A/N: there is some content in this chapter that is classified by FFN as M-rated. Don't like, don't read.

FIVE – Flashpoint

"Leave me alone." It feels like the hundredth time she's said it in the last five minutes. Staring at her reflection in the small bathroom mirror, Grace takes a deep breath and holds it for several seconds before exhaling slowly. Sooner or later she's going to have to unlock the door and face him, but for now she's more than happy for it to be later. Much later, if necessary, despite the discomfort and inconvenience of being shut away in such a tiny, stuffy space. No windows, of course, no fresh air, just the continual hum of the extractor fan linked to the light-switch.

"This is fucking stupid," Boyd's disembodied voice says. He still sounds angry and impatient, but the decibel level has fallen considerably. "You're being completely unreasonable, Grace."

Her reaction is childish, but it's heartfelt. "Good. Now you know what it feels like to be on the receiving end."

"Just open the bloody door, will you?"

"No. Go away."

"I can't, can I? I'm stuck here just like you, remember?"

Grace mutters to herself, the words an irrelevant litany of private complaint. She needs to stay angry. If she doesn't, an appalling clarity will start setting in, and she can't bear to think of the level of embarrassment it will bring with it. She already feels old, tired, and foolish, and the chances of her feeling any better about any of it any time soon are so microscopic that they might just as well be non-existent.

It's not even about him. Not really. Or, at least, not in the way Boyd probably thinks. Then, she's been wrong about what he thinks often enough before.

"Right," his gruff voice announces, "I've had enough of this. Either you open the fucking door, or I'm going to break it down."

If anything about the harsh declaration surprises her, it's that it's taken him so long to make it. Knowing she sounds just as weary as she feels, she replies, "Don't be stupid, Boyd."

"Why not? You're the one setting the precedent." Heavy silence. "Don't put it to the test, Grace, because you know I'll damn well do it."

He will. No doubt about it. He's got the impulsive temperament for it, and though he's not a young man, he's easily physically capable of it. The certain knowledge doesn't stop her from saying, "Just leave me alone. How many more times?"

"Stand clear," his stern voice instructs. Grace doesn't move. A couple of moments pass, then there's a loud, heavy impact against the door that reverberates right through the little bathroom. She doesn't know if he's kicked the door or simply shoulder-charged it, but either way, she's absolutely certain it won't withstand a second such hefty assault. If the lock doesn't give, the door itself will, and doubtless the damage will be considerable. Damage they will have to pay for.

"All right," she blurts out against her will. "All right, all right. Stop."

"Open the door, Grace."

The lack of any choice revives the white hot heat of her anger, and she's glad. Far better angry in the present than mortified by the past. Turning the lock, she snatches open the door and glares up at him. "Happy now?"

It's not a serious question, which is just as well, because Boyd does not look happy. Very far from it. He has that tight-jawed, flinty-eyed look he invariably gets just before he really loses his temper. "Well? What the hell was that all about?"

Struggling to hold onto some vestige of composure, she grinds out, "It doesn't matter."

"It matters to me."

"Why?"

"Oh, for… Why do you bloody think?" he growls, his features set in an angry scowl.

Grace is too tired for it. Any of it. "I have no idea."

What happens next is a shock. Understatement. Boyd moves so fast she has no chance to react, and as her back collides hard with the bathroom doorframe, his mouth descends on hers. It's impossible for Grace to process what's happening in any rational, meaningful way. There's no thought beyond the recognition of the tremendous heat of his body, the firm hold he somehow has on her waist, and the rasp of coarse stubble against her check. Nothing beyond the startling knowledge that she's being very thoroughly and very assertively kissed. He's forceful, but he's not rough or clumsy, and she's very quickly kissing him back just as ferociously, her hands moving to his shoulders of their own accord, her fingertips digging hard into the tightly bunched muscle she finds there. How long the fierce, unexpected kiss lasts is uncertain, but when they do break apart, Grace realises she's not the only one who's breathing hard. It startles her, though, just how feral he momentarily looks; how intense his glittering dark eyes are as they stare down at her.

Still uncomfortably pinned against the doorframe, her thoughts racing, she can't do anything but stare back. No glib words present themselves for use, nor do any irate or reproving ones. In fact, Grace doesn't remember another time when she's been rendered quite so… inarticulate. It must only last for a fraction of a second, that stunned moment of silence, but it feels like a lifetime. Boyd's wary expression suggests he's trying to gauge her reaction, and whatever he thinks he sees, it's enough to make him release his hold on her and take a quick step back as he mumbles, "Sorry. Christ. Sorry, Grace."

