This story fits somewhere between the "Then" and the "Now" of my story Then and Now.
Wishing a very happy birthday to Scription Addict. :) xx
Here and Now
…
It's the same pub he's been frequenting for most of his life, since he was sixteen and trying to pass himself off as older, wiser and cooler than his years. The same pub where, since they left the tiny basement flat they shared for several years after fleeing their parents' house, they have met at least once every fortnight, and more often if possible. Settling into the tiny corner alcove that is so familiar it feels almost like a second home, Boyd traces his fingers absently across the table top, fingers following the grooves scoured deep into the thick chunk of oak as he stares at the aged brick hearth in front of him and the fire crackling away within its depths.
Heavy rain drums against the old-fashioned diamond-patterned leaded glass, and combined with the rustle and crackle of the fire it creates a soothing, calming atmosphere that rapidly helps to diminish the clinging stress of the day. Sipping from his glass – beer not whiskey today – he lets his thoughts go, allows them to roam freely as he waits, and finds no surprise when then easily circle back to the one person that they always seem to settle on whenever he's relaxed and calm, or simply just has a few minutes to himself.
Grace.
She still looks so haunted. She's back at work three days a week and on limited hours, but no matter how much she adamantly declares she's fine and healthy and able to cope with it all, she still looks so damn frightened and so damn fragile.
It's terrifying, and he's hard put to decide if that's more difficult to deal with than all the months of not knowing. Of waiting and hoping and trying to be as supportive as possible. Of quietly becoming more and more aware that he just can't do it anymore. Can't maintain the status quo.
A gust of wind throws the increasingly heavy rain straight at the window with a loud clatter and he's inadvertently thrown back into a maelstrom of memories that are over thirty years old now.
The unaffected laughter of youth, filled with the promise of life and experience to come. The easy freedom to love and experience and not worry about the future.
Lazy weekend afternoons in parks, at the beach… blue eyes twinkling with wicked mischief in the bright, cheerful sunlight.
Early mornings, late nights, hidden midnight hours – time stolen together in the in-between land that surrounds shifts and antisocial work patterns. Difficult to manage, but more precious because of it.
He remembers the laughter, the feeling of sharing. The easy, unaffected kinship that existed so naturally between them – the connection that was so effortless it felt as simple as breathing. He remembers, too, just how powerful the magnetism that sparked between them was, how intense the chemistry that mixed and burned between them felt.
She's a dark road with a lot of dangerous curves, but when the sun goes down she's one hell of a ride.
The old, old quote comes from nowhere, surprising him at the memory. A friend's casual utterance at a party one evening and as his own gaze immediately returned to his lover he couldn't help thinking how apt it was. An intelligent, witty, strong-willed, outspoken young woman whose seductive charm, evocative, sensual curves and intense blue eyes had held him fast, his attention locked on her from that very first moment when they quite literally walked into one another.
Three decades on and he wonders if it's still there, that chemistry. He suspects that it is, for he is just as attracted to her as he ever was, maybe even more so now that he's seen her grow and change with time and age, observed the way the years have influenced her character, felt the way he has grown closer and closer to her in friendship.
He wants her, desperately.
More than that, though, he wants to be with her. Spend his time with her. Live with her, laugh with her. Love her. Love with her.
He wants it more than anything.
Wishes he'd never made that mistake of believing that they'd never be able to make it work. Wishes they had tried – that he had tried – just a little bit harder.
It's a fierce dagger of regret he's lived with for the majority of his adult life. One that's accompanied him from year to year, relationship to relationship, life event to life event. Every new thing, every new challenge leaving him wondering what if? What could it have been like?
Was there a different path he was supposed to have followed?
A presence approaching distracts him, long before anyone else would have noticed the arrival. He can't hear her, can't see her, but he knows she's there. Always does. Always has.
Today there is bitter sadness, heartbreak in her. A cloud of grey misery, regret and resignation wrapped around her like a cloak. He's on his feet and turning before she appears around the corner, reaching out as she does. Strong arms slide around him, a head of dark hair falls into his shoulder.
"It's over," she mutters. "Just like that. After all these years."
