Part Three

…

"I still think this is a little uncomfortable," he finally admits into the waiting silence, surprising himself as the words form without conscious thought or decision. Iris tilts her head slightly, patiently questioning. "Talking about Grace behind her back – it feels very… dishonest," he elaborates.

Iris shrugs. "She knows. Why do you think she hasn't come back inside yet? My blackberry bush isn't that big."

To which he can think of absolutely nothing to say. "Oh."

"Quite." The old woman sighs, and then takes a long, slow breath. "You love my daughter. You didn't have to tell me – I know. I can see it. But you don't understand her, not always. There are things about her that you've never been able to figure out, and that worries you."

Astounded, Boyd stares at her. "How can you possibly know that?"

"Grace didn't get her empathic abilities from the sky – I might not be a psychologist, but I can feel things in people, see things in them. I know her. I can see it in her. And I can see it in you."

Boyd shifts on his feet, a hint of awkwardness prickling at him as he picks up the photograph again, looks at it and puts it back down, shoving his hands into his pockets and wondering where all this is going, how much of this is scripted. How much he has been set up.

Iris sighs, twisting to get a proper look at him. Standing under the weight of her scrutiny Boyd wonders what she's thinking as she stands silently, seemingly considering him. "Grace… adores you. I know she does – has done for a long time. But she struggles with change, with letting people get close enough. No, that's not the right way to put it. She… what happened with John scarred her. In more ways than one. And I just wanted you to understand that it will take her time to adjust, that it won't be easy for her, and by extension for you. I don't think either of you want this, what it is you have together, to fail, and I don't either, so I wanted to… make you more aware, I suppose."

She holds his gaze, steady and unafraid. "Call me an interfering old bat if you wish, but my daughter means the world to me, Peter, so in this instance I broke my own rules and decided to stick my oar in. For Grace. Because sometimes she needs a helping hand even though she's too stubborn to admit it."

The words leave Boyd with no idea how to respond, no idea what the right thing to say is. Stalling for time, and turning the conversation over and over in his mind, examining it from all angles, he steps back towards the work surface, busies his hands with pouring a fresh cup of tea. He doesn't particularly want one – imagines that in all the time they've been talking the remnants in the pot will have gone well and truly horrible – but it's something to fill the space, a task to occupy his hands and legitimise his lack of an immediate answer.

Something has been bothering Grace for a while now, and no matter what he's asked her or done or said, he hasn't been able to get to the bottom of what it is. Maybe it's that he's drunk on love, caught in the madness of that deliciously hedonistic wave that comes with the beginning of a new relationship, and thus he hasn't been able to find the right words and the right moment. It has only been a matter of a few weeks, after all, and they have been incredibly, unusually busy weeks, jammed full of a number of additional work commitments outside the realm of the CCUs normal day-to-day business. Whatever it is, though, he's spent a lot of time stewing over it in private, quietly worrying and wondering what it is he can possibly do to help.

"I used to think she should have been an actress," Iris says, seemingly out of the blue and Boyd glances at her over his shoulder, confused by the sudden loss of his turn to think and then speak.

"Why?"

"Because she's so good at hiding what she's thinking, what she's feeling. I've never known anyone as adept as my daughter at keeping something she wants to from everyone else."

Boyd stares, still unable to respond, a feeling he can't quite identify creeping up on him. He thinks he's about to hear something he's always known, but only in the back of his mind. Something he's never consciously dwelled upon, or considered.

Iris forges ahead anyway. "How long have you known Grace?"

"Years," he replies, the answer automatic.

A nod precedes, "And before the last few weeks, how much did you really know about her? I mean really know? About her life, what she likes, what she doesn't like? What she does in her free time? What she reads for fun, or watches on TV? What she does with her evenings?"

Boyd opens his mouth to answer, automatically wanting to tell the old woman that he knows plenty about her daughter, but then closes it again, the wind ebbing from his sails like a rapidly deflating balloon. He doesn't have much of an answer, because he doesn't actually know much about the personal side of Grace. It's the very same thing he's been thinking, only in someone else's words. And given how much she matters to him, means to him, it stings. A lot.

