"Shall we relocate to bed? It might be slightly more comfortable," he finally suggests, his back now one solid, sullen ache.

"Mm," she agrees, though she doesn't move so much as a millimetre from where she is still snuggled against him.

There's a small clock beside the sink, and, craning his neck and squinting in the low light, he's just about able to make out the time, which has now crawled on well into the early hours of the morning.

"Merry Christmas, Grace," he murmurs, lips grazing the top of her head, his nose gently nuzzling her short, spiky hair.

She looks up at him, eyes blurred with exhaustion. "Is it really?"

Her cheek is hot from the raging fever, but still smooth under his skin and he slowly investigates, lets his fingertips meander across her features in a tender lover's caress. Her eyes flutter closed and he traces them with infinite care, soaking in the way she hums with pleasure under his touch.

"As of about four and a half hours ago, yes," he replies slowly, fascinated with his explorations, lost in her, in the way she reacts to him. Lost in the way she feels, bewitched by the calm, relaxed expression on her face, by the way the same deep, unadorned love that he feels reflects back in her eyes as she looks up at him again, smiling hazily.

He leans down to rest his head against hers and feels the gentle press of her lips against his temple. "Merry Christmas, Peter."

He's loath to break up the moment, to let go of her and their embrace, but eventually he notes her breathing begin to change, suggesting sleep is becoming fairly imminent, and so he nudges her carefully.

"Come on, it's bedtime. I'm shattered, so I dread to think how bad you must feel."

She starts a little, sits up with a wince and a groan that's not quite hidden in time. "Pretty bad," is all she will admit to, though. Instead she reaches out a shaky hand to stroke the sleepy cat. "Back to the kitchen, you," she tells Freyja, trying to encourage their pet to move from her lap.

"Oh, Grace, come on! It's Christmas – surely you can relent and let her come and sleep on the bed? Just for one night?"

She sighs, shaking her head at him. "All right, why not," she cedes, as Freyja yawns, stretches languidly, and finally gets slowly to her feet, paws flexing as her claws sink deep into the carpet and then retract again. "You spoil her so much!" Grace accuses, and Boyd can do nothing but grin, because it's entirely true. "And don't think I don't know that you were giving her extra treats earlier, either."

"How," he protests, staring down at her in mild disbelief, "could you possibly know that?"

"I have eyes in the back of my head."

"Funny!" His lips brush against the back of her neck as one arm curves around her body, holding her tighter, closer, even as his thumb gently taps her ribs. "Come on, tell!" he urges.

"I could hear her crunching the biscuits," she admits, her own fingers wrapping around his as her eyes drift shut again, head resting back against his chest. "And besides, I know all about the second bag you use to top up the first one – you can't hide your little secret from me, you know, just because you put it on top of the cabinets where I can't reach."

"Busted," he sighs mischievously, thoroughly unrepentant.

"Absolutely."

Grace giggles, and then he joins in, welcoming the lightness of the moment, the way she shakes against his body for a reason other than illness and fever. Freyja turns around to stare at them, head tilted adorably to one side.

Boyd sighs, entirely aware of his folly, even as he says, "How can you resist that little face? Those eyes?"

"I know you can't," retorts Grace, her laughter transforming into what is very definitely a snigger. "Honestly, you of all people falling for a cat… if only they knew at the Yard… I could dine out on it for months!"

"Don't even think about it," he warns.

"Would I?" Grace challenges.

"Maybe. If I managed to piss you off enough."

"Mmm," she considers. "That's true."

"Grace…"

"Kidding!"

He doesn't need to see the smirk to know it's there, but he doesn't bother to retaliate this time. Truthfully, he's enjoying it too much. It may only be a tiny scrap of banter, but it's still a reminder of the good times past, and hope for those still to come.

She sneezes again, aggressively, and several times in succession, eyes and nose streaming as her hand gropes blindly for a tissue which she can't find and he provides.

"I hate colds," is the irritable grumble that accompanies the sounds of nose-blowing and sniffing, though the intended vehemence of her tone is almost entirely eclipsed by fatigue. He resists the urge to point out that she's already told him so.

"Can you stand?" he asks instead, tone quiet, though he seriously doubts it.

"Not on my own," she sighs, as a big yawn escapes her, almost swallows her. "Sorry."

