1 - LONDON
Disclaimer: not mine.
He got the news on the phone. Great news, he told her but refused to divulge what it was until they got to the bar. She hasn't seen him this excited before. It spread to her, too, but when he finally told her what the great news was, her smile faltered and her heart sank.
He's going back.
'What?' she asks, brows knitted together. Maybe she heard it wrong. Her stunned expression doesn't faze him, though.
'I'm going back to London, Camille,' he repeats with blinding, boyish glee, seemingly oblivious to her reaction.
His words hit her like a ton of icy bricks. They sting. They hurt. And he just keeps smiling.
'Only for a week, mind you,' he adds somewhat less enthusiastically. 'It's just a training course,' he explains but then his face lights up once again. 'But it's in London.'
She wants to hit him with something blunt and heavy but the relief stifles the urge. It's just a week. Not for good.
'Good old, cold, rainy London,' he says dreamily. 'Although, after all this,' he says, glancing around in a way that's nothing short of offending, 'I doubt one week will be enough. I might be tempted to become AWOL once I get away.'
She manages a tight smile but apparently it isn't convincing enough. Now that his initial excitement is quieting down, the Detective Inspector notices something isn't quite right. His sergeant isn't as happy about the news as he expected her to be – as she should be, really. It is London, after all.
'What's wrong?' he asks just as Catherine arrives to their table with a packed tea tray.
'Nothing,' Camille says, mildly irritated, and takes a sip from the drink he ordered for her a few minutes ago. He was unusually courteous. She should have known it would end badly.
Richard glances at Catherine, hoping she might be of some help. The older woman puts the tray down in front of him. 'Enjoy,' she says with a bright smile. Richard isn't sure what she means: the tea or her daughter's insufferable mood, but Catherine doesn't elaborate. She simply turns to leave.
'Thank you.' For nothing, he mentally adds and frowns. So unhelpful. So… French.
Camille is still silent, sipping her cocktail, and he has no idea how to revive this train wreck of a conversation. Maybe a good cup of tea will help.
He reaches for the sugar.
Then the milk.
Then the spoon.
She watches his hands as he prepares his favourite beverage. Such a meticulous, fussy ritual. It's so him. So English.
He quietly stirs his tea but his hand stills when she starts slurping her drink. He peers up at her. The noise stops but she doesn't look at him. He shakes his head, then continues his pensive stirring. The slurping resumes. He tries to ignore it. And her.
He tries.
And he fails.
'Is that really necessary?'
'Oh, does it bother you?' she asks, feigning concern.
'Yes.'
'Then it is,' she replies with a smirk and slurps some more.
He lets out an exasperated sigh and his spoon lands on the saucer with a loud clink.
'You are so childish,' he mutters under his breath before taking a sip from his tea.
There's a flash of anger in her eyes. The mute sort. The scariest. So he remains quiet. She finishes her cocktail and pushes the empty glass aside. 'Thanks for the drink,' she says and rises to her feet. He looks at her like a lost puppy but she wills herself to ignore that. He stands up too. He doesn't know what else to do.
'And congratulations,' she adds, then grabs her purse and turns to leave.
'Camille…' He's got no idea what's going on. This was supposed to be a celebration.
She turns back, waiting.
'I…' He trails off. His eyes briefly search the bar for Catherine but she's nowhere to be found. So he looks back at her daughter. 'I thought…'
'What?'
'I thought you'd be happy.'
For some reason it seems to dissolve most of her anger. Now she just looks hurt. 'Good night, Inspector.'
He feels beyond helpless as he watches her walk away. Guilty, too, even though he still doesn't know what he did wrong. He glances at his tea and hesitates.
Then he decides to go after her.
She's still there when he steps out the bar. She stands still, arms crossed, with her back to him.
'Camille.'
She doesn't react. He walks closer and remains by her side, sharing in her wordlessness. It's probably his safest choice. Music starts up in the bar, slowly drawing everybody inside. Soon they are the only ones left on the patio.
'I thought you couldn't wait to get rid of me,' he says and she finally looks at him.
He certainly is the most brilliant idiot she's ever met. 'You thought wrong.'
Silence ensues again. Just as she expected. He's hopeless and she's an idiot, too, for hoping.
But he surprises her. And himself. He steps in front of her and with a sigh, he awkwardly offers his hand – palm up. She isn't sure if he wants to shake hands or…
He clears his throat. 'If my memory serves, I still owe you a dance,' he explains. It's his peace offering, the best he can think of under the circumstances.
And she accepts it. She takes his hand with a small smile. They start towards the door but he halts at the sight. The bar is packed. People are everywhere. She chuckles quietly, then pulls him away. They will be just as fine outside – alone – on the patio.
He's nervous but this time she doesn't need to guide him much. His right arm carefully slides around her waist and his left hand gently closes around her right one, pulling her closer. She rests her head on his shoulder and they slowly sway to the rhythm spilling from inside. His lungs fill with the scent of her hair. She caresses his back, soothing his tension. She waits for him to get comfortable with their closeness, then her hand slips from his. She puts her arms around his neck and his instinctively go around her waist, locking himself in her embrace. She looks him in the eye and he can't tear his gaze away.
He swallows.
She tilts her head.
He blinks.
She leans in.
Their lips brush.
His heart pounds louder than the drums inside.
She kisses him softly.
He kisses back.
It's a silent promise.
One week will be more than enough.