Chapter Text
The villa is too quiet.
Not the focused quiet Josephine is used to - the kind that comes with paperwork or a developing irritation - but something more brittle. Brigitte sits at the small table on the terrace, coffee untouched, gaze fixed on the sea as if it has personally offended her. She answers questions a fraction too late. She stares at nothing.
Josephine watches her over the rim of her cup from her place opposite.
“You have been silent for nine minutes,” she says mildly. “Either something is wrong, or you are about to arrest the Mediterranean.”
Brigitte does not look at her. “I am thinking.”
“That,” Josephine replies, “is usually louder.”
A pause. The gulls cry. Somewhere down the coast, a boat engine splutters.
Josephine sets her cup down. “All right. What is it?”
Brigitte blinks. Straightens. “Pardon?”
“You have not corrected me once,” Josephine continues. “You have not sighed. You have not looked at me as though I am a personal inconvenience. I find it suspicious.”
Brigitte exhales through her nose, the sound halfway between a laugh and surrender. She rubs her thumb along the rim of her cup.
“I need to ask you something,” she says.
Josephine’s smile sharpens. “Oh?”
Brigitte’s expression is pained. “Le Quatorze Juillet.”
Josephine waits.
“Bastille Day,” Brigitte adds, as though that clarifies the tension radiating from her shoulders.
“Yes,” Josephine says. “I am aware of the concept of France.”
Brigitte fixes her with a look that is part warning, part plea. “The commissariat has been invited to attend the Bal Populaire.”
Josephine’s eyes light, immediately. “Oh. How charming. Brass band, dancing, civic pride. You in uniform?”
“Oui. There will be a parade,” Brigitte says. “Then the party. It is…expected.”
“Expected,” Josephine echoes. “Of you specifically?”
“Yes.”
Josephine tilts her head. “How tragic.”
Brigitte shoots her a look. “Josephine.”
“I am listening.”
Josephine waits. Patient. Ostentatiously so. Nothing is forthcoming. She sighs.
“And this is troubling you because…?”
Brigitte opens her mouth. Closes it. Hesitates. Actually hesitates. Josephine raises her brows in expectation.
Brigitte draws herself up at that, shoulders back, voice carefully neutral. “I would like you to come with me.”
Josephine pauses.
Just for a beat.
Then she laughs softly. “That’s it?”
Brigitte frowns. “What do you mean?”
“I was expecting blackmail,” Josephine says. “Or a confession. Possibly an arrest warrant. This is almost disappointingly anticlimactic, Brigitte.”
Brigitte’s jaw tightens. “It is not…”
“There is more?” Josephine asks pleasantly, cutting her off.
Brigitte closes her eyes.
“There is,” she admits. “Yes.”
Josephine leans back in her chair, delighted. “Go on.”
“There is,” Brigitte says carefully, “a small but determined band of women. Friends of my aunt.”
“Of course there is.”
“They have opinions.”
“I’m sure they do.”
“They believe,” Brigitte continues, voice flattening, “that la Fête Nationale is an excellent opportunity for introductions.”
Josephine’s smile goes slow and dangerous. “Introductions.”
“Yes.”
“To men.”
Brigitte throws her an incredulous look. “Josephine. My aunt is old, but she is not blind or stupid.”
Josephine tilts her head in concession. “My apologies. I assumed that she might be…old-fashioned, and that that was the problem.”
“Only old-fashioned in the sense that she would like to see me…settled. She does not particularly care about who that might be with.”
Josephine considers her. “Forgive me,” she says, faux-thoughtful, “but are you not a little old to be settling down? Why have they waited until you are forty-two?”
Brigitte opens her eyes and meets her gaze. “They have not waited,” she says. “I have… deflected.”
Josephine hums. “For decades?”
“More or less.”
“And now,” Josephine says, “you require… what, exactly?”
Brigitte shifts. Just slightly. It ruins the nonchalant effect she is clearly going for.
“I need,” she says, slower now, “something convincing.”
Josephine’s eyes light up.
“Convincing,” she repeats.
“Oui.”
Josephine leans forward, elbows on the table. “You are asking me to save you from well-meaning provincial matchmaking.”
