Waking the Dead They Bicker

**They Bicker**

…

It is seemingly, as it has so often been in the past, the order of the day for them. It happens near constantly, at every available moment when the prying eyes and ears of their younger colleagues are mercifully elsewhere occupied. They bicker, back and forth, practicing the art they have cultivated so richly and carefully over the years.

They have not given in to the rage of a full-blown screaming argument; indeed, Boyd has no intention of going there with her today, in the near future, or possibly ever again, if he can help it. But they are who they are, and they have always argued. The very fabric of their relationship is woven with the tangle of words thrown back and forth. And today they continue to do so, though quietly and less forcefully than they, and others, may be used to. But Grace is determined, and so is he. And they both have a valid point they are each too stubborn to point out, discuss, or let go of.

It hasn't been a particularly long or hard day, but she has been there for its entirety and he has, in his traditional and time-honoured way, albeit at a much lower than normal decibel level, made his displeasure about that detail well known. Never mind the fact that she has been sequestered away in her office, tucked safely and comfortably into her desk chair with only the many stacks and overflowing piles of accumulating paperwork to occupy her. The few times she has wandered out into the squadroom, his scowl has noticeably deepened, even more so as the clocks have kept up their slow, steady and ever increasing march onwards.

He says nothing in front of their team, some of whom perhaps are beginning to form suspicions about the reasons behind his increasingly bad mood, but the progressively stiff set of his shoulders and the rapid marching from place to place every time he moves are a clear indicator to any and all that the pot is heading for the boil, the volcano inexorably approaching yet another explosive eruption.

Even when they all left to investigate a new lead and talk with a recently resurfaced possible witness, she stayed behind. She made no qualms about it, didn't, in fact, even ask to join them. She merely smiled and nodded from behind the latest report occupying her attention and waited for them to return, managing, in the suddenly descended peace and quiet, to get through a very large chunk of the usually boring, but today oddly comforting, chore of paperwork.

She manages to surprise him though, just when he thinks his grip on his self-control might be about to slide right out the window, despite his absolute best intentions. At half past five she shuts down her computer, slides into her coat and threads the strap of her bag over her shoulder, because the inevitable has happened, and she is now very tired. And no matter how much she has enjoyed herself today, it's time to draw a line under the experience and, _finally_, in his opinion, go home.

She walks out of her office, utterly serene and calm on the outside, as usual, but glowing with pleasure on the inside, and bids good night to her colleagues, her friends. She is tired, yes, and tomorrow morning she will undoubtedly not want to move from her bed for a long time past her usual rising hour, but she feels warm and absurdly happy with the success of the day because, and even though it might seem insignificant to the others, and in the end it was only paperwork that kept her occupied for all those hours, she has accomplished something. And that, small mountain, or hill more like, though it may be, means the world to her.

Spence and Kat are deep in talk about something, but they stop immediately when they see her and return her evening wishes sincerely and happily. Eve, who is writing something on the board next to the photos she has just added beside their current victim's particulars, stops and actually hugs her, briefly and gently, before murmuring something in her ear.

Grace laughs at the observation and they both glance at over at the other office door, on the far side of which Boyd is firmly ensconced behind his desk, on the phone and engaged in an irritable, but still polite and very drawn-out conversation with someone higher up the ranking than he, even as he watches them, Eve and, most specifically, Grace, with a pointed frown and the occasional glance at the still ticking clock.

Eve is under no illusions about his actions; she has known for weeks now, perhaps even months, about the secret that Grace and Boyd are quietly sharing. She has no tangible, solid proof, not of the beyond-a-reasonable-doubt kind anyway, but she still knows. And Grace knows that she knows. Which, between the two of them, is fine, because, the last few months, as long and painfully drawn out as they have been, have shown Grace that there are some things she just cannot confide in him. And when those moments have arisen, it has been Eve who was not only willing, but also happy, to listen and understand, and offer whatever she could in the way of help, or friendship, or comfort. It is something that Grace has truly treasured.

