For Flossie. Hippo bathday, my lovely.
Run Me Out
Harry Cunningham hasn't done dating on a Saturday night in a long time. One night stands and casual flings, yes. But dating?
It's a whole other ball game. One where he's forced to sit across from a mildly attractive woman and chit-chat for a couple of hours over a nice meal, limiting himself to only one glass of wine so that he can drive her home and promise to call soon. He usually finds himself tucked up in bed by eleven.
Which, as Nikki keeps reminding him, is where he's supposed to be "at his age", whatever that means. Yes, maybe he is teetering on the brink of forty, but since when was that old?
Anyway, at her insistence he has done the "sensible, adult thing" and asked a woman out on an old fashioned date. Well, technically his friend Peter set this up, which could explain why he's now pretending to listen to the most boring woman he's ever met. And coming from someone who spends a lot of time at pathology conferences, that's saying something.
Jane (even her name is plain) is a fairly pretty brunette; she's thirty-five years old and works in finance. He isn't actually sure what she does exactly; he didn't ask and she didn't elaborate. In her spare time she likes to paint and go hiking. Her guilty pleasure is her collection of Agatha Christie DVDs (Marple, not Piorot), and since she was a little girl she's loved gardening.
Down on paper, she's great. A perfect wife and mother. The complete opposite from the superficial bimbos that he usually picks up. But it didn't take long for him to lose interest. And he feels a bit bad, because she seems quite keen on him (well, she is only human) but he just cannot imagine spending the rest of his life with this woman.
He finds himself relieved when their food finally arrives. Except it's a posh restaurant and therefore the portion sizes are so pretentiously small that his sea bass is more 'see no bass', and for a moment he thinks they've given him someone else's starter.
As they eat, Jane remarks on how wonderful the food is here. He jokes that he wouldn't know; he couldn't tell from the one mouthful that he was served. This doesn't go down as well as he'd hoped. He'd been under the impression that Peter had chosen the restaurant, but apparently the owner is a cousin of Jane's.
All in all, it becomes a little awkward. They eat in mostly silence. Which is why he nearly exhales with relief when he feels his phone buzz in his pocket. He glances at the screen. A small smile creeps onto his face when he sees Nikki's name. He stands up from the table, apologising to Jane and telling her that it's work and he has to take it, before ducking out of the restaurant and into the cool fresh air of outside.
"Never have I been so pleased to hear your dulcet tones," he says upon answering.
"I'm coming round yours. I'll bring alcohol."
He can immediately tell that there's something really wrong. Her voice is constricted and rough.
"Are you sure it's wise to be driving? You already sound like you've had a few too many..." he says cautiously, glancing at his watch. If he leaves now he can probably get home before she arrives.
"I'll get a taxi, whatever."
"Nikki..."
"Please, Harry. Don't. Don't tell me to stay at home. I need to come round and see you. Please."
"Okay," he nods, even though she can't see him. "Okay. I'll see you in a bit."
Hanging up the phone, he runs a hand through his hair. Then he remembers Jane, sitting inside waiting for him. He darts back into the restaurant, drops enough money onto the table to cover the bill, apologises profusely to his disgruntled date (he's on call and work is just so unpredictable and he wishes he didn't have to go but they need him, don't you know), and heads back to his car.
His estimations were right; he's been home only five minutes before there's a knock on his door.
She looks awful. Pale and sallow-faced, her eyes slightly red-rimmed. She's wearing a tatty oversized jumper with a hole in the shoulder and elbow, a pair of flannel pyjama bottoms that have also seen better days, and a pair of trainers. Tucked under one arm is a bottle of tequila, and in her other hand is her mobile phone.
"You came over here in a taxi dressed like that?" he asks as she pushes her way past him and into his apartment.
"I tipped him," she says shortly.
He doesn't understand what has happened. He only saw her a few hours ago at work, and she was absolutely fine then.
"What's wrong?" he asks as he follows her into the lounge and sits beside her on the sofa.
"Nothing," she lies instantly. She's sitting all bent over, reaching for the tequila on the coffee table, her body all harsh lines and angles. She takes a swig straight out of the bottle and then looks at him looking at her. Her eyes travel down his body. "Wait, why are you wearing-? Oh god, you had a date tonight!" Her hand covers her eyes and she groans.
"It's all right; we didn't really hit it off."
"But you left her for me! I ruin everything!" she exclaims, her voice cracking. The liquid sloshes violently in her hand.
His brows furrow in concern. "Nikki, look at me," he says, once she's come up for air from the tequila bottle. She does, and what he sees causes his stomach to clench.
She looks lost. Lost and alone and frightened. Like a little girl again. Her large eyes tell of burdens that she shouldn't have to bear. Her chin trembles as tears force their way to the surface. It's as if she's carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders.