Boyd tightens his grip, feels his heart constrict. "I'm sorry," he murmurs, the thumb of one hand rubbing soothing circles against the back of her shoulder. "I know it's not what you wanted."
"It's so unfair."
The statement breaks his heart. Not because it's true, but because it's so out of character, because it verifies just how much anguish is behind it.
"Can I see your warrant card?"
The embrace breaks, they sit opposite one another and Boyd hands over the small leather wallet, watches as slender fingers brush over the Metropolitan Police crest, lingering there as tears form in familiar hazel eyes that are darkened by the low light levels.
"Jac?" He has no idea what to say, thought this day would come to both of them much later on. When they were both prepared for it, and perhaps even ready.
She looks up, and even after almost sixty years and with the gender difference between them it's still like looking in the mirror for him. "I need a drink. Several, in fact."
Jac isn't a heavy drinker, but tonight he suspects the rules are about to be broken. She deserves it. He'd be in the same place right now if their circumstances were reversed, he knows.
"Okay." Boyd stands, makes a move towards heading to the bar but then pauses, gazes quietly down at her. "Jac?" She looks up, eyes blurred but defiantly not spilling over.
"Mm?"
"I love you. Don't forget that. Whatever you need…" She reaches out, grasps his hand. Squeezes the thanks she hasn't the words for. Slender fingers, firm grip, same vein structure mapped beneath the skin.
Similarities. Differences.
Understanding.
…
"Do you know what I'd really love to do?"
Boyd stares at his sister thoughtfully, the warmth of the single beer he drank when he first arrived beginning to fade from his system now that he's switched to the alcohol-free variety, knowing it'll be up to him to make sure his companion gets home safely tonight.
"Nick someone for something really straightforward," he guesses.
"Damn right," sighs Jac, staring into the bottom of her nearly empty glass. "I'd love to go out on patrol and wade into a fight, nick 'em all for affray. Violent disorder would be even better."
Settling back in his chair, Boyd stretches his back a little as he considers.
"I'd go for theft," he decides. "Or a street robbery if I could find one – little bastards nicking handbags and leaving old ladies scared to go outside."
"Yeah…" Jac sips her wine, sighs heavily. Looking up, a spark of something in her eyes catches Boyd's attention and he quirks an eyebrow, not bothering to ask the question he knows she knows he's asking.
"Last month I walked into a robbery by accident. It was exactly that – two lads had followed an old lady to the post office and waited until she left to threaten her with a knife and snatch her bag and the cash she'd withdrawn. Scum."
"Did you get them?"
Jac grins, the light in her eyes spreading to the rest of her face. "Oh yes. It was a good scrap, but I got the main one right there. It was such a rush – I'd forgotten what it felt like."
Boyd laughs, knowing what she means.
"You should have seen his face when I introduced myself." Jac is laughing now, and it's genuine, real. It jabs a blow straight at Boyd's heart because he knows it's only a moment in a bleak, bleak day that is part of a long and still unfolding saga that's only going to be harder and more painful as time goes on.
Still, he smirks as he says, voice deliberately pitched just a fraction higher, "My name is Detective Chief Superintendent Jacqueline Ward and I am arresting you on suspicion of robbery. You do not have to say anything…"
"Exactly. Talk about overkill. He looked like he was going to piss himself – like rank would make the punishment worse."
Her face changes quickly though, as sadness flares again. "Only seventeen, still looked and acted like a kid but with previous for shoplifting, common assault, and possession of cannabis – all in the last couple of years. Mother was furious, so disappointed and distraught, but she can't cope – father's dead and she works shifts. Two other kids, one at uni studying medicine but living at home and the other buried in his books because GCSEs are approaching and he wants to be an architect."
Silence falls, because too often the nature of the job is that the outcome or the back story is a tangled mess that straightforward law and policing cannot solve. They've both seen it over and over and over again, and it never gets any easier.
Time begins to blur, mixing with alcohol in Jac's case, though Boyd can see little in the way of relaxation occurring as the minutes blend into hours. He doesn't blame her. Can't imagine how she's feeling. Wishes there was something – anything – that he could do to help her.
There isn't.
