For Sarahasaq, I wasn't going to write this but you gave me good reason with your lovely words and kind message. Stay safe and well everyone.
He answers the door dressed in jeans and a vest. In one hand, he holds a razor. He is a sexy Santa with shaving foam on his face and eyes peering at her from floppy hair.
"Dempsey." Her heart throbs in her throat. Harry says his name, almost as if to check whom she's talking to.
He holds open the door with a lopsided grin, gesticulates to his face, and disappears down the hall to the bathroom. He leaves the door open, and she watches him for a moment, distracted by his reflection as Dempsey appears and Lupino, she hopes, dies. She thinks it wasn't just the face furniture; his entire demeanor became rougher and tougher as if Lupino cared even less.
"I've got your badge." She waves it at him. It's a flimsy reason to visit after a long day of debriefing. Her eyes alight on red marks on his shoulders in alarm. "You're cut.."
Dempsey shrugs and dries off his face. "Kinda expected when I drive a convertible into a house at high speed."
"And you called me insane," Harry moves around him to retrieve the first aid kit from the bathroom cabinet, absentmindedly moving her wash bag, which holds a spare toothbrush, creams, and tampons. She follows Dempsey into the kitchen, where he's investigating the fridge.
"How did you get to escape from those idiots?" He makes coffee and finds biscuits.
"The belt." She explains and tells him about the dramatic escape, watching his face turn from incredulous to awestruck. He leans against the counter. She feels a quiet relief at him being there at last.
"The catsuit has overtaken your red party dress in my top ten." He grins at her, munching on a jammy dodger. Harry knows which dress, it's still in her wardrobe; Angela has never asked for it back, her motivation for not doing so is all too clear.
"You have favourites?" She was meant to sound terse, but her voice is low with interest.
"You don't have a list of mine?" He lets her off the hook for now with a teasing smile. "All your clothes are on my list, your wedding dress.."
"Dempsey!" Harry clears her throat and finds the antiseptic wipes. 'No, I can't say I have any list of your clothes. I could wreck this shirt with the wipes."
"I liked your wedding dress." He confirms as he pulls his vest off. She chooses to ignore him.
Dempsey's actions remind of her of him dropping the towel when he was trying to shock her. There's nothing of that bravado here. Instead, he shifts the chair, so he's leaning over it and moves forward, trusting her. Harry feels the muscles beneath when she runs her hands over his skin. He shivers; if his reaction is to pain or pleasure, she dare not ask in case his feelings are infectious.
"I believed you were dead," Dempsey fills the silence with a verbal earthquake, hissing when the liquid stings. She can't think straight while he's saying such things in that graveled tone. "Butch was sure of it. I thought maybe I might've felt it like people say about some couples, and I didn't get that feeling, y'know? I doubted myself and my instinct. I hoped you'd escape; I didn't know how."
"…I need to look at your face." She cuts him off with hurried rudeness. He doesn't berate her but chooses to watch her face as if he's making a calculation.
"I drove the car into the house because I could see you weren't there. I pointed the gun at Coltrane because…I didn't want another partner if I lost you." He finishes.
It's what she was fearful of him saying. "I'm not that easy to finish off, you should know that."
If Harry thought that this would be the end of his revelations, it seems that the relief of being free of the subterfuge of being in London makes him loose-tongued. "I'm sorry about the sedation… I was there all the time; I never let anyone near you."
She can well believe it. "I put you at risk…."
'…I should've checked in." His reply is instant, and Harry is taken aback by its speed. "When you came to the bedsit, I should've tried harder to tell you I knew what I was doin'."
With his eyes closed, she studies Dempsey's face. Harry rarely has this chance as she cleans up the cut over his eye and smoothes down a small plaster. Her traitorous hands lingered a little longer.
"I care…" He mumbles.
"You should care about yourself too." She defaults into a grumble after a moment of consideration. They're getting into dangerous territory here. She feels it fizzing in her belly.
He shrugs, "You wanna stay?"
"We've got to report to Spikings at eight. That's in six hours." There's a reluctance in her tone.
"We can hitch a ride to the States, hideout with my mom." He grins and then gets up with a bone-cracking yawn, which is infectious.
She wonders if he would do that now, catch a flight to New York. She can't quite bring herself to ask him. Dempsey's touch on her arm as he walks out with her to the car is constant as if he's trying to remember she didn't die.
Before her courage fails her, she winds down the window. "I mean what I said too."