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Chapter Text

Noted

Scanning the uncharacteristic mess covering the surface of his desk, Boyd scowls and shoves papers aside, hunting irritably and unsuccessfully.

“Grace!” The bellow is loud and angry, indicative of his fraying temper and rapidly evaporating patience.

“What?” is the equally irritable demand issued in return as she pauses in his doorway, her expression making it clear that he has interrupted her in some way.

At this precise moment though, he doesn’t particularly care. Not when the ACC is expecting an update from him within the hour. “Where’s the file on the Adams lad? I can’t find it.”

Grace sighs, resting a hand against the frame as she regards him, annoyance still visible in her eyes. “That’s because I haven’t given it to you yet.”

“I wanted it yesterday!” he retorts, stacking pages and documents into piles to clear a fraction of usable working space. 

“’I want never gets.’”

“It does if it signs off on expense reports and holiday requests,” he replies, glancing up again.

Refusing to play, Grace simply shrugs. Stepping through the door to avoid being overheard, she utters a simple, “Fine, go away on your own next month, then.”

“Funny!” he glares. “Report, now!” Then, because it’s her, and only because it’s her, he adds a quieter, “Please.”

“Five minutes,” she tells him. “I’m just on my way to the ladies.”

“Oh, no! If that’s the case, I want it now.”

Grace scowls, her blues eyes narrowing dangerously as she stands for a moment, deliberating, before disappearing into her own office. She’s gone longer than he expects; several minutes pass before she marches back in, wordlessly drops a closed file squarely on top of the open book he is flicking through, and then marches back out again, pointedly ignoring him.

Intrigued by the set of her shoulders and the sharpness of her gait, Boyd tracks her as she moves across the squadroom, eyes inevitably drawn down to follow the outline of curves concealed by her clothing, his memory taking the pleasure to fill in for him all the intimate details of what lies beneath.

It’s half for show, half in tetchy frustration, her behaviour, and when she disappears through the double doors with a highly uncharacteristic bang of wood on mental, he finds a smirk breaking free to spread across his lips. Shaking his head, he opens the folder before him and finds a Post It note sitting squarely in the middle of the first page; three inches by three inches, it’s a soft yellow in colour, with Grace’s loopy, messy handwriting scrawled across it.

Ricardo meeting, 7:30. Sharp.

It’s utterly incongruous – meaningless to anyone else who might come across it. Not so to Boyd. Grace is offering him an olive branch, a chance to make it up to her for the petty squabbling and the large blocks of time they’ve spent apart in the last couple of weeks. Not by choice, admittedly, that lack of contact, but rather the nature of the job, and a series of unfortunate circumstances that have conspired to occur all at once. Still, it doesn’t mean he hasn’t missed waking in the mornings with her warm body curled up against his, or, for that matter, going sleep beside her. Or even…

His eyes focus on the page again, before his mind, his thoughts, betray him. Yes, it’s an olive branch all right, but one with a slight sting to it, for Sharp is not a warning to be on time to the restaurant of her choice. It’s a warning to simply be there.

And why not, he thinks. It’s Friday afternoon, and after he’s dealt with his prickly, impatient superiors the earliest escape he can manage seems justified after the week they’ve had. Take her out, have a nice meal and spend the entire weekend alone together. Definitely.

It’s been a long day – a long week, even. He wants to see her smile, make her laugh. See that wicked twinkle in her eyes when her impish streak blazes bright and his patience frays in an altogether different kind of way.

There are Post It’s in his draw, too. Two kinds, actually; official Metropolitan Police memo slips, complete with crest and contact details, and a stack of the same plain yellow squares that the two of them reserve just for one another. What started as an idle game – sending coded messages to relieve the boredom of a slow, rainy afternoon – has, several years later, transformed itself into a method of private, personal communication hidden in plain sight. 

He prints a neat reply, momentarily smug at the difference in their handwriting, and then tucks the tiny square inside a book of hers before getting to his feet and ambling across to her office, dumping the thick paperback unceremoniously in the middle of her desk.

She’ll get the message, and she will smile, the day’s hostility fading as she deciphers his hidden meaning. And through the glass he will catch her eye, and he will smile, too.

Chapter Text

Clock

Pain like the sawing, serrated edge of a red-hot knife is digging into Boyd’s neck, spreading out and down across his shoulders. It drags at his exhausted mind, his weary body, makes him wonder why the hell he is still doing this year after year, what it is that keeps driving him in the direction he’s spent his entire adult life travelling.

Rain – heavy, fat drops that glitter in the harsh glare of the sullen street lighting – splashes against his skin, his thick coat. Lands in his hair and sinks its icy daggers into his scalp, shocking a tiny scrap of energy back into him. It’s enough – just enough – for him to remember where he left his car, and to growl in irritation at the long walk back to the office to fetch it.

A cold wind whips around him, chilling his already dark mood.

Damn stupid meeting. Budget cuts; his superiors hounding him, criticising his every move. Trying to drag him down, crush him under the pressure. It feels like it, anyway.

It’s obscenely late; far too late to wake Grace, regrettably. There’s nothing he’d like more in the world right now than to hold her, feel the weight of her tucked safely against him. To inhale the familiar, comforting scent of her deep into his brain, his soul. Hear the soft murmur of her voice in his ear.

But she’ll be asleep by now, and he can’t wake her. He just can’t. It wouldn’t be fair.

A walk would be good for him, a chance to sort out some of the thoughts clashing and warring with each other inside his pounding skull. A release of some of the tension the long hours spent inside have created in his muscles and limbs. But facing the elements just isn’t worth it, not tonight. There’s a Tube station nearby, and it’ll have to do.

It’s even colder as he descends, as the escalator rumbles along, dragging him into the depths of London’s underground travel network. The heavy, soggy wool of his winter coat isn’t enough to fight the steadily growing chill, and Boyd stuffs his hands deep into his pockets as he steps onto level ground and heads left, striding down the long tunnel, but a moment later his fingers close around an unfamiliar scrap of paper and he halts, tugging it out and squinting at the little yellow square.

She knew, he thinks. She knew exactly how he would be feeling, and she was ready for it.

There are no words, only an intricate, detailed drawing of a clock. It’s a specific clock – an old-fashioned but simple dial, elegant wooden casing hand-carved by Grace’s great-great-grandfather, worn smooth by years of dusting and polishing as it passed from generation to generation. It sits above her fireplace, and without even thinking about it he can hear the rhythmic, soothingly deep tick that has lulled him to sleep on the sofa in her living room more times than he’d care to admit to. Can almost feel the warmth of her tucked against his chest as they while away a lazy hour or two together there.

It’s still incredibly late, but the clock on the Post-It has one crucial difference from its real life inspiration. It has no hands.

And that tells him everything he needs to know.

There are no words, but he doesn’t need them. Come home, she’s telling him. No matter how late it is, come home to me.

He doesn’t need to be told twice and within a heartbeat his feet have changed direction, are heading for the other tunnel. Heading for her.

She doesn’t need to ask him how bad it was. She can see it in him, he knows, and that makes everything about her, about them, all the more special.

There’s no whiskey, but there is tea. It’s not black, but it’s not hippy nonsense either. It’s warm and soothing and surprisingly just what he needs. And from the smile in her eyes she knows that, too.

Grace doesn’t ask questions, and he’s eternally grateful. Instead she tells him about her evening’s research, about the paper she’s presenting next month in Prague. He’s interested – was the one who encouraged her to go, despite how busy they are – but she could tell him anything now and it would still be the best thing he’s heard all day. Her voice is soft, low and infinitely soothing. It’s home.

His eyes close as he listens, sipping slowly, and the next thing he’s aware of are her fingers sliding beneath the collar of his jacket, pushing it aside. He leans forward, helps to shed the fabric, and then her hands are on his shoulders, fingers and thumbs digging into the flesh. The muscles tense, then relax, her touch soothing away the aches, the dulled but still angry pain that has plagued him for hours now.

Boyd groans softly as Grace works her way up his neck, fingers combing gently through his hair, dislodging the raindrops and playing softly across his scalp. Her touch is inordinately gentle, pulling him out of the cloudy haze of frustration the day has wrought. In the background he can just hear the soft tick of the clock emanating from the other room, lulling his senses into a heavy state of relaxation.

Hands stilling on his shoulders, Grace leans forward and presses a kiss to the top of his head. “We should go to bed,” she murmurs. “It’s late, and we have that meeting with Tomlinson tomorrow.”

He’s hellishly tired and desperate for sleep. So is she, he knows, but even so…

His mug is empty and the table seems a good place to abandon it. Allows him the opportunity to catch her hand as she moves away from him, heading for the door. “Grace…”

It’s easy to tug her into his lap, to wrap his arms around her and stare into the gentle depths of her blue eyes. It’s easier still to drown in her gaze, to lean forward and capture her lips with his own, to forget everything as she winds her arms around his neck and kisses him back. He’s lost almost immediately in the addictive reality that is her touch, her scent, the way her lips and tongue tangle with his own again and again.

It’s easy, too, to fall farther and faster than he intended to, to want everything and more once that first kiss takes hold of his senses.

She met him at the bottom of the stairs wearing only a dressing gown and blindly he reaches for the tie, pulling it apart with slow, easy finesse.

“Peter,” she murmurs, already breathless and dazed, but still somehow thinking. He could change that, he thinks. He should change that. Definitely.

The skin above her collarbone is impossibly soft, and as he pushes more of her robe aside his lips follow the departing fabric, eliciting a soft moan of pleasure from her.

“Tomorrow – ” she gasps, head falling back as he continues to explore.

“Today,” he corrects, aware of the time broadcast by the kitchen clock, but no longer the slightest bit bothered by the creeping hands, by the lateness of the hour. Instead he nips lightly at the base of her neck, lips and tongue forging a trail upwards even as the fingers of the hand not wrapped around her waist tug at silky fabric, seeking and finding the evocative curves hidden beneath.

Still caught by a streak of reality stubbornly holding on to her, Grace tries once more to remind him of the pressing need for sleep. “The meeting…” But her voice trails away as he finds her jaw, pressing a tiny line of kisses along its length.

“– is not until ten,” Boyd mumbles, currently not in the least bit concerned if he never sees Tomlinson and his cronies ever again. He will feel differently in the morning, he knows, but just at this moment…

Grace shifts against him and he can sense the change in her, feel the way she abandons any thought of practicality and common sense, even before she reaches for the first of his shirt buttons.

It really is far, far too easy to lose himself in her, he thinks, watching the way the look in her eyes changes, the way the fire builds as she concentrates on her task even as her gaze catches and holds his own.

