Weather

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Sunday 23rd December

It's quite possible she's being very foolish, quite possible indeed. But, frankly, Grace doesn't care. It's also possible – in fact, it's more than likely probable – that if Boyd knew what she was doing, he'd have an absolute fit, complete with bitter arguing, highly vociferous shouting and intense attempts to dissuade her from even attempting something so foolish. But he doesn't know, and she's more than willing to take advantage of that – he may well fume and rage and berate her later for what he perceives as her cavalier attitude towards her own safety, but she has considerable faith in her ability to not only endure his likely outburst, but also to weather the storm.

It's barely even snowing now – just a handful of fat, lazy flakes drifting here and there, and eventually settling gently on the drifts and piles that have accumulated overnight – and with the reflective nature of the stuff, and the ample street lighting, visibility is great as she drives slowly and steadily across the city.

A tiny voice in the back of her mind is muttering rebelliously at how stupid this is though, how she really should not be attempting to cross the city in this weather, but she resolutely ignores it, much as she ignored the implied warning in the sheer amount of time it took her just to defrost and de-snow the car before she could even get it off her driveway. Admittedly, she thinks, as she cautiously approaches a sharp bend, it probably isn't the best idea she's ever had. The main roads are more or less clear, but the side roads and those around the estate she is currently attempting to navigate are most definitely not, and she thanks her lucky stars that she is evidently not the first person to be up and about at such a ridiculously early hour as she carefully manoeuvres the car through the tyre tracks some brave soul has already ploughed through the snow.

Stupid… yeah, maybe, she concedes, as the car slides a little on the slippery surface before regaining traction, and dangerous… mmm, definitely, but… she really missed him last night. And having woken at some unearthly hour, bored and unable to get back to sleep, she'd simply looked out the window and then checked the weather forecast. With the predicted continuance of the fluffy white precipitation from mid-morning onwards, and having no inclination to remain stuck – alone – in her own home, she decided there really was only one available course of action.

She's gambling on him still being firmly tucked up in bed, resolutely refusing to greet the world any earlier than he absolutely has to at the weekend – that way she can slip inside before he's properly awake and had a chance to think about any of it. If she's already there when he wakes up she'll be at a significant advantage in the distract-him-and-get-him-to-think-of-other-things scheme. Yeah, she's doing the right thing. She most definitely is.

Provided she gets there in one piece, of course.

She concentrates intently, gritting her teeth as the car slides rather more than it rolls around another corner. It's not much further, and she's managed so far without any kind of disaster – a fact that will definitely work in her favour when she eventually has to make her case to Boyd – but even so, she's incredibly glad when the familiar street finally comes into view. Parking is quite tricky, given that she can't see where the road ends and the pavement begins, but eventually she feels the tyres bump gently against the kerb and she sighs in grateful relief. Not quite the worst journey of her life, but it's probably up there in the top ten.

Looking up at the house, she sees bright light shining around the edge of the closed bedroom curtains. He's awake then. Damn. There goes the sneak-in-and-suitably-distract-him plan.

Time to regroup.

A flash of inspiration strikes, though what provokes it she really couldn't say. But, like so many wicked ideas, once that initial seed is planted, it's a plan that is just begging to be fully executed. Perhaps it's the way the breeze stirs the branches of the large, bushy hedge beside the driveway, causing chunks of snow to plummet to the ground, or perhaps it isn't, but whatever the cause, the opportunity is far too golden to pass up. She glances around, checking that her car is fully concealed behind the wall, out of sight of the front door. It is.

Good.

Dragging her feet through the snow to disguise her boot prints, she makes her way to the front steps and then back to the street, leaving a clear trail around the wall and out of sight. The tree will make not only a perfect vantage point, but also provide great cover, and she sidles carefully behind it, taking a few moments to ready her ammunition. Then, convinced she is appropriately prepared, she makes her way back up to the front door, keeping to the tracks she has already worn, and rings the bell, before hurrying back toward the street and ducking behind the tree again.

