DISCLAIMER – I own nothing.

A/N: While I was writing this one I realised it would be my 50th WtD fic uploaded here, and as it happened it turned out to be 50 pages long! So, this one's for everyone who loves WtD and its fanfic, everyone who ships Boyd and Grace, and especially for all my long-suffering WtD chums. Enjoy!

Scarred

By Joodiff

Prologue – Waterloo

"Nine bloody years," Grace says wryly, "and we end up homeless under Waterloo Bridge."

"I don't know," Boyd replies, looking around, "it feels kind of familiar, don't you think? Too much concrete, not enough light."

It's the end of an era, and they all know it. Grace isn't surprised when he smiles and puts a hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently. It's an affectionate gesture, and so much more. There's something in the look he gives her, something that's profoundly intimate but there's also something else there that she can't quite interpret. His hand drops away, but it's not a rejection. For a moment she senses something unusual in him, something like... equilibrium. But as his smile fades, so does the moment.

He speaks again, still quiet and calm, completely unflustered. "It's time for you to go now. All of you."

Spencer and Eve look at each other, a touch bewildered, but Grace thinks she understands. She looks straight at Boyd, catching and holding his gaze, and says simply, "They're coming for you, aren't they? You told them where to find you."

"They're coming," he agrees without a flicker of emotion.

There's a moment of silence as they all contemplate his words and what they really mean. As if on cue a siren starts to wail in the distance.

"Go," Boyd says, and when none of them move, he adds, "You're all in enough trouble as it is. Get out of here."

It is Spencer who shakes his head slowly. "Not going to happen, sir."

Grace can't help the enormous swell of pride she feels. Neither Spencer Jordan or Eve Lockhart move a muscle. They simply hold position, every bit as calm and composed as their erstwhile leader. Boyd glances at her, and Grace looks steadily back. He says, "Get them out of here, Grace."

"No," she tells him quietly. "It's their choice, not yours or mine."

She wonders briefly if Boyd will resort to shouting. He doesn't. He simply looks out across the Thames for a moment as the approaching siren draws ever-closer. Still very controlled, he says, "Then stay up here out of the way. All of you."

Spencer shoots a questioning look at Grace and she nods slightly. It's a compromise, just like so very much else.

Boyd walks away from them, back down the steps, head high, shoulders set square beneath his dark jacket, and when he reaches the pavement, he simply stops. He doesn't look back, he just waits stoically as the first marked police car and then the second pull up, blue strobes punching tiny holes in the night.

Grace watches as they come for him, young uniformed officers who have no concept of their part in a much bigger drama. She refuses to look away as they put the handcuffs on him and escort him towards the first car. Still, Boyd does not look back, not once, and even when he's in the back of the car, he simply stares straight ahead.

None of them say a word. No-one wants to be responsible for breaking the highly-charged silence. They simply watch, all of them, as he's driven away.

-oOo-

Peter Boyd has fallen and the world is suddenly a very strange and chaotic place. He is on remand, charged not with the murder of DSI Sarah Cavendish, but with being an accessory to the murder of ACC Anthony Nicholson, and even if George Barlow changes his plea to guilty – which everyone knows is never going to happen – the forthcoming trial is going to be long, complicated and bloody. Grace is well aware that Boyd is looking at a minimum of five years imprisonment if the cards fall the way everyone now expects.

The wreckage is spectacular, and of them all it is perhaps only Eve who escapes relatively lightly. Spencer is moved back to CID and is summarily demoted to Detective Sergeant, his career permanently blighted by cruel circumstance and his own loyalty, and Grace… Well, Grace feels as if she is free-falling in an uncertain limbo with no discernible borders. She's no longer seconded to the recently-disbanded CCU, but professionally she hasn't suffered the way Spencer has suffered; personally, however… On a personal level she can't begin to process the extent of the loss and damage.

Icarus has flown too close to the sun, and now he has fallen. And everything and everyone else has come crashing down around him.

