EIGHT – London

It's early evening by the time they reach Finchley, and though the outside temperature is bitter, Grace isn't surprised by how little snow there is. The roads and pavements are completely clear, and where any snow remains on walls, roofs or trees, it appears to be a thin and crusty layer, more ice than snow. They could see the steady reduction themselves with every mile they drove south, and now it seems strange, almost impossible, that they could have been so thoroughly stranded by the snow for so long. As Boyd parks the big Audi neatly outside her house, Grace starts to rummage through her bag, looking for her keys. It gives her an excuse not to look at him as she says, "Are you going to come in, or…?"

"I think," he says, and it's evident from the deliberate way he speaks that he's choosing his words with care, "that it might be better for both of us if I didn't. I don't know about you, but I'm so bloody tired I can barely think straight."

"Okay."

"You all right with that?"

She nods. "Of course."

Boyd's answering sigh is loud and impatient. "Don't do that female say-one-thing-and-mean-something-totally-different thing, Grace. Not tonight."

More weary than indignant, she replies, "I'm not. Really. It's just… I don't know. It's all a bit of an anti-climax, isn't it? To suddenly be back at home again after the last couple of days, I mean."

"Yeah."

She looks across at him, regards him thoughtfully as he stares straight ahead, apparently gazing at nothing. He looks every bit as exhausted as she feels, and very far from content. The sudden need to reassure him is very strong. "It really is okay, Boyd. Go home, get some sleep. I'll call you in the morning."

He grunts and then looks at her to ask, "I take it you don't mind deferring dinner, then?"

"The famous beef Wellington? No, of course not."

There's something very intent in his expression as he says, "Promise me something, Grace?"

"What?"

"Don't make any rash decisions without me."

Grace frowns. "Such as?"

"You know what I'm talking about." Holding her gaze, Boyd adds, "You. The way you always insist on over-analysing everything. I don't want to wake up tomorrow to an urgent telephone call telling me you've been awake all night thinking things over, and you've decided this was all a big mistake and we need to spend the rest of our damned lives pretending none of it ever happened."

Despite the solemnity of his tone, she can't help chuckling ruefully. "You really do know me very well, don't you?"

"Yes I do."

"In this case, however," she continues, "I've come to the conclusion that after last night's marathon discussion, any further analysis would be a complete waste of time."

His reply is simple and obviously heartfelt. "Thank fuck for that."

"Though," Grace adds, hiding her amusement, "it's quite possible that I could change my mind. Women's prerogative."

"Wonderful."

"I'm teasing you," she says, releasing her seatbelt.

"As if I couldn't work that out for my bloody self," he growls back.

"Goodnight kiss…?"

Boyd gives her a haughty look. "I might just about be able to find the energy. Maybe."

-oOo-

Thoroughly relaxed after a long bath, and revelling in the clean, crisp feeling of fresh sheets and night attire, Grace has only been in bed for a matter of minutes before the crushing tiredness wins out and she falls into a light doze that very quickly becomes hour after hour of blissfully undisturbed sleep. If she dreams at all, she doesn't remember it when the sound of her neighbours slamming car doors and talking loudly out in the street drags her back to awareness. It's light outside, she can see that round the edge of the curtains, and a glance at her bedside clock confirms that it's a little past nine. Not too savage an hour to wake on a Sunday morning.

She feels much better, she very quickly realises. Almost entirely human again. Her mind wanders for a few minutes as she stays where she is, comfortable and warm under the bedcovers. The last few days have already taken on an odd, surreal sort of quality in her memory. Not quite real, although she knows that all of it – all of it – very definitely happened. The interrupted drive home from Manchester, the blizzard, the small, bland hotel room. Him.

Closing her eyes, she concentrates, and finds she can almost feel him as a physical presence in the bed with her. Feel him on her, in her. Feel the slight roughness of his hands, the artful softness of his lips; feel the living warmth of his skin… and the unmistakable male hardness pressed against her. Feel him, taste him, smell him. Shockingly powerful and erotic, the tumble of vivid thoughts and memories that cause a warm flush of arousal, one that –

The phone extension next to her bed starts to ring, it's loud, jarring tone grinding on her nerves, and to stop it Grace sweeps up the receiver in a flash of impatient irritation. "Hello…?"

"You made it back, then," a quiet and amused voice drawls.

Grace forces herself to relax, to disguise her tetchiness. "Eve."

"You were expecting someone else?"

Too damned perceptive, their younger colleague. Clearly the conversation is going to require a degree of focus that Grace isn't quite sure she's yet capable of. Trying to sound slightly less grumpy, she responds, "Not at all. I was just a bit surprised – usually at this time on a Sunday morning you're either already camped out at the Body Farm, or you're skulking in a darkened room nursing a hangover."

"Rumour and hearsay, Grace. So how was Stafford, or wherever it was you ended up?"

"Snowbound."

