Dance With Me
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.
In keeping with the Blue format of "leaving plot points hanging for
weeks", this scene starts about a week after Posey and Sherill have
their discussion in the office. Posey and Harry are out on
assignment.
FEEDBACK: To Lucky
"Tell me again why we're going here."
"Because this is where the bad guys hang out. Now shut up and look slutty."
"I feel like Wrong Side Of The Tracks Barbie. Did you look specifically for a skirt that wouldn't cover my whole butt?"
Harry's eyes sparkled in the streetlight dim. "Yep."
Posey fluttered her lashes at him, feigning bewildered indignation. "Why?"
"Because you'll be sitting in my lap the whole time. A guy can dream, can't he?" His hand slid over the warm skin of black leather that cupped her backside, fiddling with the indecently high hemline. She flapped at him with a halfhearted sigh.
"Did I tell you that I don't speak French?"
"Prostitutes don't speak."
"What if I'm spoken to?"
"If you're addressed specifically, just look at me. Trust me, they won't expect a whore to talk while her pimp is there. Besides, all that'll be addressed to you are dirty remarks that don't deserve an answer anyway."
Posey sighed again, straightening her little tiny denim jacket around her shoulder holster. "Why am I the only one who's armed?"
Harry sighed back this time. "We went over this in the office. I'll get patted down and you won't. The French may be a lot of things, but they aren't stupid enough to put their hands on a prostitute while her pimp is there. Jesus, will you trust me already? As much as you're keeping me safe, I'm keeping you safe."
"Fine, okay. So what's my attitude supposed to be towards you. Am I supposed to be scared of you, in love with you, what?"
Harry pulled her around in front of him, speaking with slow purpose as his hands slipped over the curve of her skirt again. "Abject worship."
Posey ran her blood red nails over his black tee, sliding her hands under the leather jacket over his shoulders. "I can do that."
He nuzzled at her. "I figured it wouldn't be much of a stretch from garden variety worship into abjection."
She accepted his little kiss, then spoke again. "Okay, what if stuff goes out of control. When do I drop on them?"
"I'll tell you when. Listen for the word 'papillon'."
"What does that mean?"
Harry grinned. "Mariposa."
"'Papillon' is 'butterfly' in French?"
He let his head fall back with a sigh. "It's so much less romantic when you analyze the crap out of it, woman."
"Excuse me? We're about to infiltrate the French Connection here and you're thinking about romance?"
"I'm always thinking about romance, love."
"No, you're always thinking about sex. There's a difference."
Harry eyed her. "Didn't I tell you to shut up and look slutty?"
Posey slung her arms over his shoulders. "I'll bet you say that to all the girls."
"And not a damn one of 'em listens."
Just as their mouths met, a rattling string of French bounced towards them off the buildings. Posey didn't understand a word of it, but Harry blew out a little sigh and pressed his forehead to hers with a whisper.
"Pardon, cheri." He turned away, holding onto her hand, and slung a bunch of French back in the general direction of the shouter.
Posey strained to see the man who approached them, knowing that part of her purpose in the operation was to memorize the players. He was a young man, dressed head to toe in faded blue denim, with a head full of rusty blond spikes and a faceful of stubble. As he closed the distance between them, she saw that he was shorter even than her, the top of his head falling well below Harry's shoulder. He and Harry had what seemed like a pleasant exchange, then the man turned away, motioning after himself. Posey only caught the last two words of what he said with her Sesame Street level understanding of French.
"... avec moi."
Harry started after him, tugging on Posey's arm with a sharp order. "Suivez-moi." She, of course, had no idea what he was telling her to do, but judging by his body language, it was probably "follow me."
The man led them to what looked like a closed down bar with French words carved into the darkened sign. Quickly, Harry leaned down to whisper in Posey's ear.
"It says 'A Common Revolution'. Remember it."
She nodded and followed him through the door that their escort held open for them, feeling the short man's eyes rake her barely clad backside as she passed him. The man stopped them there and spoke to Harry, lifting his arms and running his hands down the length of his body. As he backed away, he asked a question and Harry met him with a terse denial, sliding his arm around Posey's waist and pulling her into the curve of his hip. Something that sounded like an argument ensued, the man speaking with rapid passion and Harry raising his voice as he became adamant. Whatever the man wanted to do, Harry really didn't want him to do it, and it had to do directly with her. That much was clear. Posey snapped to, figuring it out.
