Listening

by Got Tea

An evening filled with anxiety leads to unexpected places. Sixth story in the Communication Series. Follows Reading.

This story was originally supposed to be a short ficlet for missDuncan's birthday, but the muse ran away with me and it turned into another epic that became a firm part of my Communication Series. So I would like to wish a very happy belated birthday to missDuncan - I'm sorry this has taken me so long - and a very happy birthday today to Gemenied. Many, many hugs to both of you. :) xx

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Listening

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"I told you it was a bad idea to take your eyes off her," sighs Grace, the anxiety in her tone causing him to bite his lip in concern, both for causing her the upset, and for Freyja, wherever she may be.

Experimentally, he calls her name. Freyja's, not Grace's. Then he tries again, applying more volume.

Nothing happens.

"She's so independent," murmurs Grace, and when Boyd glances at her he sees she's actually wringing her hands. "What if she's lost? What if something spooked her and she bolted and doesn't know how to get home?"

The distress in her tone, in her face – it claws at him. So, too, does the way she is shivering out here in the damp, bitter chill of the grey December day.

She's been back in her feet just two days after spending Boxing Day and most of the day after in hospital, delirious with fever, followed by another couple of days in bed once he brought her home again, but though the improvement has been rapid he's still wary and she's still a touch unsteady on her feet. He knows better than to try and send her back inside again, though – when it comes to their kitten both of them are completely soft, even after only a little over three weeks of her company.

Instead he tries to compromise; fetches her sweater, coat, hat, gloves, scarf, two pairs of extra socks straight from the clean laundry basket and her heavy boots, and then stands over her while she wraps up in it all. His paranoia never leaves, but the layers soothe it some. As an afterthought, and when Grace raises a pointed, only half-regrown eyebrow at him, he snags his own coat as well. There's a blanket by the window, and he takes that, too, as he passes by, shaking it out and tucking it around her before she can comment – he gets a soft but worried smile in return.

It's not much, but he sees the shivering begin to abate and that calms him. Slipping his arms into his coat, he looks down and concentrates on the fiddly task of threading the zip together. It's the only thing about this jacket that he dislikes, but in this instance it gives him something else to focus on, grants him a moment to call his thoughts to order, to collect himself.

Briefly it flashes through his mind that his steadiness, his usual ability to control himself seems to have been seriously derailed in recent months, and that concerns him. Makes him wonder if there's something wrong with himself, if he's losing his ability to deal with things. With life.

He shuts it down though, immediately upon realising where his mind is heading. These are hardly usual circumstances, and what's happened over the last half year is bound to take its toll.

Is taking its toll.

A small hand, buried in a soft glove, reaches out and lands on his arm as he finally tugs the stubborn zip up to his collar, shutting out the chill.

He looks up, finds her. Feels the squeeze of her fingers through layers of fabric. He breathes, relaxes. Steadies under the silent message she's sending him.

It's a tiny moment, a minuscule speck of time in their lives, but it's significant and important. Everything he needs right now.

The bushes rustle as a gust blows their branches sideways, and it breaks the spell. Causes her to turn around quickly, though not before he sees the flash of genuine hope in her face.

"Freyja, Freyja..."

The misty, chilly air seems to swallow up their calls, dampens their footfalls as they move around the garden, searching, checking and re-checking.

There is no sign of their little furball. Nothing at all.

Advancing down the narrow but surprisingly long garden, Boyd glances nervously up at the rapidly darkening sky, wondering how much longer they will have before the last traces of daylight leave them, and along with it the chance of finding Freyja today.

Grace is still calling for her, and he can hear the catch in her voice as she does. The building panic. He can easily understand why – he feels it himself. They've never let her out before today, and there was a long and drawn-out discussion over whether or not it was too soon to try allowing her into the garden. He won, by virtue that he swore not to take his eyes off her. Except then his phone rang and he did, and now he wants to kick himself. Repeatedly.

If anything has happened to her…

He was so keen to watch her exploring, to let her wander and play in the expanse of garden at the rear of Grace's house.

This is definitely all his fault, and if –

Grace sneezes behind him and he wheels round, staring at her. She gives him a long, steady look and points to the shed she's just been peering behind. "Cobweb. I stuck my face in it by accident. Relax!"

"As if," he mutters, under his breath, wondering if he ever will again where her health is concerned.

"I'm not dead yet," she tells him, but she still pulls the blanket tighter around her shoulders as she wipes the web from her face with a tissue.

"And there are no words to tell you how glad I am about that," he replies, heart lurching as the memory of calling the 101 helpline in the early hours of Boxing Day morning resurfaces. The automatic reaction of giving his name, rank and warrant number instead of just his name. Explaining her medical history. Relaying her worsening symptoms, her unresponsiveness to his questions, her inability to be roused. The advice from her consultant. All concise and to the point, exactly as he was trained.

When he'd asked what to do next, they'd questioned if he was in a position to take her straight to A&E himself to relieve a little pressure on the overstretched ambulance crews, promising that they'd call ahead and warn them before he arrived. He'd wrapped her in as many layers as possible and bundled her into the car – by the time they arrived at the hospital she was babbling nonsense about dragons and flying snails.

He'd expected to be waiting hours, but to the credit of whomever he'd spoken to on the phone, and perhaps due to the fact that he'd carried Grace in in his arms, they'd been taken straight through. She was assessed and put on fluids and intravenous antibiotics rapidly, then admitted and moved to a ward before mid-afternoon.

Hospital, again.

The speed with which she went downhill still scares Boyd when he lets himself think about it. From their marathon conversation in the middle of the night to hallucinating less than twenty four hours later…

He's had nightmares every night since. Woken shaking and drenched in a cold sweat.

Utterly convinced she'd be dead beside him when he mustered the courage to look.

The complications from this wretched disease and its treatment are slowly eroding the remnants of his sanity, and sometimes now he genuinely wonders if he will emerge from it all in one piece. The treatment is routine, the side-effects predictable to an extent, and that can be dealt with, planned for. Understood.

The complications, though…

How many times has she had an emergency admission now, he wonders, trying to add it all up in his head. Four? Five?

How many times has he genuinely thought he was about to lose her?

Ashen, waxy skin. Stark white sheets, steady beeping. Spiking temperature, whispered conversations just out of his earshot. Worried faces behind white coats and blue scrubs. Flying snails and green clouds. Dragons breathing dust instead of smoke. Dehydration, weight loss. Vitamin deficiency.

Five.

Five times in six months.

More if he counts Linda and that… catastrophe. It was all his fault and it still haunts him. Every time he sees her with a drip in her arm he flashes back to that day, to the guilt.

Surely this is not normal? Surely most people going through this… treatment… don't have so many emergencies? So many things go wrong?

If they don't, what is it they do differently? What is it he's not doing right?

Is he hurting her more than helping her?

Another sneeze reaches his ears, followed by a soft curse and he twists back around to check again, so fast his spine snarls angrily at him.

She's half a dozen steps from him but he covers them in three. Sees the quizzical look he gets, but says nothing, just slides his arms around her with infinite care. Holds her against his chest, rests his cheek against the top of her head. Shuts his eyes, concentrates on her. Only her.

And breathes.

In and out. In and out.

In. And. Out.

Grace leans into him, hugs him back. The weight of her body, the pressure of her arms – she knows, and she reassures. She says nothing either, but she doesn't need to. In so many ways they are beyond words now.

He's not told her how afraid he was, but he needs to. He promised. They promised each other.

"I'm sorry," she whispers into his coat, arms tightening again.

She knows. She's listening to him. Hearing what he's saying, and what he's not saying.

"I thought you…" He chokes on the words, can't get them out.

"I know," she soothes, and she does. He doesn't need to say it, because she knows. "I'm so sorry, Peter. I wish I could change it. I wish I could stop it from happening."

He's so fiercely protective. Always. Feels that fire rear up inside him at her sorrow. "It's not your fault!"

She looks up, rests a gloved hand against his cheek, thumb gently stoking his skin. "I know, but your face when I woke up… the stress and what this is doing to you…"

"It doesn't matter. You're home now." It does matter though, and they both know it. This is not just about her physical health anymore, it's about his mental health, too. And hers.