"Yeah, I saw the pictures on the news," Eve's voice affirms. "The whole of the Midlands was at a complete standstill because of the blizzard at one point. All the airports were closed, people were getting stuck in snowdrifts. One poor woman even had her baby in the back of a police car."

"Well, I can safely say that nothing that exciting happened to us."

"No?" Eve's tone holds an archness that Grace doesn't miss.

"No," she confirms in a well-practised no-nonsense tone.

A low chuckle precedes, "I bet the Great Leader was an absolute joy to be with, wasn't he? You should get some sort of medal, Grace; or at least a mention in despatches."

"He was a pussycat."

"Really?" Eve's astonishment is audible.

Grace rolls her eyes. "No, not really. This is Boyd we're talking about."

"Well, I'm sure you could have found a way to take his mind off things if you'd tried."

"Who says I didn't?" she inquires, and regrets it immediately. "Joking, Eve. I was joking."

"Of course you were," is the deadpan reply. "I would never impugn your professional conduct, Doctor Foley. Christine Clarke might be a little harder to convince."

Thinking of the fearsome former barrister, Grace can't help grimacing. "Is she on the warpath?"

"What do you think? Her favourite Superintendent not only spectacularly failed to attend an important meeting with her, he also spent two days holed up in a seedy hotel somewhere with another woman. I'd watch out for those voodoo pins if I were you, Grace; I think she's sharpening them especially for you."

"You're enjoying all of this far too much, you know."

"I am," is the complacent reply, "but given the huge potential for scandalous gossip, can you really blame me?"

"And how long – " Grace starts, but she's interrupted by the chime of the doorbell, followed by the kind of loud, assertive knocking that removes any doubt she might have had about the identity of her visitor. To Eve, she says, "I've got to go – I'll see you at work tomorrow."

"Yeah," Eve's voice replies, sounding breezy and insouciant, "but the two of you better make damn sure you've got your stories straight by then, because you're being interrogated the minute you step foot back in the dungeon."

"I really can't wait. 'Bye, Eve."

-oOo-

The moment a yawning Grace opens her front door she wishes – fervently – that she'd got out of bed a fraction earlier, or at least that she'd had the time to make herself a little more presentable than she actually feels, standing in the sudden chill in her dressing gown and slippers. In contrast, Boyd looks awake, alert, and particularly well-groomed, even if he is casually dressed in jeans and what appears to be a very soft and well-worn black leather jacket. She can feel her lips pursing a fraction in irritation as she surveys him. He has no right to look so damned good when she feels so dishevelled. Standing on the path not up on the doorstep, he's still just a fraction taller than she is, but they're almost eye-to-eye as she inquires, "Have all the clocks in your house mysteriously stopped working, or something?"

"You're extremely lucky I didn't turn up here about six hours ago." He gives her a pointed look. "It's bloody freezing out here, by the way."

"Better come in, then, hadn't you?"

Boyd does so, and as she closes the door, he says, "Nice bunny rabbit slippers, Grace."

"My niece's daughter gave them to me for Christmas," she informs him loftily. "She's eight."

"They're very… fetching."

"But you're not quite sure what they might fetch?"

"I'm sure they're very comfortable." It's obvious he's struggling not to laugh. "And… um… nice and warm."

"But low on erotic appeal?"

Boyd grins, a distinct gleam in his eye. "Oh, I didn't say that."

Grace can't help laughing, and a moment later she finds herself caught up in a warm, affectionate embrace that's both surprising and reassuring. He's so much bigger than she is, so much stronger, and the difference delights her. He drops his head to kiss her, and she doesn't hesitate to kiss him back. It becomes a deliberately light, teasing kiss, all the more exciting because of it, and several stray ideas involving the big bed upstairs flash through Grace's mind. It's a kind of temporary madness, no doubt, and it will pass as they find their way through all the new territory open to them, but until then she's more than happy to enjoy every shameless, enthusiastic moment of bewitchment.

Moving to nuzzle her neck, Boyd's voice is quiet, husky, as he murmurs, "Half the bloody night I've been lying awake wanting you…"

The answering tingle down her spine is not as powerful as the exciting jolt that centres low in her stomach. Her own voice is barely a whisper as she responds, "When I woke up this morning, I only had to close my eyes and I could feel you, taste you…"

He growls against her skin, the sound intense, and so deep that Grace can feel its vibration. It's more than enough to make her impulsively grab his hand and lead him upstairs.

-oOo-

It's a fiercely cold afternoon in Victoria Park, and Grace isn't at all surprised to see snow still lingering in all the shady places where the winter sun barely falls. Nor is she surprised by the number of orphaned snowy heaps dotted around on the frozen grass, each one a mournful monument to the proud snowman it once was. They walk at a brisk pace to keep warm, staying on the asphalt path that leads broadly north towards tennis courts and a children's play area, and as they do, she keeps her arm firmly looped through Boyd's, ready to claim it's also for the warmth should he question it. He doesn't. If he's at all aware of the increasing sense of entitlement she feels, he doesn't comment on it. Somehow she doubts he ever will, knowing as she does just how instinctively and fiercely territorial he is himself.