Brigitte’s mouth presses into a thin line. “You are very good at being… distracting.”
“Mm.”
“And,” Brigitte adds, betraying herself entirely, “convincing.”
Josephine studies her with open fascination. “So, just to be clear,” she says, far too innocently, “you want me to… what?”
Brigitte exhales. The dignity she was aiming for collapses entirely.
“Please don’t make me say it, Josephine.”
Josephine beams.
Brigitte pinches the bridge of her nose.
“You are not taking this seriously.”
Josephine looks wounded. “I am taking it extremely seriously.”
“You are enjoying it. My suffering.”
“Also true.”
Brigitte lowers her hand and fixes her with a look that has stopped armed men mid-sentence. “This cannot be half-hearted,” she says. “If you come, you must seem…permanent.”
Josephine’s brows lift. “Permanent?”
“Yes.”
“As in - ”
“As in,” Brigitte interrupts, “present. Familiar. Unmovable. Someone who does not disappear at the end of the summer like a particularly elegant mirage. Someone who is…with me.”
Josephine leans back, thoughtful. Her smile softens - not much, but enough to be interesting. “You want them to stop trying.”
“I want them to give up,” Brigitte says. “Entirely. Forever. I want my aunt to look at me and think, ah yes, tragically old, but finally settled.”
Josephine laughs. “That is a tall order for a single day.”
“You are very persuasive,” Brigitte says dryly. “You persuaded an entire town to tolerate you.”
“Flattery,” Josephine murmurs. “But go on.”
“There will be dancing,” Brigitte adds. “There will be uniforms. There will be questions.”
Josephine’s eyes gleam. “Questions I excel at answering.”
“And,” Brigitte says, pointing at her, “if you agree, it cannot be like last year at the Bal Populaire in Juan-les-Pins where you took that man’s yacht.”
“I didn't take it. I won it.”
Brigitte rolls her eyes hard, expression twisting into one of frustration.
“Oh, of course. Josephine. I am not having this argument with you again.”
“Good, because you would lose it again. Remember, Brigitte, you are trying to ask a favour.”
A resigned sigh.
"You cannot steal anything.”
A pause.
Josephine blinks. “Anything?”
“You will be surrounded by police officers.”
“Yes.”
“Colleagues,” Brigitte emphasises.
Josephine presses a hand to her chest. “You wound me.”
“I am serious.”
“So am I,” Josephine says smoothly. “The only thing I will have stolen is your heart, darling.”
“Mon Dieu.”
Josephine grins. “Too much?”
“Far too much.”
“I can tone it down,” Josephine offers. “I could simply gaze at you adoringly and allow the rumours to do the rest.”
Brigitte narrows her eyes. “You are impossible.”
“And yet,” Josephine says lightly, “you came to me.”
A beat. Brigitte looks away first.
“This is a mistake,” she mutters.
Josephine’s voice drops, gentler now. “Do you want me to come?”
Brigitte hesitates. Then, very quietly, “Oui.”
Josephine smiles - not sharp, not wicked. Something warmer. Something dangerous in a different way.
“Then,” she says, standing, “we should discuss what permanent looks like.”
Brigitte sighs.
She already knows she is doomed. It has not yet dawned on her quite how badly, until -
“Stand up.”
Brigitte blinks, but complies. “What? Why?”
“A quick rehearsal,” Josephine says lightly, already moving. There is no space left for refusal; she closes the distance with infuriating ease and slides an arm around Brigitte’s waist as if it has always belonged there.
Brigitte goes rigid.
Josephine clicks her tongue softly. “Now, see, you cannot flinch like that if you want to be convincing.”
“I was not prepared,” Brigitte snaps, though the protest comes out thinner than intended.
“Then let’s prepare you.”
Josephine's hand is warm. Confident. Entirely too familiar for something that is, allegedly, a performance. Brigitte becomes acutely aware of several things at once: the closeness, the way Josephine’s hand has slipped beneath the hem of her shirt, the fact that anyone walking in would immediately assume far too much - and perhaps not incorrectly.
“This,” Josephine murmurs, adjusting her grip with deliberate care, “is how someone stands when they are used to being touched.”
