DISCLAIMER: I own nothing.

A/N: This is all Never Stop Believing in Love's fault. Honestly, it is.

Light My Fire

by Joodiff

"No," she says again, the stubborn note of rebellion in her voice even more evident this time. "No, Boyd. No. Absolutely not."

Darkly amused, but declining to show it, he regards her calmly across the span of his desk and says firmly, "It's not a request, Frankie. If you have a problem with it, I suggest you take it up with the DAC's office."

"They're a bunch of tossers," she says succinctly. Her glare increases. "I'm not doing it."

"You don't have a choice, and neither do I. I'm no fan of black-tie junkets, either, but – "

"So do what you usually do," she says promptly. "Tell them to stick it."

As patiently as he can, Boyd tells her, "If I could, I would, believe me; but sometimes you've just got to grit your teeth and play the game."

Frankie glares at him and demands, "Why?"

Boyd sighs heavily. He understands her opposition, actually has a lot of sympathy with it, but despite his well-earned reputation as something of a loose cannon, he's wise enough and experienced enough to know that there are times when even the most recalcitrant must give in and grudgingly toe the line. The memo in front of him is quite clear, and it's come straight from New Scotland Yard. Burying it at the very bottom of his in-tray or accidentally misplacing it is not going to make it go away. He starts to drum his fingers irritably on his desk, barely aware that he's doing it. "It's just one evening, Frankie."

"Look at me, Boyd," she orders tartly. "I don't do dressing up. Not for that sort of ridiculously posh do."

She has a point, he decides, dutifully surveying her for a moment. Beneath the ever-present crumpled white lab coat she's dressed in a baggy khaki sweater of indeterminate age and origin, jeans that have clearly seen much better days and extremely battered old trainers. Frankie is a lab rat and she's fiercely proud of it. In fact, in the four years she's worked for the Cold Case Unit, Boyd can't think of more than a scant handful of occasions when he's seen her dressed in anything other than some variation on the determined theme of scruffy casual. He's never really thought about it before. He taps the memo with an impatient forefinger. "'Detective Superintendent Peter Boyd and Doctor Frances Wharton'. You don't like it, I don't like it, but there's bugger all we can do about it, Frankie. We go along, we fly the flag, we eat the free food and drink the free champagne, and then we get the hell out of there at the earliest possible opportunity. Talk to Grace, she'll tell you how this sort of thing works."

"Yeah," Frankie says, an increasing edge of suspicion in her tone. "And that's another thing. How come she got away with it this time?"

"Why do you bloody think? The whole thing's being paid for by one of the big pharmaceutical companies. They want to schmooze the people responsible for forensics, and in our case, that's you."

If such a thing is actually possible, Frankie looks even more sullen. "But I don't want to go."

Boyd's patience – always an uncertain commodity – is rapidly running out. Unsympathetically, he says, "Tough. It's Friday. I'll pick you up at seven-thirty."

She glowers at him. "Terrific."


Days later, he's still more sympathetic than she'd probably ever believe, particularly as he walks up the stairs to her apartment in his dinner jacket and bowtie and receives startled, askance and faintly mocking looks from a young, casually-dressed couple heading in the opposite direction, but whether Frankie likes it or not, there's an expensive hotel waiting in West London where their presence is expected. Boyd doesn't want to be a part of the corporate back-scratching any more than she does, but there are sound fiscal reasons for him to keep his impatience hidden and his notoriously unstable temper firmly in check, whatever he really thinks of such evenings. Specialist units like his are expensive to maintain, and if complicated deals concerning new equipment and new suppliers are quietly brokered behind his back tonight, Boyd doesn't really care – just as long as the CCU's operational effectiveness and autonomy aren't compromised in any way.

He's never been here before, Boyd reflects as he continues his steady ascent. With one notable exception, he socialises very little with the people under his command. Barring increasingly infrequent games of squash with Spencer, an occasional trip to the pub in a crowd after work, a celebratory drink here and there and a grudging yearly appearance at the inevitable Christmas festivities are just about as far as he ever goes. The job – his job – comes with boundaries, some inherent, some self-imposed. Visiting his staff at home is a discomforting and strangely alien concept. Generally. There is, of course, the obvious matter of Grace to whom all the rules – self-imposed or otherwise – somehow just don't seem to apply, but Boyd has largely given up on the idea of trying to analyse that particular conundrum. Grace is just… Grace.

