Wishing a very happy birthday to Joodiff. Many, many hugs! :) xx
And many thanks to missDuncan, for cheering me on and for patiently reading through multiple drafts.
A Leap of Faith
...
Raising his voice just a fraction, Boyd cuts easily above the stream of tetchy ranting that he's sure is being directed his way solely with the intention of provoking a loud, argumentative reaction, and, deliberately interrupting her mid-sentence, he asks abruptly, "What day is it?"
Thrown off balance, Grace does exactly as he had hoped and pauses, staring at him in bewilderment. It only lasts a second, though, before she frowns in exasperation and snaps back, "It's Friday." That frown morphs into an angry scowl that is also directed at him, from eyes that are dark blue and as stormy as the weather raging outside their stationary car. "You know damn well it's Friday – you spent the entire drive out here moaning that it's the last day before a Bank Holiday weekend, that nothing of substance is going to get done until at least Tuesday now, and why the fucking hell can't witnesses live within a reasonable bloody travelling distance of the office?"
Boyd grins to himself at her use of such coarse language, and at the remarkably good impression of him she manages to achieve, but wisely elects to hide it from her by gazing out of the driver's side window into the gloomy darkness of the spectacular rainstorm, and the seemingly unending miles of farmland he can just about make out beyond the blurry glass. Whatever has upset her today has well and truly done a thorough job of it.
Grace is still muttering to herself, though her voice has dropped to just-barely-audible, leaving him able to pick up only a handful of words here and there – words that only make his smirk widen. She's been annoyed with him all day, and, perversely, the more she's tried to antagonise him, the more appealing he's found her actions. It's not a new thought, but it might very well be the first time in a long time he hasn't instantly roared back at her needling attempts with a biting attack of his own.
Admittedly, he's feeling decidedly mellow today, though for what reason he can't even begin to fathom. Perhaps it was the warmth of the day – the real promise of summer the air held before the clouds rolled in and virtually turned day into night. Then again, perhaps it was the way she arrived for work that morning in a skirt that moves like liquid around her when she walks, and a teal shirt made from the sort of summery material that emphasises all the curves he suspects he really shouldn't be paying attention to, but can't help admiring. Really, as annoying as it is to be stuck in the car with nothing to do but wait, he's grateful for the rain and the significant drop in temperature it brought with it. And the chance to slyly examine those inviting curves at close range from the corner of his eye. When she's looking out of her own window, that is. He doesn't reckon much for his chances if she catches him at it, not with the mood she's currently in, but at least they are relatively comfortable – and dry – within the confines of the big Audi, even if they are essentially stranded.
Quite why she's so upset with him, though, Boyd's not exactly sure. They had something of an argument late last night, but nothing he would have expected to carry over into a new day. Like so much about her, it remains a mystery to him. Turning in his seat, he surveys her thoughtfully as she glares mutinously out of her own window, her posture rigid and tense, the occasional mutter from under her breath still reaching his ears despite the fact that she is now largely silent.
"Why are you so angry with me?" he asks, casually throwing the question out into the space between them and intentionally catching her off-guard again. Her face is a picture as she twists rapidly to look at him; a mixture of irritation, disbelief, guilt and something else that he can't quite name, something that's a lot warmer and softer than the brittle edge of real ire her words have increasingly hinted at in the last few hours.
Grace sighs heavily, and for a moment she looks so drained, so thoroughly exhausted and distressed that a flash of genuine concern burns through him, but then her features settle again and she shakes her head decisively. "I'm sorry," she apologises, her tone much lower as she offers him a conciliatory smile. "I'm not – I'm just not having a good day. I shouldn't be taking it out on you, though."
He surprises himself, and her. Asks, "Anything you want to talk about?"
Her eyebrows rise as she stares back at him, startled by his sincerity. "I'm just tired, that's all. I didn't sleep well, and it just seems to have been one of those days – nothing is going well, everything I touch seems to fall apart..." She sighs again in frustration, gesturing to the inert car they are stranded in as an example.
Though he suspects she is not being entirely truthful with him, he doesn't press her further on the subject. Instead he searches for something else to say. "Cheer up," he tells her. "It could be worse."
"How?" she demands, her just calmed anger immediately flaring up again from seemingly nowhere, and the level of vehemence she managed to interject into just that one syllable is quite genuinely startling. "How could it be worse, Boyd? We're miles from anywhere, the AA promised to be here ages ago and yet I don't see them, do you? It's chucking it down out there, we have no food, no water… My phone's already dead, and yours isn't far from being the same, either!"
