Fic: Once and Future
Title: Once and Future
Author: amedia
Pairings: Harris/Dietrich, Wojo/Wentworth
Rating: PG
Summary: Harris and Dietrich move back in together.
Word Count: 6413
Note: Published in Diverse Doings 9, May 2002. 2003 Fan Q Award winner. Beta'd by TODS.
Disclaimer: No infringement intended.
Part One: Together
The evening after the 12th Precinct's last day was a sober one. Wojo had a date and Barney was going home to Liz; Harris and Dietrich wound up going out to dinner almost by default.
"You're uncharacteristically quiet, Arthur," Harris said when their entrées arrived. "Cat got your tongue?"
"No," Dietrich said. "I just ..." He trailed off. "I can't," he said finally, turning his attention to his plate.
Harris, about to take a bite, put his fork back down. "Oh, come off it, man," he said. "Not that damned cat-and-mouse game again. If you've got something to say, just say it. I'm not gonna ask again."
Dietrich laughed ruefully. "For once, it's not deliberate. Honestly, I'm not trying to be passive-aggressive. There's something I want to say, but I have serious reservations about even broaching the topic."
"Reservations?" Harris asked, his interest piqued in spite of his earlier disclaimer. He and Dietrich hadn't been particularly involved for several months; he was beginning to think it was over and was surprised how much regret he felt.
"Yeah, reservations. For one thing, when duty and inclination seem to coincide, it's impossible to determine whether one is truly acting in a disinterested fashion." Harris rolled his eyes. Dietrich continued. "Furthermore, I don't want to put you in an impossible position for my own selfish reasons."
Harris couldn't resist. "I thought there were no impossible positions. Aren't you the one with the copy of the Kama Sutra in the original Sanskrit?" He had the satisfaction of seeing Dietrich blush.
"Fine," Dietrich said, clearly irritated. "If you don't take my ethical concerns seriously, then I suppose I shouldn't either. So here goes." He took a deep breath and spoke very quickly. "Why don't you request a year of leave and come live with me and finish your book and pay me back the rent when the book sells."
Harris stared at him open-mouthed. Finally he said, "That's about the last thing I would have expected you to say."
Dietrich shrugged. "Nice to know I can still surprise you." He attacked his meal; Harris followed suit, and they were both silent for the next few minutes.
"Why do you consider this to be putting me in an impossible position?" Harris asked suddenly. "It's an incredible offer."
"An offer you can't refuse?" Dietrich asked with a trace of a sardonic smile. "That's exactly why. It would be hard for you to turn down. But I'd just be using you."
"What do you mean?" Harris asked. "It seems more like the other way around to me. What would you get out of it?" Dietrich didn't answer. "Arthur, you're not envisioning me as a gigolo, are you?"
Dietrich looked up, startled, and Harris could see that the thought hadn't crossed his mind. "No, I can't take credit for anything that imaginative."
"Then why do you want me to live with you?" Harris pressed.
"Because I'm afraid," Dietrich said, very softly. "Everything's ending, everything's changing all at once. And I don't want to be alone."
Harris wanted to speak, but something caught in his throat. He reached out impulsively, putting a hand on Dietrich's arm. After a moment, he withdrew it and said brightly, "I am not giving up my hardwood floors." Dietrich appeared to be about to speak, but Harris held up a finger. "You can move in with me." It was Dietrich's turn to gape, and Harris realized with satisfaction that Dietrich hadn't expected him to agree. "Nice to know I can still surprise you," he added.
"But you've only got one bed," Dietrich objected, sounding slightly dazed.
"So?" Harris challenged. "It's a queen size. Big enough for … well, you know what it's big enough for, Arthur."
Nine weeks later, Harris was wondering if the move had been such a good idea after all. For one thing, he still had writer's block. For another, Dietrich seemed to get crankier by the day, and while he always apologized, his snappishness was getting on Harris' nerves.
"Of course you had a bad day!" Harris said, cutting off another lackluster apology. "You haven't had a good day since the 12th was broken up. That was two months ago, Arthur--get over it!"
"That's easy for you to say," Dietrich shot back. "Easy for you to sit here and be judgmental when you don't have to deal with it." Even as he said it, he knew it wasn't fair. He hadn't told Harris much about his new assignment; Harris couldn't be blamed for not knowing what he hadn't been told.
"Easy? Maybe you'd like to trade places. At least I'm trying to make something of myself. You could be just about anything." Harris didn't try to hide the resentment in his voice. "You've thrown away opportunities some people would give their eyeteeth for."
"So I'm content where I am!" Dietrich shouted back. "So sue me!" Harris winced; the reminder of Ripner's lawsuit was painful, and he was sure it was deliberate. "Do you want me to apologize for being happy?"
Harris bit back an angry response; something Dietrich had said sparked his curiosity. Harris looked closely at his roommate. Dietrich looked exhausted, more weary than a day's work would account for. Stress and fatigue etched his features and shadowed his eyes. Harris put out a tentative hand to touch Dietrich's arm. "Arthur, I don't think you're happy," he said quietly.
For a moment, Dietrich met his eyes candidly, and it seemed that he was on the verge of admitting that Harris was right. Then it was as if a door closed somewhere, and Dietrich resumed his usual noncommittal expression. "I think that's for me to judge," he said coolly.
"You're shutting me out again," Harris said angrily. He grabbed Dietrich's shoulders and shook him slightly. "I thought we …" he stopped. What was he going to say? He and Dietrich had laid down some ground rules before Dietrich moved in, but they dealt with matters like who made the coffee and who did the laundry. Emotional involvement was something they just didn't talk about. There were no ground rules. "I thought you could be honest with me."
Dietrich reached up and pushed Harris' hands off his shoulders. His voice was expressionless. "I didn't move in here to burden you."
"You think I enjoy watching you suffer?" Harris snapped. "Seeing you miserable, having you shut me out?" He flopped down in a chair. "Don't do me any favors."
"It's always about you, isn't it?" Dietrich actually raised his voice. "You are the most self-centered, narcissistic, and irritating individual that it has ever been my displeasure to encounter."
"Then why the hell do you put up with me?" Harris demanded.
"Because I love you, you selfish jerk!" Dietrich shouted. He stopped dead, as if realizing that he had broken one of their unwritten rules. Without looking at Harris, he stormed into the bedroom and slammed the door.
Harris couldn't begin to sort out the cacophony of feelings that were clamoring for attention in his mind. Somewhere between anger, concern, astonishment, and something else that he was afraid to identify, he decided to shut it all down and focus on something else for a while. He sat at the typewriter, rolled a piece of paper in, and stared at it. Serve that son of a bitch right if I just write him out, he thought, anger coming to the top of the churning mixture. Transfer his character to another precinct. No, better--kill him off. He juggled possibilities in his mind; the thought of taking revenge in print was sweet. Might just want to do it for fun as a writing exercise. It doesn't have to go into the book.
Thirty pages later, Harris looked up at the clock. He didn't want to stop, but sheer exhaustion was finally winning out. He went back to the first page, crossed most of it out, and rewrote the opening paragraph. Reading it over, he flicked the page crisply with a finger and nodded to himself.
As I tossed the first clump of dirt into my partner's open grave, I knew how I should have felt. I should have felt grief for the friend I had lost. I should have felt fear at the reminder of my own mortality. I should have felt regret that our last conversation had been a quarrel. But all I felt was hatred for the bastard who had gunned him down, and an unshakable determination to bring him to justice.
--R.N. Harris, Badge of Death
"Arthur, wake up." Harris shook Dietrich's shoulder.
Dietrich blinked at him. "What's the matter? What time is it?"
Harris sat down on the bed next to him and handed Dietrich his glasses. "Nothing's the matter," he said. "You've got to read this." He held out a sheaf of papers. "Please."
Dietrich put his glasses on and looked at the clock. "Harris, it's two o'clock in the morning!"
"Just a few pages," Harris cajoled.
"Oh, I s'pose," Dietrich said grumpily. "Seeing as how I'm already awake." He sat up, took the sheaf of papers, and began reading. Harris put a pencil on the nightstand within Dietrich's reach and quietly left the room.
Harris got out a fresh sheet of paper and began making handwritten notes for the next two chapters. After a little while he realized that Dietrich either had decided to read the whole thing, or had fallen asleep again. He tiptoed to the bedroom door and peeped in. Dietrich was sitting up, pencil in hand, halfway through the material Harris had given him.
