DISCLAIMER: We own nothing.

A/N: This was written in turns by Joodiff and Got Tea.

Hannah

by Joodiff and Got Tea

"You can't have a picnic without a blanket, Grace. That defeats the entire point!" Boyd's tone is mild, but his eyes have that growing hint of tenacity in them that tells her this could very quickly turn into a full-blown argument. Abandoning the basket on the kitchen counter, she turns to point out of the window.

"You can't have a picnic in the rain, either!"

"But it won't be raining by the time we get to the coast, will it?" he retorts, impatience every bit as clear as his cooped-up, frustrated energy. "It's just a passing shower."

"You really believe what the forecasters said?"

"No, I believe the evidence of my own eyes. It's already brightening up Hackney way."

"Why are you so keen on this idea?" Grace asks him, more than a little interested in the answer. If she didn't know him so well she'd be tempted to accept that it's one of those impulsive ideas that he sometimes gets into his head and stubbornly won't relinquish his grip on, but...

"I told you," he growls back, "we could both do with some fresh air and some exercise."

"Fresh air? It's New Year's Eve, Boyd. Fresh doesn't come into the equation. It's absolutely glacial out there!"

"So? We wrap up warm – it'll be fine."

He's insistent and determined, but she's every bit as stubborn as he is, and today she doesn't feel like giving in to him. At least, not without an explanation. A real explanation.

"Tell me," she demands, "or I'm not going."

It's the wrong thing to say, clearly. His eyes darken and his brows draw down as he glares at her, the fingers of one hand wrapping securely around the handle of the traditional picnic basket.

"No."

She stares at him for a long moment, gauging his mood. Obstinate and impatient as he is, she senses no belligerence in him, no aggression. He is simply... resolute. Locking horns with him won't achieve anything. No, if she wants to know what's at the core of his insistence, she needs to find a way past his formidable defences. She shrugs, as casual as she can possibly be. "All right."

That makes him frown. There's suspicion in his voice as he echoes, "'All right'...?"

"We'll stay here," she clarifies. "There's bound to be one of those feel-good films you love so much on..."

One thing he is not is stupid. The frown becomes a glower again. "Oh, very good, Grace. Clever."

"I rather thought so. If we're really lucky, it could be 'The Sound of Music'..."

"No," he says again, his tone suggesting he would rather endure a dozen other forms of torture. "Have a bloody heart, Grace."

"Then tell me."

"You won't like it..."

"Tell me anyway."

He stays where he is, steadily regarding her as he considers his options. She can see, quite clearly, the dilemma playing out in his eyes as he thinks. Can see the options turning themselves over and over in his mind as he weighs them, tries to effect a solution. Then something in him softens, just the tiniest little bit – she can see it happen. Oh, his resolve doesn't waver an inch, but to Grace the change, as small as it is, is perfectly clear.

"I can't," he tells her, regretfully.

"Why not?" she asks, tone softening just as his has done.

Boyd shrugs, even looks apologetic. "It… just wouldn't be right."

Grace frowns, unsure what to make of his words. He's still gazing down at her, eyes intense and focussed, and as she looks up into his face, curiosity nagging at her despite determined attempts to suppress it, he reaches out a hand, palm turned up, fingers outstretched. It's an invitation, of that she's absolutely certain. But an invitation to what, she has no idea.

"Please, Grace, all I'm asking is for you to trust me…"

It's a strategy that never fails. One that she really has no resistance to. Trust him? She always has, and she thinks she always will. There's no malice in Boyd, for all his quick fiery temper and his angry impatience with the world, and if she knows anything about him at all, it's that if he asks her to trust him, she should do exactly that. Suppressing her curiosity, she nods. "All right... but I'd better not regret it."

He smiles, clearly relieved, and it's that artless, almost boyish smile that melts her heart. Every single time. He takes hold of her hand, his grip sure and gentle. "You won't. It will be worth it, I promise."

She raises her eyebrows at him. "Now I really am worried..."

-oOo-

Despite his promises, it's a longer drive than she expects. Far longer, though, fortunately for her, Grace reflects as she observes the downpour that is still relentlessly battering the passing scenery with every mile they put behind them despite his promises to the contrary, Boyd elected to travel in the executive comfort of his Met issue Audi rather than in the stupidly impractical and ridiculously cramped confines of his little Austin-Healey Sprite.