Boyd grows more shadowed every time she sees him. There are certain benefits to being on remand – he is able to wear his own clothes, and visiting orders are not required – but he is still a prisoner, a man almost entirely stripped of pride, dignity and status, and seeing him in such circumstances hurts Grace far more than she could ever tell him. Or anyone else. The weeks pass and she watches as his beard grows and his dark eyes become intensely wary. She's not naïve, she knows exactly how hard his life has suddenly become.

He is caught squarely between two opposing factions – the prisoners who hate him for the warrant card he used to carry, and the staff who hate him for the crime he is accused of committing. Sometimes the bruises aren't just in the places no-one can see, and if Grace ever asks Boyd simply gives her an ironic smile and the expected lie. Plainly, imprisonment has made him uncharacteristically clumsy, because it seems he falls over a lot, just as he seems to accidentally to walk into a lot of doors. It's just one more agony Grace finds she has to live with just because there is absolutely no alternative.

The future looks bleak, and for all her inner strength Grace doesn't know how she will face it.

-oOo-

ONE – Wounds

It's a cool spring morning, and at precisely eleven o'clock, Boyd steps out through the door in the big gate. Although she's a good distance away seated in the parked car, Grace is immediately shocked by his appearance. He's lost so much weight that the sober grey suit is hanging loosely off him; his shoulders are rounded and his head is held low. He looks around cautiously, and even from the other side of the road, she can see the caginess in him. His hair is cut very short, his beard is closely trimmed, and as far as she can tell not a single trace of iron grey remains anywhere in the brilliant silver. He does not look his age, he looks older by far. In fact, he looks a lot older than she does, and it nearly breaks her heart.

Sitting behind the wheel of the car, Spencer asks quietly, "Grace? Do you want me to wait here?"

Grace nods gratefully. "If you don't mind…?"

He shakes his head, gives her a slight, reassuring smile. "Not at all."

She gets out of the car slowly, and as she does so, the dark gaze from the other side of the road finally settles on her. Boyd doesn't smile, but then Grace doesn't really expect him to. He simply watches as she approaches.

She halts a few cautious feet from him, raises her chin a touch defiantly and says, "I told you I'd be here."

Boyd nods solemnly and his voice is level as he agrees, "So you did."

Two and a half years. They've spoken over the telephone, but Grace hasn't seen him in person for almost two and a half years – his choice, not hers. He looks even more haggard at close quarters, his skin holding an unhealthy pallor, and despite Spencer's gentle warnings she's shocked to the core by her first sight of the deep, narrow scar that neatly bisects his eyebrow, catches the bony edge of his eye socket and then continues down across his cheekbone before finally trailing away to nothing. She still doesn't know how Boyd didn't lose his left eye in the brutal attack that took place so early in his sentence. Just luck, she supposes; luck, experience and preternaturally fast reflexes. The path of the scar clearly shows how he instinctively snapped his head round in an attempt to avoid the improvised blade swung at him by a fellow prisoner.

Grace swallows hard, still utterly determined not to cry. "You look…"

The keen dark eyes regard her for a moment longer and then he says, "Like shit, Grace. I look like shit."

The comment is so dry and so utterly typical of the man she remembers that an involuntary chuckle escapes her. A chuckle that immediately becomes a sob. A sob she despises but simply can't prevent. She starts to turn away, not wanting to embarrass either of them, but the hand that falls heavily on her shoulder stops her. For a second, Grace freezes, not knowing how she is supposed to react to the touch. When she risks a quick, furtive glance upwards, his expression is still completely neutral, but there's something very complex reflecting in the depths of his eyes.

Boyd says, "I knew you'd be in tears within about thirty bloody seconds."

