DISCLAIMER: I own nothing.

Happy Christmas/Festive Season 2020!

Enough

by Joodiff

It should be snowing, Grace thinks gloomily. It's not, of course, and the all-too predictable deficiency does nothing to improve her pensive and increasingly melancholy mood. Standing by the window with her back to the dark room, she stares up at the bronze-tinted sky – a victim of the capital's ever-increasing light pollution – and she wonders why, exactly, she feels as bleak and despondent as she does. It's Christmas Eve, after all. In fact, since midnight is now just a memory, technically it's Christmas Day. She shouldn't be feeling the way she does; it's pointless, it's unproductive and there is absolutely no reason for it. None, anyway, that would be readily apparent to anyone else. No, superficially, at least, she has no reason at all to be anything but happy and contented.

She thinks that there's a good chance that if she stays where she is for much longer, gazing blankly at the starless night sky, she might start to cry. Ridiculous.

Determinedly, she turns away from the window, and though she hasn't bothered switching on any lights, she can clearly see all the traditional festive trappings lurking in the room's deep shadows. The large tree in the corner, carefully bedecked with dozens of ornaments of the more subtle and tasteful variety, the old-fashioned little wooden nativity scene arranged on the mantelpiece; the twinkly decorations, the rows of mismatched cards, letters, photographs, and party invitations. The absolute epitome of a happy, homely Christmas scene.

She ignores the expensive bottle of single malt and goes straight for the brandy. Just as potent in its own way, but not quite as aggressive on the throat. It's just as warming as she expects, which is good because it seems that at this time of year, once the elderly and asthmatic heating gives up the unequal struggle until morning, their recently-acquired Highgate house rapidly gets bitterly cold. She thinks she wouldn't mind the unpleasant chill so much if there was a soft blanket of snow covering the world outside. At least then the temperature would feel appropriately seasonal instead of simply damn cold in a depressingly damp, typically London-esque sort of way.

Hearing a noise overhead, Grace sighs. She can predict the exact number of seconds that will elapse before she hears footsteps. She's not disappointed. Footsteps in the bedroom above, quickly followed by footsteps on the stairs. For a big man, Boyd is not particularly heavy-footed, but the house is almost a hundred-and-fifty years old, and at night the broad wooden floorboards seem to effortlessly transmit even the tiniest of noises. While she still can, Grace returns to her former position at the window. The sky is still a dark dull bronze, the street is still quiet and empty, and there are still no bright snowflakes twirling in the stiff December breeze.

"Grace?" he says from the doorway, his voice quiet, his tone vaguely quizzical. "You okay?"

There will never be a time when Peter Boyd doesn't worry about her for even the slenderest of reasons. She accepts that; welcomes it, even. It's simply in his nature to be fiercely protective towards the things he cares about, something she's always known. She glances over her shoulder at him, can see him quite clearly, her eyes are now so well-adjusted to the gloom. Barefoot and tousled, dressed only in loose pyjama shorts and an old tee-shirt, he looks far more sleepy than exasperated, and so instead of grumbling at his unnecessary concern she offers a slight smile in response. "I'm fine."

"Yeah?" is his wry rejoinder. The scepticism is obvious. "What… so you just thought you'd get up in the middle of the bloody night so you could start enjoying all the fun of wrestling with the damn turkey early, did you?"

"Exactly that," she tells him, straight-faced. A little of the despondency has already started to edge away, forced into retreat simply by his presence. Few people who know them would credit it, but he is very good for her. In so many ways. On impulse she holds out a hand towards him. "It should be snowing."

Boyd pads towards her, nonchalantly taking the extended hand as he joins her by the window. He shakes his head. "I can't remember the last time it snowed in London at Christmas."

"I miss it," she admits as he positions himself behind her, releasing her hand to put his arms firmly around her waist. She leans back against him without a thought, relishing his solid, dependable warmth. "It always seemed so magical when I was a kid."

