Work Text:
DISCLAIMER: I own nothing
Just Because
by The Dark Basement (aka Joodiff)
Light but persistent rain was falling on the residential street beyond Grace Foley’s living room window, drizzling over the terraced houses and muffling the normal background noise of traffic. It was Friday evening, and Grace had just turned off her laptop, the report she had been unable to finish earlier in her office due to repeated interruptions from her colleagues finally complete. She got up, stretched, and poured herself a glass of wine, then stood by the window looking out at the inclement evening as she sipped and sighed, and thought about stray, inconsequential things: her untidy stacks of unread and half-read books, the small back garden that needed attention, the unexpected stillness that London could sometimes offer if you knew where to find it.
It had been almost two decades since she’d voluntarily all-but married herself to her work, more-or-less resigned to a life of solitary independence after a bitter divorce that still rankled. Her friends had, over time, come to respect her stoic decision to maintain the status quo. They’d eventually given up on well-meaning attempts at matchmaking, abandoned setting her up on blind dates with often completely unsuitable men. Most of them were occupied with their extended families now, anyway, new grandchildren seeming to appear with bewildering regularity. Grace didn’t resent it, just accepted it all with quiet equanimity. Life went on.
A notification on her phone drew her attention: text message from Peter Boyd. She smiled, set her wine down.
‘Did you see they’ve reopened that little bookshop on Museum Street? It’s about bloody time. Been waiting for a good browse. Fancy it?’
Her heart seemed to skip an involuntary beat, as it tended to with Boyd. Despite their notable differences, over the years he’d become a cherished friend as well as a trusted colleague. They bickered endlessly, everyone knew that, but conversely there was an easy, elemental chemistry between them that was strengthened by a shared love of books, music, and offbeat London haunts including a very nice intimate restaurant or two. It was often well-hidden, but he had a fascinating depth to his character that was coupled by a wry, idiosyncratic sense of humour, and shadows in the depths of his intense dark eyes that endlessly intrigued her. They were friends, yes, and colleagues, but there was… well, something that hovered just below the surface, something that had ebbed and flowed throughout the years while they both carefully skirted around it. Something that seemed to have strengthened since her illness and her abduction by Linda Cummings.
Smiling again, she typed back, ‘Tomorrow lunchtime? I’ll meet you outside.’
-oOo-
After a peaceful night, tomorrow arrived, and Grace tugged on her coat and then knotted a thick scarf tightly around her neck as she stepped out into a grey late October morning. Sullen clouds sat low over the city, causing a thin, watery light that softened the harsh angles of its buildings. Ignoring her parked car, she took the bus to Museum Street and watched through partially steamed-up windows as houses and shops and scurrying people flashed by. There was something vibrant about London that she loved, despite not having been born there. She didn’t think she would ever leave it now, even with the unwelcome prospect of retirement beginning to loom ever-closer on the horizon.
Boyd was waiting, hands buried deep in his coat pockets as he studied the various tomes on display in the newly reopened shop’s window. He turned his head, apparently somehow aware of her presence, his silver hair catching the light, and his solemn, reflective expression softened.
“Grace,” he said with the smallest of smiles. “I actually didn’t expect you to be quite so prompt.”
She rolled her eyes, and stopped at his side facing the window. “It’s looks the same,” she commented. “Not many changes.”
“And thank goodness for it,” Boyd murmured, as they headed inside.
Independently, they drifted from shelf to shelf, flipping through pages and losing track of time. Largely self-help books, academic tomes, popular fiction, and the occasional political treatise for her, military history, archaeology, and solid classics for him. They met and murmured at the three shelves dedicated to ‘sixties counter-culture. Shared memories of a time they both lived through with no clue that the other existed. Their quiet moments were easy and familiar, free from the abrasive edge that work too often caused.