Harris smiled to himself and stole back to his desk. He was deep in rumination on the best dramatic strategy for the discovery of an important clue to the murderer's identity when Dietrich's voice broke in upon his thoughts.
"I finished it."
Harris turned around and looked up to see Dietrich standing right next to him, wrapped in a rumpled bathrobe. "You startled me, man!" He scrutinized Dietrich's face, but couldn't read his expression. "So, what did you think?"
Dietrich handed him back the manuscript. "I think it's the finest writing you've ever done." He stood silently for some time, then spoke slowly and thoughtfully. "It's a very honest and courageous piece of work. It has more of your heart and soul in it than I've ever seen in your writing before."
Harris hesitated. He had begun out of sheer exasperation, but as he worked his way into the story, he knew that he was drawing upon the deeper conflicts and emotions that fueled his tempestuous interactions with Dietrich. Finally he said simply, "I wrote what I felt.
"
Dietrich nodded. "I made a few notes here and there," he said. "But right now I really need to get back to bed." He took a few steps toward the bedroom, then stopped and turned back to Harris. "And I'm sorry about what I said earlier. I shouldn't have blown up at you like that."
Harris got up from his chair. "I deserved every word of it," he said.
Dietrich considered that. "Well, yeah," he said. "I suppose so."
"Hey, you were supposed to disagree with me," Harris said in mock indignation.
Dietrich smiled. "Me? Disagree with you? Perish the thought."
Harris wasn't sure how to respond; he didn't know what else to say that wouldn't threaten their fragile truce. Dietrich was standing just a few steps away, but the distance seemed insurmountable. "You go on back to bed, Arthur," Harris finally said, returning the smile. "I'll be along in just a minute."
Dietrich crawled back into bed, thoroughly drained and grateful to be horizontal. Despite his exhaustion, his mind kept cranking around and around, tossing up snippets from Harris' new manuscript, snatches of their argument earlier, and stray images from the day.
He didn't hear Harris' footsteps, but he heard the bedsprings creak and felt the weight on the mattress shift as Harris settled into bed next to him.
They had been sleeping next to each other, scarcely touching, for more than a week now. Dietrich was pleasantly surprised, therefore, when Harris curled up close behind him, wrapping an arm around his middle. He was even more surprised when Harris spoke.
"Arthur, have I told you lately that I love you?"
"You've never told me that you love me," Dietrich answered. Harris tightened his grip and snuggled closer. Dietrich went on. "Of course, you didn't need to. I've known all along."
He felt, more than heard, Harris' chuckling. "Bullshit," Harris said, taking the sting out of his words by nuzzling the back of Dietrich's neck.
"You don't believe me?"
"I never believe you," Harris answered.
"Ah," Dietrich said, amused. "A wise policy."
"But I do love you."
Dietrich rolled onto his back so he could look into Harris' face. "And earlier, when I said I loved you, did you believe me?"
"I didn't have to," Harris said, tapping Dietrich lightly on the nose. "I already knew."
"Now who's doing the bullshitting?"
Things got better after that; Dietrich didn't seem happier about work, exactly, but it didn't seem to bother him as much. And Harris' writing was going well. It wasn't long before he sent a draft of the novel to his agent, and after several phone conversations, made an appointment to discuss it in person.
The agent's office was not far from Dietrich's new precinct. After the appointment, Harris decided on impulse to stop by.
The building couldn't be more different from the rundown structure that had housed the 12th Precinct. Square and ultramodern, it fairly gleamed in the sunlight. Inside, though, it looked cold and sterile; it lacked not only clutter, but personality. Harris walked into the squadroom and looked around. There were four desks, three of which were occupied. A couple of people glanced up at him and went back to their work. No one said a word.
After a minute, Harris said, "Excuse me."
The nearest detective looked up. "May I help you?" she asked reluctantly.
Harris fought down his irritation. "I'm looking for Arthur Dietrich," he said. "My name is Ron Harris. I used to work with him at the 12th Precinct."
"He's out on a case," she said and went back to her paperwork.
Harris looked at the nameplate on her desk. "When do you expect him back, Detective Morales?"
She shrugged. "No idea. You can wait for him if you want." She pointed to the vacant desk. "Over there."
"Thanks," Harris said, trying not to sound sarcastic. He sat down in the chair next to Dietrich's desk and pulled some paperwork to review out of his briefcase. He looked up when he heard his name.
"Ron Harris," one of the other detectives was saying, mostly to himself. "I know that name … Hey!" he snapped his finger and pointed at Harris. "You're the guy who wrote that book, aren't you?
Harris smiled. No matter how many times it happened, the thrill of being recognized for his work never grew stale. Especially when it came from a fellow member of the police force. "Yes, that's right. In fact, I'm just finished the sequel."
"Well, I really liked it," the man said. "Oh, I'm Peter Andersen." He held out his hand and Harris shook it. The atmosphere seemed to grow a little friendlier. "It's not often you find someone who tells it like it is."
"Hey, is all that stuff in the book really true?" Morales suddenly asked.
"Well," Harris hedged, "it was based on real events and real people."
"I wondered about that," she said, "I'd heard stories about what your captain was like before I read the book, and I didn't believe anyone could be such a goody two-shoes."
"You know," Andersen added, "around here they call him 'Bleeding Heart Barney.'"
"Anyway," she went on, "then I read your book and thought, 'What do you know, there he is!'"
"Whaddaya know," Harris said coldly. "It wasn't my intention to mock my fellow officers."
The third detective, a younger man who had not yet spoken, broke into the awkward silence. "Dietrich still out on that junkie-murder case?"
"Yeah," said the woman who had spoken to Harris. "Said he had a lead."
"Don't know why he's putting in so much time," said the younger detective. "It's NHI."
Harris tried not to show that he was taken aback. The expression "no humans involved" had never been tolerated at the 12th Precinct. "We're here to protect everyone," Barney had once lectured a transfer who had used the term. "Even the people we don't like. Even the people who don't like us." Barney had really worked up a head of steam by the end of the speech, stabbing his finger down to make the point as he insisted, "They are ALL humans!"
He was saved from having to respond by the opening of the door. Dietrich came in, carrying a sheaf of papers and looking discouraged. Andersen spoke up. "Hey, Dietrich, there's someone here to see you."
As Dietrich's eyes fell on him, Harris braced himself; he hadn't told Dietrich he was coming and he wasn't sure how his partner would feel about the intrusion.
Dietrich look startled, but recovered swiftly, smiled, and crossed the room. "Ron, what a pleasure to see you!" he said, shaking Harris' right hand with both of his own. "What are you doing in this neck of the woods?"
Harris smiled back. "Meeting with my agent. Got some good news, too. Can I take you to lunch?" Dietrich had put on company manners with skill and speed, but Harris had seen his initial reaction from across the room. He felt pleased, almost proprietary--he'd never seen Dietrich's eyes light up like that for anyone else.
At lunch, Harris took a long look at Dietrich and finally asked, "Arthur, why didn't you tell me?"
"Tell you what?"
"Don't play dumb."
"I know what you mean. But I couldn't put it into words. What am I supposed to say?' He put on a pretended whining tone. "'Ron, the people I work with aren't nice.'" He laughed, a little sadly, and resumed his normal voice. "They're not crooked. They're not incompetent. And it's not like I can't trust them to watch my back when we're out on a call." He shrugged. "It's just not the 12th."
"It's more than just not the 12th," Harris said. "Those people are burned out. Their hearts aren't in it. The whole atmosphere in there is bleak and petty and soul-sapping."
"And you figured all this out after what, fifteen minutes?" Dietrich asked coldly. "That's quite a snap judgment."
Harris waited a moment. "And ...?"
"And what?"
"I'm waiting for you to tell me that I'm wrong." Dietrich didn't look at him. "You know I'm right. You don't belong there, Arthur."
"Tell me something I don't know," Dietrich said. Then he brightened. "But hey, you said you had some good news."
Harris grinned. "I sure do," he said. "I had a meeting with my agent this morning. Not only did Wainwright buy the book, but Allen negotiated a very impressive deal."
"That's great!"
"Yeah, I can finally reimburse you for the rent," Harris said in a teasing manner.
"That too," Dietrich said. "Really, I was just happy for you."
