S2 E7 – Come Stay At Mine

Part 1 of 2

He'd refused. Naturally. He HAD to. A gentleman simply does not accept a woman's invitation to stay with her. Not on a professional basis. Not even on an I-want-to-save-your-life basis. It simply isn't done. A gentleman must remain a gentlemen even if it means avoiding all situations where ungentlemanly-like behaviour may be forced to the surface.

ESPECIALLY any such situation involving his Sergeant. Not to name names or anything. Just stating a fact. A simple truth.

No matter his skipping heart. No matter his stopped breath. No matter he'd almost choked on the unwelcome excitement that swelled in his breast. Good thing his back had been turned.

No. The answer HAD to be no.

No, no, no, no.

No, thanks.

He'd kept a neutral face and an even tone. Decorum was preserved and the status quo maintained. Life could go on and his boxed-in heart would stop hurting sooner or later, surely. After all, he couldn't possibly pine for this woman for the rest of his life, could he? Sooner or later his heart will give up. Give up or wear out. Or she will move on and leave him behind. Either way, the torture will end sometime.

But then…

… they'd been caught just outside of town and the Defender had blown sideways onto the beach and he'd tumbled out of the cab and rolled like a particularly handsome toy on the sand. The SAND! Between gusts she'd managed to retrieve him before he'd plunged into the wild ocean surf and they'd fought their way back to the nearest buildings…

… and her place had been right there... safe and dry and secure… and they'd been soaked and frozen and weather-beaten almost to senseless pulp… so…

Well, what can a man DO when the entire world rages against him? He gives in and seeks shelter. At her place. Not that he had all that much choice, being dragged backwards by the collar and all, but, still, he likes to think he managed it in a gentlemanly manner.

As she secures the door behind them, he glances around, purely out of curiosity, naturally. Neat and tidy, not girly at all. This reassures him somehow.

At his look, she scoffs, "Yeah, my Barbie collection is up under my bed. Care to see it?" He blanches but manfully ignores it. She has to give him credit… he didn't rise to the bait like she'd hoped. Darn.

She gets the broom and tries to sweep him down there by the front door but he is absolutely coated in sand, sticks, and leaves. There is no hope for it. They both know it. He is going to have to strip down and wash himself. She tries to laugh it off, "Care to stand outside and let the storm scrub you?"

He gulps and shakes his head, "Too cold, too wild..."

She gives him a solemn look, "And too dangerous. OK. The shower it is then." She leads him to the bathroom, spreads towels on the floor, and leaves him to it without a backward glance. "I'll make some coffee so we can warm up," she calls as the door closes behind her.

He stands there on the frozen cusp of masculine modesty and phobic dread. The dread wins. He simply HAS to get the sand off. He hadn't been kidding about hating sand in every possible bodily orifice. This is SO MUCH worse than sandpaper down his trousers. He can actually taste it in the back of his throat. Has he breathed it in? Please, god, no. Not in my lungs! Isn't that silicosis? Certain death?

As he strips, hearing sand gobbets plunk onto the towels, he coughs and spits into the sink until the raspy feel is gone from the back of his tongue. He scrapes off the worse of the gunge smeared all over his hide then steps into the translucent shower stall with silent thanks.

As he stands under the warm steady stream of water (something he doesn't have at home), he marvels at the plethora of bottles lined up in the stall caddy. How many products does a single person need to make herself presentable to the world, he wonders? Quite a lot, apparently. He scans the many bottles. She's already perfect. Why does she waste money on unnecessary fripperies? His mind wonders if this is a hidden sign of insecurity. Camille? Insecure? Never!

Just as he is getting up the nerve to open something called 'Mango Mint Medley', he hears the room door open behind him! He whirls instinctively, covering himself with the bottle. Thank god it is a jumbo.

Through the frosted glass he can just make out a shadowy figure stooping to collect up the towels and his pile of defiled clothing. "I'm just getting this out of here so you don't track it into the rest of the place," she calls. "I'm leaving you a spare robe."

When she leaves, his heart starts up again. It's an odd feeling, sweat on your skin when you're already standing under a shower. Sort of double-wet, somehow.

Then his brain kicks out a slightly indignant thought. A spare robe? WHOSE spare robe? He shakes his head, None of my business! Her personal life is her own and I've no right to…

The little voice pipes up a bit peevishly, Yes! But! I'd still like to know…

"Quiet, you," he whispers, surprising himself a little. He shakes his head again, And now I'm talking to myself. This storm is sending me around the twist. Calm down, man. Get yourself presentable. That suit is going to need a major cleaning before I can venture back outside as soon as I can.

He is just starting to settle, trying not to follow his thoughts into uncharted territory, when he hears the room door open once more. This time the shadow doesn't stop. The shadow is moving. RE-moving its' own clothes! He sees coloured bits falling away and the shadow is becoming more and more one colour. A truly exquisite café-au-lait colour to be sure… but… but…

Before his benumbed mind can kick into gear, the stall door jerks open and there is suddenly another person in his midst and he hasn't the slightest clue what to do about it! It is only with great good luck that he notices her hand is over her eyes before he yelps like a startled virgin.

"Sorry! Sorry!" she laughs, "But I need to get cleaned off too before the power goes out. Aren't you done yet?" She says it so casually! Like she isn't naked in a tiny (claustrophobic and getting smaller by the second!) shower stall with a… he looks down at himself… oh, no… with an obviously excited male of the species about to embarrass himself all to hell and gone!

"Sergeant!" he barks in desperation, "Don't you DARE look at me!" He begins frantically swabbing himself off. Well, certain parts of himself… some parts he can't touch at all. Fortunately for him, those parts were the most protected against his roll on the beach… so good! He is almost done when he hears a tiny gasp in front of him and he just knows what he is going to see when he looks up.

Yep. She is definitely peeking between her fingers and the jig is up! And not just the jig! His whole demeanor is going to blast apart in about 3 seconds if he doesn't… He sees the washcloth at the last possible moment and grabs it up to cover himself.

It isn't a jumbo. It doesn't do nearly as good a job.

END – part 1