Enough is Enough is Enough
(Title in honour of the late great Donna Summer, one of the many sounds of my youth. RIP.)
Rating – T for language
Pairing – Boyd and Grace
Disclaimer – I own nothing
Plot – Post Pieta, Pre Magdaleine 26, 10 Weeks since Luke died and Boyd is not dealing with his grief.
Grace turned the key in the lock and walked into the hallway, she could immediately see the lounge was still in darkness, just as it had been when she'd left for work. It had been 10 weeks now, not a long time really, but she was getting a little exhausted by the lack of progress he was making. She couldn't even begin to imagine what he was going through, but he was still refusing any form of help, from her or anyone else. If it wasn't for the fact that she loved him so much, she may well have given up on him by now, but then again, she knew she would never give up on him.
She opened the door to the lounge and could hear him gently snoring, she'd been at work for the last ten hours, and for all she knew he could have slept the entire day, somehow she doubted it though, the almost empty bottle of whiskey that sat on the side was a clue to what his day had consisted of.
"Peter?" No response, "Peter?" She called a little louder.
"Hmm, what, what is it?" His voice was deep and sleepy.
"Are you okay?" She asked walking past him and pulling back the curtains, allowing the late evening sun to fill the room, causing him to shield his eyes.
"For fucks sake Grace, what did you do that for?"
"Because I'd actually like to see the inside of our lounge, it's been that long since the curtains were pulled back I've almost forgotten what colour the walls are."
"Yeah, well I've got a bloody headache, so could you pull them back."
She picked up the whiskey bottle and shook it in front of his face, "I wonder what's given you a headache?" She said sarcastically.
"Oh don't start; I am really not in the mood for a fucking lecture."
"I'm not lecturing you; I just think that perhaps you should cut down on the alcohol a little, maybe it would help."
"You know what Grace; it's the only thing that does help." Boyd took the bottle and glass and walked past her, up the stairs, heading to their bedroom, she knew she wouldn't see him again until she went upstairs to him, he'd spend the rest of the evening drinking until he fell asleep.
She waited a short time before heading upstairs to try and speak to him, by that time he was asleep again, the empty glass still in his hand. She sat on the edge of the bed and looked at him, the man she loved with every ounce of her being, the man she couldn't walk away from, no matter how bad things got.
She had to believe that he would pull himself up again, and become the man he was, the man she knew deep down that he still was. His once neatly cropped hair and goatee had turned into an unkempt and overgrown mess; he looked more like a down and out than a high ranking detective. His smart suits and highly polished shoes had given way to tracksuit trousers, t-shirt and bare feet, if he was going out he'd put on some trainers, but that was usually only if he'd run out of alcohol to drink. He was in a very dark place, and the time for patience and understanding had passed, it was now time to try and take a much harder approach.
It wasn't that she didn't understand how difficult it was for him, he'd lost his son, of course it was difficult for him, nigh on impossible, but he needed to grieve, and at the moment he wasn't grieving, he was running away, hiding his head in the sand, or more precisely in the whiskey bottle, and if she didn't start to take control of the situation, then it would only get worse, it could only get worse.
"Mmm, get off." He murmured in his sleep as she gently swept his hair away from his eyes.
"Peter, wake up, we need to talk."
"Go away Grace, I need some sleep."
"You've done nothing but sleep for the last couple of months."
"Yeah well, I'm very tired, so piss off."
"No Peter, not this time, wake up please." Grace stood up and put the light on in the bedroom, again causing him to shield his eyes, this time by pulling a pillow over his face. "Here I've made you a black coffee."
"Well put a whiskey in it and I'll drink it."
"The whiskey's gone, I've poured it away." He instantly sat up and looked by the side of the bed for the bottle.
"What have you done, where's my bottle?"
"It's gone, and we don't have any more. You need to stop drinking; I need you to stop drinking."
"I don't give a shit what you need, if I want a drink I'll have one."
"The whiskey's gone and we don't have any more in the house, I've made sure of that."
"Yeah well I'll just go to the shop and get another bottle, so it's not a problem."
"You are ill, can't you see that, you need to stop this."
"Oh I need to stop it do I, stop what exactly Grace, stop grieving for my…"
"That's just it isn't it? You're not grieving, you're running away from your grief, you're terrified of admitting how you feel."
"Oh is that right, you want to know how I feel do you?"
"Yes I want to know how you feel, cos you sure as hell haven't told me so far."
"Yeah well right now I feel like a drink."
"You can't keep doing this, you need help."
"No, I told you, what I need is a drink." He got up from the bed and grabbed his shoes, he was still wearing the tracksuit trousers and t-shirt, he hadn't bothered to undress when he'd gone to sleep. As he headed down the stairs Grace followed closely behind him. She managed to get in front of him as he got into the hallway, and stood in front of the front door.
"I'm sorry Peter, it's time for some tough love, the front door is locked, and I've hidden the key, so you can't get out."
"Fine, I'll put a chair through the fucking window."
"If you do that, if you are so desperate for a drink that you would do that, then I don't think I want you back."
"Oh nice, you know how to kick a man when he's down don't you."
"I'm not kicking you when you're down; I'm offering you a hand up."
"Bollocks! Now get out of the way Grace, cos one way or another I am going through that door."
"I mean it Peter, if you walk out; you're walking out on us. Is that what you want? Are we over?"
"You know damn well it isn't what I want."
"Really? You could have fooled me, do you know I can't even remember the last time we slept in the same bed."
"Oh right, so it comes down to sex does it? Is that what this is about, if all you wanted was a fuck you should have just said so, I'm sure I could close my eyes and think of England for you." He walked forward and pushed her against the wall. "Is this what you want Grace." He jostled her back against the wall and put one hand against her throat, not aggressively, but firmly enough that she knew it was there, the other hand started to undo her trousers, whilst his mouth started to roughly kiss her neck.
