Happy Birthday TheDarkBasement
Ink
...
Tears threaten, prickling hotly at the back of her eyes, blurring the edges of her vision. Grace swallows, tries valiantly to gain some sort of control. It's a struggle. The room around her seems airless, is so bland and featureless that it is becoming suffocating.
Featureless, aside from the hulking machinery in the middle. Dull metal, muted hospital colours. The analytical side of her, the psychologist that seems to have been buried deep beneath mountains of medication and appointments and side-effects and lists of things to do and not do knows that it's the representation of what it all means that is getting to her. That is making her feel like she's going to collapse under the weight of it all.
Her attempts to control it fail; the edges of her vision darken slightly.
She can't do this. She really can't.
Mia, the young but somehow implausibly wise artist, stops what she is doing and studies her. "Take your time," she tells Grace, her voice gentle, almost musical. "There's no rush. No need to start until you're absolutely ready."
There is a quality to her, despite the bright ink weaving its way up and down her arms that to some could be so off-putting, that is extremely caring and somehow… knowing. If she learned nothing else in the last few days, she's learned that this woman really does care.
It's as if she knows the struggle fighting beneath the surface. And maybe that's what breaks the last of her self-control, letting the tears spill over freely.
"I never considered that this would be… part of it," Grace admits, swiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. Mia reaches behind her and then holds out a tissue box.
"Most people don't," the young woman agrees. "I didn't, either."
Midway through wiping her eyes, Grace stares at her.
Mia smiles, her expression gentle and filled with a quiet understanding. Something passes between them, something Grace can't name. "At the risk of seeming unprofessional, can I show you something?" she asks, her tone soft and low. Grace nods without any hesitation.
Slowly, Mia removes her apron and carefully unbuttons the top part of her shirt. Then she pulls down the left side of the fabric. Her skin is pale, almost as pale as Grace's. A long, faded scar runs down her chest, perfectly central over her sternum. The bright pink lace of her bra is a sharp contrast. Carefully, she tugs the shirt further aside, shows Grace a swirl of colour nestled there above the curves of her flesh where her breast rises to meet her chest wall, a collection of brightly shaded daisies. When she lifts the bottom of her shirt, there are more flowers below the lace, spreading out and arcing gracefully across her ribs and down towards her belly.
"Look in the centre of the flowers," she urges. "Can you see the tiny black dots?"
Graces looks. She sees the radiographer's marks, but she also sees the beauty in the artwork surrounding them. It's an effort to speak, her throat seems to have closed up. "You," she croaks, then coughs.
Mia nods. "Fifteen years ago, yeah. I lost a good chunk of my lung, some heart function and nearly two years of my life. I'd never, ever wanted a tattoo. Was quite anti-ink, to be honest. But then my ideas of art school were put on hold because we both know that cancer loves to sneak up on you and throw your plans out the window, don't we?"
Thinking of all the things that have fallen by the wayside, Grace nods ruefully. There is a trace of bitterness, yes, but mostly just sadness. She has adjusted over time. Learned to deal with the now. The future, she hopes, will sort itself out.
If she's lucky.
"Are you ready?"
She's not. She's really not. But still, Grace edges her sweater up and off over her head. Unbuttons her own blouse as Mia refastens hers. Trembling, she motions to her bra, but mercifully Mia shakes her head. "No, it's okay. Leave it and if I need to, I'll move the edge of the fabric."
It's a small win. Easing herself down onto her back, Grace shivers. The table is cool beneath her skin, as is the room. Mia talks quietly, explaining everything. How the treatment will work, how she will lie just like this when she comes here five times a week. How it only takes minutes each time. She shows Grace how the laser marks shining down help her map where the cancer is against the scans that were taken before she came to this cold, quiet room.
She shivers again, feels like the walls are pressing in on her. Mia continues to speak, her words a gentle murmur that offer reassurance but also truth. Carefully, the measurements are made, the angles chosen. Mia takes a pen and makes four small dots on Grace's skin. Takes time to allow it to sink in. Literally and figuratively. Explains how the angles will work with each mark, where the radiation will be aiming. It helps.
Grace sits up slowly. Stares at the tiny pen marks. Dots.
Dots that will be transformed into lasting ink.
The hulking machinery is intimidating, but the thought of being tattooed even more so. A permanent, indelible reminder of the lengths she had to go to. Of the cancer.