Picking up her first missile, she waits, a smirk of unholy glee embedded firmly in her lips. She's far too old to be enjoying this quite so much. Probably. But damn, if it isn't just so tempting. Especially given the style of payback likely to come her way later. Her grin widens as, ever patient, she waits and watches for precisely the right moment.

She imagines the irritable grumbling going on inside the house, and could she hear him herself, she wouldn't be at all surprised with the spectacular accuracy of her predictions – she does know him very well, after all. She imagines the hastily donned dark green sweatshirt that she's filched on more than one occasion now, and the blue drawstring tracksuit bottoms he is fond of lazing about the house in early on cold weekend mornings. She pictures, perfectly, the heavy frown of irritation that someone has dared to knock on his door at such an obscenely early hour.

In her mind's eye, she sees him stumbling slightly as he tries to stuff his feet into slippers that are always rather haphazardly abandoned by the bedroom door, and that she nearly broke bones tripping over the first time she stayed here. She mentally counts the thunder of heavy, annoyed steps as he descends the stairs at speed, and the thud of the deadbolt being rather too forcefully wrenched back, the key being turned in the lock.

The door is yanked open, and there he is, exactly as she pictured him; bad-tempered, barely awake and delightfully dishevelled. For a moment Grace almost forgets her plan, almost steps out from behind the tree to wrap her arms around him, to breathe in the warm, familiar scent of him… but the wonderfully dark scowl on his face as he discovers an empty front garden stops her, makes her adjust her grip slightly on the object in her hand and keep waiting. This is just far too good an opportunity to pass up. It really is.

He takes a step forward, and promptly growls his displeasure as his slipper clad foot vanishes into the snow. Grace feels laughter bubbling inside her and presses her lips firmly together, defiantly holding it at bay, determined not to give herself away. Not yet, anyway.

She watches Boyd's eyes follow the deliberately misleading tracks in the snow, sees him shift his weight slightly as if he's half tempted to walk to the wall and peer around it, searching for the missing bell ringer. Inevitably though, it seems that the outside air temperature is just too low, and the snow far too deep and cold to be tackled in just his slippers. He mutters something inaudible, turns and, recognising her moment, Grace grips the tree with one hand, leans sideways and, with stunning precision, hurls the object in her hand across the open space between them.

The snowball arcs cleanly and silently through the air, before coming to an abrupt – and likely very chilly – stop right between his shoulder blades. Fragmenting upon impact, chunks of snow are driven beneath the collar of his sweater, while still others work their way into his spiky and deliciously messy morning hairdo.

There's the predictable roar of surprise, and a lot of hurried tugging and yanking on fabric as he spins around, very quickly trying to shake free the clumps of snow that are sliding coldly down his spine. De-snowed, but still furious, his eyes narrow as he stares at the wall and the tracks that disappear around it.

Already re-armed, Grace stands very still, waiting to see what he will do next. She thinks he will fight back – it's not in his nature to back down, it never has been – and she's right; he crouches down and scoops his own handful of snow, and then simply advances. Ignoring the fact that his slippers and a good portion of his trousers are immediately overwhelmed by snow, Boyd makes his way through her tracks, heading towards the wall he evidently suspects his foe is hiding behind. The moment he gets there, Grace realises, her advantage will be over. He'll see her car, he'll know instantly who's attacking him and where she's standing. In fact, if he glances her way in a moment or two, he'll be able to see her anyway. Damn.

Very carefully she sidles around the tree, moving as slowly and smoothly as possible so as not to attract his attention. She knows very well how observant he is when he wants to be, and she'd bet her right arm that in this particular moment his senses are all on high alert. He's intently focused on the edge of the wall, snowball at the ready, and as he passes her, Grace decides to make use of the final advantage her hidden location allows, and catch him off guard before he realises where she is.

There's a lot of satisfaction to be taken in the undignified yelp that escapes from her prey as her second throw lands just as on target as the first, breaking apart on his shoulder and propelling a shower of fresh snow straight into the side of his face. Mischievous laughter escapes her, creeps around the edges of the tree and he turns, immediately spotting her. For a second they stare at each other – Grace undeniably wickedly entertained, Boyd utterly stunned – and then the spell breaks as he suddenly remembers the snow that is clasped in his own hand, but either he's still slightly shocked, or he's very much out of practice, because Grace ducks easily before catching him square in the chest with a left handed throw, smirking openly at him.

