Disclaimer: I don't own 'Waking the Dead' or any of its characters, the BBC has that honour – I'm just taking them out to play for a bit. The lyrics for 'You owe me nothing in return' belong to Alanis Morissette.

Pairing: Boyd/Grace...Sort of!

Content: AU, Angst. Majorly so.

Rating: T

Spoilers: S9, 'Waterloo'.

A/N: This is a post-'Waterloo' song fic that burst into my head whilst watching a brilliant fan video on YouTube by Ferngullybaby (gully88 on here)– it's a beautiful Boyd/Grace tribute and it uses Alanis Morissette's song, 'You owe me nothing in return' really effectively. The lyrics, for me, sum up how Grace feels about Boyd and the song was just crying out for fic….Be warned, though: this is not a happy story! Hope you enjoy it anyway ;) x

The darkness is intoxicating and addictive. I sit alone on the floor of my living room, my back against the arm of the sofa, my knees bent almost to my chest; I simply haven't got the strength to rouse my exhausted, anguished body from its current position and I gave up trying hours ago. The wine is aromatic and red; the colour of fire...of lust…of blood. It is rich and thick, almost cloying as it coats the lining of my throat, its smooth acidity seeping through my chest and I blink slowly as I realise I am three swallows away from having consumed an entire bottle. Christ, and I don't even care. The anaesthetic haze is comforting somehow, dulling my senses to the point of paralysis and I'm grateful for the relief from my perpetual ache, however temporary. I sigh heavily into the oppressive silence. I never thought it would end this way. Nine years of grating my will against his. Nine years of constantly putting him first. Nine years of sublimating each and every one of my needs. And this is how it ends.

I'll give you countless amounts of outright acceptance if you want it.
I will give you encouragement to choose the path that you want if you need it.
You can speak of anger and doubts, your fears and freak-outs and I'll hold it.
You can share your so-called shame filled accounts of times in your life and I won't judge it.

And there are no strings attached…

If I'm brutally honest, I can't blame him for any of it. I've done it all to myself and part of me has actually enjoyed the martyrdom, the self-denial. I always knew from the beginning how things would be, and while the darkest corner of my heart longed for change, my better judgement was infinitely wiser. It isn't his fault that he was oblivious to my feelings and I never expected anything different, despite the destructive demon of hope whispering constantly in my ear like a siren.

You owe me nothing for giving the love that I give.
You owe me nothing for caring the way that I have.
I give you thanks for receiving, it's my privilege,
And you owe me nothing in return.

I take another draw from my wine glass, forcing down the wave of nausea that immediately hits my stomach. The fall this time has been unbearable. After everything we'd been through in the past few weeks, after the look in his eyes, the feel of his hand beneath Waterloo Bridge, I had allowed the tiny ember of longing to flicker brighter until it was almost aflame in my soul; God, what a bloody fool I was.

You can ask for space for yourself and only yourself, and I'll grant it.
You can ask for freedom as well or time to travel and you'll have it.
You can ask to live by yourself or love someone else and I'll support it.
You can ask for anything you want, anything at all and I'll understand it.

And there are no strings attached…

I resolutely choke down the sob that is threatening to strangle me as I recall the last time we saw each other. I had entered his office as he was packing his belongings into boxes, my heart swollen with anticipation as he looked up and smiled, the conversation flowing like water before eventually evaporating into bitter disappointment…

...

"So, come on, Boyd," I said lightly, our collective mood buoyant after several minutes of gentle teasing on his haphazard style of packing. "What are your plans, then? Somehow I can't see you upping sticks and retiring to the sun."

Peter Boyd laughed loudly, settling his form against the edge of his desk and folding his arms across the breadth of his chest. "Not bloody likely, no."

"What, then?"

He looked across the expanse of the room at me and I felt the breath leave my body in a rush beneath the weight of his scrutiny. "I don't know," he said eventually. "It depends, really."

I raised an eyebrow, the sobering tone to his voice causing an odd constriction across my chest . "On?"

He exhaled loudly. "It's not a work thing, Grace."

"I wasn't necessarily talking about work."

He held my gaze for a long moment and I was intensely aware he had caught the serious undertone to my words, the chestnut of his eyes deepening before he looked away and sighed once more, the breath rattling through his lungs. I could feel a frown beginning to form unbidden on my forehead, a sudden, acidic knot tightening urgently in my stomach.

"What is it, Boyd?" I asked quietly, the seconds lengthening uncomfortably at his lack of elaboration.

He ran a hand roughly through the silver threads of his hair. "There's a…possibility that I'll move out of London."

I swallowed hard, an unavoidably unpleasant notion beginning to snake into my consciousness, and I fought to maintain an even tone. "Oh?"

"Yeah, I…."