If she survives, of course.
If she doesn't… well, the marks will die with her and no one will be the wiser.
Peter.
He will know. He already knows. He's waiting outside for her. Offered to come in with her when he saw how hesitant she was. She gave him a smile and said she'd be fine.
She's anything but.
She's a fraud.
Mia is sitting watching her, clear grey eyes kind and understanding.
"I feel silly," Grace admits, the tears welling again.
"Don't. It's a big thing. It took me years to deal with it. But now I'm a tattoo artist in my spare time."
It's shocking, and not. "Really?"
Mia nods, her pink-streaked auburn curls escaping their braid. "It was my way of making peace with my cancer. I spent so much time in hospital that I wanted to help people the way I was helped, which is how I ended up here, but the need to be an artist never left, so I use that as my outlet."
"Wow. Did you…" Grace gestures towards Mia's chest.
The younger woman laughs. "No. It's my design, but a friend did it for me."
"Did it hurt?" The question falls into the air like lead. Is that what she's been most afraid of?
"The flowers, yes. The chest is one of the most painful places to be tattooed. But my radiation marks didn't, not really. They're tiny." A pause fills the air between them.
Grace can't find the words she wants.
"It will take me seconds to do it," Mia assures her. "It won't be as bad as you think, I promise."
Grace takes a deep, steadying breath. Tries to summon her courage. Gives Mia a watery smile. "Thank you. For being patient with me. For being so kind."
"I was in your shoes once. I know what it feels like." Mia offers her a hospital gown. Helps her slide into it then gathers her top and sweater. Indicates a door across from them. "Let me show you the tattoo equipment – maybe that will help."
It does help, surprisingly. Being shown the gun, the needles, the ink, and everything else. Mia takes her time, again explains how it all works, and in the end, Grace settles back in the big arm chair and breathes slowly before nodding to the woman she has quickly learned to trust.
Mia rests a hand on her shoulder. "It's okay, I promise."
And it is, even though it isn't. It stings, but nowhere near as bad as she was expecting, and it's over very quickly.
She can't look down. Feels suddenly incredibly claustrophobic. Wonders if the room really is shrinking. It's definitely getting darker, as if the sun is going down in a hurry.
"Look at me." It's a soft command, but one she instinctively obeys. Grey eyes, a steady expression. "It's done. Breathe with me, okay?"
And she does. It helps. A little.
Those eyes are still watching her, filled with concern.
"Come with me." Mia offers a hand and Grace takes it. Finds herself standing in front of a long mirror. She trembles, tries not to look at herself. Knows she's a long way from what she was a few months ago.
"Trust me," says Mia.
There's a lump in her throat, one that it's hard to swallow. Eventually, she manages a whisper. "Okay."
"Look. Your heart is here, and your lungs, your stomach, pancreas and liver." She goes on, and Grace watches, fascinated as the radiographer points out where all her organs are. Slim, slender fingers move, tracing a map across her body before coming to rest again and tapping gently. "And this, just inside here, is where your cancer is. Has anyone told you that before? Shown you exactly where it is?"
Tears fill her eyes again, and Grace shakes her head, staring at the image in the mirror. Her own hand moves to touch the spot Mia has pointed out. "I had the surgery, but I didn't… no one told me. No one showed me…" She can't finish the sentence.
"Well, I've studied your scans, and I can tell you this is exactly where it is. And these little dots I've just made are going to let us target that cancer like this." She points to each new tattoo in turn, motioning the angle the radiation will be aimed at.
It makes so much more sense. It makes the tears fall faster and thicker. Mia fetches her blouse and sweater, helps her into them and then offers the tissues again as they sit at the table. Slowly, Grace calms. Feels a sense of embarrassment creep over her.
"I'm sorry," she offers, mortified. "I don't usually fall apart like that."
"You have nothing to be sorry about."
It's far too natural to object. "But I – "
"No," Mia interrupts firmly, holding up a hand. "You've been through an ordeal. You're still going through it. It's hard. Sometimes tears are the best way to deal with it. To bleed some of the stress and pain off."
"I may have heard something like that before," Grace admits. Internally, she winces at herself. Doesn't have time to start castigating her own idiocy, though, because Mia continues.
"Are you in touch with the Macmillan team?"
She should be. She promised she would be. Slowly Grace shakes her head.
