DISCLAIMER: I own nothing.

June 2014. Happy birthday, Gemenied! Enjoy and have a great day. xx

Tell Boyd

by Joodiff

There's no doubt about it, he's going to have to buy a new car. The thought is a gloomy and resigned one, born only of necessity. Unfolding himself from the cramped confines of his classic roadster, Boyd has almost come to terms with the fact that now he no longer has the luxury of picking and choosing his daily workhorse at someone else's expense he's going to have to admit defeat and purchase a far more practical vehicle. It's been two weeks since his big Audi was unceremoniously collected from his drive and returned to the Met's carpool, and he's beginning to accept that two small seats and only very limited storage space is not enough room even for a single man living alone. Besides, his beloved little Austin-Healey is – rather like himself – both difficult to handle and notoriously temperamental… not to mention steadily advancing in years. A wholly impractical car in terms of efficiency and functionality, but in truth Boyd already knows he'll find dozens of excuses for keeping it when he grudgingly buys something altogether more bland and sensible. It'll go back in the garage to gather dust again, a weekend toy that barely gets a passing glance from one month to the next, but that doesn't matter – it will still be his. That's important, somehow.

"Boyd," a familiar female voice calls, drawing his attention away from the little car's idiosyncratic lines. Grace. Walking towards him with her eyebrows raised and a slight smile on her face. It's been less than a month since they were last face to face and yet he finds himself ridiculously pleased to see her. On principle, he doesn't let it show. She stops a few feet away, makes a great performance of looking him up and down before saying, "Sorry – I didn't realise we were dressing up for the occasion."

"Funny," he growls in response. Maybe he is looking abnormally scruffy, at that. Given where they are. Dark tee-shirt, well-worn jeans that have definitely seen better days, and a comfortable old fleece jacket that barely cost him a tenner from a street trader of dubious legitimacy. Part practicality, part bloody-minded defiance. Today is hardly an Armani day for all sorts of reasons.

"Oh, look," she adds, the sparkling glee quite clear in her blue eyes, "and you seem to have mislaid your razor."

"Shut up, Grace," he grumbles, not quite able to prevent himself running a hand over the rough stubble coarsening his jaw. He considers trying to convince her that it's deliberate, that he's growing back the beard he sported for so many years before shaving it off on a whim, but he guesses – rightly – that her response will be a derisive snort. Doubtless she's already correctly surmised that he's simply been too lazy and too demotivated to bother with regular shaving over the last few weeks. Truth be told, Boyd thinks, surveying her, she looks a damn sight better than he does, and her interpretation of casual dress is far more elegant. Practical, fit for purpose, but stylish. He isn't slow to notice that understated or not, the outfit doesn't do much to disguise the familiar curves of her body. He wonders what she'd do if he took a sudden step forward and hugged her in belated greeting. He doesn't.

She says, "Spence says everything from our offices has been moved into what used to be the secondary archive…?"

"Apparently so. Bastards could've boxed it all up for us while they were at it."

"They were probably only told to move everything out of the way as quickly as possible so the builders could make a start."

"Mm," is Boyd's noncommittal response. Neither of them has moved a muscle. Procrastination. Apprehension. He doubts Grace is any keener to do what they're here to do than he is. Too final. Too much like drawing a bold and indelible line under everything that mattered so very much for so very long.

Maybe she senses his darkening thoughts because she sighs in a heavy, despondent way that's atypical. She doesn't sound eager as she says, "Well, I suppose we'd better get on with it."

"Yeah." His lack of enthusiasm matches hers. They fall into step anyway, walking towards the building's main entrance shoulder to shoulder. Neither of them have key-cards for the compound's gate or for the rear doors anymore. Just another small humiliation amongst many. They go up the steps together, too, still unconsciously synchronised, pass through the big doors and walk into the public reception area, always quieter at the weekends – until the traditional Saturday night melee. The signage for the Cold Case Unit has been obscured by crude strips of duct tape. A temporary solution no doubt soon to be made permanent.

"Superintendent," the desk sergeant says in a solemn way that suggests he understands far more about the whole sorry situation than he's supposed to. He nods to them both. "Doctor Foley."

Grace smiles at him, her expression open and sincere. "Hello, Jim. How's the family?"

