DISCLAIMER: I own nothing
A/N: Rated at a high T rather than an M for some non-explicit adult content. Don't like, don't read.
Dedicated to Got Tea who's nagged and cajoled me to finish this one for sooooooooo long! xx
Real
by Joodiff
It cannot be real, but it is. It must be a dream, but it isn't. He's no phantom, no fantasy. He's real. She can feel it in the solid weight of him, feel it in the powerful, bunched shoulder muscles beneath her fingers; feel it in the glorious male hardness that's deep, deep inside her. He's flesh; he's bone, blood, and sinew. She can feel the extraordinary heat of him, smell the distinctive scent of him. She can taste the salt on his skin, see the wide dilation of his pupils. She can hear the low growl of his voice as he drives himself harder into her. And she has never dared to imagine, not even once, that the prosaic reality of her secret guilty fantasies could ever be anything like as good as the tormenting dreams that have too often woken her in the lonely dark hours; woken her shivering and self-conscious. She never believed it could be like this. Never believed he could be like this. Not with her. Not for her. But he is.
"…Because I'm in love with you, idiot! I've always been in love with you..."
Words. Her words. Not many words, either. Words never intended to be spoken aloud. Fraught words involuntarily thrown in bitter anger and sheer, desperate exasperation. Words with the power to change everything in an instant. Words immediately and desperately regretted… but only for the tiniest fraction of a heartbeat. Just words, indeed – but words with truly astonishing consequences.
…And now here she is. Here they are. Naked, stunned, and sated, still entwined in the sweat and heat of spontaneous, unexpected passion, half-buried under a tangle of covers with the chilly autumn breeze blowing in through the bedroom's open fanlight finding all their vulnerable areas of exposed flesh.
And now there are no words at all because no words are needed.
-oOo-
On waking, there is no chance for Grace to imagine that she's been fooled by a particularly vivid and erotic dream. No chance at all, because for the first time in more years than she cares to think about she doesn't wake alone. Her bed, like her bedroom, is comfortable… but it is also narrow – just a standard-sized single – and her unexpected overnight companion is not the smallest of men. However, as she blinks her way to full awareness she is very far from dismayed by their tight, enforced proximity. Boyd is sound asleep, curled close around her in the limited space available, his head tucked into her shoulder, and for a moment she can't quite believe just how defenceless he looks when he's relaxed and oblivious. He looks younger. Tranquil and tousled, all the tension gone, all the deep frown lines smoothed away. Then, she thinks with a pained touch of inward irony, he is younger. Younger than her, anyway. By a good few years, in fact, despite how much of the gunmetal grey in his hair and beard has turned to silver over the course of the last year or two.
"I've always been in love with you…"
She winces at the stark memory of those words, despite their truth. She can barely believe they managed to force their way through all her well-constructed emotional barricades… but they did. Somehow, they did, and the result was every bit as spectacular as it was astounding. She remembers her cold horror as the traitorous words fell heavily, powerfully between them, and she remembers the stunned look on Boyd's face and her immediate instinct to flee. Remembers, too, the instant, impatient fierceness of him as he caught hold of her before she could. In hindsight, she realises she wasn't at all surprised by his reaction. Wasn't then, isn't now. Peter Boyd has never been the kind of man to vacillate, nor to engage in protracted discussions when he can simply act. Which – on this occasion at least – is probably a very good thing, because her reaction, once prevented from flight, would have been to talk, to discuss, to analyse.
She could have talked herself out of it all too easily, Grace knows. With more than just a little embarrassment, no doubt, but she could have thrown hundreds of glib and complicated words at the situation until the dangerous, opportune moment was safely lost. But Boyd didn't let her, didn't give her the chance, and now she's glad. She's very glad.
Perhaps he somehow senses that she's awake because he stirs a fraction, briefly flexing against her, as if starting to register the acute discomfort she suspects he's in, given how little space he has. If he stretches out before properly assessing his situation she thinks he will end up on the floor, and she can only imagine just how well he will react to such an unexpected indignity. He mutters something incomprehensible, buries his head back against her shoulder and relaxes again. He's heavy, Grace realises. Heavy, and very warm. And, God help her, she relishes it. But the accidental crashing-to-the-floor scenario is a little too likely to be amusing. It won't be the best start to the day, given how sullen and bad-tempered she suspects it will make him.
Moving enough to reach out, she dares to stroke his hair, quietly marvelling at how dense and soft it is. "Boyd…?"
He stirs again, moves into her touch a fraction before finally opening his eyes. She half-expects him to look surprised, half-expects to see a look of simultaneous shock and discomfort chase across his features, but her expectations are wrong. He simply regards her with mild, placid interest for a moment before clearing his throat and pronouncing, "You need a bigger bed, Grace. I'm not spending another bloody night like this."
The easy, flippant comment shatters any hint of awkwardness long before it can take hold. Grace wants to banter back, but all she can do is allow a quiet laugh tinged with relief, amusement, and deep, genuine affection. There's a very deliberate message in his words; a message of firm but gentle reassurance. It's wonderfully, unbelievably easy to find his lips with her own, to bestow a warm kiss that lingers much longer than she intended. It's just as wonderful to feel the immediate, unselfconscious way he responds.
Pulling back a little, she says, "But I like this bed."
Boyd's reply is lazy. "Fair enough."