"Why not?"
Honesty wins out. "I don't know. I just… haven't be able to make myself do it."
"Surely they approached you when you were first diagnosed?"
Miserably, Grace nods.
Mia watches her for a moment, seems to pick up on something. "Okay. Can I make a referral for you?"
"Please. It's time I talked to someone. I did promise." The thought of it terrifies her. She wonders if that's because it involves letting someone else into her life. Someone she will have to discuss all the intimate details with. Someone who will find out the secret she and Peter have worked so hard to keep.
Mia writes something in her notes, then looks up again, though she remains silent for a little while. "Don't beat yourself up," she says at last. "I do this for a living, but I've also been there. I know very well that cancer can have all sorts of effects on people. Can make your mind go to unimaginably horrible and strange places. It's not your fault. But support is available."
It's such a tangled, complicated mess that Grace clamps her lips shut. If she can't untangle it all, what's to say a stranger will be able to help her?
Mia finishes writing, closes her folder and sits back in her chair. "Can I give you some advice? Practical sort of advice?"
"Of course." She's listened to a lot of advice in recent months. From doctors, to nurses and technicians, to fellow patients. Some of it has been helpful, some of it less so. With advice, she's back on level ground.
"When you come for radiotherapy, your skin will probably become very sore, maybe even blister or burn. A normal bra won't be comfortable. I went without at home, and used a soft cotton sports bra when I had to go out."
"I read something like that," Grace acknowledges, thinking of all the research she's been doing on her good days.
"Some women find they prefer to just go without, but I have way too much cleavage for that. I couldn't be doing with my boobs flapping about in public, not on top of how rough I felt. I think you might find the same."
For the first time, Grace really smiles. "I think you might be right. Though the man out there waiting for me definitely won't complain if I forgo a bra at home."
Mia snickers. "Men! They're all the same. An eyeful of chesticles and they'll lose track of whatever it was they were doing."
Grace nods in agreement. Then sobers again as she thinks of Boyd and what this means.
The radiographer senses the change immediately. Softens her tone and asks, "What is it?"
It takes a while the gather her thoughts. And when she does, it's startling how so much spills forth. "This… me and him… it's so new, and now…"
"Are you worried that he will change what he thinks of you because of the tattoos?"
She's not sure. "I don't know," Grace admits. "I don't think he will, but…"
"How long have you been together?"
"Since September, I think."
"Hm, not too long. Is that before or after you were diagnosed?"
Grace swallows. Feels a rush of sickness she can't attribute to anything. "After. I didn't tell him, I tried to hide it. Said I was going to a conference abroad but then a colleague told him and he came to the hospital and I was abducted and… Well, it's all a mess, really."
"You were abducted?" Mia looks both startled, and appalled.
Linda. Even now, the memories haunt her in her weaker moments. She hasn't told him. Boyd. Can't bear to add another layer to his worrying. Slowly, Grace nods. "By a serial killer. She found out I was in hospital, and she took me to make Peter suffer. To… try and force him into being a killer. Somehow, she knew that he would do anything to save me."
"Didn't the police do anything?"
Grace pauses, reflects on what she's said. Blurted out. She hasn't shared any of this. Didn't mean to, either. "We both work for the police," she finally explains. "He's a superintendent, I'm a psychologist on loan to his unit from the Home Office."
"So, you've known each other a long time then?"
"Years." Thinking back, it's startling how long it's been. "A lot of years."
"And this serial killer?"
"We were investigating her. And she… tried to give me an overdose of chemotherapy. I was bound to a chair, gagged. I was there as she was trying to manipulate him into killing someone to save me."
Without knowing it, her pulse has skyrocketed, her breathing become gasps.
Mia's grey eyes are still steady, her expression equally so. "Did he?"
Confusion rattles around her brain. "What?"
"Did Peter kill someone else to save you?"
The edges of her vision are going dark again. Grace shakes her head fiercely. "No. He wouldn't. The only person who died that day was Linda. The killer."
Silence sits between the two of them, and it takes an age before Grace realises Mia is holding her hand and breathing slowly and deeply in a way that she has started to copy. Only then does she see that she's started to calm down, that the darkness has begun to recede.
"I'm going to mark that referral as urgent," Mia tells her evenly. "I think you need to speak to someone soon, and if they don't have someone to help you, they can probably point you in the right direction. But this, what's happened to you, and what's still happening to you, needs addressing, don't you think?"
