Crazy Amazing

He's hurt her so many times. Really hurt her, left her furious and heartbroken all at once. He knows that, he's not stupid. And there's this tiny part of him that is almost glad he's driving her away. Satisfaction swells inside of him when he sees the hope and expectation in her eyes crushed. Because he is bitter and angry and hurting.

But that's just the tiny part. The rest of him - the part from before - is terribly sad. It's not just her who feels the sting of his rejection. When he breaks her heart, his own aches. While she's crying, he's desperately holding back his own tears.

What makes it worse is that she refuses to leave him to it, to go away like he tells her. She's always there; she bears his abuse as no other would. Because, deep down, they both know that he doesn't mean it.

He's a mess. Grief-stricken and guilt-ridden. He holds people at arm's length for a reason, he knows now. Because anyone that gets close to him, really close, gets hurt. Anna. Penny. Nikki. Nikki's hurting and that's his fault. Which is why he needs to push her away. So that she can forget about him. It's too late for the other two, but not for Nikki. He loves her, he's given up trying to deny it, and he can't sit by and watch as he hurts her. That's the tragic irony.

But she refuses to be forced out, instead spending every minute of every hour of every day with him, telling him over and over that he will get better, that he will recover, while he shouts at her that he doesn't want her there, while he drinks until he can no longer stand and while he throws things at the wall.

This continues for a month, and he can hardly understand why she's still by his side, why she hasn't given up on him just like he has given up on himself. Until, suddenly, it all becomes clear.

It's a Saturday night. Raining. Cold, too. It's quiet. Most people are choosing to stay in and avoid the weather. Apart from him. He'd slipped out while she was making dinner, unable to listen to her incessant forced chatter any longer. Now he was standing in the rain, listening instead to the sound of it pattering off the concrete road, the roofs of cars, the windows of people's houses, people without a care in the world.

Of course, the blissful serenity doesn't last long. His front door is flung open and she comes running out, panicked, but then she spots him and slows to a relieved halt. He'd known she'd worry when she couldn't find him.

"Harry? What are you doing out here? Let's get back inside, it's cold."

Her words are like a whisper into the back of his consciousness. The rain gives him clarity, allows him to hear, for the first time, the genuine fear in her voice.

"Are you scared of me?" he asks gruffly, spinning around to face her.

"No," she says, almost wearily, and something tells him that perhaps he's asked her this before.

"I can hear it, Nikki! You're scared. There's fear in your voice when you talk to me. It's because I scare you, isn't it?"

"Stop it. I have had this conversation with you every day for the past month; I'm not having it again!"

She disappears back inside. He tries to think back to the other times he's had this conversation with her, but finds his memory suspiciously empty. Either he's blocked it out, or he was too drunk at the time to remember. Well, he's not drunk anymore.

He heads back inside and finds her chopping up tomatoes to go in the salad that will accompany their meal. It's such an insignificant task, so mundane, yet they're both watching the movements of the knife unfalteringly. It's a distraction; the rhythm seems to keep him calm.

For the first time in a month, he feels some semblance of normality. It's like someone's come along with a scrubbing brush and, gradually, the dark clouds that have infiltrated every particle of his brain are beginning to disappear. He glances at her. Maybe someone has.

"Don't be scared of me," he tells her quietly.

"I'm not," she rebukes, her eyes fixed on the chopping board.

A wave of sorrow washes over him. It crashes against his entire body. He feels winded; breathless. Because she's been there. All this time, she's been there right by his side. And how has he shown his gratitude? By hurling words of spite at her over and over again.

"I'm sorry," he whispers as sincerely as he can, and suddenly, the entire world shifts a little. The knife stops moving. She places it down on the chopping board and leans against the worktop, her palms pressed to the edge. Slowly, her head turns to look at him.

"What?"

"I'm – I'm sorry," he mutters, feeling tears building up. "I'm sorry, Nikki. I'm so, so, so sorry."

Before he knows it, the floodgates have opened and there are tears pouring down his cheeks. He can hardly breathe, hardly stand upright, hardly think straight. But then he feels a hand slip into his own hard, and she's gripping it tightly; she's leading him somewhere. He follows without objection and she takes him to the sofa, where she tugs him down beside her. No words escape her lips; she's waiting for him to do all the talking.

