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Chapter Text

She's said it before - not once, several times, in fact. But she doesn't like the situation and therefore feels entitled to repeat herself. "Why are we doing this?"

He shrugs and rolls his eyes, not for the first time, and gives the same answer he's given before. "Because the Chief Super said we have to."

"Why did she send me? And you? Why not go herself? Or send Hathaway? James would have enjoyed this!"

Lewis nods in agreement. It's true, his junior partner, who would have enjoyed the conference, grumbled - though not too loudly within ear shot of the Chief Super - that he was ordered to hold the fort.

Next to him, Laura rearranges her body on the chair to portray her reluctance in a way that would befit a sullen teenager, not an experienced pathologist. However, he can't shake the feeling that his superior has, in her incredibly subtle way, tried to force them into some further training to modernize at least his work, and sent Hobson along for company.

It's not an overly pleasant thought, despite the fact that Laura's presence does lighten up the situation. He's been in the service for too long to really start adopting the 'modern approach'. His working style might not be something to boast about to the press, but it gets the required results. Morse didn't do it much different, except that he was a lot smarter than his partner.

Sitting here between all these intellectuals - the actual coppers stick out like sore thumbs - he feels like this is going to be an afternoon truly wasted. That the conference elongates into the evening when it turns into a social event with banquet and drinks doesn't improve the situation. At least they don't have to do black tie, though formal wear is required.

"That's her," Laura suddenly says, gesturing quietly to a woman who has just entered the room. The sullen teenager impression is gone, replaced by one of quiet interest.

The change is a little unexpected, so Lewis follows her indication and watches the woman as well, trying to gauge her. It isn't easy, even though they sit fairly far in front. First impression says: small, slim, early to mid-sixties. Blonde hair, dyed, but tastefully so. Clothes well-chosen, elegant, not cheap, but a little quirky. The list is made within a fraction of a second, because then the scene is taken over by the woman's companion.

It's a deliberate impression, he realizes in a heartbeat. While the woman might be and is probably able to hold her own in this room or any other situation, the man takes the stance of her bodyguard. His body language brooks no argument and warns off anybody who dares to come close.

Robbie turns to Laura with a raised eyebrow, wondering whether she has noticed it too, but all he can see is the pathologist fighting a grin. There was nothing subtle about the couple's entrance, but Hobson's smirk is somewhat unusual.

"What is it?" he asks quietly, while their speaker makes her way to the dais, her companion following and glowering at the technician who is setting up the Powerpoint.

"Nothing," is the cryptic reply, intensified only when Laura leans back in her chair and announces, "I'm curious about the presentation."

That's a new one and not at all compliant with the remarks made just minutes before.

Lewis is puzzled by this sudden change of opinion, but this is Laura and in their long acquaintance and friendship, he can't say that he has really come to understand her. Which might be partially his fault for not trying more purposefully.

At this moment, their guest speaker - oddly enough not introduced by a local host - starts her opening remarks, which forces Lewis to abandon all rather disconcerting thoughts of Laura and why they are not so close that he can read her easily.

Instead he, and surprisingly every other occupant of the room, is beginning to focus on the speaker. She has an easy way of drawing attention to herself and though she uses long words and long sentences, nobody in the room feels like they don't get what is said. She's also quite witty and self-depreciating, making the lecture even more interesting.

The topic is hard to stomach and the illustrating examples, supported by pictures and small video clips, gruesome in places. Nobody expected it otherwise; mass murder is not a walk in the park, but faces pale around the room in any case.

Despite himself, Lewis is quite taken with the lecture, his interest more and more piqued the longer it goes on. In his mind questions form, ideas that would be interesting to discuss further with Dr. Grace Foley, who makes her presentation probably the most interesting training lecture Lewis has heard in years, if not in all of his career.

She's good.

Self-assured, knowledgeable and even funny at times. It's also obvious she's not one of those refined London-ladies, though her language is certainly top-notch. There's a lilt of a Northern accent beneath the polished veneer that makes it all the more interesting.

As Dr. Foley begins to outline the final example in her presentation, Lewis decides that the following social event might be actually something to look forward to.

The presentation as such finished, the floor is opened for questions, and while most are on topic and can't disguise a quiet admiration for the good Doctor, there are a few impertinent souls who want to laugh her explanations off as leaf-reading or just plain stupid.

The second to last questioner is particularly brazen, all but doubting Foley's professional credits. It makes Lewis bristle and Dr. Foley's companion...well, having hidden himself in the front row until then, the man suddenly gets up. His expression compares easily to a thundercloud and under all the civility of a smart and obviously expensive suit, something elemental shines through.

Quite a few people in the audience, who already turned around to catch a look of the man making an idiot of himself, begin to whisper excitedly in expectation of a brawl.

It doesn't happen.

Dr. Foley masters the situation easily, a quick but sharp joke at the question's expense and the room is fully on her side again. Her companion sits down again, but Lewis chances a look at Hobson next to him, and from her expression she doesn't believe either that this little incident will be completely forgotten for the night.

After a few further questions, the presentation is finished and the group disperses in search for refreshments.

