This story follows Secrets and is set the following afternoon from that story's end. Merry Christmas and happy holidays to all, and best wishes for the New Year.

Reading

…

Reality draws in slowly. In the gentle, easy way that comes after a long, deep sleep that leaves limbs heavy and a touch uncoordinated and the mind slow and sluggish as thoughts take their time to form and gather. Blinking away the remnants of his dreams, Boyd focuses gradually, his eyes picking out the alarm clock beside the bed and the numbers being displayed. Three fifteen in the afternoon. Nearly eleven hours solid slumber then, he muses, stretching slowly and feeling the pleasant ripple of muscle as it pushes away the stiffness lingering there. And by God does he feel better for it.

Rolling onto his back he yawns, turns his head to gaze quietly at his companion. Grace is curled up under the covers, the quilt tucked tightly under her chin. Her eyes are closed and her breathing is steady and fairly regular, though inflected with the rustle and wheeze of lungs that are inflamed and infected. Any hope Boyd may have had of seeing a visible improvement in her condition dies a quick death as he observes her ashen skin, her tightly closed eyes, the slight sheen of sweat on her brow even as she shivers in her sleep. They will not be celebrating their first Christmas together after all, no matter how much he had privately hoped for an overnight miracle.

Small paws pick delicate steps over the quilt, padding their way up his legs and interrupting the flash of heavy sadness running through him as his attention is refocused on Freyja and the way she stands imperiously on his chest, gazing down at him with her head cocked endearingly to the side. Her soft, impatient meow reminds him that it is long, long past her breakfast time. And his.

"Okay," he agrees, reaching up to tickle her under the jaw, smiling at the reflexive purr he receives in response. "But first…"

He sits up, catching the cat in one arm and cradling her against his body for a moment before she squirms free and shakes herself off with all the typical dignity of an offended feline as he reaches for the blister pack of tablets on his bedside table, freeing one. There's a glass of water there ready and waiting, and as gently as he can he runs a hand through Grace's short, spiky hair, murmuring her name. There is no response. It's hardly surprising, really.

Leaning down he bestows a gentle, lingering kiss to her temple, one hand running slowly over her shoulder where it is buried beneath layers of bedding. "Wake up for me, Grace." The catch in his voice gives away the hint of fear that he can't quite disguise at the unnatural heat emanating from her skin.

It's clearly a struggle, but eventually he gets a mumbled response that is unintelligible at best. Her eyes remain firmly closed as she coughs and tries to retreat further under the quilt, but he's insistent. He needs to be, though it tears at his heart, disturbing her when she's like this.

"I'm sorry," he whispers into her ear, kissing her temple again. "I don't want to wake you, but you need your medicine."

Again he gets a response that there is no hope of him understanding. Shifting, he slides an arm under her body, lifting her into a semi-sitting position resting against his chest. She groans but doesn't resist, simply wilts into him, her head tucking itself naturally into the crook of his neck, one hand working free of the quilt and landing listlessly yet intentionally on his arm, fingers splaying there in a weak but gentle gesture of loving affection.

Holding the glass to Grace's lips he waits as she sips, anxious to get some fluids into her, concerned as he so often is that she's too close to dehydration. She drinks and eventually he gets the tablet between her lips, watches as she swallows, sips a little more. It's clearly exhausting though, and triggers the angry waves of brutal coughing that leave her gasping and wide-eyed in fear as breathing becomes more and more difficult. The cough mixture he fetched last night is on his nightstand too, and he pours a measure, supports her head as that too makes its way down, soothing her throat, calming the storm.

Breathing steadying a little, she sags heavily against him, fingers offering a tiny hint of a squeeze that is thanks and love and gratitude all wrapped up together. In response his arms curl around her, one hand gently stroking the back of her head as they sit there cuddled together for a few moments, Freyja rubbing her head gently against their entwined limbs.

She falls asleep again against him and Boyd sighs softly, that prickle of sadness running through him again as he eases her back down onto the mattress and pillows, meticulously and attentively tucking her into a cocoon of warmth. Last night was so hard, so draining. He can still feel the emotional tiredness of it, still feel the strain on his thoughts, his mind at the long, long conversation they went through and all of its turbulent emotions. The cards they are playing at the moment are a hard, hard hand to have been dealt, but he wouldn't change them.

He loves her far too much for that. In sickness and in health.

And they're not even married.

Yet.