"I know," Harris said quietly. "But you know, I don't think I want to pay it back."
Dietrich looked puzzled. "Oh?" he asked.
"Well, the rent is something of a final step, isn't it?" Harris asked. "Once I pay you back, the bargain ends. You might move out." He kept his tone deliberately light, still uncomfortable with revealing how deeply he felt. "Besides, I'm not sure that the amount of rent I owe you is commensurate with my earnings."
"You know I wouldn't hold you to that if it poses a hardship," Dietrich protested.
Harris relished the moment as he slowly drew a document from his briefcase and slid it across the table. "Allen also negotiated movie rights to the book. Take a look at the package."
He was gratified by the astonishment that spread across Dietrich's face as he looked at the terms of the contract. "Ron, this is phenomenal! It's …"
"Arthur," Harris interrupted. He waited until he was sure he had Dietrich's full attention. An idea that had come to him during the earlier meeting had solidified during his wait in Dietrich's new squadroom. "Paying back the rent wouldn't come close to repaying what I owe you. I want to send you back to medical school."
Part Two: Together Again
"Neuropsychiatry. How may I help you?"
"I'd like to speak with Arthur Dietrich, please."
"May I ask who's calling?"
"This is Inspector Miller, NYPD." There was a click, a pause, and then a familiar voice, somewhat hesitant.
"This is Dr. Dietrich."
"Dietrich! It's Barney."
The familiar voice chuckled. "The receptionist just told me there was a cop on the line. I was hoping it was someone from the 12th. To what do I owe the pleasure of this call?"
"Wojo's just been promoted, and Liz and I were thinking about maybe taking him out for dinner and inviting the people from the old 1-2."
"That's a wonderful idea," Dietrich said warmly. "Just name the date."
"Uh, we're still working on that. Say, do you have a number for Harris?"
"I should hope so!" Dietrich reeled off a number, obviously by memory. "He should be there now if you want to call."
Buoyed by the amusement in Dietrich's voice, Barney ventured to ask, "You two are still together?"
"Yes, we're still together. You're a very good yenta, Barney. You should be proud."
"It's nice to know that some of my accomplishments from the 12th still endure," Barney said. "We'll have to catch up some more at the dinner."
"Who else is coming?" Dietrich asked.
"Fish and Bernice, definitely. Levitt, probably. The Lugers, assuming they can get a babysitter."
"A babysitter?"
"A babysitter. They have two little girls. I'm still trying to get hold of Chano, and I'm calling Wentworth next. Do you remember her?"
"Vaguely," said Dietrich. "She was at the 12th when I first started, but we were hardly ever on the same shift. It sounds like a good group. Hey, you going to call Scanlon?"
"And here I was thinking how much I missed your sense of humor," Barney said. "I think I'm cured."
"No charge," Dietrich said, chuckling. "Listen, depending on where you want to go out, maybe Ron and I could have everybody over to our place for a drink beforehand."
"I like that idea," said Barney. "I'll run it past Liz--she's really in charge of this thing. I'm just doing the legwork."
"Be sure to give her my best," said Dietrich.
"Will do. I'll let you get back to work. See you soon, I hope!"
"We'll keep a good thought," Dietrich said.
Liz looked thoughtfully at the townhouse while Barney, a bottle of champagne tucked under one arm, paid the cab. The address Harris had given them was in an older section of Manhattan: genteel, no doubt expensive, but tasteful and unostentatious.
"After all those bestsellers, I thought he'd be living someplace trendy with a doorman and valet parking," she observed.
Barney laughed. "I think he's grown up a little, Liz. And he never was that flashy. I think this suits him."
She rang the doorbell, and Dietrich answered. He looked much the same as the last time they had seen him, except for a receding hairline.
"Liz! Barney!" he greeted them warmly. "Come in, come in! Let me take your coats." He ushered them into the foyer and helped Liz with her coat.
Liz hugged Dietrich and given him a kiss on the cheek. "You're looking well, Arthur," she said with a smile.
"And you look lovelier than ever," he responded gallantly. He finished hanging up Liz's coat and collected Barney's. "How are you, Capt--Inspector?"
"Part of me is counting the days till retirement," Barney confessed, "and the other part wishes I could start over from the beginning."
Harris came out, looking dapper, well dressed as ever, with his hair just going silver. "Oh, you brought champagne!" he said, relieving Barney of his burden. "Is this for now, or to have with dinner?"
"Dinner," Barney answered. "I figured, since only a few people could make it here, and everyone will be there later …"
"My thoughts exactly," said Harris. "Let's go put this on ice and I'll show you the house."
"Are we the first ones here?" Barney asked him as they followed him into the living room.
As if on cue, the doorbell rang. "By a nose," called Dietrich. He closed the front closet and opened the door. "Wojo!" he exclaimed. "Hey, the guest of honor is here."
The guest of honor grinned sheepishly. "Can I come in?"
"Mi casa es su casa," Dietrich said, making a sweeping gesture.
"I thought it was Harris' casa," Wojo answered, stepping inside.
"Both. Long story. Can I take your coat?"
Soon they were all settled in the living room with drinks. "Not everyone could come this early," Liz reported, "but it looks like all the others will be at dinner tonight."
"You've done a wonderful job putting all this together, Liz," Harris said.
She smiled "Thank you, Ron. But the real honor goes to Captain Wojciehowicz, for giving us all a reason to celebrate!"
Wojo ducked his head and smiled, embarrassed, and was relieved when the conversation turned in other directions. After a while, he had a chance to ask, "So whose house is this, anyway?"
"Both of ours," said Dietrich. "We moved back in together after the 12th was broken up."
Wojo looked puzzled. "Why?"
"Well, I'll tell you," Harris said. " I really hated the idea of working in Queens, and I couldn't seem to get started on the sequel to Blood on the Badge. That was when Dietrich here made me an offer I couldn't refuse."
"Yeah," Dietrich said. "I suggested he take a year's sabbatical from the force, move back in with me, and write his book. Then he could pay me back for the rent when the book sold."
"So that's what you did?" Barney asked.
"Not quite," said Harris. "I told him he could move in with me." He made a face. "I'd had quite enough of Arthur's apartment, thank you very much." The others laughed. Harris went on. "It was a nightmare at first. We spent a couple of months fighting about everything and anything. Finally I got so mad I killed him!"
"You did what?" Liz asked, sounding horrified.
Wojo snapped his fingers. "Hey, I read that one! It was really good." He turned to Liz. "He killed off Dietrich's character in the second book."
"And apparently I wasn't the only one who wanted him dead. The public loved it. I'm embarrassed to admit how much it earned in paperback sales alone, not counting the movie rights." He paused for dramatic effect. "So I sent Arthur back to medical school."
"Wow!" said Wojo.
"Hey!" said Barney. "What a great idea!"
Harris shrugged. "I figured I owed him."
Wojo turned to Dietrich. "So ... didja make it this time?"
"Wojo!" scolded Barney.
"It's all right, Inspector," said Dietrich. He turned back to Wojo. "I did. I'm a research neurologist. I study the relationship between electrochemical aberrations in the brain and the characteristic symptoms of certain psychological abnormalities."
Wojo regarded him for a moment. "Sounds kinda like what you did at the 12th."
"I knew you'd understand," Dietrich said sincerely.
The doorbell rang again.
"I thought this was everybody," said Wojo.
"We weren't sure if anyone else could make it," said Dietrich as Harris went to answer the door. "But we had some hopes."
"Janice!" they heard Harris exclaim.
Wojo started. "Janice Wentworth?"
Liz smiled at him. "She didn't know if she'd be able to get the night off, so we didn't say anything."
Harris came back with his arm draped around a petite, frizzy-haired woman in her mid-forties. "Look who's here!" he said, beaming.
"It's great to see you again," said Barney.
"So glad you could come," said Liz.
"Now I remember you!" exclaimed Dietrich.
"Hi," said Wojo. He felt as if he was staring like a great big idiot, but no other words came to mind.
Harris relinquished Wentworth, and she hugged Barney, kissed Liz, and shook hands with Dietrich. Then she came over to Wojo.
"Hi, Stan," she said almost shyly, taking both his hands in hers. "Remember me?"
He squeezed her hands gently and smiled.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Liz nudge Barney, who beckoned to the others. They drifted away into another room, leaving Wojo and Wentworth alone.