Laura offers to get him some tea, which Lewis gratefully accepts. As she leaves, he can't help but follow her movements with his eyes, enchanted by the way the dress and jacket hug her figure. For a moment he allows himself to imagine the possibilities of the evening with food and drink, away from the station and murder victims. He even imagines driving her home, maybe even following her in for a night cap and then...

Dr. Foley and her companion choose this exact moment to pass by his seat on their way out, dragging his thoughts back to the present. It strikes him that the criminal profiler - as the lecture announcement identifies her - is even slighter than it appeared at first. It seems to be due to the physical presence of her still nameless companion who seems to dwarf her. But even in the fractions of a second they need to pass him by, it becomes obvious that the impression is superficial and physical at best. Untrue in any way.

Lewis uses the time until Laura's return to read the lecture announcement and what he finds is quite enough to further his interest in the social event afterwards.

He meanders through the groups of people at the reception, in search for Laura. Unfortunately, it looks as if she's disappeared during the time he left to take a biological break. Exchanging nods and short, polite greetings with a few fellow coppers he knows, Lewis moves forward. It takes a while, but finally he sees her and the sight is a lot less appealing than predicted.

This man from London, who has apparently now abandoned his companion and moved onto... The thought is not charitable and Lewis squashes it before it fully forms. Neither woman deserves it. Laura is not some flighty, fickle young thing who can't take care of herself, and that Dr. Foley didn't look like she'd break down immediately either.

With his thought process firmly arranged back into proper, he approaches the bar and orders himself a glass of water. He'd prefer a pint, but he's still supposed to drive Laura home later on. This brings him back to the imaginary plans he's made earlier, but as he looks once again to the corner, he realizes that those plans will remain an image. Laura seems to have a very good time with that man, who is - admittedly - a good looking bloke, despite the slightly dishevelled look. The detective in Lewis quickly fathoms that it's carefully cultivated to contrast with the expensive suit and overly confident manners of the man.

They talk quite earnestly, very focussed on each other, until they laugh together somewhat carefree. Lewis hasn't heard Laura laugh like that for a long time, but he can't remember seeing her openly and genuinely flirt with somebody. His memory of the proceedings might not be the best, but if the at once coy smiles, then intense looks between the two are any indication, that is what they do.

The 'London-man' still has got no name, but from the looks of it, that needs to change.

Before Robbie can execute the thought and go over to interrupt, next to him a dark female voice orders a glass of dry red.

The Northern lilt is stronger now than it was before and there is a very small undertone in it. It conveys weariness, though not of the exhausted kind. There's something resigned to it, something wistful. It's an odd mix of tones that he knows so incredibly well, feels at this very moment, that he turns and comes face to face with Dr. Grace Foley.

At this close a distance, he retains his original guestimation of her age, but she seems more fragile than before. The lines in her face, the shadows are carefully covered by make-up, but the exhaustion that was not audible, is now easy to be seen. Lewis can also see that this woman is a little underweight, though gaining. He doesn't comment, but his mind automatically supplies an explanation that comes close to the truth.

He wanted to talk to her earlier, he remembers, and now she's standing next to him, abandoned by her companion who is flirting with Laura. Abandoned and forgotten, like him. A short glance over his shoulder proves the assumption to be correct, so Robbie raises his glass in a toast. "Thank you for a very enlightening lecture, Dr. Foley," he says quietly.

She gives him a polite smile, but her gaze remains guarded as if she's trying to get his measure first. He passes muster, apparently, because her smile widens and becomes much more genuine. "Thank you, Mr..."

"Lewis. Detective Inspector Lewis, Oxford Police." He doesn't know why he introduces himself with his full rank, it sounds idiotic in a social situation like this. Inwardly he cringes, his ineptitude at social communication painfully obvious.

Dr. Foley does not take offence; in fact, actual amusement drifts into her smile, making her chuckle in the end. "Foley. Doctor Foley. Home Office." She extends her hand. "On contract for the Metropolitan Police. Cold Case Unit." There is a pause, during which she looks at him again and then chuckles once more. "Is this precise enough for you, DI Lewis?"

He blushes, embarrassed, but amused at the same time. Embarrassment is surprisingly comfortable with her. Shaking her hand, he shrugs, then smiles himself. "Robbie will do."

"Grace" It strikes him yet again how small she is, her hand almost disappearing in his. "It is I who should, thank you, really. It's always a little daunting coming to Oxford, where some people think they reinvent the wheel every day." Her voice is a touch sardonic, compounded by the barely hidden roll of her eyes.

"Did you never haunt these hallowed halls as a student?" he asks and earns another, this time sarcastic, chuckle.

"No. I wasn't posh enough to be accepted as a student. Not even as a post-grad." He looks at her with interest, urging her to go on. "Back then, they were not so keen on some working class scouser girl."

This catches Lewis' interest, but he still can't place the lilt entirely.

Apparently, she can read minds, for she shrugs and says, "Merseyside."

It makes him chuckle, the way she utters this one word. Pride and resignation in one. Never an acceptable origin in the posh world of Oxford.

"Newcastle," he replies, instantly feeling a companionship. They raise their glasses again in a toast and she's polite enough to overlook that his is filled with water.

"And now?"

There is an unholy glee in her expression as Grace takes a large sip of her wine. "Now I am exclusive enough for them, but they can't offer me anything that catches my interest."

