Part Four

…

Sitting in Eve's Land Rover with the heating on full and a blanket wrapped tightly around her to counteract the glacial chill that is accompanying the falling darkness, Grace sees Boyd before he sees her. Eve flashes the car's headlights to let him know where they are, and then the dark Audi is pulling up smoothly at the side of the road.

"Thanks, Eve," murmurs Grace, pulling the blanket from her shoulders and folding it neatly.

Her friend smiles warmly. "Anytime. And I mean that, understand?"

She nods. "Yes."

"Good."

"Have a nice time tonight," offers Grace, grinning.

Eve's eyes twinkle with mischief. "I fully intend to," she replies.

Laughter escaping her lips, Grace leans over to kiss the other woman's cheek. "See you soon," she says, returning the awkward embrace the close confines of the vehicle necessitate.

"You will," agrees Eve. "Don't forget what we talked about," she urges.

Fingers curling around the door handle, Grace pauses and shakes her head. "I won't," she promises. "Bye, Eve."

"Bye."

She shivers instantly, out in the frigid air. Snow is falling again, and though the flakes are lazy and beautiful, they are also thick and fluffy; the promise of a real snowfall. Sliding in next to Boyd she discovers that he has already activated the heated seat for her, and that her chair is toasty warm as she sinks into it. Sighing happily, she turns to look at him.

His eyes are heavily guarded, that's the first thing she picks up on. The second is that he's feeling every bit as unsure as she is. And no wonder, too. They arrived home from the appointment and within half an hour he was apologising, a ramble of illogical and unconnected words as he disappeared out the door without so much as telling her where he was going.

He's expecting her to be angry with him, she realises. Or at the very least, upset.

She's neither. She understands completely; needed that very same distance and chance to get out of the claustrophobic aftermath of the appointment herself. After all, neither of them were expecting… what happened to happen. Not really.

"You okay?" he asks, and his tone is so hesitant that it claws at her.

"Tired," she says, which is the first thing that comes to mind. It's true though, and as Boyd puts the vehicle in gear and begins to drive in the direction of home, she realises just how true it is.

Everything aches unpleasantly. Perhaps it really wasn't a good idea to walk the very long walk from the end of her public transport route to the Body Farm earlier. The car is toasty warm, though, the heat beneath her sinking pleasantly into her abused muscles and as they make progress towards home she feels her eyes begin to slide shut, despite her best intentions.

A gentle hand on her shoulder rouses her from her doze. "Grace?"

"Mmm?" She's groggy, drowsy and disoriented.

"We're home."

"Okay," she mutters, eyes still closed. Somehow, her body hurts more than it did before she fell asleep.

Boyd's insistent though. "Come on, wake up. We need to get inside and then you can have a proper nap."

Groaning, she forces her eyes open and fumbles for the seatbelt release. There's a lot of snow on the ground, that's her first thought as she twists sideways and her boots land ankle deep in the stuff with that tell-tale crunch. It's coming down thick and fast now, sticking to her skin in tiny, piercingly cold flakes as she takes the offered hand and lets herself be pulled upright. She's too tired to achieve that on her own, she knows.

Boyd puts an arm around her waist, escorts her to the front door. She leans heavily on him, part because she's bone-achingly tired, and part because he's there and she can. And she wants to.

He reaches for the key, and then both of them hear the loud, insistent cries coming from behind the heavy wooden panel in front of them. Boyd looks down just as Grace looks up; she sees his eyebrows lift in surprise.

"We've never left her alone for so long before," Grace realises.

Just one of his eyebrows quirk this time. "How long have you been out?" he asks.

"Since five minutes after you left. I couldn't breathe inside the house."

Beside her he tenses, his movements faltering as he tries to insert the key into the lock. "I'm sorry," he whispers, stilling completely.

Her arm is around him, too, and Grace clenches her gloved hand into his coat. "Don't," she orders, voice wavering. "I need to sleep, I can't…"

The arm still holding her upright tightens, and she feels him rest his head against hers for a second, before he seems to recover himself and finishes opening the door.

Freyja is beside herself. Voicing that high-pitched thin, pathetic cry over and over again as they enter, she twines around their legs and almost trips them both. Struggling out of her coat, Grace hangs it up and then sinks down onto the second to last step of the stairs.

"What's all this?" she asks quietly as their small feline immediately climbs into her lap and stands up, planting her front paws on Grace's shoulder before thrusting that sweet whiskery face into hers. Purring for all she's worth, Freyja is still crying, loudly and repeatedly. "It's okay," soothes Grace, stroking her hands over that silky fur.

