S1 E6 - Was it a Fever?

Camille is so beautiful when she's angry. She's angry right now but he's lost in the admiration of her snapping eyes and doesn't hear the end of her tirade. She's livid over soup.

Lord love a duck, of all things... a debate over soup? He shakes his head. This isn't a debate! Proper debate is the thrust and parry of cracking good attack and defense. He'd enjoyed some notoriety at uni, been a bit of a hero known as 'The Closer'. When you wanted to crush your opponents, you brought in Poole… he handed the enemy their heads on a platter. Good times.

But this isn't a debate. It's not even an argument. It's a fight, pure and simple. It's an emotional female rant and he has absolutely no male comeback. His logic gets a sneer. Eye rolls meet his attempt at calm communication. He's totally nonplussed by her accusations and can't follow her reasoning. Reason? With the French? Maybe that's my mistake, trying to reason with an alien life form.

What spurred this personal attack? Not a 'Hello' or 'Did You Miss Me?' or 'How Have You Been?'… but out of the taxi and right into a fist fight. He can only look at her, feeling outgunned and slightly unmanned. How did this fight get started? He can only surmise that she's been wound up by her mother and now he's reaping the whirlwind.

He shrugs. He's weathered much worse in his time, blistering strips torn off, threats, violence. He's learned to deal with it so he'll just have to learn to deal with this too… but why did it make him feel so sad, so rejected, so alone?

She's marching away for the Station stairs. Much to his astonishment he's following, still trying to reason with her! What is this fresh new hell? Try as he might, he can't stop himself from trailing after her and stuttering vain explanations.

He pauses just inside the station door, watching her thump her luggage down, her voice fading in and out. Heat sweeps over him and he sinks to one knee, panting. Oh, great! Let's look like a total loser in front of my furious French DS. I hate my life! A wave of dizziness floods over him, there was a high keening noise, a hard thump on his shoulder, and nothing more.

He rouses to something cool touching his forehead. Pain blasts down his spine, his head and neck are killing him. Where are my pills? He hears a pilly rattle. He's lifted enough to take a sip of cold water and his meds. Lowered back down, he groans. He's just drifting off when hands tug at his clothes. He stops struggling as coolness washes over his torso, blessed relief from the sheets of fire in his blood. His heated brain takes the opportunity to fade out.

When he comes to again, he sees two hovering shadows. Cool sweeps run up and down his arms and chest, gentle dabs on his hot face. He feels his head clearing a bit. "Where am I?" he asks one shadow. "In a cell at the station," is the echoing answer. At his horrified expression, the shadow laughs, "Don't worry, I laid a clean blanket down first."

His vision clears enough to see Camille and her mother sitting on either side of him as more coolness spreads over his skin. He sighs then stiffens as he realizes they're washing him slowly and extremely thoroughly. A hand swifts down, finds his belt, and relief blossoms.

Catherine chuckles, "Oh, cheri, never fear, your dignity is intact. Not like at the beach house. You were so cute in those half-on half-off pajamas."

He manages an almost reasonable tone to answer, "It's not nice to take advantage of the ill… besides, it's not like I was naked." Her raised eyebrow and amused smile alarms him as she whispers to Camille, "We'll talk later," for Catherine remembers running her hands lightly over his sturdy build and strong bone structure, his solid density contrasting nicely with his fine precise hands and sensitive face. She'd resisted the temptation to investigate further… let Camille have some secrets of her own to discover.

OK! Enough of this! One English man against two French women, it just isn't fair! He struggles up, trying to take control of the situation, "I want to go home."

Camille smirks, "If you're well enough to be embarrassed then you're well enough to travel. I'll take you home. Do you want Maman to come too?"

He most certainly does not! That knowing smile had disturbed him deeply. He does accept help in getting back into his shirt and down the steps to the Defender where he sees a hurried conference between the women before Camille jumps in behind the wheel. Despite his better judgement, he asks, "And what was that all about?"

Blithely, she tells the air, "Oh, she told me to take my time and not hurry home." She gives him a look. "She also told me about a conversation you two had yesterday."

He crosses his arms and grumps, "I vaguely remember a frank discussion about soup."

She laughs, "No, not that. Apparently you were talking about me."

He refuses to rise to the bait and fumes all the way home. I do NOT remember any such conversation! She's probably bluffing, teasing me most cruelly for some obscure French reason. He slides worried eyes sideways to her. Would it kill her to give me a hint? But she just smiles as she drives as if thinking about something very pleasant. His worry amps up but by the time she parks, he's starting to shiver.

She bundles him right into the house despite his best efforts to fend her off. "Honestly, I'm sick and tired of people man-handling me!" he growls as he convinces her to turn her back.

Smirking, she does so, holding out a hand for every bit of discarded armour he gives her to carefully fold. "What about Dwayne and Fidel?" she says over her shoulder, "Did you mind their help? It would be like outfitting a knight for battle, so many layers, so much fine detail."

"That was different," he grumps as he slides into bed, "I spent ten years in a boy's school."

Hearing the sheets rustle, she turns back around and reacquaints herself with striped heaven, "Well, then, if it helps, just think of me as one of the boys," she suggests. His snort is answer enough but within seconds he is asleep. A proper rebuttal will have to wait.

She sits with him all night, parceling out water and meds, watching the fever and chills chase themselves over his body. He finally settles just before dawn and she curls up beside him in exhaustion.

When she wakes, he's sleeping peacefully and she needs a shower. Coming back out wrapped in a towel, she sees he's awake. He must still be sick because he doesn't react but merely looks away so she can get dressed.

When she finishes, he asks, "Have you seen Harry?"

She blinks, "Harry? Your little green friend? No. Why?"

"I dreamed about him last night and the night before, I think. He spoke to me. Or, rather, they all spoke to me. Fever dreams are such odd things."

"Who spoke to you?"

"There was a ring of little green faces looking down at me and I could hear them talking. They all looked like Harry. A whole room of Harrys." He glances over to the terrarium. Empty. A memory flares, a little face smiling up at him, telling him something important, helping him see a valuable clue to do with a murder. Then, something else, something in the future, something he has to do…

"What were they saying?" Camille asks, he is distracted and the memory is gone.

"They seemed to be discussing me. And you. And someone else." He pause, "Do you know any one named Armand?" She shakes her head. He shrugs, "Oh well, never mind. I'm sure it doesn't mean anything."

They watch as Harry skitters briefly into view in the veranda doorway. Moments later, big luminous eyes are watching them from the bed railing. Then they hear tiny clicking noises in the bathroom.

Camille leans down and whispers, "Um, how many Harrys are there?"

He looks puzzled, "Just the one or so I thought."

"I think you have an army living here."

"An army? Should I be worried?"

She thinks back to a childhood story. Watchers. Guardians. The Loa. She looks around very carefully, "An army can be for defense. You wouldn't hurt Harry, would you? Or any of them?"

He tries to parse her question but he's too tired, "No, of course not. He's my little flat-mate and my responsibility. I'd miss him if he left."

She pats his shoulder, "That's good. I'm sure they're happy to hear it."

Before he can ask who 'they' are, he's slipped back into healing slumber and she sits by the bedside, watching the eternal ocean slip nearer and nearer as the tide comes in and she ponders The Future.

Above the humans, in the world that exists overhead, tiny heads bob and signal to each other as scouts skitter in and out, carrying messages, keeping watch, obeying orders. It's a full time job, caring for one of the chosen. They've all been anointed by his blood, sweat, and tears and now they serve and wait.

In the meantime, there's a mango-bug mash buffet and a nice clean terrarium to take turns napping in, if they want. Life is good during the peaceful times.

END