With each new turn and change of direction he takes, she can't help attempting a continuous game of guessing where they might be headed, though she says nothing of it to him, instead maintaining the soft, intimate, but generally idle chatter they have adopted over the weeks and months of a relationship that has eventually morphed into more-or-less full-time cohabitation. They talk of everything, and nothing, and it's easy, effortless.

Still, when, after significantly more than an hour's steady driving they arrive at a deserted clifftop car park miles from anything even slightly resembling civilisation and it's still raining with considerable enthusiasm, she finds she really can't quite believe her eyes. Particularly when he guides the car into an empty spot, takes it out of gear and kills the engine.

For a few moments they merely sit quietly, Boyd apparently calm and thoughtful as he relaxes back in his seat, while Grace is simply too stunned to do or say anything. "We're here?" she eventually asks, not quite able to believe that they are sitting alone in the middle of precisely nowhere. At that moment, though, with truly wonderful timing, and just as he promised, the rain finally begins to abate. It's not a great improvement to the day in all honesty, not with the sky a dull depressing grey and the world beyond the car thoroughly cold and wet. What she can see of the sea looks equally uninviting. Also grey, also wet and cold. Rough, too, with white peaks just about visible on the waves.

"Yes," is all he says in reply. He's not looking at her, he's gazing out at the stretch of sea and sky ahead of them.

"And...?" she prompts.

"When I was a kid," he says, a hint of melancholy in his voice, "I loved coming here. My brother, he liked the seaside towns – you know, ice creams and cheap souvenirs – but I always preferred the quieter, wilder places. Places like this."

"Understandable." She gazes at him for a moment, trying to read his thoughts. "So much for the history lesson. You didn't drive all the way out here just to tell me that."

"No," he agrees. His mood seems to shift, become a touch less introspective. "It's New Year, Grace."

"Nearly," she agrees. "Come on, Boyd – spit it out. What are we doing here?"

He doesn't answer her, instead she watches as he stares out of the windscreen and into the varying shades of grey that characterise just about everything in both the day, and their surroundings. Maybe there's something out there, she doesn't know, but when she twists away from him and fixes her own gaze on the world around them, she sees nothing but unending solitude. Nothing but carpark, cliff edge and the vast expanse of stormy, tumultuous sea extending as far as her vision can stretch.

It's not a particularly beautiful view, but she thinks maybe she understands the attractiveness of the place to him. It's raw and wild – here the sea and the elements clearly dominate. There's precious little evidence of human intervention, nothing to disturb nature in its unpredictable existence. It's peaceful, too, in an untouched, abandoned kind of way.

Yes, Grace can see exactly why he likes it here. The mix of the rough, the angry, and the untamed tightly combined with the solitude, the peace – all are things found in his character, things that would quietly call to him, appeal to him. All are things she's become accustomed to seeing, knowing, though some more recently than others as she's learned the quieter, hidden sides of his nature. The impossibly gentle intimacy that they now share, the calm normality that characterises his home, his resting hours; the peace he seems to have achieved in the last couple of years.

Demons laid to rest, dealt with, or at least acknowledged and understood. They've both changed, and she knows it, wonders if the changes Boyd's found in her are as fascinating and compelling as the one's she's discovered in him.

Breaking her eyes away from the view, she returns her gaze to him, studying carefully, pondering a mix of the past and the present, who they are now and how they came to be that way. Still he says nothing, and eventually she simply offers a quiet prompt. "Peter…"

Slowly, almost carefully, his eyes leave their focus, fix instead on her. There's no preamble, no explanation, just five short words that seem to come from nowhere, and everywhere.

"Move in with me. Please."

Not what she was expecting. Then, she's not sure what she was expecting. Boyd to make some kind of admission or confession, maybe. Perhaps even to tell her that he's been thinking things over and... She blinks. "What?"

"Move in with me," he repeats. He looks a little surprised himself, but he presses on, "We're practically living together as it is, so why not make it official?"

"Official?"

He scowls. "You know what I mean. Don't be difficult."

"I'm not," Grace protests, "I'm just not sure you've really thought this through. What it would mean."

