I hope you all have safe and peaceful holidays so far. Thank you for the lovely words, here's another chapter as this rumbles onwards. For the purposes of the plot, let's go with DNA testing being a thing then. It was but early days! ** a warning that this chapter mentions sexual assault**
Harry, his Harry.
Her blonde hair is rumpled. Her eyes wide and glued to his mouth as he speaks, telling her how she will be fine, and he's here. Dempsey clings to the threads, but still, she unravels.
Chas turns up and takes away the widow, and all the while, Dempsey can't let go of his partner. He relinquishes the hug, uncertain of whom is getting the more significant benefit, and makes do with a palm to her back or a brush of hands.
The damage to her wrists was a legacy of how hard she had fought. Dempsey knows deep down that she saved herself, and he imagines it's from months of talking him down. Had he arrived earlier and barnstormed into the van, she would have been shot by a panicked Swaby.
He doesn't feel any better for knowing this, as he steadies her, using the only thing he can offer; his physical strength and the depth of feeling. He wonders how long the bastard had thought of her, watched her from afar, and conjured up some sick fantasy.
He trusts her more than anyone else. Edwards had failed to come between them; so why is he attempting to self-destruct?
"C'mon," He says, as much for himself as he tries to haul his ass into the game. "You ready to go?"
She nods, unable to manage much else. Dempsey guides her to his car but not before they pass Swabey's body on the gurney, being pushed to the private ambulance.
"Look at me," Dempsey bends down, his face in front of hers. "Harry, it's a body; he's not gonna hurt you anymore."
He moves in front of her, trying to soothe as her eyes flicker to meet his, and she becomes aware of the forensic team, of Chas, the ambulance, and his concerned face. There's a nod again, and she holds her head up a little higher.
In the silence of the car, he hears her let out a deep breath, and she seems to relax a little. Her bottom lip releases from the grip of her teeth, "Where do you want to go? My place, yours? Winfield Hall?"
"I need to go to a hospital." She clears her throat, speaking into the fearful silence. He puts the car into gear and drives.
At the hospital, they find the emergency room. Harry shows her badge, and he wonders how many times she had to do this. Her words are efficient when she explains what happened and that her injuries need to be catalogued for the case report.
He has forgotten that Spikings will need the information for protocol.
The nurse moves quickly but seems thrown by Harry's cool words, and throws him a curious glance.
He waits with her on the plastic chairs with the drunks and the clumsy, the sick, and lost.
"Detective Sergeant Makepeace?" The nurse comes over again. "There's a side room over here."
They're taken to a compact space with a changing screen, bed, small sink, and plastic chair. Dempsey loiters by the doorway, uncertain what to do as he listens to the nurse explaining that they'll take samples.
She's alive.
Left alone, Dempsey opens his mouth to check on her and has no words. Of course, she's not alright.
The door opens, and it's a female doctor who hands Harry a gown which she accepts; he sees her hand tremble. "You can wait outside, sir, there's a chair…."
"No, I want him to stay," Harry says, from halfway between the modesty screen and the bed. "Please."
"The exam is personal." The doctor checks again.
"I know, I'd like him to stay with me." Harry has disappeared, and the doctor now checks with him.
Dempsey nods. He realises he probably appears more shaken up than Harry, and he wishes the smell of the hospital away with a deep breath. He is scared of what else may have happened.
The camera clicks, taking photos of the bruises sustained, the gown moved to reveal parts of her pale body, a look between the two female medics unable to work out why Dempsey is allowed to stay.
A bruise. Click. Rope burns. Click. Cuts. Click. His face unable to look away.
"We should do a pelvic examination." There's a glance to her wedding ring finger and across to Dempsey's hand. The doctor decides on his words. "Do you want your partner to leave for this?"
Dempsey tenses and squeezes her hand, which has slipped into his as she settles back on the scratchy blanket, rustling the waterproof sheet. Harry meets his eyes, and he nods despite the fear he feels.
"Harriet, I need to ask a few questions." The nurse speaks precisely.
"Do you think you were sexualy assaulted?"