"This is starting to look like a conspiracy," Wojo said, nodding toward the doorway through which their friends had vanished.
"I think you're right," Wentworth agreed. They stared at each other for a long moment.
"So, um, how are you doing?" Wojo asked, feeling strangely awkward. She had never been hard to talk to, back at the 12th.
"Peachy keen," she said. "I'm in the sexual harassment enforcement division. I make sure everyone gets sexually harassed on a regular basis."
Wojo chuckled and began to relax. This was the Wentworth he remembered. "You look great," he said.
"You too. Bald works for you."
"Not like I had a choice," he said.
"It's very sexy," she said.
That pleased him more than he expected. Still, he couldn't quite bring himself to ask what he really wanted to know.
She seemed to read his mind. "I don't have a steady guy right now," she volunteered. "You got anybody?"
He shook his head. "I was married for a while. Almost three years. It didn't work out."
"What happened?"
She never did have any tact, he remembered somewhat belatedly. But it had been long enough since the divorce that he didn't mind talking about it. "She said it didn't matter that I couldn't have kids. She swore up and down ..." Wentworth moved closer and put her hand on his arm. He shrugged it off and spoke with a forced casualness. "She left me for a guy she met at work. Five years later they had four kids."
"Tell me her name," Wentworth said. "I'll go kneecap her for you."
Both surprised and warmed by the strength of her indignation, Wojo found himself defending his ex-wife. "I couldn't blame her."
"Couldn't blame her?" Wentworth was momentarily speechless. "She … she lied to you, Stan. She ditched you!"
"Yeah, but she was so happy to have kids. I saw the birth announcements in the paper. They all had these weird Irish names like Caitlin and Siobhan."
"Huh," she said thoughtfully. "I suppose it's just as well you two didn't have kids. Can you imagine sending a kid to school with a name like Siobhan Wojciehowicz? Geez, that's practically child abuse."
Wojo laughed. "God, I've missed you," he said and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "You know, sometimes a whole day will go by, sometimes even more, and I'll realize I haven't thought about her once. But I think about you a lot more often."
Wentworth turned her face up to his. "Really?" she said.
"Really," he said. He started to bend down to kiss her, then pulled back.
"Hey!" she protested.
"If I kiss you, I might wind up taking you home tonight," he said. "And if I take you home, then we're going to wind up in the sack."
"Sounds good to me so far," she said, grinning.
"And then I'm gonna remember how I feel about you, and I'm gonna say, 'This time I won't let her get away.' And maybe I might even ask ... but I don't have anything to offer you. I can't give you kids."
"Stan, I don't want kids," Wentworth said.
"Yeah, that's what she said," Wojo said, looking away.
She took his face between her hands and turned it back to herself. "She was what, twenty-something? I'm forty-five, Wojo. If I wanted kids, I'd have had them by now." He still looked unconvinced. "Lots of people are happy without kids."
"Like who? Barney's got kids. Heck, he's got grandkids. Even old Inspector Luger and Perlita have kids."
"Ron and Arthur don't, and they look pretty happy."
"Ron and ...? Oh, you mean Harris and Dietrich." Wojo rolled his eyes. "That doesn't count. They're just roommates."
"Oh, yeah, that's right," Wentworth said quickly.
Before he could ask what she meant, Harris came back in with Liz. "I'm told that I'm being a terrible host. I meant to tell you, Janice, there's beer in the refrigerator, and if you'd like a cocktail I can mix you up whatever you want." He looked from one to the other and smiled mischievously. "I'm not interrupting anything, am I?"
"Not yet," she answered.
Wojo turned crimson. "Janice!"
"I'm sorry," she said, not sounding the slightest bit apologetic. "I tell you what, I need to catch up on some girl talk with Liz here. You hang out with the guys and I'll let you get me a beer later. Deal?"
"Deal," he said. Following Harris back into the other room, he asked, "Hey, you got a wet bar? Stocked?"
"Fully," said Harris, obviously pleased with Wojo's approval. Wojo studied him. He's not as much of a showoff as he used to be, but he's still Harris.
Wojo settled into a comfortable leather chair with his drink. The others were passing around photos of Barney's grandchildren and generally catching up.
"So, Dietrich, you got a girlfriend?" he asked when there was a lull in the conversation.
Dietrich exchanged a look with Harris, and said gently, "Are you familiar with the term 'bisexual'?"
"Yeah," Wojo answered, suspiciously. "It's somebody who gets it on with both men and women."
"Frank, but workable," put in Barney.
"Yeah," Dietrich agreed. "Wojo, I don't have a girlfriend. I guess you could say I have a boyfriend."
There was a pause. "Seriously?" Wojo asked.
"Very seriously," Dietrich assured him. "As in, practically married."
"Wait a minute," Wojo said. "You went out with women when we worked at the 12th."
Dietrich shrugged. "We all experiment in our youth."
"So let me get this straight," Wojo said. "You're still attracted to women, right?" Dietrich nodded and Wojo went on, incredulous. "With all the women available in the world, you picked a guy?" Dietrich nodded again. "Must be some guy," Wojo concluded.
"I like to think so," Harris said, reaching over to take Dietrich's hand in his and interlacing their fingers.
Wojo looked from one to the other. "You two?" He knew he should have felt shocked, but instead he had a vague feeling that he should have known all along. A number of clues fell into place, and he began to laugh. "I shoulda known." He turned to Barney. "Did you know?"
Barney shrugged. "Well, I …"
"Are you kidding?" Dietrich asked. "Nothing ever escaped Captain Miller's eagle eye."
"Seems to have escaped mine," Wojo muttered. "Wait a minute. You mean you guys were doing it when you were at the 12th!"
"Well, not when we were actually in the building," Dietrich began.
Harris cleared his throat, leaned over and whispered something in Dietrich's ear. Dietrich blushed. "Well, not usually," he corrected himself.
"Whaddaya mean, not usually?" Wojo demanded.
"There was this one time in the locker room ..." Dietrich started.
"It was when I thought he was dead." Harris said almost at the same time.
"Isn't that necrophilia?" Barney asked mischievously.
"Liz still giving you those Word-a-Day calendars?" Harris asked without missing a beat. He went on. "I didn't think he was dead when we were--I mean, it was after we found out he was alive. Remember when he had that beepy thing stuck to his chest, and it stopped beeping?"
"That was articulate," Dietrich said to Harris. "And you call yourself a writer?" He turned to Wojo. "He means the stress analyzing device. The transmitter was destroyed by a woman with a fire hose."
"I remember that," Wojo said.
"Well," Harris continued, "I was relieved to find out that Arthur was alive, and I, um, let him know."
"Oh," Barney said, "I didn't know about that incident." He glared at them. "Which is probably just as well."
"Then what incident did you know about?" Harris asked, genuinely puzzled.
Wojo suddenly slapped his forehead. "The flamingoes!"
"Flamingoes?" Dietrich repeated, sounding puzzled.
Harris suddenly grinned. "Aha--flamingoes! You remember, Arthur, that time we got stuck with the job of counting flamingoes?"
"Oh, yes," Dietrich said.
Wojo's expression had turned thoughtful. "Now I get it! So that's what took you so long in the evidence room!"
Wentworth came up just in time to hear his last comment. "What about the evidence room?"
Wojo leaned over and whispered in her ear. Her eyes grew wide. "Really?"
"Surprised?" Harris asked.
She put a hand on his arm and squeezed it. "Yeah! I didn't think there was enough room in there." Harris winked at her. She turned to Wojo. "Hey, how about that beer you promised me?"
"We'll be back," Wojo said to the others. As soon as they were out of earshot, Wentworth elbowed him in the ribs. "Told ya," she said with a wink.
"Y'know," Wojo complained as they went to the kitchen, "I worked with both of those guys for years. You only worked with one of them for a few months. How come you could tell and I couldn't?"
She gave him a confident, crooked grin. "Because I'm good with people," she said. "I get a feeling when two people are going to work out."
Wojo looked down at her, feeling a warmth in her presence that he hadn't felt with anyone in years. "You mean like you and me?"
"Yeah," she said. Her smile faded as she studied his serious expression. "Penny for your thoughts?"
"I was just thinking that I should listen to you more often."
Wentworth reached into the refrigerator and pulled out a beer. Raising it as if for a toast, she said, "I'll drink to that!"
