Happy Birthday Rapunzle1980. Sorry it's a bit late, but hopefully better late than never. :)
Folly
…
It's soporific, the gentle motion of the train as it makes its way through the depths of inner London. Looking out of the windows, Boyd studies the hard frost clinging stubbornly to every possible surface it can, despite the hour being somewhere on the way to noon, and the weak winter sun being firmly visible in the sky. It's desperately trying to give an impression of warmth, he thinks, but it is failing. The sun's light is just too… weak. A nice colour, but nowhere near powerful enough to raise the temperature. Winter, such as it is in the great metropolis, is firmly here.
How long has it been since he sat and appreciated the view around him, he wonders? Far too long. Relaxing into his seat, he lets his gaze wander across the chaotic patchwork of buildings, streets, cars, and people that make up the capital. Nearly four decades he's lived here…
Perhaps it's too long.
London is… unforgiving. Behind the stubborn frost the buildings are stark in their lines, cold and hard in their stubborn refusal to yield to the chaos of life being lived around them at one hundred suburban miles per hour. The city is unrelenting, every scrap of space valuable to the millions who live and work here. Endless rows of homes, terraced, alike and yet dissimilar due to the additions bolted on here and there like bizarre protuberances wherever planning permission has been victoriously attained.
It's a hard place to live, and an even harder place to claw out a living. He's been lucky, he knows. He's had an excellent career. But the cost of that…
The city keeps what it takes.
That's the harsh reality.
Work hard, work endlessly, keep your head down, and do your best to weather the bitter blows that come your way if you want that promised success. Keep your head so far down that you scurry through the insidious dark clouds that bluster and swirl, their dark tentacles reaching out to snatch, to claw away bits and pieces of souls, chunks of humanity.
Who promises it, Boyd wonders. That success? Where did the idea that the glorious city would provide the answers, would grant a new, better life, come from?
He fell for it. When he was young and idealistic, he fell for the siren charm of the chaos and the possibility and the sheer size that such a bustling, wild playground offered him. And all this time later, he's what? Exhausted, cynical, bitter, and old. Older. Aged, without a doubt, by it all.
Was it worth it?
It's a query that's lurked in his mind a lot lately. Retirement is coming, there's no question of that. Not immediately, but it's there on the horizon, flickering at the edges of his vision in the weak sunlight. And then what?
Faded memories of vivid lights, wild nights out partying or chasing whatever fun took his fancy spark at his memory's edges. Hints of the vibrancy that London offers, the exciting clash of culture, life, and possibility.
It makes him feel his age. Feel every one of his years of service.
The train is pulling its way out of the city now. Hedgerows and vast expanses of fields and open land are spreading out and away from the windows. He watches, entranced, as field after field rushes past. There are sheep, birds, an expense of water that is deeply frozen around the edges, the ice resolutely clawing its way towards the middle. Ducks are sliding across that ice, quacking and flapping. It's funny, and fascinating, and all too soon gone from view. He feels a sharp pang, misses it instantly. Wants to go back and watch for longer. He loved ducks as a boy.
The train rumbles on and his thoughts keep turning like the many wheels beneath him.
Grace loves ducks.
He found out by accident, saw her tossing handfuls of seed down at a small pond when he arrived early to meet her by a witness's home last month. Teased her mercilessly for at least an hour afterwards. Maybe even two. And again the next day.
She just smiled at him, her blue eyes soft, her lips hiding any sort of retort.
Grace.
She is nothing of the darkness and the monotony and the punishing reality of the city.
If he refocuses his eyes, he can see her reflection in the window. Turns his head very slightly and lets his gaze study her. She's seated opposite him, the table between them. A book rests comfortably in her hands, a historical tome about Bletchley Park in which she is utterly absorbed.
It's funny, he lets himself think, how he's spent so many years chasing women who have been so incredibly different from him, so difficult and wild; defiant, unpredictable, beautiful, too, but ultimately all entirely wrong for him. Perhaps all along he even knew that, but…
But he's always feared being alone. Really feared it.
Grace is different to him. Unbelievably different, in so many ways. The years spent fighting tooth and nail with her are proof of that.
But she's also not.
Not really.
And it's only been in the last few months that he's really pulled his head out of the investigative clouds and properly studied her. Seen what has been right in front of him for all this time.
And that's where his train of thought started, he realises. How long has it been since he sat and appreciated the things that are around him?
It's easy to assign blame, but the job has changed him. It's inevitable, for any officer, really, let alone one who has served for as long and seen as much as he has.
Different, but also very similar. In all the ways that matter.
Indeed. If the last few, hideously tough months have taught him anything, it's the value of looking below the surface.
And below the surface, where it matters, Grace is exactly what he's always needed. Wanted.
Boyd watches as she turns a page and continues reading, reaches up and idly scratches an itch on the side of her nose without so much as twitching her eyes away from the words in front of her. He envies her that, the ability to become so engrossed in a book. He lost that, more years ago than he cares to remember.
Maybe he can get it back?
Her fingers shift slightly against the cover, the edge of her chunky winter sweater sleeve swallowing half of her hand, fighting to cover her fingers, too. She doesn't notice, and he smiles slightly, endeared.
He should have known, really. Should have seen it coming after all this time.
Didn't.
Has chosen instead to ride the wave of emotion that falling in love with her has swept him up in.
It is folly, he knows, but watching her when she is unaware is now one of his greatest pleasures. Committing to memory all the tiny details about her that he's somehow been entirely unaware of, or perhaps simply utterly oblivious to, for so long.
He's learned that a big part of love is simply accepting feeling foolish about many things. Not telling anyone that, of course, but accepting that he feels that way. One of her lessons, he realises, subtly delivered over the last decade of tumultuous working comradeship.
The cynic in him could make plenty of arguments to counter, but that would just be denial, wouldn't it? Another thing she has slowly taught him and thing or two about, whether he liked it or not.
The train rumbles on, the motion still soothing, still steady.
Grace is still reading, her expression still one of rapt fascination.
Boyd turns back to the window, his heart feeling full. Their destination awaits, but the day is already a good one. Because he is with her.
Because she is with him.
And that, he knows, is his own folly.
A lover's folly.
He can live with that.