"Yes." It's a whispered admission, but an admission all the same.
Shame fills her. She promised him she would talk to someone, but she hasn't. Panic has clawed at her each time she's tried. Burying it all has been easier. Unhealthy, certainly, but easier.
"How often have you been having panic attacks?"
The question is blunt and unexpected. Grace freezes, her mind fixing on the word panic. So far, she has successfully convinced herself that it's all been just another side effect, yet another consequence of the harsh treatment she's enduring. And maybe it has, but she's not put a lifetime of effort into working her way up to the top of her field without knowing that these things can be horribly intermingled, has she?
Of course not.
Strangely, acceptance is simply just there, out of the blue and without her needing to fight her way through to it. There's a problem, and she needs to deal with it.
Maybe she just needed to hear someone else say it. Someone unconnected.
"I'm not sure," she admits. "I think some days there are several, and other days there are none."
"There's no point in me asking if you've been to your GP about this, is there?"
Mutely, Grace shakes her head.
"Have you told him?"
"Who? Peter?"
"Yes."
She bites her lip, thinking. "We've argued about it before. And I did promise that I would do something about it, but," she stops abruptly, thinking about all the things that have happened recently. The chemo, the exhaustion, the endless hospital trips, the complications and side-effects, the fear. The need to try and get out on her good days, to spend what precious time they can together. The terror that it will all become too much, that he won't be able to continue on with it. With her.
It's as if Mia is reading her mind, the way those steady grey eyes are watching her. "Do you love him?"
"God yes. So much." The answer comes instantly, without thought.
"And if I asked him the same question about you, what would he say?"
"That he loves me," she answers, knowing its true. The dark demons of illness are just that – demons. The rational side of her knows that he adores her, that he is deeply committed to her.
"There you are then."
Guilt gnaws at her as she looks up and finds that friendly gaze. Hands still twisting together in her lap, she surrenders. "I know," she murmurs. And she does. He does love her; she knows he does.
He tells her regularly. He shows her daily.
He's promised her the world if she fights her way through this. Just this morning he was talking about taking an extended holiday when she's recovered. Somewhere warm and peaceful, where they can relax and be alone, eat good food and laze in the sun, drink too much wine and make love under the stars. With his arms wrapped around her from behind, and his lips dotting tender kisses along her neck and shoulders, it had sounded like paradise.
While she's been thinking, Mia has been typing. "Referral submitted," are the words that bring her out of her thoughts.
"Thank you." Even to her own ears, her voice sounds weak and inadequate.
Mia hands her a folder of information. "This is all related to the radiation. There's a lot of information in there; facts, general guidance, support services, things to look out for. Most of it is what we discussed with Doctor West earlier. There're some advice sheets too, though. If you're worried about anything in particular, you can call the department and I or someone else will get back to you as soon as we can."
They spend a few more minutes together, and then, when Grace is fully dressed and composed, she thanks Mia. Prepares to make her way back out to the waiting room.
"Take care of yourself Grace," the young woman tells her. "Come and see me when you're here for radiotherapy, if you want. If you're early one day, we can chat if you like. It's going to be okay. Hard, but you'll get through it."
Feeling reassured, she makes her way outside. Finds her tall, dark and handsome man leaning against a wall, clearly bored. He looks up, spots her, gives her a smile that's only ever for her as she walks towards him.
"How are you feeling?" Boyd pushes himself off the wall, reaches out for her. Takes her folder and effortlessly draws her into his body, his arms surrounding her entirely, grounding her.
For a few moments, Grace can't say anything. Can't bring herself to even begin to start trying to unravel all the things overwhelming her and trying to tell him how she feels. "Raw," she settles on, resting her head against his chest. He's warm and comforting and he smells wonderful, but she can't breathe. Feels the world closing in on her again. "Can we go somewhere for a walk? Somewhere quiet, with nature?"
His grip tightens almost imperceptibly, but enough to tell her that's he understands. "Of course."
…
She doesn't have the energy to walk a long way, but it doesn't matter. Boyd is, as ever, as accommodating as she needs him to be. They meander, hand in hand, through the park and listen to the quiet, to the trees and to the breeze.