His hand holds onto hers. If Harry looks at him, he will cry and that's not what she's expecting from him. Those parts of her body are his gold treasure.
"No, I'm sure of it, but I may have passed out for a short while in the van. I couldn't breathe…" Her voice hitches in response to her words.
He wants to protest, to say that it wasn't part of Swaby's profile, but neither was kidnapping a blonde.
"We can check; I'm so sorry to have to ask this but have you had sexual relations this week?"
Her cheeks colour, but he catches the ghost of a smile despite the circumstances. It was her turn to thread her fingers through his, and she looks over. It's okay, they tell each other.
"Wednesday evening." So far, she's been clinical, but he feels her waver as the events encroach on their space.
"Did you use contraception?"
"I'm on the pill."
Harry flinches as the exam begins. He finds himself wanting to cry into her side as the lights shine down. He hopes there wasn't anything for all the obvious reasons. If there is any trace he wants it to be himself but that has consequences that he hasn't yet determined. There is an emotion in the privacy of their marriage he has not appreciated until now.
"You're all clear," The doctor says.
They are exhausted. Dempsey takes her to his place, he'll deal with her car tomorrow.
He set her bag down in his bedroom and looks for some night clothes. Since they got intimate, she's never worn anything. Tonight he hands her one of his t-shirts sensing she needs the comfort.
"I can sleep on the couch…." Dempsey offers when she comes out of the bathroom. "If it hurts."
"Is that what you prefer?" She hesitates.
"I wanna keep you close to me." He goes with honesty.
"I'm not some flimsy broad." Harry crosses her arms across her body; he feels her slip away.
"I never said you were, and I don't think that for one dammed minute. I wanna stay here with you and hold you" He's not that man anymore, and he feels that he needs to acknowledge it. "…for me."
He must have slept at some point, in the liminal space between night through day. His mind falls into a loop in which she died. What could have been if she didn't have the words and Swaby hadn't already perhaps, planned his end?
He slips from the bedclothes and sits in his sitting room at the small desk to write the report to save her from doing it. It gets it out of his mind, giving him some clarity. The day moves into lightness, and the rain drips from the gutter. He still feels unsettled and shaken.
The phone breaks his thoughts and he grabs it quickly, hoping it hasn't woken her.
"Dempsey." Spikings is concerned. "How is Harriet?"
"Battered, bruised." He says, economical with the summing up to keep her privacy. "Her clothes are bagged up and with forensics, and there's a medical report on the way also."
"I don't want to see her here today or you." His boss says; whether he's understood Harry is with him, Dempsey isn't sure. It doesn't feel like Spikings is that interested, his clipped tones indicating business as usual.
When he hangs up, Harry is standing in the doorway, uncertain; he's never seen that in her before. On any other woman, he might find it endearing, sexy even. But on her, right now, it hurts him.
"Sorry 'bout the phone." He says from where he's seated, "Spiking don't wanna see us today."
"We underestimated him. That's why he took me." She comments quietly. He had thought of that too. "He was watching me and planning what to do, as he did with the others. He saw us."
He feels sick from the very thought that Swaby had violated her in his thoughts. "I know."
"I don't know how I feel about that." She waivers.
"You could see a therapist at work?" Dempsey gathers her close, burying his face against her stomach, and he shakes his head in silent apology, biting back a wave of anger and remorse.
"So many women don't have the words or the weapons," Harry comments. She is sat on the couch. The day had passed slowly, in a theme of food, napping, and playing cards - stillness, peace, and care.
He nods in acknowledgment.
"Women are attacked, and they have no defence… The other women he murdered too." She trails off, drawing them back to the reason why they're here today. "He wanted me because of my job, perhaps because of you."
"But you had your training." He counters. "You're a good cop."
"I suppose I'm lucky." It's a question or statement; he's not sure which. They wordlessly acknowledge the contradiction.
"Do you wanna see Freddy? Or Angela?" He asks, remembers that she's hasn't asked for them.
Harry shakes her head firmly. "They'll tell me to leave my job if they knew. You haven't."
He wonders about that statement in the evening light as he studies her sleeping form, with a reverence he's never felt before. As night closes in, he has no answer for it.