FOUR – Under Pressure

"It's ridiculous," she snaps, aware that the weary-looking young woman behind the reception desk doesn't deserve to bear the brunt of her ire, but not quite able to rein in her acute frustration, "this is England, for heaven's sake, not some remote wasteland somewhere above the arctic circle. How can we possibly still be unable to get out of here?"

"I'm sorry, madam," the receptionist says, her tone indicating she's said the same thing many, many times since she started her shift, "but you can see for yourself how bad it is out there. The official travel advice for most of the Midlands is to only attempt essential travel, and then only if there's absolutely no alternative. They opened part of the motorway further down for an hour or so this morning, but conditions were so bad…"

"You obviously got into work," Grace points out, "so not all the roads must be impassable."

"I've been here since yesterday," the woman explains. "All the staff on duty have. Even those big four-by-four things haven't been able to get up the slope to the exit, and even if they could, the road beyond is closed due to drifting snow. I'm sorry, madam, but for now I have no possible solution to offer you."

"My colleague and I urgently need to get back to London. There must be some way out of here, surely?"

Another shake of the head. "I'm sorry."

The same litany over and over again. It doesn't matter which way Grace turns, or who she speaks to, the answer is always the same – until the snow finally stops falling and some real progress can be made on clearing the roads, those who are currently stranded are likely to remain so. Stranded, and mostly incommunicado. Sometimes the falling snow relents enough to allow a brief window of marginal phone signal, or more than two minutes of clear television picture, but in the main her world has dwindled to a small, unlovely hotel room, a few stretches of bland corridor, and a reception area that is starting to resemble a busy homeless shelter.

With nothing achieved, Grace grudgingly heads back to the purgatory of four cream walls and a man who's every bit as infuriating as he is obtuse. A man whose dark mood has rapidly deteriorated even further due to the grim onset of the severe headache she predicted. When she walks back into their room he's lying prone and shirtless on his bed, and any small hope she might have had that he might have fallen asleep during her absence is instantly dispelled by the displeased growling noise that follows the sound of her carefully shutting the door. A moment later, however, he raises his head enough to peer at her. "Well?"

"Same old story," she admits with a sigh. "No-one's going anywhere, and no-one knows anything."

"At this rate we're going to starve to bloody death before the roads are clear."

Dropping down onto the couch, she says, "Someone downstairs told me there's a rumour going round that one of the supermarkets is going to let its truck drivers unload their perishable cargo for general consumption if there's no change in the weather by tonight."

Boyd groans. "Oh, great. We can look forward to surviving on mushy Israeli strawberries and stale pre-packed sandwiches for the duration. Tell me this is all just a horrible nightmare, Grace, please. One long fucking horrible nightmare that I'm going to wake up from very soon."

"If it is, I'm having exactly the same nightmare," she assures him. He buries his head back into the pillow without another word, and for a moment she studies his bare back, her eyes following the indent of his spine up to his broad shoulders. Only partly to quell her unruly thoughts, she asks "How are you feeling now?"

The reply is not the barrage of sullen complaint Grace expects. Instead it's a quiet, "Rough."

Concerned, she gets up again and moves across to him, perching hesitantly on the edge of his bed. Boyd turns his head in response, but doesn't attempt to raise it. One dark eye regards her with uncharacteristic apathy. A surge of different emotions floods through her, compassion and sympathy by far the strongest amongst them. It's some kind of inherent nurturing instinct rather than conscious choice that makes her stretch out a hand to gently stroke his hair. The immediate shock of what she's doing is lost in the rush of tactile feedback that chases along her nerves. So dense and soft, the ruffled silvery strands, and as she registers the fact, some part of her also registers that Boyd hasn't flinched away from her in surprise or distaste as she might have pessimistically expected if she'd had any time to think about her actions.

