I literally just wrote this in the last couple of hours, and I'm really sleepy after a long week, so I apologise for any mistakes. I would say enjoy, but it's quite angsty so you probably won't.
and still, the darkness comes;
It's been a while since Leo's death.
Three months, to be exact. Maybe just a blip in the grand scheme of things, but for Nikki, it feels like an eternity.
A lot of has changed. She has changed.
It took her a long time to go into Leo's office, you know. Eleven days after the funeral, when Jack and Clarissa had long gone for the night, she finally pushed open the door and stepped inside. Quiet, cold, slightly dusty. A plant in the corner had withered and died, and it was this and this alone that dug at the chip that splintered her being.
That wasn't a great night.
After that, it became more and more obvious that she wasn't really coping. She'd tried to fill Leo's shoes, an impossible task, and the locum they'd been sent was some shit student straight out of med school, so really they only had one pathologist in the whole department, and how was she supposed to be that when she had paperwork and budget meetings and some fucking training day on how to handle your employees.
And so, after a quiet word with Jack, she'd agreed to tell the university that no, she doesn't want Professor Dalton's old job, not even if it does mean sacrificing a professorship. So they told her they'd start the interview process, and did she want to be involved?
She said no.
It's just a job now. It never used to be, of course. It used to be her whole life. Everything, everyone, she loved was centred around that office. And now? Now it's just her career. She grumbles and groans when she gets up in the morning, even more so if she's on call and it's stupid-o'clock, and she leaves at dead on six every single day. She takes work home with her, because even that's more bearable than sitting at her desk and remembering everything that used to be.
Two weeks after she had a minor meltdown in front of Human Resources, they give her a call to let her know that they've found her new boss. They're very happy with their decision, and believe there is no one better suited than the candidate they've selected. Because why wouldn't you want someone who already knows the ins and outs of the Lyell Centre, who has essentially run the place before. And she knows who they're going to say before they say it, and a sense of heavy dread settles in her stomach.
Harry Cunningham.
Of course. Who else would it be? Because she said fuck you to the universe, and this is the universe's way of saying it back.
HR is ecstatic. His return is plastered across notice boards and university newspapers with an average of five readers. It's announced on the website and there's even a statement from Harry himself, which is funny because she's not spoken to him in months (so really it's not funny at all).
He was at the funeral, of course. Well, he missed most of the funeral because his plane was delayed, but he caught the end and attended the wake. But they'd avoided each other, mostly. One year apart and they could hardly look each other in the eye.
Their relationship had dwindled over time, from communication every day when he first left, to perhaps two phone calls a week, to maybe once a month, and now they're a couple of emails whenever they have something relatively exciting to say. Which isn't very often. She had called him and told him about Leo, as soon as the plane landed from Afghanistan, but she doesn't really like to relive that.
Besides, she had been terrified, that day at the funeral, that if she looked at him too hard, she'd fall apart.
When he appears bright and early one Monday morning, suit and tie impeccable, looking pretty much exactly the same as he did fifteen months previously, she realises with devastating certainty that this isn't going to work out well.
He shakes Jack's hand and they hit it off straight away. But his eyes keep darting to her, where she's sitting at her desk pretending to read, until eventually he has to summon her into his office. His office. Not Leo's. His.
A sigh, a chair scrape, a stomp.
She brushes against him in the doorway and, Jesus Christ, if she doesn't melt a little.
He must see her flinch, because his face crinkles a little around the edges as his lips turn up. You're not going to give me a hug?
Unable to tell if he's joking, she flat-out ignores him. You're back then?
She doesn't appreciate his mock surprise as his gaze bounces around the room. Good lord, you're right!
But he gets serious then, starts saying things like I know this seems wrong, and I don't want to take his place, and better me than a stranger, and then, her personal favourite, I thought having me here would be easier for you.
She tells him he thought wrong and storms from the room.
It takes her a good month after that to settle into something of a routine again.
A month she, mostly, spends acting like a bratty teenager whose parents' marriage has fallen apart (and, wow, it's almost as if she's had practice at this).
She works more closely with Jack than she has done before, remaining nothing but cool and professional towards Harry.
They bicker, but not like before. This is arguing for arguments sake; she digs holes deliberately and butts heads with him on purpose. Testing him, trying him, seeing how long it will take before he runs again.
Because, ultimately, that is what he is going to do.
But then, five weeks, two days and six hours after his return, on a drizzly, dank, Wednesday afternoon, the world shifts a little.
Because the two of them have ten years of history behind them. When you know a person so intimately for such a long time, there are certain things you can't stop noticing about them, can't forget.
She begins to quietly observe him again, and doesn't even realise she's doing it.
He's standing at the front of the layout room briefing them, and she's focusing on the way his mouth moves when he talks. He's scolding her for being snarky with a pissed-off detective, and all she can notice is the muscles in his jaw. He's joking with Jack and she's entranced by the way his eyes light up when he laughs.
