Looking in the Mirror (continued)
Nothing in the CCU seems to have changed very much in her absence, which isn't really a surprise, given that she's only been on leave for a fortnight. But for Grace, the moment she walks into the squad room the two week break feels as if it has been far, far longer. Stella gets her a cup of coffee, Felix asks her if she's enjoyed her break, and Spencer grins at her and hands her a stack of files and folders which all apparently need her urgent attention. It's all very normal, all very mundane, and she starts to wonder how she could ever have considered turning her back on it all. She's glad, though, for the make-up that hides the fading cuts and bruises from her unpleasant encounter by the canal – there is no way she could bear the concern and outrage of her younger colleagues. Maybe they will find out about the incident, in the fullness of time, but she hopes not.
Her office is exactly as she left it, apart from the depressing height of the pile of paperwork in her in-tray, and the stack of her own reports that have finally reappeared on her desk. Grace knows without looking that each cover will be tersely annotated in Boyd's jagged, sloping handwriting; that each page will be dutifully initialled; that the official supporting documentation will be accurate, complete and fully signed-off. Paperwork sent to Boyd invariably comes back late, but it always comes back complete in every meticulous detail. She doesn't need to wonder where he finds the time – she knows full well how many hours he works, knows how often he's still at his desk as midnight approaches. It's just another example of his tenacity, his single-mindedness.
She settles behind her own desk, logs on to her computer and checks her email. There, too, amidst the dozens of other messages waiting for her, there is evidence of his dedication to his work. At least two of the emails sent from him are time-stamped well after two in the morning. And when Grace notes the times, a very real sense of unease starts to gnaw at her. Pushing it away, she concentrates on work, concentrates on anything that stops her thinking about all the possibilities she'd briefly allowed herself to imagine not so very many hours before.
In fact, she concentrates so hard that she's oblivious to the passage of time until she hears the loud, vengeful banging of doors that heralds Boyd's arrival. Plainly, from the shouting that starts almost immediately, he is not in a good mood. Which, given where he has been, is as utterly predictable as the sun rising in the east. She watches him from the safety of her office for a few minutes. It's not a luxury Spencer and Stella are afforded, stuck, as they are, in the squad room with him. Spencer appears as stoical as ever in the face of Boyd's temper, but Stella… Well, Stella hasn't been in the unit long enough to have developed the same sort of immunity, and she looks startled and more than a little worried.
It's time, Grace thinks, to intervene, to assume her adopted role as peacemaker, negotiator and unofficial right-hand to il duce. She opens her office door just as the shouting begins to head towards a crescendo. It appears, however, that most of Boyd's diatribe is directed not at his staff, but at his superiors. Calmly, quietly, she leans against the doorframe and gazes at the back of his head, half amused, half resigned. Spencer shoots her a quick, rueful sort of glance and she can't help rolling her eyes in response. They've both known Boyd for far too long to be remotely intimidated by such a predictable sort of outburst.
Without any real intent, Grace speculates quietly on the practical application of some of the things she's learnt in the last twenty-four hours. She wonders what effect standing up on her tiptoes behind him and brushing her lips softly across the far-too sensitive spot at the nape of his neck would have on the tirade. In her admittedly so-far limited experience, it induces an instant and wholly uncharacteristic compliance – turns the fearsome, bad-tempered lion into a great, gentle kitten in the blink of an eye. And she can only begin to imagine how much he would thank her for exposing that particular weakness to anyone. It's an entertaining idea, certainly, but not worth the wrath that would ensue. And she's well-aware of the difference between quietly teasing him and genuinely undermining his authority.
In the end, however, it isn't Grace who intervenes; it's the loud shrilling of the telephone in Boyd's office. With a few final, choice words, he stamps away, sparing her only the briefest and most baleful of looks in passing. He slams his office door hard enough to make its glass panels vibrate ominously.
Spencer looks at his watch, says, "Six minutes, eighteen seconds."
Stella just says, "Damn."
Grace raises her eyebrows, "Sweepstake?"
Spencer grins, "Yeah. Looks like Felix wins again."
No-one is surprised by the roar that goes up from Boyd's office just a few minutes later: "Grace…!"
-oOo-
Many hours pass. The character of the building changes as afternoon turns slowly to evening. Day staff drift away, night staff take up their duties. Even the gloomy domain of the Cold Case Unit changes subtly. It's a time Grace has always liked, the quiet, early-evening limbo when there's hardly anyone around and the phones have stopped ringing incessantly. It's a strange sort of time, caught between the formality of official working hours and the informality of private, personal time.
The tap on her office door doesn't altogether surprise her, nor does the fact that he doesn't wait for an answer before he strolls in and nonchalantly drops into a comfortable chair. She eyes him from the other side of her desk, asks, "Yes…?"