Talk is random and flits from topic to topic, moving between the mundane and the obscure. Then, out of nowhere, and fuelled by a considerable amount of wine, "I can't imagine not being part of the fight. I don't know how to stop being a police officer."
"I can't either," admits Boyd. "I dread it, I really do."
"I feel naked without my warrant card, without my powers. I feel… defenceless… no, that's not the right word. Vulnerable? No, that's not it either… I don't know how to describe it. It's like I went from being able to help, to being able to do nothing. In the space of one afternoon. And I hate it, because I've never felt like that before."
Sighing, he watches her carefully. The eyes that are exactly the same as his. The features that are so similar, the hair that she keeps the precise shade of dark brown they were both born with. The body that still reflects the dedication of their youth to a love of a variety of sports, most of which they played together. In so many ways looking at her is like looking at himself.
"It's going to take time, don't let yourself forget that – you'll never adjust if you think you should be able to turn it off just like that."
"I know. I just… I thought I would have another few years at least before I had to seriously start thinking about it."
Despite how much of alcohol she's already consumed, she's still surprisingly steady, muses Boyd, watching as Jac finishes the last sip of her drink and gets up, heading in the direction of the bar. His eyes track her as she moves, a habit born out of a lifetime of needing to protect her, despite her clear ability to look after herself.
When she ducks into the ladies room Boyd sighs heavily, running a hand slowly through his hair and wondering what is going to happen now. Somehow, when they finished their criminal law degrees at twenty-one and then both promptly ran off to join the police, knowing it was exactly what they wanted despite heavy and prolonged parental protest, he never envisioned what would happen at the end of it, and he imagines she didn't either. A lifetime of chasing each other up the ranks instead, trading war stories and experiences, learning from each other's mistakes, supporting each other through rough patches, and celebrating and sharing in triumphs and successes, that's how it has always been.
This though…
This is so unexpected and so tragic. So completely out of the blue, and utterly unfair after everything Jac has given and sacrificed in the course of her career.
"I'm going to regret this tomorrow, aren't I?" she asks, setting down fresh glasses before reclaiming her seat.
"You are," Boyd agrees, sombrely.
She smiles, but it's tinged with bitterness. "Guess what?"
"You don't care."
"Not a bit."
He casts about, finds a subject that's important. "Does Izzy know?"
Jac blinks, holds her eyes closed, as if forcing back defiant tears, her body tensing visibly even as she slumps back in her seat. "Yes. She's coming home soon."
Boyd thinks of his niece, sweet, serious, softly spoken Isabella, born fairly late into her parent's marriage and now a doctoral candidate researching anthropology out in the wilds of Mongolia.
"How is she?"
"I don't know. It's so hard to tell over the phone. Mark can't bear the thought of her having to watch it happen. She's always been such a daddy's girl…"
It's true. Izzy has always struck him as a near clone of her father – shy, reserved, fiercely intelligent and academic – a mini Mark in every possible way except for her looks. Numerous times over the years when he's happily played uncle and looked after her, taken her out and about in the city and elsewhere, he's been mistaken for her father because of the incredible resemblance between Izzy and Jac.
But it's not Izzy he is most concerned for in this mess. Izzy is far more adaptable and strong than her mother thinks, and though the road ahead will most assuredly break her heart, Boyd has a feeling that she will cope with it far better than the woman sitting across from him now.
"Peter…"
Something in the way she says him name makes him look up, both curious, and worried. Rarely has he heard that tone from her, and rarely has it meant good news.
"Yes?"
Jac's eyes are clear, focused. Intense. "I need you to do something for me."
"What?"
"Tell her."
It's a loaded, significant statement. And Boyd knows immediately what it is she's talking about. Thoughts of his niece evaporating, he swallows and slowly sets his glass back down, one hand brushing over his beard as he flounders briefly, struggling to catch up with the abrupt change of pace and the sudden appearance of the minefield now spread before him.
"I…"
"No, listen to me," she interrupts immediately, sudden defiant anger bubbling beneath the surface as she refuses to let him start any objection he might have been about to give, any argument he might have thought to create. "Whatever your objections are, whatever you think is a barrier – forget it. Go and see her and tell her that you love her."
