Only Angel [Harry's version] AU
Same ghosts
The ride back was silent, the kind that pressed in from all sides.
Catherine sat beside me, her hand resting lightly on my thigh—a small, absent gesture of comfort. I didn't move away, but it didn't do much either. Nothing could. The silence between us was a weight, heavy enough to settle in the back of my throat. The car glided through the city, streetlights cutting through the dark in pale streaks. All I could think about was the mini bar waiting at home.
The glass bottles lined up like promises. Whiskey, gin, something amber that burned the way I wanted to feel. I could already taste it—the sharp heat of it going down, the sting that didn't ask for explanation. That's what I needed. Not company. Not words. Just that quiet kind of destruction that took the edge off until everything blurred at the corners.
My fingers twitched against my knee. Every time I exhaled, the thought got louder: I need a drink.
Catherine shifted slightly beside me, her thumb tracing idle circles against the fabric of my slacks. It wasn't intrusive. She never was. That's what made her presence bearable—she didn't fill the silence, didn't ask if I was okay, didn't expect anything I didn't have to give.
But my mind wouldn't stop. It kept replaying pieces of the day like a film I couldn't shut off. The hollow speeches. The sound of dirt hitting the coffin. The cameras flashing like fireflies. And Beau—standing there in the snow, her perfume cutting through the cold like a ghost.
I hadn't expected to ever see her again. That much was true. And when she showed up, I'd done exactly what I do best—freeze everything that tried to touch me. Pretend it didn't matter. Pretend she didn't matter.
But the look she gave me before I walked away—it had lodged itself somewhere between my ribs. That look of half-betrayal, half-realization. Like she'd finally seen me for what I was.
And the worst part was—she wasn't wrong.
Now, the more I thought about it, the more I knew I'd never see her again. Not after that. Not after the way I made her feel small for even showing up. I'd killed whatever thread there was left between us. And yet, somewhere beneath the numbness, it still hurt. Like pressing on an old wound just to make sure it's still there.
The car turned the corner toward my building. The lights of the city rose up like ghosts behind the fogged windows. Catherine's hand was still there—steady, warm, undeserving of the distance I kept wrapped around myself.
All I could see was the bar. The bottles gleaming like absolution. The glass in my hand. The burn. The silence that follows.
That was the only kind of peace I knew how to ask for.
The elevator ride up was the kind of quiet that swallowed everything. The hum of machinery, the soft chime of each passing floor—it all blurred into background noise. Catherine stood beside me, her reflection ghosting in the mirrored wall, phone vibrating faintly in her hand.
She glanced down at it once, the light catching her face. Then she silenced it. Again.
"You can take it," I muttered, eyes fixed on the panel ahead of us. "Whoever it is."
"It's fine," she said, slipping the phone back into her coat pocket. "It can wait."
I nodded once. Said nothing else. Part of me wanted to tell her to go—to save herself the trouble of standing in this silence that kept stretching thinner and thinner. But the words didn't come. I couldn't bring myself to ask her to leave, not tonight.
Not when I didn't trust myself to be alone.
The elevator doors slid open with a low hiss, spilling the city's glow across the marble of the penthouse. Everything looked the same as we'd left it—immaculate, quiet, expensive. And yet, it felt foreign, stripped of something invisible.
Catherine followed me inside, setting her purse on the counter, moving quietly like she already knew I didn't want to talk.
I loosened my tie, fingers brushing against my throat, breath catching when my phone began to buzz in my pocket.
Joseph. Of course.
I hesitated for half a second, then answered. "Yeah."
"Harry," his voice came through, even and deliberate. "We expected you back at the estate."
"I've got an early meeting in the morning," I said, tone flat. My reflection in the window didn't blink.
"Tomorrow's Sunday."
"Work never ends."
He sighed quietly. I could imagine him in his study—tie loosened, drink half-finished, grief managed into something marketable. "You're trying to drown it in work again. Noise and numbers won't make it go away. You should take a few days," he continued. "There's nothing urgent enough that can't wait."