And Frankie is Frankie, he thinks wryly as he finally reaches the building's top-floor landing and quickly locates the correct front door. He has a nasty suspicion he's going to have his hands full trying to keep her on the straight-and-narrow in front of a plethora of civil servants, businessmen and beady-eyed top brass from the Yard. Frankie is feisty and Frankie doesn't suffer fools gladly… which may be precisely why he's as genuinely fond of her as he is. The whole night's a disaster waiting to happen. Which could actually make it a whole lot of fun. Briefly.

Unconsciously running his fingers through his hair, Boyd hesitates for a moment, and then raps firmly on the door in front of him. He's a fraction early, but if he knows anything about women – and he does – that's probably a very good thing, given that he'll be immediately be in an ideal position to bully, chivvy and cajole and maybe, just maybe, they won't be as impossibly late arriving at the hotel as he already fears they might be. He's about to knock again when the door is abruptly pulled open by an extremely unhappy-looking Frankie. At least, the woman glaring up at him bears a passing resemblance to Frankie. Same eyes, intense and intelligent, same sullen pout – the former made considerably more striking by heavy mascara, the latter by deep red lipstick.

"You're early," she snaps at him.

Boyd has just about made it past the uncharacteristic amount of make-up, but his reply is significantly hampered by an automatic and very masculine appraisal of the deep blue evening dress clinging closely to her body. The startling quality and quantity of the curves revealed by the expensive-looking fabric unexpectedly do quite a lot for his libido but very little for his ability to reply in any kind of reasonably eloquent way. Still, he's dimly aware that voicing complete incredulity probably isn't the most tactful response, and instead of the bloody hell! that immediately goes through his head, he manages an inarticulate mumble of, "Yeah, sorry…"

The withering look Frankie's giving him suggests she strongly suspects ridicule. The deep brown eyes – nearly as dark as his – flash defiantly and she challenges, "What?"

He's staring. He's definitely staring. It takes a considerable amount of effort to shake his head, clear his throat and say gruffly, "Nothing. You ready, then?"

"'You look great, Frankie,'" she says pointedly.

He feels like an idiot. A gauche, bumbling idiot. It's not at all good for his ego. He mutters, "You do. Look great."

"Thanks," she replies derisively. "Don't hold back on the compliments, will you, Boyd?"

He's right. It's going to be a long, difficult evening.


This must be what purgatory's like, Boyd thinks grimly. Surrounded on all sides by facile idiots that just won't shut the fuck up however much he glares at them, and forced into extended and unsettling proximity with a woman who's not so much on the 'look but don't touch' list but on the 'don't even think about it' list. To make matters even worse, it seems he's far from the only man in the room who's noticed the fascinating curves revealed by the wretched bloody dress and somehow – though he's damned if he knows how – it seems to have become entirely his responsibility to fend off the bulk of their unwanted attentions. He's tempted to leave Frankie to do her own dirty work, but the potential risk is just a little too high – he doesn't altogether trust her not to resort to slapping the more presumptuous and determined of her would-be paramours.

Yes, he's definitely in some kind of purgatory. No doubt about it.

"Boyd," an irritable voice says, cutting through his morose thoughts. "Pay attention, man."

"Sir," he says grudgingly. He doesn't want to listen to the monotonous drone of the man's voice. Then, he doesn't really want to be stranded alone with Frankie again, either. The incessant complaining, he can just about tolerate. The long, tight blue dress, not so much. She's currently talking to a man previously introduced as something at the Home Office, and as he absently glances over his superior's shoulder, Boyd isn't altogether sure that the rear view isn't even more distracting than the front view. Trying not to let his gaze drop automatically to her hips doesn't help much – his eyesight is quite sharp enough to detect an interesting pattern of freckles on one bare shoulder that's just begging to be investigated more closely.

Get a bloody grip, for fuck's sake…


The small part of his mind that wasn't stupidly fixated elsewhere obligingly replays the last few sentences for him. He nods sagely, says, "I'll bear it in mind, sir."

"See that you do, Boyd. The CCU is not indispensable. You are not indispensable."

