DISCLAIMER: I own nothing
A/N: This fic is the result of a quick challenge between Scription Addict and myself. Enjoy! :)
Truce
by Joodiff
Grace blinks. Surprise, amusement and concern vie for supremacy as she echoes, "Lalique?"
"Lalique," Spencer confirms, deadpan. A huge grin breaks through his studied composure. "Christ, you should have seen it, Grace. There's gotta be well over fifty grand's worth of Colombia's finest laid out on the coffee table, that yappy puppy of hers is going absolutely bloody demented and there's people panicking and scattering in all directions. It's absolute bedlam. Boyd wades in shouting his head off – so she grabs a great lump of glass off the mantelpiece and chucks it straight at him."
"Why on earth didn't he duck?"
"He did. That's why it actually hit him. Turns out she's not the greatest shot in the world. Good thing he's got such a thick skull, eh?"
"I'm sure I don't know what you're implying," Grace tells him solemnly, but she knows he'll see the amused twinkle in her eye. She shakes her head. "Poor Boyd. He's really not having a good day, is he?"
There's a touch of malice in the way Spencer is smirking. "You can't say it's not stylish. Lalique, Grace – c'mon."
"I'm sure he's absolutely delighted she didn't throw something cheap and nasty at him."
"Something to bear in mind next time you feel the urge."
"I don't know what you mean, Spence."
"'Course not." His grin fades. "So, you gonna drag him off to A and E, then? Joking aside, he took a fair crack."
"I assume that means you've already tried – and failed?"
"Yup."
She sighs. It's already been a very long day. "Where is he…?"
-oOo-
Feminine wiles were never going to be enough, Grace reflects as she eyes Boyd uneasily, wondering if she could actually stop him if he made a determined bid for freedom. Feminine wiles be damned – it took a lot of shouting to get him into the car, and even more to get him out of it again when they reached the hospital. The result, unsurprisingly, is a deeply surly companion who's barely prepared to spare her two words as they wait not-so-patiently for his name to be called. The highly stressful day isn't getting any better for either of them as it begins to draw to an end.
"It could be worse," she suggests, arranging her bag more comfortably on her lap.
Boyd turns his head to glare at her. There's a wide, bloody gash marring his temple and his pale blue shirt is never going to be quite the same again. Later – much later – Grace thinks she might remove it for him. Slowly. Which will doubtless improve his sullen mood immeasurably. For now, though, he continues to glare as he demands, "How?"
"You made an arrest," she points out, "and not even her fancy solicitor's going to be able to weasel out of an assault charge."
"That makes me feel so much better."
"At least she had the good taste to choose something antique and extremely expensive to throw at you, Boyd."
"You're really not helping, you know."
Grace has the decency to hide her smirk. Both of them look round as a male nurse finally calls, "Peter Boyd…?"
-oOo-
The atmosphere in the car is frosty. Extremely so. Grace refuses to look at her passenger as she says, "'Pete'."
He clearly doesn't miss the snide note in her voice because he mutters something under his breath before growling, "I thought we weren't going to discuss this?"
"There was a moment back there when I honestly thought she was going to sit on your lap."
"Oh, for God's sake…"
"Pete."
"Christ, I haven't seen the woman for more than thirty years."
"Exactly," she declares, a little too loudly. "You didn't have to flirt quite so enthusiastically with her."
"I wasn't – "
"You were. You know damn well you were."
Silence. She risks a quick sideways glance. More silence, deafening in its intensity. It takes him a long time, but eventually Boyd shrugs. "So? She's an old flame."
"I would never have guessed."
"Put your claws away, Grace; I'm not in the mood."
She's tempted to stop the car and order him to get out. She doesn't. For a start he probably won't obey, and she's irritated enough with him to actually want the oncoming argument. They fight more than is good for them, but sometimes it seems to be the only reliable method of communication they have. She tightens her grip on the steering wheel, sets her jaw. It looks as if the long day could be followed by a very long night.
-oOo-
"Here," she says, the ungraciousness quite deliberate. "Doctor Parkinson said you should take two of these before bed."