“Bedroom?” she enquires, huskily.

There’s just the one word from her, but it’s the only one needed. He nods slowly, though they stay where they are, locked in the powerful, intimate grip of the unspoken communication they share so well. It adds to the rising anticipation, to the spark of electricity crackling between them just as much, perhaps even more so, than the roaming hands, the steadily more heated and impassioned kisses.

A minute, perhaps two or even three, they remain lost in each other, utterly immobile in the grip of silent words that transmit a depth of emotion that spellbinds them both, but then something she sees triggers a smile that goes straight to his heart, breaks though the trance a little. Enough for him find his voice again and agree with a deep, throaty murmur of, “Bedroom!” as a mischievous grin of his own breaks through.

Chapter Text

Chocolate

Happily ensconced in the lab, chatting away over biscuits and cups of mid-morning coffee, and relishing the temporary lack of semi-serious male posturing and squabbling, Grace and her two companions, Eve and Stella, laugh their way through the age-old debate currently on the table between them as they liberate several of the fancy sweet, chocolatey treats each from the packet she’s been saving for a special occasion in the back of her desk drawer.

The blessed silence that descended in the wake of the echoing bang of the doors that heralded the abrupt end of their protracted and overly difficult morning meeting is interrupted by the swish of the automatic doors, causing all of them to turn and look as Boyd enters.

Whether he has sniffed out the biscuit crumbs – as he is often wont to do – or whether he simply returned from wherever it was he went in a fit of shouting and slammed doors when he abruptly swept out of their dungeon after glaring so magnificently at Spencer, and then came looking for them, or her, Grace really doesn’t know. She doesn’t really care, either. The few minutes of peace and laughter and girl talk has been much-needed and thoroughly enjoyable.

What she does know, though, as he starts to fasten his white lab coat and takes a single step closer before pausing, is that he’s tall, handsome, and that, as he stands directly under the harsh beam of the ceiling light closest to the door, the light smirk lurking in the corner of his mouth even as he concentrates on the stubborn buttons beneath his fingers is a welcome replacement for the growling rage of earlier. He’s been under far too much stress just lately, and their last few cases have been particularly harrowing. Perhaps it’s time for her to do a bit of advance research and see if she can sway him towards another, less taxing case after their current one concludes...

Nice shoulders, she thinks idly as he straightens to his full height. She doesn’t need to close her eyes to mentally run her hands over the muscle that she knows perfectly well is hidden away there beneath the fabric of his dark grey shirt, picking out all the details. Nice shirt, she adds, her mind supplying her with the memory of unfastening the buttons on that particular garment on more than one occasion, each of them memorable in their own way. 

She smiles at her own daftness, but hides it behind a mask of mild curiosity. It won’t do for the two women beside her to know of her thoughts. Both of them, and Eve especially, are far too perceptive for their own good. No, what exists between her and Boyd in the shadowy hours of evening darkness, and the blissful freedom of weekends, is most definitely not for the eyes or ears of either of the two overly curious ladies Grace has just been sharing a much-needed good laugh and gossip with.

“Hello, Boyd,” she says, fighting the urge to smile just a little bit more softly at him. She is, after all, still a little miffed about his spectacular – and entirely predictable – loss of his temper earlier, despite the deliberate provocation offered by his exceptionally surly subordinate and second in command.

She really must get to the bottom of whatever it is that’s currently causing Spencer to be so much more quick-tempered and grouchy than usual, she muses briefly, before putting the thought to the back of her mind to deal with later. Spencer isn’t here, after all. But Boyd is, and unless she’s very much mistaken, the subtle but detectable barriers being reinstated by their two colleagues means that, if he is indeed in as good a mood as his smile hints at, Boyd is about to be subjected to the sort of female teasing that all three of them are going to thoroughly enjoy, and he is going to good-naturedly grumble about but yield to. There’s really nothing else for him to do, unless he wants to shatter the peace and tranquillity of their hard-earned morning break by resorting to shouting again, loudly enough to force at least two of them to flee the confines of the laboratory.

“Grace,” he nods, pausing once again to look carefully at all three of them. “Oh, God,” he groans, deliberately theatrical, arms folding across his chest as he considers them with care. “I’ve just walked in on something I really don’t want to know anything about, haven’t I?”

“We’re having the old debate about chocolate,” Grace tells him, watching his expression closely, doing her best to conceal the amusement inside her that so desperately wants to break free.

“What about it?” he asks, suspicion clearly written across his face.

“Whether chocolate is better than sex,” Eve explains.

Characteristically very male, Boyd scoffs. “No contest,” he snorts. “Chocolate is good, but it’s not that good!”

“Spoken like a typical man,” smirks Eve.

Boyd pins her with a stare. “Go on then, Doctor Lockhart. What’s your opinion on the matter?”

Eve laughs openly at him as he bristles slightly, and not for the first time Grace wonders just how much the other woman knows, suspects, and has observed regarding their prickly but good-hearted leader and his relationship status. “Well that depends,” she grins, and there is a lot of mischief in her eyes now as well as she looks up at him from the relative safety of the other side of the lab’s primary examination table.

“On?” demands Boyd, the slightest hint of the ominous creeping into his tone.

“The quality of the sex. And the man, of course – or the woman…”

“Also,” Stella pipes up, “it depends on the quality of the chocolate.”

Eve grins evilly. “Oh yes, absolutely. Swiss chocolate, for instance,” she muses, her tone turning dreamy. “Absolutely delicious.”

“No, no,” protests Stella, shaking her head quickly. “Belgian!”

“Hotel Chocolat,” murmurs Eve.

Grace looks at Boyd as the two younger ladies begin to squabble lightly over the merits of their own preferences. Not saying a word, she watches his face. Wonders if he remembers which type of chocolate is her favourite. And what else he might be thinking. His expression is inscrutable, concentrated.

“It’s not just that though, is it?” she adds, bringing them all back onto the topic at hand and effecting a thoughtful expression and tone as she looks at Eve and Stella. They stare back at her, unsure as to where she’s going. “Mood plays a huge part of it,” she points out. “Especially for women.”

Beside her Boyd shifts slightly on his feet, as if he’s not quite convinced he likes the direction this is heading in. “What do you mean?” he asks.

Eve, older and rather more worldly than Stella, catches on to what she means straight away and agrees. “It does.”

“Let’s ignore new relationships, and that first flush of attraction and desire that tends to swamp everything else,” she begins, searching for the best way to explain what she means. “Sex, especially between a long-term couple, is driven by multiple things. I think it’s fair to say, though, that sex can frequently be instigated by one partner with a higher libido than the other – ”

“Often the man, in heterosexual relationships,” Eve adds.

Grace inclines her head, and continues, “Since it’s all much more emotionally complex for women than it is for men – hence orgasm often being much more difficult to achieve for women – it’s no surprise that women, particularly in longer term relationships, are known to acquiesce to sex with their partners even though they are not necessarily emotionally engaged with the act, and thus receive little in the way of… equivalent benefit.”  

“You mean, sex for the sake of it, rather than for pleasure,” says Boyd flatly. He looks… appalled, she thinks. Only for a moment, and only she sees it, she’s sure, and then a mask of thoughtfulness settles in place as he examines her words carefully, absently scratching his beard as he thinks.

He must know what they are talking about, she muses. Surely he must. He was married for a long time, and he’s an intelligent man. There’s no way he’s failed to learn that particular lesson about women during his lifetime.

Unless… unless women in general aren’t what’s bothering him, and –  

Eve shrugs, interrupting her train of thought. “That’s the way it goes, isn’t it? Sometimes you agree just to keep your partner happy, and though it’s pleasant, it’s really not much more than that. And that’s when sex is just sex, and is capable of falling short of being as good as chocolate.”

“So, you’re telling me that women are… what? Talked into sex that they don’t want by their partners, and they agree to it and go ahead with it when they’d rather be eating chocolate instead? You make that sound like… some kind of assault, or slavery.”

Grace knows Boyd well enough to know he doesn’t believe that’s what Eve is insinuating, but she’s still about to protest when Eve beats her to it.

“God, no,” the pathologist declares. “I was engaged for three years to a man called Jacob and the sex we had was generally fantastic, but on occasion I really wasn’t in the mood, or I was tired, or distracted by studying. I went with it for his benefit because I loved him and it made life easier. It worked for me physically, but it didn’t do anything for me emotionally, and that was fine, because it was my choice.”

The reactions to Eve’s little speech are typical, thinks Grace.

“You were engaged?” gapes Stella, awed. “For three years?”

“What do you mean, it made life easier?” asks Boyd, suspicion layering his tone again.

Eve looks thoroughly amused. “I was, yes,” she tells Stella, before turning back to their leader. “Every woman knows,” she tells him, with the air of someone who is about to impart one of life’s most well-known secrets, “that their man is much easier to deal with when he’s thoroughly sated than when he’s as randy as they come.”

Grace snorts with laughter. “So true,” she cackles, sharing a conspiratorial glance with Eve.

Boyd scowls at them both – at her in particular – and for a moment Grace thinks he’s about to stalk out and leave them, his pride wounded by their giggles, but he doesn’t. Instead he simply shakes his head in exasperation and directs a long stare her way, his lips pursed and his thoughts hidden deep behind his dark eyes.

“Thanks for that bit of wisdom, Eve,” he finally says, his expression changing to wry, a touch defeated.

“Any time,” she grins, still bubbling with mischief. Then she pauses, that scientifically curious look of hers settling over her face. “If you think about it,” she muses slowly, “sex is pretty damn strange.”

The statement falls into the air like a lead balloon. Boyd stares at her, as though she’s grown a second head. Grace just about resists the urge to laugh at him, and instead makes herself ask, “What do you mean?”

“The mechanics of it – how it actually works. It’s all a bit… weird. Or so I’ve always thought. Maybe that’s just me, though.”

“Oh, no,” Grace assures her. “I agree. It’s definitely very… odd.”

“Mm, yeah.” The pathologist nods, looks glad of the solidarity. “What do you think, Boyd?”

He looks aghast, that’s the only way Grace can think of describing the look on his face.

“I mean,” continues Eve, seemingly unaware of the growing male discomfort opposite her as she speaks, “who on earth thought that putting testicles on the outside was a good idea?”

Grace really, really wants to laugh now, especially at the perceptible widening of Stella’s eyes as Eve continues to rant, and the young DC’s gaze shuttles back and forth between their fearless leader and the woman now mid- mostly one-sided debate.