Grace doesn't know if she's surprised or not to find herself being pulled into an embrace that is simultaneously so familiar and yet so strange. He doesn't smell right. He smells of prison and cheap soap. He doesn't feel right – he's altogether too angular, too spare under the suit he was wearing on the day he was sentenced. But the steady strength is still there, and she still has to look up to meet his gaze. She thinks – hopes – that he will kiss her then, but he doesn't. Perhaps it's the ominous presence of the prison looming behind him, or perhaps it's the fact that Spencer is watching them from the car. Or perhaps it's simply too soon for him to deal with such intimacy. Grace doesn't know. It doesn't really matter, because he keeps one arm around her waist as they walk across the road together.

Spencer is standing by the car now, expression as unreadable as Boyd's. He nods and says simply, "Boss."

The reply is laconic. "Spence."

-oOo-

Grace is talking too much. She's aware of it, but she can't seem to stop the words that keep tumbling out. Boyd says very little. He sits in the back of the car and he stares out of the window, and she certain he isn't listening to half of what she's saying. Spencer doesn't say very much, either, just drives steadily back towards the capital, most of his attention apparently on the motorway traffic around them. Grace is tempted to turn the car radio on, but instead she simply talks continuously into the near-silence. It's nerves, she realises, but that doesn't make her feel any better. She waits for Boyd's patience to fray, but he says nothing.

Eventually she hears herself say, "…and we can go and see Morrison tomorrow afternoon."

"Grace," he finally says quietly from the back seat.

She glances round at him. "Boyd?"

"Enough."

She opens her mouth, and quickly closes it again. He has a point.

Silence descends. Strangely, it is Boyd who breaks it several minutes later, asking, "So how's Lambeth CID these days, Spence?"

"Same old, same old," Spencer says. Grace sees him glance in the rear-view mirror. "Our new Super's a bit of a bastard."

"All Supers are bastards," Boyd comments dryly. "It's in the job description along with a tendency for megalomania and a proven ability to piss people off regardless of rank or status."

"True," Spencer says with a quick grin.

Perhaps, Grace thinks, the touch of familiar banter soothing her, there really is a chance for them all. Perhaps the very hardest of the hard days are finally over.

-oOo-

"But the terms of your license…" Spencer says, a very dubious note in his voice.

Boyd favours them both with the kind of look absolutely guaranteed to prevent further argument. "I know what the terms of my bloody license are. I'm not about to attempt to make a run for the continent, I just want to walk. Stop the damned car, Spencer."

Grace nods at the younger man when he looks at her. Quietly, she says, "Pull over, Spence."

He does so, but he's evidently not happy. "Boyd – "

"You're not my fucking keeper, she is," Boyd snaps, and there is a real touch of vehemence in his tone that makes Grace wince. Before she can say anything, however, he's out of the car and already walking away. She looks at Spencer and he looks back gravely before shrugging slightly and putting the car back into gear.

As he pulls away from the kerb, Spencer says, "If he breaks the terms of his license…"

"He won't," Grace says with more confidence than she actually feels.

"You'd better make sure he doesn't," Spencer says grimly. "Because if he does, his feet won't touch the ground. He'll serve every day he's got left of his sentence."

"He knows that, Spence."

"Yeah, and I know him. We both do. One step out of line and…"

"It's not going to happen," Grace says firmly. "Trust me, it's not. He's just letting off steam, you know that."

"And if he doesn't turn up at your place before seven o'clock tonight?"

"He will."

"But if he doesn't, Grace?"

She sighs heavily. "He will, Spence. Call if you like – he'll be there."

Spencer's expression is sombre. "I hope you're right. I really do."

-oOo-

Despite her confident words, an anxious tension twists relentlessly inside Grace until she finally catches sight of a very familiar figure walking up the street towards her house. She watches him from the living room window, stubbornly refusing to look at the clock. It might be wishful thinking, but she thinks his shoulders are set a little squarer, and she thinks there's a touch more strength and purpose in the way he walks. He's always had a distinctive gait, loose-limbed and self-assured, not quite a swagger, but very definitely assertively masculine. She's tempted to go and open the front door ready to greet him, but reluctantly decides against it – instinct tells her not to give him any reason to think she's been nervously watching and waiting. It's difficult, but Grace waits for Boyd to knock before walking out into the hallway, and as she goes she can't help a quick, furtive glance at the clock. It's just gone half-past six.