They laugh and begin an exchange of stories of their home towns that leads them to a table in a quiet corner about half an hour later, where they remain for the duration of the evening and long after its originally planned finish. Caught in their conversation, relaxed and amused, they are both oblivious to the curious glances they receive from most of the other guests.

What they are absolutely blind to is the intense perusal they receive from two sets of eyes from across the room. Neither of them even imagines the conversation that goes along with it.

Chapter Text

"It could be a new career path, you know. Joining the high flying circles of university life..."

She snorts derisively and keeps her gaze firmly locked on the road ahead of them.

The M40 is packed, even on this Thursday noon, and he has to keep himself in tight control not to flip and put the blue light on top to force faster passage. That would turn the undertone of their so far tranquil excursion a little sour and that's the last thing he wants.

They've done flirting, they've done platonic friendship, they've done outright adversity and mutual hurting. At the moment they do ambiguity. It's not satisfactory to him; in fact, it is downright annoying. It might be part of the reason why he insisted on coming along.

She doesn't need him for this, his presence might make things actually worse in such a high-flying place as Oxford, but her audience will be mostly coppers and scholars, and if nothing else, he knows how to handle arsey coppers, should they misbehave.

Grace does that too, but Boyd deliberately ignores the fact. Being away from London and the pressure from both the Home Office and the Met to finally return to doing what they are paid for, and from doctors and hospitals and rehab and what not... Boyd hasn't thought too deeply about it, but it might give them a chance to 'do' something about this ambiguity-crap.

After her presentation, there will be some social do and while he normally hates that, they don't know anybody, nobody knows them, and they could find the time and the situation where they don't have to pretend and she'll allow him not to make total bollocks of it.

They arrive at the conference hotel with only minutes to spare, due to the traffic, and the organisers all but jostling them inside makes his hackles rise. For Grace's sake, he keeps quiet, just uses - subtly, he thinks - his physical impression to send out a clear warning.

It works. Of course, it does.

Grace rolls her eyes with a somewhat amused smile, but says nothing. She's let a lot of his earlier swearing slide, which tells him just how affected she is by the prospect of presenting at this symposium. He decides to ask her later why in God's name she finds the prospect of Oxford so daunting. In Boyd's mind, they should be daunted by her accomplishments, by her intelligence and professional knowledge. Grace Foley is the best bloody criminal profiler and those artsy-fartsy university wankers better get down on their knees and worship her.

They enter the room where the presentation is taking place. Grace quietly and unobtrusively, Boyd doesn't bother. It takes a few minutes until everything is set to roll, so he makes good use of the time to convey what his position is and what he considers his - self-appointed - job today.

Nobody bothers to introduce her before she starts, a huge slight as far as he is concerned, one he has no intention of forgetting, but Grace once again takes over and gets the situation under control quickly.

Sitting down, Boyd settles himself to listen to the presentation - no new cases, not even many new insights, but it is surprisingly fascinating nonetheless. Half an ear is always directed at the audience and any unseemly reaction or remark, but the longer it lasts, the more he is caught in the spell that Grace weaves around the room.

She's a born public speaker, he realizes not for the first time. She's engaging, sharp, even witty. There's nothing ostentatious or ego-centric in her manner - that's his forte. In fact, time flies and before he knows what's happened, more than an hour is gone. It's now time for questions from the floor and instantly he perks up again.

Most of the questions are polite and interested, he can see and hear that Grace's speech has made a positive impact on coppers, scientists and scholars alike. But out of eternal logic, there must be one arsehole amongst all the nice people.

The voice grates on Boyd before the man has even finished his question. That fact only helps to drive his blood pressure up, but it's nothing compared to the impertinence of the man's question.

"But considering the lack of scientifically sound testing methods, the fact that you are human and a woman at that, don't you agree, Dr. Foley, that all of your so-called insight is no more than an old wives-tales? Completely useless in actual police investigations?"

It brings him to his feet, before he can consciously think about it, and he whirls around to glare at the offensive idiot. If he could leap across the rows of seats to punch that useless dickhead, he'd do it in a heartbeat.

There's offended murmur amongst the crowd, most of the listeners displeased with such a lack of manners.

On the dais, Grace waits until the murmur has died down a little, before she fixes the questioner with a polite smile that is almost more dangerous than her full-fledged anger. She's in a 'take-him-down-and-cut-him-up'-mood and for a moment Boyd almost feels sorry for the guy, who even from afar looks like a sorry old man.

"Professor Larkin," Grace replies, all smiles, but with sarcasm dripping thickly from her voice. "As I am certain you have read in each and every one of my papers, which you have unsuccessfully ripped apart in the last 25 years, my insights come from careful study of each and every individual case I refer to. It has been backed up by police evidence and therefore I can rightfully claim that my insights come from practical expertise, something you have - unfortunately for a man of your position - never gained."

There are grins and twitching eyebrows around the room and the hapless offender can't even react, before she poisedly turns towards the next question.

It's typical for Grace, and Boyd feels something like pride and admiration for her swell in his chest.

Not an entirely new emotion, but so far an unspoken one.

He sits down again, but doesn't actually calm down until the presentation comes to a close and they leave the room. He all but shadows her, his physical presence warning off any impolite attention from the audience. There is a lot of interest in Grace's work, in her presentation and the woman herself, but with him around most don't dare to do more than step closer and offer a polite and admiring smile.

