Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jack decides fairly quickly that he hates Oxford.

The people are too posh, the buildings are too old, the pints are somehow more expensive than they are in London, and it reminds him of an ex he had who talked about her university days there with far too much vigour for someone who only did a nine-month course in psychodynamic counselling.

He takes a sip of overpriced coffee and scowls up at the gargoyle on the wall facing him. It scowls back, its chiselled features contorted into a far more grotesque expression than he can muster up. Jack thinks, ludicrously, about the medieval stonemason who had been tasked with sculpting that particular face, and wonders whether he had used a human reference; the creature’s bulbous eyes and nose are anthropomorphic, and it is only the curling horns and tusks protruding from its bared lips that give it away.

The gargoyle stares aggressively ahead, and Jack wonders how many bored students it had out-scowled over the years. He sighs, resigning himself to losing that particular battle, and settles his gaze instead on the woman sitting opposite him. Nikki is, by pleasant contrast, much easier on the eye.

They are in the courtyard of a little tavern, tucked away behind one of the colleges. High, stony walls surround them, subdued by creeping vines and blotches of moss, and the sun peeks shyly over one of them, casting a golden glow over the scene. It dances off the features of the occupants; a dash of grey hair here, a glint of a golden brooch there, breathing life into each character. Birds chirp lazily somewhere beyond the courtyard’s walls, harmonising with the occasional chiming of bicycle bells and the low hum of general chatter. The entire affair is so sedate, Jack thinks it could almost be a painting in some art gallery somewhere.

And Nikki is seated in amongst it all, the sun gilding her lashes as she glances through them at him. “I don’t think I’ve seen you smile since we got here,” she remarks casually, folding her arms delicately on the table behind her smoothie. Kiwi and mango; an almost startling shade of green against the floral pink blouse she is wearing.

“I’m having a great time,” Jack says with very little conviction. She smiles at that, in the coy manner he finds so endearing - her head ducks, sending golden curls dancing around her face, and her cheeks bunch up.

“You hate it here.” It’s not a question.

“I don’t hate it. I just think it’s very… stuffy.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Nikki protests. Jack says nothing, just allows his gaze to slide pointedly to a table adjacent to them, where a man in a cravat is dabbing at the coffee froth on his upper lip with an embroidered handkerchief. A top hat rests on the table next to him. Nikki’s honeyed gaze follows his and she giggles.

“Alright, yes, it’s stuffy. But it’s only for three days. And you don’t even need to speak to anyone really. Just enjoy the free food and alcohol and let me do the talking.”

“Yeah, yeah, I got it. Get in, get the funding for the Lyell, get out. Nice‘n easy.”

Nikki shoots him a winning smile and he thinks fleetingly that maybe Oxford isn’t so bad after all. He can certainly think of worse places with less pleasant company. He glances up at the gargoyle again; it scowls on above their heads, stonily disaffected by his revelation.

“Leo and Thomas were both so good at schmoozing,” Nikki sighs wistfully after a moment, and the reference to their late bosses jolts Jack from his thoughts. “I don’t think it’s really my forte. I’m more comfortable getting things out of people when they’re dead on a slab.”

He considers her, lifting his mug to his lips and taking a slow sip. “It’ll come with experience. Besides, you have something that Leo and Thomas didn’t have.”

“Tits?” Comes the sceptical reply, and Jack nearly regurgitates his coffee. The man seated on the table next to them shoots them a scandalised look.

“I was going to say feminine charm, but perhaps I was mistaken.”

Nikki quirks an eyebrow. “Are you saying Leo didn’t have feminine charm?”

Two can play at that game. “Are you saying you never saw Thomas’ tits?”

They’re both laughing then, louder than is perhaps warranted by the intimacy of the courtyard for they attract a number of affronted stares, but Jack finds it hard to care. Their surly neighbour sniffs and takes a very dignified sip of his drink.

“It must be nearly checking-in time,” Jack says once their laughs have subsided. The courtyard is growing lighter by the minute, with more of the sun spilling over the wall into the small space. Nikki glances at her watch and nods.

“Half an hour,” she reports. “We could set off now and I’ll show you some of the sights en route?”

“Oh joy.”

That earns him a playful kick under the table. “How’s that for feminine charm?” She teases.

Jack can’t help but smile, nudging her back with his foot. “I can feel the Lyell getting richer by the second.”

They gather their bags, Jack making a number of good-natured comments about Nikki’s inability to pack light as he slings her rucksack over his back, and traipse down the narrow alleyways back onto the cobbled main streets of Oxford. It is late spring, in between terms and too early for tourist season, so the roads are relatively quiet and the only people around are residents and academics going about their daily business. As the only lingerers intruding on the city, Nikki and Jack stick out like a sore thumb. Nikki points out a couple of colleges, rattling off lists of famous alumni like the world’s most excitable tour guide. Jack wrinkles his nose every time a Prime Minister’s name is read out. The pedestrians around them give them a wide berth.

“So when were you at Oxford?” He interjects as she is telling him something about Bill Clinton and psychoactive substances.

“I did a year here during my doctorate,” she replies, and he tries to imagine a twenty-something year-old Nikki walking these streets, her face unlined and her hair long as it had been in old pictures he’s seen of her. “It’s the best place to be for research, really. You know the Bodleian library is a copyright library, which means-” and she’s off again, tugging her suitcase behind her whilst she explains the Legal Deposit Library Act 2003 to him. Bemused, he half-listens to her, the other half of his focus spent on trying to steer her clear of rogue cyclists as they make their way through the city centre.

It takes them approximately 20 minutes to reach the hotel where the conference is being held. It is an impressive building by conventional standards, although Jack finds that his standards have been somewhat altered by the barrage of medieval and neoclassical architecture they have wandered past. The facade is grey stone, in sharp contrast to the sandy colours favoured by the rest of the city, and large flags displaying coats of arms hang from the battlements. Wisteria drapes itself over the windows, softening the building’s stony exterior and affording it a more romantic look which he imagines goes down well with tourists. Hanging baskets in fuschia and scarlet hues drip from the lampposts which frame the driveway. It’s not bad, he concedes reluctantly. Not bad at all.

“Wow,” Nikki echoes his thoughts. “I bet the rooms are beautiful.”

“Let’s find out, shall we?” Jack grins. “After you.”

She bobs her head and makes towards the large wooden doors, which are wedged open to reveal a leafy quadrangle within. The lilac and blue tones of more wisteria greets them, and Jack allows his gaze to wander upwards to where statuettes adorn the walls, their weather-worn features much softer than those of the tavern gargoyle. They look down upon the pristine lawn below, which is interrupted only by a meandering pathway to guide residents across the quad. It loops around the pièce de résistance of the entire affair - a gently bubbling stone fountain crested by marble nymphs who hold seashells above their heads. It is obscene in its grandiosity. Jack really tries not to like it, thinking back on the hours he had spent listening to stories about Tarquin the business student, whose great-grandfather had founded the university Conservative association, or Tabitha the fine artist who had staged the first love-in on campus. But then the sun shines a certain way through the balustrades on the roof, lighting up Nikki’s hair like a halo, and all Jack can think is that perhaps he has judged Oxford a little harshly.

Nikki leads them through a gated archway to the sheltered reception area. A middle-aged woman is seated behind the front desk, glasses perched precariously on her nose. She taps away at her keyboard, her animated mannerisms reminding Jack somewhat of a tropical bird.

He clears his throat and she glances over her glasses at them with dark, alert eyes.

“How can I help you?”

“I’m Jack Hodgson, and this is Dr Nikki Alexander. We’re here for the pathology conference.”

“Ah yes, one moment please.”