"I'm fine," I lied, and it came out so smooth I almost believed it myself. "Just going to bed."
A pause. Then, softer—"Call me if you need anything."
I hummed in vague agreement and ended the call before he could say more.
For a second, I just stood there, the phone still warm in my hand. Then I slipped it into my pocket and made my way toward the mini bar. The bottles gleamed under the low light—amber and gold, like comfort in liquid form.
Without a word, I grabbed the bourbon and poured two glasses. The sound of it hitting crystal filled the silence.
I slid one across the counter toward Catherine.
I was halfway through pouring another when Catherine's voice cut through the quiet.
"Do you want to talk about it?"
Her tone was careful, not gentle—measured, like she already knew the answer but needed to ask anyway.
The amber stream hit the glass, steady and smooth. I watched it fill, not spilling a drop, not once looking up.
Talk about it.
About what, exactly? That my brother was dead? That there was a coffin in the ground and snow covering his name? That I could still hear his laugh sometimes, quick and sharp, right before it faded into nothing?
What was there to say that didn't sound useless? That didn't make me sound just as pathetic as everyone else pretending to understand?
I lifted the glass and drank, slow, letting the burn crawl down my throat until it settled somewhere deep and empty.
Catherine was still watching me, waiting, her fingers tapping the counter once, twice—hesitant.
I didn't meet her eyes. I didn't owe her an answer.
"My brother's dead," I said finally, voice flat, almost bored. "That's all there is to it."
I poured again before she could reply.
I couldn't blame her for asking. She didn't know him. Hell, she didn't really know me either. All we were—if I was honest—was a good time and a fuck.
Temporary company in the hours no one else wanted.
While Elija and I were back in London, two scrawny kids locking ourselves in our bedroom, holding our breath every time the floorboards creaked outside the door—waiting to see if he was drunk enough to forget which room was ours—Catherine was probably off somewhere warm.
Bahamas, maybe. Ski lodge in the Alps. Some glossy vacation spot for people who didn't have to learn fear before they learned multiplication.
The difference between us was oceans wide, stitched together only by late nights and liquor.
She watched me from across the counter like she wanted to reach me, to understand—but how could she? There wasn't enough shared ground for her to stand on.
She didn't grow up praying the shouting would stop. She didn't have to hold her brother's hand under the bed and whisper that it'd be over soon.
Aside from the sex, Catherine and I were strangers pretending not to be.
I took another drink, feeling the weight of it spread through me—warm, dull, steady. Something predictable, unlike everything else.
Catherine's shoulders lifted in a small shrug, her voice low but steady. "I'm here for more than just that, you know. I'm your friend, Harry. You don't have to go through this alone."
Her words landed like dull thuds against the inside of my skull—well-intentioned, soft, and painfully useless.
I reached for the bottle again, the glass clinking lightly as I poured another drink. The sound was easier to focus on than her voice. Easier than the echo in my head of shovels scraping dirt, of Beau's eyes at the grave, of Elija's laughter from years ago that wouldn't leave me alone.
The amber in my glass swirled, catching the low light like it wanted to mock me for chasing peace in the bottom of it.
"I'm good," I said finally, flat, without looking up.
The lie rolled off my tongue smoother than the whiskey.
Catherine's phone buzzed against the marble counter, a low hum that sliced through the quiet. Neither of us moved at first. I just stared at the bottle in my hand, watching the amber swirl against the glass.
"You should take that," I said finally, voice flat.
Before she could answer, I grabbed the bottle by the neck and my glass in the other hand, walking toward the couch. The floor creaked softly under my steps. I sat down, sinking into the leather like it might swallow me whole.
Behind me, I heard her sigh, then the sound of her voice—soft, polite—as she took the call. I didn't care who it was. Her world could keep spinning. Mine had stopped days ago.
The city glowed faintly through the windows—blurred lights, car horns in the distance, people still living. I tilted my head back and took a drink. The burn hit fast, spreading through my chest, sharp and grounding.
