This fic is part seven in the Communication Series, following Listening, which, coincidentally, was posted exactly a year ago today.

Many, many thanks to Joodiff for taking on the epic task of beta-ing this monster, and to Joodiff, missDuncan and Gemenied for pestering and encouraging me to actually finish it. It's been a long slog, admittedly, but an enjoyable one.

Please note: the first chapter is significantly abbreviated. The full version, for those who wish to read it, can be found on AO3.

And finally, many warm and happy birthday wishes to Gemenied - I hope it lives up to expectations. Hugs :) xx

Perspective

…

Part One

There are children in the park, playing in the chilly, clear air that is a welcome respite from the days of heavy rain that have characterised much of the last week or so. That rain was replaced by a smattering of snow two nights ago, and though it has since frozen there is still enough lying around to make snowballs and small snowmen. Laughter permeates the air, rising and falling as games are played and the long count for hide-and-seek begins, the warning sending small bodies scurrying for cover. He still remembers being part of it all; how the last few chances for daytime fun were seized with the wholehearted enthusiasm of unjaded youth before the school bell called them all back inside for weeks on end.

In general, as he's aged, he has become more inclined to think that school is the best place for them, corralling their rambunctious energy out his way as he goes about his job and daily life, but today, as he walks at a sedate but steady pace along the perimeter pathway, Boyd watches, his attention caught by their innocent, joyful play, his mood calm, content and almost entirely relaxed. There are flickers of negativity – mild panic and worry mostly – but on the whole he is almost at peace, lost in the moment.

Happy.

Beside him Grace is holding onto his arm, a warm, sunny smile on her face as she breathes in the cold winter air and watches the scene around them. She looks… alive. It's the best way he can think to describe her expression, the soft glow of colour that has slowly returned to her skin in the last few days, the way she moves with much more ease and surety than she has in a long time.

Rest and relaxation, he muses, have done her a power of good. She seems so much healthier, appears to have considerably more energy, too. It's been a wonderful few days. Lazily spending time together around the house as she recovered from the infection that saw her hospitalised again over Christmas. Watching her improve a little bit more every day as her appetite returned and she managed to eat more and more, building up strength and stamina to the point that this afternoon, when she stood by the door begging him to take a little walk around the park, the idea didn't automatically fill him with fear and dread.

She will need a nap when they get home, he's sure of it, but it will not last all afternoon, and she'll wake feeling mostly rested and refreshed. It's hard to reconcile the happy woman wandering along beside him now with the visions and memories he has of her so ill and weak just a matter of days ago.

He feels a slight increase in pressure on his arm, glances down and sees how she is leaning just a little more of her weight on him. "Need a break?" he asks quietly, spotting a clear, dry-looking bench a hundred yards or so ahead of them.

"Please," she murmurs, fingers squeezing his in gratitude. "Just a few minutes."

They walk in silence, and it is calm and companionable, even as their pace slows to closer to a meander than a gentle walk, but none of it bothers him in the slightest. It's simply so wonderful to see her outside and enjoying herself that for him, nothing can dampen the moment.

They pause, and she sits, slowly and carefully. He settles himself beside her, smiles when she leans into him and rests her head briefly on his shoulder in quiet gratitude for his understanding. Boyd takes her gloved hand in his, lacing their fingers. When she straightens up he turns to gaze at her, at the rosy hue in her cheeks the cold has brought, at the happiness in her eyes, the way the scarf wrapped around her head is slightly askew.

"What?" she asks, and he realises he's been sitting staring at her for longer than he thought.

Shaking his head, he leans down and brushes his lips gently over hers. "Nothing," he replies honestly, tucking an arm around her as they relax back on the bench, sighing happily as she rests against him again, her weight a comforting reassurance at his side.

"You sure?"

He relents as she rests a hand on his knee, and returns to watching the children playing. "You look good."

She starts a little in surprise, he can feel it. "Peter," she begins, but he interrupts her.

"No, hear me out. You do – you look so much better, so much more… alive… healthy…" He doesn't know how to finish what he's trying to tell her, but she seems to understand. Squeezes his fingers where their hands are joined in response.

"I feel a lot better," she finally tells him. "As if I'm really beginning to emerge on the other side of this nightmare."

