Chapter Text
Disclaimer: I don't own anything, I'm just borrowing things for a while and I promise I'll put everything back exactly how I found it when I've finished. Well, almost exactly how I found it. ;)
WtD-WtD-WtD-WtD-WtD-WtD
Boyd swore as he tried to juggle his overcoat and briefcase in one hand while attempting to open the front door with the other. The bag of shopping didn't help either, and he bitterly wondered, not for the first time, why his wife had asked him to pick up the groceries on the way home. As if he wasn't busy enough; as if he didn't have enough on his mind already. The front door refused to open and swearing louder, Boyd put his shoulder to it, grunting as it unstuck. Unfortunately, the momentum carried him through at a stumble. Keys clattered to the ground, briefcase fell to the floor and cracked open, and then, to top it all, the bag with the egg and milk in slipped from his fingers and landed on his open case.
For a moment, Boyd simply stood and stared at the mess before him, wondering how many of the multitude of Gods he had severely pissed off to be saddled with the luck he had. Finally deciding he didn't really care to find an answer to that, Boyd began swearing sulphurously again, the very air around him blistering with curses. Then, at the same time but from different directions, he heard two voices.
"Peter! Do *not* use language like that in the house, especially in front of Joe!"
"Dad!"
Boyd looked up to glare at Mary first, as she had emerged from the kitchen, hands on her hips and a frown on her face. Then he turned, just in time to catch his son as Joe came hurtling down the stairs and launched himself into his dad's arms. Unfortunately, Joe didn't pay much mind to where his legs were going, and the solid kick in the nuts Boyd received was the last straw.
"How many times have I told you not to run in the house?" he roared at his eight year old son. "Go to your room!"
"But, Dad…!" Joe started to protest, but Boyd cut him off.
*"Now!"* Boyd told him. Joe's expression hovered between hurt, angry and defiant before he finally turned and stomped upstairs as loudly as he could. "And don't stamp your feet!"
Mary was staring incredulously at her husband. "What the hell is the *matter* with you, Peter?" she asked, walking towards him. "He's just a boy!"
"He's old enough to know better," Boyd snapped back, looking down at the ruined paperwork in his briefcase…and the ruined briefcase. The part of his mind that was turning insane because of the stress wondered if he could make a cake of it all if he added sugar and flour to the eggs, work, and milk.
"He's a boy," Mary repeated. "Go and apologise to him."
Boyd's head snapped up and his dark eyes flashed. "I am *not* a boy," he replied heatedly. "So don't treat me like one."
"Then don't act like one!" Mary shook her head. "I don't understand you; you were never this bad tempered. What happened?"
Boyd almost said 'I married you!' but he clamped his jaw shut at the last second. He had to keep reminding himself that *he* pursued *her*; sometimes he wondered why the hell he had bothered. Obviously he wasn't thinking clearly enough at the time. Instead he knelt and started to clean up the mess in front of him, all the time watching Mary's feet to see if she would leave. She didn't.
"Ignoring me isn't going to help matters either."
"I don't think I've ever had the luxury of being able to ignore you, have I?"
Mary stared at his bowed head in disbelief. "What *is* this all about? Is it because I asked you to pick a few bits up? Is that why you're throwing a tantrum?"
Boyd stood quickly, the muscles in his shoulders bunching in frustration and anger. "No, that was the straw that broke the camel's back, I think!" he shouted back. "All you have to do is look after the house; clean it, do the shopping, look after Joe. If that's too much to ask, you should have said so before you volunteered! And before you say it, this was *not* my idea! I've told you that you can find work if you want, but you're too happy basking in the glory of being married to a copper who's going somewhere!"
"Glory? *Glory?* You think there's any glory to be had married to *you*?" Mary yelled. "You're crazy! It's a first class chore - I should get a medal with each year that bloody well passes!"
"You want to leave, the door's right there!" Boyd told her, pointing behind him.
Mary stared at him. "You're not serious."
"Perfectly. After all, you won't be interested in me if I end up staying as a DS all my life, will you?"
"What are you talking about? You're due a promotion, with a couple of weeks," Mary said, frowning. "It was a sure thing."
"Exactly, *was*," Boyd replied. "Now it's looking as likely as snow tomorrow."
"But what happened?" Mary asked, her expression growing aghast. "I've already made arrangements for a celebratory dinner party…." She trailed off in horror as she realised she had said too much.
Boyd's answering expression was grim, triumphant and menacing in equal parts. "This is *exactly* what I'm talking about! I don't want to be promoted just so my wife can gloat; I want to be promoted because I earned it for being good at my bloody job!"
"You haven't told me why you won't get the promotion," Mary prodded, trying to steer the conversation away from her blunder.
Boyd ran a hand through his hair in frustration, noting absently how long it was becoming. "I hit a suspect, alright? The little shit was being a wanker, so I hit him. Unfortunately the other copper sitting in on the interview hates my guts and we'd no sooner left the room than the bastard went and grassed on me."
Mary stared for a while, then shook her head. "You bloody idiot," she said, her tone frankly disappointed.
"Thanks," Boyd replied flatly. "Just the loving support I expect from my wife." He bent once again to try and clean the mess that was now starting to congeal.
But Mary wasn't finished. "Who's Grace?" She knew the answer, of course; he had explained all about his old friend when they first met. But now, it seemed, there was a different purpose to her question, almost as though Grace's position in her husband's life had changed.
Boyd froze, his heart racing without his permission, and his mouth grew dry. Slowly, making sure his face was expressionless, he looked up. "Why?"
"Who is she?" Mary repeated.
"Someone I used to know," Boyd replied wearily. "It doesn't matter."
But Mary saw through her husband as clearly as if he was a sheet of glass. "Then why do you mutter her name when you're asleep? I didn't notice so much at first. I dismissed it as simple ramblings in your sleep, but over the past few months you talk about her every night. Who is she, Peter?"
Boyd stood, finally having given up with his briefcase. He fixed his wife with a decidedly chilling stare before replying, "I told you, it doesn't matter. I need a drink."
Mary watched her husband walk down the hallway to the living room, noticing the slight slump in his broad shoulders, and she began to wonder how much longer they could remain together.
TBC