THREE

"Doctor Wharton," a pleasant female voice says in her ear seconds after she takes the telephone receiver being held out to her by Hillier, one of the junior lab technicians assigned to her project, "I know it's late, but I have a gentleman in reception for you."

Startled, Frankie blinks, then frowns. "Eh?"

"A police officer," the well-modulated voice informs her. "He says – "

To her annoyance her pulse quickens as she interrupts, "Tall? Well-dressed? Looks as if he might have been a prop forward back in the day?"

"Yes," the receptionist confirms, "that's him. Detective Superintendent Boyd. Do you want to send someone down, or…?"

Glancing at her watch and realising it's heading for half-past five, Frankie says, "No, I'll come down myself. Ask him to wait, will you? I'll be about ten minutes."

"Of course, Doctor." There's a soft click and the line goes dead. Replacing the receiver in its cradle, Frankie glances round the big, brightly-lit laboratory. Several lab-coated technicians are diligently at work cleaning equipment, entering data at terminals and doing all the other important, mundane tasks that are required at the end of each and every working day. Her immediate junior, Doctor Paul Wrigley, is still at his desk, writing out notes in longhand. She doubts he will leave the building before mid-evening. Nothing and no-one to go home to. Almost grimacing at the parallel, she heads over to him, stripping off latex gloves and dumping them in the appropriate disposal bin as she goes.

"Frankie," he says, looking up as she approaches, "look at this. I think I might be onto something."

Glancing at neat lines of complicated equations and chemical formulas, she says, "Do you mind if I take a look in the morning? Old friend of mine's just turned up out of the blue, and he's waiting for me down in reception."

"Huh?" Wrigley shakes his head. "Oh. Okay. No, that's fine. Go on. I'll shut everything down here before I leave."

"Thanks, Paul," she says, preparing to move away, "I owe you one."

He looks faintly wistful as he says, "You can buy me a drink sometime, if you like. 'Night, Frankie."

He likes her, Frankie thinks as she leaves the main laboratory, removes her lab coat in the vestibule beyond, and goes to collect her things from her office. Likes her in that way but has thus far failed to summon enough courage to do anything about it. Too professional, she wonders, or just not confident enough? Either way, it's irrelevant. Even if there wasn't… someone else… lurking on the horizon, Wrigley is not her type. Not at all.

She likes the wild ones. That's what her mother always used to say, her hectoring tone somewhere between disapproval and despair, and it's not an accusation Frankie has ever really been in any position to deny. There was David when she was in her mid-teens and still at secondary school, followed by Gary and then by Mark, the latter turbulent relationship lasting well into her first term at university. Bad boys all, in their own different ways. By the time she'd announced her sudden and controversial decision to remain in Cyprus with Andreas, virtually every conversation with her mother had included some doleful variation of 'Heaven knows what your father would have said…'.

Shrugging into her jacket as she heads for the lift, Frankie shakes her head to herself. John Wharton, pharmacist, talent amateur painter and dedicated fisherman, had died three months before her sixth birthday. Inoperable brain tumour. She remembers him as a big, jovial man, always cheerful, always willing to set aside whatever he was doing to pay her attention. His features are blurred in her mind now, and she can't quite remember what his voice sounded like. Only that it had seemed, to her as a little girl, very, very deep. The few photographs she has of him seem to become less and less real to her with every passing year. She was named, she knows, after his mother, Frances Anne Wharton, who outlived her only child by more than nine years before succumbing to pneumonia one particularly bad winter.

Daddy issues, that's what Will had accusingly said five or six years ago, not long before they split for the final time. You need to deal with your daddy issues, Frankie, or you'll end up on your bloody own…

It's rubbish. Of course it is. Armchair psychology at best. She's not looking for a father-figure, just for someone who…

Gets me.

Standing in the lift with three people she doesn't know, Frankie concentrates on her breathing. Slow and deep. In, out; in, out. Controlled, calming.

Peter Boyd. He's got something to say, no doubt about that. What that something might be, she's less sure.