"Jac…"
"No, Peter. No. Promise me." She's glaring now, and Boyd wonders if she even knows it as she continues, fingers clenching around her glass. "Promise me that you'll stop this ridiculous hiding, this putting things off for whatever reason. Who gives a flying fuck what that bitch Maureen Smith or her cronies think. They're not going to do anything about it – they can't. Be discreet, don't shout about it, but for God's sake, tell her that you love her, and then show her."
Alcohol always loosens her tongue, he muses, even as he says, "Tell it like you see it, Jac."
She takes a large sip of her drink, hand shaking as she clutches at it, inhales shakily, slowly. "You've just seen how fragile life is, Peter," she points out. "How many hours did we sit here over the last ten months wondering if she would live through it?"
"A lot," he admits, fully expecting the pointed look he gets in response.
"There you are then. So please, do as I ask. I can't do this if I know that you're miserable too. I'm going to need you, and so is Mark. I know full well there are things he's shared with you that he hasn't with me. You're going to need someone to talk to as well."
Boyd glares at her. "You sound like a psychologist," he accuses.
"Yeah, well you need one," Jac snaps back, eyes narrowing.
"I've already got one driving me out of my mind at work."
"And that's exactly your problem. You need her driving you out of your mind at home. In your –"
"Jac!" The warning in his tone is almost a snarl, his anger quickly rising and the glass in his hand hitting the table with rather more force than was intended, causing liquid to spill over, dripping down his fingers.
Hazel eyes glower at him as a tissue is roughly thrust in his direction. "I'm not apologising. Not unless you promise."
Busy mopping up the spilled drink, Boyd says nothing, mind working over the likelihood of getting himself out of his situation. Jac is exactly like him, he knows only too well. She never lets go of something, once she's got the bit between her teeth. It's what has made her such a phenomenally successful police officer. Lost in his contemplation though, he misses his opportunity.
More than a little drunk now, rather less filtered than usual and apparently taking his silence as a cue, Jac ploughs full steam ahead. "Haven't you ever asked yourself why you've never had a relationship that lasted? Why you get bored so easily and move on?"
Masculine pride rearing up, Boyd bristles, straightening up and glaring across the table again. "No I haven't," he snaps. "Mary and I were together for twelve years."
"And eleven of them were wrapped in varying levels of misery. You stayed with her because she gave you Luke, and you were the far better parent, a much better father than you ever let yourself believe. Luke adored you, and if you could let go of the guilt you would remember that. Mary's circumstances were tragic, but that doesn't excuse the way she treated either of you."
It's a struggle to hold on to his temper, and Boyd grips the edge of the table tightly as he grits his teeth. Jac is right – she usually is – but that doesn't stop the truth from scoring deep welts across scars that have never really fully healed.
"Besides," she continues, "Mary doesn't count. Two years in and that wasn't a relationship, it was a prison."
Silently counting to ten, Boyd closes his eyes briefly, imagining how proud of his restraint Grace would be if she could see him now.
Grace.
If she's not actually in his thoughts, she's never far from them.
It's a silent omission, but a significant one.
The eyes of the woman across the table narrow, and he knows damn well that she knows what, or rather who, he's thinking about.
"You can't keep her out of your mind, can you?" she pushes. "Come on, this is me for God's sake – be honest."
He tries staring her down, knows it's pointless. It has been his entire life. With Jac, surrender is always easier.
"Yes, I love her. I've always loved her. Always."
"Who, Peter?"
"You know damn well who. Grace."
It's the first time he's said her name tonight, admitted it aloud, and strangely it feels like a huge weight has been lifted from his chest, his shoulders. But that's not the point, not what this argument is about. At least, not for him. Eyes burning with the mix of contradictory, heightened emotions that are already bombarding him, threatening to twist and grow into an overwhelming, out of control spiral, he feels his mouth betray him. Feels the words he's fought for so long to bury deep inside of him break free, and for just a moment he hates Jac with a seething, boiling passion for making it happen.
"I loved her more than anything, but it wasn't enough, was it? We couldn't make it work then, so what's to say we could now?"
