The Green Man

...

She's late.

Again.

Sometimes Boyd wonders if he's destined to spend the rest of his life waiting for the wretched, infuriating woman. Most of the time he hopes he is, but, right at this moment he would be extraordinarily glad to see her materialise – preferably immediately – so that they can get the afternoon's appointment over and done with, strike a line through it on the excessively extensive to-do list their most recently acquired case seems to be generating, and move on to the dozens of other things requiring their seemingly immediate attention.

Rocking back on his heels as he glares out at the wide, moderately imposing three-sided courtyard he's currently standing in, he risks an impatient glance at the heavy, sleek watch wrapped around his wrist. The hands do not bear good news.

His phone's in his palm within seconds, his stride long and quick as he paces without even knowing it. Up and down, a track barely ten feet in length as he stays within the sheltering lee of a large statue rearing proudly atop the commanding square stone base that's considerably taller than he is.

One ring, two rings, half a dozen steps. Three rings, a pace too far – a blast of chilly November air slams into him, its biting chill cutting effortlessly through the thick layering of his long winter coat.

No pleasantries, no attempt to curb the irritable tone in his voice. "Where are you?"

Grace makes no effort to rise to it, offers only a calm, steady, "I won't be late."

It grates across his nerves, lifts the already substantially raised level of his annoyance. "You said that this morning."

"And I wouldn't have been, if you'd kept to the plan instead of throwing a fit of impatience and rushing off without me."

"It's not my fault you're completely incapable of maintaining your own car in any sort of road-worthy condition."

"And it's not my fault that you can't wait just five more minutes for me to finish getting ready for work."

He snorts inelegantly. "Grace, I know exactly what your idea of just five more minutes constitutes."

"Says he who turned off the alarm this morning, said exactly the same thing, and then proceeded to ensure we were both very late in getting out of bed!"

Nothing something he can in any way deny. At all. Instead, he briefly closes his eyes; slowly, steadily fills his lungs with damp, chilly air. Tilts his head back and stares up into the very last scraps of daylight lingering amongst the murky grey clouds.

Twilight, almost. A time of day he enjoys, simply for the transition it holds, the faint air of mystery in the atmosphere as the day segues inevitably into evening, and then the unknown depths of the night. As a young man, that transition held the promise of possibilities, offered him opportunities to chase, experiences to claim.

Not anymore. Now he knows exactly where he will find himself when darkness falls and the day draws to a close. Now he enjoys watching the subtle changes in her as the door closes and her professional veneer fades away. The way her posture, her demeanour becomes just a little bit softer. The way she relaxes so completely and freely around him, letting go of everything else the day might have held. Now he enjoys the stability of having someone – her – to go home to.

"Nor is it my fault," Grace continues, "that you couldn't add the ten minutes onto your journey that it would have taken you to pick me up from the office, therefore necessitating that I travel by public transportation to an estate in the middle of nowhere that no one else ever seems to have heard of."

"Mm," he murmurs softly, preoccupied. "It was worth it, though."

There's no pause, no question of what he's referring to, just an agreeable, definitive, "It was."

Memory sparks, shows him the burning fire in her eyes, deep, deep blue in the barely there hint of an approaching winter dawn. Another transition time, one he's also grown to love in the last few months. Love for the quiet, peaceful moments – the calm before the storm of the day. Love for the way the light sinks into her, plays across her as she sleeps on when he wakes, watching the way her mind drags her from slumber, the way it takes time for her to cross over from dreams to reality, and the sleepy, almost mystified expression on her face as she makes that journey.

This morning it was too much for him. This morning he couldn't help himself as he reached out to her, losing himself in the feel of her skin against his own, the way the hazy remnants of slumber in her gaze were burned away not by an awareness of the reality of the hours ahead, but by the sweeping intensity of rising desire, by love and lust, by the spontaneity of impetuous early morning passion.