After that, little things begin to seep through into her consciousness. She wonders, late one night as she stares at the ceiling, how he reacted after she told him about Leo. She can envisage the amount of scotch he drank, the girl he slept with in a weak attempt to numb the pain.
She can see that lack of confidence lingering in the back of his mind, is he doing a good enough job at this? And she knows that part of the reason he's asking himself that is her.
She notices how sad he looks when he thinks no one can see him, sitting at his desk behind a closed door, staring blankly at a computer screen.
She sees the way his fists clench sometimes when someone mentions Leo, like he's unsure whether to cry or break something in half.
She sees him looking at her.
And slowly, without even realising it, he once again becomes the person who she knows better than anyone else in the world. Without even sharing so much as one conversation a day together.
One night, when it's just the two of them left in the office, and she's finishing some paperwork and he's waiting to hear back from a colleague in Berlin (oh, notice how she's started staying late again?), he walks past to get some coffee and she blurts out, why did you leave?
He stills. Looks at her. Smiles, but there's not much to be amused about. Why didn't you stop me? And then his phone is ringing and she doesn't see him again until after the weekend.
It's another week after that when Jack says the words celebratory drinks. She almost says no, but then she learns that Harry has said yes, and she can't say no if he's said yes because then he'll think that she's said no because he said yes, do you see what she means? So she says yes too.
It's awkward though. So fucking awkward she wants to scream and tear out her hair, when Jack goes off to chat up a pretty blonde at the bar and she's left in a cosy little corner table with Harry, sitting on a stool that's too high for her to gracefully slip off of, with a drink that's too strong for her to stop herself saying the words, was I supposed to?
His fixes her with an intense look that makes her shift uncomfortably. Stop me? Probably.
God, his damn vague answers will be the absolute death of her. As if she isn't already confused. You could have stayed anyway.
He downs his pint, stands beside the table, shrugs on his jacket. But I didn't. He isn't being cruel, just honest.
But you didn't.
And then he leaves.
Screw him and his honesty.
Two days after that, her cool impenetrable exterior begins to crack.
A long day and a long post-mortem, and she's just about ready to crawl into bed. And then she goes into the locker room, to get changed, and there he is. Sitting on a bench, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands, shaking with silent sobs.
And she doesn't know what to do, or say, because it's been too long since a situation like this has arisen – but there must be some kind of innate instinct inside of her, and she finds herself sitting beside him, thigh against thigh, shoulder against shoulder. He glances her way, inhales deeply, scrubs his hand over his face, and stares at the lockers across from them.
They sit side by side in silence for nearly an hour, even though she's so tired she can feel it in her bones and he must be getting a stiff back.
Eventually, his dry lips part and he whispers, you don't have to stay. I'm okay.
Once upon a time she would have disregarded this statement entirely and sat there all night if she had to. Not today. But as she's on her way out, she turns back and says six little words that mean more to him than he'd ever tell her.
You're doing a good job, Harry.
When she gets home that night, she sits on her bedroom floor and pulls out a box from under her bed. The contents of his desk drawer, that she'd confiscated from Jack, that she hasn't dared to look in until now. Meaningless items, things far too unimportant for him to take with him. But they cause a strange ache in her chest all the same.
It's like we're starting from scratch.
That's what he says to her a fortnight later, when they're doing a post-mortem together for the first time in forever, and it takes her a little while to understand what he means.
Of course they're starting from scratch. His absence created a gulf between them far too wide to seal simply with his return.
She's missed things from his life, and he's missed things from hers.
What did you expect? She's challenging him, but he merely shrugs.
So she lets it go.
For a week or so. Until, late in the evening on the sixth-month anniversary of Leo's death, she gets a phone call. And it's him. And it isn't to do with work.
He takes a while to respond to her prompt, and if she didn't know it was him she'd be a little freaked out by the sound of nothing but breathing. But eventually: I'm sorry.
She starts. Pulls the phone away from her ear momentarily as if to check that it is indeed him. For what?
Everything.
Is it just her, or does he sound drunk?
But he isn't finished yet. Forgive me?
He sounds so sad, so lonely, that tears blind her vision. And she tells him the truth. You're already forgiven.
For the next nine days he pretends that that phone call never happened.
And then it's a Tuesday morning and they're working together again and he automatically makes a movie reference while she's elbow-deep in a body cavity (old habits die hard) and he catches her eye and she grins.
And wow, that's the first time they've done that since he left.
She can almost see the relief, the flicker of hope, crash through his veins, as he raises her grin with a small laugh.
It almost, almost, feels as if something is starting to slot back into place.