Once again, he says, "Please tell me what's happened so I can fix it."
"You can't fix this, Harry," she mutters, her gaze unwavering.
"How do you know that if you won't tell me what it is?"
"Because I do," she snaps, downing yet another mouthful of tequila.
"Maybe if you stopped drinking for a while, it might not seem so-"
"My dad's dead."
A wave of comprehension crashes over him. He watches as her shaking fingers clutch the bottle of amber liquid tightly.
"So you're drinking," he says, in quiet understanding.
"So I'm drinking," she nods.
But he prises the bottle out of her grip and pulls him into her arms instead. Immediately she's softer, more relaxed. Tucking her legs up underneath her, she drops an arm over his stomach and clutches at his shirt. His rests his hand over hers. With his other fingers he gently strokes her hair.
"How did it happen?" he whispers, when he thinks she's ready.
"Heart attack. It was very sudden, apparently," she thinks for a moment, then adds, "You know, it's quite funny really."
"Funny?"
"Yeah. I always thought it would be the drinking that killed him. That he'd end up dying of liver sclerosis or he'd have an accident. But a heart attack ... It's so unfair."
"I know," he murmurs, briefly pressing his lips to the top of her head.
"I have to go to Cape Town," she says, as if she's just announced she's popping to the shops. "I need to bury him."
Harry swallows hard. "Wouldn't you rather, y'know, do that here? In England? You'd never be able to visit his grave, otherwise."
She laughs humourlessly. "I don't think visiting his grave is something I'm likely to want to do very often. Besides, it's more than that... the Cape is, was, home. It's where he was happiest. He never did like this country very much. I don't know, I'll have a memorial service or something here for him. But he would want to be laid to rest in South Africa."
"When are you going?"
"As soon as possible. I'll speak to Leo tomorrow and then book my flight."
"Do you want me to come with you?" he offers. "You shouldn't have to do this alone."
"No, I'll be fine." She pats him on the leg. "Besides, you have work."
"Are you sure?"
"Positive."
The warm air hits her as soon as she steps off the plane; as they were informed by the pilot, it's currently a balmy 26 degrees - starkly different from the February chill back in London. It brings a smile to her lips.
It doesn't take long for her to get to the hotel and unpack, and before she knows it she's sitting at the hotel bar with an iced tea in her hand. She'd been tempted to get something alcoholic, but thought that probably unwise. It's only then that she remembers to pull her mobile phone out of her bag and fire a quick text to both Harry and Leo, telling them that she's arrived okay. They'd been a godsend the last couple of days. They both went with her to the airport this morning, despite the fact that she was getting a six a.m. flight. Harry, in particular, hadn't let her out of his sight since she turned up on his doorstep forty-eight hours ago. When he had been sitting on the end of her bed last night as she packed, he had really insistently tried to persuade her to let him go, too. And for a little while, she had been tempted.
But there's a niggling little part of her that says she needs to do this alone.
She exhales deeply, pressing her palm to her aching forehead. Downing her drink, she decides to head back up to her room. Although it's only eight in the evening, the combination of jet lag plus lack of sleep recently has left her feeling exhausted. She pulls on her pyjamas, opens the door leading out onto the balcony slightly, and climbs into the large king-size bed, tucking the sheets around herself tightly.
But it seems that sleep is determined to evade her, no matter how tired she is. The transparent drapes covering the balcony doors flutter in the cool night breeze. Outside, the city is full of the sounds of life. Like London, it also never seems to sleep. But the sounds are very different to what she's used to back home. The strange calls of exotic birds and animals, the unending chirp of crickets, unfamiliar music and languages.
Normally when she's here, these are the sounds that she loves. The noises that remind her why this city will always own a special place in her heart. But tonight...
Tonight, everything seems cold and unforgiving. She inexplicably craves her own bed, familiar surroundings.
She really doesn't want to be here.
Rolling over onto her side and pulling the thick quilt higher around her, she glances at the clock. Two a.m. Normally this wouldn't worry her (she's no stranger to sleepless nights), but tomorrow morning she has an appointment at the morgue, and she doesn't think that's something she can handle if she goes without sleep for a third night in a row.
Her fingers crawl out of her warm cocoon and take her phone from the bedside table. Automatically, her thumb directs her to her contacts and hovers over one particular name. And then she hesitates.
Even with the time difference, it's still one o'clock in London. He'll be sleeping. But if there's one person who can calm her down when she's feeling like this, it's Harry.
So she dials, pressing the phone to her ear, suddenly nervous as it starts to ring.
Harry groans as his phone rings. Groans loudly. Kicks his feet at his mattress in protest. He's not on call, but there's a high possibility that it's Leo needing a hand. For a moment he's tempted to ignore it, but he knows that if it is Leo and he doesn't answer, then he's in for a world of pain in the form of vicious paperwork tomorrow.