"Don't be." He slips out from beneath her body and gets slowly to his feet, wincing and groaning at tired, inactive muscles that protest angrily at his treatment of them. It takes a minute or two of bending, stretching and twisting to silence the worst offenders, and then he reaches down, easily lifting Grace to her feet, and, keeping his hands firmly on her waist, holds her there as she tries valiantly to stand by herself.

It's not going to happen, he realises. Neither is her walking back to bed. Still, he waits patiently and quietly as she determinedly gives it a try, before eventually looking up at him with a mix of distress, sadness, and a hint of desperate, resigned pleading.

"I can't… please…" she struggles, staggering to one side as her legs refuse to hold her upright.

"Sshh," he murmurs, lifting her effortlessly against his chest, cradling her closely. She's shivering almost violently now, though whether from cold or exhaustion he can't tell. "It's okay, honestly. I've got you. Always."

…

Their bed is very comfortable, though not exactly warm after lying empty for so long. Boyd curls around her, arms and legs tangling with Grace's to hold her flush against his body, to hide her away from the world and its dangers, to keep her snug within the warmth she craves, needs even. To keep the contact with her that he needs, and craves.

"Okay?" he murmurs, and her only response is to snuggle closer and hum softly. They are silent for a while, settling comfortably and letting the pull of sleep begin to reach for them as their thoughts and hearts relax, letting the tension and high stress of their marathon conversation begin to fall away. In its place grows a tranquil sort of calmness, and the kind of heavy but accomplished exhaustion that always seems to follow some kind of hard, intense work or serious event.

"Thank you," Grace eventually says quietly into the darkness around them, and there is a lot of gentle honesty and soft, heartfelt gratitude in her tone. "Thank you for knowing me as well as you do, and for being stubborn enough to not take no for an answer. I needed to talk this through, but I was afraid to – thank you for making me."

"You're not the only one who needed to talk," Boyd acknowledges. "We promised each other that we wouldn't hide anything, that we'd tell the truth, always. We failed at that."

"I know."

"We can't keep it up though," he warns.

"I know that, too."

He smiles inside, kisses the back of her neck to let her know how he's feeling. Slender fingers spread wider, curl around his arm and return the gesture, the sentiment with a hint of pressure. It's the kind of peaceful, intimate communication that he's been without for so long now that he can barely remember sharing it before.

The way they are together, the way they react to one another, how they accommodate moods and thoughts and bad days and good, how they fit with and around each other – it's all so effortless. So easy. He wonders why, how. Has contemplated if illness makes it that way, is frightened that health might change it. Make it harder. Take away some of the peace, the equanimity he has found with her. Sometimes, when he relaxes enough to let his mind wander to such topics, he finds himself locked in a battle – the desperate need for her to recover, for their promised future to stretch out before them, pitted against the fear of losing what they have, the way they are, right now.

He wonders if it's madness – if he's crazy for thinking such thoughts, yet he cannot banish them. Has tried, and failed.

"What did you think of Alex?" she asks, voice muffled by her pillow.

It's a significant question, he thinks, and a distraction he needs. Has she sensed his desire for a new topic? For a question to direct his thoughts elsewhere? He wouldn't put it past her – knows she is more than capable of knowing when such a diversion is necessary. It's who she is, how they are together. But still…

Her closest – and favourite – relative, Alex is away for long stretches of time but is still very dear to Grace, Boyd knows. "I liked him," he answers after brief consideration, and it's the truth. "I'd like to spend more time with him – he was very interesting to talk to, to listen to. He's easy, pleasant company."

"I'm glad."

"Did you doubt?" he queries, curious.

Grace sighs softly, stretches her spine. "No. I wasn't expecting to see him though… it was…"

"Hard?" he suggests, when she seems unable to go on.

"It was," she acknowledges, and there's a lot of pain audible in her tone that he knows is born out of the clinging guilt. Some things cannot be fixed in one night.

"It seemed to me like he took it very well," Boyd hedges, wondering whether or not it is a good idea to continue with this topic, or if this is really one of those things best left well enough alone for the time being. Yet the way it still seems to be nagging at her is what makes him push ahead. "I don't know what the two of you talked about, but he seemed quite happy and relaxed when he left, and he certainly seemed to enjoy the evening."