Unlike Wrigley, he is her type. Fierce, quick-tempered, endlessly curious. Wears his heart on his sleeve, just like her. Funny when he wants to be. Completely fearless, not easily brought to heel. Lots of uncharted depths to explore, lots of hidden twists and turns to his character. Complex, eccentric, and infuriating. Stubborn. Rock steady when he needs to be.

Wild.

…Though perhaps not quite as wild as he once was, if half the rumours that had frequently circulated around the unit about some of his exploits as a much younger officer had possessed any grain of truth.

The lift comes to a gentle stop and its doors slide open, revealing the large, ultra-modern reception area that welcomes staff and visitors alike to the West London headquarters of the research and development arm of Hartmann Pharmaceuticals, a large and rapidly-expanding multinational with a burgeoning portfolio. Something about the high ceiling, the big cream sofas and the ridiculously long stretches of glass and chrome always makes Frankie feel like a very small cog in a very big machine. Which, she supposes, is exactly what she is.

Boyd is standing by the sleek white reception desk, chatting idly to the receptionist. Flirting idly with her, Frankie amends with an inward scowl, knowing exactly what he's like. He flirts because he can, because he's an attractive man, and it's easy. There's hardly ever any real intent behind it. He sees her before she's within twenty feet of him, says something to the receptionist with a final dazzling smile, then turns away and ambles towards her. A brown paper bag, of the heavy-duty type with small handles attached, swings nonchalantly from his left hand, and as the distance between them closes, Frankie eyes it with increasing suspicion.

"Hi," she says, realising as she does so that she greeted him in the same fashion a little under twenty-four hours previously. Originality, it seems, is not her strong point.

"Hi," Boyd replies, proving that it isn't his, either. They look at each other for a couple of seconds too long before he lifts the bag slightly and says, "I got you this."

Definitely not flowers. Good. "Oh, right."

"Might be a peace offering," he says, holding it out to her, "but I'm not quite sure. Gave up trying to decide."

The weight of the bag informs her of the contents long before she peers into it to confirm her suspicions. "Pinot noir."

"They were all out of White Lightning."

"Fuck off, Boyd," she tells him, but she appreciates the humour nonetheless. Cheap, high-strength cider, the students' friend. She's drunk worse. When she realises he's leaning in towards her, she stretches up on her tiptoes, allows him to brush a light, whiskery kiss against her cheek. Her heart seems to be beating fast and very loudly in her chest.

She's about to speak when a confident, American-accented male voice behind her says, "Ah, Frances. I thought it was you. Are you going to introduce me to your… friend?"

"Martin," she says, turning towards the slim, besuited middle-aged man walking up to them. "Um, this is Peter Boyd, my – "

" – partner," the man concerned supplies with breath-taking audacity. He holds out his hand. "Pleased to meet you, Mr…?"

"Bowden," Martin says, shaking the proffered hand without hesitation. "Martin Bowden, head of development here in London."

"Sort of my boss," Frankie says, putting a deliberate stress on the words that she hopes Boyd will heed. Don't fuck about, big guy, not here and now, or you'll be in serious trouble later…

"I see," Boyd says with a gravity that sounds sincere but almost certainly isn't. "Well, Mr Bowden, according to my watch it's gone quarter-to-six, so if you'll excuse us, the lady has somewhere to be."

"Sure," Martin says, with an easy smile. "Have a good night. See you tomorrow, Frances."

"Yeah," she says weakly as he moves off, "'bye, Martin."

She turns her head to look at Boyd. His expression is a perfect study in neutrality. She narrows her eyes, not trusting him a single inch. One dark eyebrow lifts a fraction, then settles again as he gives her a slow, deliberate wink that couldn't be any more wicked.

Oh, for…

-oOo-

"…fuck's sake," Boyd complains, sitting up straight and making a belated grab for the glass she has just accidentally upended over a fair proportion of her side of the crisp, clean white duvet cover. Pinot noir, dark as blood, absorbs rapidly into the cloth, spreading out as it goes to form an impressive stain. He shakes his head. "Well done, klutz."

