ALIVE

Because even if I'm the only one left, I'm not ignoring what she said at the beginning of Monday's episode. And I'm ignoring any Nikki/Jack stuff they might be teasing.

"I stopped off in New York, did I tell you?

For about 48 hours, it was incredible. I didn't feel scared, I didn't feel relieved… I felt alive, awake… I wanted to hold onto that…"

It seems, that evening, after everything – she's been checked over at the hospital, and Jack had stayed drinking tea with her for seemingly hours too long, she's so tired; once she's on her own, she doesn't want to close her eyes. The images flashing behind them when she was in the dark won't stop flashing, even though she's got the lights on full blast and she's trying as hard as she possibly can to think about something else, anything else, those thoughts are rushing through her mind, those moments, those memories…

When it occurs to her, it seems like the simplest thing in the world. Jack was booking flights home earlier, but in that moment, home doesn't feel like home anymore. Like she couldn't quite come back from that trapped feeling, that hopelessness. In that moment, with the images flashing behind her eyes, going to New York seemed like the only thing to do.

He answers the phone blearily, and she considers that it's even later in New York, but she smiles slightly when he answers after two rings, as if he still, even after all these years, worries about her and answers his phone almost instantly because she might be in trouble.

She tells him in a strangely detached, cold voice what happened to her. As if the more clinical she sounds, the more like she's dictating case notes, the less involved she'll feel, like it was something dreadful that happened to someone but certainly not to her. She can almost imagine the slightly pained expressions on his face as he's hearing this, and he sounds like he always used to when he finally gets a word in edgeways. Exasperated, furious, wounded and… soft.

He asks her why she's ringing him now, isn't someone looking after her, and she explains that she's been taken care of, she needed some time alone, they're flying home tomorrow, and she doesn't know where home is anymore.

He sounds exhausted as he half-whispers that she could fly into New York if she wanted, before she even mentions it.

They always knew each other too well.

She gets an early morning flight, and is into New York City airport by early afternoon. He's waiting for her there, in the arrivals lounge, like it's the most normal thing in the world. He looks older, somehow, than she's ever seen him, but she supposes maybe web cameras on Skype dates aren't focused enough to see the laughter lines, the grey hairs, the exhaustion.

He puts one arm roughly around her and buries his face in her hair for a moment, as if he hasn't quite found the words yet. And when the words come they're mumbles about nightmares, and fear, and looking after her, and how he doesn't think she'll ever change. He pulls back and manages half a smile, after that, and turns it into a joke about how he's sure she's already taken years off his life. She merely brushes her thumb along his cheekbone and closes her eyes for a moment, silencing him, because he's always done that. Tried to make her laugh when he's been afraid of whatever else he might say.

He takes her home with him, because what else was he ever going to have done, really? She pours herself a glass of Merlot from a bottle on his kitchen counter, and when he comes back into the room, he frowns at her and asks if she's sure she should be drinking. She gives him a tiny smile and takes a sip anyway. He pours himself a glass and they find themselves sitting close drinking wine just like they used to, on a completely different sofa in a completely different country with years between them.

Somewhere between tipsy and out of control he turns to her, and she's sure for a moment she sees tears in his eyes, but everything's been a little soft round the edges for a while, they've been drinking since mid-afternoon, and it's not light outside anymore. He lifts his hand and palms her cheek roughly, and she finds her throat catching, a shudder running through her whole body. His face and his eyes and his lips are suddenly so close, and she can't remember anything, for a moment. She can't remember why she's here, where he's been gone all these years, and why she's going to regret this. All she can see are his lips, all she can hear is her beating heart, and for a moment, all she can feel is how close to every inch of her every inch of him suddenly is, and how it's beautiful.

When he leans forward she finds her hands wrapping around his back and pulling him closer. When his lips touch hers, despite the amount of alcohol consumed, despite his clumsy movements, despite how she suspects neither of them are in control of their actions, it's soft and gentle, like he's testing uncharted waters, and her heart's in her mouth.

He's almost painfully slow, like he's savouring everything, and she appreciates that, she does, but she needs something more. Because in his arms, with his lips on hers, she's nowhere but right here, and that allows her to forget. She starts fiddling with the hem of his shirt, her fingers snaking underneath and brushing against his skin. She's sure his breath hitches as she traces down over his hips, and he seems to take it as his cue. His mouth starts travelling over her jawbone and down her throat.