She was always good at the kind of inconsequential social niceties that help keep the world turning smoothly, Boyd reflects. Better than him at remembering the names and irrelevant personal stories of all the peripheral people, too. He lets her have her moment, his patience remarkable given the strong undercurrents of stress threatening to turn the day into a nightmare scenario of pain and resentment. As soon as he can, however, he demands, "Has DAC Knight's office has been in contact?"

The sergeant's features settle into something neutral and imperturbable. "Yes, sir. I have visitor passes here for you both."

It hurts. Boyd expected it to infuriate him. He didn't expect it to hurt him. Certainly not as much as it does. His fingers feel numb as they close on the small plastic card he's handed. Highest-ranking officer in the building to temporary pass-holder in less than six weeks. Further proof that he doesn't belong here anymore. Truth be known, he isn't sure he knows where he belongs now. His voice is tight as he mutters, "Thanks."

The complicated route through the warren of increasingly unlovely corridors feels alien and inhospitable. As if he's walking through a half-remembered and bizarre dream; as if only the woman at his side is real. He doesn't know if he's surprised or not when Grace puts a firm but gentle hand on his forearm and says, "The worst is already over, Peter. Remember that."

Peter. Boyd can count on the fingers of one hand the number of times she's used his first name, and they've known each other for over a decade. If he was a different man perhaps he'd be close to tears now. He's not and he isn't. They go down the last short set of concrete steps like weary comrades-in-arms marching towards the front line, not another word spoken.

Nothing's left. That's the first thing that strikes him as they enter the semi-subterranean space where they spent so many long working hours. Everything's gone – not just the infrastructure, the electronics and furniture. Everything. Builders' rubble is heaped where the squad room's main block of desks and chairs should be, and there is now only empty space where the glazed partitions defining separate areas once were. No trace of his office or hers, and just a dusty void where the observation area and the interview rooms used to be. The CCU hasn't just been disbanded, it's been physically erased, brick by brick, panel by panel.

It's Grace who says, "My God, they haven't wasted any time, have they?"

Boyd puts a hand on her shoulder. Does it without thinking. Isn't sure which of them it's designed to comfort. "I think it's called repurposing, Grace. Apparently Health and Safety have vetoed the idea of normal human beings ever being made to work down here."

"'Too much concrete, not enough light'?" she quotes, appearing not to notice the abrupt way he withdraws his hand.

Despite the twinge of pain he can't prevent a wry smile. It doesn't seem possible that it was six weeks ago that the four of them – the core of the CCU's diehard survivors – were standing together under Waterloo Bridge, contemplating their uncertain future. Seems much longer. And much shorter. Boyd gives himself a firm mental shake. He can't afford to be sentimental. Not here, not now. "Yeah, something like that. Feels strange, doesn't it?"

"Eerie," Grace confirms. She is looking around as if trying to rebuild their former headquarters from memory. Her voice is quiet when she continues, "I really didn't want to face coming back here."

Boyd watches her as she studies the large derelict space. She doesn't look as weary and defeated as he suspects he does, but there's a touch of something haunted about her. Too many memories. He tries to be flippant. "A deal's a deal, Grace."

"Your muscle for space in my car? Yes, I know."

He's far from in the mood to engage in their usual banter, but there's something in him that wants – needs – to lift her spirits. He feigns a disapproving scowl. "Sounds like a more than fair trade to me, the amount of your crap I'm gonna have to haul up the bloody stairs."

Grace glances at him and smiles, and Boyd knows it's not at his pitiful attempt to restore something like the status quo. She smiles because she – as ever – sees straight through him. Knows he hates to see her so morose. She seems to steel herself, however, because when she speaks again her voice is firm and bright. "My brains and your brawn, Boyd. We're still a winning team."

Your beauty and my brawn, he thinks, but keeps his opinion to himself. Actually, her beauty and brains. Smartest damn woman he ever knew, and the past few weeks have helped him recognise that he's going to miss her more than he ever realised possible. He blocks any further brooding thoughts in that direction before they can take hold. "C'mon, then. Secondary archive."

-oOo-

It doesn't take Boyd long to locate his personal possessions in the chaotic jumble of things untidily dumped in the long dark room that used to house numerous racks of files, folders and evidence boxes. Amongst the debris he also finds any number of miscellaneous bits and pieces he has every right to take but chooses to leave. New chapter, new start. No point in weighing himself down with anything more than he has to. Let the builders chuck it all in their skip later, he doesn't care. Three decent-sized cardboard boxes not quite full. That's all he's left with when he decides he's finished picking over the bones of the life forcibly taken away from him. Probably would all fit into the roadster, one way or another, but then he'd have no reason to stay while Grace rifles through piles of books and papers, her expression somewhere between delight and despair.