"Oops," Frankie says, stretching languidly as she watches his vain attempts at damage-limitation, mildly hypnotised by the smooth movement of muscle under bare skin. "Do you still have Mrs Briggs twice a week?"

"Do my libido a huge favour and rephrase that," he instructs her, his attention still on the spill. "I don't think anyone's 'had' Mrs Briggs since the late 'sixties, including Mr Briggs."

She laughs, an image of his formidable cleaning lady flitting through her mind. Their first – and only encounter – had been an unexpected morning meeting on the landing outside the bedroom door when Frankie, who, like the owner of the house, should by rights have been at work, but… wasn't… was caught en route to the bathroom. The fact that she'd only been wearing one of Boyd's shirts in the face of Mrs Briggs's surprised, disapproving stare hadn't helped at all. Reaching for the bottle and finding it empty, she says, "It's your own fault, anyway. When you said I had somewhere to be, I assumed you meant a fancy restaurant."

He favours her with a shark-like grin. "Ah, well you know what they say about 'assume', don't you, Frankie?"

She gives him a heavy shove with her shoulder. It doesn't have much effect, given the notable disparity in their overall size and weight. "Yeah, yeah. Smart arse."

As he stubbornly continues to attempt to mitigate the damage, Frankie allows herself a moment or two to glance round the room, searching for any significant changes she might have missed earlier. There are none. Same muted colours, same furnishings. The same rather good watercolour of cliffs and a stormy seascape above the closed-off fireplace, the same big, scuffed leather armchair in the corner of the room near the window; the same battered 'sixties Gibson guitar propped up next to it. The same large, untidy stack of books on the floor there, too, though she imagines the titles have changed. More than any other room in the house, this is Boyd's sanctuary, the comfortable, comforting place he retires to after every long, stressful day. The whisky bottle and the phone next to the bed haven't changed, either, she notices, though the former looks barely touched. He's not, never has been, a heavy drinker.

Grumbling to himself, Boyd gives up on the spill, subsides onto his side, half propped up on an elbow, and regards her with weary amusement. "I should've learned my lesson last time. The very first time you stayed here, you managed to break the bloody shower."

She'd forgotten that. Leaning back against the untidy heap of pillows she's managed to accumulate, she offers him an unrepentant smirk. "Can't say you didn't know what you were letting yourself in for this time, Pete."

"Hm." He rolls over onto his back, turns his head enough to say, "Just try not to wake me up in the morning by kneeing me straight in the balls, eh?"

"That," Frankie points out, remembering the unfortunate incident in question, "was a complete accident, and it only happened once. Once."

"Once," Boyd tells her, "was quite enough, thank you. There's ordinary-clumsy, and then there's Frances-clumsy, which somehow manages to reach a whole other level. To think I knowingly put you in charge of tens of thousands of pounds' worth of delicate scientific equipment…"

She pounces on him, thoroughly enjoying the energetic resulting scuffle that ends the only way it was ever going to, with her firmly pinned beneath him. The weight and warmth of him are familiar, reassuring, and for a moment the last year simply disappears, wiped away by all the rapidly-surfacing memories of how things used to be. He stares down at her, gentle and amused, and she wonders why it took them so long to find their way back to each other.

Beautiful eyes. She noticed that very early on. Brown, like hers, but greener. Less chestnut, more hazel. She can remember – vividly – the first time she saw him. A tall, commanding presence at one of the coldest, bleakest, wettest crime scenes it had ever been her misfortune to attend, before or since. He'd looked taut and keen, the startling dark eyes looking mesmeric in the stubbled, chilled face. It had taken her roughly thirty-two seconds to discover that despite his good looks and his expensive suit the then-Detective Chief Inspector Peter Boyd had a sharp tongue, a will of iron, and a very good grasp of basic Anglo-Saxon. Less than eighteen months later she'd accepted the job he'd offered her with what was to become the CCU.