He snorts. "Rose-tinted spectacles, Grace."

"There was snow," she says, obstinate for no real reason. "It always used to be snowing on the way to Mass on Christmas Eve."

"Maybe in your part of the world," he concedes. She waits for him to needle her further, but when he speaks again it's simply to ask, "So, come on then – what's the matter?"

"Nothing," she tells him, the denial automatic. It's not really the truth, but she's not sure she knows how to explain. Certainly not without sparking the kind of argument she simply doesn't want to face at Christmas.

While only sometimes deeply sensitive to the subtleties of her mood, he is always unfailingly stubborn. It's always been one of his defining characteristics. He tightens his hold on her waist a fraction. "Not buying it, sorry."

Grace heaves a deep sigh. "It's really not important."

"Ah ha," he responds, with more than a hint of triumph. "I'm not falling for that. I'm going to play it safe and assume that's some kind of bizarre female euphemism for the exact opposite."

She can't help smiling to herself. A little fond and a little wry, she says, "You're really quite smart when you want to be, aren't you?"

"So I've been told. Well?"

Stubborn, and not blessed with much patience, even now. She grimaces. "I can't explain."

"Can't or won't?"

Grace stares silently at the quiet, empty street for several long moments. Then she asks, "When did we get so old, Boyd?"

He sounds bemused. "What?"

"This time last year…" she reminds him, not finishing the sentence. It feels like a lifetime ago, that very last festive season begun down in the bunker alongside their CCU colleagues. Sometimes it feels as if everything that's happened in the last year has been a long, complicated, and particularly surreal dream.

"Oh." She feels him shrug. His tone is neutral. "Well, it certainly takes some getting used to, I'll give you that."

Wary now, and not wanting to be responsible for fanning the flames of a potentially catastrophic misunderstanding, she asks, "Retirement in general or… this… in particular?"

It's Boyd's turn to sigh, and he does so. Heavily and pointedly. Not releasing her, he says, "It's Christmas Eve, Grace, and you're standing in your brand new bloody house with your brand new bloody husband – now is not a good time to be having second thoughts."

"It's Christmas Day now, actually," she contradicts.

"Whatever." Dismissive.

Absently stroking his bare forearm, she continues, "And I didn't say I was having second thoughts. I just… I don't know. It's a lot to take in, that's all. Everything that's happened."

"And that's why you're standing down here in the dark, slowly freezing to death?" he inquires, sounding faintly incredulous.

Grace doesn't bother to point out that she is significantly warmer now that he is embracing her. Instead, she continues to stare out at the strange-coloured night sky and asks, "Don't you ever find yourself stopping to wonder if any of this is actually real?"

"No," he says simply. Again, she feels him shrug. "Life goes on, Grace."

There's something more than a touch unnerving about his attitude. It's most definitely uncharacteristic. Frowning to herself, she asks, "When did you become the philosophical one?"

"Not philosophical, just pragmatic," he tells her, resting his chin on her shoulder. She can feel the soft bristle of his beard against her skin, for once rather more soothing than erotic. A moment later he says, "I thought you were happy?"

"I was," Grace says. She is swift to correct herself. "I am. It's just I woke up, and I started thinking about last Christmas, and how different everything is now…"

"And it depressed you?"

"I didn't say that."

Boyd releases his hold on her waist, moves to stand next to her, shoulder-to-shoulder. She instantly misses his warmth, but doesn't complain. She waits, watching his strong, familiar profile until he says, "It's natural to reminisce at this time of year, Grace. We look back and we think about all the things we've lost, and all the things we'd do differently if we had our time again, but the past is exactly that – the past. We can't go back; the only choice we have is to go forward."

Not sure if she is teasing him, or not, she replies, "That's very profound."

He snorts. "It is for this time of the fucking night."

Choosing her words with care, she eventually says, "You're telling me I've made my bed, aren't you?"

"Not in so many words."

"Essentially," she pushes.