"Peter…"

"It's not important," he insists, worried half to death as he sees her shiver, despite the layers. He relents though, at the touch of hurt he sees in her eyes. "Not right now. We'll talk," he promises her, turning his head to press his lips against her gloved fingers, "but not until we're back inside in the warm and Freyja is eating her tea."

She nods, sees his logic.

Understands.

They return to their search, the quiet intimacy of the moment left as it is, with no need to add more words, more actions. It's the way they are together now – no artifice, no excess. Just simplicity and ease.

…

There's nothing.

Not so much as a paw print in the muddy flowerbeds.

Light fades altogether, night blanketing the sky, the world around them.

Boyd's hope begins to fade, but hers is resolute. She won't stop looking, and despite everything, he can't deny her the search, the chance that they might still find their little one.

Grace vanishes inside, returns with a torch, which she passes to him without comment, but even with the artificial light, there is still no trace. They make their way to the front of the house, checking the drive, the street, neighbours driveways and under cars.

Still nothing.

Time ticks on, the deep chill of real evening setting in, and still they search to no avail, the disappointment as each new idea fails bitter and clawing. Cold and weary they head for the house, hoping Freyja will be hungry enough to be waiting for them.

She isn't.

Back inside Grace puts the kettle on, fidgets with the teapot, straightens the already orderly jars of tea, coffee and sugar. She's trying to occupy herself, he knows. Displace her thoughts, fear.

"Grace..?" he tries, keeping his tone as gentle as possible.

Her hands still, and so does she, but for some reason she says nothing. He frowns, uncertain, yet sure something isn't right. She's standing too still, holding herself strangely and he's still questioning, still trying to work out why when the tiniest sniff betrays her and he realises that she's crying, and trying to hide it from him.

"Oh, Grace…" The words are out before he can stop them, and so he does the only thing he can think of, stepping up behind her and wrapping her up in his arms again. "We'll find her, I promise," he tells her, resolute.

This is his fault, he thinks. He should never have answered his bloody phone. Freyja is so bouncy, so curious. So determined to get into any available scrap of mischief she can find. And she's just so damn fast – he should have known this would happen.

And Grace, she's so… vulnerable. It's a terrible word, and he hates it the second he thinks it, but it's true. She may be getting physically stronger, but emotionally she's… not herself. He's noticed it in the last few days. It's as if for every inch of her health she claws back, the more the tiny cracks in her composure begin to flicker and lengthen.

He has absolutely no idea what to do about it, and it's terrifying. It's not what he was expecting, and he's found himself totally unprepared for it.

"Treats," says Grace suddenly, her voice distorted by the tears.

Blankly, Boyd stares down at her as she struggles briefly in his grip, reaching forward. He lets her go, watches as she grabs the tub of cat treats and heads for the door. He's never owned a cat before, and so it's not until she's out in the garden shaking the container and calling for their missing pet that he understands.

Freyja loves her treats. Loves them. Will always come running to the sound of dry crunchies rattling.

It's a great tactic to try.

There's still nothing, though, and Boyd hurriedly steps out of the door, pulling it shut behind him as Grace moves further and further away from him down the long, narrow garden.

There's no reply, no soft patter of paws running to greet her, no excited meow at the prospect of being spoiled. No amusing squeak as she announces her presence.

They keep searching, starting by the house and working their way systematically down the garden again, just like Eve would at a crime scene.

Every plant, every pot, ornament and bush. Even the small pond that's home to half a dozen goldfish and a handful of newts, and is surrounded by tall grasses and aquatic plant life. Boyd even fetches the keys for the small shed to check inside, despite the almost non-existent likelihood of even a small cat managing to get itself past the well-secured perimeter. As he expects, he finds only the normal items kept inside, along with a healthy collection of mouse droppings.

Back in the garden again he shivers in the building breeze, looking around for Grace to check if she's wrapped in her blanket. She isn't. It's rapidly getting much colder, the temperature plummeting now that the sun has long since set and the gloomy winter evening is marching on towards the coming night.

His thoughts turn to Freyja and he bites his lower lip again. She may well have a beautiful, sleek fur coat, but she's still too small and underweight, despite several weeks of receiving the appropriately healthy diet for a cat her age. Staying out overnight in this weather, with more snow forecast to fall in the early hours of the morning, and the bitter wind that is picking up is not a good thing. Especially not when she doesn't know the area, or how to get herself home.

Time is ticking on relentlessly, and Grace moves to the bottom of the garden, once again shaking the tub in her hand, voice wavering as she calls out to their missing feline.

Boyd follows her, wondering what to do. They cannot stay out here all night, and the odds of him convincing Grace to go back inside while he looks alone are… not good. At all. She may have offered a slight, initial resistance to the idea of taking on a pet, but Freyja has now well and truly wormed her way into his lover's heart, her green-eyed impish gaze, beautiful features and cuddly personality charming them both within hours.

"Let's try the front again, and the alleyway," she decides, determined as she makes her way back inside. Boyd follows, locking the back door before they head out into the road, searching the parked vehicles again, the hedge and the shrubbery. Nothing.

Eyes sweeping over Grace's car, he makes a mental note to take it for a good run at some point in the next week before his leave ends and he goes back to work. Glancing at the rear tyres as he checks underneath and in the big potted bush beside it, he decides the pressures need checking too, but files it all away for a later date.

They wander up and down the street, asking the odd pedestrian brave enough to be about, looking for any information, but no one has seen Freyja, or heard anything. Shivering and shaking, Grace makes her way back towards the house, turning into the tiny alleyway that runs along her boundary line. A cut-through between the rows of terraced houses, it's primarily used by local kids getting to and from school, and dog walkers heading for the park two streets over. Spotting her intentions, Boyd lengthens his stride to catch up, not wanting her to go down there alone given how dark it is at night, with no lighting beyond whatever spills out of the nearby houses, and the hazards of rough, broken paving and the many tree roots poking up out of the ground lying in wait for unsuspecting ankles and feet.

He's about ten yards from her, just turning off the pavement when he sees her stumble and his breath catches in his throat. Heart pounding, he lurches forward towards her, but Grace, oblivious to his horror with her back to him, reaches out to rest her hand on the fence, steadying herself, before continuing more slowly down the pathway, shaking the treats again and calling out.

She's okay, Boyd tells himself, trying to be stern with his runaway thoughts. Stop panicking! She's fine.

It's a near impossible task, though. Especially when she catches her foot and wavers, arms milling as she fights for balance. In the daytime this path is easily navigable, but once the sun goes down all the years of neglect and disregard by the local council become traitorous. It takes a supreme effort of will to remind himself to take care as he hurries to catch up with her, eventually able to gently slide his arm around her waist in a gesture that is as much about love and tenderness as it is to give her stability and him a grasp on her for if she trips again.

They are two thirds of the way down, level with the middle of the garden to the rear of Grace's, the torch in his hand now lighting the way for their feet, when she asks, "What if we can't find her?"

An image of that bright-eyed whiskery face head-butting him in the chin this morning as she trampled across his chest, squeaking impatiently for her breakfast invades Boyd's mind.

"We'll find her," he insists, adamant. He's about to refuse any notion that they won't, until he hears the genuine fear in her next question.

"But what if we don't? She could be anywhere by now…" She squints down at her watch, holding it near the light. "It's been two and a half hours, Peter. She doesn't know the area, she's never been out before. We haven't had her that long – we should have waited. The cat flap is still shut and she's never used it – even if I open it and she finds her way back she might not know it's there."

He can hear her getting more and more worked up with every word, and it's heart-breaking. "Grace, lis –"

"Her markings are so unusual, so beautiful – what if someone steals her? Or what if she's in another road and she's been hit by a car? How would we know? She hasn't had her microchip yet."

Grace is wringing her hands, tears running freely down her face. It's incredible, he thinks, how quickly and how completely Freyja has become part of their little family.

"It's going to snow again tonight – she's too little to be out in this weather. What if she takes shelter in someone's shed and gets locked in and then they don't know she's there and she's trapped? What if –"

She's getting more and more het up with each word, voice choked by sobs and shoulders shaking with the effort of it all. Resting his hands on her upper arms he encourages her to look up at him, much firmer this time as he interrupts.

"Grace! Look at me, listen to me." She does, though her eyes are red and streaming. "We will find her. I promise you."

