DISCLAIMER: I own nothing.
Cold Comfort
by Joodiff
Bleeding and surly, he ignores her silent criticism. Slams the car door hard and doesn't look back to see if she is following. She is. Not meekly and not mildly, but she is following. He doesn't need to look over his shoulder, knows she's just a shadow's distance behind him in the autumn rain. Boyd hates nights like this. Wishes things were easier, smoother, between them. Never have been, almost certainly never will be. The jagged cut above his eyebrow isn't deep, but behind it, inside his skull, there is scarlet pain. Only some of it related to Campbell's furious determination to resist arrest. Hurts like a bitch, in fact. Makes him even more irritable as he stamps his way up the stone steps to the big front door. He doesn't know why she always insists on following him. Why she never seems to learn. Or why he doesn't. Maybe they're just as bad as each other.
She should know by now that on nights like this he's a black-hearted bastard with a mean streak as wide as the Thames. Wider, in fact.
She does know. It's not the sort of thing that can stay hidden when two people end up working in close proximity for years. Besides, he has a widely-publicised and not altogether undeserved reputation as an evil-tempered tyrant with a tendency to angrily lash out at the nearest target when things don't entirely go his way – like they haven't tonight. His knuckles are bruised and sore and because of it he fumbles his keys, dropping them onto the steps with a loud curse. Maybe he imagines the pointed sigh behind him, maybe he doesn't.
Retrieving his keys with a mutter, he uses considerable unnecessary force on the lock and once it surrenders he kicks the inoffensive front door for good measure. Yes, he's in a rare mood tonight, but he doesn't slam the door closed behind him because he knows she will follow him across the threshold. There have already been sharp words and there may well be more before the night is done. He knows it and he's damned sure Grace does.
Shrugging free from the damp encumbrance of his long coat, he doesn't look at her as he growls, "Next time remind me to completely ignore whatever you suggest and do the exact opposite."
It's a deliberately inflammatory comment. Weary and battered as he is, Boyd is spoiling for a fight. He doesn't really know why, he just is. Anger and frustration twist self-destructively inside him, more potentially dangerous than any loutish murder suspect's fists. Yet Grace says nothing. Absolutely nothing. Her barbed refusal to rise to the bait gets under his skin and he stalks away, heading for the big living room and the half-empty bottle of Scotch it holds. Getting drunk isn't the answer, Boyd knows that, but just at the moment he needs to feel the rough burn of the powerful spirit. He's hefting the bottle in anticipation when Grace speaks from behind him, her voice holding a glacial edge as she says, "How is that going to help?"
He doesn't look at her, starts to pour a large measure of the amber liquid into a heavy glass tumbler. Nor does he bother to answer her, well-aware that his silence will only make the tension between them even more strained. She brings out the worst in him. Sometimes she brings out the best in him, too, but not tonight. It's not Grace he's angry with, of course, it's himself. For not reacting fast enough when Campbell started into movement, for not being able to neutralise him quite as quickly and efficiently as he once would have done. He's angry with himself for getting old, in fact. Old and slow and –
"For heaven's sake," she says irritably, "stop behaving like a spoilt child."
The Scotch is good, its kick potent. He turns slowly to face her, not at all surprised to find her glaring at him from just a few feet away. His lip curls slightly, but still he doesn't speak.
Grace is clearly not impressed. "Fine. Have it your own way; you usually do."
He's damned if he's going to let her walk out on him. He might be slower than he used to be, but he's still fast enough to cover the space between them and roughly seize her wrist before she can fully turn away. He sees her flinch slightly but doesn't loosen his grip. Oh, yes, he's a black-hearted bastard tonight. But she followed him anyway. Angry blue eyes full of spirit and challenge glare up at him, daring him not to release her. He holds her firm, deliberately leaving her with a free hand. He doubts she will stoop to slapping him, but just about anything's possible when they're both so riled. Something dark and nihilistic inside him actually wants her to do it. Needs her to do it.
She does not struggle. It's beneath her dignity to do so, he knows. Instead she simply continues to glare at him as she inquires coldly, "What are you trying to prove?"
Boyd doesn't know. Or care. He just isn't ready to let her walk out of the door. Anything's better than empty, lonely silence, even the bloody wounds they'll soon inflict on each other unless something happens to quell the oncoming storm. The darkness in him roils and he tightens his grip a perceptible fraction, knowing it will hurt her, wanting it to hurt her. Her eyes widen in response, but she still doesn't strike him. He starts to shake, all the rage and unwelcome cruelty that desperately needs to find a release causing a physical reaction. He's lost, a drowning man being dragged further and further out to sea by a relentless current.
Her voice is unnaturally calm. "Boyd."