For a moment, I let myself believe it was quiet. Peaceful, even. But it wasn't.
Inside, everything was loud. Elija's name, Elija's face, that coffin being lowered into the ground. The sound of dirt hitting wood still rang in my ears. I could feel it in my bones.
And then Beau. Always fucking Beau.
Her voice, her eyes, the way she looked at me like I'd just ripped the last bit of air from her lungs. She was standing in the snow like some ghost I'd forgotten how to grieve.
I took another drink. The ice clinked, loud in the empty room.
I'd been cruel. Not just cold—cruel. Pretending she meant nothing, like it didn't gut me to see her. I'd told myself it was easier that way, that it was what she deserved. But now, sitting here with whiskey on my tongue and her face stuck in my head, I couldn't help thinking—
I was a proper fucking dick.
My mind slipped back—uninvited—to that night.
I'd come home late, coat half undone, the winter air still biting at my skin, and there it was—the tree. Already up. Lit. Decorated. Perfect, in that quiet, obsessive way Beau always made things perfect.
She'd done it without me.
I remember the faint scent of cinnamon and pine, the flicker of lights reflected in the glass ornaments. It should've felt warm. Homey. But it didn't. The air in the room was heavy, like she'd been holding her breath for hours.
I'd said something stupid, probably about the lights. Something like, why didn't you wait?
And then she brought up Rebecca.
Not even a fight-worthy thing, really. Just a question, one that lingered too long on her tongue. The way she said her name—Rebecca—soft but sharp, like she already knew she shouldn't. Like she already regretted it.
I told her it was nothing. Because it was nothing.
But with Beau, nothing always turned into something. Every silence, every detail I didn't share—she'd dig until it bled. I wasn't built for that. I never was.
So I got defensive. She got hurt. Voices raised. The tree lights blinked behind her like they were mocking us, flickering over the wreckage.
Now, sitting there with a drink in my hand and the city spread below me like it didn't give a damn, I couldn't help thinking—how the hell did it go to shit like that?
If something that small could tear us apart, maybe we were never meant to last. Maybe we were built to burn.
But I knew it wasn't because of that. Not really.
It wasn't Rebecca. It wasn't the goddamn tree.
It was everything underneath it—the rot that had been there long before Christmas lights and questions.
The words still echoed in my head, sharp and cold as the night I said them.
"Not everything has to mean something more. Not every version of us needs a goddamn label. We were good. But now you want to tear it all down because I didn't want to buy a fucking tree with you?"
I could still hear my own voice, low and detached, the kind of tone meant to hurt without sounding like it did. I'd seen her flinch, the way her throat tightened before she looked away.
She wasn't crying then—she never did. Not around me. But her silence had said everything.
That I'd done it again. Pushed until there was nowhere left for her to stand.
And yet, even knowing that, I didn't stop. I couldn't. It was like I needed to make her feel it too—that suffocating weight that lived under my ribs.
Because the truth was, she wanted things I didn't know how to give. And I wanted to stay broken, because fixing myself meant admitting something was wrong.
So I'd let her walk out. And then I'd told myself it was better that way.
Now, with the burn of whiskey still on my tongue and the faint hum of Catherine's voice in the distance, it didn't feel better.
It just felt empty.
I barely registered her steps, the soft click of her heels on the marble lost under the hum in my skull. Her voice cut through somewhere distant, like it belonged to someone else.
"I have to go," she said, purse in hand, glass still half-full on the counter. "Call me if you need me?"
I nodded, though I didn't look at her. Didn't even try. Her words barely landed, bouncing off the walls I'd built around myself.
I was already pushing her away in my head, imagining every way I could. Every excuse, every unspoken reason. She was too close. Too soft. Too human. And I wasn't.
I could hear her lingering, waiting for some sign, some crack—but there wasn't one. I kept staring at the dark glass of my drink, swirling it like it might absorb everything that made my chest heavy.
