A/N: Sorry for the delay, folks. And thanks to all those who leave me messages of encouragement that I can't respond to directly.

It takes him five minutes, or the equivalent of a hurried jog around her block, for his self-deprecating anger to subside enough to realise what a mistake he's made by running out. Ducking into the service alley behind her building, he lets his frustration out in a low growl, scrubbing his hands through his now wet hair, suddenly realising what a predicament he's in.

The cool rain filled London air that felt so good on his skin when he first left her flat has now started to soak through his shirt. In his haste to get away, he hadn't stopped to grab anything, had just wanted to leave. Which means he's now stranded, miles from home or work or his own car, with nothing more than the clothes on his back. Even his phone wallet and keys are back inside her entryway where he has left them in his bag.

His brother had always told him one day his temper would get him into trouble; he just never would have thought that this was the trouble it would result in. Then again, it was essentially over a girl (not that he'd ever call Nikki a girl), so who knows. Maybe he did.

Leaning against the back wall, trying to use its height for a little shelter from the never ending rain that is so fitting to his mood right now, he starts to think through what feasible options he has. With no wallet he has no money, so getting a taxi or bus or the tube is out of the question. Nor does he have his phone, so cannot even call for help. (Even if he was manage to borrow someone else's, he doesn't know anyone's number by rote. One of the downsides of the digital age.)

Which, as far as he can see, leaves him with four possible options. He weighs them up in his mind.

Option one is to walk home. Pros: no one else will have to know about what an utter clusterfuck he's made of the whole sorry situation. Cons: He has no jacket and it's raining. It's also miles away. He has no keys to get inside once he does get there. He'll have to break in. He might get arrested for breaking in. He'll then have to explain why he's breaking in to his own home. Everyone will then know what a complete mess he's made. Not to mention on the walk home he'll probably develop hypothermia. He'll definitely end up worrying/hurting Nikki.

Option two is to walk to his car. Pros: it's closer than home. Cons: It's at James' gym. James really doesn't like him at the moment, and might 'try to defend Nikki's honour'. (Read; beat him to a bloody pulp.) The gym is still miles away, and he still has no coat or keys. He'll still have to break in and then hot wire his car. He still might get arrested. He'll still probably get Hypothermia. Will still end up worrying/hurting Nikki.

Option three is to walk back to work. Pros: he has a change of clothes there. Doesn't need a key to get inside. Cons: It's further away than either his home or his car. Clarissa will probably skin him alive. Thomas might even help. Rain. No coat. Hypothermia. Nikki.

Option four: Go back inside to Nikki and beg forgiveness. Pros: Will be able to apologise to Nikki. Cons: She might have realised he's not worth the effort and doesn't want anything to do with him, ever again.

He gives a sigh, and a rueful shake of his head, knowing there really is only one option. There is no way he's going to leave here with Nikki thinking anything about this situation is her fault. (Of course it all comes back to her.) Stepping away from the wall, he finds the rain has started to fall more heavily now, and it only solidifies his decision. Leaving the somewhat shelter of the service alley, he hunches his shoulders against the cold, biting wind, trying to keep as little of his waning body heat from escaping as possible. Both his shirt and jeans are soaked through now, and he cannot stop the shivers that are wracking his body.

Arriving back at her front door, it still takes him a minute to build up the courage to actually buzz her flat. (God, he's so pathetic.) When there is no immediate answer, he does it again. This time, he waits a minute, but when there is still no answer, he shakes his head. Knowing her like he does, especially after he ran out on her like he did, she's probably out looking for him. That thought does nothing to help his guilt. A small tug at the front door reminds him that life is not like TV or the movies; he cannot simply enter the building to knock on her front door itself. And there is no clichéd person coming out of their flat whom he can utilise for access. Great.

Turing around, he rests his head against the door for a moment, eyes closed and still shivering, trying to come up with another plan, when he heads a soft, "Jack? Oh my god."

Opening his eyes, he sees Nikki hurrying towards him, a look of complete desolation in her eyes. It's enough to make his own shame come rushing back at him, and he hangs his head, hiding from her gaze. Of all the things he deserves right now, her care is not one of them. It appears she hasn't had that memo though, and he feels her grab his hand in hers, pulling him inside with her.

He's too cold to really put up a fight (and really, isn't being let in what he wanted not five minutes ago?) and lets her pull him along, almost childlike. When she stops outside her door, giving him a searching look, he realises he has yet to say anything to her since she found him on the doorstep. "Sorry."

It doesn't even begin to cover what he wants to say to her, but at least it's a start. He's about to try to say more when she gives her own soft sigh. Opening the door, she pulls him inside, saying, "C'mon. You need to get dry and warm or you'll catch a chill."

He shucks his shoes off and lets himself be led into her living room, before she drops his hand. Feeling his teeth chatter uncontrollably (Jesus, when did he get so cold?!) he stares around him blankly as if it had been months since he was last in her flat, not minutes. She nods her head back towards the doorway. "Wait here a minute, I'll get you a towel."

He wants to say thank you, wants to say sorry, wants to say so many things, but he cannot form a full thought, never mind get the words out. The warmth of her flat is beginning to seep into his skin, and he can feel the blood flow returning to his fingers with a tingling sensation. Knowing he needs to get out of his wet clothes if he doesn't want to succumb to hypothermia (which, even now he might be in the early stages of), he starts fumbling with the buttons of his shirt.

