It's a few days late, but to celebrate my two year anniversary of writing for this amazing fandom and pairing, here's my 30th Waking the Dead story. Many, many thanks to all those who continue to read, and especially to all who leave those precious reviews. Hugs to Joodiff for the beta and the support. :) xx
"Are you going to move up, or not?" asks a politely strained, irritable voice behind her, causing a preoccupied Grace to blink and look around, realising that there is now a sizable gap between her and the people ahead of her in the supermarket queue.
"Sorry," she murmurs, picking up her basket and taking several steps forward. The queue is long, though, and tedious, and within seconds her mind has wandered back to where it was just moments ago. Hazel eyes filled with thin lines and tiny hints of other colours, intense and darkened with the blaze of passion… muscular arms holding her close, wrapping tightly, possessively around her body… dextrous fingers exploring, teasing, arousing… faint, early morning sunshine peeking around the curtains, filling the room with the first hints of a cheerfully bright late autumn day… smooth, warm skin under her gliding, questing palms, accompanied by the sighs and moans of lovers lost in an impassioned tangle of exploration and mutual desire…
With her eyes closed she can feel the pressure of his lips against her own, can almost taste him, smell the musky scent of his skin as it presses up against her own, his hips rocking gently against hers as pleasure floods her senses, takes over her mind. She can hear the way his breath hisses out from between his lips, her name a strangled whisper that disappears into the air around them as they slide together, lost in the intensity of the hot, slick fusion created by their bodies.
The queue inches forward again, and the tall, tired man in possession of a leather briefcase and only four pints of milk and a packet of Penguins tuts in despair as Grace remains where she is, staring off into the middle distance, completely unaware of her surroundings. In fact, she is so lost in thought that the imperious beep of her mobile as it lets her know there is an incoming message actually startles her. There is a soft, vindicated snigger from behind.
Ignoring the sniggerer, Grace inches forward, pulling her phone out of her pocket and awkwardly one-handedly operating the buttons surrounding the tiny screen. The message opens, makes her simultaneously sigh and smile wryly.
Don't forget the biscuits! With chocolate! None of that healthy nonsense you brought last time.
Dropping her phone back into her pocket she looks down into the basket and sighs; there are no biscuits – chocolate or otherwise – amongst her shopping. She's going to have to leave the queue and find some.
…
She makes her way up the familiar front path, neatly bordered by rows of cheery, colourful plants that inexplicably conform to order and refuse to let even a single weed sprout between their lush green leaves, and turns the door handle without bothering to knock, sighing inwardly as it yields and the heavy oak panel drifts open.
Unlocked. Again.
"Hello? It's me…"
"In the kitchen," is the disembodied reply that drifts down the hall towards her. "I'm just putting the kettle on."
Struggling a little with her handbag, the shopping bags, and the heavy door, Grace edges inside and uses her toes to shut out the rest of the world, managing to flick the key around with just one finger as the rest of her digits slowly lose feeling under the pressure of holding on to their heavy cargo.
Heading for the back of the house, she's about to speak again but is beaten to it. "You're late."
Turning the corner into the small, tidy room where so many of her memories of this house are centred, she sighs. "I know – I'm sorry, it was –"
"– work!" The other woman interrupts before she can finish. Turning from the sink, she raises an eyebrow and pins Grace with a clear-eyed, no-nonsense stare. "With you, it's always work. You know what they say, Grace, 'all work and no play'…"
"I enjoy it," Grace retorts, dumping her bags on the old, scarred table where once upon a time she sat every night after school, completing her homework.
"Hmm, if you say so… Though I still think it's unnatural to going poking around dead people's business."
Grace doesn't answer – this argument is old and has been chewed over many, many times now. Instead she begins to unpack, sorting items by storage destination.
"You left the front door unlocked again…"
"Let 'em rest in peace, instead of stirring up old ghosts."
"… anyone could walk in here, and then what?"
"Why not go back to clinical work? Help the living instead – you were so good at that. And it was so much easier to explain to people at coffee mornings."
"Are you trying to get yourself killed?"
"No one wants to hear about people being stabbed and then dug up years later with tree roots sprouting out of their eyeballs and other orifices..."
"Don't you think I have enough to worry about, without wondering if I'm going to turn up here one day to find you dead on the floor and all your valuables gone?"
