It took several minutes for Dempsey to make himself heard over the other people draped over the bar, but at last he managed to get the attention of the barman to ask for a beer and a glass of champagne. The twenty-ish year old behind the bar was nonplussed by the request for champagne and told Dempsey they didn't have any. "Fine, two beers," he amended, annoyed.

When at last he turned back to find Harry, he couldn't immediately see her. Scanning the room, he finally noticed her dancing with as much enthusiasm as the most energetic of the dancers. She was beaming with a glowing ecstasy as she threw herself into her quick, frenzied movements; angelic, demonic. His eyes were fixed on her, captivated, as he approached; half of the beer ended up over his fingers as his lack of care sent him bumping into people.

"James!" she cried, and Dempsey wondered - worried - about the sudden change in her mood. She'd been miserable earlier, on the verge of tears, and now she was euphoric. She stumbled to a stop, trembling slightly. "Isn't this wonderful!" She threw her head back and laughed, then took the drinks from him and laid them down on the floor. Dempsey was reminded of the one and only time she'd been drunk, but she wasn't drunk now, surely? She hadn't drunk anything.

Harry took his face in her hands. "Come on, sexy," she said, and her voice was suddenly so sincere that it shocked him. He would never, in a million years, have expected those words to exit Harry's mouth. "Let's dance," she continued, the rapturous grin creeping over her face again. Dempsey continued to watch her. It was dawning on him what she'd done.

After a few seconds of dancing alone, Harry seemed to realise that Dempsey wasn't joining in. Pushing close to him, Harry pulled him down to whisper in his ear: "Or would you rather be doing something else?" She paused just long enough for him to consider kissing her but before he could act, she moved away with another wild laugh, to his mingled relief and disappointment.

Dempsey refrained from touching Harry, angry and attracted in equal measures. Harry, however, had other ideas, and held him as close as possible to her. He breathed deeply and tried to pretend he wasn't tempted at all. After a minute or two, her grip slackened as she dissolved into giggles. Dempsey began to feel more angry: angry that she'd taken the stupid drug in the first place, angry that she scorned his advances when sober but flirted when she was drunk or drugged up, angry that he was still so damn tempted to hold her close and kiss every inch of her - angry that his own feelings on his duty as a friend prevented him from doing so.

He grabbed her upper arm roughly and dragged her out of the club; she continued cackling gleefully to herself. When outside, Dempsey pushed her back against the wall of the club, placed his hands on her shoulders and leaned on them. "Are you going to kiss me, James?" she asked, looking faintly hopeful. Or was he imagining that? He must be.

"No, I'm gonna stand here with you 'til you calm down and then I'm gonna take you home," he replied curtly. He watched her face intently, seeing her emotions clear on her face for once. Over the next few minutes he saw her fading out of her ecstasy, clinging onto the last vestiges of it all the time. Her hands raised and gripped hold of his elbows desperately.

"James?"

"I'm here," he reassured her. "C'mon, let's get you home."

The journey back to Harry's house was passed in silence. Dempsey clutched the steering wheel tightly, fuming quietly. It wasn't until he glanced at the passenger seat that he realised that Harry was resting her head back on the back of the seat with her eyes closed.

When at last they reached Harry's house, Harry didn't stir. Dempsey got out, opened her car door, and leaned over her to undo her seatbelt. He couldn't decide whether to kiss her or hit her; he settled for helping her out of the car. Together, they made it to her front door, with Harry leaning on Dempsey as though all the strength had been sucked out of her. When Dempsey hesitated on the doorstep, Harry curled her fingers around his hand and he stepped over the threshold like a docile sheep before leading her into her own living room, loathe to let go of her hand.

They sat on the sofa, still hand-in-hand, for several minutes.

"What the hell were you thinkin'?" he burst out suddenly, withdrawing his hand to gesture with them both exasperatedly. "What the hell were you thinkin'? We were supposed to be gettin' information, we weren't supposed to be gettin' high!"

Harry clasped her hands between her knees and hunched over them. "Were you worried about me?" she asked in a flat voice.

"You know what? Yeah, I'm worried about you. You've been behavin' like an idiot for two days and I wanna know why. You're obviously upset about somethin' and you won't even tell me."