Boyd knows exactly what she means. Feels the same way. Is actually looking forward to the appointment tomorrow morning that he hopes will finally confirm what they have fought for and been working towards for months now.

Remission.

It's only one word, but it is so, so significant. And it means so much to both of them. Represents their entire future.

There are footsteps approaching, and as Grace falls silent Boyd wants to growl at the person intruding on their private moment, but then a familiar voice asks, "Peter?"

He looks up, startled, for he knows that tone. Sees his brother standing there wrapped in a thick winter coat and a stripy blue and grey scarf that looks suspiciously new, as though it might perhaps have been gifted to him over the holidays by one of his children or grandchildren.

"Andrew," he replies, and though his voice is steady, his heart is suddenly pounding hard in his chest. "What on earth are you doing here?"

"Picking Billy up from a friend's house, but I arrived too early. Figured I'd take a walk instead of waiting in the car. May I?" The other man indicates the space on the bench beside Grace.

He wants to say no, wants to put this off for longer. Wants to keep the intimacy of their first gentle walk in the park just for themselves, but he can't.

Reluctantly, Boyd nods, but doesn't relinquish his hold on the woman resting back against him. He's angry, he realises, when the thudding rhythm beneath his ribcage doesn't ease. Angry and frustrated, but mostly nervous, and that… is not a nice feeling.

"Grace," he tells her, still outwardly calm, "this is my older brother, Andrew. Andrew, this is Grace, my partner."

As the words leave his lips it dawns on him that it's the first time he's consciously introduced her as such. It feels good. Feels right.

"It's nice to meet you," says Grace politely, as she holds out a hand to Andrew. "I've heard plenty about you, and your childhood escapades. It's good to put a face to the name."

Andrew looks amused, thinks Boyd, but also a touch curious.

"It's nice to meet you, too," he tells Grace. "I wish I could say the same, but my little brother is very guarded about his life these days."

Boyd bristles slightly, is about to bite back at the other man when he feels the reassuring weight of her palm against his as she presses against his hand with her own, soothing him.

"We both are," she tells Andrew quietly. "We work together, and our relationship would create… problems, if people knew about it. It's been much easier to keep it quiet, to have the time just for us. Particularly since I haven't been at all well – it's taken a lot of adjusting, and we needed that time."

So calm, Boyd observes. So easy and polite in her explanation, but so firm at the same time. No room for argument. He sees the same thoughts in his brother's face, and hides a smile.

"Of course," agrees Andrew. "How are you feeling now? Any better?"

"I'm getting stronger, but it's taking time."

"We're hoping to get the all clear soon," adds Boyd, holding his brother's gaze, pointedly telling him that the subject is off limits.

Andrew is astute, he always has been, and he gets the message. "Good luck," he replies easily. "I hope it goes well."

"Thank you," murmurs Grace. "So do I."

They spend a few more minutes chatting, sharing news of recent days – mainly the large and exuberant gathering of the majority of the Boyd clan on Christmas Day – and then Boyd tactfully brings it all to an end. She won't say anything, he knows, but Grace is beginning to shiver in his arms, and that's his cue to get her moving again, and then indoors as soon as possible.

They say their goodbyes, and then, as Andrew stands, Boyd carefully helps Grace to her feet, holding on to her to make sure she's stable and balanced. She smiles up at him, arm tucked through his, and though she seems to be taking some strength from him, she's steady and her smile is bright.

Andrew clasps his hand warmly. "Good to see you, mate," he says. "Call me later, when you have time." He leans down and kisses Grace on the cheek. "It's nice to have met you, Grace. When you're feeling better you two should both come over for dinner – we'll have a nice evening and it'll be a chance to get to know each other."

"Thank you," she says sincerely, "I'd like that."

"Well then, until next time." He nods to them both and strolls off.

Boyd watches his brother leave, an odd feeling in his chest.

"He seems very nice," Grace comments, smiling up at him. Boyd nods slowly, thoughtfully, as he looks down at her.

"I love you," he suddenly tells her, the words coming from nowhere as he draws her closer, hugging her warmly, tightly. It's an inexplicable moment, one he most definitely can't find the words for, but somehow, improbably, she seems to understand. Rests her head on his chest and winds her arms around his waist, relaxing against him. And it's perfect. Exactly what he needs.