"A damn sight less to-ing and fro-ing across London for a bloody start."

"And what about professionally? Living together, Boyd – it's a big step. And not one that you can expect the Yard to turn a blind eye to."

He studies her for a moment, seemingly trying to gauge something, though what she's not entirely sure. His expression is difficult to read, and she's not certain what's going on in his mind, can't pick out anything that helps her see the direction this conversation is likely to take, though she's instinctively cautious, highly alert to the ease with which it could all go wrong.

"You know what, Grace? I don't care. Not anymore."

Clearly he really hasn't thought this through. The question is, though, how does she go about answering. He won't take kindly to an outright refusal, and he's not in the kind of mood that facilitates a serious, meaningful conversation. Too much impatience, too much – not exactly anger, but some other streak of negativity – has a grip on him. As she thought earlier, it's something belligerent and resolute that isn't going to yield easily to whatever she has to say.

"Boyd," she begins, tone neutral, as careful as she can make it. "We're skating on thin ice as it is, and your career –"

"– is not the most important thing in my world anymore."

There's definitely more to this – all of it – than she first thought, and Grace isn't sure that's a good thing. He's not looking at her, is staring moodily at the sea and the sky again, as if there are answers there somewhere, answers she can't see. Won't ever see, maybe. Instead of the obvious reply, she asks, "Why here?"

That makes him glance at her, if only briefly. "What?"

"You said you loved it here as a kid, but you didn't tell me why it was so important to come here to say... whatever it is you're trying to say."

"Trying to say?" He shakes his head. "I just said it, Grace. I want us to live together. Openly, before you start all that again. I don't give a damn what anyone else thinks."

"You're still not telling me why we're here. What it is about this place. What happened here, Boyd?"

"Happened?"

He's being deliberately obstructive, but she's starting to suspect that it's less to do with innate cussedness and more to do with... defensiveness. But what, she wonders, is he defending? What is he hiding? And why?

He's quiet for a long, long time, but, intent on giving him the space and time he clearly needs to explain himself, she simply remains quiet, patiently waiting.

"I never wanted to be a police officer," he says eventually, eyes firmly on the shifting clouds and the swell of waves as they roll heavily towards the shore, the tide angrily battering the cliff edge. "When I was a kid there was a girl next door – her name was Hannah. We were the same age, liked the same things, were completely inseparable, really, but our lives were so different. Her father was dead, her step-father violent and unpredictable; her mother loved her – adored her, even – but couldn't cope."

Grace can sense that this story will not have a happy ending, knows immediately that whatever he is about to tell her has had a profound impact on his character, on the course of his life. "You used to come here?" she asks, her voice as gentle as the sea is rough.

Boyd nods slowly. "All the time – she loved it. We both did. We were best friends, knew each other inside out. Shared everything, did everything together."

"But you were never lovers?" Grace guesses, instinctively certain that she is right.

"No, never." Boyd reaches out, traces a finger over the steering wheel, seemingly slipping back years in time, lost in his memories. "One summer – I was seventeen and had a motorbike – we were here, hiding from the world. If you climb down the cliffs a bit there's a broad, flat rock, and when the tide is right, you can dive into the sea – that's where we used to sit. But this time her step-father had followed us. He was convinced that we were up to no good…"

His voice trails away as his fingers clench around the wheel. Grace wants to reach out to him, to help him, but it seems like the wrong thing to do. Instead she asks, "What happened?"

"There was a fight. I nearly drowned, and Hannah died."

Worse than she expected to hear. He's determinedly not looking at her, and she finally thinks she understands. A least a little. He's a man who feels things – really feels them – and takes them to heart. His problems don't stem from too little emotion, but from too much. Yes, he is taciturn and often reserved, but beneath the surface… Yes, she's starting to understand. It's guilt that's brought them here today. Guilt and honesty. He expects to be judged, can't move forward into a new chapter with her until she knows… "How?"

He glances at her, his frown heavy. "What?"

"How did she die?"

