An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Harry was on his third cup of coffee, shaking from cold and caffeine and the last dregs of adrenaline, when the door to the waiting room pushed open and someone came running in. He was startled enough to jump but too exhausted for the movement to be anything more than a twitch. CJ, using his coat as a blanket and his thigh as a pillow, squeezed her stuffed shark tighter to her chest but didn't otherwise stir.
When he looked up from his styrofoam cup, Uma was standing halfway across the waiting room, jaw hanging open.
“Hey,” Harry said. Uma looked like she had just woken up, groggy and disoriented, and Harry had been awake for longer than he wanted to think about. He figured they were both too tired for any kind of dramatic reunion.
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Harry and Uma haven't spoken since their explosive breakup six years ago. Sitting by themselves in a waiting room at two thirty in the morning seems as good a time as any to try bridging the gap left after more than half a decade of trying to forget each other.