A noise from behind me startled my attention away from him then, interrupting his sentence, and I turned quickly, feeling my heart splinter as realisation flooded every synapse of my consciousness. The woman standing awkwardly in the half-light gave me a tentative smile; she was tall and slender, probably early forties, her dark hair styled elegantly about her collar bones, and I felt suddenly, excruciatingly old and irrelevant, embarrassment threatening to consume me in its ravaging heat. She slipped past me fluidly to move towards Boyd, his features slackening with obvious relief at her arrival.

"Grace, this is Helen; she's…."

Mercifully the woman stepped forward to proffer her hand, sparing him the faltering task of introducing her role, her smile brilliant as I took her fingers lightly in mine.

"I'm so glad to finally meet you, Grace. I've heard so much about you."

My body felt acutely sluggish but I forced my aching muscles into an approximation of a smile and raised my eyebrows towards Boyd. "Really?"

Helen was quick to reassure me. "All good things, of course. I don't think Peter knows how to say anything bad about you."

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes, every effort focussed on maintaining a casual expression. "I'm sure that's not true."

"No, really, he's…."

Boyd groaned loudly in interruption. "Don't waste your breath, Helen; Grace has known me long enough to know I'm about as far from sainthood as it's possible to be."

I looked at him for a long moment, our eyes locking steadily before I blinked away, determined for him not to see the anguish I knew was raking itself across my irises. "Well…it's lovely to meet you, Helen. I'll let you both get on."

With that, I hurried from the room, my vision blurring with the tears I was so desperately trying to hold at bay, my stomach a hard ball of stricken despondency, of potent and overwhelming despair, of intense self-loathing. I was surprised to hear his footfall behind me mere moments later and I was unable to prevent myself from halting in my tracks as he gently called my name.

"Did I do something wrong?" he asked softly as he closed the gap between us. "You couldn't get away fast enough…."

I took a sharp breath, turning slowly to face him, aware that my mask was beginning to slip despite my ferocious and exhausting efforts to the contrary. "I need to get home…."

He exhaled noisily with frustration. "Come off it; what's the problem?"

"….and you obviously have plans…."

"Grace…."

I sighed shakily, the words forming on my lips before I could stop them. "How long, Boyd?"

He looked suitably chagrined. "Six, seven months. I was going to tell you…."

I held up a palm. "It's got nothing to do with me."

"…but there never seemed to be a moment."

"It's fine. You don't owe me anything, Boyd."

He looked at me unwaveringly, the intensity radiating from his body clattering against the cloak of my sorrow, intertwining with my grief. "I think we both know that isn't true."

I took a shuddering breath, astounded by his perceptiveness, but I shook my head, surrendering to the self-preserving instinct to escape his presence. "Look…you should get back. I don't want to keep you."

"For God's sake…."

"I'll see you when I see you; alright?"

I turned abruptly, forcing my aching legs to carry me away from him, his predictable, irritable sigh resonating through the air as he stalked darkly back towards his office and I all but ran from the building, somehow managing to hold myself together before howling my utter devastation into the still, private domain of my car…

...

I blink back to the present, wiping my eyes roughly and allowing my head to drop back against the sofa arm. How could I have been so blind? In retrospect and for the most part he's seemed more at peace in recent months than he has in years and I feel a searing anger burning through my veins at the extent of my own pathetic naivety. Of course the change in him couldn't have been down to me; why the hell would it have been?

I bet you're wondering when the next payback shoe will eventually drop.
I bet you're wondering when my conditional police will force you to cough up.
I bet you're wondering how far you have now danced your way back into debt.
This is the only kind of love as I understand it that there really is.

It pains me to the core but the truth is that there were never any conditions attached where he was concerned. I'm sure he always wondered when I would call it in, when I would expect something back from him…but I never have. On either count. It was never about reciprocation. It was only ever about being his safety net, the anchor in his tempest, the solid ground beneath his feet. The fact that in the process I abandoned myself and my own desires is irrelevant. The knowledge that I've helped to keep him from drowning is enough. Or should be. Only it's not. And I'm deluding myself if I thought it ever was.

You can express your deepest of truths even if it means I'll lose you and I'll hear it.
You can fall into the abyss on your way to your bliss, I'll empathise with.
You can say that you have to skip town to chase your passion and I'll hear it.
You can even hit rock bottom, have a mid-life crisis and I'll hold it.

And there are no strings attached...

The wine is aromatic and red; the colour of fire...of lust…of blood. If there's any kind of mercy, then I'll be spared another sleepless night filled with recrimination and regret; another sleepless night where I agonise exquisitely over how much my sacrifice has cost me. But there isn't. And I won't be.

I give you thanks for receiving, it's my privilege,
And you owe me nothing in return.

FIN