Tree
...
Thursday 20th December
He should have been home a long time ago now, and she's beginning to get faintly worried as she shuts the oven door and puts the tray of mince pies Spence spent the day begging her to make on the side to cool. She gives them an experimental poke, unaccustomed to baking in a strange oven, and then, satisfied they are up to scratch, wonders if she should call him and find out if he's okay.
She's probably worried for no reason. After all, it's more than likely he's just wrapped up in whatever it was he was doing when she left the bunker earlier and hasn't thought to check the time. Yeah, that'll be it. These things usually have simple explanations. Still, she'll give him five more minutes and then call, just to make sure.
Mind made up, she glances around the kitchen to make sure she's tidied everything properly. She knows he wouldn't be in the slightest bit bothered, but there is still something that nags at her when she uses his kitchen, no matter how familiar they are with each other. She suspects – hopes – it will pass, but she still feels just a little like an intruder here in his neater, tidier and far less disorganised workspace.
The front door suddenly bangs open, startling her. There are a few moments of scuffling, a single, angry and most definitely unrepeatable exclamation, and a blast of freezing cold air that rushes into the room and immediately makes her shiver.
"Grace?" he shouts, and his voice is oddly muffled.
"Yes?" she inquires, curiously. Abandoning the tea towel still in her hand, she ventures off to investigate.
"Help!" is the just as stifled but desperate plea. She finds him halfway through the door, quite literally jammed between the frame and an enormous cardboard box he has evidently attempted to carry through at the same time as he himself tried to enter.
If only she had a camera.
Immediately banishing the thought and clamping her lips tightly together to prevent herself from exploding into fits of laughter at his predicament, she simply grabs hold of the end of the long box and pulls with all her strength.
Nothing happens.
She pulls again, but both Boyd and the box remain stubbornly stuck.
"What on earth is it?" she asks, giving up on the box and tugging on his arm instead.
"Christmas Tree," he wheezes, trying to force his way inside. His efforts achieve only a pained grimace and another round of expletives.
"Stop moving," Grace orders, examining both the box, and why it appears to be refusing to move. "Look – the strap is caught on the lock." She's right, he realises, noticing the way one of the tight plastic packing bands that are holding the box closed has snagged on the metal plate of the locking mechanism. "Stop trying to force it, and just back up," she suggests. Boyd growls at the cheerfully helpful suggestion, but does as she says anyway. Again, nothing happens. He's put so much effort into trying to force his way inside that both he and the box are well and truly wedged.
He lets out a long, exasperated sigh. So much for sheer bloody-minded determination. He risks a glance a Grace. She's doing a good job of suppressing her amusement, and mercifully hasn't started laughing at him yet, but the beginnings of a truly epic smirk are slowly creeping into the edges of her mouth and her eyes are sparkling with unfiltered glee.
"Great," he mutters resentfully, "just great!" She's amused – yet again at his expense – he's most definitely stuck, and to top it all off, his ribs are really starting to protest at the way the box is digging uncomfortably into them.
Suddenly, without any warning at all, Grace throws her entire bodyweight against the end of the box. There's not much of her, but evidently there's enough, and for just a moment he feels a sharp but fleeting stab of pain, but then the box is gone and he's toppling forward, throwing his arms out to catch himself before he slams face first into the wall.
Problem solved! Perhaps not quite like how he might've hoped, but all credit to her, she has freed him from his temporary prison. The smirk seems to be getting bigger.
Straightening up, he stomps back outside to fetch the box from the bottom of the steps where it has finally come to rest. Dragging it back into the house, he slams the door shut with irritable exuberance and turns, hands on his hips, to glare at the tree.
"Bloody thing," he mutters resentfully, before shrugging out of his coat, jacket and shoes and then wrestling the box back into his arms and propelling it forcefully into the living room.
Knowing exactly what's going to happen next, Grace fetches a pair of scissors before following him and handing them over so he can cut away the stubborn packing straps, slice open the heavy industrial tape and reveal the treasure hidden within.
"Oh," she whispers in delight, as the cardboard falls away and the many pieces inside become visible. "Where did you manage to find it?"
Last weekend, at his insistence, they went looking for a tree. Still determined that this year they would celebrate Christmas traditionally and together, he dragged her around various shops for hours while they dismissed tree after tree as too big, too small, too ugly or far too unrealistic. The very last candidate they found, shoved in a corner and half hidden behind a row of fake snow-covered monstrosities, was immediately and unanimously declared perfect, aside from the outrageously oversized nature of it. Predictably enough, all the other sizes were sold out.