"He didn't ask me about my diagnosis or treatment, but I told him – I knew he wanted to know. He asked a few questions then, but not many. Just enough to reassure himself, I think. He did ask me about you, though."

Curiosity gets the better of him, and Boyd has to ask, "What did you tell him?"

"That this is permanent. Real. That it matters. That I love you."

Again, he can't help himself. "Did he say anything?"

There's just enough light in the room that he can see a trace of the grin on her face as she cranes her neck to look at him, and he instinctively leans closer, coveting the warm kiss of her body against his own. "He was happy for me. For us. He liked you – said you seemed like a nice man. I've no clue where he got that notion from, though."

Boyd feels the laughter work its way up from deep inside his chest, relishes the feeling of it escaping as it warms his heart, burns away some more of the atmosphere that has been clinging to them both for hours now. From the bottom of the bed there is a loud mew of protest, and then Grace is giggling too, her head pressing into his shoulder where he can feel the physical proof of her amusement against his skin. It's a tiny moment, but in the long, dragging brutality of the night it is one he snatches hold of, clings to because of its ease, its pleasure.

The silence that slowly falls between them is calm, filled with the exhausted serenity left in the wake of such deep and heartfelt revelations. Downstairs the boiler is ticking softly, and around them the house occasionally creaks and groans to itself a little, but that is it. In the room with them Freyja is slowly falling asleep again, lost somewhere between a purr and a snore as their breathing becomes slower, steadier – a gentle night-time harmony. The sheets rustle as Grace moves very slightly, settles herself fractionally more comfortably; the face of the clock glows green, the numbers blurred by his fatigue. He squints, but then gives up, too tired to be bothered caring what the hour is.

"Can you believe Eve was brought up by a psychic?" he murmurs after a while, mind wandering idly now. He feels her soft hum in response and knows without any other proof that she is also smiling. His chest loosens and as he breathes slowly and steadily something unlocks inside him, some strand of remaining tension gradually releasing; it's going to be all right. Somehow he instinctively knows that it is.

"It might explain the incense and all that. And how comfortable she is with death," Grace ponders, her hand tracing his arm until she can rest her palm against his own, their fingers gently entangled.

"Yeah," he agrees. "It's still… weird… though."

"I agree. Definitely. She can't possibly have had a normal childhood, not from all the stories she's told me."

"No?"

"I don't think so. She was orphaned at barely three – she doesn't remember her parents at all."

"That's sad," he sighs, mind rushing back through a host of early memories that are all filled with the happy chaos of older, rowdier siblings, and parents who loved fiercely, but encouraged independence and exploration as well as family unity.

"She loves her aunt, says she had a wonderful life growing up."

He can sense there's more than she's admitting, wonders if he should ask, and then does so anyway. "But?"

"Part of me thinks – and please don't ever tell her I said so – but I wonder if the reason she became a scientist, a pathologist, even, is because no one could ever tell her the exact nature of how they died."

"She doesn't know?"

"No. I think it's a mystery she could never solve."

"That's… a powerful thing to drive someone," he muses.

Grace nods into the pillow, makes a soft sound of agreement. "Mm, yeah." She coughs again, the sound is vicious and harsh as it rattles through her body, and when he puts a hand on her chest and rubs gently he can feel the tremendous amount of strain there, winces at the burning heat of her skin where the fever is raging.

It sends his mind running back to the night he woke to find her unconscious and unresponsive to all his attempts to wake her as infection ran rampantly through her bloodstream, trying its best to slowly kill her. Blue light flickers in the edges of his vision as he remembers calling for an ambulance, afraid he was already too late, remembers waiting minutes that felt like hours for the paramedics to arrive and help him, each second taking an eternity to tick by as he watched her breathing slowly worsen, her skin red-hot under his palms just as it is now. It's not until she sneezes and jerks in his arms that he's pulled from the memories back to the present, his heart thudding wildly, painfully in chest. She sniffs and groans, and that proof that she's still there is what he clings to, what helps drag him back to reality.

Stretching, he's just able to snag another tissue for her, before settling back down again and running a soothing hand across her neck and shoulder, forcing his mind to follow the movements, to count the beats of her heart as his arm slips back around her waist and his palm comes to rest on her chest. The terror of that night has never left him, and the horrific initial thought when he first slipped from slumber to wakefulness that she was dead in bed beside him still stalks his dreams, still plays cruel jokes on him in the darkest hours of the night.

