DISCLAIMER: I own nothing.

A/N: "Quintet" follows two of my previous stories "Quartet" and "Duet", also posted here on FFN. You should probably read (or re-read!) those before tackling this one. Readers of a nervous disposition might want to brace themselves. ;)

Quintet

by Joodiff

Frankie is wearing an engagement ring. Grace doesn't notice until almost halfway through the service. Not at all ostentatious, but looks expensive. Solitaire diamond, gold band; very stylish, very traditional. Really, it's not a great surprise, given the way things are, but she immediately finds herself questioning why there has not – as far as she is aware – been an announcement. More importantly, why they – why he – didn't at least think to tell her before today, particularly given the role she's here to undertake. It's not as if there hasn't been adequate opportunity during the organisation of today's Christening, and such a significant fact surely does not simply slip someone's mind – not even if that someone is Peter Boyd.

Standing beside the impressive stone font she is finally able to study him properly. Murray, positioned behind them in the small congregation, will notice, Grace knows that, and undoubtedly there will be harsh words later, but for now she doesn't really care. She's grown very used to walking on eggshells, grown very used to spending days patiently trying to put right all the things that can never be made right. Let Murray notice the direction of her gaze and seethe if he wants to. It doesn't matter. Whatever she does today will be wrong and she will pay dearly for it in the stretch of dark fury before he finally collapses into wretched sobs and piteously begs her for just one more chance – which she will give him. Because she always does, regardless of how bad the bruises are.

Boyd. She determinedly focuses on him, refusing to imagine Murray's baleful glare. He looks tired – hardly surprising – but there's a sparkiness and a sense of purpose about him that she hasn't seen for a long while. His regrets may be real and his new life may be far from perfect, but something in Boyd seems to have found equilibrium, and Grace – Grace who knows him so well – is certain that his current state of mind has little to do with Frankie and her brand new engagement ring and everything to do with the tiny child being so carefully cradled by the earnest young vicar. After years of the worst pain and heartbreak any parent could possibly endure, Boyd is a father again. And a very proud and protective father he is, too. Inevitably.

Burning with contempt, Murray sneers viciously every time the subject is mentioned. When the girl is in her teens, he rightly points out, Boyd will be well into his seventies and even Frankie will be in her mid-fifties. Grace doesn't argue with him about any of it anymore. It's pointless and it always ends badly. Sometimes very, very badly. But she's stubbornly defied him again and again over the thorny matter of today's Christening, and against all the odds, here she finally is, playing her part just as she solemnly promised mere hours after Chloe's birth. It's well worth what will come later when her front door is closed against the world.

She's a pretty little thing, Frankie and Boyd's daughter. A little over six months old with wide, intense brown eyes that could be the legacy of either parent, and a happy, beaming smile absolutely guaranteed to instantly turn her gruff, quick-tempered father into the biggest and most docile of teddy bears. Every single time.

Despite everything they will be a stable and happy family, Grace is absolutely sure of that. There will be tears and tantrums and bumps in the road, but on balance they will be happy. Boyd has his second chance and she's genuinely pleased for him. He deserves his happily ever after.

So does she. The thought is an epiphany – fitting, given the setting.

If Murray won't leave, then sooner or later she will, even though the house and most of its contents belong to her. She wonders if he already knows, deep in his heart. Maybe, maybe not. He will blame her, of course, because he always blames her. It's been a long time since Grace bothered to make excuses for him, much less tried her hardest to believe them. He will blame her, and he will blame Boyd, and perhaps that is her fault. Perhaps she should have cut all the old ties when she had the chance. Perhaps she shouldn't have tried so hard to convince herself that things could and would work out.

They will never see eye-to-eye, Murray and Boyd. How can they when they both love the same woman? And that's why part of it is her fault. Because as the love for one died – slowly strangled over long lonely nights of misery – the glowing embers of love for the other inexorably flickered back into flame. Too late.