That's all good and fine for him, because he has seen that she is exhausted and could do with a little privacy. They leave after a few polite words with the organisers, who are as full of apologies and praise as they should be.

At their hotel, he makes sure she's settled in her room, orders her some tea and sandwiches, and generally hovers over her like a nervous mother hen. Grace naturally bristles as much as she laughs it away, but the worry about her hasn't left him for the last ten months and he doubts that it will any time soon.

It's part of the ambiguity thing they have.

He acts, she speaks. Usually.

When it comes to their personal relationship, they do neither. It's always veiled and oblique, always wide open to the most and the least innocent interpretation of facts. Even to themselves.

It's a tiresome and annoying behaviour and as Boyd has to leave Grace's room, lest he'd do something that doesn't fit with the propriety of their 'friendship' - like just lying down next to her or kissing her 'until later' - he decides that this has gone on long enough.

It's not a big thing, just kissing her. It's possibly the greatest risk he'll ever take, but they are away from the constantly prying eyes of the capital, nobody knows them and it is about fucking time for a little truth.

The evening starts well enough. People are polite and admiring, the food is surprisingly good, which can't really be said for the wine, but if Grace is willing to accept that minor setback, who is he to complain?

The only real downside is that they haven't had a minute to themselves. It seems as really everybody wants to say a word or two, if nothing else than to congratulate Grace on her sharp reply towards Professor Larkin, who is suspiciously absent, but not missed at all.

All in all, it goes well until Grace steps out for a few minutes. Of course, he can't follow - that would be awkward and if he's right, Grace actually craves a minute without his constant hovering - but it leaves him alone in a room full of strangers and Boyd doesn't really know what to do. He isn't on the lookout for some young beauty whose name he'll have forgotten in the morning. Even if he were, the pickings are oddly slim, especially in comparison to the tentative battle plan he has hatched.

So he stands around and he is bored, until a quiet female voice behind him says, "You look like the wine is not strong enough to make you endure all this."

Boyd turns, at once defensive at being caught, but in front of his eyes is a tumbler with what looks like whiskey and it's held by a petite blonde woman. Short and slim, pretty, very fair hair and skin. Mid-forties. She gives him a somewhat gleeful smile and holds out the glass invitingly.

After a moment of hesitation, he takes it, causing her grin to widen. "I don't plan on poisoning you, DSI Boyd," she says and it sounds somewhat familiarly sardonic.

"You know my name?"

"A friend mentions you, from time to time."

"A friend." He's at once careful, but at the same time a little intrigued.

"Let's say your name comes up from time to time. Dr. Foley's as well."

"Ah." It doesn't sound convinced, which he didn't plan anyway. "And who would you be then?"

The woman chuckles. "Laura Hobson. Dr. Laura Hobson."

"Pathology, I assume?"

Her sheepish amusement makes Boyd smile. He doesn't need to ask further; this woman is the kind of friend Eve would have. "We come up in conversation, huh?"

"Every now and then."

During their exchange, they have moved away from the centre of the room to a wall, where they quietly continue to banter a little, before he gets her to admit what Eve does say. In conversation. Every now and then.

It's light and funny, a nice distraction until Grace returns.

Only suddenly, Dr. Hobson's smile falls from her face at the same time as he hears a very distinctive and familiar laugh that he hasn't heard like this for a long time.

He turns, but stops in the middle of the move. If anybody took a picture now, it would show a momentary lapse of control in his expression. There's shock, there's hurt, and there is a neon green tint of jealousy.

The man he sees isn't even that good looking. Tall, lanky, dark haired, with some grey at the temples. On sight there's nothing that interesting about him, but there is something in Grace's stance, something in the way she moves, talks and gestures with her hands. Something in her face that proves that this man is interesting, amusing. Nice.

Probably exactly the kind of bloke Grace deserves.

Next to him, Laura Hobson's face pretty much mirrors his expression. Her gaze is focussed on Grace and that bloke as well, so Boyd feels she is the right person to ask. "Who's he?"

It doesn't come out politely or emphatically. In all honesty, he sounds like a jealous lover - which is slightly pushing the truth. Well, more than slightly.

"Robbie," is the answer and it sounds at once fond and resigned. "DI Robbie Lewis."

Boyd wants to snort that the other man is just a lowly DI, but that would be petty and have no influence on Grace's interest in the man.

"Tell me about him," he demands and turns again to his companion. Laura is pulling her mask of control back on, but not before he can see that she isn't dealing well with the situation either. "Drink first?" he relents.

Hobson nods, her eyes still fixed on Grace and Robbie Lewis.

It won't be the last drink and it won't be the last dazed nod this evening, while they keep their eyes - not very subtly - fixed on the couple that is first at the bar and then at a corner table, completely immersed in their conversation, oblivious to the rest of the world.

Under different circumstances Boyd wouldn't think twice about interrupting, but there is still this ambiguity-thing between Grace and him. She looks like she has a marvellous time with Robbie Lewis, like she's relaxed and animated, nothing poised or guarded about her. In fact, Boyd hasn't seen her this carefree for a long time.