Everything else—the funeral, Beau, the empty space she'd left in my life—it was all just noise now.
I didn't want to hear her. Didn't want to see her. Didn't want to feel anything at all.
And still, she lingered in my periphery, a quiet warmth I had no right to let in.
When I woke, the first thing that hit me was the silence. Not the kind that's peaceful—but the kind that rings in your ears, thick and heavy, pressing down until it feels like a weight on your chest.
The room was dark except for the soft, fractured light spilling in from the skyline. It sliced through the glass, painting cold streaks across the floor, the couch, my face. The city still moved somewhere below—tiny lights blinking, cars slicing through wet streets—but up here, it might as well have been another world.
The clock on the far wall blinked. 2:07 a.m. The numbers burned through the dark like an accusation.
My skull felt like it was splitting open from the inside. The kind of headache that comes from drinking too fast, too hard, just to quiet something that refuses to stay quiet.
I shifted, leather creaking beneath me. The bottle of bourbon sat on the coffee table, glass catching the skyline's glow. It was nearly empty, only a shallow inch left at the bottom.
Catherine's scent still lingered faintly in the air—a soft, expensive trace of her perfume, almost gone now. I didn't remember when she'd left. Or if I'd said goodbye.
My jacket was still on, collar wrinkled. My tie hung loose around my neck like a noose someone had forgotten to pull tight. The air in the penthouse was cold, still, sterile. Like the kind of quiet you'd find in a museum.
I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, and pressed my palms into my eyes until stars burst behind them. It did nothing to dull the pounding.
How long had I been asleep? Long enough for the bourbon to burn out and leave the ache behind.
I stared at the bottle again. The way the last bit of amber light clung to the bottom. How easy it would be to pour another glass, to chase the numbness just a little longer. But even that felt like too much effort.
I exhaled slowly, the sound small and hollow.
The skyline looked alive, more alive than I felt. Tiny blinking lights and moving shadows, all those people still breathing, still talking, still... living. And here I was. Stuck between the night and the weight of everything I couldn't change.
The couch dipped under me when I shifted, leather cold against my skin. My reflection in the window stared back—half shadow, half ghost.
Maybe I was both.
I should've gone to bed. Should've turned off the city, the memories, the static in my head. But I didn't.
The sound of running water filled the room — steady, low, almost soothing. It was the only thing that made sense in the quiet. I'd turned the tap on without thinking, maybe chasing the sound of something constant, something that didn't need to be fixed or explained.
Steam was already beginning to rise, curling around the edges of the mirror. I'd stripped down halfway between the bedroom and the bath — jacket first, then shirt, belt, everything else in a trail behind me. Now it was just me and the sound of the water.
And the mirror.
I met my own eyes, reluctantly. They were bloodshot, red around the rims, the kind of tired that sleep couldn't touch.
I used to think power could disguise anything — that a good suit, a polished tone, a steady gaze could build a wall high enough to hide what lived underneath. That's what people saw when they looked at me: control. Precision. CEO of something that sounded important enough to make me feel like a person again.
But here, stripped bare, I wasn't that man.
Just ink and bone and a collection of scars I never let anyone look at long enough to count.
The tattoos crawled over my skin — small black reminders of nights I didn't remember and feelings I never dealt with. Only the ones who got close enough ever saw them. Lovers. Mistakes. Passing ghosts who thought they were saving me from myself.
They never did.
The water behind me kept rising, the sound filling the silence, soft and relentless. My reflection looked back, blank and hollow, a stranger that carried my name.
For a long moment, I just stood there, the steam wrapping around me like a fog, and all I could think was how much I looked like him. My father. The same eyes — bloodshot, mean, tired.
The same quiet ruin behind them.
I used to watch him like this. Late at night, back in London, glass in hand, staring into nothing. He'd drink until the silence blurred into something manageable. Now I understood why.
I swallowed, jaw tightening. Different life. Same man.
The bath was nearly full. I turned off the tap, the silence hitting harder than before. For a second, I almost didn't move.