It seems he won't be so easily drawn into probable conflict. "I'm telling you that the way you're feeling is perfectly understandable. That's all."

"I don't regret marrying you, Boyd." It seems important to say it.

He doesn't look at her, but his answer is almost too quick. "Good, because I'm not going through all the hassle and financial agony of another bloody divorce. Not at my age."

"It's just…" The words are there, right on the tip of her tongue, but she is struggling to form them into a coherent sentence.

"Just…?" Boyd prompts. His tone is every bit as calm as his expression, but Grace isn't fooled. Below the surface there is suddenly a discernible touch of cold fear in him, and the moment she recognises it she despises herself. She has everything she ever wanted. Doesn't she?

"Forget it," she mumbles. He won't, and they both know it, but perhaps, if she tries hard enough, he will pretend. She reaches out to take his hand again. The fingers that immediately entwine with hers are warm and strong. "Let's go back to bed."

"Hm." A noncommittal noise that tells her he isn't ready to let the matter drop, not yet.

"Early Christmas present?" she suggests. It doesn't sound anything like as seductive as she intends.

Boyd lifts her hand, kisses her fingers with an attentive gentleness that rips at her heart. Looking straight at her, he says, "I know I'm not half the man you deserve, Grace."

It hits her hard. She closes her eyes for a moment. When she opens them, he's still watching her. Her voice is rough as she says, "Don't say that. Don't ever say that."

"It's true, though, isn't it?" There's no anger in his tone. No anger, no resentment. He simply sounds resigned. And tired. Very, very tired. "You didn't marry me because you were madly in love with me, Grace, I know that. I've always known that."

It hurts, his acute perception. Hurts so damn much. "Peter – "

"But that's okay," he continues, just as she thinks she really will start to cry, "friendship, affection, companionship – they're important. They matter."

She gazes out at the sullen city sky again. Tries to remember what it felt like to be an excited child waiting for the wonderful sparkling magic of Christmas morning. Her voice not much more than a whisper, she says, "But I was in love with you. For such a long, long time. Years. Always watching and waiting, always hoping that one day..."

"I'm sorry." His voice is very quiet, and it's edged with so much more than just regret and apology.

"So am I." She admits it because it's true, not to wound him. Tightening her grip on his hand, Grace blinks away the unwanted tears that have started to well. It's Christmas. No-one should cry at Christmas. "But that sort of intense, unrequited love is painful, and it's exhausting, and in the end, if it's never reciprocated, all the passion driving it eventually withers and dies. It has to, because otherwise…"

"You don't owe me an explanation," he tells her. She can't believe how composed he is. How… acquiescent. His weary sigh is telling, though. "You and I, Grace… we're far better together than apart, though – aren't we?"

"Yes." She doesn't need to think about it. "I do love you, Boyd. Don't think for one moment that I don't."

He squeezes her hand gently. "If I wasn't absolutely certain of that, I wouldn't have married you."

Looking out of the window again, she whispers, "I wanted this to be the perfect Christmas."

"Nothing's ever perfect." He shrugs. "Maybe that's what makes us human? All the mistakes, all the misunderstandings. All the nearly-but-not-quites."

Swallowing hard, she asks, "Is that what we are? One of the 'nearly-but-not-quites'?"

"No." Boyd shakes his head. "No, I don't think so. What we are, Grace, is mis-timed. Out of sync. One of us has always been too far ahead, or too far behind."

"Can't we change that?" she asks, turning her head to gaze at him again.

"I don't think we need to." The way he watches her is steady and wise. "It's the space in the middle that really matters. That's where people really connect, and that's the place that doesn't ever burn to ashes, or simply erode with time. That's where the two of us have always been able to hold onto each other, no matter what."

He's right. It astonishes her that his words are so perceptive and accurate. Pleases her that he can still surprise her so much after so many years' acquaintance. She stares into his eyes, trying to interpret what's hidden in their dark depths. It's far from easy, and eventually she simply gives up. She says, "Loving someone, really loving them, not being in love with them, is what's actually important in the long-term, is that what you're saying?"