Boyd's tone is resigned, fatalistic, "Go on, then. I'm listening."
Grace shakes her head slightly, "That's not quite how it works, Boyd. This needs to be a two-way conversation."
"It really doesn't," he says. He looks at the ceiling for a moment, then sighs. "All right, have it your way."
"Cards on the table?"
"Cards on the table," he agrees.
"Tell me about last night."
Boyd groans, and the exasperation clearly isn't feigned. He says, "Oh, come on, Grace – I thought we'd already done the whole post-mortem thing?"
"This is different. I need to know… why. That's all. Why?"
He laughs softly, his expression faintly incredulous, "Why do you think?"
Determined not to skirt around the issue, Grace says bluntly, "It was the best way you could think of to get me to change my mind about leaving the unit?"
Boyd stares at her, and she realises – too late – that not only has his expression darkened, but that the look in his eyes has become hard and flinty. She waits for the explosion that doesn't come. In the end, he just stands up and shakes his head, and although his voice is level, completely calm, there's a sharp edge of bitterness to it as he says, "That's what you think? You really think I'd stoop that low? Well, thank you, Grace. Thank you so much for that vote of confidence."
She stands up quickly, "Boyd – "
But he isn't listening. He strides out of her office, grabs his coat and he's gone before she even reaches her office door. Somewhere in the far distance she can hear doors banging. Again.
Well done, Grace, a quiet voice in her head says. So what do you do for an encore…?
-oOo-
Whether it is years of experience as a psychologist, or just a sixth sense, Grace isn't sure, but she heads for the Hamilton bar near the Royal Court Theatre. The streets are busy, as they always are early in the evening in London, and she takes a few moments to enjoy the sensation of being completely anonymous. The encounter with the teenagers by the canal is starting to feel like a bad and slightly surreal dream. Certainly, she's no longer afraid as she walks alone towards her destination, and no-one spares her a second glance.
The Hamilton is the kind of place that caters for a regular clientele which changes regularly throughout the day. Later, she knows, the early-evening crowd of office workers stopping by on their way home will be replaced by the pre-dinner, pre-theatre crowd, and later still the night owls will move in. It's a shining example of bland mediocrity, and Grace rather likes it for its sullen refusal to move either up or down market.
She sees Boyd the moment she walks through the door. He's sitting alone at the bar, elbows on the counter, drink in front of him, staring at nothing. Other patrons move around him, but none venture too close to the invisible warning perimeter that seems to surround him. He sits very still, almost eerily so. Grace is too far away to tell, but she wonders whether he's even blinking.
From nowhere, she has a minor epiphany, seeing him exactly as the other customers see him. A tall, bearded and very well-dressed man, somewhere in his fifties; broad-shouldered and good-looking in a rugged, rather lupine sort of way. Easy enough on the eye, but detached, completely alone; totally isolated in the crowd.
Grace walks across to him, seeing him catch her reflection in the mirror above the optics. He doesn't look round at her, doesn't move at all. She sits herself next to him, taking time to place her bag and arrange her coat, deliberately unhurried.
Still, he doesn't look at her. She says, "Buy a lady a drink?"
Without a word Boyd raises a hand, signals the barman. Smiling at the young man as he comes over, she says, "Just a glass of red wine, thank you."
Silence. The wine duly arrives. Patient as a cat at a mouse hole, Grace waits.
Eventually, "You live round here?"
"No," she says, with complete honesty. "You?"
"No."
"Waiting for someone?"
"No," he says. There's a long pause. "What's your name?"
Deciding just to play along, she replies, "Grace. And you are…?"
Boyd looks at her then, expression completely unreadable. He extends his hand, "Peter. Pleased to meet you, Grace."
She shakes his hand solemnly, tries not to focus on the warmth of his skin or the strength of his fingers. She notices, for the first time in a very long while, how very grey he's actually gone, and how much of his beard and how much of what used to be iron grey at his temples are now silver. She says, "What do you do for a living, Peter? Lawyer?"
"Police officer," he tells her. "Detective Superintendent. You?"
"I'm a psychologist."
"Married?"
Grace shakes her head. "You?"
"Not for a long time."
"Girlfriend?"
"No," he says, returning his gaze to the drink in front of him. "What about you, Grace? Is there a partner waiting at home? A steady, reliable sort of bloke who buys you flowers and washes the car every Sunday morning?"
"No," Grace says. She takes a sip of her wine. "There might be a man, but it's complicated."
"Yeah?"
She watches him carefully, mentally tosses a coin. Heads or tails? Heads. Time to be brave and take the gamble. Knowing she's approaching a potentially very dangerous place, she says, "He's my boss. But that's not really the problem."