"But –"

"No buts," he tells her, firmly. Drawing her tight against his body he envelops her in a hug, doing his absolute best to reassure her. "It's going to be okay."

It seems to work, his approach. The in-control-regardless-of-what's-happening mentality Boyd learned very quickly as young copper out on the streets, even though he may or not have any shred of a clue about what to actually do about it. She buries her face in his chest and clutches at him, but he can feel the way she breathes slower and steadier as she begins to calm.

It's those cracks again, and for a few deeply troubled seconds he wonders how much longer it will be before they split wide open into deep fissures, but then she snuggles just a tiny bit closer and it distracts him enough to let go of his fear of the future and concentrate on the now.

Holding on, head bowed and resting against hers, he breathes with her and tries to clear his mind, to come up with a plan. No matter her protests, he can't let her stay out here much longer, he just can't. She's already becoming uncoordinated and unsteady with tiredness, and the cold is getting worse, despite the protection from the wind the alleyway is offering them.

Anything more than another few minutes and she'll be seriously at risk, he muses, wondering how on earth he's going to convince her to go back inside. She gives him the answer though, as she shifts in his arms, trying to burrow deeper into the warmth of his body.

"You're freezing," he remarks, bluntly.

She nods against his chest, tears easing now. "Yes," is the sniffled response.

"Right, we'll go to the end of the alley and back again. If we haven't found her by then you're going back inside to warm up – properly – and I'll keep looking on my own. No arguments."

"But, Peter –"

He's firm. Immovable. "No. Arguments."

"Fine." Sulky, but acquiescent. Likely because she's tired and frozen. Knows she's at her limit. He hugs her closer for a moment, both an acknowledgement and a show of affection, and in return her head rests briefly against his shoulder before they both straighten up, determined to keep on searching.

Emerging out onto Barrow Road, though, Boyd is filled with a brief flash of bitter disappointment, followed by a wave of hopelessness. Somehow, he thought his ultimatum meant they would have found Freyja by now. Turning to shield Grace from the blast of icy wind, he shivers inside his thick coat and wonders about the little cat. Hopes that she is hidden away somewhere out of the elements, sheltering safely.

"Come on," he says regretfully. "Time to go back."

Grace says nothing, just begins to carefully make her way down the path again, head down low, eyes concealed, concentrating fiercely on putting one foot in front of the other. Hiding her emotions with her actions.

He walks with her, holds on to her. Does his best not to notice her keeping her distress from him and to afford her the dignity she seems to be clinging on to.

They are about a third of the way back, and she is beginning to really waver on her feet with exhaustion when she suddenly stops dead, and looks around, frantic.

"What is it?" he asks.

"Shhh," is the immediate reply. Followed quickly by a rise in her tone as she calls out, "Freyja? Freyja?"

And, from somewhere nearby, there comes a quiet, answering, forlorn little cry.

"Listen!" Grace calls out again, and again there is the sad, almost pathetic reply. The treat box rattles, and they hear her again.

"Freyja? Where are you?"

There's a slight rustle overhead and Boyd looks up, squinting at the branches of a huge tree growing just this side of the fence and hanging over into the garden at the rear of Grace's. "I can't see a damn thing," he mutters, twisting the end of the torch to change the concentration of the beam before shining it up into the tree. It takes a while, but eventually the light falls on a branch a long, long way up where a small, scared looking cat is perched, pressed up tight against the trunk.

"Freyja," breathes Grace, the relief in her voice so palpable he thinks he can feel it washing over him.

"Come down, little one," he calls up to her, taking the container and shaking it enticingly. Freyja takes a single step, and then retreats, letting out the same small, sorry-sounding meow that tugs immediately at his heartstrings.

"She's stuck," murmurs Grace.

"She got herself up there," Boyd points out. "She must be able to get herself back down again."

Beside him, though, his partner is shaking her head, and he looks down at her, lifting an eyebrow. "Cats are great at climbing trees because of their claws. But they aren't designed to come back down again, like squirrels are. If she can't jump down, and she hasn't come down by now, she's well and truly stuck," she explains.

"Great," he sighs.

"What are we going to do?"

He sighs again, knowing exactly where this is going. "Find a ladder, I suppose."

…

It takes several front doors before he manages to find the right combination of someone who is both home and is also the owner of a ladder. Not only that, but a ladder even vaguely over the length of a small set of steps designed to aid in decorating, hanging pictures, or anything else at the height of a typical single storey room.

Jim Edwards, an old man living four doors down on the left and now a retired carpenter, is their saviour. Not only does he own an appropriately sized ladder, but he's also known Grace for many years, is happy to help them out, and even willingly offers to hold it steady while Boyd climbs.

A stroke of luck, finally.

"You've not been about much lately, Miss Grace," he says as Boyd checks the position of the ladder and then stands on the bottom rung, making sure everything is safe.

"I've not been well," she replies softly.

"Aye," nods Jim. "Me an' Joan 'ave seen the ambulances."

Boyd fights off a shiver as a cold completely unrelated to the weather rushes through him.

"I 'ope you're feelin' better now."

"A little," Grace acknowledges. "We're still waiting for test results. It's… stressful."

"Test results…" the old man echoes, his grip steady on the ladder as Boyd begins to climb. He doesn't want to hear this. Can't deal with it, especially not if she's going to say –

"Cancer is… hard to live with."

Boyd freezes momentarily, eyes clenching shut. He can't listen to this, he really, really can't.

"Aye, I know how it is. My Joan, she 'ad –"

He shuts his ears, looks up, determinedly ignoring them. Calls out to Freyja, who lets out another pitiful cry.

"It's all right, baby cat," he reassures her. "I'm coming to get you. You just sit tight for a minute."

It takes very little time to reach the top of the ladder, and even less once he's there to realise what the dark has been hiding from them; he's nowhere near high enough to reach his little princess.

He swears. Loudly and eloquently.

Freyja's eyes widen and she backs up, claws digging in deep to the branch she is still clinging to.

"What's the matter?" calls Grace, worriedly.

"Not high enough," he shouts back. "I'm going to have to climb."

He doesn't have to listen for the stress in her tone, it's so evident as she begs and pleads with him to be careful.

"Easy, Frey," he soothes. "You're okay. It's all going to be fine. A few minutes and you'll be back inside where it's warm. We'll get you your dinner and some crunchies."

Reaching for the branch above him, Boyd tests its strength, then grits his teeth and hauls, pulling himself up onto it. It's been far too many years since he last needed to climb a tree, and though he's not fearful of many things, the darkness, the height, and that first step off the ladder are combining to making his knees just a little wobbly. Not that he'd ever confess to it of course, but still.

Grimly he concentrates on what he's doing, keeping up a steady, soothing conversation with Freyja who squeaks back at him as he climbs higher and higher into the tree.

"What's all this squeaking, hm?" he asks her, grabbing a branch and swinging himself up onto it, biting back a hiss of pain as something digs into the edge of his little finger and he feels the flesh there yield. It's far too dark to see what's happened, so he stoically ignores it and keeps going. "Where's that lioness roar of yours gone, eh?"

His fingers close around something cone-shaped and plastic. It collapses under his grip with no hint of resistance and he realises it's a shuttlecock, probably lost by the teenagers living in the house below. He flicks it down into the garden, aiming for the middle of the lawn, hoping it will be spotted in the morning and claimed, put away safely until the warmer weather returns. He used to play badminton with his sister – wonders if she'd still be up for a game now and then. It's worth asking, he surmises. At some other point in time.

Finally, he reaches the right branch and takes a deep breath to refill lungs that are burning with the unexpected effort of his climb. Time to start doing more exercise, he thinks. He's let that all fall by the wayside in recent months.

"Come on, little one," he calls, reaching up towards the cat above him. "Let's go home, shall we?"

Freyja mews, but doesn't move, eyes as wide as saucers as she stares back at him. "Come here," he cajoles, putting on his best playtime voice. She doesn't fall for it, instead stays where she is, cowering against the trunk.

"You're a cat," he tells her, exasperated. "You're supposed to like heights." Still no movement. He glances down; winces. Wishes he hadn't. "And a bloody good climber, too! How long did it take you to get all the way up here, hm? Not long, I bet."