A final check that she's as warm and comfortable and secure as he can make her, and then he leaves the bed, slipping into jogging bottoms, a sweater, thick socks and slippers before heading for the bathroom to splash cold water on his face, hoping to wash away the last of the night's cobwebs from his mind. The night and its revelations haunt him as he moves but he pushes against it, tries to table it for another day, another time.

Freyja helps. She follows, twining around his ankles and almost tripping him in her quest to secure her very late breakfast and in the end he simply scoops her up, cradling her against his body and rubbing her soft belly with his other hand as he makes his way downstairs to the quiet, empty kitchen.

The sound of small teeth delicately crunching biscuits soon fills the air, though, as the kettle boils and a saucepan scrapes on the stove as Boyd potters his way through preparing a breakfast of porridge; a Christmas morning tradition from his childhood that he's never managed to leave behind. A bit of cinnamon, some sugar, a handful of winter berries… it's a mixture he associates with both his mother and his grandmother, and one he concocted every year for his wife and child during that period of his life. This year he had hoped to share it with Grace, but it's just not going to happen, he knows.

Instead he sits at the small kitchen table, sipping tea and looking out over the thin white coating of frost still covering the garden even as the weak winter sun shines down on it. Not a day to be going outside, he decides, wondering about the many families probably gearing up to take a post-Christmas feast walk through the streets, small children trying out new bikes and scooters as the older generations follow behind, calling out warnings to take care and watch out for ice. He was such a parent, once.

Not anymore.

Life changes, moves forward. Even when it feels like it never will.

Grace…

Sometimes it feels like they are stuck in a never-ending limbo. And sometimes it feels like he's a hairsbreadth from losing everything he has that matters to him. It's a constant battle between the two, really, the frustration and the fear, yet somehow time is still passing. Six months of some of the warmest, happiest memories of his life. He's had happiness before, of course, adored being a father, treasured his son, loved his wife, but the tenderness and peace he has found with Grace… he's never known that. Never felt like this before.

Realising he's been staring into space for an indeterminate amount of time, Boyd smiles slightly and gives the empty room a rueful shake of his head before turning his attention back to his cooling breakfast and the cat that is now sitting opposite, staring intently at him with that very disconcerting inquisitive green-eyed stare she seems to have slowly developed as she's settled into domestic indoor life with them. It reminds him of Grace, somehow.

"Merry Christmas, Freyja," he tells her gravely.

…

Restless, lonely, and quietly fighting back an increasing edginess about the severity of Grace's cold, Boyd prowls the house, looking for something to do. He's showered and dressed in clean, comfortable clothes. He's called his brother and sister to wish them good tidings, and he's even flicked through the television channels, hunting for something worth watching that doesn't aggravate his nerves or tug too much at his already strained heartstrings.

There's nothing to do. Nothing to take his mind off the dashed hopes he had for this day. The turkey isn't going in the oven, the vegetables aren't going to be peeled and cooked.

Or are they?

Somehow inexplicably finding himself back in front of the stocked fridge, staring at its contents, an idea occurs to him. Vegetable soup. It's easy to make, packed full of vitamins, and what's more, it's easy to swallow. Easy enough that he might just stand a good chance of managing to get Grace to eat some later on.

Instantly enthused, he sets to work, the old, old recipe given to him by his grandmother swimming up from the depths of his memory as he gathers ingredients and implements. Cooking is easy. Cooking is relaxing. Cooking is enjoyable; he's always thought so.

The youngest child of a middle-class professional couple, he spent the majority of his early years with his grandmother while his parents worked as a doctor and a nurse at the same hospital where they met during the war after his mother was sent home having been injured while serving in the field hospitals overseas. After marrying the attractive, attentive young doctor who nursed her back to health, Anne Boyd set up home only two streets away from her own mother, meaning that she could continue working in the job that she adored after having a family of her own while simultaneously ensuring that the matriarch of the family, widowed in that same war, not only had companionship during the day but also had a willing, attentive and curious audience to study the culinary art she had been locally famed for in her own youth.

Without even realising it Boyd is soon humming away to himself as he works, attention all on the task before him and neatly diverted away from his gloom. He also doesn't notice the quiet one-sided conversation he keeps up with Freyja, who watches him lazily from atop the boiler, sitting in the box of old post that she adopted as her bed within days of arriving at the Foley-Boyd household, despite the soft fluffy cat cushion bought specifically for her.