Pulse racing, she tries to block out all the desperate questions and wild speculations that pour into her mind. Don't think, just do. He's been her friend and colleague for years, after all, so why shouldn't she offer him a touch of comfort when he's in pain? Surely that's just an ordinary human reaction, not a dangerous transgression that –

Don't think. Forcing herself not to give into the impulse to guiltily snatch back her hand, Grace asks, "Do you feel sick? Giddy?"

"No. My head's pounding, that's all."

Deciding that it doesn't sound as if he's concussed – still her biggest fear – Grace looks at her watch. "It's too soon for you to have any more painkillers. Maybe you should try going to sleep for a bit?"

"In too much fucking pain. Feels like someone's drilling into my skull."

Realising that she's still absent-mindedly stroking his hair, she hastily withdraws her hand with a grimace. "Sorry."

"Don't stop on my account. It's very… soothing."

What's happening to us? a very clear, very apprehensive voice in her head asks. What on earth are we doing? …But the temptation to continue is far too strong. It appears that Boyd's telling the truth, because it does seem to have a very soothing effect on him. Fascinated, she watches as he visibly starts to relax, eyes closing, shoulders dropping as he becomes increasingly torpid. Suddenly bold, she lets her hand continue onwards on the next down-stroke, gently traversing the nape of his neck and going lower. The only response is a sleepy mutter, a far from discontented sound. His skin is warm, very smooth over the easily discernible contours of bone and relaxed muscle. Emboldened by the continuing lack of complaint, Grace starts to rub his shoulders in unhurried, lazy circles, the slow movement of her hand completely at odds with the racing pace of her thoughts as she struggles to process the reality of the moment. The rate of Boyd's breathing changes, gets slower and slower until she's left in no doubt that he's quietly drifted off to sleep.

Satisfied, Grace doesn't move for a long, long time, just sits and watches him, her now stationary hand resting lightly on his back.

-oOo-

The light gradually fades out of the afternoon as Boyd sleeps and she reads. When it becomes a real struggle to pick out the words on the page, Grace gets up from the couch and switches on one of the bedside lights. Enough light to softly illuminate the room but not enough to disturb him, or so she hopes. It's still snowing, but half-heartedly now, and she wonders if the tenacious bad weather is finally passing over. It's a shock to realise that it's still less than twenty-four hours since their original journey home was interrupted. It feels as if they've been stranded for days. Weeks, even. With a slight sigh, she quietly pulls the curtains closed, shutting out the rest of the world. At some point while he slept, Boyd rolled onto his side, and when she turns her back on the window she's startled to find herself being watched.

"Feeling any better?" she asks, in lieu of anything more original.

"Much." He shifts over onto his back, puts his hands behind his head. "What time is it?"

"Nearly five."

"Still snowing?"

"Yes. Not as heavily." To Grace, the exchange seems banal, awkward. Perhaps it's just her imagination. Returning to the couch seems to be the best idea, so she does just that, once again picking up one of the increasingly tedious magazines. If Boyd wants to talk, she reasons, he will talk. Otherwise he's probably best left alone with his thoughts. It's difficult to concentrate on subject matter that really doesn't interest her, however, and the silence begins to take on a heavy significance that she hopes she's imagining. Risking a glance up, she finds him still watching her. Unnerved by his steady, contemplative gaze, she challenges, "What?"

The reply is serene. "Nothing."

She purses her lips for a moment, mildly irritated by his apparent imperturbability. "I know you too well to fall for that, Boyd. What's going on in that head of yours, hmm? What are you thinking about?"

He doesn't move a muscle. "You."

"Me?" Disconcerted and more than a touch uncomfortable, Grace frowns. "Why? What are you thinking about me for?"

"I'm not allowed to think about you?"

Flustered, she shrugs. "Of course you are, but… Oh, I don't know. It's just a bit… creepy… being stared at like that."

"'Creepy'?" Boyd snorts. "I've been called a lot of things in my time, but that's definitely a new one."

"I didn't say you were creepy, I said… Oh, forget it." She sighs. Determinedly changing the subject, she asks, "Are you hungry?"

"Depends on what delicacies we've got left from this morning's outing."