I might just be in a little bit in love with you, she thinks as she runs the tips of her fingers lightly down his cheek and across the dense stubble of his beard, the force and clarity of the words coming as a complete surprise. It's not the time to say such a risky thing aloud, not yet, so Frankie settles for craning her neck to kiss him. It's enough. For now.

-oOo-

In contrast to the night before, the morning is crisp and dry, the slight sharp edge to the temperature hinting that autumn is well on its way. It'll be warmer later in the day, no doubt, once the sun has struggled high enough in the sky. For now, there's still a too-early nip in the air that requires much uninvited fiddling with the car's overly-complicated climate controls before Frankie's anything like happy. Boyd casts a disapproving frown or two in her direction as he drives but says nothing as she presses buttons and twists dials. He'll be even earlier than usual arriving at work, she knows, but for him that's no hardship. By the time she's had a quick shower, put on fresh clothes and navigated the vagaries of the London Underground, she will reach her office just about on time.

She can still smell him on her skin. It's subtle, that musky, male scent, but it's there. Familiar and distinctive, she catches a heady trace of it every time she moves. She definitely needs a shower. Should have accepted his sly invitation and had one at his house instead of doggedly snatching the extra few minutes under the duvet. Then, doing so would almost certainly have ended with them both being late for work.

"You busy this weekend?" he inquires, his tone determinedly casual.

"Yeah," Frankie says, crossing her legs at the ankles and pushing her cold hands even deeper into her jacket pockets. "I'm busy entertaining all my other gentlemen friends." A beat. "What do you think?"

"I think," he says, still nonchalant, "that we should go out for a drive. Maybe have lunch at some disgustingly quaint country pub."

"All right," she agrees, liking the idea. Simple pleasures. "Just not in that old wreck of yours."

"'Old wreck'?" Boyd echoes, scandalised. "That's the peak of 'fifties automotive engineering you're talking about."

"Bollocks. Give me a nice modern MX5 any day."

He shakes his head. "Sacrilege."

Grinning, Frankie uncrosses her ankles. "It may have been the car you desperately wanted when you were a kid, Boyd, but for those of us who don't actually remember the Coronation – "

"Fuck off, Frankie," he interrupts, clearly outraged, "I was two. Stay at home on your own eating pizza and watching crap television all weekend, then. See if I bloody care."

She laughs, loud and unrestrained, and after a moment he laughs, too. A quick mutual glance, amused and affectionate, sets the seal on the moment. Emboldened, she says, "So we're really doing this, are we? You and me?"

"You want me to send you an official memo?"

"Tricky, given that I work for Hartmann now."

Boyd's answer is solemn. "I'll give you my business card."

"Ooh," she mocks. "Can I have your direct dial number, too?"

"Hm, not sure about that, Doctor Wharton. One step at a time."

She laughs again, as amused as she ever was by his obscure, dark sense of humour. Realising that they are not too far away from their destination now, she says, "You lot going to the White Hart tonight? Spence told me it's your new haunt."

"Yeah," he replies, slowing for the traffic lights ahead. "Unless something important crops up. Grace is insisting we need to do some team-building, and I'd rather go to the pub than pay out for everyone to spend a day playing Cowboys and Indians in the bloody woods, or whatever other complete bollocks HR are keen on at the moment."

"She's probably right, you know," Frankie tells him. The painful memories stir, but she valiantly ignores them to add, "You need to give her a chance, Pete. This new French girl of yours."

"So I've been told," he says, bringing the car to a smooth stop.

"Anyway," she continues, before the conversation becomes too melancholy, "I was thinking… if you're all going for a quick drink after work, maybe… well, maybe I could join you?"

Boyd turns his head to look at her, a slight frown creasing his brow. "You sure you're ready for that?"

"No," Frankie admits, "but the longer I leave it… It's not Stella's fault she's not Mel, is it? And Felici… Felix… wouldn't have joined the unit if I hadn't… done what I did, would she? Shit – bad shit – happened, but it wasn't their fault."

"You've been talking to Grace," Boyd accuses without any asperity.

