Part five of the Family series. Follows George.
Wishing the happiest of birthday's to Joodiff! I miss you loads and hope the world returns to some sort of normal so we can see each other again soon. :) xx
Thomas
…
A fine, persistent drizzle is falling from the sullenly grey sky and Boyd scowls and hunches his shoulders inside his thick winter coat as he rushes forwards, in a hurry to be out of the cold. It's far too early in the day to be dealing with this. By rights, the early hour, the frigid temperature and the disgraceful weather should be more than enough to put him in a foul mood. Today, though, these factors are simply icing on the cake.
Oh yes.
For this morning, a Saturday morning, no less, the alarm clock went off at a disgustingly, abusively early hour, summoning him unceremoniously into wakefulness and dragging him abruptly from the really rather erotic realm of a particularly heated dream about none other than his bedfellow, and in that dream she was…
A car blasts past down the busy street, throwing up a spray of water and making Boyd snarl as he leaps aside to avoid becoming even more drenched. Only just refraining from bellowing obscenities at the fleeing driver, he bumps his shoulder lightly against a brick wall and seethes.
This is all his fault, he just had to make a detour to find exactly what he was looking for. Muttering under his breath, he finally spots the oversized hellhole of a building he is aiming for and makes a beeline for its garishly decorated front doors.
No, he decides, as he enters, dodging a stream of other early-risers who are, typically, lost in their own world and consequently annoyingly underfoot, this is all her fault.
After last weekend's disastrous trip out with his father to sort his Christmas shopping, Grace decided that in order to avoid any last-minute stress and associated tantrums, they – and by that he's absolutely sure she meant he – were going to be organised. Consequently, she then handed him a sheet of plain paper and a pen and told him to make a list of everyone he needed to buy Christmas presents for, and what to buy for them.
When he protested, she simply gave him that still, penetrating gaze that he has quickly learned means he really, really doesn't want to argue with her. And so he sat and grumbled about pointless traditions and expensive annoyances while she left him well enough alone and eventually he produced the dreaded list, minus, of course, her. That thorny problem he's been silently mulling over for days. In fact, it's that exact problem that had him trudging through the cold and the rain, having made a brisk, long trek to a very particular shop well out of the way of the modern monstrosity of attempted architecture where he is supposed to be completing his task.
Boyd checks his watch; he's got an hour and forty-five minutes before it's time to regroup with the woman who was so appallingly awake and enthusiastic about this morning's torturous activity as they got dressed in the gloomy darkness of another sunless winter day.
Grace.
Despite how cold and damp he is, he still feels a wry smile wanting to bubble up as he thinks of the soft parting kiss she gave him when they arrived, and the promise of, "Trust me, Peter, when Christmas is suddenly upon us in a few short weeks' time you'll be very glad I made you sort all this out at the beginning of the month. And I will be very glad you aren't stomping about in a rage because you suddenly have so much to do and no time to do it in." And then she had smiled sunnily up at him and disappeared off into the crowds, intent on ticking off each and every item on her list.
In his pocket is his own list and, finally inside in the warm and dry, he extracts it and has a brief peruse, then sets off with a purpose towards the first shop he needs, doing his best not to snap at the irritating push of humanity swarming all around him. It would be so much worse, he knows, doing this later in the day, and he doesn't even want to think about what it would be like with the big day just around the corner. She is right, even if he doesn't like it.
She usually is.
Not that he would ever admit that. Especially to her.
Gradually, the bag in his hand gets heavier and heavier as he locates and purchases the items on his list. Finally, there's only a couple left, which can be bought in the same place. Destination in mind, he makes his way with quick, long strides, determined to be finished. The centre is swarming with people now, and somewhere nearby a child is screaming with unholy enthusiasm, the decibel level grating on Boyd's already fraying nerves. Clenching his teeth, he squares his shoulders and pushes forward, his last stop looming ahead of him. The relief of moving through the doorway and out of reach of the incessant shrieking is short lived, however, as this shop contains a woman towing along more children than he can easily count, given that they are running around like sugar-hyped wild things.
Growling under his breath, he ploughs through the melee and quickly selects what he is after before striding to the queue. The children are now running madly through the posts containing those waiting to pay and Boyd bites back a sharp word as one gets just a little too close, jostling his shopping bag. This will all be over soon, he tells himself grimly. And worth it. As much as he hates to admit it, he's slowly learning that listening to Grace when it comes to matters like this is… sensible.
