It began with good intentions. A few friends over for beers and somehow it has escalated into one of his worse fears. A dinner party with 'colleagues from work', thanks to a few stealth moves from Harry. They've been to Chas and his wife's house, before and since their friends got married. Dave held a barbecue with his now ex-girlfriend in the summer. Dempsey was in danger of getting a reputation like Spikings for being too secretive.
His apartment is strewn in tinsel. He was sent to Borough Market for a tree and decorations this morning when she despaired of the bare lounge. There are needles over Makepeace's car seats. He hasn't told her yet. He doesn't much care. Well, he does, but the red wine is delicious thanks to Harry's influence, and the food they've made is satisfying. He's actually enjoying himself. Chas is humming along to Bing Crosby with him, both of their voices a little too low to do full justice. Dave is conducting them. Joyce is encouraging her husband and Chas' wife into playing cards. Only one man is listening, though Dempsey thinks he's a man child, and that's Fry. The same Fry who bought Harry a large bunch of flowers.
"He's got your missus under the mistletoe," Dave grins. Dempsey issues a silent curse. He bought the leaves when he got the tree and hung the sprig up over the archway. He proceeded to kiss Harry for each berry. He forgot to take it down.
Dempsey stops singing briefly. Chas raises an eyebrow. With a nod, they carry on. Chas knows. Dempsey has muttered his feelings for Harry over many a glass of wine. It's the trade he has to make for having the American as his best man. Well, that's Dempsey's view anyway. He did have to dress up like a penguin twice.
Dempsey sees Harry say something to Fry from the corner of his eye. She places an appropriate kiss on the young man's cheek. Fry's blush is probably visible from the space shuttle. Dempsey shifts grumpily in his seat, and he hates being jealous. In the past, he's tried being amused by the men who want to claim Harry, but since they've become closer, their fledging relationship has stirred a possessive streak that he finds a bit problematic because there isn't any reason for it.
He drinks a bit more wine, and helps Joyce when she begins clearing the table.
After their guests - his guests? - have said goodbye, with a chorus of 'Merry Christmas' and sorting out which cab is taking whom home, Dempsey finds Harry in the kitchen drying up. He takes the tea towel from her and insists she sits down. He'll make the coffee. "You'll get tetchy if your feet ache."
"Like your face ached when Fry asked for a kiss?" Harry nudges his hip.
He shrugs, trying to be nonchalant, "Nothing to do with me." He fills the kettle and gets two clean cups from the cupboard.
"You've got nothing to worry about either." She looks adoringly at him when he blinks at her, wide-eyed at what he sees in her face, "Bring the coffee and yourself to bed."
She plants a kiss on his lips under the mistletoe that would make a lesser man explode and disappears down the hall into his bathroom. As he potters around tidying up, it occurs to him that he has taken it for granted that she is staying over. There's a bag of her clothes in his bedroom. If his colleagues are reasonable detectives, they would have seen a scented bubble bath and two toothbrushes in the bathroom.
He thinks of tomorrow when they'll drive to Winfield Hall and Christmas morning when she'll open the cashmere jumper in a rich sea blue that reminded him of her eyes and the diamond earrings. There's a matching engagement ring in the same range, but he's trying to be patient.
"You're happy." Harry observes from where she sits in his bed, make-up free and freshly washed, wearing a flimsy excuse of a nightdress. She takes the coffee from him and his heart performs a flip-flop in his chest.
"Huh..." He isn't sure how to explain the giddy happiness he feels since she took residence in his personal life. How moved he is that she's welcomed him into her world and dispelled any feelings of regret over leaving America. She is home.
"I was thinking that it was the first time anyone has been over for dinner. It felt domestic, like we're married or something." He hesitates, knowing her first trip up the aisle ended in disaster for her.
"Oh. Married or something?" She doesn't give anything away as she thinks over his words; another unexpected benefit of being together is their new-found patience. Nevertheless, he feels a bite of nerves and dread at his words. Just as he's about to apologise, she speaks again.
"We should talk about that another time if you like?" She offers him a gentle smile that reassures him.
It seems to change how he feels this evening. They've been making up for lost time these past few weeks. Filling the gaps made from years of scrubbing boundaries, the hours at Heathrow when he almost left, six weeks he spent as Lupino, the days when she was at the museum. Every minute with anyone else became old history. Insatiable seems an understatement.
Tonight he wants to take it slowly. To listen to her sighs, taste her and imagine being tethered together somewhere, anywhere.
"You taste amazing," He moans as her hips move under the loose grip of his palms, her face soft with longing, one hand in his hair, the other in the bedsheets which are rumpled around them.
"I feel amazing!" She says, moving so he can see all her secrets. He is left lightheaded at her wanton openness, just for him. He feels her tense, and her hand tightens, just enough. He keeps her just on the edge, vibrating around his lips.
"I love this, Dempsey. I love you." It's the first time either of them has said these words. His reply sticks in his throat, they're spoken so softly in a tone he's never heard from anyone, least of all her, that he can't think straight.
He has to move, to brace himself above her, and kiss her. She reaches down and blindly, haphazardly, tries to guide him into her and giggles. He moves away from her to prolong the moment. This part, the moment of delicious agony before follows her, is when he remembers three years of aching for her. Their movements illicit feelings, in both their bodies and souls. Now he adds words.
He loves her too, and he finds the breath to tell her.