It's not news to him. Nor is the fact that it seems there's a powerful coterie of senior officers at the Yard who are absolutely determined to keep putting him firmly in his place at any and every opportunity. Tonight his hackles don't actually rise in response; he merely finds the brinkmanship incredibly tiresome. Once again left to his own devices, he unwillingly returns his gaze to Frankie. She looks edgy, increasingly impatient. Time to mount a rescue mission, Boyd decides, and not solely for altruistic reasons. She really is highly likely to speak out, to say entirely the wrong thing to the wrong person. In some ways they're so alike that it's laughable. He's just older and wiser. Quite a lot older, in fact. Not something he's ever consciously considered before. No reason to.

So why consider it now…?

He comes to a halt at her shoulder and pointedly looks down at the thin, bespectacled Home Office man. Boyd is a little taller than average and his height gives him a distinct psychological advantage in a great many situations. One he isn't ever slow to exploit. Frankie says, "Mr Anderson, this is DSI Boyd, head of the – "

" – Cold Case Unit," Anderson finishes for her, tentatively extending a hand. "Yes. You have something of a reputation, Superintendent."

Boyd shakes the proffered hand gravely. Perhaps applies a little more pressure than is strictly necessary. "So I'm led to believe."

It doesn't take Anderson long to make his excuses and scuttle away. Good.

"Can we leave yet?" Frankie asks, tone and expression both petulant. "Everyone's looking at me."

"No we can't, and no, they're not," Boyd tells her. It's partly true. Not everyone's looking at her. Just a fair number of the men in the room. Maybe a couple of the women, too. He's vaguely surprised at the amount of attention she's drawing, and yet he's not exactly sure why. In much the same way as Grace is just Grace, Frankie is just Frankie. He's spent the better part of four years mildly flirting with her simply because it amuses him, and right now he can't picture himself ever doing such a thing. Far too potentially dangerous.

"What's the matter with you?" she asks grumpily. "You've been acting really weirdly all evening, Boyd."

He goes for a safe, "Hey, you think I like this sort of thing any more than you do?"

But Frankie's not listening. She's gazing across the big, opulent room with a look of mesmerised horror on her face. Boyd follows her gaze and understands in exactly the same moment as she says, "Fuck. Dancing? Oh, you have got to be kidding me…"

Not for the first time in his life, Peter Boyd wonders if simply turning tail and running like hell is a viable strategy. It certainly has considerably more appeal than the apparently inevitable alternative.


"You're good," Frankie says, apparently making no effort at all to hide her surprise.

Faced with very little alternative, he treats her to a ferocious grin. "You're not."

It's no word of a lie, either. She's just not very… coordinated. Nor does she seem to understand the concept of just relaxing and allowing herself to be elegantly led. Any notion Boyd might ever have had about the intrinsic ability of even the least graceful of females to somehow naturally keep in step with any reasonably proficient dance partner is lying in tattered ruins. And has been repeatedly stamped on. No doubt about it, Frankie Wharton has all the delicate finesse of a carthorse. Though fortunately only a fraction of the mass.

It's definitely a good thing. He doesn't think he could cope with a sensuous glide round the highly-polished floor. Yes, clumsy is very definitely good.

Doesn't stop the havoc the scent and feel of her is wreaking on his poor, overloaded male brain. There are some things that are far, far beyond the call of duty. This is one of them.

As if she's reading his mind, Frankie promptly says, "Don't you dare let go. I'm warning you, Boyd…"

"So dancing with me is the lesser of two evils?" he asks sardonically. "I'm flattered."

"It's your own damned fault. I told you to tell them to stick their invitation right up their collective arse, but no, apparently this is expected of us. Though quite where in my contract it says – "

"For God's sake stop moaning, Frankie. Do I look like I'm enjoying myself?"

"Thanks a lot…"

Women. He shakes his head. "You know what I mean."


"Now?" Frankie asks like an impatient child.

"Soon," he promises wearily, rubbing his beard in a meditative fashion. There's no doubt that the evening's going to grind on for a long while yet, but he senses they are approaching the very first window of opportunity, the very first moment when they can diplomatically retreat without undue penalty. He's coldly sober, as befits a man who's driving them both home, and he resents it. As soon as he's safely inside his own front door Boyd is going to pour himself the first of several large whiskies, and he's going to keep drinking until all the horrors of the night are suitably blunted. Hell, he might even keep on drinking until he can barely remember who he is, much less who – and what – she is.

She's watching the shifting crowd, and he's watching her. He shouldn't be, but he is. Intently, contemplatively. He leans back in his chair, feigning an insouciance he certainly doesn't feel and he asks himself whether the patently impossible is really as impossible as it appears.

