Chapter Text
Camille felt she was experiencing deja vu: the same old Malcolm Powell murder case, which had already been solved by Richard and the team a whole year ago, and suddenly he was being told that he had to go back to London again for a few days because the defendant was no longer co-operating. What if this time he actually didn't come back?
This year, though, their relationship had begun to move on a bit, and she believed they had been close to admitting they had feelings for one another - feelings that transcended the purely professional.
She thought back to the conversation they'd had then as, once more, he was packing for another trip to grey and drizzly England.
"Do you really have to go, Richard?" She looked at him wistfully.
He crooked his forefinger gently under her chin. "I'm afraid so, Camille. Commissioner's orders. Vicky Woodward's lawyer has apparently persuaded her to change her plea to 'not guilty' after all, and I have to go back to, at the very least, give a sworn affidavit. Hopefully, I won't actually have to testify at her trial, because that could take weeks, but I suppose it could come to that."
Camille thought she was going to faint. Richard so far away for weeks! And in his beloved London. Now he'll never come back, will he??
"And will you come back?" She hated what she felt was her emotional weakness in asking him, but she couldn't help herself.
He stared at her and frowned. "You asked me that last time, remember?"
She looked at him with a mixture of sadness, hurt and anger. How could he be so cold? "Yes, I do remember, Richard."
Seeing the expression on her face, he relented. "And what happened then?" he asked.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, I did come back, didn't I, just like I'd said I would?" he replied, trying not to sound exasperated. Honestly, women! Why do they have to be so irrational?
Camille swallowed hard. Why doesn't he understand how hard this is for me? He's alright; he's going back 'home' while I'll be here - already at home. And wondering if I'll ever see him again.
"Yeah, ranting and raving all the way, especially about your stupid luggage." She was beginning to sound distinctly sullen now.
He raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Well, excuse me, but quite frankly, Camille, it does happen to be bloody inconvenient when your luggage keeps getting lost in transit, you know. You try going around with not much to wear," he grumbled.
Great, now they were both sounding petulant.
She changed tack a little, realising that they were close to ruining what little time they had left with this latest little spat.
"Well, at least you have more than one hour's notice this time. What time do you leave tomorrow morning?" she asked.
"Oh, fairly early, I'm afraid," he replied, relieved that she no longer seemed to be arguing with him. "They're sending a taxi to pick me up about 7:00; this time I have to change planes in San Juan. The flight leaves around 12:30. I won't get in till the early hours the following morning, what with the time difference and all."
Camille took a very deep breath. What the hell; if I'm not going to see him again, it's worth the risk.
"Is there any chance I could stay with you here tonight, Richard?"
Richard looked as if his face was going to fall off.
"What?!?"
She shrugged her shoulders and looked at the floor.
"Camille... "
"Yeah, sorry; forget it," she said. Just please don't humiliate me.
His features relaxed and softened a bit. If only she knew how tempting that is...
Stepping in more closely, he looked at her intently. Inhaling deeply, he explained, "Look, it's not that I don't... um... you know. It's not that I wouldn't like that but... we... can't." His face was beginning to redden a bit.
Keeping eye contact with him, she challenged his assertion. "Because we work together, or because you don't have feelings for me... or because you know you might not come back and, being an honourable English gentleman, you wouldn't want to lead me up the garden path?" The tinge of sarcasm in her voice was not lost on Richard.
He took another deep breath. "How many times do I have to tell you, Camille?? I am coming back!! Why are you acting like there's some dastardly plan to trick you into thinking I'll be back when, all along, I'm actually about to do a runner?!
"And thank you for assuming I'm a devious little shit. I can't tell you how good that makes me feel. Now if you don't mind, I have some packing to finish. It's an early start tomorrow and I was hoping to get it finished tonight, apart from last minute things."
Richard's apparent harshness was an attempt to hide his own wounded feelings behind a cold and matter-of-fact demeanour. He hated being misunderstood, but he didn't yet have the emotional resources to express himself better, or to clear up misunderstandings that arose from his innate reserve and lack of confidence with the opposite sex.
Part of Camille understood this, but part of her was nevertheless hurt and frustrated that even after all this time, he still didn't seem to trust her enough to open up to her. After all, she had dropped enough hints over the months and years, and there had been moments of relative closeness that gave her hope for a future blossoming. But to date, nothing momentous had happened.
I'm damned if I'm going to let him get away with sloping off to the other side of the world without having it out, once and for all.
Something inside her snapped and she made up her mind to force the issue. Lost luggage would be the least of his problems.
Pulling herself up to her full height, and looking him squarely in the eye, she announced that she was staying with him that night, full stop. Not to coerce or seduce him, but simply to spend time with him before his dreaded departure.
Richard studied Camille in the half-light, shook his head and smiled. "How did I ever let you talk me into this?"
She smiled back at him. "You didn't; I insisted. I wasn't going to let you leave - I mean, travel - to London and not spend time with me before you went. Special, alone time."
He looked at her again and wondered how on earth he was going to be able to tear himself away from this sassy, and utterly beguiling, (half) French beauty.
"I never really stood a chance, did I?"
"Are you saying I made you do anything against your will?" she asked teasingly.