Professionally she's very successful, he knows. He's studied her achievements, watched the way people in her field react to her. Waded through her books with interest, read some of her academic work out of curiosity and a desire to see how her mind works, what she thinks and how. He's seen her speak at a conference, and watched her handle hundreds of people, from hostile, belligerent suspects, to distraught, damaged and intimidated victims, and disgruntled team members. He's spent hours contemplating her demeanour, her ability to remain unruffled in even the most exasperating of situations. He's tried, and typically failed, to follow her example, to channel some of her patience.

But Grace the woman, Grace the daughter, sister, aunt… Iris is right, he realises. Just as he thought, he knows barely anything about the woman he is so enchanted by, despite working with her almost every day for nearly a decade now.

Somehow the old woman has wormed her way into his thoughts without him knowing. At least, that's how it feels as Iris voices what he's been struggling to put together in his head just recently. She can see it too, he can tell, as she looks at him, reads the expression on his face, the shock in his eyes. It's… unsettling.

"My point is," she tells him, "that Grace doesn't volunteer information. Just the opposite – she struggles to share things, even with those she cares about. I spend half my life trying to weasel things out of her and unpick the knots in that brain of hers.

"You'd think, given her job, that she'd be better at sharing," he muses.

"Indeed. But even as a child she was just the same. It's always puzzled me." She takes the refilled mug he offers her, murmuring her thanks.

"You need to give her time to settle," Iris tells him, her voice taking on a tone that is softer and far more serious than anything she's said so far. "Change is so hard for her, learning to trust is even harder."

"Because of her ex?" The words are out before he can stop them, and Boyd winces, wishing he could take them back.

Iris doesn't seem to notice, though, or care. Instead she simply nods. "John," she sighs. "I hate that man. I've tried and tried not to, but I can't not. It's a terrible thing, hate, to live with that evil rotting away inside you, but what he did to my little girl… " She's staring out into the garden again, her eyes on Grace, and Boyd wonders what is going through her mind, what she thinks when she looks at her daughter, when she sees the choices Grace has made in her life, the things that have happened to her.

It's not even been three hours, but already he likes Iris. Feels the need to try and reassure her. "We talk quite a bit," he admits. "It's not something I find easy, but it's important to her, and it's important to me, too. It didn't used to be… In fact, I hated it. But I was married, and when things went wrong we only ever argued, and that –"

"Solves nothing," Iris finishes.

Boyd nods. "Grace… she makes it easier to talk. She listens, and she always seems to know exactly how to unpick a knot, as you called them, that seemed impossible beforehand."

"She's always been like that. Always. Even as a little girl her brothers used to go to her and ask her to help them sort things out. Simon and his wife are still married because of Grace, Thomas attributes his sanity to her, and her nephews… when they were in school and growing up it was like a constant stream of lads in and out of her house, all asking for advice in exchange for mowing the lawn, fixing her car, mending the fences..."

He can imagine it without difficulty. Knows that periodically in the evenings her phone rings, and she can then easily spend half an hour or more talking one family member or another through some kind of crisis. It's just who she is. People naturally gravitate towards her and seem almost to be compelled to spill their secrets to her, to ask her opinion, her thoughts, or for her help.

"I think…" he begins, choosing his words slowly as he thinks them through, "that she helps me think more clearly. Feel more clearly. Not deliberately, but every time we talk, or I learn something about her, or I share something with her… those knots, they begin to unravel. Everything becomes a little less complicated and I feel like suddenly I can express things I've never known how. And that I understand things, why I react to things, a little more clearly. It's strange."

Iris laughs gently. "That's not strange, boy; that's Grace. She has that effect on all of us. Always has done." Then she sobers. "But you need to do the same in return. Grace is great at listening to and helping other people. She's terrible at doing the same for herself when it comes to what's going on in her heart. You need to learn to help her. You need to listen to her, encourage her to talk about what she's thinking, feeling."

Iris eyes him, expression all too knowing. "I know it's not your nature – I can tell that for myself, without years of being told by her – but if you want this thing between you to be successful then you need to listen to what she has to say.

"I know. I'm trying my best. It's not my strongest suit, but I'm learning."

"I believe you."