Her nails tap against the computer keys for a few more seconds, and then she rises, the desk hiding most of her short stature from view as she rummages around for something. Then, a bony hand appears over the counter and waves an old brass key at them.

“Room number 44 in the west wing. Through the archway on your left and up on the third floor.”

Jack gestures for Nikki to take the key and then stares expectantly at the woman. She blinks back, the lens of her glasses magnifying her eyes to a startling effect. None of them say anything for a couple of moments.

“Yes?” The woman says at last, tilting her head at him.

“Uh, the other key?” He prompts.

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

Jack exchanges a glance with Nikki, who pops the key back on the counter and furrows her brow. “We booked two rooms,” she says.

The woman squints at them, then hops back onto her chair. The tapping at her keyboard resumes for a little while.

“No, you just booked the one. I have the booking here, see.” She scrabbles to turn the computer screen around, and Nikki rises up onto her tiptoes to frown at it.

“But that can’t be right. I specifically requested-”

“No booking, no room, no key.” The receptionist’s voice is firm now, daring the pathologist to challenge her further. Nikki looks affronted, and glances at Jack in a silent request for support.

His patience with the situation is rapidly wearing thin. “Well, can we book another?”

“‘Fraid not,” comes the clipped reply. “We’re fully booked for the conference.”

“You’re joking.” She just gives him a blank look. Jack huffs. “Okay, what about hotels nearby?” It’s far from a perfect solution, with them both being booked in for meals together at the venue. Jack foresees himself trudging across Oxford each morning to sit and chew on a croissant whilst Nikki chats to some faceless academic about hypertrophic cardiomyopathy, or whatever else it is that pathologists talk about on their days off.

The receptionist has other ideas. “You’ll be lucky. Don’t you know that it’s the annual maypole dancing convention this week? Every maypole dancer in Europe is staying here until at least May Day.”

“Maypole dancing,” he echoes incredulously, and is met with yet another blank stare. “Yeah. Of course. Great.”

That leaves them with very little choice. He risks a tentative glance across at Nikki, who is chewing on her lower lip pensively. She meets his gaze with round eyes as the only available option dawns on them both, and the understanding that passes silently between them sends a light shiver down his spine.

“Well, Jack,” she says, a sort of half-smile he can’t decipher adorning her face. “Looks like we’re going to be roommates for a couple of days.”

Chapter Text

The climb up to room 44 is uncomfortably long, and involves the pair dragging their luggage up several flights of an old spiral staircase. Jack is sweating by the time they reach the top, a condition which is unaided by the nervous anticipation bubbling in the pit of his stomach at the prospect of sharing a room with Nikki for three days.

It isn’t that he and Nikki haven’t been that close before. On the contrary, they’ve shared rooms on a couple of occasions now when the situation called for it. It’s just that things have shifted recently, with Thomas’ death and Clarissa’s departure. He can’t put his finger on what exactly engendered the change in their dynamic; perhaps it is just a result of them being the sole daily fixtures in the Lyell, whose gloomy chambers and echoing hallways seem far too vast for two people to occupy alone. He recalls the early days of his return to work following the nerve agent attack, when the pair of them would make excuses to linger in their shared workspace for as long as possible in between stints of lab work. Nikki would look regretfully in the direction of the cutting room, and Jack would grimace to think of her alone in the place where Thomas had drawn his last breath, with just a corpse for company. Mortuary assistants would flit in and out like moths, of course, but they were no match for their old friend’s reassuring presence.

Eventually, Jack had dropped all pretences and started saving up paperwork to complete in the meeting room while Nikki performed autopsies in the lab below. That way, he can listen to her monologue into the recorder and she can shoot occasional glances up in his direction when the silence gets too much for her. When the tape isn’t listening, they pass little quips between each other, and Jack relishes in the coy smiles she affords him. Equally, she has taken to hovering behind him whenever he was opening results from a case, leaning over his shoulder so that her blonde curls tickle his cheek and he can breathe in the familiar scent of her shampoo. Or perching on the desk beside him, hands on the surface a safe distance from his. It’s comfortable and tantalising all at the same time. And Jack is confused as hell, because some days he wants to wrap her up and shield her from the morbid sights she sees every day, from the memory of Leo, and Mexico, and Thomas dying in front of her. And other days he’d like nothing more than to lose himself in her vitality, to sink into her soft skin like a tattoo and never come out.

He’s got it bad, as Clarissa might say gleefully before following it up with a healthy dose of ‘I-told-you-so’.

Of course, he’s always been attracted to Nikki. She’s a beautiful woman and he’s a red-blooded male, and it’s all very predictable. Clarissa had said so on their very first day, cautioning him against shitting where he ate and all of that. And truth be told, if Nikki were just beautiful he’d have no problem heeding her advice. But Nikki’s never been just anything; she’s headstrong, loyal, intimidatingly clever, and unfailingly kind. As far as he’s concerned, the sun shines out of her every orifice, and Jack can’t help himself. He goes to work each day like an addict, desperate for his next hit.

Which is why he’s currently standing at the top of a hotel which is far too posh for him, surrounded by people who are far too intellectual. Because he’s never been able to deny her anything, and if she said jump, he’d ask how high. So when she’d said “Please come to the very boring pathology conference and beg for money with me, Jack,” he’d said “Do you want me to drive us there too?”

He’s got it really bad.

Nikki fumbles with the brass key, slipping it into the lock of what is about to become their - his mind lingers on the pronoun incredulously - room. It lets out a dull clunk as it turns, and she heaves the old door open.

And Jack concludes that the next three days are going to ruin him.

The room is airy and spacious, with light filtering in from four large windows on each wall. The door opens onto a plush seating area; a decadent tapestried sofa and two chairs are arranged around a carved coffee table, upon which a stack of leather-bound reading materials rests. Over the back of the sofa, he sees that the floor gives way to a couple of steps, leading up to the tiered sleeping area and the bed which serves as the focal point of the room. He swallows roughly. It is a king sized, four-poster affair, with floral woven curtains matching the print of the sheets. There are a frankly ridiculous number of cushions, and an extra blanket folded back at the foot of the bed. It’s the most lavish thing he’s ever seen; the overall impression is that of some kind of medieval honeymoon suite, fit for a newlywed King and Queen.

“This is insane,” he says, hardly daring to cross the threshold as Nikki takes a couple of tentative steps into the space and drops her bags next to the chair nearest to them.

“Let’s hope the organisers are as generous with their donations as they are with the sleeping arrangements,” she murmurs by way of response, and he is torn back from fanciful notions of medieval weddings to the current day, where his friend and colleague is waiting for him to close the door behind him.

“Uh, yeah,” he states dumbly, and shuffles into the room. The large door slams shut, sending a draft whistling past his ears. The space feels very quiet all of a sudden. The easy conversation they had maintained all the way to the hotel has dissipated, leaving him bereft.

Nikki doesn’t look at him, passing into the sleeping quarters and resting an admiring hand on the bedspread. He watches her cautiously as she moves around the bed, taking in the view from the windows either side.

“I- uh, I’ll take the sofa,” he offers, as though there was ever a chance that she would be spending three nights on the rough cushions and not nestled in the fucking ridiculous fairytale four-poster that looks almost as if it were made for her.

She looks up at him then, and the tension between them reaches an uncomfortable level. Jack almost can’t bear to meet her gaze for the awkwardness of it all. But then she shakes her head, a rueful smile gracing her face. “Don’t be daft, Jack. We’re both adults. I’m sure we can share a bed without any drama. Besides, it looks like it was made to sleep about four people.”

