Title: Fireworks
Prompt: Blue Skies 2 (a picture of fireworks)
Rating & Warnings: T (none)
Word Count: 640
Summary:They are going to see the fireworks.
A/N: This was the second prompt. Enjoy!
Fireworks
They don't do fireworks, at least not the conventional kind. Theirs amount to rows of epic proportions that have grown and hardened men scramble, for cover. They also don't do normal things, which is due to their line of work and the never-ending stream of decaying corpses and too deep an insight into the darkest corners of human cruelty.
They don't do domesticity either. Well, he doesn't. Leave the office at a decent hour, go shopping at Tesco's, then cook dinner and end the evening in front of the telly, before going to bed for a page or two of recreational reading and then sex (or not). That's too normal and they don't do that.
So, it is out of the question that they go to the park for some music festival and then watch the fireworks that mark its end.
This is what he tells her, repeatedly and with ever increasing volume to his voice.
Besides, this is London and when do you ever have an evening when you don't get drowned trying to do some outdoor activity?
But she's a lot more convincing than anybody would ever give her credit for and he's really just a pussycat when it comes to her. He'd never admit that and anybody claiming such an outrageous thing would meet with a painful and very untimely death.
He also groans and complains all the way to the park, after having complained all through the preparations of a picnic-basket. She's suffered it mostly in silence and he ignored the increasing tension in her body for as long as possible, going on and on and on.
But there came the point when she whipped around, her body tightly coiled and her expression thunderous and, though he'd never admit it to anybody either, he actually took a step back.
Grace is a small woman, short and slight, and she is the most serene and calm person he's ever met, but quite frankly, the idea of her exploding in his face scares him shitless. He goes off on one at any given moment, actually thrives on letting his temper explode, but Grace...
That would lead to fireworks of their usual kind. Epic rows, so barbed and vicious that even a man like him, claiming to barely have any emotion, fears the damage they do. They've been there before and the memory pains him still.
So, he relented, shut up and did all the domestic crap. He's also slipped one of her warm cardigans into the hamper, worried that it might get too cold and she might catch something that her still weakened body couldn't handle.
The festival is all he feared it to be. Loud, raucous, full of litter and drunk teenagers. But Grace wears an expression of bliss and excitement that reminds him firmly of a child on Christmas morning. She's got a few years on him, but he always marvels on how young she can be.
It must be the overwhelming smell of festival and fairs - caramel apples, candy floss, beer and burgers - that does a number on his brain. Otherwise he wouldn't have such touchy-feely thoughts.
It's downright impossible.
His arm is slung protectively around her shoulder, warning everybody not to come too closely to her as they approach the strip of grass where people are gathering to watch the display. His deeply ingrained training as a police officer makes the darkness and the mass of people an uneasy thing, but Grace's face lights up even more as the first rocket is sent up, exploding in a flash of white.
She's firmly vibrating with excitement, her eyes full of happy wonder.
"Isn't it wonderful?" she breathes as gleefully as if Liverpool had just won their 19th Premiere League title.
And Boyd decides, "Yeah, it is."
But he doesn't really mean the fireworks.
Thank you for reading. Comments would be greatly appreciated.