“I am used to being touched,” Brigitte says stiffly.
“By suspects,” Josephine replies. “Not by someone who intends to stay.”
She draws Brigitte a fraction closer. Unmistakably more than merely friendly, her fingers stroking lightly at the skin just above Brigitte’s waistband.
Brigitte inhales sharply despite herself. “You are enjoying this.”
“Immensely.”
“You are meant to be helping me.”
“I am,” Josephine says. “You are terrible at this.”
Brigitte bristles. “I am perfectly capable of -”
Josephine leans in, just slightly, lowering her voice. “Look at me.”
Against her better judgment, Brigitte does.
Josephine’s expression has shifted - still amused, but focused now, intent in a way that makes Brigitte’s thoughts skid. “If we are to be convincing,” she continues, “you cannot look like you are bracing for impact.”
“I am not.”
“You are,” Josephine says gently. “You look like a woman about to arrest someone.”
“That is because I usually am.”
Josephine smiles. “But you are supposed to be a woman whose partner has her arm around her waist at a public dance, and is completely comfortable with it.”
Her thumb moves, cresting her hipbone. Proprietary.
Brigitte swallows. “This was not what I meant.”
Josephine’s eyes flicker with delight. “No?”
“I meant…standing near me. Talking. Perhaps a hand on my arm.”
Josephine hums thoughtfully. “That will not stop determined women with outdated ideas about your matrimonial prospects.”
“I do not want to know how you know that.”
“I have lived a life.”
She adjusts again, subtly repositioning Brigitte’s hand so it rests against her own side, pleased when Brigitte’s fingers automatically curl into the silk of her blouse. “There. That’s better. You look less like a hostage.”
“I did not in the first place.”
“You did.”
Brigitte exhales, long and controlled. “This is excessive.”
“Effective,” Josephine corrects.
A pause. Brigitte does not pull away.
“This is just for one day,” Brigitte says, as if reminding herself.
“Of course,” Josephine replies smoothly. “Entirely temporary.”
Her smile says nothing of the sort.
Brigitte closes her eyes for half a second, then opens them again, resigned.
“I already regret this.”
Josephine’s arm tightens, just a little. “Give it a little more time.”
Josephine does not announce the next step.
She does not ask.
She simply leans in and kisses her.
It is not dramatic. Not rushed. It is precise in the way Josephine does everything - measured, intentional, as if this outcome has been quietly inevitable all along. Her hand remains steady at Brigitte’s waist, leaving no room for misunderstanding or retreat.
Brigitte freezes for exactly half a second.
Then she makes a small, helpless sound against Josephine’s mouth and - damn it - leans in.
It is brief. Far too brief. Josephine pulls back first, as though snapping herself out of something dangerous.
“Well,” she says lightly, as if she hasn’t just upended the room, “that should do it.”
Brigitte stares at her.
Her expression is a mess: shock, heat, outrage, and something perilously close to longing. “You -” She stops, tries again. “That was entirely unnecessary.”
Josephine arches a brow. “Was it?”
“Yes.
Josephine considers her face with open interest. “You did not seem opposed.”
“That is beside the point.”
“Is it?” Josephine’s voice is soft now, teasing but edged with something sharper. “You wanted convincing.”
“I wanted plausible,” Brigitte says faintly. “Not…this.”
“This,” Josephine says, tapping her own lips with a finger, “is what will end the matchmaking. Permanently.”
Brigitte drags a hand down her face. “I cannot take you anywhere.”
“And yet,” Josephine says pleasantly, “you are about to take me to a celebration full of police officers.”
Brigitte lowers her hand and looks at her properly now. “You cannot do that again.”
Josephine’s smile flickers. Just for a moment. Something unreadable passes behind it.
“Of course,” she says. “My apologies.”
She steps back - clean, controlled, immaculate. The distance snaps into place as if it has always existed.
Brigitte immediately misses her.
She straightens her jacket, squaring her shoulders, dignity hastily reclaimed. “This is an act,” she says firmly. “A performance. You are my…my buffer.”
“Mm,” Josephine agrees. “Entirely professional.”
“Good.”
