ASYMMETRY

The premise I've taken for this (which came to me,driving home on the m25 after my Easter break) is what if everything was the other way round, what if Nikki was offered the professorship in New York, what if she was considering leaving everything behind, and what if Harry decided to do something more about it? Because apparently when working night shifts, I write fic!

Obviously, doesn't belong to me. Suspect the writers have let the whole H/N relationship that never was go by now. I, clearly, have not.

Not really any spoilers.

In the end, he doesn't say anything until the week before you're due to leave. He's known for months, and mused on it and made bad jokes about the dreadful culture of the Americans, and your betrayal as an Anglophile at every opportunity, almost as if he's not taking it seriously. Like it's all one big joke, and you're not really going anywhere.

You'd thought on it for a long time, but in the end, you hadn't been able to come up with a good enough reason not to go.

It was like a sudden emptiness inside you, that realisation; that there was nothing holding you here, no one really to hold you back. It was a moment of sudden and begrudging acceptance, like you were finally admitting to yourself that you-and-Harry was never going to come to anything. That was difficult to admit, and people in books and motivational magazine articles lied. You'd read more than once in many different places how accepting something was the first step to moving on, how you'd suddenly feel more free, how you'd finally be able to put something behind you.

When, really, all you felt was an overwhelming sense of inadequacy.

It's surprising how little this seemingly huge chunk of your life at the Lyell surmounts to, as you pack everything you might want to keep into a plastic bag. Even taking Harry's desk into account, eight years is right in front of you in a stack of yearly diaries, a purple mug with 'Nikki' on the side, a little photo-frame with an old picture of your mother in it, and a scarf you thought you'd lost years ago. You stack up an assortment of pens, a Pritt Stick that doesn't look like it's been used since 2004, a stapler and a jotter pad, and deposit it on Harry's desk. He looks up from the PM report he's writing and gives you something of a regretful smile.

"You finally returning everything to me you've acquired over the years?"

"Something like that." Your smile is halfway, too. "Think of this as my leaving present to you."

He raises an eyebrow. "Eight years of being nothing but a supportive, devoted friend, and all I get is a few pens that have nearly run out and what looks like some mouldy glue?"

You place a hand lightly on his shoulder, the hint of a chuckle rising in your throat.

"I'll take you out for a drink or two before I go, I promise." You sigh slightly. "I'm going home, I'm done on the Johnson case. I'll see you in the morning."

You squeeze his shoulder slightly and press your lips, however briefly, to the top of his head.

You choke, once you get into the car, when you realise you can count on the fingers of one hand the number of times you'll be able to tell him you'll see him in the morning.

You leave at the weekend, and you start your new job next Wednesday. And everything's nearly ready; your flat is just piles of boxes and a number of suitcases now really, a few pieces of clothing for the next few days in the wardrobe, the essentials in the bathroom and in the fridge.

Your place somehow looks bigger without anything in it, and somehow hollow. And like the unsurprisingly dull contents of your desk at the Lyell (because it's been your desk, not Harry's, since the day you started, and anyone denying that would be lying to themselves), your life doesn't fill as many suitcases as you'd thought it would. Compact and ready for the long haul flight, your life doesn't look like all that much.

You sink into the threadbare second hand couch Leo had so kindly donated you from his garage, an old and cracked yet full wine glass between your fingers, and you look absent-mindedly at your book on the arm of the chair. You suppose you should occupy yourself with something, but for the moment staring into space and drinking the end of a particularly nice bottle of Chablis seems all you've got the heart or the energy for. All of a sudden, you're starting to doubt. Yourself, making the decision to take the job at NYU so quickly, and, inevitably, your regrets and less than sureties find their way to your relationship with Harry, and what it's always been, what you always thought was going to come eventually, and where it's clearly now never going to reach.

You drain the wine glass, sighing. Half at yourself, half at where you've turned out, in the end. You need to stop thinking on it. You need to put your mind somewhere as far away from everything you used to dream of as your body's going to be, in a few days. And you need that fact to stop making bile rise in your throat. This was your decision, it was a good decision, and you're going to need to come to terms with it. After all, you're the one who has to live with it.

For a moment, and only for a moment, you just want to cry. But you pull yourself together, as you've been doing ever since your mother died, because there's no one there to dry your tears. You've almost forgotten what it feels like to have someone to do that. You swallow, gritting your teeth. This isn't something to cry about, anyway, right?

There's a knock at your door.

It's Harry stood there, looking slightly dishevelled (it's raining cats and dogs) with something of an apprehensive smile on his face. He shrugs at you before he says anything.

"I've got things I need to tell you."

You raise an eyebrow, and look at your watch. "Things you couldn't have told me tomorrow at work?"

