Beauty of the End

This was a bad idea. A really bad idea. A terrible, shitty idea.

Why on earth would you volunteer to drive him to the airport?

It would have been so much easier to have just let him go alone, knowing that you'd said your goodbyes at his celebratory leaving drinks the previous evening. But no, you had to go and fucking insist that you drive him to the airport today. At four o'clock in the morning.

Maybe you're just not ready to let go of him yet.

No. No, that's ridiculous. Yeah, you'll miss him. But hey, it's not like you can't stay in touch. You try and tell yourself that it's just like when you and your friends went off to university in different corners of the country. But you stayed friends with them. Well, most of them. And maybe they're not your best friends anymore, but you still meet up occasionally and it's only a little bit awkward.

Oh god.

It's silent in the dark car. He's just staring out of the window, his expression unreadable. You wish he was talking, just to distract you from your own tangle of thoughts.

There's been so much silence between you lately; so many things left unsaid. There was that initial silence after he told you he was leaving a month ago. Just casually dropping it into conversation as if he'd announced he was popping to the shops. That silence had been spiteful, and you'd maintained it for about a week before falling into his arms and pretending not to cry on his shoulder.

Then there was the other kind of silence, the one where you don't say anything for fear of saying the wrong thing, or you lie and say what you know he wants to hear. "I'm really happy for you", "it will be amazing" and "of course I don't mind". Your lips would form words that sounded monotonous and flat, and it had been obvious to you both that they held just a semblance of truth.

But how could you tell him the truth? How could you tell him that after Hungary you never want to let him out of your sight again, that he's your best friend, that you can't manage without him, that you don't want him to go? How can you possible shatter his happy bubble and tell him that? Because he's so excited, and it really is a brilliant opportunity for him. You're not going to pretend that you haven't noticed the simmering tension between him and Leo these past few months, as the steady balance they had maintained for so many years began to slip and chafe. A power-struggle was forming, and no one had been able to envisage a peaceful resolution.

But still. New fucking York? Is England suddenly no good anymore?

Ah yes, the angry silence. That's been loitering, too. Rearing its ugly head when you're particularly tired or emotional. And it hasn't shown signs of ebbing since he broke the news to you. It consumes every fibre of your being. Sometimes it's overwhelming, and it takes all your effort not to throw something at him. You want to shout and scream and rant, and demand he gives you a proper explanation. But you don't. And he doesn't.

It's time the silence stopped. Time you both started talking to each other again.

But it's too late. Because here you are at the airport.

You've run out of time.

Oh, and look – he's already out of the car and getting his suitcase from the boot. What, is he in a hurry to leave now? Bastard.

You lock the car and trail after him. Maybe he's a little hungover. You know you are. Perhaps that's why you feel so grouchy. God knows how Leo must be feeling; he consumed an uncharacteristically high volume of alcohol last night. He was still drinking with the lab techs when you and Harry had slipped away. You decide to check on him later. After all, you're going to have to keep an eye on each other, now that it's just you and him.

Harry slows down a bit once he's inside the airport. Whether this is to allow you to catch up and walk alongside him, or because he doesn't know where he's going, you're not sure. You suspect the latter.

"Gate eight," he says suddenly, and after all the not-talking his rough voice comes as somewhat of a shock.

"Right," you reply, following him through the crowd of people. Oh, this was such a bad idea. He comes to a halt near check-in and this time you can't bear the silence. "What time does your flight leave?"

"Not for another couple of hours. But I have to check in and everything, so..." He gestures his head in the direction of his departure lounge. "I should be probably get going."

Blimey. You knew you'd be saying goodbye to him quickly, but not this quickly. You're not ready. "Oh, yes. Yes, of course. Right. Well, ring me when you get to New York. NYC. The Big Apple." Oh god, and now you're rambling.

He smiles slightly. "I will."

You grab him in an awkward hug. Your arms feel all sharp angles and stiff. The stubble on his cheek is scratchy against the corner of your mouth and it's all completely wrong and unfamiliar; like you're hugging a stranger. You step back quickly.

"I mean, we said goodbye last night, so..." you mumble, by way of an excuse not participate in an awkward airport farewell. You also notice that now neither of you are apparently capable of finishing a sentence.

"Oh, yeah," Harry nods. "Yeah, we definitely did." There's a faint grin on his lips, but a moment later he says, "Right, well my flight lands at about two this afternoon, so I expect I'll speak to you then."

You nod. "Uh huh."

His takes the handle of his suitcase. "Well ... bye."

Come on, keep it together. You take a deep breath and force a smile onto your face that's far too cheery. "Bye. Have a great time in New York." What the hell are you doing? He's not going on holiday. He's not coming back in a fortnight.

He's not coming back at all.

And that's when the pair of you simultaneously turn around and walk away from each other. And it's not until you're nearly at the exit that you stop, take a deep shuddering breath and spin one-hundred and eighty degrees. Because you can't just leave it like that. Yes, there was last night. You did have that. But last night you were both drunk and the exact details are a little hazy. After eight years together, surely he deserves a proper goodbye from you, not that messy cringe-worthy moment you just shared. Perhaps this time you'll remember to use your words.

And so you head back to the spot you just vacated, and for a moment you think he's disappeared. But then you spot him, striding towards you with such a ferocious determination on his face, and you think you may break down entirely when his arms slide around your waist and hold you against him tighter than he's ever held you before. You bury your chin in the crook of his neck, squeezing your eyes shut so that you can pretend you're not in the airport and this isn't farewell.

"You're a bastard," you tell him, that anger sweeping over you again. "A complete and utter bastard."

"I know," he whispers, and you find your grip on him tightening. A tear rolls down your cheek. And then silence ceases to exist.