“Yes, I know there are reasons for it, but the risk with them just dangling there? Surely biology ought to have come up with a better solution?”

“Very true,” Grace agrees, just – and only just – managing to keep a straight face. She should stop this. For Boyd’s sake, she really should stop this. She doesn’t. Watching him – watching his reaction – it’s just too good an opportunity to miss, it really is.

“I mean, for God’s sake,” complains Eve, “the number of times I had to listen to Jacob complaining that he’d accidentally sat on his balls… How does that even happen? I used to say to him, how do you do that when you’ve had them all your life? When they’ve always been there? How do you not just automatically adjust as you go about your daily business? He never gave me an answer though, at least not a satisfactory one. Why is that?”

She pauses for a breath, and Grace begins to hope she’s finished. It’s becoming something of a serious struggle not to dissolve into peals of laughter, something she knows will absolutely not be appreciated by the man sitting, and now appearing a touch shell-shocked, beside her.

“It’s just ridiculous,” grumbles Eve, before she rounds on Boyd. “Don’t you think?”

The effect on his already amusing expression is… extremely entertaining, but, feeling a little pity for him, Grace decides that it’s about time to intervene and rescue him. “He’s a man, Eve,” she points out. “He’s never going to agree with you. You know how precious they are about their… equipment.”

Eve sighs, seemingly at the end of her rant. “Very true. What do you think, Stella?”

Stella sighs and shakes her head, clearly still stunned – and amused, if the slight twitch at the corner of her lips means anything at all – by what’s just taken place. “I just want to enjoy life, before… before it’s too late.”

It seems like an abrupt change of direction. “What do you mean?” asks Grace, curious.

Stella looks suddenly uncomfortable. Seems to squirm slightly in her chair. “Well,” she mutters, “you know… things… naturally die down with age, and… I… want to experience them before then. Enjoy myself.”

Boyd stares at her, lip curling in distaste. “You know nothing,” he says, disgusted. “Age is irrelevant.”

Grace simply smiles. “Sex,” she tells Stella, “gets better as you get older. Not worse.”

“Oh really,” inquires Eve, her smirking laughter barely contained as her eyes flick between Grace and Boyd. “Do enlighten us, Grace…”

She could refuse to answer. She could elegantly and easily turn the conversation in another direction all together – she’s a master of both, after all – but Grace doesn’t. They are both watching her eagerly; Stella with rapt fascination, Eve with a hint of knowing wickedness. Perhaps it is time they both saw her as more than just an older woman with a distinguished career behind her name.

“Men last longer,” she tells them bluntly. Glancing sideways at Boyd, who is nodding in agreement, she continues. “They lose some of that youthful impatience, which means they can go for longer.”

“They need more time to recover, though,” Eve points out.

“True,” nods Grace. “But in my experience, that’s outweighed by the other benefits.” She turns to her right and looks up. “Boyd?”

Surprisingly, he looks calmer now, less ruffled. More thoughtful. At ease. She likes this side of him – his complete confidence and lack of embarrassment. “She’s right,” he agrees, lounging on a stool and propping one elbow on the table, leaning on it. “It’s true, and it is.”

“What else?” asks Stella, her eyes slightly wide at the obscure turn the conversation has taken, but nevertheless caught up in the fascinating lesson.

Grace watches her, curious as to how a woman as intelligent as Stella can seem so naïve on occasion. “My personal favourite,” she tells them, “is the loss of so many of the inhibitions of youth. It makes things… less complicated. It’s easier to focus on the pleasure. Easier to enjoy all of it without worrying.”

Eve nods slowly, her mind clearly ticking away behind her level brown eyes. “That makes a lot of sense,” she agrees.

“As you get older,” Grace explains, for Stella’s benefit, “you become more in tune with your body; you know what you like, and what you don’t; what works for you, and how to communicate that. The awkwardness fades, especially if you have a long-term partner.” The last sentence is something of a gamble, but the potential hidden meanings of it seem to go over Stella’s head, at least. Not so much with Eve, but Grace was expecting that, and returns the half-veiled look of question she gets from the pathologist with an enigmatic gaze of her own, and a sly wink.

Again, the other woman’s eye flicker between her and Boyd, and Grace knows that lack of real confirmation must be driving her mad. Eve is not the type to pry, though, and she will not put her nose where it isn’t wanted. That doesn’t mean Grace is above teasing her, though.

Boyd saves her from having to say another word by adding his own thoughts to the list. “Post-menopause,” he begins, and Grace has to work very, very hard not to show her amusement at the expression on Stella’s face as he speaks easily of the biological functions most men seem to squirm away from, “there’s a big loss of fear.”

Eve chokes, and Boyd’s eyes narrow at her as she clearly struggles to rein in the laughter clawing at her. Grace understands, sort of. It’s not exactly the kind of thing they’d ever expect him to say, but then, they only know the professional Boyd. They’ve never met the quieter, calmer, far more relaxed Boyd who will generally discuss anything and everything with a reasonably open mind, and a lack of embarrassment or censure.

“He’s right,” she tells them both. “It’s a huge relief.”

“You mean,” asks Stella, “because the chance of pregnancy goes away?”

“Absolutely,” nods Grace. “The fear, the monthly anxiety and torment of am-I-sure-I’m-not-pregnant, the stress of remembering and dealing with birth control – it all goes away.”

“No more fucking periods to get in the way, either,” grumbles Boyd, distaste clear on his face. “And none of the crap that goes with them.”

Grace laughs at that, she can’t help it. He’s just so very male sometimes. He’s right again though.

“Definitely,” she agrees. “While getting older is not enjoyable in some ways, I for one do not miss that!”

Stella sighs wistfully. “Women really got the short straw with biology,” she murmurs.

“Did they ever,” snorts Eve, offended. Looking up at Boyd, she shakes her head. “You men don’t know how lucky you are,” she informs him bluntly.

One eyebrow rises smoothly as he considers her, and Grace bites her lower lip, wondering where this will go now. Never in a million years would she have imagined this discussion when he walked through the doors and joined them.  

He wants to make a witty retort, wants to keep arguing, she can see it in his eyes, but for some reason entirely of his own, he refrains. Perhaps because he’s seriously outnumbered, and though he can definitely shout the loudest, he can’t possibly hope to equal three angry females if he says the wrong thing. Grace knows him. Knows that he’s very capable of seeing danger and weighing his options, even if he does choose to simply charge at it more times than he should. She also knows that he has a vested interest in not infuriating her, and that after four days apart, he’s likely fairly desperately hoping to find himself in her bed tonight.

She’s definitely hoping to find him there.

“So, back to the original debate then,” Boyd directs. “Sex, or chocolate; which is better?” he looks at Eve, fixing her with a pointed and immovable stare.

Danger averted then, it seems. It could have been very entertaining, Grace thinks, and she would certainly have enjoyed the chance for a debate, but this is probably far safer. Besides, there’s nothing to say she can’t engage him in some sort of argument or discussion later. By herself. About whatever topic she so chooses. After they’ve –

“Sex,” decides Eve.

Stella shakes her head. “Chocolate,” she says, and the twinkle in her eye might just be a hint that she’s trying to subtly wind her boss up. “It’s always good, even when sex isn’t.”

Grace catches her gaze, sees a flash of hidden wickedness, and hides a smirk as the younger woman quickly looks away, face deliberately straight.

Boyd is shaking his head in disgust, even as he turns to look down at her. He folds his arms, but doesn’t say a word.

“Yes?” she asks, deliberately not giving him what he’s expecting.

“Well?”

She’s always enjoyed winding him up. “Well what?”

He glares at her, attempting a forbidding stare. It fails miserably on her, it always has. She smiles sunnily up at him as he enunciates clearly. “Chocolate or sex, Grace?”

She shrugs blithely. “Haven’t you been listening, Boyd?” she asks, shaking her head slowly, knowing it’ll wind him up no end. “It really does depend.”

“On what?”

She debates the wisdom of answering, is almost certain Eve knows exactly what’s going on here. Does that matter though, she wonders? She decides not. “On the man, the sex itself, my mood…”she trails off, leaves it at that.

Boyd shakes his head again, and she’s not quite sure how much of his apparent irritation is feigned. “Why did I ever think I could get a straightforward yes or no answer out of you?” he asks, and though it’s clearly a rhetorical question, Grace answers anyway, wanting the last word.

“I really have no idea. And it wasn’t a yes or no question,” she points out.

The look he gives her in response could peel paint, if he intended it.

She smiles sweetly. “If you haven’t learnt after all these years…”

Laughter echoes throughout the room as three sets of shoulders shake with the harmonious release of amusement.

“Christ,” he growls, scowling. “You women are all the same. Bloody impossible! I’m going. Don’t forget to return to your desks at some point this morning and at least try and attempt to get a bit of work done.”

He stalks out, the very picture of a frustrated, harassed male.

It’s all for show.

And she’s really, truly enjoying the show. Not that she’ll admit it to either of the women beside her, of course. But there’s just something really rather magnificent about him when he’s riled, and if she can keep him there for the rest of the day, without actually pushing him over the edge…

By the time Grace eventually makes it back to her desk after making a not-so-brief trip upstairs to speak to DC Willow about an ongoing investigation she has been helping with, it’s rather later than she was expecting. Boyd is back at his desk and has his head well down over his laptop, his diary open beside him and a pen tucked behind his ear.

There’s no reason to interrupt him, and if he’s ploughing his way through his workload as quickly and efficiently as the intense expression he’s wearing suggests, then she has absolutely no intention of interrupting him, not when an early completion of his to-do list is as likely to benefit her as she reckons it just might be.

Instead, Grace settles in her own chair and taps in the password to her computer, loading up the search she was working on before the meeting that then dissolved into a much-needed stress-relieving break.  She’s just reaching for the mouse when her fingers encounter something unfamiliar. Looking down, she feels a smile break out at the purple-wrapped treat she finds resting there. So he did remember her favourite brand after all.

Stuck to the table beneath the bar is a plain yellow Post-It note containing the words, “For comparison…”

Chocolate.

She grins to herself, thoroughly satisfied. There is nothing Peter Boyd likes more than a challenge. And not too many things she likes more than subtly reminding him so.

Tonight there will undoubtedly be a slightly earlier end to the working day than she was expecting, followed by a nice dinner, quite possibly at a small, intimate restaurant somewhere not too far away, or maybe even at his home if he’s feeling particularly keen on showing off his skills to her, which, she reflects, he probably will be. Boyd likes cooking, and he likes even more not having to make the journey home after a good meal.