"Did you think we weren't coming back?" asks Boyd. His own coat hung up and his shoes replaced with his slippers, he crouches down in front of Grace and tickles the cat's sides. Quick as a flash, she's jumped into his lap and is up on her back legs again, forepaws on his chest as she rams her face into his, still meowing.

"Oh, I see how it is," sighs Grace. "You're a real daddy's girl, aren't you Frey'?"

Boyd smirks and gets to his feet, the cat standing in his arms. "Absolutely she is," he declares triumphantly. "Come on, little one," he says. "Let's go and get you some crunchies, shall we?"

"Soft touch," Grace calls after him. It takes just about everything she has left in her to get to her feet, clinging tightly to the bannister as she does so. The stairs yawn up and away from her, and she shuts her eyes, orders herself not to think about it as she begins to climb based on memory alone.

It's not a good idea, but it's only when she opens them again as she nears the top that she stumbles heavily and pitches forwards; her wrist and shins taking the brunt of the fall, instant pain knocking the wind out of her. Biting back a yell of agony, and an uncontrolled spike of fury, she lies completely still for a moment, trying to gather herself, waiting for the initial blaze to settle into a more manageable burn.

Why is it all just so endless? she silently rages. Why do simple things always have to go wrong? Breathing through it, she's just about at the point where she can assess the damage when she hears him.

"Jesus Christ." Angry. Frustrated.

Grace clenches her eyes shut again, fighting off a sudden wave of hot tears that threaten to overtake her. She will not cry in front of him, she orders herself. Not now.

He's up the steps in a flash, hands gentle as they touch her, run over her body.

"What hurts?" he asks, concerned.

"Everything," she mutters, not sure where the sudden surge of rebelliousness comes from.

Boyd sighs. "Not helpful, Grace."

It's true though. She doesn't remember most of it but the walk to the body farm was long and cold. Too long and cold. "My wrist," she tells him, wincing as she tries to flex the stinging joint, "and my legs will be bruised." Summoning some strength she begins to move, and then lets out an involuntary yelp as her left knee straightens and she realises for the first time that it was also involved in her fall.

Almost instantly strong arms fasten around her from behind, lifting her clear of the steps. Boyd carries her straight to the bathroom, and Grace finds herself grinding her teeth in anger. This is getting ridiculous, she wants to scream. Breathing slowly, she forces herself to remain calm. It's not his fault, and he's only doing what he thinks is best. She's overtired and she made a mistake – that's all. If anything, she's to blame. It's her emotions that are rioting, her stubborn independence that's telling her she should be able to manage.

"Show me," he commands, as he sets her down on the edge of the bath, but it's only because the words are gentle and come from love, not some form of caveman dominance that she does. Her wrist is swelling and her knee hurts to bend. Gingerly, she pulls back the sleeve of her cardigan to reveal the damage.

Boyd sighs, and soaks a flannel in cold water, wringing it out and wrapping it around the swelling. Grace hisses at the touch, but after a few seconds the cold begins to help. Staring at the damp material she tries to fight of the building sensation of being pathetic, useless. It's a futile exercise.

Kneeling in front of her, Boyd eases off her left boot, briefly examining the toe and seeing the fresh scuff mark there. "Caught your foot on the steps?"

Too tired to care, Grace just nods. She watches mutely as he carefully eases off the other boot, and then grits her teeth and pushes herself to her feet, unfastening her trousers and awkwardly pushing them down over her hips with one hand. Her thighs visibly tremble with the effort of standing, and as she shifts onto one foot to step out of the fabric, they give way completely.

"Christ," mutters Boyd, catching her. He sets her back on the edge of the bath, this time making sure she's leaning against the wall for support, too. It takes everything she has left in her for Grace not to snap at him to leave it, to forget about any injuries and just let her sleep. It's becoming an almighty struggle just to keep her eyes open, let alone answer him as he speaks to her.

Long grazes mar her shins, and as Boyd examines first one then the other, Grace stares dully at them. The skin is a mess, but it's oozing rather than bleeding, for the most part. The kind of injury that stings a lot but will scab over and heal of its own accord. Hopefully.

"It's not too bad," is the calm appraisal. "Though it looks like it hurts."

"Mm," is the best she can manage, head resting back against the tiles above the bath.

He's staring at her, she can feel it, but Grace doesn't open her eyes. It's too much like effort.

"Why are you so tired?" he asks, and though the question is gentle and far from accusatory, she still wants to scowl.

She doesn't. That's too much effort, too.

