A/N Pure and simple fluff.
Owing Joodiff a fic - long overdue - this is my best shot. Words haven't been flowing for me for a long time.
Thank you to Joodiff for the beta and for pushing, nudging and constantly keeping me working.
Morning Visions.
Sleeping in isn't something Boyd does. Waking up slowly isn't, either. Normally, he goes straight from blissful and total oblivion to full awareness; one minute, he's dead to the world, the next his mind is fully engaged processing the coming day, the so-far-known issues, the meetings he has to attend and every possible problem, hurdle or obstacle he can think of that might get in his way during the next sixteen or eighteen hours. His day simply doesn't have enough hours to waste on unnecessary laziness.
Wake up early, immediately get out of bed to do his daily work-out, take a quick shower before dressing, and then drink his morning coffee in the car as he drives to the office before seven. That's how his daily routine has been for years. Not today, though. Today is different...
At the moment he seems to be flowing on a gentle wave of semi-consciousness. He's not asleep but he's certainly not quite awake. He's comfortable... feeling good. Very good.
The bed is not his own. It's good in a different way from his own but it feels comfy and nice. Soft but not too soft. The foam beneath him is supportive, the quilt covering him is deliciously light and warm and everything around him – the mattress, the bedclothes, even the air in the room - engulfs him with an intoxicating smell. Her smell. Her bed.
He's been dreaming about her for years – eternities, it seems. From the first time he set his eyes on her, he wanted her, but it never seemed possible. She was out of reach. Untouchable – at least for him.
And now. Now he's afraid it's only a dream. It's too good to be true... a delicious fantasy but still a dream. Yet, it was way too good for that, and Boyd remembers the previous night and its events vividly. Can almost feel her flesh and curves beneath his palms... his skin touching her skin, and it's a fucking good feeling. Unconsciously he rubs a hand over his face, following his jaw to the back of his neck to ease the tension that the uncertainty starts to build up in his shoulders.
What happened between them was too great to be fiction. Just the thought makes his heart beat powerfully in his chest, and a warm, tingling sensation spreads throughout his entire body, making him relax and the tight muscles loosen again.
Eyes still closed, not ready to break the blissful moment, he rolls towards the middle of the bed certain she'll be sleeping there. He feels a smile tucking in the corner of his mouth as he reaches for her... wanting to pull her tight but there isn't anything. Nothing but emptiness meets his hand.
The shock startles him, makes him open his eyes. He could have sworn she was there but the space beside him is empty. He's alone in the bed. Crumpled sheets, though, and the quilt casually pushed aside - somebody was definitely asleep there not long ago.
Propping himself up on an elbow, automatically running a hand through his hair, he scratches his scalp speculatively with his nails as he throws an investigative glance around the room. Last night he was too preoccupied to notice anything about his surroundings – his mind oblivious to everything but her. Now it cries out loud for a closer inspection.
Swinging his legs out of the bed, planting his feet on the floor, Boyd sits straight up. Seated on the edge of the bed, hands on his knees, he casts a sharp examining gaze around him, starting a thorough exploration of the bedroom.
The sight pleases him. The room is cosy. Not big but nice in a very female way and it doesn't leave any doubt in his mind about who it belongs to. This is her bedroom. Everything oozes of her.
He can't sit still. Can't just relax. Can't just wait for her. It's not his style. He simply needs to have a close look at everything, touch and examine it all thoroughly. After all, he's a detective with a very healthy amount of curiosity. This is a perfect opportunity to discover all he possibly can of the more private side of Grace Foley, his colleague and best friend, particularly now that she will probably - hopefully - be sharing a bigger part of his life.
A single step from the bed brings him to the old-fashioned dressing table with a three-piece mirror attached. Trailing a finger along the surface, he feels the texture of the wood. It's old, oak like the rest of the furniture in the room – the wardrobe against the wall beside the partly closed door and the double-bed he just left – both a fine match in looks and style. Good quality too – definitely not some cheap crap from Ikea. Without his glasses, he gives up reading the labels on the bottles and jars on the dressing table but it doesn't prevent him from unscrewing the lid of one to have a sniff of the perfume. Mmmm... Her smell. Her perfume.
An old poster, very bold in clear psychedelic colours with the words 'Peace and Freedom' and 'Love's a Real Thing' is hanging. Dating back to 1967, it's probably some anti-Vietnam War thing, he guesses. It certainly would be characteristic.
