DISCLAIMER: I own nothing.
Happy Christmas/Festive Season 2023! xx
Their First
by Joodiff
It should be snowing, she thinks gloomily. It's not, of course, and the all-too predictable deficiency does nothing to improve her pensive and increasingly melancholy mood. Standing by the window with her back to the dark room, Grace stares up at the ruined night sky – the silent victim of the capital's ever-increasing light pollution – and she wonders why, exactly, she feels as bleak and despondent as she does. It's Christmas Eve, after all. In fact, since midnight is now just a memory, technically it's Christmas Day. She shouldn't be feeling the way she does; it's pointless, it's unproductive and there is absolutely no reason for it. None, anyway, that would be readily apparent to anyone else. No, superficially, at least, she has no reason at all to be anything but happy and contented.
She thinks that there's a good chance that if she stays where she is for much longer, gazing blankly at the murky, starless sky, she will actually start to cry. Ridiculous.
Determinedly, Grace turns from the window, and though she hasn't bothered turning on any lights, she can clearly see all the traditional festive trappings lurking in the deep shadows. The large tree in the corner, carefully bedecked with dozens of ornaments of the more subtle and tasteful variety, the old-fashioned little wooden nativity scene on the mantelpiece; the twinkly decorations, the rows of mismatched cards, letters, photographs, and party invitations. The absolute epitome of a happy, homely Christmas scene.
She ignores the expensive single malt and goes straight for the brandy. Just as potent in its own way, but not quite as aggressive on the throat. It's just as warming as she expects, which is good because it seems that at this time of year, once the elderly and asthmatic heating gives up the unequal struggle until morning, their recently-acquired Highgate house rapidly gets bitterly cold. She thinks she wouldn't mind the unpleasant chill so much if there was a soft blanket of snow covering the world outside. At least then the temperature would feel appropriately festive instead of simply damn cold in a depressingly damp, London sort of way.
Hearing a noise overhead, Grace sighs. She can predict the exact number of seconds that will elapse before she hears footsteps. She's not disappointed. Footsteps in the bedroom above, quickly followed by footsteps on the stairs. For a big man, Boyd is not particularly heavy-footed, but the house is old, and at night the floorboards seem to effortlessly transmit even the tiniest of noises. While she still can, Grace returns to her former position at the window. The sky is still a dark dull orange, the street is still quiet and empty, and there are still no snowflakes twirling in the stiff December breeze.
"Grace?" he says from the doorway, his voice quiet, his tone vaguely quizzical. "You okay?"
There will never be a time when Boyd doesn't worry about her for even the slenderest of reasons. She accepts that; welcomes it, even. It's simply in his nature to be fiercely protective towards the things he cares about, something she's always known. She glances over her shoulder at him, can see him quite clearly, her eyes are now so well-adjusted to the gloom. Barefoot and bare-chested despite the chill, and raffishly tousled, he looks more sleepy than exasperated, and so instead of grumbling at his unnecessary concern she offers a slight smile in response. "I'm fine."
"Yeah?" is his wry rejoinder. The scepticism is obvious. "What… so you just thought you'd get up in the middle of the bloody night so you could start enjoying all the fun of wrestling with the damn turkey early, did you?"
"Exactly that," she tells him, straight-faced. A little of the despondency has already started to edge away, forced into retreat simply by his presence. Few people would credit it, but he is very good for her. In so many ways. On impulse she holds out a hand towards him. "It should be snowing."
Boyd pads towards her, nonchalantly taking the extended hand as he joins her by the window. He shakes his head. "I can't remember the last time it snowed in London at Christmas."
"I miss it," she admits as he positions himself behind her, releasing her hand to put his arms firmly around her waist. She leans back against him without a thought, relishing his solid, dependable warmth. "It always seemed so magical when I was a kid."
He snorts. "Rose-tinted spectacles, Grace."
"There was snow," she says, obstinate for no real reason. "It always used to be snowing on the way to Mass on Christmas Eve."
"Maybe in your part of the world," Boyd concedes, sounding languid. She waits for him to needle her further about her origins, but when he speaks again it's to ask, "So, come on then – what's the matter?"
"Nothing," she tells him, the denial automatic. It's not the truth, but she's not sure she knows how to explain. Certainly not without sparking the kind of heated argument she simply doesn't want to face at Christmas.
While only sometimes deeply perceptive regarding her mood, he is unfailingly stubborn. It's one of his defining characteristics. He tightens his hold on her waist a fraction. "Not buying it, sorry."
Grace heaves a deep sigh. "It's really not important."
"Ah ha," he responds, with more than a hint of triumph. "I'm not falling for that old chestnut. I'm going to play it safe and assume that's some kind of bizarre female euphemism for the exact opposite."
She can't help smiling to herself. A little fond and a little wry, she says, "You're really quite smart when you want to be, aren't you?"
"So I've been told. Well?"
Stubborn, and not blessed with much patience, even now. She grimaces. "I can't explain."
"Can't or won't?"