The look on her face makes it worth all the effort. He smiles easily and puts the scissors on the table, out of the way. "I ordered it, and then drove halfway across the bloody city to pick it up. I didn't think the box was going to fit into the car though."
"It's in a million pieces," Grace observes as they pull a never-ending series of parts out of the box, spreading it all out on the floor. "It's going to take forever to put together."
Boyd shrugs. "How hard can it possibly be?"
…
He's changed from his suit into a considerably more comfortable pair of very old and well-worn jeans and a black t-shirt that fits like a glove, but is very soft and equally as comfy. They've eaten dinner, dispensed with the box and the rest of the packaging, and are attempting assembly.
"What kind of moron wrote these instructions?" demands Boyd, furiously squinting at the unintelligible lines of supposedly plain English that are continuing to mystify him. Quietly, Grace hands him his reading glasses, hoping they will make something of a difference to the chaotic tangle of branches, screws and oddly shaped bits of metal that may, possibly, eventually form a base of some kind.
They don't appear to help.
Wisely, she refrains from offering to read them herself.
"Screw the instructions!" he declares forcefully a few minutes later, crumpling the pages into a ball and lobbing them across the room in only the vague direction of the waste paper basket.
Grace raises an eyebrow, and at the resulting look she receives over the top of the glasses he is still wearing, she decides it might be an appropriate moment to go and make a cup of tea. Leave him to get on with it in peace. It may be something of a mistake though, because as she secures the tea cosy over the pot and leaves it to brew, a deafening roar echoes throughout the house.
Standing in the doorway, she leans heavily on the frame in a desperate attempt to keep herself on her feet as she clutches her ribs and succumbs to the temptation to laugh uproariously at the sight of Boyd – all six feet of him – feverishly hopping up and down on one foot while clutching the other in enraged fury and prising the sharp tip of a screw loose from his big toe.
Biting back the quick comment on her lips about the dangers of going barefoot when attempting such obviously hazardous tasks as he turns angrily in her direction, she quickly scurries back out of the room to wait out the storm.
...
Twenty minutes, a mince pie and considerable clattering but no further swearing from living room later, she ventures back in with the tea and is suitably impressed to find the base fully constructed and readily awaiting the tree trunk.
"I'm impressed," she tells him, setting their mugs on the coffee table. His answering expression is just a tad smug as he secures the sections of the trunk together and then fastens it in to the base. Looking at the piles of numbered branches, she can't help wondering aloud, "I don't understand why these aren't already attached though."
"You and me both, Grace," he sighs, taking a long sip of tea before eyeing the pile in resignation. "I've never heard of such a ridiculous thing. We'd better start at the bottom though – can you see number one?"
Obligingly, she hunts through the heap of spiky, prickly stems and begins to hand them over one by one. Slowly – very slowly – the construction before them begins to resemble an actual tree. They are about halfway through the painstaking process of attaching each and every limb when Boyd suddenly growls, "I'm never taking this bloody thing apart – it can go up in the loft whole. I don't care how many black bags I have to wrap it up in."
She agrees, but refrains from pointing out that it's highly unlikely that the tree will fit through the trap door in its fully complete state. She's quite happy to leave that bridge well enough alone until they absolutely have to cross it.
It's nearly an hour later before, at long last, the very last branch is attached and they can stand back and take in the full effect.
"It's beautiful," Grace says, leaning against him and resting her head on his shoulder. "Thank you."
It really is; taller than him by a foot or so, it's rather majestic and grand as it stands proudly beside the fireplace. If it's listing very slightly to one side, she isn't going to mention it as they stand there and admire their efforts. His arms wrap around her waist, gently tugging her to stand in front of him and he lowers his head to rest beside hers, his lips trailing delicately over her ear for a moment.
Grace sighs and leans further back into his warmth. His arms tighten instinctively and he nuzzles her neck gently, slowly. Tilting her head back, she finds and captures his lips with her own, lingering blissfully. Without breaking the kiss, she turns her back on the tree – suitably distracted from its impressive splendour – until she can wind her arms firmly around his neck and thread her fingers deep into the thick, soft strands of his hair. His hands are wandering, and when she feels his fingertips work their way beneath her sweater and glide across her back, tracing lightly over her spine she can't stop a gasp from escaping as she arches firmly against him.
