DISCLAIMER: I own nothing.
Uploaded for Valentine's Day 2023.
Awkward
by Joodiff
It's… awkward. Not quite the right word perhaps, but Grace can't quite think of a better one. Not just at the moment. Hindsight might provide a slightly better alternative eventually. For now, though, awkward will have to do. Maybe it's the heavy significance of the date. Or maybe not, given that awkward – or whatever word might prove more apposite – seems to be the default for their… liaisons. Awkward beginning, unexpectedly spending a night in a hotel in Manchester when they were supposed to have been back in London in time to hear Eve's verdict on the weapon used to despatch the late, unfortunate Carl Lawson. Awkward post mortem – pun unintentional – the following night in the office when everyone else had gone home. Awkward on-off continuation ever since. Amenable, on both sides, but just a little... awkward.
Somehow, she expected him to be a better cook. No, not exactly better, but more… flamboyant. It seems his culinary style is… workmanlike. Pragmatic. Simple food, cooked simply, and served without any flourish. Matched by the casual mode of dress and the chosen setting for the meal – the breakfast bar in his sleek, tidy half-basement kitchen rather than the dining table in the room upstairs. It's deliberate, Grace decides, reaching for her wine glass, like his faded jeans and grey polo shirt, and her neutral skirt and top both in soft autumn colours. Almost certainly all to do with the date on the calendar hanging by the back door. Fourteenth of February. Valentine's Day.
"Not hungry?" Boyd asks, and she realises he's watching her with the same sharp, appraising gaze that he generally directs at uncomfortable suspects who have just begun to squirm in their seats.
"No," she says, not squirming. "I mean, no, I am hungry. Just, um…"
"It's salmon." A hint of accusation underscores the words.
"I know."
"You like salmon." Still accusatory, perhaps even a little hurt.
"I do," Grace agrees. Particularly when it's served in an expensive restaurant, and cooked by a talented chef with at least a nodding acquaintance with Michelin stars. She leaves that unspoken. The wine's good, though. A rather nice pinot noir, perfectly chosen to contrast the fish.
Opposite her, Boyd shrugs his shoulders. He sounds defensive as he says, "You said 'no fuss'."
"I did," she agrees, nodding. For decades she's been unable to shake the cynical feeling that Valentine's Day is solely for the young and ingenuous, that for everyone else participation is simply a waste of money. Meeting his steady gaze, she says, "It would be faintly ridiculous at our age, don't you think?"
"At any age, in my book," he says, his quiet relief palpable. She thinks that's it, but then he continues, "It's just something you're supposed to do, isn't it? Conventionally."
"Good thing neither of us is terribly conventional, then, isn't it?"
Boyd quirks an eyebrow at her. She understands. Outwardly, he appears far more conventional than she does. So much so, in fact, that it takes time to fully appreciate just how rebellious and free-spirited he really is beneath the carefully-cultivated veneer of conservatism. Small 'c'. His politics are his own business, but though they don't usually align with hers –
"Good thing you're not keen on red roses," he says, picking up his own glass. "Price-gouging to that degree should be illegal."
"So you did look, then?" she mocks, but gently. If the last couple of months have taught her anything, it's that he can be far more sensitive to teasing than she'd ever realised in the previous God-only-knows how many years.
He snorts. "Well, of course I bloody did. You think I've been married twice without learning a thing or two about the difference between what women say and what they actually bloody mean?"
"That's an outdated stereotype," she tells him. "Some of us really aren't interested in wasting our time playing those sorts of silly games."
"I stand corrected," he says gravely, "and in deference to your feelings on the matter, I kept my wallet firmly closed."
She chuckles, amused and not remotely hurt. If he took her at her word, well, good. They have plenty of other potential lines of miscommunication to worry about. She has another sip of wine. Actually rather more than a sip.
There was wine on that night, too. Once it was obvious they weren't going back to London, and had found a half-decent hotel that the CCU's meagre budget for such things might just be able to bear. Dinner at a quiet but surprisingly good Italian restaurant, accompanied by a decent red. Enough to take the edge off their tiredness and niggling annoyance with the unsatisfactory outcome of the day.
"You're not listening, are you?" Boyd inquires.
Grace surveys him over the rim of her glass. Handsome man. She's always thought so, even if she hasn't always been willing to admit it to herself. Aging with that rugged grace that some men are naturally blessed with. "I thought we said work was a taboo subject?"
"Oh, so you were listening."
"I don't want to talk about Lawson," she tells him. "Not tonight. I may not be a great fan of Valentine's Day, but there are limits, you know."
"Hm," he says.
He said that on that memorable night, too. Not long before he'd kissed her. Or she'd kissed him. She's still a bit hazy on who was responsible. It had just sort of… happened. Unexpected, unanticipated.
He'd joked the next morning about asking the hotel's management for a refund on his unused room. About charging only one room to expenses. Of course, he'd done neither. Some proprieties definitely need to be observed.