He can’t argue with that, and shoots her a crooked smile in return, even as his heart is threatening to forcibly remove itself from his chest and crawl up his throat and out onto the ornately carpeted floor. “Okay,” he shrugs, voice remarkably steady. Once upon a time he might have made a flirtatious joke about the situation, but it feels too real to entertain at present, and he settles for a safer quip instead. “If you snore, I’m pushing you out.”

“That’s rich!”

“I don’t know what you mean.” And just like that, the easy banter between them is restored and he can relax. He shrugs his jacket off, slinging it over the back of the now-to-be-unoccupied sofa. The sleeping area, large as it is, seems an intimate space for two people to inhabit, and so he just nods to the door on the back wall by the bed. “That the bathroom?”

Nikki crosses to where he is looking and tugs the door open, letting out an excited little gasp as she does. “Oh! Yes. The bath is huge.”

Jack wishes he hadn’t asked as an entirely inappropriate image fills the front of his mind. But Nikki is too enthralled to notice, stepping into the ensuite to admire the marble interior. She runs a hand wondrously along the carved sink, testing out each tap in turn.

“This must be the fanciest place I’ve ever stayed,” she says, glancing back at him.

“You mean your student accommodation wasn’t like this?”

“Hardly!” She laughs. “I lived down in Cowley in a two bedroom flat with three friends.”

“Sounds intimate.”

“I got the living room.”

“That’s rough.”

“It wasn’t so bad - there were silverfish in both bedrooms.”

Jack laughs and shakes his head, trying to picture Nikki slumming it as a student. She doesn’t seem made for anything less than the finer things in life, her poise and grace making her a natural fit for the grandiosity of Oxford.

“Did you never consider teaching?” He asks abruptly. “Here, I mean. Or another university. Like Thomas did.”

Nikki studies him, emerging from the bathroom and perching on the end of the bed. Her fingers run absent-minded circles in the sheets, and he watches them intently. “Yes. I considered it. But I haven’t got the patience for students, and I think I’d miss the practical side of stuff too much. Maybe I will some day, I don’t know.”

He nods.

“Why’d you ask?”

“Oh, it’s just… This place. It suits you.”

“Do you think?”

He nods again.

“Huh. I never felt particularly at home here. It’s fascinating, of course, and I felt very lucky to be here. But at the same time, it can be very…”

“Stuffy,” he offers with a grin.

Nikki laughs and dips her head, swinging her legs up onto the mattress beside her. The movement makes her body lean subtly in his direction, and he feels compelled to step towards her, bringing them even closer together. “Stuffy,” she echoes in agreement.

They lapse into a companionable silence for a few seconds, before Jack realises that he’s still carrying her backpack. He shunts it off his shoulder and offers it out to her. She thanks him, and sets about unpacking. He crosses to the other side of the room to do the same.

“What time does the conference start tonight?” He asks, rummaging about for his phone charger.

“There’s a reception at seven,” she replies. “I was thinking there’s someone I’d like to try and visit before then, if you don’t mind?”

“Of course not. I’ve got loads of work to catch up on here.”

Nikki beams. “You’re so well trained.”

“Yeah, you can thank Clarissa for that. Who are you meeting?”

“An old mentor - Jean Warbeck. She’s an emeritus fellow at my old college now, I believe. I haven’t seen her in years, but it would be nice to catch up with her.”

“Yeah, absolutely. Get gone.” Truthfully, he’s a little jealous of the ease with which Nikki moves through social circles. For all her laments about Leo and Thomas’ gift with schmoozing, he doesn’t believe for one second that she’ll find it difficult to pull in donations. Jack, on the other hand… Well, he’s been compared to marmite before now.

There is a silence punctured only by rustling noises as Nikki searches through her belongings for a change of clothes. She tugs out a cocktail dress which Jack hasn’t seen before, and disappears into the bathroom to change. Whilst she’s gone, he sets up base on the coffee table and fires up his work laptop, making a mental list of all the jobs he can get done whilst she’s out and he’s free from distraction.

When Nikki emerges some ten minutes later, she’s like a vision in lilac tulle and kitten heels. The dress is modestly cut, grazing her collarbones at the neck and sweeping down to bracelet her wrists and dance around her shins. The sleeves and décolletage are translucent, however, and dust the fair skin beneath with a mauve hue. The waist cinches in a few centimetres above her actual waistline, creating a romantic silhouette which reminds him of the historical dramas his mother had favoured when he was a child. She looks like a princess.

Jack looks her up and down, falters, and then recovers quickly enough to wolf whistle at her. She swats him playfully on her way to the mirror, where she holds his gaze through the glass and swipes a pink gloss across her lips.

“I’ll see you later for the reception,” she promises, gathering her stuff. “It said on the board that lunch is served until two, if you get hungry. And there’s maps on the front desk if-”

“Nikki,” he interrupts her with a grin. “Go and see your friend. I’m a big boy, I’ll be fine.”

“Yes. Of course. Sorry.” Her cheeks have turned the prettiest shade of pink under his scrutiny, and he thinks dangerously that he could get used to this.

“I’ll see you at seven,” he reassures her. “Have fun.”

“Thank you.” She brushes past him on the way to the door and he can smell her perfume - a delicate floral musk - hanging in the air behind her. “Oh, and Jack?”

“Mmhmm?”

“Wear something smart. You look good all dressed up.” The flirty words are tossed over her shoulder as she leaves, and he jerks his head up, eyebrows raised, to watch her go. And then the door is shut behind her and he is left alone in the too-posh, too-large room with only the echo of her words, the ghostly scent of her perfume, and his racing heart for company.

Chapter Text

Nikki is pleasantly wine-drunk by the time she leaves her old college that afternoon.

She had spent a riveting couple of hours with Jean Warbeck in the Master’s garden, reminiscing and sipping from a very fancy bottle of Chardonnay her old mentor had stolen from the wine cellar. Nikki had updated Jean on the basic details of her career progression, blushing when she confessed to being head of the Lyell. It still feels wrong to her to say - like she is disrespecting Leo or Thomas by even suggesting that she has taken on their old position. But Jean had just smiled and congratulated her before moving on to tell Nikki about the two significant updates in her own life - her wedding in 2014 upon same-sex marriage becoming legal, and the publication of her most recent book, which is a sort of pseudo-memoir about being a female pathologist in the 1970s. Nikki had made a note of the title and committed herself to finding it in Blackwell's before she leaves Oxford.

When Jean had asked about her personal life, Nikki had floundered a little. The older woman had fixed her with the same piercing stare that used to paralyse her in tutorials, and she was dismayed to discover that it still had the same effect on her in the present day.

“Well, there was someone. But he lived in America, so it was difficult. We still talk, but…”

Jean had just nodded sagely. “And what about the man you’re working with at the moment?”

“Jack?” Nikki’s voice had risen an octave at the suggestion, and she giggled. The wine had her feeling a little giddy. “We work together.”

“And?”

“And I’m not his type,” she had concluded, a kind of finality in her voice that even Jean didn’t dare argue with. “Do you have any photos from your wedding that I can see?”

Subject successfully changed, the two women had chatted for another two hours before the sun dipped below the college buildings and it had started to grow cooler, at which point Nikki had made her excuses. Jean had walked her to the Porters’ lodge, kissed her on both cheeks, and made her promise to stay in touch.

She smiles fondly, stepping out onto the street. Jean always did have a way of making her feel understood; the older woman had always seemed wise beyond her years as a teacher, and the semblance of omniscience has only grown since her retirement. Without realising it, Nikki has missed the comforting presence of a mentor. Being head of the Lyell is a lonely sort of affair, as much as Jack is there to shoulder the burden with her.