"Oh." Silence. Then, "She drowned. Her step-father and I were tussling. He was a big guy, and I… wasn't. Not at seventeen. But I wasn't going to let him drag her back to London and God knows what punishment…" he pauses, clearly lost in time, reliving extraordinarily painful memories. "I couldn't hold him off for long. I was just a skinny kid, no match for a fully-grown man. He knocked me down and tried to grab hold of Hannah, but she was quick, Grace. She dodged him, but then she slipped. Lost her footing on the rock, and…" Another pause, loaded with hurt and regret. "It was two days before her body was found washed-up on a beach down the coast from here. Coroner said she'd hit her head, was unconscious when she went into the sea."

Swallowing hard, Grace asks, "And her step-father…?"

"Involuntary manslaughter. I was still a minor, but the DPP decided I could be called to give evidence at the trial."

"And did you?"

"Yes." Boyd's hands are tightly clenched now, stark white knuckles very telling of just how raw the memories still are, even so many years later. "I was so afraid for her, Grace. So very afraid. Michael was bad enough when he was sober and merely angry at the world, but when he wasn't he didn't care whether it was Hannah or her mother that he took it out on."

"What about you?" Grace can feel her stomach churning, knows there must still be more to the story.

"He broke my wrist and my jaw. I jumped in anyway, tried to save her. I tried my hardest, but I couldn't reach her. I couldn't even see her. Not a single glimpse once I was in the water – one of my eyes was swelling shut and I was barely conscious. I was swept up in the tide and dragged out to sea."

It's so like him. Always rushing to the rescue, to the defence of those he cares about. "What happened? Why are you still alive?"

He smiles, but it's a bitter smile. One full of the guilt and sadness of failure and loss. "A lifeboat out on a scheduled training expedition saw me and pulled me out. Sheer fluke."

That's him, too. That blind stupid luck that's saved him over and over again for as long as she can remember. Longer, even. Grace gazes at him for several long seconds, trying to picture the self-confessed lanky teenager he was, back in the 'sixties. Voice quiet, she says, "That's a terrible thing to have gone through at such a young age."

"Mm." Noncommittal. "It was a long time – a very long time – before I didn't spend every minute of every day wishing they hadn't pulled me out of the water onto their boat."

"Survivor's guilt," she says, before she can stop herself.

The look Boyd gives her is unreadable at best. "If you say so. This place, though… it reminds me of her. Of the good times as well as… that day. Sometimes when I can't sleep and things won't stop going through my mind, I'll even drive out here in the middle of the night and just sit up here looking at the stars."

"You said you weren't lovers," she probes, as gentle as she knows how, "but you did love her, didn't you?"

"Oh yes. In that very innocent, simple way we only seem to be able to manage when we're very young."

"Childhood sweethearts?"

"No," he corrects her, his tone surprising her with its sharpness. "It really wasn't like that. She was my best friend, the closest thing I ever had to a sister. We both went on a few dates with other people… but I don't think they understood the way we were together."

"And what happened… that's why you became a police officer?"

"Yes." His answer is simple, unembellished. Grace doesn't need him to tell her more though – she knows him, knows how his mind works, and from everything he's just told her, she can see exactly how that decision was made for him, exactly what he thought he was aiming to achieve when he went off to Hendon after finishing at school.

"So why are we here?" she queries softly.

His confusion is evident. "What?"

"You still haven't told me why here. And why today?"

His answer is delivered faster than she expects. "Here… is the past, Grace. But what interests me more now is the future. Our future. As for today… well, what better time to open a brand new chapter than at New Year?"

Pieces of the puzzle slide neatly together, forming an almost-complete picture. One that makes sense, but also leaves her… a touch fearful. Of his impulsivity, his tendency to change his mind on a whim. Realising that the silence is lengthening, she opts for a guarded, "I see."

"What's the matter?"

The question is blunt, a shade irritable. She shakes her head. "Nothing."

"Oh, please."

"I'm just surprised, that's all. I was under the impression that you were quite happy with the current… status quo."

"Status quo…" he echoes, a touch of something that looks a lot like hurt flaring in his eyes as he turns her words over, as if he is tasting them and finding the flavour bitter and unpalatable. Grace can see it immediately, and the urge to reassure him is a powerful one, but at the same time she wants to get to the bottom of this, needs to know exactly how serious he is. Before, she realises, she allows herself to be drawn into something that could very well result in bitter heartbreak. For both of them.