Author: amedia
Pairings: Harris/Dietrich, Wojo/Wentworth
Rating: PG
Summary: Harris and Dietrich move back in together.
Word Count: 6413
Note: Published in Diverse Doings 9, May 2002. 2003 Fan Q Award winner. Beta'd by TODS.
Disclaimer: No infringement intended.
Part One: Together
The evening after the 12th Precinct's last day was a sober one. Wojo had a date and Barney was going home to Liz; Harris and Dietrich wound up going out to dinner almost by default.
"You're uncharacteristically quiet, Arthur," Harris said when their entrées arrived. "Cat got your tongue?"
"No," Dietrich said. "I just ..." He trailed off. "I can't," he said finally, turning his attention to his plate.
Harris, about to take a bite, put his fork back down. "Oh, come off it, man," he said. "Not that damned cat-and-mouse game again. If you've got something to say, just say it. I'm not gonna ask again."
Dietrich laughed ruefully. "For once, it's not deliberate. Honestly, I'm not trying to be passive-aggressive. There's something I want to say, but I have serious reservations about even broaching the topic."
"Reservations?" Harris asked, his interest piqued in spite of his earlier disclaimer. He and Dietrich hadn't been particularly involved for several months; he was beginning to think it was over and was surprised how much regret he felt.
"Yeah, reservations. For one thing, when duty and inclination seem to coincide, it's impossible to determine whether one is truly acting in a disinterested fashion." Harris rolled his eyes. Dietrich continued. "Furthermore, I don't want to put you in an impossible position for my own selfish reasons."
Harris couldn't resist. "I thought there were no impossible positions. Aren't you the one with the copy of the Kama Sutra in the original Sanskrit?" He had the satisfaction of seeing Dietrich blush.
"Fine," Dietrich said, clearly irritated. "If you don't take my ethical concerns seriously, then I suppose I shouldn't either. So here goes." He took a deep breath and spoke very quickly. "Why don't you request a year of leave and come live with me and finish your book and pay me back the rent when the book sells."
Harris stared at him open-mouthed. Finally he said, "That's about the last thing I would have expected you to say."
Dietrich shrugged. "Nice to know I can still surprise you." He attacked his meal; Harris followed suit, and they were both silent for the next few minutes.
"Why do you consider this to be putting me in an impossible position?" Harris asked suddenly. "It's an incredible offer."
"An offer you can't refuse?" Dietrich asked with a trace of a sardonic smile. "That's exactly why. It would be hard for you to turn down. But I'd just be using you."
"What do you mean?" Harris asked. "It seems more like the other way around to me. What would you get out of it?" Dietrich didn't answer. "Arthur, you're not envisioning me as a gigolo, are you?"
Dietrich looked up, startled, and Harris could see that the thought hadn't crossed his mind. "No, I can't take credit for anything that imaginative."
"Then why do you want me to live with you?" Harris pressed.
"Because I'm afraid," Dietrich said, very softly. "Everything's ending, everything's changing all at once. And I don't want to be alone."
Harris wanted to speak, but something caught in his throat. He reached out impulsively, putting a hand on Dietrich's arm. After a moment, he withdrew it and said brightly, "I am not giving up my hardwood floors." Dietrich appeared to be about to speak, but Harris held up a finger. "You can move in with me." It was Dietrich's turn to gape, and Harris realized with satisfaction that Dietrich hadn't expected him to agree. "Nice to know I can still surprise you," he added.
"But you've only got one bed," Dietrich objected, sounding slightly dazed.
"So?" Harris challenged. "It's a queen size. Big enough for … well, you know what it's big enough for, Arthur."
Nine weeks later, Harris was wondering if the move had been such a good idea after all. For one thing, he still had writer's block. For another, Dietrich seemed to get crankier by the day, and while he always apologized, his snappishness was getting on Harris' nerves.
"Of course you had a bad day!" Harris said, cutting off another lackluster apology. "You haven't had a good day since the 12th was broken up. That was two months ago, Arthur--get over it!"
"That's easy for you to say," Dietrich shot back. "Easy for you to sit here and be judgmental when you don't have to deal with it." Even as he said it, he knew it wasn't fair. He hadn't told Harris much about his new assignment; Harris couldn't be blamed for not knowing what he hadn't been told.
"Easy? Maybe you'd like to trade places. At least I'm trying to make something of myself. You could be just about anything." Harris didn't try to hide the resentment in his voice. "You've thrown away opportunities some people would give their eyeteeth for."
"So I'm content where I am!" Dietrich shouted back. "So sue me!" Harris winced; the reminder of Ripner's lawsuit was painful, and he was sure it was deliberate. "Do you want me to apologize for being happy?"
Harris bit back an angry response; something Dietrich had said sparked his curiosity. Harris looked closely at his roommate. Dietrich looked exhausted, more weary than a day's work would account for. Stress and fatigue etched his features and shadowed his eyes. Harris put out a tentative hand to touch Dietrich's arm. "Arthur, I don't think you're happy," he said quietly.
For a moment, Dietrich met his eyes candidly, and it seemed that he was on the verge of admitting that Harris was right. Then it was as if a door closed somewhere, and Dietrich resumed his usual noncommittal expression. "I think that's for me to judge," he said coolly.
"You're shutting me out again," Harris said angrily. He grabbed Dietrich's shoulders and shook him slightly. "I thought we …" he stopped. What was he going to say? He and Dietrich had laid down some ground rules before Dietrich moved in, but they dealt with matters like who made the coffee and who did the laundry. Emotional involvement was something they just didn't talk about. There were no ground rules. "I thought you could be honest with me."
Dietrich reached up and pushed Harris' hands off his shoulders. His voice was expressionless. "I didn't move in here to burden you."
"You think I enjoy watching you suffer?" Harris snapped. "Seeing you miserable, having you shut me out?" He flopped down in a chair. "Don't do me any favors."
"It's always about you, isn't it?" Dietrich actually raised his voice. "You are the most self-centered, narcissistic, and irritating individual that it has ever been my displeasure to encounter."
"Then why the hell do you put up with me?" Harris demanded.
"Because I love you, you selfish jerk!" Dietrich shouted. He stopped dead, as if realizing that he had broken one of their unwritten rules. Without looking at Harris, he stormed into the bedroom and slammed the door.
Harris couldn't begin to sort out the cacophony of feelings that were clamoring for attention in his mind. Somewhere between anger, concern, astonishment, and something else that he was afraid to identify, he decided to shut it all down and focus on something else for a while. He sat at the typewriter, rolled a piece of paper in, and stared at it. Serve that son of a bitch right if I just write him out, he thought, anger coming to the top of the churning mixture. Transfer his character to another precinct. No, better--kill him off. He juggled possibilities in his mind; the thought of taking revenge in print was sweet. Might just want to do it for fun as a writing exercise. It doesn't have to go into the book.
Thirty pages later, Harris looked up at the clock. He didn't want to stop, but sheer exhaustion was finally winning out. He went back to the first page, crossed most of it out, and rewrote the opening paragraph. Reading it over, he flicked the page crisply with a finger and nodded to himself.
As I tossed the first clump of dirt into my partner's open grave, I knew how I should have felt. I should have felt grief for the friend I had lost. I should have felt fear at the reminder of my own mortality. I should have felt regret that our last conversation had been a quarrel. But all I felt was hatred for the bastard who had gunned him down, and an unshakable determination to bring him to justice.
--R.N. Harris, Badge of Death
"Arthur, wake up." Harris shook Dietrich's shoulder.
Dietrich blinked at him. "What's the matter? What time is it?"
Harris sat down on the bed next to him and handed Dietrich his glasses. "Nothing's the matter," he said. "You've got to read this." He held out a sheaf of papers. "Please."
Dietrich put his glasses on and looked at the clock. "Harris, it's two o'clock in the morning!"
"Just a few pages," Harris cajoled.
"Oh, I s'pose," Dietrich said grumpily. "Seeing as how I'm already awake." He sat up, took the sheaf of papers, and began reading. Harris put a pencil on the nightstand within Dietrich's reach and quietly left the room.
Harris got out a fresh sheet of paper and began making handwritten notes for the next two chapters. After a little while he realized that Dietrich either had decided to read the whole thing, or had fallen asleep again. He tiptoed to the bedroom door and peeped in. Dietrich was sitting up, pencil in hand, halfway through the material Harris had given him.
