7: The Future Decided

Morning brings a touch of reality. The reality of waking to mildly aching limbs, suspiciously tender places and the harsh rasp of stubble against her cheek when Boyd kisses her. But Grace savours it all, just as she savours the decadently large and comfortable bed that cannot possibly belong to him, but self-evidently does. She absorbs every tiny detail as she quietly delights in the smooth warmth of his skin, in the way he holds her gently but with a very real sense of entitlement. The thought may be rather unpalatable for a woman of her education and professional standing, but she's fairly certain that in some residual caveman area of his brain she has been firmly added to his inventory of personal possessions. Which she won't hesitate to tear him into small and bloody pieces for if she ever suspects it's becoming in any way a conscious thought.

For a long time they lie lazily together, sometimes partially entwined, sometimes not, but both thoroughly disinclined to rush into the day ahead. Idly exploring the contours of his bare chest with just the tips of her fingers, Grace notices Boyd is watching her in a thoughtful, absorbed sort of way, one arm resting behind his head, the other draped languidly around her shoulders. There's something about the quiet intensity of his gaze that makes her smile slightly and ask, "What…?"

She expects cheeky innuendo at the very least. She does not expect him to solemnly say, "It works, doesn't it? You and me? It shouldn't, but it does."

He's right. No doubt about it. Against all the odds, on the most fundamental level, where it really matters, it works. They are so very different in so many ways, and she suspects it's inevitable that they will continue to clash over all the things – great and small – that they somehow can't manage to compromise on, but there's something, some kind of basic chemistry between them, maybe, that's immutable and complementary. Grace nods, agrees softly, "It does."

"Hmm," Boyd says, and then something mischievous flares fleetingly in his dark eyes. "I suppose I should just give in and marry you. Save us both a lot of trouble in the long-run."

Grace can't help chuckling, both at his easy impudence and at the very idea. "Trust me, Boyd, hell will freeze over first."

"I'm serious," he says, and she thinks perhaps he genuinely believes he is – just for that one tiny moment. But she knows him far too well to be worried. Besides, it isn't only Boyd who's something of a free spirit, and she's always been far more liberal and unconventional than he will ever be. He may be impulsive, given to doing things entirely on a whim, but marriage… is not an option. Never will be, as far as Grace is concerned. She simply can't picture that kind of traditional domesticity ever existing between them. Can't imagine ever wanting it even if she could.

She shakes her head, not remotely troubled. "No you're not, and if even you were, that's probably the worst marriage proposal ever."

He immediately feigns hurt. "Are you turning me down, Grace?"

"Boyd, if you think – " she starts, still chuckling over the absurdity of the notion.

"Peter," he interrupts, and suddenly there's an easy serenity about him that's extremely unusual. "My name is Peter."

"Yes," Grace says, a quite deliberate note of patience in her voice, "I'm well aware of that. I have known you for the better part of a decade, remember?"

Boyd rolls over onto his side, head propped up on one hand as he gazes sedately at her. "And there's nothing left that you don't know about me. Apart from my all-consuming passion for fly fishing and the fact that when I was a kid I desperately wanted to be a fighter pilot. And the fly fishing bit's a barefaced lie, obviously."

"No other dark secrets I should know about?" Grace asks, tracing a single fingertip slowly down over his solar plexus towards the faded scars on his stomach, the brutal legacy of the terrifying day when all she could do was watch helplessly as he was stabbed not just once, but twice. She doesn't miss the way his pupils dilate a fraction in response to the light touch.

The reply is artless and relaxed, however, belying the look in his eyes. "I don't think so. Opera and ballet bore me to tears, I have a bit of a thing for feisty women, and if I drink too much champagne I tend to fall over. Which can be extremely embarrassing at weddings. Oh, and there may be a couple of girlie magazines in my sock drawer."

Grace laughs. She doesn't feel a single twinge of self-consciousness as she instructs, "Now tell me you love me."

The response is laconic. "Why? You know damn well I do."

"Peter."

Boyd sighs heavily, pointedly. "Of course I bloody love you."

Despite the flush of warmth and affection his gruff answering words cause, the temptation to tease him is far, far too great. "Well done. There, that didn't hurt too much, did it?"

He grins and as he sits up and runs his fingers through his tousled silver hair the suddenly boyish expression knocks years off him. "Are you proud of me, Doctor?"