The sudden shift surprises him, but not as much as the real fury in her. "Grace," he holds his hands up, tries for some measure of soothing reassurance, despite the fact that his own calm is beginning to ebb now.
"Don't even think of telling me it's okay," she snaps back, cutting him off before he can say anything else. Her eyes are a dark, flinty blue, warning him not to push her. "Just don't!"
"I wouldn't dream of it," he replies steadily, a building sense of concern prickling at the edges of his consciousness. But the sheer level of suspicion in the glance that immediately comes his way almost makes him laugh. Almost. "What?"
"Why are you so calm?" Grace demands, eyes narrowing.
"What do you mean?"
"Don't play stupid with me, Boyd, it doesn't suit you."
"Okay." He shrugs, studying the tension in her shoulders, the hand clenched around the door handle. "It's a three day weekend, Grace. I'm just looking forward to relaxing, that's all."
"Relaxing? You?"
He offers a lazy grin. "It has been known. On occasion."
Her expression twists, and for the briefest moment he sees a flash of something entirely different in her eyes. Something that looks a lot like an overwhelming blend of despair, resignation and jealousy. The combination of emotions confuses him briefly, makes him wonder if he is reading her wrong yet again, but then a spark of understanding dawns inside him, allows him to consider that maybe, just maybe, there is a trace of hope for him after all.
"Something nice planned, have you?" she prods, and he definitely doesn't miss what is undeniably unmasked bitterness in her question.
"Not so far," he replies, easily maintaining his composure now.
Grace's reply is harsh, her implication quite clear. "You do surprise me."
He ignores the jab, says instead, "I know what I'd like to do – who I'd like to spend the time with."
"I'm sure you do," is the snide reply. "But I really don't think I want to know." She deliberately looks away from him, stares back out into their rainy surroundings.
Dismissing her tone, he remains unprovoked. It's disconcerting her, he can tell, pushing her off balance. And perhaps he is guilty of enjoying it. "Oh, really? You might be surprised."
"After all these years? I don't think so." Her words are sharp, each of them precise and cutting, but Boyd just lets them roll off him, like water from a duck's oiled feathers.
"It's not like you to jump to conclusions, to offer premature judgement."
Grace says nothing, instead closing her eyes and resting her head back against the seat. Boyd watches her let out a long, slow breath and wonders what she would do if he were to take advantage of the moment, if he simply closed the distance between them and covered her lips with his own.
Instead he finds himself asking again, "Why are you so angry?"
She doesn't move, simply answers him with a quiet, defeated sort of frustration in her voice. "I told you, I'm tired."
"No. No, that's not it. Don't give me all that bollocks, Grace, I know you – something else is wrong."
"I just want the AA to turn up so we can get the damn car started and get back to London and communication with the rest of the world, all right? That's it. I just want this nightmare of a day to be over."
It strikes him as an odd thing to say and as they lapse once more into silence he frowns, losing himself in a train of uneasy thought. The rain is coming down harder now, bouncing noisily off the Audi's roof and obscuring the landscape further still. The fields have blurred into an indistinguishable sea of grey-green, a river of water is covering much of the road surface to his right and, bored, and with the edges of his patience finally beginning to fray, he glances down at his mobile.
Nothing. The phone screen is blank, and he reaches to press a button, just to check the battery hasn't yet given up – it hasn't, but the state of it isn't encouraging.
"My phone's already dead and yours isn't far from being the same." Grace's words echo in his mind as he notes the time. The end of the working day is fast approaching, and by the time the two of them get back to the office the rest of the team will be long gone.
"Get back to London and communication with the rest of the world." Twisting in his seat again, he studies her more carefully – even with her eyes closed and her head reclined back there is still that pronounced tension in her body. All of his instincts, honed and refined from his years on the job, are screaming at him that something is not right.
"Were you waiting for a phone call?" he asks, watching as she flinches slightly before shifting slowly to look over at him, lips pressed tightly together as she maintains her silence. Their eyes connect, and hers are cautious, wary. More than that, even. The realisation hits him hard as he finally sees that behind the anger there is a lot of tightly controlled fear, terror even. She's trying to hide it, but it's still there, pushed away behind the mask of annoyance, the antagonism that has been directed at him all day. He recognises it for what it is in an instant; a buffer zone, a coping strategy. A way to get herself through the day.
