Jingle Bells
...
Monday 10th December
She's feeling decidedly irritable. Perhaps rather unjustly so, but she hates that particular song – can't really ever remember not hating it – and Spence has been humming it under his breath all bloody day. It's nearly six o'clock though, and she's managed to be incredibly productive in the last few hours. Mainly because she's been avoiding contact with Spencer by hiding away in her office, reading her way through the copious quantities of information concerning Marcus Gregory.
Out in the squad room, Spence and Kat are packing up for the day, and, sadly for her, the humming has now escalated into faint, but still rather grating, wholly overly eager and animated singing. From both of them. And what's worse, they aren't even singing the traditional and plentifully irritating version. No, they're happily – and rather tunelessly – humming and mumbling their way through one of the many playground editions inevitably preferred by legions of wayward schoolchildren, no matter their age range.
Having had more than enough for one evening, she stalks irritably into Boyd's office, frowning tetchily. "I'm going home," she says, abruptly.
Startled by her tone, he closes the heavy legal tome in front of him and looks up, his attention firmly fixed on her.
Always perceptive, and particularly sensitive to any sort of tension where she is concerned, he immediately asks, "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," she mutters, feeling just a touch rebellious and entirely disinclined to discuss her feelings with him tonight.
It's not his fault – in any way, shape or form – she's just had a bad day. Nothing really seems to have fallen into place quite the way she wanted it to. Yes she got a lot done, but there was a snappy, demanding email from someone at the Home Office she is obliged not only to respond to, but also to placate, awaiting her when she arrived first thing this morning. And then, after dealing with that mess, she spilled her tea on the desk, ruined her notes and burned her fingers when, mid-morning and completely out of the blue, someone out in the hallway slammed a door with rather more than a strictly necessary amount of force and made her jump out of her skin. On top of that, seemingly just to annoy her further, her least favourite and much avoided cousin called this afternoon and informed her that she would be calling by tomorrow, disrupting her already quietly planned evening.
"I'm not falling for that one," is the blunt reply. Boyd pointedly looks over at her and his expression leaves no doubt that he knows she is lying to him. And that he will get it out of her in the end.
That's the trouble with having a relationship with someone who is equally as stubborn as she is, she thinks, ruefully. When they both take it upon themselves to determinedly stick to their opinions it can take days of aggravated pushing and pulling at each other before one or both of them eventually gives in.
She's saved from answering though, because there is a knock at the door and Spencer sticks his head in, still humming. Grace grinds her teeth and says nothing, sinking peevishly into a chair when Boyd fixes her with a meaningful look before turning his attention to the DI.
"Sir, here's William Marr's prison records. He was definitely inside when three of the four murders happened, but so far we can't account for his whereabouts when Karin Evans died. We'll chase it up in the morning."
"Thanks, Spence," nods Boyd, taking the offered sheaf of papers. "See you tomorrow."
"Sir."
"Have a good evening," Grace tells him, falsely cheerful.
"Night, Grace," Spencer smiles at her, and then he's gone. On the other side of the glass, Kat waves at them both before tossing Spence his coat and walking out with him, still discordantly singing along as she goes.
Temporarily distracted, Boyd is reading again, his eyes scouring the prison report and, sensing her chance, Grace quickly gets to her feet, still determined to leave. Sadly, she has no such luck.
"Grace? Grace, wait a moment!"
The papers are still in his hands, but he's not looking at them. He's watching her instead, rather intently and with an expression that's partly curious, partly concerned, and unquestionably, entirely determined. "Are you going to tell me?"
"No," she tells him, shaking her head slowly and firmly. She watches, rather regretfully though, as he deploys an old tactic. One that, unfortunately for her, works very well. Every single time.
Putting the report down, he rests his elbows on the desk, leans his head in his hands and simply gazes at her.
He's got his desk lamp on instead of the glaring, utilitarian overhead lights and in the gloomy darkness of early evening the room is shadowy, faintly intimate. He's still wearing his reading glasses too, but they've slid down his nose a little and as he regards her over the top the sleek, dark frames she can't help but feel her insides start to melt a little, her resolve begin to crumble.
He knows it too, because his expression is changing again, and dear God, the look in his eyes…
Grace is caught in his stare; held firmly in the middle of the room by the powerful, tangled rush of thoughts, feelings and emotions suddenly flooding through her, threatening to consume her. Her frustration quickly fading, it's only the knowledge that there are still people in the building that prevents her from closing the few feet of space between them and kissing him soundly. Soundly, deeply, entirely thoroughly, and most definitely repeatedly.
She clears her throat, fumbling for the stubborn willpower that is abruptly so absent. Grasping the very edge of it, she clings on tightly. "I'm going home," she finally declares; firmly, boldly. Somehow she manages to tear her gaze away from his, turn and make her way back to the door. Gripping the frame in one hand, she looks over her shoulder at him. He's still at his desk, still observing her. "Are you coming?"
By the time she's collected her bag and turned out the lights, he is leaning against the wall waiting for her. Long, dark coat unfastened, his hands are deep in his pockets as he waits, eyes still keenly, intently fixed on her. Only now there's that devilish, heart-stopping grin on his face too.