Grace laughs again. His ostensible imperturbability amuses her, given that they really are in very close contact, and that there's absolutely no mistaking the thoroughly unapologetic male hardness trapped between them. Clearly, his languid indifference is entirely feigned. Caught in the moment, she lets her hand wander down his flank. "Then again…"
"Yes…?" Boyd asks her, and there something more than a touch devilish about the sudden lascivious glint in his eyes.
Deadpan, Grace stays her hand and inquires, "Haven't you got somewhere you should be?"
"It's Saturday."
"That doesn't usually mean anything to you, Boyd."
He nudges his hips slyly against her, as if he imagines she might somehow have failed to notice just how ready he is. "You really think I'm that dedicated to duty, Grace? Think again."
He is not at all how she imagined. She expected him to be hot-blooded, yes, but nothing like as open, nothing like as easy and… unaffected… as he seems to be. It amazes her, and that, she recognises, is not a bad thing at all. It seems the tough, tenacious, and dangerously volatile fireball of a man she knows so well has far more facets to his character than even she has ever credited him for. Up to and including the ability to be a gentle, amusing, and surprisingly generous lover.
Contemplating the differences between his public and private personas leads her down an inexorable road. Solemn and a little uncertain, Grace asks, "How did we get here?"
Boyd raises quizzical eyebrows at her. "You don't remember?"
"That's… not what I meant," she says. Failing to find any other way to express her complicated, contradictory feelings, she adds, "You're my best friend."
"And…?" A moment later he groans. "Oh, God, you're going to start over-analysing everything, aren't you?"
More pointed than she really intends, she says, "I'm a psychologist, Boyd. Analysis is what we do."
"Yeah? Well, Doctor, I'm just a man… and currently a bloody horny one," he tells her, catching her by surprise as he takes hold of her and twists beneath her. He's much stronger than she's ever credited him with being, too, and it's an agile, sinewy sort of strength that speaks of experience and endurance. She looks down at him, still wondering how on earth everything has changed so completely between them in such a short space of time.
"Horny as fuck," Boyd elaborates, hands on her hips and eyebrows raised again.
Grace allows herself to give vent to a deep and very genuine sigh. "Tell it how it is, Boyd."
He growls somewhere low in his throat, and it's an impatient noise only slightly mitigated by the very real look of sheer, bloody-minded glee in his eyes. "Too blunt for you?"
"A little."
He grins, and it's a predatory grin that shows a lot of teeth. "Humour me."
So she does. And in very short order his grin heads rapidly for supernova territory before becoming blissful. Grace knows how he feels. At least, she imagines she knows how he feels. Against all the odds, it seems that they fit together very well, and for a brief, faintly lucid moment she wonders if she will ever tire of the pleasurable intensity of it all. But this is not going to be a protracted encounter. This is going to be quick, reckless, and thoroughly enjoyable.
Closing her eyes for a moment she simply savours the sensation of having him so deeply, completely buried inside her. Boyd is still grinning when she opens her eyes again, and in return she offers an arch, "You know all that stuff women allegedly say about size not mattering…?"
Just one sardonic eyebrow quirks this time, amused and indulgent.
Grace smirks down at him, adds in a conspiratorial whisper, "It's absolute nonsense…"
Boyd just laughs.
-oOo-
For the second time that morning she wakes to find herself impossibly crowded in her own bed. This time, however, her companion is already awake, lying on his side, head propped on one hand as he watches her. A little flustered, Grace asks, "Oh, God… what time is it?"
"Almost noon."
Startled, she retorts, "You are joking? Why on earth didn't you wake me up?"
"Why would I?" Boyd asks, sounding bewildered by the question.
"Because…" Grace starts, but she can't think of a reasonable answer. She's still not dreaming. He's still very warm, very solid, and very real. And more than a little dishevelled. As she imagines she is. The covers are twisted and tangled beyond redemption, and there's a distinct, not entirely unpleasant touch of musk hanging in the still bedroom air. No breeze is now coming through the open fanlight, she realises. The curtains are still closed, and she chides herself for wondering whether her neighbours will have noticed the unusual phenomenon. But there's no doubt that the closed curtains wouldn't be as much of a giveaway as the distinctive silver car still parked outside the house.
"Oh, God…" Grace says again, but with much more conviction.
Boyd seems curious. "What?"
"You don't want to know."
A slight chuckle precedes, "Come on – what?"
"I was thinking about the neighbours," she admits, well-aware that it will amuse him no end.
"Seriously? That's very provincial of you, Grace."
She shudders. "Don't. I'm turning into my mother. No. Worse. I'm turning into my grandmother."
"Your grandmother had a thing for younger men?"
She glowers at him. "You're not helping, Boyd."
"It's okay if you are," he says, tone and expression serious, "I have a recently-acquired thing for older women."
"I hate you."
He stretches in languorous fashion, idly scratching his bare chest. "No, you don't."
Grace sighs and sits up. She slaps his hip just hard enough to make him scowl. "Come on, it's time we got up."
The scowl fades as Boyd starts to grin again. "I'm already up, Grace."
It seems he's telling the truth. Interesting. But she's a firm believer in time and place. With some asperity, she rebukes, "You're just so juvenile, aren't you?"
Grumbling and unimpressed, he follows her example and sits up. He stretches again, yawns, and rubs at the rough morning stubble blurring the usually neat edges of his short goatee beard. Over his shoulder, he says, "Please tell me you're going shopping for a new bed this afternoon…?"
"I am not going to buy a new bed just to please you, Boyd."
He smirks. "You bloody are if you know what's good for you."