Over the bed hangs an expensive-looking painting, too modern for his taste, and beside the door, is a hideous, ethnic mask made of wood. Hesitating, staring at the mask, letting his fingers follow its odd shape... he realises he knows it from... somewhere... For a moment he closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose, trying to recall the details. He's sure he's it in his hand before – but where? And when? Suddenly he recalls, not that the mask used to hang on the wall in her office, but the moment when he – while unpacking one of her boxes – dumped it in the rubbish bin.
Oops... A burning, unpleasant sensation spreads from the pit of his stomach. Not guilt really. Nah... probably more like an embarrassment about his misdeed being found out. Obviously, she knows what he did, but why did she never bother to tell him? Exhaling hard, he lets the mask go. Not his best move, trying to dispose of it. Not at all, but he really doesn't understand why she keeps all the crap she has stuffed away in her office... What's the purpose? he wonders, shaking his head as he turns and steps towards the big bookshelf instead.
There are many books, but not as many as she has downstairs in her study. Some are standing upright, some piled up. Stepping closer, tilting his head now and then, Boyd tries hard to read a title or an author's name. Sometimes it's necessary to pull out a book to see the information inside when the print on the back of it is indecipherable.
Unlike her books at the office, these are mostly novels. Lots of them old and worn, obviously read many, many times but there's also a few new titles, modern novels and poems. The number of crime-mystery book and thrillers puzzles him. Isn't there enough murder and horror in her daily work? Well, whatever helps her relax... at least her taste of literature is very wide.
It's not all books, though. Lots of knick-knacks fill the empty spaces between them. Sweet and silly things mixed up together but no doubt all of them utterly personal mementoes, things that really matter to her even he doesn't understand why... It's so Grace-like... just like her bookshelf at the office.
A stone figure - a Buddha - is acting as a bookend with a green plant on the other side. A glass bowl almost filled with different beads of various colours and quality, seemingly made of glass or wood, is used for the same purpose on another shelf. The little piece of carved wood, looking suspiciously like a chillum, beside the bowl, he wisely chooses to ignore.
A pile of old 45 rpm vinyl singles are stacked in the upper corner of the shelves to the left. Carefully he handles a few of them, curious to see what her music taste is - or rather was... when did they stop producing singles? Scrolling through the collection he notices names like The Beatles, The Kinks, the Moody Blues and The Small Faces, and a few others he doesn't recall ever hearing about.
One of the shelves is filled with old photos in solid frames. Immediately, his eye is caught by a picture of a happy-looking young dark-haired girl, sitting on a moped. Short skirt, long boots and a scarf around her hair. The dark hair colour puzzles him at first but the bright laughing eyes and the distinctive nose is certainly a giveaway, he chuckles to himself. Not a profile to easy to forget.
A snapshot, very amateurish, crooked, not quite in focus either. Even so, he immediately recognizes Grace in the bunch of hippies lying on the grass. Smoking and drinking... she's reaching for a roll-up from one of the others. Probably not tobacco - they all look more or less stoned. The damn woman still has too liberal a view regarding recreational drugs, he sighs, and she's certainly never kept it a secret that she'd occasionally smoked weed or worse on in her youth.
The thought annoys him. As a police officer, it's impossible for him to agree or even to understand her view.
The empty bed makes him feel lonely. It's a disappointment he didn't have the change to watch her wake up. See her open her eyes, all tousled. See her reaction finding him there beside her... Did she regret what happened between them? Is that why she left the bed before he woke up? Nah, that's not her, he's sure. Grace always stands by her actions. Doesn't do anything lightly. A one-night stand is not her style, he's certain. Well, as sure as he can be recalling Murphy Stuart did not sleep on the fucking sofa on that fateful night years ago! But of course, that relationship lasted more than a night - two weeks or so.
It still pisses him off, though. A lot... Thinking about it, she was young during the wild 'sixties with all that flower-power-make-love-not-war-time but she's old now – older – and much, much wiser. Never the less, his guts burn with hot and fierce anger every single time he remembers that day. The day when she told them. The challenging gaze she sent him as an answer to his question about whether Murray slept on the couch...
But what the fuck is she doing? Where is she? Normally, she isn't a morning person he's sure, more likely a night owl... She can't just leave the house... her house...
Tilting his head slightly, Boyd listens for any noises to tell him where she is and what she's up to. But the house remains silent. No sound of water running in the pipes indicating she's having a shower or anything... the only thing he can hear is the annoying cooing of a dove outside the window. The sound drives him mad, and he decides to go looking for her. Anything but staying here alone with nothing to do. Patiently waiting is really not his cup of tea.
