Chapter 8: Tension, take two

A/N: Scenes in this chapter are pretty much what I based the whole story around when they came to me. Now it's time to write them down I hope I actually manage to express myself properly.

Richard had gotten seriously close to calling his doctor. The tension that had begun as soon as Clara had left the flat (though perhaps it was there before, and by before he meant a time he did not remember) never seemed to dissipate. He felt like they existed in two states. In one he happily accepted her teasing and felt perfectly at ease with her. In the other they teetered on the edge of some argument that never seemed to be about what they were actually talking about and he found he lacked patience with her and just wanted to…well he wasn't really sure. What worried him, what made him consider calling the doctor, is he found he seemed to prefer the latter state. He spent most of the week on his best behaviour, acquiescing on several occasions to Camille in order to avoid a full blown fall out. It was exhausting.

Mind, as he scrutinised her slumped on the sofa watching TV, it seemed to him pretty clear she was tired as well. However, that might have more to do with the fact that they gone to Hampton Court Palace that morning and, when they were just about as far from shelter as you could get in the gardens, the sky darkened amazingly fast and they ended up completely drenched. Camille had without a second thought rung the water out of her hair just inside the entrance when they reached it. This earned her a frightful look from an attendant, and given the rate at which they continued to drip Richard had felt it prudent to insist they go home and get dry. Camille hadn't been pleased, protesting the English must be used to sopping wet individuals trudging around their historic buildings, and he'd muttered something about her causing a scene that had not gone down well. It was their first "fight" where he actually ended up putting his foot down, and she probably just agreed because she was so surprised he did.

She sat forward a little to accept the coffee he offered, smiling at him like she hadn't fuming mad just an hour ago, and he felt the whole scene was wonderfully domestic – a thought he quickly buried. Her gaze quickly returned to the television, where she had apparently gotten engrossed in some bad daytime TV crime drama.

"Do you want to stay in?" He asked her, suspecting she was desperate for the excuse.

She gave him a mildly embarrassed look, "I know I'm leaving tomorrow but it's raining and we've done so much and it's warm here…"

"If you're happy I'm happy," he interrupted her quickly. "You don't want to end up needing a holiday from your holiday."

He examined the screen, and realised she was watching one of the more despicable afternoon dramas. He'd watched a lot himself when he'd been with his parents still, apparently having forgotten how awful they were.

"Why would anybody be friends with Mark Sloan? Or Jessica Fletcher? I mean they always end up dead don't they, you think that people around those two would catch on. Then not only do their friends get murdered, they always solve their murder. No normal person would have the presence of mind to solve their friend's murder, there should really be an episode where they get questioned by the police."

Camille did her best to keep it together, she really did. But when he started talking about friends getting murdered, all the grief of Aimee's death returned full force. She didn't really hear his whole rant, but at some point she must have let out a sob that got his attention.

Richard was utterly perplexed by her change in mood, nobody liked Diagnosis Murder that much, did they? "God, Camille, what's wrong? What did I say?" He sat next to her on the sofa, where she was attempting to make herself as small as possible as she broke down. She was trying to catch her breath, explain, but then realisation dawned and he knew exactly why she was crying.

"Oh. Oh you're friend died, didn't she? Oh I'm sorry Camille I didn't mean to bring back bad memories. Oh, come on, don't, come here," He reached for her, intending to pull her into his arms to provide whatever comfort he could, but she pushed him off and sobbed harder.

"Don't hug me," she said vehemently. "You wouldn't hug me."

"Camille you're upset, I was just trying to help."

She stood up suddenly, sadness now battling with fury, "This is wrong, everything is so wrong."

Richard stood as well, "Come on, please, sit back down and talk to me."

She was glaring at him, eyes still brimming with tears, was he really so bad at this? He reached out to place a pacifying hand on her arm, but once again she pulled away with him with a force that both surprised and angered him.

"I said don't touch me, it's not how it's supposed to go."

Now, he knew she was upset about her friend, knew she was probably also quite tired, but when she pulled away from him a second time he felt like something literally snapped in his head, and he knew he couldn't contain his frustration.