-oOo-
It's hardly the most romantic setting, but Grace is halfway down one of the well-stocked aisles of her local supermarket when her phone rings several hours later. She knows who's calling her even before she sees the caller ID on the little screen. She just knows. Standing stock still in the hope of not losing the erratic signal, she answers with, "Where are you?"
Boyd's distinctive voice is gruff. "In my bloody office. Where else would I be when everyone else is off merrily enjoying their sodding weekend? What, you think the magic pixies come in the night and do all the damned paperwork for me?"
Resisting the urge to laugh, she comments, "Someone's in a bad mood."
"Someone suffers with a bad back, remember? Have you bought a new bed yet?"
He's so damn tenacious. Though perhaps that's part of the attraction. Through gritted teeth, Grace says, "I told you, Boyd, I'm not buying a new bed."
"In which case we're sleeping at my place tonight."
Un-bloody-believable. But oddly appealing, too, in a brash, cocky sort of way. "'We'?"
"'We', Grace," Boyd echoes, as if it's the most natural thing in the world. As if their lives aren't unexpectedly going through a huge seismic shift that neither of them could have predicted a mere twenty-four hours ago. "I'll be home around seven, I should think. Bring food."
Annoyed by his presumptuousness, she counters, "You are so – "
"I know," his voice interrupts, unrepentant amusement quite clear. "Don't forget your toothbrush."
Grace doesn't have the chance to voice the stinging reply she's formulating because the call is abruptly disconnected at the other end. She lowers her phone from her ear and for a moment she simply stares at it, not quite sure whether she's righteously outraged or inappropriately entertained. She still hasn't quite made up her mind when the phone beeps to inform her that she has received a text message.
Weary and wary, she pushes the required combination of buttons. And has to laugh aloud at his sheer impudence.
'As far as I'm aware, no-one's ever felt the need to tell me that size doesn't matter.'
A striking, black-clad teenager – presumably female – daubed with dark, dramatic eye make-up and adorned with a vast amount of arcane silver jewellery is eying her with dubious suspicion. Grace meets the teenager's curious, slightly apprehensive stare and smiles. Then, straight-faced, she offers, "Sorry. My, er… partner…" – partner! – "has a strange sense of humour."
"Right…" the girl says in an exaggerated, drawn-out fashion that suggests she might be giving serious consideration to summoning the store's security guard. She takes a single step, as if preparing to turn to walk away, then hesitates and asks, "Really…?"
"Really," Grace confirms, not quite sure if the girl is questioning the existence of a partner, or the odd state of his sense of humour.
The girl allows a grave nod. "Cool."
-oOo-
Dinner is a potential disaster. It shouldn't be, given that she knows they are both more than capable of cooking a decent meal, but it is. It's a potential disaster because Peter Boyd is not a patient man and although they never actually leave the kitchen, half the ingredients remain raw and unprepared on the counter while the other half burn gently to a crisp.
"This is ridiculous," Grace tells him a significant while later as she does her best to salvage something edible from the culinary wreckage.
Boyd is still tucking in his shirt as he inquires, "Why, because you think we're much too old to be behaving like sex-crazed, irresponsible teenagers?"
He's far too perceptive sometimes. More than a little wry, she says, "Exactly that."
He leans himself up against the counter and folds his arms. He watches her for several long moments, and then, apparently from nowhere, he says, "I'm sorry."
Startled, Grace looks round at him. "What on earth for?"
A loose shrug of broad shoulders is followed by, "A tendency to rush at things like a bull at a gate? For making too many assumptions? Sometimes I need to be told when to back off. You know that."
"Oh, don't worry, if it becomes necessary to tell you, I will," Grace assures him, only half-joking, but there's still a touch of uncertainty in his eyes that surprises her. Really surprises her. He usually seems so confident, so completely self-assured and self-possessed, and even if she's well-aware that there are some notable gaps in his formidable defensive armour, she's never had cause to doubt the existence of a stubborn core of self-belief at the very heart of him. With some caution, she asks, "What's the matter?"
"I just…" Boyd shrugs again, as if he's not having much luck finding the right words. He tries again, "Oh, come on, Grace, you know exactly what I'm like. How good I am at screwing up relationships. I don't want to hurt you. This…thing… we seem to be stumbling into… it's not going to be easy, is it?"
Grace tries hard to ignore the unpleasant, sickening knot of apprehension that's starting to form inside her. Keeping her voice quiet and level, she asks, "What are you saying, Boyd? That we're making a terrible mistake?"
"God, no," he says without hesitation. "No, Grace. Not at all. But quite apart from the whole issue of having to work together, we're just so different..."
Forcing herself to relax, she asks, "That's not necessarily a bad thing, surely?"
"Depends, doesn't it?"
She returns her attention to attempting to create something remotely palatable to eat. "On?"
"Whether or not those difference are irreconcilable."
Exasperated, Grace shakes her head. "Dear God, Boyd. It's been less than twenty-four hours, and you're already talking about irreconcilable differences?"
He unfolds his arms and immediately buries his hands deep in his trouser pockets. "Yeah, well. You said it last night. I'm an idiot."
With a sigh, Grace looks over her shoulder at him. "Do you want me to tell you it doesn't matter because you're my idiot?"
Boyd's expression is rueful. "Something like that."
"Hmm," she says, poking at the questionable contents of the nearest saucepan. "You do realise that at some point we're going to have to have some kind of meaningful discussion about… this… don't you?"
"I realise… that it's important to you that we do," he says, and she doesn't miss the careful phrasing of the words.
"But not to you?" she inquires, her tone a little too sharp.
