Reading
...
Tuesday 18th December
He's been distracted all day. Honestly and legitimately, in his opinion, but distracted none the same. Really, it's been something of a problem. She, however, doesn't seem to be having the same issue.
She's reading. Tucked behind her desk and concentrating intently on what appears to be a very large book, her glasses have slipped down her nose slightly and she's resting her chin on her hands, fingers laced together. It's a very endearing image. One that's been holding his attention for quite some time now.
He can't get it out of his mind, can't get her out of his mind. Not since last night. It irritates him, but he's been obsessing more than just a little over her unasked question. He's fairly sure he knows what it is, fairly sure he's correctly worked it out, and he really, really wants to answer her.
The thought has crossed his mind that he could just ask her, but he can't quite get the idea out of his head that she wants to ask him. And want to ask the question she definitely does, he can tell. She's just afraid of asking and the answer not being what she wants, what she hopes. He'd tell her the folly of her thoughts, but he knows she won't ask that either. It's a shame. The answer has been set in stone for a long time now; he just hasn't given thought to the question before. On reflection, it seems rather a silly oversight on his part.
He finds the whole concept very appealing. And rather wonderful. He never thought he would even entertain the idea again, but then, he'd never considered a life with her until not too long ago, either. Oh, he thought about her – a lot more that he probably should have – but until this last year he assumed it was all just a fantasy, an impossible dream. Now though, he's beginning to realise there are a lot of things he had previously consigned to the scrap heap of life that just maybe he shouldn't have been so hasty in declaring impossibilities after all. And this is very definitely one of them.
He wonders again about taking the question out of her hands and turning it around on her, asking her himself. But it wasn't his idea, and that thought stops him from taking it any further. Besides, they are so different, the pair of them, that he thinks it rather fitting that the idea is hers, that the question should come from her.
She's taking notes now and his gaze is drawn to her deeply lost in thought expression. He can't see her eyes, but he could close his own and describe exactly the look in hers as she focuses so intently. He wonders what she's thinking about, what psychological problem she's unpicking and translating into plain English for the rest of them. She idly rubs the back of her neck, as though the muscles there are tense and sore, and he frowns, wondering if she's in pain. It's too bad he can't go in there and work the tension out for her. Her skin would be so warm and soft under his hands, and there's a spot just behind her ear that if he kisses makes her –
There's a loud, impatient knock on his office door and he almost jumps out of his skin, startled cleanly and abruptly out of his thoughts.
Eve saunters into the room. Guiltily, he looks up at her, trying very hard to keep his expression from giving him away. It's a lost cause, probably, given the way Eve is smirking at him, having obviously seen the direction he has just been gazing in and immediately put two and two together. She's annoyingly perceptive that way.
"Yes?" he asks, irritably.
Eve's smirk only widens as she hands him a sheet of paper. "No match on Myers DNA, I'm afraid," she says, brightly.
Boyd scowls. It's not exactly unexpected news, but it's not helpful either. "Anything else?" he wants to know.
Eve shrugs. "Doesn't mean he wasn't involved. He could have paid someone to watch them," she pauses, grinning mischievously, before adding more seriously, "and then kill them." She casually digs her hands into her pockets, trying very hard not to laugh at the haughty glare coming her way.
"Stick to the science Eve," Boyd advises impatiently. "Leave the theories and the supposition to the rest of us."
"No problem," she smirks. "You are, after all, very well trained in the art of observation." With precision timing, her mobile starts to ring, the sound shrill and grating in the stony silence.
"That'll be the lab," Boyd tells her coolly, "calling to say how much it misses you."
"Better answer then, hadn't I," she replies, heading for the door, heavy laughter trailing in her wake.
Boyd sighs and sinks back into his chair, still frowning at the page of DNA results. He should tell Grace, she'll want to know. So will the others.
He wonders how he can get her to ask the question. So he can answer it. He wants to see the expression on her face, wants to see the emotion in her wonderfully expressive eyes.
His mind picking up on his musings once more, he feels his gaze drawn back to the window. Not much has changed.
Grace is still reading. And he's still obsessing.