Dempsey is surprised by the invitation to dinner. He missed Harry today; she's been at a spa with Angela celebrating her friend's birthday.
Since he's lost sight of the car he was tailing around the South Circular late Friday evening. He takes a pit stop at a cafe and uses the phone. The line picks up and he's ready to leave his message on her answerphone.
"Hello, Dempsey," Harry interrupts his opener, which wasn't a very good one.
"You're there? Thought you'd be out with Richard?"
"Nope." She sounds sleepy and unguarded. "M'glad you called. I was thinking of watching a soap opera, but I can talk to you instead. Where are you?"
"I'm just letting you know I can come over tomorrow."
There's a pause; "Oh yes.."
"We can take a rain check," Dempsey offers an 'out' and she declines it.
"You want me to bring anything? Does Richard have any needs?" Like a kick up the ass or a ten tonne brick-load of charisma.
"He's not going to be here," she says. "Tomorrow, 6ish."
The line goes dead before he can ask what the occasion is.
Thus Dempsey stands on her steps of her house. He's wearing a shirt that she once said looked good on him, his decent jeans and a carrying a large bunch of peach roses in one hand, and a bottle of red in the other.
It is not a date. But he's prepared as if it is.
He follows the sound of her voice toward the kitchen, through the lounge where the fire is lit. He briefly entertains the idea that he lives in in this gorgeous home until the thought become too painful.
Dinner smells amazing and his mouth waters, but for very different reasons as she reaches up to a cupboard and her top rides up, revealing kissable, porcelain skin. He wants to tell her to forget dinner, he's got something else on his mind.
"Hey, you need a hand?" He asks and leans above her to get two glasses.
"Perfect timing," she smiles as he finds the corkscrew and deals with the wine.
About five weeks and a year late.
"You know me, never a dull moment." He pours the red into crystal glasses.
They are on their third glass when the timer goes; Harry is worried about the potatoes as she puts proper serving dishes on the table, next to warmed plates and candles.
"It's all good," Dempsey says when they begin eating, "I'd eat anything; I'd eat you."
"Tell that to Richard," Harry covers her face. "Ignore what I said, I haven't eaten all day. You won't remember anyway,"
He's a little too merry for the jealousy to cut as deep. "I'm not that drunk."
"Said no sober man ever," Harry spears a carrot with intent.
"There's no spark," she announces just as he's about to suggest coffee. They've taken the wine to the couch.
Dempsey feels a horrible sense of foreboding. The man he was would be banging the kettle on and finding mugs but he's trying to be a decent guy, so he nods kindly.
"With Richard," Harry is slumped in the cushions looking very edible, a blanket between them. "Oh God, I shouldn't be telling you this. I didn't invite you here for a confession… or maybe I did. You're a man."
He's grateful she noticed this.
"He's a nice person. Kind, devoted parent and Freddy seems to rate him, but there's nothing," Harry takes a sip of drink. "It's all so chaste, he's never kissed my mouth."
"Oh," he wasn't expecting this admission, even if he's seen it for himself. "You have nice lips."
"That should be kissed," Harry confirms.
Dempsey can't believe he's about to say it, "Maybe try kissing him first?"
"I can't force chemistry. It would be weird, not like it is with…" She takes a sip of her wine and blushes.
"With who?" Dempsey prompts and the silence hangs heavy.
She leans a little closer, licks her lips and frowns in that way she does when there's a difficult question ahead, "Am I settling for second best?"
Dempsey can't do this. "Harry, I'm not the guy you should be asking."
"You're blunt to the point of painful, you'd tell me," she pleads gently and her point is valid.
"What do you want, Harry?" he deflects.
"I don't know," she says wearily and finally slides down to settle on his shoulder. "I honestly haven't got a clue."
He pulls the blanket over them, knowing he's way too drunk to drive home.
At some point, before the morning grey light broke in, he thought she said to stay. Next came the feeling of a soft pillow and a press of a kiss to the crown of his hair.
When Dempsey wakes later, there's a pile driver somewhere above his left eye. He opens his eyes incrementally and winces at the sunshine.
Beside him, on a table is a large glass of water, a pile of biscuits and paracetamol. He downs the lot and waits it out a little longer. He'd like to evacuate his body and return in the morning.
"Sunday is cancelled." Harry says from somewhere above him, appearing as an angel in a bathrobe. "We need protein and fresh air."
She's naked underneath it. All he has to do is reach for her and slide his hand inside, except his body is slack with a ruinous hangover.
"Fuck," Dempsey curses as he moves to a seated position and realises he has indeed been given a pillow and thicker blanket in the night. "How come you're bright and cheery."
"I'm not, I'm feeling terrible but I've showered. You should too, you'll feel better."
He's about to decline but realises he can use her soap; his primal brain isn't entirely lost. "Yeah, sure."
"I'll get you a towel and a toothbrush." Harry floats away. "I'm sure you've left some clothes here when you were on the run."
Dempsey does feel a little better when he's cleaned up and dressed. The night wasn't meant to go that direction; he knows Harry well enough to know that her predicament was true even if the confession was driven by wine.
He also knows that he feels like death warmed up, and that he is loved.
They end up at a cafe in the park. She knows what he likes so the order is easy and they nurse coffee together at a table by the window. She's cute in dark glasses and her hair still damp in a hair grip. It's almost worth the hangover to see her like this.
"You're good at being drunk," Dempsey says and then winces at his stupidity. "Hell, I meant that you're good at the morning after."
He drops his head into his arms; way to go with the words.
To his surprise Harry laughs, "I'm hardly innocent."
"Go on." This is interesting.
"You can't handle me right now, Dempsey," Harry taunts.
He holds her gaze a moment more than he ought to. He can't be good all the time.
"I didn't embarrass myself?" Dempsey has to ask her.
"That's usually my job when drunk," she reminds him of that night more readily these days. "You did the decent thing then too."
There's something more playful about the way she speaks to him today. They're both on the same page, maybe? Hungover, happy to have shared a decent evening and maybe her confession helped her reach a decision.
She's gazing at his mouth, he knows it.
"What?" Dempsey asks.
"You're gazing at me," she shrugs, indifferent about being caught.
"You started it," he teases back.
"There's not much else to look at," Harry smiles at the waitress who delivers a pile of toast for her and a full fried heart attack for him. She leans over and steals a mushroom.
"This has to be one of the most dumbest discussion we've had," Dempsey attacks the sausages.
She grins at him and his heart lurches at her toothy happiness. "Worse than the one about haggis?"
He kissed her after that conversation and he's pretty sure she remembers it too from the way she's looking at him. He has kissed those lips.
Then her eyes widen. "Oh! Hello."