His reply is impatient. "That's not what I said, Grace."
Only just refraining from sighing again, she says, "You have serious commitment issues, Boyd."
The reply is faster and harsher than she expects. "Actually, I don't. That's just your interpretation of me having no bloody interest whatsoever in dissecting and over-analysing every last tiny detail."
Grace opens her mouth to argue, then closes it again. A moment later she asks, "Isn't this how we got here in the first place?"
Boyd looks puzzled. "What?"
"Via an argument," she elucidates. "Last night. Or had you forgotten…?"
His answer is a sly, "I thought we got here because someone unexpectedly told me they were in love with me."
"A sentiment that I notice still hasn't been reciprocated," Grace points out.
"Verbally."
"Oh, for God's sake… You could try the patience of a bloody saint, Boyd."
Without warning his mood seems to change, and he offers her a mischievous grin. His saturnine features settle into a boyish expression that really shouldn't work on a man of his age, but somehow… does. His tone is complacent as he says, "Possibly, but on the other hand, I'm damned good in bed."
"Who on earth told you that?" Grace inquires. Before he has a chance to reply, she adds, "Find some plates. Whatever this has turned into looks as if it's probably ready to be eaten."
-oOo-
"Are you mad…?"
From her comfortable position propped against a pile of cushions, Grace nudges him again with her foot. "Go on."
There's an answering grumble of complaint from the other end of the long sofa. "Grace…"
"Well, why not?"
Boyd sighs. "Because if there is any coal, it's outside, and it's dark out there. Not to mention bloody freezing."
With dogged determination, she pushes, "Come on, Boyd. When did you last have a proper fire going in here?"
"Years ago," is the prompt and very dismissive answer.
"There you go, then. It's long overdue."
He glares at her. "Grace, the damned chimney hasn't been swept for well over a decade to my certain knowledge, and if you think I'm risking burning my bloody house to the ground just so you can – "
"It might be worth your while, you know," Grace interrupts. She waits for the look in his eyes to become speculative before continuing, "Soft music, open fire, a few more glasses of wine…"
It takes him a moment to weigh up the pros and cons of the idea, but eventually he growls, "Oh, for… All right, I'll go and have a look. But I warn you, I'm drawing the line at chopping up the damned furniture and setting light to it if there's no coal."
Really, he's laughably easy to manipulate. In certain circumstances, at least. As a reward, Grace treats him to a radiant smile. "Fair enough."
-oOo-
Soft music, an open fire, and a few more glasses of wine… With the curtains firmly closed against the cold autumn night, and all the artificial lights extinguished to leave nothing but the flickering firelight, they could be anywhere, Grace muses. Probably, Boyd would choke at the notion, but to her it feels wonderfully romantic, and she has every intention of making the most of every single opportunity it may afford. They've already both gravitated towards the fire, settling themselves comfortably on a haphazard arrangement of piled cushions and other randomly appropriated soft furnishings, and there's an intimacy about the whole situation that's strangely gentle, oddly serene.
Grace does not miss the intent way he watches her, nor the studied nonchalance in the way he's reclining. He doesn't say very much, but that's fine – she has words enough for them both. He listens, though, and that's a good thing. Without really meaning to, she tells him far more about herself and her hopes and dreams than may be wise, and eventually she starts to feel more than a little self-conscious. Forcing a small chuckle, she concludes with, "Anyway, I'm amazed you're still awake."
Boyd takes a sip of wine and studies her for a long, contemplative moment. He says, "Why do you always do that?"
Confused, she offers a slight, bemused smile and asks, "What?"
"The whole self-deprecation thing."
There's no hint of ridicule in his tone. Caught off-balance, she shrugs and offers an honest, "I don't know. Insecurity, I suppose."
"That's a big admission to make."
Grace is surprised. Though not an academic by any means, he's an intelligent man, and acutely perceptive when he wants to be, but he is not known for his sensitivity. Trying not to sound defensive, she says, "It's called self-awareness, Peter."
His reply is immediate. "It's called low self-esteem, Grace."
The too-close-for-comfort insight stings, and she snipes back, "Armchair psychology?"
He shakes his head. "I would never presume."
Grace takes a sip from her own glass. The wine is mellow, full-bodied, and expensive. A vintage to be savoured and fully appreciated. She sighs. "Not all of us have your completely unshakable self-confidence, you know. Some of us have human frailties and aren't afraid to admit them."
"Bollocks."
"You have such an unrivalled ability to formulate a cogent argument," Grace tells him. It's a game they've played for years. Attack and retreat. Test the boundaries and then dart away.
Boyd holds up a hand. "Words of one syllable, please. I'm just an ordinary London copper, not an eminent psychologist."
"'Eminent'?" she inquires, not sure if he's mocking her.
He grimaces. "God's sake, are you really going to quibble over my damned choice of adjectives now? What's wrong with you, woman? You're intelligent, attractive, successful – "
"Flattery will get you – "
His response is immediate and impatient. "Will you stop doing that? It's driving me bloody mad."
Grace glares at him, but she doesn't say a word. The music continues to play quietly in the background, but there's a sudden strained silence between them. It won't last. She hopes it won't last. They bicker a lot, always have, probably always will. Most of the time it means nothing at all.
Boyd speaks first, and to her astonishment his tone is remarkably gentle. "You expected me to run for the hills, didn't you? Last night? I saw the look on your face when you realised what you'd said. You were absolutely mortified." When she doesn't comment, he continues, "Christ, and you call me an idiot."