Harris smiled to himself and stole back to his desk. He was deep in rumination on the best dramatic strategy for the discovery of an important clue to the murderer's identity when Dietrich's voice broke in upon his thoughts.
"I finished it."
Harris turned around and looked up to see Dietrich standing right next to him, wrapped in a rumpled bathrobe. "You startled me, man!" He scrutinized Dietrich's face, but couldn't read his expression. "So, what did you think?"
Dietrich handed him back the manuscript. "I think it's the finest writing you've ever done." He stood silently for some time, then spoke slowly and thoughtfully. "It's a very honest and courageous piece of work. It has more of your heart and soul in it than I've ever seen in your writing before."
Harris hesitated. He had begun out of sheer exasperation, but as he worked his way into the story, he knew that he was drawing upon the deeper conflicts and emotions that fueled his tempestuous interactions with Dietrich. Finally he said simply, "I wrote what I felt.
"
Dietrich nodded. "I made a few notes here and there," he said. "But right now I really need to get back to bed." He took a few steps toward the bedroom, then stopped and turned back to Harris. "And I'm sorry about what I said earlier. I shouldn't have blown up at you like that."
Harris got up from his chair. "I deserved every word of it," he said.
Dietrich considered that. "Well, yeah," he said. "I suppose so."
"Hey, you were supposed to disagree with me," Harris said in mock indignation.
Dietrich smiled. "Me? Disagree with you? Perish the thought."
Harris wasn't sure how to respond; he didn't know what else to say that wouldn't threaten their fragile truce. Dietrich was standing just a few steps away, but the distance seemed insurmountable. "You go on back to bed, Arthur," Harris finally said, returning the smile. "I'll be along in just a minute."
Dietrich crawled back into bed, thoroughly drained and grateful to be horizontal. Despite his exhaustion, his mind kept cranking around and around, tossing up snippets from Harris' new manuscript, snatches of their argument earlier, and stray images from the day.
He didn't hear Harris' footsteps, but he heard the bedsprings creak and felt the weight on the mattress shift as Harris settled into bed next to him.
They had been sleeping next to each other, scarcely touching, for more than a week now. Dietrich was pleasantly surprised, therefore, when Harris curled up close behind him, wrapping an arm around his middle. He was even more surprised when Harris spoke.
"Arthur, have I told you lately that I love you?"
"You've never told me that you love me," Dietrich answered. Harris tightened his grip and snuggled closer. Dietrich went on. "Of course, you didn't need to. I've known all along."
He felt, more than heard, Harris' chuckling. "Bullshit," Harris said, taking the sting out of his words by nuzzling the back of Dietrich's neck.
"You don't believe me?"
"I never believe you," Harris answered.
"Ah," Dietrich said, amused. "A wise policy."
"But I do love you."
Dietrich rolled onto his back so he could look into Harris' face. "And earlier, when I said I loved you, did you believe me?"
"I didn't have to," Harris said, tapping Dietrich lightly on the nose. "I already knew."
"Now who's doing the bullshitting?"
Things got better after that; Dietrich didn't seem happier about work, exactly, but it didn't seem to bother him as much. And Harris' writing was going well. It wasn't long before he sent a draft of the novel to his agent, and after several phone conversations, made an appointment to discuss it in person.
The agent's office was not far from Dietrich's new precinct. After the appointment, Harris decided on impulse to stop by.
The building couldn't be more different from the rundown structure that had housed the 12th Precinct. Square and ultramodern, it fairly gleamed in the sunlight. Inside, though, it looked cold and sterile; it lacked not only clutter, but personality. Harris walked into the squadroom and looked around. There were four desks, three of which were occupied. A couple of people glanced up at him and went back to their work. No one said a word.
After a minute, Harris said, "Excuse me."
The nearest detective looked up. "May I help you?" she asked reluctantly.
Harris fought down his irritation. "I'm looking for Arthur Dietrich," he said. "My name is Ron Harris. I used to work with him at the 12th Precinct."
"He's out on a case," she said and went back to her paperwork.
Harris looked at the nameplate on her desk. "When do you expect him back, Detective Morales?"
She shrugged. "No idea. You can wait for him if you want." She pointed to the vacant desk. "Over there."
"Thanks," Harris said, trying not to sound sarcastic. He sat down in the chair next to Dietrich's desk and pulled some paperwork to review out of his briefcase. He looked up when he heard his name.
"Ron Harris," one of the other detectives was saying, mostly to himself. "I know that name … Hey!" he snapped his finger and pointed at Harris. "You're the guy who wrote that book, aren't you?
Harris smiled. No matter how many times it happened, the thrill of being recognized for his work never grew stale. Especially when it came from a fellow member of the police force. "Yes, that's right. In fact, I'm just finished the sequel."
"Well, I really liked it," the man said. "Oh, I'm Peter Andersen." He held out his hand and Harris shook it. The atmosphere seemed to grow a little friendlier. "It's not often you find someone who tells it like it is."
"Hey, is all that stuff in the book really true?" Morales suddenly asked.
"Well," Harris hedged, "it was based on real events and real people."
"I wondered about that," she said, "I'd heard stories about what your captain was like before I read the book, and I didn't believe anyone could be such a goody two-shoes."
"You know," Andersen added, "around here they call him 'Bleeding Heart Barney.'"
"Anyway," she went on, "then I read your book and thought, 'What do you know, there he is!'"
"Whaddaya know," Harris said coldly. "It wasn't my intention to mock my fellow officers."
The third detective, a younger man who had not yet spoken, broke into the awkward silence. "Dietrich still out on that junkie-murder case?"
"Yeah," said the woman who had spoken to Harris. "Said he had a lead."
"Don't know why he's putting in so much time," said the younger detective. "It's NHI."
Harris tried not to show that he was taken aback. The expression "no humans involved" had never been tolerated at the 12th Precinct. "We're here to protect everyone," Barney had once lectured a transfer who had used the term. "Even the people we don't like. Even the people who don't like us." Barney had really worked up a head of steam by the end of the speech, stabbing his finger down to make the point as he insisted, "They are ALL humans!"
He was saved from having to respond by the opening of the door. Dietrich came in, carrying a sheaf of papers and looking discouraged. Andersen spoke up. "Hey, Dietrich, there's someone here to see you."
As Dietrich's eyes fell on him, Harris braced himself; he hadn't told Dietrich he was coming and he wasn't sure how his partner would feel about the intrusion.
Dietrich look startled, but recovered swiftly, smiled, and crossed the room. "Ron, what a pleasure to see you!" he said, shaking Harris' right hand with both of his own. "What are you doing in this neck of the woods?"
Harris smiled back. "Meeting with my agent. Got some good news, too. Can I take you to lunch?" Dietrich had put on company manners with skill and speed, but Harris had seen his initial reaction from across the room. He felt pleased, almost proprietary--he'd never seen Dietrich's eyes light up like that for anyone else.
At lunch, Harris took a long look at Dietrich and finally asked, "Arthur, why didn't you tell me?"
"Tell you what?"
"Don't play dumb."
"I know what you mean. But I couldn't put it into words. What am I supposed to say?' He put on a pretended whining tone. "'Ron, the people I work with aren't nice.'" He laughed, a little sadly, and resumed his normal voice. "They're not crooked. They're not incompetent. And it's not like I can't trust them to watch my back when we're out on a call." He shrugged. "It's just not the 12th."
"It's more than just not the 12th," Harris said. "Those people are burned out. Their hearts aren't in it. The whole atmosphere in there is bleak and petty and soul-sapping."
"And you figured all this out after what, fifteen minutes?" Dietrich asked coldly. "That's quite a snap judgment."
Harris waited a moment. "And ...?"
"And what?"
"I'm waiting for you to tell me that I'm wrong." Dietrich didn't look at him. "You know I'm right. You don't belong there, Arthur."
"Tell me something I don't know," Dietrich said. Then he brightened. "But hey, you said you had some good news."
Harris grinned. "I sure do," he said. "I had a meeting with my agent this morning. Not only did Wainwright buy the book, but Allen negotiated a very impressive deal."
"That's great!"
"Yeah, I can finally reimburse you for the rent," Harris said in a teasing manner.
"That too," Dietrich said. "Really, I was just happy for you."