He's loath to take that from her. In addition, what right does he have to break up her good time, just because she doesn't have it with him? He doesn't like it, and from the looks of it, Laura Hobson isn't very happy either, but they can't be sure their interruption would be welcome.

So, they don't do it.

Things are said in the course of the evening. Admitted.

Things neither would usually share.

They spend the time and under different circumstances it would even be a nice experience, but they are waiting for the other couple to come back to the rest of the world. Not only for the emotional part - though that's the aspect which will lead to a sleepless night for both of them. There are also practical thoughts involved.

In the end, it is useless. Neither Grace nor Robbie take notice of their surroundings.

Laura takes a cab home, the fare high, her mood considerably lower.

The cabbie who takes Boyd to his hotel has to deal with a bear of a customer - not drunk, but not in a friendly mood. They almost have words at the entrance of the hotel, because Boyd doesn't give a tinker's damn about common courtesy or manners. The ride was too long for him not to automatically dwell on what Laura told him, but worse, what he has seen with his very eyes.

Chapter Text

It's the morning after the night before and as mornings go, this one isn't too great. She's woken up alone - no news there - but now she's sitting at breakfast in the hotel's breakfast room and does this alone as well. That's the part she resents.

In many ways, this trip has fallen behind expectations and if she is honest, Grace isn't sure why all this is happening. Accompanying her was Boyd's idea and though she tried to see it in a sensible way and infer nothing, it stings that he abandoned her for someone else so quickly. She had basically only turned her back and then...

Granted, she wasn't bored yesterday evening, Robbie was fine company. It was fun, but at some point it had a whole lot of the pitiful losers being left behind. Shortly after midnight, she had noticed that Boyd had not interrupted, not even said good night. He was gone and with him the woman, which Robbie admitted was a Laura Hobson...the object of his secret but fairly hopeless interest.

She sits alone, Boyd is already gone from the hotel and he hasn't even left as much as a message. The coffee tastes stale, the toast of nothing at all.

It's the morning after the night before and it isn't a good one.

A shadow falls onto the table and before she can do anything to react, somebody sits down opposite of her. Grace gives the newcomer a curious, then astonished look.

"I hope you don't mind if I sit down. I think you and I have to talk."

Grace folds her hands in front of her coffee cup and glares at her sudden companion. "I wouldn't know about what."

The other person raises their eyebrows and rolls their eyes, but it is neither in amusement or friendly exasperation. Their expression is just as frosty as Grace's own. "I can easily enlighten you, and I will."

"Be my guest, then." It's cattish, this reply and normally Grace would be embarrassed to use such a tone. It's neither dignified, nor mature. This is the way a woman who bitches around sounds. Grace doesn't consider herself one.

"Last night then. I'm sure we'll find plenty."

The bitchiness-level rises. Laura Hobson, sitting on the other side of the table, doesn't plan on giving an inch. Eve's stories are all good and fine, Boyd pretty much exactly how he was described, but so far she has found little in Grace Foley that rewards the glowing and extremely fond description.

Not all of it is fair, it's hardly Grace's fault that Robbie found her so interesting and easy to talk to, had so much fun with her, but Laura is not in the mood for niceties. If anything, last night, having to go home alone, then spending most of the night tossing and turning, entertaining ideas about Robbie and the other woman... Well, it has given her determination to make her intent known - at least to any possible competition.

Robbie is an entirely different matter.

The expression on Grace's face is neither guilt-stricken nor apologetic. The earlier frostiness is back in full. "Oh, I don't doubt that. You certainly looked like you had fun. You and Boyd."

"Me and Boyd? What about you and Robbie?"

The waiter - an experienced and very capable man - considers this the most opportune moment to interrupt what looks to easily deteriorate into a female shouting match. Bad image for a hotel boasting its tranquil moments. A very bad image.

"Would Madam care for a cup of tea or coffee?"

"Had a good evening, sir?" The last thing he wants to hear this morning is Hathaway asking this question. The answer is actually yes, but it is tainted. Sleep came easily enough, but his dreams have been strange and confusing. Laura, Val, Grace...that man in between, Innocent, even Jim...it all has made for him waking up with some sort of...emotional hangover.

Not a good condition to answer any, though well-meaning questions from his sergeant. Hence, Robbie answers mono-syllabic. "Fine."

From his seat on the other side of the desk, Hathaway raises an eyebrow but says nothing. Lewis can get quite prickly and as closed up as an oyster when he doesn't want to talk. Then you don't get anything out of him. It's possible Hobson will be more forthcoming, but the pathologist is apparently not yet in her lab as a quick phone call earlier has proven.

Busying himself with the files on the desk, he decides to try again later, but keep an inconspicuous eye on the other man. Lewis looks and acts distracted, which means that either he has news from one of his children or the previous day has gone completely wrong. It can't have been the presentations - especially the first one by that London profiler is something James would have given his left arm to attend – unless Lewis fell asleep and has been reprimanded by one of the attending 'intellectuals'. Being told that he isn't scholarly enough usually goes down the wrong way.

Meanwhile, Robbie tries his utmost to stay focussed on the paperwork, but awake now his thoughts return to Laura and this strange man whose name he now knows to be Boyd. Grace said little at first, but then, after they'd noticed that neither Boyd nor Laura were still present...well...one thing needs to be said: Grace Foley is both an excellent psychologist and a crap one.