Leaving the building and driving home through the dark, bitterly cold December night she is very grateful for the new thermostat he insisted on installing at her home. It means that, despite the ancient plumbing, and possibly even more ancient boiler, the heating now works on a timer and the house will be comfortably warm when she gets home. Because she absolutely isn't. Her body's thermoregulation is completely shot, thanks to the chemo, and now she is living in a perpetually cold state. Well, almost. There does seem to be one, rather wonderful, exception.

Predictably, Boyd follows her home a short while later, having evicted the team for the night in the hope that by morning they will have their DNA result and something further to go on. He is through the door in his usual confidant, leading manner, no hesitation spared. He's been living here almost entirely full time for months now, because she needs the stability of what she knows and is at ease with surrounding her, and, quite honestly, he doesn't care where he is, so long as he's with her, and she's as comfortable as he can make sure of.

She's in the kitchen, sitting at the table and trying, though very hard, but unsuccessfully never-the-less, to find, summon or through sheer force of will, gather the energy required to do something about creating dinner. He knows her far too well though, because in his hand is a plastic bag containing the takeout he stopped for on his way, knowing she is by now, far past the point of either making anything substantial herself, or waiting for him to do so.

And make something substantial and fulfilling he can, many somethings in fact, which had initially stunned and then later delighted her, but tonight is not the night for an exercise in his culinary capabilities. No, tonight they are having Greek food, because it's easy and light and he knows it will be agreeable to her system. She is not so far removed from the end of the last, and hopefully very final, cycle of treatment that anything remotely heavy, spicy or adventurous can be eaten without causing the kind of distress the rigorous drug therapy has wracked her body with so often.

He takes a moment to stand and stare at her, watching carefully and taking in the tiny details, conducting his own thorough check of her welfare, ensuring he has not missed anything that might be even slightly amiss, any clue that she may be less than steadily improving.

She's sipping from a mug of tea, and he can see his accompanying mug sitting next to the teapot, patiently waiting, and that alone makes a faint smile reach his eyes. Never too tired for tea is a phrase he has heard so many times over the weeks and months. Her body is lined with the beginnings of exhaustion, but she's sitting in a comfortably relaxed manner, her eyes closed and her hands clasped loosely around the warmth of the ceramic resting on the table edge before her. She is not slumped in utter bone deep fatigue as he has become, under extreme and riotously internalised fighting protest, horribly accustomed to. That is a good sign as well. One that lifts his spirit just a little more as he continues to let his gaze linger.

He's actually very proud of her, and what she has achieved today. But he is also screamingly overprotective and utterly caught up in his quest to ensure her welfare and recovery is as smooth and complete as possible. Because the alternative simply isn't an option. He cannot, will not, think about, or even allow, anything else. It's him and her. That's it. As simple as it gets. There is no option of one without the other. And the fact that he can't see the enemy this time, can't fight something that is invisible to him, has him more scared than he has ever been in his lifetime. And so he fights what he can, the side-effects, the surroundings and the factors he can arrange to his will.

"I can feel you staring at me," she says softly, her eyes still closed, her head still resting back lightly against the wall her chair is pushed up against. It's not a protest though, but an observation and he hums in agreement, moving forward and setting their dinner down on the table. She opens her eyes and the expression he sees there, when she discovers what he has brought her, is one of deep gratitude and thankfulness at the totality of his understanding of exactly what and how she is feeling and his decision and dedication of support, despite his disapproval of her stubborn behaviour.

She moves to get up, no doubt in pursuit of plates and other such items necessary for them to dine, but he shakes his head gently and shifts to get everything himself, pausing as he passes her to rest a tender hand on her shoulder for a moment, his fingers traveling up to trace her cheek in a gesture that is equal parts affection and reassurance. Because, even though he trusts his eyes not to lie to him in his assessment of her condition, he trusts far more the information provided by multiple sensory input. And the way she turns her head, even just slightly, into his touch, tells him she is as well as she can be, under the present circumstances.