There will be wine, of course, and laughter, and flirtation. Candles, an open fire; music. And then there will be sex, drawn-out and indulgent, a host of hedonistic pleasures to be revelled in and slowly, thoroughly enjoyed, because he is now a man on a mission.

And Grace plans on savouring every single moment of it.

He looks up just as she pops the first square into her mouth; lets it drag across her lower lip, closes her eyes in enjoyment. When she looks through the glass again she sees him swallow, sees the tiny shift of weight in his chair that’s just so, so indicative.

She’s so much naughtier than he is, and Boyd loves it, she knows. He’s a man, and he charges headlong at the possibility of intimacy and sex. She… well, she likes to tease. Revels in the frustration she can see in his eyes as she slowly, delicately nibbles a second square of chocolate, making a good show of thoroughly enjoying it.

He grips the pen in his hand, sweeps his gaze across the squadroom where Stella is sitting with her back to them both, and then silently mouths what he’s planning on doing to her later in revenge. A traitorous shiver works its wonderful way down her spine. Licking her lips slowly and suggestively, Grace smiles back, deliberately provocative, and then winks.  

Sometimes it really is just a question of knowing exactly how to let the anticipation build.

Chapter Text

Snowdrop

It arrives without provocation or reason. It arrives simply because he can, and because he wants to. Perhaps it is a nod to the date, but perhaps it isn’t. Whatever the reasons, they don’t matter.

It is simply there, on her desk when she returns from a quick trip to the ladies’ room, stuck squarely in the centre of her computer monitor where she can’t fail to notice it.

It’s a snowdrop, not a rose; slim, uncomplicated and elegant. Beautiful in its simplicity.

Black lines, drawn smoothly with a fountain pen, the white of the flower emphasized by the starkness of the paper it is etched on; where Boyd found a white Post It she doesn’t know, but it makes the image all the more pretty and she treasures the thought behind it.

The stem and leaves are green, filled in with a coloured biro, and in those sweeping lines she can see the tiny letters hidden there for her eyes only. Letters that most would miss, but he is a master at hiding them in plain sight, in the curves and lines of the drawing, and she is a master at finding them. It’s a game, their game.

I love you.

Hidden in a snowdrop, not a rose.

Because the snowdrop is her favourite flower.

And though today is that day, neither of them like the enforced tradition.

She looks up, finds him sat at his desk, caught up in paperwork and between meetings and phone calls, one hand raking though his hair, the strands dishevelled and spiky, his face drawn in concentration.

He looks tired, and Grace’s heart squeezes in pity. It’s only Tuesday; the weekend still so far away. She gets to her feet, fingers brushing over the delicate image, her heart swelling that he stopped and took the time… and she collects her mug and heads to the coffee machine and kettle. Two black teas, coloured with milk, and half a sugar for him.

His office door is ajar, but she pushes it closed behind her. The others will think nothing of it, if they return from their outings to find it so. She and Boyd speak in private frequently; it is a normal thing.

The view as she moves towards him is that messy grey hair, the soft spikes a temptation she uncharacteristically gives in to because it’s just them – no one else is around to witness her momentary weakness. He flinches slightly at the unexpected sensation, but then relaxes, leaning into her touch as her fingers glide through the strands, though his head remains bent, the phone clasped to his ear, and his eyes on his daybook as he scrawls notes and continues to ask blunt and specific questions.

He’s Silver Commander for the area tonight, and it sounds like there’s an incident developing. One serious enough to require a Superintendent to coordinate it. She hands him the tea without words, steps back to let him carry on.

Their evening and its quiet, intimate plan is in ruins, she knows, just from the single side of the conversation she can hear, but it’s not a disaster. He’ll be annoyed, feel he has let her down, but he also enjoys these moments. Command – leadership – is his business, and he’s very good at it. The CCU is miniscule compared to what he does when he’s duty superintendent, or silver or gold commander.

She likes to see the thrill of the moment in him; the pressure of time-critical situations and the weight of responsibility on his shoulders that he thrives on and revels in. He’s a born leader, and they both know it.  

The phone call eventually ends, and he’s on his feet quickly, drinking tea even as he strides to one of the cabinets against the wall, opening it and pulling out a heavy-duty black waterproof coat with the Metropolitan Police crest and his name and rank embroidered on the front and a large reflective POLICE badge on the back.

“I’m sorry,” he tells her, taking a big gulp of tea before fishing in one of the pockets for a pair of epaulettes that declare what role he’s playing tonight.

Grace holds her hands out, takes the coat from him and fiddles with the delicate buttons that fasten the shoulder pieces in place, allowing him to finish his tea and gather a few items that he needs. “Don’t be,” she replies, and it’s delivered with an easy, affection smile. “It’s not the end of the world, it was just a night in together.”

“Even so,” he sighs, searching his desk drawer for something.

“Peter,” she says, “I’m really not upset by it – these things happen. If you’re that bothered, though, you can cook me dinner tomorrow evening, and then you can carry me upstairs and...” She doesn’t finish the sentence, just holds his gaze at he looks up at her, gives him a temptingly naughty smirk that gets exactly the reaction she was hoping for.

Boyd finishes his tea, licks his lips slowly and then treats her to that heart-stopping grin she adores. “Deal,” he promises her, eyes alight with glee.

The tone shifts again as he tilts his head to one side slightly, his expression changing to one of seriousness and care. “Now tell me you’ll go home soon and spend the evening relaxing.”

Grace shakes her head in amusement, and then looks up at the clock. “I’ll go home at six,” she agrees. “That’ll give me an hour and a half to finish what I’m working on.”

For a moment steady hazel eyes regard her, darkened by the gloom of the bunker. “Okay,” he nods.
“Six o’clock, I can live with that.” 

“Good, because that’s all you’re getting in the way of compromise.”

He laughs, long and loud and hard, just as she knew he would. Just as she wanted him to. She joins in with him, because it’s easy and honest, and it feels good.

“You’re one of a kind, Grace, you know that?”

“So you tell me,” she shrugs, still playing the game. The smile she gets comes from within, and that makes her heart feel easier. He’ll no doubt be very, very late home, exhausted and having barely eaten, too, but at least he’s leaving with a bit of levity, with a few moments of affection to remind him that not everything is hard and stressful.

Still shaking his head, he gulps the last of his tea and then stands up, takes the coat from her and slips it on. He’s a distinguished, imposing figure in it, and for just a moment she wishes he was a uniformed officer, that she could see him in black and white every day, but that passes as he shoves his mobile phone into his pocket and hunts for his car keys and her thoughts turn in another direction.

Grace can’t draw; was never gifted with that talent. But she can send him a message just as sweet as his. She reaches for his Post It note pad, steals the pen he’s just picked up from between his fingers. Makes five quick strokes of ink on the paper, and then pulls the page free.

Taking his hand, she lifts it to her lips, brushes a delicate kiss to his palm, and then presses the sticky note there.

Sees him read what she has written, watches him decode the message hidden inside the numbers three six and five wrapped inside a heart.

I love you throughout the year, Peter, she’s telling him, one lost day doesn’t change that.

Boyd looks up at her, smiles softly, appreciatively.

All that is all she – they – need.

He stares at her for a moment, all quiet, gentle tenderness. Stares straight into the heart of her, where everything she hides at work sits waiting for him.

“Come home to me,” she requests, “no matter what time it is.”

He cups her cheek, his palm softly, slowly caressing her skin, his thumb tracing a lazy but deliberate path across her lips.

“I will,” he promises, and then he is gone.

Chapter Text

Lunch

Crisp autumn air. Fresh and wonderful as it slips in and out of his lungs after a long morning stuck inside with his team. Most of his team.

It’s lunch time now, and without ceremony or explanation, he’s simply left the younger ones to it and gone out, intent on spending at least part of his day with the woman who has slowly but surely stolen his heart in its entirety.

Grace.

Open, happy laughter as she stood in the kitchen this morning, her face creased with amusement at something he’d said, the early morning sun streaming in through the windows around her. The answering stirring in his blood as he stepped towards her, pulling her flush against him, skin to skin, his lips unerring finding hers, his hands automatically roaming over her body…

And now here she is, liberated from a stuffy court room for the midday break and making her way towards him. His heart couldn’t feel any fuller if he tried. Boyd keeps the fact very, very well hidden, but he is quietly an old romantic at heart. When all the bitterness and heartache are stripped away.  

Which, with her, they are.

There’s just something about her, about being with her, that makes him feel so much better. Whole.

It happens in the blink of an eye. One moment he’s striding towards the court, where he can see Grace walking towards him, her eyes lighting in a warm, sensual smile that she saves for him and him alone, and the next a moped is cutting across the pavement at breakneck speed, hurtling towards the two tall, executive-looking woman hurrying along beside her.

A warning is shouted, maybe his, or another’s. Boyd isn’t sure. He lurches forwards though, powerful leg muscles hurling him into a sprint. She’s not much more than thirty feet from him, but it’s still too much.

The two women have moved, the moped rider veering off course to try and catch the expensive, designer bag the nearest is carrying. Astute and aware, though, the woman ducks out of the way, swearing angrily. The rider swerves and circles, swooping again, grabbing the second woman’s bag and pulling hard. She stumbles and falls, tumbling into Grace, who windmills her arms frantically, staggering and trying desperately to stay on her feet.

Ten feet away, Boyd bellows in rage. An opportunity present, the rider ignores him, grabs for Grace’s bag and pulls, dragging her sideways as she clings on, a furious, determined look on her face.

Two strides, three, and then, as Grace hits the ground, the bag sliding out of her grip, Boyd is there. He kicks out at the moped with all the savage force that years on the beat dealing with the worst scum in society imbued him with, and as he does so he seizes the rider, dragging him to the ground and pinning him savagely, wrestling a leather clad arm up into a textbook arm lock and applying enough force to make his prey yelp, the sound muffled through the helmet visor. The rider is temporarily stunned by the fall, and it’s just enough time for Boyd to twist his legs into a figure of four and pin them down with his body weight.

His grip secure, he uses his elbow to flick up the visor, stares down into eyes so dark they appear black. "You're nicked, you bastard," he snarls, every bit of rage he feels flooding into his tone as he rattles off the caution and necessity criteria. The young man, coming back into his senses, and every bit as enraged as Boyd, if for a very different reason, curls his lip and then makes a very familiar movement with his mouth. With more than a little force Boyd slams the visor shut again, just in time for a large wad of spit to fly into the inside of it. Furious, and disgusted, Boyd leers down at his captive as he increases the weight and pressure he's putting into the young man's restraint. "And you can add to robbery being further arrested for assault on a police officer in the execution of his duty," he growls.