She stares pointlessly at the quiet, empty street for several long moments. Then she asks, "When did we get so old, Boyd?"
He sounds bemused, though not at the habitual use of his last name. That's one of the little historical quirks that have endured into their marriage, after all. It tends to confuse people who don't know the rough road they've taken to reach this point in their long, long relationship, but neither of them cares a jot. "What?"
"This time last year…" Grace reminds him, thinking of the traditional pre-Christmas celebrations that used to take place every year in the CCU's gloomy squad room just before the seasonal break. Alcohol and tinsel, and being dismissed early. It all feels like a lifetime ago. Sometimes it feels as if everything that's happened in the last year has been a long, complicated, and particularly surreal dream.
"Oh." She feels him shrug. "Well, it certainly takes some getting used to, I'll give you that."
Wary now, she asks, "Retirement in general or… this… in particular?"
It's Boyd's turn to sigh, and he does so. Heavily and pointedly. "It's Christmas Eve, Grace, and you're standing in your brand-new bloody house with your brand-new bloody husband – now is not a good time to be having second thoughts."
"It's Christmas Day now, actually," she contradicts.
"Whatever."
Absently stroking his bare forearm, she continues, "And I didn't say I was having second thoughts. I just… I don't know. It's a lot to take in, that's all. Everything that's happened."
"And that's why you're standing down here in the dark, slowly freezing to death?" he inquires.
Grace doesn't bother to point out that she is significantly warmer now he is embracing her. Instead, she stares again at the strange-coloured sky and asks, "Don't you ever find yourself stopping to wonder if any of this is actually real?"
"No," Boyd says simply. Again, she feels him shrug. "Life goes on, Grace."
"When did you become the philosophical one?"
"Not philosophical, just pragmatic," he tells her, resting his chin on her shoulder. She can feel the soft bristle of his beard against her skin, for once rather more soothing than erotic. "I thought you were happy?"
"I was," she says. She is swift to correct herself. "I am. It's just I woke up, and I started thinking about last Christmas, and how different everything is now…"
"And it depressed you?"
"I didn't say that."
Boyd releases his hold on her waist, moves to stand next to her, shoulder-to-shoulder. She instantly misses his warmth, but doesn't complain. She waits, watching his strong, distinctive profile until he says, "It's natural to reminisce at this time of year, Grace. We look back and we think about all the things we've lost, and all the things we'd do differently if we had our time again, but the past is exactly that – the past. We can't go back; the only choice we have is to go forward."
"That's very profound."
He snorts. "It is for this time of the damned night."
Reusing to acknowledge the prickle of incipient tears, she says, "You're telling me I've made my bed, aren't you?"
"Not in so many words."
"Essentially," Grace pushes.
He folds his arms, almost certainly unaware of how much the action betrays his sudden defensiveness. "I'm telling you… that the way you're feeling is perfectly understandable. That's all."
"I don't regret marrying you, Boyd." It seems important to say it. To have him hear it.
He doesn't look at her. "Good, because I'm not going through all the hassle and financial agony of a second bloody divorce. Not at my age."
"It's just…" The words are there, right on the tip of her tongue, but she is still struggling to say them aloud.
"Just…?" Boyd prompts. His tone is every bit as neutral as his expression, but Grace isn't fooled. There is a sudden not-quite concealed touch of cold fear in him, and the moment she recognises it she despises herself. She has everything she ever wanted. Doesn't she?
"Forget it," she mumbles. He won't, and they both know it, but perhaps, if she tries hard enough, he will pretend. She reaches out to take his hand again. The fingers that immediately entwine with hers arm warm and strong. "Let's go back to bed."
"Hm." A noncommittal noise that tells her he isn't ready to let the matter drop, not yet.
"Early Christmas present?" she suggests. It doesn't sound anything like as seductive as she intended.
Boyd lifts her hand, kisses her fingers with an attentive gentleness that tears at her. Looking straight at her, he says, "I know I'm not half the man you deserve, Grace."
She closes her eyes for a moment. When she opens them, he's still watching her. Her voice is rough as she says, "Don't say that, Peter. Don't ever say that."
"It's true, though, isn't it?" There's no anger in his tone. No anger, no resentment. Just quiet resignation. "You didn't marry me because you were madly in love with me, Grace, I know that. I've always known that."
It hurts, his acute perception. Hurts so damn much. "Boyd – "
"But that's okay," he continues, "friendship, affection, companionship – they're important. They matter."
She stares out of the window again. Tries to remember what it felt like to be an excited child waiting for the wonderful magic of Christmas morning. Her voice not much more than a whisper, she says, "I was madly in love with you. For such a long, long time. Years. Always watching and waiting, always hoping that one day..."
"I'm sorry." His voice is very quiet, and it's edged with so much more than just regret and apology.