"I suppose so, yes." Boyd tilts his head a fraction. "Don't you think so?"

"I think," she says, "that it's late, and I'm far too tired to philosophise."

"Do you remember Charles Hoyle?" he asks her, the question apparently coming from nowhere.

"Of course." All the terrifying images are still perfectly clear in her mind, even so many years later. Kevin Keogh close to drawing his very last breath right in front of her, Charles with his shotgun, Boyd calling her name…

"Do you remember what you asked me afterwards?"

She nods, immediately back in that gloomy concrete-block corridor with him standing opposite her. "I asked you what would have happened if you hadn't ducked in time."

"And I said, 'I'd have been killed'."

He'd been so calm then. He's so calm now. Grace nods again. "Yes."

"There was an entire firearms team waiting outside the house," he says, something in the way his gaze shifts telling her that he, too, has stepped back in time. "I could have sent them in ahead of me, but I didn't."

"You've always suffered from a bit of a hero complex, Boyd." It's a brave attempt to lighten the mood. Doesn't work.

"Nothing to do with wanting to be a hero. Everything to do with you."

"'Take my life for Grace's life'," she quotes softly, thinking of another occasion altogether. A man who would die for her without a second thought, without any drama or fanfare. A man she loved. Still loves.

He nods. "I may not have been in love with you, Grace, but show me the man who says I didn't love you, and I'll punch his bloody lights out."

She turns to him then, driven by the simultaneous need to comfort and be comforted. Back in his warm embrace, she rests her head against his shoulder and whispers, "I need you in my life. If I didn't know it before, I knew it the minute you told us you were being forced to stand down. I was never going to stay at the CCU, not without you."

"You could have done," he tells her, his arms strong and sure around her. "In fact, maybe you should have done. Hanratty's a good detective and a decent man. I wouldn't have held it against you, if you'd stayed on."

"Not without you," she repeats, every bit as obstinate as he can be. "You can call it stupidity, or you can call it loyalty, it's up to you, but either way, my decision was made long before you finally cleared your desk and walked out of the building for the last time."

He grunts, a soft, non-committal noise that tells her he doesn't know what to say in reply. One hand starts to stroke her back, the motion soothing but somehow absent-minded. "Do you remember the first time we…?"

"…made love?" Grace suggests quickly, knowing his distaste for such socially-acceptable euphemisms and his propensity for using far coarser alternatives. Refraining from rolling her eyes, she continues, "Do you really think that's something I'm likely to forget?"

She feels him shrug slightly. "Well, you know…"

The heat, the passion, the sheer intensity… "False modesty really doesn't suit you, Boyd. Yes, I remember. And your point is…?"

It takes him a moment. "It worked, didn't it? You and me. Us. It just… worked. Incredibly well."

Grace thinks she understands. "Because we'd already loved each other for so long? Is that what you're trying to say?"

Another grunt and, "Maybe."

It had been unexpected, she remembers that, too. He'd all-but vanished for several weeks after walking away from the unit he'd built from nothing, not answering or returning calls, not responding to texts or emails, never at home on the few occasions she'd taken it into her head to attempt force the matter, and then, just as she was seriously beginning to think that perhaps something untoward really had happened to him and he was not simply avoiding everyone while he licked his wounds, he'd called her. An out-of-the-blue invitation to his place for dinner, as if it was the most natural, ordinary thing in the world and no time at all had elapsed since his final set-jawed, stiff-backed exit from the CCU's headquarters.

"Look," he says, before memory can take her any further, "I'm not going to tell you how you should or shouldn't be feeling, but it's Christmas, Grace. It's supposed to be a time of… well, hope."

"I know," she murmurs, and despite his warmth, she shivers. Might be the low temperature, might be something else entirely.

