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He can feel the bass before he hears it, thumping through the car as it drives up to the shack. The sight he’s greeted with is something out of his worst nightmares: loud music and strangers and whatever the hell they’re all doing, in his house of all places. Practically leaping out of the car, he starts calling his sister’s name.
“Izzy!” Ducking under the rafters, stumbling through crowds of people, he can’t see her anywhere. “Izzy!” He even walks down to the beach, checking if she’s decided to go swimming or something equally ridiculous, but she isn’t there either. “Izzy!” Nothing. Turning his view back on the party, he lets out a groan.
He can’t believe this. Reeling him in with promises of change, some sob story about her relationship on the rocks (for reasons that sound utterly absurd to him, not enough to flee an entire country for) and he’d trusted her. He’d forgiven the two years of nearly no interaction on her part, and the years prior of helping her out of messes of her own making. Now, there are people he doesn’t know in his home, probably rifling through the cupboards. Goddamnit, are they going to steal things? Is his next case going to be a robbery that’s happening right in front of him?
It’s far too sunny for this, he decides, trudging up towards the shack. Something like this deserves pathetic fallacy, rain and thunder to match his mood. Instead, 40 degree heat beats down on his face, leaving him itchy and uncomfortable. There’s small particles of sand getting in his shoes, even in his socks. The air smells like salt and something sweet and spicy. Sweat builds on his brow and he wishes Izzy would appear, even just so he could distract himself by tackling her to the ground and punching her, sibling style. The Cain Instinct is very, very real.
Reaching the porch again, he pulls himself up the steps, glancing to his sides. More people he doesn’t know - and frankly, how did Izzy figure out how to work his cd player? He didn’t even know the speakers reached this loud. Just before he heads inside, he hears a voice.
“Hey.”
In front of him, a man stands, close to the shack wall. He’s wearing a bright floral shirt, one of those Saint Marie numbers that would look atrocious on Neville, but somehow are always pulled off by everyone else on the island. It’s blue, with green palm trees and deep pink hibiscus flowers patterning it. Unbuttoned, it reveals a white undershirt, worn with dark blue shorts. Flip-flops, a necklace that brushes his collarbone and a few rings make up the rest of the ensemble. All in all, he looks like a relaxed person, easy going considering the winning smile he’s flashing at Neville, who feels like the exact opposite.
“You come here often?” the man asks. His accent gives away that he must be a Saint Marie native.
“Yes,” Nevile replies irritably, “because it’s my bloody house!”
The stranger raises an eyebrow. Running a hand through his hair, he responds, “I take it you didn’t know about all this then?”
“Oh really? What gave it away?”
Instead of being offended, the man laughs. “Ah, you’re not the partying type.”
Being treated with kindness instead of indignation makes Neville deflate a little. He feels bad for being so snappish to a man who clearly didn’t know that this event wasn’t organised by him. “Sorry.”
“It’s alright.”
“No, honestly, it’s not. I shouldn’t have been so rude.” There’s something about the guy that reminds Neville of someone he’s seen before - not a lot, but the same thick curls, the same brown skin. The effortless beauty. Wait, where did that come from? He coughs. “This is all my sister’s doing,” he adds, turning a disapproving look on the shack.
“Wait!” The man grins. “So, you’re Neville?”
“How do you-”
“Izzy mentioned you. She said a lot of things.”
“Oh, god.”
“Hey, they weren’t bad.” He pauses. “Okay, well they weren't exactly good either, but,” he rapidly continues, seeing Neville’s look of horror, “it was a nice middle. Very neutral.”
“Okay… I’ll take that.”
Leaning back against the wall of the shack, the man rakes his gaze over the Inspector, considering him for a moment. “You know,” he begins, “she told us you were formal.”
Glancing down at his suit and tie, Neville barely manages to hide the flush of embarrassment.
“She also said you were quite… strait-laced.”
“Right.”
“But she sure didn’t tell me,” the man adds, taking a sip from the cup he holds, "that you were cute.” The emphasis on the last word causes something to spark in Neville, a feeling he doesn’t know how to interpret.
“Oh! Uh. Well. Thank you?” he tries.
“You’re welcome.”
Fumbling for something to say, Neville strikes upon a question. “How did you meet Izzy, exactly?”
