Wishing the happiest of birthday's to missDuncan. Heaps of hugs and good wishes to you.
Thanks to Joodiff for the beta and encouragement.
Part six in the family series. Follows Thomas
:) xx
Lucy
…
It's a bright, cheerful spring day and the breeze coming through the open window is sweetly scented by the rows of colourful flowers she planted last weekend, and almost warm. Tiny birds, chattering and chirruping to themselves, are hopping between the petals, looking for tasty morsels as they share their morning gossip. Standing there, watching, Grace feels a smile growing inside herself as she studies the happy scene and contemplates the future.
Behind her a door is slammed open, the jolt of fear it generates shattering her inner peace. Grace flinches, and turns slightly as John strides into the room, his eyes dark with anger.
"Why's the bloody window open, woman? It's blowing a gale through here."
"Hardly," she dismisses, refusing to bow to his temper. "It's just a breeze; it's quite nice. I was watching the sparrows."
"Sparrows?" John sneers, his face twisted with anger. He steps closer, right into her personal space. "Don't you dare lie to me, Grace, I know you were thinking of him." He's almost nose-to-nose with her now, so near that his spit lands on her face as he shouts, the words almost deafening at such close range.
"John," she tries, wanting to calm him, reassure him, "there is no hi– "
There's a crash behind her as he barges forward, knocking her off balance as he slams the sash window down, and then Grace screams as pain explodes in her hand where it was resting on the sill. Her knees give way and she stumbles into the wall, fumbles desperately at the glass to free her trapped fingers, slides down the wall clutching her hand when she does.
The pain is so intense that she retches; nothing comes up, but the bitter taste of bile burns at the back of her throat. A wild kick lands on her hip, driving her all the way down to the floor and Grace bites down so hard on her lip that she tastes blood.
"You and your stupid education and your big words. You think you're so fucking clever that I wouldn't figure out what's going on."
"There is nothing going on," Grace grinds out, pulling her knees up to protect her stomach and clutching her hand to her chest, hunching her shoulders down. "There is no-one else."
"Liar!" It's an enraged scream, and it's accompanied by another kick, this one to her ribs. And then, mercifully, he is gone.
The sound of the door slamming again echoes inside her head long after it ebbs from the silent room around her.
…
Grace gasps, sucking cold, damp air into her lungs as if she's never tasted it before, and then chokes, coughing hard.
Fierce cramping is radiating hotly up her arms from where her hands are clenched onto the railings in front of her. It takes effort, a lot of it, to slowly relax her grip and straighten the digits. Taking off her gloves, she finds the pattern of the metal imprinted in her skin, and that her knuckles are white and stark. As the cramps ease, the ache of bones broken years before sets in, and Grace slips the gloves back on, hoping the warmth will help.
The sun is long gone and the air has turned bitter, winter still very much in control as she returns to watching her great-niece clambering around on the park's brightly painted monkey bars, swinging from one rung to another with ease.
Tears prickle at the corners of her vision, but stubbornly she forces them back, concentrating on the here, the now. John is in prison.
He can't hurt her.
Yet.
That little, nagging voice in the back of her head rears up, tries to worm its way forwards, but Grace glowers and slams a mental door on it hard.
Not today. Not now.
Lucy is a breath of fresh air, one she has always particularly enjoyed spending time with. And as the slight, but surprisingly strong young girl lets go of the bar to swing upside down by her knees, Grace smiles and shakes her head in amusement.
A long, long time ago now, she was very similar. Hero-worshiping her brothers, she spent hours in the park with them, learning to climb and swing.
And, she remembers, their patience with her never waned, even as they became teenagers. There was always one of them about to pinch her books, put them up high on a shelf, and drag her out to play.
Lucy comes running then; rosy-cheeked and smiling under her bright purple woolly hat and scarf, the little girl grins up at her and reaches for the school bag abandoned on the ground beside the railings, slinging it effortlessly onto her back.
"Thanks, Auntie Grace."
"Any time, sweetheart. Are you cold?"
Lucy's slim shoulders move up and down inside her dark blue coat. "A little. It's not too bad. And it's nice to be outside."