Grabbing blindly for the phone, he answers the call without bothering to blind himself by looking at the display.
"Harry Cunningham."
"Hey," comes the soft reply and he starts. This is unexpected. Immediately, he knows that she's not in a good place.
"Hey," he echoes, allowing the conversation to be on her terms.
There's a pause and then, "Sorry if I woke you."
"Don't be," he says immediately. "That's what I'm here for."
"Right," she says quietly, so quietly that he can hear the rustle of the duvet, and he knows that she must be in a similar position to how he is now. In a way, he's glad that she can't sleep. He'd rather it was this than she knocks herself into a drink-induced comatose state, which he was a little worried might happen. Then again, maybe he shouldn't judge everyone by his own standards.
When he realises that a solid minute has passed and she still hasn't said anything, he gently asks, "How are you doing?"
He can almost feel the sigh that she exhales, as if she's laying right beside him. Maybe it would be a good idea for him to keep his eyes open.
"I can't sleep," she whispers. "I just wanted to hear your voice. To hear you tell me that it's all going to be okay. That I can handle this."
A wave of sympathy crashes over him, bringing a lump to his throat. "You are going to be okay, Nikki," he tells her firmly. "I know you, and I know that you're going to be just fine."
He hears her take a shaky breath and wonders if she's crying. That wasn't really the response he was aiming for. But then she appears to regain her composure and murmurs, "I believe you."
"Good."
They lapse into silence again and he fights to keep his eyelids open. Then she says something, something that resonates on such a visceral level with him that it makes his heart physically ache.
"I just feel so alone."
"Hey, you are not alone," he whispers. "I'm here, okay? And I'm not going anywhere anytime soon, no matter how hard you try and get rid of me. You are not in this alone. And I am not hanging up this phone until you're ready, whether that's in ten minutes or ten hours."
There's a moment of silence. And then, "Okay."
He smiles. "Okay then."
And he stays true to his word, waiting for nearly an hour until he's certain that, by the sound of her deep breathing and her lack of response to his whisper of her name, she's fast asleep.
It isn't until she's on the plane coming home two days later that Nikki realises just how incredibly lucky she is to have Harry. It's not that she ever took him for granted, especially after what happened in Hungary a year ago, but sometimes she does tend to forget just how important he is in her life. Mainly because these little realisations tend to scare the hell out of her.
Take that phone conversation on her first night, for instance. Eventually, she had fallen asleep with the phone on speaker on the pillow beside her head. Just knowing that he was there had been enough. And his words of comfort had provided her with the knowledge the following morning that she could handle it. And so she had walked into that morgue yesterday with a forced detachment, pretending that her father's body was actually just another Lyell Centre body. She read his toe-tag as if only mildly curious. There wasn't a funeral. Just a burial at lunchtime, in a lonely graveyard in a quiet part of the city, with only herself and a vicar present. Perhaps she could have called upon Martha, or Sara, but she stood by what she had told Harry; it was something she had to do alone.
Straight afterwards, she had picked up her suitcases from the hotel and got in a cab straight for the airport. For the first time in her life, she was desperate to leave.
And now here she is, making the final descent into Heathrow a little before midnight (one day, she'll pick flights that don't depart and land at such ridiculous hours) and deciding upon something. This isn't going to bother her. It's not like she and her dad were close anyway. They lived in opposite hemispheres. And suddenly she finds that she doesn't feel anything. Not now that she's back home. It happened, she dealt with it, and now she must move on.
Her resolve slips, however, when she finally gets through security and finds Harry waiting for her, a giant cardboard sign held over his head with the words 'DOCTOR ALEXANDER' written on it in neat black capitals. He flashes her his trademark grin as she approaches and she drops her bags at his feet, flinging both arms tightly around his neck. He staggers a little, laughing, before wrapping his strong arms around her waist.
A tear slips unbidden from the corner of her eye onto the shoulder of his coat and she takes a deep breath to steady herself. It's a long time before she's willing to break the embrace, and when she does she plasters a smile to her face, her chin held high. He can probably see the tears in her eyes, but if he does then he doesn't say anything. Taking her bags for her, he offers his arm and they walk outside to the car park.
"You're always here," she says.
He looks at her and it's clear that he hasn't misinterpreted her words. "I'm always here," he confirms, and somewhere, deep down inside, she knows that it's going to be that way for the rest of her life.
I'm not particularly pleased with the ending, but hey ho. It's also a bit mismatched, if you get me, but the idea just would not leave me alone. It's also probably full of typos because I'm super-tired right now and I haven't checked it through, for which I apologise.
Thank you soooo much for all the reviews on my other one-shots! You're all wonderful. And there'll be a new chapter of 'There Is No Fight...' coming soon, I swear. xx