Forty-Seven Days
AUTHOR: Lucky.
DISCLAIMER: Except for the creations of the author, all characters, characterizations, situations, and locations described in this unsolicited and not-for-profit work of fiction are the property of ABC Television, Capitol Cities, Inc., Steven Bochco Productions, the many talented people who created the world of NYPD Blue, and the actors who have made that world such a lively place. The author would also like to extend her personal gratitude to Mr. Scott Cohen for his light, his vitality, his inspiration, and for being such a compelling muse. Thank you, sir.
FEEDBACK: To Lucky
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Forty-seven days is the
interval of time between Mardi Gras and Easter Sunday.
She looked through the peephole, then drew a sharp gasp and flung the door open.
"Why did you wait so long?" she demanded, grabbing the front of his shirt and forcibly dragging him into her apartment.
"Well, I wanted to make sure..." His words muffled into quiet moans against her rough welcoming kiss, then, "... that you would miss me."
She shut her door, shoving him back against it with a thump. "I was starting to think something went wrong, Denby."
He ran his hands over her arms with a reassuring grin. "No, baby. You did just fine."
She pushed his hands up and started going through the pockets of his coat.
"Hey, hey, hey," he giggled, flattening himself back against the door and putting his hands to either side of his head. "Don't you have to Mirandize me or something first?"
"No, but if you'd like to exercise your right to remain silent right now, I'd appreciate it."
He grabbed both of her wrists and pulled up, bringing her flush against his body with a jerk. "You're pretty cocky for someone fraternizing with the dead," he growled, teasing her mouth with his as he spoke.
"And you're pretty grabby for someone fraternizing with the lady who killed you," she whispered back.
He groaned aloud, his breath catching on the shiver that went up his back. "You have just permanently popped that spring in my self- control mechanism, haven't you?" He laced his fingers through hers and brought his hands down behind her back, capturing her entirely.
She tilted her head back and looked into his eyes.
"Oops."
He spun her around, pressing her back against the door hard enough to make the frame crackle. "Diane..." he lamented, passing his words over her lips. "Diane, what have I done to deserve such cruelty?"
She curved in towards him, even as he forced her back. "You like it and you know it." She let out a squeak of bright, excited pain as he threw himself into her body, sinking his teeth into her neck. Her fingers began to pale and tingle in his grip, but still she taunted him, panting, "You are rough with your toys, aren't you, Harry?"
He lifted his head to murmur in her ear. "Is that all you think you are, goddess?"
"I know I am," she returned, feeling the physical reaction in his body as she twisted his ego painfully.
He let out a wounded squeal, banging the door on its hinges as he pounded her against it. "Oh, god, I'm so crazy..." he rasped. "I'm so crazy..." He bit her, leaving a trail of marks up her neck. "Hurt me again... please..."
She turned her head, bringing her mouth to his ear, moving in for the kill. "I love you."
He froze and trembled as she blew all his fuses at once, collapsing utterly against her in this release he could find in no other person. In this brilliant flash of human eyes and phoenix fire, she was the only one who could lay him out in his own cooling blood and rise him again as the moment of every dawn through time. She loved him. Buried there within her chastity he would never abide to break with his filth, still, she loved him.
How did she know how to love him?
"Harry?"
He could only whimper weakly in response.
"Are you ready, now?"
He took a few ragged breaths, then shook his head against her shoulder. "I can't," he whispered. "Not yet." After a few more breaths, he braced a little and dragged himself away from her. "I'm not enough." He straightened himself out, avoiding her eyes, then pulled the videotape she'd been frisking him for earlier out of his coat.
She took the tape and set it down on the table beside the door, then reached up to cup his jaw, drawing his eyes to hers. "Promise me, Harry. Promise I'll be with you someday."
He drew her hand to his mouth with soft, reverent kisses. "You've always been with me, Diane." Gently, he pulled her into his arms again, turning slowly as he kissed her. She heard the doorknob turn with a quiet click and squeezed her eyes shut, praying again for the miracle that would stop time in this one moment. Just this once.
But he was gone.
She waited, blinking for the tears that never quite seemed to come, staring at the DEA surveillance tape she'd asked for, the record of her atonement to him. His forgiveness of her. She remembered the feel of the gun as she'd fired those shots, the force of creation in her hands. When he had come, again, begging for his death, she knew she could never kill him.
But she could bear him again.
She picked up the tape. Eventually, someone would find out. Someone would see that he returned and she would be called to Golgotha, to bear his stain and punishment as a traitor. But nothing about that mattered now. He had emblazoned her with his image, and she would wear him forever. Harry Denby was the one thing she never thought she'd have to do, but he was the one thing she had done right.
She took the tape over to her television and started up her player, mentally preparing herself to watch him die again.
And wait again for his return.
The End.
