S1 E8 - His Own Company

Part 1

Two kitchen chairs on the beach. Pale orange light from the sunset falls on the man and the woman. They are quietly drinking cool beers and watching the gentle waves roll in. It has been a long day and they are both glad it's over and there is a moment of peace here together. They are content. Briefly.

The woman is musing over an earlier conversation with her co-worker, "How are things going with your new step-daddy?" Dwayne had asked. She smiles now to recall her inner shout, Better him than Richard! She sometimes still nightmares about Maman winning the prize but every day her self-confidence increases… she is sure she is very close to sealing the deal. She just has to await her chance. Hmm, time to test the waters again.

Camille turns to him, noting once more with surprise that the jacket is off. A good sign? Cross my fingers and hope this is it! "All the time you've been here, have you learned anything? To change your opinion maybe?"

He thinks a moment, nods, says with perhaps a note of surprise, "Yeah."

She turns to him, heart speeding up just the tiniest bit, "Oh?"

"There's something I've realized. Something I've supposed it's taken me a long time to notice."

She smiles in anticipation. Surely another hidden facet of this fascinating man is about to be revealed.

"Something I've really come to appreciate. More than I thought I would."

She shifts in her chair, leaning forward slightly. Here it comes. Do I dare hope? "Yes?"

He smiles and nods with quiet acceptance, "My own company."

She stares at him for a moment. He watches the sea while she crashes and burns… again! How like him to raise the drawbridge and slam it in her face! She snorts in frustration, throws up a hand, and swivels completely away from him.

He is lost in thought and doesn't immediately see her reaction to his unexpected realization. For him, this is a huge deal. Not a baby step but a giant step. He has spent his whole life trying to fit in, to be something he is not, never able to keep up or understand, and never satisfied with himself. But this place, these people. It has taken him until this very moment to realize how much they have changed him. He finally feels accepted. He is needed. He belongs. It feels good. He is happy. Briefly.

He looks back to tell her some (or all) of this but he never gets the chance. He sees her stiff posture, the averted eyes, the crossed arms. It breaks him out of his contentment like a dash of cold water, "Now what have I done?" Damn, why is it was always MY fault? How can one woman be so mercurial? Why didn't she come with an Owner's Manual so I can at least stand a chance?

She senses none of this, feeling angry, annoyed, and rejected. Again. Damn, it's my own fault. When will I accept that he just isn't interested in me in that way? Oh! And now he sounds all injured and innocent. Great. She flaps a hand at him over her shoulder. What did you do? Only broke my heart one more time, you great bumbling idiot!

Over her shoulder she hears him murmur, "You are SO annoying," in that quiet superior tone of his.

She stiffens in disbelief. How dare he! She pivots back to face him, "Wait! I'M so annoying?!"

He won't look at her. He knows an explosion is coming but surely he has the right to his opinion, "Yes."

Her head falls back in frustration. She groans, "You're so ENGLISH!"

"Being English doesn't mean you're annoying."

So prim and proper. She could smack him! Instead, she nods emphatically, "Oh, yes, it does!"

"Well, if you don't mind me saying so, I think that's very childish..." then, quietly, "… and very French."

"Excuse me?! And what does being French have to do with it?" Her pulse is beginning to pound. He always has this effect on her, to wind her up into a storm of conflicting and confused feelings. Calm down, Camille. Don't let him get under your skin like this. But his next words ruin any chance of regaining her composure.

"You started it," he reports, rubbing his eye.

She stiffens in her chair. OK, buddy! You want to fight? I'll fight! I'll show you French! But it isn't exactly anger she is feeling. Something else is rising up through the anger, something she recognizes but cannot control. Not the urge to smack him! Not to see his eyes open in surprise and justified pain! To touch him… caress him… his eyes slipping shut in pleasure.

His shout slams her back to attention.

"Ah. Aaaahh!" He is stiff in his chair, hands up to his face.

"What? What!?" She has to laugh. Trust him to ruin the mood! She takes his bottle and puts it on the sand at his feet along with her own.

"I've… I've got sand in my eye! Aaaah, stop laughing! I'm dying here! I've got sand in my eye!"

She can't stop laughing. Her emotions have run the gamut from high to low to high again. She feels wrung out and unexpectedly happy. A tidal wave of something is looming, she can feel it. Is this the moment she's been waiting for? She mentally crosses herself and decides to ride the wave to wherever it takes her.

"Oh, stop being a baby!" she says and reaches for him. He batts at her hands, trying to fend her off and within seconds his chair topples over backward.

He lands hard on the sand, all his breath knocked out. He lay for a moment, his legs tangled with the chair. His breath rushes back in and he realizes with shock that he is lying on sand! He is in the sand!

His legs are disentangled, the chair goes away. Slim hands grasp his and he is hauled to his feet. In his consternation, he did not feel those same hands run over thigh and knee while he'd been down.

He frantically begins brushing himself off. So much sand! It's everywhere! Again, he doesn't feel her as she slips behind him and begins stroking sand off his back.

Her hands sweep once, twice, three times out across his shoulders. She relishes the firm 'thereness' of him. She reaches up to clear his hair. Mmm, brushing her fingers through the short fines at his nape is VERY nice. Sand falls down inside his shirt collar. Oh, that will bother him. A lot.

A cunning plan begins to take shape. Did she dare? As she ponders the possibilities, he stills under her hands.

"Camille… what…?"

She breaks out of her fugue and begins brushing off his back again. Mmm, pleasingly muscled. Why have I never noticed the breadth of him?

"Oh, you are just covered with sand. Here, let me…" She bends down to brush off the backs of his legs, daring greatly to press hard enough to feel him beneath his clothing.

He positively leaps out of his skin, whirls, hands up, "That's fine, Camille. Thanks for that but…"

She ignores him, continues to swipe at his clothing, the ever efficient partner, "Oh, look. You missed a spot." She brushes off his waist, moves to run her hands down his hips.

He starts and catches her hands, his eyes wide and worried, "Please, Camille! Stop touching me."

Seeing the wounded look on her face, he tries to soften his words, "I don't mean stop helping me… I can always depend on… I only meant… stop touching me. Please. It's not right. It's too much. I'm only…"

She steps in close, "…human? I know that."

He won't meet her eyes but he also doesn't drop her hands. He looks anxious, pale and unsure.

Ducking down a bit to catch his downward gaze, she whispers, "You ARE human, no matter how you try to hide it. Beneath the suits and behind the ties, despite the rank and rules and protocol, you're just a man. And do you know what?"

His eyes fearfully meet hers before he looks away. She sees worlds in that brief moment of contact. She leans in to whisper close to his ear, "I'm just a woman. And THIS woman…" she touches a finger to her chest "… has very hard feelings for THIS man." She touches a finger to his chest.

He doesn't move. The moment has arrived. Will he accept it or reject it? She waits.

END part 1