I've wanted to write this for a long time now, and finally the words arranged themselves how I wanted. I hope you all enjoy.
As always, thanks to Joodiff for beta services. Many, many hugs to you, my dear. :) xx
Coping
…
It's very, very late by the time Boyd finally walks out of his office, the harrowing events of the last few hours still brutally, bitingly fresh in his mind. It's dark out, and distinctly chilly; there's a lazy sort of not-quite true fog, but still a little more than casual mist hanging in the air, deadening the late-night city sounds.
It effects the world, like it's on pause, when really there's utter chaos.
The Audi is nearby and he strides to it, wrapped tightly in his coat. Shivering.
Feeling exhausted, old. Defeated.
By some giant cosmic cliché, it begins to rain. It feels so, so wrong; a disservice to her memory, the sort of thing that happens only in films. It's not even proper rain, just that pathetic half-hearted attempt at something a little more than mild drizzle, though the scent in the air and the rumble of clouds overhead promise more. Threaten more.
He drives, set on autopilot and not really aware of his actions. The day is rearing up around him, pressing in. Pulling, yanking, screaming.
Pushing, battering. Tormenting.
Tragedy is a bitter pain in his heart, pervading through his body, pounding in his head.
There's an investigation underway, and already he's been shouted at, bollocked, interviewed; left facing a distraught mother over the phone.
It's been hours and hours, yet the dust is still whirling, the stress of an officer killed on duty only just beginning.
The rain strengthens, begins to batter the car. He hits a puddle, feels rubber give, metal slide. A corner looms, a gaping black hole.
A horn blares, his heart catapults into the back of his throat.
And then the tyres catch. The car lurches, swerves, but it's back where it should be, gripping the road.
"Fuck…"
One long exhalation, the word drawn out with it. A lucky escape.
Lucky.
His luck. Not hers.
Stella…
It's a bad dream, surely. A nightmare. It should be. Two junior officers lost… it cannot be real.
Cannot be real.
Another horn, lights striking him right in the eyes, blinding, burning. Christ, all the idiots are out tonight. It feels like a miracle when he finally pulls up alive on the familiar drive next to the familiar car.
Alive.
Familiar.
Lucky.
Stella…
Engine off; lights, too. The street is darkened by the night, the rain. The lamp three houses down flickers, needs a new bulb.
Ghostly shadows linger, eerie light reflecting in flashes from puddles, raindrops. The noise on the roof is loud, echoes in the stillness of the cabin.
It's a night for companionship. A night to be wrapped up safely in cheery comfort.
It's a night for hiding in the cosy realm of love and friendship, seeking reassurance of the better side of life.
None of that will happen tonight.
Boyd knows it. Can feel it.
Isn't sure why.
Yet dreads it still.
It's pitch black inside and he fumbles in the hallway, stumbling as the door gets in the way, the rug grabs his foot, seems to wrap around his ankles.
Hand scrabbling along the wall, it seems the light switch has moved.
Darkness, silence. Heavy and pressing. Deafening.
A ridge on the wall, the hard-edged plastic. A flick of the switch, and a blinding flash.
Blinking into the darkness he curses, wonders where she keeps her spare bulbs. Wonders why he doesn't already know.
Wonders where she is.
"Grace?"
There's no movement in the house, no sound but the pelting rain outside hitting the windows and the door. A step backwards, a turn of the key. A slide of the deadbolt for good measure. All in darkness, all routine. Familiar.
Normal.
How many times has be done this now? Fifty? A hundred, two hundred? Too many to count.
It's too still. Eerily so. Grace is a naturally quiet creature, moving softly from room to room, but she likes music, she likes the radio and films. There is normally soft, inviting lighting that's warm and intimate, and the easy, comfortable sounds of a peaceful home.
Tonight there is no light. No background sound.
No feeling of comfort, home.
In fact, it's like there's no one but him within the walls. There's no lingering scent of dinner either, though it's long past time to eat.