“Well, I only met her yesterday - she said she hadn’t been here long, her plane had just gotten in, so she needed some company. Told her she was welcome to a friendly chat and then by the next hour, she was buying the whole bar shots.”
“Yeah. That sounds like Izzy.”
“She’s fun. Very exuberant.”
“What bar was that then?”
“Catherine’s.” A loud bass riff tears its way through the conversation for a moment, nearly blowing the speakers. Neville knows he should probably go and shut the music off, but he can’t seem to tear himself away. “Izzy said you go there often?”
“After almost every case, yes. We get a lot of cases.”
“Funny.”
“Why?”
“I’m in there almost every day, too.” Another sip. “Well, ever since I came back half a year ago.”
“Where were you before?”
“France. Just for a couple of years or so. Nowhere extremely exciting.”
“Oh?”
The man tilts his head at Neville’s unspoken question. “I lived in Nîmes.”
“The French Rome?”
“So you know it?”
“Yeah, who doesn’t! Beautiful architecture, and it’s the place where denim gets its name from, if I’m not mistaken?”
“You’re not. A man of culture then?” His tone is playful, causing Neville to feel flushed again.
“Oh, no, not really.” He shifts, moving his weight from one foot to another. “So, um, why Nîmes?”
“Had family who moved there, so when I decided to take a break from Saint Marie, headed to them. Knew some other people in France too. A good friend. She was quite a way away, but we stayed in touch. Actually, you must know her, right? Catherine’s daughter-”
“Camille.” That’s it. That’s who he reminds him of. They look rather different in most respects, but he can see a slight resemblance. Even if he was never attracted to her himself, Neville would be an idiot to state that Camille wasn’t gorgeous, a trait that this guy seems to share with her. Hold on, that’s twice now he’s called this guy hot. What’s happening?
Luckily, his companion doesn’t seem to notice him freezing up. “It’s odd we’ve never met before.”
“Yeah. Yeah, it is,” Neville replies, coming back to his senses after a beat. “You said you’ve been back for months?”
“And in the bar every day, too.”
“Must be at different times, I guess.”
“Has to be. Still strange though. We must be missing each other.”
The sentence reminds Neville of something: a bubblegum pop song that used to play on the radio every single day one year. He combs back through his memory, searching for the lyric.
“Before you came into my life,” he murmurs to himself, “I missed you so bad.”
“Oh, really?”
His gaze snaps up. The stranger is smirking slightly at him. “Wha-” He realises what he’s just said and instantly blushes. “Oh, no, uh, um, i-it’s a song lyric,” he stumbles through the sentence, “uh, I think, perhaps-”
“Carly Rae Jepsen. Call Me Maybe,” the man finishes for him, and smiles at Neville’s bemused face. “What? We do get knowledge of your top 40 hits over here.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” The man looks out at the sea. “Lovely weather, right?”
Happy to be handed any kind of small talk to hoist himself out of the hole of awkwardness he’s dug himself into, Neville nods. “Yeah. Nothing like England.”
“So I’ve heard. What is it like over there?”
“Oh, not interesting at all.”
“C’mon. There’s got to be good things you miss, even if the weather was less than spectacular.”
“Well…” Neville pauses. He traces the wood fencing on the shack’s porch absentmindedly. “There are a few things. Like the food,” he starts, “not that everything over here is bad, but… Allergies meant I never really expanded my palette. The mix of textures and strong flavours, it just feels like a lot. It may be a bit of a stereotype to say that British food tastes like nothing but it really is nothing compared to the cuisine of Saint Marie.”
“Hmm.” The man considers Neville for a moment.
“What?” For a second, the Inspector fears that he’s said something wrong.
“Trying to think of a recipe that might suit your taste buds. What do you typically eat?”
“Well, usually chicken and chips.” The sentence sounds stupid and bland in his mouth, utterly unimpressive. However, the guy doesn’t seem to judge him.
“I see. You ever tried Chicken Columbo?”
“No, I don’t think I’ve heard of that one.”
“Right. It’s a Guadeloupe dish - you like chicken curry?”
He considers the question. While he’d enjoyed takeaway meals, he wasn’t exactly sure how authentic they truly were. “I liked the ones from back home.”
“Well, this one has potatoes, chicken, courgette, onion, Columbo powder, all the good stuff.”
“Columbo powder?”
“Curry powder, mustard powder, aniseed, so on. Then just a few other minor ingredients and you’re done!”
