Disclaimer - Umm, ABC and whoever else is involved in making NYPD Blue own the characters. No profit is being made, yadda yadda.
Set between the events of 'These Shoots Are Made For Joaquin' and 'Brothers Under Arms'. Rated PG-13. A little vignette.
*
Shadows moved, dancing at his request. When he moved his hand the shadow moved too; a silent partner. When he extended a finger the shadow grew with it, longer...darker? That probably shouldn't have been possible, but that really wasn't what he was thinking about.
Lying on his too big bed in his too small apartment, Harry Denby held his hand over the lamp sitting on the dresser that was facing the ceiling.
Making shadows.
He moved; they moved. It was quite possibly the most perfect form of an absolute he had ever witnessed.
Yet within the shadows...within the dog he formed with his fingers and the thing that was supposed to be a rabbit but ended up looking like an elephant...was her.
Diane.
Diane.
Diane Russell.
Diane...
Diane Russell from the 15th.
Ah, but she was an interesting one. So good but such an interesting background. So dedicated to her friends.
Raising his arm higher and cupping his hands together, he could almost capture her face. Right...there. Her face would fit right there. He could fit. Perfect. It fit perfectly.
He laughed to himself silently then ended it with one loud chuckle and shook his head.
Lowering his hands he rolled on the bed until he sat on the edge of it. Reaching for the bottle next to the lamp he filled the glass next to that, knocking off a piece of foil in the process. Gasping he grabbed for it, spilling his drink on himself but catching what he wanted. Reverently he carefully placed the foil on the side, then swallowed the contents of the glass in one gulp. Hissing to himself he shoved the glass back on the dresser, then rolled until once again he lied on his back, arms folded up and behind him so his head rested on his palms.
This time he didn't make shadow puppets.
He just stared at the ceiling.
Stared.
Stared.
Thinking, or trying not to.
"You like her, huh?"
He considered ignoring Don's question, but hell, the man had done enough for him. "She likes me."
Don snorted, sitting in his chair by the window, occasionally looking out. He was smoking a cigar - something he indulged in rarely, and the smoke pirouetted up, leaving faint trails behind. "Good to see that presumptuousness going strong. Don't know if you're her type or not, though."
"Really?"
"You didn't know Bobbi, did ya?"
"Nope. Not personally." They both knew that he had read Bobbi's file.
"Let's just say there were a lot of upset people when he died."
"Are you saying there won't be a lot of upset people when I die? 'Cause I gotta tell ya Don, that hurts. Deep, wounding, unforgiving. Kinda like Christ on the cross."
Laughing at his sarcasm, Don tapped his cigar on the edge of the ashtray resting on the window sill. "Want me to lie to ya?"
"Nah," Denby shook his head, still lying on the bed and still staring at the ceiling. "I don't even kid myself that you'll miss me. Not even for my stunning presence and simply unforgettable appearance."
"'s good to know where you stand," Don agreed, nodding. "It's all about the money."
"The money," Denby repeated, but as he stared at the ceiling...
...he could still see Diane.
He'd only seen her an hour ago, and he was looking forward to seeing her again tomorrow morning already.
"You know," Don began, looking out the window in interest as a cop car went driving by, sirens blaring "you're gonna have to look wasted the next time you see her."
Wondering if Don could read his mind - although said mind was so wasted it was probably unlikely - Denby smiled and sat up. His vision swam and darkened immediately and...
...dark
death
rush
buzz
pushing
probing
shadow
broken
falling
falling
light
devil
pale
red
brown
hair...
...his vision cleared.
"You okay?"
Don was looking down at him, and it took Denby a few moments to realise why he had to look up at Don. He was lying on the floor, sweat covering his body. "Fine." He managed. "Just got up too fast."
"Need some help?"
Now there was an indignity. "No. I think I'll stay here for a while. Reminds me of where I came from."
"Okay," the other man shrugged, then moved back to his chair where he continued his observation through the window.
On the too hard floor of his too small apartment, Harry Denby just stared at the ceiling.
Just stared.
~FINIS