The reality of it hits him like a sledgehammer, the knowledge that he was right, that something really is wrong, and, now that he knows, he can't let it go. He won't. The stare down between them continues, the tangled mess of things he can see but not decipher in her eyes clawing at him as he refuses to yield, to back away from whatever this might be.
It takes a long time, but eventually a hint of something, defeat perhaps, or resignation, flickers quietly, uneasily in her as Grace finally relents and offers an almost imperceptible nod.
"From who?"
She swallows and then clears her throat; finding her voice, she clearly tries to shrug the moment off. "It doesn't matter." She's lying though – he can still see that fear, watches as she clutches at it, forcing it back and pushing it deeper inside.
"Grace…" he trails off, his voice fading despite his need to know, his desire to help with whatever it is.
She must hear something of his curiosity though, because that heated fire is back, glittering fiercely, hotly in her eyes as she reacts to his tone, angrily demanding a brittle, "What?"
She's defensive, trying to hold him back emotionally, despite their physical proximity. Maybe because of it. She's expecting him to push her, to relentlessly keep at it until she's cornered and ready to give in – he can see it in her posture, in her expression. It's a tactic he's well aware he is guilty of having used in the past, and perhaps that's why she is expecting it, wary of it. This, though, this feels far to important, whatever it is, and so instead of forging ahead he simply backs down, settling back into his seat and offering her whatever space he can within their current, confined circumstances.
Fifteen years he known her, nearly ten they've worked side by side – he's learned a thing or two. His hunch is correct, and after a long, heavy silence she stares unblinkingly out of the window again, fingers knotted and twisted together in her lap, knuckles stark white with the tension and strain. Refusing to look at him, she speaks, her voice barely more than a whisper. "My last set of test results came back with some… anomalies. They had to re-run them."
The air in his chest freezes, the surrounding muscles suddenly aching viciously. Inside the car, it's as though the temperature has suddenly plummeted ten degrees and his skin prickles with the ripple of spreading goose bumps, even beneath the thick fabric of the suit that just this morning seemed like too heavy a choice for the weather. Eyes fixed on her, he finds it impossible to look away, as though she might disappear if he so much as takes his gaze off her for a split second. It's been almost a year now, and still the cold, gripping anxiety has never really left him. Still he finds himself, in hours or minutes of weakness and exhaustion, a victim of the crushing fear that it could all still go wrong, that she might yet slip away from him. Before he's even had a chance, taken a chance.
He can't keep going like this. It's a stark moment in time for him, the clarity hitting him out of nowhere – one minute the unending nothingness of their status quo, and the next the certainty that it's all over, that the walls, the restrictions, the barriers he has clung to so tenaciously are nothing, just… nothing. They don't crumble, they don't fall around him; they are just gone, and in their wake is the absolute truth and understanding that there is only one path left remaining. All the waiting, all the excuses – they mean nothing anymore. Nothing.
He holds his phone out to her. "Call your doctor."
She looks at the phone, at him and then back at the phone again, a frustrated, defiant sigh escaping her. "No. We need the battery power – what if the AA can't find us?"
He pushes the device into her fingers, refusing her rebuttal. "Screw the AA – I don't care if we're stuck here all night! Just make the call Grace. You need to know. I need to know."
Her eyebrows rise slightly, but she dials anyway, fingers stumbling and sluggish in apprehensive hesitancy as she recalls the number from memory. When she lifts the phone to her ear, her eyes close tightly, revealing more of what lies behind the day's tension and animosity.
On impulse as his heart catches at the almost-but-not-quite-hidden expression on her face, Boyd reaches out and takes her free hand in his. He's momentarily disconcerted by the sensation of her skin beneath his, by the instant distraction touching her provides him with, and it takes some of the edge off his own fear, helps to refocus his mind. Warm and soft, smooth over the delicate bones, the ridges of knuckle – he examines it all in detail. He watches her, and any attempts to be as subtle as possible about it are completely eclipsed by his sudden intense preoccupation with what it feels like to finally have her skin so close to his own.