The clock ticks and both of them breathe, the seriousness of the conversation hanging heavily in the room. He wants to move past it, change the topic, but there's something he wants – has – to ask, while he has the chance. He could ask Grace, he knows, but he doesn't want to take her through it again, not when he saw the look in her eyes the night she confessed her story, not when he held her in his arms afterwards, not sure which of them was trembling the most.

"What happened to John?"

The old woman sighs, reaches out to brush her fingertips over the fronds of the fern sitting on the window sill before them. They ripple in response, an easy wave that is almost hypnotic to watch. "He's in prison. He could get parole in two years if we're unlucky."

"Two years?" gasps Boyd, instantly horrified by the thought. Blue eyes that are cold with memory flicker in his mind, the ridges and stripes of scar tissue tickling his gliding, wandering fingertips. The soft, almost dead tone in Grace's voice echoes in his ears, even as the warmth of her body pressed against his gives him something to hold on to, a grounding point.

The security, the knowledge of Grace's safety, it evaporates as Iris nods, expression grave.

"Jack will lose it if he gets released," she tells him, and when she looks up he can see the genuine fear in her eyes. "We were so, so lucky he got such a long sentence, but it's been years now, and no one serves their full term."

He knows that better than anyone. Has felt the sting, the anger, so many times over the course of his career as so often the guilty he's worked so hard to build cases against have been given almost nothing in punishment for their crimes.

"For a while afterwards I thought I might lose both of them – Grace to her injuries, Jack to the guilt."

"What happened?"

"She made him go to a counsellor. Someone she knew, had trained with. And then she asked him to face it all with her by going to court with her, helping her with everything that needed to be done. Jack has always tried to look after Grace, and she let him do it – asked him to do it – to help him, more than to help her. He was there for her through the trial, the divorce, moving house, dealing with John's possessions, his family, all of it. And they talked all the way through it – I know, because I used to end up with first one at my kitchen table, and then the other after each little step. I heard both sides of everything that went on."

Boyd swallows, says nothing. Waits.

"That," she admits, and for the first time since he walked through her door she looks genuinely old and tired, "was harrowing."

He can't imagine. Wonders how she dealt with it, how the fallout from such an event affected her too. Seeing it, living through it, then hearing her children's stories from each perspective, as well as her own.

"Jack thinks he's responsible for her. He's always blamed himself that she fell down the well, and he's spent his life trying to look after her."

"Why? You said it was an accident. And there's no way he could have known what John would do."

Iris taps the rim of her mug, lips pursing as she thinks. "I have no idea. Because he's the oldest, maybe? I've asked him many times, tried to tell him that he's wrong and that none of it was his fault. I think part of it is that he – all of my boys – love their sister so much. I lost a child between Simon and Grace. Simon wasn't very old at the time, but they all knew about it. They were so excited about another sibling, and they knew how much it affected their dad and me. It was nearly five years before I got pregnant again – Henry and I had given up hoping by then."

It's one of those moments where there isn't a right thing to say. One where, if he opens his mouth, he's invariably going to say exactly the wrong thing. In the end though, he doesn't have to say anything because Iris keeps talking.

The air changes in the room, becomes much lighter and easier, the heaviness of their conversation and its grim topic dying away as warmer memories replace it.

"When Grace was born… it was lovely. They absolutely worshiped her from the very beginning. Wanted to help look after her, teach her things as she grew, play with her, watch her dance on stage – everything. You'd have thought three boys wouldn't have been that interested in having a sister, especially one with such an age gap – they were six, seven and nine when she was born – but no, it was like she instantly had three very protective bodyguards."

Boyd grins at the image that forms in his head, drifts over to the photograph on the wall again to study the four children in it. It's easy to imagine how they were all so keen to look after her. He's spent years feeling his hackles rise and his protective instincts flare up at the merest hint of any sort of threat or challenge to her, and the last few weeks have only kicked all of that up a gear.

"There is something about her – something I've never been able to understand – that brings those kind of instincts out in other people," he admits, still struck by the apparent bond between the siblings he is studying. "In me, my team – Spencer in particular…"

"You mean, you in particular."

Twisting around he finds great delight in her face and capitulates, hoping the desperate curiosity he feels isn't revealed in his voice. "Just how much has she told you about me?"