He hears her return, seeing her place a thick towel on the arm of her sofa out of the corner of his eye, before she is standing before him again. When her hands come up to help him with the stubborn buttons, he lets his own fall away, allowing her more nimble fingers take over.

(Later, when he thinks back about this whole situation, he will be shocked by the docile way in which he lets her take over in all but stripping him. But in that moment all he is concerned about is getting out of the wet fabric and dry.)

She manages to get the first few buttons of his shirt undone, and then simply reaches behind him, pulling his shirt free from his jeans. Realising her intent, he helps her pull the sodden material up and over his head, feeling the thick terrycloth of the towel wrap around him in its place. She starts to chafe the towel slightly over his arms, but he wants the cocoon of warmth the towel is offering more, and so pulls it tighter around his now bare torso. (It also has the added benefit of hiding him from her gaze, and geez, could he be more pathetic right now?)

She drops her arms at the movement, and he doesn't know what to make of the situation he now finds himself in. Giving her a deep look, he tries to work out from her face what it is she wants from him. She drops her gaze before he can read her though, her hands falling to his belt.

He's not going to lie. There has been (many) times, especially in the last year or so, when he might have thought (briefly) about what it might be like for her to undress him. (He's a guy, and she's, well. There are no real words to describe what she is to him.) Of all those times, not one of them was because he'd run away from her into the rain in fear and despair, after being accused of beating her up.

Feeling her undo the buckle, (God, what is she trying to do to him?!) he places a hand over hers to stop her movements, meeting her inquisitive gaze with his own intense one. "I can manage."

His voice is dark, filled with retained passion and want (and a little bit of fear), and he wonders how much of it she can hear, and how much of it she wants to. She nods turning away from him, and he worries he's scared her, shown her too much, when he sees she's motioning towards the two mugs that are still sat on her counter from earlier. "I'll just…"

She steps away towards the kitchen area, and when he hears her start the kettle he takes over wrestling with his jeans. The demin is stiff and unyielding, and it takes him a few attempts to get the buttons unfastened. Checking Nikki is still occupied in the kitchen, he loosens his tight hold on the towel slightly, but enough to push his jeans down. The increased weight from the water makes them fall easily once he has them over his hips, and they fall to the floor with a soft thump. Stepping out of them, he gives his socks a cursory glance before pulling them off too. (He'd quite like to get out of his damp underwear too, but that isn't about to happen, not here. Not like this.)

Hearing Nikki approach, he pulls the towel tighter around him, suddenly very aware that he is standing in her living room, all but naked, and freezing cold, with no clean clothes to change into. She heads over to the pile of his clothes, nodding over her shoulder as she does so.

"I'll put these in the dryer for you."

"Thanks." There is a rasp to his voice still, but he doesn't know if it's from the effect of the weather, or the effect of her. He thinks it may be a little of both, and it scares (thrills) him. Giving her a cursory glance, he suddenly realises that while he is now out of his own wet clothes, she is still in hers. He has no idea how long she was outside, but he's just had a reminder on how uncomfortable wet jeans can be.

Voice still a husky rasp, he nods towards her, his words stilling her movement towards his wet things. "You should get out of your jeans too."

There is a beat while the words echo loudly in his head. (Because, seriously, that's the best he can do?) Blushing, he tries recover the situation, the words coming out stilted while he does not in any way shape or form think about her peeling her jeans off in some sort of – NO.

"I mean, uh, because they're wet. From the rain. You should take them off. Change. You should change. I, uh…"

The way her eyes have widened makes him think she knows where his own traitorous thoughts have strayed to, and it only makes his blush and stutter worse. (Jesus, what must she think of him?!)

He trails off, desperately trying to think of a way out of this without him coming across as a pervert, when he is saved by the boiling of the kettle. She nods towards it, saying, "Ok. I'll go change. You get coffee duty."

He breathes a sigh of relief, muttering a quick, "Yes, ma'am," as she passes. (Seriously, is he trying to get thrown out?) When she stops he knows she's heard him, and he bends his head, making it appear he is deep in his task, and not trying to sneak a glance at her again. Feeling the towel begin to drop, he pulls it closer to him, and only begins to breathe again normally when she finally leaves the room.

Spotting the pile of wet clothes left on her floor, he picks them up, depositing them instead into the dryer in her kitchen. Now that he is alone again, his mind cannot help but go over the events that have lead them here, and he hangs his head, his hands stilling their motions, instead falling to the counter before him. Apparently, there are no limits to the ways in which he can embarrass himself in front of her.

With a hefty sigh, he finishes making the coffees, picking up one mug and taking a seat on her sofa. Staring into its depths as if it has all the answers to questions he doesn't even know how to ask, he hears her re-enter the room and start the dryer.

Unable to look at her, even when she joins him on the sofa, he takes a sip of his coffee. Feeling her hand find his he lets her take hold, the gentle pressure of her squeeze almost too much for him. Eventually, he finds enough courage to squeeze back, trying to convey everything into that one simple gesture.

He knows he hasn't succeeded when she turns to look at him. He glances up at her for a moment, before finding solace in the hand she has yet to let go of. If he can stay like this for the foreseeable future he might be ok.

Her next words shatter that illusion, and he sighs. Life was never going to be that easy.

"We really need to talk."

TBC