"You've been stuck indoors a lot recently, haven't you?"
The little girl nods. "Mummy still can't walk, so…" She trails off, and shrugs again.
It has never been mentioned, but Grace is well aware that seven-year-old Lucy was something of a happy accident for her parents who went away for a weekend together, had a little too much wine, and came home with what her rueful father described at the time as 'excess baggage'. As such, there is a sizable gap between both her and her older brothers, one of whom is at university in Aberystwyth studying geography, and the other who is rather grudgingly heading into sitting his A-levels, and her and most of her cousins.
"We can stay a bit longer," Grace tells her. "Granny Iris isn't expecting us for another half an hour."
Bright blue eyes light up with joy. "Will you come on the big slide with me," is the begging response.
Behind them a car door slams; pain prickles in Grace's fingers again, and darkness flickers through her vision. For a moment she sways on her feet, and then a tiny palm slips into hers and tugs.
"Please?"
Inhale, hold, exhale.
Again
And again.
"The big slide it is," declares Grace, squeezing the hand of her young companion.
As a distraction, it works a treat. Negotiating the ladder isn't as easy at it used to be, but she manages it, and then with Lucy standing at the bottom of the slide cheering her on, Grace lets go, feels that rush of air and adrenalin as she plummets down the steep slope, slithering to a stop by a pair of sensible black leather school shoes.
"Well?" asks Lucy, hope in her eyes.
Grace grins at her. "Let's go again."
…
"Have you really been at the park all this time? In this weather?" demands Iris as Grace and Lucy sit down at the kitchen table, rubbing their chilled hands and reaching for their freshly made mugs of hot chocolate.
"It's not that cold outside, Granny Iris," protests Lucy. "And we were moving – Auntie Grace came on the big slide with me."
Wise blue eyes twinkle with mirth. "She did, did she?"
Lucy nods, licking her chocolate moustache. "Seven times! It was so much fun. I've missed the park a lot."
"We had a good time," agrees Grace, reaching for the biscuit tin in the centre of the table and prising the lid off. Inside it smells the same as it always has, this tin that is older than she is.
Ginger nuts.
Excellent.
After offering them around, Grace takes one and snaps it in two, then dunks a piece into her mug.
"Auntie Grace!" gasps Lucy, absolutely scandalised.
"What?"
"You can't dunk biscuits in hot chocolate. You have to do it in tea."
Iris cackles, long and loud, the sound engulfing the warm room. "Child," she laughs, "we have been telling her that for years! You won't change her opinion on the matter."
This has been a bone of contention for as long as Grace can remember. "They aren't chocolate biscuits," she explains patiently, "therefore, I can dunk them in hot chocolate."
"And if they were chocolate biscuits?" asks Lucy.
"Then that would be just plain wrong."
The little girl stares at her, the dark blue of her school sweater emphasising the blue in her eyes. Not quite the same shade as Grace or Iris, but a pretty one nevertheless.
Quiet consideration precedes a light blond ponytail swishing from side to side as Lucy shakes her head. "Gross," she declares.
"Don't knock it until you try it," Grace warns, before offering the biscuit tin again. "Go on, I dare you…"
A small, delicate, freckled nose wrinkles in disgust at the thought.
"Well," sighs Grace woefully, moving to put the tin aside, "there was me thinking you were so brave with all that swinging upside down you were doing. I suppose I was wrong."
"I'll do it," declares Lucy, kneeling up in the chair to reach for the tin. Carefully, she selects a biscuit and breaks it into pieces, just like her aunt. Slowly she dips it in the hot, milky, chocolaty liquid and then frowns again. "This is so wrong," she mumbles, but then shoves the piece into her mouth.
The look of disgust changes as she chews, becomes one of thoughtful consideration.
"See," teases Grace, "it's not so bad, is it?"
That ponytail shakes again, a look of curiosity dawns. A second piece is reached for, dunked, and placed between lips that are now far from screwed up in resistance.
"It's… quite good," is the eventual decree. Lucy reaches for the final piece of her biscuit. "Weird," she decides, "but good."
"Good grief, Grace," declares Iris, raising her hands in feigned shock and outrage. "You've converted another, after all these years."
