I'm not a fan of Valentine's Day, but this little piece occurred to me this afternoon when I had a couple of hours to myself recovering from night shifts. Thanks to Joodiff for the speedy beta. Happy reading. :) xx
The Morning After
…
He wakes with a sense of guilt. That's the first thing to hit him. Intense, horrible, burning guilt. And shame. Sickening, right in the pit of his stomach. For a moment he thinks he might even vomit.
It's overwhelming.
And there wasn't even that much alcohol involved. Just the one bottle of red, shared equally between them.
No, he can't blame intoxication.
Fuck.
The scent of the sheets, of the room in general, of them – wonderfully, intimately combined – is tickling his nostrils.
God, if he could evaporate right now, just disappear from this very spot never to face her again he would. Without a doubt.
How could he let this happen? He's ruined everything.
Everything.
Beside him, she is still sleeping, her breathing light and regular. Peaceful.
The dishevelled hair, the complete relaxation… it hits him hard. The sight of her in the low, hazy light makes him want to cry. It's a stupid reaction, because he hasn't actually shed a tear in over two years now, but that's how he suddenly finds himself feeling.
Wrecked. Ruined.
Destroyed.
Experimentally, Boyd flexes his legs, then his arms. Tries to judge just how tangled in bedcovers he is. Whether he can escape and leave before she realises. If he could, maybe she wouldn't remember? Maybe he could pretend this whole thing is some kind of hideous nightmare and when he returns to his desk on Monday the world won't be a horribly fucked-up place, but the same sanctuary of normality, the same mixture laughter and arguments.
"Stop thinking."
It's a soft but direct order.
Shit.
There's no getting out of this now, his mind screams.
Beneath the covers she stretches, rolls towards him. Blue eyes study him, an endearing hint of bleariness in them. Hasn't he always wanted to know what she looks like first thing in the morning, he asks himself?
Shut up you fucking idiot. You've ruined everything!
"Grace," he says. It comes out as a squeak, and if he could close his eyes and vanish, he would. He even tries it. Lets his eyelids slide shut, but sadly, to his intense discomfort, nothing happens.
He stays exactly where he is. Doesn't move a muscle.
"Peter."
He couldn't describe her tone if his life depended on it, and he can't stop himself from looking at her, either. Despite the fact that he really, really doesn't want to.
The breath evaporates from his lungs. He's paralysed, unable to move. Pinned in place by those intense, unfathomably deep blue eyes.
"Stop thinking," she repeats, and once again, it is an order.
The irony of her words isn't lost on him, and if he could organise his vocal chords, he'd be tempted to point that out to her, but as it is, he's still inexplicably mute.
A hand, small and soft and agile, lands on his chest.
Oh hell…
"The world hasn't ended. I don't hate you. It wasn't a mistake."
Without looking away, she drags a thumb slowly over his nipple, her fingers flaring out and dancing over his chest. It absolutely does not help with the breathing situation.
One hand, and then two, and oh fuck, she's moving, sitting up and suddenly all his eyes can see is her chest.
Still can't breathe.
Dear God, the temptation…
Those slim fingers venture lower, and then lower still, and Boyd nearly chokes.
If this is a nightmare, it's brutally torturous in its exquisite detail.
Blackness is creeping in around the edges of his vision, and he clenches his eyes shut, tries to regain some sort of control. Fails spectacularly.
She's a tiny, infuriating, obstinate thorn-in-his-side, and yet somehow she has enchanted and ensnared him so thoroughly that he cannot move, cannot get away from her.
And fleeing right now, this very second would be the easiest thing to do. In fact, if he could, he would get up and run. He should…
She's got him by the balls. Literally.
And it gets worse, because the mattress shifts, he feels her weight move, and then suddenly she's straddling him, leaning down over him and there's that incredibly wonderful sensation of her breasts grazing against his chest.
Her other hand is caressing his cheek, and then her mouth is on his, her lips tracing over his own, her tongue sneaking out to run across the inside edge of his lower lip and suddenly he can see again. Can see the wicked grin on her face as she rolls her hips, undulates against him.
"The world hasn't ended, Peter," she murmurs again, and the level of huskiness in her tone makes him gasp, finally reminds him how to draw breath.
Air rushes into his lungs, and with it a flash of clarity. Heat, sweat, desire, passion, ecstasy.
Last night was… something else.
Grace is smirking down at him, expression incredibly knowing.
Damn her.
Boyd reaches up, rubs the pad of his thumb across her lips, feels his stomach muscles tighten when she nips him there. He trails the hand down her neck, nails grazing in exactly the right place to make her moan softly. An expanse of pale shoulder, and then he's found her chest, smirks as he cups first one breast, and then the other, kneading the flesh just enough to keep her still, keep her entranced as she sits above him.
His hand keeps moving, ventures lower and lower as he explores, but it's the desire to kiss her that grips him the most, not the need to fling himself back towards that heated place where they can drown together. And so he takes his time, eases her back down to the mattress beneath him, and finds that kissing her really is just as unbelievable as his memories of last night tell him it is.
And just like last night, everything else is easy, effortless.
Stunning in its raw, pure, intimacy.
And the world is suddenly a much, much better place.
…
He wakes with a sense of guilt. That's the first thing to hit him. Intense, horrible, burning guilt. And shame. Sickening, right in the pit of his stomach. For a moment he thinks he might even vomit.
It's overwhelming.
