"You're looking a bit tired," Harry says as he closes his locker. As usual he has started a conversation with only the bottom half of his scrubs on. You really do wonder at him sometimes. It takes the man three days to work up the guts to ask you the question he's obviously been pondering for days, seeking inner strength or something from somewhere and then inevitably he begins the conversation not at any sane time like any normal individual, over coffee or at the desk. No; the words suddenly babble out of his mouth when he's half naked; as if taking his clothes off was somehow a way of shedding his inhibitions and the usual wall of friendly hostility that there was between you.
"I've not been sleeping well," you mumble into your own locker. Keeping your eyes averted as if modestly giving him the time to change. But by focusing into your locker so intently you don't notice him move and his next comment makes you jump. His voice and body suddenly close to your ear.
"Not sleeping well?" he repeats, his face a picture of concern. You turn to look at him and you can see him accessing his mental database of Nikki responses. You know he has one, that superefficient brain of his has filed every one of your reasons and excuses and a second or two allows him to access them and realise the last time you admitted to him about how tired you were.
"It's not that," you reassure him. Remembering all too well that time. The time the darkness nearly took you. Another time when you shut him out. "I've just had a run of bad nights."
He's still looking at you, the greeny brown eyes boring into your soul, he's thinking about something else now, working out if there's a case that's bothering you.
"I've just had a few nightmares, that's all."
"I'm an expert in those," he says, and grins that stupid lopsided grin of his.
"It'll help to talk about them," he adds, his face now all seriousness and concern, your breath catches a little.
You turn away and then mumble.
"You'll laugh,"
"No, I won't," he says seriously and touches his hand to your shoulder. You stand perfectly still for a moment and breathe in the feel of him, the warmth of his hand on your shoulder through the cotton of your shirt. You go to shut the door of the locker, but you've left the box of tampons you'd reached into earlier at the wrong angle and it stops the door from shutting, you try banging the door to squash the box in but this only succeeds in knocking them off balance and they fall to the ground with a thud and scatter. Before you realise it the tears are pouring down your face.
"Nikki?"
You scrub at your eyes and try and pick up the contents of your locker which now seems to all be spilling out on the floor in front of you as another bag topples off the shelf. Harry bends down picks up a packet of tissues stuffs them in front of your face and then bends down to carefully pick up the rest of your belongings. There's something about seeing Harry on the floor picking up the contents of your shower bag that makes the tears just fall faster but you know he hates seeing you cry. So you stare up at the ceiling and swallow hard and open your eyes wide until the stinging stops the tears from falling. You look down in time to see him pick up the box of tampons and put them back into the locker. He closes it gently. For a man his size, he can be so gentle, you used to tease him about his neat stitching, now it's just one of the things you find endearing about the man.
"You said you'd thought about having a family …one day," you say, your voice barely a whisper.
He swivels on his heels and looks up at you, a deer caught in the headlights. You know he hates conversations like this even more than he hates watching you cry.
"For goodness sake, put some clothes on!" you laugh, giving him space to collect his thoughts, think of his latest joke that will change the subject. He looks around for the top half of his scrubs but they are already in the laundry bin so instead he distractedly looks through his locker for a shirt. This is a less endearing part of life with Harry Cunningham.
"Try the door," you suggest.
Harry looks up at his locker door and sees the t-shirt he slung over the top only minutes before.
"Thanks," he says, pulling it over his head.
"You said, you'd thought about having a family one day," you repeat.
"That's what's been giving you nightmares?" he replies. "I didn't think inflicting half my DNA on the world was cause for that much of a catastrophe." You knew he'd think of a joke try and make light of whatever serious topic you'd finally had the courage to broach. He did it every time, it was almost as if it were scripted.
"Harry!" you chide and then pause. "I'm getting old, Harry," you admit.
"You're years younger than me," he guffaws.
"Yes and Charlie Chaplin was fathering children in his 90's," you say and see his eyes widen.
"Nikki, you're not that old."
"I am Harry, I am, even if I meet someone today and we take our time and get to know each other and then when the time is right we think about starting a family I'll be in my forties, I haven't got time! Harry, the clock's not just ticking loudly; it's about to stop. And what if I don't find someone today, or next week, or next year, what then, what then?" You can feel yourself getting hysterical. You knew this would happen. You knew he'd want to know what it was and as soon as you let the first drop of trouble out the rest would spill forth in a tidal wave of late 30's biology and psychosis.
"You could help me Harry," you say, your face turned away from him.
"And what about when you do meet Mr Right," he asks. You can't see him but you can feel the tender look he has in his eyes, just by the cadence of his voice.
"I've given up on Mr Right," you say mulishly but you turn to look him straight in the eye. You're surprised when he doesn't look away.
"Please help me," you say.
He takes a step towards you, his eyes burning into yours and for one second you think he is going to lean down and kiss you.
"I promise I will help you," he says completely seriously. You scour his face looking for the joke or the punchline, but none seems to come.
"You will help me?" you try and guess what he means but for once his eyes are inscrutable and even you can't imagine what he's thinking.
"I promise to help you, but you will have to trust me," his eyes have taken on a sad look, but you can't believe after all this time you're hearing the words you thought you would never hear.
"Of course I trust you," your brain is scrambling through a million possibilities of fairy tale dreams and happy ever afters but at the same time part of you is looking into his sad lost eyes and wondering what is troubling him.
"I mean if you find the sex idea off putting we could go with the turkey baster option…" you feel his hand on your mouth cutting off the latest ramblings of your scrambled brain.
"I said, I would help," he enunciated very clearly it was almost comical like the way they used to make the Red Indians speak in those old films. "I said, you had to trust me." And then after a pause you hear. "It will probably hurt." And with that you see him turn and leave. Your brain swimming with a million questions. The door to the locker room suddenly opens again and you see Harry's head poke around the edge.
"I always keep my promises," he says before disappearing again.