A mini celebration to end a good week. Thanks to all who keep reading and loving this tiny but precious fandom. Big hugs to Joodiff for awesome beta skills. Enjoy. :) xx

Colours

…

It's not until Boyd steps back into his home that it hits him. Really hits him. It's not until his eyes, glancing though the door into the living room, fall on her coat thrown carelessly across the arm of his sofa, that he draws a quick, sharp breath that sends a bolt of something sharp and tormenting thudding through his chest.

His vision narrows, the world tilts, darkens, and it takes a supreme effort not to fall with it.

And it's not until his eyes focus on the colour, on the dusky red interwoven with all the other earthy shades of brown and orange and yellow and green that the numbness begins to fade, letting in the bitter cold and the agony that begins to spread from torso to limb to limb.

A few steps forward, unsteady and staggering, and his hand can reach out, hover over the fabric in indecision, self-protection. Preservation. He has to touch, though, has to feel. Needs to.

Needs something. Anything.

Something to ground him, something to take away a tiny bit of the waiting. The not knowing.

The hell.

And it's that soft wool that greets the merest brush of his fingertips, just as he remembers. There's no reason for him to have forgotten – it was only last night that they arrived here, that she slipped out of it in such a hurry. That he helped her out of it. That what started as a warm, gentle kiss to welcome her home morphed and changed in the space of seconds to an utterly impassioned, frenzied tangle of heat and skin and desperate, aching desire right there on the sofa.

"Peter…" it's a gasping moan, a frantic entreaty, a declaration of love – all merged, blurred into one word.

Christ, the fire in her eyes… look at her eyes…

If he looks carefully he can pick out a hint of that exact shade of blue in the coat, can see her naked and wild with passion beneath him, can feel her stunned and sated, body flush with his own.

The ghost of her lips passes over his and his gentle caress turns into a grabbing fistful of the coat as he snatches it up, buries his face in those autumn colours and breathes. Her scent floods his nose, tickles his mind, his memories.

"What are you doing?" It's a laugh and a giggle all at the same time as she turns and watches him, blending in beautifully with the park scene, the coat that came out of hibernation just this week matching the rich colours of the changing leaves, her eyes sparkling in the golden bright light of the early morning sun.

He grins back and shakes his head, knows she loves the mischief in his face as he bounds forward, closing the gap between them, reaching out to take her hand as they continue to walk.

The scent, the texture, and the conversations he remembers… He's waited months to see this coat again. Has no idea why he likes it, just that he does. Always has.

"Hi."

The coat again, with wellies and a scarf – he can't help but smile at the sight as he calls back to her, reaches for what he's found for her. "Hi."

"Breakfast." She appears out of the gloomy white fog with food and coffee, the delicious scents infiltrating his nose, lifting his chilly spirits, and damn if she's not the most beautiful, welcome sight he's ever seen. Especially after a night in the woods with only the squabbles of his team and the freezing bite of a rapidly encroaching winter.

He gets to his feet, wants to kiss her, hug her. Feel the sunny warmth of her after all the long, long hours. And her eyes, her face – they tell him the same thing, but there are rules, boundaries that come between them. Restrict them to nothing more than the brush of gloved fingers as he hands over his prize for examination. There's a hint of a promise there in that tiny moment, and he clings to it, cherishes it, even as he watches it fade and the mask of fascination slide down over her face as she examines his gift, lost now in professional curiosity.

Davy MacDonagh, waxy and grey in death. Put to rest years ago now.

So much has happened since, so much has changed.

There are hints of her everywhere as he looks up, looks around. Reading glasses on the coffee table, a book about Welsh history beside them – she's utterly determined to drag him to the seaside in Wales this year, wants to visit tiny towns and medieval castles, eat ice-cream and walk on the beach, even if it's raining.

There's a stack of laundry beside his chair, his and hers, a riot of shades mingled together and half folded, ready to be ironed. Mugs of tea from late last night clutter the table; her car keys rest on the mantle.

She's absentminded at home, easy going. Wanders from one thing to the next. It both drives him mad, and makes him melt. He wouldn't trade it for anything. Ever.

A slight bang makes him look up, turn towards the front door. Expectant. Awaiting.

It's not her, only kids out in the street. He can hear their laughter, feels his heart pound, eyes blur.

His phone rings, but the sound doesn't register. He's been waiting for it for hours now, but it takes a second call before he reaches into his pocket, staring down at the device.

Still clinging to her coat with one hand, that soft wool pressed against his chest, his neck and face, caught tightly, securely in his grip, it takes a supreme effort of will to press the tiny button, to say a wary, hesitant, "Eve?"

She sounds old, exhausted. Distraught. He can hear that she's crying, feels that paralysing fear return in an instant.

Darkness clouds around him, his vision turning inky black as she says, "We've found her."