"Grace? How did you get to the Body Farm?"

He won't let it go, she knows. Forces herself to mumble the words. "Tube, and then walked."

"You walked?" It's a horrified whisper-shout. She knows why. There's a reason they drive out to Eve's lair whenever they need to visit, rather than taking public transport. "That's bloody miles, Grace. And in the freezing cold, as well." His hands land on her trembling thighs, squeezing slightly. She can feel the dismay in him. "Why would you do that? What on earth were you thinking?"

It's too much, it really is. Sitting up, she glares at him. "I wasn't thinking," she snarls. "I don't even remember walking there, or why I went there. I just… did."

"Fuck's sake," he glowers, raking a hand through his hair. "Of all the stupid, crazy – "

He doesn't mean it to be nasty, or harsh, a small part of her knows, but it's been a horrendous day and she's reached her absolute limits, both physically, and mentally. Forcing herself to her feet, she takes a step, determined to get out of the cramped, enclosed confines of the bathroom, and then promptly falls again, straight into his arm.

"You can't," he begins, but she pushes away from him, enraged. She hits the sink, and then lurches for the door, colliding painfully with the frame but somehow managing to cling on and stay upright.

Boyd's on his feet in an instant and right behind her. "Grace, what the hell are you – "

"Leave me alone, Peter," she snaps, fury boiling through her. "I don't fucking care about a few grazes. I just want to sleep." She bounces off doorframes and various bits of furniture, and she has to lean on the wall all the way there, but somehow Grace manages to get herself to the bedroom. She tries to slam the door behind her, but she hasn't the strength and instead it just clatters loudly to. Tears in her eyes, she collapses onto the mattress and curls into a ball, tugging the blankets over herself and burying her face in the quilt beneath her.

It smells of him and her. It smells of them.

It smells of everything she thought she was finally going to get.

…

It's dusk outside, the bright, cheerful rays of the sun disappearing over the horizon as darkness creeps in, but the window is open, the warm, early summer breeze wafting in.

It's the same hospital room he first came to visit her in, and Grace shivers as she watches the scene in front of her.

She's lying on the bed, resting on her side, and she looks awful. Hideous. Skin grey and waxy, hair and eyebrows missing, face sunken, body little more than a skeleton covered with flesh. Every spark of life and happiness has been beaten out of her. Forever.

Most of the traditional hospital machinery has been pushed aside, but there's a drip in her arm. Morphine. Pain management.

It's clearly not enough.

Boyd is leaning on the bed, his elbows forming dents in the mattress. He's holding one of her hands in his while he strokes her cheek with the other, gazing at her like he's drinking her in, trying to burn the image of her, the feel of her, into his brain.

He looks beaten, defeated. Old.

He too has lost weight, though not as much as she has. He looks weary to the bone, like everything around him is in ruins. Like he's given everything he had, and lost because it just wasn't enough.

She will take that image, the guilt that burns through her because of it, to the grave with her.

"It's okay, Grace," he's telling her, his face inches from hers. "Just let go. I'm here, and I love you more than anything, but don't make yourself suffer any more."

She can see how much the words cost him, how tightly he seems to be clinging on to his very last moments with her, because that's what these are, she knows. Their very last moments together.

On the bed, she's staring at him unblinkingly. She can't give him any words, can't tell him how much she loves him, or how much it means that he's here, that he's never left her side. That he's stayed with her through all the long, painful months.

She can't tell him, either, how agonisingly sorry she is that he's had to go through it all, had to watch her slowly surrender to this insidious disease. How sorry she is that they will never have their promised forever together, that she will die and he will go on without her, with only a handful memories and grief. How sorry she is that she couldn't fight hard enough.

No, all she can do is offer the tiniest squeeze of her fingers in his.

He kisses her then, slowly and delicately, his lips lingering on hers before he repeats just how much he adores her, how he's never loved anyone as much as he does her. Urges her to relax and go to sleep. Promises he won't leave her.

Another tiny squeeze of his fingers and a quiet smile just for him, and she does as he asks, eyes fluttering closed, body relaxing.

She fades away fast, and he sees exactly the moment she slips away from him forever. He sees it and his head bows as he slumps onto the edge of the bed, her hand still clasped in his. He is still for a moment, and then the tears start, his shoulders shaking with the physical effort as he surrenders to his grief.

…

She wakes with a start, screaming in fear and horror. It's pitch black and she hasn't a clue where she is. Thunder sounds from somewhere nearby, gets louder and louder and then there's a crash as Boyd bursts through the closed bedroom door, light from the hallway flooding in.