"How could you do this to me? After everything?"

A long sigh escapes him. "I have to. For so many reasons. You know that."

You do know that. But it doesn't make it any easier. He's so warm and solid and real against you and the idea that in just a few minutes that's all going to disappear doesn't bear thinking about. Maybe if you just refuse to let him go he'll be forced to stay, pressed against you forever. You fail to see any flaws in that plan.

"You can come visit me," he's saying now. "You've always wanted to go to New York. Come at Christmas, I hear it's beautiful. Bring Leo, too. Although ... maybe he can fly out a few days after you."

At this you pull your head back slightly so as to look up at him. His eyes look distinctly red, but he's smiling at you. You try and smile, but it doesn't work and you end up grimacing instead. So much for pulling it together. "I thought this is would be easy," you confess, "but it hurts like hell."

His smile fades. "Yeah. But you know, this probably won't be permanent," he adds hopefully, "My tenure's only for two years at the moment. Who knows what will happen at the end of that."

For a moment you allow that flicker of hope to flare inside of you. "Don't make promises you aren't going to keep, Harry."

"Hey," he says firmly, tilting your chin to look you in the eye. "When have I ever let you down?"

Well, that's gone and done it. You're properly crying now. He knows full well that he's the only person in your life who you can wholly trust.

"We have to Skype all the time," you order. "I'll set it up at work. It will be like having you back. New York is what, five hours behind? I can eat lunch while you're having breakfast."

He laughs at this, properly laughs for the first time in days. You can feel it in every particle of your body. "You've got yourself a deal, Doctor Alexander."

"And I'll make sure your replacement doesn't take your desk," you promise. There's no way you could let anyone sit there who wasn't Harry.

"Oh, about that." He pushes you away from him, holding you at arm's length. Looking at you very seriously, he says, "I officially bestow my desk upon to you. It is your responsibility now. Take great care of it."

You place your hands on your chest with a gasp. "You're giving me your desk? I've been working towards this moment for eight years!"

He smirks. "I'm aware of that. I've also put a few surprises in it for you."

Your eyes widen. "You have? When did you do that?"

"Last night at the party," he replies. "Before, er, before you and I left. I snuck away and did it. I'd had everything prepared for weeks."

Genuinely touched, you bite your lower lip to prevent another onslaught of tears. "I look forward to seeing what these surprises are."

"Let's just call them your survival kit." He just smiles and holds your gaze for a while. Then he says, "Thank you for last night. It was ... the perfect goodbye."

A blush creeps up your neck. "It was Leo, really. I mean he organised everything and got all the-"

"That's not what I meant and you know it."

You smile. "I know it."

There's an announcement over the tannoy system and Harry stiffens before pulling a face. "I'm actually going to have to go in a minute."

You nod. "I'm really going to miss you."

He envelopes you in his arms again. "Not as much as I'm going to miss you. Keep an eye on Leo for me. He's not been without me for ten years; I'm not sure how he's going to cope."

A giggle escapes you. "I'm not sure how any of us are going to cope."

"We'll survive," he assures you. "We always do."

Your arms tighten around his shoulders. "I love you," you breathe.

A beat, and then he says simply, "I know you do. That's why you called me a bastard. And that's why I deserve to be called a bastard. And if it's any consolation ... I love you, too."

Oh god, it's too much. You want to go back to last night, when for a little while everything was wonderful and unspoiled by stupid things like leaving. You take two steps backwards but immediately miss the physical contact. He's gazing at you sadly, like he knows he's even more of a bastard for saying those last four words, but once again you plaster a smile onto your face. "Go on," you tell him, pushing his suitcase towards him. "Go and get your plane. Go and be the greatest professor they've ever had. You know, the nerdy English one with the posh accent who likes to think he's ten years younger than he is."

"Now that's just rude," he retorts, but he's grinning. And that's when he grabs your hand, roughly pulls you against him again, and presses his lips firmly to yours. And oh look, it's a clichéd airport moment. All you need now are the – oh god, yep, here they come: the tears. But you don't care. How could you possibly care? His tongue brushes your bottom lip and the shiver tickles your whole body. Except then there's another important sounding announcement and once again you're out of time.

He rests his forehead against yours. "Two years," he breathes softly. "That's nothing. And I'll visit, and you'll visit, and we'll still be us. Because I'm never going to forget last night. And I'm never going to forget this moment right here. And in two years' time ... in two years' time we can stop."

Stop. Stop what? Flying across the Atlantic? Being friends? Pretending that all you are is friends? Whatever it is, you know you can wait two years for it.

"So, are you going to stand here and watch me leave down the tunnel into the plane, like something out of some romantic movie?"

Your smile falters. "I can't. If I don't walk away now then I never will."

He nods knowingly. "I thought as much."

"Goodbye, Harry."

"Goodbye, Doctor Nikki Alexander, forensic anthropologist extraordinaire." He smiles sadly, before turning and walking away.

Once again, you do the same. Once again, your retrace your footsteps back towards the exit. Once again, you turn around and look back. Only this time – this time there's no one there. And you only just make it back to your car before you collapse into the driver's seat and succumb to the painful, wracking sobs that you've managed to keep at bay for a month. Until now.

I've been deliberately vague about what happened "last night". Although I have a very clear idea in my head of what did happen, I thought I would leave it up to your imaginations. Maybe I'll write another one-shot about it one day. Until then, you get to decide.

I wasn't actually going to write a Harry leaving fic, but then I was having all the feels about it yesterday and this was kinda the only way I could channel them. So there we go.

Would love to know what you think! And what you reckon happened "last night". :)

Charlotte xxx

(Oh, and I know I'm being slow about it, but there is another chapter of 'There is No Fight...' coming soon.)