Boyd glares at the tablets in her outstretched hand as if she is offering him some kind of exotic poison. "Don't need 'em."
"Fine. Suffer, then."
"You're being incredibly childish; you know that, don't you?"
She regards him with haughty disdain. "You should try that social networking thing Stella's always going on about. There must be hundreds of your exes that you could get back in contact with."
He snorts. "Yeah, thousands, Grace. Tens of thousands. Social-fucking-networking? Give me a break."
"You should try it, then you wouldn't have to waste your time dragging yourself over here whenever you're bored."
"That's beneath you."
It is. Grace knows it is, but she's angry enough not to care. "Think about it, Boyd. All those poor deluded women on tap – "
He stands up – not a good sign – and pinions her with an implacable gaze. "You really want to fight about a woman I dated thirty years ago?"
"No," she snaps at him, "I want to fight about a woman you were all over just an hour ago."
"For fuck's sake… I didn't know she was going to be there, did I? You insisted on taking me to the damned hospital."
"Because for some unfathomable reason I care about what happens to you whenever you get hurt."
He drops his head a fraction, some of the tension leaving his stance. "Grace… Oh, Grace. We can't keep doing this. If you can't – "
She doesn't want to hear the expected condemnation. "This isn't about me, Boyd, it's about you."
Boyd's tone changes, takes on a melancholy edge. "You're wrong. This is about you still refusing to accept that I could possibly be here with you just because I want to be."
He can be uncannily perceptive sometimes. And always at the wrong times, it often seems to Grace. She turns away, not wanting to be mollified or charmed by the sudden gentling of his mood, the uncharacteristic shift from bristling aggression to quiet empathy. "You were flirting with her, Boyd. Right there in front of me."
She hears his heavy sigh. "Oh, I know. I'm sorry. I just… It's just… I liked her, Grace. I really liked her, back in the day. Turned out she didn't like me quite as much."
Reluctantly, she asks, "So what happened?"
He snorts again, just as disparagingly. "She threw me over for a two-hundred and fifty pound rugby-playing med student called Marcus."
"Stupid name."
"Marcus St. John Something-hyphen-Something. He's probably a top consultant by now."
"Probably." A grudging assent.
His hands fall onto her shoulders, his grip gentle but deceptively firm. Simultaneously possessive and placatory. Close to her ear his low voice says, "I've had a shit day, Grace, and now I've got the headache from hell. Truce?"
She loves him. God help her, she loves him. Far too much, she's starting to suspect. They squabble and they fight, they make up and then the inevitable bickering starts all over again. They're simply too close, that's the reluctant conclusion Grace is beginning to draw. So little time apart, no real time to think things through properly and shake off all the petty annoyances that build into a relentless, dangerous friction. They shouldn't be sharing so much of their lives. Work together or love together; either, not both. One day words won't be enough. Or they'll be far too much.
She can't say it. Can't risk turning the frightening spectres into something with substance. Something that will save them from each other by breaking them apart. She doesn't want to let go. Nor does Boyd, she's sure of that. She can see it in his eyes sometimes, the ridiculous belief that continuing to hurt each other a little more day by inexorable day is somehow less painful than stoically redrawing the deep line in the sand that used to exist between them.
Grace turns to face him, not surprised when his hands move down to rest on her hips. The dark eyes are intense, intelligent, and yet they hold all the stubborn denial she expects. Boyd is even less likely to admit the destructive truth than she is. Without conscious direction her fingers seek the buttons of his blood-stained shirt. He doesn't say a single word as she slowly unfastens each and every one.
She eases the fabric from his shoulders, lets his shirt fall away as she places the lightest of kisses on his chest. Her voice isn't much more than an unhappy whisper as she agrees, "Truce."
- the end -
Scription Addict & Joodiff's Challenge:
WtD, B/G, pre S9. Max. 1500 words.
Must contain an antique ornament, a puppy, an old flame of Boyd's, social networking and Boyd either shirtless or losing his shirt. :D