So, don't go away
Disclaimer: All property of the BBC.
Author's note: Oh, hey! I haven't written ANYTHING since Leo died. I am a very different person in a very different life, but Nikki's comment in Moment of Surrender about stopping off in New York made me miss my favourite couple so very much!
"Yeah? Well you can turn up tomorrow and sit in the conference room playing Candy Crush or pontificating on the rights of a goldfish, if you like but Professor Cunningham will not be there…You have a nice day, now."
Harry heard the muffled crash of plastic on plastic as his secretary slammed the phone down in the room next door. He gave the faintest exhale that was supposed to be amusement, but was more likely hysteria at her choice of words.
An exhausted-looking, blonde woman with a newborn swaddled to her chest in bright muslin waddled slowly around the corner and gingerly sat down next to him.
"These bloody finance assessors, Harry. D'you reckon they use all their brain capacity crunching numbers so that they've got no grey matter left over for hearing?" she said thoughtfully, pressing a kiss to the top of the baby's wooly head. "Bloody idiots."
Harry looked at her with a pang of guilt, his brow furrowing at her unwashed hair and her beanbag belly. She was in no fit state to be at work; she'd only given birth two weeks ago but she had rushed into the university, breast-pump and bottles clanking merrily in her bag as soon as she'd seen the CNN report on the news. She had insisted on clearing his schedule and cancelling his seminars, ranting at him when he had tried to protest.
"What? So you're going to be able to stand there and teach when the person you love has been abducted in Mexico, are you? Give over, will you?"
So, shell-shocked and shaking, he had let her. He kept seeing that horrible breaking-news ticker tape crawl across his mind's eye; British doctor, missing.
Of course Nikki had made the news. He hadn't seen her for years, then there she was; her massive brown eyes staring out at him from the TV screen. Looking far too beautiful to be two-dimensional. He could feel every fiber of his heart disintegrating in panic and dread. Somewhere in his brain, he vaguely recollected that they had used her Facebook profile picture. She didn't even use it. She was all blonde curls and glacial cheekbones in a dark grey dress for some forensic gala, years ago. Then, he recognized that the cuff of a tuxedo that could only just be seen was his. That was when he staggered to the toilets to be sick.
He had existed in this perpetual state of emptiness ever since; the back of his neck was clammy, his eyes were glassy and he felt like he had several elastic bands around his chest.
He wanted to say, 'thank you,' but croaked out 'Allie,' instead.
She looked at him.
"If she's dead...,"
"She's not, Harry," she said softly, squeezing his shoulder. "Don't you dare give up on her. By the looks of it, the British embassy's already done that. Here," she said, unwrapping the baby from her chest. "Hold your godson, will you? Do something useful.
He wasn't sure how many days it had been; enough to grow stubble, enough for Allie to call him a cab and force him to go home. Which of those came first, though? He could remember sitting at his desk with a too-hot mug of coffee burning his palm, the stale, furry feeling in his mouth indicating that he desperately needed to brush his teeth, refreshing and refreshing the Sky News website but not getting home.
It was five o'clock in the morning when his mobile rang. He had been dozing on the couch in his living room with the reading light and TV still on. A greasy whiskey glass was clasped loosely in his hand. He didn't recognise the international number.
"Hello?"
"Harry."
It wasn't a question or a greeting. It was more like a breath or a prayer. He felt his throat swell and swallowed, hard. He recognized that voice; it was thin and raspy, but still hers. He knew that from the goose bumps that had erupted on his arms and the pounding of his chest.
"Nikki?! Thank God. Where are you? Are you alright?"
There was a pause. He heard her muffle a sob.
"Can I come and see you?"
The last time he had seen Nikki; the real last time, not just grainy video feed on Face Time, was at Leo's funeral. He had stood at the back; an observer. As removed from the scene as the department heads and police officers that Leo had only met a handful of times. His eyes had flitted from the coffin to the beacon that was the back of Nikki's head.
Then, Nikki had got up to speak, and he had frozen in place, feeling the colour drain from his face at the sight of her. She had been wearing her 'brave' face; the one she wore for court and for the mortuary. He was probably the only person in that drafty church who had been able to see through it; see what was broken. The sight of that had upset him more than Leo's gleaming, dark coffin.
She had found him at the wake as he was stood in that achingly hipster pub making polite conversation with a group of technicians from the Lyell Centre, a tall man hovering at her side.
"You came," she had said, forcing a false smile on her face, giving him such a stiff, formal hug that it had almost been like hugging a mannequin. He had had time to briefly breathe in the familiar scent of her perfume before she had let go of him.
"Did you honestly think that I wouldn't?" he had asked her, trying to keep the bite of hurt out of his voice.