She will end up alone. Grace understands that now, as she makes promises to God on behalf of the smiling child who bats playfully at things unseen. The child – Chloe – changes everything that might somehow still have managed to be, one day. It's not even a matter of honour or friendship anymore. Frankie has become the one thing that makes her position completely unassailable and inviolable in the harsh light of all Boyd's past mistakes. Mother of his child. Nothing can ever change that.

"Grace…?" Spencer says quietly at her side, and she realises that she has been dutifully mouthing all the final words of the service without realising it, that it's time to gather her thoughts and her courage and stoically turn her back on the very last slender chance that might have existed.

She walks out of the church mechanically, barely aware of the cruel strength of Murray's tight grip on her arm. His fingers dig hard into her gentle flesh, but the discomfort is a banal thing, nothing compared to the pain of knowing exactly how things are going to be. The irony of the situation isn't lost on Grace – she loves them both, is loved by them both, and because of it she will very soon be alone.

Spencer is cooing inanely over his new goddaughter, though he has failed to prise her away from her father even for a moment; Grace can't help smiling to herself at the sight of him grinning as he plays with chubby little fingers that grab at his own. She inadvertently catches Frankie's eye, and the younger woman gives her a wry, conspiratorial look. Grace understands. They both know something about the endless folly of the two tough, taciturn men before them. It's a bittersweet moment, a moment of shared memories, joys and regrets.

A moment forever shattered by Murray's harsh growl of, "For God's sake… come on, will you? Let's get the hell out of here."

Just for a second, she hates him. Hates him with a depth and passion she would never have believed herself capable of. Hates him because once upon a time she believed she loved him so very much.

"No," she says simply. She is not strident. Far from it.

His fingers tighten even more and she automatically tries to shrug him off. He's far too strong. His voice is just as quiet as hers, but it holds far more menace. "Don't be stupid, Grace. We're going home. Now."

Only Frankie sees his anger. Boyd and Spencer don't see, and that's a very good thing. Tonight there will be more than casual back-handed slaps that sting well into the small hours. Tonight there will be punches. Punches and tears and blood. And there will be pleading and promises and desperate embraces that can't ever take away the hurt.

"No," Grace says again.

It's a mistake. It's freedom and self-respect and defiance.

Frankie is already moving as she calls out to Boyd, but Murray apparently doesn't see or care. Grace sees. As she instinctively cowers and despises herself for it, she sees. Sees Boyd turn, sees the child hurriedly thrust into its mother's arms; sees the implacable rage rise in the man who's always loved her, even long after everything they used to be was just a sad, gentle memory, even after they both deliberately decided to fall in love with other people. Sees him start into motion, Spencer – ever-loyal – at his heels.

It's by no means the hardest blow Murray's ever dealt her, coming unpremeditated as it does, but it doesn't need to be. Its shattering power is in its symbolism, not in its physical force. For a split second they stare at each other, and Grace can easily read the hollow anguish in his tormented grey eyes. Even now, she does not believe Murray Stuart is a bad man. The terrible things he's seen, the unpardonable things he's been made to do…

And then Boyd is on him and all bets are off.

Murray shoves her away, but whether to protect her or to simply free himself from encumbrance, Grace doesn't know. The grass growing between the crumbling gravestones is tufty, the ground uneven, and she stumbles slightly, almost losing her footing. Spencer catches her, his solid strength of an entirely different character to that of the two men who are suddenly struggling in the lee of the picturesque old church. Confusion and chaos takes hold among the other departing members of the former congregation, no-one quite sure what's happening or why, or what on earth they should do about it. Frankie is shouting, her voice loud and hard as she tries in vain to call off the very dogs she set loose. Spencer might hear her, but Grace doubts Boyd does. The wild fury has him now, that infamous towering temper ripping through him, blinding and deafening him to everything but the man now in his grip.