Grace can't help wincing, her own impetuous words from the preceding night still echoing in her mind, "…Because I'm in love with you, idiot! I've always been in love with you..."
Boyd puts his wine glass down on the hearth and rearranges the long planes of his body, rolling to lie beside her and then settling his head firmly in her lap. A surprise, but a welcome one. The dark eyes that look up at her catch the firelight for a moment, and there is a tangible gleam of weary amusement in their multi-hued depths. "Do you know what the Oxford Dictionary definition of psychology is, Grace?"
She gazes down at him. She knows the weary exasperation in her voice is cut with affection as she says, "Not off hand, but I have a nasty feeling you're going to tell me."
"'The scientific study of the human mind and its functions, especially those affecting behaviour in a given context'."
"Very good. Well done for learning that verbatim. Top of the class for you, Detective Superintendent. And your point is?"
He snorts. "I'm seriously considering asking the Home Office to reimburse my meagre budget. Given that the tame psychologist I pay them an exorbitant sum of money for every month is evidently as completely incapable of reading people as I am."
"You're so funny," Grace tells him with considerable sarcasm, but Boyd simply grins up at her in response. Something momentarily swells inside her, and with faint surprise she realises that it is simple, uncomplicated joy.
-oOo-
"Patience," Grace murmurs, her lips moving against the smooth expanse of his broad chest, and she feels rather than hears the low, exasperated growl that comes in response. Patience is a lesson she's always been determined to teach him, one way or another. His skin is warm and soft over the contrasting hardness of the muscle and bone beneath it. She takes her time, letting her palms glide over him and her lips trace slow, easy patterns against his chest and stomach. She feels the instinctive tensing under her ministrations and hides her smile. Again, she instructs, "Patience…"
The night outside may be cold, but inside the room is warm and the nearby fire is hot. Yet, a discernible shiver still runs through Boyd's body. Grace shifts position, pulls back a little to study him. His eyes are closed, and his head is back. The muscles in his neck are taut, but he continues to obey her instruction to remain immobile. She smiles and half sits up. The faded white scars on his flank that coldly shocked her the previous night have lost some of their terrifying power, and she traces first one, then the other with her fingertips. Those scars are the permanent, immutable legacy of another man's dark obsession, and the stark proof of just how dangerous Boyd's job can occasionally be. Reece Dickson and his eerie, blue-lit cellar… No. She doesn't want to think about it. Not now. Not ever.
She lets her fingers trail lower, and as they reach his belt buckle his eyes snap open, pupils dilated in the low light levels. His voice is intense and husky as he says, "Grace…"
"Relax," she whispers, the word a gentle, promising caress. He shivers again, very far from relaxed, but somehow, somehow, he manages to remain motionless.
"Christ," he mutters, and the rapid rise and fall of his bare chest leaves her in no doubt as to just how quick and shallow his breathing has become. "I want you…"
Grace likes the sharp prickle that goes up and down her spine in response to the hoarse, powerful words. Feeling decadent, imperious, she instructs, "Hold onto that thought."
Boyd growls again and shuts his eyes. For a moment she imagines she can see the throb of the pulse in his neck, but she knows it's just a fantasy. Still exploring, she feels the solid jolt that goes through him when she finally palms the increasing bulge tenting the front of his soft, faded jeans. She knows her smile has become a definite grin of triumph as she reprimands him with, "Self-control, Boyd…"
"Jesus…" he groans, and something about the rough edge that underscores his tone tells Grace that she is playing a very dangerous game. It's an exciting thought. She knows he has poor impulse control, knows how quickly the impetuous, precipitate side of his nature can overtake him. At work it manifests itself in quick-tempered outbursts, in flashes of intense anger he simply can't rein in fast enough to control. She can certainly speculate on how his fierce recklessness might manifest itself under such provocation… but despite how well she knows him she isn't certain she can yet accurately predict his behaviour in this sort of situation. He is impatient, hot-blooded, and unpredictable, everything that she is not, and she rightly suspects that's part of what has always drawn her to him.
She starts to kiss him again, starting at his throat and heading slowly and relentlessly lower. By the time she reaches his navel she's certain his self-control is at absolute breaking point, and she can't help smiling to herself as he flexes and groans and very obviously fights against his own primal instincts. Caught by her own rising desire Grace thinks –
The telephone – his mobile phone not his landline – starts to shrill, shattering the powerful, erotic moment completely.
Boyd's irritable reaction is predictable – and loud. "Oh, for fuck's sake…"
Concealing her own spiky annoyance, Grace allows herself to drop back against the cushions. "Saved by the bell, eh?"
"Jesus fucking Christ…" he grumbles, still at considerable volume. But he's on his feet and across the room far faster than she expects, snatching the offending device off the dining table and answering it with a short-tempered bark of, "What?"
The rear view is quite interesting, Grace decides. Sleek, despite his age. Good muscle definition in the wide, powerful shoulders. He turns before she can finish her appraisal, but the front view is just as appealing. He might be in his late fifties, but she's quite sure there are plenty of much younger men in far worse physical shape than Peter Boyd. A little too late she realises that the familiar brown eyes are fixed on her, and that the heavy brows above them are raised. She smiles, makes a conciliatory gesture which simply provokes a slight, rather sardonic shake of the head as he listens to whatever it is he's being told. To his caller, he finally snarls, "Christ… do I really have to spell it out for you, Spence? Tell Marlowe to fuck off – it's CID's remit and we're not wasting our bloody time and money doing their dirty work for them."