He needs to tell her, he realises. They keep so many secrets from the outside world, hide so many aspects of her health and their life, but not from each other. They promised and they failed, and that can't happen again. This evening has shown him that. She needs every scrap and thread of stubbornness and emotional reserve, along with everything he can give her in the way of love and support to get through this, and that includes absolute trust and honesty between the two of them.

Still, it takes a lot to steel himself, to gather the strength to confess something that has affected him so deeply, and he's still working on it when she beats him to it, as she so often does. "What's wrong?" she asks, her heavy concern easily detectable, despite the fact that her voice is barely more than a whisper.

He starts a little, stares down at her in the darkness. Wishes he could see her clearly, read her expression, her eyes. Look for some sign of how she does it. "How do you know?"

"I can feel it," she replies, trying to smother a yawn that threatens to swallow her whole. Now really isn't the time to be talking about this, he realises. Despite his desire to maintain the honesty, to tell her everything, it's desperately obvious that the evening has gone too far – that she has pushed herself far, far too far. Part of him wants to refuse, to table this confession for the morning, but he can't, he knows. Grace has pushed through a mountain of adversity to share everything she has with him tonight, and now it's his turn to talk, her turn to listen.

Even so, it's hard to begin. To force out the very first words. "I have nightmares, bad ones." He imitates her, concentrates on her breathing. Follows the pattern with his own lungs. "I had a flash from one just now – the night I thought you were…" he trails off. He can't say it, he just can't. He doesn't want to think about it. Ever.

Grace sighs, and her tone is flat, incredibly sad as she speaks. "I thought you might. I'm so sorry. I wish I could take it away, make them stop. If I could, I'd go back to that day and never touch the stupid apple."

"It's not your fault." The need to defend her is instant, instinctive.

She sighs again, tucks her head into his shoulder. "Maybe. I'm not so sure, but thank you for telling me."

The top of her head is a wonderful place for his cheek to rest against, lets him breathe in the scent of her, feel the softness of her hair against his skin as he tugs the quilt a fraction higher. "Honesty," he murmurs, that one word explaining it all.

"I know." There's a tiny pause, and then she says, "I have them, too. Nightmares, that is." He feels the shiver run through her, wonders if he needs to ask, but he doesn't. This new admission isn't something he's ever thought about, and now he wonders why. But then, she always seems to sleep soundly, deeply, even if it doesn't do much to refresh her.

"In mine the cancer is gone, but so are you. I wake up freezing cold and alone every time. I can never get warm, and I can never find you. I call your name, I search – look everywhere – and then I'm suddenly so afraid, so terrified that I'm screaming and screaming, but it doesn't do any good. It's like you're just around the corner, but when I get there that corner is somewhere else – I can never find you, and I know I never will."

Boyd's instinct is to tighten his hold; hers, it seems, is to press back against him. He welcomes it, clutches her securely, closely, almost frantically, and wrestles with the sudden tidal rush of overwhelming, swamping fear. It's fatigue, pure and simple, he knows, but the distant part of his mind that is telling him that isn't big enough or strong enough to push back the horrors, to regain control of his emotions, his thoughts. It's the same for her, he can tell. She shivers in his arms, their individual fears somehow becoming entangled and wrapped together, growing and strengthening as they do, gaining power until they are the only thing occupying their minds.

It takes long minutes until he relaxes enough to murmur softly to her, to do his best to reassure her. How, he wonders, do these thoughts and memories have the power to overwhelm his mind? It seems incredibly irrational, and feels totally alien – completely unlike anything he is accustomed to. He knows all too well how easy it is to lose his temper and fly into a towering rage, knows what it feels like to be swamped by desire, to seethe with jealousy, to hate with a raging, burning passion, but to be overcome with fear to the point of feeling weakened by it… that is something new. Something he would never have contemplated, something he would never have expected to feel, to experience.

It's destabilising, and the path away from that feeling isn't obvious to him. There is nothing he can reach out for and grasp on to, no method he can see to ground himself again. It's not him, doesn't fit with his personality, his approach to life, to emotion, but even so, he's lost. Even, sometimes, in the quiet, unguarded moments, crippled by it.