Without warning a prickle of fear works its way across the back of his neck, runs down the length of his spine, spreading out as it goes.
Surely she's not in bed already? Then again… after today it must be a possibility. The thought doesn't dislodge the tension in his muscles though, doesn't help him relax.
The kitchen is empty, just as dark and still. So is the study, the papers and books spread across the desk still as messy as they were the night before. No change.
No change.
Change…
The living room door creaks, a sound that has driven him mad for months. Pushing it ajar reveals that the curtains are still open, the flickering orange light from the broken street lamp filtering in. Out.
In. Out. In. Out.
Grace is on the floor, leaning back against the sofa. She hasn't changed clothes, has a glass in her hand, is utterly still.
So still…
It stops Boyd cold, her name dying in the back of his throat as his heart lurches, a flare of panic quickly being subsumed by confusion.
This is nothing like he expected. Nothing at all.
In the gloomy shadows her eyes look grey-black, the vibrant colour leached cleanly away leaving an unreadable abyss.
Empty. Dead.
It's a paralysing, fear-invoking sight. So, too, are the other things he can see.
She's very, very drunk.
Clearly distraught.
And angry.
The rest though… he has no idea. Maybe it doesn't matter, because whatever dark, storming maelstrom is brewing outside is nothing compared to what is gripping her, he's sure.
She blinks, swallows. Stares straight at him, eyes like flint. Lets him see just how quietly, calmly, steadily enraged she is.
Chest tight, Boyd feels cold, old. Defeated. Again. He's never seen this before.
"Grace?" Tentative, wary.
Unblinking eyes stare at him in the gloom, cutting him like knives with their accusations. "I lied for you."
Her tone is flat, incredibly bitter. Very steady.
Unnervingly so.
"What?"
Grace swallows, looks livid, disgusted. "I lied to Stella. For you."
The words fall into the air between them, leaden and acidic they burn across his skin, through his heart.
She gets slowly to her knees, glass still in hand, and then negotiates her way to her feet, swaying alarmingly, but when he tries to step closer those angry eyes narrow and he falters, keeps his distance.
"I told her you were asking about her. Worried about her."
"I was worried about her." It's not a lie. Honestly.
He did care. Does.
But duty…
"I lied to her for you."
There's a quiet fury in her words that scares him, shatters him. Because he let Stella down. Because he let Grace down.
He knows it. Can't argue it.
"Grace, please. I…"
"No!"
Her voice is rising with every word, the fury in her coming to the boil.
"I lied to Stella for you, and then I watched her die."
That stops him short. Not once since he arrived at the hospital and she spoke those fateful words to him has Boyd stopped to consider how it happened and what the circumstances of it were. There's been too much to do, too many people to inform. Too much horror to feel.
Shame burns heavily, stabs him in the chest. This is exactly why he doesn't deserve her, why she would be so much better off without him.
"You saw – "
"Yes. I saw the fear in her eyes, I saw the pain. I watched the doctor and the nurse try to save her. I heard them pronounce death. I watched them cover her body to take her to the mortuary."
The bitterness oozing from her claws at him, sears him.
It's like a bad dream, a nightmare, only a thousand times worse. In the back of his mind he can hear Stella's laughter, can see her screaming and running from Hannibal, the word "rat" echoing in their concrete dungeon lair. He watches her face light up as she chatters away in French to her mother over lunch one day, observes the delight at the outcome of a trial they were all involved in last month.
He sees too the sadness as he chooses Spence to accompany him, sees the bitter frustration that Spencer, always Spencer, is put in charge of yet another enquiry she could easily have dealt with. Should have dealt with.
His choices, her pain.
He sees the same thing in Grace now.
"I'm sorry," he tries, hands up in a gesture of something meant to bridge the gap between them. "I didn't mean for any of this to happen."
Perversely, as she shouts, it seems he gets steadier, body relaxing, mind calming as he tries to find a way in.
A path to help her. Help them both.