Grace winces, feeling rather sorry for the luckless DI Jordan despite the deeply unfortunate timing of his call.
"For God's sake," Boyd barks after a few further moments. "Just… get it sorted, man. And don't bother me again tonight unless you really want to spend the next couple of weeks doing unpaid overtime in the damned archive. Clear…?"
Impatient, hot-blooded, and unpredictable… and also spectacularly bad-tempered. Not that Grace altogether blames him for it on this particular occasion. She's more than slightly annoyed by the exasperating interruption herself, after all.
-oOo-
The fire has burnt down to glowing embers now, but there's still enough heat emanating from the grate to keep them nestling beside it, and if Boyd knows that the reason she's appropriated his long-discarded shirt has nothing to do with the need to keep warm, well, it seems he's far too much of a gentleman to mention it. Grace is glad. The mindless excitement of wild passion may very well be a good antidote to the unwelcome bite of self-consciousness, but against her will the creeping, uncomfortable edge of insecurity started to return as soon as the lazy aftermath started to take hold of them. He doesn't seem to be susceptible to it, but she most definitely is. Besides, she's old enough and wise enough to know that for most men there's something incredibly appealing about the sight of a tousled, recently-satisfied woman wearing just a lover's borrowed and rather too-large shirt.
Relaxed and happy, she watches him in placid, amused silence as he entertains himself by tracing light, intricate patterns on her bare thigh with just the very tips of his fingers. It's erotic in a gentle, sleepy sort of way, and she finds herself becoming more and more fascinated by just how absorbed he seems to be in his complex, invisible drawing. Complete focus, she thinks, as he creates complicated lines and swirls across her skin. The same intense focus she's used to seeing in him at work. The same concentrated, perfect attention to detail.
Maybe it's time. Time to attempt to say at least some of the things that need to be said.
There's no point in trying to be subtle, she decides. With Boyd, the direct approach is always the best approach. Mentally squaring her shoulders, she asks, "So… what happens now?"
He lifts his head for a moment to look at her. "In what way?"
It's a fair question, Grace supposes. She shrugs against the cushions. "You. Me. Us."
"Oh." He resumes his pattern-making, gaze fixed back on her thigh. "You tell me."
Not helpful. Then, this was never going to be an easy conversation to have. Not with him. Keeping her tone level, she says, "We can't freeze time, Boyd. Can't live in this moment forever."
"I know that."
"So?" she presses.
Boyd stops his drawing. Twists himself up into a seated position next to her, forearms resting on his bare raised knees as he looks straight at her. "Tell me something. Why on earth would a woman like you be interested in a guy like me?"
It's an unexpected response. The very last thing Grace would have predicted from him. "What?"
"You heard me." There's no belligerence in his tone. His expression is far more thoughtful than challenging as he continues, "I keep thinking about what you said last night… and I just don't get it."
"What is there to 'get'?" she asks, genuinely puzzled. Shaking her head, she says, "Attraction isn't a logical, predictable thing, Boyd. If it was, life would be much simpler… and a damn sight more boring."
"But you know me," he says, frowning. "And you know I'm absolutely not your type."
"Do I?" she inquires, more amused than infuriated. How, she wonders, can such an intelligent man be so incredibly obtuse? Suppressing the urge to roll her eyes, she adds, "Well, that's that sorted out, then. So, what is my type?"
Boyd shrugs, offers a lame, "Well, you know…"
"No. Enlighten me." She's damned if she's going to make it easy for him.
He scowls at her. "Don't be bloody difficult, Grace, you know what I'm saying."
"I really don't," she contradicts, "but I'm guessing it has something to do with some ridiculous preconceived notion you have about the sort of men you think would suit me."
The sullen scowl hasn't abated. "Your husband was a university professor."
"He was," she agrees, thinking briefly of the brilliant but socially-inept man in question, "which proves… what, exactly?"
Boyd's reply is oblique. "The best I can offer you is three 'A' levels – and one of those is a C in art."
It doesn't matter a jot to her, but curiosity drives her to say, "Really?"
He nods. "Really."
"Art?" She wonders why she finds it so surprising.
"Art," he confirms, a dawning hint of suspicion in his tone indicating that he suspects he's being mocked somehow.
Grace shakes her head. "I could say that I'm not interested in you for your mind."
"You could," he agrees, starting to bristle, "and if you did I wouldn't be at all surprised."
Irked by the implication, she snaps back, "That I could be so shallow, or…?"
"No, that – " Boyd breaks off. Glares at her. "Oh, this is bloody pointless. What do you want, Grace? What do you really want from me? Just tell me and save us both some time and trouble."
Instead of risking a direct answer, she stares at the embers in the grate for a few moments before looking back at him to say, "It wasn't a conscious decision, you know."
He looks bemused as he demands, "What wasn't?"
"Falling in love with you." She waits for a reply. When none is forthcoming, she continues, "I wasn't even terribly pleased about it, either, when I realised it what had happened. Of all the men on the damned planet, I had to fall for one who was completely oblivious to the way I felt about him."
The words seem to go a long way towards soothing him. Arms still locked round his knees, he says, "I should probably apologise for that, shouldn't I?"
Grace nods. "Yes, you should."
"And yet…" he drawls, "you somehow had no bloody idea how I felt about you."
He's never going to let her forget it, she's sure. In retaliation, she challenges, "Past tense, Boyd?"
He groans. "Oh, for… Why do you always have to be so bloody infuriating?"
"I could ask you exactly the same thing."