The scent of her, the heat of her, the way her body arched fiercely against his own; the taste of her on his tongue, the pressure of her lips against his own, the sound of her voice crying his name – it's all etched indelibly into his mind, his memory. His senses remember every detail, every scrap of information he has learned time and time again; his hands know the touch of her skin, the curves of her body, his eyes the map of every inch of her, every scar, every freckle that lies beneath her clothing. His ears know the rhythm of her breathing, awake and asleep, resting and not. His nose knows where her perfume lingers, the way she sighs in pleasure when he nuzzles nape of her neck, or the sensitive skin of her throat.

These are not thoughts he should be preoccupied with during working hours, but damn, the sight of her as she yields to instinct and desire, the way their bodies twine together, an erotic tangle of limbs and voices, whispered words and questing hands, of –

"I'm going to add this to my expenses, just to annoy you at the end of the month," she informs him, shattering his deliciously hedonistic daydream.

Confused, he asks a brusque, "What?"

There's a sigh at the other end of the phone. "It's taken me over an hour and a half to get this far, you'll see notations for the three different types of transport it took."

"How far is this far?" He tries for an even sort of tone as he repeats his earlier question, though his mind is only half back in the present. "Where are you?"

"Almost there."

"Grace!"

"Boyd…"

"You could try the patience of a saint," he informs her bluntly, and not for the first time, either. He can even picture the tiny hint of that wicked smile he's so fond of on her face as she replies.

"Possibly," she concedes, "but you're far more entertaining to tease."

He's never going to win, he just knows it. But that's not where the fun lies. No, the fun is in the witty banter, the ease with which the two of them can hit back and forth. The instinctive way in which they know each other so well, know exactly which buttons to press, and how far to press them.

Right now, though, much as he'd like to, continuing down that road isn't going to solve his current problem. Instead he simply glances down at his watch again, and promptly wishes that he hadn't. "It's thirteen minutes past four!"

"And?"

"And where the bloody hell are you? We can't be late for this!"

"Yet you abandoned me and told me to find my own way..."

She's in an argumentative mood. She was earlier when he called to say he'd been summoned to the yard and likely wouldn't make it in the office before they needed to leave. In fact, he hasn't seen her since they shared a very hasty shower, hasn't had a chance to talk to her much at all.

"I'm here."

"Where's here? I don't see you." He looks around, scanning the courtyard for that familiar slim figure.

"At the front entrance. Where are you?"

"Standing next to the statue."

"What statue?"

"The one right in front of the building. You can't miss it – it's huge."

There's a definite hint of exasperation in her voice as she asks, slowly and clearly, "What does it look like, Boyd?"

Ignoring her tone, he glances up again, the action an automatic one this time. "It's a man. He's green."

"A green man?" Her tone is flat, disbelieving.

"Yeah, he's riding a horse." His eyes scan the giant sculpture, take in the details he's thus far ignored. Ornate armour, sheathed sword, surly scowl. "Looks kind of annoyed, actually. Impatient. As if he's in a hurry, or something is taking too long."

There's a hint of something else in her voice now. Something that tugs the beginnings of a smirk across his lips as she queries, "The man, or the horse?"

"Definitely the man. As though he's planning some sort of revenge. The horse just looks bored. Idle."

"Revenge, eh?"

Free hand buried deep in his pocket to ward off the chill, Boyd grins openly now. "Oh yeah!"

"Hmm… and what would this revenge entail, do you think?"

"Oh, I don't know… something… inappropriate.., I imagine."

Feigned composure. Definitely feigned. "Inappropriate? Really?"

"Highly inappropriate," he confirms.

There's a heavy pause, and he can easily picture the expression on her face as she battles with maintaining the façade, and not yielding to intrigue and enthusiasm.

Intrigue definitely wins, and the victory makes him smirk in unashamed glee.

"Naughty boy!"

He laughs, shoulders shaking as his breath clouds the air before him. "And you like it," he taunts.

There's no hint of her denying it, not anymore. They are past that, beyond all barriers and walls now. "I do."

Easy familiarity. Affection, kinship. Love. They share it all, and he revels in it. In the ease of it. The simplicity of it.

"I hate to break it to you, Peter," she tells him, "but wherever you are, it's not by the main entrance."