-oOo-

Nobly making the effort to finally leave the house, they go for an early-afternoon walk together in Greenwich Park, skirting Flamsteed House and idly sauntering arm-in-arm across the grass. There's nothing extraordinary about it, it's simply enjoyable and companionable. Sometimes they stop to look at something one or other of them points out, and sometimes they just stop to look at each other in an amused, conspiratorial sort of way. More often than not they share a quick, harmless embrace before moving on – enough to maintain the newfound strong sense of intimacy but not enough to frighten the general public. Grace doubts anyone actually notices them as they wander without any real direction; they're just another anonymous late middle-aged couple quietly strolling in the sunshine, probably married for years with several children and grandchildren to their name. Appearances can be – often are – deceptive.

They are sitting on a wooden bench together indolently people-watching when Boyd abruptly says, "So, come on, then. You're the one with all the brains. Where do we go from here?"

Grace glances at him, but he's determinedly staring off into the distance. The strong profile is distinctive; incredibly familiar and yet strangely novel, as if she is studying him with completely fresh eyes. Carefully, she says, "I'm assuming you're talking about professionally, and the fact that somehow we have to look each other in the eye at work tomorrow?"

"Pretty much."

It's no surprise, and she already has an answer. "It's not going to be an issue, surely? We're hardly love-struck teenagers and neither of us is unprofessional enough to cross any boundaries we shouldn't during working hours."

Boyd's response is dry. "There are people at the Yard who might not view things quite the same way."

She snorts. "There are people at the Yard who've been convinced for years that we've been up to no good together since the very first day we met. It's never bothered you before."

"Doesn't bother me now," he says with a casual shrug. He rubs his closely-trimmed beard thoughtfully for a moment. "But I do think a degree of… circumspection… might be in order."

"Won't make any difference," Grace points out. At the askance glance he gives her in response, she continues, "Come on, Boyd, we don't exactly work in an ordinary office, do we? Our colleagues are all highly-trained investigators. If they couldn't put two and two together and successfully come up with four... Besides, they know both of us very well indeed."

"Too well," he grumbles. Deeply sullen, he adds, "I'm just not up for making a general bloody announcement in the morning team meeting, that's all."

Grace understands his reticence but she's already come to some conclusions of her own about the matter. "Did I suggest for one moment that you should? Peter, I'm in my sixties and you're not that far behind me. I think we're both a little long in the tooth to start creeping around trying to do the whole 'clandestine affair' thing, don't you? Office romances are a simple fact of life everywhere whether the powers that be like it or not. As long as our professional integrity can't be called into question, people will just have to learn to deal with it."

"You know what," Boyd declares abruptly after a moment or two of heavy silence, "you're absolutely right."

"I usually am," she says wryly.

He grins at her, suddenly boisterously cheerful again. "Fuck 'em all, eh, Grace?"

There's something about his irrepressible, adolescent defiance that makes her smile. Always has, always will. "I wouldn't have chosen those exact words, personally, but essentially… yes. Fuck 'em all."

Boyd nudges her gently with his shoulder. "God, I love it when you talk dirty."

Grace laughs softly, thoroughly enchanted by the whole absurd, wonderful situation. So much heartache, so much suppressed longing, all painlessly erased in less time than it usually takes them to resolve a single pointless argument. The lingering pain of years of resentment and twisting frustration neatly excised in the space of a single weekend. Boyd is smiling at her, slightly bemused, a touch quizzical, as if he still doesn't really grasp just how long she's waited for him to understand what she's known for years – that they're the best and worst people in the world for each other and yet, despite everything, they definitely belong together. She stands up quite suddenly. "If we do this, Peter – "

"'If'…?" he interrupts sardonically, eyebrows raised.

She ignores him. " – then we do it quite openly. If the question's ever asked – by anyone – then we answer it honestly. This is not going to be a guilty secret kept firmly behind closed doors, something that we think we should be vaguely ashamed of and feel compelled to lie about for professional reasons."

Boyd looks vaguely impressed, as if he didn't expect such a fierce show of spirit. He gets to his feet. "And to hell with the consequences?"

"What consequences?" Grace demands. "I'm not a police officer and you're not my boss."

"Actually…"

She glares up at him. "Semantics, Boyd. The Home Office pays my salary."

"Yes, Grace."

She knows that infuriating tone. Too well. "Now you're just humouring me, aren't you?"

The wicked grin that always seems to spell trouble and chaos breaks through again. "Yes, Grace."

With superb and conscious irony given how close to retirement they're both inevitably getting and the largely inconsequential difference in age between them, she slowly and deliberately shakes her head and warns, "Just you wait until I get you home, young man."

Exactly as anticipated, Boyd looks considerably more intrigued than intimidated by the implied threat. And as Grace starts to walk in the general direction of the road and therefore his house, he swiftly falls into step with her without a single word. Smiling to herself, she hooks her arm comfortably through his. In the space of just a couple of days their world has changed irrevocably and they both know it. She's glad. She's waited a long time for it. All of it.

- the end -