"Finally," sighs Grace, gesturing dramatically. "I'm no longer on my own."
All three of them chuckle, and Grace glances towards her mother, a warm, meaningful look passing between them.
Lucy is something of a special project for both of them. The little girl's father has been in the secure wing of a mental health hospital for the last nine months after suffering from a sudden and wholly unexpected psychotic episode from which he has yet to recover. Sian, Lucy's mother, has not let her daughter visit him because Bill doesn't even recognise his wife, let alone his three children. For the sake of her daughter, Sian has kept up a pretence that he is too sick to see them.
Grace understands her niece's decision, but disagrees with it. She has, in private and to both her mother and Boyd, vented about how carefully explaining the truth to Lucy and educating her, could be so much less damaging to the little girl who has become so withdrawn since it all happened. Lucy is bright, and quick to understand new concepts. Surely at least a portion of the truth would be better than nothing?
It is not her place to meddle, though, Grace knows. And so periodically, she will collect Lucy from school and take her out for the afternoon, giving her freedom to choose activities for herself, and space to talk, if she wants to.
"How was class today?" asks Iris, as Lucy eyes the biscuit tin again.
Grace smirks, and when her mother turns to answer the summons of the telephone, she quickly swipes two more biscuits from the tin, handing one over and keeping the other for herself whilst holding a finger to her lips and giving her great-niece a look that elicits a delighted nod of understanding and conspiracy.
Whoever it is on the other end of the line, it keeps her mother occupied for long minutes, so Grace and Lucy keep chatting, moving to look out of the window where the bright overhead light is spilling out through the glass and illuminating the nearby pond, a source of eternal fascination to all of the grandchild and great-grandchildren.
"Look," squeaks Lucy suddenly, "Mr Boots!"
Grace looks up in time to see a flash of orange in the garden, and then the cat-flap in the back door rattles and a chunky, scruffy ginger tabby with four perfectly white feet and two ragged, tattered ears is oozing through the gap and into the room.
Old, cantankerous, and not afraid to show it to anyone who steps in his path, Mr Boots is inordinately gentle with children, despite being an unrepentant crosspatch with near everyone else.
Within seconds Lucy is on her knees and the cat is twining around her, eliciting fuss and attention.
Originally the neighbour's kitten, Mr Boots long ago moved out and simply took up residence with Iris, claiming the chair closest to the living room fire and refusing to budge. The two have existed in a state of grudging tolerance ever since.
It still amuses Grace no end, and pleases her that at least her mother has some sort of company when there are no visitors around. And despite her loud and vociferous protestations, Grace suspects her mother is glad, too.
Eventually the cat tires of being fawned over and shakes himself vigorously, before stalking off in the direction of his armchair, tail held proudly high.
"Well excuse me, sir," mutters Lucy.
Grace laughs. "Fancy a game of cards?" she asks, already reaching for the cupboard where the ancient, well-played deck is kept.
"Whot?" asks Lucy, hope in her eyes.
"What else?" teases Grace, reclaiming her seat and starting to shuffle.
Iris returns, muttering about her sister, as she is beginning to hand out the cards.
"Deal me in," orders the old woman. "I'm just going to put this away before you two steal anymore. I won't have your mother complaining to me about you not eating your tea, Lucy girl." As Iris picks up the biscuit tin and turns to put it away, Lucy's mouth falls open.
"How did she know?" she mouths silently to Grace.
"She's got eyes in the back of her head."
"I know you're talking about me," calls Iris from the pantry. "It's rude!"
As the older woman turns, two pairs of blue eyes gaze innocently at her. And then the laughter starts.
"All right, all right," is the affectionate grumble as Iris settles back in her seat and picks up her cards. "Who goes first? Lucy, is it you? Well, crack on then girl, I'm getting older by the second here!"
Shaking her head, Grace bites her lip, but it does no good in supressing the giggles. She looks over a Lucy, sees tears of laughter in the youngster's eyes, and gives in to the same full-throated, deep-bellied laughter that is reverberating around the table and wrapping up all three of them in its grip.