Thoroughly affronted, but very quickly over the shock Boyd drops to his knees in the snow, gathering handfuls of the stuff and crushing it together. Still determined to play to every advantage she can, Grace pelts him with the rest of her pre-formed ammo, scoring hit after hit and making it increasingly difficult for him to focus on his task. A couple of wildly errant snowballs still manage to come flying her way though, but she dodges them with a taunting grin and a mocking, "That's the best you can do, is it?"

Too late, she realises that perhaps, given that she's just run out of snowballs, and he's now armed with at least half a dozen, provoking him was perhaps not the best move she could have made. There are a lot of teeth visible as he straightens up and takes aim. She ducks again, just in time to avoid the first, but not the second, which glances off her shoulder before hitting the tree. She risks peering out from behind the trunk.

"Slight improvement," she grants him, before ducking again, amidst peals of laughter at the determined expression on face. Gathering more snow, she takes the time to crush it into the perfect shape, rather than risk the sort of mid-air disintegration that Boyd doesn't seem to care about. His strategy seems to have moved on to throwing as much snow at her as possible, regardless of shape, size or aerodynamic properties. Consequently, not much of it seems to be making contact.

There's a sudden halt through, one that allows Grace to peer out from behind the tree again and take careful aim. He's retreated behind the steps, and seems to be concentrating on something, gathering snow from the surfaces, and giving her easy opportunity to pelt him again, grinning at him as he glances up and glares back at her. Quick as a flash, he hurls a snowball, his speed and accuracy catching her by surprise. The freezing chill of the snow that works its way beneath her scarf makes her yell and curse him as she fumbles for the knot, determined to get it out.

Thoroughly distracted, she doesn't see him emerge from behind the steps, doesn't notice the ridiculously large and well-formed weapon he's managed to produce. Nor does she see the way he hurls it with strength, care and incredible precision straight up into the tree. It shatters upon impact, just as he presumably expected, but it also rustles the branches as it does so, which obligingly shake free their considerable burden of snow, dumping the whole lot down on Grace's head.

She gasps at the shock of the sudden, unexpected onslaught and stumbles away from the tree, blinking rapidly as she tries to wipe snow out of her eyes and brush it out of her hair. She can hear Boyd cackling madly in triumph as she accidently walks into his car, staggering and slithering awkwardly behind it, sheltering from the storm of suddenly much more accurately thrown snowballs coming her way.

This is not good. Not good at all. In fact, it's an absolute disaster. There's no way in hell she's going to let him win. He'll be insufferable for days if she does.

Glancing around, she desperately tries to find some way of turning the game back in her favour, but it doesn't look likely. There's too much snow piled up on the roof of the Audi for her to be able to easily see over the top of it, and he's pulled far enough forward onto the drive that she can't get around the front, leaving her effectively trapped. Unless…

Grinning to herself, she takes precious time to procure herself fresh ammunition, folding them into her scarf for easy transportation, and then peers cautiously around the back end of the car. He's leaning against the tree – still laughing at his success, and waiting for her to emerge, idly tossing a snowball up and down in his hand. Clearly thinking he's the victor, he seems to have let his guard down, which is absolutely perfect. Grace has no qualms about taking advantage of his lapse in concentration, none at all.

Firmly braced, she straightens in one smooth quick motion, simultaneously launching her offensive. And as plans go, this one works really rather spectacularly. The snow smacks straight into Boyd's face, momentarily blinding him and allowing her sufficient time to escape off the drive, hurry around the wall and reappear on the pathway while he roars in fury.

Strategically repositioned on the steps, heavily armed with the contents of her scarf and ready to take aim again, she asks smugly, "Give up yet?"

