Title: 10,000 miles out
Summary: A detainee guesses Richard's Nationality, and gets it very wrong.
A/N: This has no particular plot, just a little teasing and flirting really.
The problem with being a Detective Inspector in a very small force is that you sometimes find yourself having to do the sort of duties you thought you had left behind when you joined CID. For example, rounding up the particularly rowdy and, for the majority, completely high party of individuals who had decided setting off fireworks in the nature reserve was a terribly good idea. Richard wasn't even sure where they were going to put them all. He did find something small to take comfort in though, they were all members of a group from Guadeloupe, and in their drunken drug addled state some of them couldn't even remember if they knew English, let alone speak it if they could, so Camille was having to work twice as hard as him. He had no idea what she was saying, but he certainly recognised the authoritative tone, and many of the revellers became quite meek in her presence after a few harsh words. It was both impressive and oddly attractive.
Dwayne whistled and pointed at the suspect he held, meaning he had found whoever had supplied to methamphetamines Richard strongly suspected most of the individuals had taken. If that was the case most of the people here would probably be let go with a warning, though he wouldn't mind finding who had brought the fireworks – he thought there was potential for charges there as well. Fidel was somewhere trying to arrange them additional transport. Richard thought it wise to assume this lot wouldn't make it back to their hotel under their own steam.
Richard was about to go over and join Dwayne but on the way very nearly fell flat on his face when he tripped over a man laying supine on the ground. The man muttered in annoyance, so clearly wasn't unconscious. The near fall had caught Camille's attention, but at her raised eyebrow he merely flapped a hand to let her know he didn't need any assistance.
"Alright, up you get," he said, reaching down and half heaving the individual into a sitting position. As soon as he let go though he fell straight back down. "You can hardly sleep there."
"Whhhhhhy not?" He complained. Another French accent, but this one clearly did speak English.
"Because this, Sir, is a nature reserve and not a hotel." Richard made no attempt to keep the exasperation out of his tone.
"But a nature reserve," the man began to explain, in what Richard thought was supposed to be a patient tone. "It is a sort of hotel for animals. And humans are a kind of animaux. So voila! This is a hotel!"
Though the man clearly thought he had a logical argument, Richard wasn't buying into it. "A nature reserve is not a hotel for animals," he told the man firmly.
"Whhhhhy not?" He cried again.
"Because the animals don't have to pay to stay here, like they would if it was a hotel." Camille, who was clearly listening, looked at him in surprise. This caused Richard to realise he was actually attempting to argue with a drunk about why nature reserves were not hotels for animals.
"Hang on!" The gentlemen cried, finally managing to sit up under his own steam. "I don't think you're from round here!"
"No, because this is a nature reserve, and nobody lives here but animals, as we have discussed." He heard Camille give a small snort of laughter. When he looked around he realised this was the last person left to get to their feet. "Are you getting up then?" When the man showed no inclination to stand, Richard decided to speed up the process by grabbing the man under one arm and hauling.
There was a vague attempt at co-operation as and the man lumbered to his feet. "No! Not I meant what." Well that was an originally constructed sentence. "You aren't from the Caribbean, are you?"
He was unable to resist the urge to roll his eyes. "Gosh, you have caught me out there," he said dryly. "Tell me, what gave it away?"
"Your accent!" He replied with a grin, needing to lean heavily on Richard in order to stay upright. It was not an experience he was particularly enjoying, though his fellow officers did seem to be amused watching his predicament. Before he could shout out an order to one of them for a little assistance, the man asked, "So are you Australian?"
This caused him to pause. Nope, he had heard him correctly, the man had just asked if he was Australian. "What?"
"Australian!" He cried, even louder. Then started bopping up and down as he half sung, "Are you from a land down under?"
Another drunk joined in cheerfully, "Where women glow and men plunder!"
Richard decided he better interrupt before the whole lot of detainees joined in, "No, you are about 10000 miles out." He began to consider arresting this man after all.
Camille spoke from behind him. "You can't arrest him just because he thinks you're Australian," she said quietly. "Besides, the van is here now!" He turned to look at her, found she was smiling cheekily at him. There was no way he was going to admit he had been considering just that, so he chose to just ignore the comment. The small laugh she gave told him she knew she was right anyway.
"If you aren't Australian are you from New Zealand then? Is it racist to have called you an Aussie when you are a Kiwi?" The man asked as Richard half led/half dragged him in the direction of the police transport that had arrived.
"New Zealand and Australia are only around 1400 miles apart, not 10000!" He cried, exasperated. "So no, I am not from New Zealand."
"Ok, you win, where are you from then?"
"England!" He said. Richard had expected the man to acknowledge his stupidity and cry something along the lines of 'Of course! How could you be from anywhere else?', but he was mistaken.
"England?" Came the incredulous response. "You sound far more like an Aussie to me!"
Richard gave the man what may have been a slightly harder shove than necessary to encourage him into the back of the van, and then shut the doors firmly. From the back of the van another chorus of 'Do you come from a land down under' began, and he closed his eyes and wished he was at home, alone. When he opened them again, Camille was standing in front of him arms crossed and smiling, well, sort of fondly at him.
He couldn't help himself. "Do I really sound Australian?" He asked in a rush, before he could stop himself. He didn't have an issue with Australians, but found the idea that he didn't necessarily sound English sort of uncomfortable.
Her expression became serious and she said sincerely, "Richard Poole, you are the most English man I have ever met, and that includes your accent. No, I don't think you sound even remotely Australian."
"Can you tell him that?" He asked, hooking a thumb towards the van.
"Richard, he is drunk and high, I am not sure it would get through." He gave a small shrug, she had a good point there.
"I bet you lot wish they'd sent an Australian instead of me, though."
She raised both eyebrows at this, "Why would you say that?"
"Well, you know, Australians are a bit more sort of, fun loving I guess. Not reserved anyway. And they'd cope better with the heat. And the insects. And the snakes."
"That may well be true," Camille said, and he was surprised how despondent it made him feel. He stared at the ground and tried to think of a way to change the topic. But then she continued, "But they wouldn't be you, would they?"
He was going to tell her that that was rather the point, but when he looked up he she was wearing the expression she reserved when she was trying to get him to, well, he still wasn't 100% sure what she wanted from him. But anyway, he figured out the comment was meant to be a compliment, anyway.
"Right, yeah," he mumbled in response.
She seemed to realise she had made him unconformable. Perhaps in an effort to dispel the awkwardness, she announced cheerfully, "Mind, there is one way you are Australian, you do have a tendency to say crickey!"
"The Australians don't have a monopoly on that term you know!"
"I didn't say they did," she said, holding up a hand to placate him. Then, with the cheeky smile he'd quickly come to like a little too much, said, "Come on, Steve Irwin, I'll drive you home."
He frowned. "Who's Steve Irwin?"
Camille sighed.
A/N: I apologise for the Aussie stereotypes!
