Uncomfortable

…

Uncomfortable, that's the word that springs to mind. It's not a sensation he's generally accustomed to, but as Boyd tries to force his considerable frame to fit more easily in the seat of the old-fashioned and rather proportionally challenged armchair, uncomfortable is all he can say about his present predicament.

Whoever designed the damn thing, however far back in the very distant mists of time, was clearly not expecting anyone even moderately over five feet in height along with a uniformly slender frame to even attempt to perch on it, let alone someone considerably more vertically endowed.

It's just not going to happen, decides Boyd gloomily as he continues trying to adjust his position. There's just too much of him to fit with any degree of comfort.

No, he's most definitely not around about five feet in height and slender. He knows someone who's not far off, though. Someone who also possesses enticing curves, a wicked smile, and an intoxicating bedroom voice. Someone who should very definitely be sitting beside him.

She's not.

Resigned to the lack of luxury, or even just the easing of the dull, throbbing ache that's starting to set in around his lower lumbar region, Boyd looks up.

Steady blue eyes, very slightly clouded with age but still sharp and piercing are scrutinising him intently.

That gaze, so familiar yet also oddly layered with deep mistrust, is also disconcerting.

Uncomfortable, even.

It goes against the grain to admit it, but Boyd has never shied away from the truth. And there is something about the old man seated in his equally small and uncomfortable-looking armchair across the room that is setting his nerves on edge.

He wishes Grace were here.

Isn't entirely clear on why she isn't, if he's completely honest.

She was supposed to be, but then something spuriously nebulous happened and now she isn't and suddenly he's doubly uncomfortable in his too small chair under the… disconcerting… gaze of an old man whom he's acutely aware he doesn't want to piss off.

Doctor Harold Foley, retired GP and, by all accounts, cantankerous old man hell bent on stubbornly doing things his own way.

"Peter."

Short, almost sharp, to the point.

Unconsciously, Boyd sits up a little sharper. "Yes, sir."

"Hm."

There's a lot left unsaid in that simple sound. It's accompanied by that continued steady gaze, by a shrewd, knowing examination that Boyd suspects more than one unruly patient was subjected to in the old man's former practice that is now run by his son and two granddaughters.

"Peter Boyd." Also short, also sharp.

"Yes."

One eyebrow gives the barest hint of a twitch.

"Sir." It's hastily added, but Boyd feels somewhat begrudging. The level of discomfort he's feeling about this meeting is beginning to gnaw at him in a most unpleasant and frustrating manner.

"Superintendent. Detective."

Again, nothing is given away, merely a short statement is uttered.

"Yes, sir."

Those eyes… they seem to possess none of the warmth he finds in Grace. None at all.

"The very same Detective Superintendent who has been fucking my daughter for many months and has yet failed, until now, to come and introduce himself to me."

His blood turns to ice. That's the only way Boyd can describe the horrified feeling that descends headfirst on him at the old man's turn of phrase. At his startling accuracy. At his savagely acute bluntness.

There's nothing for it, he reckons, resigned. He holds up his palms, shrugs, and nods. "Guilty."

"Hm."

Again, nothing is given away.

"Detective. Well, one assumes that makes you at least somewhat intelligent. Hopefully more so than that idiot Wilson, anyway. What she saw in him is beyond me."

"It's beyond me too," Boyd answers, the words out of his traitor mouth before he can even think to moderate them, or rein them in. "Man was a prat."

Fuck.

Something flickers in Harold's eyes. Something rather like a trace of amusement.

"Hm."

Boyd is starting to hate that sound. Really hate it.

"So," is the blunt statement that comes next, "what are your intentions then?"

He doesn't know how to take it. Wrong-footed is a not a sensation Boyd is accustomed to feeling. In fact, it's one he's well practiced in handing out. Being on the receiving end is… uncomfortable.

"What do you mean?"

"Regarding my daughter," is the impatient reply.

"Oh." Shocked is a bit of an understatement. Taking a deep breath, he tries to marshal his scrambled thoughts. Witty repartee has deserted him, as has his usual confidence and desire to dominate any given situation.

"Well?" Imperious, demanding. Unnerving.

"I love her," he blurts out, then stops, shocked. Christ, get a grip, man, he scolds himself. It does no good. Embarrassment is actually starting to creep in, just a little. And that too is uncomfortable.

Clearing his throat, he coughs. Gathers himself as best he can. "I intend to do my level best to make her happy. To look after if, if she needs it." She does, and she doesn't. Grace is the single most stubbornly independent woman he thinks he has ever met. Her father's daughter, he thinks, eyeing the man in front of him.

Clarity is beginning to assert itself.

"Hm."

Another drawn out, penetrating stare; it feels like his very soul is being studied minutely. It's most… uncomfortable.

"Daughters are very important to their fathers, Peter Boyd," is the grave pronouncement that finally follows. Those blue eyes never leave his, never stop boring intently into him. "See that you do."

There seems to be a lot – an awful lot – that needs to be said, but strangely, nothing is. Boyd can no more find the words than it seems Harold wishes to volunteer them. Instead, the older man stands, and he is surprisingly sprightly for his age. "Come with me," he orders. "My daughter has forbidden me to use ladders."

Confused by the non sequitur, he obediently gets to his feet, glad when it transpires that little time is needed for clarification. "You're tall enough to reach the roof of my shed; you can fix the guttering for me. My water butt is missing out on valuable rainwater." There is a pause as the backdoor is unlocked, the old-fashioned key turning smoothly in the mortis lock.

"Perhaps then we can have a beer and discuss the value of a good woman in a man's life."

Stepping out into the sunshine, Boyd stares down the length of the long garden. Rows of beds house neatly planted vegetables brimming with vigorous growth, tubs dotted here, there, and everywhere, contain brilliantly coloured flowers in dozens of shapes, sizes, and varieties. It's a calm oasis, one tended with much love, care, and devotion.

"My wife was a gardener," Harold tells him.

Was. It tells Boyd everything he needs to know about this seemingly stern, stubborn old man.

"Where are your tools?" he asks as he stretches his aching back, suddenly far from uncomfortable.