Labyrinth
"All you need is the plan, the road map, and the courage to press on to your destination."
~ Earl Nightingale.
She's just so bloody stubborn, thinks Boyd furiously, watching the determinedly retreating figure fading into the distance in front of him. This is all her fault.
It's really not, and he knows it.
Grace may have made the initial comment, but he didn't have to become quite so riled by it. Didn't have to bite back quite so aggressively or antagonistically.
She's all slim lines and aggrieved, too-quick steps as she storms away from him, and he really can't forget the look of enraged fury in her eyes. Or the not-so-small trace of pain as his savage retort dug deep into wounds that have yet to heal.
He didn't mean it. Wishes he could take it back.
It's just… he's so tired. Struggling so much himself. And he just couldn't keep his mouth shut when he really, really should have.
She was only making an innocent comment and something dark and angry inside him chose to twist it, to take it as something he knows she didn't mean.
It's a constant fight, these days, trying to keep the demons at bay. And he has no idea why.
Except…
He does.
He knows he does.
Rage bleeds away to heavy, burning guilt. And deep, deep sadness.
The look in her eyes…
Grace has disappeared from view, vanishing into the trees at the edge of the long sloping lawn leading away from the grand, old-fashioned house behind him.
He can't let it go on like this, can't let her walk away from him right now believing that he… that he thinks she…
No. It's not fair, on either of them.
She has a good head start on him, but Boyd is taller and has a longer stride, and he makes quick time as he heads for the entrance to the maze where she vanished, determined to catch up with her. To try and explain.
But what to say, though? He has no idea. Hopes that inspiration will strike when the moment comes.
Maybe it will.
Maybe it won't.
That's a dark, dark thought and it obsessively churns in his mind as he walks, searches. Finds dead end after dead end in the labyrinth of conifers that have been sculpted and grown into a child's playground over years and years, the irony of their twisting narrow paths that more often than not lead to nothing far from lost on him as he searches for her.
There is a small stream running through the maze – the first time he's ever seen such a thing – and it gives him a small clue regarding his otherwise foiled sense of direction. He tries to follow it, growling irritably under his breath when the path twists away from the flowing water and he finds himself at another fork in the road.
Left, or right?
Right. Another fork.
Right again.
Dead end.
Back and left.
A spiral that turns into another dead end.
The urge to shout and bellow in frustration is absolutely indescribable, but he holds his tongue. Doesn't want to give his position away to her.
Won't back down from the game that isn't really a game anymore. That isn't fun anymore.
Retreat again, further this time.
The first left, and then another fork.
Left, left, right, left.
And he still hasn't got a clue where he is.
There's a gap in the hedge – he could just about squeeze through and cheat, maybe find himself getting wherever he is going faster. Or not. And he'd lose the mental map he's building up of where he's been, of all the paths and choices that have failed.
Patience, he tells himself, and carries on walking, ignoring the gap. Patience.
Perseverance.
Just keep ploughing forward, keep going. Don't give up.
He never gives up. Doesn't know how.
But the frustration…
He walks and he walks and he walks, and all the time he questions what he is doing, why he is doing it. Because that's so much easier than asking the real questions about how this happened, about why it all hurts so very much.
So much safer.
He takes every single wrong turning, it seems, and time stretches out, seems to blur as he continues onwards, refusing to give up. He was cruel, and he knows it. But he didn't mean it, would never mean it. It just… happened.
Boyd needs help. He needs her. And he knows it.
But what if she doesn't need him?
Still the path twists and turns, still his head and his heart are in disarray, and still he has no clue where he is, how to get to where she is.
Where he hopes she is. Because it's entirely possible, he realises, that she's not waiting in the middle, but that she's made her way out the other side and gone. Left.
Without him.
She hasn't.
Boyd has no idea how much later it is, but eventually, finally, his persistence pays off.
Grace is standing on a small bridge in the very centre of the maze, staring down at the bubbling stream beneath her that divides the small clearing in two.
Wanting to approach, but still struggling with the guilt of the words that flew from his lips before he could stop them, he stays where he is. Lurking at the edge of the treeline. Watching her intently.
She's lovely, he thinks. So peaceful. So calm.
So… not like him.
Is there really truth in that old adage about opposites and attraction, he ponders.
Grace doesn't move, doesn't look round at him but she still somehow knows he's there. "Either leave me alone or come and talk to me," she calls. "But don't loiter in the shadows."
As he watches she turns away again and goes back to studying the water, the cheerfully quacking ducks just yards ahead.
There's no decision to be thought about, and he knows it. He made his choice when he started walking. He crosses the grass, steps onto the bridge.
"I can't keep doing this, Peter." The words are spoken quietly, calmly. Without a trace of the rage and pain she had in her earlier. That acceptance is… astounding.
"I'm sorry," he mumbles awkwardly, and he means it. He means it so much.
She turns to look up at him, and he is genuinely startled by the intensity in her eyes.
"I don't want an apology."
Boyd blinks, confused. "You don't?"
Grace shakes her head slowly, maybe even sadly. "No, I don't."
"What do you want then?" Dinner perhaps, he muses. They often settle their differences over a meal, discussing work because it's a safe option, and trying to ignore the tiny, lingering hints of their old flirtation that accidentally creep in during the unguarded moments when they relax just a little bit too much.
It hurts. So fucking much.
"I want an explanation."
Oh.
Resting his hands on the rail, he turns to look out over the stream and the small pool it forms before flowing off again, disappearing into the mass of identical trees. Wonders what to tell her. Debates just how he's going to get himself out of this one. Despises himself for not being able to tell the truth. If he did, then she would run. She would run and he would be left without his best friend. The woman who he would give his life for in a heartbeat. The woman he wants more than anything, but knows he can't have.