Strolling towards the door, a glimpse in the mirror on the dressing table makes him falter. Not as toned and athletic as he used to be, he notices; heavier, too. Getting older is a bitch. The years are visible. Thoughtfully he rubs a hand over his chest. Ageing, yes, but even so, he still looks rather fit. Heavier, but not too out of shape, and there still are quite a few well-defined muscles here and there, particularly in his arms, shoulders, and legs. Still acceptably handsome, he decides… but she might not appreciate him wandering around in commando in her house. Maybe not a bad idea later, he thinks wickedly. Much later. Now, he better start searching for his trunks before leaving the room.
Suitably dressed – part-dressed - he walks out of the bedroom. Hesitating on the landing, he calculates his options. There are three doors apart from the one behind him, and of course, there are the stairs down to the ground floor. Knowing from previous visits to her house that the door to his right leads to the bathroom, he turns his attention to the two doors at the rear of the landing. Neither of them is closed completely. The shine of a thin sunbeam falls on the floor from one of the doors and some kind of almost inaudible voices sounds from the open door – a weird reverberation almost like singing but without any rhythm; very monotone. Approaching carefully, Boyd gently pushes the door further open to provide him with a better view.
Bright sunshine falls through the window into the sparsely furnished room. On the floor, in the middle of a patch of sunlight is Grace, neatly curled up on a thin grey mat - or rather folded together. Kneeling, her upper body rests on her thighs, her forehead is on the floor and both arms are lying along her calves.
Certainly not a position he's used to seeing her in - what the fuck is the woman doing? Unwell? Just as he's about to ask, she starts to move. Might be best not disturb her right now - whatever she's doing. It could be very interesting...
Making himself comfortable, he leans against the door frame, crosses his arms over his broad chest and watches in silence.
Slowly, her arms slide along her body until they're stretched in front of her. Planting her hands solidly on the floor, she pushes up, shifting her body slightly forward, getting onto her toes. Then her knees are lifted from the floor until her body creates an arc between her hands and feet.
Fascinated, his gaze follows her movements. Wavelike, elegant, targeted movements that clearly show she knows exactly what she is doing and what she's capable of. Soon she's balancing on her right foot and hand. Lifting up the opposite arm and leg, she suddenly moves the leg backwards, reaches out and grips the raised ankle with the left hand. It's quiet and beautiful. Graceful, yet powerful. She's so calm and in control of every little detail of her movements. No haste. No haste at all. No insecurity - either in balance or flexibility. Only a faint quiver shows just how much her muscles are working.
He likes what he sees. Really enjoys the view. Her still body is like a magnet to his eyes. He can't stop staring, can't turn away. Not that he wants to anyway...
She is beautiful as she stands there. Dressed in tight-fitting black pants, glued to her body and a likewise close-fitting tank top, he has a perfect view of her body. Only the back of course, as she's facing the window, but that's all right for now. Covered as she always is at work, dressed in long-sleeved, loose-fitting long tops and trousers, never exposing her form or figure, this is a new sight to him.
Always appreciative of the sight of a good-looking woman, Grace isn't exactly his type but even so, she's certainly got some huge advantages. She's slim, he knew that, but now he's getting the most perfect view of all her curves. And she's certainly got plenty of them, he thinks with satisfaction, noticing the small waist and the broader hips in front of him.
Not muscular, her arms and legs are tight, though. Nice legs; not long but very slender without reminding him of chicken legs... his eyes move further up... Mmm. Her arse - not to mention her arse, he muses and has to swallow. In addition, the rays from the sun play in her hair, making it look like there is a halo around her head. What a sight. He likes it... he bloody likes it. A lot. The whole picture reminds him of an artistic statue of a dancer or some kind of supernatural fairy creature... an elf or a nymph maybe... fucking hell, he wants to touch her...
The thought makes him recall the previous night. Nothing ethereal or fanciful about that, he can truthfully say. Only honest sympathy, love and lust... Very carnal... Very satisfying. In a flash, he remembers how she raised her lower body up in a bow from the sheet to meet his. Inviting. Tempting... and very seductive... So hot. Now he sees why she's so supple.
A glimpse of motion interrupts his dream-like state as she slowly let go of the ankle, and without haste returns to the previous stand as before on hands and feet - arse straight up in the air - before sinking down on her knees, curled totally up again.
