A/N: Now before anyone gets carried away, I have noticed that (and pretty much loved all of them) there's quite a few stories floating around that either start or revolve around Fisher and Camille working out/boxing. I'm not trying to rip anyone off - clearly we've all picked up on the fact that this is how our favourite couple bonds.
I don't own Stitchers or the characters, but the love for both is strong!
He desperately wanted to touch her. More specifically, at that moment, he wanted to push her hair off of her face. The obstinate girl in front of him refused to tie back her bangs, and she was now blowing strands of hair out of her eyes before every punch she aimed at the swinging bag before her. Clenching his teeth together, Detective Quincy Fisher balled his fingers into a fist to stop himself from reaching out. He had to settle for watching her closely, which after a moment earned him an eyebrow raise.
"You're staring, Fishy," Camille Engelson quipped, flicking her head quickly to the side.
"You're not torquing, woman," Fisher quickly growled back, and Camille bared her teeth at him before throwing another punch at the bag. Fisher braced himself against the bag to give Camille maximum resistance, and took the opportunity to study the young woman in front of him. Truth was, Camille's technique had improved exponentially, to the point where she really didn't need training anymore. Fisher appreciated, however, that the feisty brunette had come to see his garage space as some form of sanctuary, and she seemed to always be happy to have him nearby, so if ever she turned up, they trained. As a bead of sweat trickled down the side of Camille's face, Fisher felt his fingers twitch again, and he furrowed his brow slightly at the involuntary movement. He'd grown very fond of the grad student, which given their short history, still left him slightly befuddled. Fisher had of course noticed Camille from the very start of his interaction with Kirsten Clark and the Stitchers program, but he'd been so focused on the Ed Clark murder case that she'd been little more than (admittedly quite loud) background noise. When he woke up in hospital after the restaurant shooting, Fisher had been more than a little surprised when Camille's face was the first he laid eyes on, a feeling which continued when the detective learned that she'd barely left his bedside the whole time he'd been out. He supposed that was when his fondness for her really started to grow; after all, it was pretty hard not to develop some affection for the person who had practically kept a bedside vigil for him. Fisher had suspected at first that Camille's request for him to teach her how to box had been a cover for her to check on him while he recovered, but she'd shown up persistently and together they'd developed not only Camille's technique, but a genuine rapport. When it wasn't directed squarely at him, Fisher found Camille's smart mouth highly amusing, but he also recognised that her carefully constructed sarcasm was a wall that protected her vulnerability and big heart. Camille experienced the whole spectrum of emotion fiercely, and having closed himself off from any kind of feeling for so long, Fisher suddenly found himself drawn to her passionate intensity. He supposed this sudden exposure of emotion was what was driving his twitching urge to touch her. Of course, the fact that Camille's workout gear was getting tighter and skimpier every time she turned up in his garage probably wasn't helping matters either. Swallowing hard, Fisher realised with a start that the punching bag had gone loose in his arms. Shaking himself out of his daydream, Fisher blinked at the image of Camille bending to retrieve her water bottle from the floor beside his beat-up recliner.
"What are you doing?" he asked dumbly, and Camille's lips twitched into an amused grin before she took a sip of her water.
"We've been at this for over an hour," she commented dryly. "I dunno about you, Fisher, but I am dunzo."
Glancing over her head at the clock mounted on the wall, Fisher had to concede that the brunette had a point.
"I should probably head home," Camille stated, tucking her bangs behind her ear, just like Fisher had been aching to do all night. He choked back an involuntary whine at the motion, clearing his throat instead.
"Did you maybe wanna stay for dinner?" he asked gruffly, and Camille cocked her head in surprise.
"You cook, Fish?" she asked incredulously, one eyebrow raised, and Fisher curled his lip at her disbelief before shrugging in defeat.
"I order a mean pizza," he conceded, and Camille let out a throaty chuckle as she wrapped her small towel around the back of her neck.
"All right, you sold me," she laughed, and Fisher felt his heart skip a beat as she stepped towards him, but he quickly realised that she was headed towards the door that led to the house. Swiftly turning on his heel, Fisher swung the door open so that Camille could walk through ahead of him.