There's so much she could say, could ask him, but she doesn't. She simply stands quietly – eerily so – and watches the ducks.
She loves ducks. Told him that years ago. He has no idea why, though. And maybe that's what all this is really about; he knows things and facts, but he can't make himself dig deeper, chase more than what's on the surface.
It's stupid. Utterly, incredibly stupid.
In every other aspect of his life, he takes risks. Big ones. Calculated one. Stupid ones. But with her…
Is he afraid of drowning, he wonders, the clarity coming from nowhere.
He's not normally given to nervousness, to bouts of fear, but the way she's standing, so still and quiet, her attention all on the water as she waits… It's incredibly unnerving.
"I love you." The words are out before he can stop them.
Oh shit…
Grace twists away from the railing, eyes widening in shock as she looks up at him and Boyd chokes, disbelief cloaking him. How the hell did that just happen?
Oh God, no. No.
No, no, no.
This. Is. Bad.
Again she says nothing, just stares up at him, absolutely silent.
Waiting.
Boyd clears his throat, tries to breathe. Forces himself to face up to the truth. To not back hurriedly away from the declaration that is still hanging in the air between them and retreat into the safety of the trees. Instead he takes the step forwards, towards her, and reaches out a hand to stroke her cheek, inordinately gentle as he revels in just how smooth and soft her skin is beneath the very tips of his fingers.
"I love you," he repeats, solemn. Sincere.
Still Grace offers no words, only stares at him, blue eyes impenetrable, giving nothing away. No hint for him to gauge the situation at all. Just… nothing.
It's faintly terrifying, because this is Grace standing before him, but in a way he sort of understands. The bombshell he's just inadvertently dropped on her is by no means a small one.
He takes a deep breath, summons every last ounce of his courage, and searches desperately for the right words to explain himself, to make this better. They don't come. It's hardly a surprise, he supposes, given that explaining himself with regard to such matters has never been his forte, but even so, he would have expected to at least be able to bluster and blunder his way through such a minefield in some form or another.
In the end he simply stops thinking, stops trying to say the right thing, and just speaks. And the words that follow surprise even him with their honesty.
"I can't imagine not seeing you every day, not watching you smile, hearing you laugh. Arguing with you. You're my best friend – you know me better than anyone. Understand me better than anyone, and…"
"Okay," she says as he trails away, uncomfortably mute. "Thank you."
"Thank you," he echoes, thoroughly confused.
She nods. Offers a simple, "Yes."
"Grace, I…"
She lifts one elegant eyebrow, but it's not a challenge or mockery, only gentle query. "You?"
"I don't know what to say," he admits.
Grace smiles, and it is a gentle thing that touches his heart. "Peter, we've known each other for over twenty years – what else is there to say?"
He studies her carefully, ponders his answer. "I suppose that depends on what you want to hear," he offers.
A small shake of her head, a delicate hand landing on his arm. "Right now, nothing," she tells him softly, as she steps closer, nestles against him and winds her arms around his waist.
Boyd stops thinking. Feels a lump form in his throat.
It feels… right. So incredibly right.
She's short and slender and the weight of her body pressed against his is delicate and comforting, and it's the easiest thing in the world to cradle her against his chest. She smells nice, he thinks. It's a soft, subtle sort of scent, and it tickles his nostrils, swims into his brain like dopamine does. He dares to rest his cheek against the top of her head, and he discovers that her hair is very soft, is filled with the desire to play with it, stroke it. He doesn't dare though, balanced as precariously on the bridge as he is, not when he's not quite sure where solid ground is.
Grace doesn't pull back, and that, he reckons, is surely a good sign. No, she doesn't pull back, doesn't argue with him, or tell him he's wrong. Instead she just sighs softly and cranes her neck, looks up at him. Treats him to a quietly hopeful smile.
Now would be the moment, realises Boyd. If he was going to kiss her, now would be the moment. Except… her eyes are a very clear blue in the sunlight and he can't quite interpret all the things he sees there. He stares and he wonders and he deliberates, and the opportunity shatters, disappearing into the past like so many others before them.
It's a mistake, and he knows it. Instantly pins all his hopes on the possibility that it might not be irredeemable.
"What happens now?" he eventually ventures, nervousness breaking through in his words. He should have kissed her. Slow and sweet and tender. So she knows.
He didn't though, and God does he feel like an idiot. A confused, apprehensive idiot.
Grace shrugs. "What would you like to happen now?"
Boyd clears his throat, licks his lips. Swallows. "Right now, I just want to know that you're not going to run off again."
She laughs, the sound soft but musical. "I'm not," she promises, her face open and honest. He believes her.
"Good." He glances down at his shoes, the wooden boards under them. He can see the water through the gaps and grimaces, feels an automatic internal flinch. They're inches above it, but even so, he's never liked that sort of thing. Never.
Looking up he surveys the small clearing, the damp mossy earth, the cultivated pathway, the reeds that the ducks are now hiding in.
"How the hell are we supposed to get out of here?" he asks, staring at the towering conifers surrounding them. Grace gives him a thoughtful sort of look, the kind that lingers and makes a prickle of unease ripple down his neck and spine. She looks immeasurably wise when she does that, and it's more than a little chilling.
But then she offers a hand to him, says, "Come with me, I'll show you."
He doesn't need to think about it, to question anything this time. Instead he reaches out to her, marvels at the way her slender palm is engulfed in his much larger hand. Grace tugs gently, testing his grip, and then, when he doesn't let go, quietly, calmly, moves to show him the way out. And, he finds, it's easy, effortless, even, to fall quite naturally into step beside her.