He wants my jacket. Posey started to shiver, gazing up at Harry and shaking her head a little. Harry gave her a kind smile and began explaining to the man. Finally, the Frenchman tossed his hands into the air in capitulation and turned away again, leading them to a small, lit room at the rear of the dark tavern, still speaking rapidly over his shoulder. Harry let him rattle to himself for a second, leaning down again to whisper.
"Nice catch."
She flashed him a smile and wound her arms around his, leaning her head against his shoulder and acting as much like his lapdog as she could.
The back room bore the distinctive construction of a storeroom, but was appointed like a baroque-era parlor, full of richly colored prints and soft chamber music. Three more men waited for them there, seated on an eclectic variety of French Provincial-style furnishings. Harry greeted the men and they rose as one to exchange pleasantries with him. Their voices held the unwary air of a first meeting, but Harry's exquisite tongue seemed to settle the Frenchmen a bit. After a few moments of first contact, the oldest of the men gestured towards a comfortable-looking chair and Harry led Posey to it, seating himself and pulling her down into his lap. The four other men offered lecherous sounding comments, leering at her, and Harry laughed right along with them. Posey lowered her eyes to her lap, assuming that it was her place not to interfere. Harry slipped a finger beneath her chin and lifted her eyes to his, speaking in a tone of voice reserved for a slow child and nodding carefully. Posey picked up on the only thing she understood and nodded back, smiling vacantly. The other men in the room burst into laughter as Harry slid his jaw along hers, murmuring to her in French and nipping at her ear.
Posey bit back her true reaction, reminding herself firmly that she was on the clock. Buddy, if we weren't knee-deep in international criminals right now... In the middle of everything, covered by the sound of laughter, Harry whispered something she did understand.
"The biggest one an armed runner. Watch him." He pulled his head back and looked into her face with a pasted on smile and eyes that asked for her comprehension. She pasted on her own smile and blinked at him purposefully. His smile came true as he cradled her jaw, pressing her head down to his shoulder.
"C'est bien." His hand ran down her body and tucked itself between her thighs as he continued to converse casually with the other men. Posey tried to ignore the way his thumb stroked her skin and lifted her eyes enough to see the man Harry had told her about. He was big, at least six and a half feet tall, with the frame of a defensive lineman. He'd left his place on the couch and taken a post by the door. Lifting her eyes a little further, she caught his face. He was ugly as the back of a bus, with a stringy mess of dirt brown hair and brows that met over the bridge of his obviously broken nose. He caught her looking and her stomach actually twisted as she found herself having to pretend to flirt with him.
Harry, get me out of here... She tightened the muscle in her thigh convulsively and felt Harry's head turn to look at the runner. He delivered something that sounded like an insult and the big man hoisted a meaty finger up in Posey's direction, clearly defending himself by saying that she started it.
Typical.
Harry's hand came up again, lifting her eyes to his. He spoke to her in a low, warning voice, his eyes bright with the game he was playing. Posey shook her head and Harry became more forceful, holding her head still and hissing through his teeth. She made her eyes as round as she could, pretending to be afraid of him, trying to turn away. The older man broke in, speaking soothingly to Harry. He released her head and she turned in time to field a kind smile and a fatherly wink from the gentleman across the room.
What did that man just save me from? Truly, the only word Harry had said that she understood was "meurtre". Murder. French prostitutes is a serious business, I guess.
Harry went back to all but ignoring her, starting in on an angry sounding tirade. The older man returned his fire, but not his anger. As the conversation flew back and forth, Harry became more and more agitated, and Posey got the feeling he wasn't acting anymore.
Something is wrong. This isn't going the way he wants it to. She brought her hand around to the space between his shoulderblades and drew question marks with her fingertip. He slipped his hand back between her thighs and traced something. It took her a few repetitions to catch it, but he was writing 'ok'. No danger, just a disagreement. She pressed the flat of her palm over her question marks and just tried to keep up with what was going on.
After several minutes of heated discussion, Harry set Posey on her feet with a shove and stood behind her, still offering pointed comments to the older man. The other man stood as well, but all he did was hold out his palms and repeat, "Je suis d�sol�... Je suis d�sol�..."