"I didn't 'do' anything, Camille," he reminded her.
"Oh, but you did. You let me stay after all; you allowed yourself a new experience; and you opened up a bit, too. Well, just a little."
"Did I have a choice in the matter?"
"Technically yes, but... "
"Exactly. Now come on, we'd better get some sleep - or at least I'd better get some sleep - or I'll be useless tomorrow," he chuckled.
"Richard?"
"Yes, Camille?"
"When you get back from London, can we do this again?"
Richard spluttered with amusement and incredulity. "If we do this again, Camille, I'm not sure the level of... ahem... restraint... would be the same," he answered.
She shot him an impish little grin. "Well, we'll have to cross that bridge when we come to it, won't we? Meantime, you'll have a reason to return, I hope."
________________________________________________________________________
"Can I get you a drink, sir?" Richard looked up at the flight attendant who had just spoken. His head was aching with fatigue and all he wanted was to be able to get some sleep.
"Oh, um... I think I'll just have tea, please. Milk and one sugar, thanks."
"Certainly, sir, and please let us know if there's anything else we can get you."
"Right, thank you." The tea was mediocre, even in Business Class (courtesy of SOCA?), and Richard had no doubt that the meal wouldn't be any better. He hated airline food almost as much as he hated seafood with eyes, but it was to be a long flight and he knew he wouldn't be eating in London until the following day.
After finishing his tea, he pushed his seat into the reclining position and pondered the night he had just spent with Camille - snuggled up in a blanket on the beach, for goodness' sake. And all that sand everywhere, he shuddered.
Oh, the things we do for love.
That last word terrified him, and jolted him out of his reverie. He began scouring his brain for evidence that it wasn't true. Surely he didn't... love... Camille?!? Of course, he was fond of her, and those years he had been 'stuck' on Saint Marie had found him quite a different man than when he first arrived there. But surely they were just good friends and colleagues? And he had really only been humouring her by sleeping under the stars with her last night - because she was sad that he was going to London again, and needed some comfort and reassurance.
Camille had said he was less stuffy and pompous than he used to be, and he realised that if that were true, it was probably down to her.
He hadn't even minded too much when she'd giggled at the sight of him trying to flick the sand out of his hair.
"Maybe you should rinse it in the sea, Richard."
"Then it will just get full of salt."
"The sea is very clean here, not like in Europe."
"That's not what I said."
"Suit yourself."
Then there had been the questions. Oh, the endless questions.
"Have you ever done this before, Richard?"
"What, slept on a beach? No, I haven't."
"What about sleeping anywhere outdoors?"
"When I was a boy scout; and on school camping trips, occasionally."
"Did you enjoy it?"
"Not particularly."
"Have you ever done it with a woman?"
"I beg your pardon?!"
"Have you ever gone camping, or slept outdoors, with a woman?"
"Camille, don't you ever get tired of asking questions?"
"No."
"I thought not. Do you think you'll ever get tired of asking me questions?"
"I doubt it."
"I was afraid of that."
"What else are you afraid of, Richard?"
"I beg your pardon??"
"You say that a lot, don't you?"
"You make me say it, Camille."
"No, I don't."
"Yes, you do. You pry and interrogate and try to wheedle every last bit of personal information out of me."
"Maybe that's because I care, Richard."
"Or maybe it's because you're nosy."
"That, too."
"I have a feeling this is going to be a long night."
"I hope so."
"Well, I think it's too cold on the sand to stay here all night."
"You used to say it was too hot here."
"Well, I wasn't referring to staying out all night on the sand then, was I?"
"Okay, so why don't we move indoors?"
"And then you'll go home?"
"If you order me to... Sir."
"Stop doing that, Camille."
"Doing what?"
"That emotional blackmail thing. You know, like a dog looking all forlorn when you tell it to leave you alone, and you end up feeling so guilty that you relent."
"So, now I'm a dog?"
"Good God, Camille, it's three o'clock in the morning and I've got to be up in - oh, no - less than four hours, so I can get the taxi to the airport, to catch the plane to San Juan, and then catch the plane to the UK. So, can you please stop doing my head in??"
"Alright, if you answer the question."
"Which one?!"
"Do I have to go home now?"
"Oh, dear God... I suppose not."
"Thank you. I didn't really want to."
"Obviously."
"And I wish you didn't have to go back to London, even for just a while."
"That's not what you said when you first met me."
"Well, you don't lock me up in police cells with goats any more."
"Come on, I need to go indoors now. Enough of this boy scout stuff."
"Richard, you only have one bed."
"Oh, well observed, detective. Have you only just noticed that?"
"Actually, no."
"I thought not. Now, I am going to be a true gentleman because: a) I was brought up to be a well-behaved Englishman; b) you're my Sergeant, and I refuse to take advantage of you; and c) I'm too bloody knackered to misbehave, anyway. So, on that premise, would you like to share the bed? Otherwise, you'll have to make your own arrangements, because I really need to get some sleep, Camille."
"Okay. Have you set your alarm?"
"Yes, thank you. Oh look, only three hours until it goes off."
"Goodnight, Richard."
"Goodnight, Camille."
Smiling at the memory of it, Richard turned over in his seat as best he could, and fell asleep.