DISCLAIMER: I own nothing.
Flashpoint
by Joodiff
Idiosyncratic weather. Unusually hot and sultry for early-September, the distant rumble of thunder rapidly becoming not-so-distant as the inexorable storm approaches. Far too sticky and far too humid for the sweat unpleasantly dampening her back to even begin to evaporate as she marches angrily up the grassy slope. Consciously, Grace is heading towards the tumbling ivy-clad stone folly that is only just visible from the big country house that looks down on the wide lake and the dark, tangled woods beyond it. Unconsciously, she is simply getting away from him. Getting away from two hundred pounds of jeering hostility endowed with the scruples of an alley cat and the uncertain temperament of a rattlesnake.
Things have rarely – never – been so bad between them. Not once in all the time they've worked together, regardless of her sharp tongue and his quick temper. It seems there's more than one storm coming. Only a fool could fail to realise that, and despite her seemingly-endless capacity to forgive and forget even the worst of his transgressions, Grace Foley is no fool.
The warm air seems to be impossibly thick. Heavy and oppressive. Glutinous, even. The first few raindrops that start to fall are large and weighty, splattering on impact as if they are composed of a far more viscous fluid than mere water. There's going to be a deluge of biblical proportions at any moment, a veritable monsoon that will hit with startling speed and ferocity and may well depart just as quickly, but if it helps clear the warm, soupy air then Grace is glad. She secretly wishes on the oncoming storm even as she finally reaches the questionable shelter offered by the ridiculously pointless and inappropriate tower. A Georgian pseudo-Gothic status symbol, alarmingly and brutally phallic in the aggressive way it rears up from the surrounding pasture.
Seconds later the rain arrives in earnest, hurling itself furiously at the ground in an unbroken rhythm as the bass notes of thunder start to draw much closer. In response, the tall, besuited man pacing by the lake abandons his restless prowling and breaks into an uphill sprint. He runs like a reflection of the storm – powerful, relentless, and without elegance. Grace watches from the dry ivy shadows, neither pleased nor displeased by the speed and inevitability of his approach.
Boyd slams into the small space next to her, breathing hard. He couldn't berate her if he wanted to, a minor blessing. He is wet. Soaked, even. The pale grey suit jacket, turned dark by the rain, is stripped immediately and unceremoniously. The white shirt beneath is wet, too, and it sticks to his skin, sculpting him into raw antagonistic lines of muscle and bone. Too loudly, he declaims, "Fuck's sake…"
"I told you it would be prudent to head back to the car." She knows her words aren't helpful, knows they will only inflame his temper even further, but nowadays she can't ever seem to summon the immense level of patience required to pander to him.
He glares at her, dark eyes inimical. "Thanks, Grace. Really, thank you so much for that helpful insight."
She shrugs, goes back to watching the steel grey clouds as they descend. The rain is beating a continuous tattoo on the ground and on the outer stones of the tower, an incessant drumming that speaks of vehemence and intensity. The air temperature has dropped a little, and she's grateful for that, at least. Next to her, the laboured breathing has become lighter and steadier but the sense of animosity forcibly prickling at her hasn't lessened. Nor does she imagine it will. Just recently every delicate truce declared between them has been a brittle one, difficult to negotiate, and far too easily shattered.
"So," Boyd says, the word a gauntlet thrown down between them, "this damn book of yours…"
"…is still none of your business."
"It is if it's going to attract nutters like Lucien-bloody-Calvin," he growls back.
It's just an excuse to pick yet another fight, Grace knows. She doubts he has any real interest in her latest work although his insatiable curiosity has almost certainly driven him to read at least some of it. She wonders if he has enough self-awareness to recognise himself in some of the only thinly-disguised references scattered throughout the many pages. Possibly, possibly not. Exhibit A from The Laws of Love and Rage – a difficult, damaged man who loves and rages without caution or restraint. She sighs, making quite sure he hears it. "I've written several books, Boyd, and as far as I'm aware none of them have been an issue until now."
"So you admit that there's an issue?"
He's a natural predator, designed to pounce hard and fast on any weakness, any hint of an opportunity, but predators of any variety don't scare her. "Not at all. Don't twist my words."