Boyd leans himself up against the wall, folds his arms and watches her. He refuses to allow himself to think that this might be his very last opportunity to do so. The truth's there, though, cold and tight in the pit of his stomach. In the end just to distract himself he asks, "How can one woman amass so much bloody junk?"

"It's not junk," is her predictable reply.

"Debatable." He prods the nearest half-filled box with his foot, his attention momentarily caught by the brightly-painted wooden tribal mask staring up at him. "I see Albert's turned up again, then."

Grace straightens up and follows his gaze. "I bet you wish the builders had dropped something heavy on him."

"Bloody thing gives me the creeps."

She doesn't meet his eye. "Well, at least you won't have to look at him anymore."

It's breaking his damned heart and he's only just realising it. He's not ready to let go. Not ready to let go of any of it, but especially not of Grace. She's been such a constant in his life for so long now… Boyd clears his throat, sounds gruffer than he intends to as he says, "Small mercies, eh?"

"I'll put him up on the wall in my living room," she promises, a suspicious catch in her voice, "just to remind me of you."

Collateral damage. That's all it is. Serves him right for allowing himself to lower his defences even a fraction. For being stupid enough to imagine a personal friendship with someone who in reality was only ever a co-worker. Just a co-worker. An external consultant foisted on him by the Home Office. Nothing more. He's struggling to cope with the enormity of the situation, battling not to start screaming in fury at the pain and unfairness. Somewhere amid the gathering storm of emotions, Boyd wonders if Grace has any idea of all the conflicting thoughts and feelings that are threatening to tear him apart. Of course she does – psychologist and all that. She knows – there's just no reason at all for her to care. Just a co-worker, nothing more. He hates it. All of it. He thrusts out an aggressive hand towards her. "Give me your keys and I'll start taking stuff up to the car."

Grace waits until he's thoroughly laden before she says, "If you want to go and get a coffee or something and come back later…?"

It's not a rejection; she's just trying to be kind. Boyd realises it just a split-second before he turns on her. It's a huge effort to choke the angry words down, to give her a curt nod instead of unleashing every iota of his impotent rage on her. She doesn't look happy, but he can't even begin explain his sudden belligerence so he turns his back and heads off down the empty corridor. He'd spend the rest of his damned life carrying boxes for her if she asked him to, and the greatest tragedy of all is that she doesn't know it. No. The greatest tragedy is that even if she did know it, it wouldn't mean anything to her. Because he's nothing more to her than a former colleague, an ex-workmate she'll barely think of a few months from now.

By the end of the third round trip Boyd's not as keen. Revised plan: he'd spend the rest of his life with her if she asked him to, but without the box-carrying. Not going to happen. Not in this reality or any other. His back hurts like a bastard but he's not ready to give up. Giving up is not the Peter Boyd way. He will see it through, all of it. Even the inevitable goodbye. When he stamps back into the windowless room again Grace greets him with, "I don't think there's too much more here that's worth hanging onto."

"Thank Christ for that. Where the hell are you going to put all this stuff, anyway?"

She shrugs her slim shoulders. "Up in the loft, I suppose."

"Yeah? And how exactly is it going to get up there?" Boyd is not one to miss an opportunity. "Oh, wait…"

A small and fleeting grin precedes, "Well, since you offered…"

"That wasn't an offer, Grace; that was me grudgingly surrendering to the bloody inevitable." Not jumping at the chance. No, not at all.

"I'll buy you dinner."

He snorts. "Heard it all before. God knows how many meals you owe me by now. Guess that's one lot of debts I'll just have to write off."

Flippant though the comment is it causes a long and heavy silence, as if they are both contemplating the once-distant future that has so suddenly become a rapidly encroaching reality. The end really is in sight. Their end. Grace looks down at the latest stack of books waiting to be boxed, her features now fixed into an unreadable mask. Something about her sudden stillness makes the hairs on the back of Boyd's neck stand on end. He knows her. Knows when things aren't right, knows when the storm is about to break. He mentally braces himself for it. Any second now she's going to tear into him and it's going to be fierce, bitter and extraordinarily painful. For them both, probably.

It isn't even his fault this time.

