Then and Now

Then

…

It can't possibly work.

It's an ugly thought, but one that keeps repeating itself over and over again in his mind during the quiet moments. Boyd knows he's a headstrong, impatient young Detective Sergeant trying his best to chase down the nastiest scum of the city and cling on to the slippery slope that is the ladder to promotion. He's energetic, rushing from one thing to the next and always carrying the weight of a temper that he's never fully learned to control – it's a tricky combination at best. At worst...

And Grace… she's ambitious, too. Only a handful of years older than him, she's a PhD, a landlady – his – and already head of her own department, with her sights set on more, on making the leap into the forensic side of her profession. She's outspoken, not afraid of conflict, and wholly opposed to some of the things he is sworn to protect.

It's a problem, and one he can't see an easy answer to. But she's also beautiful, funny, and the most intelligent woman he thinks he's ever met.

And he's more than just a little bit in love with her.

A lot more.

It can't possibly work though, even though her skin is as soft as silk, and her eyes are a mesmerising shade of blue that he's irretrievably lost in.

It's the wrong time and the wrong place for the right people.

She will be the one that got away, he thinks with resignation and sadness, as he waits for her to wake, tracing idle but impossibly gentle circles on her bare shoulder as it rests back against his chest, her breath tickling his forearm as she exhales. A slight stretch of his neck and his lips can brush tenderly against her temple, his nose nuzzling through her hair, taking in the soft scent of her.

Maybe not now, not today, not tomorrow, or next week, next month, but she will be the one that got away, the one he will never quite get over, or forget.

It's not a thought to dwell on right now though, he knows. Not when she is stirring slightly, still thoroughly unaware of her surroundings, but waking enough to stretch just a little, her body pressing back into his, and though he is sure it's entirely unintentional on her part, his reaction is immediate. Without really meaning to his hands begin to wander with purpose, finding soft, warm skin that seems to pass effortlessly under his questing, gliding fingertips. His lips find the back of her neck, tracing a pathway of the tiniest kisses along her hairline before trailing slowly back down towards her shoulder, revelling in the soft sigh that drifts into his ear as she slides slowly back into consciousness.

Whether it's a testament to youth, enthusiasm, or simply her and the things she so effortlessly does to him, he doesn't know, and he doesn't care much either. All he knows is that he's hard as iron and more than ready to lose himself in the intoxicating heat of her, and if the way she moves and then arches back against him is in any way indicative, and the movement is so blatant and so evocative that he just knows it is, she's just as ready, and just as willing. Instead of asking, he simply tightens his hold on her, hips pushing forward against hers and grinning at the answering low moan, at the hand that reaches back between them, at the way she presses her shoulders quite deliberately into his chest, allowing his wandering hands more access to her bare breasts.

That nagging voice in his head is still there, however, even as he gently rolls her over, intent on engendering contact with her entire body. Grace can see it in his eyes though, clearly. See that hint of indecision, that streak of something troubling him. She smiles up at him, all radiance and beauty in the early morning light as she reaches up and frames his face with her hands.

"Just kiss me," she murmurs softly, huskily. "We can talk later. We have the whole day ahead of us."

It's an attractive offer. So he takes it.

Now

…

Somehow it works. Maybe it's age, maybe it's experience. Maybe he's mellowed just a bit, and she's calmed too. Maybe it's just finally their time, their turn.

Whatever it is, it works. It's not always easy, but that's okay. He likes a challenge, and so does she. And what they have – finally – Boyd wouldn't trade for the world. She's impossible, unpredictable, and given to irritating him immensely, but then he has the same effect on her. It doesn't matter, not one iota. What matters is that they fit. That they are two pieces of a whole that is seamless and strong, and unbreakable when unified.

Today though…

All day she's been driving him crazy. Sly smiles, accidental brushes against him when no one else was looking. Fingers skittering down his spine over lunch while the others were out, but then when he turned to capture the offending hand, to exact his revenge, Eve waltzed through the double doors announcing an incomprehensible and utterly unpronounceable explanation of a test relating to some sort of theory she'd suddenly dreamed up. And Grace just smirked from the side-lines.

A trip to the lab, jackets off, lab coats on, and mid-way through the lesson in god-knows-what he suddenly noticed something. Something her jacket had been hiding but her lab coat did not. In his defence, he reasons, they'd spent the night apart – he hadn't seen her dress that morning. Didn't know that the deep purple blouse she'd selected for the day was considerably lower cut than her typical attire. Not low enough to be revealing, but enough to hide beneath the coat. Enough to leave him speculative and full of imagination as he sat across from her. Enough – with his considerable height advantage – to allow him plenty to look down on if they walked out together, side-by-side. Which he duly ensured they then did. Enough, he saw clearly, to preoccupy him for the remainder of the day.