"You can't fight it," Grace tells him, again somehow intuitively knowing what is going through his mind. "Trust me, Peter, just this once, when I tell you that you cannot outrun or out-fight or hide from this kind of fear. You'll wear yourself out and it'll still be stalking you when the edge is looming, begging you to fall."

Instinct and character makes him bridle, resist. Not fighting an aggressor, a stressor or a conflict in his life is another unnatural concept, one he's never managed to become accustomed to. But then he feels her tense in his arms in response to his reaction, and for her sake he forces it all down, battles to clear his mind and listen, take on board her words.

Change. That dreaded six letter word that simultaneously offers so much challenge and opportunity. "How do I – we – stop it, then?" he asks, for he is not the only one struggling with terror here.

"We don't," is the simple reply that leaves a spreading, unnerving chill trickling down his spine. "You can't stop fear, only deal with it, learn to dismantle it."

He can see where this is going now, decides to blame exhaustion on the length of time it's taken his brain to catch up with hers. "This is going to involve a lot of words, isn't it?"

He doesn't need to see her face, he can feel the smile throughout her body in every place her skin is pressed snugly against his own. "It is," she agrees, clearly working hard to keep the amusement light in her tone.

"So we… talk… about the nightmares," he muses, thinking aloud.

"Mm hm."

"And we analyse them." He glances down at her, feels her nod against him. "And I suppose we pick apart all the tiny, insignificant details and look at where they came from and what they mean." There's a hint of sarcasm now, one he can't repress, though it's coupled with a healthy amount of love and trust; there is only outright amusement from her. "And we emerge from it healthier, happier individuals who have a better understanding of ourselves and each other."

Grace is laughing hard now, so much so she's trembling in his arms, her breath wheezing noisily in and out of her chest.

"Have I ever…" she gasps, "said anything… like that to you?"

Boyd's arms twine tighter around her torso, his nose trailing through her spiky hair as he brushes tiny, lingering kisses amongst the strands.

"Admittedly not, no," he grins, incredibly glad the tension has so spectacularly broken and eased away. "But, you know…"

"I do. I do indeed. You couldn't let the opportunity pass." Slender fingers wander along his arm, her thumb finding the slight ridge of a mole there and tracing it delicately, the rest of the digits following suit. Eyes closing, he concentrates on the sensation, tries to let everything else fall away.

"Talking it is, then," he murmurs eventually, resigned to his fate. "But not now, though," he adds, determined not to lose the soothing, relaxing atmosphere that has wrapped around them both in the last few minutes.

"Good lord, no," sighs Grace, with feeling. "I'm done in, and so are you." He feels another slight tremor of laughter run through her. "But just think, we have until after New Year to talk about it all, completely uninterrupted."

He rolls his eyes, retorts dryly, "What a thrilling prospect." It's all good-natured though, for where wouldn't he go, and what wouldn't he do to help her. To help them both.

They settle once more, sinking ever closer towards the heavy darkness of slumber. Boyd tries to let it all go, to think of nothing but the way she feels, how she smells, what his senses tell him about her and the way she is so thoroughly entwined with him. They drift interminably, though he can sense there is something else, something more she wants, and needs, to address. He's patient now, though, worn down to the point he can simply wait her out as they both hover in that not quite dozing, drifting sector of diminishing consciousness.

Finally, eventually, she dares to ask, and it's the question, the one that neither has touched. Until now.

"What if it never happens? What if I don't get better, Peter? What then?"

"I don't know how to answer that," he sighs, mind sorting sluggishly through the possible responses and gauging them all for truthfulness. "I want to say that it isn't going to happen, it's not going to be an issue, but I can't. And that hurts."

There is silence between them, broken only by the sleepy snores of the cat and tick of the clock downstairs. It's not a question he can answer, not a real answer. He's tried – many times now – to work his way through it, his mind usually taking him straight there every time the darkest hours roll around, but he rarely gets anywhere, instead kicks the notion as far away as possible, as quickly as possible. He can't deal with it, doesn't know how to deal with it, and so he avoids it. Ignores it, even.

And every time it happens, in every instance when it has caught up with him, stalked him, worried him, scared him, he's done exactly the same thing – run back to her, held her, called her, listened to her, watched her or rescued her. Anything to remind himself that the living hell of limbo is on-going. That nothing has changed. Nothing has ended.