…

He was hoping to have a quiet lunch in a little café somewhere, but she's a little too tired for that, so they head home and have a cheery conversation over sandwiches. Afterwards, Grace kisses him gently, and then heads upstairs for a nap. Watching her go, Boyd feels a tug of warmth in his chest, because although she definitely needs the snooze, she doesn't look as though she's on the brink of completely collapsing into slumber for hours and hours on end. Freyja, who has been sprawled on the back of the sofa batting the spiky strands of his hair for the last half an hour or so, rockets off the furniture and scrambles up the stairs after her, desperate for any chance to nap on the bed.

Wondering what to do, he heads for the kitchen with the empty plates, leaving them by the sink and refilling his glass of water. Looking out at the uninspiring scene of the winter ravaged garden, he realises he's smiling. It's hope, he recognises. Hope.

They are getting somewhere. She is getting somewhere, and that is… incredible.

Maybe this is really it. Maybe they are finally getting that stroke of luck they are so long overdue, and in need of. Maybe it's finally their time.

Closing his eyes he concentrates; lets his mind wander back over the last few days. Thinks of discovering the heat of her skin under his palms, her sighs and murmurs as he explored her body, the intense pleasure burning through his nerves as she did the same.

Behind him the tumble dryer beeps and then falls silent, its cycle over. Banal reality pulling him out of vivid daydreams.

Warm and fluffy bath towels, quickly folded, and a mountain of socks that for once can easily be matched without the need to fend off an obsessed kitten. Thinking of Freyja's unfortunate habit, he makes a detour to the living room and tugs the sofa away from the wall; there are seven odd socks there, and all of them are his. Why she thieves only his, he has no idea, but Grace is always highly amused by it.

Freyja's favourite toy mouse is there as well, and he wedges it into a notch in the coffee table leg for her to find later before returning to the kitchen to make a cup of coffee.

There's nothing pressing to do, and an afternoon of reading sounds like a nice idea. Coffee made, he takes the clean laundry upstairs and puts the towels in the airing cupboard; the socks stay in the basket. Moving quietly, he makes his way to the bedroom to collect his book, pausing just a couple of feet from the door to smile at the scene on the bed. Grace is fast asleep, curled on her side, and Freyja is tucked against her chest, head and one paw draped over Grace's arm. One feline eye opens and regards him sleepily, then closes again as just the very tip of her tail twitches lazily.

Boyd isn't really watching though; his gaze is lingering on the fascinating curves of his partner's legs and backside, interestingly clad as they are in soft, fitted trousers. If she weren't ill, he thinks, letting the rest of the sentence playout in a mixed storm of sensual colour, taste, sound, memory, hope and fantasy. How long he stands there, he doesn't know, but when Freyja stretches and yawns he slips out of his vision with a soft sigh.

The view may be great, he muses, but despite the house being well heated Grace will still get a chill if he doesn't do something. There's a light blanket folded over the bottom of the bed and he picks it up, letting the folds fall out before gently covering her and tucking in the edges. The sleepy feline emits a squeak of protest. "Sshh," he scolds, his voice barely a whisper. An imperious paw smacks the back of his hand, but the claws are still politely retracted so he merely lifts an eyebrow at the cat, who promptly rolls onto her other side, back to him.

Grace mumbles something unintelligible in her sleep, curling further in on herself and he freezes, holding his position leant over the bed until he's sure she isn't going to wake. She settles, breathing deep and even, and he bends a little further to brush the lightest of kisses against her temple before taking one last long, lingering look at her and then quickly and quietly collecting his book and leaving them both in peace.

…

The minutes bleed away into an hour, then another, the light disappearing around him, and though he gets up and draws the curtains, switching on the tall, slim corner lamp and its smaller cousin on the end table beside him, Boyd doesn't really register the passage of time, only the intriguing story in his book as he turns page after page, remaining comfortably ensconced in the big reclining armchair that's been his favourite since the first time he visited the house.

There's no sound that tips him off, no visible movement. It's just a feeling. A warm, comfortable prickle at the back of his neck and somewhere deep inside his chest. Marking his page with a finger, he looks up and over towards the doorway. Grace is there, leaning against the frame; a slim figure in a thick winter sweater, with spiky hair and intense blue eyes silently watching him.