His colleagues would no doubt tease him mercilessly were they to witness the calm, domestic scene surrounding their fearsome leader, and the happy, contented sort of zeal with which he is embracing the mundane and particularly ordinary task of preparing food, but he doesn't care. They see only one side of him. The side he chooses to share with them and the rest of the outside world. The rest is for him, and for Grace.

As the youngest grandchild he spent a lot of quality one on one time with his grandmother during his pre-school years, and it was during that time that he picked up a fascination for all things related to food. What started as an afternoon baking session to keep an extremely active three year old out of trouble soon grew into almost daily lessons that involved a lot of laughter and an oversized apron tied securely over his clothes as he perched on the kitchen counter to watch, listen, learn and help. And somehow, as he aged and moved on to school, those lessons in how to cook and bake moved naturally into afternoon visits and days spent chattering with his granny during the school holidays.

Grace likes to cook, Boyd knows. He has a fancy that when she is better, stronger, they will spend time together in the kitchen, working in harmony. It's a fantasy, and a painfully domestic one at that, but Mary never let him loose in the kitchen. Never wanted to share the space with him. Always claimed he was hopeless and in the way, underfoot.

Peaceful coexistence, that's all he wants. A warm and loving home without the tension and the friction that characterised so much of his marriage. There will be arguments, he's sure, because they enjoy it for the sport, and the mental workout it gives them. He's lost track of the number of times argument and fantasy have woven themselves tightly together over the years he's known her, the vivid and entrancing visions his mind has conjured when she's stepped just that little bit closer, or they've slipped just that little bit further into flirtation than normal. It's such a natural part of who and what they are together.

The future holds so much bright and happy promise for them, he's sure of it. Once Grace is recovered, once they get that final all-clear… It's so close now, so close he can almost taste it. It will be New Year soon, and the appointment they've both been waiting for. It has to be good news, he's determined, and when it is, and once she's had plenty of time to build up her strength again, to gain back some of the weight she's lost, to regain her colour and her spark, he's going to take her away. Somewhere warm and sunny, somewhere they can laze by a pool or on the beach, somewhere calm and tranquil where they can share the peaceful intimacy of each other's uninterrupted company.

Humming along lightly with the radio as it plays quietly in the background he ambles between sink and counter and stove, lost in his work, his daydreams. Soft white sand, cheery beach towels, bright, warm light. Laughter in blue eyes that he wants to drown in, sunshine-warmed smooth skin under his palm as he wraps an arm around her waist, whispers softly in her ear.

Grace's hand tucked in his as they stroll along a seafront somewhere, looking for a place to enjoy a quiet evening dinner. Good food, a glass or two of wine, followed by a gentle walk barefoot along the beach afterwards, listening to the waves rolling in…

A quiet villa somewhere, away from the chaos of cities and typical holiday destinations. Just the two of them and a chance to sit up talking into the small hours, to make slow sweet love with the moonlight pouring in through the windows, or laze in bed late into the morning or even the afternoon if it suits them.

It's an entrancing thought, and it takes several minutes for Boyd to return to reality, the hissing of the pot on the stove threatening to boil over startling him into motion as he reaches out to turn down the intensity of the flames burning beneath.

Intensity… flames…

He's seen both burning in Grace's eyes, has felt the searing heat of her touch in the dark midnight hours on the few days that have been better than all the others… He's felt the hot, hungry urgency of her lips against his own, watched the breath catch in her throat and her back arch off the mattress as his own hands explored and wandered, seeking and finding and teasing, provoking and evoking.

But he's also been driven equally as mad as she has by the infinitely frustrating limitations of illness and exhaustion, the inability to go much further than a few stray moments of touching and caressing. He wants her, of that he has absolutely no doubt. Wants her so much that at times it is desperately difficult not to rage against the circumstances surrounding them, desperately hard to try and soothe the bitter frustration he can see in her eyes whilst fighting down the fury boiling inside him at the malevolent, insidious disease he cannot see and cannot fight.

Desire is a powerful, heady thing, and the fierce spark of whatever it is that holds them together is molten in its –

A clatter yanks Boyd out of his thoughts, makes him turn abruptly to find his jars of herbs in peril as Freyja wrestles with the strands of carrot peelings not yet moved to the rubbish bin. Oblivious to the danger, the small feline is at war, flinging the orange vegetable matter up into the air and then diving after it, claws snapping out to neatly skewer it before it can land again. Lips twitching with amusement Boyd snags a piece before his pet can and uses it to tease her mercilessly, leading a chase that is all paws and teeth and claws along the length of the countertop.