"Such a gentleman," Camille drawled, and Fisher grunted at her in reply. They found themselves standing awkwardly in the middle of Fisher's small kitchen, and Camille cleared her throat uneasily.
"Fish, I hate to ask, but if I'm gonna stay, I should probably shower, because I do not smell good right now," she said. "Do ya mind?"
Fisher's whole body went rigid, and he fought to keep his face neutral as his imagination suddenly went into overdrive.
"Sure," he stammered out. "Bathroom's through my bedroom, end of the hall."
Camille tugged uncomfortably on the strap of her sports bra.
"Here's the thing," she mumbled. "I didn't exactly come prepared to stay. You don't happen to have anything I can change into?"
Fisher blinked at her for a moment, and then his lips twitched into a half-hearted smile, and he cocked his head towards the bedroom.
"Follow me," he murmured, and Camille gave him an intrigued look as she followed him down the hallway. She hovered in the doorway as Fisher entered his bedroom and slid open the wardrobe door, disappearing for a minute before emerging with a small pile of clothes that he held out hesitantly. Camille dubiously held up the pair of denim cut-offs she'd been offered.
"This your weekend wardrobe, Fishy?" she cracked, an amused grin tugging at the corners of her lips. Fisher narrowed his eyes at her.
"Elizabeth packed in kind of a hurry," he muttered, watching as Camille's face softened in realisation.
"Fish," she murmured gently, but the detective cut her off with a quick shake of his head.
"I'll leave you to it," he said, slipping past her and closing the door behind himself. Rolling his eyes at his own stupidity, Fisher shuffled down the hallway and rang in his pizza order. He cleared the living room of empty food wrappers and dirty clothes, and had just cracked open a beer after paying the pizza delivery guy when Camille emerged from the bathroom and paused at the hallway entry. Fisher promptly choked on the swig of beer he'd just taken, and Camille took a hesitant step back. Elizabeth's denim cut-offs fit Camille more perfectly than they'd ever fit their original owner, emphasising her curves and displaying long and toned legs. Camille twisted a lock of her towel-tousled hair around her finger as she gave Fisher an unsure look. In that moment, Fisher desperately wanted his fingers to be in place of hers.
"The shirt you gave me was obscenely tight," she explained, "so I borrowed this one. I hope you don't mind."
Still coughing, Fisher shook his head emphatically. Camille had paired her shorts with one of his business shirts, rolling up the sleeves and tying the loose front ends in a knot at her midriff. With her still damp hair tumbling over one shoulder, she looked like something out of Fisher's most secret fantasies, and it wasn't just the inhaled beer that was making him short of breath. Clearing his throat, Fisher slid onto the floor next to the coffee table, and Camille padded gently across the room, picking up the second bottle of beer Fisher had placed on the table before she folded her legs under herself as she took a seat on the couch. She leaned forward to flip open the pizza box, and a grin spread across her features.
"Pepperoni and mushroom," she crooned appreciatively. "Fishy, you've been paying attention."
Fisher took another sip of his beer to hide the blush that bloomed on his cheeks. Camille uncapped her own beer before helping herself to a slice of pizza. Watching her out of the corner of his eye, Fisher waited a moment before he took his own slice. The pair ate and then chatted softly between themselves, Camille settling further down in her seat as Fisher fetched another round of beers and then sat on the floor in front of the couch. He could have run a hand up Camille's toned calf if he really wanted to, and God knew he really wanted to, but he restrained himself and instead settled for watching as the brunette balanced her beer bottle between her knees while she scraped her hair back into a messy ponytail. Forcing a smile, Fisher continued the story he'd been telling before the kitchen break, filling Camille in on his early days with the force, and a particularly undignified moment where he'd tripped over his own feet and fallen down a flight of stairs. Camille was giggling as she brought her beer to her lips, her nose wrinkling in the completely adorable way that it always did when she laughed, and Fisher pointed to the thin scar on his chin that cut through his stubble.