He can still see her expression, when he said exactly those words, in his very dark car, in the shadows in front of her hotel. Grace had laughed breathily, resignation evident. "I know," she'd said. "But knowing it and really dealing with it are two different shoes." It was his turn to snort then. Did he ever.

They'd sat there in the car for a while, both silent, both thinking. Robbie knew that her thoughts were not happy - probably running away with what her Boyd could currently do with his Laura. His own weren't far behind.

Sorry losers, the both of them.

So, Robbie Lewis doesn't exactly have a good morning and it's not made better by either his Sergeant's curious gaze, nor the suddenly appearing airy voice of their superior. Whoever it is she is trying to impress, Lewis is not interested.

"Gentlemen." DCSI Innocent sounds excited and even a little flustered as she breezes into the office. Hathaway gets to his feet, Lewis follows, much more slowly. His hesitation does not turn into trepidation, but confusion and unease certainly appear.

The man accompanying Innocent is none other than Peter Boyd.

"DSI Boyd from the Metropolitan Police attended yesterday's symposium." Innocent looks pointedly at the Inspector, as if not mentioning it immediately has been some dereliction of duty. "And he'd like to take a look at how we conduct our work here in Oxfordshire."

Hathaway catches his superior's eyes, clearly amused by Innocent's flutterings. The DCSI is normally not that easy to impress, but Boyd cuts a striking figure in his designer suit and large black coat. Very capital, very impressive, very imposing.

Boyd gives Innocent a winning smile, which leaves both Lewis and Hathaway rolling their eyes. It's a little bit too clichéd.

There is silence, only broken once when Innocent awkwardly leaves. The three men don't make an attempt to speak, though it is painfully obvious that Boyd expects the other men to, Hathaway hopes the other men will and Lewis waits for the others to do it.

James breaks first, which is due to his much fewer years and limited experience. What he can also see is some sort of male superiority contest drawn out between Lewis and Boyd, which the former takes pains to hide, the latter doesn't bother to.

"What would you like to know, sir?" he asks, aware but regretting the fact that he can't ask the Met-Superintendent about the symposium.

Boyd gives the young man an appraising look, but doesn't show much more interest. His focus is fully on Lewis and somehow it doesn't look like this is a purely professional call.

"Inspector," the DSI finally starts, "I do believe we should have a word." Though the choice of words is certainly polite, the tone isn't. Neither is Boyd's stance.

Normally, Lewis is a quiet man, but even though he doesn't get loud, reserve is not in his posture either. The Inspector doesn't intend to back away from this battle of...whatever it is.

The two older men stare at each other as if in a duel, before Lewis grinds out, "Follow me." As they both leave, James decides that he somehow doesn't want to be present for that one.

It's cold in the car park of the station, the wind picking at the edges of their jackets and coats. Neither says anything as they march further onto the premise. There is enough tension between them that doesn't need to be fuelled by idle words. Boyd has only one question in mind, the same goes for Lewis.

Finally, they come to a stop and turn to face each other, the earlier sizing up once again in full force. Neither has an advantage in height and though Boyd might be broader, he isn't so naive to believe the other man cannot match him physically. He might not try, but he can.

"So?"

"So what?" Robbie grinds out in reply to the opening shot.

"What are your intentions?"

The conversation that hasn't even started yet grinds to an abrupt halt. They are both silent, unable to form a proper comment. Inwardly, Boyd berates himself for his quick temper and quick word that reveals much more than he planned to admit. Lewis is simply confused.

"Intentions?" he repeats, giving the other man his full appraisal. Grace's words from the night before come back to his mind; 'madness' has not been among them, but it was implied. "Intentions about what?"

If there is one thing Boyd can't abide, it's deliberate obtuseness. He's already unsettled by a sleepless night and his temper rises in the grey morning. Having said so much about himself - to a very capable detective - has only worsened the situation and darkened his mood.

Yet there is nothing for it, the least he can do is keep his eyes open for Grace's safety. After all that has happened, all the things he hasn't prevented from happening to her, he can at least do this.

"Grace!" he growls and the warning in his voice is ill-disguised.

Once again there is a pause as Lewis assesses him. To Boyd it looks slow, but he realizes the mistake as the Inspector's face slowly clears, then morphs into an understanding grin. He doesn't say a word, only rises up to his full height. His grin widens.

It takes a few moments for Boyd to catch on, but then he's ready to punch something. Or kick it.

"I need a drink!" he announces with all the annoyance and frustration he can muster pushed into his voice.

Lewis still stands and grins.

"Oh, for fuck's sake!" The roar sounds a lot more dangerous than it is close up.

"Pub's not open yet," Robbie supplies after a few moments of letting the other man rage.

"Coffee then," Boyd replies, his temper deflating into resignation.

Once again, Robbie utters a "Follow me," but there is none of the earlier animosity in it.

Surprisingly, they have remained civil - the both of them - which might be due to the fact that they are both learned women, experienced women, intelligent women. There have been no hysterical screams, no verbal or physical cat fights. Neither crockery nor cutlery has flown.