"Maybe a little," Frankie admits, thinking of several very long evening phone calls between Edinburgh and London. "On and off. She's right, though, isn't she?"

"She usually is, but don't ever tell her I said so."

"So, you're all right with it?" Frankie presses. "Me coming along?"

He frowns again. "Any reason why I shouldn't be?"

She wonders if he's being deliberately obtuse. "Well, you know… us."

An incredulous snort is followed by, "If you think that's going to stay a secret for more than five sodding minutes with Sherlock-bloody-Foley around…"

"Hm," she says, as the car starts to move again. "Yeah, I take your point."

-oOo-

There's nothing remarkable about Frankie's day. She arrives on time for work, ploughs through all the emails and administrative crap that are an unfortunate but necessary part of her job, makes time to talk to Wrigley and examine his findings, then returns to the most exciting and potentially successful of the experiments that she, herself, is currently running. It's absorbing and interesting work, but there's a growing part of her that is beginning to dwell wistfully on the excitement and variety of her former career. Perhaps returning to forensics is an option for the future, after all. Not to the CCU, of course, but there are plenty of other avenues to explore.

She doesn't think about Boyd much. It's not a conscious decision, she's just always been good at compartmentalising things. When he does cross her mind, it's with a kind of wry affection edged with mild excitement for the weekend ahead. He's a restless soul, rarely content to be sedentary, and, exactly like her, he's curious about most things in the world around him. Whatever they end up doing – besides the expected – it will be interesting, she has no doubt about that. Her thoughts don't go much further than that, at least not until she's heading out of the building at just after five with everyone else who's keen to start the weekend.

Getting to the White Hart is not difficult. In just a fraction over thirty minutes the District Line takes her to within easy walking distance, and despite the encroaching late-afternoon chill, Frankie dawdles most of the rest of the way, not wanting to arrive at the pub before her former colleagues. An earlier brief exchange of text messages – laconic on both sides – had confirmed that yes, the team would be there, but she's heard nothing since. The renewed silence doesn't bother her. She's just as independent and self-reliant as he is, after all, and the idea of becoming one of those clingy, desperate women… no. Not going to happen. Never. Part of her suspects that's one of the reasons they get on so well. She doesn't need him, and Boyd knows it. Likes it, even.

Maybe it will work, maybe it won't. At least they'll know.

The silver Lexus is easy to spot, parked tight into the kerb a little way from the pub, Grace's car tucked up tight behind it. Frankie's pulse quickens, and her palms turn clammy. Stress. It'll be all right once the ice is broken. Of course it will.

Where are you, Mel? she wonders. Her knowledge of Jewish beliefs about the afterlife is sketchy at best, limited mostly to commonly-held opinions, and as a scientist – one very well-acquainted with the mechanics of death and decay – Frankie has always tended to subscribe to the idea that death is synonymous with a complete absence of anything metaphysical. If she's right, then Mel is simply… gone. Nothing more than skin, bones and cartilage lying under the soil…

No. Don't think about that.

She'll always be with them. Always young, always smiling, always with her whole future still ahead of her, not cruelly stolen away by a mentally-ill woman who then took her own life, too. To think anything else is just too painful.

This is the right kind of letting go, Frankie tells herself as she walks towards the pub's traditional-looking main door. Celebrate the life that was and be thankful for it, however brief it turned out to be.

-oOo-

In the end, it's easier than she expects. Easier to fall back into the same routine of banter and teasing, to sit next to Spencer and join in with the leg-pulling and the laughter. Boyd is being ribbed mercilessly for some loud explosion of temper earlier in the day, and he lets them do it, the way she remembers he often did once the working day was over and done. Good for team morale, that's what Grace had explained to them all once when they had been musing idly about the odd phenomenon, and Boyd knows it. There's a line that mustn't be stepped over, of course, but while no-one approaches it, he lets them have their fun with a grumpy resignation that Frankie knows is more than half-feigned. Felix stays on the edge of the group, not exactly disapproving, but stiff and uncomfortable, as if she is enduring rather than enjoying. Stella, who looks so young that it's difficult to believe she is a fully-fledged detective, seems shy and confused, but willing. The unworthy animosity Frankie half-expected to feel towards her never emerges.