Not much is the realistic answer. "Chocolate. Some disturbingly-shaped jelly sweets that don't look entirely suitable for children; a couple of those horrific just-add-boiling-water-and-stir instant meal things, and – "

"Stop," Boyd interrupts, sitting up. "You're seriously offending my gastronomic sensibilities, Grace."

"Says the man who'll cheerfully eat from any old snack wagon parked at the edge of the road."

"Detective's privilege." He stretches, flexes his shoulders, and gets to his feet. Grace watches as he peers round the edge of the curtain at the bleak, frozen scene outside and waits for him to start complaining. He doesn't. He turns away from the window, moves to lean against the inbuilt Formica counter that's now untidily littered with rubbish, magazines and miscellaneous personal possessions. He puts his hands in his trouser pockets, his pose nonchalant. "What the hell are you reading?"

"Currently?" It's a struggle not to fixate on his bare torso, on his smooth chest, on the intriguingly hirsute spot just above his belt buckle. Inwardly reproving herself in the sternest possible fashion, Grace focuses on the page before her. "A highly intellectual article about some minor celebrity I've never heard of, and her broken engagement to some chap from one of those reality television things."

"Dear God." He sounds both amused and appalled. "I should arrest you right here and now for aiding and abetting a serious crime against literature."

Releasing her hold on the magazine she raises both hands, presenting him with her wrists, "It's a fair cop, guv. Be gentle with the handcuffs."

The dark eyes glint at her. "That's what all the nice girls say, Grace."

This time she does hold his gaze. "I bet."

Boyd grins at her for a moment, a study in sly mischief, and then he straightens up. "Well, I think I'll have a quick shower while you do the perfect hausfrau thing and prepare my dinner."

Feigning glacial distaste, Grace says, "As if. You can boil your own damn kettle."

-oOo-

With little to occupy them, the evening is dragging, and Boyd is in a bullish mood. Sprawled out on the couch while Grace sits on her bed with her feet comfortably drawn up, his expression is every bit as condescending as his tone as he says, "All I'm saying is that offender profiling is not a magic bullet. Never has been, never will be. Detectives solve crimes, Grace, not profilers – however qualified, skilled and experienced. You know as well as I do that ninety-five percent of any investigation is tedious, methodical slog by over-worked and underpaid officers who might sometimes – sometimes – be somewhat justified in resenting the way the media – "

"Here we go," she interrupts, "the entirely predictable rant about how people like me steal the limelight away from poor, downtrodden coppers like you."

"Well, it's true. Thanks to the media, the general public have acquired a completely skewed idea of idea of how a criminal investigation actually works."

"But that doesn't negate the validity of profiling, does it?" Grace retorts, striving for patience. Not easy given Boyd's increasingly combative mood, and the stress and boredom of their continuing confinement. "You're making the mistake of mixing up two entirely different things. Either you're arguing the merits – or lack thereof – of profiling as an investigative tool or you're voicing your concerns about the possible detrimental effects of all the exposure it's attracted over the last few years. There's absolutely no correlation between the two."

"Did I try to say that there was?" he challenges, sitting up straight. "And anyway, before you have a go at me, Grace, there's a fundamental flaw in your own damn argument."

"Which is?"

"If I actually thought offender profiling was complete bollocks, which is basically what you're accusing me of, you wouldn't still be on the bloody payroll, would you? Do you have any idea how much the Home Office charges me every month for your services?"

"Yes," she replies promptly, "because you seem to find it necessary to remind me every single time the Yard raps you over the knuckles for going over budget."

For a moment she's certain he's going to keep arguing – he usually does – but to her surprise he opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again. They regard each other warily across the neutral space between them, and Grace finds herself wondering, not for the first time – "Why do I put up with you?"

Boyd's posture relaxes. "Because – much against your better judgement – you're actually quite fond of me."

"That must be it." She uncurls her legs and stands up. "Cup of tea before bed?"