It is. Unquestionably.

Frankie glances round at him and seeing his gaze she smiles uncertainly; Boyd feels like he's been kicked hard in the stomach. Christ, does she really not know what she's doing to him?

Well, of course she bloody doesn't. He's just the bad-tempered old guy from work, the one who always demands far too much and doesn't need to apologise for it because he's the boss. Probably doesn't even occur to her that he's every bit as red-blooded as the next healthy heterosexual male. Or even that he actually is profoundly male and not just their middle-aged, might-as-well-be-completely-genderless unit commander. Depressing thought. Though he's pretty damned certain that he's not the only one who's been guilty of a certain degree of inappropriate flirtation in the last four –

"Oh, God," Frankie says suddenly, adding urgently, "Quick, Boyd, get up – let's dance."

Complete incredulity forces him into an overly loud, "What the fuck…?"

Frankie glares at him. "Incoming at twelve o'clock. Trust me, this is not a good time to ask questions."

Ah ha. The man relentlessly bearing down on their table is large, a little sweaty and red-faced and apparently far more determined than Boyd gave him credit for. He's also a senior civil servant from some obscure office in Whitehall and it seems he likes Frankie. A lot. The feeling is categorically not mutual. Boyd has already seen him off twice, and not particularly subtly, either. Since it seems he is absolutely unwilling or unable to take the hint, punching him would now appear to be the simplest solution by far, but the potential repercussions…

Boyd gets reluctantly to his feet and holds out an ungracious hand. "You owe me."

"Bollocks. This is still all your fault."

They take to the floor again, just another couple amongst many. Boyd watches his would-be rival over Frankie's shoulder, taking an unworthy amount of pleasure in the other man's clear annoyance. He says, "Lucky girl. You've got a serious admirer there."

"Fuck off, Boyd. Is he still watching us?"

"Oh yes. If looks could kill, I'd be stone cold dead on the floor by now, no question."

Frankie grimaces. "His name's Hugo. Can you believe that? Hugo Something-hyphen-Something."

"Doesn't surprise me at all. I bet Mrs Something-hyphen-Something is meekly sitting home alone doing her needlepoint right now."

"If she's got any bloody sense, she's actually in bed shagging the gardener."

Boyd grins. "Stranger things have been known to happen."

"Is he still there?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Time for Plan B, then."

Boyd doesn't have a chance to ask what Plan B is – isn't sure he even wants to know – before Frankie's suddenly pressed up tightly against him. Even through his dinner jacket and his shirt he can feel the litheness and extraordinary heat of her body. Instinct is a bitch, because instinct makes him readjust his hold on her to take account of the sudden lack of space between them and suddenly everything's a lot more intimate than it ever should be. He looks down at her, tries for a quizzical, bemused sort of look. Doubts he manages it successfully from the way her eyes widen a fraction in surprise at whatever she reads in his expression.

He's in a whole lot of trouble. Fact.


Even the damned radio in the damned car conspires against him. It's supposed to obediently fill the risky silence with innocuous banality. Instead what does Boyd get? Jim bloody Morrison, that's what. Jim Morrison and his raw 'sixties entreaty to light his fucking fire. Thanks a lot, Morrison. You're really not helping.

Try to set the night on fire…

Oh, for fuck's bloody sake.

"'Sixty-eight," Frankie guesses from the passenger seat.

Boyd doesn't look at her. "'Sixty-seven."

"You sure?"


He can feel her amused look as she replies, "Two years before I was born, then."

He can't help wincing. Dryly, he says, "Ouch."

Frankie chuckles. "It's okay, Boyd. Some of us like older men."

Oh, dear God…

There's a long pause, then, "So, how old were you in 'sixty-seven? Sixteen, seventeen? I bet you went out and bought the record, didn't you?"

Boyd casts her a quick, ironic look. "'Record'?"

"Hey, I remember buying stuff on vinyl, thank you. Well? I bet you did."

"Nope," he says, slowing the car for a junction. "All I wanted in those days was an uninterrupted half an hour in the back row of the Odeon with Audrey Fisher and a second-hand Vespa. Not necessarily in that order. Wasting six bob on The Doors didn't come into it."

This time it isn't a chuckle, it's a loud and heartfelt guffaw. "A Vespa? You…?"