Harry noted that he sounded hurt, and realised that he saw her refusal to speak as a betrayal of friendship, a betrayal of trust. But she couldn't find the words to tell him. She couldn't find any words at all. Eventually she let out a long sigh and went to sit at her piano.

Dempsey followed. She picked out a slow, mournful tune with great concentration, her eyes closed. Dempsey listened without speaking, frustrated and curious. He'd never heard this before. The notes flowed over each other like waves on a beach in winter; the tune made him feel cold.

Harry hit the last few notes and withdrew her hands from the keys, her head bowed.

"Sounds kinda sad," he noted, not knowing what else to say but beginning to feel worried by her continued attempts to shut him out.

"It's supposed to be. It's about death. It was Freddie's favourite song."

"Ain't it any more?"

"What?"

"You said it 'was' his favourite song. What's he like now?"

Her head bowed lower. A horrible, sick feeling crept over Dempsey as he realised that tears were flowing down her face. "James…" she said, and her voice was choked with tears, an octave higher than the norm. "My father's dead."

Dempsey stared at her in shock; he'd never expected her to say anything like that. "What?"

"He's dead. He's dead. Last night. They rang me last night and they said…they said he's dead."

"But - what - how?"

"Heart attack," she replied, her voice rising further in pitch, and her shoulders began to shake with suppressed sobs.

Dempsey stood watching her for a few more seconds, bewildered, until he decided that he should hold her. Helping her up from the stool, he held her close against his chest, one arm around her waist and the other holding the back of her head gently.

"I'm sorry Princess…" he murmured, then was silent, letting her cry openly on his chest. She buried her face in the curve of his neck and clung to him as though he was the only thing that could save her from sliding, heartbroken, into a pool of despair. At that point, he probably was. This thought made him hold her more securely against his body, until at last her sobs subsided and she became still.

"What am I going to do, James? What on earth am I going to do?"

He had no answer.

"Oh, God…" she murmured.

He stroked her hair soothingly.

"He likes you, you know. Liked you. Likes you. I always told him you're annoying and American and…but I guess he was right about you being a friend."

Dempsey had a feeling that, in a roundabout way, she was paying him a compliment.

"What on earth am I going to do?"

Dempsey decided that she needed a distraction and some time to calm down. He loosened his hold enough to look into her face. "You go sit down on the sofa, I'll make you some coffee, alright?" He paused on his way to the kitchen in case she answered; when no answer came, he continued on his way, but waited again when she said faintly:

"Coffee?…Bloody coffee…" She gave a deep sigh and said in a slightly stronger voice. "Dempsey, everyone knows you should have tea in a crisis." He glanced back to see her running a hand through her hair in distress, and she muttered - more to herself than to him - "You're never going to fit in here, are you?"

A few years ago - hell, probably even a month ago - he would have rejoiced to hear those words, as confirmation that he hadn't lost any of his American identity. But today he felt as though the words had struck his heart and were spreading through his veins like a poison, numbing every part of him.

As he waited for the kettle to boil, Dempsey considered his life in England. What did it have to offer him that America couldn't? It had the same bars, the same colleagues, the same lowlife scum, the same girls, the same days, and the same nights. It rained more and the drink of choice was different, and he couldn't see any reason not to return to America and be back among people who didn't double-take at his accent, mock his choice of hot beverage or shout at him every time he got his gun out.

Except, he could see a reason. Harry.

Harry as a colleague, Harry as a friend, Harry as a beautiful woman…

Harry as the ever-resisting object of his unworthy affection. He wasn't sure what his feelings were, but he was quite sure that she was worth the attempt of finding out.

He finished the drink and brought it out to her, putting it on the floor next to her on the sofa. She was fast asleep, looking peaceful and serene. She barely stirred as he carried her up to bed and pulled the blankets over her. As he left, he gave her a last, longing look. "Why can't you be like that when you're sober, eh, Harry?" he said softly.

-:-

BRRIING!

The sound of the telephone cut through Harry's sleep and wrenched her awake as surely as though someone had thrown an icy bucket of water over her. She lay gasping from the sudden shock but just as she'd recovered enough to reach for the phone, it stopped ringing. Rolling her eyes at the pointless disturbance, she lay back against her pillows.

Only to realise that she could hear a voice downstairs.

"She's asleep, what are you ringin' for?" It was Dempsey's voice. Harry sat up again, wondering what on earth he was doing in her house at - she checked the clock - 9.30am, and answering her phone for her in such a discourteous manner.