"… although being a therapist to serial killers and such like isn't exactly normal, I'll grant you, but at least it was working with the living. Therapy, people understand; this investigating, on the other hand…"
"You're not listening to me, are you?" Grace turns, hands on her hips as she scowls in exasperation. The old woman rolls her eyes in a very familiar manner, and tilts her head in the direction of the tea towel, an eyebrow raised, the threat implied.
"Give me some credit, girl," she replies, tone very long-suffering. "I saw you coming and unlocked the door on my way to the kitchen, same as I do every week. I have to wind you up somehow."
Grace stares, lips pursed, her own eyebrows lifting in a mirrored response. "Terrific," she mutters. "Thank you so much!"
The kettle whistles, but her companion pointedly doesn't move a muscle, instead only grins briefly, before sniffing. "Some greeting this is," she snipes.
Grace sighs, wonders how this always manages to happen as she places a dutiful kiss on the older woman's cheek. "Hello, mother."
…
"Did you get the biscuits?"
Grace raises her eyes towards the heavens, glad her face is hidden as she reaches into the bag beside her and waves the offending item in the air above her shoulder. "Would I dare not?"
"Good. Those others you bought were dreadful – they fell apart at the merest suggestion of being dunked, let alone actually submerged in a cup tea."
"How very dare they!"
"Indeed. I was scraping mush off the bottom of my mug – disgusting! Have you eaten?"
Midway through stacking tins in the pantry, Grace shakes her head and is about to answer when Iris speaks again.
"No, don't bother – I know you haven't."
The last of the shopping put away, Grace closes the door and turns around. "I didn't have –"
"– time," her mother finishes. "Yes, yes, I know. It's always the same answer. You spend all day down in that dungeon with the handsome-but-impatient one who doesn't know the meaning of the phrase 'indoor voice', and his surly sidekick who can't string more than half a dozen words together at a time. The whole lot of you need a healthy dose of sunshine and fresh air, if you ask me."
"He doesn't always shout," protests Grace, her mind helpfully providing her with the memory of Boyd murmuring a host of wicked promises for later into her ear just before she left the office, as one of his hands tugged at the hem of her blouse, allowing the other to encounter the bare skin beneath it and begin to roam.
Iris snorts disbelievingly. "Humph. If you say so. How's the disobedient one?"
"She's fine – she told one of the DIs upstairs to piss off yesterday."
"Why?"
"I have no idea – I wasn't listening. I just stood clear as Boyd bellowed down the telephone at Watkins that he shouldn't be giving orders to officers that aren't under his command."
Iris smirks. "Doesn't always shout…"
Grace closes her eyes, wonders if she was really that difficult as a child.
"Set the table for two," her mother orders. "I waited to eat because I knew you wouldn't have."
"I can feed myself," protests Grace.
"Says she who's still too skinny a whole three months after being cleared by the doctors."
"I'm healthy, I don't need looking after."
Moving to stand at the stove, the older woman pokes vegetables with a knife, testing them. "That'll be the day," she retorts.
"I don't want any sprouts," Grace automatically tells her. "They're disgusting."
"Three sprouts won't kill you; the vitamins might even do you some good. How's the charming rat girl? I haven't seen her in a while now."
"Eve's fine. She likes the bodies from our newest case – something to do with unusual mould. And she's found a lady friend for Hannibal." Their colleague's pet's name passing her lips reminds Grace of the day the rodent escaped, and the truly disgusted expression on Boyd's face when they found him. A similar look passed across his features this morning when Eve announced over coffee and a team meeting that she'd found an appropriate playmate for her friend. In fact, as he turned to look at her, his eyes were –
"Have you suddenly become left-handed?" Her mother's voice, brisk and demanding, breaks through her thoughts and Grace looks over at her, confused.
"What?"
Iris pins her with a penetrating stare. "Did you leave your mind at work? You've set the table back to front."
She has, as well. With a sigh, Grace swaps knives and forks over to the correct positions. "I'm tired," she admits, moving to pour the tea.
"Then try going to bed earlier. These aren't quite done – let's sit and drink the tea."
There's something comforting about sliding into the chair that has always been hers, and Grace sits back, relaxing into the worn wooden frame as her hands curl around the steaming mug, grateful for the heat after a long walk in the slight evening chill.