“Any chilli?” Neville puts forward nervously.
“Typically. But if you’re not used to it, I could turn it down a little.”
“Or a lot?”
He laughs. The sound is lovely, low and strong enough that Neville can feel it reverberate in his own chest. Despite its resonance, it remains warm and bright, like the sun sparkling on the water. “Or a lot,” he agrees. “Maybe I should bring some over sometime, if you’d want?”
“Sure,” Neville replies quickly. The guy smiles again and he can feel his pulse jump at the sight of it. “So, uh, what about you?”
“Hm?”
“We’ve been talking a lot about me.” He pauses. “Oh god, I don’t even know your name.”
“That’s quite alright.” The man extends his hand towards Neville. “I’m René.”
Neville takes it. René’s grip is firm - not a deathgrip like the Commissioner's, but instead rather comforting, like a warm hug. His palm is a little rough, implying that he works hands on instead of in an office situation, but not so rugged that Neville could assume him to be a blue collar worker. When he realises that he’s been holding René’s hand for a prolonged time, making his deductions, he flushes and retracts. “Sorry,” he mumbles.
“You apologise a lot.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“Well, only when there’s nothing to be sorry about.”
“I see.” Another pause.
“I think you were asking me about my life?”
“Yes!” Neville springs on the reminder. “Yes, what’s your life like?”
“Uneventful. Been working for a moving company - the amount of English immigrants who come over here after retiring is insane. Good money in it, but not really fulfilling.”
“So you must carry a lot of stuff?” Provides a reason for the slight callusing of his hands, without them being tough.
René nods. “Yep.”
“You must be pretty strong, then.”
“Well, now you’re just flattering me.”
“No, sorry-”
“Are you apologising for being nice to me?”
“Uh-”
“Honestly, you’re sweet.”
“O-oh. Um…So you said your job wasn’t fulfilling?”
“Unfortunately. I’ve had a few before - even worked in a governmental position before when I lived in Basse-Terre.”
“That’s exciting?”
“It is. Luckily, I’m actually starting a new job tomorrow.”
“Oh, well that actually is exciting!”
“Uh-huh,” René replies, lifting his drink to his lips. He takes a small sip. “Same as the Basse-Terre one.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, strict boss. Seems like I’ll have some amiable colleagues though.”
“Huh.”
“Can’t wait to get into it. Get my stripes again.”
“Sounds good!” The other man stares at him for a second, his head tilted a little to the side, and Neville gets the feeling like there’s something he’s missing, a point that’s soared over his head and landed in the ocean behind him. Another second passes and it’s close to uncomfortable before René speaks.
“Well, anyway, you must be worried about all this, huh?” He uses the cup to gesture to the shack, still shaking a little from the music reverberating inside.
“Oh, god yes.” Swallowing roughly, he continues, “actually I should probably, you know, go fix all this.”
René nods. “Don’t let me stop you. Go get ‘em.”
The phrase pulls an awkward but sincere laugh from Neville. He takes a decisive step towards the door: only to immediately scuff his shoes against a nail sticking up from the planks, tripping forward. Throwing his arms out, he tries to steady himself for the inevitable impact with the floor - but it doesn’t come. Instead, he feels strong arms suddenly grasp his torso, pulling him upwards.
He looks up and finds himself in extremely close proximity to René. From here, he has a better view of his face. The other man has eyes that are flecked with gold, brown turning faintly green in the sunshine, utterly enchanting. There’s a small scar, just there near his jawline, probably from a shaving accident. Small diamond studs, tucked behind thick coils of glossy hair, shine in his ears. Neville’s mouth feels like somebody’s just stuffed cotton in it, left utterly dumb.
“You okay?” René asks him softly.
“Uh-yeah.” He realises exactly where he is - this guy’s arms wrapped around his torso, his own hands splayed across his shoulders (broad and muscular, he notes dreamily, before mentally slapping himself) - and pulls away.
René doesn’t seem convinced. “Sure?”
“Yep! I should really find my sister now, shut down this party,” he nearly stumbles again over René’s discarded cup, clearly thrown away in the attempt to halt Neville’s fall, causing him to blush again, “so, uh, I should do that.” He points inside the house, as if there was anywhere he was going to go.
“Okay.”
“Okay.” Neville steps through the door, when suddenly a voice calls out to him. He pokes his head out to the porch again. “Huh?”