…
They are on hand three, and still in absolute hysterics, when the doorbell rings. Grace starts to get to her feet, but Iris waves her off and gets up. "I'm not in my grave yet, thank you," she grumbles, "And besides, this is my house, and my front door!"
"Yes, mother," sighs Grace, feeling, as usual, very much told.
Lucy watches her great grandmother walk off. Leaning forward, she whispers, "Has Granny Iris always been so… so…"
Grace doesn't need her to find the right adjective. She just nods. "I think so. All my life she has, anyway."
From the hallway there is a delighted crow. "Well, hello there, Handsome One!"
Grace feels a slight squeeze around her heart, and mentally scolds herself for acting like a love-struck school girl. He really is so very handsome though, and dear God, the things he does to her…
There is muted conversation in the hallway, that second, very familiar voice, making its way to the kitchen in sound only, without any of the words being clear enough to be understand.
About to put down her next card, Lucy stops and stares at the door in rapt curiosity.
Less than a minute later Iris is back, leading one tall, incredibly striking detective superintendent.
"Hello," he says, grinning at her cheerfully, as he covers the distance between the door and Grace's chair in three strides before bending down to kiss her thoroughly in greeting.
A startled gasp fills the air as he straightens, and all of them turn to face Lucy, who is gaping at the newcomer.
"Oh, hello," he says easily. "Sorry, I didn't see you there, I was preoccupied looking for your lovely aunt here."
"You kissed Auntie Grace," breaths Lucy faintly, staring up at Boyd, awed.
He laughs and nods. "I did," he agrees, amused. "Do you think I should do it again?"
"Yes," squeals Lucy, utterly delighted, as Iris grumbles,
"No!"
He's wicked, but God help her, she loves him for it. Grace turns her face up for another kiss and feels her body go limp with pleasure as Boyd drags it out, explores her lips with a sensuality that still startles her, even now. It's far from a quick peck on the cheek, but it's not inappropriate either, and as he pulls back all Grace can do is shake her head in amusement at his antics.
"Wow." Lucy is still clearly very impressed as Boyd releases Grace and slides down into the chair beside his lover.
"You must be Lucy," Boyd says, grinning at her and offering a hand across the table. "I'm Peter."
The two shake, the seven-year-old's tiny fingers dwarfed in Boyd's palm.
"Peter?"
"Peter Boyd," he confirms. "What are you playing here?"
"It's Whot," explains Lucy, none of her usual shyness apparent.
"Well, can I play as well?" asks Boyd.
Lucy nods enthusiastically, gathering up all the cards on the table and shoving them into a messy pile to start shuffling. Her hands are too small, though, and in her excitement, she fumbles and drops them.
"Shall I?" offers Boyd.
Very quickly the whole pile is pushed towards him, and then the air is filled with sounds of glee as he quickly and efficiently mixes the cards, making them dance across his fingers and form a fast-moving bridge that collapses in on itself.
"Show off," teases Grace, prodding him in the ribs.
"But it's so cool," declares Lucy. "Can you teach me?"
"After this hand," promises Boyd. "That okay?"
"Yes."
Play recommences, and soon Boyd is beating them all.
"Are you Auntie Grace's boyfriend, Peter?" asks Lucy, as they pause for her to learn to shuffle.
"I am, yes," he agrees, gently moving her hands so that she doesn't drop the cards.
Lucy nods. "I thought so. My Uncle Jack was talking to Grandpa about you. He called you 'Supernintendo'" she pauses and grimaces, then continues with, "and then he said something very rude."
"Did he now?" asks Iris, perking up.
"Oh yes," nods Lucy, concentrating intently on the cards, her lower lip briefly snagging between her teeth as Boyd helps her.
"Well, that was very naughty of him," smirks Iris, a wicked gleam in her eyes.
"It was," nods Lucy, absently, her attention still locked on her task. Despite her best efforts, the cards fall from her fingers.
"Never mind," Boyd tells her, "keep practicing how I showed you and you'll get it in no time."
"Okay," she promises, and lets him finish dealing. "What's a Supernintendo? And why would Uncle Jack call you such a rude word? You seem pretty nice to me."
Grace knows before he even looks at her what Boyd's going to say. "I think that's a question for your aunt."