There's so much she wants to tell him, to try and explain about how she feels, but none of it makes sense. It's all a mess inside her, swirling around like the very air around them as the breeze picks up, becomes a chilly wind. Beside her, she can feel tension in her lover. Tension borne of worry that she will get too cold. And that makes it even harder. How can she unburden herself to him, when he's already stressed? Already worried. Already trying to help her cope as it is.
How can she tell him, after everything they've been though, that this latest development, these few tiny dots, have challenged her self-image so much?
At the next fork in the path, Grace turns towards the car. Feels Boyd visibly relax a little through the connection of their hands. He won't be fully calm until they are home and she is tucked beneath a blanket on the sofa, but she knows he appreciates the choice.
The stress is eating both of them, in their own individual ways.
It's relentless.
…
He won't understand.
She's being harsh, Grace knows, but he just won't.
Boyd is a man, and a younger one at that, and he… he just won't.
Standing in the bathroom, her blouse pulled aside, she stares at her reflection. They are not glaringly obvious, the new tattoos, despite the redness of the skin surrounding them, but they are still there.
Still obvious to her.
Permanent.
Forever.
She starts to shake, bites down savagely on her lower lip.
Refuses to cry, because then he will ask why, and she can't tell him. Can't yet explain the way it feels to be branded with ink, to mark the very spot where disease is trying to kill her. The very spot, which if she survives, she will look at forever and be reminded of how much her body has changed, how much it has been permanently scarred.
Scarred because of her fight, she reminds herself.
It doesn't help.
Angry, she yanks the blouse off, pulls on a soft tee shirt and thick sweater. Hides away her skin.
This is stupid. She knows it.
She should be grateful. Should be happy about how far she's come, that there are still treatments which will hopefully banish this scourge from her body entirely and leave her to enjoy the rest of her life. She has a man who loves her, medical professionals who are helping her, and so much more to be grateful for, but here she is wallowing in self-pity over a few little dots?
She's pathetic.
Except she's not.
Isn't she?
Logically she knows it's going to take time to process all of this. Emotionally though, it's a whole different story.
Sometimes, being a psychologist isn't helpful.
Isn't helpful at all.
…
Bedtime is hard.
Harder than she expected.
But, as he has been throughout all of this, Boyd is both gentle and considerate. Quietly, he looks when she lies beside him, showing him her latest war wounds. And then he kisses her with an exquisite, artless finesse and whispers softly into her ear. "It changes nothing, Grace. Nothing."
A muted, "Mm," is all she can muster. She wants to say more, but the words are not there. Not today.
They snuggle together, but tonight there is, for Grace, something lacking. It's not his fault. It's not really anything to do with him. It's just…
Her self-confidence has taken such a battering in recent months, and as much as she's tried to be strong, done her best to remind herself that it's natural, prompted herself to think about all the theories she studied, all the patients she has counselled over the years…
It's hard.
Boyd holds her, says nothing. But the silent, reassuring weight of him, the security of his arm tucked across her, it helps, and eventually she slips into a fitful sleep. The nightmares stalk her, as they usually do, but sometime after two o'clock she finally segues into a deeper, dreamless slumber.
…
Boyd is gone when she wakes in the morning, and Grace rolls to face his side of the bed, her mind already tumbling deep into thoughts she'd really rather push away for now.
Emerald eyes and inquisitive whiskers are waiting for her. A soft paw reaches out to touch her nose.
"Hello."
Freyja yawns and stretches as she stands, her back arching perfectly before she meanders over and drops herself down against Grace's chest, rolling onto her back, paws in the air, expectations quite clear.
It's impossible to suppress a chuckle, and as she frees a hand from the duvet to provide the requested tummy tickling service, Grace coos softly to her pet.
The resulting purr is loud and very, very soothing.
"What am I going to do, hm? How am I supposed to sort my head out this time?"
Somehow, in the last few months, Freyja has become a trusted confidant and the keeper of a great many of Grace's secrets. The little cat, no matter how mischievous, can always be relied on for cuddles, purrs, and a fluffy, listening, judgement-free ear.
It takes a supreme effort, but eventually Grace forces herself out of bed. She showers, dresses, and makes her way downstairs with her shadow at her side.
If – when – she makes it through this, and some sort of normality is established between them, what then? How will he look at her when all of this fades to a distant memory, but her scars and marks are still there?