"Okay?" Grace asks quietly as he walks in past her.

The answer is short. "Yeah."

She doesn't push him. Instead, she says, "Do you want to have a bath or something? While I get on with dinner?"

"Did you pick up all stuff I wanted?"

"Upstairs. If there's anything else you want we can collect it from the storage unit tomorrow."

The reply is noncommittal, but after a moment Boyd starts up the stairs. The temptation to follow him is very strong indeed, but Grace suppresses it. She appreciates the need for a readjustment period, knows that crowding him, fussing over him, is a very bad idea. Boyd needs to be left alone, needs to come to her in his own time. And he will. She's sure he will. She just doesn't know how long it will take.

-oOo-

In an odd sort of way, it's like stepping back in time. The thought strikes Grace much later in the evening when she walks into the living room to find Boyd lounging on the sofa watching the news. It's an achingly familiar sight, one that's deeply imprinted on her memory. Jeans and a loose casual shirt; bare feet. One hand behind his head, the other arm stretched lazily along the back of the sofa. No particular expression on his face, but the dark eyes intent and intelligent as he watches and listens. For just a moment her chest tightens.

Boyd glances round at her, and for the very first time she sees a smile that isn't stiff and wary. True, it's only the ghost of a smile, but that doesn't matter – it's unquestionably there. She wonders if he has any idea of just how much she loves him. She hopes he does. Quietly, she asks, "Are you all right?"

Sounding deeply wry, Boyd says, "Are you likely to stop asking me that at any point in the near future?"

Grace sighs. "Sorry. I'm sorry. I just…"

"Come here."

She doesn't think about it, she just goes to him, settles into the same position she always used to occupy, lying in front of him, shoulders against his chest. So familiar, so right. The arm from the back of the sofa moves to curve easily around her waist, and suddenly there they are, cast back in time, settled exactly as they always used to be. He's as warm as she remembers, but the ribs are sharper against her back. She says, "You've lost so much weight."

Boyd grunts, replies, "Scrawny as fuck. Prison food. Truly disgusting."

For a moment Grace silently debates with herself. Eventually, she says "I know this is stupid, but..."

His reply is steadier than she expects. "Go on then. Let's get it over with."

Briefly closing her eyes, she asks, "So… just how bad was it?"

The answer takes several moments to come. "Bad, Grace. It was bad. Very bad, some of it. The only ex-copper in an overcrowded vulnerable prisoner unit? Do you really need me to spell it out for you?"

She tightens her grip automatically on the arm around her waist. "No. But talking about it might help you come to terms with it."

Boyd sighs heavily, deliberately. "Typical psychologist."

"Typical retired psychologist," Grace points out.

"I'm trying not to think about that."

The tiny trace of dark humour in his tone warms her immeasurably. "Why? Can't see yourself shacked up with such an old lady?"

"Got it in one, Grace. Got it in one."

She laughs, just a little. "Going to find yourself a younger model?"

"Can't be arsed. Too much like hard work."

"You're such an old romantic," Grace says, returning easily to a very old joke. It doesn't surprise her that his only response is to fractionally increase the strength of his grip. It's enough.

Eventually the inevitable moment comes. The moment where Grace has to clear her throat and say in an oddly embarrassed fashion, "I wasn't sure… I didn't know… Oh, God. Peter, look, if you want to sleep in the spare room, that's okay. I'll understand."

The answering look Boyd gives her is superbly ironic. It's very late and they are now standing together at the foot of the stairs, not quite touching.

"Right," he says with a derisive snort, and the tone exactly matches the look. "Just over three bloody years locked up, Grace, including time spent on remand. Three years. Of course I want to sleep in the spare room. Christ. Get up the stairs, woman."