"So am I." She admits it because it's true, not to hurt him. Tightening her grip on his hand, Grace blinks away the unwanted tears that are starting to well. It's Christmas. No-one should cry at Christmas. "But that sort of intense, unrequited love is painful, and it's exhausting, and in the end, if it's not reciprocated, all the passion driving it eventually withers and dies. It has to, because otherwise…"
"You don't owe me an explanation," he says. She can't believe how calm he is. How… acquiescent. His weary sigh is telling, though. "You and I, Grace… we're far better together than apart, though – aren't we?"
"Yes." She doesn't need to think about it. "I do love you, Boyd. Don't think for one moment that I don't."
He squeezes her hand gently. "If I wasn't certain of that, I wouldn't have married you."
Looking out of the window again, she whispers, "I wanted this to be the perfect Christmas."
"Nothing's ever perfect." Boyd shrugs. "Maybe that's what makes us human? All the mistakes, all the misunderstandings. All the nearly-but-not-quites."
"Is that what we are? One of the 'nearly-but-not-quites'?"
"No." He shakes his head. "No, I don't think so. What we are, Grace, is mis-timed. Out of sync. One of us is always too far ahead, or too far behind."
"Can't we change that?" she asks, gazing at him again.
"I don't think we need to." The way he watches her is steady and wise. "It's the space in the middle that matters. That's where people really connect, and that's the place that doesn't ever burn to ashes, or simply erode with time. That's where we've always been able to hold onto each other, no matter what."
He's right. It astonishes her that his words are so insightful and accurate. Pleases her that he can still surprise her after so many years' acquaintance. She stares into his eyes, trying to interpret what's hidden in their dark depths. It's far from easy, and eventually she simply gives up. She says, "Loving someone, really loving them, not being in love with them, is what's important, is that what you're saying?"
"I suppose so, yes." He tilts his head a fraction. "Don't you think so?"
"I think," she says, "that it's late, and I'm far too tired to philosophise."
"Do you remember Charles Hoyle?" Boyd asks her, the question apparently coming from nowhere.
"Of course." All the terrifying images are still perfectly clear in her mind, even years later. She knows she will never forget them, but she's slowly come to terms with that.
"Do you remember what you asked me afterwards?"
They stood facing each other in the gloomy corridor just above the squad room. Carefully away from the rest of the team. Grace nods. "I asked you what would have happened if you hadn't ducked in time."
"And I said, 'I'd have been killed'." It's delivered as simply and as undramatically now as it had been then.
It would have destroyed her if it had happened. Thank God for his quick reflexes. "Yes."
"There was an entire firearms team waiting outside the house," he continues. "I could have sent them in ahead of me, but I didn't." Still quiet, still calm.
"You've always suffered from a bit of a hero complex, Boyd." It's not the time to tease, she knows, but teasing beats crying.
"Nothing to do with wanting to be a hero. Everything to do with you."
"'Take my life for Grace's'," she quotes softly, thinking of another occasion altogether. Who else would have been so completely, stoically prepared to die for her?
He nods. "I wasn't in love with you, Grace, but show me the man who says I didn't love you, and I'll punch his bloody lights out."
How can she not love him? Adore him, even?
"Boyd…"
"Listen to me," he says, suddenly earnest as he reaches out to take her hand again. "People fall in and out of love all the bloody time. But loving each other… really loving each other… that's where… forever… comes from. Not from that crazy, hormone-filled madness that briefly takes you over when you fall in love."
Again, he's right. God knows how or why, but he is. And she's supposed to be the empathic, emotionally intelligent one! Moving closer to him she rests her head on his bare chest. Can immediately hear the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. It grounds her. Always. "Is that what we are, Boyd? Forever?"
"I wouldn't be wearing this damned thing," he holds up his left hand, the dull gleam of gold barely visible in the low light, "if we weren't, would I?"
It had almost surprised her, his easy assent to the idea of wearing a wedding ring. Her wedding ring. She'd honestly expected him to fight tooth and nail against any suggestion of it. The ring had gone onto his finger on that hot August afternoon, and as far as Grace knows it has never been off in the four months since. Not that four months is very long… but it might as well be a lifetime. She lets him hold her, lets herself relax into the strength and warmth of him, the shadows that had taken hold of her beginning to dissipate.
"I love you," he says. "I love you, Grace. Nothing else matters."
"And I love you," she tells him, not because she feels obliged to. Fairytales don't need to come true just because it's Christmas. The wild love-affair, or the forever union? Why try to enjoy them separately when they can somehow co-exist beneath the surface where they are inextricably entwined anyway?
Post-wedding blues. That's all. A little late maybe, but –
"Grace," he says.
Something in his tone makes her look up at him. "What?"
Boyd nods towards the window. "Look."
It's snowing. Not heavily, not yet, but it is snowing. Small, delicate flakes falling through the air in entrancing patterns. It's the snow that makes Grace cry. In the end, it's just the snow. Not him, her, or them, but the softly falling snow.
He holds her, as gently and tolerantly as he ever has, and through her snuffles she hears him murmur, "Happy Christmas, Grace."
It will be. It is.
Their first. But not their last.
- the end -
