Slow the Clock That's Ticking Loud
You are a beautiful disaster.
You and Harry.
Harry and you.
Sometimes you hate him more than anyone else in the world.
Sometimes you love him dearly.
You are messed up. Both of you. Between you, you could easily keep a therapist employed for life.
The emotional scars run deep; criss-crossing over your worn out heart, pressing against your lungs until you find it a little hard to breathe, leaving a permanent ache somewhere deep inside of you.
But the scars are not so noticeable when you are with him. He makes your world seem a little better.
He always has.
Who knows how you ended up here, in his bed, at 3a.m. on a cold, rainy, November night.
But you did.
And now he is sleeping soundly beside you, sprawled out haphazardly across the mattress, his head right at the bottom corner of the pillow, his arm slung across your bare stomach.
A tremble reaches your bottom lip and your eyes begin to prickle as you observe him. You turn onto your back and stare at the ceiling.
He did not ask for this. Any of it.
His bed is not entirely unfamiliar to you. On many a night you have become so drunk that he holds your car keys hostage until morning and insists that you sleep in his bed while he takes the sofa.
Drunk. Alcohol.
That must have something to do with while you are here. Alcohol tends to make you lose all your inhibitions. Risks do not seem so great and thought processes end up a little blurred.
You had been drinking tonight, yes. And so had he. But no more than one bottle of wine between you.
No, alcohol cannot be solely to blame for you ending up here.
You think back to those moments. Those few moments when it felt like you were flying, leaving you dizzy and breathless and exhausted and instantly craving it all over again. He had respected you in a way no other man ever had, loved you in a way you never thought was possible, kissed you in a way that left you needing more.
But that was all then. And this is now.
Now you are scared. Terrified. Because you don't know what happens next. What if he only wanted one night? What if it was just a spur of the moment thing and, as far as he is concerned, will not be happening again? Or what if he does want more? A marriage, children, a big house in the country?
Oh god. You are so not ready for that either.
You know what is going to happen when he wakes up. It will be awkward, and uncomfortable, and you will promise never to mention this night again, but it will permeate every waking moment, every conversation and every DVD night until you become nothing but strangers to each other.
And that idea is unbearable.
But he will not be awake for a few hours yet, and right now, in the darkness, balanced precariously on the edge of dreams, anything seems possible. You are allowed to enjoy this just for a moment, right? Before morning comes.
The rain is pattering heavily against the window, accompanied by an occasional low rumble of thunder that seems to settle in your stomach. You pull the thick duvet closer around, enveloping yourself in a safe cocoon.
He smells nice, you think, almost involuntarily. Everything about him is nice, and always has been. There is this overwhelming sense of safety you feel in his arms, or when he is nearby.
Why can't you just not like him? It would be so much easier for him to be just a colleague. Someone you get on all right with at work but that is it. Your relationship only exists in the office and that is where it stays.
Except it never has been like that. Your relationship spills out of the office, into the bar, the restaurant, each other's cars, each other's apartments, days out, foreign countries and ... and his bed.
What if, by allowing tonight to happen, you have ruined everything?
You sigh. He never asked for any of this.
It was you that kissed him. You that took his hand in your own. You that would not - could not - stop.
Maybe it is nobody's fault. Perhaps the pair of you had finally stopped fighting the inevitable. Perhaps.
Besides, what is done is done. You can't go back in time and stop it from happening. But even if that were a possibility, would you stop it? Because, as much as a mistake this may be, it was also quite possibly the best night of your life.
You turn onto your side again so that you are facing him and sigh shakily. Gently, you trace your thumb along the line of his jaw, your hand quickly falling to the mattress as he stirs. Blearily, he opens his eyes and looks at you. You watch as shock registers in them, then realisation, then something closely resembling fear.
"Are you okay?" he whispers, his fingers finding yours on the sheets.
A sudden determination sweeps over you and you roughly press your lips to his again, kissing him long and hard, for you need to be sure.
"You can't hurt me," you mutter once you break apart. Your hand goes to his cheek. "I couldn't bear it if you were to hurt me."
His brows furrow slightly. "You know I wouldn't."
"And we have take things slowly. I'm not ready for kids and marriage and big houses in the middle of nowhere."
"You think I am?" he splutters.
"Perhaps not," you murmur. "But if we're going to do this, then you need to promise me both of those things, Harry."
His features soften and he gently kisses your forehead, lightly brushing your blonde hair away from your face with his fingers.
"I promise you, Nikki Alexander," he whispers, his words so heavy with assurance that you can't help but believe him.
Fighting a sob, whether of relief or overwhelming emotion you can't be sure, you allow him to tug you into his arms. The rain falls harder still, bouncing off the window pane, but you hardly notice it. Because this moment, right now, right here, is all that matters.
I said I had some one-shots! I do apologise for my absence on here lately, I've been so busy with dissertations for university that any spare time I had for fan fiction went straight out of the proverbial window.
It's a bit of an angsty mess this, but I'm currently sitting in Starbucks with a grande extra hot skinny vanilla spiced latte (nicest things in the world) and decided to upload it anyway. I do hope you like it...
Reviews would be lovely, and I promise I will get round to catching up/reviewing on everyone else's fics today also!
Much love,
Charlotte xx
P.S. The title is a line from the wonderful song Where Do I Even Start by Morgan Taylor Reid.