There is silence from her as she waits for someone to pick up. Just silence, closed eyes and her head bowed forward slightly, her shoulders set almost in readiness for a physical blow. His eyes pick out how tired she looks – exhausted even – as if she is half beaten already. Something in the way she sits reminds him of the haunted look he used to see in her eyes a year ago, and the contrast against his ordinarily unchallenged perception of her makes his heart ache sharply. But then she surprises him, her fingers clenching around his, offering an impressive strength, a fierce grip that both startles him, and strikes a final, shattering blow in his understanding of that endless serenity she projects. How much of it is a façade, he doesn't know, but he is suddenly absolutely certain that a great deal of it currently is, that there are a wealth of emotions and contradictions warring away beneath the surface of the side of her that she chooses to show to the world, and that he has somehow failed her by never noticing before.
It seems to take an age for the call to connect, and Boyd becomes uncomfortably hyper-aware of the sound and rhythm of his own breathing, of the tight, uneasy tension in his muscles. Watching her, he can see exactly the same thing reflected back at him in the hunch of her shoulders as she leans even further forward, almost curling in on herself. Defensive, protective – she's braced for bad news. And that's more than just a little bit heart-breaking.
For the very first time he finds himself questioning the emotional impact the last couple of years have had on her, wonders about all the things he hasn't seen, hasn't known about. All the fears and emotions and upheaval churning away, hidden from view behind those calm, level blue eyes. The serenity he has always taken for granted; the reassuring, steady influence he has always depended on as his counterbalance in the chaotic, turbulent world of their working life.
Their working life…
When, he asks himself now, was the last time he slowed down enough to do something – anything – with her or for her, simply as her friend? In the many months since her return to health and her full-time role with the unit, he can think of nothing. And considering the nature of the role he's grudgingly come to accept he'd like her to play in the rest of his life, that's an incredibly poor showing.
How many times before, when she's risen to the challenge of his combative nature and fought back with the same staggering level of tenacity that's been directed his way all day today, has he perhaps been oblivious to the cause? It strikes him suddenly that he's incredibly guilty of not being a good friend to her, of neglecting her. He's also well aware that he is equally guilty of abandoning the pastoral side of his command entirely into her hands – it's been years now since a member of his staff came to him with anything even vaguely personal – but when it comes to Grace herself… well, it's been a long, long time since the two of them shared a glass of wine and a relaxing conversation in his office or hers at the end of the long working day.
With his eyes on her now, he forces himself to take mental step back, to really look at her. His gaze searching her familiar profile, he wonders what it is he isn't seeing, what it is he hasn't been looking for ever since she arrived back in the basement, cleared for full-time duty. They spend so many hours together that he has, he realises, become accustomed to reading exactly what he sees in front of him. She's been part of his life for so many years now that he's long considered himself able to read her with ease and the kind of uncanny accuracy that only comes from spending a lot of time with someone.
But this is Grace, and when has she ever made anything easy for him? She's a master of hiding her true thoughts and feelings, hasn't she proven that to him time and time again over the last ten years? Hasn't she shown him, on a daily basis, exactly what he's just seen – that she only reveals to others the side of her that she wants them to see? That she acts according to the reaction she wants to get?
She's a psychologist for God's sake, he thinks, suddenly furious with himself. It's her job to subtly manipulate people, to hide what's going through her own mind as she creates a calm, comfortable situation that then allows her to sift through the cracks and the layers, extracting whatever information it is they are after by tailoring her approach to the specific individual or individuals she is dealing with. She's done it for him, and for the unit, for yearsnow. Years. He's watched her do it, asked her to do it. And in all that time, when he's sat beside her, or stood behind the glass, watching and silently admiring how she handles herself and other people, he's never once questioned whether she employs the same tactics with him. Whether she's been hiding things from him that he should have or would have liked to have known about.
The reality of it hits him like a fierce punch to the stomach. A heavy-handed blow that leaves him reeling. Stunned. Astounded.
Casting his mind back he begins with the last week, tugging shreds of memory from every interaction he can. A barrage of details assault him; a discussion of victim particulars, the psychiatric history of their main suspect, a petty squabble over the likely levels of involvement of the possible two or three accomplices, the long list of prior residences and questionable work history that he wasn't paying as much attention to as he should have been… it's all facts, all case related, he realises. The same is true of everything he can remember from the week before, and the week before that.