"You and that cat! You let her get away with murder. You spoil her something rotten." Grace's words echo in his ears as Freyja rolls onto her back, exposing an expanse of soft warm belly covered in beautiful dark grey leopard spots. Green eyes regard him with delight as he tickles her, a deep, rumbling purr filling the air around them both.

Grace is right, he thinks, fetching the treats. I do spoil her. "But you're so worth it, aren't you?" he asks, fingers trailing the length of Freyja's spine as she crunches her biscuits. "Beautiful, loyal, and you know your own mind. Who wouldn't love you, hmm?"

Someone didn't, he reminds himself as he begins to tidy the counters down. Judging by the state of her when he found her, someone didn't love her. Don't go there, he warns himself, watching as she leaps to the ground and attacks a stray pingpong ball, sending it flying across the room. She's got a family now. You've got a family now.

…

The soup is ready, evening is wearing on, and he's made a pot of fresh tea. Not exactly the Christmas feast they'd had in mind, but, as Boyd settles himself comfortably on the bed beside her, he reminds himself that they're together and that's all that matters.

Propped up by multiple pillows, Grace looks scarcely any better from the rest she's had, but she's talking, tentatively sipping the tea and willing to try eating, so he takes all the positives he can, sighing softly with pleasure as she tucks herself into his body, needing the warmth and the stability, but seeking the closeness and the comfort as well. He supports the bowl, tries not to notice how badly the hand that holds her spoon trembles, but smiles when the soup goes down and she hums in contentment, clearly appreciating the heat and the flavour, the way it slides easily down her raw, scratchy throat.

The coughing has subsided at last, but she's shivering more than ever now, almost burrowing into the warmth of his body. He likes it, that closeness. Likes it for the peaceful intimacy of it, the complete, trusting tenderness of the moment. It's so unlike what he imagined in all his daydreams prior to Linda, her illness, their relationship actually unfolding, happening, but this closeness, these moments, they mean so much more than he ever thought they would. The contact, the subtle, unspoken communication that passes between them – it gives him something that has pressed buttons he didn't know he had, or had forgotten about. It soothes something deep inside him, fills a hole that he'd so long pushed back, her presence, her companionship generating a fullness within him that tears at all the darkness, the horror, gradually building up a patchwork over all the cracks and fissures torn by time and heartbreak.

Because he can, and because he wants to, he runs a hand over her arm, tucks it around her waist, fingers slipping under the elastic of her pyjamas to tenderly stroke the smooth skin beneath as he rests his cheek against her hair just to feel its softness before he leaves a lingering kiss there and straightens to steady the mug now in her hand.

Most of the soup has gone down, and she drinks enough tea that he temporarily stops worrying about impending catastrophe caused by dehydration. The dishes and bowls put aside, they curl up together in the middle of the bed, cocooned under the covers and snugly tucked into one another, around one another.

"Okay?" he asks and she nods against him, head resting on his chest, too sleepy, too weary for words.

Reaching out behind him, his fingers close blindly over the aged and faded hardback book he is seeking. The Wind in the Willows, one of Grace's childhood favourites. Settling her just that little bit more comfortably, and tugging the blankets just a little bit closer around her, he breathes long and slow, relaxes himself completely. Opening to the bookmark, a tattered strip of cardboard decorated in faded shapes and stars, swirls, and a child's unsteady letters, he picks up where he last left off, his voice falling richly and warmly into the room around them as he narrates the entrancing tale of Mole and Rat and Badger and Toad. Grace's fingers burrow under his sweater, rest against his back and he smiles even as he continues to read, the story coming to life around them.

It lasts an hour at most and then she's slipping away again, concentration collapsing into slumber that creeps up gradually, overpowering her. He listens to her breathing change, hears the heavy wheeze that stays even as her breaths become slower and less frequent, but does his best not to worry. Instead he keeps reading, knowing she's not quite there yet, that she's still listening and enjoying.

It's not what he was planning, what they were both hoping for the day. It's certainly not traditional or filled with family and festive cheer either, but it is still time together. Instead it is achingly intimate, it is gentle and close, it is filled with love and tenderness. And it suits them both. It fits them both.

It won't always be this way, Boyd knows, but it works. For now.