DISCLAIMER: I own nothing.

Fic prompt provided by Got Tea. Happy birthday to CatS81. x

Her Devil, Her Angel

by Joodiff

"Hangs a naked light over your face
Shines electricness upon your bed
If it wasn't for your stiff little fingers
Nobody would know you were dead..."

The Vibrators - Stiff Little Fingers

For Grace, it's been one of those days. A long, difficult, irksome day characterised by endless petty squabbling, little discernible progress on anything currently under investigation by the CCU, and at least one near-disaster, all neatly rounded off by an off-duty mid-evening argument over something ridiculously inconsequential. One which resulted in a considerable amount of sulking and unnecessary door-slamming. Strange how such a tiring, inauspicious sort of day can eventually end so well, she thinks in the drowsy, tranquil silence that has fallen in the torpid aftermath of their spontaneous, enthusiastic, and largely successful attempt to exorcise their mutual infuriation with each other in a highly energetic and satisfactory way. Sex, they have discovered – almost completely by accident – is a very successful and non-destructive way of knocking the sharpest corners off their abrasive habit of bringing out the absolute worst in each other. At least temporarily.

Coming out of her reverie, she turns her head to look at her supine companion, idly amused by the lazy, uninhibited way he is able to stretch out stark-naked across a wide swathe of the mattress without even the slightest hint of self-consciousness. It's been several weeks since sharing a bed with him became the most natural thing in the world, and yet too often she finds herself morosely assessing her body in the mirror and worrying about all the imperfections that he quite clearly doesn't give a damn about. Possibly doesn't even notice. Like most men, she suspects Boyd only sees what he wants to see. But maybe she's doing him a disservice, because –

A soft snore interrupts her chain of thought and she narrows her eyes a tiny, unconscious fraction. Asleep. Already. Piqued, she prods him with her foot and he duly stirs with a bad-tempered grumble. It takes a second prod, harder and more irritable than the first to get him to open his eyes. He glares over at her, those self-same eyes looking flinty and impenetrably dark in the diffuse lighting of the single illuminated bedside lamp.

"You were snoring," she informs him by way of acerbic explanation. It's partially accurate, at least. If age and experience have taught her anything at all about men, it's that where there's one snore there will inevitably be more.

The answer is a surly growl. "So? It's not a cardinal sin."

"It is when it keeps me awake all night."

The look he gives her is more than baleful. "Leave me alone, Grace, for fuck's sake; I'm knackered."

He'll never be anybody's Prince Charming, no doubt about that. But she's known that for a long, long time and yet still went willingly to his bed on that memorable autumn night when everything between them unexpectedly changed. She has, as her late mother would have said, only got herself to blame. Ignoring his petulance, she says, "Anyway, I thought you were intending to go home? Early start, and all that."

He closes his eyes again. "Changed my mind."

Well, of course. Absolutely predictable in his complete unpredictability. She snorts. "Oh, quelle surprise."

His eyes stay firmly closed. "Funny."

He's been in a bad mood all day, no explanation offered. Or asked for – a lesson she learnt very early in their acquaintanceship. The cause could be anything, but the surly result is the same. Against her better judgement, Grace says, "That's what I really like about you, Boyd – your sunny disposition and easy-going nature."

"Piss off, Grace."

"And always so polite, too."

This time he does open his eyes. "Christ, give it a bloody rest, will you? You'd try the patience of a fucking saint, woman."

"Boyd – "

"No. Stop talking and go to bloody sleep."

It's pointless. Sometimes they just can't seem to communicate on any level. She wonders if it's all worth it. Whether she's being a fool to herself, continuing with… whatever the current status of their relationship is. But attempting to discuss it, any of it, tonight will only needle him further – which will result in another stinging, exhausting confrontation that neither of them can really afford. In direct retaliation, Grace makes her displeasure known by hauling the covers up over them both as roughly and cantankerously as possible, then decisively rolling over onto her side, presenting him with her back. It's not subtle, but subtle is largely lost on Boyd. Only once she's switched the light off does he move, easing up behind her, his body reassuringly warm and solid. When he loops a heavy arm over her waist, she doesn't shrug him off. Her reward is a gentle if rather bristly kiss pressed against her bare shoulder. Exasperating bloody man. If only she wasn't quite so fond of him…

-oOo-

Grace doesn't recognise the small, gloomy room she finds herself in. It smells of damp and decay, and the only window is boarded up, making it impossible to tell what time of day or night it is outside. She turns, listening to the sound of scuffling in the dark corners, to the unsettling sound of a very young child crying inconsolably somewhere far beyond the rough, graffiti-covered walls. The eerie, dislocated sound causes an icy lump to slowly form in the pit of her stomach. She doesn't question where she is, or why she is where she is, nor does it occur to her to consider her lack of curiosity strange. When she turns round again, the splintered wooden door that she thought was there has vanished. Or perhaps it never existed at all. What little light there is emanating from some unidentified source seems to be fading rapidly, turning the deepening shadows into an intimidating wall of darkness.

The sound of crying suddenly stops, and the frightening scuffling noises cease at the same moment, but the cold feeling of dread doesn't abate. If anything, it increases exponentially as she becomes aware of another odour beyond the mouldering damp coming from the furthest corner of the room. Just an unpleasant trace at first, but becoming heavier, thicker, until she feels as if it's choking her. Horribly familiar, that awful aroma. Unmistakably the smell of death and decomposition.