"Peter stop it, this isn't funny."
"I'm not trying to be funny, you said you wanted sex, so I'm just giving you what you want, and let's be fair, it's not the first time we've done it in the hallway."
"Get off me please, Peter you're scaring me, stop it."
He stopped and pulled away, turning towards the front door and trying to open it. "Where's the key Grace?"
"I'm not giving you the key." She again stood in front of the door to block his way. "Stay, please?"
"I need a fucking drink." He pushed her against the door and then pushed her aside, not intending to hurt her, just meaning to move her out of the way. He clearly didn't know his own strength, and in the struggle knocked her to the floor causing her to hit her head on the hall table. Instantly filled with remorse, he rushed to her side and tried to help her up. "Are you okay?" He said trying to help her up.
"Just go Peter; I think you've made your choice." She got up and threw the front door key at him, and then went upstairs to the bathroom, in the mirror she could see a small cut on her forehead, nothing that required stitches, but it was quite visible. She began to dab it with some cotton wool, cleaning the wound, when she heard him open the bathroom door.
"Are you okay?" He asked, his voice barely a whisper.
"I thought you were going to get a drink." In the reflection she could see him lower his head in shame.
"I'm sorry."
"Are you?"
"Yes I am."
"What is it your sorry for? Pushing me over, drinking yourself into a stupor every night, getting so drunk that you can't even stand up, sleeping on the sofa night after night, or something entirely different."
"I'm just sorry, okay." She saw him turn and walk away, sloping off to lick his wounds no doubt, before he gave into temptation and sunk himself into another bottle of whiskey.
When she eventually went back down stairs she found him sat on the floor in the kitchen of their home, the lights off and his head in his hands. "Are you okay?" She asked tentatively.
"Yeah I'm fucking fabulous." He replied sarcastically.
"You know what I mean."
"No Grace, for once I have no idea what you mean."
"I just meant are you okay now, I know that you're not…..oh for goodness sake, why am I even bothering?"
"I don't know, I thought you'd have given up on me weeks ago."
"Is that what you want, do you want me to give up on you, will it make it easier for you to sink yourself into a bottle, into a permanent drunken state if I walk away from you?"
"I don't know what I want."
"Does that mean you're not sure about us?"
"No, for god's sake, this isn't about us, you know damn well that this isn't about us. Why do you have to keep pushing me, eh? Why do you have to keep on and on? What the hell is it you want from me Grace?"
"I want you to stop pushing me away, I want you to stop trying to destroy everything and everyone around you, including us. I love you, and I am not going to sit by and watch you self-destruct."
"What about what I want?"
"You've just admitted that you don't know what you want." She walked over to him and sat down on the floor, at a ninety degree angle to him, she gently placed her hand over his. "Luke's gone Peter, and you need to admit to yourself that you loved him and that you miss him. It's okay to fall apart and to grieve, but at the moment you're not doing that, you're getting paralytic so that you can block out the pain, and in the process all you're doing is hurting yourself, prolonging the pain, because when you decide to sober up it will still hurt as much as it did the day he died. "
"He was my son, my only son, and I don't know how to grieve for him. It's wrong, you shouldn't have to grieve for your child, it's not right. When you bring this little baby in to the world no one tells you that one day you'll have to bury him, it's not right, and I can't do it."
"You can, I'll help you, but you can't hide in a bottle forever more."
"It hurts too much Grace, when I'm sober, the whole world goes black and all I want to do is….."
"What? What do you want to do?"
"I want to die; it feels so bad, so black that I want to die."
Grace couldn't hide the shock she felt at his revelation, not on her face, or in her voice. "Do you think you may harm yourself?" She asked the question terrified of what his answer might be, but he didn't say anything, she looked at him and he sat with a blank expression, "Peter have you ever tried to harm yourself?" Fear rose up in her throat as she posed that last question.
"Last week, I…I sat in the garage with the keys in the ignition of my car, I wrote you a letter to tell you I was sorry, and then I sat with my head against the steering wheel and my hand on the keys, but I couldn't do it, I couldn't bear the thought of you having to find me like that, so I got drunk and fell asleep." He put his hands over his face, ashamed of what he had just admitted. Then he got up and walked away from her. "I'm sorry, I can't do this."
Grace managed to grab his hand as he walked past her. "Don't walk away, please? Stay here; let me help you through this."
"What if you can't help me through it? What then?"
"Then we'll find someone who can. What you need most is time to grieve, you can't run away from it or block it out by getting drunk, you need to work through it."
After a few minutes of turmoil, trying to decide whether to walk away or stay, he sat back down next to her, his expression one of defeat. "It hurts too much." He said the words through sobs, sobs that his male pride automatically tried to supress.
"I know it does." Grace got to her knees and turned to him, pulling him against her as he cried. "I never knew how bad you felt, that you felt that bad you thought of…I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have left you to it for so long, I just thought you'd work through it in your own way."
"It's me that should be sorry, I shouldn't have said anything."
"Yes you should, you should have told me sooner, you need to learn to talk to me more Peter, to tell me how you're feeling, especially if things feel that bad."
"Drinking is the only thing that helps Grace."
"It doesn't help though, does it? It just blocks everything out, and then you sober up and it all feels bad again, is that how it is?" He nodded his head against her, childlike; clinging onto her like a koala bear does to its mother. "We'll get through it, I promise we will, but I need you to stop drinking, can you do that?" Again he just nodded his head, and held onto her, his tears continuing to fall, as she gently kissed the top of his head and held him.
They contniued to sit in the darkness, the only sound to be heard were his gentle sobs, and Grace's attempts to sooth him, her whispered words, her hand rubbing his back and her soft lips occasionally kissing the top of his head.
The End