Boyd doesn't twitch, carries on his steady scrutiny of his glass, "Is he married?"
"Only to his job. Which is okay. No, the problem is he's a very damaged, very angry man. Lots of issues, lots of baggage. Never really seems to know what he wants; charges through life like a bull in a china shop, thinks shouting is the answer to everything. Won't listen to the people who care about him. Doesn't know how to rest, how to relax. Drives people too hard, and himself even harder."
"Not worth the effort," he says dismissively. "You're too good for him."
"Yes, I'm starting to realise that's what he thinks, too, and maybe that's half the problem," Grace says, just a touch wryly. She finishes her wine, gathers her things. "I should go. It was nice to meet you, Peter. Goodbye."
"Goodbye, Grace."
She doesn't want to look back, but as she opens the door to the street, the temptation is too great. Boyd hasn't moved, is still sitting in his island of space, staring into the mid-distance. Quietly, she leaves.
-oOo-
It's raining when she steps out of the tube station, but fortunately she doesn't have too far to walk. The rain's not hard, but it's steady. She won't be sorry to get inside and close the door behind her. She thinks about what to cook, whether or not to tackle the ironing. Banal, ordinary thoughts which are strangely soothing. She turns the corner, starts to walk down the road towards her house. The harsh street lighting makes the wet road dazzle, the pavement shine.
Boyd's car is parked opposite her house, on the other side of the road. Grace isn't sure whether or not she's surprised. Wherever he is, he isn't sitting in the vehicle waiting for her. As she approaches the house she tenses slightly, not trusting him not to startle her by suddenly stepping from the shadows. She relaxes when she sees him leaning up against her front door, coat collar turned up, head down against the rain.
Not sure what rules they're playing by now, Grace decides on a neutral, "Hi."
Boyd lifts his head, gazes at her steadily, "I was beginning to think you'd got lost."
"Public transport," Grace says in explanation, extricating her keys from her bag. Boyd moves away from the door, lets her reach to put the key in the lock before stepping up behind her. He isn't touching her, but she can feel his proximity. It does strange things to her equilibrium, makes her abnormally clumsy as she tries to unlock the door. A surprisingly warm hand settles on hers, steadying it. Which is bad for her heart rate – but not nearly as bad as the fingertips of the other hand that brush lightly against the side of her neck. To her eternal chagrin the gentle touch makes her shiver.
Something in her stomach tightens sharply as she feels his lips trace the path his fingers have just taken, feels the soft prickle of his beard against her neck, forcibly reminding her of the night before. Very close to her ear, his voice says softly, "A bull in a china shop? Really?"
Mercifully, the lock finally ceases all resistance and she gets the front door open. Too quickly, she steps away from him and into the hallway. She tries not to look in the direction of the mirror.
Her voice a fraction too high, she says, "Come in out of the rain, Boyd. Let me get the lights on and then –"
Or not.
Very much like the night before, she isn't sure who's kissing who more urgently, but it doesn't seem to matter very much. There seems to be quite a tangle of coats and bag straps, but that doesn't seem to matter much, either. Nor the fact that her back seems to be pressed hard against the living room door, or that she's fiercely raking her fingers through thick, wet hair that gleams silver in the light spilling into the dark hallway from the street.
They break apart, both breathing heavily.
Sounding hoarse, Boyd says, "If you're going to tell me to go, Grace, you'd better tell me right now."
Grace can feel the incredible tension in him, and she is awed by it. Even after everything that's happened in the last twenty-four hours, the fierce arousal she can see reflected in his dark eyes still astounds her. A tiny, sane part of her mind takes over. Maybe he's been right all along and they really don't need to say very much at all, but there is one thing she wants to make quite clear. Holding his gaze, Grace says quietly, "Stay or go, it's up to you. But if you stay, you stay because this means something to you."
The challenge issued, the dice rolled, she mentally holds her breath. It's time to see where the dice come to rest.
Not breaking eye contact, Boyd turns, just enough to catch the front door with his foot, and he determinedly swings it shut. His chin lifts slightly, unconsciously belligerent, a touch defiant. There really isn't anything left that needs to be said. So, without a single word, Grace takes his hand. She's not entirely sure what they are tacitly agreeing to, but she knows it's certainly something worthwhile. He's far from the easiest man in the world, but that doesn't matter, because Grace… Well, Grace isn't afraid to accept the challenge.
In fact, as they silently ascend the stairs together, Grace realises just how much of her recent, crippling fear and insecurity has simply evaporated. She knows full well she's going to be back at her desk the next morning. And every morning after that. And she knows that all the time she can see such intense fire burning in Boyd's eyes she's never going to be afraid to look in the mirror.
She isn't even afraid of the future. Why would she be?
– the end –