And then the bedroom door opens and Grace walks in, wearing nothing but a towel, her hair damp and a simple but beautiful smile on her face and in her eyes.
"Relax, Peter," she tells him. "It's the morning after the night before and nothing has changed, except now you know what I look like naked."
Peter…
Peter!
It's familiar and unfamiliar all at the same time, and it throws him off. This is not the heat of passion, this is… the aftermath. And yet… it sounds good.
He likes it.
She's standing there in nothing but a towel, with the skin of her neck reddened and an aura about her that makes his heart beat in a wildly abnormal manner. Grace. Grace is just standing there, utterly calm, entirely serene.
She's more beautiful than ever, and she's smiling at him as he simply stares from the middle of her bed where, if he remembers correctly, though he's slightly hazy on the details, he fell asleep thoroughly wound around her and hoping she'd never leave his clutches.
Fuck.
What the hell has he done?
"I, you… we," he splutters, words absolutely failing him.
"We did," she nods. "And it was very nice. Both times."
Dear God, this is a disaster. How on earth did this happen? What the bloody hell has he done? Sitting up, Boyd slumps forward, resting his head in his hands.
Seconds pass and his universe does not right itself.
A gentle palm rests against his shoulder. "Go and have a shower, you'll feel better afterwards. I'll make some coffee."
It's a huge effort, but somehow he levers himself out of bed and staggers to the bathroom and into the shower. And there, standing under the heat of pouring water, he makes a valiant attempt to at least start to try and get his head around it all.
…
Downstairs there is indeed the promised coffee, along with cereal, toast and a rather nice blackcurrant jam.
He's considerably calmer now, but no less confused, and no less… distressed… by the potential ramifications that last twelve hours could have on his carefully managed daily life. On the fragility of his already wounded heart that he's worked so hard to keep pieced together, to protect.
The words to start the conversation that needs to happen aren't there. He genuinely doesn't know what to say, how to even begin saying what needs to be said.
"Don't you think," Grace says softly, her hands cupped around a gently steaming mug, "that there are some things that just don't need to be talked about? That sometimes we just segue seamlessly from one phase of life into another?"
Chewing on his mouthful, Boyd considers what she's said. Tries to find an appropriate answer.
"Are you unhappy?" she asks, and this time there is a hint of fear in her eyes.
Is he? He's had his heart's desire, finally. And it was so much more that all his sweaty midnight dreams and illicit office thoughts ever lead him to believe it might be.
"No," he replies, and it's the absolute truth. "Far from it. Last night was… not intentional. But it…" He takes a sip of his own drink, tries to unscramble his thoughts.
"Was not unexpected." Grace finishes the sentence for him, and when he looks at her, really looks at her, he finds he cannot disagree.
"It should have happened a long time ago," he admits. And then, a hint of his typical boldness reappearing, he goes a step further. "I wish it had happened a long time ago."
Grace pauses in the act of reaching for another slice of toast. Studies him intently for a moment. When she speaks the gravity of her quiet words hits him like a sledgehammer. "So do I."
The ice, the fear and hesitancy in him, shatters with her honest admission. And suddenly, somehow, he's just sitting in the kitchen with Grace, his Grace, and everything is okay.
The lights are a little bit brighter, the colours a bit more defined, the jam a little tastier, the coffee a little more sharp.
And he can breathe, freely and easily.
Boyd laughs, and then shakes his head at his own folly.
"What is it?" Grace asks, curious.
He sighs, shakes his head again. "It's the morning after the night before," he explains. "And the world really is a better place."
…
Settled on the sofa with Grace tucked under his arm and nestled into his side, Boyd is content. It's been a long day, but a good day, and best of all, tomorrow is Sunday and therefore there is still some of the weekend stretching out before them.
Somehow, incredibly, all is well.
"Valentine's Day," he mutters, disgusted, thinking back to last night. What on earth possessed him to think that it was a good idea for the two of them to try and find somewhere to have a normal Friday evening post-work dinner on that day?
"Mm," she nods, laughing. "Such an overrated concept."
"You can say that again," he scowls, thinking of all the tacky, garish decorations adorning just about every place they'd tried to find a table at last night, both of them conveniently having forgotten the significance of the date.
"However," Grace continues, and he can't miss the inflection in her tone that tells him he absolutely needs to be listening to her right now.
"Go on," he prods, lifting any eyebrow and inclining his head to look down at her. "I'm paying attention."
Grace smirks. "Good. Next year – "
"Oh dear God," he groans.
"Next year," Grace continues, a devilish smirk playing across her features, "I expect a little more forethought into where we dine."
It's not as bad as he was imagining. In fact, taking her out to dinner he can live with. "I can manage that," he nods. "Just don't expect any hideous cards or overpriced flowers."
"Would I ever? No, a simple 'I love you' will do."
Boyd stares. Grace's eyes hold him in place. It's an uncomfortable sensation, but one he thinks he can live with. Her words though… A shiver runs down his spine as he recognises just how much his world has suddenly changed. Overnight he's gone from complete repression and avoidance to a reality that's far, far more than he ever allowed himself to dream it might be. And that utterly seismic shift is more disconcerting that he knows how to deal with in more than just a few short hours.
She knows, she sees, because suddenly Grace throws something at him that breaks the tension, drags him back into the warmth of the moment.
"And," she adds, her gaze raking up and down his body, "there'd better be a damn good shag, too."
To emphasise her point, her hand slips beneath his sweater and Boyd, well, Boyd is not predisposed to complain about that. Not at all.