She surprises him, however. He isn't the target, the innocuous pile of books is. She kicks out at it in temper, flat-soled ankle boot connecting squarely mid-stack and causing a brief and noisy avalanche. It's nothing compared to the force Boyd has been known to deploy against inanimate objects in moments of stress and frustration, but from Grace it is… shocking. Not as shocking as the loud and emphatic exclamation of, "Fuck. Fuck."

He's not stupid enough to imagine that she's swearing at the books or the sudden chaos of papers and pages. Boyd acts on instinct, not caring about propriety or consequence. He puts his arms around her and drags her hard against him, his grip tight. Grace doesn't fight. She freezes for a tiny moment, and then she buries her head hard into his shoulder, balled fists unmoving against his chest. He feels her rasping sobs more than he hears them. It all-but kills him, but he doesn't let go. Crying women are not Boyd's forte at the best of times, yet it's not the first time he's seized hold of her and held onto her as if both their lives depended on it. An unwanted image of Mel's bloody and broken body flashes through his mind as he realises, however, that it may very well be the last.

-oOo-

"I'm sorry," she says again. Wan and panda-eyed. It shouldn't be anything like as attractive as it is.

Boyd shakes his head. "Will you stop saying that?"

"Sorry." A flicker of a smile. "Sorry."

"For God's sake." He sighs. "Go and do whatever it is you women do for hours with your damn war-paint, then go and track down some coffee. I'll sort this lot out."

Grace looks as if she's going to argue, but she gives the slightest of nods. "Okay. Thank you."

"No problem. Even I can manage to throw a few books into a box."

"Put the heavy ones at the bottom," she instructs.

"Go away, Grace."

There are some interesting titles amongst the toppled stack. Not just psychology, but criminology, forensics and several solid legal tomes. Some are well-thumbed, others look pristine, as if they've never been read or even glanced through. Boyd packs them with deliberate and meticulous care, more to be cussed than anything else. The stray papers and pages he slips down the outer edges of the box. One piece of lined paper in particular catches his eye as he retrieves it from the floor. A numbered list written in Grace's distinctive looping handwriting. It's the very first item that draws his attention and stops him from filing the piece of paper away. Montmartre, dinner at sunset. Not a shopping list or something equally mundane, then. Intrigued, Boyd reads on. Number two on the list is David, Galleria dell'Accademia di Firenze.

Items three and four seem to concern activities with friends and family members he's never heard her mention, and five – Puccini, Covent Garden – has been crossed out with a single firm line. Six and seven make him smirk and simultaneously raise his eyebrows, and the implications of item eight conjure the kind of startling visions in his head that would put a hormonal teenager to shame. Definitely not a shopping list. He's not shocked, but he is a little surprised. Can't imagine her sitting at her desk concentrating on writing out such an odd list. Some kind of wish list? Seems to be. Maybe. Item nine stops him dead. Two simple words: Tell Boyd.

Tell Boyd? He frowns. Tell Boyd… what?

The door opens behind him. "Coffee. I had to go right up to CID to get it, so I hope you're suitably grateful."

Boyd turns on his heel, the list still in his hand. Grace is manoeuvring into the room bearing two plastic coffee cups. He realises he's still frowning. Holding up the piece of paper for inspection might not be the best idea he's ever had, but that doesn't occur to him until it's too late. He says, "Tell Boyd what…?"

"Eh?" Grace glances at the list and her expression hardens before smoothing out into something much blander. "Oh. That. It's nothing. You can chuck it in the bin."

She may be able to see straight through him, but the reverse is also true. Her tone of voice is just a bit too casual, her features just a bit too composed. Boyd makes a point of studying the neat list again. "Number eight could get you arrested for breach of the peace, you know."

To his huge amusement she blushes. Doctor Grace Foley actually blushes. Only a little and only for a brief moment. She's every bit as fly as he is, however, and her retort is droll. "That's what private beaches are for, Boyd."

"In this country? You'd freeze your bloody – "

"Yes, thank you." She holds out her hand. "Give."

Boyd is a lot taller than she is. He raises his arm, effectively putting the piece of paper well beyond her reach. "So, what's this, then? Top ten unfulfilled fantasies?"

She looks unimpressed. "Hardly. If it was, it would be a rather unadventurous list, don't you think?"

He can feel it. The sudden charge in the air, the sharp tension that has nothing to do with animosity and everything to do with attraction. No sign that Grace is at all aware of it, however. Boyd only just prevents himself from swallowing hard. He's too old for this; too old and too jaded. He says, "Probably best I don't dwell on that too much."