A volley of muffled curses issue from inside the helmet, but Boyd is no longer paying attention. "Grace?" he calls, looking over at her. She's still lying on the pavement where she fell, and his heart begins to hammer in his chest when she doesn't immediately move.

"I'm okay," she mutters, lifting her head and making the knot in his chest loosen a fraction. "Just a little stunned. Bastard." The antipathy with which she grinds out the last word makes him grin, a wide smile that vanishes as she rests a hand on the ground and attempts to lever herself up into a sitting position before quite suddenly she lets out a scream that is so raw and brutally agonised that he thinks he feels his heart actually stop.

Grace collapses back onto the ground, one hand clutching at her other shoulder as she lies there immobile, face stark and ashen as she gasps for breath.

People instantly crowd around, some muttering, some offering tentative, unsure help. One, a striking young woman with olive skin, bright green eyes and a tumble of brown curls, crouches beside Grace and speaks softly and steadily to her, the words just too quiet for Boyd to distinguish in the calamity of it all. However, after a rapid but gentle assessment, the younger woman offers two words he manages to pick out. Dislocated shoulder.

He winces, can't help it. The same injury happened to him on the rugby pitch in his teenage years, and he can still remember the acute agony even now. He risks a quick glance at Grace's face and has to bite his lip at the chalky paleness of her skin, the way the blue of her eyes is suddenly so stark against the sudden paper white of her complexion.

"Police," he barks at the nearest bystander, a burly man in a midrange business suit carrying a cheap briefcase and a packet of crisps. "Call for police and an ambulance, will you?"

The man does as he's bid, and Boyd tightens his grip on the wriggling creature beneath him, scowling at the inconvenience of having to continue to hold him down. "Scum bag," he sneers. "Preying on innocent women, taking things that aren't yours, that you haven't the decency to go out and earn the money for."

Whatever the response is, it's far too muffled by the helmet, and the subsequent scraping and scrabbling noise of the violent scuffle as the thief tries his best to break free and escape.

"I don't think so," growls a large, angry woman in a long red rain coat as she kneels unceremoniously on the ground beside Boyd and leans her considerable bulk on the male's back, effectively pinning him in place. "One of you arseholes had my sister's handbag a few weeks ago, and broke her wrist in two places while you were at it. You can wait there and face Her Majesty's justice for your crimes."

Grinning, Boyd nods cheerfully to her, and turns his attention back to Grace, who hasn't moved since he was last able to check on her. Thankfully though, there’s the tell-tale wail of approaching assistance in the distance, and not too soon after that blue lights are reflecting in shop windows and off road signs. It's comforting, reassuring even.

Three of his uniformed colleagues approach from a van which has hastily drawn up against the kerb. Within a matter of moments his captive has been non-to-gently handcuffed, de-helmeted and unceremoniously shoved into the waiting cell in the rear of the van, the inner and outer doors slammed firmly shut behind him. A middle aged and incredibly tough looking female officer leans casually against the vehicle as she produces her pocket book, taking details and a brief account from Boyd.

"I'm going with Grace," he informs her, watching steadily as their green uniformed counterparts arrive and kneel beside the fallen psychologist, supplying her with gas and air prior to trying to move her. "But you'll have my statement by the end of the day. Or if you want to send someone to A&E later on with the papers I'll hand write it while we're waiting."

"I'll do you one better, Sir," she grins, hauling open the side panel of the vehicle and dragging a stuffed kit bag towards her. Rifling through it, she produces a handful of pages of blank statement forms. "Just promise me you have legible handwriting."

Boyd laughs and nods his head. "I have," he confirms, before nodding towards his lover, "but she hasn't."

"Not to worry, Sir, we'll get someone round to take one from her. Do you know her particulars, by any chance?"

It's an effort not to grind his teeth, his impatience to get to Grace is so high, but there is a facade to maintain, after all. Dutifully, he supplies the requested information and waits while Liz, as she identifies herself, runs through the arrest information she'll need to present the robber to custody. Satisfied, she thanks him and then drifts into the crowd, looking for witnesses with information to offer. Business as usual, despite a plain clothes Super making the scuff.

The trip to hospital is a bit of a blur, though mercifully a fairly short one. All that really stands out are the shrieks of pain caused by potholes and bumps in the road. Normally so composed, even in the face of illness and injury, this time Grace seems completely overwhelmed by the pain, her normal, serene self disappearing behind a mask of agony and a sheen of sweat.

Normally stoical in the face of trauma, even he finds himself feeling anxious and sick as she goes through the process of admission and assessment, x-Ray and pain relief. She drifts and he frets as they wait for the doctor to administer the drugs that leave her semi-conscious as her arm is manipulated back into place, the dull crack as the humerus slips back into its socket making his stomach lurch, even as he winces as she roars in agony at the final motion. For such a petite creature, she has a marvellous set of lungs on her, it seems. He's really rather impressed, despite his heavy, uncharacteristic queasiness.

"Don't worry," smiles a cheerful nurse as she busies herself checking the joint and applying a sling. "She won't remember any of it when she comes out of the fog she's in."

"No," he agrees, privately thinking, but I will.

The minutes tick by as he tries to push it all back, studying the equipment, reading labels, and pacing the tiny space around the bed, his fingers trailing across the rail meant to stop her from falling, though from how still she is, that looks to be highly unlikely.

"Ugggghhhhhh," mumbles Grace at last, her head turning towards him and her eyes beginning to show some clarity and understanding.

Left alone with her, the curtain drawn against the hustle and bustle beyond, Boyd steps up to the edge of the bed, perches precariously beside her and reaches out to cup her face, stroke his fingers through her sweaty hair. "It's okay," he soothes, tone low and gentle. "The worst of it is over now."

"Thank God for that," she mutters, letting her head rest against his hand, seemingly enjoying his touch as she closes her eyes briefly.

"Stupid question, I know," he ventures, "but how do you feel now?"

She's quiet for a moment, contemplating. "Drained," she finally concludes, eyes tired as she looks up at him. "And thirsty. Very thirsty."

The way she's so matter of fact about it brings a welcome smile to his lips, and he leans down to kiss her forehead, lingering for a moment to grant himself some much needed reassurance brought about by her nearness, by her apparent wellness. Stoical, though, he says nothing of his thoughts to her and simply straightens, saying, "I'll find you some water."

She guesses. Just as she always does, she guesses, and the hand that isn't tucked against her chest reaches for his, wraps delicately around his own fingers and squeezes softly. No words, just silent, complete understanding. So very typical of her.

"I'm glad you're here."

Simple, understated. Also very her.

Heart warmed and tension bleeding from his body, he lets her small hand slide into the larger gulf of his and returns the pressure, the affection. "Where else would I be, Grace? What could possibly be more important than being here right now?"

He leaves her then, wanders off to find the promised water. Passes by the nurse’s station and spots something small and square and yellow lying beside the keyboard. He pauses, stares; is spotted by the nurse in charge.

"Can I help you?" she asks, curious but efficient too. There's no time for lost wanderers in her department, he can tell.

He gestures, asks, "May I use one of those?"

For a moment she is flummoxed, and he kind of likes it. Is amused by it. Then there's a shrug and a nod, helped, he knows, by his angelic smile. The note pad is passed to him, a hand waved at the pot of pens nearby.

Leaning on the counter, he tries idle conversation as he works, drawing and writing, creating a pointlessly sweet little message that he knows will cheer his lady up. The chitchat works, and the hint of wariness vanishes as she warms to him, relaxes. Casts little side-eyed glances towards his work. It's good, because by the time he's finished his little masterpiece, he's discovered where the tea trolley is and has permission to scavenge two cups along with the promised water.

Pens tidied away, notepad replaced, he leaves her with his thanks and continues his wanderings. Returns to Grace with four cups instead of two. Sits beside her legs and studies her, watches the colour return to her cheeks as she sips the tea, drains the water.

"Some lunch date," he sighs. "Honestly, Grace..."

She doesn't even have to question whether he's teasing. "Well, if you will insist on making an arrest instead of taking me to that new cafe you promised..."

They laugh, because between the two of them it really is that easy. It doesn't matter the setting, wherever they are, they are still them.

"Some other time," he vows, and he seals the deal with a little brush of his lips against hers. Beneath the hospital scents he can still just catch a hint of the sweet natural aroma he associates with her and he breathes deeply, allowing himself the weakness of gently nuzzling her temple as he slowly, carefully slips his prize from his pocket to inside her sling. She will find it later, and when she does she will smile and she will know. And that is all he needs.

"How long before the cavalry arrive?" Grace wonders as he straightens, and as if on cue his phone rings, the sound a little muffled from within his pocket.

Boyd grimaces, but answers anyway. It's exactly what he was expecting; Spencer wondering where he is, shortly followed by a DC from the local CID who has taken over the investigation.

"Your 'friend' is screwed," he announces, finally hanging up the phone. "He's wanted on three separate warrants, and he's an outstanding suspect for a series of robberies. They're still getting statements because about half a dozen people saw what happened, and he's got a record as long as my arm for acquisitive and violent crime."

"He's not my friend," scowls Grace, shifting uncomfortably on the bed and wincing as she jars her arm.

"He certainly isn't," announces a clear, calm female voice as a slender woman in a well cut trouser suit enters the cubicle. Everything about her is average, that's Boyd's first assessment. Height, age, looks, dress. The sort of woman who could easily blend into the crowd, unnoticed. Except for her eyes; deep brown and filled with mischief and life, they sparkle in a way that almost instantly catches and holds both his attention, and Grace's.

"He's a scumbag through and through, and I'll be delighted to nail him to the wall for his crimes – I've been chasing him for a year, so you've both done me a favour, really. DC Helen James, pleased to meet you, but sorry about the circumstances, Doctor Foley. How are you feeling?"

"Sore," admits Grace, "but otherwise not too bad. I'm waiting for another X-ray to make sure it's all back in the right place, then I should be able to go. After that I just want to go home, have a nice hot bath and lie on the sofa."

Helen nods, true compassion in her eyes. Boyd warms to her at the sight. He's met too many detectives in his time who are deadened to the horrors of what they see, to the pain and trauma of what their victims are going through. It's a professional hazard, and even he feels that every year it becomes more of a struggle to hold on to the empathy.