They are still sitting at the table in the breakfast room, though breakfast time finished two hours ago. The very capable waiter considered it prudent to leave the two women in this room to resolve whatever issue they have and just keeps supplying them with the drink of choice. Oddly enough, after that first cup of coffee, both women have switched to ginger and lemon tea. It doesn't seem to be the only similarity between them, but the waiter tries to ignore any thought in that direction.

They talk, at first very tensely, then with incredulous laughs. There is some sheepishness on both sides and a bit of embarrassment too. It's the kind of discussion that two women in the same situation need to have at times, especially when they both realize how incredibly foolish they have been and still are.

"Nothing of this gets back to Eve...or anybody else you might know?" Though worded as a question, Laura knows that this is more like an order. From what Eve told her, there is no messing about with Grace Foley.

And Boyd has made it very clear the night before that anyone upsetting Grace will find himself hunted to within an inch of his life. No prisoners taken, no amnesty granted.

Of course Laura agrees.

It's one obstacle removed - no living female competition - but there are still too many others. They both sit there drinking their tea and chatting. They have pointed out to the other how easy it will be, given the situation and the knowledge they have.

According to Grace, Laura just needs to have a little more patience, but most of all a little more courage to show Robbie how she feels and what she wants.

It doesn't really convince her. There's always the memory of Val - not to fight, but to deal with. In addition, Robbie is an extremely reserved man and only offers glimpses of what he feels. What if, in the end, he only wants friendship? Or will realize that he loves the memories of Val more and no living woman - not even Laura - can live up to them? The way Robbie is - wonderfully faithful and loving towards Val's memory, gentle and polite to everybody - how can she be sure he won't just try to accommodate her wishes, instead of living his own?

"It's not fear, really," Laura says by way of an explanation. "But he is one of...no, really my best friend."

Across the table, Grace smiles ruefully. It's exactly the same words she wants to use, has used, in fact.

Laura claimed that Boyd has been watching her all of last evening, not like a worried friend but like a jealous man. Ill-concealed a times, at others hidden beneath a brooding expression, before he became almost violently flirty again. An interesting man, but dear God, much too mercurial for Laura. Too exhausting.

Grace laughed at this, considering it a rather apt description of Boyd. But it hasn't convinced her either. Boyd is territorial and incredibly protective, but it doesn't have to mean anything. They are, indeed, best friends and after all the horrors of the year - Stella, Linda Cummings, her illness - there is little they would not do to protect the other. But love?

"I know," she finally says. "But if you don't give him a chance to say no or yes, you'll never know what the answer will be."

The expression on her companion's face mirrors her own; they could have spoken the words in unison, but knowing something and doing it...

They separate another hour later, when Laura is called to a crime scene. They hug each other goodbye, with the firm advice to go and just tell the man.

Even before Laura is out of the hotel, they both doubt they'll find the courage.

As she gets into her car, Laura takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. It's only for a second, but that's enough to miss the man entering the hotel lobby.

The coffee house is not something he'd consider sitting in with another man. With Grace it's different, but with Grace everything is different. From the look on his companion's face, Lewis entertains fairly similar thoughts and that makes the entire situation a lot more bearable. Male companionship and solidarity or such crap.

It's too early for the pub, that's the only reason they are here.

They order their coffees, black, no sugar, and stare at each other while they are waiting. They are sizing each other up, but it lacks the animosity and even the prancing from earlier. They've moved on to the status of 'brothers in arms', after they have established that the other man is no competition.

What they can both say is that the other has good taste in women and under different circumstances and if there were...

Neither says it out loud. It's too touchy feely and they aren't friends. Yet. Maybe.

"So, what keeps you?" Lewis asks.

"What's keeping you?" Boyd voices at the same time.

Great. This is turning into one of those things. Robbie can easily imagine how Laura would smirk, were she witness to the scene. Boyd can almost hear Grace chuckling quietly. She'd love this, just because it annoys him.

Robbie breaks first, sobering up as he stares into his mug of coffee. Boyd remembers what he's been told the night before and draws on every ounce of tact he possesses. It's surprisingly easy, considering that he sits with a stranger. "Would she want that for you? Being alone all the time?"

Robbie shrugs. He hasn't found an answer to it, despite the fact that he has mulled this over an interminable number of times. Sometimes he thinks that he thinks too much. That was the place he'd reached the day before. Stop thinking, start doing.

After a while, he looks up and realizes that he has spoken out loud. Boyd's expression is understanding.

"Grace is the thinker between us. I'm the do-er." He sips his coffee, glad for the burn of the bitter brew.

"But now you don't dare?" For a moment, Robbie leans back on the bench he's sitting on, rubbing his hand over his face. "Sounds like it's all bluster to hide the coward."

It isn't the right thing to say, though maybe it is. Boyd's mien darkens and his shoulders square. Not a pleasant thought, it seems. "Same goes for you!" he shoots back.

A phone rings, Lewis's mobile. Hathaway on the other end calls his guv back to the job. Some dead body found near the canal.

The challenge in the room stands as the two men part, to make of it what they will.

Chapter Text

Donning both the coverall and wellies, Robbie feels a little on the backfoot as he approaches the scene of the crime where the SOCOs are at work. Hathaway has taken over the interviews, which leaves his superior to deal with the pathological findings. And Laura Hobson.