"Piss off, Frankie."

Jim hasn't given up. Come on baby, light my fire…


A sensible man would have dropped her off and driven away. A gallant and sensible man would have walked her to her front door and then driven away. Only a bloody idiot would have accepted the casual invitation to have coffee before driving away. And of course Boyd is – naturally enough – a bloody idiot. He wonders what Grace would have to say about his newly-discovered masochism, and then decides he really doesn't want to know. Without thinking, he pulls his bowtie loose, unfastens a couple of shirt buttons – and instantly regrets the action. He probably looks less nonchalantly rakish and rather more like a weary, dishevelled middle-aged man whose ability to party late into the night with no visible ill-effects is a long, long way behind him. Damn.

Some of us like older men…

On the face of it, the words are completely unambiguous. Or maybe that's just wishful thinking.

Frankie is standing in the kitchen alcove at the far end of the big, modern room. Just standing there, making the promised coffee. There's nothing provocative about the scene. Nothing except the promising allure of her bare shoulders and sleekness of the damn dress that's been the bane of his entire evening. The gentle curve between her waist and hip is indelibly imprinted on Boyd's memory. Not just the look of it, but the feel of it, so tangible and so infinitely tempting beneath the tight fabric.

He's right behind her before common-sense can catch up and apply the brakes. Not quite close enough to touch, but he still somehow manages to feel the illicit shiver that goes through her. The spontaneous reaction tells him everything he needs to know, but there's a lot of uncertainty in Frankie's tone as she says, "Whoa. Bad idea…"

Very bad fucking idea. Boyd knows it far better than she does. Doesn't stop him wanting her with the kind of hunger that's raw and unexpected. For a moment he doesn't move, doesn't say a word. He doubts there's any way she can fail to notice the intense heat that's radiating off him. He's burning, and it's all her damn fault. Or maybe not. Maybe it's entirely his own damned fault for being a bloody fool who very definitely should know better. Only sheer stubborn willpower enables him to take a single firm step backwards.

Frankie turns to face him, her expression a confused mix of emotions. She says, "I like you, Boyd. I mean, I really like you, but…"


Strange how such a small word can have so much power. He nods gravely. "'But'."

"You're kind of my boss…" she finishes lamely.

Quite deliberately he raises his eyebrows. "Someday I may feel the need to remind you that you said that, Doctor Wharton."

Frankie ignores the gibe. "And anyway… Why now?"

He can't help snorting. "Seriously…?"

She regards him solemnly for a moment or two before saying, "It's getting late. Maybe we should forget about the coffee."

Boyd is not at all surprised by the oblique dismissal, and he's far too old and jaded to be hurt by it. His pride is a little stung, maybe, but he's not hurt. Strangely, though, as he carefully attempts to interpret the look in her eyes, the strongest feeling that wells up in him is sharp curiosity. Watching her closely, he asks, "What are you so frightened of?"

Frankie glares at him. "I'm not frightened."

His instinctive, impulsive response is not particularly mature. "No? Prove it."

She does. Faster and far more forcefully than Boyd expects. In fact for a split-second he's genuinely taken aback by how fierce and how bold she is, but then he does what any red-blooded male would do under the same circumstances – he capitulates without hesitation. There's a brief battle for supremacy, one Boyd fully expects to win until she bites his bottom lip hard enough to make him swear against her mouth. He has his revenge as her back hits the wall and his greater physical strength prevails, but there's no hint of submission in the way she rakes her fingers through his hair and forces her tongue deeper into his mouth. It's rough, it's exciting and it's quite clear he's not the only one thoroughly enjoying it. He moves his mouth to her neck, gives in to the dark temptation to bite the fascinating curve he finds there, and Frankie catches her breath sharply.

Close to his ear, her urgent voice says huskily, "So? What are you frightened of, Boyd?"

It's a clear challenge. One he has no intention of backing away from. He lifts his head, looks straight into her eyes and growls, "Nothing."

The answer is predictable and it comes with a ferocious grin. "Prove it."


He's never at his best on a Monday morning. Particularly when he's tired and in pain. Even less so when he's being gently but expertly needled by the one person who really doesn't care how thunderous his expression is, or how loudly he slams doors in his wake.

"Are you quite sure you're all right?" Grace asks solicitously, but there's an obvious glint of something knowing and wicked in her blue eyes.