Grace sits where she always sits, at Boyd's side, quietly bridging the gap between him and his subordinates. Of them all, Grace has known him the longest, and sometimes it still shows in the way she can negotiate the extremes of his temperament with such ease and precision. No-one – Frankie included – can face him down as successfully as Grace when his blood is up. Then, no-one else squabbles with him as much, either. There were rumours, plenty of them, about the true nature of their relationship, past and present, when Frankie was part of the unit. Still are, she imagines. Probably only Boyd and Grace themselves know how much truth there is, or ever has been, in any of them. Frankie's best guess is very little, but sometimes, just sometimes, she wonders…

"Frankie," Grace says, as if somehow able to sense the wandering direction of her thoughts, "it's time you told us about this new project of yours."

She groans and shakes her head. "Believe me, Grace, you don't want to know. You'd have to be a biochemist to find it even remotely interesting."

"Frankie," Spencer informs Stella, "gets a nosebleed if she ever strays more than ten miles from a lab."

"Fuck off, Spence," Frankie retorts, as if all of the last year has just been a protracted dream, "I'm not the one who thinks you need a passport to cross the M25 boundary."

Time passes and the conversation winds backwards and forwards, never quite touching for too long on the past. Eventually, not long after Felix makes her excuses, wishes them all goodnight and departs, Frankie rises from her own seat and goes in search of the ladies' toilets. When she exits her chosen cubicle and moves to the sink to wash her hands, the outer door opens and she's joined by Grace, who greets her with a warm smile and, "Easier than you were expecting?"

"Yes," Frankie admits, forced to return the smile. She adds a rueful, "I suppose I should have listened to you months ago."

"Best to come to these things in your own time," Grace tells her. The clear blue eyes regard her with thoughtful curiosity. "And… everything else? Has that all been sorted out, too?"

Boyd, she thinks. He freely admitted the night before, after all, to having some kind of difficult private conversation with Grace about their… situation. She nods. "I think so. You talked to him, didn't you? Yesterday?"

"We're old friends, Frankie," is the wary reply.

"I know," she reassures. "I was going to thank you, that's all."

Grace looks surprised. Pleased, even. "There's no need. I'm just glad the pair of you've finally seen sense and sorted out your differences."

Shaking off her wet hands and turning her back on the sink, Frankie says, "It's early days."

"Of course." A discreet hesitation. "The two of you, though… you're better suited than most people realise."

"Yeah." Something makes her give a short, sharp laugh and add, "And just as likely as each other to screw the whole thing up."

"As a psychologist, I should tell you that negative thinking like that is counter-productive. As a friend," Grace smiles gently, "my advice would be to do whatever you can to look for the very best in each other, even in the very worst of moments. You're both good people, and you both deserve to be happy. Love each other, and when things get tough, hold on tight to each other. Make it work."

Almost embarrassed, Frankie leans back against the sink and nods. "We're certainly going to try."

"Good." A meaningful pause, then, "Get back out there, Frankie. Sit on his lap, if you have to, but make sure he knows there's no turning back. Not now."

She can't help laughing at the outrageous suggestion. "Oh, he'd love you for putting that idea in my head."

"Subtlety," the older woman says, straight-faced, "is not Boyd's strong point. I think we both know that. Sometimes he needs a bit of help getting things through that thick skull of his."

"Yeah," Frankie says, straightening up, "well, when he has a coronary right in the middle of the pub, I'll quote you on that, Grace."

-oOo-

She doesn't sit on his lap. She does, however, take the vacant space next to him on the bench seat beneath the high window, and when Grace returns, they exchange a quick, knowing look that goes unnoticed by everyone else. They sit side-by-side with hardly any space between them until Grace announces that it's time she, too, headed off. Frankie casts a quick glance at Boyd, catching his eye. One eyebrow quirks just the tiniest fraction, posing a silent question, and she replies with an almost imperceptible nod. Accordingly, he picks up his glass, drains off the last inch of beer left in it, swallows and says, "We should go, too."