He looks at her. Really looks at her. The compassion he sees beyond the pain and confusion hurts him far more than any physical assault. He doesn't know why he is the way he is, what demon has crept in and taken possession of his soul – all Boyd knows is that the pain in his skull is passing all limits of endurance and instead of striking him Grace is gently caressing his cheek with her free hand. He snaps his head back in protest, unable to tolerate the infinite humanity he can feel in her touch. The urge to lash out at her is almost too powerful to resist, but somehow he manages it. Just.
"Peter," she says. "Peter."
He comes back to himself a little, releases his hold on her wrist instantly then hangs his head in shame and confusion. This is not who and what he is, surely?
"Peter," Grace says again, but he finds he can't look at her.
-oOo-
He hasn't moved a muscle in several minutes. Only the ragged sound of his breathing – too fast and too uneven – provides any indication of the mighty struggle taking place right in front of her. Grace doesn't move, either, just watches him, waiting for the moment when intervention will do fractionally more good than harm. Perhaps Boyd doesn't know what's happening to him, but she does. The only thing about it that surprises her at all is that it's taking so long to happen. Then, he has always been ferociously stubborn. Whether he knows it or not, he's already been fighting this battle for far too long, and like any front-line soldier he is battle-shocked and intensely weary. The cracks are becoming yawning chasms, his ability to prevent the final shattering decreasing steadily day by inexorable day.
He is going to break. It's absolutely inevitable. The only thing Grace doesn't yet know is exactly how and when. Tonight he is very, very close. But not, it seems, quite there on the edge. He's still on his feet, still fighting a tenacious rear-guard action, but she can see – very clearly – all the pain and misery that's ruthlessly taking him, piece by tiny piece.
If he was a different man… But he's not.
Again, she tries, "Peter?"
This time he actually raises his head a fraction, but he still refuses to look at her. She wishes she had half the influence over him that their colleagues seem to think she possesses. Maybe then she could tell him what he needs to do and he would actually listen to her. Maybe he'd actually take her advice, maybe even accept her help. He won't. It hurts to know he won't. Boyd can only listen to the hymns of grief playing in his head and keep on trying to stitch himself back together with tainted thorns of regret. It's battlefield first aid, nothing more. He can't cauterise the terrible wound that won't stop bleeding and Grace knows he won't let her try.
He starts to shake again, as if he is bitterly cold to the very marrow of his bones. She wants to cry, but if he won't – and he won't – then neither will she. She doesn't have the right, not while he remains obstinately dry-eyed. He draws a shuddering breath, loud in the otherwise silent room, and then another. She thinks he's breaking into pieces right there in front of her, but she's wrong. He finally looks up, tight control reasserted, and though his dark eyes are terrible and empty, they are dry.
His voice is hoarse. "Why are you still here?"
He knows why, but she thinks he probably needs, more than anything, to hear it. "Because I'm your friend. Because I love you. Because you love me."
Boyd doesn't confirm or deny any of it, he simply gazes emptily at her, the whiskey tumbler in his hand finally cracking and giving way with a sharp noise that sounds more like a gunshot than breaking glass. The pieces fall onto the highly-polished wooden floor, shattering into even smaller shards on impact, shards that gleam dull red under the harsh artificial light. Even the steady drip of blood onto the old boards sounds far louder than it should in the high-stress of the moment.
"Grace?" he says, and he sounds so confused and so unlike himself that she swallows hard. "What the hell's happening to me?"
She wonders if he really doesn't know. Obliquely, she says, "It's just the grief, Peter. Show me your hand."
He looks bemused, more so as he obediently holds it out for inspection. Perhaps he's just too numb now to feel the lacerations caused by the glass. It's a possibility. He says, "What should I do?"
"Don't ask me that," Grace says simply. "Let's get this looked at. I'll drive you to A and E."
"No."
"Boyd…"
"It's nothing."
But he's still bleeding. In more ways than one.
-oOo-
It's just cold comfort in the dark, that's what Boyd guiltily tells himself, but he knows it's much, much more. They both do. He can feel it in the way her fingers dig so possessively into his bare shoulders as they desperately arch together, can hear it in her bittersweet sighs, the ones that break the odd silence that always seems to fall between them in the breathless, desolate aftermath. They are trespassers in a place utterly forbidden to them, and he suspects no good will come of any of it, but when she's lying in his arms he feels just a little less alone, a little less broken from the inside out.
It's a black-hearted bastard that would let her do this while knowing it's just cold comfort in the dark.
But it's much, much more. Isn't it?
His son is dead. Dead and buried. There's no room for anything else.
He might be wrong. There might be room for her. He needs someone to love, someone to hate. He needs someone to slowly and carefully put him back together again. Grace could do it, too, he's sure of that. But he won't let her try. It would hurt too much, make him far too vulnerable. So he'll just hold onto her in the chilly autumn dark and try not to think about how much closer he comes to utter despair with every bitter sunrise.
Whatever happens, however bad things get, he won't ever let her walk out on him. He's simply too stubborn for that. And he needs her far too much.
Which – thank God – she knows.
- the end -