Floundering, Grace reaches for something, anything to root her back in the present, to give her a clue as to where she is, and then he's on the bed with her, dragging her into his chest and holding her tightly, rocking her against his body. And, face buried in his chest and hands clenched in his sweater, the tears finally come and she sobs and she sobs, the words, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," breaking through over and over and over again.

Tucked against him, incapable of seeing or hearing or doing anything, she cries herself out, all the fear and the confusion and the anger and everything else erupting from her in a storm of tears as he holds her, never letting go, and when she is done, spent and slumped against him, slumber pulls unyieldingly at her until she's drifting in dreamland once again, this time lost amongst indistinct pictures that make no sense and that she won't remember when she wakes again.

…

22:17. The numbers on the clock are blurry at first, but slowly come into focus. If they're true, she's been asleep for nearly six hours. Stretching slowly, Grace winces at overused muscles that protest heavily, at the fog in her head and the grittiness in her eyes. It's incredibly tempting to simply roll over and try and drift off again, to see the night through. Pretend the last day hasn't happened. That would be cowardly, though, and she has got to make herself face up to this. A hot shower, she decides, that will help.

Carefully, she sits up and shuffles to the edge of the bed. Takes her time standing, making sure she won't fall. She doesn't. The rest has done its work and though she's still a little weary, she feels a least somewhat human again.

The water heats and she strips off her clothes, inhaling the first wave of steam issuing from the shower. The passing glance she spares the mirror gives an image that isn't great, but it's a long, long way from the skeletal, dying woman in her nightmare.

Skin prickling uneasily, she turns away. She's had prophetic dreams before, but this wasn't one, surely?

It can't have been.

Standing under the spray, she lets the hot water run over her, closes her eyes and leans against the wall, shuddering despite the heat. How long she stands there, she has no idea, but suddenly the shower door opens and Boyd steps in. There's only just room for the two of them, and, without a word, he reaches for her, offering his hand. Grace takes it, watching hesitantly as he moves closer, but then he opens his arms and waits for her, and the fear she didn't know she was holding on to begins to fade away.

The relief of pressing herself against him, brushing her lips lightly against his chest before resting her head there, is indescribable, and she shakes almost violently as the ache in her chest finally begins to lessen.

Boyd runs a hand down the side of her neck, squeezes her shoulder briefly before carefully looping his arms around her back, head tilting down to rest against the top of hers. For a while he simply holds her, remaining absolutely still with her wrapped up in his embrace, as she curls her arms around his back and clings on, the warm water running down over them. It helps.

It helps, because to Grace it says that this, at least, hasn't changed.

…

Her shins are stinging remorselessly as she dries off, and it's no wonder, Grace supposes, when she looks at them. Her skin, made more fragile that she's accustomed to by the ordeal she's been through thus far, has been well and truly savaged by the abrasive nature of the stair carpet. There's no blood, but the top layer has been scuffed off and what's left is red and raw.

There's a tube of antiseptic cream under the sink and she makes good use of it, wincing initially at the bite as she smooths it over the damage, and then relaxing as it does its job and takes the pain away.

Drying off nearby, Boyd doesn't ask if she needs help, but he hasn't left the room, either. She's glad. Reassured by it. He doesn't say anything, but his presence is enough. She wonders if it is the same for him.

They move to the bedroom to get dressed, Boyd quickly tugging on his comfy and surprisingly attractive jogging bottoms and a loose tee-shirt that long ago washed into a soft, faded grey. He looks at her, seems like he's about to try and say something when the muffled tone of his phone ringing rises up from somewhere downstairs.

He mutters something incomprehensible, and looks over at her. "You okay?" There's no hint of anything but mild concern in those words, and Grace nods in return before he vanishes from the room.

The sudden stillness as she stands motionless is strange, and for a minute or two she just breathes, staying exactly where she is and taking in the way the room seems frozen around her. It seems bare, empty of human life. The cat isn't even trying to sneak in and nap on the bed.

Then, muffled and indistinct, she hears Boyd's voice from downstairs. He's not shouting, and though it sounds like he's wandering from room to room, it seems like he's fully engaged with whatever conversation it is he's having.

It's the shred of normality she needs to pull her back into the present.

Taking advantage of the few moments she has alone, Grace drops the towel she's still clutching around herself onto the bed and begins to take stock of the rest of her injuries.