For once it's instinct not intellect that drives her, pushing her forward so that the negligible gap between them disappears again, her hands immediately returning to his shoulders. No need for any words. The second kiss is every bit as urgent and uninhibited as the first, but this time Grace is not mentally reeling from shock, and she gives just as good as she gets, relishing every single second of it. The taste of him, the scent of him, the sheer power and unmitigated masculinity of him all encouraging her to recklessly give and take everything she can. If there's never another moment like this one, so be it, but Grace doesn't intend to live with any regrets about her part in it.

Somehow they're managing to move while still kissing, an almost drunken stumble of just a few steps, and then they're dropping down onto the nearest bed – hers – blindly snatching at each other's clothing, hands and mouths travelling over newly-exposed flesh in a wordless frenzy of carnality. It's not elegant, it's not gentle, and if Grace was able to spare the matter a passing thought, she'd likely conclude that it's probably not pretty, either, given how desperate they are, how maladroit they are in their reckless, uncoordinated efforts to get what they want as quickly as possible. She can feel how hard he is, how ready. It adds an extra frisson of triumph to her intense, aching need, one that makes her unashamedly arch up against him, the timeless invitation blatant. It's all so fast, so desperate, and not a single word is spoken, even when Boyd finally locks their bodies together with a grunt, and starts to move inside her.

The pace he sets is fast, much faster than Grace expects, but it doesn't matter; as wildly aroused as she is, his remorseless strength and speed works remarkably well for her, and when he shifts position slightly, deliberately increasing the amount of friction, it works even better. She bites his shoulder hard enough to make him swear in protest and surprise, and then drive himself deeper, harder, in direct retaliation, but there's little time for such erotic power games. They're both panting, both breaking out into a sweat as they get closer and closer to breaking point. Grace is only vaguely aware of the sounds they are making, the low moans and groans, the muttered curses and exclamations. Then there's nothing but the extreme onrush of sensation, nothing but the shuddering, ecstatic peak of selfish desire that completely eclipses everything else. She shakes, she swears, she gouges her nails into Boyd's back, and then she's mindless and lost for a few glorious seconds before Boyd suddenly braces sharply above her, her body finally beginning to relax as his shudders in fierce, increasingly short spasms.

Spent, he collapses onto her, his head tucking into the curve of her shoulder, and as her breathing begins to level out, Grace unconsciously threads her fingers through his hair. Happily drunk on endorphins, she's sated, content, and not yet able – or inclined – to think about anything.

"Fuck…" is all Boyd eventually manages, an emphatic mutter close to her ear. Succinct, at least. His body is hot and heavy, and when she tries to shift position beneath him, Grace discovers that they are tangled together in a complex knot of limbs and half-shed clothing, making independent movement near impossible. He lifts his head to look at her, and she's surprised by what she sees in his expression. Not chagrin, not smugness, not regret. Something much more encouraging, if immensely cautious and complicated. Before she can speak, he asks, "You okay?"

Ignoring stray muscular twinges and the odd touch of soreness, Grace nods. "Fine. You…? How's your head?"

"Pounding," Boyd admits with the merest hint of a sheepish grin. His voice is rough, husky. She likes it. "Christ, I feel like I've run a bloody marathon."

It might not be the most appropriate or flattering response, but she can't help herself. "Hardly – but it was quite an impressive sprint."

A touch of humour sparks in his eyes. "Only 'quite'?"

"Well, you know, for a man of your age…"

Boyd levers himself up onto his elbows, considerably reducing the amount of weight bearing down on her. Mock-affronted, he says, "Thanks a lot."

Grace chuckles, momentarily pleased when his retribution comes not in words, but in a kiss that's so gentle and affectionate that it stirs up a crazy mixture of hopes, dreams, and half-forgotten fantasies. Against her will, however, those jumbled thoughts and emotions start to pluck at her insecurities, and begin to spawn a restless and unwelcome edge of discontent, one that is only fuelled further by her earlier annoyance and her rapidly darkening perception of the evening's events.

"Why?" she asks suddenly, the question spurred by her increasing dissatisfaction. She's sure she knows the answer, but she needs to hear the words spoken aloud – by him.