"Words I never thought I'd hear you say," Boyd says, getting up himself. As Grace busies herself with the ridiculously small electric kettle and the depleted array of hotel-branded sachets and tiny containers, he once again leans up against the counter next to her, arms folded across his chest. At least he's wearing his now-dry polo shirt again. The bloodstains still show, but not as vividly. "But you'll never admit it, will you?"

"Admit what?" Grace asks, not looking at him. A faint, unpleasant prickle of something – apprehension? – creeps insidiously down the back of her neck.

Boyd's sigh is loud and impatient. "That you're fond of me. Keep up, Grace – you're supposed to be the one with all the brains."

Something about his condescending tone grates across her nerves. Something about his phrasing, too. Something that recalls so many other times when she's heard exactly the same thing from well-meaning people who don't realise that... Too sharply, she asks, "As opposed to…?"

He sounds amused. "Well, my brawn, obviously."

She still isn't looking at him as she mutters, "Brains, eh?"

"There's only one person in this room with a PhD, and I'm damned sure it's not me." A short pause precedes a considerably less humorous, "Grace…? What's the matter? What have I done now?"

"Nothing," she tells him truthfully, picking up a teaspoon. "You haven't done anything."

He's not easily fooled, and he snorts softly. "Why are you suddenly doing the glacier thing, then?"

"I'm not."

"Liar." Boyd plucks the spoon neatly from her grasp. "One minute you're fine, the next…"

She has no intention of explaining herself. Doesn't know that she actually could even if she wanted to. Little Grace, the bright, studious middle child, the one who's always sitting on her own poring over her books. Earnest Grace, the dutiful, committed student who's always ready to sacrifice her social life to help with research. The brainy one. The clever one. The plain, quiet one that Colin Bulmer only asked out to win a bet with his cruel, sniggering friends and their even more spiteful girlfriends. Sometimes, when she's forced to remember the sick feeling of disbelief and utter humiliation, it still stings fiercely, decades later. Boyd would never understand. Could never understand. She's seen the old photographs, and as a teenager he was every bit as tall, athletic, and good-looking as she might have expected. Not the kind of lad to look twice at the mousey, bookish girl with big dreams of being the first member of her family to go to university. But also not the kind of lad, maybe, who would string a naïve, infatuated girl along for far too long just for a joke.

She doesn't want to think about it, talk about it. It still hurts, but the pain is still wrapped in a simmering rage, too. A rage Grace isn't keen to express. Aware that the edgy silence is stretching, she says, "I'm tired, Boyd. Just drop it, will you?"

Boyd shakes his head, his stubborn streak obviously piqued. "I was teasing you, Grace, that's all. Christ, if you don't know that by now…"

"Of course you were." She turns to face him head-on, the old anger beginning to flare. It manifests itself in bitter sarcasm. "Good old Grace, always such a great sport. So wonderfully calm, and so very, very clever. The one who got all the brains – "

"Hang on – "

" – and none of the beauty." The brittle, painful words slam into the already tense atmosphere and seem to shatter into dangerous shards on impact. A fragmentation grenade couldn't have done better.

There's a moment of complete silence. She glares at Boyd, daring him to say a word. He dares. He always does. "The beauty goes without saying, Grace."

She has no idea where the wild impulse to vent all the fury rising up inside her is coming from. Perhaps it's the inevitable consequence of their current situation, of their enforced proximity. Perhaps it's just a build-up of all the years of quiet resentment. Whatever it is, it makes her lash back hard with, "Don't you dare patronise me, Boyd. Don't you bloody dare."

Her temper sparks his – hardly a surprise. He roars back, "Fuck's sake, I'm not. Come, on – why the hell would I? If you don't know by now how I – "

The impulse to slap him is very strong. The impulse to kiss him even stronger. Grace does neither. Before Boyd can finish his tirade, she storms across the room to the small bathroom, jerks the door open with unnecessary force and then angrily slams it closed behind her. From the room beyond, there is nothing but silence.

-oOo-

Continued…