“Hope to see you again.”
“Oh!” God, what is it about this guy that just ties his tongue in knots? “I hope you do. See me again, that is. Sorry, that was weird- no, wait, stop apologising-”
“Neville.” Hearing his voice spoken in such a gentle tone makes his head snap up. “I’ll come around tomorrow, if that’s okay?” Looking around at the porch, with all the strewn cups and random trash, René continues, “you might need help cleaning all this up.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
“Great. Tomorrow?”
Neville nods. “Tomorrow.”
“Alright then. Now, you go stop your sister’s antics.”
“Right.”
The next morning, Neville’s head is pounding. He didn’t even drink anything but still, the reverberations of the music have left him feeling close to hungover. The party had ended soon after he’d shut off the speakers and stood on the table, politely but firmly telling everyone to please leave, because this was his house. Of course, he’d been met with less than pleased responses from everyone, but luckily they’d all gone without much fuss.
He’d found Izzy dozing in a cupboard, a half drunk bottle of rum clutched in one hand, ridiculously drunk but otherwise okay. Right now, she was lying on the sofa, wrapped in one of the blankets a predecessor had left behind. Neville had slept on the floor, seeing as he needed to wash his sheets - and maybe burn his mattress, just for mental wellbeing - and it had been fitful.
The weight of sleep deprivation hangs over him, pressing his shoulders and head against the desk. The dreams that should have appeared last night decide now to flash through his mind: flashes of party lights, Florence standing there and smiling at him in her yellow sundress, the first few chords of an ABBA song, Florence again, this time beautiful and intimidating with her gun pointed at Miranda Priestly, a battalion of Roman centurions, the feeling of falling, René’s arms around him-
That one causes him to jolt awake. It’s just in time too, as a paper aeroplane soars through the air, hitting him directly in the forehead. He glares in the direction it’s come from.
“Marlon,” he hisses irritably, “why did you just fling a paper aeroplane at me?”
“Because,” Naomi quickly begins on Marlon’s behalf, “the Commissioner-”
“Hello, Inspector.”
Speak of the Devil. In the doorway are Darlene and the Commissioner, the latter looking largely unimpressed. “Why is there ink on your cheek?”
Reaching to his own face, Neville’s fingers pull away tinged with blue. Glancing down at his desk, he sees a ballpoint pen left uncapped - clearly, when he’d taken his nap, he’d fallen asleep on top of it. “Uh, you see, it was a bit of silly mistake sir, my sister, she held a party at my house, and well, I didn’t get much sleep-”
As Neville stutters, Marlon throws a look at Naomi, clearly amused. She frowns disapprovingly, but when he tilts his head at her, she has to concede a small smile. He smirks back, clearly pleased with his little victory. “Shut up,” she mouths back.
“You know you love me,” he silently responds.
“Only because you fell for me first.” It’s her turn to laugh as he gets flustered, looking away. When she turns her gaze back up to the rest of the station, she sees Darlene staring at her. For a moment, her heart drops to her feet, worried that she’s going to get in trouble.
However, Darlene’s mouth curves slightly upwards. “Nice,” she whispers to Naomi.
The younger woman feels her grin broaden. “Thanks!”
Meanwhile, Neville’s panicked explanation reaches its end as he trails off. “...which is why I have ink on my face. Sir.”
“Right,” the Commissioner states, deadpan. “So, you fell asleep on a pen.”
“Uh. Yes, sir.”
“Next time, Inspector, just say that.”
“Right. My apologies.”
The Commissioner seems to accept it, as he turns his attention to other matters. He raises his voice, using a sweeping hand to gesture towards Darlene. “Of course, you all know that Darlene will be assisting your cases as a civilian consultant. She will be, of no doubt, invaluable help to the team and so I expect nothing short of a very warm welcome to her.”
“Please, Selwyn,” Darlene states, “there’s no need for all that.” She looks at Neville. “Shall I share a desk with Naomi, until you get a new one?”
Slightly flummoxed, the man looks to Florence’s desk, now cleared of her items. He’d been given the task of sorting through all of it, putting everything that was important to her in a cardboard box to ship to her unknown new location. He wishes he knew where she was - even if she couldn’t have loved him romantically, she was still his closest friend. The ache in his chest grows stronger as he stares at her empty seat, so he pulls his eyes away. “Why can’t you take Florence’s?” he questions Darlene politely. “Nobody is using it.”
