It was an accident.
They're sparring, something that's come to be a regular occurrence on Sunday night, Fisher's yelling at her to keep her hands up. And then Camille comes at him, all quick and tiny, flashing off a few good hits before he can blink and get her back.
But he doesn't swing.
He's looking at her, a little dazed from the excellent right hook she just landed on his jaw, thinking how beautiful she looks like this: eyes fiery, glowing with sweat. And maybe she hit him harder than he realized, maybe he's concussed and confused, but instead of reaching out to pop a quick jab at her ribcage, he just grabs her, tugging off his gloves.
She blinks at him, as his arm winds around her waist and he pulls her to him.
"Um," she says, obviously confused. "I think this is cheati-"
He kisses her.
She tastes salty and sweet at the same time and she smells like a mixture of the gym and fruity shampoo, and on anyone else it would probably be repulsive, but on her it makes his head swim.
The thing is: he trained her. He knows that if she wanted to, she could have him flat on his back in a second, with little cartoon birds chirping above his head.
But she doesn't.
Instead, he hears the rip of velcro followed by the soft thud of her gloves hitting the floor, feels her hand tangle in his hair, the other arm climbing around his shoulders. She feels unbelievably solid for someone so small, or maybe it's just that he knows her. And she is solid to him.
It's a bizarre moment for an epiphany, while he's wrapped completely around her like this, not even an inch of space between them, but it's this moment when he realizes with sudden clarity that she's become his anchor throughout all of this. As the Stitchers program grows and his part in it changes, as his whole life changes along with it, Camille has been there. Being exactly herself, and in doing so, reminding him who he is.
She keeps him grounded, while reminding him to be light. Not to get too weighed down by the darkness and the hardness, not to let the sharp edges cut too deep, and not to hate the scars when they do.
As her nails drag lightly along his scalp, he shivers. He should have known kissing her would be like this, as easy as it is demanding, a sudden rush of need adding an edge as he captures her bottom lip with his teeth. Just as she curves into it, into him, he pulls back, keeping a tight hold on her waist.
"Wait-" his voice is embarrassingly unsteady. Camille blinks, looking disoriented. "I want to say something."
"Really? Right now?" She asks, looking up at him, her expression changing to one of amusement.
"Yes," he says, a little more firmly. "I just- I like you." He can feel his face flaming as he hears himself. He sounds like a damn middle schooler. But Camille's grin just widens.
"I figured."
"No, smartass," he retorts. "I mean- I think you should go to dinner with me."
"Aww," Camille coos, mirth sparkling in her eyes. "That's so sweet-"
With a sigh, Fisher lets go of her, rolling his eyes.
"Never mind," he mutters. "I take it back. You're a pain in my ass." He turns to walk away, but is stopped when her arms wind around his waist from behind. She presses her face into his back, the heat from her body seeping through his thin t-shirt.
"Come on, Fishy, don't be like that." She mumbles into his shirt. Slowly, he turns back around, lifting his arms so they go over her.
"Will you go to dinner with me?" He asks again, quietly, draping his arms around her shoulders and resting his chin on the top of her head.
"I would love to." She says, and he knows she's still laughing at him, but he'll take it.
After a few minutes like that, he lets his arms drop.
"I'm going to go shower. Go home, I'll pick you up at seven."
Instead of moving to pick up her bag, Camille just raises an eyebrow at him.
"Or," she begins, but he cuts her off with a groan.
"Camille. Go home. Just let me have this, okay, kid?"
Her suggestive smile softens into something much sweeter - an expression he doesn't often see on her but one that suits her surprisingly well.
"Alright." She holds her hands up in surrender. "I'm going." She grabs her gym bag, slinging it carelessly over her shoulder, and heads for the door. As she opens it, she pauses, hand resting on the handle.
"I'll see you at seven," he says again, because if she tries to stay he's not sure he'll have to willpower to turn her away. But when she turns back, she just sighs, shaking her head.
"Yeah, you will." Her smile is wry now, and he gets the sense he's missing something. "By the way, it's about damn time."
Yeah, he thinks, as he watches her go. It is about damn time.