**another M-ish tale, mind how you go**

S2 E8 – La Manche

Part 1 of 4

As he snatches the report out of her hand so rudely, something about the set of his mouth, or some look in his eye finally, unexpectedly, unpredictably, pushes her over the edge. She feels the soft implosion of a barrier inside her head as it gives way and her pique morphs into full-blown anger. She hadn't even realized how close to the edge she was - but there you have it. Her. The edge. Pushed over. Pow.

She pauses for a brief moment, wondering at the sudden wave of heat that washes over her. Why now? Why here… and why now? He's just being his usual stroppy self… and I've always shrugged it off before… so… why do I feel like I've crossed a line and there's no going back? Why do I feel like I'm falling? Why does it feel so good? Like relief? Like permission? Like freedom? Like a dare?

As she thinks this, she is further surprised by the fact that her body is standing up. It is going around her desk and marching right up to him as he reads the report. When he looks up in question at her approach, something on HER face, or in HER eyes, makes him back up in a hurry. His feet stutter on the floor as he backs up, raising the report like a barrier.

But that's ridiculous! It's just paper! Paper isn't going to stop me. Not THIS time! But, stop what? What in the world is happening here? But herself isn't answering. Instead, she sees her hands come up, grab the report out of his grasp, and toss it over her shoulder. His astonished eyes follow its fluttery flight until her hands come down onto his shoulders. His eyes snap back to meet hers and…

… and then she has his frozen, undivided, absolutely riveted attention.

His attention, she marvels. Finally! He's looking right at me and I think maybe he's seeing me VERY clearly for the first time in a long time. But what does he see? It's like watching TV in an unknown language with no way of knowing what will happen next. Once again, she wishes she could get inside his head to figure him out, find the chink, the linchpin, the secret code word that would open his mind (and heart) to her so that she could free him from his self-imposed prison. All she needs is the key.

"Camille? What in the world are you…?" is all he manages to say before her lips are moving.

"It's called La Manche. Do you hear me? LA MANCHE!" she shouts, her fingers digging in hard. Thank goodness for the suit! She can barely make out his body's firmness through all the fabric so maybe no bruises but he surely deserves them!

"What is?" he whispers, his lips barely moving.

"The English Channel! It's La Manche!" she growls right into his face.

"But you just called it the English Channel yourself. Just now." His voice is rising, not quite into 'rant mode' yet but it's getting close. He's decided to take umbrage with her tone and he's going to challenge her, go all bossy on her! Suddenly, she wonders if this is a fall-back distraction move. Distraction? To distract me? Distract me from what?

"Don't you DARE lose your temper with me!" she all but roars, "I'm in NO MOOD for your childish temper tantrums right now! I'm French! I have a whole language and culture and geography and cuisine and EVERYTHING! We call it 'La Manche' because that's what it IS!" She is holding him in place and jabbing him with a stiff finger right over his heart. I hope it hurts!

His mouth opens and closes but no sound comes out. He couldn't look more gob-smacked if he tried. His eyes are wide and green and alarmed. His brow is furrowed and his lips are slightly parted as if he can't quite catch his breath. In short, he is a man under siege without a single weapon at his disposal.

Her memory flashes on an almost identical situation from more than a year ago… her stabbing a mad finger into his chest as she told him a few hard truths about himself. He had this exact same flabbergasted look on his face… and it still feels SO GOOD! She dags him once more, just to drive the point home, "La Manche! Got it?" Ow, now my finger hurts.

As she steps back and puts her hands on her hips in supreme annoyance, he gives her a sorrowful 'wtf' look, rubs his offended shirt-front, and murmurs, "All right, La Manche, it is. Got it. No need to get so physical."

Her cooling temper flares up white-hot once more and she lifts outraged eyes to his suddenly wary ones, "Physical? PHYSICAL? You call THIS physical?! Let me tell you something, Inspector! This isn't physical! Do you remember that moment by the spa pool? THAT was ALMOST physical! Care to test your luck and keep goading me today?"

He shakes his head slowly, never taking his eyes off her. He looks almost hypnotized, "No-oh, oh, no, definitely not. I think the aural is quite enough, thank you."

She gives him a hot blank look, a double-barreled shotgun look that makes him gulp, "The WHAT?"

He tries to back away further but there is no place for him to go unless he wants to climb over his own desk… and he doesn't… not really. His mind is racing. It's so exciting when she gets like this! I never know what she'll say or do next. Come to that, I never know what I'LL say or do next. It's like a dance where nobody knows the steps, in the dark, at the edge of a cliff. SO exciting. Anything could happen.