"Fine," he mutters as they head towards the CCU's gloomy squad room. "Absolutely fine."

"Is your back playing up?"

"No," Boyd tells her curtly, holding the door open for her. "For God's sake, Grace…"

She brushes past him, saying over her shoulder, "Only, you know, man of your age… you should be careful, cavorting around the dance floor."

"Oh, I'm splitting my bloody sides laughing. Who've you been talking to?"

She halts by her office door. "Julia Marshall. Actually, you should be pleased. She said you cut a very dashing figure. And Frankie looked absolutely stunning, apparently. Not that you'd have noticed, of course."

Boyd eyes her suspiciously. She's definitely highly amused. Potentially a very bad sign indeed. Darkly, he says, "Go and find some bloody work to do before I start questioning whether we can really still afford a fulltime profiler."

Grace smiles pleasantly at him. "I love Mondays. You're always in such a good mood."

He gestures at the door behind her. "Stop trying to annoy me and get in there and do something productive. Now."

"Positively overflowing with bonhomie," Grace adds before strolling into her office.

Grumbling to himself, Boyd heads for the lab. Actually, Grace is uncomfortably close to the mark. The old, old injury is definitely making itself felt, but he knows its resurgence is nothing to do with the Friday-night dancing. Over-exuberant participation in a far more strenuous – and considerably more entertaining – activity is almost certainly the reason behind the nagging back pain that's making him even more bad-tempered than even a busy morning really warrants. Still, it's far more irritating than it is debilitating, and the heavy-duty prescription painkillers are beginning to work their magic, considerably brightening his mood as he finally reaches his destination.

Frankie is staring contemplatively at the desiccated and largely skeletonised remains of an unlucky former police informant, missing for a good fifteen years and only recently located beneath the floorboards of a derelict house in Woolwich. Hands deep in the pockets of her lab coat, she's apparently so lost in thought that she doesn't hear his arrival. Either that, or she's deliberately ignoring him. Either is equally likely.

Wandering over to her, Boyd asks rhetorically, "Griffiths?"

"Griffiths," she confirms with a nod. "Handsome chap, isn't he? Great supraorbital processes."

"You really worry me sometimes, Frankie."

She grins at him, as impish and irrepressible as ever, then produces a ballpoint pen from her pocket and uses it to poke at a large ragged hole in the side of the exposed skull. "Exit wound. Someone shot him through the head."

"Wonderful," he says without enthusiasm. "Anything else?"

"Not yet."


Frankie glances sideways at him. "You okay?"

"Why does everyone keep asking me that?" Boyd asks with some asperity.

"Well, you do look absolutely bloody knackered, to be honest," she tells him with a slight smirk.

Glowering at her, he grimly fights off a brief but intense succession of increasingly inappropriate impulses, the very least of which would – if put into practise – certainly warrant a disciplinary hearing. He settles for a waspish, "You don't look so hot yourself this morning, you know."

The smirk increases. "I had a busy weekend."

Boyd shakes his head. "And on that note…"

He gets almost to the lab doors before Frankie says, "He's a nice guy; I like him a lot. Only thing is…"

He stops, but he doesn't look round as he asks resignedly, "What…?"

"I kind of got the impression it was just one of those circumstantial things."

Boyd can see her reflection in the glass door. She looks a little rueful, a little uncertain, but determined, as if she'll rally and calmly accept whatever he says or does. A little off-balance, he asks gruffly, "Did he say that?"

"No; but perhaps he didn't think he needed to spell it out for me."

"Maybe," he slowly suggests, "if you honestly think it could go somewhere, you need to think things through very carefully and then talk to him about it."

"Would he listen?"

"I think he'd be a fool not to," Boyd says quietly, starting back into motion. Finally looking over his shoulder, he says sardonically, "'Absolutely bloody knackered', eh? Thanks, Frankie. Thanks a lot."

She's grinning again. "Any time. Tiger."

Ignoring her seems to be the safest option by far. Wearily, Boyd seeks out the quiet solitude of his office – whereupon the late Jim Morrison starts singing loudly in his head.

Come on baby, light my fire…

Oh, for fuck's sake. As if Mondays aren't bad enough.

- the end -

NSBIL's original brief: "Get Frankie glammed up for something or other (with all her complaining 'cause she just wants her jeans and Converse), but Boyd sees her in a very different light. S4."