"I bet you are. Well, just to give you quick update on where we are so far... We've seized the bike, which no surprise is stolen and uninsured. He also had a knife on him, and a claw hammer in his backpack, so we'll be doing him for possession of offensive weapons as well. There's about half a dozen witnesses who're giving statements, including the two ladies that appear to have been his original target. We also have good quality CCTV evidence of the offence. He's got two no bail warrants to his name for missing court dates, and he's in breach of court bail as well. He's wanted for several counts of robbery and handling stolen goods, and he's been linked via DNA to an aggravated burglary from a while ago, so he's got a lot to answer for."

"How old is he?" Grace wants to know, her eyes flinty with all the information that Helen has supplied.

"Twenty."

"So young," she sighs, shaking her head.

"Indeed. Do you have any questions about what happens next, Doctor Foley? I imagine you’re pretty well versed in how these things work..?"

Grace smiles. "Just Grace, please, and no, I can't think of any."

"Well, I know you've been through the mill a bit, but how do you feel about giving your statement to me now, then once you're done here you can go home without having to worry about it? If you're not up to it, though, just say so and I'll leave you in peace."

Grace shakes her head. "No, I don't mind. It's fine."

Boyd almost feels her smile as she looks over at him, eyes telling him that she's okay really, just sore. She's remarkably steady, is Grace, that's what he's always admired about her. It takes a lot, an awful lot, to shake her or rattle her. "You still have your own statement to do, Peter," she reminds him.

He grimaces, because in the mix of all the waiting and treatment and pain he's forgotten all about it. "Oh yeah," he mutters, looking around for the papers he discarded somewhere upon arrival, in favour of holding her hand and trying to comfort her.

"I'd be grateful if you could do that for me, Sir," Helen tells him. "I won't be interviewing until later, but I'll still have to go to CPS tonight and I'm sure you know what they're like if they don't get given absolutely everything straight away."

"I do," he nods, scowling. "Bunch of tossers."

Helen laughs, loud and genuine. Grace just smiles and tries to hide it behind her plastic cup as she takes a sip of the cooling tea.

"If we might make a start," offers Helen, still smiling as she unzips the folder she carried in with her.

Locating his papers, Boyd sighs. "I'll go and sequester myself away in the waiting room then," he announces, aware that his tone is just a touch on the dramatic side.

Grace rolls her eyes at him, and Helen hides her own laugh.

"Have you got a pen?" Boyd's asks the DC, checking his jacket pocket and finding he is without.

Helen reaches into her folder, produces a standard black biro. "I have, Sir, but I need your word that I'll get it back. I have a dreadful time with my own guv'nor stealing my pens every time I have to go and speak to him..."

He sighs loudly for show, replies with an overly serious, "I'm sure I can manage to return a single pen, Detective Constable." And then, with a last glance at Grace, he takes his leave, striding out of the cubicle and heading for somewhere he might be able to sit and think in relative peace and quiet for a few minutes. 

As he walks away he hears a mixture of the two women laughing, and the words, "How funny. I'd always heard he's the grumpiest Super this side of the river, and the angriest."

He doesn't hear Grace's reply, but he knows her well enough to know that it will be suitably fitting for such idle gossip.

He manages to charm a pretty female junior doctor into letting him use the staff room as a refuge, and fairly soon he's deep in thought putting pen to paper and scrawling out his account of what happened. It's been a while since he wrote an arrest statement – he has junior officers to do the arresting, after all – but he can still churn one out in his sleep. Still, knowing it'll take a while for Helen to write out Grace's for her, he takes his time. Makes sly use of the half decent looking coffee maker tucked out of casual sight on the work surface, too.

Finished, he lingers quietly for a while, lost in thought about the day's dramatic turn of events. All he wanted was a quiet hour with her, to sit and talk of nothing and everything. A moment where they could lose themselves in their own private sphere, away from everything and everyone else. He's learned in the last couple of years that it really is the little things that matter, and with her... the smaller moments really are some of his favourites. The things that soothe his soul and make him feel... loved. Happy.

Life isn't perfect, far from it, but with her there he honestly believes that there are some things that... are perfect. Beautiful. Everything he really wants. And as long as it took him to notice and accept it, he's utterly determined now not to let go of it. To miss out on it. On being with her.

Boyd glances at his watch, estimates the time that's passed. Drains his coffee and dutifully washes and dries the borrowed mug. Promises himself he will make Grace a proper cup of tea just as soon as he gets her home.

Arriving back at the cubicle, he finds Helen tucking a sheaf of papers into her case, and a porter waiting to take Grace to X-ray. "I can walk, you know," she tells the man, though it is without malice. "My legs are perfectly fine."

He grins, appears to be the cheerful sort. "And I don't doubt that, madam. But it would be my honour to escort so lovely a lady, so if I may..."

Grace laughs and bids farewell to Helen, who promises to keep her updated.

"She's nice," reflects Helen, as Boyd hands over his work, and makes a show of returning her pen.

"She is," he agrees. "Everyone on my team adores her."

"I can see why. She radiates warmth and kindness."

"She does. She didn't deserve what happened today. Not in the slightest."

"Most don't," agrees Helen. He doesn't challenge her over the statement. After so many years, he feels the same way. "Right then, Sir. I must be off."

"Nice to have met you," he nods, mind already moving forwards with the rest of his day. "I'll look forward to any updates."

"Sir." Helen nods respectfully, and then leaves. Forgoing the discomfort of the solitary, solid plastic chair, Boyd instead elects to wander nearby and scan the many brightly colour posters adorning the walls and reminding staff of various protocols and procedures. It passes the time, and eventually his woman is wheeled back to him, bright eyed and smiling, despite her ordeal.

"All right," he asks, hating the gruff note that sounds in his tone as the porter applies the breaks and bids her goodbye.

"Yes," she nods, resting her head back against the bed to look up at him. "Hopefully we'll be out of here soon."

She does look okay, he thinks, quietly assessing her. Watching him, Grace is smiling. "I'm fine, Peter," she reassures. "A little battered and bruised, but it could have been so much worse. It's not the end of the world."

She grins at him, and it's then that he knows that she's found her note and read it, that she's decoded the message inside it.

Slowly, he smiles back, heart warmed by the way she's looking at him. Reaching out behind him, he pulls the curtain to and then perches beside her once more. Frames her face with his hand, shakes his head in gentle amusement.

"I really do love you, you know," he tells her, delighted that she's worked out his riddle so quickly. But then, hasn't he always been incredibly attracted to her sharp mind? Wasn't that the first – third – thing he really noticed about her. After her...assets... and her smile?

"I know," she tells him, quietly confident in the knowledge. That delights him too.

He doesn't bother to keep talking anymore. Some things are simply far more important, and so he lowers his head and kisses her. Partly to reassure himself, but mainly just for the sheer enjoyment of it. Because even here in a bustling A&E department, with her lying on a trolley dishevelled and bandaged up in the wake of a failed lunchtime date, they can still, it seems, have a moment just for the two of them.

And he's going to enjoy every single second of it because why shouldn’t he.

Chapter Text

Gwen

London is awash with a light but thoroughly persistent drizzle and the sky is a dull, flat grey that doesn’t seem to be clearing any time soon. Huddled under her umbrella as she walks briskly back to the office, Grace fancies that the weather reflects her mood rather well.

Not quite gloomy, but introspective and sad.

Quiet.

The streets seem emptier than usual, and that fits, too.

Since the phone rang three evenings past, Grace has felt the cool, heavy sense of loss sitting within her. Has felt a little off balance, hasn’t been as talkative or enthusiastic as usual. Has felt a deep, silent ache in her heart.

Grief is normal, though, and she understands that. Knows that there is a process to follow and a series of steps to walk through. She’s not worried, is not consumed by it. She’s just… quietly very sad.

There are so many memories of her Aunt Florence, so many happy times as a young girl, then a teenager, and then an adult, with the woman who was not just her father’s sister, but also her Godmother, her surrogate parent, her confidante.

Aunt Florence was the one who baked cakes in the middle of the night during a storm that had woken them both up, the one who taught Grace to play the piano, the one who every year took her favourite – and only – niece for a week away at the seaside, finding adventure and mayhem every single time.

It was Aunt Florence, too, that went to great lengths to persuade Grace’s traditionalist father that his daughter should be allowed to pursue her dream of university, that her academic talents should be fostered, not shunned.

And it was Aunt Florence who picked up the pieces after Grace’s mother was killed in a freak accident, and then again a few years later when Florence’s brother succumbed to a brief but intense battle with cancer, leaving Grace an orphan.

Later, it was Florence who stood in the crowd and cheered as Grace was awarded her Bachelor’s degree in psychology, then her Master’s and then finally her Doctorate. It was Florence who walked Grace down the aisle after John proposed, and Florence who was there when his torrid affair with his secretary destroyed the marriage. It was Florence, too, who introduced Grace to Marcus, who was there when she woke up in hospital after the car crash that took him away two years later, and it was Aunt Florence that was with her eight months later when little Philippa was born.

Thinking of her beautiful daughter, now a doctoral student at Oxford reading psychology even though she always jokingly swore she would never follow in her mother’s footsteps, Grace feels a fresh squeeze of pain. She hasn’t told Pippa yet. She needs to – Aunt Florence was a huge part of her life too, warmly and wholehearted filled in the empty role of grandmother. She’s being a coward, but Pippa is in the last couple of days of a big project, and Grace doesn’t want to disturb her, or inflict the pain she knows her child will suffer at the news.

She’s not crying, but her eyes are damp and over-bright as she enters the starkly functional-looking police station that is currently undergoing a makeover in an attempt to make it look more modern and welcoming. Dodging scaffolding and workmen in hard hats and high visibility vests, Grace ducks down a quiet corridor off the main hallway and escapes to the least used of the female toilets on the ground floor where she wipes down her umbrella and then takes a few moments to compose herself.

No matter how good her memories are, no matter that she spoke to her aunt just a day before she passed and had a bright, happy conversation with her, nor that the paramedics who found her believed the elderly woman didn’t suffer with her quick, unexpected death, it still hurts. Far more than she ever thought it would.

In truth, her aunt has been both mother, father and friend to her for most of her life now.

And in passing she has left a huge hole that will never be filled.

I thought we would still have a few more years, she tells herself as she wads up some toilet paper and dabs at the few errant tears that are now trickling slowly down her cheeks. I thought that she would be there with me to see Pippa graduate. To see her find a job, build a life for herself.

The tears threaten to fall thick and fast, but Grace forces them back. Dampens the tissue under the cold tap and uses it to cool her eyelids. It works, and after a few minutes she’s able to dig in her handbag and touch up her make-up, make it appear as if nothing is wrong, for she can’t face the well-meaning sympathy of her colleagues, not yet.