Jack. She gasps and checks her watch, relaxing once she sees that it has only just gone five-thirty - if anything, earlier than she had expected to finish. Despite herself, she feels a little guilty for dragging him out to Oxford for a conference only to abandon him for hours whilst she played catch up with her old tutor. So she withdraws her phone from her pocket and pulls up his number from her favourites tab.

The phone rings out twice before he answers, and she is a little surprised at the speed with which he picks up. Jack almost never answers his phone.

“Hey,” his lilting baritone sounds next to her ear, making the hairs on the back of her neck prickle pleasantly. “How’s it going?”

“I’m just leaving,” she replies. “It was lovely, thanks. How’s everything with you?”

“Oh yeah, I’ve been very productive. It’s amazing what I can get done when you leave me alone for a bit.”

Nikki rolls her eyes. “Very funny. Well, I was going to ask if you fancied joining me for a drink before the reception, but since you’re enjoying your time without me so much I suppose there’s no need.”

“Where are you going?” His instant question makes her laugh into the phone.

“Oh, don’t feign interest on my behalf. Get back to your paperwork.”

“Nikki…”

“In fact, you could do some of mine while you’re at it.”

“Alright, alright, I take it all back. I’m sorry.”

“I’ll be at the pub near the roundabout on Holywell street,” she relents good-naturedly. “You can buy me a drink to make up for it.”

“I’ll be there in five. Don’t start without me.”

“Too late,” she giggles, and hangs up before he can chastise her for getting a headstart on the drinking. The wine she drank has settled pleasantly in her stomach, warming her up from the inside despite the springtime chill that hangs in the air, and she feels almost like a student again. The old familiar exhilaration of being tipsy in a beautiful city, surrounded by so much knowledge and people she loves, returns to her in an instant.

She sets off at a leisurely pace down the main street, knowing that Jack will be a little longer than he has claimed and also knowing from experience that the old cobbles underfoot do not mix particularly well with alcohol and a pair of heels. There is a pleasant buzz of activity in the air; cyclists weave past her and groups of pub-goers mill about, their chatter melting into the cacophony of traffic noises. Cafe-owners are shutting up shop for the evening, calling farewells to each other and leaving the street to bask in the glow of security lights and passing headlights. Somewhere not too far away she hears the sombre notes of evensong, lifting above the din. It’s quietly chaotic and enticingly romantic all at once. The effect is dizzying.

Slipping down a side-street, the Radcliffe Camera comes into view. It is as imposing as ever, cutting a striking figure against the sun-stained sky. She pauses to look up at it, noticing with amusement that errant students have placed a traffic cone in one of the highest alcoves. Times change but people don’t, she muses, and students will be students. After all, she recalls running down this street dressed in just a bedsheet and gladiator sandals for a fancy dress party once over. She had been like a wild thing that whole night, downing drinks from the bottles and shrugging away shivers in the autumnal chill.

Where had that version of herself gone? Lost somewhere along the way, she supposes. It seems to her that she has spent the last few years shedding bits of herself - a little in Afghanistan, a little in Mexico, a little in the conference room of the Lyell where she and Jack now meet alone. The Nikki in the bedsheet-toga had faced trauma, of course, but she had bounced back so much quicker. Perhaps it was just a cumulative thing.

Nikki watches the ghost of her younger self hop up onto the fencing of one of the surrounding colleges, her unruly blonde hair falling across her face. She chats happily with someone, sipping intermittently at her drink - present-day Nikki wrinkles her nose at the sharp tang of tequila that still haunts her from her misadvised student days - before jumping lightly down and flouncing away, part of her white sheet trailing on the cobblestones behind her.

Nikki lets out a controlled sigh. For a city she only spent a year in, it really does bring back some happy memories for her. She turns on her heel to head in the direction of the pub at last.

And almost steps directly into Jack.

He’s standing to the right of her, eyes trained on her with a funny sort of expression on his face. It’s stuck somewhere between solemn and wistful, and she wonders if her obvious reminiscing has stirred something in him. Perhaps he is thinking of his own time as a student.

“Hi,” she says.

“Hi. Sorry, you looked pretty lost in thought and I didn’t want to-”

“It’s okay. I had a bottle of wine with Jean. It always makes me sentimental.”

“I remember.”

She smiles. Of course - he’s shared enough wine with her to know. He takes a small step closer to her, so that she has to tip her chin up to meet his gaze, and she takes in his appearance for the first time. He’s wearing a dark suit - at first she thinks it’s black, but the light that falls on his shoulders is rendered a smoky navy colour. His shirt is a lighter shade of blue-grey, and his tie is a floral pattern with flashes of navy and the same shade of lilac she happens to be wearing. He looks good.

“We’re matching,” Nikki says with an impish look, reaching up to tug on it. She doesn’t realise how intimate the gesture will be until she’s there doing it, her fingertips brushing lightly against his chest.

Something moves in Jack’s jaw, and his mouth twists into a delayed smile. “We’re representing the Lyell. Can’t be turning up clashing, now, can we?”

“That’s… unusually self-aware of you.”

“Less of that,” he grumbles. She laughs, dipping her head and letting her hand drop back down. She wonders if he feels the loss of contact as keenly as she does - like the chill after a sunset.

“Did you actually get loads of work done?” She asks then, taking a little step back as their closeness dawns on her.

“Are you kidding? The hotel has a gym and spa. I’ve been living it up.”

She laughs. “The Lyell is so lucky to have such a dedicated employee.”

“I’m saving all my energy for the charm offensive I’m gonna launch at this reception.”

Nikki raises her eyebrows. “Is that so?”

“You sound surprised.”

“The words bull and china shop come to mind.”

He pouts in mock-offence. “I’ll have you know I can be very charming when the mood takes me.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it.”

“Challenge accepted,” he grins. “Now, I believe I owe you a drink?”

“Is that you switching on the charm?” She tilts her head up at him, cheeks bunching.

“Oh no, I’m just warming up. You’ll know when you’re being hit with the Hodgson charm, trust me.”

“I can’t wait.”

He laughs and gestures with his arm for her to walk with him in the direction of the pub. She obliges, stepping carefully over the cobbles. And then Jack’s hand is at her back for support, the warmth of it seeping through the thin layer of tulle that separates his skin from hers. And Nikki knows she’s in trouble, because flirting with Jack has always been safe and fun, but the part of her brain that is as of yet unaffected by wine is reminding her that they will be sleeping next to each other tonight.

How long has it been since she’s been touched by a man? A while, she thinks ruefully. Her break up with Matt had been months in the making, and the physical side of things had long dried up by the time she made the call. Now, with Jack’s palm branding her back, she is starting to regret not rebounding properly as her friends had suggested and throwing herself into work instead.

They reach the front of the pub and Jack holds the door open for her. An amber glow from inside illuminates one side of his face. She ducks under his arm to enter. The smell of popcorn and beer assaults her on the way in; the air is dense and warm, and alight with raucous chatter.

“It’s busy,” Jack observes over the din, and she nods her acknowledgement. He takes her by the arm then to guide her through the crowd to the bar, clearing the way for her with his own body. She is grateful; her short stature falls below eye-level for many of the pub’s clientele, and she has been victim to far too many spillages in her life which have been caused by drunk men simply not seeing her as she’s trying to pass. Jack, with his height and impressive physique, is much harder to miss, and they reach the bar without incident.

“Thanks,” she murmurs to him as he tucks her around him and guides her into a space at the bar, before nudging his own way in next to her. His hand leaves her upper arm and goes to rest on the wooden counter, and she feels its absence like a phantom limb.

A group of men further down the bar burst into collective laughter. “What do you want to drink?” Jack shouts over it.