He takes a deep calming breath and holds up his hands in a soothing gesture, "The aural, the sound, you know? All this shouting and grinding of teeth? Think you can dial it back a bit, maybe to a level 5, or even a 4? Otherwise, the neighbours will think we're actually fighting in here!"

She feels all the hair on her head stand on end. The nerve of the man! "Fighting?! You call THIS fighting? This is nothing! We're not fighting until crockery is breaking and the police are called!"

Now he feels himself getting huffy, "The police? Must I remind you that WE'RE the police? What am I to do? Lock you up then lock myself up too? That is SO totally childish! So TOTALLY Fr…"

Her fist is right in front of his nose, straining against the temptation to punch him so hard! His eyes practically cross to focus on it as she hisses, "DON'T! Don't you SAY IT!"

He zips his lips and pulls his chin in, leaning back onto his desk in a futile attempt to avoid her body heat. He turns his head just a fraction and closes his eyes. What a rush! Her voice, her nearness, her vitality! He wonders if he can keep control THIS time. Each time is a trial. Each time is a test. Will this time be THE time I stumble? Will I finally crack and reveal my terrible secret? As he turns back to face her, he wonders and he hopes. "Say what?" he asks in as calm a voice as he can.

She leans in closer, her voice a gravelly hiss, "You know very WELL what! You were about to say I am so totally French, weren't you? Admit it! Be a man and admit it!" She practically spits the words at him.

This gets his ire up. Oh, you bet!

He straightens up quickly, so quickly that they actually bump into each other and she has to step back, which angers her all the more, but he doesn't care about THAT! She has disparaged my entire sex! The nerve! "Now, see here!" he barks, "My being a man doesn't enter into it! I'm NOT wrong. Whenever I'm wrong, I admit it! I've always been very forthcoming in admitting my mistakes!"

She crosses her arms and scoffs loudly, eyes flashing, "Oh?! Oh, yes? Like when?"

"Well, let's see now. Let me think." He makes a big production of putting a forbearing hand to his forehead, "Um, give me a moment, I'm sure something will come to me." She is just swelling up in outright umbrage when he snaps his fingers and says smugly, "The Anderson Case." She is just starting to nod and make reluctant agreement when he adds, "Of course, I was totally right the whole time but I WILL admit that I took a tiny misstep mid-case."

Now it is HER turn to look flabbergasted. "What?" she whispers, hands falling to her sides in surprise.

He crosses his arms in absolute surety, "I was totally right! I knew he did it and I proved it! What does it matter if I was off-track for a moment or two? I was correct in the end and that's all that counts."

Her hands come up once more but don't stop at her chin or even her forehead. Her fingers clutch at her hair as she jerks upright in total moral indignation. "OH MY GOD!" she bugles. "NOW I know why they call it the English Channel!" she all but screams.

He quirks polite eyebrows, lips pressed together primly, that tiny dimple just flirting with existence.

"It's a WARNING!" she bellows, taking a step away from this mad man! "It's a warning for people not to cross because there are ENGLISH on the other side!"

Silence falls as they regard each other in complete bafflement, at a total stand-off and temporarily out of ammunition. But, of course, his words swarm up unbidden and he can't help but say, "And that is also childish and totally Fr…" but that's as far as he gets once more.

Verbally.

During the brief silence between them, she has had a most powerful insight. This argument! This argument is about nothing. NOTHING! So… why am I arguing? And… why am I enjoying it SO DAMN MUCH? Looking at him, she sees his eyes, his fascinating eyes. Drinking him in, she sees his mouth, his fascinating mouth. Swooning, she sees his sharp chin and his firm jawline and the tiny silky hairs of his sideburns and eyebrows and eyelashes and she…

Omigod! I'm leaning in! No, not just leaning. I'm lunging! He's trying to say something but she doesn't hear it. His lips are moving and the delicate fluctuations and flutters of his tongue totally steal her mind and she is kissing him… kissing him… oh, mon dieu, his mouth…

He jerks in her grasp, caught totally unawares. Good thing he's plastered up against his desk otherwise… otherwise I would have gone right over backwards - and wouldn't THAT be a truly romantic Richard Poole move to end all moves?

But, oh, god, he IS wedged between a hard desk and a soft woman! And, for once in his life, when it really REALLY counted, Richard Poole makes the RIGHT move!

End – part 1