His lips are moving, working their way down her neck and she's about to suggest they forget all about the tree and move upstairs when there's an ominous thud somewhere behind her and a roar of frustration from him. She doesn't have time to question anything though, because quite suddenly she's flying through the air – definitely his fault – there's the distinctive sound of ripping fabric and then a terrific crash. There's no chance to be afraid either, because just seconds later she slams unceremoniously into the sofa, the soft cushions breaking her fall rather admirably.
For a moment, she is simply too stunned to do anything. Reality reasserts itself fairly quickly and she sits up, taking a quick inventory. She's a little winded, but nothing hurts and nothing seems to be broken.
"Peter?" she asks, looking around in confusion. He's vanished and the tree has toppled over – now prone beside the coffee table, it has somehow missed anything important and landed exactly where they were standing moments before.
Getting slowly and carefully to her feet, she calls his name again, anxiety creeping up on her when there is no response. Cautiously making her way towards the fallen tree she yelps and leaps backward in shock when it moves, violently shoved to the side as he emerges from beneath it, loudly and stridently voicing his displeasure.
He's stands up and she really can't help but take in just thoroughly dishevelled he is. It's quite… delightful. His hair is in utter, tantalising disarray, there's a long – but thankfully very faint – scratch down his temple and his t-shirt is ripped, magnificently exposing the skin of his ribs and abdomen beneath it.
He seems relatively unharmed, and so Grace simply stands there admiring the view, waiting for the inevitable explosion. He looks down at the fallen tree and roars into a fit of temper, predictably, absolutely and magnificently livid. She has to wonder, too, if she should be enjoying the show quite as much as she is, as he forcibly wrestles with the stubborn bush, his anger all too evident.
Trunk tucked back into the base, she finds herself keeping a steadying hold on it as Boyd vanishes once more, on his hands and knees as he tries to coerce the legs into properly supporting the thing. Maintaining her grip on the tree, she looks down and finds herself with a rather spectacular denim-clad view. She grins, and keeps on looking.
Half buried under the decoration he was originally so enthused about but has now come to think non-too kindly of, Boyd discovers the source of the trouble appears to be a missing screw, which, really, is absolutely just so typical. He's seriously considering hauling the entire contraption outside and taking a chainsaw to it when he remembers the earlier assault on his toe and fishes the errant screw from his pocket, grimly twisting it into place, before daring to hope that all might now – finally – be well. Backing slowly out from under the prickly branches, he tests the whole thing firmly, and is amazed, and thoroughly relieved, when nothing happens. The tree stays standing. It's even bolt upright, too.
It's about damn time.
"You can let go now," he tells her, getting to his feet and standing beside her once more. "It's not going anywhere."
"You're sure about that, are you?" she needles.
"Very!" he retorts, glaring determinedly at her. She's smirking at him, and for a moment he wonders why, but then he follows her gaze, taking in the state of his attire.
"I liked this shirt," he sighs, fingering the torn edges in dismay. "It's so comfortable."
"Mmm, I liked you in it too," agrees Grace, as a sudden, wildly mischievous thought takes her firmly in its grip. "But," she continues, winding her fingers into the damaged fabric, "I like you even better out of it!"
She pulls, hard. Ripping the cotton in one long, swift tug, she tears it cleanly from his body, grinning in feral delight at the stunned look in his eyes. Time seems to stand still for a moment as he stares at her, categorically speechless, and then, very abruptly, he's lunging for her. This time though, she's too quick for him and, absolutely expecting his reaction, she's out of the room and sprinting for the stairs before he even realises she's gone. His shock doesn't last long of course, and a second later he's after her, bare feet thundering up the steps in her wake as her laughter echoes around them.
…
It's very dark and quiet in their room now, the only audible sound their breathing as they snuggle together, hopelessly entwined in the middle of the bed. His fingers are idly stroking through her hair and her head is resting on his chest where she can feel the soothing rhythm of his calming heartbeat.
A thought occurs to him, but he's too warm and hazy and still far too blissfully happy to be anything more than amused by it.
"Grace?" he murmurs, gently kissing the top of her head.
"Mmm?" She's tranquil. Very, very languid. Absolutely disinclined to care about anything in the world but this moment right now.
"I just thought of something," he continues, tugging the blankets closer around them both.
"What?" She snuggles further into him, clearly on the very edge of slumber.
"We got the tree, but we forgot the bloody ornaments!"