After a short break on the floor, her hands slide back on her toes, her knees fall to her sides and suddenly - it all happens in a wave of motion, silent and calm - she's seated, cross-legged, with her hands resting on her thighs. Her head is held high, her back is straight. His eyes travel down her upper body along her spine. The dark tank top is glued to her skin, some even darker spots indicating that she's perspiring even though everything seems to be so easy for her. Her breathing is even, deep and steady with long pausing between the in- and exhaling. He's able to see her ribcage expanding and falling. Sometimes, during the pauses, he's afraid she's stopped breathing and almost starts panicking. His own respiration stops, the blood pulses in his ears and temples, his palms get sweaty.
Not sure what to do, he's about to turn around when her arms move on the floor again, forming a triangle around her head. Hesitating, he holds his breath, watching her once again slowly get on her feet, still keeping her head and arms in the floor, though. Shit! Deep fucking shit!
Her feet leave the ground as she lifts her legs up towards the ceiling. The damn woman is doing a headstand. Directly facing him. Thank bloody hell, she keeps her eyes shut.
He'd really like to go on watching her. Wants to watch but doesn't want to disturb her - frighten her even, if she opens her eyes and suddenly discovers him there.
Maybe, just maybe, he should leave her to herself and her exercises – actually, he feels a bit like an intruder - a voyeur even. Maybe he should quietly leave her to it and go down and make her a nice breakfast. She'd probably appreciate that.
Realising he's still holding his breath, Boyd silently releases the air in his lungs. Finding it difficult to let go of the inspiring sight in front of him, he resolutely closes his eyes as he turns away and quietly heads towards the staircase and the kitchen.
In the kitchen, he starts rummaging through the cupboards and the fridge. Soon he finds himself juggling with pans and plates, preparing the breakfast. It's been years since he made or cooked a meal for anybody else and it pleases him, he hasn't completely lost his touch. Always rather enjoyed cooking but creating food is no fun on your own. One day soon, he muses, he'll make her a delicious dinner - for now, though, he settles for a simple breakfast which is probably exactly what she likes.
The work makes him relax. He even catches himself whistling a tune while whipping eggs and milk as he prepares the scrambled eggs. That's certainly new. Not a thing he's done for years. Soon the toast and eggs are done, the coffee ready and the tea is mashing. Nothing more for him to do except wait for her to show up.
Pouring himself a mug of coffee, Boyd sits down at the little table, making himself comfortable in front of the window looking towards the garden. Heaven only knows how long her yoga or whatever she's doing up there is going to last.
Gazing out at the view, he can't help noticing the lawn is in heavy need of mowing and the weeds are growing everywhere. One day, if she asks him nicely, he'll do her gardening for her but for now, he simply leans back in the chair, relaxing, enjoying the coffee. It's good. Hot and strong. Can't recall last time he actually gave himself time to enjoy a good coffee or time to just sit down and relax, doing absolutely nothing.
Thinking about it, he could imagine having a relationship with her. A proper one. Fuck knows his experience with close relationships isn't good, but he honestly believes he learned a lot from his previous marriage. Too young, too busy, and both wanting and expecting too much from the other without being ready to compromise about anything or even being willing to talk about it. Not a thing he's thought about for many years but with her, it actually might turn out to be an interesting experience. Worth a try - if she's up for it too... he's not sure about that, though.
It could turn into a very exciting journey. The two of them together. She's never been secretive about her private life or her past, but on the other hand, she's never shared many details either. Only an odd remark now and then, when they stumbled into something in their investigations that connected with her past. But today he's discovered so much about her he didn't know. Every picture and all the small items in her bedroom told him new bits of her past - about herself. The striking, wonderful sight of her as she did her exercises too. New sides he didn't know existed but wants to explore deeper.
The faint sound of her footfall reaches his ear. Subconsciously, as he turns his head towards the door to greet her, he raises the mug to his mouth, draining it to the last drop only to discover the coffee's gone distastefully lukewarm and pulls a face in disgust.
Attempting to wipe away the horrible taste, he runs the back of his hand over his lips before finally lifting his head as Grace steps into the kitchen, remarking. "Oh, finally. There you are."
"Well, good morning, Boyd. That's not a happy face."
He jumps to his feet to greet her, hurriedly placing the mug on the table and raises his hands, palms towards her, immediately excusing himself. "It wasn't supposed to be like that." Exhaling hard, he goes on, "Sorry, Grace, you caught me on the wrong foot." Not sure what more to say, he vaguely waves towards the teapot and the coffee maker on the kitchen table, asking as he pulls out a chair for her, "What do you want... tea... coffee, toast, eggs?"