Harry tossed a hand up at him and shouted, "Inutile!" Then he grabbed Posey's arm and stomped towards the door, snarling something at the runner that not only made him step aside, but stare at his feet as he did so. Posey was forced into a jerky trot in order to keep up with Harry as he blasted back through the dark tavern and out onto the street. The short man who had first approached him came out right behind them, shouting beseechingly. Harry flapped a hand at him and growled back. Whatever he said placated the man and he went back inside.
As soon as they were far enough away, Posey started pulling on Harry's arm. "Slow down. I can't run in these shoes anymore."
"Poor you," Harry let out in an impatient puff, but he slacked his stride a little to accommodate her.
She let him go completely, dropping behind him as she took up a pace more suited to three-inch heels. He whipped around with a hiss.
"We can't be separated. By now Roux has a track on us and if we screw up, we'll both get killed."
"I can't go that fast," she hissed back. "My feet don't care how mad you are."
He'd stopped long enough for her to catch up and as soon as she was within arm's reach, he snapped her up against his body. "I don't know if you realize this, but we're dealing with an international espionage ring, okay? Your feet are gonna care when there's a tag hanging off one of them in the morgue."
"Just tell me what went wrong."
He rolled his eyes. "What went wrong is I screwed up and spoke Quebecois to a Parisian. That's what went wrong."
"How could they tell?"
"The same way you can tell I'm from the Bronx and I can tell you're from Detroit."
"Oh..."
Harry nodded a little. "'Oh' is right. Can we talk about this in the car?"
"Fine."
"Fine." Harry turned, taking her by the arm again, but managing to walk a little slower this time. She followed after him in silence until they came up on the big blue Park Avenue parked illegally close to the corner. Harry took her around to the passenger side and let her in first, sending a stream of profanity into the night as he spied the parking ticket tucked under the left-hand windshield wiper. She slipped into the leather seat and watched him walk around the front of the car, snapping the ticket up and tossing it into the street. His mouth moved nonstop, but she couldn't hear his voice until he opened his door.
"... such fuckin' morons. How much did the city spend on computers for the damn patrol cars? You think they'd figure out how to run a fuckin' plate. Little bagged-up stoner shitheads, I swear..." He jammed the key in the ignition and brought the car up with a painful roar as he continued swearing at the street guys. "They put me out in the middle of the night, driving the fuckin' company yacht, with my partner who I have to worry not only about getting her killed but possibly raped as well..." He clamped down on the accelerator, making the tires whine at the sudden movement as he pulled out into the dead street. "... and these assholes have the nerve to pin their little scraps of castigation to one of their own fucking cars. Unbelievable!"
Drowned out by the sound of his seething and shouting, Posey carefully reached into her coat and clicked the stop button on the tape recorder she was carrying.
Harry fell into a silent rage, propping his elbow against the door and covering his mouth with his fingers. Posey couldn't know for sure, but she guessed she felt just about as bad as he did.
For another reason entirely.
After several minutes of total quiet, Harry rearranged his arms, putting the hand that was over his mouth on the wheel and holding the other one up between himself and Posey. Hesitantly, Posey slipped her hand into his.
I am such a fool.
Harry squeezed her hand a little, sensing the tiny moment of something being wrong.
"What?"
Posey shook her head quickly, trying to cover the truth. "Nothing, I just... I've never seen you so angry is all."
Harry gave a quiet chuckle and pulled on her hand. "Slide over here, baby." She hesitated again and he pulled on her again. "Come on. We've got the room in the land barge." She slid her frame over on the seat until she was pressed up against him, curling in against his chest as he stroked her back. Harry dropped a kiss into her hair. "Are you feeling okay?"
I feel sick to my stomach. "I'm fine, it's just..." Her guts twisted in on her. "I can't..." She gathered a handful of his shirt in the convulsive fist she suddenly held to his chest.
"Hey, hey, hey..." His voice came down around her like warm rain in the night and she felt the car come to a careful stop along the side of the street. He turned to her, lifting her face in his hands. "My god, I didn't scare you that bad, did I?"
She touched his hands, his face, her brain racing. I can't do this to him. He has a right to know. Slowly, she reached into her jacket and pulled out the recorder, watching his eyes ice over.
"I have something I need to tell you, Harry."
Continued in Part 3.