"Hey, beautiful," he says, slipping the bookmark between the pages and putting the novel aside without looking away from her.

"Peter," she protests, but he shakes his head.

"Ah ah, I'm entitled to think what I want, remember?"

"I know, I know." The small, flattered smile that appears as she responds suits her, sparks a flare of something warm inside his chest.

He holds a palm out to her, and she makes her way over to him, steady on her feet and sure in her movement. It's gratifying to see. "Sleep well?" he queries, as she reaches him and takes his hand.

She has, he can tell. Can see it in the warm shade of her skin and the brightness in her eyes behind the lingering sleepiness. "Yes."

"Do you feel better now?"

"Yes, dear," she responds, and the hint of exasperation in her reply isn't quite hidden. He grins, and tugs her close enough so that he can lift her off her feet and into his lap.

"Much better," he declares, winding his arms around her and nuzzling her neck. Grace laughs, the sound almost musical in the air around them.

Tucking a lazy arm around his shoulders, she settles against him, fingers threading idly though his hair.

She smells nice, and there's still some of the lingering warmth from being asleep under the blanket in her clothes and her skin. "Do you like the book?" she asks, nodding to the end table beside them.

"Yes. You were right, as usual."

"I know you, Peter. I knew you'd enjoy it."

"That you do," he agrees, running his lips across the shell of her ear.

She sighs softly, relaxing against him.

"You were watching me," he says, playing with the hem of her sweater.

Grace nods easily, her expression open and honest. "I was," she confirms.

"Why?" He's curious, not demanding.

The fingers of her hand splay out slightly across his chest, over his heart. "I like to watch you when you're reading. You look fascinated, engrossed. And peaceful."

"Peaceful?"

She nods again. "It's true. You looked… at home. Like you belong here, and like you were happy to be here."

Boyd tilts his head, considers her. "I am happy to be here. I wouldn't want to not be here."

"I know," she replies, and somehow it's reassuring. "It's just that when I see you, you're normally with me, or doing something in connection with me. Just now you were doing something for yourself, and you looked content. It was…" she shrugs. "Nice."

He's not quite sure he understands, but he smiles at her anyway. It seems to mean something to her, and that's all he needs to know. "I'm very happy, Grace."

"I'm glad."

She rests her head against his shoulder, tucking herself into him and he tightens his arms around her, cradling her closer. It's strange, he reflects, how so much of their relationship seems to involve sitting together like this, holding one another. But then, he muses, considering the harsh limitations she's been subject to, it's hardly surprising. And though it feels odd when he thinks about it in the context of a normal relationship, he wouldn't change it for the world because there is a very peaceful kind of intimacy that he feels whenever they curl up like this, and that has been very much both wanted and needed by each of them.

They sit quietly for a little while, the silence in no way oppressive or unwanted. He could pick up his book again and read, even with her sitting in his lap, leaning dozily against his chest, but he doesn't want to. Is enjoying the warm comfort and companionship of the moment as it is.

Grace seems perfectly happy as well; is lazily playing with a loose thread of his tee-shirt and seemingly letting her thoughts roam. From what he can see, she's got that expression on her face anyway, the one that tells him she's lost in thought somewhere.

Where, he has no idea, though he suspects that it's probably somewhere interesting and complicated and very, very her. The curiosity builds, until he finally asks, "What are you thinking about?"

The lazy, warm answer surprises him.

"You."

"Me?"

"Yes, you."

Curious, he shifts slightly so that he can look down at her. "What about me?"

Grace leans back, but doesn't release her hold on him. In the low light of the lamps the shadows seem to cling to her, wrap around her, caress her. The blue in her eyes seems darker, the lightness stolen away, and her gaze is fixed on him though he can't quite tell what's going on in her mind as he sits and stares back at her, caught up in a strange, unfamiliar moment that seems to lengthen and stretch around them.

She doesn't answer his question, at least not verbally. Instead she lifts her hand and rests her palm against his cheek, fingers tender against his skin as she leans in and finds his lips with her own. Her kiss is effortlessly soft, almost a whisper against him and Boyd feels his eyes slide shut, feels near-blinded by the stunning sensuality of it.

