Part 3 of 3

He holds out an imploring hand, his sheet slipping a-widdershins but he doesn't notice, "Camille! Leave the damn book! Please come back to bed!"

She waves a hand back at him, "Just a moment, I found it." She reads briefly then lays the book down with a puzzled look, "That is very odd." She stands perfectly limned by early light, staring off into space as if puzzling over something.

His Id is roaring hard enough to hurt. He can't help but grit out, "Camille, if you don't get back over here, I will be forced to take matters into my own hands."

She turns, notices his a-widdershined sheet, and leers, "Oh, don't do that, chéri! That's MY job!"

She launches herself spectacularly and bounces back onto the bed, taking the wind right out of his already admittedly depleted lungs. She packs a wallop for such a slight thing. Gasping, he holds her off until his breath comes back.

She laughs and struggles and finally wins her place back atop him, "Sorry! Sorry, I'm just so excited! All last night! And now I get to do it all over again! You really don't remember any of it? Really? I should be insulted… but I'm not."

At his frown, she snuggles down and proceeds to give him a blow by blow description of the party and subsequent events. He is sure she is making it up. She assures him she is not. She ticks things off on her fingers; the truck, the swing chair out on the veranda, his desk, the tree (the TREE?!), the bed twice. Maybe thrice, "It was difficult to keep track because I certainly wasn't taking notes," she sighs.

Vague memories of leather seats, swinging motion, smooth wood, rough bark, cool sheets and throbbing pleasure swim up in his mind's eye. It's a kaleidoscope of colour and motion and feelings but… he shakes his achy head, "It's all a blur! I'm so sorry! You have NO idea how sorry I am."

He scrubs at his brow in stymied effort, "Arrrrgh! I never forget anything! Never! So why can't I remember something so mind-boggling wonderful that I'm not sure I believe it at all?" He glances up at her in sudden fear, "Except, of course, here you are. And still are, more's the mystery. Don't think me rude or chauvinistic but… are you SURE it all happened as you say it happened?"

She gives him a look that scares and thrills him in equal measure despite never having seen such a look before. She trails a languid finger down his throat and onto his chest where it finds a spot to tarry, "Well, detective, since you have your doubts, there's nothing for it." At his frown she sinks onto him and purrs, "We'll just have to re-enact the entire crime to prove my story. I'm sure things will begin to come back to you at some point."

Then she rears up off him and laughs at the look on his face, "But we'll have to wait for darkness for the opening scenes! I'm not repeating THAT in daylight!"

As he pulls her down, he agrees, "No, certainly not, not if it's as awful as you say it was. By the way, where are our clothes?"

She smirks, "In the truck." At his wide-eyed look, she laughs again, "Oh, yes, my little streaker. There were two full moons on your beach last night but only one of them glowed like a silvery pearl."

He claps both hands over his eyes and groans, "Oh, god, I'm never going to live this down, am I?"

She kisses the backs of his fingers, "Nope, never. It will make a good story to tell our kids."

His hands flash down, "Camille! You are NEVER to tell…" then his voice falters before he can finish. Nevertheless, he's an English man and never say never! "Our kids? Do you mean it? Children? You want children with me?"

Her eyes melt into his and he suddenly has a simmering little blaze to fend off, NOT! He can tell the time for talk is over. She is making no bones about it! As she wraps him in exuberant embrace, Richard Poole, former bachelor, sinks without a trace, never to be seen again.

Sometimes 'never' can be said very firmly. Thank goodness.

Just before they settle down for the long hard slog of re-enactment, he remembers the book. He holds up a quelling hand that almost doesn't stop her but she bites her lip and subsides, "What did the book say about Harry?"

"Oh," she scoffs and gives a little head-bob of her own, "it's his mating dance." She begins swaying atop him, doing a little mating dance of her own, coming closer and closer to his face with every pass.

He watches this with fascination, not even wasting a moment of worry. He's WAY past that point in the proceeding. "HIS mating dance? Harry's mating dance? Well, who is he dancing for? Or to? There's no other lizard here."

They turn to look. Harry is now sitting quietly, watching them.

Camille shrugs, "Maybe he's dancing for us. Is that possible?"

Considering how this morning has gone so far, Richard can't help but shrug back, "I wouldn't put anything past the little bugger. Or this island. Excuse me." He leans towards his tiny green wingman and says softly, "Shoo, Harry. And this time, I mean it."

One last head-bob and Harry scuttles up the wall into the rafters.

Richard watches him go, "I just know we still have an audience." Turning back, he sighs, "Please, don't let it spoil the moment."

She draws him in, "Oh, I won't… not the moment, not the day, not the night, not the rest of our lives. Welcome home, Richard."

And, impossibly, there is sudden air, light, music, perfume, colour, laughter. A raging spring storm washes him away. He is healed, woke, and life foams forth where all had been barren and desolate. It feels wonderful! Wonderful and scary as hell! He doesn't have to fight to the death. He fights to live.

Biology may be an unthinking, relentless, uncaring, remorseless machine. But so is Love. Except for the uncaring part. Love cares a LOT. It cares without thought and can be just as remorseless and relentless; you either get with the program or you get out of the way. You either fight or you give up. You either win or you lose.

He doesn't want to get out of the way.

He doesn't have to fight.

He's already won.

The rest is gravy.

END