It's not going to work, he can see that, and the next branch doesn't look particularly thick. Briefly crossing his fingers for luck, he stands up, one arm wrapped firmly around the trunk. Hanging on for dear life, he stretches, fingertips reaching a very cold wet nose. He tickles the soft fuzzy fur under her chin, then runs his fingers soothingly over her head before sliding his hand around to her neck and smoothly, quickly scruffing her. He lifts her free of the branch and tucks her into his chest, slowly easing down into a sitting position again, waiting until he's far more stable and steady to wonder how on earth he's going to both climb down again, and hold on to her slippery, wriggly body.

"Got you," he informs her, cradling her against him. "You're safe now. It's all going to be okay."

Secure now, Freyja's already trying to clamber over him, already trying to nose around and see what's going on. Getting down is going to be a nightmare. He needs both hands, he knows. The only thing for it, he finally surmises, it to strip off his coat, wrap her up in it, and somehow tie it to his body. And then ignore the freezing cold wind that's threatening to tip him out of the tree and sending him crashing down to an early death.

Bloody awkward doesn't even begin to cover the process of unzipping, unthreading his arms, holding onto the cat and maintaining his balance on the altogether disconcertingly slender branch his backside is parked upon. Somehow though, he manages it. And somehow, he gets the coat spread out on his lap and the cat stuffed unceremoniously inside it as he briskly rolls it up again, ignoring her chirruping, wrestling protest at such manhandling. He quickly realises he can't tie it around his body though, so in the end he finds a way to bring the sleeves together in a knot and loop them around his neck.

Sweating, and with his knees feeling rather more than just a little weak now thanks to a tremulous moment where he really thought he had leant too far to the left and was about to go tumbling through the branches, Boyd eventually manages to begin working his way down, various twigs poking and prodding at him, snagging his clothes and dragging his hair into serious disarray. It's far from ceremonious, far from the elegant, nimble clambering of his younger days, but he's got Freyja and he's heading in the direction of wonderfully solid, immovable ground.

"You got a steady hold on that?" he yells down when finally, finally, his feet find the top rung.

"Aye," is the prompt response. "I 'ave."

"Thank God for that," he mutters under his breath, knuckles white as he begins to transition from branches to ladder. Just as he's shifting his weight though, there's a loud, startling meow of protest and his heart skips a beat, his foot slipping as it transfers to the thin bar of aluminium. The bundle on his chest begins to move, paws flailing inside it.

"For fuck's sake! Sit still, Freyja," he growls, hands clenched in a death grip that he's sure will leave impressions of the bark on his palms as the cat continues to struggle madly inside her cocoon. She meows again in response, even louder this time, and then finally manages to get her head free, settling down as she looks around at what's going on.

"Better now?" he asks, sarcasm dripping off his words. "Bloody great moment for you to find your voice again, cat, I can tell you!"

Quiet now, she sits and looks around, apparently taking it all in as he slowly manoeuvres his way down, testing and checking each step before he takes it, knees still quivering slightly from his fright. The moment he reaches the cracked and uneven path, small arms slip around him, clinging on as Grace murmurs softly to both him and Freyja.

"It's okay," he soothes, easily spotting how she's covering up her stress and anxiety with words, feeling the fierce clench of her fingers on his arms, the tremble of her body through the many layers of their clothing. "I've got her, she's all right. It's over," he murmurs as he cradles her tightly against him, grateful for the feel of her body against his own, even as he looks over her head at Jim. "Thanks for your help."

The old man smiles, glances at Grace and then nods. Boyd inclines his head in return as a moment of understanding passes between them.

"You're welcome. Pretty cat you got there."

"She's a handful," he admits. "Likes to be nosy, get into things she shouldn't. But she's lovely, aren't you Frey?"

They all laugh at the loud response the little furball gives.

"I think that means it's well past teatime," Grace offers with a shaky smile, straightening up, seemingly recovered from her moment.

"'Tis getting on for six," nods Jim. "My dogs will be barking up a real storm for their dinner if I'm not home soon, like."

Thinking of the three daschunds that the old man religiously walks around the block every evening, Boyd grins to himself as he turns to collapse the ladder, tilting it so he can carry it back.

"Here, Miss Grace," offers Jim, "you take my arm as we go. You seem a little unsteady on your feet at the moment."

"Thank you. That's very kind." Always polite, that's Grace, but Boyd doesn't miss the hint of frustration that everyone else would – she's impatient with illness now. Ready to be fully back on her feet. It's tiredness, he knows. She needs a nap, and soon. It's been a long day for her.

Following them, watching as she navigates her way slowly and carefully around the cracked paving and the protruding weeds and grasses waiting to snag unwary ankles, he bites his lip, not sure the old man has the strength to keep her upright if she does fall, but knowing it's a far better alternative than anything else. The sigh he breathes as they reach the street and head away from the alley is one of solid, unreserved relief.

Cold, but sweating with the exertion, he lifts the heavy ladder back into its home, suspended from the roof of Jim's garage and secures the ropes that hold it in place before thanking the other man again for coming to their rescue.

"Aye, you're welcome, young man," Jim nods. "It's not every day you see a kitten stuck up a tree."

Lips twitching, no doubt at the term 'young man', Grace smiles again. "She's still got a bit of growing up to do," she agrees. "Hopefully we won't have a repeat occurrence, though."

Her eyes catch his, and Boyd knows, he just knows, that there will be much teasing and mirth later on. She's got that glittering hint of impishness lurking in the vibrant blue of her irises, and it only ever bodes mischief for him, he knows. Still, he's not going to complain. If she's feeling well enough for a little playful mischievousness, then so be it. It's a welcome distraction from everything that has gone so very wrong just recently. And a very welcome note of promise that things are beginning to improve for them both.

He has roughly a week of leave left, having decided this year to tack on a few extra days from his allowance to the standard length of time the unit shuts down for over the holiday period, and he wants to enjoy it. Wonders, suddenly, if perhaps she will finally be in a position where she is well enough for them to do something. Go for a gentle walk, perhaps. Maybe even drive down to the seaside and sit eating lunch in a café somewhere, watching the waves crashing about on the shore. Something, anything, that is for them. That is outside the realms of illness.

Something that offers a hint of what their future can be. Will be.

The barking of three hungry dogs startles him out of his thoughts, as does the sudden furious hiss of an angry cat as Freyja reacts. Glancing down, he finds her ears are flat to her skull, and the little of her that has managed to poke through the layers of his coat is now twice its normal size, fur sticking up on end as the hiss is replaced by a deep, impressive growl.

"Hey, hey," Grace murmurs. "What's all that about?"

Feeling a sharp prickle against his chest, Boyd winces. "Claws, Freyja!" he warns, even as the growl continues.

"Lotta noise for a little cat," comments Jim, an eyebrow raised.

"Indeed," agrees Grace. "And I think it's our cue to leave. Thank you again for your help – it's very much appreciated."

They make a hasty exit, Freyja's displeasure lasting all the way to their front door when her priorities clearly change as they move inside and Boyd unravels her – she makes a beeline for her dish, and meows loudly in protest when she finds it empty.

"Yes, madam?" retorts Boyd as she twines around his ankles, head-butting his legs in protest. "Did you want something?"

Grace snorts with laughter as she slides into a kitchen chair, slowly beginning to shrug off some of her layers of clothing. Shaking his head, Boyd flicks the switch on the kettle, determined to make the tea they never got round to having earlier, and then reaches for a packet of cat food, emptying it into the bowl and adding a handful of crunchies on top. Freyja has her face in the dish before he's even finished filling it.

While she eats he runs his hands over her, checking every furry inch to make sure she's unharmed. "Just hungry," he concludes, glancing over at Grace. The relief on her face is immediate, and she lets out a long sigh as she watches their pet plough through her meal.

"Good. Let's hope she doesn't try that again," she muses. He hums his agreement, surveying her closely. She looks exhausted. She's leaning back on the chair in a way that suggests she's having difficulty supporting her own weight and that is… troubling. Coat, hat, gloves and boots have all be shed, but the blanket is back around her shoulders again, indicating she's not warm.

A silent stare tells him he's been rumbled making his assessment, and he smiles softly. "You need a nap," he states, tone gentle.

For a moment her face is caught between expressions, and Boyd thinks maybe she's going to scowl at him, but then she brings hers arms up around her body, hugging herself as she concedes. "I do."