She chuckles. "Poor Boyd. So conservative."

Oh, Grace, if only you knew… He scowls at her, asks again, "Tell Boyd what?"

She puts down the coffee cups as she replies, "It doesn't matter. I told you, it's nothing."

Boyd doesn't drop his arm. "Item two would be a disappointment, you know. Infamously underendowed."

Her eyes betray amusement. "Oh? Compared to…?"

Damn. Why does he always do this to himself? Say something clever that just sets him up for her to say something even cleverer back? Why hasn't he learned his lesson? Why?

He's never going to see her again. He's too stubborn and too proud to do all the running and she… Well, there's just no reason for Grace to bother keeping in contact with him. She has her life; her friends, her family. It's not Grace who's suddenly out in the cold. Alone.

Isolated and unloved. If such a thing is possible, the bitter words that hurt so much when she first threw them at him hurt even more now. Because they have never been truer.

The fun's gone out of the game. Boyd drops his arm, screws the piece of paper up into a loose ball and throws it to her. Grace catches it clumsily. "It was a bucket list," she announces as he starts to turn away. There's nothing sentimental in her tone. "That's what they call it, isn't it? When you're seriously ill and you make a list of things to do before you die?"

It's like a fierce punch to the gut. Boyd turns back, stares straight at her. "When you were… when you had…?"

"…cancer? You can say it, Boyd, it's not a swearword. Yes." She shrugs. "It was just a silly thing; a passing idea that popped into my head one day when I was at a bit of a low ebb, nothing more. I thought I'd thrown it away, but it must have got caught up with some books and papers on my desk."

"You wrote a fucking bucket list?" It's not the most eloquent response, but Boyd is struggling. Too many bad memories are stirring. Tough times, and not just for Grace. He hasn't forgotten how he felt when Eve first broke the news, or just how many sleepless nights he spent brooding and worrying in the long weeks and months afterwards.

Grace merely looks uncomfortable, however. "So?"

"Jesus Christ, Grace…"

"Forget about it," she advises. Her gaze is shrewd. "Complete remission, remember? So far, I'm one of the lucky ones."

He wants to challenge her, to demand to know why the hell she didn't talk to him, but there's something about the way she is watching him that tells him it would be a very bad idea. He almost understands. Something about not tempting fate, maybe. The silence stretches, becomes a heavy presence in the room. Boyd looks at the last of the boxes. He clears his throat, the sound too loud in the otherwise silent room. "This everything, then?"

It takes Grace a moment to answer. "I think so, yes."

-oOo-

"Henry can put it all in the loft for me when he brings Jeanette over for coffee next week," she says. "You don't need to waste your time following me home, Boyd. I'm sure we can get all your stuff into that ridiculous little car somehow."

Grace can be every bit as stubborn as he can when she wants to be. It's got them into trouble often enough before when neither of them would give in and back down. This isn't the time to be testing whether the inexorable force or the immovable object will yield first. Not caring if he sounds sullen, Boyd slams the rear passenger door of her car shut and counters, "Fine. Have it your own damned way."

"What's the matter with you?"

"Nothing."

She rolls her eyes heavenward, a mannerism that never fails to get under his skin. "Don't be any more infuriating than you have to be. Why are you sulking?"

All these years and she still treats him like a wayward schoolboy whenever she gets half a chance. Boyd refuses to entertain the idea that his behaviour often merits it. Then it strikes him that he won't have to endure it anymore and his temper spikes in response to the surge of pain the knowledge causes. "I get it, okay?" he barks at her. I get it, Grace, there's no place for me in your life, not now. "You don't have to spell it out for me. Jesus."

Grace looks confused. "Get what? What are you talking about, Boyd?"

It can't end like this, not in a stupid exchange of heated words. He forces the anger down into the pit of his stomach where it becomes a roiling, visceral force that has a predictable physical effect on him. His pulse quickens and he starts to sweat. Ignores both as best he can. "Out of the damned way, then. I'll get my stuff."

"No," she says, not moving. "Not until you tell me why you're having a tantrum."

"'A tantrum'? I'm not a fucking child, Grace."

"Then stop behaving like one."

He could just elbow her out of the way. There's nothing of her, after all. Tiny woman. Tiny woman made of steel and brimstone. Boyd's never manhandled a woman in his life – except infrequently in the course of duty – but Grace doesn't look like she's going to be getting out of his way any time soon. Impasse. He glares at her, and isn't surprised when she glares straight back at him. Her defiance taunts him, reminds him of the stark, empty future waiting for him. Her voice echoes in his mind again: "…You are isolated and unloved, how does that feel?"