Well, Grace thinks, well aware of the sudden heat in his eyes, I suppose that's one question answered…

Aloud, she says solemnly, "But I'm such an old lady, remember?"

"Yeah, and I'm an old man. Get up the bloody stairs."

Grace genuinely tries, but she can't hold back her delighted grin. "Or…?"

Boyd's dark eyes glint at her. "Oh, I think you know the answer to that."

She's fairly sure that she does, and though the alternative could prove to be a lot of fun indeed, she decides it's probably far more sensible to give in and go up the stairs. In reluctant deference to her age, she does exactly that.

-oOo-

She's far too wise and far too experienced to be surprised. If anything, she simply feels incredibly sad, not for herself, but for him, because it's there, in the quiet, private intimacy of the bedroom that she begins to comprehend what the last three years have done to Boyd. The sex is satisfactory – hardly the best they've ever managed between them, but good enough – and she's very glad to have him back where she privately feels he belongs, but there's something in him that's different. Very different, in fact. The gentle amiability in the bedroom that was one of his most redeeming features has disappeared, replaced it seems, by a bitter sort of edginess that prevents him from relaxing properly in what should be a very tender afterglow.

Grace strokes his hair – shorter than she's ever known him wear it – and gazes at him quietly, wondering if he's as aware as she is of the uncomfortable emotional distance between them. He frowns at her, demands, "What?"

"Not important," she lies, making an effort to smile.

"Do you have to fucking stare at me like that, then?"

The unanticipated, raw aggression in his tone startles her. Boyd has always been blunt, given to saying exactly what he thinks, but the sheer level of belligerence he directs at her with no legitimate provocation is entirely new. Carefully, she says, "I'm just pleased to have you home, that's all."

He groans and shuts his eyes. "Oh, don't start with all the sentimental crap again, Grace; I'm not in the mood."

It's just the need to readjust, Grace tells herself firmly. More than thirty years as a police officer unexpectedly followed by three years as a prisoner. Little wonder he's prickly and edgy. She tries not to stare at the deep scar that mars the left side of his face, the visible evidence of everything he's been through since the night he was arrested by Waterloo Bridge. He needs time and she needs patience. It's that simple. Things will be all right. They have to be.

-oOo-

It's very early and she's very sleepy, but Boyd's voice is very insistent. Remarkably soft, but close to her ear and unrelenting. The solid warmth of his body behind hers is reassuring, but it's been far too long since she's been dragged from her dreams by the caress of his lips on her neck and the gentle but inexorable rocking of his hips against her. Stifling a not altogether unreasonable impulse to complain, Grace mutters dozily, "Go back to sleep."

"Can't," Boyd says succinctly. "Too used to being woken up at the crack of dawn."

Grace can feel, of course, the unmistakable, brazen hardness pressing firmly against her buttocks. It doesn't surprise her in the least, and for once she's not predisposed to complain about his far-too-early-in-the-morning enthusiasm. For her, and maybe even for him, it's not really about sex, it's about re-establishing the intimate bond that has been severed for far too long. Keeping her back to him, Grace shifts position slightly, giving him the access he so obviously wants and she waits. How Boyd reacts will give her some kind of insight into his state of mind. She suspects he will just take what he wants, quickly and selfishly – but it seems she's wrong. He's single-minded about it, certainly, but he takes his time and when he finally eases into her she shivers and moans, and pushes back against him, encouraging him to thrust even deeper.

He's gentler with her than she expects, gentler and more affectionate, and when it's over and they're still locked together in a tight, sweaty embrace, his chest against her shoulders, Grace starts to cry. It's stupid and self-indulgent and she knows Boyd will hate it, so she tries to let the tears fall in absolute silence. It doesn't work – he realises almost instantly, and she waits for the growling annoyance, the spike of exasperated aggression that never comes. He tightens his grip on her, kisses her shoulder, her neck, manages to find some gentle words from somewhere, and it's perhaps then that Grace realises that despite the clear changes in him he is, on a fundamental level, still exactly the same man she accidentally fell in love with years earlier.