"Grace..." he whispers when they eventually pull apart to breathe. He doesn't know what he's asking, only that he's asking something. It doesn't matter though, because she says nothing. Her only response is to kiss him again, and that's absolutely fine by him.

Their lips linger together, a hazy mix of tenderness and the effortless exploration of the limits and boundaries imposed by illness and uncertainty that are rapidly crumbling to dust. This time when they part he's feeling more than a little dazed, and if her expression is anything to go by, so is she.

There is hesitation in her eyes as she looks up at him though, hesitation, and a touch of shyness. One hand slowly stroking through his hair, she asks a halting, "Take me to bed, Peter?"

He understands immediately why she's hesitant, and it tugs at his heartstrings even as he feels a thrill rush through him at the thought of where they might, just might, be heading.

Over the last couple of days they have tried, but… it just hasn't worked. A mix of tension and anxiety, worry and concern. A big disappointment to them both, he knows, and after the first time the added pressure to try and make it work seems to have conspired against them.

It's been so long in the making this moment, not just the months of illness and their strengthening relationship, but the years of friendship and battles and working side by side, day after day.

The thought of it going wrong again… Of what that might mean for the future…

"If it doesn't happen," she tells him, caressing his cheek with infinite care, "it doesn't happen. But I want to try again, if you do, too."

It's easy to keep her tucked against his chest as he stands up, to smile down at her and share another lingering, emotive kiss with her before he strides towards the door and the stairs.

They have waited so long for this, have been through so much, and the added anxiety of finally reaching the point they've both been waiting for, of wanting it to be good…

Patience, Boyd tells himself firmly. Concentrate on the now, not where it's going and what might or might not happen. Just enjoy whatever takes place – don't think about what is supposed to happen.

...

Gloomy grey light wakes him the next morning, and as he stirs, stretching slowly beneath the quilt, blinking sleepily into awareness, Boyd finds he is still filled with the warmth of the previous evening's memories. He remembers how Grace dozed in his arms, their bodies still entangled, of how they shared a lazy bath, and an even lazier dinner, all the while with barely any words between them to shatter the lingering glow of happiness.

That sense of peace lasted until long after they went to bed and he lay awake, listening to the gentle rhythm of her breathing, feeling the steadiness of her heart under his palm as he curled around her, unwilling to let go.

Even now, it feels… as though an axis has shifted. As though a monumental hurdle has been cleared, with the results far more glorious that he ever imagined. Oh, he's been in love with her for a long time, that he freely admits to himself, but somehow, in the darkness and the chaos and the uncertainty of recent months, he's lost track of what he really thought it would be like. Maybe it's the anticipation and the long wait, he doesn't know, but though the sex itself was good, it's the emotional reaction that has floored him so much.

Maybe he's been so jaded for so long, or maybe he's simply mellowing with age, but what he saw in her last night, what she made him feel…

There are no words for it, Boyd decides. No words at all.

She's fast asleep beside him still, curled on her side with a hand resting in the gap between them, palm flat against the mattress. It's a beautiful sight, and he doesn't want to wake her, but today is the day they have both been waiting for, and he must.

Sliding down the bed so that their faces are level, he reaches out and brushes the tip of his index finger over the back of her hand, trailing gently down over her fingers, stroking delicately.

"Grace?" he murmurs softly. "Grace…"

She sighs and mumbles something incoherent, but otherwise doesn't so much as twitch. He has to smile – can't really prevent the curve of his lips from appearing, not when the warmth from last night is still singing in his veins and she seems more gorgeous to him than ever before. Stroking her fingers again, he tries a second time.

"Grace… it's time to wake up…"

She mumbles again, but it's still just as indistinct as before, so he resorts to something he's wanted to try for a long, long time now and slides closer until he can brush his lips against hers, kissing her into wakefulness.

She blinks at him, and stares. Reality and realisation dawn on her; he can see exactly as she remembers. She doesn't say a word, but she doesn't need to. He can read it all in her face, her eyes, and he understands. He understands perfectly.

"I know," he whispers, and says nothing more because those are all the words that they need to share.

Her eyes change as she registers what day it is, and he watches the fear creep in, rooting deep into that dark blue.

"It'll be okay," he tells her, lifting her hand to kiss her fingers. "I'll be with you, every step of the way."