“Gin and tonic, please,” she shouts back, and his eyes drop to her lips in an effort to make out what she’s saying. He must understand, for he leans across the bar to make eye contact with a member of staff and then orders for them. Nikki’s gaze flickers over his profile as he pays, taking in the angular line of his nose, the sharp slope of his cheekbones, the crag of his brow. He reminds her of a statue of Achilles she had seen once, all hard lines and muscle. There’s something equally heroic about him, although she’d never hear the end of it if he ever heard her say so. No - Jack’s ego is big enough as it is. Although a part of her thinks quietly that it’s justified.

A lime-laden glass lands on the bar in front of her, and she shouts a thank you across it. Jack is already sipping at his lager, and she turns back to offer him an appreciative smile.

“Did you get me a single or a double?” She asks loudly.

“Which did you want?”

“A single would be the wiser option.”

“Oopsies.” His eyes shine with mischief, and she shakes her head at him.

“You’re a terrible influence.”

“It’ll make the reception easier to bear at least.”

“Oh god,” she pulls a face and takes a large sip of gin. “I hope Gaz Kennedy stayed at home.”

“No, I definitely saw his name on the seating plan.”

Nikki groans, tipping her head back. The ceiling lights swim in the top of her vision and she screws her eyes shut to guard them. Her latest career rival, the head of another forensic pathology centre south of the Thames, has been the subject of many a late-night rant to Jack over a takeaway pizza.

“He’s like a bad smell.”

“Yeah, they’ve put him opposite you.”

Her head snaps back down and she fixes him with a glare. “You’re joking.”

“Yeah, but I had you for a second, didn’t I?”

She swats him and pouts as he bats her away. “You think you’re so funny.”

“I know I’m funny.”

Nikki shakes her head, a smile creeping onto her face. “On a serious note, where have they actually put him?”

“He’s on the other side of the room, don’t worry. Word must have gotten out that they’d have a murder on their hands if he was put within twenty feet of you. Mind you, at least there’d be plenty of people on hand to do the autopsy.”

She giggles, taking another sip of her gin. “I trust you’ll plant the necessary evidence to get me off?”

Jack considers her, a look of mock indecision crossing his face. Then he leans forwards conspiratorially, gaze darkening as he scans her. “Depends. What do I get in return?”

Nikki’s mouth is suddenly very dry. Her lips part and she scrabbles for an appropriately humorous response, but all she can think about is the way Jack’s eyes dance when he’s teasing her, and how inviting his mouth looks twisted up into a roguish smile. They are close, pushed together by the crowd, and he is leant forwards against the bar so that he is almost at eye-level with her, and it would take very little effort on her part to push forward on her toes and-

Nikki stops herself, drawing back a little. Where had that come from?

She is saved the embarrassment of a weak response when his attention is suddenly drawn elsewhere, gaze flicking to something behind her. A confused look passes across his face, and then it morphs into one of slight alarm, and then movement behind her makes Nikki turn to look.

A tall, striking brunette is weaving towards them, her presence alone seeming to make the other pubgoers move aside deferentially. Nikki thinks she looks familiar; her first guess is that she’s an actress, her tanned skin and flowing locks making her an obvious candidate for life in front of a camera. But then Jack moves forwards to greet her, and she throws her arms around his neck with a bright smile, and Nikki’s heart sinks as she recognises the woman as an old girlfriend of his. She appeared in a number of his old photos, always attached to him at the hip and always wearing the same smile that men would ruin marriages for. She had been beautiful then, wearing her attractiveness with a practised ease and commanding the attention of the camera in a way that Nikki never learned how to, but that pales in comparison to how she looks now, with the air of confidence and self-assurance that only comes with age and years of knowing you're the most attractive person in the room.

Her name is something ridiculous, Nikki remembers, and then chastises herself for the judgemental thought. She’s all too aware that it comes from a place of jealousy. It’s not very feminist of her. But then the woman draws back a little and places a lingering kiss on Jack’s cheek, and Nikki thinks that perhaps feminists ask for too much sometimes.

At that moment, Jack seems to remember that she exists, for he turns back to face her and Nikki quickly schools her expression into one of enthusiastic friendliness. He’s making his way back to her then, leading the brunette the same way he had done for Nikki upon their arrival at the pub. Unlike Nikki, however, this woman doesn’t seem to need a more commanding presence to part the sea of people for her.

“Nikki!” He’s grinning, shouldering a drunken man nearby aside so that he can stand within earshot of her again. “This is-”

The woman beats him to it, flashing her a dazzling smile and clasping Nikki’s hand in hers, grip firm as a vice. “Aurelia Ricci.” She says her name like it's a promise. “Jack’s ex-girlfriend.”

Chapter Text

Nikki thinks glumly that teasing Jack about his charm, or lack thereof, had been a mistake, because he’s certainly proving her wrong now.

She's sitting next to him in the back of the pub, the wooden bench digging uncomfortably into her thighs and the gin glass empty in front of her. Aurelia is seated opposite, closer to the end of the table that Jack occupies. The two of them are gossiping animatedly about mutual friends, and Nikki is trying to engage with the conversation but feels like she's intruding on something private between them.

"You'll never guess what Reece Hollis is doing now," Aurelia says breezily, tapping a perfectly manicured nail against her wine glass. Nikki wishes she could grow her nails out too, but the clinical gloves she dons for post mortems tear too easily for it ever to be a realistic prospect for her.

"Go on, surprise me," Jack leans across the table.

"Well, Anna told me he started to go off the rails a bit last year, and it evolved into a full scale midlife crisis. Grew his hair out, started a band, the works. He's in Germany now - apparently they have quite a cult following there."

"No way!"

"Yes way," Aurelia laughs, tipping her head back slightly, and Nikki hates how endearing it is. "There's videos of his concerts on YouTube."

"I always thought he'd go corporate," Jack shakes his head, grinning.

"Me too. But remember how much he used to love karaoke night?"

Nikki raises her eyebrows at that, turning to face Jack. "You did karaoke nights?"

He looks sheepish. "Only when I was very, very drunk. And I was never the one to suggest it."

"Shut up, you loved them," Aurelia reaches across the table to swat his shoulder. "Remember when we duetted that Elton John song?"

"Don't Go Breaking My Heart," he supplies regretfully. Nikki forces a laugh.

"The whole bar went wild. Honestly, Jack, you should have been the one to go big in Germany. They'd love you."

"I didn't know you could sing," Nikki says to him.

"He can't," Aurelia quips, just as Jack says "I can't." The pair of them exchange a smile. Nikki wishes she'd had a triple gin - she suddenly feels far too sober.

The pub has gotten busier, and people mill about around them. The warm, cosy atmosphere has melted into something stickier and more oppressive, and Nikki feels it hot and heavy against her skin. Jack has shrugged off his suit jacket, and she notices the way his shirt stretches across his arms. She wonders idly if he was as physically fit when Aurelia knew him, or if it was before his martial arts days. It’s hard to tell from the photos.

Jack is asking after Aurelia’s family now, and the brunette is rattling off names of brothers and cousins, and everything suddenly feels far too intimate.

"Excuse me," she says, rising to her feet. Jack looks up at her, brow raised.

"You okay?" he asks.

"Yeah, I'm just going for some air."

"Dr. Alexander, are you drunk?" Concerns assuaged, his voice takes on that familiar light and teasing tone she loves so much. Nikki sees Aurelia's eyes flash.

"I wish," she replies with a laugh. "No, it's just very warm in here."

Jack checks his watch and nods. "We should be leaving for the reception soon anyway. I'll meet you out there in a minute?"

"Sounds good," Nikki says. She turns to Aurelia. "It was lovely to meet you."