"Oh for Fu…" he drew a sharp breath in and tempered himself before he actually swore. "You know it is normal to offer somebody a hug when they are upset and normal people normally just accept it. Why can't you accept it from me?"

"Because it isn't you. You're rubbish at anything to do with human emotion."

"Are you seriously telling me you're mad at me because I am not acting like an ass? For God's sake Camille, why would you want that? Why would you want me to go back to that insufferable, pedantic, emotionally retarded person?"

Oh boy, she was not happy with that pronouncement. She stalked forward and poked him in the chest, "You don't want to get better, do you?"

"Maybe I am better," he spat back.

"Fine, don't try to get your memories back," she threw her arms into the air and turned her back to him. "You can stay here, with Clara, and live in rainy England and take the dog for long walks. You can forget you ever needed to remember us at all."

"Well at least Clara likes me for who I am!"

She spun on her heel, "Well I liked you for who you were, which is a hell of a lot more of an achievement!"

Their eyes locked, but she surprised him by looking away first – clearly embarrassed by her admission. She didn't take it back, or try to apologise, just remained stubbornly silent. He also backed away from addressing the statement immediately.

"Haven't we had this argument? This is what we were fighting about wasn't it, me leaving?"

"I was wrong about that," she surprised him by admitting. "You sold your house, you must have been intending to stay, but I didn't think you wanted to."

"And now you think I don't want my memories back, don't you? That just because I'm a bit different from how I was, that I want nothing to do with my – for want of a better word – old life? Nothing to do with you?"

She didn't answer, which to him meant he must have hit the nail on the head.

"Look, I didn't mean to imply I didn't want my memories back. I…I really do."

The sincerity in his tone clearly got through, because she looked up at him again, "Why?"

"Why?"

"If you don't," she paused to consider her phrasing. "If you don't like the way you were what is the point of retrieving those memories?"

He might have jumped 15 points on the empathy quotient tests, but that didn't mean he wasn't feeling incredibly awkward right now.

"I remember more feelings than…than anything else. And I know there were times I was…happy. It would be nice to know more than just that."

She looked at him again, and he was relieved to find her no longer crying, "Do you remember much about me?"

He had to work very hard to hold her gaze, succeeding even though he was terrified, "I'm pretty sure you were one of the things that made me happy."

He was also pretty sure what happened next only really happened on TV. Then again, the entire convoluted story from day he got sent to Saint Marie, through to his orders to leave and the accident that actually sent him home, this great big complicated glorious mess that was his life would seem unrealistic on a TV screen. Because here he was, in his living room, and a mad, half-French, beautiful woman had just launched herself at him and started kissing him like she just invented it. Not that he was complaining, he was quite happy to participate.

But then as quickly as she had instigated the whole kissing thing, Camille had pushed away from him and was on the other side of the sofa, like she needed a physical barrier to restrain herself.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she repeated earnestly. "I feel like I'm cheating on you."

"You've said some pretty mad things this week but that takes the biscuit." She looked like she was going to cry again, and he regretted his sarcastic response.

"I think," she began carefully. "I think it's good that I'm leaving tomorrow. Maybe we both need to think, think about what we want."

Richard decided he preferred her when she was shouting at him, rather than the crushed woman before him – even when what she said made perfect sense.

"I think…I'm a bit tired," she gestured vaguely in the direction of her room.

Richard nodded, understanding her meaning, and did not expect to see her for the rest of the day. He sat down heavily on the couch and rubbed his face.

She was falsely bright in the morning, talking about the gifts she had stuffed into her suitcase for everyone at home (he was pretty sure her case would be overweight when she heaved it onto the scale at the airport). If she wanted to go down the 'let's pretend nothing happened' route, well, he suspected he was probably an expert at it.

She told him he didn't have to come to the airport, but he insisted. Before she went through security she gave him what had to qualify for the most awkward hug in history – if it weren't for the fact he was pretty sure they had actually shared one somehow even more awkward in his hazy past.

When he watched her walk away though, he came to a realisation, revelation, resolution – whatever you wanted to call it. He would do anything to get her back.

He'd even be himself.