"Oh no," she demurs, poking him with her toes under the table, "Granny Iris is Uncle Jack's mum – I think she can explain that one, don't you Ma?"
The look she receives from her mother could peel paint, but Grace is far from worried. Instead, she sits back in her chair to enjoy the show. Sadly, they are almost immediately interrupted by the doorbell ringing again, and then the sound of the front door opening and a young male voice calling out.
"Granny Iris? Lucy? Auntie Grace?"
Moments later, a teenager appears in the doorway, dressed in a sweaty dobok and an oversized hoody.
"Hello lad, how was karate?"
"It's taekwondo, Granny," sighs the boy, in a manner that indicates this is far from the first time he has made the correction.
"Well, they're all the same to me," shrugs Iris, playing up to her contrary side. Supremely glad her mother can't see her, Grace pulls a face.
Hands land on slim hips. "You told me that uncle Simon and uncle James, uncle Adam and uncle Liam used to do karate and taekwondo when they were younger, so you definitely do!"
"All right, bright spark, I was only testing you," cackles Iris.
"Hi Mikey," grins Lucy, her cards now forgotten. "This is Peter. He's Auntie Grace's boyfriend."
Mikey turns towards Boyd, reaching out to offer a polite handshake, and then he stops dead, his mouth dropping open in shock and recognition.
Grace's eyes flicker towards her lover, who is most definitely concealing an amused smile as he in turn reaches out, face completely deadpan. "Hello Mikey, nice to meet you."
The young man recovers slightly and shakes the proffered hand quickly and jerkily, clearly thrown off balance. "Nice to meet you," he splutters.
Iris' eyebrows shoot straight up, almost disappearing beneath her fringe. "Have you two met before?" she asks, face alight with curiosity at the odd display before her.
"Yes, we have," nods Boyd, as Mikey shakes his head and mutters,
"No."
The teen cringes, shakes his head, and changes his answer to, "Well, sort of."
"Oh really," prods Iris, who looks like Christmas has suddenly come early. "Well, do tell boy, what happened?"
Boyd saves him. "Oh, it was nothing," he dismisses. "Just a chance meeting in the street. A few words of advice about life offered." He shrugs, catches the grateful look being directed his way.
"Wise words, and advice well taken," nods Mikey. He looks over at Lucy. "Are you ready? I promised mum we'd be home by half six and we're going to have to hurry to be there."
Lucy nods, quickly sweeping the cards back into a pile and carefully putting them in their little cardboard box. "Thanks for the lesson, Peter," she says cheerfully. "I'll keep practicing and next time I'll be better at it."
"I have no doubt," Boyd tells her gravely.
Sliding off her chair and onto her feet, the little girl looks up at her brother. "Did you fold your uniform properly or just stuff it in your bag again? Because mummy will be very annoyed if you did."
Mikey sighs impatiently and glares. "Of course, I folded it, Luce. Do you really think I want to start an argument? Now come on, we'll have to hurry."
"Do you need a lift," offers Boyd.
To his surprise, Lucy shakes her head, grinning. "Nope, we have wheels. And they're fast!"
The pair troop to the front door, donning schoolbags and picking up skateboards. Lucy even produces a helmet from her bag, strapping it on.
"You're riding that thing?" asks Boyd, and Grace is a more than a tad curious by the look of appalled shock on his face. And by the way her great-nephew is suddenly very carefully re-tying his shoe lace as Lucy nods enthusiastically.
"Yep. Mikey taught me. Well, and his friends. I can do jumps and a one-eighty, and I just learned a 360 kickflip."
Standing, and very carefully not looking at Boyd, Mikey says to the wall, "She's very good considering how young she is."
"I see," is Boyd's measured response.
Still looking at the wall, Mikey continues, "And we're always careful, minding the traffic and being sensible in public areas."
Lucy grabs the door handle and pulls, letting in a blast of winter breeze. She wrinkles her nose, zips her coat a little higher, and pulls a pair of woolly gloves from her pockets.
"Thank you for taking me to the park, Auntie Grace," she says, dishing out hugs. "And thank you for the hot chocolate, Granny Iris." She pauses, grins up at Boyd, and says, "and for teaching me to shuffle, Supernintendo Peter."