Hell, maybe he's even looking forward to the festivities this year, given that he has someone to enjoy them with.
He is. He knows he is.
He's a man, and a man who is head over heels in love.
Now halfway to the café he and Grace are supposed to be meeting at, Boyd ponders the likelihood of his woman being late. Very likely, he decides. She's incredibly good at losing track of time, and he's sure given the length of her own list, that's probably exactly what has happened. Still, that doesn't mean he can't get a table and sequester himself safely in a corner to wait in peace with a coffee and a scowl for anyone who dares to get too near.
A large display to his left catches his eye and Boyd pauses; with a resigned sigh he hurries through the doorway, quickly scanning signs for the menswear section. He can't deny that he needs new underwear, and it's becoming more and more difficult to make sure he has a steady supply of clean and presentable trunks given the amount of time he is spending away from his own home, or occupied whilst in it…
For a moment he is utterly distracted, his mind transporting him far away from this noisy, bustling shop to the comfort of luxuriously soft sheets and the warm, smooth skin of his companion…
And then the thought of being caught in something ragged or threadbare by Grace distracts him and brings him back to the task at hand, for there will undoubtedly be an inordinate amount of piss-taking if he doesn't do something about his situation, and soon.
His preferred brand located, he scans the shelves, finding his style of choice. There's an offer on, and he does some quick mental arithmetic to decide how many boxes he needs, given the fact that, despite having something of a penchant for liking to look good, he has in fact ignored his underwear drawer for a while now. Socks too, he realises, gloomily.
It's been a long, hard eighteen months.
Biting back a storm of profanity wanting to break free, he grabs a basket from a nearby stack, unceremoniously chucks the boxes of trunks into them, and stalks off to the socks. He hates baskets. Just loathes them. Unwieldy, perfect for catching on displays or unsuspecting joints and bones, and usually sticky from other people's unhygienic hands. Disgusting. But on this occasion, he just can't quite hold on to everything given all the bloody stuff he has already acquired and thus has to lug about with him.
How much longer until he is safely ensconced back in his large and comfortable home with the woman he loves?
Socks. Socks.
Just find some bloody socks and get out of here, he tells himself.
Rounding a freestanding display that has clearly unwisely – and probably unlawfully – been jammed in as an afterthought, Boyd sees, too late, another man heading his way. The man is clearly in a hurry, and isn't looking where he is going. The two collide heavily, bags becoming entangled, shoulders smacking painfully together, and the damn basket tumbles out of his grip and crashes to the ground, spilling its contents as it goes.
A snarl erupts from his chest as a white-hot flash of pain explodes inside the same shoulder that struck the wall earlier. The other man, though clearly older, is built like a brick shithouse. Grinding his teeth, Boyd plants his feet and holds his balance. To his inner pleasure, the other man staggers and has to step quickly to stay on his feet, stumbling a couple of steps before regaining his centre of gravity.
"Watch it, will you?" The snappish aside is delivered in accompaniment with a furrowed brow and a steely glare. A chaotic mess of short, disorderly grey hair, dark brown eyes and the kind of heavy muscle that comes from a lifetime of hard physical work, along with faded blue jeans, a scruffy black jumper and a thick, brightly coloured stripy scarf combines for a slightly eccentric appearance.
Boyd doesn't move, feels his own scowl settle into his features. "I'm not the one who wasn't looking where they were going," he retorts.
For a few dangerous seconds it all has the potential to escalate, but then the other man seems to concede, offering a short nod. "You're right," he acknowledges, voice deep and slow. "I'm on a mission for the missus." He speaks as though every word costs him dearly. Still, he gives a little more of an explanation in, "I hate shopping – I was trying to hurry."
All the tension evaporating, Boyd bends to retrieve his basket. "You and me both," he sighs, looking for his fallen items.
"Here," the other man scrambles for the debris around them, puts Boyd's items back into his basket for him. "Good brand," he grunts, returning the last pack of trunks.
Not bashful in the least, Boyd inclines his head in agreement.
"Sorry," the man tells him, and for a moment Boyd has the odd notion that he's barely accustomed to talking. But then he is gone.
Rotating his sore shoulder slightly, Boyd stares after him, shaking his head at the inconvenience, and the absurdity of the other man. What an incredibly peculiar fellow.
Socks, he tells himself firmly. Just get some bloody socks, pay for this lot, and then get the hell out of here. It's a good plan, a simple plan. Easy to execute. With renewed vigour, he strides out for the socks.
Somewhere behind him another child starts to scream.