"You're too pale." Her mother announces. "You need to get out more. You should do some gardening at the weekend – the forecast said the weather will be good. A last trace of sunshine before winter arrives."
"I hate gardening," she murmurs, grimacing.
"Go to the beach, then, or go for a long walk."
It's a good idea, and Grace wonders how easy it would be to convince Boyd. Maybe they could sneak away for the weekend and spend some time out of London, just the two of them alone together with no interruptions. There are plenty of places along the coast where they could go to unwind for a couple of days. Time to talk without the relentless pressure of work lurking just around the corner, or fearing the unwelcome next phone call at an inopportune moment. Good food and wine, a nice wander along the sand in the seaside air… Time to indulge in rest and relaxation. And each other…
Maybe it's crazy, and maybe it's not quite fitting for two people at their time of life, but the sheer level of desire that sparks between them and the obsessive need to meet and merge and share in all the delightful, hedonistic pleasures of two people who have fallen head over heels for one another – it's far, far more powerful that she ever allowed herself to guess it might be in all the quiet, solitary hours when she silently pondered the possibility that maybe, someday, there might be a chance.
"Grace?"
"Hmm… what?"
"What's the matter with you today?" That tone is one she, and no doubt her brothers, all remember well. The 'you're-not-listening-to-me-and-I'm-absolutely-not-pleased-about-it' tone that indicates immediate attention is required.
Blinking rapidly, Grace banishes her thoughts. "Nothing," she replies, quickly. "I'm just tired, that's all."
"Tired, yes, maybe, but you're distracted, too."
"I'm sorry. It's been a long day. I am listening, honest."
Iris isn't fooled. She stares thoughtfully for a long, drawn-out moment that fills Grace with a deep sense of discomfort, and then a sudden, sly grin spreads over her entire face. "Good lord, girl – you went to bed with that man, didn't you?"
There's no point in denying it, Grace knows that instantly. Her mother knows her far too well. Instead she takes another sip of tea, savouring the relaxing heat and the calming, reassuring taste, and then she nods.
"Ha! It's about damn time!" crows Iris, her eyes dancing wickedly. "God knows you needed it."
Grace chokes, the swallow of tea rushing down the wrong pipe as her mother cackles with glee, clearly enjoying the moment far more than she should.
"Detective Superintendent Peter Boyd," drawls Iris, still smirking. "The one you've been after for… how long now?"
"Do we really have to talk about this?" Grace casts about for another topic that will hold her mother's attention, wonders if there's any way she can possibly redirect the conversation.
Apparently there isn't. "Don't worry, I would be too, if I were thirty years younger."
"Mother!"
Iris grins, utterly unrepentant. "What?" she asks, the very picture of innocence. "He's ridiculously handsome. You certainly know how to pick a good-looking man, my dear."
"Am I supposed to say thank you now?" asks Grace, sarcasm dripping from her words.
"Not at all. Just tell me if he's as much of a tiger as he looks like he is."
Aghast, Grace stares at the woman who brought her into the world. "I absolutely will not!"
Iris stares over the rim of her cup, that single eyebrow raised again as she considers her child, and Grace finds herself forcibly reminded of being a squirming adolescent, desperately hoping that her half-truth excuses weren't nearly as see-though as they sounded to her own ears. "Not long, then," her mother deduces.
"What?"
"The two of you – it hasn't been going on long yet. You're not secure enough to believe it's going to last, to be comfortable talking about it."
"How do you –" begins Grace, and then she stops and sighs again.
"Child, I know you," smiles Iris, gentle now. "You may have been the smartest of the bunch, leagues ahead of the rest of the family with your head in your books and your theories, but I've always been able to read you. Always."
It's true, even if she doesn't want to admit it. It's also true that the story will be extracted from her one way or another before she leaves whether she likes it or not, so Grace elects to just talk, to admit the truth. Or most of the truth. "Almost four weeks now."
"That's not long." It's not a question, but it is an invitation to continue.
"No, it's not, but…" Grace falters, wonders what to say. It's still all so new that she's barely had a chance to sit and think it all though herself, let alone share her thoughts with anyone else.
Within their family, Iris's perception is legendary, and she doesn't fail her daughter now. "You're already in love with him?"