"Never," Boyd yells back, stumbling out of the flowerbed and flinging his last remaining snowball straight at her. It smacks into her shoulder, making Grace's throw wild and very much off target. Boyd grins, Grace scowls, and suddenly there is a lot of snow flying through the air as a fierce, desperate struggle for victory breaks out. At a significant disadvantage from the bottom of the steps, Boyd changes tactics and simply charges towards her, and as he lunges up the final step, Grace makes a last ditch effort to score what might possibly be the final point. She's thrown off balance though, when he simply seizes hold of her to prevent further attack, and the snowball in her hand is accidentally deployed in entirely the wrong direction and with a lot more force than she intended.

Appearing suddenly around the hedge, Boyd's perpetually grouchy, elderly curtain-twitching neighbour manages to shout angrily, "Will you kids pack it i –" before he is abruptly cut off by a mouthful of snow. Wrestling and scrapping with each other at the top of the steps, Boyd and Grace instantly freeze.

"Oh shit," mutters Boyd, a hint of wild, momentary panic in his eyes. Edgar Wilkinson is a difficult neighbour at the best of times. He despises Boyd – has never, in close to twenty years, made a secret of that fact – and spends most of his time looking for grievances that simply don't exist, nit-picking issues that are irrelevant, and making snide comments on just about anything Boyd cares to do or say. He's a trouble maker of the most obnoxious, irritating kind; even worse, he is one who is both retired with plenty of time on his hands, and is generally incredibly bored.

Caught in a moment of horrified yet highly amused indecision, Boyd briefly flounders, watching as Wilkinson coughs and splutters, spitting out chunks of snowball as he mops frantically at his face. Boyd's clearly wondering if this is the moment where simmering neighbourhood tensions are finally about to erupt into full scale warfare, thinks Grace, and he looks certain that whatever he says, no matter how well intentioned, it will not go down well with Edgar.

Still caught up in his grip, Grace briefly hesitates, but then, having been the object of the old man's displeasure on more than one occasion herself, makes an executive decision. She shoves Boyd back into the house and quickly, quietly shuts the door behind them, turning the key and shoving the bolt home before exploding into fits of laughter.

"That'll teach him to glare at me from behind his curtains and scowl every time he sees me arrive," she smirks, shivering. "Nosy old codger." Ignoring, for the moment, just how bitterly cold she is, she turns, still grinning, and announces victoriously, "I win."

Boyd's eyebrows snap together, and he shakes his head in disbelief, neighbourly concerns entirely forgotten. "In your dreams!" he retorts, looking her up and down. "Which one of us is wearing the most snow, hm? That would most certainly be you."

"Ah," taunts Grace gleefully, peeling off her soaked and frozen gloves, "but who was the most accurate? Definitely not you!"

She sees the flash of irritation in his eyes, and she revels in it, her amused grin growing even wider as she stares up at him. He steps closer, right into her personal space, backing her up against the door as his body crowds against hers. His hair is full of rapidly melting snow, the strands gleaming in the early morning light and his fingers are icy as they trace her cheek, run along the edge of her ear, but his eyes glitter with warmth and affection, with lust and amusement as he leans towards her, the very tips of his fingers brushing down her neck.

"Maybe," he concedes softly, and her breathing quickens as he moves even closer, his lips mere inches from her own. "But," he continues, and suddenly grabs the stubborn chunk of snow that has been clinging to her shoulder and shoves it down the back of her neck, "I definitely get the last point."

Grace shrieks at the sudden cold, frantically twisting away from him as she struggles to strip off her coat, gasping as her fingers fumble the buttons and the snow slides an icy path further down her back, stealing her breath and stinging her skin. And to make matters worse, Boyd just stands there, entirely smug, and watches as she swears and splutters, cursing him and his refusal to play fair. Damn the man. He's so wretchedly infuriating. But so ridiculously handsome, too. She glares daggers at him, and finally yanks off the stubborn fabric, shaking melting ice everywhere.

"Good morning to you, too," she mutters grumpily, sheading more layers of cold, soggy clothing. "I'm so glad I made the effort," she continues, still scowling and shivering and flicking chunks of snow out of her hair.