Her knee is starting to show bruising already, and she suspects that by the morning it will be spectacularly colourful. Her wrist is still very swollen but she can just about force all normal movement if she grits her teeth, and though the rest of her body aches unpleasantly that's likely down to overexerting herself and disregarding her limits. Just another set of consequences in a long line of problems and issues that currently mark the state of her physical health. She finds she doesn't really care. It's all so relentless that she's past the point of being bothered with minor bumps and bruises.

Her skin is dry and Grace reaches for the moisturiser, slowly rubs it in circles, letting it sink in to her flesh. Memory supplies her with the warm weight of Boyd pressed against her back, or leaning into her on the bed as he performs that very service for her. It's something he's done for her since the beginning. He enjoys it, and so does she. It's not the kind of intimacy she ever imagined them sharing, but it works. As a substitute for other things when she's been so very unwell, allowing him access to her body, letting him touch her and learn how she feels has been so welcome, and so good for them both.

It's unusual, but circumstance has dictated what they can do, and when. Years of wanting each other, and then the fates aligned, as Eve put it, but only partially, keeping them from what they both so desperately want. But that exquisite tenderness that Boyd's shown her, that understanding, patience and kindness... it's a gift that still Grace is still staggered by. And left utterly guilt-ridden over, too.

It's not fair on him. How much longer can she ask him to be satisfied with her touch only? With just her lips and hands on his body on the rare nights when she feels just a bit better than others? She's never told him, but more than once she's forced herself to pleasure him, even when the nausea and the exhaustion have been near overwhelming but she's felt so, so unbelievably guilty about the way he has to help her, care for her. He's never asked her to, and it's always been her that's initiated it, but she can't deny, even to herself, that for her those encounters are rarely driven by lust.

What would he say if he knew, she wonders?

And what would he say if he knew that she knows that sometimes he leaves their bed and disappears off to the bathroom to quietly take care of himself? Or that his showers are sometimes longer for the very same reason?

It's not a conversation that she wants to have in a hurry, if ever. But it still lingers in the corners of her mind, haunting her.

Tormenting her.

Stiffly, and moving slower than normal, she dresses in soft, comfy leggings and a warm fleece sweater, finding a pair of thick socks and then reaching for a scarf. Halfway through winding it around her head she stops, staring at her reflection in the mirror. Why is she bothering, she asks herself. She's at home, and Boyd won't judge. Won't look at her any differently. She doesn't normally cover her head when she's staying inside with him. Indeed, he has a habit of walking up behind her and resting his hands on her shoulders, dropping his head to nuzzle her spiky hair before kissing the top of her head and her neck with real and very wonderful tenderness.

She believes him, too. Believes his sincerity. She could never, ever fault him for how genuine he is with her.

"I'm not wrong in thinking that you feel pretty low about yourself right now, am I?" Eve's words echo in her head as she stands frozen, studying her reflection. Words, she reluctantly admits to herself, that are so very true.

It's a real dilemma, and the struggle itself is as distressing as the way she feels about how drawn and pale she looks, how ridiculous the short, spiky hair that is slowly, slowly growing back appears. She doesn't obsess like this, isn't given to letting indecision overtake her. So why now?

"You're not superwoman, Grace, and you shouldn't expect yourself to be."

Eve again. Calm, logical Eve offering the perspective she very much needed.

But…

She wants to cry, but there are no tears. Gritting her teeth, Grace unwinds the scarf. Carefully folds it and places it back in the drawer where it lives. Stares defiantly at the mirror and forces a long, steadying breath. Counts to ten, and then twenty. Thirty. Who would have thought that hair would make such a massive difference to her confidence, to the way she feels about herself, she muses.

Reaching up a shaky hand she runs her fingers through the soft, bristly spikes that might soon have begun to approach a length where she could have considered doing something with it. That's not going to happen now, and the knowledge is... painful.

Lifting the hem of her sweater, she gazes at the reflection of the surgical scars that bisect what was once soft, untouched skin. Another deep breath, and her eyes are drawn to the way the movement makes her ribs so starkly visible.

Looking down she lets her fingers run over those scars, feeling the way the skin is raised and uneven. The redness has faded a little, but not much.

Time, she tells herself. Time will let it fade even more.

Have I got that time? Will I live to see them become old and silvery, just faded reminders of something long ago, like Boyd's scars?

Further down her torso, she tugs at the waistband of her leggings, stares into the mirror at the stark prominence of her hip. She used to have gentle curves there, maintained by a sensible diet and plenty of walking. Even Boyd doesn't know that before all this she used to walk miles every weekend, driving out to costal spots or areas of natural beauty to enjoy the peace and solitude of nature. Will he walk with her in the future, she wonders. Will they have the chance?