"Likewise," comes the smooth reply, and Nikki struggles to tell how genuine the other woman is being.

"See you outside," she tells Jack, and extracts herself from the bench to head towards the door. It is much harder without him there to shoulder people out of the way, and she glances over her shoulder to watch as he and Aurelia recommence their easy conversation.

Eventually, she makes it to the front of the pub, and is greeted by the caress of cool evening air against her face. She rests her fingertips lightly against her cheeks; they are hot to the touch. Outside, it is rapidly darkening, and the streetlamps bounce off of the dusky cobblestones in a golden haze. A couple of smokers linger by the door alongside her, sucking the taste of solitude into their lungs and relishing in the relative peace and quiet. Nikki wanders over to a free table on the pavement, and perches on the bench furthest from the door. Her fingers toy absent-mindedly with the hem of her dress.

She thinks about Aurelia then, or rather, she thinks about her own reaction to Aurelia. Nikki doesn’t believe herself to be an overly jealous person - sure, she has her moments, but for the most part she likes to think that she’s secure enough in herself to admire, rather than resent, qualities in others that she wishes to possess for herself. And yet something about Aurelia is putting her on edge.

It isn’t her looks, although Nikki can’t deny that the other woman is stunning. And it certainly isn’t her career, or her social standing - after all, she’s very happy with where she is at present. Rather, the focus of her discontent is Aurelia's proximity to Jack.

She's felt wary of Jack's romantic pursuits before, usually when they've been unhealthy for him or caused conflict in a case. But Aurelia seems pleasant enough, and Jack seems glad to see her, and they aren't working a case at the moment. For all intents and purposes, Nikki should be happy that Jack is reconnecting with someone he obviously likes and gets along with.

So why isn't she?

She doesn't dare to dwell on the obvious answer, tucking it carefully away in her mind along with the moment they had shared in the pub. It joins ranks of similar memories - of eyes meeting above their shared workspace, of accidental brushes of hands, and smiles that last just a little too long. Of their phone call in Mexico and the weeks following their return home, culminating in that conversation on the stairs when Jack's eyes had dropped to her lips and she had thought - hoped - that he might finally give in and kiss her. Of tender hugs, when Jack's strong arms had circled her small frame and she could feel the full force of his body against her. Of the hundred other moments when their usually harmless flirting had crossed the unspoken line they had set for themselves, because they're friends - best friends, even - and the damage they could do to each other is unthinkable.

Nikki wraps her arms around herself, head swimming. A part of her regrets leaving him alone with Aurelia, but then it's not like she has any sort of claim over him.

"You alright?" One of the smokers has wandered over to her table and is peering across at her curiously, cigarette perched in between his thumb and finger. The smoke winds skywards and Nikki finds herself following its path up to the man's face. He is younger than her, she thinks, but not by much.

"Fine, thanks," she offers him a courteous smile. "It's just a bit hot in there."

"Want a cig?"

"Thank you, but I don't smoke."

"Good for you. It's a nasty habit," he takes a drag. "Are you here with someone?"

"Yes, he's just inside." Nikki's stomach sinks a little as the man persists with the conversation.

"If I were out with you, I wouldn't be letting you wander off on your own." He is leaning closer across the table now, and she can smell the alcohol on his breath.

"I can handle myself," she replies, imbuing her words with a curt finality and hoping that he takes the hint. He doesn't.

"I like that in a woman," he leers at her. Nikki struggles to keep the disgust off her face. She doesn't reply, just studies the cobblestones beneath her feet.

He tries again. "Can I buy you a drink?"

"No, thank you."

"D'you like wine? You look like a wine drinker. Red or white?"

Nikki grits her teeth, heart beginning to beat a little faster in her chest. "Really, I'm fine."

"What's up, don't you trust me?" He asks with a laugh, as though the notion is amusing to him, but she can see the frustration starting to build in him, and it sends alarm bells ringing in her head.

"I don't know you."

"We can fix that."

Nikki is about to snap at him, panic coursing through her limbs now and urging her to retreat indoors. But then a familiar voice speaks from behind her.

"She said no."

Jack steps into her peripheral and she feels relief flood her body. He stares straight at the man, arms folded across his chest.

"Is she with you?" The smoker asks, and Nikki watches as he straightens up and looks Jack up and down, shifting on his feet in an irate kind of way.

"What does that matter? She said no."

"And what are you gonna do about it?"

The provocative question makes Jack's hands clench into fists, and Nikki rises swiftly to her feet, turning into him and placing a calming hand against his shoulder. His muscles strain against her fingers, and she searches his face for the telltale signs that he is about to start throwing punches.

"Let's go, Jack," she says softly to him. His gaze flickers to her and their eyes meet; the intensity in his stare makes her feel unsteady on her feet.

For a moment she thinks he might argue, but then his expression softens, and he nods. "Okay. Yeah."

The man scoffs and raises his cigarette to his lips. “Pussy,” he mutters around it. Jack doesn’t respond, just loops an arm protectively around Nikki’s waist and steers her in the direction of the pavement. She feels the man’s eyes follow them as they go, and resists the urge to throw a glare over her shoulder.

“What a scumbag,” Jack growls as they round the corner. Nikki huffs out a weak laugh, and he must sense that she’s a little shaken, because he draws them to a stop and places his hands gently on her shoulders so that they are facing each other. He studies her face, blue eyes scanning her features. “Hey,” he says, voice almost a whisper, and she looks up at him. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” Nikki sighs, shrugging his hands away and continuing in the direction of the hotel. “I just hate it when men do that.”

Jack follows her, not quite matching her pace. “I shouldn’t have let you go out alone. I’m sorry.”

She slows then so that he is walking alongside her again, and shoots him a sardonic smile. “I’m a big girl, Jack,” she says, echoing his words from earlier.

“Nikki, you’re five foot four.”

God help her, she doesn’t know whether to kiss or kill him. She settles for punching his arm instead. Jack laughs, swatting her hand away.

They walk in a comfortable silence for a few moments after that, and Nikki begins to relax again. She turns her mind to the reception; they are due to be a little early, but it should give her plenty of time to scout out potential donors. And a head start on the alcohol.

"What did you think of Aurelia?" Jack asks suddenly.

Nikki raises her eyebrows, glancing sideways at him. She feels strangely like she’s being assessed. "She seems lovely,” she says carefully. It’s not a lie - the other woman had been nothing but pleasant to her, regardless of how Nikki’s troubled brain interpreted everything. “How long were the two of you together?"

"About a year and a half,” he says. “It was the longest relationship I’d ever been in at the time.”

“What went wrong?”

“Nothing really,” he shrugs. “Her Dad didn’t like me, but that wasn’t exactly a dealbreaker. I think our careers just got in the way a bit. We were working very different hours on opposite sides of London. I guess in the end it just felt like too much effort.”

“Been there,” Nikki says sheepishly, and he chuckles.

“Ah yes, how is Mr. Embassy?”

“Still in America,” she shrugs. “Truthfully, I think that ship has sailed.”

There’s a pause, and then Jack says “huh”. She wants to ask him about his reaction, but they have reached the front of the hotel and he’s holding the door open for her, and they’re assaulted with the smell of champagne and canapés from the courtyard inside.

The hotel has been transformed for the occasion; the space is lit elegantly with strings of fairy lights, which twinkle and cast an irregular dancing glow over the wisteria blossoms. Tables are set out in a circular fashion around the central fountain, and already a couple of guests are chatting around them. Nikki’s eyes are drawn towards the door at the end of the courtyard, which opens onto the main hall. She can make out the silhouettes of more people in there, and somewhere within a string quartet is playing an arrangement of Paganini she recognises from her school orchestra days.