"Do you think I don't know that?" The hand clutching her glass shakes, the contents sloshing ominously. Her tone is high, volume crashing down around him.
He steps closer, she pushes back. Reels, staggers.
"Grace," he tries, reaching out, worried that she's going to hurt herself.
"Don't." It's a snarl, another arrow in his heart. "Don't touch me."
He does anyway, catches her arm, her waist. Stares down at her, willing her to see, to feel.
He meant for none of this, she must know that. She has to know that.
He cares.
He cares so much.
Surely she knows that.
It's a distorted moment, time rushing at him, memories overpowering, feelings escaping as he stares down and she glares up.
So much rage, so much twisted, displaced pain.
The air stretches, bends around them, the moment freezing, the seconds lasting longer than they should as a chilly cloud blankets the room, deadening background sound, the dull tick of the clock becoming lower, further away.
"Let me go." Her voice is cold, hard. Granite.
He does, and she stumbles. Falls heavily, head hitting the coffee table as she goes. Gashes her hand as the glass there shatters between her and the floor, gouges deep into the flesh.
Silence cloaks the crash, immobility replaces the rush of movement.
For a terrible, terrible moment he fears she is dead.
No.
It can't, she can't…
Rolling onto her side Grace gasps, a shaken breath wheezing painfully into lungs that are thoroughly winded.
The relief is genuinely overwhelming, his knees as much buckling as bending as he kneels beside her, pushing the table aside to make space. Without thinking his hands are everywhere, checking, searching, hoping not to find.
There's a trickle of blood in her eyebrow, the skin surrounding it already swelling, her eye streaming from the blow.
"My hand," she murmurs, lifting her right arm and staring, utterly stupefied, at the bloody gashes, the large chunk of glass piercing straight through the flesh at the base of her thumb and protruding out the other side. Thick and viscous, blood drips slowly down her wrist, running out of sight beneath the sleeve of her sweater.
A river of life, fleeing her veins.
It's incredibly gory. Swallowing, Boyd wills his suddenly riotous stomach to settle, coaxes his lungs into slow breaths designed to fight off nausea.
Forces back thoughts of death, terror.
"I don't want to go back to the hospital." An instant, determined statement.
He doesn't blame her. Doesn't want to go back there either. Not ever.
"That needs medical attention," he replies, glancing again at the injury and instantly feeling the need to throw up. There's a handkerchief in his pocket, unused, neatly folded. Shaking it free he wraps it awkwardly around the glass, attempts to stem the flow of blood.
Winces as she hisses in pain, tries to wrench away from him.
Holds firm despite it.
Reassurance. Comfort.
Need.
"No." It's snappy, and defiant. Angry. "No."
Bitter.
Enraged.
He tries for a gentler approach, feels her name slip softly, quietly out between his lips. "Grace…"
Something changes, deflates inside her. Tears well and then overflow, flooding down her cheeks. She manages only a single word, but it's so significant, so telling.
"Stella…"
This isn't about Grace being angry with him. This isn't about what happened today, or what she saw in the hospital room. This is about grief.
Pure and simple grief.
Acting on instinct Boyd settles back against the sofa, lifts her carefully into his lap and cradles her there, holding on tightly as the storm passes through.
And a storm it truly is.
The way she clutches at him, the way she hides in him, sobs into his shoulder, it tells him everything. She's angry with him because she loves him, because she trusts him enough to let herself be angry with him. Because she knows he loves her enough to know that it's displaced grief talking, not real anger.
Right now it's what she needs. Her way of coping.
And it's okay.
Grief is overwhelming, he knows.
There's been a lot of it lately.
"I've got you," he murmurs, cheek resting against her hair, arms wound around her, tears of his own forming. "I love you."
He leaves it at that, says nothing more. It's not necessary. She knows it. Beneath the grief, she knows it.
There will be a trip to the hospital, many hours in A&E. There will be talk of memories and horror, nightmares to come. For now though, they stay as they are.
Grieving.
Coping.