I think re-reading Krato's Symphoricarpus had a hand in this.

It was one of the rare occasions on which Spikings had given Dempsey and Makepeace separate assignments. Harry was stuck taking shifts on a long stakeout while Dempsey was in the middle of an undercover operation to flush out a human trafficking ring headed by a medium-rate politician, so they had barely exchanged a 'hello' in a week and a half. By switching shifts, Harry had found a night to meet up with Dempsey and go out. It wasn't ideal - she may have the luxury of the following morning to nurse a hangover, but Dempsey was due at work and so their designated driver - but it was better than nothing.

"It's just so boring, you know," Harry complained, leaning forward earnestly over their table, her upper-class accent more pronounced after the alcohol she had consumed. Dempsey had watched her enviously at first as he sipped at his beer, but soon found that the process of watching Harry get tipsy was almost as entertaining as getting plastered himself. "Sitting there for hours and hours watching this house with nobody in it."

"I have been on a stakeout before you know," he pointed out, wondering at what point 'tipsy' became 'drunk'.

"Isn't it boring?" Harry insisted, then suddenly switched. "I need a vodka and coke," she announced, standing up and disappearing to the bar to order her drink. Dempsey watched the other patrons while he waited. There was a beautiful woman with wavy brown hair not far away, eyeing him up as she swayed her hips to the music. He gave her an appreciative once-over but his eyes continued to travel around the room, to inevitably settle on Harry Makepeace, who just visible through the throng of bodies at the bar. She seemed to be downing a drink, her head tilted back to expose her neck. He forced himself to look away, determinedly turning his thoughts to the case and his gaze to the mass of people moving somehow together on the dancefloor.

Harry returned with her drink. "Hey, you," she said affectionately as she slid into her seat, making Dempsey grin.

"Hey, sexy," he replied, and to his delight she blushed. "Haven't seen you around here before," he teased, both hands firmly holding his pint.

"I'm Harriet Makepeace," she slurred slightly as she replied, playing along.

"Can I call you Harry?"

"Oh no, only my friends call me Harry. You and I hardly know each other."

Dempsey's heart started pounding, his mind racing as he wondered what would have happened if he had met Harry Makepeace on a night out rather than a day at work. She probably wouldn't have given him the time of day. But then, he knew how to be charming when he wanted to be. Maybe he would have been in with a chance after all.

But a chance for what? A night of passion, an awkward breakfast and an insincere promise (by either of them) to meet up again? Was that enough?

He looked into Harry's upturned, smiling face. No, he thought, it wasn't. He loved their history together.

"Jim Dempsey," he said, pretending to introduce himself. "Nice to meet you."

"We should dance," she announced, taking him by the hand and dragging him onto the dance floor. And god, her hand. Holding onto his firmly, assertively. He realised that, despite her growing drunkenness, she was very much in control in this situation.

When they were surrounded by dancers, she turned to face him. "So what do you do, Jim Dempsey?" she asked, carrying on the masquerade as they began to dance.

Dempsey missed the delicate weight of her hand in his. "I'm a cop." Anything else he might have said leaked out of his head when Harry slid her hand around his body to rest on his back, standing at an angle that meant he could feel the press of her hipbone and the shape of her breast against his side. He barely dared to breathe.

As she spun him about, her hand slipped upwards to clasp the back of his neck, and he found himself being pulled down towards her. And then - and then she was kissing him, open-mouthed and bold. A thrill ran through him, and her eyes were closed and he knew he couldn't kiss back but he let his lips part and Harry swiped her tongue decisively against his upper lip.

Oh god, oh god...

He broke the kiss and wrapped his arms around her, nestling his face into her neck. She was too drunk not to regret any of this in the morning, and he did not want to put himself through more than he had to.

Harry made a noise that was somewhere between a laugh and a pleasurable "mmm..."

"I wish you'd do that when you were sober," he admitted in a voice embarrassingly raw with open longing.

"God, me too," Harry said, almost too quiet to hear, touching dangerously low on his back.

Dempsey grinned. That was a confession he would hold onto.