It takes a good fifteen minutes of walking and idle conversation, but eventually they work their way round to the inevitable discussion that really can't be avoided. To her astonishment, it is Boyd who broaches the subject first, suddenly saying, "If we're going to do this – "

"'If'?" Grace challenges, but she knows it's a hypothetical if. There's no doubt in her mind that they're both equally committed to forging ahead into the unexpected new future that's ahead of them, come what may.

Boyd ignores the interruption. " – then we need to be discreet about it. At work, I mean."

She understands, is too experienced to believe things could be any other way, but an unworthy stab of insecurity makes her snort softly. "Worried about your reputation?"

"Yes," he answers, startling her. He's quick to continue, "But not in the way you mean. You know how out of favour we are at the Yard, and you know what a… controversial… choice of unit commander I've always been."

She nods. Neither fact is a secret to anyone connected even vaguely to the CCU. "True. But I also know that you consistently get results – and so do they. Face it, Boyd, it's much easier for them to carry on moaning and groaning and not actually doing anything than it is for them to go through the hassle of moving you on and finding someone else to appoint. Or am I wrong?"

"You're not wrong. But if they think they've found a legitimate reason to question my professional integrity – or yours – then things could get very serious very quickly."

"Hm." Grace ponders his words as they continue to walk. There's no question that he's right, that any serious suggestion of an intimate relationship between them would draw a lot of unwelcome official attention, both to the unit and to each of them as individuals. Boyd doesn't employ her, doesn't pay her wages, or conduct her appraisals, but he is in sole command of the unit she's seconded to by the Home Office. It doesn't exactly make him her boss, but… She sighs. "Discreet it is, then."

He glances at her. "Is that a problem for you?"

"No." Grace shakes her head. "If anything, it makes it easier."

"How so?" he inquires with a frown.

"Well, if we're deliberately keeping a clear separation between our private and personal lives, I'm not likely to suddenly feel circumscribed in what I can say to you, am I?"

"I didn't think that was a possibility, anyway."

"Oh?"

"When have you ever been frightened to tell me exactly what you think, Grace? Pissing me off has never bothered you before – why would it now?"

"Seriously?" she asks, wondering how he can possibly be so naïve, so tactless, in his choice of words.

"Well, yeah, of course."

Torn between annoyance, incredulity, and amusement, Grace asks, "So it would never occur to you to be a little more… diplomatic… in what you say to me at work – and how you say it – because we're sleeping together?"

Boyd looks bewildered as he shrugs. "No. Why would it?"

He really is a law unto himself, Grace thinks. Singular and inimitable. Incapable of not stubbornly marching to the sound of his own drum. "Then you're either incredibly stupid – which I know you're not – or you've got bigger balls than most."

His smirk is self-satisfied at best. "Well, you know…"

"It wasn't supposed to be a compliment, Boyd," she tells him dryly.

He stops walking, causing her to halt alongside him, looks down at her, expression contemplative. She's about to speak when he says, "I'm not Harry Taylor, Grace, and I'm certainly not Colin-bloody-Bulmer. I don't have a hidden agenda. I'm just a very average, very lonely guy who works hard, makes a lot of mistakes, and who can't quite believe he's been given another chance at happiness."

"And I'm not Mary," she says, her tone gentle but every bit as solemn as his. "I'll never have that mother-of-your-child bond with you, Peter, never be able to share all those precious memories with you – but what I am is your friend."

"I know." He stoops to kiss her, a brief brush of his lips against hers. "It won't be an easy ride, Grace."

"But it won't be a boring one, either." She stares up into his eyes, eyes that look a piercing hazel in the waning afternoon sun, and she finds she's not afraid to add, "There's something neither of us has actually dared to say."

"I know," he says again, his voice steady, "but some words are too powerful to be thrown around lightly."

"That's very profound, Boyd."

"Thank you." He takes her gloved hand, interlocking his fingers with hers. "But I do. You know damn well I do."

"I do." She doesn't need to hear the words themselves. He will say them aloud soon enough. And so will she. Until then, their actions will speak for them.

Her face is almost completely numb from the cold, but Grace certainly feels the icy kiss of the first snowflake to land on her cheek. Looking up, she can see the heavy-looking dark clouds drawing in. "It's started snowing again."

Boyd glances up with a frown. "You want to make a run for the car?"

"No," she says, suddenly filled with all the vibrant, youthful energy that comes with real happiness, "let's do what we didn't do in Staffordshire. Let's build a snowman."

"Really?" The single drawn-out word is heavy with scepticism.

Light-footed, Grace starts into motion, tightening her grip on his hand and all-but dragging him in her wake, "Why not?"

Boyd shakes his head, but he doesn't say a word, just allows himself to be towed onto the grass as the first white flakes begin to settle on the path behind them.

- the end -