He thinks of his team, and what he knows – details he has picked up in daily interaction. Spence has a girlfriend, one he's serious about – a secondary school teacher originally from somewhere up north. Sarah's been volunteering with injured animals at the weekend because her psychologist told her to find a hobby that had nothing to do with her career. Eve has a new corpse at the body farm, and last week asked for three days off to go to a conference in Oxford at the end of the month. Grace… is fine. Grace is always fine, or so she says.
Yesterday he walked in just before nine am after being waylaid by DI Adamson from upstairs and said good morning, greeting her the same as usual and asking how she was. "I'm fine," she replied with a smile, handing him a file he was just about to ask for. All very polite and normal, but that smile, he recalls now, never reached her eyes. It simply gave him the quick answer he was looking for at the time.
The phone beeps as Grace hangs up, and he's astounded to realise that, as lost in his musings as he's been, he hasn't heard a single word she's said. But the way her hand trembles as she clutches the tiny device…
Her eyes are still screwed shut, too, and she's visibly shaking.
He tries a tentative, "Grace…?"
The phone tumbles from her grasp, bouncing into her lap and sliding across the fabric of her skirt, disappearing into the darkness of the foot well. She looks panic-stricken, ashen. Boyd tries again, squeezing her hand lightly as he repeats her name, almost choking on the single syllable. "Grace?"
"I can't breathe," she mumbles, tugging on her hand, trying to free it. He releases her in an instant, but not before his own panic begins to rise.
"Grace? Grace, talk to me, please!" he asks, begs. The wait to know is almost too much to bear, but she's deaf and blind to his words and he can see it. See it in the way her hands are fumbling on the arm rest, across the window. Her fingers leave smudged prints on the glass before finding and closing around the door release. "Wait," protests Boyd, "You'll get soaked. You'll freeze."
She doesn't hear him, just stumbles out of the car and into the rain, the door slamming shut behind her as she staggers away from the car.
"Jesus Christ," he mutters, yanking off his suit jacket and tossing it onto the backseat before rapidly following, afraid to lose her in the thick gloom of the storm.
But she hasn't gone far; is, in fact, standing just a couple of feet from the car door, her face buried in her hands as the rain pelts down. She's utterly soaked already, her entire body almost convulsing with the force of the hard, heavy sobs that are tearing through her.
Rounding the front of the car his feet sink into steams of water that immediately overwhelm his shoes; he ignores the icy water as it soaks through his socks, as it cascades heavily from the sky, washing down over his head and shoulders, drenching his shirt in a matter of moments and sticking it unpleasantly to his skin. His instinct, the only thing that occurs to him, is to help her, to offer whatever shred of comfort he can, and as he draws level he simply reaches out, arms tugging her gently but firmly against his body.
Grace offers no protest, no resistance; she just segues into his embrace, almost collapsing against his chest and suddenly, instantly, Boyd is hyper aware of the differences between them, is barely able to focus on anything else. She's impossibly tiny against the breadth of his chest and shoulders, so much shorter and slighter than him and the shock of experiencing the physical reality of something he has always known tears through him, ignites every shred of protectiveness he possesses, has ever felt towards her. One arm curves around her waist, solid and secure, while the other ventures up her back and across her shoulder as he lowers his head, resting it against her own.
Flashes and glimpses assault his mind, his senses; gentle curves, soft skin, warmth – both emotional and physical – memories, a trace of perfume, hopes, dreams – it's all a chaotic tangle inside his head, and none of it is helped by the way she's shivering against him under the force of whatever emotion it is that has such a crushing grip on her. He can feel the heat of her tears against his skin, the tiny drops soaking into his cold, wet shirt where her head is pressed against his chest. Her arms are wound around him, their grip far tighter than he would ever have expected, as if she is clinging on with everything she has. As if she is fighting not to lose something, everything.
It takes a long time, but eventually her clenched fingers slacken and her arms start to drift away from him; letting go of her hurts, and he does so slowly, stepping back a tiny fraction as she slips from his grasp, the loss of contact a spreading ache that only grows as she goes.
That ache is only intensified as he catches sight of her again, his heart twisting at the tortured expression on her face, at the thick, heavy tears dripping hotly down her cheeks and mingling with the flood of raindrops, leaving smudges of make-up in their wake. Forcing a gap in the clenched vice that is his chest, he drags in an unsteady breath and asks, voice barely audible over the pounding rain, "It was bad news?"
He wants to know. He doesn't want to know.
He needs to know.