"First of many scars this job has given me," he commented, and Camille lowered her beer bottle to the floor as her chuckles faded away.
"Not quite as impressive as your most recent scars," she murmured softly, biting down on her lower lip. Fisher glanced down, and without hesitation reached up to tug his shirt over his head, revealing the puckered pink scar tissue that indicated exactly where he'd taken two slugs to the chest.
"Definitely not as impressive," he conceded, knots forming in his stomach as he thought back to that night. Camille leaned forward.
"What does it feel like?" she asked, her whisper only audible because suddenly her face was only inches from Fisher's. Fisher felt his heartbeat speed up considerably at her closeness.
"Being shot?" he rasped, and Camille nodded. Fisher swallowed hard as he thought back to that night.
"Like fire is ripping through you," he murmured, lifting his gaze so that his eyes met hers. "It burns, and then it's like all of the oxygen's been sucked out of the room, and you can't catch your breath no matter how hard you try."
Camille reached out a hand and rested her fingertips on one of Fisher's scars.
"Kind of like right now?" she whispered, the tip of her nose barely brushing against Fisher's. His heart pounding, Fisher wetted his lips as he inhaled Camille's shower-clean scent.
"Kind of exactly like right now," he whispered back, leaning even further forward, and then suddenly recoiling when a piercing ringtone cut through the room. Camille swore under her breath as she scrabbled to her feet and dashed for the ringing cell that she'd left on the sideboard with her keys.
"Damn it, Linus," she snapped angrily before answering the call.
"What?" she spat, and then started pacing the room. Sinking back against the couch, Fisher exhaled shakily as he tried to bring his heart rate down, but his all of his neurons were firing and his nerve endings felt like they were shorting out. Watching Camille walk in circles in front of him as she talked, Fisher ran a hand through his hair and wondered if what had just happened was all some sort of crazy hallucination brought on by a lack of connection with any woman since his wife had left, but the frustrated look on Camille's face as she ended her phone call told him it definitely was not the case.
"I gotta go," Camille mumbled, huffing out a heavy sigh as she looked everywhere except directly at Fisher. "There's drama going down at my house."
"Anything you need help with?" Fisher asked cautiously, placing his empty beer bottle on the coffee table as he pushed himself to his feet. Camille waved a hand around dismissively as she gathered her belongings, wadding her dirty workout clothing into a ball as she jammed her feet into her running shoes.
"Not work stuff," she commented wryly. "Kirsten and Goodkin are having a thing."
Fisher couldn't help but think that he and Camille had just had a thing of their own very rudely interrupted. He watched as Camille made a beeline for the front door, where she paused with her hand on the doorknob and glanced down at her attire. She swore under her breath and gave Fisher a pained look.
"I'll wash these, and return them when they're clean," she offered. Fisher gave her a half-hearted grin as he shook his head.
"Keep 'em," he murmured, running his hand through his hair. He watched Camille's eyes follow the movement of his hand, and he swore he saw a look of longing cross her face. She swallowed loudly.
"Thanks for the pizza," she offered, turning the knob of the door and letting the cool night air in.
"Drive safely," Fisher said in reply. Camille lingered for a moment, and she opened her mouth as if she was going to speak again, but clearly changed her mind and gave Fisher a tight-lipped smile as she slipped out of the door, pulling it closed behind her. Fisher stood rooted to the spot as he stared at his closed front door for longer than he probably should have, and then let out a frustrated growl as he thrust his hands back into his hair.
"What was that?" he hissed, glancing around and realising that he was completely lost in his own living room. Ignoring the mess, he detoured past the kitchen for another beer before shuffling down the hallway to his bedroom, where he couldn't help but roll his eyes as he found a wet towel flung across his bed.
"Lord help me, woman," he murmured, pushing the towel to the floor as he flung himself down on the bed, taking a long draw from his beer. He couldn't help but notice that his hand was still twitching, and he blew out a frustrated breath. Camille had set his mind spinning into overdrive, and Fisher could already tell that there would be little chance of him sleeping through the night, not while the memory of her fingertips against his chest, and the closeness of her lips to his, dominated his every thought.