You know when you start something and it doesn't work. The first, second, third goes just didn't do well. So I've gone back to lightness and innuendo and here's the result. Not enthralled by it but inspired a bit by the Xmas card comment from one of the series 2 episodes, can't recall which one!
The alarm clock says it's 11 pm when Dempsey has the urge to bury himself in her body again. Harry is wrapped around him, fast asleep, her head on his chest, purring like a contented cat. His bedroom is a sanctuary around them. He can hear the faint click of the heating.
She'd planned all this out on Thanksgiving, so it seems. From the invite to dinner to taking his hand and leading him upstairs at her home. When he checked, she had reassured him that he was what she wanted and appearing utterly unworried when Dempsey said he was 'all in'. Almost as if she already knew him better than himself, which he supposes, she does.
It was the result of love-lorn gazes across the office and his gentle pursuit of her since Coltrane's arrest when he feared she had died. Her actions by the same fears and recognising that life is too short. The conclusion is all he'd hoped for but never dared to act upon. Typically, she already solved this case.
He loved the buzz of finding out that she did care about him as much as he cared for her. The newness of dating like adults and learning that differences can create change. He's found a new pleasure in having her stay at his place and his neighbour calling her his girlfriend. He wants to take her to New York and spoil her.
Now it's Christmas week, and somehow they've avoided the festive office party that's happening Right Now at a pub somewhere in Chatham of all places. They are at home.
He imagines there is warm wine and beer: one pint or a small measure on expenses. Chas would be on the 'phone trying to persuade his wife to pick him up and Fry will be chatting up the barmaid. Dave is already drunk and wearing a party hat. Spikings, well, who knows, but Dempsey is sure that he's aware of what's happening between him and Harry. He'd told them to bugger off and don't come back to January with a wink when Harry booked the afternoon off.
Dempsey carefully extracts himself from Harry's arms, in need of the bathroom. More or less awake, he wanders around his flat and makes them coffee because she walks up at the smell of the stuff. As he makes it, he spies an envelope on the kitchen table. It's addressed to him in her neat handwriting and looks like a festive card. She propped it up by the plant she gifted to him months ago, and it's remained there. When they returned drunk on each other after dinner and fell into bed, he'd forgotten all about it. Dempsey picks it up and adds to the tray, hoping he can open it.
Harry stirs as he slips under the covers. She mumbles that he's cold. Gently, he rolls her onto her back and begins to kiss her. He'd dreamt of her many times over the years. He realises, now he's experienced the real deal, that she is passionate, sensual, and loving. Beautifully responsive, he adds to his descriptives. As she arches into his touch, he concludes she is made for him. He loves opening gifts.
He wants to taste her and watch her fall apart just for him. He applies himself to this task with dedication, listening to her encouragement. As she writhes under his touch, he'd underestimated her again as she moves them across the bed. In the mirror, they watch each other unwrap the many layers of themselves.
"I'm not on your Christmas card list," Dempsey says when he's found his breath and sanity, watching her walk across the room as she disappears to the bathroom. He eyes the card, worried it'll be forgotten. She laughs.
He sips the cool coffee and waits for her to return, thinking how this year is so different from the last two. The first Christmas Eve he had spent alone watching films, walking through London knowing he'd royally pissed off Harry by telling everyone, except her, that he loved her at the party. The result was no other woman went near him, including Harry. He lied to his mother about his day, saying he was fine.
Last year he went to Winfield Hall, but they were still friends. Close, but friends, and the most he'd managed was a chaste kiss under the mistletoe. They surprised each other with a gift of books, both taken aback that they knew more about each other than they thought. His family was delighted he had company and he was too.
"You were just a colleague. You are elevated." Harry deadpans as she climbs back into bed and sits astride him. She drags her hands down his stomach to his thighs as if to prove her point.
"I gave you a card every year." Dempsey says, wriggling below her body to draw her attention. "You always elevate me, princess, can't you see."
"I can feel it too." He's very impressive and tempting, but she's not giving in just yet. "So did Spikings, or rather, Mrs. Spikings."
"Worth it for the lil' kiss I got in return from you, babe." He winks and then closes his eyes with a delighted grin. They spring open when she tweaks his nipples. "Hey! I was thinking 'bout what I'd get this year."
"I think you got an awful lot of what you wanted already. Maybe later, if you're good to me." Harry offers him a sultry glance that gets all his attention.
"I'm always good to you, Tinkerbell." He says with the easy smile that he feels these days, knowing he can tease her. "I distinctly heard you say 'James, that's so good' and once you said 'fucking good'. You never swear, so I'm pretty sure I was really good to you all last night. I'm doing just fine tonight."
"Well, yes. I may need more evidence." Harry blushes. He leans forward and kisses her. She has no idea that she was so expressive.
"I liked it; you can talk in bed all you want." Dempsey smoothes her hair and idly runs his hands over her breasts.
She clears her throat and he grins as she tries to be serious. "Can you imagine the protocol, Dempsey? If I gave Dave or Fry a card, should I write best wishes or a kiss? They'd think it was an invitation to be where you are right now…"
He feels horrified; "Ain't nobody else gonna be here again. I'm for life, not Christmas like all good hounds."
"… And it's only women who write cards. Men write them because they want to pull." Harry finishes and then adds, "Yes, you are for life, I know that."
Dempsey considers this for a moment and nods, "Yeah, I can't argue with that."
"Careful, you almost admitted I'm right."
"I'm in a vulnerable position here." Dempsey observes. "When did I ever not want to pull you?"
"Well, are you going to open my card?" Harry asks, moving away. He questions his motivation and priorities.
"Get back here, Harry. I'll open it later." Dempsey urges but gives up as she pushes the envelope into his hands.
It all makes sense when he reads the words on the front. To the man I love at Christmas.