Her birthday has never been a day she particularly enjoys, and this year the absolute last thing she feels like doing is celebrating. But Jack has persuaded her out for a drink, even though it's been a really long couple of days with Harry up north at a conference, and she only goes to appease him and leaves after an hour.
At home, she sinks onto the sofa, staring at her mantelpiece. Three cards. Three. Jack, Clarissa, and one of her old uni friends with whom her entire friendship is based on two cards a year.
None from either of the two people who she would really like a card from.
It probably hasn't even occurred to Harry.
And then there's a shuffling outside her front door, and she jumps violently, her heart hammering in her chest, cautiously walking towards the noise. She calms when she sees the white envelope being pushed underneath.
It doesn't take her a second to bend down, pick it up, and recognise the handwriting.
She flings the front door open, but he is already on the pavement by his car. It's winter now, dark and cold, and she can only really see his face in profile from the light of her hallway. You know I have a post box right there. And a doorbell.
Harry smiles. I know.
Before she can say anything else, he gets in his car and drives away.
She turns, back into the warmth, and hooks her thumb under the envelope.
It's a pretty average card, some kind of wide-eyed meerkat on the front, blank inside apart from his spider-scrawl letters.
As if I could ever forget.
All my love,
Harry
There is no way she is going to allow herself to ponder the meaning of any of that.
Just when she had started to think, started to hope, that things were getting better-
they get worse.
They argue.
Like, properly argue.
One of their screaming-at-each-other-across-the-room, tears-of-frustration, bringing-up-age-old-topics-that-should-be-left-alone type arguments that clears the Lyell Centre of staff and causes gossip for the next week.
It wasn't even about anything important, to begin with. She wanted to speak to a relative of the victim, he refused to let her. But then it escalated.
Before she knows what's happening, she's blaming him for everything.
And he's accusing her of being the reason he left London in the first place.
She doesn't stick around to hear why.
When she's home, taken a long drink from a large wine glass, and finally begun to calm down, he hammers on her door.
She knows it's him, because who else would it be?
Angry, it takes all her willpower to not slam the door in his face.
But she needn't have bothered.
Because the moment she's opened it, his rain-soaked body is right in front of her, his freezing fingertips burning her skin through her thin blouse, his lips hard against hers in a bruising kiss.
She doesn't allow time to consider what's happening as he kicks the door shut behind him and slams her back to the wall, his tongue fighting hers.
He's wet and cold, and is dripping all over her clean floors, but she hardly notices as her arms coil tightly around his neck. He tastes like peppermint gum and scotch, but it's a combination she doesn't think she minds that much. His hand finds her thigh, hooking her leg around his waist before dragging his fingers up and down her skin through her jeans.
And, fuck, if she doesn't just feel herself coming apart.
It's not a kiss like she's experienced before. She can tell that he's not in a particularly good place. Hell, neither is she. He kisses her like he's drowning and she's air, all hands and desperation. And she's powerless to do anything about it, because oh god it feels so good.
In a whirlwind of discarded clothes and a trail of destruction left behind them, they finally make it to the bedroom.
She never pictured that they would happen like this. Years ago, when she still used to actually imagine that they might have a 'one day', her mind's eye would bloom with images of candles and wine and big declarations, or at the very least a drunken fumble on the sofa after a bad takeaway and corny movie.
But not this.
But then ... maybe this is a declaration in itself. The only way either of them knows how to say it.
Afterwards, when she's breathless and dizzy and his body is pinning her to the mattress because he's too worn out to move, she drags a lazy hand through his hair. And then, what did we just do? Her voice is shaking, but she doesn't ask out of regret or panic. More a fear of what happens next.
I don't know. He rolls off of her, except one of his hands won't seem to leave her own. But I think I want to do it again.
And oh god, she's not sure if she's laughing or crying now. You know, I wanted to stop you leaving.
Maybe this isn't a good time for secrets, but maybe they need to be said anyway.
Then why didn't you? His words are a growl, not of anger but of curiosity and exhaustion.
A pause, where she doesn't really know how to respond. Why didn't she stop him? Because it wasn't her place? Because she wanted him to be happy? Because she thought they'd be okay without him? There were so many reasons at the time, so many excuses that she told herself over and over. But really, it all boils down to one thing.
Because I'm scared.
Present-tense. Not past.
In a blur, his fingers are tangled in her soft curls across the pillow and his swollen lips are on her forehead. Don't be.
And it turns out that those two little words are how he makes her lose. Lose this battle that she's been waging, the walls she's built and the defences she maintains. They crumble and break, leaving her more vulnerable and raw and exposed than she's ever allowed herself to be.
And of course, it's going to be anything but easy. Because it's them, and when have they ever been not-complicated?
But for now, it's enough.
Yeah. I don't think I'll ever be over Leo's death. Ever. Maybe if Harry hadn't gone, but he has. So this, my friends, is what I'm going to pretend happens, okay? Who's with me?