"No. Things if I don't tell you right now, I'm never going to say."

Suddenly, and for some unknown reason, you feel a rush of cold through you. You step back silently, letting Harry through the door, and close it behind him. He runs a hand through his damp hair, frowning to himself. You still have a kettle in your kitchen, thankfully, and you put it on without even asking him.

"I don't have any sugar, I'm afraid."

"Coffee, then, please." He half smiles, leaning against one of the worktops as if he's suddenly exhausted. "Nikki, I…"

You turn to look at him, but you don't say anything. He sounds like he's trying to get something out, and you know from many years of past experience that when he's like this, he just needs silence, time, to get something out. Sometimes he can take what seems like forever. But he'll get there eventually.

He seems to stumble over words never really quite formed, and then he looks toward your microwave, a loose shake of his shoulders, as if he's laughing at himself.

"I told myself I was just going to come over and spit it all out, and I'm making a right cock up of it…" he swings his eyes back to yours, and there's a visible swallow. "Nikki, I don't want you to leave."

It's your turn to swallow now. You don't have anything to counter that with, not right now. And anyway, he doesn't look or sound like he's quite finished.

He looks at his feet, like he can't meet your eyes. "I… I don't want you to go. I'm not… I can't lose you. We were gonna be so much more…"

Your heart thumping, you try to process what he's said. We were gonna be so much more…was it even possible that Harry had been looking at the two of you the same way this whole time? Could you both have been muddling through, thinking one day you'd reach something more, without realising you were both in the same place? Has Harry finally lit the match to ignite something between you, the match you were about to throw away? You're not sure if you feel sick, giddy or like you might pass out. He looks back up at you.

"I don't suppose this'll change anything. I just… I had to tell you before you buggered off to New York and found yourself a charming American, or something, and we never saw you again. I couldn't leave it unsaid. So… there it is. Don't go. I want us to be something more."

There's a long, full silence, and suddenly you don't feel like you can look at him. Because this is everything you've always wanted to hear, isn't it? Isn't this everything you've always been dreaming of? But he's decided to wait until you sign a contract for at least a year's employment in New York before saying any of this, and that's always been the two of you, hasn't it? Impeccable timing. (You don't suppose you're really one to talk, though. You've spent at least seven of the last eight years waiting for the right moment.)

"Say something, Nikki." He breathes, and he sounds as terrified as you feel, then. "Anything… but say something."

You look back up at him. But you still don't have the words. Because there's a whole friendship's worth of hidden feelings floating in the air now, there's a thousand possibilities between you. You take a step towards him, and you're sure his eyes widen slightly. And then, as you silently reach out tentatively, placing your hands on his hips, they darken. His breath hitches, but as you lean your face towards his, a long, thin finger lands against your lips, stopping you. You frown slightly. He is sending a huge load of mixed messages.

"There have never been enough words. We've never said what we needed to say."

"What do you want me to say?" you manage, with a little smile. You sound more like yourself and less like your heart's thumping in your chest than you'd been expecting.

He takes a deep breath. "Tell me you'll stay."

You swallow, visibly, and self-doubt immediately flashes across his face. "Tell me I'm not too late, tell me I'm not mad… let me down gently, would you, if you're going to tell me where to go…"

You laugh, then, shaking your head. You bring one of your hands up and place it over his, where it's come to rest against your cheek. You press your lips against the palm of his hand, and move closer still. Suddenly every curve of your body has found every contour of his, and his breathing quickens a little more.

"I'll have to speak to a charming American lawyer about employment law over there."

He frowns, and you feel your smile widen. "Find out if there's any way of getting out of my contract. I'll try my very hardest to stay."

You've never seen a face light up quite like his does, then. He looks somewhere between a child on Christmas morning and a girl that's just been proposed to, and you laugh lightly as you press your forehead into his, closing your eyes.

"About as close to too late as you could find, but not quite."

You feel him rumble against you with a little chuckle. And then there's fingers, splayed, on the small of your back, and something pressing lightly against your lips - this time it's not his finger. His lips are dry, slightly chapped, and taste of something you're not sure you ever knew you were missing, but you're sure you'll never be able to be without now. It's almost painfully slow, to start with, his thumb stroking lightly against your cheek, his mouth hardly moving – but you can feel his heart thumping like yours in every inch of him against you, and you snake your arms to meet behind him, pulling your lips slightly back from his.

"I'm not going to break, you know." You whisper, and he laughs again.

"You might dissolve, though. This feels like a dream."

You open your eyes, meeting his, and there's something in them you've never seen before, something you're not quite ready to find a word for yet. "That was either really corny or really girly, I'm not sure which."