The stench becomes so strong, so foul that Grace retches. Dry heaves in a way that she doesn't remember ever doing, even in the very earliest days of the forensic element of her career when the brutal reality of post-mortem putrefaction was still entirely new to her. There is something indescribably terrible in the room with her, something infinitely malevolent. She doesn't know how she knows, she just knows.

Shuffling footsteps behind her make her whirl round in panic, and lurching out of the gloom –

"Grace."

A male voice, close and intense, cutting into the terror, the sheer horror of –

"Grace…"

– the awful human-shaped, rotted thing lurching towards her. The terrible nightmare thing with the drooling, lipless grin and the bullet-ravaged chest. The thing that stinks of the grave, and makes a hideous gurgling noise with every shuffling step, as if it's repeatedly trying to call her name. Its eyes are long-gone, leaving only empty sockets, but she somehow knows the oncoming horror can see her. It holds out its half-skeletonised right hand, and she can see – clearly – that all of its fingers have been neatly excised.

'If it wasn't for your stiff little fingers…'

She opens her mouth to scream and –

"Grace!"

Her eyes snap open, her heart pounding hard in her chest. The bedside lamp is switched on again, and it is Boyd staring down at her, his features set in a taut mask of concern. No dark, unfamiliar room, no terrifying shadows, no cloying stench of death. She tries to swallow, but although her body is clammy with cold sweat, her mouth and throat are desert dry. It doesn't matter – plainly he can see her overwhelming terror, because he immediately shifts position and pulls her firmly against him, his arms wrapping tightly around her. For a moment he's the only thing in her world, all her senses focused entirely on him as the all-consuming panic begins to ebb.

"Jesus," he says, and she feels it as a deep vibration through his chest. "It's okay. You're okay, Grace. Just a bad dream, that's all."

All the obstinacy, truculence, and downright contrariness in the world mean nothing weighed against how gentle, how compassionate, and how incredibly protective he can be towards her. Pressing harder against his warm chest just to feel the steady beating of his heart, she mutters, "Sorry…"

"Relax," Boyd orders, his gruffness belied by the gentleness of the hand that starts to move, starts to rub her back and shoulders in slow reassuring circles. It's deliberate and calming, and within moments the painful tension in her muscles starts to ease a little. Soft again, "You're safe now. Nothing can hurt you. He can't hurt you."

Charles. Charles pointing a shotgun at her through the splintered door panel as she tried to comfort Kevin... Charles slumped in his hallway, grey eyes staring at nothing, chest blown apart by a volley of shots from the armed Response Team… Charles lurching out of the shadows, all the fingers on one decaying hand surgically removed…

"Grace…?" So familiar that steady voice, so comforting. So… alive.

"I'm… okay…" she mumbles against his chest. Smooth, whole. Alive. "I need some air..."

"I'll open the big window," he says instantly, releasing his hold on her and levering himself up into a seated position. His expression is contemplative. "You really need to work on convincing your subconscious that he's dead."

'Nobody would know you were dead…'

Shivering slightly and rolling onto her back as he gets out of bed, Grace manages a wan smile. "Armchair psychology, Boyd?"

The response is prompt. "Common bloody sense, Grace."

She watches him as he walks across the room, remembering the terrifying loud sound of gunshots, the gut-wrenching panic, the drunken sense of relief as she heard him calling her name.

The cool night breeze increases as Boyd opens the casement window beneath the tiny fanlight, leaving the curtains slightly open as he returns to bed, arranging pillows to prop himself up against the headboard. He will sit there all night watching over her if she needs him to, Grace suddenly realises… and isn't that exactly why she loves him, despite all his faults? Because, heaven help her, she does love him. Not blindly, not naïvely like she loved –

"Harry Taylor," he says, easing her against him, her head coming to rest on his thigh. "You have to let it go, Grace. All of it."

But it wasn't Harry in the shadows.

There was a child crying somewhere out of reach. There always is, every time she dreams of –

Automatically blocking the thought, she shakes her head. "It wasn't Harry I was dreaming about."

The lost child. The child that –

"No," he agrees, his tone calm and mild, "it was Hoyle. But it wasn't Hoyle who hurt you. Really hurt you."

"Peter – "

He doesn't let her speak. "C'mon, Grace, you're a psychologist. You know what's happening – your mind is substituting a trauma you can deal with for one that you can't."

When did he become so wise? So capable of understanding her almost better than she understands herself? Grace curls herself even tighter against him, not sure if she is merely unwilling, or actually completely unable to look unflinchingly at the raw truth behind the recurring nightmares.

She feels him start to stroke her hair. Gentle, impossibly tender. "He's dead, Grace. They both are. There's no-one left to hurt you."

Except herself. And… him. Maybe. Almost certainly, in fact. Because however placid he is in the quiet moonlit hours, the devil on his shoulder is always there.

It doesn't matter. Not here and now.

"I love you." A whisper only half meant to be heard.

And though Boyd's reply is an uncomfortable, non-committal sort of noise, she knows it's the angel on his other shoulder that makes him keep on stroking her hair, temporarily banishing all the pain and trauma – old and new – and finally lulling her back to sleep.

If Grace has any more dreams that night, she doesn't remember any of them in the morning.

- the end -