Insomnia
"Are you awake?"
"I am now," You don't admit that you were already awake, just like her – thinking over almost exactly the same thing.
You say almost, because you highly doubt that her mind was questioning how it came to be that even her spare, unused sheets smelt of her (though slowly it was beginning to fade, and be replaced by your own musk). You won't ever admit to avoiding using all the pillows, in the vain hope that one would stay distinctly Nikki. You had always wondered what the wonderful, fresh scent that surrounded her was – you'd presumed it was just her perfume – but now washing powder seemed to be a more likely answer. What seems like centuries ago, you'd begrudgingly agreed to be best man for an old university friend, and spent an evening with the maid of honour, helping the bride and groom pick out invitations. Nikki smelt like the pink, delicate rose scented paper - with fresh washing mixed in.
As she sits down, for a brief moment you hope that she'll be too tired to trace the few short steps back into her home room, and lie down there next to you. You could offer up some of the unused pillows.
But she stands back up, and you roll back over, breathing in heavily through your nose.
"Are you awake?"
The temptation to stay silent, and bury your nose back into pillow, is overwhelming. You haven't slept this well in months – when you pointed this out to her she remarked that it was your fault for moving to the city that never sleeps. You weren't sure, but you sensed a trace of bitterness underneath her humour. Maybe it was just wishful thinking.
Then you hear her sigh.
"No," Sod it. It's your last night, after all.
You hear the soft tread of her feet against the wood, and wait for her to appear round the doorframe.
"I'm hungry,"
"Pancakes?" You're not sure either of you are capable of making anything else from scratch.
"Waffles,"
By the time you've rolled out of bed, and located your glasses (a new addition, which has left you on the receiving end of plenty of aging jokes over the past two weeks with her), she has already fetched the relevant ingredients and is stood by an open cupboard.
"Can you reach up and get the iron?" You rub your eyes under your lenses and look to where she's pointing. As you reach up, you try to ignore the tingling sensation when your arm briefly brushes past her.
"Really, cheese and Nutella?" The sight of it is almost enough to make you feel a little queasy.
"Don't judge me until you try it,"
"I've spent the past 6 months thinking the Americans were weird for doing the syrup and bacon thing, and here you are one upping them." You take a bite out of yours. "Here I was thinking I'd returned to the land of sanity,"
"You've clearly picked up their eating habits," She gestures to your upper lip, which you quickly clean with a lick. "There's still some,"
You know how you want this to play out – you'll half-heartedly wipe, miss a spot and she'll lean over to remove the final lingering blob of Nutella. Of course, if this happens, you're almost certain you won't be able to resist kissing her – which, with your fast approaching departure time, is unfair to the both of you. It will be hard enough getting back on the plane with just a hug goodbye.
You rub vigorously at your face with the palm of your hand; ensuring every last bit is spotless.
Somehow you manage to continue talking – with anyone else, interesting conversation would probably have dried up days ago. You curse yourself for forgetting how great it felt to still be able to talk easily, even after spending nearly every minute of the past fortnight in her company. With every passing second, you become increasingly unsure of how exactly you're going to bring yourself to step onto the plane in less than ten hours time. You've become used to being here with her – the domesticity of it all. Waking up to the smell of burnt toast, or, more often, her almost indecipherable grunts for a cup of tea in bed. It reminds you of the brief period you spent living with her after your flat blew up – you try to push the knowledge that this is the happiest you've been since then to the back of your mind (it doesn't really help matters).
You were hoping to stay up the whole night with her, just talking. But she notices you yawn, and insists that you must get some sleep, or you'll drift off in the departure lounge and miss your flight. You don't tell her that this sounds like a good idea.
At her door she leans in to kiss goodnight, her lips lingering on your cheek for a little longer than they usually do.
If you were a stronger man, you'd have been able to turn around and retreat into the comfort of your covers, savouring the smell for the last time. But, just as you'd told her all those months ago – people are weak.
The confused expression across her face when you pull away is frightening, and heart breaking. You're not sure you've ever her seen her looking so helplessly sad. She's thinking exactly the same thing as you – in five hours she'll be at the wheel, driving you to the airport. You'll be going home.
You'd want to explain that New York isn't really home. Because the Lyell Centre isn't there, and Leo's not there – you can't get Radio 4 in his car there (you don't even have a car there); there's no weekend visits to your Mum in New York; no Dandelion and Burdock, fish and chips, or QI. No Nikki.
"You should visit," You say, staring down into her glassy eyes. "Or I can just stay."
"Are you awake?"
"Hmmm?" You peak at the alarm clock at the side of your bed. Three o'clock.
"I think blue is nicest," You mumble something in agreement. "But it's a bit cliché, isn't it? Maybe we should try…"
"Can we talk about nursery colour schemes when it's light enough outside to actually see colours?"
"Maybe just cream would be nice?"
You flip over and pull her against you, searching blindly for her hand, before lacing your fingers between hers, burying your head into her pillow. The corners of your mouth lift into a smile, as the scent wafts up through your nostrils.
"Nikki, sleep."
Firstly, I apologize for being so incredibly hopeless. I've been on holiday with no access to the outside world (a teenager cut off from the internet for longer than 2 weeks? Whaaat?). This also means that until last night I hadn't heard that there was to be no more Harry. I'm not sure I actually believe it yet. I sort of wish if Nikki would leave too – how could they possibly exist as individual entities?!
I'd also love to know if the latest episode was re-edited – where's the scene from the picture that isused as the still for the episode on iPlayer, huh BBC?
If Thursday goes as hoped, I'll be starting college next week, so depending on whether I finally kick my chronic procrastinating habit, updates may either be plentiful or no existent. But I promise there will be more Lego House on the way – and more Blue. And possibly more other stuff.
Anyone left actually interested in any of my various unfinished attempts, thank you for your patience!