"I know," Harris said quietly. "But you know, I don't think I want to pay it back."
Dietrich looked puzzled. "Oh?" he asked.
"Well, the rent is something of a final step, isn't it?" Harris asked. "Once I pay you back, the bargain ends. You might move out." He kept his tone deliberately light, still uncomfortable with revealing how deeply he felt. "Besides, I'm not sure that the amount of rent I owe you is commensurate with my earnings."
"You know I wouldn't hold you to that if it poses a hardship," Dietrich protested.
Harris relished the moment as he slowly drew a document from his briefcase and slid it across the table. "Allen also negotiated movie rights to the book. Take a look at the package."
He was gratified by the astonishment that spread across Dietrich's face as he looked at the terms of the contract. "Ron, this is phenomenal! It's …"
"Arthur," Harris interrupted. He waited until he was sure he had Dietrich's full attention. An idea that had come to him during the earlier meeting had solidified during his wait in Dietrich's new squadroom. "Paying back the rent wouldn't come close to repaying what I owe you. I want to send you back to medical school."
Part Two: Together Again
"Neuropsychiatry. How may I help you?"
"I'd like to speak with Arthur Dietrich, please."
"May I ask who's calling?"
"This is Inspector Miller, NYPD." There was a click, a pause, and then a familiar voice, somewhat hesitant.
"This is Dr. Dietrich."
"Dietrich! It's Barney."
The familiar voice chuckled. "The receptionist just told me there was a cop on the line. I was hoping it was someone from the 12th. To what do I owe the pleasure of this call?"
"Wojo's just been promoted, and Liz and I were thinking about maybe taking him out for dinner and inviting the people from the old 1-2."
"That's a wonderful idea," Dietrich said warmly. "Just name the date."
"Uh, we're still working on that. Say, do you have a number for Harris?"
"I should hope so!" Dietrich reeled off a number, obviously by memory. "He should be there now if you want to call."
Buoyed by the amusement in Dietrich's voice, Barney ventured to ask, "You two are still together?"
"Yes, we're still together. You're a very good yenta, Barney. You should be proud."
"It's nice to know that some of my accomplishments from the 12th still endure," Barney said. "We'll have to catch up some more at the dinner."
"Who else is coming?" Dietrich asked.
"Fish and Bernice, definitely. Levitt, probably. The Lugers, assuming they can get a babysitter."
"A babysitter?"
"A babysitter. They have two little girls. I'm still trying to get hold of Chano, and I'm calling Wentworth next. Do you remember her?"
"Vaguely," said Dietrich. "She was at the 12th when I first started, but we were hardly ever on the same shift. It sounds like a good group. Hey, you going to call Scanlon?"
"And here I was thinking how much I missed your sense of humor," Barney said. "I think I'm cured."
"No charge," Dietrich said, chuckling. "Listen, depending on where you want to go out, maybe Ron and I could have everybody over to our place for a drink beforehand."
"I like that idea," said Barney. "I'll run it past Liz--she's really in charge of this thing. I'm just doing the legwork."
"Be sure to give her my best," said Dietrich.
"Will do. I'll let you get back to work. See you soon, I hope!"
"We'll keep a good thought," Dietrich said.
Liz looked thoughtfully at the townhouse while Barney, a bottle of champagne tucked under one arm, paid the cab. The address Harris had given them was in an older section of Manhattan: genteel, no doubt expensive, but tasteful and unostentatious.
"After all those bestsellers, I thought he'd be living someplace trendy with a doorman and valet parking," she observed.
Barney laughed. "I think he's grown up a little, Liz. And he never was that flashy. I think this suits him."
She rang the doorbell, and Dietrich answered. He looked much the same as the last time they had seen him, except for a receding hairline.
"Liz! Barney!" he greeted them warmly. "Come in, come in! Let me take your coats." He ushered them into the foyer and helped Liz with her coat.
Liz hugged Dietrich and given him a kiss on the cheek. "You're looking well, Arthur," she said with a smile.
"And you look lovelier than ever," he responded gallantly. He finished hanging up Liz's coat and collected Barney's. "How are you, Capt--Inspector?"
"Part of me is counting the days till retirement," Barney confessed, "and the other part wishes I could start over from the beginning."
Harris came out, looking dapper, well dressed as ever, with his hair just going silver. "Oh, you brought champagne!" he said, relieving Barney of his burden. "Is this for now, or to have with dinner?"
"Dinner," Barney answered. "I figured, since only a few people could make it here, and everyone will be there later …"
"My thoughts exactly," said Harris. "Let's go put this on ice and I'll show you the house."
"Are we the first ones here?" Barney asked him as they followed him into the living room.
As if on cue, the doorbell rang. "By a nose," called Dietrich. He closed the front closet and opened the door. "Wojo!" he exclaimed. "Hey, the guest of honor is here."
The guest of honor grinned sheepishly. "Can I come in?"
"Mi casa es su casa," Dietrich said, making a sweeping gesture.
"I thought it was Harris' casa," Wojo answered, stepping inside.
"Both. Long story. Can I take your coat?"
Soon they were all settled in the living room with drinks. "Not everyone could come this early," Liz reported, "but it looks like all the others will be at dinner tonight."
"You've done a wonderful job putting all this together, Liz," Harris said.
She smiled "Thank you, Ron. But the real honor goes to Captain Wojciehowicz, for giving us all a reason to celebrate!"
Wojo ducked his head and smiled, embarrassed, and was relieved when the conversation turned in other directions. After a while, he had a chance to ask, "So whose house is this, anyway?"
"Both of ours," said Dietrich. "We moved back in together after the 12th was broken up."
Wojo looked puzzled. "Why?"
"Well, I'll tell you," Harris said. " I really hated the idea of working in Queens, and I couldn't seem to get started on the sequel to Blood on the Badge. That was when Dietrich here made me an offer I couldn't refuse."
"Yeah," Dietrich said. "I suggested he take a year's sabbatical from the force, move back in with me, and write his book. Then he could pay me back for the rent when the book sold."
"So that's what you did?" Barney asked.
"Not quite," said Harris. "I told him he could move in with me." He made a face. "I'd had quite enough of Arthur's apartment, thank you very much." The others laughed. Harris went on. "It was a nightmare at first. We spent a couple of months fighting about everything and anything. Finally I got so mad I killed him!"
"You did what?" Liz asked, sounding horrified.
Wojo snapped his fingers. "Hey, I read that one! It was really good." He turned to Liz. "He killed off Dietrich's character in the second book."
"And apparently I wasn't the only one who wanted him dead. The public loved it. I'm embarrassed to admit how much it earned in paperback sales alone, not counting the movie rights." He paused for dramatic effect. "So I sent Arthur back to medical school."
"Wow!" said Wojo.
"Hey!" said Barney. "What a great idea!"
Harris shrugged. "I figured I owed him."
Wojo turned to Dietrich. "So ... didja make it this time?"
"Wojo!" scolded Barney.
"It's all right, Inspector," said Dietrich. He turned back to Wojo. "I did. I'm a research neurologist. I study the relationship between electrochemical aberrations in the brain and the characteristic symptoms of certain psychological abnormalities."
Wojo regarded him for a moment. "Sounds kinda like what you did at the 12th."
"I knew you'd understand," Dietrich said sincerely.
The doorbell rang again.
"I thought this was everybody," said Wojo.
"We weren't sure if anyone else could make it," said Dietrich as Harris went to answer the door. "But we had some hopes."
"Janice!" they heard Harris exclaim.
Wojo started. "Janice Wentworth?"
Liz smiled at him. "She didn't know if she'd be able to get the night off, so we didn't say anything."
Harris came back with his arm draped around a petite, frizzy-haired woman in her mid-forties. "Look who's here!" he said, beaming.
"It's great to see you again," said Barney.
"So glad you could come," said Liz.
"Now I remember you!" exclaimed Dietrich.
"Hi," said Wojo. He felt as if he was staring like a great big idiot, but no other words came to mind.
Harris relinquished Wentworth, and she hugged Barney, kissed Liz, and shook hands with Dietrich. Then she came over to Wojo.
"Hi, Stan," she said almost shyly, taking both his hands in hers. "Remember me?"
He squeezed her hands gently and smiled.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Liz nudge Barney, who beckoned to the others. They drifted away into another room, leaving Wojo and Wentworth alone.