The stunned look that crosses her face would amuse him in any other circumstances, but not these. There is far too much agony and misery wrapped up in the tangled history he shares with Grace, more than three decades worth that has never been resolved.
"You're afraid." It's a simple statement, delivered very softly even, but it makes him flinch nevertheless. The impact of those words feels like a lash has just struck him in full vengeance, slicing open the flesh underneath the layers of his clothing, exposing all the pain and regret simmering there.
This time his silence holds, both of them waiting as the words form. "Of course I'm afraid," he admits at last, voice wavering. Pausing, he takes a deep breath and swallows heavily, reaching for his glass again. "I've never forgiven myself for what happened."
Always his champion, she leaps to his defence immediately. "It wasn't your fault."
"Wasn't it?"
"No. And it wasn't hers either."
"I know that. I've never blamed Grace. Never."
"She blamed herself for years after. She told me once."
"She's wrong. It wasn't her. It was… I can't go through that again, Jac. And I can't do that to Grace either."
"Oh, Peter," she sighs, tears threatening in her eyes once more as she realises exactly what it is that he's telling her. The words his voice is leaving out. "You weren't driven apart because you couldn't make it work. You were driven apart because of trauma that both of you were too young to deal with. But you're different people now – you're older, wiser. That inability doesn't exist anymore. Yes awful things have happened to both of you since, but you've learned to deal with them, to live with them. Maybe not in the most constructive ways, but you have done it."
"I don't –"
"No, listen to me. You have. You wouldn't be here if you hadn't, would you?"
There's truth in her words, he realises. Absolute truth. There could never be anything but, he thinks. Jac has never once lied to him. Never.
Slowly, painfully, he agrees. "You're right."
Reaching across the table Jac takes his hand, her touch a familiar comfort, her grip a heavy, strong reassurance. "You have to tell her, Peter, you need to trust me on this. Neither of you are the same people you were then, you each have a lifetime of experience that weighs in your favour now."
"But –"
"Do you really want to live the rest of your life wondering what would have happened if you tried? Or do you want to wake up twenty years from now, watch her as she sleeps beside you, and know that you made the right choice?"
…
The door opens, surprise flickers across her face. He's not surprised – it's very, very late now. She's wearing soft, light brown trousers and a green sweater that is shapeless and yet somehow clings to her frame. Memory assaults him without warning. It's thirty years gone and Boyd can feel the heat of her skin as his palm rests on her waist, see intense concentration in her endlessly deep eyes as she runs the fingers of both hands through his hair, slowly, slowly down over his face, searching, exploring, holding.
"How's Jac?"
He's said nothing, but still somehow she knows.
"Very drunk," he admits.
"I'm not surprised." Grace steps back, a silent invitation. He follows her not to the comfortable, cosy lounge he expects her to head for but to the kitchen instead. The kettle has just boiled, steam still floats in the air; she doesn't ask, just opens a cupboard, selects another mug that's comfortably mismatched from the one already waiting.
They've never had serious conversations in comfort, he muses. Not in bed, or on a sofa. It was always the kitchen, or during the last few years in an office or a car. Maybe it's a separation thing, or a concentration thing, he doesn't know. It's deliberate though, he's sure.
"Why?" she asks.
The rest of the question isn't needed, Grace and Jac were good friends once. They drifted into acquaintances without him to hold them together and as the relentless pressure of time and the demands of professional lives took over, but Grace still knows Jac would never retire early of her own free will.
"Mark's ill. It's terminal."
He thinks of his brother-in-law, brow creasing. Mark Ward, a dusty academic and philosophy professor whose unshakable calm and placidity has weathered even the worst of Jac's hurricane-esque storms over the years without so much as a ruffled sleeve or collar, and who has somehow held his sister as raptly fascinated as the woman standing across from him now does him.
Grace's expression twists with sadness, shock, too, her hands stilling their movements. She knows, or knew, Mark as well, and when, at the age of twenty-three, the fiercely independent and driven Jac stunned the entire family by announcing she was marrying her quiet, reserved boyfriend, Grace was quickly added to the guest list. "How?"