“Excellent.”
They stand there, neither moving.
Brigitte clears her throat. “You enjoyed that far too much.”
Josephine’s gaze slides back to her, wicked and warm. “You are the one who asked me to look permanent.”
Brigitte mutters, “Mon Dieu,” under her breath.
Josephine returns to her chair and her coffee with infuriating calm, as though she hasn’t just created a fault line and watched the ground give way beneath Brigitte’s feet.
This, Brigitte decides, is deeply unfair. She looks at her, faintly incredulous while her mind scrabbles to catch up with this new reality.
“You are very calm,” she says finally.
“I am having an excellent morning,” Josephine replies. “You should try it.”
She lifts her cup, blows gently across the surface, and takes a small, satisfied sip. Serene. Unbothered. Entirely in control.
Brigitte remains standing.
Her pulse is still doing something reckless. Her mouth feels like it belongs to someone else.
Josephine glances up at her over the rim of the cup. “You see?” she says mildly. “This is precisely the problem.”
“The problem,” Brigitte repeats, a little hoarsely, “is that you just kissed me.”
“Yes,” Josephine agrees. “And you reacted as though I had pushed you onto the tracks.”
“I did not - ”
“You did,” Josephine says kindly. “It was very endearing. Also very unconvincing.”
“I do not like where this is going.”
Josephine folds her hands neatly on the table. Her voice is calm, almost kind. “You are going to find pretending difficult.”
“I will manage.”
“You froze.”
“That was unexpected.”
“You made a noise.”
Brigitte flushes. “I did not - ”
“You did,” Josephine says gently. “A very telling one.”
Brigitte narrows her eyes. “Your analysis is unnecessary.”
“On the contrary.” Josephine tilts her head, studying her like a chessboard she already understands. “It is quite useful.”
Brigitte folds her arms, defensive by reflex. “I am not accustomed to rehearsing intimacy.”
“That much is clear.”
Brigitte exhales through teeth she is trying very hard not to clench. “Josephine.”
Josephine sets her cup down with care. “If the goal,” she continues, as if delivering a lecture, “is to discourage a determined cadre of well-meaning matchmakers, then pretending - badly - to be something you are not is an inelegant approach.”
Brigitte narrows her eyes. “And you have a better one?”
“Of course.”
There it is. The faintest glint of something sharp behind the smile. Brigitte, distracted by her own lingering disarray, misses it entirely.
Josephine leans back, fingers steepled. “There is another solution. One that renders rehearsal unnecessary. No flinching. No convincing performances.”
Brigitte hesitates. “Which is?”
Josephine meets her gaze, steady and intent.
“We simply become a couple.”
The words land with a dull, heavy finality.
Brigitte stares at her. “…Simply?”
“Yes.”
“That is not simple.”
Josephine tilts her head. “It is far more elegant.”
Brigitte lets out a short, incredulous laugh. “You are proposing a relationship as a logistical fix.”
“I am proposing,” Josephine says smoothly, “that we solve multiple problems at once.”
“This is absurd.”
“Is it?”
“Oui.”
Josephine’s smile deepens. “You already trust me. We spend an inordinate amount of time together. We enjoy one another’s company. And,” her eyes flick briefly to Brigitte’s mouth, then back, “there is clearly chemistry.”
Brigitte opens her mouth. Closes it. Tries again. “This is manipulation.”
Josephine shrugs lightly. “Strategic efficiency.”
“I am not agreeing to this.”
Josephine’s gaze softens, just enough to be dangerous. “I did not say you had. I merely suggested an alternative.”
Brigitte swallows. “And how long would this… solution last?”
Josephine considers. “As long as necessary.”
A beat.
“And how long,” Brigitte says carefully, “do you imagine that would be?”
Josephine smiles, slow, deliberate, predatory.
“Oh, Brigitte,” she says. “That rather depends on you.”
Brigitte stops pacing.
That, more than anything, gives her away.
Josephine hasn’t moved. She hasn’t stood, hasn’t reached, hasn’t pressed the advantage the way Brigitte knows - knows - she could. She just watches, patient as a cat that has already decided how this ends for the mouse.