"I dare say madam here will join you," he points out, trying to make the prospect more attractive.

"I'm going, I'm going," Grace grumbles, stifling a yawn. "I know I need it, okay?"

Her slightly sulky tone makes him smirk and walk towards her, pulling her up and into his arms when she takes his proffered hands. Wrapping her up against his body he buries his face in her hair, inhaling slowly and nuzzling the spiky strands. The scent of her, the warmth of her skin against his is deeply reassuring, and he tilts his head so he can brush his lips to her temple, graze a long, lingering kiss there.

"I love you," he tells her, for no other reason than he can. And because he wants to.

"Good!" Her reply is muffled, but it makes him smirk. Proves she getting some of her sense of humour back, and that can only be a good thing.

…

Turning the page in his book Boyd finds within a few lines he's at the end of the chapter. Pausing to digest the words, he looks up, gaze automatically falling on the ladies in his life. Grace is curled up on her side, tucked under blankets on the sofa. Eyes closed, she's snoring faintly, utterly lost in dreamland. Snuggled under her arm, Freyja is stretched out, legs draped over the blanket, head resting on Grace's shoulder, also snoring.

It's an endearing sight.

He watches for a while, eyes lingering on the rise and fall of Grace's chest, marking the steadiness with which she breathes, the ease of the movement that just a few days ago wasn't there. He can vividly see her lying in bed, hospital gown askew, the skin covering her shoulder and upper chest waxy and pale, the muscle and bone beneath it shuddering and trembling with the effort of breathing through the contagion raging inside her body.

The continual drip, drip, drip of the intravenous antibiotics is like a metronome inside his mind as he remembers it, remembers watching the tiny droplets fall from the bag into the tube, making their steady way into her veins to help fight the infection. To bring her back to him again.

Grace doesn't remember most of it, he knows. Spent the majority of the hours raving about the wild creatures and colours of her hallucinations, or crying inconsolably for a reason he couldn't work out. Heart-breaking doesn't even begin to describe it, especially not when nothing he did seemed to help. When as the time wore on she only seemed to be getting worse, and he genuinely wondered if sitting with her, holding her cradled against him on the bed as she sobbed in unidentified distress would be the memories he carried with him of his last hours with her.

The corner was a quick turn though, and then she was climbing slowly but surely out of the depths, sleeping for hours and hours without so much as a twitch as he dozed heavily in the chair beside her, gathering some much needed rest after the long, hard night that he's not going to forget any time soon, if ever.

Now though…

As he looks at her now Boyd cannot see a trace of that night. She's tired and needs a nap or two to get through the day, but she is steadily, continually improving. It's such a welcome relief, but at the same time he's scared to let himself think its real improvement. Thinks that the way this works for them, it's likely instead to be just another upward spike before another fierce crash back down.

She'd tell him off for such negative thoughts if she knew, he's sure. She'd point out all the positives and the milestones, and then she'd smile sweetly at him and remind him that they are due a stroke of good luck, that they have already crossed so many hurdles that there can't be that many more.

He'll tell her, he knows. Later, so he can listen to her speak, to her gentle tones telling him all the things he wants to hear, the things he wants to believe wholeheartedly but somehow just can't quite manage to.

He's such a cynic.

He knows.

Too many years of policing. Of mixing with the worst strains of society. Of seeing unspeakable things done to the innocent, the pure.

Freyja yawns, flexes her toes. Buries her head deeper into Grace's shoulder, and he smiles. Poor little thing is exhausted from her adventure, he thinks, fingers itching to stroke her. He doesn't, instead leaves them both undisturbed as his stomach rumbles, reminds him to check on dinner.

Book left balanced on the arm of the chair, he makes his way to the kitchen, potters about for a while checking on the casserole in the oven, making himself a coffee, cleaning up and attending to a handful of small chores that have gone undone in the last few days.

It's easy to get lost in the banality of everyday life, to get on with the little things that typically annoy him but are required to endure the daily routine flows on smoothly. He doesn't have to think about what he's doing, and that is… soothing. It's easy, calm. And these days he appreciates that more than he ever thought he would. Domesticity brings him relief, the steadiness of the chores a grounding force in the unpredictable maelstrom that is her illness.

Time passes, the kitchen fills with the warm, wonderful smells of a home-cooked meal, and still he potters, not noticing how the hands are inching their way around the face of the clock above the door, moving from one Roman numeral to the next, and the next and so on.

He's at the sink, lost in his thoughts when small, slender arms slide around his waist and the warm weight of his sleepy companion presses against his back.

For a moment he closes his eyes, lost in the peace of the moment. Turning, he finds blue eyes that bear the lingering, hazy remnants of a long nap and he smiles.

"Feel better?"

"Much."

It's easy to lift her onto the counter edge. Easier still to slip his arms around her and lean forwards into an all-encompassing hug, relishing the way she twines around him, the way her arms curl around his back and her legs wrap around his waist as he buries his face in her neck. He soaks up every detail, etching it into his memory so he can pull it out again to replay whenever he wants in the future.

When she kisses him it is gentle, a tender thing shared between to people who are very much in love. The kind of kiss that soothes, that declares the depth of their bond. But then her lips linger, her fingers slipping deeper into his hair, stroking the thick strands and inciting his heartrate to climb a notch or two.

He pulls back eventually, eyes searching hers. She looks unsure, hesitant. Torn between the safety of the moment and wanting something more.

It's indecision he can see in her face, and it's an unusual find. Makes him hesitate as well, the moment when something more might have happened shattering under the piercing, imperious squeal of the oven timer and leaving them with shared wry smiles.

Dinner is quiet, lazy, even. There's no wine, only water, but they don't need it. They light candles on a whim, and when they talk it is in soft voices that reminisce about memories from the last few years. Memories that wrap around them as they are recalled, rebuilt in the cosy quiet of the small kitchen. Memories that make them laugh and smile and hold each other's gazes for long, long moments. How or why it happens, he doesn't know, but the way the meal unfolds around them is beautiful in its simple, peaceful intimacy.

Halfway through Freyja appears, blinking and yawning as she flows through the door in a ripple of fur that catches the light as she stretches, digging her claws deep into the scratching post at the end of the counter before leaping up onto the boiler and vanishing into her bed, clearly still exhausted.

"The baby's asleep," murmurs Grace at last, and Boyd swears he can see an impish glint in her gaze through the deep shadows caused by the flickering candles.

"And?" he ventures, curious.

"And," she replies, getting slowly to her feet, every sensuous curve of her body emphasised in the half-light as his gaze wanders over the black leggings and fitted sweater she's wearing, "I'm going for a long, hot bath." She watches him, waits, and then asks, "Will you join me?"

…

The tub is not built for two, but they make it work. She curls against him, head resting on his shoulder as the heat of the water soaks into their muscles, leaving him feeling warm and thoroughly lethargic. The atmosphere of the room helps, with the gentle lapping of the water against the sides of the bath each time one of them moves a fraction, and the wavering light of the candles that he carried up at her suggestion.

His fingers glide over her skin with an ease that fascinates him endlessly as he draws tracks through the bubbles that have gathered there. Smoothing them away, he looks for an untouched area, this time drawing intricate patterns over her shoulder and down her upper back. Boyd doesn't miss the way Grace shivers, the way her eyes close and her head tilts back, inadvertently – or not, perhaps – giving him a much better view of her assets.

It's effortless, really, the way he continues his explorations, fingers increasing the pressure on her skin where it is bare of suds, working over the muscle beneath, loosening the pressure there, lulling her into a hazy, half-dazed state. It works a kind of arcane magic on him, this kind of gentle intimacy, and he can feel his body stirring in response.

He tries to fight it, attempts to summon thoughts that are far, far away from this tranquil scene, but her skin is warm and bare and smooth beneath his fingertips, and damn, suddenly her hand is on his chest, nails grazing down over his skin with purpose, the pressure an exact, calculated amount. It's enough to make him let out a sharp hiss that becomes a deep groan when that hand slips beneath the water and keeps moving, trailing down and down until slender fingers are suddenly wrapping firmly around the growing hardness of his cock, encouraging it instead of helping matters to subside.

"Grace…" It's a half-strangled moan.

"Mm?" is all he gets by way of response.

"What are you doing?" It's a stupid question, he knows. He knows damn well what she's doing.

