"Yeah, but then I'd have to get another lawyer, and another job... maybe somewhere where the boss actually files things properly, and then what would I do in my spare time?"
Breathing begins to calm as his arm drapes over her, his chest pressed to her back. Pulling the blanket over their bodies as the moonlight pours in, broken up by the blinds and casting long diagonal shadows over them.
That tinny old radio continues to play its old jazz standards dimly from the other side of the room.
Harvey Dent's eyes close, and he takes a moment to appreciate what's just happened. This thing he has no right to.
Lately she finds herself often imagining new and unpleasant ways this whole thing could blow up in her face, or his face, or both their faces, but there's no thought of those things now.
Just comfortable exhaustion and quiet companionship.
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Then he blinks, and looks her way.
"On second thought... don't sue me. You'd have a hell of a case against my personal touch."
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"Yeah, but then I'd have to get another lawyer, and another job... maybe somewhere where the boss actually files things properly, and then what would I do in my spare time?"
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Then, his eyes are back on the papers in front of him.
"I imagine you could come up with a few activities," he says, hiding his own smirk.
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"You're just giving me more to use against you when I sue your pants off."
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"They'll only be happy if I can win. I don't know if I've got enough pity cred from juries yet, or if I'm still an evil bastard."
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"Just a thought - the fact that you're a good lawyer might help."
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"That's my only ace in the hole."
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There's another flash of a grin, over her shoulder as she thumbs through the G's.
"You also look kind of like Bruce Willis. That can only work in your favour."
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Forbes v. Swindon...
"Incidentally, Perry Mason wound up marrying his secretary."
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She slides the filing cabinet closed and stretches, then brushes her hair out of her eyes.
"Does that mean we have to stop sleeping together if you get a real secretary?"
Flirting is a little alien to them both yet - might as well try the direct approach.
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He's probably talking about the sex, not the lying awake for hours in silent thought.
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He tries to shake it off and busy himself with what's on his desk.
Clicking the top of his pen idly.
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Then she stands and heads over to his desk once more, circling it this time so she's standing next to him. Leaning on the desk a little.
Her hand cups his face.
Her thumb brushes over his lips.
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His eyes show a bit of his quiet confusion, shrinking just a little, unconsciously, in self-preservation.
His lower lip even shakes a little before he can steady it, turning it into a slight pucker against her thumb.
He doesn't, he can't look away from her, though.
Nor can he shake the feeling that she'll eventually consider him a mistake.
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She's not sure how she'd define... this... or even if she wants to try.
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That tinny old radio continues to play its old jazz standards dimly from the other side of the room.
Harvey Dent's eyes close, and he takes a moment to appreciate what's just happened. This thing he has no right to.
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Lately she finds herself often imagining new and unpleasant ways this whole thing could blow up in her face, or his face, or both their faces, but there's no thought of those things now.
Just comfortable exhaustion and quiet companionship.
She savors it, too.
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He hazards a small kiss to the back of her neck.
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Her hand rests lightly on his arm, a silent, tentative reassurance.
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