"Anytime, sweetheart," murmurs Grace, hugging those slim shoulders and feeling heartened at how much happier her niece has seemed today. "Make sure you get home safely, eh, Mikey?"
"Always," grins the young lad, brushing his messy hair out of his eyes.
Grace steps back to allow her mother to say goodbye.
Across the road a door slams, and a man and a woman spill out into the street, yelling furiously at one another. Grace stiffens, the now familiar panic gripping her chest. She pushes back furiously.
Not here. Not now.
"Auntie Grace?" whispers Lucy, reaching forward, resting a hand on her arm.
"Mm?" Breathing deeply, she fights for equilibrium, schooling her expression into one of calm as Lucy looks quizzically up at her. "What is it?"
"Was that the same as in the park? When something frightened you?"
Damn. Damn, damn, damn. For a youngster, Lucy is very, very perceptive. And though he says nothing, she can see Boyd's ears prick up at the comment.
"I'm fine, but thank you for asking." Grace offers a reassuring smile. "You should get going, you'll be late. I don't want your mum to be cross with me and say I can't pick you up from school again."
"She won't," dismisses Mikey, "but we need to move."
And then they are out of the house and zooming down the street, gone in a blur of rapid movement and cheers as they egg each other on.
"It shouldn't, but it always surprises me how good Mikey is with Lucy," remarks Grace as they shut the door behind them.
"Your brothers looked out for you, and they enjoyed it," remarks Iris.
"True."
Iris turns and heads back to the kitchen.
Grace is about to follow, when a second hand lands on her arm and stops her. "What was Lucy talking about?" her lover asks. "Why did she think you were scared in the park?"
"It was nothing," Grace tells him, trying her best to brush it off. "I was thinking about a paper I want to write, and I got lost in thought a little too deeply. Someone shouted, or made a loud noise, and it made me jump. Not good, when you're supposed to be watching a little girl, eh?"
"No." The way he says it is slow, as if he's not quite sure he believes her. Guilt nags at her, makes her chest ache and her eyes prickle. It's not entirely a lie, she stubbornly tells herself, trying to deflect the hurt. She really was thinking about a question their latest case has raised, and how she could explore it further.
Why is this happening, she asks herself. After all these years…
She knows why. Just doesn't want to face up to it.
"I really just want to go home and call it a day," she sighs, fresh out of the ability to deal with anything else today. "I'm so tired."
"Okay," is his simple reply. "Yours or mine?"
"Mine is a lot closer. Do you have clean clothes left for tomorrow?"
"I do."
"Okay."
"Fine. Done."
He pauses for a moment. Considers her so intently that Grace is sure he's looking straight into the distressed, mixed up heart of her.
"If there's something you want to talk about," he begins, slowly, thoughtfully, "you know you can always talk to me, right?"
She wants to cry, she really does. Knows how much it costs him to make such an offer. Instead, Grace nods and gives him a light smile. Stands on tiptoe to brush a kiss against his cheek. "I know," she replies, hating herself even more.
"Peter!" the summons is issued from the vicinity of the kitchen table, and it saves her from answering any further. "Come hither, young man. I've got a bone to pick with you!"
Hazel eyes roll, a hand reaches up and rakes through already mussed hair. "Christ, what now?"
Grace snorts; moves ahead of him. Follows the sound of the summons, and steals herself to pre-empt the battle. "Mum, do you mind if we go home?" she asks, feeling small on the inside as she speaks. "I'm really tired and I could do with an early night."
Instant worry creases her mother's brow, whatever mischief she was about to come out with apparently forgotten. "Not coming down with something are you, darling?"
Grace shakes her head, assures her to the negative. "No, just tired. Honest."
"Hm. Well, okay. Peter, you'd better get her home and to bed. And no hanky-panky mind, if she's not well. You look after my girl for me."
"I will," he promises. "Always."
He vanishes, and a moment later reappears with her coat. Silently stands and helps her into it. "Come on," he says, "let's get going."