At one end of the courtyard there are a pair of enormous oak doors surrounded by an elaborate set of stairs and carvings; impressive, yet firmly closed, unsigned and oddly deserted. He hasn't seen a single other human being in the time he's been standing waiting for her, either.

"How do you know you're in the right place?" he queries, suspicion rising.

It's costing her effort to repress the sarcasm that clearly wants to break through, he can tell. Can still hear tiny hints of it, despite her efforts. "I came through a door with a sign above it. I'm standing beside a desk marked 'reception'."

So she's right after all. Damn. Breaking into a long, quick stride he heads toward the side of the building that's marginally closest to him, following the seemingly unending outer wall to the first corner. There's a long narrow passage that seems to stretch on forever between ancient brick, and the kind of impressively detailed wrought iron fence that on any other day he'd stop to admire simply for the level of craftsmanship that went into making it. Not today. No, he's not going to give her the satisfaction that will ensue if he is not standing beside her at the appointed hour.

Unconsciously quickening his pace, he asks, "How bloody big is this place?"

There's muffled talking in the back ground, and he catches only a few stray words here and there before Grace says, "Apparently rather large. The estate is spread out over several hundred acres, and the main building has over two hundred rooms."

"How'd a bunch of poxy lawyers get to be practicing in it, then? That's what I want to know."

"Posh lawyers," Grace reminds him, voice quiet, tone suggesting she is being discreetly overheard.

"Yeah, but even so – this place…"

He hears her talking again, voice stifled by distance. Then footsteps, the swish of the phone being dropped into her pocket and the unmistakable sound of a heavy door closing. There's a pause, then water being turned on. He grins to himself, knowing exactly what she's doing. "I think we should have an accidental look around when we're done talking to Blackwell and his associates," she murmurs into the phone. "Something's not right here. Call it witchcraft, hocus-pocus or whatever you like, but something just feels… off."

"It must be, if you've resorted to hiding in the loos again."

"The things I've learned from you," she sighs, amused, and Boyd has to work hard to conceal his laughter as he turns another corner, approaching a man in a gardener's uniform who eyes him suspiciously.

"The main entrance?" he asks the man, who only nods and points him in the direction he's already walking, before putting his head down and hurrying away. Turning, Boyd watches as the man vanishes into a gap in the building he could have sworn wasn't there when he passed it. Odd.

Looking ahead again he carries on, but from the corner of his eye spots movement behind the heavy curtains adorning the window he's approaching. The second he glances up, though, the watcher lurches back into the shadows, vanishing in a flash of vivid red hair. Very odd.

"I feel like I'm suddenly in the middle of a Famous Five novel," he mutters into the phone, unconsciously quiet. "I hate to say it, but I think you're right, Grace."

"Can I have that in writing, please?"

Though his watcher is clearly gone, he can't shake the feeling that there are still eyes on him, possibly more than one set of them. The unpleasant sensation changes the reply he gives as it leaves his lips. "If we make it back to the office in one piece, then maybe, yeah."

Her silence is very telling, as is the way she says, "Just… hurry up, will you?" and then hangs up the phone. He does, breaking out into an almost jog as he narrows the gap before the next corner, well aware of the way time is rapidly evaporating. If there's a prickling feeling telling him that reuniting with Grace as soon as possible is a very, very good idea, he tries to suppress it. It's just a bunch of lawyers, after all. Even if they are posh. How much harm can they possibly do?

Finally rounding the edge of the side wing he's been following into a corner of the main drive Boyd inadvertently stops and stares; arranged at neat intervals along the perimeter of the sweeping semi-circular entrance that clearly dwarfs the rear courtyard, half a dozen green men on horseback rear up into the sky, their copper worn dull and distinctive by time and duty as guardsmen. His lips twitch at the sight, Grace's disbelieving tone echoing in his ears.

She meets him at the top of the steps, and despite the uncertainty of the situation there is mischief in her eyes, a bold, brazen streak of that impishness she usually hides so well. It bodes trouble for him later, trouble – usually – of the most entertaining kind.