"Wouldn't you like to know," is the response, delivered in accompaniment with a wickedly amused grin.

"Yes!" There's no point in pretending.

Iris pauses, makes him wait. The unholy glee in her eyes reminds him so strongly of Grace that again he wonders whether he might just be glimpsing what, if he's very, very lucky, the rest of his life might look something like. "Enough that I've been waiting for this day for years," she finally says.

An uncomfortable feeling prickles across his skin. "What do you mean?"

"You, in my kitchen."

"I don't follow."

"Before today I'd met you twice before, for less than five minutes in all, granted, but good lord, from what I saw you can forget the great fire of London – the sparks alone flying off the two of you could have brought the city to the ground."

"I –"

"Do you have any idea how frustrating it is to sit and listen to the world's longest, slowest burning flame and not be able to do anything about it? How much patience I've needed to sit here for years, listening to a handful of comments here and there that add up to a great romance that's so bloody obvious to everyone but the pair of you?"

There's not a lot he can say to that. He's an idiot when it comes to women, he knows, and especially in matters of the heart, but, "'A great romance?'"

Iris shrugs. "You can only see Grace. I can see both of you."

"Oh." Boyd pauses, the wind in his sails yet again dissipating rapidly. "It was that obvious?"

"Most definitely."

He frowns, not quite liking the idea that the recent change in his relationship status might not be such a secret after all. "What do you mean, 'everyone'?" he asks, suspicious.

"Eve. I'm fairly certain she's wanted to lock the both of you in her lab overnight on more than one occasion now, though she did mention not wanting to have to re-sterilise it the next morning before getting her bodies out again. Something about cross-contamination of DNA, not that I have any idea what that means."

"Of course you don't," he replies, sarcasm oozing from the words.

Iris smirks, Boyd rolls his eyes. "You owe the swear jar a pound," he tells her, helpfully.

Blue eyes narrow. "It's my jar, my rules."

"Do as I say, not as I do?" he challenges.

She sips her tea, grimaces, and tips it down the sink. "That was disgusting. Far too stewed." He laughs, recognising the tactic, and empties his own mug as well.

"I'll make some more, you go and fetch her back inside," orders Iris, nodding towards the back door. Boyd obeys, still laughing to himself over the old woman's audacity and her ability to quickly redirect the conversation to her benefit.

Wandering outside he surveys the even, smooth stone-flagged garden path that twists and turns between an array of raised flower beds that are every bit as neatly kept as the rest of the house, and which bloom with a rich variety of colour and textures, despite the lateness of the season. Grace is halfway down the long, thin stretch of land, perched on the edge of a raised, wooden-sided herb bed, her fingers twining through the distinctive stems of rosemary, her eyes unfocused, mind lost somewhere far from this well-loved garden.

He pauses for a moment, watching her in silence, his mind needing the chance to let go of the tension of the long and difficult conversation he's just had. Iris is intriguing, and a wealth of information, but everything she's just shared with him will take some time to digest. That she has shared it though… is very valuable. Grace's vulnerabilities have always fascinated him because normally they are so well hidden that even when deliberately looking he'd struggle to find them. Her strength has always amazed him, her resilience awed him, but lately he's felt himself accidentally touching the frayed edge of that weakness on occasion, though each time he's been left with little explanation. Little understanding of how to help her, what to do for her. With her.

She's let him see the edges, the barriers, but perhaps it is as Iris has just said and it's not that the scars and the wounds and the dark memories contained beyond are forbidden territory, but instead that she doesn't know how to let him pass through, isn't able yet to give him the key.

He wonders how and when and why and what will change that. What he can do to show her that it's okay. That he cares. That he wants to listen. And, he muses, what is it he's failed to do so far? What has he overlooked? What hasn't he told her, or shown her, or made her feel?

It's been just a few weeks, but in some ways it feels like a lot longer. They've been so busy, but has he neglected her? Has he let the wild, exciting passion of it get in the way of helping to secure those important early blocks of foundation? Is he just as guilty of not really listening to what she's tried to tell him in the small, dark hours of the night?