Does he know that every Tuesday she used to religiously attend the late night ladies only swim session at the local pool? Do Jane and Margaret and Helen, her changing room friends that's she gossiped with for years, miss her? Are they curious as to why she stopped going?

There's so much she doesn't know, she realises. So many things that have changed completely.

This illness… this… cancer… has turned her life upside down.

She studies her hip again, runs her fingers over the prominent ridge of bone and wonders what Boyd really sees when he looks at her. He's admitted that he's fantasised about her for years, about baring the skin beneath her clothes to allow him access to her body. What does he see, and what does he feel when he looks at her now? When he sees just how bad she looks, how much weight she's lost. How the assets she still had claim to are nothing like what they used to be. Even her breasts are smaller, the weight having gone from there too.

How can he possibly be genuinely attracted to her?

And what if she survives but never gets what she had back?

"You feel so battered and bruised in yourself that you're questioning everything, that you feel like you can't trust anything."

Squeezing her eyes shut, Grace forces herself to settle her leggings back in place and lower her sweater. Eve is right, she really does need to talk to someone, not just vaguely consider the idea. Someone who is a specialist in this sort of thing. Who can help her with the damaging thoughts that spiral around and around inside her head, tormenting her, torturing her.

Trembling slightly, she forces herself to turn around before she opens her eyes. Gripping the bedpost with one hand, focusing on its heavy solidity, the way it's so immovable under her palm, she silently counts the squares of the quilt until she has a grip on herself, groups them together in patterns.

Her eyes stray to the two wet towels dropped on top of the blankets and she remembers the way Boyd came to her, the way his skin pressed warmly and tenderly against hers, his arms wrapping around her and holding on as they stood under the water, words not necessary. Reaching for the damp fabric, she catches a hint of his clean, fresh scent and smiles. He does love her, she's sure of it. If only she could show him how much she loves him back. It's all so complicated though, and right now she isn't even sure she knows how to start a conversation.

She can't avoid him forever though, can't put off whatever it is that's going to happen between them indefinitely.

Descending the stairs she listens hard, trying to pinpoint where he is. She has no idea what to say, how to act. Their world is in chaos, and everything feels as though it is tenuous, about to collapse. End.

He's in the kitchen, standing at the sink and talking to Freyja, who is sitting in the windowsill, watching him intently as he speaks. Unnoticed, Grace stands silently and observes the way he reaches out to stroke their cat, his affection for her abundantly clear.

"What am I going to do, Frey?" he asks softly, tickling her ears as the cat stretches, pushing her head into his hand, purring.

She's interrupting his moment, and so leaves as quietly as she arrived. Tiptoes into the dark, still living room and tries fight back the overwhelming despair at how brutally tired and withdrawn he looked just now. How defeated and sad.

It's all because of her. She's responsible for it, and Grace honestly doesn't know if she can bear to see him like that any longer. How can she let the weight of her problems continue to crush him? How can she allow herself to draw strength and love from him, when it's hurting him as well? Standing listlessly in the middle of the room, she stares at the hands of the clock on the mantelpiece and listens to it tick as it marks time passing.

It's hypnotic, entrancing. As persistent as the weakness in her body, the terrible thoughts in her head.

"Grace?"

Startled, she turns and finds Boyd in the doorway, watching her. "What are you doing?" he asks, confusion in his eyes.

She shakes her head, shrugs. "I… don't know," she admits, entirely honest. "I feel lost."

"I know the feeling."

Boyd walks forwards, his gaze never leaving her. Stopping in front of her he stands still for what seems like an eternity, eyes a dark, deep impenetrable well of… something. Eventually he frames her face with his hands, still staring down at her with an intensity that she doesn't think she can continue to endure. When he speaks, his voice is incredibly soft but there is an urgency of sorts layered in there, a frightened desperation. "I need to know something," he says, before stopping and swallowing hard.

Unsure, Grace is patient, wondering what could set him on edge so. If this is her worst nightmare come true and is the beginning of the end. She doesn't have to wait long to find out. "Are you going to give up?" he asks, and suddenly she can see just how deep the fear hidden in him runs, how hard it is straining to break free from his control.

Confused, she searches his eyes, wondering what he's really asking her. "Give up what?"

Boyd swallows again and then strokes her cheek, the pad of his thumb the lightest of pressures there. His voice is barely more than a whisper now. "Fighting."

Silence stretches out between them, eerie and uncomfortable. Hasn't she already asked herself this? Debated it, even if not truly seriously? She'd be lying if she said she hadn't, and if she said she thought it wouldn't be the easy option. No more treatment, no more visits to that awful clinic. No more side effects and fear of the unknown. Just simple acceptance of the facts and what has to be.