“Ah.”
Everyone turns to the Commissioner when he speaks. Neville feels his eyebrows knit together in confusion. “Sir?”
“Darlene can’t use that desk,” his boss begins, “because someone else is using it.”
“Someone else?” Immediately, Naomi and Marlon spring to their feet.
She speaks first. “Sir, I thought I was getting the DS position?” Worry is clear on her face, tired of preparing herself for disappointment. Contrastingly, Marlon looks as if he’s ready to fight the Commissioner in hand to hand if the answer is no.
“You are.”
“Then, when you say someone else…?”
“While I’m sure we all heavily appreciate Darlene coming in and lending her time as a consultant,” the Commissioner states, throwing the aforementioned woman a soft smile which she happily returns, “she’s not a trained officer. And while it’s not necessarily policy, I feel safer when there are four officers in this station. No need to fix what’s not broken, as the phrase goes.”
Marlon perks up. “So, we’re getting a new junior Sergeant?”
“No.”
“What?”
“Team,” he announces, turning towards the doorway, “I’d like you to meet your new, second, DI.”
On cue, a man walks into the room. Naomi and Marlon let out small gasps, Darlene barely even blinking, having likely been told by the Commissioner beforehand, but Neville shuts all that out. Because- because-
“Hi,” René beams at the team, looking stunning in a fitted white shirt and loose fitting trousers, “nice to meet you all.” He catches sight of Neville and waves. “Hi. Said I’d see you tomorrow, didn’t I?”
“Your new job?”
“Is this, yes. Thought you would have picked up on all the hints - governmental position, same as the one in Basse-Terre, earning my stripes - but it seems not.” He laughs, but looks a little uncertain. “You’re not mad, right?”
“No!” His voice is too loud, the word springing from his mouth too quickly. Out of the corner of his eye he watches as Naomi’s expression switches to one of puzzlement. Even worse, Marlon's eyes seem to flicker for just a moment with understanding. Neville feels his collar suddenly contract his neck. Is it hot in here? It’s always hot in here, of course, but wow, it’s really hot in here. Can nobody else feel that? Is he going crazy?
“Inspector?” The Commissioner's voice shakes him from his trance. “Are you alright?”
“Uh, yes! Sorry.” He looks back at René. “I’m just… surprised.”
The other man stares back hopefully. “In a good way?”
“Yeah.” Neville smiles. “In a good way.”
“Well, now that you’ve all met each other, I hope you can function as a team.” The Commissioner seems pleased with the way that outrage hasn’t broken out at his announcement, and takes his cue to leave. “I’ll be back later in the week to check on how you’re all doing”. Adjusting his hat, he walks out the station. A chorus of goodbyes follow him, but Neville remains transfixed by his new counterpart.
“So…” René points at Florence’s desk. “Is that one mine?”
“I guess so! Uh, do you need help settling in?”
Before René can reply, Marlon springs up. “Don’t worry about it, sir, I can handle it.” He grins at the new, other DI, who smiles back just as bright. “I think we’re going to get along just fine.”
“Oh? I feel the same way - Marlon, right?”
As the two men begin to converse, Naomi standing to hold conversation with them both as well, Darlene sidles up to Neville. “Don’t worry about it, Neville.”
“Huh?” Turning to look at her, he looks bemused. “Don’t worry about what?”
A steadying hand is placed on his shoulder. “Dwayne always told me that falling in love with your colleague was par for the course for transfer officers.”
“Wha-” Neville turns pink, face warming intensely. “I’m not- I mean, I haven’t-”
“So you weren’t in love with Florence?” When the Inspector turns an even brighter hue, she smiles kindly. “It’s okay.” She glances at René. “I think this one likes you back.” With that, she moves back to her own desk, joining in the conversation with the rest of the team, leaving the man in the middle of the room, stunned.
He thinks that perhaps this is a very bad idea - that he’s not ready to confront these odd feelings for his new friend, his new partner (business only, he has to sharply remind himself), especially when he’s still struggling with the ones he holds for Florence. But then, he locks eyes with René, who smiles warmly back at him. It leaves him feeling slightly dizzy, in a good way, like his feet aren’t touching the floor. Wordlessly, he wonders if Catherine was right all along.
Maybe a handsome Frenchman really is the perfect distraction.