There will come a point – there has to – when they return to being driven, impatient, argumentative, and embroiled in their generally fast-paced lives. A point when all the tenderness and the understanding and allowances brought by illness fade away. How will she feel then, Grace asks herself. Her body will never recover entirely, of that she is certain. Has been told several times. How will she feel, when she looks in the mirror and sees the ravages of both time and illness?
How will she feel, stood beside a younger man for whom time only seems to bring a deepening of his already handsome and distinguished profile?
And worse, how will he feel, with an older woman who cannot compete?
He fell in love with her as she was before, Grace knows that. But what if when all this is over, she's not the same anymore?
Her body has changed. Her strength has changed. Her stamina has changed. Her emotions have changed, too.
All this time, she's been so focused on surviving, that the future hasn't really formed part of the picture.
But what happens afterwards?
…
The afternoon sun is weak, but still provides a little warmth. It's pleasant against her skin as she walks slowly and quietly around the block. Weeks ago, when better days allowed, she started taking a little afternoon stroll if her body felt up to it. And as she listens to the sound of cars and birds and children playing nearby, all perfectly ordinary sounds of normality, Grace reflects on how it was one of the best decisions she's made during her recovery.
Boyd doesn't know. He'd have a fit if he thought she was out on her own, unsteady on her feet, but to Grace it's been glorious. Fresh air, movement, a chance to see more than the walls of her own home and the hospital.
She doesn't go far, the energy just isn't there, and despite the fact that the second lot of chemo was far easier than the first and the sickness was minimal, everything has ached for months.
Spring flowers are poking their heads up in people's front gardens, their cheerful colours something to smile about as she slowly makes her way along. There's a blueness to the sky as well, a promise of summer to come later down the line as winter fades away. It helps take the edge of the crippling panic attack she had just before coming outside.
They're getting worse.
She can't deny it any longer.
So are the nightmares.
Maybe not the content, but the frequency is increasing with chilling speed.
Perhaps Mia was right. Maybe it really is time to talk to someone.
Maybe when that referral comes through, it's time to accept the help of the Macmillan team?
Two doors from her own home, a ginger tom is sitting on the garden wall. Grace has seen him about for some time, has acquainted herself with him in recent weeks. A strapping young chap that looks like he could take on a fox and win with ease, he's burly and has been blessed with a permanent frown that screams standoffishness, but Grace knows differently.
"Hello Bill," she murmurs, perching beside him on the wall to rest her weary legs and get her breath back. "How are you today?" She offers a hand, and the huge moggie leans into it, soliciting head scratches and praise as she tells him how handsome he is. When she settles a little more comfortably against the bricks, Bill climbs into her lap and the rumble in the back of his throat turns to a thunderous purr.
"What do you think?" she asks him. "I keep promising and promising Peter that I'll talk to someone. Do you think they can help me?"
The response is a solid headbutt against her chin as Bill plants his forepaws against her shoulder before craning his head to stare at her.
"Hm," murmurs Grace, tickling under his chin. "Yes, I suppose so. We can't do it alone, that's what I've always counselled people, isn't it?"
A ginger forehead rubs against her jaw and she laughs, runs her fingers through his thick, fluffy fur. Bill settles again and looks up at her, the weak sunlight catching a scar on his nose. "What's this?" asks Grace, tracing a fingertip over it. "Have you been fighting? What will the lady cats think?" Bill purrs, and nudges her into stroking his head once again.
It's a battle scar, alright. Old, healed now, and a reminder of something he faced. And Grace suspects that any lady cats Bill may find on his neighbourhood travels will not be bothered in the slightest by it.
Oh.
Hm.
It's food for thought. Thoughts she files away to cogitate on later.
The sofa is calling.
In the end, she has to shoo Bill out of her lap so she can go inside and take a little snooze. Freyja is not best pleased when she smells the evidence of Grace's transgressions, and growls her displeasure. For a moment, she stands on the coffee table, glaring, her tail twitching irritably, but evidently the lure of their usual afternoon snuggle under a particularly cosy blanket is too much, because she grudgingly settles down and together the pair drift off.
…
Dinner is quiet, though not unpleasant. Grace is still struggling with the chaotic mess that is the inside of her head and the storm of emotion that is her heart, and Boyd has had a long day. They chat, but in a muted way. There is warmth, as always, but the energy of their normal conversation is absent.
