EPILOGUE
It's not quite a week since the very first time Grace ascended this steep staircase. A strange thought, given everything that has happened since. Tonight Boyd is a couple of stairs ahead of her, moving every bit as slowly and carefully as might be expected of a late middle-aged man whose upper abdomen has recently been pierced by a fast-travelling chunk of copper-alloy-coated lead. Comprehensively dosed with a mixture of antibiotics and painkillers he might very well be, but she's watched him grow steadily more peevish and uncomfortable as the evening has progressed, the final proof of just how much the carefully-dressed bullet wound is hurting evident in his immediate and uncharacteristic compliance when she cautiously suggested an early night might benefit both of them.
A few stairs from the top of the flight, he pauses and sways slightly, gripping the bannister rail hard. He recovers almost immediately, but not before Grace can anxiously question, "All right?"
"Fine," is the terse reply, but the last leg of the challenging ascent is made at an even slower pace than before.
Reaching the high-ceilinged landing, Grace tries not to dwell on how much the necessary exertion seems to have cost him. Further ill-advised expressions of concern will be met with increasingly bad-tempered rebuffs, she knows that. As it is, Boyd is only barely tolerating the unsavoury notion that without her promised overnight presence in the house he would still be confined to his bland hospital room – or worse, would have found himself moved out onto the crowded main ward to await discharge. Drawing any more attention to the reason why her suitcase is sitting beside the bed in the rear bedroom would be a very bad idea indeed. Faced with little alternative, however, she reluctantly summons the willpower and self-possession to ask, "Do you need any help to…?"
The withering look she receives in return suggests Boyd would willingly endure just about anything to avoid the kind of intimate interference somehow suggested by the awkward but necessary question. "I'm a big boy, Grace. I think I can just about manage to put myself to bed."
It's idiotic, the way they're so carefully manoeuvring around each other, teetering on the threshold of something without quite reaching out to fully embrace it. The stilted and overly-polite conversation of the last hour or more is a very sharp contrast to the cautious affection of her last few trips to see him, or to the easy, warm way they greeted each other when she dutifully collected him from the hospital earlier that afternoon. Something has changed, as if a spell has been broken; as if the cold reality of their separate lives has started to catch up with them again. Two steps forward, Grace thinks with a despondent inward sigh, one step back. Typical of the way they've always been. Gain ground, lose ground. God only knows what Eve would say if she could see them now.
"Fair enough." She has no intention of fighting with him. Not tonight. "Well, if you do need anything…"
"I'll shout."
She takes a deliberate step away from him. The landing walls are cream and smoothly-plastered, as immaculately decorated as the refurbished skirting boards and the detailed cornices. Meaningless, insignificant things. "All right, but try not to wake the neighbours."
"They're used to it."
"I bet." She smirks for a moment. Painful silence. Another forced step away.
"Thank you," Boyd says abruptly, surprising her. His expression is earnest, intense. "For this. For everything, I suppose."
Sometimes she thinks she'll never understand him, or the way his mind works. It might not matter. Aware of the risk she's running, she says, "I'm not the enemy. Try to remember that. I just..." Grace hesitates, more daunted by the dangerous undeclared words themselves than by the intent way Boyd is watching her. It should be easy, but it's not. She gives up, shrugs. "I care, that's all."
"Why?"
The reply is so blunt, and so absolutely typical of him that Grace has to make a conscious effort stop herself from uttering a harsh laugh. How is it possible that he can still ask her such a thing? Surely he's not serious? It's impossible to tell. More tired than irate, she rolls her eyes. "If you really don't know by now, I'm not going to waste my breath explaining it to you in words of one syllable, Boyd."
"Fine." Dismissive, but the way he continues to gaze at her suggests he's still stubbornly waiting for clarification. It's going to be a long wait – it's been a very long and stressful week and Grace simply hasn't got the strength to wrestle with his apparent refusal to see what's right in front of him. If he still doesn't understand, well… But perhaps it's not Boyd who doesn't understand. A chill goes through her at the stray thought. Maybe it's her; maybe she's guilty of misunderstanding, of making foolish assumptions based on… what? A serpentine river of conversation and a few stolen kisses when he was unusually vulnerable?
The meaningful silence continues until she manages to mumble, "Well, I suppose I'd better go and make myself comfortable in the spare room…"
"You don't have to." The gruff statement is delivered a little too fast, a little too hard. Boyd clears his throat, a sure sign that he's edgy, that he's not only aware of the uneasy tension between them, but of at least some of the many reasons for it. Grace looks back at him without a word and he shrugs in reply, the slight movement of his shoulders a touch helpless. "The spare room. You don't… What I mean is… well, you could… I mean, if we… Oh, for fuck's sake. You know what I'm trying to say, Grace."
She does. Something warm and affectionate rises inside her as most of the crushing sense of insecurity is swept aside by his inept, disjointed words. It's not a lack of understanding on either side, Grace realises, it's a lack of certainty, as if neither of them has quite enough self-confidence to trust that the unconfirmed promise of an entirely new status quo isn't merely a dangerous chimera that will suddenly vanish, leaving them to deal with shattering humiliation.
"Keep digging," she says straight-faced, relying on sharp humour to mask her discomfiture.
In return he treats her to the boyish, self-effacing smile that never fails to make her heart skip a beat. It changes the whole character of his face, banishes the brooding heaviness, makes him look years younger. "Feel free to rescue me at any time."
Feeling a little sorry for him, but also amused by his emotional clumsiness, Grace leans against the landing wall. It feels cool and solid against her back. Real. Her nonchalance is contrived. One wrong move from either of them now and… She regards him contemplatively. "Are you asking me to sleep with you, Boyd?"
"Figuratively or literally?" The tone is grave, but the distant glint of humour in the deep, compelling eyes is far gentler and mellower than she might ever have expected.
Grace shrugs, pushing aside the last lingering remnants of a clammy sense of embarrassment. It's long past time that they started to enjoy the old familiar game again. "Either. Both."
Still solemn, Boyd leans against the opposite wall, exactly mirroring her posture whether he knows it or not. "I'm not much of a threat to your virtue at the moment, I'm afraid."
Straightening up, Grace steps towards him. "There's one very admirable quality I possess that you conspicuously lack, Boyd."
"Patience?" he guesses, holding his ground.
"Patience," Grace confirms, reaching out to take his hand. Oh, yes, she's patient. She can wait a little longer.
- the end -