A while later he surprised her by suddenly appearing at the edge of a stack holding aloft a copy of Much Ado About Nothing and quoting, “‘She speaks poniards, and every word stabs…’”
She wasn’t overly fond of Shakespeare, but Grace had studied the text at school, too long ago to think about. Some of it seemed to have stuck. Straight-faced, she retorted, “‘Let me be that I am and seek not to alter me’.”
Boyd looked faintly impressed, but whether at her recall or at the sentiment, she couldn’t be sure. He studied her for a moment, with that absorbed, thoughtful look he often took on when interviewing the canniest, cagiest of suspects, then he asked, “Seen enough? Want to get a coffee?”
They left the shop and walked through the heart of Bloomsbury, not talking much, but relaxed with each other.
The café they selected, a little corner place with big windows and artfully mismatched chairs, was almost empty, as if waiting just for them. They settled into a corner, steaming coffees held in chilled hands, savouring the quiet. Not the first time they’d done such a thing, she reflected, but it had certainly been a while since they’d done it outside work hours.
“Tell me something you’ve never told anyone,” Boyd said out of nowhere, his expression solemn and intense.
Grace blinked, caught unawares, her fingers still clasped around her cup. She considered him for a moment, sensing an unusual openness between them that was difficult to explain. She answered almost before thinking about it. “When I was young, my dream was to be a writer. I wanted to travel around the world, scribbling notes in a leatherbound notebook, and living out of a suitcase.”
Boyd didn’t look even a little surprised. “Why didn’t you?”
She shrugged. “Didn’t ever seem like a realistic option. And as I went through university psychology started to fascinate me more and more. It sounds like a child’s silly dream, now.”
“And yet, somehow you still ended up as a published author.” It didn’t sound as if he was trying to needle her.
“Yes,” she agreed. “Though not quite in the way I dreamed of. Your turn.”
He looked away for a moment, tracing the rim of his cup with a long forefinger. Then he looked back, meeting her interrogative gaze with the fearless openness that had always intrigued her. “When Mary got pregnant, I was terrified. We weren’t trying for a baby, but we weren’t exactly not trying, if you catch my drift. It was just… I don’t know. I don’t think I’d ever thought much about the reality of becoming a father. Until it happened.”
“Did you resent it?”
Boyd gave her a sharp sideways look. “That’s a psychologist’s question, Grace.”
“I am a psychologist,” she pointed out.
“And don’t I bloody know it.” He leaned back in his chair and studied her in silence for a moment. “No. No, I don’t think so. I just… I suppose I just always assumed that there would come a definitive moment when we made a deliberate choice.”
“A little naïve of you, Boyd, if you weren’t actively ‘not trying’.”
A hint of an irritable frown appeared. “You know what I mean. Everything has its time.”
Except us, it seems, Grace thought, unbidden. The sudden notion unsettled her. “Maybe.”
Boyd grunted. Nodded at the cup she was still holding. “Drink your coffee and let’s get out of here. I have to be in Chelmsford by five.”
She didn’t ask why, and he didn’t tell her.
-oOo-
The next few weeks passed unremarkably, both personally and professionally, neither of which pained her. In fact, Grace quietly welcomed the rare opportunity to enjoy the smooth rhythm, but though the CCU’s squad room was unusually quiet as her colleagues diligently got on with the solid background research and investigation that filled the inevitable gaps between cold cases that suddenly heated up, she had a nagging sense that something between her and Boyd was shifting. It was both perplexing and intriguing. Also… strange. There should be an easily-identifiable catalyst for such a thing, she felt. They’d known each other for far too long for the nature of their relationship to suddenly and spontaneously change otherwise – hadn’t they?
On a Friday that had nothing else significant about it, Boyd unexpectedly invited her to go with him to a jazz club in Soho. Bemused, she accepted, and it turned out to be a hidden gem, barely noticeable from the street, and yet packed with atmosphere. Once, thick cigarette smoke would have swirled in the air above the patrons’ heads, adding to what she suspected should be called ‘the vibe’ of the place. As they settled at a discreet table at the edge of the basement room, a young woman with an old soul took the stage and started to sing accompanied by drums and a solo trumpet.