“No pretense,” Josephine repeats gently. “Just the reality of… us.”
“There is no us,” Brigitte says at once, too fast. “There is a professional arrangement. A mutually beneficial -”
Josephine lifts a hand. Not dismissive. Almost… indulgent. “Brigitte. You just asked me to pretend to be permanent.”
Brigitte winces. “That was different.”
“How?”
“Because it was fake.”
Josephine’s smile softens, sharpness easing into something warmer, more dangerous. “And this would not be.”
Silence stretches between them. Beyond the villa, the afternoon hums on - distant traffic, the faint clink of cups from the kitchen. Ordinary life, continuing as if nothing irreversible is happening on Josephine Chesterfield’s terrace.
Brigitte swallows. “You do not do things halfway.”
“No.”
“And you do not stay.”
Josephine’s gaze flickers, just for a fraction of a second. Enough to be honest. “Not usually.”
Brigitte drags a hand across her hair, the gesture finally stripping away the last of her attempted dignity. “This is a terrible idea.”
“Yes,” Josephine agrees cheerfully.
“You will get bored.”
“Unlikely.”
“You will leave.”
“Possibly.”
Brigitte stares at her. “You are not helping.”
Josephine stands at last, closing the distance with unhurried confidence. She stops just close enough that Brigitte can feel the warmth of her, can smell the faint citrus of her perfume.
“I am helping,” she says softly. “I am offering clarity.”
Brigitte’s voice drops despite herself. “You are offering chaos.”
“If you keep listing reasons not to do this, we’ll be here all day, my darling.”
Another beat. Brigitte’s composure is hanging by a thread now, pride giving way to something rawer, more vulnerable.
“And if I say yes?” she asks.
Josephine’s expression shifts - still playful, but intent now. Focused. “Then we stop pretending. We let your aunt’s friends choke on their champagne. We dance at the Bal Populaire. I behave impeccably in front of your colleagues.”
“And after?”
Josephine’s eyes meet hers, steady and unflinching. “After, we see what happens when two very stubborn women stop lying to themselves.”
Brigitte lets out a shaky breath and closes her eyes for a moment. Then, quietly, almost pleading despite herself -
“Josephine.”
“Yes?”
“…try again.”
Josephine's eyes flash as she stands, her smile slow and satisfied. She steps closer. Close enough now that Brigitte can feel the heat of her.
The second kiss changes everything.
There is no urgency in it this time - no testing, no surprise. Josephine takes her time, mouth warm and sure, a hand coming up to Brigitte’s jaw as if this is already familiar, already allowed. Brigitte makes a low, frustrated sound against her lips and leans in, forgets herself entirely, forgets caution, forgets every carefully maintained line.
When they finally part, it’s only by inches.
Josephine’s eyes are dark with satisfaction. “Convincing,” she says, calmly, as if delivering a professional assessment.
Brigitte growls, an entirely undignified sound, hands fisting in silk to pull her back in. “You always have to be right,” she mutters into Josephine’s mouth.
“It’s a burden,” Josephine murmurs. “But one I bear with grace.”
They separate again, breathless now. Brigitte rests her forehead briefly against Josephine’s, eyes closed, as if collecting herself - or attempting to. It does not work.
“Well,” Josephine continues lightly, that wicked gleam unmistakable now, “this is all very promising so far.”
Brigitte opens one eye. “You are unbearable.”
“Mm,” Josephine glances toward the clock on the wall, then back to Brigitte, serene as ever. “Given that the 14th of July is in… what, two weeks? I feel it would be negligent not to prepare thoroughly.”
“Prepare what, exactly?” Brigitte asks warily.
Josephine’s smile widens. “Affection. Familiarity. The sort of ease that convinces even the most determined aunt that you are no longer available for matchmaking.”
She reaches for Brigitte’s hand - confident now, proprietary - and tugs gently. “There are other things I would like to practise before the ball.”
Brigitte exhales, torn between suspicion and a very real inability to resist. “Josephine…”
“My schedule,” Josephine adds sweetly, already turning toward the hall, “is wonderfully empty today.”
She leads Brigitte toward the bedroom without another word, as if this outcome had been inevitable all along.