"We had a late night," Dempsey all but snarled, and Harry groaned, deciding she would have to go and find out who he was being so rude to. It was probably Spikings, in which case they would both be in for a rollicking when they went in.

"None of your business."

Harry sighed. As she got out of bed, Harry registered that she was still fully dressed, which prompted her to remember the night before, her stupid decision to take drugs, and subsequently the reason she had chosen to do so. A heavy weight settled on her heart as she descended the stairs, her arms folded protectively across the front of her body.

"I'm her best friend, actually," Dempsey was announcing assertively as she entered her living room. His back was to the door so he didn't realise she had entered the room until she swiped the phone from his hand; he turned with a look of faint surprise. He didn't even have the good grace to look sheepish, she thought, as she spoke into the phone.

"Hello, who's there, please?" she said, hoping irrationally and almost unconsciously that her own politeness would make up for Dempsey's rudeness.

"Harriet? It's Jack. Why is he answering your phone? Have you…spent the night with him?" Poor Jack, Harry thought. He couldn't decide if he was tentative or incensed.

She ran her free hand through her mussed-up hair. What a mess. "Jack, I'll be honest with you, I'm not quite sure what he's doing here either but I did not…sleep with him. He looked after me last night because…I was upset. But that's all."

Dempsey tried not to listen to what Harry was saying to her boyfriend; he just didn't want to know. But part of him desperately wanted to hear how she interpreted last night's events. Harry gave a sigh; he wondered what Jack had said.

"I don't really want to talk about it…Yes, I know I talked to James about it."

There was a longer pause, and Dempsey glanced at Harry to see that a furious expression was creeping over her face.

"Jack, I told you I didn't and I wouldn't lie. But…I think we do need to talk." Dempsey told himself the sudden lightening of his heart was coincidental, nothing to do with the hope that the much-used phrase 'we need to talk' would be followed by the usual course of events. "I'll meet you in the Red Lion at eight, okay? We can have a drink…See you later."

Harry put the phone down slowly. With her hand still resting on it, she tapped one finger pensively.

"Why are you here, James?" she asked curiously.

"Just makin' sure you're alright."

She regarded him thoughtfully. "And why did you answer my phone?"

"Didn't want it to wake you up," he replied, still not sure if he was in trouble or not.

"But it's my phone!"

Ah. He was in trouble. Now that was unfair, considering that last night he had stopped his partner from hurting or embarrassing herself, got her home safely, held her while she cried, and got her into bed when she fell asleep. He scowled. "Harry, I really think you're bein' ungrateful here," he pointed out.

She paused; this was the crucial moment where things would either explode into an argument or fizzle out like a damp match. "Perhaps a little," Harry conceded, and Dempsey smiled with relief. "Though you're apparently my best friend, so you should be able to put up with it," she added dryly, and Dempsey's smile brightened into a grin.

"You know me, I'll put up with anything," he replied. It was as close to a touching remark as he got.

The two friends maintained eye contact for several seconds.

"James…" Harry began tentatively. "Why did you kiss me?"

The grin faded from Dempsey's face as he considered. That was a question he hadn't really considered. He just had, because she was there and she was beautiful and he'd just spent a great few days in her company. The parting had put him in mind of a date, and he'd reacted instinctively. And jealously, put in a small voice. Shut up, he told it. "'Cause I wanted to," he responded as truthfully as he could. It was really all he was sure of; he had wanted to kiss her, so he did.

Harry bit her lip. "Thank you for last night."

He shrugged it off. "What are friends for?"

They exchanged a small smile, and Harry initiated a hug.

"I'll do it again if this is the thanks I get," he said, a smile in his voice. Harry could hear his chest reverberating as he spoke.

She hit him gently on the back, without unwinding her arms. "Shut up, silly," she ordered playfully. She let him go and ran a hand through her hair. "Mmm, I feel grotty. I need to brush my hair."

Dempsey reached out and very deliberately messed up her hair further. "I kinda like it. Makes you look like you just got outta bed." The smirk that accompanied this remark left Harry in no doubt of the implications of it. She should probably tell him off, she thought.

She just laughed. "One day, James, I'll get through a whole conversation with you without you making a single dirty comment."

"Nah, never," he promised, grinning.