The bickering is actually a wonderful thing, he muses as they work their way, quietly and appreciatively, through the meal, absorbed in each other's warm and contented company, his coat abandoned on the counter and the mug she prepared in waiting now resting beside his right hand, full of tea but for a few missing sips, opposite its counterpart on the other side of the table beside her, in a scene of quiet and oddly very domestic tranquillity.

The quiet has descended only temporarily, as eating necessitates, but he, and indeed she too, knows that they are not done with their… discussion. They have spent far too much time together since she woke up in recovery, high on morphine and completely uncharacteristically unaware of her surroundings, where she has been just far, far too ill to do anything more than simply answer his worried questions in an unnervingly concise manner.

That, much more than the physical manifestations of her illness, has hurt him the most. Because they both know that she has a love of the English language, and it is deeply ingrained in her nature to use every obscure and descriptive expression she can in that gloriously fluent and conversational manner of hers while he will restrict himself to as few utterances as possible. And so it is, that whenever the energy possesses her, the retreat into their bantering ways is always wonderfully welcomed. As a sign of improvement, a hopeful look toward the future, and, despite the very real undertones of his stress and concern for her welfare, a rather pleasant way to pass the time and enjoy each other's company.

They are both painfully aware of what it has taken to get to this point, and of what there still is to come their way. But there is no talk of the coming weeks of uncertainty, the desperate hope that the last round of barely endurable, poisonously toxic pharmacological therapy has been enough, and that, together, they are finally climbing the last stretch of the seemingly insurmountable slope to freedom. Instead, they gaze across the table at each other, taking a few moments respite from their favourite joint pastime.

A few moments longer is all the quiet manages to last though, because suddenly the food is gone and the tea is drunk, despite its dubious suitability as a counterpart to the choice of menu. Alcohol is still strictly off limits though, the effects so horrible that neither of them will suggest it again for a long time. And she's grinning at him, suddenly temporarily refreshed and suitably energised to continue. He shakes his head as they get up to clear the mess, moving together in the kind of practiced synchronicity they have unconsciously developed thus far.

She knows every aspect of his concerns and fears. She is absolutely, intimately aware that he wants nothing but the best for her, her treatment and her recovery. They have discussed everything that needs discussing before. And she wants it all too. She wants, more than anything, to emerge on the other side of this nightmare and enjoy the fulfilment of everything he has promised her with regards to the future. Their future, together.

And she knows too, just how precarious the current level of her hard fought for health is. She knows what her boundaries are at the moment, as frustrating as they might be. There are things she can't do, things she won't do until she can or she gets the all clear, because the risk is simply not worth it, no matter how much it cuts at her fiercely stubborn independence.

She isn't banned from the CCU entirely; they both know she desperately needs the mental and emotional stimulation that work provides her with while her physical condition is so deteriorated and so they, mostly he, have negotiated a strict weekly maximum number of hours she is allowed to spend there. Most weeks she hasn't reached it, and there have been many others where she hasn't been able to work at all, most notably after the surgery that initially kicked off the whole process. Recovery from that was a bitch, and she was totally banned then, by him and by regulations. Not that she would have even tried to sneak in then; she just could not have managed it, even if she had wanted to.

As the nature of the illness and treatment goes though, there are bad days, worse days, and then sometimes there are good days. And spending time doing what she loves on those good days, with the people she loves, has been absolutely key to her keeping her at times tenuous grip on her sanity. Before today though, she has not managed more than a few hours at a time, which is what they had agreed to. And what has been rubbing steadily on his increasingly worried and fraying nerves the further around the dial the hands of the clock moved.

