Title: Cat and Mouse
Author: Cyclone
Rating: PG
KEYWORDS: Dempsey/Makepeace
Summary: He'd always believed that women had no business being cops, especially ones that looked like she : I don't own anything.

XxX

He'd always believed that women had no business being cops, especially ones that looked like she did. Everyone knew that they weren't cut out for it, that they couldn't handle the physicality of the job. Everyone, apparently, but her.

She was a beautiful, blue-eyed, blonde glacier. In another life he would have chased her, just to see if she melted, but in this new world he knew that she was way out of his league. Besides the fact that she told him that on almost on a daily basis, he had enough brains to know that she would never go for a guy like him, even if they were the last two people left on earth and the survival of the species depended on them. He didn't mind much – he amused himself by baiting her at every given opportunity, wondering how much it would take before she snapped and refused to work with him any longer.

She surprised him. During those first few months he pushed and pushed, and even though she pushed back hard enough for him to rethink his earlier attitude towards her in particular and women cops in general, he still angled for a male partner. Nothing worked though. He couldn't break her down, no matter how much he insulted her, her country, and her capabilities. She gave as good as she got, sometimes more, and he couldn't help but admire her balls. She began chipping away at his resolve and she didn't even know she was doing it.

As the months flew by and he started making a home for himself he noticed that his insults were becoming less frequent and hers didn't have quite as much sting. She still pointed out his inadequacies at every given opportunity, but she often softened it with one of her half smiles that made him think that maybe he could take a shot at thawing the Ice Queen after all. But for every step forward they took two steps back, and the endless game of cat and mouse continued.

Before he knew it a year had passed, then two, and when the opportunity to go home presented itself he declined. He didn't know why, he just knew that he wasn't done with London yet – wasn't done with her yet. He still thought of her as a blue-blooded snob, she still viewed him as the arrogant American sent to make her life a misery, but they found themselves making allowances for the cultural divide that existed between them. Then there came a day when he realised that baiting her, while still fun, had become a pointless exercise. There was only one partner for him, and that was her. But by then it was too late.

She left him. She said she had her reasons, but she wouldn't tell him what they were and he didn't much care anyway. He just wanted her to get over whatever it was so they could go back to normal. They were supposed to be partners; friends even, and friends didn't just up and leave with no explanation. He cared about her, and he knew that she cared about him, so it was stupid for them not to be together. They were better together than they were apart but she refused to see that. He almost gave up on her then, but he'd never been the type to quit so he kept on, hounding her, nagging her, pressing all the buttons he knew would get to her, and eventually he wore her down. She came back to him.

But it was different. There was an awkwardness there that hadn't existed before. They were out of sync, and the more they tried to get back on track, the more they drifted away. Then it occurred to him that maybe they were different. He tried to ignore that thought for a while, not ready to admit what it could mean. Work, always the cornerstone of their relationship, became even more so. He volunteered for overtime and came in on his days off, and because she was a good partner and couldn't let him carry her in any way, shape or form, she did the same. Gradually, after long hours in the office and even longer hours out on the streets, they became attuned again. And then he realised that the more time he spent with her the more he knew her. And the more he knew her, the more he wanted. He began to look forward to those all too brief moments of intimacy that were so easily attributed to the dangers of the job. Bleeding or bruised, her hands would gently graze over him, testing sore spots, lingering, caressing, and he'd allow himself to imagine what if.

He'd long ago admitted that he enjoyed her company, but now he found himself seeking her out on the flimsiest pretext. He was in the neighbourhood. He'd brought too much Chinese food. He had tickets to a play, or an opera or a concert. Sometimes he just showed up on her doorstep with a bottle of red, and she admitted him with a raise of her brow and a smile. It was on one of those impromptu after-hours visits that the combination of the wine, a crackling fire and her perfume made him pose the question.

He thought about how best to phrase it and in the end he decided to just lay it out there. "Harry?"

"Yes?"

He put his wine on the table and shifted on the couch. "You ever think about us?"

"Us?"

"You and me. Us."

She took a moment to gather her thoughts. "In what context?"

"In the dating as a prelude to further intimacies context."

"Oh," she said, and he thought he saw her hide a small smile behind the wine glass. "That context."

"Yeah. Well?"

She ignored his question and posed one of her own. "Do you?"

He should have known that she wouldn't give anything away without first knowing where he stood, so he answered truthfully. "Yeah. The thought has crossed my mind once or twice."

She took another sip of wine. "And?"

"And it was a good thought. Worthy of more thought, I think." He grinned at his lame attempt at humour and was pleased when she smiled back.

"It might have crossed my mind too," she admitted.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"And?"

"The idea wasn't totally repellent to me."

His grin turned into a smile. "So."

"So," she echoed, taking yet another sip of wine.

"Maybe we should discuss this new development further."

"I'd say it definitely merits further . . . discussion."

Discussion just took on a whole new meaning, and he was feeling pretty good about him, her, them, life in general when he offered, "Maybe over dinner?"

"That sounds good."

"When?"

"Whenever you ask me."

"Tomorrow?"

"Yes."

And then things really got interesting.

XxX

He knew, practically right from the start, that she was it for him. Somehow she had come to mean more to him than anyone else ever had, and that should have scared the living crap out of him. But it didn't. Then one day, after he watched her kick the crap out of some dirt bag drug dealer, he told her that he loved her. She looked up at him in shock, and he was so afraid that he had just messed up the best thing that had ever happened to him that he almost took it back. He stood there, watching her, waiting for some kind of response that didn't elicit pure panic, but none was forthcoming. So he did the only thing he could think of; he cleared his throat and repeated it softly. She swallowed heavily, pushed the cuffed dealer into the back of the car and turned to smile at him. In that smile he saw everything that she was not yet ready to tell him, and he accepted it. It was enough. Then she kissed him, and he realised that he didn't have to hear the words after all.

A few months later he brought a ring. He knew she had other pieces of jewellery that were far more expensive, far more exquisite, but he didn't want to play that game with her. He'd lose, and what's more, he knew now that she didn't really care about things like that. His ring was elegant and honest and came from the heart. It would be enough.

He carried it around in his pocket for three weeks before the perfect moment presented itself. Then, once the words were said, he wondered if he had somehow gotten it all wrong, because she looked like a deer caught in the headlights. "This is a limited time offer here," he joked feebly. "C'mon, Harry. Don't break my heart."

She shook her head, and he felt like someone had squeezed all the breath out of him. "No."

"No?" His heart thudded painfully in his ribcage, and then her hand reached up to stroke his cheek.

"No, I mean just wait a minute. You can't propose to me yet. I haven't told you . . .I want you to know . . I love you. I don't know why I haven't said it before, but . . I do love you. Very much."

"It's because all you British are repressed," he joked, so relieved that she wasn't refusing him, at least not yet. "But I love you anyway."

She smiled at him, and he decided that enough was enough. He wanted it all nice and legal and wrapped up. "Line?" he prompted.

She smiled through her tears and replied, "Yes."

End.