With his mouth steadily progressing on that journey, the hand that started on her cheek now threads, roughly, into her hair, and his other hand finds her waist. She finds her own fumbling with the buttons on his shirt and as his lips reach her collarbone he looks up at her for a minute, as if considering asking her if this is what she wants to be doing, if this is what they should be doing, if maybe they're both going to regret this, but he seems to think better of it. As he guides her to straddle his lap she helps him shrug his shirt off before pulling her own over her head, and suddenly there's no going back, suddenly this isn't just a dream, but she can't even remember how to think about anything else, let alone remember anything, and therefore it still makes sense.

He starts moving his mouth even further down, and her fingers find his belt. There'll be time for thinking about what she's doing some other time.

Their first time is quick and messy on his couch, and although they'll laugh about it in bed in the hours afterwards, and how it shouldn't have been that way, maybe it always should have been. Maybe they were never anything but messy and fleeting.

He carries her into his bedroom afterwards, and lays her down, lazily tracing his fingers over every inch of her, his lips often following. She drags him back up, tangles her legs with his and lets his mouth find her own again when she gets impatient, and their second time is slow and beautiful and almost reverent, as if for each of them the enormity of this is coming into focus.

When he curls his arms around her, presses his lips to her hair and slots his fingers loosely into hers, she considers maybe sleeping may actually be a possibility.

She descends into oblivion, dreaming about absolutely nothing, and it's heavenly. He watches her for some time before allowing a light doze to catch him up, because she's here in his arms, but she almost died, yet again, she lives nearly 4000 miles away, and he hasn't seen her in person, until today, in years.

When he finally does fall asleep, he's haunted by dreams that haven't plagued him in years, of racing to find her, of being too late, of knowing she was somewhere out there, lost and in pain, but never being able to put anything right.

The sunlight streaming in through the window wakes him up first, and she's curled around him, her face tucked under his, her hand resting loosely just above his hip bone. He whispers that one confession he was never able to admit for all those years, and she certainly doesn't need now, when a light snore assures him she's still asleep, and then he runs his fingers tantalisingly up and down her spine whilst blinking hard.

She finds herself letting him roll on top of her and push his mouth somewhat more forcefully against her own, as if he's trying to forget something, but everything's a little more real in the daylight, and she finds herself crying lightly as he collapses beside her. He takes her hand without needing to ask anything.

They spend most of the next 24 hours in his bed, with a takeout order and another bottle of wine, almost exactly the same as they used to be, back home, except this time they're both predominantly naked and running on borrowed time.

As the darkness starts to cave in around them again, she tells him, the words catching in her throat, that her flight out of New York is tomorrow at 12, and he does nothing but pull her slightly closer to him and stroke his hands down her back, as if reassuring himself she's real.

He drives her back to the airport, and she's almost silent in his car, shaking slightly. When she gets to passport control, and he is standing there, just waiting for her to leave, he suddenly looks so small, and she takes his hand one last time.

His eyes are definitely sparkling with a thousand regrets, wishes that will never be fulfilled and unsaid things as he kisses her softly, another last time, and makes her promise to let him know when she gets safely home, take some time off work and get some counselling. She gives him a sad, tired half-smile, as if life is starting to weigh down on her, and lets her fingers slip out of his, turning away, her eyes holding his as long as they can.

She doesn't look back as she walks towards and then through the gate, because he can't see her crying again, and she's not sure she'll get through the flight if she sees what state she suspects he's in. She walks through the door, and round the corner, and suddenly it's more over than it's ever been, and it feels like she's something of a different person.

She stops for a moment, and raises her hand to touch her mouth gently, as if there's still some connection to where his lips once were.

She hears the last call for boarding her plane, but for a moment, the world is spinning around her, her life isn't quite her own, and she's almost praying this isn't happening, she's not walking away herself, more than five years after he walked away, and broke her heart.

With that thought, an almost-smile touches her lips, and she's whispering something she'd never had the courage to say.

"I loved you."

FIN

I haven't watched a Silent Witness episode and had to start writing the moment it finished in years! Probably the last time that happened was Greater Love, in fact. Hope I've kept this believable, apologies for the angst, I promise my next H/N piece will be happy and fluffy and maybe even smutty.

Leave me a little review, if you've got a moment. Reassure me I'm not the only one left still standing.