As steady as she’s going to get for the moment, Grace takes a final deep breath, holds it for a count of ten, and then walks out of the toilets and makes her way back to the dungeon. She passes Spencer on the way; he nods at her, a disgruntled expression on his face, but he doesn’t say anything. He looks like a man on an unwanted mission.

All is quiet as she walks into their underground lair, the central desks abandoned, their occupants clearly all out doing other tasks.

It’s a relief.

Grace pauses by the kettle, makes herself a cup of tea and carries it slowly to her office, thoughts slowly turning to the research into their latest possible suspect’s background she is planning on doing over the course of the afternoon.

Distracted as she walks through her door, she puts the mug down on her desk without looking whilst simultaneously slipping out of her coat and letting her bag drop onto the small sofa. It’s not until she has hung up the coat and settled herself in the comfortable office chair behind her desk that she looks up and notices the new addition.

How she could have missed it, she really doesn’t know, as her gaze takes in the large glass globe that is now occupying a sizable chunk of the rectangular surface.

Translucent glass, beautifully formed. Inside, pretty green plants rise majestically out of a beautiful lost city, their fronds waving gently as the water surrounding them ripples. Deep purple gravel rests on the bottom, and there, weaving slowly and hypnotically through it all, is a serene, and brilliantly orange, fantail goldfish.

Grace stares.

Aunt Florence bought her a goldfish for her fifth birthday. It was her first pet, and much treasured.

This, this is…

There’s a small pale-yellow square stuck to the bowl with just one word – a name – written on it. Her fingers are shaking as she takes it and pulls it off the glass, her voice cracks just a little as she whispers, “Hello, Gwen,” to the little fish.

Words fail her, so instead Grace simply sits and stares at her lovely new companion.  

He knew.

He knew how she would be feeling, and he went out of his way to do something wonderful for her. Something to put a smile on her face and remind her that she is still loved.

Briefly, she wonders where the name came from, but then the fish swims into the sunken city and Grace’s attention is caught up in how fluidly that little body glides between pillars and reeds. It’s been so many years since she had a pet fish that she’d completely forgotten just how soothing they are to watch, how easy it is to become entranced by them.

It’s a tiny bit of magic in a storm of grey emotion.

How much time passes, she has no idea, but eventually she becomes aware of a tall, solid presence leaning against the frame of her door.

“Peter, I…”

Boyd enters, leans against the end of the desk and studies the fish, a little smile on his lips. “Do you like her?”

The tears are back, threatening to fall again. “I love her,” she whispers. “She’s beautiful.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be there with you last night,” he says, and for the briefest, simplest of moments his hand rests on her shoulder, the backs of his fingers stroking the side of her neck.

“Are you coming over tonight?” she asks.

Boyd nods. “As soon as I can get away from the Yard. Hopefully by seven. Are you cooking?”

Grace laughs at his hopeful expression, feels a sudden warmth flood through her chest. “Yes.”

“I’ll definitely be there by seven, then,” grins Boyd. His demeanour changes, and for a moment he is serious, concerned. “Are you okay? You look like you’ve been crying.”

Of course he would notice, she thinks. The standard words bubble up to her lips, but she holds them back. Who is she trying to fool? Boyd, or herself?

“No,” she admits, voice soft, wan. “She was my biggest champion, my surrogate parent, the one I turned to in a crisis. I can’t imagine never seeing her again.”

For a moment Boyd looks as though he’s going to hug her, then the doors bang and Spencer is back again, scowling angrily. “Are you ready yet? We’re going to be late,” he announces bluntly, as he reaches Grace’s door. His eyes fall on the glass bowl. “What the hell?”

Venturing forwards, he peers down. “It’s a fish.”

“Ten out of ten for observation, DI Jordan,” drawls Boyd.

“Are we allowed pets down here?” pushes the younger man.

Boyd frowns, straightens imperceptibly. “We are if I say we are. Gwen is the newest member of the team.”

Spencer snorts. “Gwen? What sort of a name is that for a fish?”

Now Boyd is bristling. “A perfectly serviceable name, thank you very much.”

“Are you going to pay her a salary, too?”

Interrupting the exchange that is becoming more and more sarcastic, Grace lifts her hands as she says, “Boys, boys, haven’t you got a meeting you should be going to?”

“We have,” nods Boyd. He glances at his subordinate. “You’re driving. Get the car and I’ll see you at the front gate in five minutes.”

“Sir.” As Spence strides away, he hurries into his office. Grace gets to her feet, heads for the fridge in the squad room where the yoghurt she didn’t eat at lunchtime is waiting.

Moments later Boyd is hurrying past her. “I’m sorry about that,” he murmurs to her, keeping his voice down as a couple of the support staff drift over towards the main desks.

Grace shakes her head. “Don’t worry about it. I’m fine.”

For a brief moment his eyes search hers and she can see he wants to say something else, but then he shakes his head, as if clearing it. And then he’s gone, with a parting, “I’ll see you later.”

Returning to her office Grace settles to her afternoon’s work. Picking up the cup of tea that’s rapidly heading for lukewarm now, she takes a sip and smiles at Gwen. It’s nice to have company.

Turning her eyes to her computer screen she pauses, and then her smile becomes a full-blown grin. Stuck to the centre of the display is another small sticky square of paper, one that wasn’t there earlier and explains Boyd dashing back into his office before following Spencer out.

It takes perhaps a minute or two, but then she has figured out his short riddle. Rising, she moves to her bookshelf and removes two titles by the same author. Behind them is a small tub of goldfish food.

Still grinning like a schoolgirl, Grace returns to her desk and quietly contemplates just how wonderful love is.

True to his word, Boyd makes it to her house before seven, and it’s a pleasant atmosphere that fills the kitchen as she cooks and he tells her about his afternoon, occasionally passing items to her or topping up their wine glasses from the bottle of red he presented as he walked through the door.   

“It smells delicious,” he enthuses, as they sit down at the table together.

“Well, hopefully it tastes delicious, too.”

It does, and as they sit and eat Grace can feel herself relaxing in his company. It’s been a rough couple of days, but she’s more glad than ever that they somehow muddled their way into this quiet, complimentary coexistence that they are somehow continuing to fumble their way through.

Neither of them thought it would last, but time has taught both of them a good deal about all the things that are really important; friendship, compromise, shared interests; love.

And she does love him. Wholeheartedly.

And secretly, she very much hopes that one day, in the not too distant future, he will agree to live with her properly, instead keeping up the chaotic juggling act they currently have, with two homes and the secrets, and all the responsibility that goes along with it.

The phone rings just as they are finishing, and Grace knows before she picks up the receiver who it is.

“Hello, darling,” she says to Pippa.

The answering voice is youthful and familiar. Wonderful to hear. It is also riddled with stress. “How did you know it was me?”

“I just did. I must be psychic. Now, what’s wrong?”

Behind her, Boyd gets to his feet and begins to clear up, running hot water into the sink and washing the dishes. When Grace gestures to him that she will clean up, he waves her off so she heads to the living room and settles on the sofa as Pippa talks about her fast-approaching deadline and a problem with fellow researcher that is threatening to ruin the entire project. The poor girl is almost in tears and hasn’t slept for two days, and by the time Grace has calmed her down, talked her into taking a break and going to get something to eat, and then worked through a plan with her, she cannot bring herself to tell her little girl the bad news.

Friday, she tells herself, as the call winds down and they say their good byes. On Friday the project will be finished and the stress lifted. On Friday she will do it. No matter what.

Boyd appears with a steaming coffee as she puts the phone aside.

“What is it?” he asks, concerned. “You’re frowning.”

Grace sighs. “She’s having a hard time at the moment. That big project she has on – it finishes at the end of the week but there are lots of unexpected issues cropping up.”

“Did you tell her?” Boyd subsides down at the other end of the sofa and sips from his own mug.

Guiltily, Grace shakes her head. “I couldn’t.”

“I thought not.” He studies her for a moment, and Grace wonders what he’s thinking. Whether he thinks her wrong or right for her decision. She wonders what he will say when she brings up her plans. Better to find out than to wonder, she tells herself.

“About this weekend,” she begins, hesitantly.

He’s still looking at her, eyes steady as he lowers his mug and nods. “I called Liza. She has a room available at the B and B. You can go alone, or I’ll come with you, if you like.”

Grace feels her mouth fall open in shock. “Peter…”

The grin she receives is wide open and amused. “I knew you’d want to see her. Figured you would want to tell her in person. And I haven’t seen Pippa for ages. If, of course, you want me to join you, that is.”

“Of course I do.” Grace can hear the wobble in her tone. Knows she is close to crying again. Is distressed by the onslaught of emotion she’s felt swamped by these last few days – it’s hard, so hard, to be cast adrift from her usual equanimity.

So, so hard to think that she will never speak to Aunt Florence again, never hug her, or travel with her, or simply sit in her beautiful garden and talk of anything and everything.

Boyd notices, naturally. He always does, now that the barriers between them have fallen. He holds out his arms in invitation, knowing exactly what she needs. And as she crawls across the sofa and subsides against his chest, Grace lets those tears go, seeking the catharsis of crying and the warmth, the security, of his embrace.

It’s not the first time, and she’s sure it won’t be the last, that one of them has cried on the other. Somehow, together, they eventually manage to let their guard down, to allow themselves that brief respite of human weakness. To fully trust one another.

“She warned me about you, you know?” sniffs Grace, when her tears have subsided, her eyes are gritty and her nose is blocked. Sitting up she reaches for the table, snags a tissue and blows her nose.

“Pippa?” Boyd looks confused.

“No, my aunt.”

One eyebrow quirks in curiosity. “Oh?”

Grace smiles at the memory. “Yeah, she was convinced that you were a bad boy, that you would end up hurting me because you always put the job first.”

“I see.” His tone is carefully even, his expression studiously neutral.

Settling herself back against his chest and listening to his strong, steady heartbeat, Grace adds, “She came around though. Decided that perhaps there was more to you than she first thought.”

“Really?”

Playing with a button on his shirt, Grace nods against him. “Mm. Apparently she saw you watching me one day when we were visiting her, said she could tell from the look on your face that I was your ‘forever’ person.”

Boyd snorts, as she knew he would. But then he falls silent, appears to be contemplating. “Actually,” he admits, “she was right. I distinctly remember an afternoon where that happened. She was adamant that she could barbeque better than me and wouldn’t let me near the food, so I was watching you play croquet with Pippa – I’d gone to the shop for something we’d forgotten, and you’d started playing without me. The two of you were laughing so much at how terrible you were, and I couldn’t wait for the game to be over so I could join in.”