Her dark eyes had flashed at him, dangerously but then she had resumed her airhostess act and began thanking people for coming. He had not missed her giant bouncer friend staring at him, coldly.
Jet-lagged and exhausted, he had made his excuses and left an hour later, looking helplessly around the room for a woman he had known was not there.
She had been waiting outside for him hidden in the shadows, all wrapped up in her black coat beneath the broken security light. He had jumped when she had spoken.
"Leaving already?"
He had stopped, dead, watching her. Her face had been pale, her eyes too shiny.
"I've got an early flight, in the morning," he had told her, quietly, finding it difficult to make eye contact. He had stared at the wet ground, instead.
"Of course you do," she had said, bitterly, her jaw clenched.
"Nikki," he had said, softly.
Then, Nikki the Pathologist and Head Funeral Arranger disappeared and looking back at him, mouth trembling had been Nikki. His Nikki.
He had walked towards her tentatively, noticing her gaunt face, stick-thin legs and swollen eyes. He had felt his own face crumpling.
"What the hell were you doing in Afghanistan?" he had shot at her, furiously, his voice breaking as he had roughly pulled her towards him in a tight embrace.
"Why the fuck should that matter to you?" she had sobbed back at him, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing her face into his shoulder.
She had cried, digging her chin into him and pulling his hair. He had let her rant and scream at him, resting his forehead against hers as he had felt warm tears roll down his cheeks.
She had alternated between hitting his chest, angrily and burying her face into his neck. He had felt something warm and wet on his throat, her hair tickling his nose and then she was kissing him, frantically, yet still crying…
He had kissed her back, one hand cupping her jaw, tenderly; the other wound in her hair, not sure whose salty tears he could taste…
He had broken their kiss, gently, leaving two soft ones on the corner of her mouth. He had touched his forehead to hers, breathing hard. Nikki had swallowed, trying to regain her composure, her shoulders heaving.
"Leo's dead, Harry," she had whispered, finally.
"I know," he had said sadly, one cold thumb stroking her cheek.
"You left," she had said, her voice quivering, sounding so anguished that it had made his chest ache. He had stared back at her, his face pained, hating himself.
"I know."
Families at the barrier in the arrivals lounge are holding homemade signs, with streamers. Drivers are holding headed cards with surnames scrawled across them in capital letters. Beside him, a little girl is sat, practically bouncing on her Dad's shoulders and excitedly craning her neck to see if the magic white doors are going to open to reveal her 'Momma' anytime soon.
He isn't holding a sign. He had been clutching a takeout coffee, though because he has had about two hour's sleep, but he had downed that like a fresher with Tequila. He feels seriously empty-handed, but then what should he have brought, really? 'Here Nikki. Glad you survived being abducted. Have some flowers from the gas station?' He thumbed a crust of sleep out of the corner of his eye and resumed staring at the shiny marble floor. He had waited for her at the airport before, a few times, after her trips from South Africa and Sheffield, but never has he felt such a sense of desperation.
Ahead, the automatic doors spring into life and people begin to hurry out; people with no luggage or trolleys. There are a few businessmen in crumpled suits and then a cheerleading team in matching blue tracksuits, with insanely perky ponytails in direct contrast to their ashen, tired faces.
Then, a woman with short blonde hair and a trapeze cardigan comes strutting purposefully through the automatic doors with that familiar ballerina-like posture and his breath catches in his chest. It is her.
But then, something happens that he isn't expecting. She falters. He sees her slow down, watches her shoulders droop slightly and her head dart from side-to-side as she scans the crowd, looking lost.
He steps into view and watches her expression flash from anxiety to recognition, relief and then settle on a cautious smile. She is blonder and there are more noticeable crows' feet around her eyes to go with the more defined lines across her forehead but she still looks luminescently beautiful. Like a sad china doll.
He hurries towards her, his feet moving of their own accord and then suddenly she is within touching distance. They had spent years using any excuse to invade each other's personal space. If he'd needed a pen, he would have crept up behind her, blew in her ear and then leant over her shoulder to take one from her desk. What did it matter if the stationary drawer was closer to him? So how come he has no idea what to do with his arms?
She comes to a halt in front of him and she has this uncertain smile on her face like a bambi-eyed Mona Lisa and she smells like stale air and disinfectant.
"Where's all your luggage?" he asks her, by way of hello.
Nikki shrugs heavily.
"It's all here."
How very like her to use evasive humour.
Wordlessly, he crosses his arms around her neck and tucks her head underneath his chin. He feels her slip her arms underneath his coat and pull him closer. They stay that way until the arrivals hall empties.