DISCLAIMER: I own nothing.

In the Dark

by Joodiff

She doesn't really know why she does it; it's just a silly whim. Completely spontaneous, with no planning or nefarious intent. Whatever the cause, when the door to the en suite bathroom opens, Grace closes her eyes and pretends to be asleep. Her breathing is already slow and regular, and she catches herself concentrating hard to keep it that way. Why, she's still not altogether sure. Perhaps she's just curious, wants to know what his reaction will be. This sort of shared mundane but intimate moment is still so new that she finds she can't accurately predict what Boyd will do when he discovers that she is – or at least appears to be – fast asleep. Whether he will irritably mutter and growl to himself, whether he will make far more noise than is necessary getting into bed in the hope of 'unintentionally' rousing her, or whether he will simply reach out and shake her. It's absolutely unintentional, this idle, childish experiment, but she is, after all, a psychologist, a student of human behaviour, and the results, whatever they are, will doubtless be both interesting and illuminating.

He doesn't make very much noise, moving around his softly-lit bedroom, and that alone surprises her. Eyes still tightly closed, she relies on hearing alone to track his progress as he does whatever it is he needs to do, then finally pads soft-footed towards the bed. He can, of course, move extremely quietly when he wants to, occasionally ghosting up behind unsuspecting subordinates to suddenly bark orders at them, a trick that never fails to elicit a loud and startled reaction from the victim or victims concerned, but generally his footsteps are rapid and sure, designed to announce his impending presence. Not tonight. Grace doesn't detect any deliberate measure of stealth, any hint that he's attempting to creep up on her. He's just not causing any unnecessary disturbance. Uncharacteristic.

The wide, comfortable mattress dips under his weight, but not excessively so. Not enough to cause her to stir if she really was dozing. Same with the careful movement of the bedcovers. Clearly, he has read her continued stillness and silence as somnolence, and instead of deliberately trying to wake her by what he could legitimately attempt to claim was accident, he's being far more gallant and accommodating than she would ever have expected. Even his voice, when he speaks, is quiet. Not a whisper, by any means, but soft and low as he tries a hushed, "Grace…?"

She should stop pretending. She knows she should. It's not fair to continue to test him in such a pointless, underhand manner, not now it's become far from an innocent, unplanned thing, a momentary impulse. A sigh, a yawn and a slight stretch would be enough to end the subterfuge, but she's a little too fascinated now, a little too curious to find out what he will do next – whether he will quietly leave her to her dreams, or make an effort to wake her. It's his own fault in a way, she reasons. His own fault for still being so infuriatingly unpredictable, despite how incredibly well she's come to know him. Sometimes, yes, she seems to know what he will do long before anyone else has even the slightest inkling, but that's more about reading and understanding the circumstances that make him behave in a particular way. Understanding what will trigger his quick, fierce temper, what will instantly appeal to the compassionate, protective side of his character. What will intrigue him, what will vex him, what will attract or repel him. At work it's… well, if not exactly easy, then at least frequently possible to make an educated guess at his behaviour. At home…

He's a very different man at home. Her home, his home, it doesn't matter. Take the heavy mantle of responsibility from Peter Boyd's shoulders, and he visibly becomes a gentler, quieter, and much more equable man. The dichotomy fascinates Grace – always has, of course, but never more so than in the last few weeks when the chance to study the interesting phenomenon in depth has become a more-or-less daily treat. He remains largely unpredictable, though, wherever he is, whatever he's doing. Far more reckless and likely to act on sudden impulse than she is – current situation notwithstanding.

His weight shifts, rocking her gently for a moment, and a quiet click precedes a sudden darkness that she's aware of even with her eyes closed. A careful squint confirms that he's switched off the bedside lamp, that the only light in the room is now provided by the few tiny external slivers that manage to penetrate the tiny gaps between the heavily-lined curtains that block out most of the night. Opening her eyes fully, Grace contemplates her next move. Should she feign waking and then engage with him, or continue to let him think she's beaten him to slumber and allow him to settle? The answer is nowhere near as obvious as it should be.

He works too hard. She's always known it. They all work too hard, the whole damn team, of course, but no-one, not even Eve Lockhart or her predecessors, routinely puts in the stupidly high number of hours every week that Boyd does. It's more than leading by example, it's commitment and dedication and possibly just the tiniest touch of madness. The latter, at least, her own, not entirely textbook, judgement. Yes, he works far too hard, and with every long, hard year that passes, the inevitable toll it takes on him becomes just a little bit greater. He doesn't bounce back from things quite as quickly and energetically as he used to, doesn't automatically throw himself headlong into new investigations at such a furious pace anymore, and Grace doubts she's the only one – inside or outside of the CCU – who's noticed.

She should let him sleep. If they start talking – or doing anything else – the time will slip away before they know it, and suddenly it'll be long after midnight with far too few hours left before the bedside clock starts to shrill its loud morning alarm.

Boyd moves again, easing up against her back, careful and far from predatory. Warm and solid, wonderfully real. The arm that curves around her waist is gentle, cautious, and the lips that brush lightly against her neck are soft and undemanding. This time his deep voice is barely a murmur. "Goodnight, Grace."

She's loved him for years, in good times and bad, but she fell in love with him somewhere between the morphine and the tears, in the frightening, lonely place after Linda Cummings when she so desperately needed somebody, anybody, to tell her the nightmare would eventually end and everything would be all right. Fell in love with him in the place where she reached out, and he was always there, ready to soothe or bully or say nothing at all. Whatever she needed, whenever she needed it. The man who looked down into the terrifying abyss where Nietzsche's monsters dwell and offered a deadly deal to one of the most beautiful and lethal. The man who willingly offered to trade his life for hers. The man she impulsively kissed in the tainted city moonlight and then took wordlessly to her bed, startling them both.