Just watched the fogged glass, the faint ghost of my own outline staring back. All armor, all image — peeled off, nothing left but the truth.
And the truth was ugly.
The water scalded as I sank deeper into it — heat biting at my skin, steam clouding the edges of the mirror until even the outline of myself disappeared. That was the point.
The bottle of alprazolam sat on the tile beside me, pale orange plastic, label peeling from the condensation. I twisted the cap off with my thumb, tilted it until two tablets rolled out into my palm. Only two left.
"Shit," I muttered under my breath. Needed a refill. Should've called it in earlier, but I hadn't wanted to talk to anyone. Didn't want to explain why I couldn't sleep.
I tossed both pills into my mouth and swallowed them dry, head tipping back against the cold porcelain edge of the tub. The water burned across my chest, my stomach, but I didn't move. The sting felt good in a way that nothing else had lately. A different kind of pain — one I could control.
My eyes closed for what felt like seconds before the sound broke through — a small, sharp ding against the silence. My phone.
I let it go off again before I reached for it, arm dripping, hand fumbling over the wet tile until my fingers found the cold metal edge. The screen lit up, and the name sitting there froze me for a second.
Beau.
For a moment I thought I was imagining it. Maybe the pills were hitting already.
But no — her name was still there, clear as ever.
BEAU SMITH
I hope you're doing okay.
I stared at it. The words felt too light for what they were trying to reach. She was relentless. Always had been. The kind of woman who didn't let silence win, even when she should've.
Of course she'd text. Of course she'd know that I wasn't okay — that I hadn't been, not since before any of this.
My thumb hovered over the keyboard. Typing something, anything, would mean opening a door I'd already nailed shut.
I set the phone down on the floor, face up, her words still glowing. The water sloshed softly as I leaned back again, eyes closing, her message burning behind my eyelids.
She shouldn't care. She shouldn't still try.
But she always fucking did.
The phone still sat where I'd left it, Beau's message glowing like a wound I refused to clean. I stared at it until the light dimmed, until her name disappeared into the dark again.
I knew nothing good would come from texting her back. It never did. Every time we tried to rebuild, it ended the same—ruin, debris, and her looking at me like she still saw something worth saving. She never learned. Or maybe I never let her.
She should hate me by now. God, I wanted her to.
To finally have the guts to walk away and not look back. I'd given her every reason to. I'd shown her what I was made of—rotted, jagged things. The kind of man who'd rather torch everything than let anyone see him bleeding.
So why the fuck did she still try? Why did she still text me at 2 in the morning asking if I was okay?
Maybe it wasn't love. Maybe it was pity. Maybe she just knew how I got when life started cracking—silent, destructive, clawing for anything to numb the noise. Maybe this was just her making sure I hadn't jumped off the deep end yet.
Whatever it was, I didn't want to be a part of it. Not anymore.
Still, I couldn't help that I missed her.
The thought slid in quiet, unwelcome, but it stayed.
I missed having her here—her small frame pressed against my chest in the bath, her fingers tracing the lines of my tattoos like she could read me through them. The smell of her shampoo mixing with the steam. Her laugh, soft and genuine, cutting through everything that wasn't.
My chest tightened. I told myself it was just loneliness. That's all. The room was too quiet. The bathwater too still.
Catherine.
Right. I had Catherine now. Or whatever that was. Wherever the hell she'd run off to.
I grabbed my phone again, swiping past Beau's message like it didn't sting. Her name faded into the list of contacts until I stopped on Catherine. I didn't care that it was nearly 3 a.m. I needed noise. A body. Something.
The phone rang twice before she picked up, voice groggy and soft, "Harry?"
"Come over," I said, cutting her off. My voice came out low, rough. "I need you."
A pause. Then a sigh. "Now?"
"Now."
The line went dead after that, and I let the phone slip from my hand, the sound of running water still echoing somewhere in the background like a heartbeat that didn't belong to me.
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