He steps closer gingerly, torn between professional interest and personal nervousness. Somehow, he gets the feeling that an apology might be expected of him, though he couldn't say what for.

The misunderstanding of the night before - now seemingly ridiculous - makes proceedings a whole lot more awkward.

"What do we have, Doctor?" he finally asks.

Hobson doesn't look up as she recites the basic findings of a 30year old female, strangled to death apparently on the canal and then dragged to its bank. She's fighting for composure, but it has little to do with the corpse before her.

Lewis appears, in sound and posture, as calm and professional as ever. Which is good. Or not. She can't decide.

The assessment of the scene goes its usual way. Questions are asked, the body finally removed, bits and pieces of possible evidence bagged and carried off to the different labs where they will be processed.

It takes a good hour or so and if Hathaway notices his Inspector lingering at the scene for longer than is really necessary - they do have identifications to find and thus get back to their desks for a number of phone calls - he doesn't mention it and instead gets on with it via his mobile.

DCSI Innocent might not like it, but when does her finest duo ever do things by the book?

It doesn't surprise Robbie that Laura noticed him shuffling about where he isn't really needed, but she gives him a bright, if knowing smile as she pulls off her latex gloves and closes the distance between them. For the casual observer they look as if they are discussing the initial findings.

They don't.

He wants to ask, "Did you get home alright last night?" but refrains from it, thinking that it might be the wrong start for a conversation that is supposed to clear up and smooth over the mess they've made of things last night.

Instead, he asks, "Are you free tonight?"

Laura's smile widens, if that is even possible. "Pub?"

He shrugs a little casually, but gives her a smile as well as he shakes his head. "Something a little more fancy?" Pauses and then, "For a date."

There's a deep breath, which she takes and he releases. Sometimes they don't behave like mature adults at all.

"A date? You and I?" she asks, though her smile shows that she isn't teasing him for his choice of words. Far from it, in fact.

"At eight?" he continues.

Laura nods, grinning - if possible - even wider. "I'd like that."

She's at the desk, speaking to the concierge when she can feel him sweeping into the lobby. It's always like that with him. He marches into the room and for a moment the rest of the world stops and stares. He likes that, she is sure of it. Polishes his ego.

Since Grace knows that the last thing Peter Boyd needs is somebody stroking his ego, she resists the temptation to turn, just mentally braces herself for whatever is to come. He steers right in her direction, his gaze burning into her back. It could be an intensely exciting, erotic feeling, only it's not what they are, is it?

Boyd comes to a stop just behind her shoulder, so that she can feel his physical presence. There's no need for the heat of his body, or his scent, his cologne, mixed with the cold dew from outdoors. It radiates off of him and despite herself, Grace shivers. He's not in a very gentle accommodating mood. Boyd has an agenda and one can almost feel his determination to see it through.

"Shall we go for a walk?" His voice is oddly quiet. They won't be causing a scene, even though Grace knows that she has little choice whether she wants to go or not. The decision is made for her. He takes her elbow and gently, but determinedly steers her away from the desk, and the concierge, who follows them with his eyes a little worriedly, is only rewarded with an apologetic and calming shrug.

They make it outside and the first thing Grace notices is that it is indeed fairly cold and fairly damp. Boyd stops and takes his time to check whether the buttons of her coat are done up and rearranges her scarf so that the soft wool covers all necessary bits of skin and keeps her warm.

Grace smiles briefly at the tender gesture. They never mention this surreptitiousness that he displays when it comes to her...wellbeing, health...whatever. He also pulls her hand into the crook of his arm as he steers them towards the footpath that leads towards the canal.

That is new, but Grace is far from complaining. They've always resolved the tension between them with small, surprising gestures. A bottle of wine late at night in the office, a smile through the half open blinds, sitting down on the couch in her office, grapes in a paper bag. So many small things that somehow weave into the fabric of their relationship that is a deep friendship at the least.

But the least is not enough anymore.

"You were impressive yesterday afternoon," he says after a while into the silence of the day.

"Thank you."

They are quiet for some time, which is not altogether unpleasant, but not something Boyd can handle for an extended time. He wants to say things that burn in his mind and on his tongue, but in the end takes the coward's way out. "So, this Professor Larkin..." Derision drops heavily from his voice.

Next to him Grace chuckles and puts her free hand on his arm as well to squeeze him affectionately. "No need to go and intimidate him. The dean of his faculty sent some flowers this morning. Larkin is...nothing."

They walk on, once more in silence, through the grey morning. Their steps are pretty much the only sound, giving them both time to think. Think too much.

They both always do that.

After a while, Grace shivers, lack of sleep and nervousness catching up with her making her feel cold.

Boyd notices. Of course, he does. He's become so attuned to even the smallest change in her condition that he can read the signs blindly.

He stops his steps, forcing Grace to do the same, then turns towards her.

They stand so close together that he can feel her exhalation against his chin. She's slight and fragile compared to him, but there is something in her eyes that is anything but. Grace smiles, her eyes alight with something...unspoken.

Without a thought he pulls her into his arms, burrows her almost in his embrace.

When they separate after a while, he leans down and kisses her.

She blushes, endearingly.

"Warm now?" he teases and kisses her again, just for good measure.

"It's a start," Grace smirks as they turn back towards the hotel.