She ignores it anyway. Answers instead with a question of her own, whispered straight into his ear, her breath catching on his skin as she asks a low, throaty, "Do you want me to stop?"

His shaky, "No," tugs at his masculine pride but he lets it go. Moments like this between the two of them have been far too few and far between, and if Grace is feeling well enough for a little misbehaviour then there is nothing on earth that's going to make him stop her, especially not when the snug, sliding friction of her hand feels so damn good he thinks he might just implode.

They've been down this road before but Boyd's still shocked by just how incredibly good what she's doing to him feels, and by how she does it. She exudes confidence, gazes straight at him, and that only drives his arousal higher, makes his hips thrust up towards her.

He sees the tiny, wicked smirk she tries to hide by biting her lip and it only encourages him to reach for her, to let his own hands wander. It's a surprise when a small fist clamps firmly around his wrist and intent blue eyes stare up at him from a head that is shaking a silent no.

"Grace," he begins, searching for the words he wants.

She cuts him off with a single syllable. "No."

"I –" he tries, but gets nowhere.

"This isn't about me, Peter." Her voice is low and sultry, the words punctuated by a series of hot kisses pressed against his chest and the darting flicker of just the very tip of her tongue over his nipple. "This is about you. For you."

She kisses his lips then, thieving away any words he might have been about to throw back at her, and the physical shock that bombards him in the most breath-taking way possible is incredible. If this is a hint of what the future holds for them, then by God…

He's rapidly losing the ability to think as she works him, applying just the right amount of pressure and speed, creating a delicious friction that is far more erotic and rewarding than anything he could achieve for himself. Innate masculine pride makes him fight it for as long as he can but all too soon he can feel the familiar tension in his body, feel the surge of pleasure beginning to unfold. She's whispering in his ear, velvet words dripping from the darkened room straight into the part of his brain that is locked on her, this moment, and the intense sensation she's creating.

Her nails glide over his chest, across his shoulder, their presence every bit as calculated as the exact location of the tiny line of hot kisses she's bestowing upon his neck, down across his collarbone where the skin is so sensitive that when her teeth nip him there it takes only the tiniest amount of pressure before he's shouting and roaring, the blood pounding relentlessly in his ears as his heart races and the world seems to disappear around him.

It seems a long, long time later that Boyd comes back to himself. He finds the water has cooled somewhat, and Grace is snuggled into his chest, dozing lightly. His arms are clenched tightly around her, and he loosens his grip, sure it can't be comfortable.

She makes a tiny sound of displeasure, tucking herself even closer and his heart swells.

"Grace?"

"Mm? What?" The words are slurred with tiredness and the heavy edge of slumber. His hopes of returning the favour for her are dashed as he sees just how sleepy she is.

"We can't stay here all night," he murmurs, experimentally flexing muscles that have gone stiff with inactivity and wincing at the resulting twinges of pain. She isn't the only one to have been dozing, he surmises.

"'M comfy," is all he gets by way of response.

"Well I'm not," he replies, deciding that honesty is the best policy. "My back is beginning to ache like a bastard. Can we relocate to bed, please?"

She grumbles but stirs, earning a tiny grin from him as she struggles into an upright position, grabbing the sides of the bath to haul herself out and inadvertently giving him a thoroughly enjoyable view as she stands, a view that he savours every moment of as she carefully climbs out.

Dripping a cascade of droplets onto the bathmat she turns, granting him a view from the front as well.

Very nice legs, he muses, gaze travelling upwards. Inviting curves at her hips and waist, smooth, soft skin that he could spend hours getting lost in, and there's the long, thin surgical scar that is finally becoming less red and angry, a badge of honour and a reminder that she was strong, a fighter. His eyes keep moving north, taking in the considerable assets of her cleavage and it's then that the frustrated part of him that he does his best to keep well hidden from her really begins to rage quietly in the background that round two isn't going to happen. That still they are waiting.

He wants her.

So much.

He's been spotted noticing. Blue eyes are waiting for his own as they rise high enough, and he can't quite decipher the look in them as she stares steadily back at him. Shy, embarrassed; a touch flattered; curious. And many other things in between.

"Enjoying yourself?" she asks, flippantly, though he can tell that the composed nature of her tone is entirely feigned.

"Immensely," he tells her, absolutely serious.

She looks… like she's about to flee. Confused, and instantly needing to do something, anything, Boyd stands, steps out of the bath and moves to sit on the edge, catching her arm and tugging her closer until he can rest both hands on her waist, looking up at her.

Ignoring the rapidly spreading chill of evaporating water dripping from his body, he asks, "What's the matter?"

A quick head shake, accompanied by, "Nothing!" does not soothe the feeling he has that something is bothering her. Really bothering her.

She moves to wrap herself in a towel, but he stops her, thoughtful. "Grace… What is it?"

Again, the shake of her head. "Nothing."

Insistent. Untrue.

She looks down. Reaches out and grasps her towel, pulling it to her, despite his hold. Wraps herself in it, obscuring her body from view.

The penny drops, and he can't believe it. Is utterly incredulous.

"Are you covering yourself because I'm looking?"

Those blue eyes dart up sideways, catch his, and then quickly flick away again. Stunned, he stares at her. "Why?"

She steps away. Dries herself briskly. But doesn't deny it.

"Grace? Talk to me…"

Back to him, she stills. Shoulders falling and head bowing forwards, she sighs. Stands silent for a long moment. "I'm a mess."

Nonplussed, he frowns. "What on earth are you talking about?"

She shivers, sits heavily on the lid of the toilet, her legs trembling. He thinks she will refuse to answer, but she surprises him. "Look at me – I'm a mess. My hair is almost non-existent, my eyebrows aren't even eyebrows. My skin is so washed out and pale that I wouldn't even need an old bedsheet to pass for a ghost if it were Halloween. My ribs are visible, so are the bones of my spine, my hips – I look like I'm… ill. Dying. I look dreadful. Gaunt. Haggard. How can you possibly find that even remotely attractive?"

Stunned, Boyd stares at her, words failing him. He can see the impact it has on her, see her take his silence entirely the wrong way. Her eyes fall to the ground, her head low, shoulders slumping.

He sees her hands clench into the soft fabric wrapped around her, and then hears the long, heavy sigh as she gets to her feet, turning to leave the room. Still shell-shocked by the revelation, it takes a quick, heartrending glimpse of the defeated, worn expression on her face to spur him back into movement.

How, he wonders, as he lurches to his feet and reaches out, catching her before she can leave, can she possibly think that? How on earth can she fathom that she isn't attractive to him?

These are the cracks, he thinks. This is what he's been noticing since she started to regain a little bit of strength, and this situation right now, the intimacy between them…

These are the demons lurking beneath the surface, waiting to lash out at every unknown scenario.

"Grace, stop. Listen to me, please." She pauses, and he relaxes his grip a touch, lets his hands rest lightly on her shoulders, thumbs playing over the skin there. "You're wrong. So wrong."

"Peter, please don't try and make me feel better. It's wonderful of you but I know what stares back at me when I look in the mirror."

"Listen to me," he repeats, pausing until he's sure she is. He needs her to hear him, to understand him. "You're right, you do look different. You look like you've been fighting for your life, but I don't care. I was staring, yes, and I was thinking entirely inappropriate thoughts about exactly how beautiful you are to me, about how much I like your legs, and how enticing the curve of your hip is, your waist. How bloody fabulous your cleavage is. So what if being ill has made a few changes – it doesn't change how I feel about you. "

"I – "

She's struggling, and he can tell. Takes a moment to try and see it from her perspective. Finds where his thoughts take him to be startling, sad. Something he hasn't considered before.

He doesn't blame her. He's vain enough to realise that if their situation were reversed he would be feeling thoroughly battered in his ego, his self-esteem.

He leans down, whispers in her ear, "Do you have any idea how much I want you? How for years I've secretly watched you across the office and wished for something to change our circumstances? How many nights you've haunted my dreams? How nothing that's happened has remotely changed how I feel about you, only made me love you more, want you more?"

She draws a shaky breath, slowly murmurs a candid, "No."

It's reassuring, in a sense. She's listening to him. Being honest.