There are grooves worn deep into the surface of the table, a legacy of time and the hijinks of three boisterous and unruly boys. Grace traces them now, a finger running across the surface of so much history, her mind wandering back over the episodes of time, and all the important conversations that have been shared on this very spot. "I think I am, yes," she finally admits.
"And that frightens you?"
No one else in her life has ever been so understanding, so easily able to cut to the core of what it is that's bothering her. "It does," she admits.
"Why?"
Grace looks down, stares into the mug cradled between her hands as she wonders what to say. It's been a whirlwind of a month, full of heady passion and late nights, laughter, and an entire spectrum of emotion; stolen moments in the few precious hours of downtime their working lives allow them. Yet they've had no time to really talk, to share their thoughts about what's happening, and what might be about to happen. And that… troubles her. It's the first time she's admitted it to herself, but Grace knows it's true. She also knows how keen Boyd is when it comes to words and sharing them.
Again she thinks of the weekend, and the idea of escaping everything for a couple of days. If they could put some distance between themselves and the rest of the chaos going on in their lives, maybe, just maybe, she could begin to sort out her thoughts, her fears. Share a few things with him, tell him some of the things she needs to. Ask him some of the questions she wants to know the answers to, find out some of the things that will help ease her mind.
As ever, her mother is ahead of her, ploughs straight into the heart of it all. "I've only met him twice, for a grand total of about four minutes, but I can tell you for a fact that Boyd isn't John – you can't judge him and what might happen based on the past."
"I know that, and I'm not, but…"
"Once bitten, twice shy?"
"Exactly."
Memories return, threaten for just a moment to swamp her, but then Grace forces them to let go of her, reminds herself that they no longer have the power to overwhelm her, to control her life. "It's hard," she finally says, "not to think about what might happen."
"But you don't know what the future holds."
"Exactly. I can't predict it, and…"
There is silence for a moment, and Grace swallows heavily, reaches again for her tea to give her unsteady hands something to do. She's aware of her mother watching her, can feel the penetrating gaze of the light blue eyes that are scrutinizing her every move.
"You once told me that he's one of the few. That you can't easily predict what he will do – that you don't understand how his mind works. Is that still the case?"
Grace smiles, both because it is true, and because she has now learned that his unpredictability extends into his personal space as well as his professional life; it's exciting, and thrilling, but it heightens her insecurities as well. She's too used to being able to understand those around her, and she knows very well that these days, in an intimate, personal situation, she needs that reassurance of predictability, of knowing how someone will react.
"It is, yes." There's a pause, and she sighs in heavy frustration. "I hate that I question everything now."
Iris stirs her tea, tilts her head to the side and regards Grace from across the table. "Boyd has seen the scars."
It's not a question, and it would be ludicrous to imagine that he hadn't after almost four weeks of sharing a bed, but even so Grace nods. "He has, yes."
Iris is watching her carefully, waiting. "Did he ask?"
Again, she nods. "Yes. He's a detective, though – he knew exactly what they are, how they happened."
"What did you tell him?"
"The truth." The memory of it is still startling, the way he calmly traced each mark etched deeply into her skin as she shared her story, the silent gravity of him as he listened to her words, watching her with a kind of intensity that was so singular that it was at once both unsettling, and entrancing. It's a strange thing to get used to, that intensity, but she is, slowly, revelling in the moments where she's quite clearly the only thing in his world, because he chooses it to be that way.
"It was… quite liberating," she reflects, unprompted.
The older woman is watching her with an expression that Grace can't quite read, and not for the first time she wonders what that chapter of history was like for her, as a parent. As a mother. "I'm sure it was."
"There have been one or two others, since… one was disgusted, acted like I'd lied to him. The other didn't care, but he didn't understand either. Peter…"
"Is different?"
She nods, not sure how to explain it. "Yes."
"But?"
Grace tilts her head, asks a wordless question.
"Something's still bothering you, I can tell. Talk to me…"
It's an accurate insight, and a valid request, but she doesn't quite know, isn't able to easily untangle her mess of thoughts and reactions. In the normal course of things she'd get there in her own time, but they've been so busy just lately that her heart and her head are a confusing muddle. It's tempting to curse John for leaving her like this, for altering her view of the world, but she's always refused, and she stubbornly always will.
