Everyone understands the score. What we do outside of work is our business, no-one else's. They don't gossip about it, they don't even bloody mention it. Not at work."
His vehemence surprises her a little. "Well, I doubt – "
"I mean it, Grace," he interrupts. "Maureen Smith for one would do everything she could to hang me out to dry given the slightest excuse. Her promotion is exceedingly dangerous – and not just for me."
Something they have already discussed several times. There are still things that need explanation. "What is it between you and Maureen?"
"Historical incompatibility," he says, typically laconic.
She wonders if she'll ever get to the root of the problem. Ever understand the abrasive relationship between the two senior police officers. "Very enigmatic."
"Best you're going to get, Grace. Well?"
She eases her exasperation with a haughty, "Well, what?"
"Oh, for heaven's sake…" Boyd takes a deep breath, unfolds his arms and immediately thrusts his hands back into the pockets of his dressing gown. "I'm doing my best here."
Grace studies him for a moment, well aware that his patience is wearing thin. Not a surprise. Not now, not ever. Taking her turn to stare out of the window, she says, "You're assuming, of course, that they haven't worked it out for themselves."
"I'm not assuming anything," he growls. "You're the one who's suddenly twitchy about going tonight. Tell them, or don't tell them, it doesn't matter to me."
She scowls at the outside world. "'It doesn't matter to me'?"
"You know what I mean. Don't twist it into something it's not." Brusque, irritable.
Her patience is not infinite, either. Voice equally sharp, she snaps, "Listen to yourself, Boyd. Do you have any idea – "
"Grace," he barks, then abruptly holds his hands up in placatory fashion. "Look, I'm just trying to do whatever it takes to make you happy, that's all."
She opens her mouth to bite back at him, then closes it. She's known him for years, knows just how blunt and tactless he tends to be. Knows, too, that however antagonistic he can be, he cares. About her, about their colleagues. About all the people his tenacious dedication to serving justice helps. Truth be told, despite his explosive temper there is more vindictive spite in her than there is in him. She inhales slowly, deeply. Exhales with just as much deliberate control. "Shall we start again?"
Boyd doesn't look like the idea holds much appeal, but he allows a slight nod. "That might be a very good idea."
"If we tell them," she says, choosing her words with care, "it has to be for the right reasons. It has to be because we want to, because we trust them, because they're our friends… not just because you think it will make me happy."
He mutters something under his breath, and at the challenging look she throws him repeats, "I'll never bloody understand you, Grace. Never."
"I know," she says, making it a solemn statement, "but you never know, you might really enjoy continuing to try."
He glowers at her. "Debatable."
Grace is winning, and she knows it. "We both know how much you love a challenge."
He seems to brighten at that. "We do."
"I think we should talk about the psychology behind that, you know," she says, quite prepared for the predictable groan of protest. As it happens, she adds, "In bed, perhaps. Now, and at some considerable length."
The suggestion captures his interest every bit as promptly and thoroughly as she knew it would. "Oh?"
"Mm. I'll trade lunch out for brunch at home. If…"
"Yeah?" A little too eager. It amuses her.
"If," Grace repeats, "you promise to behave yourself tonight. If the word 'screwing' comes close to passing your lips even once…"
Boyd grins, the sudden startling change of expression lighting up his sombre features. "Ah, Grace, you drive a hard bargain."
"It has been said," she agrees. "By you, in fact."
He pushes away from the wall, straightens up. Looking down at her he says, "So we're going to tell them, then?"
The idea is vaguely terrifying. But exciting, too. "I think we should. Sooner rather than later."
He looks less than enthusiastic, but he does eventually nod. "All right."
Reaching out to run a finger slowly down the exposed portion of his chest, she says, "Think of it as an extra birthday present."
There's a familiar glint in his eye as he retorts, "Right now, lady, I'd rather give you something else entirely."
Trying not to smirk, she says, "Oh, I'm sincerely hoping you can manage both, Boyd."
"Depend on it," he says, crowding towards her. As he lowers his head to kiss her, he murmurs, "Happy birthday, Grace."
- the end -