"Aww, you made me breakfast, Boyd. How sweet of you." Slightly tilting her head and flashing him a shy smile as she sits down. Bowing her head again, Grace reaches for a slice of toast, avoiding his eyes. "Tea, please, white."
Silently, he pours the tea into a mug not quite knowing what to say. As he hands it to her, he raises an eyebrow and remarks, "Yoga, eh?"
"Yoga, yes." She reaches for the offered mug, folding her hands around it. Sipping the steaming tea, resting her elbows on the table, she closes her eyes, clearly savouring the warm feeling. "Aww, nothing like a nice cuppa." Opening her eyes again, gazing at him over the edge of the mug. "Why didn't you join in?"
"Join in?" Almost choking on the coffee, he spits. "Me? You'd like that, wouldn't you?" He snorts. "Me, arms and legs tied helplessly together in an impossible knot while you're having the laugh of your life on my account? Not happening, Grace. Not happening!" Folding his arms across his chest, he defensively sits back on the chair.
"But you did some Tai Chi as part of your Anger Management Course, remember?" she points out. "If not yoga - you could have done that beside me."
"True," he says sheepishly, scratching his neck. "I actually forgot that... " He so needs to distract her now, seeking for the right words before he goes on. "Quite a show you made there, Grace." Looking directly at her, nodding, emphasising his words. "Impressive. Very impressive."
"Ah, thank you. You liked it."
"I definitely liked the part where the most obvious part of the eminent Doctor Grace Foley PhD was her arse," he smirks. "Bloody good sight," he states with some passion. "Not an everyday sight but certainly much appreciated. You should do that more..." Damn it. Probably not the right thing to say but it definitely was a glorious sight, an image he will treasure in his mind for the time to come, he quietly chuckles.
"Boyd." Her tone is sharp but the gentle smile that's playing on her lips and the faint blush that seems to spread on her cheeks, tells him that she might be just a little flattered.
Not knowing what more to say, he simply shuts up, studying her instead. It suits her. The colour in her cheeks. Without any kind of make-up, she's a bit pale, her hair tousled, and still dressed in the tight black outfit, she looks gorgeous even though it really isn't her colour.
"Sorry, Grace. I really wasn't prepared for the sight of you up there. Tell me," he refills his mug with coffee, "this yoga-practice-thing... is that why you never show up at the office before after nine or even later?"
"Well, I wasn't prepared for the sight of you sitting in my kitchen half-naked," she immediately replies with a shy laugh.
Closing his eyes for a moment Boyd takes a few deep breaths to calm himself and to find the courage to finally speak, realising this is it. It's now or never. Catching her eye, he holds her gaze. "Sorry, Grace, forget that. We have to talk," raising a hand in front of him, his fingers waving between them, "talk about us. You and me. About what we want. What we really want."
Glancing back with calm but probing blue eyes, Grace hesitates before finally asking, "What do you want, Boyd?"
"I want us to give it a try."
She reaches for the offered hand, squeezing it lightly. "Go on."
"I've dreamed about you for a very long time. Last night, and the most interesting and entertaining morning alone in your bedroom - not to mention watching your performance upstairs - made me even more eager. I'm determined to stay if you'll let me." Jumping to his feet, he steps closer to her. Gently tucking her up against him, he sneaks his arm around her waist, holding her tight.
Leaning into his embrace, Grace rests her forehead on his chest for a moment before looking up, whispering. "I wasn't sure you'd still be in my bed this morning."
Dipping his head down, Boyd gently nudges her head back with his chin, staring down at her, sincerely answering. "Don't doubt me, Grace. I can't promise anything, but I will do my best. I really, really want this to happen." Finally, closing the gap between them he steals her lips with a kiss.
When the kiss ends, he lets his hands slide up along her back, cups her head, strokes her softly on her cheek, and mumbles, "Let's go back upstairs, Grace."
Tilting her head, eyes sparkling teasingly, she demands. "To do what exactly, Boyd? What's so interesting about my bedroom, eh?" Taking a short step back away from him, she gazes expectantly at him.
"A bloody chillum, Grace. A bloody chillum. Do you grow weed out there in your garden?" he mocks and catches her, pulling her tight again, laughing.
"Ah, I'm relieved. It's old. Hasn't been used for a long time." She grins coquettishly. "I was afraid you'd found my copy of the Karma Sutra."
"Christ, woman, not sure I can bloody cope with that yet." Dipping down, Boyd lifts her up in his arms, adding smugly as he heads for the stairs, "but at least I'm strong enough to play the caveman."