But the look in her eyes…
Incredibly though, Grace shakes her head. "No."
Gazing blankly at her, he struggles to comprehend. "What?"
Grace stares straight up into his eyes. "No," she repeats. "The tests were negative."
It takes a moment for her words to sink in, for their meaning to become clear in the chaotic haze of rain and anger, the torment and the biting chill of the rising wind. When they do though, his reaction is utterly characteristic, and the words are out of his mouth long before he can even begin to think about them. "Then why the hell are you crying?" he demands. "It's good news."
Grace laughs bitterly and turns away, looking down at the water soaking into her shoes. "Not everything is so black and white, Boyd."
Maybe so, but he pushes on regardless. "Of course it is – you're okay! It's not back."
"It…"
A single syllable, but a powerful one, and one that's delivered in an eerie tone that stops him dead, cuts off his impatient determination.
"Yeah." He shifts, momentarily uncomfortable, even as he steps in front of her, forcing her to look up at him again. "It."
Grace steps back again and glares at him, intensely furious, though her eyes are otherwise unreadable in the near darkness. Her voice leaves no room for misunderstanding – her tone is very definitely hard, and angry. "Cancer," she tells him bluntly. "You can say it – it won't kill you." Her hands are trembling uncontrollably as she tries – and fails – to push her soaked hair away from her face, out of her eyes, and he wants to reach out and clasp hold of them, to help still the tremors.
"And it won't kill you either," he replies, easily deflecting her anger and cutting straight to the heart of the matter, because it's suddenly crystal clear to him what's going on. "It's not back, Grace – you're safe, healthy." Then, just to be stubborn, he forces himself to say it. "The cancer is gone!"
The result is… surprising therapeutic. Not that he'd ever admit it to her, but the statement frees something inside him, unlocks some tension or fear that he's been holding on to for far, far too long now and in its wake he's left feeling lighter and steadier than he has in months, or the entire last couple of years even, maybe. But, watching her steadily, even as the wind picks up another notch, tossing raindrops into his face, Boyd can see the way she is struggling to believe, the way she's fighting to let go of that overwhelming doubt.
There's still a huge amount of fear in her, fear which he realises he's been witness to all day without knowing it. But what's also visible to him now is the way it's mixed with a desperate thread of hope, and that thread, that tiny, battered hint, makes something twist agonisingly inside him, makes his heart ache for her, and brings forth a vast sense of guilt for all the things he hasn't noticed, all the times he has failed to help her, support her. There are tears still winding their way thickly down her cheeks, but she stays where she is, staring defiantly up at him, clinging on to some deep reserve of strength, holding her ground as though a general in the heat of battle might.
Stubborn. That's what it is – she's just as stubborn as he is, and, for some reason he cannot even begin to fathom, she's clearly been utterly determined to hide any hint of weakness from him, preferring instead to resort to the spiky, irritable antagonism they have perfected over such a long acquaintance, yet for the most part seem to have abandoned in the last few years.
Except, he's beyond that now – he wants no part of it. Wants nothing of the old barriers, the old boundaries and safety nets. He wants her, it's as simple as that. All of her; just as she is, scars and anger, fear and pain. He wants to wrap his arms around her again and hold on, wants to comfort her, support her, let her know he's there, and that he's not going anywhere. He wants to break through those defences and show her that it's okay to allow him in, to share what it is she's really experiencing, what things she is struggling with. He wants to show her that sometimes, as hard as it is, surrendering just a little bit of that stubborn pride and independence and allowing – or even asking for – help is not only highly beneficial and the right thing to do, but is also very good for building bridges and foundations, and for improving and strengthening relationships. She taught him that, he thinks, and clearly it's high time he reminded her of the lesson, offered her the same things that she once gave to him.
What he wants, more than anything, he realises – knows, even – is to act on all the impulses that have been suppressed for so long by excuses, circumstances and reasons beyond his control. He wants to forget the tangled, bitter pain of their history and look instead to the future, a brighter, happier one.
It could be that simple, he thinks. If they just allow it. If they just take that first step, then the road could be there for them to follow together. It will have to be him, though – this time, it will have to be him who takes that step. She's clearly not in a position to make the leap, though her current vulnerability may just present him with the gap in her defences that he needs.