Fingers deftly unfastening the button and finding their way to the warm, smooth flesh beneath, Grace remembers. “Hand-eye coordination is not my greatest strength,” she acknowledges. “I was never any good at sports.”

“No,” he agrees. “But your laughter and your smile – they are beautiful. And croquet is not a sport, it’s a game.”

Resisting the urge to roll her eyes at how pedantic he is, Grace flicks a finger gently against his now bare stomach. “You’re such a nit-picker,” she challenges.

There’s a flurry of movement and then abruptly she is pinned beneath. “And you wouldn’t have me any other way,” Boyd tells her, a meaningful look in his eyes. When Grace says nothing, fails to concede, he attacks, his fingers finding all of her ticklish spots and teasing mercilessly. “Would you?”

“No,” gasps Grace, trying desperately to squirm away from him. It’s futile. He’s just too big and too strong; she can’t even move his arm where it is venturing beneath her top to find that place just below her ribs that makes her squeal and beg him to stop. “No,” she shrieks. “No, Peter, no.”

Deep, full-bellied laughter fills the room as he stills his movements and gazes down at her, pure mischief glittering in his eyes.

“God, I love you,” Boyd whispers, and then his lips are brushing softly against hers in a moment that proves to her just how perfectly they fit together as he reminds her what it feels like to be alive, as he banishes that dark, oppressing gloom that has been cloaking her for days. 

It is gentle but heated, the way they kiss and caress, the way they slowly lose the layers between them. It is loving but erotic, the way he touches her, the way she strokes him. And it is slow and sensual, the way he enters her, the way they move together, the way they wordlessly tell each other everything they need to know.

He reminds her that even in darkness there is light, that even when things are tough there is love and pleasure and happiness in simple togetherness.

And when they lie still again, entangled and flushed and drifting in the tranquil aftermath, Grace knows that it will be okay. The heavy grey pain of heartbreak and anguish are tugging at the edges of her consciousness, but for the moment they don’t take over entirely.

She thinks that maybe that’s due to the reassuring heat of him beside her, the possessive arms that are curled around her.

She’s knows that it is due to him.

Sometimes Grace catches herself wondering what might’ve happened if they’d allowed themselves this rawness of honesty all those years ago, if their sphere of intimacy could’ve been allowed out into the light then, instead of being kept in the shadows. If maybe Pippa would’ve grown up with a father figure in her life, instead of an honorary uncle, and a stepbrother, too. If there might even have been other children for Aunt Florence to spoil and dote upon.

It’s just another thing to add to the heavy burdens clamouring at the back of her mind, pushing down on her right now.

Still, it will be okay. Eventually.

There’s a slight shift of muscle, and then she feels inordinately gentle lips caressing her neck, just above her shoulder. She shivers and sighs with pleasure, with happiness.

“You bought me a goldfish,” she murmurs, thinking of the heart-warming gesture.

Those lips still, his head lifts. Hazel eyes filled with curiosity find hers. “I did.”

On the face of it, it’s just a fish. But in reality, it is so much more. Means so much more. And for that, Grace will be eternally grateful.

“I love you,” she tells him. Keeps the words simple, like their Post-It note game. Because she means them, and because she knows how much they mean to him. Because she knows he knows what it is she’s really telling him.

He understands.

He always does.

Chapter Text

Originally a challenge fic, which actually came in under the word limit for once! 1500 word limit, set post S4 onwards. Must feature: an old lady feeding ducks, a sheep, a post box, grey, orange, a chain of some description, and a comb.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY to Rapunzle1980 :) xx

Little Things

The picture is old.

Not black and white, but just a little faded with age.

Muted autumn colours; dark reds, deep oranges, brilliant yellows, and a few stray greens mixed in.

Leaves strewn on the floor, a few determinedly still clinging to the trees. At the edge of the dull, grey water, an older woman stands, sprinkling grain and seed to the ducks clustered around her legs. Like sheep, they follow one another to the welcome source of an easy meal.

Stood beside her, crouched down with a palm extended, a little girl in a thick coat and wellies is hand feeding one of the more adventurous birds, her expression one of pure innocence and delight. The older woman is looking on, her eyes sparkling with life, with happiness.

It's almost a lifetime ago, but as Grace gazes at the small framed rectangle, she can perfectly recall that wonderful afternoon with her daughter and her aunt.

Feeding the ducks had been Aunt Florence’s idea, one that little Pippa would never turn down. Even now, as a doctoral candidate, ducks are still Pippa’s favourite. Following quietly, watching the two most important people in her world, Grace had kept her camera in hand, had used an entire roll of film as they laughed and giggled and lured the wildlife with their promised treat.

“It’s still one of my favourite memories.”

The subdued voice brings Grace back to herself, to the young woman sitting at the desk beside her, quietly applying a hint of flattering makeup.

Turning away from the photograph, Grace gazes at her daughter. “Mine too,” she replies.

Picking up the old comb – another reminder of Aunt Florence – Grace begins to gently work it through her daughter’s long, luxurious hair, just as she did when Pippa was a little girl.

“It’s going to be hard,” she tells her child, “but think of all the good times. All the memories we have to keep her alive and with us.”

Tears sparkle in Pippa’s blue eyes, the same blue eyes that Grace has, that Aunt Florence also had. They don’t fall, though, and Grace is grateful. A single tear would be enough to set her off as well, today. 

Grief is… hard. This loss has hit her harder than any previously, she thinks. Her mother, she barely remembers, and her father… well, that was a difficult, fraught relationship. Aunt Florence filled it all.

And now she doesn’t.

Memories. That’s what’s she has to on cling to.

Like the feel of her daughter’s hair beneath her fingers. It reminds Grace of how her aunt brushed her hair, how her aunt took her time and styled it so carefully for her after the losses of Grace’s parents, and then again years later before the church bells tolled. Even later still, when Philippa was christened. A silent, reassuring way of conveying love when words weren’t needed.

Ritual is comforting.

The front door clatters down below, and automatically Grace feels a touch of peace, the calm his presence always brings to her heart.

“Leave it down,” is the soft request, and Grace’s hands slow in connection with her mind wandering to the man downstairs. She puts the comb aside, smoothes a hand over the long dark locks that hang to the middle of her daughter’s back, then rests her palms on Pippa’s shoulders. They look at each other in the mirror, expressions bleak and grey with the sombre nature of the day, with the heavy weight of their shared grief.

It’s so hard.

A change of atmosphere, of focus. That’s what they need.

Grace casts about, feeling useless, before remembering something.

Reaching into her pocket, her fingers curl around the delicate chain she put there earlier. “This is for you,” she explains, holding it out, nestled in the palm of her hand. “It was hers.”

It’s a locket. Delicate, intricate, and beautiful. Old. Priceless. A true heirloom. “I can’t…” begins Pippa, recognition dawning. “It should be yours.”

Grace stops her with a small smile and a shake of her head. “No. She wanted you to have it. Open it later, you’ll see. It’s part of all three of us.”

The unshed tears are back, and both have to fight to keep them at bay. Silently, Pippa moves her hair in invitation, and Grace carefully fastens that thin silver chain around her child’s neck. Smiles softly as it falls into place, resting elegantly against her skin.

It’s a little thing, but it’s significant. It’s a little piece of Florence that’s still here.

A tap at the door startles them both, breaks the edge of emotion threatening to overwhelm them.

“That bloody post box is half a mile away, Grace,” Boyd protests, “not ‘just round the corner’.”

“Oh well, I’m sure the walk was good for you.” It’s an easy retort, but one without ire or malice.

Light on his feet, Boyd enters the room. Studies them via their reflection in the mirror. “You both look beautiful,” he tells them quietly. “But Florence wouldn’t want tears at her funeral.” He produces tissues for somewhere, hands out one each.

In his suit, he’s a handsome figure. The bright shirt and tie an odd selection for a funeral, but that too was Florence’s request. No black, no tears. Just remembrance of the happy times, the memories.

Tears are dried, Pippa gets to her feet. Boyd appraises her elegant, simple dress and then sweeps her into his arms. “You look lovely, kiddo,” he compliments, holding her tightly. “It’s going to be okay.”

Grace bites her lower lip, blinks furiously. Boyd raises an eyebrow, frees an arm, and holds it out to her. “Come here,” he instructs, softly. She falls into his embrace, holding on to the two most important people in her world. Pippa is crying now, but Grace can feel her resolve hardening.

It will be awfully hard, but they will get through the day. She will hold Pippa up, and Boyd will hold her. Grace knows it without having to ask. Feels it in the touch of his warm palm against the thin material of her blouse as he rubs her shoulder gently. Feels in the sweetness of his lips as he presses them to the top of her head.

No matter what, Boyd always has her back. Always.

“That’s a beautiful necklace,” he’s telling Pippa.

“Thank you,” she sniffs. “It was Aunt Florence's. It’s been in the family for generations. She always wore it.”

Boyd wipes her tearstained cheeks. “There you are then. She’s still with you in a way.”

For a man who can be so brash, he has the most wonderful ability to show compassion. And Grace has never been more grateful for him and his choice to be part of her life, to be part of her daughter’s life.

“Take a minute, dry your eyes. There’s plenty of time,” Boyd is assuring Pippa. “We’ll wait downstairs for you.”

Taking her cue, Grace kisses her daughter on the cheek and squeezes her hand in reassurance, then heads downstairs.

“You okay?” His question hits her like a wall as the kitchen door closes softly behind them.

“Yes. No. I don’t know.”

Quietly, he loops his arms around her again, this time from behind as she stands by the counter. “And that’s okay. We’ll get through the day, and then you can relax. Whatever you need.”

“I love you,” she tells him, and she means it with every ounce of her soul.

Soft lips against her neck, calming hands running up and down her arms. “I love you, too.”

In front of her, on the counter, Gwen swims slowly, elegantly through the fronds of her plants, disappearing into the sprawling empty city on the bottom of her tank, before reappearing, her fins fluttering like silk as she meanders through the water.

Relaxing. Soothing.

A flash of beauty in a dreary grey day.

And there on the recently relocated tank is proof that he means what he says. A small square of yellow paper. Three little words. Two little kisses. All she needs to hear from him today.

It means the world, it really does.

It’s the little things, Grace realises. Aunt Florence’s locket now hanging around her beautiful daughter’s neck. Pippa’s sweetness, her kindness. The pretty little fish in front of her. The love of the man still holding her, supporting her.

It’s going to be a hard day, is already a hard day, but still…

Florence was right. The little things, those are what really matter. Tiny moments, small memories. They all add up.