They retreat to the living room for a little while, where Boyd watches football and Grace reads, and then they give in to the call of their bed. Leaving the bathroom last, Grace pulls the bedroom door to behind her and steps out of her slippers, hanging her robe over the footboard before walking around to her side.
She doesn't hide from him, doesn't try to stop him from seeing the four little dots that have shaken her so much, but she doesn't comment on them either. He may be unbothered, but she's just not ready. Hasn't got there yet.
"Come here," is the soft command as she slides between the sheets. There's nothing authoritarian about it, just an invitation to slip into his arms and relax.
And relax she does. Draws in a big breath and lets it out slowly, trying to expel the negatives, to calm her mind.
Boyd kisses the top of her head, plays with the half inch or so of spiky hair that is growing back fairly steadily now that she's bid a – hopefully lasting – goodbye to chemotherapy. What radiotherapy holds for her, Grace isn't sure, but it's a huge blessing to be moving on from endless hours in hospital, watching poison drip into her veins.
"I missed you today," Boyd murmurs against her shoulder as he kisses her idly, exploring the warmth of her skin without any real intent.
"You miss me every day," Grace smiles, fidgeting her way onto her back so she can look up at him as he lounges on his side, head propped on a hand.
"Very true." It's a solemn acknowledgement, tempered with a spark in his eyes. His free hand finds one of hers, brings her fingers to his lips. Kisses them warmly, then studies her nails. "You should let Eve come and see you one lunch time. She did a nice job painting these before."
He's right. It had been an indulgence, and a lovely couple of hours of girly chat and friendship. "I'll call her tomorrow, maybe," she muses. "See if she wants to come over. Or maybe we can go somewhere for lunch."
"Good."
Boyd releases her hand, instead running his palm over her shoulder and down the length of her arm. The movement causes him to shift slightly, and the light falls against his bare chest, revealing marks that were not there yesterday.
The breath catches in Grace's throat, her body stills, freezing in place as she stares.
There, on his chest, exactly where her flesh is now marked, are four tiny little dots. Four miniscule marks indelibly inked into his skin.
"Peter…" she breathes, words failing her.
He takes her hand again, returns her fingers to his lips. "I love you as you, Grace. All the marks, all the scars – they're all just a part of your journey, part of you. These," he eases the quilt away from her torso, presses a fingertip to each mark in turn, "they're nothing to be ashamed of. Nothing to be worried about. They're there to help, and when all of this is over, they're be there to remind both of us that you won."
"But… you…" Once again, she is lost for words, rendered inarticulate by his gesture of solidarity.
"I didn't want you to feel alone, to feel like any of this or these tiny insignificant tattoos, define who you are."
Grace swallows, the sudden lump in her throat huge and liable to choke her.
"Do I look disfigured?" he asks.
She shakes her head, not trusting her voice.
"Do I look ugly to you?"
"No." The word is spoken without thought.
"Do you love me any less than you did yesterday?"
"I love you more."
Boyd smiles, leans forward, and kisses her slowly, sweetly. "There you are then," he whispers. "That's exactly what I've been trying to tell you. It – these marks – don't matter to me, Grace. I love you, and that's all there is to it."
There's no point or reason to argue with him. Not over this. And she's too blown away by the gesture to even begin formulating a verbal plan of attack.
She doesn't want to.
He's just…
This is…
Unbelievable.
Body settles her against him, her back to his chest, his arm looped protectively around her. The lights are out and she can no longer see him, but her mind is fixated on that vision of his chest, the smooth skin adorned with four tiny black marks, four permanent reminders that he loves her.
She's never known anyone like him.
Never.
And that makes her all the more grateful for a man who chooses to use ink to tell her that he loves her, all of her. Boyd could have had her name tattooed on his chest, but this… well, this is more meaningful. This is love and solidarity and commitment and his own strange sense of humour, his own unique streak of wildness all wrapped up together and it is overwhelming. Even more so that he seems utterly calm about it all.
It's all just so –
"Stop thinking," it's a firm, if sleepy remark from behind her. "If you must think about it, do it tomorrow while I'm out."
A small smile forms on her lips. "But I always think!"
"True…" The mischief is as evident in his tone as it was in hers. Sadly, she's too tired tonight. He knows it, too.
"Go to sleep, Grace," Boyd mumbles, settling more comfortably. "I love you; you love me. That's enough."