"You don't believe Boyd would hurt you, do you?"
"Physically, never. Emotionally, not on purpose. He's a good man."
Iris nods. "He is, that much I know. But I'll tell you something else – the relationship might be new, but you've been in love with him for long time now –"
"I –" Grace begins to protest, but Iris holds up a hand, shakes her head.
"You've been in love with him for years, my darling, whatever you try to tell yourself, and you've been friends with him for even longer – you know him. Don't doubt that. Don't doubt yourself."
"How do you…"
The smile that comes back across the table at her unfinished thought is gentle and kind, everything she's ever associated with these kitchen table heart-to-hearts. "Your father was my best friend from the age of six, right up until I was eighteen and realised I wanted him in my life in a different way – sometimes it's hard to go from friends to lovers, no matter what others say. It was for me, and if you take away the books and the thinking and all those degrees, inside you are just like I am, Little One."
It's a nickname Grace hasn't heard in years; it was bestowed upon her by her father who every year before school started used to line up his children for an end of summer photograph, with his three tall, strong rowdy boys in a row, and their tiny, quiet little sister beside them.
"I'm not so little now," she murmurs.
Her mother laughs softly. "You are to me. You always will be."
There's a natural pause, and both women sip their tea, digesting the last few minutes of conversation. Time, Grace realises. That's what she needs. Time to adjust. Time to settle into this new pattern and circumstances. It's been years since she last had a serious relationship, and, forcing herself to be brutally honest, she can admit that it's a little daunting to be where she is now.
"Are you going to walk away?"
It's a strange question, and it catches her off guard, but Grace doesn't have to think about the answer, at least. "No."
"Why not?"
"Because… I can't."
"And…?"
"I don't want to, either." It's surprisingly easy to admit. And true. That, she knows wholeheartedly.
"There's your answer then. You need time. You never were one for changes in the status quo. I remember when Jack first moved out to live in that dreadful flat of his – you tiptoed round the house like a ghost for weeks. Your teacher even called me in to school one lunch time because she thought you were ill, or being bullied or some such thing."
Laughter bubbles in the back of her throat, real and genuine as Grace shakes her head in disbelief. "You really do know me too well, Ma. I was just thinking the same thing."
Iris sighs and gets slowly to her feet, making her way around the table. "Grace, my dear, it's not wrong to go with your heart sometimes. You don't always need to be ruled by your head. This man – everything you've ever told me about him over the years tells me that if he's chosen you, then he's committed, and he's not going to hurt you or let go without a fight. You need to stop thinking so much and learn to relax. Let yourself simply feel."
The older woman leans against the table, reaches out to stroke her hand through her child's hair. Grace closes her eyes like she did when she was a little girl and in need of comfort; it's soothing and reassuring, and it's not until cool fingers gently cup her cheek that she opens them again, looking up into the same clear, level blue eyes that she inherited. "The fates have dealt you a difficult hand in the last few years, I know – especially recently. But life is so short, Grace. Please don't let this chance slip through your fingers. You might not get another one."
"I'm not going to. I don't want to."
Iris slips her fingers under Grace's chin, forces her to look up. Grace does, though it feels as if the very depths of her soul are being searched.
"Give it time."
Time. It's both an advantage, and her enemy. Time yields experience, and bitter memories, too. Sometimes. Letting go of the negatives is so hard, and for a moment she envies her younger self and the innocence and naivety that were so brutally stripped away. But… without experience, would she be where she is now? Would she have ever been in a position to meet Peter Boyd, let alone join the experiment of his brand new unit and experience everything that has happened since? She wouldn't, she knows, and that she would never, ever trade.
"Time," she agrees. Getting to her feet she reaches out, slides into the embrace that is already waiting for her, wrapping her arms tightly around the one person who has always been there for her, no matter what. For an elderly woman, Iris is still very spry, still has a surprising strength to her that manifests itself in the secure hold of her arms, something Grace treasures more and more with every passing year.
When they draw back, it's because her telephone has started to ring from somewhere deep within the depths of her coat pocket. Looking up a couple of inches, Grace sees the smirk being directed her way. "Missing you already, is he?"
"You can't be sure it's him," she points out, though they both know it is.
The smirk only grows, spreads to gleaming eyes which twinkle impishly. "Go ahead, answer it. Tell me I'm wrong."