"I want to spend the rest of my life with you, Grace, and I wish that… that I could say that that should be enough to make it happen, because I feel like it should."

"Sometimes," she begins, and the hesitancy in her tone is clearly audible, the fear in her clearly evident. "Sometimes I try and imagine what the future might be like – what we could have if we wanted, what we could do, see. Experience. Feel. But I can't do it. I can think about the possibility that we can have a life together, that you promised me we would get there, but not what happens afterwards."

He's tempted to jump in, to insist that they are going to have that future, that it's not simply a possibility, but something inside prevents him from doing so. It would be a lie, he knows, and that… is not what they agreed. Not what they need. Instead he asks a thoughtful, "What can you see?

"Nothing," she answers, the word catching in her throat. "Literally nothing. I can only think of the concept of a life together, only hold on to that as the target I'm trying desperately to reach for."

He's not prepared for just how devastating the blow her words create is, because in his spare moments he has fought back the horrors by daydreaming, has conjured up images and ideas and thoughts of what he wants for them, what he would like to share with her, show her, do with her.

"It scares me," she admits, voice wavering and the edge of tears fighting to break free again, "that I can see nothing, think of nothing. It's what I want more than anything, but my mind won't let me see it. I think it's because I'm afraid to believe it's possible."

Boyd seizes on her last words, instantly picking them apart and realising what she's not seeing. "Are you?"

"What?"

"Afraid it's not possible?"

Grace cranes her neck, looks up at him, bewildered. "Of course I am. I'm terrified of it. Aren't you?"

"Yes," he agrees, far more easily than he would have thought had he foreseen this in advance, and that thought alone makes him realise how much affect even just a single conversation can have and the change it can bring, how much tonight has changed him. His outlook. His perspective.

"I hate it," she admits, voice wavering. "It's bothered me for months, because I've tried and tried and tried to imagine so many different things – quiet evenings, shared meals, holidays, weekends, sex, working together again, retirement – and every single time nothing happens. If I'm lucky I get the briefest flash of a picture or two, but then it disappears, is gone forever. And that… that scares me more than almost everything else. Because if I can't see it, if I can't imagine it, then surely there's a good reason for it? Something I'm not facing up to or dealing with?"

"No!" He protests, alarm bells instantly pounding heavily inside his skull as he firmly and unequivocally ends her train of thought before she even can begin to expand on it. "No, Grace. Just, no. Don't go there."

She sighs heavily, sadly. "But don't you think –"

"No," he interrupts. "I don't. Not at all. I'll tell you what I think, I think you've been through a huge amount of trauma recently, both physically and emotionally, and you've had no time to step back and relax and begin to deal with it. I think it's just your mind doing its best to cope with everything that's going on, and that it's not something you need to worry about."

"But –"

"No. Grace, remember what you always tell me – trauma affects us all differently. You are not an exception to that rule, and guess what – that's okay. You're okay." Boyd pauses and winces. "Well, you're not, actually. I mean, you are, but you're… oh, you know what I'm trying to say."

"I do."

He sighs. "Thank you. Anyway, my point is, it doesn't matter. What you can or can't imagine is not in any way predictive of the future."

She's silent for what feels like eternity. Then she offers a simple, unadorned, "Okay."

"Okay?" It's disconcerting to say the least. Such easy acquiescence is not what he was expecting. Not at all.

"Okay," she confirms, easily. "I'm too tired to argue, and anyway, you're right."

A slightly stunned, "Oh," is the best he can manage.

Silence falls again, allowing him to collect his thoughts and digest the last few minutes. It's easy to slip back into that calm, relaxed state of almost-slumber.

"Are we going to be all right?" she asks, sleepily.

"We are," he tells her, feeling suddenly optimistic.

"Good," mumbles Grace, the word obscured by a colossal yawn.

"Good," he echoes, saying nothing as Freyja pushes her luck and creeps slowly, stealthily up the bed to curl up against the small of his back.

"Peter?" She's very nearly asleep now.

He cuddles her closer, closes his eyes. Holds his breath as the cat settles again. "Mm?"

"Tell me what you see?" she requests. Almost asleep himself, he smiles. And tells her.