"This is starting to look like a conspiracy," Wojo said, nodding toward the doorway through which their friends had vanished.
"I think you're right," Wentworth agreed. They stared at each other for a long moment.
"So, um, how are you doing?" Wojo asked, feeling strangely awkward. She had never been hard to talk to, back at the 12th.
"Peachy keen," she said. "I'm in the sexual harassment enforcement division. I make sure everyone gets sexually harassed on a regular basis."
Wojo chuckled and began to relax. This was the Wentworth he remembered. "You look great," he said.
"You too. Bald works for you."
"Not like I had a choice," he said.
"It's very sexy," she said.
That pleased him more than he expected. Still, he couldn't quite bring himself to ask what he really wanted to know.
She seemed to read his mind. "I don't have a steady guy right now," she volunteered. "You got anybody?"
He shook his head. "I was married for a while. Almost three years. It didn't work out."
"What happened?"
She never did have any tact, he remembered somewhat belatedly. But it had been long enough since the divorce that he didn't mind talking about it. "She said it didn't matter that I couldn't have kids. She swore up and down ..." Wentworth moved closer and put her hand on his arm. He shrugged it off and spoke with a forced casualness. "She left me for a guy she met at work. Five years later they had four kids."
"Tell me her name," Wentworth said. "I'll go kneecap her for you."
Both surprised and warmed by the strength of her indignation, Wojo found himself defending his ex-wife. "I couldn't blame her."
"Couldn't blame her?" Wentworth was momentarily speechless. "She … she lied to you, Stan. She ditched you!"
"Yeah, but she was so happy to have kids. I saw the birth announcements in the paper. They all had these weird Irish names like Caitlin and Siobhan."
"Huh," she said thoughtfully. "I suppose it's just as well you two didn't have kids. Can you imagine sending a kid to school with a name like Siobhan Wojciehowicz? Geez, that's practically child abuse."
Wojo laughed. "God, I've missed you," he said and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "You know, sometimes a whole day will go by, sometimes even more, and I'll realize I haven't thought about her once. But I think about you a lot more often."
Wentworth turned her face up to his. "Really?" she said.
"Really," he said. He started to bend down to kiss her, then pulled back.
"Hey!" she protested.
"If I kiss you, I might wind up taking you home tonight," he said. "And if I take you home, then we're going to wind up in the sack."
"Sounds good to me so far," she said, grinning.
"And then I'm gonna remember how I feel about you, and I'm gonna say, 'This time I won't let her get away.' And maybe I might even ask ... but I don't have anything to offer you. I can't give you kids."
"Stan, I don't want kids," Wentworth said.
"Yeah, that's what she said," Wojo said, looking away.
She took his face between her hands and turned it back to herself. "She was what, twenty-something? I'm forty-five, Wojo. If I wanted kids, I'd have had them by now." He still looked unconvinced. "Lots of people are happy without kids."
"Like who? Barney's got kids. Heck, he's got grandkids. Even old Inspector Luger and Perlita have kids."
"Ron and Arthur don't, and they look pretty happy."
"Ron and ...? Oh, you mean Harris and Dietrich." Wojo rolled his eyes. "That doesn't count. They're just roommates."
"Oh, yeah, that's right," Wentworth said quickly.
Before he could ask what she meant, Harris came back in with Liz. "I'm told that I'm being a terrible host. I meant to tell you, Janice, there's beer in the refrigerator, and if you'd like a cocktail I can mix you up whatever you want." He looked from one to the other and smiled mischievously. "I'm not interrupting anything, am I?"
"Not yet," she answered.
Wojo turned crimson. "Janice!"
"I'm sorry," she said, not sounding the slightest bit apologetic. "I tell you what, I need to catch up on some girl talk with Liz here. You hang out with the guys and I'll let you get me a beer later. Deal?"
"Deal," he said. Following Harris back into the other room, he asked, "Hey, you got a wet bar? Stocked?"
"Fully," said Harris, obviously pleased with Wojo's approval. Wojo studied him. He's not as much of a showoff as he used to be, but he's still Harris.
Wojo settled into a comfortable leather chair with his drink. The others were passing around photos of Barney's grandchildren and generally catching up.
"So, Dietrich, you got a girlfriend?" he asked when there was a lull in the conversation.
Dietrich exchanged a look with Harris, and said gently, "Are you familiar with the term 'bisexual'?"
"Yeah," Wojo answered, suspiciously. "It's somebody who gets it on with both men and women."
"Frank, but workable," put in Barney.
"Yeah," Dietrich agreed. "Wojo, I don't have a girlfriend. I guess you could say I have a boyfriend."
There was a pause. "Seriously?" Wojo asked.
"Very seriously," Dietrich assured him. "As in, practically married."
"Wait a minute," Wojo said. "You went out with women when we worked at the 12th."
Dietrich shrugged. "We all experiment in our youth."
"So let me get this straight," Wojo said. "You're still attracted to women, right?" Dietrich nodded and Wojo went on, incredulous. "With all the women available in the world, you picked a guy?" Dietrich nodded again. "Must be some guy," Wojo concluded.
"I like to think so," Harris said, reaching over to take Dietrich's hand in his and interlacing their fingers.
Wojo looked from one to the other. "You two?" He knew he should have felt shocked, but instead he had a vague feeling that he should have known all along. A number of clues fell into place, and he began to laugh. "I shoulda known." He turned to Barney. "Did you know?"
Barney shrugged. "Well, I …"
"Are you kidding?" Dietrich asked. "Nothing ever escaped Captain Miller's eagle eye."
"Seems to have escaped mine," Wojo muttered. "Wait a minute. You mean you guys were doing it when you were at the 12th!"
"Well, not when we were actually in the building," Dietrich began.
Harris cleared his throat, leaned over and whispered something in Dietrich's ear. Dietrich blushed. "Well, not usually," he corrected himself.
"Whaddaya mean, not usually?" Wojo demanded.
"There was this one time in the locker room ..." Dietrich started.
"It was when I thought he was dead." Harris said almost at the same time.
"Isn't that necrophilia?" Barney asked mischievously.
"Liz still giving you those Word-a-Day calendars?" Harris asked without missing a beat. He went on. "I didn't think he was dead when we were--I mean, it was after we found out he was alive. Remember when he had that beepy thing stuck to his chest, and it stopped beeping?"
"That was articulate," Dietrich said to Harris. "And you call yourself a writer?" He turned to Wojo. "He means the stress analyzing device. The transmitter was destroyed by a woman with a fire hose."
"I remember that," Wojo said.
"Well," Harris continued, "I was relieved to find out that Arthur was alive, and I, um, let him know."
"Oh," Barney said, "I didn't know about that incident." He glared at them. "Which is probably just as well."
"Then what incident did you know about?" Harris asked, genuinely puzzled.
Wojo suddenly slapped his forehead. "The flamingoes!"
"Flamingoes?" Dietrich repeated, sounding puzzled.
Harris suddenly grinned. "Aha--flamingoes! You remember, Arthur, that time we got stuck with the job of counting flamingoes?"
"Oh, yes," Dietrich said.
Wojo's expression had turned thoughtful. "Now I get it! So that's what took you so long in the evidence room!"
Wentworth came up just in time to hear his last comment. "What about the evidence room?"
Wojo leaned over and whispered in her ear. Her eyes grew wide. "Really?"
"Surprised?" Harris asked.
She put a hand on his arm and squeezed it. "Yeah! I didn't think there was enough room in there." Harris winked at her. She turned to Wojo. "Hey, how about that beer you promised me?"
"We'll be back," Wojo said to the others. As soon as they were out of earshot, Wentworth elbowed him in the ribs. "Told ya," she said with a wink.
"Y'know," Wojo complained as they went to the kitchen, "I worked with both of those guys for years. You only worked with one of them for a few months. How come you could tell and I couldn't?"
She gave him a confident, crooked grin. "Because I'm good with people," she said. "I get a feeling when two people are going to work out."
Wojo looked down at her, feeling a warmth in her presence that he hadn't felt with anyone in years. "You mean like you and me?"
"Yeah," she said. Her smile faded as she studied his serious expression. "Penny for your thoughts?"
"I was just thinking that I should listen to you more often."
Wentworth reached into the refrigerator and pulled out a beer. Raising it as if for a toast, she said, "I'll drink to that!"