“Oh,” she breathes, taking it all in. Jack lets out a low whistle.

A member of staff in a tuxedo approaches them, a tray of champagne flutes balanced on one hand. He offers it out, and Jack retrieves two glasses and presents one to Nikki.

“Thanks,” he says, and the man nods his head and retreats back to stand by the wall. Nikki closes her mouth long enough to take a sip from her glass. It tastes the way stars look, and she gives Jack an incredulous smile. He laughs at her expression.

“Well then, Dr. Alexander,” he says with a flourish of his arm, gesturing for her to lead the way. “Let’s go get us some funding.”

Chapter Text

The reception opens with a welcome speech by the European Pathology Society Chair, who Jack thinks is a very boring man who uses far too many words to say not very much. Nikki elbows him when he mutters this sentiment in her ear, and he responds by taking a rather sulky swig of champagne.

When the Chair has spent an adequate amount of time waxing lyrical about the cavernous secrecy of the human body, he mumbles a few acknowledgements into the microphone. Jack hides his amusement when Gaz Kennedy gets an honorable mention and Nikki seethes silently beside him. The enemy pathologist in question flashes an obnoxious smile from his place at the front of the crowd, the expression making his well-groomed moustache twist upwards grotesquely on his face, and raises his own glass in a gratuitous toast to himself.

“Prick,” Jack says quietly through an artificial smile, and relishes in the little giggle that escapes Nikki’s lips. She disguises it as a cough and the quip earns him another elbow to the ribs. It’s worth it for the flush that paints her cheeks.

The rest of the speech passes quickly after that, and then they are released to mingle and sample an assortment of food and drink. Jack makes a beeline for the buffet, leaving Nikki to make small talk with a dusty old professor of some college or other. He feels a little guilty about it until the bright colours and rich aromas of the canapé table flood his senses, and then his taste buds light up like one of Pavlov’s dogs and he is lost for a good ten minutes in a sea of gammon and pineapple vol au vents and avocado-sweetcorn fritters.

Eventually, Jack makes the well-informed decision that the bocconcini tartlets are his favourite. He is just piling a stack of them onto a plate of snacks to share with Nikki when he catches her eye from across the room; she is still talking to the old professor, and raises her eyebrows subtly at him in an expression he knows well to be her SOS signal. Grabbing a final couple of zucchini bites to stuff in his mouth, he scoops his rapidly-emptying champagne flute from the table and swoops across the room to rescue her.

“Ah, Professor!” he exclaims, positioning himself expertly between him and Nikki and offering the plate out to her. She takes it from him, raising an eyebrow. “I was hoping to catch you. That last paper you wrote - the analysis of… sorry, you’ll have to forgive me, I’m no pathologist-”

“The meta-analytical study of microsatellite instability in upper tract urothelial carcinoma?” The old man’s eyes peer up at him, magnified to an owl-like intensity through his glasses. Jack finds himself instantly regretting his hero complex, and shoots Nikki a panicked look. She casually covers her mouth with her hand, but the bunching of her cheeks gives her amusement away.

“Er, yes, precisely that,” he says with an enthusiastic nod. “I’m a big believer in the merits of meta-analysis. Especially where carcinoma is concerned. It’s extremely valuable work, don’t you think so, Dr. Alexander?”

“Oh, absolutely,” comes her earnest reply.

“Well, I’m so glad to hear that, my boy,” the professor says. “MSIs are a particular interest of mine at the moment, you know. I find the notion of biomarkers fascinating, especially where immunomodulative therapies are concerned.”

Jack stares back at him blankly. “Yup. My thoughts exactly. But, uh, you should talk to Gaz Kennedy. He’s a real expert when it comes to those kinds of things. He’s just over there.” And he points to where the man in question is standing, twirling the end of his tie self-importantly between his fingers as he chats up a pretty waitress.

“Goodness, is he really? I must ask him about his thoughts on the proposed amendments of the Bethesda Guidelines. I’m drawing a petition up, you know?”

“Oh, yeah, that’s right up his street.”

And then the professor is hobbling off in Gaz’s direction to obliterate any chance he has of pulling that night. When he’s out of earshot, Nikki turns to Jack, raising her eyebrows in amused disbelief at him. “You are terrible.”

“Yeah, you’re welcome,” he says, feeling the ridiculous urge to reach out and boop her nose. He squashes it down, deciding that he’s perhaps had enough to drink at this stage of the night, and reaches for a satay chicken skewer instead. Nikki grins at him.

“Do you have any idea what microsatellite instability is?”

“Not the foggiest,” he replies cheerfully, tugging a piece of chicken off the skewer with his teeth. Her eyes crinkle in amusement and flit downwards ever so slightly to watch his mouth move, and he feels that all too familiar rush of warmth that he’s coming to associate exclusively with her. It’s intoxicating; he has the sudden realisation that perhaps the alcohol has nothing to do with any of it, and washes the thought down with a particularly big sip of champagne.

“Skewers any good?” She asks then, jerking him from his ruminations.

“Uh-huh. Wanna try some?”

She nods, and then she’s tilting her face up to him, eyes locked on his, and opening her mouth expectantly, and Jack thinks he might just die there and then because - God help him - it’s the most erotic thing he’s ever seen in his life.

He falters, blinks like an idiot, and finally recollects himself enough to lift a trembling hand, directing the skewer towards her head. His gaze slides from the half-eaten skewer to the tempting pinkness of her lips, and then up to her eyes for reassurance. They are warm and teasing, scanning his expression with an avid kind of delight. And then she has a piece of the chicken between her teeth and is sliding it from the skewer, and he draws his hand away to help her. And just like that, the moment is gone.

Nikki swallows, and Jack drops the skewer back onto the plate and takes a self-conscious step back.

“It’s good,” she says, and he finds himself unable to make eye contact with her.

“Yeah, uh, you should try the tartlets.”

“Go on then.” She picks one from the plate, apparently unaffected by whatever has just passed between them.

Jack feels very warm all of a sudden, and casts a cursory glance in the direction of the door. He adjusts his collar. “Um, I might head outside and try to find somebody to schmooze. You should do the rounds in here.” He winces as he realises that he’s inadvertently given her a command in his nervousness to get away. To his surprise, though, Nikki just nods.

“Okay. I’ll catch you in a bit?”

“Sounds good.”

And he’s off without a second glance, tugging at the knot in his tie to loosen it because his throat is uncomfortably tight and the fabric of his shirt is overstimulating it.

He stops at the doorway, leaning against one of the big wooden doors and collecting himself. What the hell was that? The latest of their little encounters that day to leave him all flustered and confused. He thinks about her fingers against his chest by the Rad Cam, their intimate conversation in the pub before Aurelia had interrupted things, and the constant teasing that seemed to permeate their interactions. Something is shifting, and he can’t tell which of them is initiating it. Perhaps he has become too self-aware of the tension between them. Either way, he reminds himself in a rare moment of lucidity to be careful. Far more than just a potential relationship is at stake here; Nikki is one of the most important people in his life. He won’t lose her. He can’t.

Jack takes a calming breath of the night air, allowing it to pass through him and soothe the restless thrumming in his limbs. The outside space is more sedate now, with the fairy lights illuminating only a couple of heads and the gentle murmur of conversation unobstructed by the music floating from the hall. He suddenly remembers he has a job to do, and starts to scan the faces of the occupants as they mill about around him.

An old couple catches his eye. He thinks he might recognise the woman - either she’s written something impressive or she's been to a Lyell event before. Either way, her wrists are dripping with gold and sapphires, and Jack decides that she'll do nicely.