But she hasn't fought this bloody hard not to allow herself a little freedom of indulgence every so often on one of the few good days she currently has. He knows it too, and he understands. He even loves her all the more for it, for her grim tenacity and her joy in the simple achievement of just being able to sit and do something as dull as paperwork. The reality of the day has huge meaning to both of them. But he still has a protective role that he wants, and needs, to fill, and so the undercurrent of his concern remains there in their mostly good-natured sparring discourse.

They settle for a while in the lounge, doing nothing in particular, each just focusing on the other and the moment. He sits on the very comfortable sofa and she relaxes against him, her head resting in his lap and a blanket tucked over her legs. There is nothing else to distract them on this particular evening, and he revels in it. They both do. He has spent far more nights than he cares to remember simultaneously looking after her and working his way through the ever present loads of administrative nonsense he has been carting to and fro with him so he could be exactly where he needed to be.

Tonight though, there is none of it. There is only her, and her excitement of her day well spent. Him and his limitless love for this intoxicating, stubborn, intelligent woman who thinks far too much and likes to use big words just to get under his skin. And that little bit of remaining energy she has to keep their debate going. And so they go round and round, achieving nothing but heavy, satisfied grins as the exchange continues.

His fingers find hers and tangle with them; her hand is ridiculously small in his, but Boyd likes it. He likes everything about her. Loves everything about her. Especially tonight. He finds himself staring at her again. She has taken to wearing layers in order to cope with the pressing cold; shorter sleeves over longer ones, leggings and boots under long skirts, longer sweaters that drape comfortably and casually on her slightly battered frame, and he likes the look. Her hair is still very, very short – too short yet to do anything with – and she is still wearing her way through the vast array of scarves she has hidden in her wardrobe, wrapped and tied in an artfully defiant manner that is so very her. He likes that look too; it affords him glimpses of what Grace was like in her younger days, back when the police weren't to be trusted, and her activism stirred up all sorts of mischief.

He's lost in her, and he knows it. What they have, who they are, shouldn't work together. They are so different, but also so similar that the potential for catastrophe would seem to stretch into the infinite. But it isn't like that. Not at all. They complement each other very well, and despite everything, they are each wholly and hopelessly in love with the other. It may have taken them years to get around to it, but they have just naturally gravitated together.

They make their way, eventually, upstairs for the night, words still flying back and forth and the happiness is still shining in her eyes while the smile is still firmly lodged in his lips. It's been a long day, but a good day. A great day, even, he thinks. He's incredibly happy that she's so happy. Especially because, as realistic as he is, he knows that it's a sad inevitability that there will likely be more bad days than good days in the immediate future.

As good as the day has been through, he comes to the sudden realisation that it might possibly get just a little bit better, if, and only if, he can find a way to end this epic, enduring, and thus far thoroughly enjoyable exercise in their exchange of expressions. Except, this is Grace, and when has he ever easily been able to dissuade her from anything?

So finally, in an act that is as much in desperation to, finally and decisively, shut her up, as it is laden with desire, he kisses her. Slowly and gently and very, very thoroughly. Deliciously so, in fact. And it works. Because suddenly, she is no longer arguing with him.

They are sprawled on the bed, wonderfully, closely entangled with one another, kissing in that deep, lazy, unhurried manner of two people who know each other very well and love the sheer pleasure of each other's proximity, company and desire. They won't, can't, go much further yet, because she is, despite her sometimes quite vehement protests, still recovering and still a lot weaker than she likes to admit to. The anticipation is sweet, though, and for now they are very happily entwined, lips moving expertly and enticingly; exploring, adoring and sharing in perfect harmony and synchronicity. And she is now blessedly, deeply and very cosily warm, snug as she is against his body.

She knows full well that she has pushed herself slightly too hard today, and she even agrees that his protective streak probably has the right to be annoyed with her self-indulgence as well as being thoroughly worried about her precariously improving health. But it felt so good to spend the whole day doing what she wanted. And now, it seems, a rather large chunk of the evening, too.


End file.