Boyd swallows, still struggling with the news he's known for a handful of weeks now. "A brain tumour. Inoperable. He's got five to seven years max, four, maybe five, before he starts to decline."
"And she wants to spend the time with him."
"Exactly."
"But it comes at the cost of the career she adores."
"It does."
Grace doesn't ask if she's okay, and Boyd's infinitely grateful. In truth he doesn't know how he'd answer, because he's not sure himself. Jac shows a good front, even to him, and he's had so little time with her since it all happened. In truth he's terrified for her; heartbroken and endlessly worried.
"How can I help you?" The soft, open question pulls him back, pushes at the pressure in his chest. Her eyes as she looks up at him, across at him… they are filled with concern, an openness to anything he may or may not want to share, and something else. Something that brings Jac's words flooding back into his ears, the promise she pulled out of him echoing there though it's been hours of increasingly obscure conversation since, as she descended deeper and deeper into a numbing, alcohol induced daze.
"I'm sorry," he tells her, the words clear out of the blue but no less heartfelt for it. "I made a mistake. I should have fought."
Grace doesn't ask. She just knows. Knows. Shakes her head gently. "We both fought. It wasn't enough."
"We could have had everything together, and I let it go."
"We made that decision together, Peter," she tells him, eyes soft. "Together."
Peter, not Boyd. Peter.
"Don't you ever wonder?" he asks, almost desperate now. The pain of it is agonising, tormenting. "Don't you ever think of how it could have been? Thirty-something years of history together. A family, a life. Love." There are tears in his eyes but he makes no move to swipe at them, to banish them away.
Grace nods quietly, the resignation clear. "I do. All the time. But, Peter, we couldn't do it. We tried, remember?"
His first name again. It tears at him, an exquisite pain he wants to run straight towards, but still somehow instinctively shies away from. He shakes his head, stubborn. Distraught. "I should have tried harder."
"We both did. We couldn't make it work then. We tried."
Boyd closes his eyes, hears her tone, her words. Breathes slowly. The memories haunt him, the missing ones that were never made even more so. It must be the same for her, surely. It must.
A slender, delicate hand slips into his, tugs at his attention. Without opening his eyes he explores, fingertips taking in the bone structure, the soft skin, the knuckles and nails, the veins, the lines of her palm. Sensation after sensation, and every second of it sparks yet more memories, drags things to the fore that he's spent decades running from, protecting himself from, because the pain of losing it was just too much.
But here, now…
She's healthy again, thank all the higher powers. He genuinely doesn't know how he's survived the last few months of waiting, wondering. Watching from the side-lines instead of caring, protecting, easing her path. He doesn't want to regret any more, either, he really doesn't. Can't live with the fear of not knowing, not being there. Here.
He made a promise.
Calmness settles, comfort creeps in. She inspires it. Always has.
His ears hear what her words a saying, and what they aren't.
His mind shifts, works. Becomes clearer.
The squeeze of her fingers in his seals it.
Gazing down at her he feels his head tilt slightly, his eyes asking the question as much as his lips as he says, "Then…"
"Then," she repeats.
And it's the most natural thing in the world to step into her, to wrap her up in his arms and just stand there together, holding on.
…
"Who's older, Peter?" There is endless teasing mirth in Grace's gaze, and still that hint of burning curiosity. All these years and he's always refused to tell her. He has no idea why, either. Nor why she's never simply asked Jac.
Lips pursed he considers it, concentrates on the slender hand caught in his own, the pad of his thumb journeying across the peaks and valleys of her knuckles once more as he muses, as fascinated now as he was last night.
"Peter?"
The whisper of breath against his ear, the kiss of soft skin against his own as her hands rest on his shoulders, slide down his arms. "Peter…" His name drifts lightly in the air as gentle lips seek the tender skin behind his ear, journeying down across the back of his neck. The warm weight of her body pressing against his as she leans against him, the scent of her skin tickling his nose, the union of hands as her fingers cover his, slip between to tangle and lock them both together. "Peter, I have something to tell you…"
Peter, not Boyd. Will he ever tire of hearing her call him that, he wonders.