Next to her, Boyd leaned in, his arm resting on the back of her chair as he looked straight at her. “Found the place by accident. Knew you’d like it.”
“I do,” she admitted, “though as far as I’m aware, neither of us is usually particularly fond of jazz.”
“It has its place.”
“True.”
“Besides,” he went on, his face an interesting study in light and shade in the club’s low light levels, “it made me think of you. This place.”
Ignoring the sudden flutter in the pit of her stomach, Grace frowned at him. “Why?”
“Because it’s understated, a little mysterious, and very intriguing… a lot like you.”
Her cheeks warmed, and she met his gaze, trying to read his expression. The song faded, replaced by the softer hum of voices and the clinking of glasses.
“I don’t know what to say,” she asked murmured, finally daring to bridge the silence.
Amusement. Easy confidence. No hint of fear or embarrassment. “Well, that’s an unexpected first.”
“Why now?”
“Why not now?”
This is who he is, she thought, still staring at him. This is who he really is, beneath the imposing rank and reputation, and the formidable defensive armour. She found herself clearing her throat. “I won’t be one of your little ‘dalliances’, Boyd. Be very clear about that.”
“Doesn’t want to be just a notch on my bedpost,” he said, still amused. “Noted.”
“Just another notch,” she said dryly. “You missed a word out.”
“I was being a gentleman.” He tipped his head a fraction to the side. “It’s about time we stopped playing games and just got on with it. Don’t you think?”
Such a way with words. She didn’t say it aloud. Too predictable. Finding her metaphorical feet, Grace said, “You’re assuming we’re both on the same page here, Boyd.”
“Aren’t we?” Amusement turned to steady appraisal. “Or have I been reading the signs wrong all these years?”
She ignored the question. “I’ll only ask you this once more: why now?”
“Because, Grace,” he replied with a slight shrug. “Just because.”
-oOo-
In the end, they edged into it cautiously, one little step at a time. A drink here, a meal there, not much outside their usual pattern with each other, but somehow… different. Picking their way carefully through the minefield together, trying to maintain professional boundaries whilst personal ones collapsed. The heady awkwardness of a first kiss, beautifully staged on the edge of the Serpentine on a bitter November evening. Briefly holding hands like teenagers and deciding it really wasn’t for them. Settling on walking arm-in-arm instead. Catching glimpses of themselves in shop windows and wondering how and why. Little unimportant moments that meant everything. Shifting sands under their feet, and the unshakable feeling that things were finally becoming the way they always should have been between them.
Winter settled hard on London, and on a snowy December evening, Grace found herself at Boyd’s house for dinner. They cooked together, laughing as they chopped vegetables and tasted sauces, moving around the kitchen as if perfectly choreographed.
When they finally settled at the table to eat, Boyd surprised her by sliding a small package across to her. Opening it, Grace discovered it was a leatherbound notebook, exactly the kind she would have chosen for herself if she’d ever made anything of those long-ago dreams.
“For the notes you wanted to write as you travelled,” he said softly. “There’s still time, you know.”
Her throat tightened, and she reached over, touching his hand. “Thank you. I think…you’re the only one who really believes that.”
“I don’t just believe it,” Boyd told her, his voice low and certain. “I see it. I see you, Grace, and I love you for all that you are…and all that you’ve ever wanted to be and do.”
She blinked, overwhelmed. It was the first time he’d said the word aloud. Love. It settled over and round her like the comforting warmth of a log fire, filling the space around them.
“I love you, too,” she replied, her voice barely a whisper. The previously unspoken truth of far longer than she’d ever comfortably admit to him.
In that moment, with snow falling softly outside the window and their hands entwined, they found a sense of completion. All the years of hesitation, of not knowing how to let love in, of waiting for something without knowing quite what it was, simply vanished.
Grace didn’t return to her own house that night, or the next. They had found, at last, what they hadn’t really known they were missing – each other. Just because.
- the end -