"Well," she begins, a little hesitant, a little cautious. "You've never shown any inclination towards changing what we have now – never said you wanted something different."

Quietly attentive, both curious and serious, he pauses for a moment, clearly thinking things through and trying to choose his words carefully, and, when he speaks, what he says sounds to Grace like the very blunt, very honest truth. "I've never stopped to think about it before, but these last few months…" He trails off again and stares at her, his gaze as intense as she's ever seen it as his eyes seem to try to convey to her just what this means to him. He reaches across to her, his fingers brushing across her temple and sliding through her hair – the lightest, softest caress.

Outside the car she can hear the wind, wild and squally as it batters the landscape. Somewhere overhead a gull caws loudly, to be answered moments later by others of its kind. The sky is darkening in places, thick, heavy-looking rainclouds drifting in and threatening to burst, while in gaps between them patches of lighter, brighter clouds meander along, throwing eerie shadows and shapes across a skyline that is tumultuous and unforgiving, yet simultaneously ruggedly beautiful. Inside the car that light highlights parts of him, and throws others into shadow – it's a fascinating mix of mystery and truth, intrigue and dawning understanding, and as the moment draws out, she becomes ever more aware of the significance of this place, of his story, of his commitment and desires. Before he can speak again, she knows what he's going to say, and she believes it, entirely, wholeheartedly.

"I meant what I said earlier, Grace," he continues, and there is strength in his tone now – strength that is so utterly characteristic, that carries such raw truth that she can do nothing but believe him when he repeats himself. "My career isn't the most important thing in my life, not anymore. You are."

She can't help but be a little awed by his vehemence, by his absolute conviction that what he wants them to do is the right thing. For them both. A man of wild extremes of mood and character, all of them intense, she knows that for him, this is a defining moment. One of those significant forks in the road of life where the choice made makes a huge impact on the future. She looks at the stormy, unsettled sky, at the wheeling herring gulls being buffeted by the wind.

"I nearly died here," Boyd says, quieter but no less emphatic. "Maybe part of me did die here. Whatever, it's an inextricable part of who and what I became. That's why we're here, Grace."

"I understand," she says, and she does. Or, at least, she understands enough. It's all about anvils and crucibles, and the furnaces in which they're forged. Accept the man for everything he is, was, or ever could be, or don't. He wants her with him, he's made that plain, but how much does she want to be with him? Enough to give up her home, her life, her independence? Enough to become half of a single whole?

But isn't she that already?

The answer she gives him is simple and heartfelt. She says, "Okay."

"'Okay'?" he echoes, one eyebrow beautifully, quizzically raised as he stares back at her. She nods, reinforcing her answer, but his confusion only seems to deepen. He repeats himself, the word trailing away into silence between them as his expression deepens, his confusion seems to grow. "Okay…"

He was expecting her to refuse, Grace realises. Expecting to have to fight, to mount a long, battle-worthy defence of his decision, of what it is they share between them and why he thinks they ought to move forward. It's a consequence of having spent so much of his life – both as a child and an adult – fighting for the things he believes in, for the things he wants. He's come to expect everything to be difficult, for everyone to resist him.

What he doesn't fully understand though, is that she's never really been able to refuse him, not in things that matter, things that are shared beliefs or interests, to their own benefit or that of others. She likes to argue with him, and she's always been prepared to fight her own battles or stand her ground when he's wrong, but in so many ways they are so complementary that refusing him is futile, to her own detriment even. Knowing that, and understanding the level of trust that exists between them and the reasons for that trust, Grace knows, is part of what has made them such a successful team. He might not understand why, but Boyd knows she will stand by him unless he is truly wrong, and she knows that he knows it, that he has her full and unconditional support.

Which makes it all the more confusing that he's doubting that bond, that connection between the two of them now. But then, she muses, that's one of the great contradictions of the man – so incredibly assured and confident in so many ways, and so vulnerable in others. The uncertainty is readily apparent in him as he continues to gaze at her, so much so that it tugs at her heart, gives her all the faith she needs.

She doesn't want to refuse him, not at all, and she knows it. He's offering her something she's wanted for a long, long time now – it might not be exactly how she imagined it, but that doesn't matter. With him it never could.

- the end -