Pre-Jericho Scam after Dempsey comes to her house and before he leaves with memories of post The Burning
He wakes up on her sofa, comfortable and warm but fully dressed in his jeans and jumper. Harry had drifted towards him during the evening, and she is tucked beside him, still in her clothes. There's a blanket over them and the fire he'd built is glowing hot embers. If he was to stoke it, he's sure it'll catch light.
Somehow they're sharing sleep again. She is here, alive and well. He wonders how many more times he'll lose her. His hand presses a little more firmly, feels her ribs move. He can't keep checking she's breathing. He can't contain her to desk work to keep her safe. She's not that sort of woman. She is unlike anyone he'd met before. Mona was easy by comparison. All she wanted was him in any form she could take. Makepeace wasn't so easy to please and he's having to work hard to live up to her expectations but he thinks something has changed since he told her about Joey. They've reached a mid-ground that suits them both.
He recalls with vivid clarity, how she had appeared like an avenging angel as he'd aimed his gun at Coltrane's head, thinking there was nothing left to live for. Two partners dead, his future without Harry wasn't worth anything. The relief that had ripped through him almost took his knees out. He held the gun away and tried to get past the sensation that he was having visions, unable for a brief moment to comprehend that she was real.
And to think he'd called her a 'dumb broad' once and she was still here.
She still challenged him. Called him out on being in her home, but he cooked her dinner and they have reached a compromise. He's never compromised for anyone before, he's him. Take it or leave it. A refugee from concrete city and gang culture, adored son and indulged despite poverty. They have, he thinks, more in common. Her, the youngest of four, meant to be a boy and equally constrained by expectation and culture. His came with knives and guns from a young age, hers was a life with a shoddy marriage, rules and the weight of inheritance. He has changed, he feels it. If he hadn't, he'd have taken advantage of her kindness in her bed and used Lupino as a means to fuck her. Instead he had been him and wept into her arms at the relief of knowing she hadn't kicked him out. They'd woken tangled up in each other and when she'd wondered, awkwardly what to do, he'd said he'd wait for her. And he did.
She arrived on his doorstep with a thick file of papers as he shaved off Lupino's moustache last week. He was halfway through, with shaving foam on his face, when he answered the door and held her hand still as he read the words and turned to her with gravity. It was her decree absolute and he asked her what she wanted to do. He'd left her to make up her mind as he returned to his bathroom and restored himself back to Dempsey.
He found her in his bedroom and she'd taken off her coat to reveal an apology of underwear and he had been paralysed by her bravery and her beauty. As she sauntered to him and ran her hands under his t-shirt, she announced that she wanted him to do her and for her to do him all weekend. She was lighter, knowing she was free to do that. He'd hesitated, checking she really did want him. He'd embarked on his task with gusto and earned a noise complaint two days later, when he'd sworn loudly and wondered how he came to be handcuffed to his own bed whilst she did that.
Now her lips are parted as she nuzzles as if she fell into slumber trying to persuade him that Simmons isn't worth it. She did try, just once, and then pulled her phone onto the floor and called in a few favours so he has somewhere safe to stay. He understands that he's not allowed to disappear without her approval now. Six weeks was too much of a test.
Her lips look kissable. It feels perfectly natural to touch them and stoke the embers. So he does, just to taste her, as her and him, not as anyone else. Not as Lieutenant and Sergeant.
Her hand creeps around his torso and he realised how touch deprived he feels, how parting for just a few days has left him grumpy. Knowing he'll have to leave her again tomorrow is not improving his mood. He's undervalued love and affection. A past of bedding women, not as many as the rumours or Harry might assume, have left him lonely. He recalls being physically sated but his mind still left wanting. Anyone getting close might try to find parts of him that were not there, like Kathy, or Thelma and ignored his fear that those parts were kept for Harry and he had to hide them away. His personal life has never offered anything tangible, until now.
He wants forever with Harry. It is terrifying.
Her glossy lips remind him of their unspoken apologies in the car park when he'd wrapped her in his coat instead of the hug he wanted to give her. She may not have needed him, but he needed her. But what fools to say so, even now he's uncertain, knowing he'll hold her back. He can imagine her running MI5 and him, bumming about the streets and occasionally being tapped for what he knew by some bright young graduate with a clean mind. Is it fair to put himself into her life?
Harry seems awake and he can't believe he's not been right-hooked for his indiscretion. Instead she's pulling at his jumper and sucking on his bottom lip. He feels a dizzy pull of lust.
She senses his caution and looks sleepily at him, blinking her sooty eyelashes.
"I'm sorry." He says, meaning it because he can't drag her down to his level.
"I'm not." She says, her voice sleep-ridden and meaning every word. He knows that look and tone, it's that of a woman who knows she's right.
He had expected her to be shy with him, but she was inquisitive and responsive. It seems crazy to think that he thought she'd be anything but. Maybe he'd hoped for something virginal, but he has a fully formed goddess and he's awestruck. It was she who stripped him of his clothes and explored his body with a kinky smile and a warm mouth.
"I…" He can't form any words. How does one say that he feels like the luckiest man in the world to know her, probably love her and 'please, oh please, can I spoil you for any other man', because it's what he's dreamt of since he met her.
"Me too." She replies as if she could read his mind which he's fairly sure she can. He hopes so because he's dumbstruck as he maps the planes of her body, watching every reaction. The one woman he never thought he'd explore. Him, her detective, and their mystery.
She is placid and adventurous. Warm, willing and sexual. Awake and hungry for him as he works his way down her body, pausing to lavish her breasts and then to her centre, taking her apart atom by atom as she rises into his face and he thinks of supernovas.
"I want…" He hears her say as her body slackens.
"Anything, Harry." He means it.
"You."
He is reminded of mermaid and sailors, of mythical drownings and siren calls. He wishes she didn't, he'll hold her back.
He'd planned to worship her, but she has other plans as she settles in his lap. And then he's inside, filling and stretching her, their eyes wide with pleasure. Her mouth on his, her body gripping his. It's almost too much, his dumb brain short-circuiting with her affection and strength, betraying all he thought and knew, that he couldn't have.
She rides him confidently and hard, one hand around his neck as they exchange sloppy kisses. The other is captured in his fingers, connecting them, until she moves it to smooth his lip, her eyes watching his and her hair swaying as she rises with his movements. Their vocabulary is reduced to yes, curses and their names in any form.
When she grips tightly, he reaches between them, momentarily he's astounded by the wet warmth of her undulating responses, amazed that he can do that for her. Then he lets go, falling with her.
He kisses her down from the high, drawing her into the side of his body and feels a wetness on his chest where she's resting. He tilts up her chin and canters her face to his mouth. There are tears in her eyes but he feels the same. Inside, deep inside. He is the traveller and she is home. If only he could believe it.