He looks up, feels a tidal wave rush through his heart at the bed hair, the sleepy features, the low morning light falling into her eyes, highlighting the darker shades. It's like being in two places at once; he's simultaneously young and desperately in love, and then also older, wiser, and still just as mesmerised. More so, even.
"Jac is. She beat me into the world by twenty-three minutes."
He expects her to laugh, to tease him mercilessly. He does not expect her to smile and simply nod, to say, "I thought so."
"That's it?" he asks, not sure if he ought to be let down by the lack of expected amusement.
Smiling widening, Grace nods again, pushing up onto her elbow so she's level with him. The bed covers shift as she moves, bearing an expanse of shoulder that diverts a sizable proportion of his attention.
"It is," she confirms, gently reclaiming her hand from his grasp. He misses her touch instantly, feels the separation keenly. Wants it – her – back immediately. "For now, anyway."
Something in her tone makes him find her gaze with his own. "For now…" he echoes.
"For now," she confirms, that small, delicate hand coming to rest against his own shoulder before applying an amount of force that he finds impressive, and highly intriguing, from such a tiny woman. Caught off guard, he's suddenly flat on his back again, and Grace is shifting closer. Speculative and curious, he watches the way she leans against him, gazes down at him, entirely lost in the moment, in him. He can see flickers of memory in her eyes, things that only they have shared and seen together.
She breathes, he breathes, and everything else fades away around them.
It was beyond easy to curl up with her last night, to listen as she talked, and then to offer his own thoughts back in return. Easier than he ever imagined. Easier still to fall asleep holding on to her, snug in the comfortable knowledge that neither of them were going anywhere.
Here, though, now…
One arm is curling around her waist and the other is reaching up to tangle in her hair as their lips meet, brushing softly, slowly together. It's astounding, the sensation that rushes through him, blazes along every single nerve and fibre of his body. It's everything they had between them all those years ago, and it's more. And from the look on her face as she pulls back, Grace is feeling every bit the same as he is.
She stares down at him for a long, long time, the expression on her face a mixture of stunned wonderment, disbelief, love, desire, and fear. It's all the things, the overwhelming feelings that are rushing through him, reflected back at him as she gazes down and he gazes up.
Honesty, that's what the moment calls for. Complete honesty. Boyd clears his throat, feels the raw huskiness of truth catch there as he speaks. "I've never once stopped loving you. Never." Grace closes her eyes and he can see tears ooze their way out from beneath her eyelids, reaches up with a thumb to tenderly brush them away. "There have been times when I hated you, hated our circumstances, our inability to talk or even be in the same room, times when I never wanted to see you again, but never once have I stopped loving you."
"Me either," she admits, voice tiny and breathless with the pressing weight of emotion. Grace opens her eyes, looks down at him again, and the few remaining tears spill over and roll slowly down her cheeks, falling away to land hotly on his chest. Gathering her in his arms, Boyd rolls so that now she is looking up, now he can lean down and quietly kiss those tears away.
There is no frustration for him at her display of emotion, only an overwhelming need to comfort her, protect her, and a strong sense of understanding, of relief that she allows herself to show him what it is he can't quite let her see. Yet.
It'll happen, he knows. At some point he will, maybe even tearfully, share with her exactly how much it means, exactly what he feels, but not right now. Now isn't the time for grand declarations and promises – neither of them needs it. There is an implicit understanding that they know where this – where life – is going now, and they don't need to talk about it. There will be plenty of time, and arguments, he's sure, for that in the future. And for that he silently thanks his sister.
He has no doubt that later on, be it today, tomorrow, or days or weeks down the line, Grace will delight in teasing him about being the younger twin, but that's not a matter he's going to dwell on right now. Not when he can see the emotion in her altering as she seeks his lips again, brushing a series of soft, light kisses there that burn like an iron has just skimmed over his skin. Not when her hands are starting to wander, the purpose and intensity behind them morphing, changing and growing as they do. Not when her eyes slide shut in pleasure as he responds, his own explorations causing her to tilt her head back, revealing as expanse of pale skin he instinctively wants, needs to nuzzle. Hands skimming artlessly over her body he hears her sigh and smiles.
No, there's no need to talk or worry. Not right here, not right now.