"All the things you see as negatives – I look at them as marks of how strong you are, how hard you've fought, and that… It's so hard to explain." He pauses, tries to gather his thoughts, form them into some sort of cogent argument that she will understand. "You amaze me every day," he finally tells her. "Your strength… every time I think it's all over you somehow find a way to keep going, and that is… incredible."

This is possibly the most difficult conversation they've ever had, he muses as he pauses to collect his thoughts. She's somehow quietly managed what no one else has ever achieved in teaching him to speak more freely, to share his thoughts and feelings with her, but that doesn't make it easy or natural when he's spent the majority of his adult life keeping everything to himself.

"I don't know what to say," she finally tells him, voice muted, eyes unable to hold his gaze.

"You don't have to say anything," he acknowledges. "You just have to try and understand that a few superficial changes don't matter to me. That they don't change the way I feel about you, or look at you."

She says nothing, quietly processing his words. One arm resting on her waist, he lets the other trail up her arm to slide slowly over the smooth skin of her exposed shoulder, eventually coming to rest against her neck, thumb tracing gently over her cheek as he leans down to brush a tender, lingering kiss to her forehead. He doesn't know how much she is hearing, how much she is processing and understanding, but he's trying, and she's trying, too, he can tell, so for now it has to be enough.

This is something he never expected to find in her. She's handled everything so well up until this point, been so strong, so tough. Yes there have been days where emotionally it's been hard, desperately hard, but she's always rallied. Always talked it through with him, let him help her.

Today though… today has been different. The fear and blind panic in her before Freyja was found – that's not her. That's not how Grace reacts, how she deals with things. That was a loss of all things rational. Of whatever it is that grounds her.

It's not about their cat, he knows. Not entirely. The terror, the panic, the fear – it manifested itself because she was missing, but it started somewhere else. Its roots were forming long before the excuse for it to rise occurred, and that is what scares him.

He has no idea where it's come from, or what the cause is. Whether it's another side effect or not.

Boyd can still feel the raw mixture of almost disabling distress and unrelenting relief in her embrace when he reached the bottom of the ladder. And disabling is the right word. He could feel it in her as he sheltered her in his arms, as she clung on to him as if for dear life. And that just isn't her. Isn't who she is.

Something is really not right, and he suspects this is only just the beginning of it. Something he has no idea how to deal with, because he's never known it before, never come across it before.

He doesn't know how to reach her this time. Doesn't know how to help her.

But that doesn't mean he can't – won't – try.

"I'm not going to pretend I understand what it feels like to be in your shoes right now," he murmurs, feeling the tremble that runs through her, "and I won't insult you by saying you shouldn't feel whatever it is you feel after everything you've been through, but I will tell you as many times as I need to that you're beautiful to me no matter what. I want you to listen to me when I say that you still haunt my dreams – that I still wake up wanting you. That I still look at you and like everything I see. Everything about you, Grace. Everything."

There are unshed tears glimmering in her eyes, and he kisses them away, pulling her close and holding on tight as she falls into him, burying her head in his shoulder and wrapping her arms around his neck, clinging on.

The tears don't fall, but it takes a while for her composure to return. He doesn't mind, instead takes it as a sign that she is listening, that she is hearing.

And holding her, cuddling her, is never a chore. Never.

…

Warm, clean, dry, and wrapped in his dressing gown, Boyd closes their bedroom door behind him, relishing to the cosy sense of intimacy the room grants him, with its soft lighting, comfortable furniture and appealing colours.

Standing by the small table cluttered with make-up, jewellery and other objects both masculine and feminine, Grace is reaching for a familiar item. One that makes him smile, lets an idea generate.

Treatment has waged war on her skin, made the daily routine of moisturising a necessity. One he's more than willing to take part in. One she enjoys.

She needs to sleep, he knows, but she also needs reassurance. To understand that he's serious in what he tells her. And this time he's sure that words alone are not enough.

"Let me help you," he murmurs, moving up behind her, reaching for the bottle and gently plucking it from her hands. She lets him take it from her, return it to the surface it came from. His palms land on her shoulders as he steps closer, leans in to kiss the back of her neck, nuzzle her hair. He feels the tension in her muscles as she follows his encouragement, leans back against his body, waiting, wondering.

He feels the tension, and it brings up a flare of sadness inside him. She still doesn't understand, or believe. Isn't sure what to expect.

He doesn't keep her in suspense. Hands gliding down her arms, he lets them trace their way down over her fingertips and back up her thighs to her hips, curving around across her stomach, dragging every detail from the journey possible into his mind before finally reaching for the tie on her gown, slowly, sensually working the knot loose.

He concentrates solely on her, on what he's doing. Let's everything else go and just feels. This is what he wants, and maybe, just maybe, if he loses himself in her, she will see and she will know. Understand.

She shivers against him as he finds the skin beneath the silky fabric, exploring slowly, deliberately. Inching the material away from her body with infinite care, his lips find her shoulder as it becomes bare, his nose pushing the fabric aside as his lips trail tiny kisses in its wake.

Grace gasps, her head falling back against his chest and he takes the opportunity to allow his lips to wander over her throat, teasing the sensitive skin he finds there as her robe slips away, sliding down her body in a whispering rustle of silk, pooling quietly at her feet.

She's warm, and her skin holds a delicious hint of the bath oil from earlier mixed in with her own natural scent. It's a tantalising mix, one that grabs his attention and holds it. There's something missing, though, and quickly the bottle on the dresser in in his hand again, a quantity of the lotion inside collecting in his hand as he upends it. This is the missing ingredient, the other part of the scent he associates with her. Subtle and calm on the nose, it combines with every other aspect to leave him breathing long and slow, the mixture flooding deep, deep into his brain.

It's cool in Boyd's hands, and he takes a moment to rub his palms together, warming it a little before applying it to her skin, slowly making his way over the expanse of her back, fingers working the lotion in, tracing the features of her anatomy, moving gently over the prominence of her ribs and spine before returning to her shoulders and applying more pressure, a different technique.

Grace shivers again, but not from cold and it's incredibly gratifying. It's good, and he can tell. Can see her enjoyment, the way she's lost in his ministrations, her eyes remaining closed, her stance unsteady, much of her weight resting against him as he works his way down her arms, teasing the inside of her elbows, her wrists, her palms and her fingers with a delicate, erotic touch. He can see, too, the haunted look from earlier slipping away.

It takes a refill from the bottle, but then he's headed for her waist, his naked body crowding up against her back as his own abandoned dressing gown tangles around his ankles. He follows the curve of her hips, massaging the moisturiser into her skin, his attention to the task absolute and thorough, leaving no patch unattended, no spot without caress. When he reaches for her stomach, arms curving around her, fingers exploring the highly sensitive skin, she lets out a soft moan, his name tangled up in the sound as it escapes her lips.

It's all the invitation Boyd needs to return his lips to her neck, more purposeful now; deliberately teasing, arousing. His hands travel up her torso, abandoning any pretence and actively seeking to keep this going, to help her understand that his every word to her was the truth.

He reaches her breasts with entirely male glee, working them, stroking them, teasing her nipples, greedy for the feedback from his sense of touch, from what he can see in the mirror in front of them as he watches her face. The way her eyes are tightly closed, her head pressed back against his chest, her lips parted in pleasure – it goes straight to his heart, to the complex knot of thoughts in his brain that is everything he thinks and feels about her.

"Do you believe me now?" he rasps into her ear, his voice low, roughened by rising desire. He's hard again and he presses his hips against her back, proving his honesty to her. "Grace?"

He lets his voice drop even further, lets his breath brush against her ear as he whispers straight into her mind. "Feel it, Grace. Feel what you do to me." A slight rock of his hips and she's gasping, groaning his name again. It's incredibly gratifying.

Reaching for the bottle once more, he urges her to the edge of the bed, to sit down. She does, her eyes hazy as she watches him advance, curiosity and speculation burning there. He steals a kiss, long and slow, before kneeling, reaching for her thighs, trailing his lips down along the soft skin, his hands following, massaging, drawing teasing circles and spirals, lingering at the back of her knees, around her ankles. He watches her face, the entirely unfiltered desire there as he works.

He draws it out, makes the moment last as long as he can, delighting in her reaction, her expression, her pleasure, and then, task complete, he moves. Leans in to kiss her again, their lips and tongues falling into an effortless, tangled dance of lovers as he eases her further back onto the mattress, taking his weight on one arm while the other explores her curves, this time free to roam without an assignment to carry out.