Boyd notices. Stepping back, he takes her hands in his. "If it's really what you need, I'm prepared to talk all damn night – but let's go upstairs and at least be warm while we do it, eh?"

Grace nods, and as he starts into movement and gently encourages her to follow, she says, "You're incredibly important to me, Peter, you do know that, don't you? Agreeing to marry you wasn't a spur-of-the-moment thing, and I would never have gone through with it if I hadn't believed we had a chance – a very real chance – to make each other happy. I wanted it to work, and I still do."

Leading her to the foot of the stairs, he says, "It's working, Grace. It is. Trust me."

"Oh, I do," she tells him, starting to make the ascent. "More than I trust myself, sometimes."

She precedes him across the landing and into the big front bedroom that they had both agreed should be theirs. The original Victorian cornice is intact, as is the large plaster ceiling rose, but, like the room's furniture, the other fixtures and fittings are modern. Expensive, but understated. In every possible way the room is a strange but successful fusion of two distinct tastes, two strong wills. Him and her, blended into something oddly harmonious. The bed is still warm, and she settles into its comfortable embrace with a soft sigh. Turning immediately onto her side, she watches as Boyd strips off his comfortable old teeshirt, preparing to join her. He hates encumbrance, rarely sleeps in more than shorts, and often not even in those. He catches her watching, raises an eyebrow at her. "What?"

"Nothing," she says. "Just admiring the view."

He snorts, more derisive than amused. "You're easily pleased, then."

"Maybe," she says, as he gets into bed next to her, "we both need to spend a little time reflecting on how much worse everything could be."

"Meaning?" he asks as he wrestles his pillows into submission and fidgets himself into a comfortable position.

"Acceptance," she says, not deliberately trying to sound cryptic. At the look he gives her in return, she continues, "Not of each other, but of us."

"Now you've really lost me, Grace."

"We're drifting," she explains, beginning to put the pieces together, beginning to understand what it was she was feeling as she stood alone at the window staring at the winter sky. What it was, and why. "I think we both just assumed that getting married… no… more that… well, that we would become each other's purpose. That we'd throw in our lot with each other and that would be it."

"No," Boyd says, propping himself up on an elbow to study her, "no clearer. Just say it, Grace, whatever you're going round and round the bloody houses trying to say, just say it."

"I want to go back to work." The words are out before she has a chance to examine them, to temper them.

Boyd looks incredulous. "That's it…? That's what all this has been about?"

He still manages to startle her sometimes. "Isn't it enough?"

"Fuck's sake, I thought…" He takes a deep breath and sits up, shaking his head. His irritation and relief are both palpable. "Christ, talk about an anti-climax."

Grace can feel herself beginning to scowl at his uncharacteristic reaction. "Why aren't you screaming and shouting and throwing things?"

"I'm your husband, not your bloody keeper. I don't make your decisions for you."

"I know that," she snaps, "I just didn't expect you to be so… blasé… about it."

"Oh, for…" Boyd takes another deep, audible breath. "You're Doctor Foley, the eminent and much-published forensic psychologist, not Mrs Peter Boyd, some mousey bloody housewife who hides in her husband's shadow."

"I know that – "

" – but you weren't sure that I did?" He scowls at her. "Thanks, Grace. Really. Thanks a lot."

"That's not it," Grace protests, sitting up herself. "I know you're not like that – and I certainly wouldn't have married you if you were. Not in a million years. It's just… you've been so… lost. Since… you know. I wasn't sure you'd be happy with the idea of me working while you…" She leaves the sentence unfinished, not sure how to conclude it. What will he do all day, after all, left on his own in the house?

"I have absolutely nothing against being a kept man. Besides," he hesitates for a moment, then pushes on with, "I've been thinking about taking on some consultancy work myself. Just part-time; pick and choose, that sort of thing."

Surprised, she stares at him. "Really? You haven't said anything about it."

He looks a little sheepish. "I didn't want you to think I wasn't… happy. With the status quo."