Oops. Grace knows instantly that she shouldn't have said that. Can see it in the way his expression shifts as it finally dawns on him that she's actually standing right there in front of him. She closes her eyes for a moment, takes a deep breath. Here it comes, she thinks, and then watches as he folds his arms and gazes at her with that particular expression of his that simultaneously manages to convey both his concern and his displeasure, while also having the unfortunate effect of making her feel like a naughty school girl. It's an unpleasant sensation, not least because she's a mature, sensible woman, but also because, in the end, it is she who is in the wrong. She distinctly remembers faithfully promising him last night that she wouldn't go driving across the city in such treacherous weather.

Oh well. Too late now.

She tries for what she imagines is a hopeful, sweet, but you love me anyway smile. She fails. Dismally. She can see it in his eyes.

"Grace," he sighs, utterly exasperated as he runs his fingers through his hair, making the soggy strands stand up on end. "What on earth were you thinking? Driving in this weather? You could have got yourself killed!"

To which, naturally, she doesn't actually have an entirely appropriate response. At least, not of the kind that's going to sooth him at this moment in time. She suspects – quite rightly – that 'because I missed you' isn't going to fly with him. Not this time anyway.

It's a shame, but never mind.

There are still plenty of other tactics in her arsenal.

Now seems to be a good time to fall back on the distract-him-and-get-him-to-think-of-other-things scheme. Mm, yeah. That's definitely a good idea. She could answer him, of course, but that would just open the floor for an argument she suspects could easily end up being drawn out over the majority of the day. And considering she really did spend the lion's share of yesterday – and last night, too – missing him, an argument is most definitely not what she wants. At all.

Distracting him it is then.

Despite the warmth of the house, most of their clothing is either snowy and utterly sodden, or at the very least extremely damp and cold, and both of them are now shivering quite considerably. Warming up is definitely a requirement, and in pretty short order too. Accordingly, Grace's thoughts turn to the large shower upstairs, the shower that very easily accommodates both of them, and, allowing her thoughts to wander a little, she supresses a smile. Pulling her sweater over her head and dropping it onto the pile of soaked clothing, she pauses to tug off her boots and then heads for the stairs.

"Where are you going?" he wants to know, eyebrows still drawn, stance still clearly indicating his disapproval. Her socks are just as cold and wet, so she stops on the bottom step to peel them off, tossing them vaguely in the direction of everything else.

"For a hot shower. I'm freezing!" she replies, raising an eyebrow at him in a sly, knowing invitation.

She makes it three steps from the bottom before he suddenly stops her with his quick, "Wait, wait!"

She turns to face him, holding the rail for balance. "What?"

"Your trousers are covered in snow," he points out.

"So?"

Boyd's hands are on his hips and he's grinning at her. Grinning in a manner that suggests he's about to say something that's either highly inappropriate, or won't be well received. Or possibly both. "So, you'll get the carpet wet. Take them off."

She tries for a withering look, hoping to preserve some dignity. It's a waste of time – he simply leans far too easily against the wall, watching her with entirely too much amusement in his eyes. Amusement and speculation and perhaps just a hint of the belief that she won't do it. Well then. If that's the case…

It's the thought that if she refuses, he'll spend the rest of the day nagging her that makes her reach for the button, but it's the knowledge that her distraction plan is working so well that makes her hold his gaze and unfasten it slowly. Particularly as another, highly amusing, thought occurs to her.

Stepping delicately out of the offending clothing, she screws the fabric into a ball and tosses it to him. "Happier now?" she enquires casually.

Despite his attempted seriousness, his eyes give him away as he intones, "Immeasurably."

Grace just rolls her eyes at him and backs up another step, not missing the way his eyes roam along the length of her bare legs. "Peter?"

"Mmm?" his eyes finally meet hers.

"Are you coming?"

He merely gives her a look, and then starts up the stairs after her.

Grace holds out a hand to stop him. "Hang on a moment," she tells him, running her eyes over his very hastily chosen clothes. She grins wickedly, certain in the knowledge that he wouldn't have bothered to put on anything underneath.

"What?" he asks, confused.

"Your trousers are covered in snow, too…"