"Thank you." A huge surge of guilt rushes in and swamps her as Grace wraps her arms around her mother and hugs, holding on for just a little bit longer than normal.
"What is it, Little One?" asks Iris as they draw apart, her worry even more visible now.
Grace shakes her head. "I just want to go to bed," she says, and it's the truth, at least.
"Okay, off you go then. I'll call you tomorrow. I love you."
"Love you, too."
And then she's outside in the cold winter night, shivering inside her coat as the wind swipes at her and Boyd guides her to his waiting car. Inside she fumbles for the seatbelt, and then the button for the heated seat. Sinking down low into the chair, Grace closes her eyes, wrapped in misery, and feeling even worse for knowing it.
It's a quick drive, and in less than five minutes they are at her front door and she's fiddling with the thermostat while Boyd is closes curtains and turns on lights. In the kitchen she makes a beeline for the kettle, filling it and flicking the switch with practiced ease. Displacement activity, useful for redirecting her thoughts. Anything to stop herself from thinking about the worry in her mother's eyes.
Opening the fridge, she peers inside. Wonders what on earth she can rustle up from the contents.
Feels tender hands land on her waist. Soft lips brush against the back of her neck. "Take your tea and go and have a shower," he soothes. "I'll make us something."
He passes her a cup of steaming chamomile and she stares, wonders how long she was gazing into the fridge if the kettle had time to boil and he to make the tea. Or how he knew what flavour she wanted.
"Thank you," she murmurs, and then retreats. If anything, she's feeling even worse now.
Under the shower's heat she closes her eyes, asks herself how such a happy afternoon deteriorated so fast. Concludes that there are a lot of hard questions that she needs to answer.
But first she needs to admit that she's terrified.
Staring at the steam swirling around her, she finally acknowledges what she's been dodging for weeks now.
She's afraid. And not just a little bit; she's petrified.
A trace of rationality reasserts itself.
There is nothing she can do about it now, Grace knows. So, for the moment, she closes her eyes and lets the heat of the water sink in. Allows it to help her relax, to patch her crumbling walls.
They'll fall at some point, she knows. But not tonight.
It's a step.
…
"That was a good dinner," Grace compliments later as they slide between the sheets together. "Creative, and tasty."
Boyd smirks and shoves his pillow into a better position. "I'm not just a pretty face, you know."
"Oh, I do know," purrs Grace, running a hand down his chest. "You're a man of many talents, Peter Boyd."
He grabs her wrist, gives her a mild frown. "Stop that," he orders. "It's not nice to tease, and you're tired."
"Regrettably," she admits, "I am." It's the truth. She falls silent. Waits a deliberately calculated amount of time. Then, "Perhaps I'll wake up refreshed and full of energy," she muses blithely, as if she is commenting on something as mundane as the weather.
Movement pauses as her words sink in, the pages of his book stilling as he flicks through, trying to find his place. "Perhaps you will." She can almost hear the anticipation in his tone. Almost.
Not quite, though, because he is just as much a master of teasing as she is.
Switching off her bedside lamp, she doesn't bother to set her alarm. Knows that he'll set his, and for earlier than usual, too.
Grace settles against him and closes her eyes, lulled into a hazy state by the rhythm of his breathing and the occasional scratch of paper against fabric.
The guilt is still there, but it's back in its manageable corner for now. He's good at that, she's found. Good at grabbing on to her when she's in a dark mood and reeling her back in. She's not sure how he does it, but she's glad. He's given her an hour or two of peace, helped her find her balance again. And that is why she adores him so much. Because he gets her, because he's there for her when it matters. Because underneath it all, he loves her as fiercely as she loves him.
Focusing on his warmth, his presence, she pushes away all the dark things lurking in the corners and lets herself drift. Slips into a light slumber, and then finally a deeper sleep.
And when Boyd closes his book, yet again completely forgetting the bookmark she bought just for him, she doesn't feel him tuck himself around her, doesn't see him tug the quilt over to cover her bare shoulder, and she doesn't feel him kiss her temple as he murmurs softly to himself, "Whatever it is, Grace, I wish you could tell me."
If she could, as warm and secure and loved as she is, she might, just might, be able to start telling him her tale.