He drains the rest of his champagne and places the flute carefully on the floor, its glassy rim making a pleasant chinking sound as it connects with the stone exterior of the hall. Then he's making his way over to the couple purposefully, extending his hand as he approaches.

"Jack Hodgson, forensic scientist," he introduces himself. The woman grasps his hand, her skin cool against his, and he notices the rich assortment of rings that grace her fingers.

"Dr Catherine Baillieu," she says in return. "Professor in psychopathology. This is my husband, Francis."

"Lovely to meet you both."

"Tell me, Mr Hodgson, what is a forensic scientist doing at a pathology conference?"

"I'm being held hostage by my boss," he tells her seriously, making her chuckle. "We're here from the Lyell Centre in London."

"Ah, Francis used to work with the Lyell, didn't you, darling?"

"I was a Detective Inspector," the old man speaks for the first time. His voice is faint and croaky, and Jack shuffles a little closer to listen. "I worked with Sam Ryan on a number of cases."

"Ah, Sam was before my time. I hear a lot about her though," Jack says.

"I expect so. She's a legend," Catherine declares. "That funny man who replaced her too - God rest his soul."

"Leo," he replies with a wistful smile. "Yeah, I worked with him."

"My Francis used to butt heads with him quite a bit."

"Well, he could be stubborn at times."

"Yes, quite," she laughs. "Oh, but we were so upset to hear of his passing. He was an asset to the discipline."

Jack murmurs his agreement. “He did a lot for the Centre,” he offers, already preparing a sales pitch in his head. “Just before his death, he made the decision to expand the Lyell’s remit to other areas of forensics. That’s actually why I work there, so I suppose I owe him an awful lot.”

“Goodness,” Catherine is either genuinely impressed or is very good at acting, and Jack feels a surge of pre-emptive smugness as he imagines returning to Nikki with the funding in the bag on night one. “I suppose that’s dreadfully convenient for criminal investigators.”

“Absolutely. Tell me, have you heard about the recent developments in laser ablation in the ICP-MS process?”

That does the trick. Jack chats amicably with them for a good twenty minutes about the latest in forensic technology, allowing Francis to interrupt with tangential laments about the good old days before DNA profiling was routine in criminal investigation. The Hodgson charm is laid on thick, and sure enough by the time he brings up funding it’s already practically a guarantee that the Baillieus will be sending a benevolent donation their way. Once they have skirted around the topic with the appropriate decorum - what is it with that generation and talking about money? - Jack switches the subject to psychopathology, and allows Catherine to discuss her research for a little while. She sticks to the criminological aspects of her work, for which Jack is grateful as he finds he can contribute some anecdotal observations to the conversation. The whole affair is very civilised, and, to Jack’s surprise, he almost finds himself regretting not accompanying Nikki to one of these functions earlier.

“So what are you working on at the moment?” Jack asks as she finishes telling him about her latest publication. The reception has quietened down now; the quadrangle is almost vacant. The buzz from the hall has softened to a lull too, and the strings are playing a dream-like melody that reminds Jack of music boxes and bedtime stories.

“Well, Francis and I are thinking about co-authoring a book, actually.”

“Oh, wow. What about?”

“Adverse childhood experiences and criminality. It’s quite a hot topic at the moment, and together we have quite a lot of experience to bring to the table.”

“That sounds really interesting,” he says, and means it. “Send me a signed copy?"

"So you can sell it when we're dead and make more money out of us?" She flashes a conspiratorial grin at him, and Jack gasps in mock offence.

"I would never."

The couple both laugh, and Jack uses the momentary lapse in conversation to grab a bottle from a passing waiter and top their glasses up. They thank him, and Catherine swats him away as he makes a show of filling hers right to the rim.

“Oh, shoo, you’ll have me crawling back to my room later.”

“That’s Jack’s MO,” an amused voice sounds from behind him, and he feels a reflexive smile illuminate his face.

“Catherine, Francis, this is Dr. Nikki Alexander,” he introduces her as she steps into his peripheral, all lilac and gold. She shoots him a radiant smile that makes his chest swell.

“Ah, Jack tells us you’re holding him hostage,” Catherine says.

“Does he now?” She raises her eyebrow and lifts her glass so that he can pour some more champagne into it.

Jack obliges. “Did I say that? I’m not sure I said that.”

“He said that,” Francis supplies helpfully.

“Thanks, guys. That’s me sleeping on the sofa later.” He kicks himself mentally as he realises what he’s just said; out of context, it sounds like they’re a couple. He’s not sure how Nikki will take such a public insinuation - and at a work related event no less.

But Nikki just tilts her head sweetly at him. “That’s you sleeping in your cage later,” she corrects him.

Catherine lets out a rather uncivilised snort of amusement. “Sorry, Jack.”

“No, it’s fine, I’m used to it by now.”

“I keep him on a tight leash,” Nikki tells them.

“Quite right,” the older woman says, shooting a knowing smile at Jack, who suddenly feels like she can see right through him. “Speaking of tight leashes - Francis, darling, have you taken your heart meds yet?”

“No,” comes the bashful reply from her right. “They’re in my coat pocket in the cloakroom.”

“Well, they’re no good there are they? Do excuse us. It was lovely to meet you both.”

“Likewise,” Jack says warmly. “We’ll see you around. And don’t forget about that signed book.”

“I’ll dedicate it to you,” she deadpans, and then the pair of them are making off, arm-in-arm in the direction of the hall, leaving Jack and Nikki alone together in the quad.

Jack watches the old couple go before he turns to Nikki. She’s already studying him, a curious expression on her face. The fairy lights above their heads gild her skin, dancing across her cheekbones and clavicle in a mesmerising pattern. Her cheeks are flushed from the alcohol. He notices that her mascara has smudged a little, and feathers the space below her eyes like shadows. Jack thinks he could look at her all night and not get bored.

“They seemed nice,” Nikki says at last.

“Yeah, they’re lovely. We had a very interesting chat. Where did you get to?”

“Oh, I was cornered again by Professor Nealon. Gaz Kennedy knows absolutely nothing about the Bethesda Guidelines, by the way.”

“Excellent,” Jack grins.

“The man can talk. I think I managed to persuade him to send some funds our way, though.” She sounds pleased with herself.

“Snap.”

“What? From that couple?”

“Yeah. Told you I was good,” he brags. Nikki purses her lips to conceal a smile. He notices then that she has wrapped her arms around herself for warmth; the temperature has dropped quite a bit since the sun went down, and the air in the quad is crisp and cool. Jack places his glass on a nearby table and shrugs off his jacket, stepping closer to her then to drape it around her shoulders. He brings his hands around to the collar to tug it tighter around her. It buries her. Jack feels a surge of fondness for her in his chest.

“Thanks,” she says softly, reaching up to place her free hand over one of his and give it a light squeeze.

“Any time,” he responds. His voice sounds gruff all of a sudden, and he clears his throat and steps away from her. “Uh, it looks like things are winding down a bit here.”

“Yeah, I think it’s time for bed,” Nikki drains the last of her champagne and places her glass on the table alongside his. “Unless you want one last drink?”

“No, I’m good. Let’s head up,” he says, and she starts in the direction of the doorway. Jack notices that she is a little unsteady on her feet - the result of a combination of drink and her choice of footwear - and he draws closer to her so that she can loop her hand through his arm and grip the inside of his elbow for support.

Once they make it to the stairwell, Nikki trades his arm for the bannister and he feels the ghost of her fingers linger through the thin fabric of his shirt. Then the darkness of the spiral staircase swallows her up, and Jack has only a moment to consider the enormous personal significance of what is about to pass between them before he banishes the thought from his mind and follows her up in silence.