It hurts, Grace. It really fucking hurts…

"Boyd…?"

He forces himself back into the present. Can't think about the future, can't dwell on the past. Grace is right, he's behaving like a child. A hurt, bewildered child who can't articulate his feelings so lashes out blindly at everything around him. It's time to let go. Time to let go with dignity and accept all the things he can't change. Time to admit that she was never his to start with, and move on into the future alone. Solemn and quiet, he says, "I'm sorry, Grace."

She frowns. "What for?"

Boyd gestures vaguely at the car, at the familiar square building looming over them. "All of it, I suppose. It wasn't supposed to end like this."

"No," Grace agrees. She sounds a little hoarse. "No, it wasn't. But it's not your fault, Boyd. You've got nothing to be sorry for."

"If only that were true, eh?" The anger has all bled away. Now there's just guilt and sorrow. "Promise me something?"

"What?"

"Make it count. Whatever you do now, wherever you go, make it all count. Life's too short for regrets."

She doesn't look as if she understands what he's saying. What he's really saying. "Very melancholy."

"Yes." He doesn't have the strength or inclination to explain. "Promise me?"

The look Grace gives him is puzzled and uncertain, but she nods. "All right, I promise."

"Good." Boyd raises his eyebrows a fraction. "My stuff…?"

She moves aside without a word, lets him open the car door again and waits as he extracts the three cardboard boxes that contain his meagre belongings. Not much to show for a lifetime's career. This is the moment for a grand gesture, but Boyd is stripped of energy and inspiration. Instead, he carries each box in turn to the roadster, aware that Grace is watching him the whole time. He doesn't think he can bear to say goodbye. Better to play the traditional game of "see you soon" and know that it won't happen than bring the whole world crashing down around him by speaking the truth aloud. Words like "Goodbye" and "I need you" don't belong here. Or anywhere in his grey, constricted world. The one where he is isolated and unloved, just as she once said.

"Call me," Grace says as he takes his car keys out of his pocket. "I know you have things you need to work through in your own time, but call me, okay?"

"I will," Boyd assures her, opening the driver's door. He won't, and he doubts he's the only one who knows it. Too much obstinate pride. He'd rather wander alone through the cold fog forever than pitifully chase her sunlight. He's never been the kind of man to accept the scraps from someone else's table. Surely Grace knows that?

He eases himself into the roadster. Far too small, far too low to the ground. He's got to bite the bullet and buy something altogether more sensible. A cheap, soulless Japanese thing, maybe. Economical and reliable, but joyless. Anonymous. Mundane. Grace moves closer, looks down at him. "Promise?"

Straight for his Achilles' heel. Well done, Doctor. He gives her a wry smile. "No."

"Thought not."

He starts the engine. "I'll see you soon, Grace."

It's a lie. Far too proud. Far too stubborn.

"Boyd?" she says as he dips the clutch and puts the car into gear. "Number nine on the list…?"

Tell Boyd. He looks up at her, both hands now tight on the thin, old-fashioned steering wheel. "What about it?"

"It was… abbreviated." He swears there are unshed tears glistening in her blue eyes. "It should have read 'Tell Boyd how I really feel about him'."

He stares at her, not at all sure his automatic, hopeful interpretation of the subtext is accurate, and even though the first brimming tear breaks free and starts to roll down her cheek, Grace smiles back. It's a tiny, apprehensive smile, hesitant and uncertain, but it makes unexpected promises of all kinds of secrets and opportunities.

Well… damn. Boyd looks at the road, left hand twitching on the steering wheel as if it's trying to reach for the gear stick without any conscious direction. He doesn't see the weekend traffic rolling past. What he sees is far more ethereal. Ethereal, implausible and yet very alluring. A mirage in the desert, or a genuine glimpse of salvation? It's not in his nature to leap to conclusions, to make blind assumptions without weighing the evidence. He takes a deep breath, exhales slowly and puts the car back into neutral. He's not quite ready to switch off the engine. Too many imponderables. In a measured tone he says, "Go on, then. Tell Boyd."

When he takes the risk and looks up at her, yes, there are tears, but that small smile's still there. Her reply is quiet, but it's steady. "Does he need me to…?"

- the end -