"Jesus…" Boyd takes a deep, audible breath, as if to compose himself. Exhaling, he says, "Look, Grace, the way I see it we only have two choices now. We try to do… this… or we don't. We give it a chance, see what happens, or we agree it's too big a risk to take, call it quits, and do our best to cope with the horrendous feeling of awkwardness at work on Monday morning."
Something she's thought about herself. "Not a very attractive proposition. The latter, I mean."
He gives her a rueful half-smile. "For once, I agree with you."
The mood in the room has become reflective, a long, long way from hostile. Watching him as he watches her, Grace dares to ask, "When did you realise?"
Boyd looks blank. "What?"
"When did you realise you felt something for me?" she elucidates, wanting – needing – to know the answer. "Something more than friendship?"
"Oh." Boyd shrugs again, doesn't seem to need to think about it. "During that business with Kevin Keogh. You were so… vulnerable. I'd never seen you that… exposed, and all I wanted to do was protect you."
Surprised, Grace blinks. "That long ago?"
"Yeah."
Casting her mind back, she can't quite conceal her outrage as she responds, "So all those stupid arguments we had after that…?"
He looks away, obviously unwilling to hold her gaze. "Mm."
It doesn't do anything to tamp down the growing flare of infuriation. "And then you went off with Sarah."
Boyd doesn't look at all surprised that she's raised the matter. A sullen stubbornness settles over his features, but he still doesn't look at her as he mutters, "You can't blame me for that."
"Can't I?" Grace demands.
He turns his head, meets her glare with one of his own. "You do remember what you said to me? That day you flounced off in a bloody huff and left us all to it?"
"'Flounced'?" she echoes, indignation making her heart pound. "I've never flounced in my life, Boyd. The day you were so insufferably rude that I simply couldn't cope with it anymore, you mean? The day – "
"Yes," he interrupts, "that day. The day you told me I was – "
"Repressed, depressed, and in denial," she supplies, remembering her harsh words all-too well. Words she shouldn't have thrown at him in anger, however much provocation he'd been offering.
Holding her gaze, he says, "I was going to say, 'isolated and unloved'."
"Oh." Grace looks back at the glowing embers in the fireplace for several moments, martialling her thoughts. The thought that she might have been at least in part responsible for driving him away – and straight into another woman's arms – is far from palatable. Not looking at him, she finally says, "That was… unkind… of me, I admit. You pushed me so, so far, though, Boyd…"
His response is a quiet, almost resigned, "I know."
She starts at the feel of his hand settling lightly on her thigh. Lifts her gaze to say, "We've hurt each other a lot over the years, haven't we? One way and another."
A half-nod is accompanied by, "Unintentionally, for the most part, I hope."
"Yes." She takes a deep, steadying breath. Heart and head tug in opposite directions as she says, "We could stop this right now, couldn't we? Even knowing how we feel."
"We could," Boyd agrees, voice still quiet.
"I mean, we're both adults," Grace continues. "We'd get over the initial embarrassment."
"We would."
"And we'd still be friends."
"Yes."
He's not giving anything away. A defence mechanism, she assumes. Not sure she's saying the right thing, she adds, "At the end of the day, friendship's the most important thing, isn't it? Without it, there's nothing. Nothing worth having, anyway."
Boyd grunts, then asks, "You could live with the memory of… this?"
"A weekend out of time?" she inquires, trying to imagine it. A single, reckless weekend, never to be repeated. The warmth of his bare skin against hers, the fierce look of love and lust in his eyes… She swallows hard. It's not easy to say, "Yes, I think so. If I knew that it was definitely for the best to not go any further."
"And is it?" he asks. "For the best?"
Honesty forces her to say, "I really don't know, Peter. Do you?"
"No." Boyd sighs, removes his hand from her leg and scratches at his beard. Displacement activity, she's sure. "I've never been one to make promises I can't guarantee to keep, Grace. Hasn't won me many friends, but it's the way I am. The way I've always been. I can't tell you that we're made for each other, that it would work, and that nothing could possibly ever come between us. Part of me really wishes that I could, but I can't."
Most men finding themselves in his position would lie, she knows. To get what they wanted, or merely to avoid further discussion or confrontation. Not Boyd. She admires his integrity, brutal as it is. Shaking her head, she says, "I'm far too old to believe in such simplistic nonsense, anyway."
"So…? Where does that leave us?"
"I have no idea," Grace admits. "Still stuck at a crossroads, trying to decide which road to take?"
"Let's sleep on it," he says, the words as abrupt and unexpected as the way he shifts position to lever himself upright. Looking down at her, he extends a hand to help her to her feet. "It's the middle of the damned night, Grace, and I don't know about you, but I'm shattered."
She opens her mouth to protest, to tell him that there's more, much more, to be said, but something about the quiet, weary way he's watching her makes her close it again. Perhaps he's right, she thinks. Perhaps no decision they make tonight will be the right one. Reaching out to take his hand, she asks, "And in the morning?"
"Let's cross that bridge when we come to it, eh? Are you coming to bed, or not?"
-oOo-
"Now this," Boyd announces with a flourish as he leads her into his bedroom, "is what I call a bed."
King size, or perhaps even bigger, the object in question dominates the large, high-ceilinged room. Big modern wooden frame, thick, plush mattress. Lots of plump pillows. Decadent. Looks incredibly comfortable. Suppressing the urge to laugh, Grace nods. "All right, I take your point. Plenty of room for the wife and the mistress."
"Scandalous," he says, marching to the window and swishing the heavy curtains closed. "You can check all the posts if you want, but you won't find any notches carved there."