Kissing her is addictive, and Boyd is lost before he knows it, caught up in the warmth of her body beneath him, the scent of her skin invading his nostrils, his brain, the arch of her spine under his touch as his fingers roam. Her hands are on his back, nails scraping across his shoulders, and fuck, if in that moment it's not the most incredible sensation he thinks he's ever felt. When her fingers dig into his biceps it's all he can do not to take her right there and then, such is the power of his need and greed and want, the power of the spell she has cast over him, wrapped him up in. But that isn't on the cards tonight, and it was never his intention anyway.

The loss of the exquisite pressure of her lips against his own as he breaks away from her is keen, and not something he alone feels, judging by the soft, anguished cry that escapes from her as her eyes open and she looks up at him. Breathing heavily, skin flushed, eyes burning with desire, excitement, passion, she's gorgeous. Quite possibly the most incredible creature he's ever known.

"Peter…" Grace begs, desperately, breathlessly. There are no more words though, and he wonders if she even knows what she wants, what she's trying to ask for. It doesn't matter, because he knows. He's known where this was heading since the moment he saw that look in her eyes in the bathroom.

It's the easiest thing in the world to lean down and kiss her again, to steal her breath and leave her struggling for equilibrium. It's harder by far to relinquish his claim on her lips and follow the line of her jaw, leaving a trail of hot, wet kisses there as he seeks out her neck, her collar bone, the tiny spot at the base of her throat that makes her hiss and writhe in pleasure as his tongue swirls around the indentation there, the slightest pressure causing a big reaction. The reward though, as he hears her response, and he gets lost in the features and planes and delights of her body, is entirely worth it.

Following the line of her sternum he makes a detour, one way with his hand, the other with his mouth, kneading one breast while his lips make an assault on the other. The choked off sound she makes banishes all other things from his mind – there is only this moment. Only him and her, the things he is doing to her and the way she reacts to him.

He stays for a while, plays, teases, evokes, provokes, and then he leaves, for her breasts, as glorious as he finds them, are not his intended target. The skin of her stomach is highly sensitive, he knows, and he deploys her own trick against her, using the lightest pressure of his fingernails to gain a reaction, and what a reaction it is.

Grace clutches at his shoulders, her head pressing back into the mattress, eyes clenching shut, chest and shoulders arcing fiercely. In the muted light and shadows of the night the picture is entirely evocative, erotic, and again the temptation is hard to resist as his cock throbs with the ache of desperate need.

"Peter… please…"

His name again, and it's barely coherent. The sound brings him back to himself a little, makes him grin against her flesh as he eases his actions a little, wondering if the onslaught is simply too much for her after months and months of nothing but illness. She's pleading with him, but whether for him to continue or stop or change what he's doing, he has no idea. Doesn't think she does, either.

There's a moment of indecision for him, but then his nose catches the scent of arousal on her body and the decision is made for him. Boyd continues his journey, moving further down the bed and gently easing her legs apart, dragging the soft bristle of his beard across the skin of her inner thigh as he reaches his target, taking deep satisfaction from the sound she makes in response.

Time becomes an abstract thing to him then, nothing making sense anymore but the taste of her, the desire to satisfy her. The need to make her understand that she means everything to him, the need to make her feel wanted, needed. Adored. He draws it out as much as he can, wanting her to revel in the pleasure of it for as long as possible, using his lips and tongue and fingers and the stimulating rasp of his beard against her incredibly sensitive skin as he keeps up a steady rhythm, bringing her closer and closer to the edge, but not allowing her to fall over just yet. He'll know, he surmises, when the moment is right.

Boyd risks the tiniest pause to look up at her, and his heart almost stops at the sight that greets his eyes. There is wild abandon in her, complete surrender to the moment as her fists clench in the sheets and her skin gleams under the glow of the lamp, a light sheen of sweat mixed with the moisturiser he so carefully applied. It spurs him on, leaves a grin on his lips as he returns to his task, entirely caught up in the thoroughly hedonistic task of pleasuring her.

The moment appears when Grace buries her fingers in his hair, grabbing tightly at the thick strands that are longer than usual because he simply hasn't had time to pay a visit to the barber. It does something to him, something he has no conscious control over, and within moments he can feel the tension in her muscles building, hear her gasping for breath, muttering an unintelligible stream of words that feed straight back into his aroused male brain, driving him on. The time for teasing long past, all it takes now is a few more long, hot strokes of his tongue and she's there, writhing against him, crying out in ecstasy, lost in the maelstrom of intense, rippling pleasure.

He stays where he is, keeps doing what he's doing as she rides out the storm passing through, her back arching up off the mattress, the hands caught in his hair clenching tighter, the muscles in her thighs shaking under the strain of the release ripping through her. Watching her, listening to her… it's almost overwhelming, and it is very, very satisfying.

When she finally stills he makes a move, scoops her into his arms and settles them both where they should be, tucked up under the covers. Grace is utterly limp in his arms, and he likes it. A lot. Collapsed against his chest, her arm is thrown around him and her head is tucked into his shoulder, and it doesn't seem likely she's going to move anytime soon.

Boyd gives her the moment. Knows just how damn good, how incredibly overwhelming it felt earlier in the bathroom. They've had a few such encounters over the months, but they have been few and far between, far less intense and mostly directed towards him – illness not only leaving her cripplingly tired, but also robbing her of desire. For his own part stress and exhaustion have done something similar, though not anywhere near the same level and the frustration is… indescribable.

Not tonight. Tonight is special. Tonight has somehow, in an unspoken but incredibly precious way, scaled a wall, broken a barrier, something…

He hasn't the words for it, doesn't waste time trying to find them. Instead he watches as she stirs just a fraction, just enough to kiss his neck, the gesture gratitude, thanks and love all rolled into one. Her cheek is soft beneath the tips of his fingers as he strokes the side of her face, observes the way she's so completely melted against him. Consciousness is fleeing fast, he can tell. Isn't surprised. They were out in the cold for a long time, and though gaining strength faster than he anticipated, she's still very weak.

Her lips move, a whisper so faint he misses it, the words lost among the sheets. Boyd slides down the bed, levels their faces. Kisses her forehead, asks what she said. The response is breathy, sleep-riddled. Barely there, but he catches it. Two words that they say regularly, hear regularly, but that still mean everything.

"Love you."

It's a sigh, a whisper, a murmur. A huge effort of will to repeat, and within seconds she's asleep.

He watches her slide deeper and deeper into slumber, content to lie still and observe her, the peace in her expression, the relaxed comfort in the way she rests, still curled against him, on him. The promising warmth and the hint of colour in her skin that has crept back over the last few days, pushing out the deathly pallor. She's still incredibly pale, but she looks less like a ghost and more like a living being now.

It's a sign, it has to be. A sign that the future is ahead of them and that they can begin to look forward to it.

Except…

This new fear.

It's more than just troubling.

He wonders how far it goes, how deep it lies, but then stops himself. It's late, she's asleep, and there's nothing he can do about it. He can only wait and see.

They need to talk, he realises. He needs to share the horror of his nightmares with her. He promised. They both did. And he needs her to tell him what it is that's going on inside her head.

Maybe that will help. Maybe that will be the middle ground. Shared fears, sharing fears.

Tomorrow though, not now.

Boyd reaches for the lamp, spots the clock and freezes. The time reads 0003, the date the first of January.

New Year.

A fresh start.

The thing he's been waiting for.

He shudders, wonders if it really will be. Two days from now she has a doctor's appointment to discuss her blood work with the oncologist. Whether or not she's got the all clear.

Whether or not their life can turn in the direction of some kind of normal.

It will be fine, Boyd tells himself, stubborn. Determined. It has to be.

He douses the light. Settles himself just the way he likes and closes his eyes. He can hear Grace breathing, concentrates on the steady rhythm, listens to the even, clear way air moves in and out of her lungs. Relishes the lack of wheezing, gurgling infection. The terror that went with it.

For a moment he fears the dreams that stalk him in his slumber, but sleep pulls at him anyway. Curling closer, he breathes in her scent, focusses on her. Only on her. His last thought before he drifts away is that maybe it's finally, finally going to be okay.