It's meant as a warning and Boyd obviously takes it as such from the way he scowls and doesn't offer a rejoinder. Belligerent he may be, but he isn't stupid. They both know that in a straightforward war of words she will always win. Sheer volume is no match for eloquence. The continual noise of the driving rain lessens the savagery of the sudden silence between them. Enough, at least, for Grace to risk a covert sideways look at him. His jaw is tight and set, and he is glaring at the wide, deep lake at the foot of the slope. She almost feels sorry for him – their relationship, personal and professional, is deteriorating rapidly, has been for the last few months, and it's a fair bet that he doesn't understand why. Hell, half the time she isn't sure she really knows the reason herself. She certainly doesn't know why he's taken to so frequently needling her, ridiculing her, treating her as if her opinions and expertise are worth nothing.
What changed? she wants to ask him, but she won't. They are a long way past the point where doing so might have opened a halfway productive dialogue between them.
He says, "If there's going to be a conflict of interest every time you – "
"Oh, come on," Grace interrupts, both irritated and incredulous, "that's not only unfair, it's completely ridiculous."
"Is it." It's not a question.
It used to be fun, a harmless game of clever, witty one-upmanship between them. Partly banter, partly idle flirtation. It's not like that anymore. The digs are sharper, the words harsher. She shakes her head. "This is pointless. Maybe you get some kind of kick out of continually trying to belittle me, Boyd, I don't know, but I'll tell you something for nothing – it's getting incredibly tedious."
"Tedious?"
"You heard me," she snaps back in response to the undisguised sneer in his voice. "Tedious. Predictable. Boring."
"Boring," Boyd echoes, the word elongated for effect, and something about the way he does it makes Grace look at him. Look at him properly. The dark eyebrows are drawn down and the expressive eyes beneath them have taken on the familiar cold, antagonistic shine that almost always precedes a furious explosion of temper.
"Oh, forget it," she says. She's not afraid to argue with him, but she's already endured more than enough conflict for one day.
"Boring," he repeats, and that's when loud alarm bells really start ringing inside her skull.
He moves fast – very fast – but it's not his speed that startles her, it's the unrestrained strength with which he seizes hold of her and forces her back against the folly's uneven stones. For a brief second she thinks he's going to strike her – a foolish and unworthy thought – but the reality of what he does is almost more shocking. Boyd doesn't strike her, he kisses her. Hard.
It's not possible, but it's happening. They've never been in such close physical proximity before, but his hands are unbreakable shackles around her wrists, his beard is wiry and coarse against her skin, and his lips and tongue are insistent and impatient, forcing a primitive response from her – one that for a split second Grace has no conscious control over. He's kissing her, and then, heaven help her, she's kissing him back with just as much wanton enthusiasm as all sorts of unanticipated sensory feedback rampages along her central nervous system towards her brain. He smells of coffee and cologne, of fresh sweat and the unforeseen storm that's still gathering force all around them. She isn't really aware that he's released his grip on her wrists enabling her to twist her fingers hard into his hair. Only when he moves his mouth to her throat and bites does a tiny hint of reality assert itself.
She yelps in surprise, not in pain, and the thin sound – negligible against the constant loud drumming of the rain – triggers an unexpected reaction. He doesn't withdraw, doesn't pause, but against her skin he mutters hoarsely, "You never let up… Never stop fucking criticising… You always think you know best…"
It's a harsh litany of bitterness and reproach, but even if the hand that's kneading her breast is impudent and rough, Boyd doesn't come close to hurting her. His other hand is descending, travelling rapidly down over every curve until it settles on her hip. It feels so damned good to be touched by him, astounding though it is, yet somehow Grace is almost more aware of his hot breath on her neck than of anything else. Hot, and humid, just like the afternoon before the rain started to fall. He grinds his hips against her and her focus shifts instantly as she realises just how aroused he is. Aggressively, desperately hard, as if they've been flirting and teasing for hours. Maybe they have, in some dark and twisted way that only they could ever begin to understand.
He kisses her again and this time Grace is ready for him. More than ready, and quite prepared to engage him in some bitter, perverse battle for dominance. If Boyd is surprised he doesn't show it, and her determination to match him, even to attempt to best him, only seems to encourage him. For a few seconds their lip-locked embrace is nothing short of open warfare, but somehow they simultaneously segue into something that's just as fervent but considerably less violent. Battle lines drawn and recognised, they agree some kind of attempt at chivalry and civility without a single word spoken. It remains a heated tangle of lips and tongues, but without such a high risk of bloodshed. Figurative and literal.
Is this what changed? an oddly calm voice in her head wonders. Is this why things started to go so wrong between us?
A/N: Due to FFN's continued enforcement of the "no MA fic" rule, the above is a taster for the full story which you can find in the "Waking the Dead" category of Archive Of Our Own. Please be aware that the full version of "Flashpoint" is adult-rated. Thanks.