Even now, with everyone else long gone and Grace warm and real and flush against his body he can't help exploring the lines of that top, making the most of the view. One hand is lost beneath the hem, the other seeking and finding considerably higher, even as he nuzzles his way along her jaw, his lips and teeth grazing her throat with increasing enthusiasm. It's not usual for them to push the boundaries of professionalism like this, but neither is it unheard of when the mood strikes and the day has been long and difficult. Which it has.

"Not tonight," she murmurs, nipping at his ear, fingers buried firmly in his hair as he grinds his hips against her, intention absolutely clear as he keeps her firmly trapped between him and his office wall. She kisses him again, deep and hot and hard, her tongue swiping purposefully across his before she pulls back again, deliberately leaving him frustrated, wanting more. "Tonight we are going home," she tells him, and there is steel in her tone, absolutely no room for negotiation.

He wants to protest, is desperate for here and now, this very moment, but something in her expression tells him it will be worth it to follow her lead.

"Your place or mine?" he reluctantly asks.

Blue eyes dance wickedly, confirm his suspicions. "Mine."

…

Candles flickering, the scent of rich, dark wine hanging in the air, a sense that the world has disappeared, left only them behind – it hangs around him, around them. Wraps around his mind, steals away the stress of the day. The anger, the tension. The frustration. Coupled with what she's doing to him, saying to him, it lulls him instead into a state of sensory bliss.

Taking her time, Grace undresses him, rewards his patience with slow, deep kisses and hot, exploratory touches that linger, dragging his senses, his body, his mind into higher and higher states of arousal. Settled in his lap as he reclines on the bed, into the pillows, she finds all the sensitive places, teasing gently but mercilessly, pushing limits, pulling back. Repeating again and again.

Unable to bare it any longer Boyd catches her hands, brushes his lips across her fingers before settling his palms on her waist, tugging gently at the hem of her blouse and searching for the warm, soft skin beneath it. The flattering purple fabric slides up obediently, slithers off the side of the bed, and then his gaze is confronted by elegant, inviting dark blue lace that he's never seen before. The kind of thing that's designed to catch his attention. The kind of thing that does.

Sitting up, he rolls her, reverses their position and goes to work on the button of her trousers. The intention to drag them slowly away dies instantly when he discovers more lace, more of that deep, deep blue that looks so well against her skin, her eyes.

This was planned, he realises. The entire day… the unusually low-cut blouse, the smiles from across the room, the enigmatic, infuriatingly mysterious looks from beyond the protective glass of her office…

This was planned, and he missed all the signs.

Well, damn.

She knows it, too, gazes up at him with a grin that is pure impishness tempered only by a heavy, healthy dose of lust.

And that is why this works, he muses, losing himself in the scent of her, the curve of her breast under his palm as he reaches out, greedily explores the texture of lace over warm skin. They surprise each other, they challenge each other – they are never bored. It's not just sex either, but the way they relate to one another, the way they talk, live. Love.

The last remaining item he's wearing vanishes while he remains lost in the vision before him, and then her hand is wrapped around him, working the kind of magic that shuts down his mind, leaves only sensation. Somehow she's in his lap again, kissing him with the kind of erotic intent that makes his fingers fumble and fail as they search for tiny hidden hooks. Grace pulls back, smirks at him and then reaches behind, watching him as he watches her, lost in her motions and movement. He lifts his hands, tugs at the delicate straps, lets his palms glide down over her arms, sees the way she closes her eyes at his touch, her head falling back.

Her throat is far too tempting, the vibration of her soft moan under his lips a drug to his soul. One hand moves, finds soft flesh that feels so damn good under his touch. His name hisses out from between her lips, falls into his ear on a heated whisper as his thumb brushes over her nipple, his teeth nipping the skin over her collarbone. His other hand slides lower, slips beneath a thin line of elastic to stroke and tease, provoke the clench of fingers that dig sharply into his shoulders and another, headier gasp of pleasure that is snatched away by the air around them, blending into the thick atmosphere of seduction.