Grace's hand falls to her side and her fingers twitch slightly – she knows he's there. Knows he's watching her. It's time to table his thoughts for now and join her, he decides, knowing he can't spend the rest of the day contemplating what he's learned. There will be time enough later. Time to think, and to talk. He'll make sure of it.

Gait easy, Boyd ambles down to her, slips in beside her, sitting down so that his hip is pressed against hers, their legs touching. Even with the fabric of his jeans and hers between them, it's still a thrill.

"All right?" she asks, a hint of curiosity in his voice that immediately tells him she really does know what's just happened in the kitchen.

"Mm," he murmurs. "I think so."

She twists. Looks up at him. "You think so?"

"You set me up." It's an accusation, but a mild one. There's no anger or malice in him.

Still, Grace shakes her head. "No, I didn't. I had a feeling she would want to talk to you, but whatever just happened wasn't pre-planned. I didn't bring you here to be interviewed."

"You sure about that, are you?"

"Positive. She kicked me out – didn't you notice?"

He blinks, confused. Grace sighs. "The blackberries were a guise. She wants them, yes, and she will make a crumble, but that was mother ordering me out of the kitchen so she could have you all to herself. Why do you think I've been out here all this time? It's not exactly warm, you know…"

Astonished, both at the subtext he missed, and at the level of unspoken communication between the two women, he says, "What if you'd come back inside?"

"I'd have been sent away with a flea in my ear and an order to get more berries."

"Oh." It's a revelation, certainly. And an insight into not just the elderly woman inside, but the younger one perched beside him. A highly thought-provoking one.

"What?" she asks.

He shakes his head, not understanding. "What what?"

Grace inclines her head. "The expression on your face."

Ah, that. "Nothing really. I'm just taking it all in. She's… an interesting character."

The laughter that tickles his ears tugs at his heart, ignites a warm fire deep in his chest. Sliding closer, he curls an arm around her waist, rubbing one hand gently up and down her arm, noticing that she is indeed cold and shivering slightly. It's not a day to be outside for a prolonged period of time, he realises, despite the unseasonable warmth from the now fading sun. Winter is most definitely approaching.

He's not sorry for that though. Winter means lots of long nights tucked up indoors alone together and he has plans for the big fireplace in his living room, for the deep bathtub in his master bathroom, and for the stockpile of elegant candles hidden away in one of his kitchen cupboards.

What he is sorry for is not noticing the weather. For putting her health at risk. Gently, he encourages her off the edge of the flowerbed and back against his chest where he can wrap both arms around her, tucking her into the warmth of his body. And from there it's so easy to lean down and brush an affectionate kiss to her lips in response to the soft smile she gives him.

Cold hands burrow under the back of his sweater as he leans back, and he grimaces automatically at the sensation.

"Sorry," she murmurs, moving to pull them away, but he shakes his head and hugs her tighter, hooking a leg around hers and effectively pinning her against his body, utterly disinclined to let her go. Mischief and affection immediately dance in her eyes, instantly leap between the two of them, infecting him as well as Grace leans up again, her lips seeking his, finding with practiced ease. She's flush against him, her hands leaving his back to climb higher and twine around his neck, and her eyes are firmly closed as she traces her lips over his, the motion exquisitely slow, as if she is savouring every detail of the moment. His own eyes sliding shut, Boyd hears her hum in pleasure, can't help tightening his grip, one arm keeping her snared against him while the other drifts up so that he can bury his fingers in her hair.

It's incredibly addictive, kissing her. She's incredibly addictive. Her smile, her laughter, the looks she shares with him, the things she whispers in his ear… a shiver runs down his spine as she breaks away to breathe, her voice dripping a tantalising, erotic promise for later straight into his ear, her words a low, husky purr. Mind almost overwhelmed with the visions chasing through it he turns his head and captures her lips again, groaning softly as she arches slightly, deliberately pressing her breasts tighter against his chest.

Disorientated and adrift in the spell she's cast upon him, he catches a fragrant mixture of herbs as her hand cups his jaw and he automatically inhales deeply, caught in the mix of scents, the way their lips dance together, the way her tongue reaches out first, seeking its mate, exploring. It's hedonistic and raw and entirely natural, and so incredibly good because of it. So good that he –

"Elizabeth Grace Foley!" It's an imperious warning, one that only a mother can effectively deliver, and it has exactly the desired effect, making the two lovers pull reluctantly but instantly apart, looking quickly around, faces equally guilty.