Perhaps it's unworthy of him, but in this instance he's willing to make an exception. Willing to set aside chivalry and fair play for a cause that he wholeheartedly believes will only benefit them both. And it really is that easy, he discovers. Decision made, the very last remnants of the casual, laid-back easiness from earlier in the day dissipate, but the steady calm remains, has even more of a grip on him than before as he deliberately relaxes his posture, carefully modulates the tone of his voice, banishing any hint of antagonism and argument.
"Come home with me, Grace. Let me cook you dinner, open a bottle of wine."
The expression on her face will stay with him for the rest of his days; caught somewhere in the middle of a mixture of stunned bewilderment, sheer disbelief, fierce anger, and a tiny dash of fragile hope, she is, quite possibly for the first time in all the years he's known her, rendered completely speechless.
It takes her a while, but eventually she responds, voice wavering slightly as she utters a single word, just one question. "Why?"
There are so many things he could tell her, so many reasons he could give, but standing in a downpour, watching the way she's shivering without even knowing it – it's not the right time. Not the right time at all.
Later, he will tell her later. Maybe not today, or tomorrow, but later on, at some point in their future, he will tell her all the reasons why, and more.
"Trust me," he says, eyes searching hers, trying to hold on to her simply with his gaze. "A leap of faith, Grace, that's all I'm asking. Please."
"Why?" she repeats, confused. There's a trace of comprehension in her eyes, of recognition. She remembers, at least, and that makes him smile. Gives him the reassurance to close the distance between them and simply show her. After all, words are her thing, actions are his. Yet even so, the touch of his lips against hers still sends a visceral shock through him, still strips the breath from his body, still renders his mind completely blank of any rational thought.
It starts innocently enough, but as she begins to respond the kiss slowly morphs into something much more. It's still tender, still impossibly gentle, but hesitancy shifts readily into something much deeper, much more meaningful, and without any conscious choice they simply lose themselves in one another, exploring what is so utterly natural, so incredibly effortless and wonderful.
He's remarkably dazed when they eventually draw apart, the shock of what has just happened still gripping him tightly, and again he takes a single step back, a tiny hint of uncertainty tugging at him. Grace looks every bit as stunned as he feels as she stares up at him.
"Boyd…" she whispers, her voice so quiet it is almost entirely stolen away by the wind and the rain.
This close, he can easily see the chaos in her gaze, the tumultuous, unreadable tangle in her eyes. "What?" he asks, just as quietly.
She looks like part of her wants to argue, to throw words into the tiny space between them that will somehow shield her, keep the barriers in place, the protections still standing, despite however shaky they may now be. But then she stops and simply stares. At him, and into him. What she is reading there, Boyd has no idea, but he hopes it is something of what he wants her to know, what he will spend the rest of his life trying to explain to her if only she will let him.
Maybe she is, he's not sure, but as they stand there, the rain still pounding down, every layer of their clothing drenched and running with water, he watches as something remarkable happens, watches as she finally surrenders and those walls around her begin to crumble, to fall away just as his did. All the vulnerability lurking beneath the surface is suddenly unmasked, the projected serenity evaporating and leaving behind her. Just her, raw and unprotected.
She's beautiful, he thinks. Standing there in front on him, sodden clothes stuck her skin, hair in her eyes and mascara tracks streaked down her cheeks, with her emotions bared, her fears exposed, and all the things she's tried to hide for so long right there on display – she is more beautiful than any woman he's ever seen. And if there was any hint of doubt left in him, any tiny thought that he might be doing the wrong thing, it is immediately and entirely banished as she finally allows him to see just how deep the raging battle within her goes, how complex and tangled she really is, how much she needs someone – him – to share it with.
They don't need a lot of words, don't need to explain anything, to discuss what is happening. They never have, not to communicate the truly important things. A smile here, a nod there; a catch of the eye at the opportune moment, a tilt of the head and a raised brow in return. Maybe they have a lot left to learn about one another, but they have the remainder of a lifetime to learn it in, if they so choose to. Maybe they argue, and maybe they shout and swear and get irate with each other, but on a fundamental level they instinctively know how to communicate. The only thing remaining is that single, final decision.
This time it is Grace. This time she steps towards him, and there is something in her eyes that he cannot name, but that starts a fire burning low and bright and warm in his heart. "A leap of faith?" she asks quietly, and when he nods, her only reaction is to smile softly and reach for him. Her arms wind around him once more and she stretches up, standing on tiptoe as her lips search for his, tenderly sealing their deal.