She has feared this confrontation for so long, has known almost from the very first day that it had to come sooner or later. Men of anger and pride do not humbly accept the meagre scraps from each other's tables, nor do they rest quietly in each other's shadows. For a moment Grace fights ineffectually against Spencer, but he holds her firm, preventing her from attempting to join the fray. Perhaps he understands, too. Perhaps Spencer knows that all of it can only be settled by blows; that until one eventually accedes to the other there will be no peace for any of them.

It's not elegant. They are too alike for that, the ex-soldier and the former police officer. It's just guts and muscle and whatever works, and when Murray tries to gouge, Boyd head-butts him full in the face, yet neither gives way and they twist and wrestle and miss with heavy blows that carry the full weight of bitter anger and jealousy. Grace hates it. It's ugly and brutal and male and she doesn't want it, any of it. It needs to stop. All of it needs to stop, not just the belligerent tussle that's disturbing the tranquillity of a perfectly ordinary spring afternoon.

"Stop it!" she screams at them, still tugging against Spencer. "Stop it, both of you! Murray! Peter!"

Maybe there's something in the thin desperation of her voice that reaches into both of them, past the anger and the posturing, because she doesn't imagine the jagged second of hesitation, nor does she imagine the way they both look at her for the tiniest sliver of time. It is only a paltry fraction, though, and before anyone can intervene, Murray pushes with all his might, the tendons in his neck standing out. He's a year or two older than Boyd, and a little shorter, but he's stockier and arguably better equipped to defend himself by virtue of his former profession. Boyd staggers, still holding on with terrier-like tenacity, and then he, too, loses his footing on the uneven ground, just as Grace did before him. He falls heavily, automatically releasing his grip on Murray to attempt to break his fall, but he's not as young and spry as he once was and he only manages a half-twist before his head cracks loudly against one of the long, horizontal granite grave-markers.

Afterwards, Grace will believe that everyone present somehow knew the truth instantly. But for now she is as momentarily frozen as Spencer and Frankie, as Murray himself and all the other onlookers, none of them quite able to consciously process what has just occurred.

Boyd lies on his side, dark eyes staring blankly at some fixed point in the mid-distance. He does not move at all, not even when someone – not Grace and not Frankie – starts screaming, and that's when she allows herself to feel the cold truth pressing in malevolently through every single inch of her skin. She absolutely knows he's dead, knows that it's pointless of Spencer to bellow loudly for someone to call an ambulance as he releases her and races across the short stretch of grass.

Boyd is dead.

Grace explores the concept carefully through a quickly-encroaching numbness. Boyd is dead. The words are smooth and calm, beautifully expressive in a powerful, succinct way. They mean everything and they mean nothing.

Murray hasn't moved, either. He is watching Spencer's desperate but futile attempts at CPR with a detachment that borders on complete dissociation. It's possible he honestly has no real concept of the severity of what has happened. People don't suddenly die in sun-dappled churchyards during a brief if vigorous scuffle. Do they?

Of course it's a cliché, but everything seems to be happening in a slow-motion alternate reality where Grace is merely a distant observer. People are moving and saying things, but it's as if they are speaking in a completely foreign language. There seems to be noise and haste and panic, but none of it really touches Grace. She stares at Murray as if he is a complete stranger, as if he is nothing and no-one. It's not a conscious decision. Nor is it a conscious decision to blink at Frankie in a bemused sort of way as hysterical words – loud but incomprehensible – are thrown straight into her face.

Only when Spencer stands up and turns to face them does Grace snap back into herself, and with comprehension comes an avalanche of things that hurt so badly that she thinks she might start screaming and never, never stop.

Spencer looks old and haggard and defeated. He turns towards Murray, and as he fumbles for the warrant card in his pocket he states, "Murray Stuart, I am arresting you for the murder of – "

And that's really the moment when the world finally breaks apart. For all of them.

- the end -

(At time of uploading there is one more story planned for this series.)