This is her game though, her evening, and before Boyd really knows how it happened or when, she's kissing him again, a thorough tangle of lips and teeth and tongues that goes on and on as she leans into him, silently pushing him backwards into the mattress even as she follows. The last little bit of lace vanishes away into the shadows and then it's just skin against skin and a tide of rising heat and passion. Just whispered words and wandering hands, touch and stroke and feel all blending together until he doesn't know where he ends and she begins. His mind swamped by the slick heat and the sliding union of their bodies, he's only just aware of the way she deliberately keeps the pace slow as she moves over him, dragging the moment out, refusing to let his impatience take over.

"Grace…" It's a strangled, half-choked groan, all he can articulate as she pauses, gazing down into his eyes, seeing far deeper than just the hazel irises and wide black pupils. It is always like this, always has been. Somehow she effortlessly slips through his defences, as if they were never there to begin with. It's a wonder, and a danger, for he can't keep anything from her. But then, he reasons, as her lips seal over his and steal everything he has left to give, whilst simultaneously sharing all that she has within her, why would he want to, when this is what it's like to share with her, merge with her, blend with her?

"Peter…" It's a breathless, whispered return, a plea, a spell meant to hypnotise…

Blind to the universe around him he settles a hand on her waist, gently nudging her into moving again, groaning deeply as she does. Free hand moving to her breast again he squeezes gently, watching her reaction, the thick, heavy lust her eyes, the way her spine arches forward into his touch. He follows the movement with his fingertips, traces down her body and over her hip, lingering in the places he knows will provoke a reaction until finally he can reach between them, grinning wickedly as his fingers find a rhythm that urges her to move faster.

This is Grace though, and she is defiant until the last, refusing to give in to him, refusing to let it all end in a chaotic, frenzied rush. Instead she shifts position, uses each and every weapon in her armoury to distract him, to refocus him. Watching her, reading her reaction, her expression, Boyd grins in return and yields gracefully, lets his eyes fall shut as she leans closer, as he feels the way they are suddenly pressed so tightly together, bare skin against bare skin. And then her voice, low and sultry, is invading his mind, dripping into his ear like sweet, exotic honey, her words pushing his thoughts to places far, far away from reality, from the room they are in, from everything around them, near them.

Her hands are still moving, her touch provoking, evoking, and damn if he's not suddenly somehow right there on the precipice. Eyes flying open he gazes up at her in a daze, a part of him wondering what she's thinking, what she's feeling. He wonders too, what it is about her that holds on to him so tightly – he could name dozens of things that he loves about her, but he's never, in all the years they have known each other, been able to put his finger on what exactly it is about her that draws him in so close and holds him there.

It doesn't matter though, not now. Not when he sees the expression of pure ecstasy on her face, hears the gasping, choking moan as she comes, muscles going into spasm and contracting around him as his name falls from her lips, and it's that complex maelstrom of feedback that provides the final nudge for him, that sends him rushing headlong into his own blistering, all-consuming reward where nothing matters but sensation after sensation.

It takes a long time for the real world to begin to reassert itself around him, but when it does the first thing he becomes aware of is the way Grace is collapsed across his chest, arms thoroughly wound around him, legs hopelessly entangled with his own. His first reaction, his overwhelming instinct, is to cling on to her. To wrap his arms securely and safely around her in the hope that he never has to let her go. His second is to brush the gentlest of kisses against the top of her head where it is resting, burrowed deep into his shoulder.

It takes a while to summon words, and when they arrive, they aren't exactly what he was hoping for. "Jesus, Grace…" he murmurs.

"Mmmm…" is the sleepy, sated reply that drifts across his collarbone in a soft brush of air as she breathes deeply and slowly, clearly savouring the moment. There's no point in trying to say anything more, he decides, languidly. She already knows what he's thinking, what he wants to tell her. She knows him, and loves him, just as he does her. It's really that simple now.

Now is the right time and the right place for the right people.

Now is their time, their turn. Now is the fulfilment of decades of patience. Now is the chance he's waited for for far longer than he ever thought possible. Years and years of friendship and longing, liberally littered with anger, disappointment, bitter arguments, hatred, jealousy, distractions, and all of it cast aside and meaningless now that they finally have their chance.

Rolling onto his side he takes her with him, snags the quilt and tugs it over their still entangled bodies, his arms cradling her against his chest, his head buried in the back of her neck. Time stretches out, become meaningless as he drifts, lost in a haze of sensation and emotion. Any thought of trying to talk to her remains abandoned, for they will not have the threat of the end hanging over them when they wake. They now have the promise of the future.