"Grace," he says, his voice low and soft. "Come on. Don't do this. It's all right. Everything's all right."

It doesn't help. The tears fall even faster, the sobs tear even harder at her throat, and she instinctively tries to curl herself into a tight, defensive ball. Boyd lets her, but he goes with her, curving around her, keeping the close physical contact between them. He holds her, and he lets her cry, and perhaps that's what she needs more than anything else. She tries to tell him, tries to express in far too few words all the things that roil desperately inside her, but she's not sure Boyd hears any of it, not really. Through the misery gripping her, she finally mutters, "I tried so hard… so bloody hard… but there wasn't a single day when I wasn't terrified… When you were attacked…"

"It's over," he says, quietly enough, but decisively. "Over and done. Finished."

"It's never going to be over," Grace contradicts him. "They released you on license and – "

He interrupts impatiently. "For God's sake, Grace, do you really think I'm stupid enough to do anything that might breach the terms of my license? I'm not going back to prison. Not now, not ever. It's over, and now we move on."

"Just like that?"

Boyd is quite evidently growing more exasperated by the moment, and he growls back, "Of course not. Christ, you knew this wasn't going to be easy. You were given enough chances to – "

"Don't," Grace says, closing her eyes tightly. "Peter, don't. I wanted you to come here, you know that. I didn't offer my address to the parole board on a whim, and I didn't do it because Morrison thought it was a good idea. I did it because I wanted you home. Back where you belong."

"Back where I belong…?"

"Please don't do this. I don't want to fight with you."

Boyd is silent for several long, tense moments, and then she feels his lips gently brush against the sensitive nape of her neck. His voice is suddenly quiet again. "I'm sorry. Fuck, I've done nothing but give you grief so far, have I?"

Grace squeezes her eyes even more tightly closed. "It's all right… I understand. Things… are going to take time."

Boyd kisses her shoulder. There's a note of hollow regret in his voice as he says, "You should've just got on with your life when you had the chance, Grace."

She shakes her head a tiny, stubborn fraction. "No."

It's the only word she needs to say, so effectively does it sum up her attitude over the last three years.

-oOo-

"Drive," he says curtly, dropping heavily into the passenger seat and slamming the car door with unnecessary force. "Fucking bunch of arseholes…"

Grace decides that simply doing as she's told is – for now – the best course of action. Once they're moving, she asks, "That bad?"

Boyd sighs heavily. "What do you think?"

"You knew it was going to be difficult."

"I object to being patronised by some jumped-up little – "

"Boyd."

He grumbles and lapses into sullen silence. More than a minute passes before he says, "They went through the terms of my license again. In ridiculous detail. I think they just enjoyed making it quite clear to me that basically I can't even take a crap without notifying them about it first."

Ignoring his annoyance, Grace asks, "So how often are you going to have to see your probation officer?"

"Owing to my previous good character," he tells her, the irony heavy in his voice, "once a fortnight to start with. If I'm a good boy, they'll probably drop it to monthly in the end. Bastards."

Grace doesn't challenge him. Instead, she says, "No curfew?"

"They don't have the authority. No, I just have to be at my registered address overnight."

"Looks like you're stuck with me, then."

"To be honest, I'd say it was the other way round, Grace," he says wryly. "Well, there goes your reputation. All those years working for the Home Office and you end your days shacked up with an ex-con."

"Scarface," Grace says with a slight grin, and then the reality of her blasé joke hits her in the pit of her stomach like a hard, brutal fist. Mortified, she says, "Oh, God, Boyd… I'm so, so sorry… I wasn't thinking…"

He gives her a long, impassive stare. It seems to take an age for him to say, "Forget it."

"Peter – "

His voice is harsh. "I said, forget it."

She drives in silence, shame and remorse churning inside her.

-oOo-

Continued…