"Why has this happened to me?" he sobs. "Anna died and that was my fault because I wasn't there, and Penny died and that was my fault because I wasn't there, and you – I've been horrible to you. I haven't stopped once to ask if you are okay, and…"

"Ssh, Harry," she whispers, holding him close to her, wrapping her arms around him. "I'm all right. It's you that we need to worry about."

"I was a father," he mutters, and the volume of his tears increases. "For a little while, I was a father. And I had no idea. If I'd known then-"

"There was nothing you could have done, Harry," she interrupts. "You know that. Anna didn't tell you about the baby, and that is not your fault."

"So why does it feel like it is?"

"Because you loved her," she replies, and he doesn't miss the edge to her voice.

"No I didn't," he says, and he pulls out of her embrace. His sobs have decreased and his tears are falling more slowly now. "Not properly."

"Well, you cared for her. And it's understandable that you're feeling-"

"It's not about Anna anymore, Nikki!" he says loudly, and she looks shocked. For a split second, he sees in her eyes the same fear that he can hear in her voice.

"Please don't start shouting again," she tells him patiently.

He stands, unable to sit still any longer. "Why are you still here?" he snaps, and he knows that he's slipping backwards into his behaviour of the past month again, but it's the only way he can get his head around it all. "I'm a horrible, horrible person. I frighten you, I can tell! So why won't you just leave me alone and stop pretending like you care!"

He picks up a stray glass that's been sitting on the coffee table and raises his arm, ready to launch it across the room. But then fingers close around his wrist, and in her other hand she removes the glass before lowering his arm to his side. She's right inside his personal space, looking him directly in the eye, her gaze unfaltering.

"You do not scare me, Harry Cunningham," she says clearly. "I have never been frightened of you."

"So why do you-?"

"Because I'm scared of what you might do," she confesses, her own eyes filling with tears. "I know what it's like to lose you. For a while I thought you were dead. I had to consider my life without you in it, and it was horrible."

He can feel his tense body beginning to relax. The anger starts to fade, only to be replaced by terrible sadness. "Nikki…"

"I can't go through that again, Harry. To get you back, to have a second chance… Well, I wasn't going to let you destroy it with your grief and your pain," she said, smiling sadly though her tears.

"Don't be scared, anymore," he whispers, stroking her hair softly. "Please."

"It's not as simple as that, Harry," she says, and now they're both crying. "I can't stop being scared. Just like I can't leave you."

The realisation hits him harder than a ton of bricks. It twists his stomach into a painful knot, while something prickly rushes through his veins, leaving the hairs on his arms standing on end.

"Because you love me," he mumbles.

She nods, looking down at his feet. "Because we love each other."

And there it is, that moment of clarity. It swallows him whole, an all-consuming rush of emotion.

"You don't want to be with me," he tells her, taking her hands in his own.

"I can't be without you," she counters, "as much as I may hate you for it."

"I'm a magnet for pain and destruction. It infects those around me, those I allow to get close," he says, begging her to see reason.

"I have known you a long time, Harry," she reminds him, placing a hand on his cheek, "and I have seen what an arse you can be. But I have also witnessed the best in you. Your humour, your work ethic, your great kindness. You want to know why I'm not scared of you? Because I know that you wouldn't ever hurt me."

"But I have been hurting you," he mutters dejectedly.

"No, you've been hurting yourself by hurting me. I know you don't mean it. That's why I'm still here."

"I'm a mess," he points out.

She gives him a small smile. "Do you want to know the other reason why I'm still here? Because of this moment. This moment right now. You're okay, Harry."

He can hardly dare to believe her words, even though he recognises that he feels more like himself than he has done in ages. Silently, he wraps his arms around her waist and pulls her against him, burying his chin in her shoulder. Her own arms are looped around his neck, and he doesn't miss the relieved sob that escapes her lips. He holds her tightly, relishing in her comfort and familiarity. She rubs his back soothingly, which is when he realises that there are tears falling from his cheeks onto the back of her cardigan.

"You're back," she whispers.

I apologise for the severe lack of anything remotely resembling joy in this, angst seems to be the only thing I can write lately.
xxxx