"I mean it. I've been trying to pluck up the courage to tell you, to go somewhere with this almost the whole time I've known you, Nikki…"

"Well, I can promise you it's not a dream. I can pinch you, if you like."

"I always suspected you were a bit of a sadist…"

You almost snort with laughter at that, but this time, when you push your lips against his, there's something else there, and before you know it his mouth is open, he's pulling you closer with that one splayed palm, and you can feel his reaction against your pelvis. Breathing's becoming something of an afterthought to you yourself, and as he turns the tables and pushes you against your bare kitchen counter, snaking the hand from your cheek to somewhere far less innocent, he draws back,, a sudden serious, solemn expression on his face.

"You still have a bed, right? Because I don't think I'm cool with shagging you on Leo's second hand sofa… that would be kinda like walking in on your parents…"

Your giggle doesn't really sound like you, then, but he silences it almost instantly with his mouth against yours again, and you don't do a lot of thinking after that.

That first time you'd always thought was nothing more than a dream is both nothing like you expected and everything you ever dreamt of and more, between crisp white sheets in a room that has very little in it other than a bed, because until this evening you were collapsing your life into tiny boxes, essentially, and only the essentials were left standing in your flat. You realise, as he presses you into the pillows, a dark but almost reverent light in his eyes, that you'd forgotten maybe the most important essential. Because you have no doubt that from now on you won't be able to last long without him.

When you curl against his side, whole body tingling with something you don't think you've ever felt – there's something different in pleasure when the other person is this important – you snake one arm across his chest, as he traces finger-light patterns to the skin of your shoulders.

"If I'd known that was what I was missing…" he laughs, pressing his lips to the top of your head.

You curl slightly further into him, entwining your legs with his. "You'd have confessed your feelings to me twenty minutes after we met?"

"Something like that, yeah. But seriously… all that time we could have been doing that…"

You press your lips against his skin. "Maybe you needed me to actually book flights to another continent before you decided to act on those feelings…"

"I love you. That's what those feelings are, Nikki. I've loved you since… since long before I ever even considered I might ever tell you… and I don't plan on ever stopping…"

There's a slight choke in your throat. His words are heavy, but they somehow feel like they've taken an age to land. You're ninety-nine percent sure you already screamed your reciprocation into the air in the throes of an orgasm that certainly hadn't been your first, but you slide your hand down his body slightly and twine your fingers with his, anyway.

"Love you too." You whisper. "And we should try and sleep… Leo might guess something's going on if we both turn up for work late in the morning…"

You feel his smile. "Night, Nikki."

"Night." You half mumble, the physical exertion and the marathon of emotions suddenly catching up with you. You yawn and close your eyes, feeling your consciousness slip away.

It's not like everything after that is happily-ever-after. Getting out of your NYU contract is less of a problem, but you have to go through weeks of laborious admin to get your job at the Lyell back, despite having been told Leo'll have you back in a heartbeat. Your flat has already been sold, so you find yourself momentarily homeless, before Harry holds all your suitcases hostage at his place until you agree to move in with him. You worry for about a week that it's too soon, and it's going to put too much of a strain on the relationship, before realising the two of you have slotted into your own domesticity almost subconsciously, and maybe it'll all work out.

About a year after you were going to leave the country, the three of you end up in Iraq on a case, and you're both screaming at Leo, but then Harry's arms are around you and you're crying huge, silent, dry tears, because Leo took a fatal bullet (so to speak) for everyone else in a 100 metre radius or something like that, and you don't suppose you're ever going to smile again. Those months are some of the hardest of your life, though every day you thank anyone that might be listening for Harry, who's possibly the only person that understands what you're feeling.

You both stand at the front of a church in Sheffield, in front of a huge congregation, and everything you say doesn't seem to even scratch the surface of what you're trying to say about Leo Dalton, but you hold each other afterwards, in the pews, standing by the grave that's so wretchedly next to Theresa's and Cassie's, and in your bed that night, as he finally lets the huge, wracking sobs out he's been holding in for days.

You wonder, briefly, how it would have been to find out what had happened from a new home in New York, where you'd probably still have been lonely – you'd never been very good at letting anyone in (other than Leo, that is, in his own way) between your mother and Harry – and you wouldn't have had anyone to understand. As Harry hands you your coffee silently and with a grey and sombre face on the day it's been a year, before saying nothing but reaching out and taking your hand, you imagine you wouldn't have coped at all well on your own. Without him.

You lean into his shoulder, closing your eyes, a thousand and one unsaid things running between you in that moment.

Some sort of agreement - together, you're going to survive.

That's a wrap! Sorry it went kind of (very) angsty right at the end there, you know what I'm like with angst!

Would love to hear what you think!