"I'm gonna have to scoot soon," he said carefully, focusing his concentration away from the fingers reaching under his shirt and gently scratching across his skin. "Long day t'morrow."

"Mmm..." she murmured again, and he felt the vibration of her voice against his chest. "Are you asking me to go home with you, Mr Dempsey?" Harry asked playfully.

"I don't think that's a good idea."

"Why not?" she asked, letting go and stepping back. She suddenly seemed all-too serious. "Don't you like me?"

Dempsey instinctively moved back into her personal space. "Because we ain't doin' anything while you're drunk and I don't see why I should torture myself with starin' at ya."

Harry woke up in a strange bed. It was hard to pinpoint how she knew, it just felt different, smelt different. It smelt of aftershave.

When she moved, the hangover slammed into her. "Oh..." she moaned as the headache took hold with a vengeance. She took a moment to breathe slowly, and it was the sharp pang in her chest that reminded her that it was Dempsey's aftershave that she could smell. Ergo, she was in Dempsey's bed.

It took a monumental effort to turn her head enough to see that Dempsey was not in his bed with her. Thank god. She wasn't sure what had happened the night before but she would have been willing to bet money that she had pushed him in some way. With the way she was feeling about him lately, getting so drunk was monumentally stupid.

It was 11 o'clock. She had 4 hours until she had to be in work. Then she noticed the note, propped up on a glass of water and written in a messy mix of upper and lower case.

"Gone to work. Breakfast in the kitchen. D. x

PS say hi to the genie for me."

The genie? What was that about?

She drank the water and gingerly got herself out of (his) bed. After a visit to the bathroom she discovered the two bacon rolls on a plate, sitting on the kitchen counter. The unwashed frying pan in the sink told her he had made them himself - she must have been really out of it if the smell had not woken her up.

Harry sat down with her breakfast and contemplated the night before. She trusted him enough by now that her main concern was with whether she had embarrassed herself (in any case, the blanket crumpled on the sofa revealed where he had slept last night). The evening was little more than a hazy blur but she had the distinct impression that she had been somewhat...eager. She wondered at what point 'tipsy' became 'drunk', and how much of her behaviour could be excused. Hadn't she dragged him off to dance at some point?

Several coffees and a furtive nosy around his flat later, Harry was beginning to feel better; the headache had lessened to a dull throb, but the sound of the telephone still ripped through her brain painfully.

She picked up quickly, just to stop the noise. "Hello?" Her voice was slightly hoarse.

"Mornin', Princess," came Dempsey's too-cheerful voice. "How you feelin'?"

"Like a tank ran over me."

"Ha! That's my girl."

"Is there a reason you're destroying my peace and quiet?"

"Just makin' sure you're awake for your shift."

"How kind," she said ironically.

"And checkin' up on you," he added more gently.

"I'll live. I didn't make too much of a fool of myself last night, did I?" Harry had to ask.

"You were magnificent," Dempsey replied, and Harry wasn't sure if he was being sarcastic. There was a pause. "You spoke to that genie yet?"

"Yes, what was that about?"

"You don't remember?"

"Nothing about genies, no."

"They grant wishes, ya know."

"Three of them, I seem to recall. How is that relevant?"

Another hesitation. She could picture him with his mouth open, waiting for the words to come. "Just that, you did somethin' great last night and we both wished you'd do it again."

Harry started panicking silently. She had assumed the genie was a simple in-joke. "And what was that?"

"I think that's up to you to talk to the genie about," he said.

"Dempsey..." she began warningly, but he interrupted.

"Why don't you go back to my place tonight?"

"I'm on shift until 11."

"I'll wait," he said softly.

"Why?"

"You'll be closer to mine than yours."

"No, I meant -"

"I gotta go, Harry. See ya tonight, ha?"

"But -"

The phone cut out. She put it down slowly and frowned at it. Something they both wished she would do again? She shook her head, bemused. The bloody man was like a cryptic crossword.

Harry smiled. At least she had something to look forward to at the end of a long, cold stakeout.

There's gonna be a second part to this soon but I'm not sure when. Seems I just can't stay away from this pair!