She can feel him relaxing, feel the heaviness creeping into his body as his breathing slows.

A holiday. That's what Boyd needs. What they both need, if she's honest. Not just a long weekend snatched somewhere within quick and easy driving distance of London, either, but a proper break somewhere where no-one's ever heard of the Metropolitan Police, or its notorious Cold Case Unit. Somewhere where they can just unwind together with no lurking external worries or pressures to creep up on them. Somewhere warm and sunny, Grace thinks, toying with the idea. A paradise place of sun, sea, and sand. And sex, too. Yes. Most definitely. Though they don't have to leave London for that, and if she was to…

No. Let him sleep.

She can't. Not yet.

She sighs, moves just a fraction, enough to signal returning consciousness. "Peter…?"

"I knew you were shamming," he says, tone soft and indulgent.

She doubts he's lying. His senses are sharp, his instincts even sharper. And he's a very good detective. Possibly the best she's ever had the good fortune to work with. Smiling into the darkness, Grace asks, "How?"

"Just did." A verbal shrug. To him, it's obviously unimportant. "Warm enough?"

"Yes," she confirms, hoping it will be enough to reassure him. He worries about her, now more than ever. She can't find it in her heart to blame him, not after everything they've both been through. She wonders, though, how he imagines she could possibly feel cold, buried as she is beneath the luxurious covers in a warm cocoon that's bolstered by his relentless body heat. Blissful as winter begins to bite, but when the summer comes… Not the time to be thinking that far ahead. Forget the past, ignore the future and concentrate on embracing the present.

Soap. Soap and sandalwood. He's not long out of the shower. A neutral, if not completely natural, scent. No cologne, no musk. She likes both, so tightly entwined are they with all her memories of him both old and new. Sharp spice in the morning, subtle notes of something more elemental breaking through by the evening. Distinctive. Evocative.

"I love you," she murmurs, as her eyes adjust to the dark and she begins to see shapes and shadows where there were none.

Boyd kisses her neck again, still gentle, but with more resolve. "Good."

It doesn't pique her, his laconic reply, for she knows it's not as flippant as it sounds. He doesn't give the traditional response simply because those three infamous words mean far too much to him. Too much to mindlessly parrot back just to fulfil expectations. He will – he does – say them, and regularly, but in his own time and on his own terms. It's something to celebrate and respect, that stubborn singularity, not something to be irked by. Something Grace would never have fully understood in her younger days for all her considerable empathy and insight.

She covers his hand with hers, pale and ghostly in the unlit room. Fascinated for a moment, she fidgets him into a direct palm-to-palm comparison, her slender fingers coming up short against his much thicker, longer digits. Big hands, far, far larger than hers. Strong. Dextrous, too. Nimble when they play over her skin, clever when they search out and exploit all the places that make her shiver and bite her lower lip.

She wants him, the realisation not a surprise. A warm flush of slowly-dawning arousal makes her press back against him, the age-old invitation never clearer. The action causes a soft growl, something a long, long way from displeasure, and an answering nudge of his hips in acknowledgement. He reclaims his hand, finds her hip, and his palm lingers there for a moment, his lips returning to her neck. Grace arches, almost purrs. It was never a given, their instinctive ability to delight each other. Wouldn't really have mattered, she thinks, if they hadn't ultimately proved to be so well-attuned physically, not given everything else that exists between them, but perhaps they both were well overdue a lucky break, because from the first moment, the very first touch…

Boyd's hand moves again, gliding down over the silky material of her thin nightdress, hip to thigh until he finds bare skin, and that, too, precipitates a throaty growl of approval from behind her. One that sends a soft, trembling shiver up and down her spine, adds a delightful edge to her increasing need to touch and be touched.

Sex is not the sole prerogative of the young and beautiful. She wonders sometimes if the young and the beautiful themselves ever truly understand that. If they have any idea that the day will dawn when they, too, find themselves grateful for all the little things that they once took for granted. If they truly realise how valuable real passion is – and just how easily it can wither during the ruthless advance of age and time.

Of course they don't. Why would they?

It doesn't matter, anyway. She's happy, happier than she's been for a long time, and she's long past caring what anyone would think if they found out what she was doing – and just who she was doing it with – in the very few uninterrupted hours she has to call her own. Like sex, love is not just for the young and the beautiful, either, and if she's lucky enough to be thoroughly enjoying both at her age, well, whose damn business is it but hers… theirs?

"Grace…?"

His voice brings her back to herself, and she reaches behind her, sliding her arm under his, seeking his waist as she murmurs, "Sorry."

"Time and place," Boyd tells her without discernible ire.

He's perceptive when he wants to be. Still, she has to inquire, "How did you know…?"

A quiet, amused snort. "Because I know you. You spend far too much time thinking about things that really don't need thinking about."

Grace can't be bothered to argue the point. Besides, there's some truth to his words. Sometimes she does think too much, and right now… Well, why waste time thinking about what she could actually be doing?

A/N: Due to FFN's continued enforcement of the "no MA fic" rule, the above is a taster for the full story which you can find in the "Waking the Dead" category of Archive Of Our Own. Please be aware that the full version of "In the Dark" is adult-rated. Thanks.