"So," she says, drawing the word out, "what you're telling me is that essentially we've been thinking and feeling exactly the same thing?"

His expression changes to faintly perplexed. "Well…"

"That we've both realised that this," she continues, making a sweeping, all-encompassing gesture, "retirement and an ordinary, sedate, married life, is not anything like enough. For either of us."

"Erm…" Plainly, he is not sure what kind of reaction she expects.

"Oh, thank God," she exclaims, a sudden, powerful sense of relief rushing over her. "I had no idea how to tell you that I needed… something more."

"Something," Boyd says, his tone artificially grave, "is fine. Someone most definitely wouldn't be."

"Never," she tells him, her vehemence very real. Trying not to smirk, she adds, "There will never come a day when you're not more than enough of a handful for me to deal with all on your own."

His chin lifts a fraction. "If that's supposed to be a compliment, Grace, it could use a little work."

"Don't tell me you're not just a little bit flattered?" she teases, gaining confidence. "Or have you really become so domesticated over the last few months that – "

He growls. There's no other word to describe the forbidding sound. Growls, and pounces, his strength and weight bearing her back down into the mattress. Fierce eyes glitter at her from extremely close quarters. "What do you think?"

"I think," she says, slightly breathless and genuinely thrilled by his response, "that underneath it all, you're every bit as wild and unruly as you ever were."

He bares his teeth. "And you love it."

"I do," she says, honestly and with no artifice. "We may have confounded the world by getting married, Boyd, but we're not quite ready for the carpet-slippers and the matching sweaters, are we? Not yet."

"Thank fuck." It couldn't sound more heartfelt.

"So that's settled then?" she says after a moment, gazing up at him. "Once Christmas and New Year is over, we'll seriously consider our options?"

"Yes." A short, simple reply. He kisses her throat, causing a distinct elevation of her heartrate. Before she can reciprocate in any way, he lifts his head and adds, "Talk to Hanratty, Grace, he – "

"No," she interrupts, her tone every bit as firm as her intentions. "I told you, I'm not interested in going back to the CCU. That chapter of my life – of both our lives – is over. Besides, I want to spend some time with my husband, even if he is an exasperating – "

Another growl, as deep and menacing as the first. It's the prelude to a brief and exciting skirmish that ends with her doing everything in her power to fend him off. She is very ticklish and he is very inventive. Squirming away from him, she commands, "Behave yourself, or Santa won't come."

"Bollocks to Santa," is his predictable reply, "though talking of c – "

"Stop," she instructs, before he can make any further progress with the blatant innuendo. "You haven't been a teenager since Harold Wilson was Prime Minister. The first time."

Boyd flops down next to her, his mood changing. Almost pensive, he says, "You're sure that's all there is to it?"

The change in direction almost wrong-foots her. "All there is to what?"

"Your Greta Garbo act, earlier. It's just the bored-shitless-at-home thing?"

"It is," she confirms without hesitation. "How many times do I have to tell you, Boyd – I love you, and I married you because I wanted to."

He doesn't look her in the eye as he inquires, "And the whole 'in love' thing…?"

"Overrated," she tells him firmly. "Harold Wilson's been dead for more than fifteen years."

Dark eyebrows knit together in a confused frown. "What?"

"Neither of us are teenagers, Boyd. We've got enough baggage to fill a small cargo plane between us, and I stopped believing in Father Christmas when I was eight years old."

"That's such a mixed metaphor, Grace."

Wriggling closer to him, she says, "Actually, I'm not sure it's a metaphor at all, let alone a mixed one. My point is… Oh, I don't even know what my point is anymore. It's Christmas and I love you. Isn't that enough?"

The lingering frown becomes thoughtful. The response, when it comes, is slow, measured. "It's enough. More than enough."

Something inside Grace warms, banishing the very last lingering traces of gloom. Stretching towards him for a kiss, she says, "Happy Christmas, husband."

- the end -