"For a while when I was at university," she says, returning to her consumption of the seared fish, "I dated a guy from Valencia. Instead of Valentine's Day, they have the feast of Saint Dionysus in October."
"Fascinating." It couldn't be more dry.
"It was, rather." She can't picture his face anymore. Alejandro. He wanted to be a marine biologist, she remembers that. They drifted apart, started seeing other people. She wonders what happened to him, whether he went back to Spain. Boyd is watching her with that same keen, analytical gaze. She shrugs. "He was very well-endowed, but largely clueless about women."
"Oh, God," he says, with some feeling. "Really, Grace? You honestly think this is an appropriate time?"
Amused, she says, "It was nearly forty years ago, Boyd."
"Even so…"
The sex had been good. That night, with him. Not the mists-of-time sex with Alejandro. She still isn't sure if it was a surprise, or not. Probably not.
Awkward, though, the next morning. Waking up to find Boyd regarding her with a perplexed sort of fascination, as if he wasn't quite sure what had happened, or why. Not awkward enough for a painful silence on the eventual drive back to London, but… well, just awkward enough to be… awkward.
He pushes his empty plate away, surveys her with placid confusion. "You're one of a kind, Grace. You know that, don't you?"
"I think I'll choose to take that as a compliment."
Difficult though he is, she can see herself growing old – older – with him. Now that they've so thoroughly destroyed the barriers that had kept them firmly apart for so long. They fit. God alone knows why, but they do.
"Actually," he says, slipping from his high stool, and crossing the kitchen with a few long, easy strides, "despite the mutual aversion, I have bought you something."
"Oh no," she says, putting down her knife and fork. "Why?"
"Because I wanted to," he replies, extracting something from one of the high-level cupboards and returning to his seat. Onto the smooth granite surface of the breakfast bar he places a rectangular package wrapped in red paper. Wrong size and shape for a ring box, thank all the powers. Grace eyes it with growing suspicion. Could be a necklace of some kind. Has the right sort of profile.
"I didn't get you anything," she says. It sounds more strident than she intends.
"Good." Boyd nods in approval. "I like having the moral high ground for a change."
"We said no fuss," she reminds him, peeved.
"You said no fuss. I merely shrugged."
He's such an infuriating man. Always has been.
She's fairly sure she's in love with him. Suspects – hopes – that the feeling is mutual.
He pushes the gift towards her. "Go on. It won't bite."
"Well, this is… awkward," she says, glowering at the package. If it's diamonds, she might just have to flounce out of the house. Which would be annoying, given that she's spent a fair proportion of the day preparing not to be at home for the night. Expensive new lingerie, and all.
His smugness is increasing exponentially. "Just open it, Grace."
It won't be diamonds.
Will it?
He earns considerably more than she does. Isn't at home much. Has plenty of disposable income because of it. Italian suits, Swiss watches, handmade shoes…
Well, fuck. It could be diamonds. He likes the grand gesture, after all.
On the other hand, he's not that sort of man. Is he?
Reluctantly, Grace slides the package the rest of the way towards her. Doesn't feel like a jewellery box. Corners aren't defined enough.
She picks at a tiny sliver of loose edge, tearing the paper less than half an inch. Isn't sure if she's angry or excited. Or both. She stops, looks at him again. "Why?"
"I told you," he says, all-but rolling his eyes, "I wanted to."
He always – nearly always – does exactly what he wants. She should be used to it by now. Supposes she is.
Oh, well. Awkward it is, then.
She picks the gift up. It's surprisingly light. Rips the paper in resentful anticipation.
Cheap plastic packaging beneath the blood red paper. Part-transparent. Bright, bold manufacturer's logo.
It's the last gift Grace would ever have predicted. And yet, it's so… right.
"A toothbrush," she says. It's a slight surprise to find that she's more relieved than disappointed.
"A toothbrush," Boyd agrees, deeply solemn. "Should you choose to accept it, it comes with optional extras."
She raises her gaze from the object in question, regards him with well-earned distrust. "Which are?"
"An empty drawer in my dressing table, and eight inches of hanging space in my wardrobe."
"Eight inches?" she inquires.
He smirks. "Eight inches is enough for any woman, Grace."
"How would you know?" she asks, countering the blatant innuendo with waspish ease.
To his credit, he laughs. Eyes her with twinkly curiosity. "Well?"
"All right," she agrees, setting down the toothbrush in its plastic prison. "But I want twelve inches."
"Yeah, that's not going to happen," he tells her, deadpan. "My name's Peter, not bloody Pedro."
"Alejandro," she corrects.
"Whatever." Boyd picks up his glass again. "Happy Valentine's Day, Grace."
Astonishingly, it's not awkward. Suddenly, none of it is awkward.
She thinks it still will be, from time-to-time. But maybe that's just how things are meant to be between them.
– the end –