This one shot is dedicated to Lauren, who left me a wonderful, incredible, essay of a review on Sitting, Waiting, Wishing just a few hours ago. This is to say thank you. So much. x
Hard To Say I'm Sorry
It's dark outside; late. You're not exactly sure what the time is, but you don't really care anyway. Because you, Nikki Alexander, are making the most of your night off from being on call. There's a glass of expensive wine in your hand, a half-finished box of chocolates beside you, and your favourite film in the DVD player.
You figure that you deserve it, after the last few days. The shooting at the Dutch Embassy just last week had emotionally drained all of you, so to be handed a serial killer this week felt like someone was perversely ripping of those stitches and reopening old wounds.
Of course, you're aware that Harry took it worse than you. He's still not over what happened in Hungary, you can see that. The guilt claws at him and you know that he's trying to eliminate that guilt by being incredibly determined and invested at his job, more so than before. It doesn't always work, and you notice better than anyone the dark shadows under his eyes.
He needs closure, you consider. And you think he's close to finding it because he has been better lately, but until he does find it, or it finds him, you hope that he knows that you're there for him.
You drain your glass of wine and pour another one, then realise that the film is only ten minutes from the end and you can hardly understand where the middle of it went. A groan escapes your lips and you run a hand through your hair.
When, you wonder, just when did thoughts of Harry Cunningham consume your consciousness so much that it was impossible to think of anything else?
A knock at the door happily pulls you from your internal ramblings, except when you open it and see Harry stood on your doorstep, you're just reminded of your thoughts a minute previously and a blush creeps across your cheeks.
"Harry," you smile. "Come in."
He wordlessly follows you in, stopping on the doormat once he's inside.
"Why is it you can't use the phone and buzzer system like everyone else? Must you wait for one of my neighbours to leave so that you can sneak in every time?" You meant it as a joke, but he doesn't smile. "Harry? What's up?"
He shakes his head, a pained expression on his face. And he still won't enter further into your apartment.
You sigh slightly. "Are you coming in?" He shakes his head, so you say, "Well, do you want a drink?"
You receive a nod to this question, so you leave him standing in the hallway and tread the few paces to the kitchen. "Wine? Beer? I may even have something stronger if you want?"
No reply. Something's wrong with him, but you can't work out what. Normally you can read him like a book, tell exactly what he's thinking just from the expression on his face, but today he's more guarded, as if he doesn't want you knowing what he's thinking. And that? That always means trouble.
You pull two bottles of beer from the fridge, knowing that something stronger probably wouldn't help the situation, whatever the situation was. However, upon your reappearance in the hallway you find that he's gone. Your first thought is that he's chickened out of whatever he was going to say and has left, but then you spot him in your lounge, scrutinising the paused image on the screen.
"You've been watching Dirty Dancing?" he asks, and you're surprised at how rough his voice sounds.
"Yes. Don't judge me, it's been one of those weeks," you smile, handing him his beer. He takes it from you with a grateful nod and downs half the bottle in one go. "Steady on, Harry. I don't want you collapsing on my sofa again."
He paces your lounge and you watch him with narrowed eyes. When a few minutes passes and he still hasn't said anything, you stand directly in front of him so that he can't avoid you and say, "Are you going to tell me what's wrong now?"
He looks at you for a moment, before muttering, "I'm sorry."
You laugh slightly. "Why, what have you done now?"
"No, Nikki, I'm really sorry," he says with more conviction, grasping your hands in his own.
"For what?" you ask, seriously this time, but he lapses into silence once again. "Harry, what are you sorry for? You're scaring me now."
"I scare you?" he asks, in no more than a whisper.
"No, that's not what I meant. I'm worried about you," you tell him, gazing at him imploringly, willing him to talk to you.
"I came to apologise to you," he says.
"Apologise for what?" you ask again, slightly exasperated.
His eyes are still locked with yours and you can see the fear in them, the anxiety and yet the determination. There's something else you see there too, something else that you see in moments like this, something that you've always ignored.
"I am sorry," he says again, "for everything that I've ever put you through."
It's going to be one of those conversations, you can tell. And, if you're honest, you don't have the energy or the inclination. "What are you talking about?" you ask. You try and pull away from him, but his grip on your hands tightens and he doesn't let you. Instead, he tugs you a little closer than you were before. "Harry!" you protest, but he ignores you.
"I'm sorry that I died," he says earnestly, and you fall silent. "I'm sorry that I ran in Hungary and you thought I was dead. I'm sorry."
"Harry, we've been through this. It's okay. You're okay. You're back now."