For once Boyd doesn't bother to pretend to misunderstand. Carefully disentangling himself, he subsides heavily next to her, easily filling all of the limited space available. "Come on, Grace, you know why."

"Any port in a storm?" she suggests. Aloud, it doesn't sound like the witty, brittle bravado she intended. Aloud, it just sounds bitter and defensive. Accusatory.

He frowns, bewilderment obvious. "What? No, of course not. You are joking?"

She's not. But his indignant surprise seems very genuine. Grace attempts a weak smile. "Careful, Boyd, I might start thinking that you actually care."

The puzzled frown becomes something more akin to a scowl. "I do care. Christ, what's got – "

" – into me?" Smirking, Grace quite deliberately raises a single meaningful eyebrow, knowing her facetious response will rile him. "You've forgotten so soon?"

"Classy," Boyd reproves. He doesn't look amused by the coarse intimation. Not in the slightest. "Really classy, Grace. And you say I'm the one with the juvenile sense of humour."

He's not reacting at all in the way Grace expected. Not giving her the tangible proof of his selfish indifference that she desperately needs to help insulate herself from him, and from the damage he could do if she let herself start to believe that his uncharacteristic behaviour is anything more than the product of extremely unusual circumstances. She accepts the implied rebuke, chooses not to challenge him. A rare touch of claustrophobia makes her sit up, and she instantly finds she's glad to be away from the damp, oppressive heat of his body.

"All right, what's going on?" he asks, sounding far more weary than irritable. "Grace…?"

She sighs, not caring if he hears or not. "This… wasn't supposed to happen."

"Wasn't it?"

His calm response causes her to frown. "What?"

"Well, it was inevitable, wasn't it? Sooner or later?" She feels him moving behind her, guesses he's now also sitting up. "Don't try to tell me you don't think so, because I won't believe it for a minute. Two people don't… carry on… the way we always have without eventually either killing or shagging each other."

Grace snorts in derision. "So eloquently put."

It's Boyd's turn to sigh. "Look, being cooped up in here together for over twenty-four hours… it's… I don't know… I suppose it's bound to bring things to the fore. It's a lot harder to ignore… stuff... when you're forced into such close proximity for an indefinite amount of time."

Finally looking round at him, Grace questions, "Stuff?"

He gives her a bleak look in return. "You know exactly what I mean."

It's a gamble, a potentially dangerous gamble, and one she doesn't know if she really wants to take, but after a moment she risks, "Attraction?"

"Yeah," he mutters, quite obviously uncomfortable with the admission, "I suppose."

"So what happens now?" Grace asks after a long, long pause where they simply stare warily at each other. She's not sure exactly what she means, whether she's referring to their immediate situation, or whether she's asking about an as-yet undefined future.

Boyd runs his fingers through his dishevelled hair, smoothing it back into some kind of order. "Give me a chance, eh? All I really want to do right now is go to sleep, not hold a bloody meeting."

It's the wrong thing for him to have said. Maybe he knows it, because his expression becomes chary even as some residual spark of anger reignites inside her. "Oh, don't let me stop you, Boyd. It's not as if we could possibly have anything important to say each other, is it?"

As she gets to her feet, Boyd inquires, "Is this where you storm off into the bathroom again?"

There's a note of something in his voice that stops Grace from doing exactly that. Something that sounds much more like quiet, unhappy resignation than irascible impatience. Hands on hips, she turns to face him, determinedly ignoring her unkempt, semi-clad state as she says, "Well? What do you want me to say?"

"I don't particularly want you to say anything – I just want you to stop behaving so… erratically… and tell me what the hell it is that's bothering you."

"Well, let me think…" she pauses for dramatic effect, "I wonder if it could be anything to do with the fact that maybe, just maybe, I'm feeling just a little bit used?"

"Used…? Oh, come on…" Boyd looks perplexed, even slightly outraged. "So that was all me, was it? I dragged you kicking and screaming – "

"Don't be ridiculous," Grace snaps at him, rising guilt at her part in it all making her savage, "I'm not talking about consent, I'm talking about convenience."

Boyd stands up, the sudden quick movement somehow ominous. "'Convenience'?"

"Please don't insult me by trying to pretend it was anything else."

"Grace – "

"I'm going to have a shower," she announces, already in motion as she cuts off whatever he might have been going to say. "If you're stupid enough to force the damn door, you can pay for the damage."

-oOo-

Continued…