"Fuck," hisses Grace, her expression dazed. He's not sure where the coarse language came from, though he guesses it's either because she managed, as he did, to forget entirely where they are, or because they've been caught – again.

Something doesn't seem right, though, and for a moment he's confused, but then Boyd's eyes light up as his brain processes what he's just heard, even as a dark, thunderous scowl appears on Grace's face as she realises it, too.

"You're joking," he whispers, staring at her with sheer glee. Eyes narrowed, lips pinched together Grace says nothing for a long moment that tells him everything, long before she slowly shakes her head in resignation.

"Your name is Elizabeth? Really?"

She nods, reluctantly. "It is."

"Really?"

"It's in my personnel file," Grace points out, patience evaporating almost instantaneously.

Boyd shrugs and shakes his head dismissively, still far to entertained. "I've never read it. We'd known each other for years when the CCU started, so I didn't see any point."

"Well it is," she mutters. "And that's where it should stay."

Amused, and intrigued, he smirks down at her. "Is that so?"

The fierce, "Absolutely," he gets in response does nothing to deter him.

"Why have you never told me?" he asks.

"You've never asked," is the short reply he gets. She reaches down, picks up her basket of berries. "Come on, we'd better get back inside."

He's becoming more and more intrigued by the second. "Hang on a minute, you can't just drop a bombshell like that on me and then immediately move on."

The expression on Grace's face is entirely inflexible. "I didn't drop it."

"True," he concedes, "but come on… you know what I mean."

Every bit a stubborn as he is, she says nothing. Boyd wants to laugh, thinks it's a bad idea, but still can't suppress the building amusement inside himself. Never in his wildest dreams would he have ever considered something like this. Nor would he have predicted her reaction to hearing her full name uttered in such tones from her mother. It's… hugely entertaining.

Something else occurs to him, too. "What else is in your personnel file that I don't know about, Elizabeth?"

Grace glowers up at him, and he can almost feel the daggers pricking his skin, such is the fury that radiates from her. "Don't call me that. Not if you know what's good for you."

"But it's –"

"No!"

"Okay, okay," he holds up his hands in acquiescence. "Why 'Grace'?"

"Because my grandmother was Elizabeth." She seems to relent a little. Says, "And the answer to your other question is you'll just have to read it to find out."

"Really?" he prods.

"Really," she pushes, clearly not going to give him anything more.

Boyd gives her the sly grin he knows she can't easily resist, far from gallant enough to refrain from resorting to more underhand tactics. "You won't tell me...?"

Grace, however, appears immune on this particular occasion. "No. You can find out for yourself."

Gazing at her, at her fierce defiance, her immovable stance as she stands staring up at him, Boyd feels his grin widen. Deliberately he drops his voice a little lower, leans in closer to let his words fall straight from his lips into her ear. "What if I find a way to learn more about you without reading?"

She shivers, he feels it. He feels it, and he's definitely not enough of a gentleman not to feel smug about it. He pulls back, gazes down at her again. Deliberately lets her see his eyes wander over her body, lingering in some places longer than others. "Would that be agreeable, Grace?" The inflection on her name is also deliberate, so is the visible reaction it causes.

She swallows, nods slowly. Her eyes are a dead giveaway, too, and damn, if they were home right now…

They really do need to get back inside, he thinks. It's getting colder by the minute, Grace is definitely chilled now and Iris is watching them. It would be far too easy to drag the moment out, to stay out here and fall headlong into her charms, but now is not the time nor the place. There's a crumble that needs to be made and more talk to be had, so back inside it is, but first…

He kisses her. Steps straight into her personal space, tugs her easily against his body and kisses her. Deep and hot and hard, and entirely too swiftly, pulling back quickly to revel in the frustrated fire he fully expects to – and does – find in her eyes. There will be hell to pay later, he knows. And he will enjoy each and every moment of it. And so will she.

"You were right," he tells her, taking the basket from her arm and turning back towards the house, resting his palm on her lower back to guide her up the path. "I do like your mother."