"That's not all. I'm sorry that whenever you've gotten into trouble, I wasn't there quick enough to stop you getting hurt," he mutters, and his eyes are full of tears. You've never seen him like this before, and it does scare you slightly. Because when he's like this, when he's nothing but raw emotion, it reminds you just how much you need each other. And that thought? That's what scares you.
"You have always been my knight in shining armour, Harry, and that's not going to change any time soon."
"I'm sorry for all the times that I've ever let you down," he continues. "For the times that I've been more concerned about the girl in my bed than you. For the times that I wasn't there."
You can feel your own eyes prickling now. "You're always there," you whisper.
"No, I'm not," he shakes his head. "I've put you in danger, I've left you with murderers, with Naomi Silverlake, and I'm sorry."
"Stop apologising," you tell him firmly. "You don't need to."
"Yes, I do!" he insists. "Can't you see that? When I came back from Hungary, I realised that I take things for granted. I take you for granted. And I don't want to do that to you anymore. So please, let me apologise."
You bite your lip and nod, unable to think of any words.
He lifts your joined hands and presses them against his chest and despite the magnitude of the situation, you're unable to prevent the shiver that tickles your spine.
"I'm sorry for all the times I shouted at you. I have a temper, you said so yourself. I get angry, I lose my patience and I take it out on those around me. Usually you. I've been horrible to you, and I'm sorry."
You press your forehead to his, squeezing your eyes shut in an attempt to hold back the tears. "You are not your father, Harry. You're a wonderful man. You're my best friend."
"Huh, best friend…" he breathes, before pulling his head back. "That's something else I need to apologise for."
"For being my friend?" you ask, slightly stung.
"No," he assures you, his face softening. "For never being more than that."
A knot twists in your stomach. "What?" you croak out.
"I'm sorry that I've slept with other women-"
"They're not other women, Harry. They're just women," you interrupt, slightly scared of where this conversation is going.
"I'm sorry that four years ago, I put my dead ex-girlfriend before you. I'm sorry that I did that, because it blew any chance that we might have had to … Well, I'm sorry," he mutters. "And I'm sorry for… for making you fall in love with me."
"I haven't – I mean, I'm not…" you attempt meekly.
"I'm sorry for making you fall in love with me," he repeats. "Because I've watched you struggle with it, and I knew in Hungary exactly how much heartbreak I was putting you through, and I've crushed you time after time with my one-night stands and my flings and my insensitivity. I knew, but I was too scared to do anything about it. And for that, Nikki Alexander, I am truly sorry."
There are tears unashamedly pouring down your cheeks now. You hadn't even admitted to yourself that you loved him, not properly, and to hear him say it was just a bit more than terrifying.
"Harry…" you breathe, your voice cracking. You find that you can't meet his eyes, but have to gaze at one of the buttons on his shirt.
"Nikki, look at me," he begs. "Please."
Slowly, you lift your gaze to meet his.
"I'm sorry," he whispers.
"I know," you nod.
"No, you don't," he says. "Because most of all, more than anything else, I'm sorry that in seven years, I've never done this."
Before you can register what's happening, his lips are crushed against yours and you're kissing him. Your arms are around his neck, of their own volition you're sure, and his hands are securely on your hips. Every part of you feels like it's on fire, for you've never felt like this from just a kiss before. Goosebumps have erupted across your entire body and there's a permanent shiver on your spine. You tingle everywhere, all your nerve-endings on overdrive. If someone had said to you that tonight you'd be kissing Harry Cunningham like this, you'd have declared them mad. And yet here you were.
Reluctantly, you come up for air. Your foreheads are pressed against each other's again, and you're closer than you ever have been, literally and figuratively.
"Harry?" you mumble, suddenly insecure. Was it just an apologetic kiss? A sympathy kiss? Totally platonic on his part? No. You've never had a platonic kiss like that. He felt just as you did, you can tell.
He pulls back again so that he can look at you properly. "I'm sorry that in seven years I've never told you that you're perfect," he breathes, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "That I've never told you that I love you, too."
You wrap your arms around his neck again, but this time it's so you can hug him tightly. You're on tiptoes, your top riding up slightly as his arms tighten around your waist. He buries his chin in your shoulder as you inhale the smell that is so distinctly him. "You have nothing to apologise for. Not anymore," you whisper into his ear.
I wrote this in only a few hours and I'm feeling a little icky after possibly eating too much chocolate, so I apologise for the how corny it is. ;)
Oh, which reminds me: Happy Easter, everyone. :)