But is it what she really wants?

Boyd's eyes are closed now, his head tilted back a little and he looks grey and sick. Because of her.

"No."

His head snaps forward, eyes flying open. "What?"

"I'm not giving up," Grace clarifies calmly. Admits, "I don't want to die, Peter."

He looks like he's about to cry, she thinks, as his hands fall to rest on her arms and he stares at her, wordless. She waits, lets it sink in, and then settles beside him when he almost falls down onto the sofa, his relief a starkly palpable thing.

"Can I hold you?" he asks, voice shaking, and as he swings his legs up onto the cushions, twisting to stretch out along its length, she crawls into his lap and rests against his chest once more. He's warm and he smells wonderful, and his arms curve around her with love and possession and comfort.

How, she asks herself, could she ever give this up?

"I'm sorry," he whispers, and Grace knows he's not talking about one specific thing.

"So am I," she replies, her sentiment the same.

Silence returns, because there's nothing that could be said which would even begin to adequately touch on the aching, painful expanse of all the things they are both feeling right now. It takes a long time for the thoughts she being wrestling with for hours to form themselves into words, and even longer for her to dare to utter them.

Stealing herself, Grace bites back the wave of steadily building fear that is threatening to swamp her. "I need to know something, too," she confesses.

"What?" Boyd doesn't stop the soothing motion of running his fingers through her hair that he seems to have been concentrating on for a while now.

"Do you want to stop?"

She can't see his face and maybe that helps, but she can picture his puzzled frown.

"Stop what?"

She takes a deep breath, tries to clamp down on the sheer terror at what his answer might be. "This. Us. Being with me."

He seems to freeze beneath her, his muscles becoming solid, hard and uncomfortable to rest against. His voice though, remains strongly level. "No."

He shifts beneath her, lifts her slightly so she's no longer curled against his and he can look at her. Grace meets his gaze, and then looks miserably down at the space between them. A gentle hand lifts her chin until her eyes find his again.

"Listen to me," he says quietly, almost urgently. "I love you, Grace. It really is that simple. It doesn't matter that you're ill, that you can't do so many of the things you want to do, that I wish you could do. I still love you and I don't want to be anywhere else."

She holds still, clinging to his words. He means them, she knows he does. Tells herself over and over that he means them, that she can see the honesty in his face, hear it in his voice.

"I love you," he repeats. "And if this is all we ever have together, then that's better than not having you in my life at all."

"Are you sure?"

Boyd gives her a simple nod, his gaze never wavering. "Yes. Positive." He sits up then, leans forward and brushes a light, long kiss against her forehead. "Somehow you need to convince yourself that it's the truth," he murmurs. "You're the only one I want, Grace."

"But it's so… " she begins, but he stops her.

"I know," he nods, fingers gentle as he runs his hand up and down her arm. "I meant it when I said forever, though. And that includes the in sickness and in health bit."

She offers him a watery eyed smile. "We're not married, Peter."

He grins, and it's a beautiful sight for her weary heart. "Yet."

They settle back down, stretching out the length of the sofa together this time, and she feels secure, loved. Safe.

Snuggling against him and tracing slow spirals across his arm, Grace can feel herself beginning to relax. "What do you mean, 'yet'?"

She can't see his face anymore, but she feels his laugh where her chest is pressed against his. It's the only answer he gives her as they fall into peaceful silence once more. Freyja appears, jumping up onto the back of the sofa and settling down there, her paws neatly tucked up beneath her.

"I guess you and I are going to be spending a lot of quality time together, missy," Grace tells her. The cat doesn't reply, just twitches her tail and yawns. Boyd tightens his arms around her briefly, an involuntary reaction, she's sure. One brought on by the stark realisation of what is lying ahead of them. Grace is trying not to think about it, any of it, but he asks and she knows he deserves an answer.

"Have you made a decision?" he sounds apprehensive.

"I want to know what you think, first," she replies, because this is something they should decide together. Whichever path she chooses, it will have significant impact on him, too.

"I think…" Boyd pauses, as if he imagines his thoughts will be unpopular with her. "I think that you should follow the doctor's advice. He's an expert in his field – he knows what he's doing."

She strokes his arm, smooths away her invisible spirals. "I agree," she tells him.

Beneath her, he starts a little, clearly surprised. "You do?"

