Notes:

I know we've all wondered it. We've all thought "… Nah, he must have at some point, right?"

Well... maybe not.

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Bonfire on his beach. It's the night of a festival, details unknown to him, but apparently quite important. He's grown accustomed to really not knowing what the hell was going on with the seemingly 3433243 times a year the people of Honoré dance in the streets. Dwayne has wandered back to town an hour ago to meet a lady friend and Fidel has just taken his leave, home to Juliet and Rosie. Only Camille and Richard are left, circling around each other. They're sitting on blankets on the beach in front of the fire, Richard knees up, facing the water, Camille lounging alongside him, feet disappearing into the night past the circle of light the fire throws. It's a testament to his personal progress that he's actually sitting on the beach, in slacks and a shirt and bare feet, even if his shirt is still the faithful white button up, still tucked in. If his mum could see him now.

From her reclining pose, Camille watches Fidel's back fade into the darkness beyond the shack. "Juliet's lucky to have Fidel. He doesn't shy away from changing diapers or carrying Rosie in public. And he always would rather be with them than out with his boys."

"Yes, but I'd say Fidel's luckier to have Juliet. She takes better care of him than he realizes."

"Oh, I think he's aware. And deeply, deeply appreciative." Her eyes sparkled at the thought.

"Camille."

"Oh, come on. They are married. With a child! How do you think Rosie was made? Do you think the stork brought her?" She laughed, not at him, but at the silly idea of a 40-something man believing that babies were brought by a bird.

He shifted his position grumpily. "Of course not! Don't be absurd. I just feel like perhaps that's their business."

She reached over and sprinkled some sand on his toe, just to needle him. "Why didn't you ever have children?"

What did Creepy Murder Girl say?, he thought. Everything comes down to love or money. So since neither of us have money, the talk inevitably falls to love.

"It's just never come up. No point in talking about children if you know that's not where you're headed."

What exactly is the story he should tell? He had a girlfriend as a teenager, but was too shy for more than kisses and a nervous fumble at a breast or behind. They split just before university, when she lost her awkwardness and left him in the dust, blindsided. He consoled himself with his studies, successfully distracting himself with the Tudors and Jupiter and the physics of a bullet until he looked up and realized he'd been police for three years. He'd been set up on date after date by well-meaning colleagues and relatives in an attempt to find a "nice girl and settle down". He tried at first. He really did. He'd never had the patience for small talk. Women never had the patience for his pedantry and lack of interest in the small details of their lives. Soon, it was easier not to try. After the hundredth "let's be friends" phone call, he decided he wasn't going to care. So days of solitary puzzles and tea stretched into what he had assumed would be the rest of his life.

And now he was here, in this hell of a paradise, on this island of heat and bugs and spicy food, the exact opposite of where he assumed he'd be at 40+. He was stuck with this woman who'd challenged him, fascinated him. Awoken in him feelings he'd long thought repressed. More than once he'd woken in the dark, panting and achingly hard, shocked by his dreams of long limbs sliding against his and curls dragging across his chest and down his hips. Those mornings he cursed the low water pressure and tepid temperature in his shower.

She had let him be silent for a while, listening to the pop and crackle of the flames. Firelight gilded her cheekbones, lips, and collarbone, reminding him of a goddess, benevolent as long as you showed the proper respect, vengeful if you took her for granted. She terrified him.

She rolled a bit, propped her head on a hand, other hand playing idly with a bit of driftwood. "When was the last time you slept with a woman?" When he looks up, she's not laughing at him, not pitying him, only calmly gazing at him. He drops his head again, too shy in the face of such kindness. "Richard… have you ever been with a woman?" His head snaps back up, and he's praying that in the firelight she can't see what is almost certainly a scarlet flush flooding his cheeks.

"What, like been-been? That way? Camille, is that really any of your business?"

The continued patient gaze. Shit.

"Well…. n-not as such, no." He groaned and buried his head in his arms, pretty sure that he'd be happy to die right then and there rather than have her know this. The only woman he'd ever met that he would cheerfully work his fingers to the bone for, that he would move and heaven and earth to make happy, was reducing him back to the lonely teenager learning that he wasn't wanted, by anyone.

It was out. No taking it back. What was wrong with his brain that he couldn't lie to her? A lie would have been so easy. "Look, that wasn't how I imagined my life going. It just happened. Or – didn't. But men are just supposed to automatically know how to sweep a woman off her feet and dazzle her into bed and now I'm embarrassed to admit – no, humiliated to admit – that I never did figure it out. No one ever interested me enough for me to do the work. And now at the ripe old age of 43, I've passed my chance by.

"I swear to God, Camille, if you tell anyone, especially Dwayne – my God, he'd take pity on me and try to get me to visit some cathouse –"

"Stop. I wouldn't do that to you." He stared down at his fingers. "Why are you so ashamed, Richard? It doesn't change anything about you. It certainly doesn't make me think any less of you." Out of the corner of his eye he could see her rolled back on her elbows, stretching, arching her back, breasts to the sky and toes digging into the sand. He fought the urge to stare.

"Your opinion already that low, is it?" Feeble.

She stopped stretching to send that gaze back at him. "No. And you know that. Know what I think, Richard? I think, secretly, you're a bit of a romantic. You would never make love to a woman that you didn't totally trust and respect. And as difficult as it is to earn your respect, I suspect it's a lot harder to earn your trust." She rolled onto her belly, one bare shoulder mere inches from his foot on the blanket. "It's a very frightening thing to be that intimate, isn't it? Stripped of all your hiding places. There's no hiding behind astronomy or fingerprinting techniques or a stuffy striped tie. All you have to offer is you."

Her hand suddenly settled over his bare foot and her eyes suddenly flicked up to meet his, impossibly dark under impossibly thick lashes and impossible, just impossible.

"But Richard-" -and her voice hummed with a thousand unspoken promises- "-didn't it ever occur to you that you were enough?"

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In the end, she doesn't seduce him. There is no conquering campaign, no pity fuck. She is patient, waiting for him to come to her when he cares about himself enough to do so. And his faith is well rewarded.

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