We. The defiant pronoun slams into the middle of the pentagon they are now forming around the small wooden table. Grace says nothing, does nothing, just keeps searching through her overly-large bag for her car keys. Stella says nothing – too new to have a voice – but there's an intense kind of fascination in the way her eyes flick from Boyd to Frankie and back. It's Spencer who lifts his head, looks across the table at them and says, "'We'?"

"Yeah," Frankie says, deciding that it's a make-or-break moment. She hooks her hand through the crook of Boyd's arm and says, "Missed your chance, sorry. Turns out I'm spoken for."

He looks, she thinks, faintly disgusted. Not because they are who they are, but because he's pretended to be cynical about romantic relationships for so long that it's taken root somewhere in him, the pretence becoming a reality. "Great," he mutters, "just great. Strike through another name in my little black book."

"I hate to break it to you, Spence," she tells him sweetly, "but I was never in your little black book."

He grimaces. "Ouch."

"And that's you well-and-truly told," Boyd informs his subordinate, getting to his feet. Maintaining her grip on his arm, Frankie rises with him, resisting the urge to smirk at Spencer. There complete self-assurance in the way Boyd continues, "Team meeting, eight-thirty Monday morning. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, no exceptions."

Spencer shrugs, a show of complete indifference. "Whatever you say, boss."

Grace has located her car keys. To Stella, she says, "Are you staying for another drink, or do you want a lift?"

"Um…"

"He doesn't bite, you know," Frankie tells the CCU's newest recruit. "Spencer. Get him to buy you a drink and then tell you one of his long rambling tales about how he used to be a dancefloor legend."

"Thanks, Frankie," Spencer snips at her with a glare. A moment later, however, he looks at Stella and allows a gruff, "Same again…?"

They say their goodbyes and head out into the chilly evening air, Grace walking alongside them. It feels… strangely natural. Undramatic. Uncomplicated. They don't hurry along the pavement, even Boyd's long stride tempered to the moment. It's Grace who says, "She's not Mel, and she never will be, but she's one of us now."

"I like her," Frankie admits, and carefully doesn't add that she's not as sure about Felix.

They stop together by the two cars, and for a moment there's an awkward silence. Again, it's Grace who speaks first, her gaze penetrating as she says, "You're ridiculously complicated people, the pair of you. You're going to fight – spectacularly – and there are going to be moments when you wonder what the hell it is you see in each other, but – "

"Grace," Boyd interrupts, his tone surprisingly mild, "it's time to surrender your parental responsibilities. We're all grown-up now. Both of us."

"Cheeky bugger," she says, but she's smiling. "You remember the 'sixties every bit as well as I do."

He snorts. "Yeah, well the less said about that the better."

"The long hair, the music, the – "

"Stop," Boyd orders as Frankie starts to grin.

" – marijuana…"

He straightens up to his full height and glowers down at both of them. "I am a respectable police officer – "

Two female voices give a simultaneous, "Ha!"

" – and as such," he says, guiding Frankie towards the passenger door of the Lexus, "I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about, Grace. Go home. Do your bloody ironing, shag that crazy psychiatrist friend of yours, or something. I'll see you on Monday."

"Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed," Grace confirms. She leans towards Frankie, gives her a brief but firm hug. "Don't be a stranger, Frankie."

"I won't," she murmurs, returning the hug and then escaping into the car before sentimentality gets the better of her. Closing the door, she doesn't hear the final words that pass between Boyd and Grace, but they part with the easy smiles of good friends who know each other very well indeed. Frankie puts her seatbelt on, waits for Boyd to join her in the car. When he does, she says, "'We'?"

"Yeah." It's blunt. Dismissive almost. Decision made, colours nailed to the mast.

"Okay." As he starts the car, Frankie asks, "So… your place, or mine?"

- the end -