"Yes. I don't want more surgery, Peter, I really don't. As much as I hate the idea of more chemo, and I really, really do, I don't want to be cut open again, to have to stay in hospital again." Her chest feels constricted, and it's difficult to suck air into her lungs. She's quivering with the threat of her earlier panic returning, but it's not until he pulls her tighter into his body that she realises.

"Five more cycles," he mutters, and Grace feels her heart thudding in her chest.

"Will you help me?" she begs, the words sounding like a sob as they leave her lips. She's so weak, and she hates it. Despises herself for how much she needs him, how much harder she's making this for him.

Boyd's head is resting against hers, his body wrapping around her own, as if he's trying to shield her, hide her. "Of course I will," he vows. "I'm not going anywhere, Grace, I swear to you."

"I can't even…"

"I know," he soothes. "I know. We'll get through it together. One day at a time."

She stays where she is, hiding in his embrace, desperately trying to push away her dark thoughts and concentrate on his scent, his warmth, the way he's holding her, the tenderness of the moment. She can't think about what's to come, because it's too daunting, too horrible, but she can't relax, either. There's something else bothering her, something that refuses to be forced down and ignored.

"I think I need to formally take a leave of absence."

There, the words are out, lingering between them, no matter how much they hurt. Boyd is silent, and she doesn't have to see him to know that there is a storm of hurt in his eyes that he's struggling to master. When he speaks, his voice is oddly choked. "I know."

"It's for the best," she makes herself say. "That way I can concentrate on my health."

"Of course," he agrees, but the tone in which he says it…

Grace swallows, tries not to let it hurt. She fails miserably. "I don't want to," she tells him, and she can hear how, despite her best efforts, there's still a hint of something in her voice that is begging him to understand.

He finds her hand, tucked against his chest, and takes it in his. She stares at the way they join together, how seamless the connection between them appears. "It's okay," he whispers, and he's all honesty despite the pain, she knows. "I understand, I really do. I can't pretend that it doesn't hurt, because it's been you and me since the beginning and I can't stand not seeing you there, but I'd far rather you were comfortable at home and resting than tiring yourself out at work."

"It… it's sensible," she haltingly acknowledges, despite the ache in her chest. "But I can't deny I'm far from happy about it."

"I know." There's a lengthy pause, and then, "I went to see my brother today, for some…"

Boyd flounders and Grace rests her free hand on his chest beside her head, feels his heart beating strongly beneath her palm. Holds on to the rhythm of it, the steadiness there. "Perspective?" she suggests.

She feels him nod. "Yeah. He reminded me of something. We need to find a way to… bleed off some of the poison. To… make sure we stay mentally healthy."

"Smart man, your brother," she murmurs, casting her mind back once again to what she and Eve discussed.

Soft lips touch the top of her head; his nose drags through her hair. "He has his moments." There's a pause, then, "But he's right."

"He is." She pauses, contemplates what's been going through her mind for hours. Finally brings herself to make an admission. Isn't prepared for quite how difficult it is to say aloud. "I want to make an appointment with the Macmillan nurses."

He's still nuzzling her hair, doesn't stop, even as he asks a muffled, "Oh?"

"I need to talk to someone. A professional, I mean. I'm… struggling, and I... I need some help. I… it might…"

"Grace." Boyd lifts his head, interrupts her gently.

"Yeah?"

His fingers pick up where his lips left off, stroking soothingly across her scalp. "It's okay, I understand. You really don't need to justify it to me."

She freezes briefly in his arms, wonders why she thought he would protest when he's only ever had her welfare and best interests at heart. "Thank you," she murmurs, humbled by just how much he understands her.

"You're welcome," he acknowledges, returning to playing with her hair.

"So," she finally dares to ask, "What happens now?"

"Oh, Grace," he sighs, and she can hear the anxiety her question has caused in his voice. "I really don't know. I wish I did, but…"

He trails off into silence, and, she thinks, it's rather indicative. Neither of them expected this. There was the fear, of course there was, but she knows that both of them were secretly hoping, even believing, that today would be the day.

The first day of the start of the rest of their lives.

It's the biggest, most vicious kick in the teeth she's ever had. And she's honestly not sure how to dust herself down and carry on.

"I just want to know it's going to be okay," she whispers.

Boyd sighs again, heavily. "And I wish more than anything that I could tell you it will be," he replies, just as softly. She doesn't miss the break in his voice, the way his chest catches beneath her head. He's brutally honest though. Always has been. "But I can't."

His statement causes an odd, alarming tingling in her chest, a sensation that quickly spreads throughout her body. He's right, of course, and that's what's so terrifying, because the future is suddenly completely unknown.