"I believe you," she tells him, "but only because I know you'd never approve of such wanton vandalism."
Surveying her across the span of the room, Boyd reiterates his stubborn mantra from the beginning of the day. "You really need to buy a bigger bed, Grace."
Only, she thinks, if there's someone in her life to share it with. "We'll see."
"That's what long-suffering parents say to over-persistent whining children."
Smirking, she says, "Well, if the cap fits, Boyd…"
"You're not my mother," he points out.
"No, I'm not," Grace says, thinking of the elderly, steely-eyed matriarch she met for the very first time just a few months ago. Sharp, spry, and singularly unafraid to speak her mind. Not a woman to cross, Grace had decided at the time, but quite possibly a very good ally to have, despite her advanced years. "How is the formidable Evelyn, by the way?"
Still entirely naked from their sojourn downstairs, Boyd puts his hands on his hips and gazes at her. "Do you really think this is an appropriate moment to ask?"
"Perhaps not," she concedes. Allowing her gaze to roam over the rest of the room, she focuses on a framed, medium-sized pencil sketch hanging near the door. A small boy standing by a river, fishing rod in hand. The child's attention is all on the water, his expression rather more wistful than eager. She's seen a photograph of a younger version of that boy every single working day for as long as she can remember, she realises. Boyd's late son. Knowing she's right, she inquires, "Luke?"
"Mm," Boyd agrees, moving to her side. They stare at the picture together. "We were on holiday in the Brecon Beacons. Mary was supposed to be visiting her sister that day, so I took him fishing. One of those wholesome, traditional father-and-son activities that everyone tells you will be a great bonding experience."
She knows him well enough to know that there's more. "But…?"
"It was okay at first. I was sitting around on the bank sketching, and he was splashing about enjoying himself and frightening away every damned fish in the Usk. Then Mary turned up and… Well, let's just say that the day just deteriorated from there."
Perching herself on the edge of the bed, Grace continues to study the framed sketch, noting the juxtaposition between the detailed study of the boy and the quick, impatient pencil strokes that form a much broader, rougher picture of his surroundings. Breaking the sudden, loaded silence, she offers a quiet, "It will get better, you know."
Boyd doesn't need to ask. Of course he doesn't. It's been barely three months since Luke's funeral, after all. "So everyone keeps telling me."
She can't begin to imagine how he feels. How much crippling pain he must be hiding from the world. To lose a child in such tragic circumstances… "I know you blame yourself, Boyd, but – "
"Don't," he interrupts, quick and sharp. Mitigates the harshness of his response by settling next to her on the edge of the bed. "We all have our own wounds, Grace. All that really matters is how we choose to live with them. You told me that, a long, long time ago."
"I did," she says, remembering the painful memories that had haunted her daily in the days – weeks – after Charles Hoyle was shot dead. Kevin Keogh… Harry Taylor… Bright lights and the ghostly child that never was… Forcing herself back into the present, she adds, "I really needed someone, and there you were. I've never thanked you for that, have I?"
"No need," Boyd tells her, taking hold of one of her hands. He squeezes gently. "You and me, Grace. You and me. You know, I don't think it matters if we sleep together, or if we don't. We're still always going to be us, whatever."
Strangely, the uncharacteristic and gruffly-delivered words make perfect sense. She nods. "We are."
Apparently satisfied, Boyd yawns, making a production of it. "And talking of sleeping together…"
"Ah." She gives him a deliberate sideways look. "Do you mean sleeping together, or sleeping together?"
He snorts. "Christ, woman, I'm not bloody Superman. Give a guy a chance."
She can't hide her wicked grin. "I never imagined that you'd struggle to keep up, Boyd."
He growls at her, a deep, throaty, and not altogether unpleasant noise. "Wait until the morning, and I'll show you exactly what struggling to keep up feels like."
Fending him off, Grace laughs. "Promises, promises…"
-oOo-
It cannot be real, but it is. It must be a dream, but it isn't.
She watches him from the bed as he stands by the window, idly stretching his back and shoulders as he gazes out at the bright autumn morning in reflective silence. Watches him and wonders about the ramifications of the decision they've made. Wonders if they can possibly withstand the inevitable crushing weight of all the things that will try to drive them apart.
Not looking round at her, Boyd orders, "Stop thinking about it."
Grace doesn't bother to ask him how he knows. Instead, she says, "It looks like it's a nice day. Maybe we should go to the coast, or something? Dig out that old wreck of a car of yours, pop the roof off and pretend it's still the 'sixties?"
"Or," he says, back still to her, "I could abandon all my principles and accompany you to one of those big, godforsaken retail parks."
Not at all the sort of thing she had in mind for their very first romantic Sunday together. She frowns. "What? Why?"
"Because I'm serious about the bloody bed, Grace," he says, turning to face her. "I absolutely refuse to share a single with you."
It's a declaration of commitment, she realises. In its own singular way. Straight-faced, she says, "Most men would just buy expensive jewellery for their new partner, Boyd."
His expression remains inscrutable. "Who says I'm paying for it?"
"You're the one who wants it," she points out, sitting up and throwing back the covers.
He smirks. "You're the one who wants me in it, Grace."
She's not beaten yet. Not by a long way. "You earn more than I do."
Boyd narrows his eyes, studies her for a long moment before shaking his head. "Oh, fine. I'll buy the damned bed. You can pay for lunch."
It cannot be real, Grace thinks, but, against all the odds, it is.
- the end -