Grace retreats to the hallway, where her coat is hanging. The caller is indeed Boyd, wondering where she is, but she keeps her answers to a minimum, well aware that every word she says is potentially being enthusiastically overheard. He's not above a little wickedness though, and the deep, husky purr of his voice in her ear is incredibly tempting. He's clearly alone in the office, and intent on telling her exactly what it is he thinks he needs to in order to lure her away from her longstanding Thursday evening engagement.
He's a hard man to resist. That was something she discovered fairly quickly after meeting him, and has only further confirmed in the last few weeks. An uncomfortable prickle of conscience wars with the delicious shiver that runs up and down her spine as his words seed visions in her mind that only grow as she listens to him speak, as she hears the tauntingly erotic promises he is delivering straight into her ear. Turning her back on the kitchen door she murmurs quietly into the phone, initially trying her best to simply promise him that she will see him soon and then end the call, but soon finding herself lost in a heady mixture of his raw, suggestive words and the seductive notes heavily lacing the tone with which they are delivered. It takes the heavy clang of two pots crashing together to pull her back to her senses, and then the not-so-subtle crash of something large and metal being dropped into the deep, old-fashioned sink to make her actually say a regretful goodbye.
Even walking back into the kitchen she's still in two minds, still torn between two people. Fortunately, the decision is taken from her, a brisk – if amused – voice sternly telling her, "You're not leaving without eating dinner, child. So sit back down again and stay there."
"Can I at least help you?"
Iris snorts disdainfully. "I'm perfectly capable of cooking dinner, thank you very much. I'm not in the grave yet. Sit!"
"Yes, mother," sighs Grace, feeling both thoroughly chastised, and considerably younger than her years as she does as she is bid, focusing on trying hard to rein in her still wandering thoughts.
Then, slyly, "It sounds like you'll need the energy for later, anyway."
"Mum, please!" It's somewhere between a plea and desperation.
Iris cackles, even as she begins to transfer food from saucepans to plates. "What? I don't miss your father solely for his scintillating conversation, you know."
"I never said you did," Grace points out. "I would never presume so."
The passing of plates temporarily halts the conversation, and then, as she sits down once more, Iris speaks again. "Your brothers –"
"Can you please not tell them yet?" asks Grace quickly, well aware that there is a tiny hint of pleading in her tone. Despite still being able to run rings around them whenever she so chooses, even decades after leaving the quiet, hidden mischief of her childhood behind, and even though they and their respective skills are very useful whenever something goes wrong with either her house or her car, introducing any new man in her life to her brothers has never been a pleasant task.
"Afraid they'll go all protective?"
"Yes. But… I'm not –"
"– ready, I know. I won't say anything, but you know what they're like – sooner or later they will find out. They always do."
"I know, but I just want things to settle down. I want a bit more –"
"– time." It's always been like this. They have always been able to finish each other's sentences, and now they grin at one another across the table, enjoying the moment. It's such easy, comfortable companionship and friendship that they have, and they eat quietly, enjoying the togetherness and the peace, the time they have for just the two of them.
"Thank you for dinner," Grace says softly, gratefully,when they are finished and the dishes are done, "It was delicious."
"You're welcome," replies Iris. And then she grins wickedly yet again before continuing, "We can't have you fainting from hunger during sex – trust me when I say that nothing kills the mood quite so fast."
Caught somewhere between feeling utterly horrified and distinctly amused, Grace asks a hesitant, "You didn't?"
Her mother nods, expression thoroughly amused as she remembers. "I did, but that's a story for another night. You need to get going – there's a handsome policeman waiting impatiently for you."
"He can wait a bit longer. I didn't see you last week – we have things to catch up on."
"Oh, I don't think he can – not from the sound of your conversation earlier. And besides, there's a programme on that I want to watch."
"Charming," sighs Grace. "You'd rather watch TV than talk to me."
Iris rolls her eyes. "Go home, child. Enjoy yourself! Try and remember for once that there's more to life than work. And don't forget to practice –"
"Goodbye, mother," say Grace hurriedly, shrugging into her coat and snatching up her bag before the conversation can get any more uncomfortable.
The older woman watches as she heads quickly for the door. "Have fun," she grins, absolutely unrepentant.