Rated M from the beginning (but not all the way through)...

Richard Poole watched as Saint Marie disappeared in a rush of colour beneath him. As the brief flash of green gave way to azure blue he sat back in his seat and realised with a rise of emotion that he was finally going home. To rain, to the chill of wind, to the comforting grey of fellow commuters and food that didn't try and burn through his oesophagus. His excitement was palpable.

But the rush fell quickly away to sadness. He was also leaving for anonymity, for loneliness, for hard work with no respite, and for no gleaming smile that met him first thing in the morning. That last one seemed particularly difficult to stomach and he felt a sickness he had not felt in a long time rear its ugly head from deep within him.

Regret? Yes, regret was there too but it didn't take the form that he thought it would.

His thoughts turned to the flight ahead and the exhaustion he would surely feel on landing. He wondered briefly if he had been stupid taking the red eye back to London, if he should have given himself more time to prepare for his first day in the office rather than arriving there straight from the airport.

On quick reflection he thought it was one of the best decisions he'd ever made.

His notice of transfer weeks earlier had been neither sought nor wanted. His boxes were packed, the shack locked and his goodbyes said. He was driving to the airport, never to return; the last time that he would feel his shirt pressed wetly and uncomfortably against his back. Camille had finally run out of small talk and the silence in the car blanketed them like the heat. It lay, stifling, heavy and oppressive. Richard mulled over his own thoughts, his leaving drinks, where his team had gamely tried to get him drunk (and almost succeeded), his luggage, his flight, anything to keep his mind off the woman sitting next to him. By his reckoning he only had a few minutes left before she'd never torture him with silence again.

A speed bump brought him back to his senses as he realised that they had pulled up in the almost empty car park of the airport rather than the more popular drop off zone. Confused, he registered that the engine had been cut off. He looked around, taking in his surroundings, a sparse scattering of cars littered the empty bays, he allowed his pedantic nature to kick in, briefly mentally arranging them by colour coordination before turning to the woman next to him.

"Is the drop off zone full, Camille?"

Her hands held fast to the steering wheel and she was staring resolutely ahead. To Richard it seemed as though she might be trying not to cry, but there was too much hair over her face for him to be really sure. And anyway, it didn't really seem like something Camille would do. She'd been teasing him for the past month about his return to London, making it perfectly clear that he'd no longer be her problem anymore; that he'd have to pick on a new DS; how he could forget all about them.

And he'd sat there, every smile she sent his way causing a dagger like blow to shudder unbidden through his heart, cementing the fact that he would miss her far more than he himself would be missed.

In the silence his ears now picked up on the fact that her breathing was becoming steady again (had it ever been shallow?), almost as if she was exercising a tight command of her emotions. He wondered idly if she was angry with him for not talking on the way to the airport, perhaps she had thought him rude. It would be the last time they were together after all.

He blinked hard as tried not to think about them being together in any capacity. Increasingly it had led to unfulfilled dreams both nocturnal and otherwise, over which he apparently had no control. Certain fantasies had obviously encompassed the schoolboy needs that still existed in him, but he had also increasingly found himself waking from delicious dreams where his subconscious had done nothing more than allow them to swim in the sea together.

While Richard was lost in his musings, Camille was inwardly debating how give a voice to hers. She didn't want to embarrass him, but then wondered why the hell she was bothering. He was nearly gone and she would never see him again. What did it matter? She took another deep breath and let her insecurities tumble out.

Her voice, thick with control, was purposely low and steady, the last thing she wanted was to cry in front of him. "Did you ever like me?"

She was unable to look at him making it easier for him to study her, to try and work out where she was going with this.

"Like you? Yes of course I did. I mean I do. I do like you. Very much." The last statement was almost inaudible. He cleared his throat. "I'm sorry if I've done something to upset you. I thought we were friends..."

"We are. I just. I just wanted..." She paused to collect her thoughts again. "Why did you never ask me? You must have known I would have said yes."

"Said yes to what?" It was a question he wasn't quite sure he wanted the answer to.

"I don't know really. A drink, dinner if you wanted it." She shook her head forlornly and finally looked at him. "I thought, after Erzuli that you might have asked."

He ran a hand over his face. He was finding out too late that this beautiful, funny, wonderful woman had wanted him and that he had been too cowardly to do anything about it. He struggled to find the right way to explain his actions to her. "But we always argued, Camille. I thought..." He tailed off, unable to finish the sentence that sounded the death knell on their relationship. He'd never known a silence to be so deafening, his fingers automatically found his collar and tried to loosen his tie as if that would still the effect of drowning that he now felt. Very slowly he reached out and tentatively touched her hand with his fingertips noting the warmth and silk of her skin for the first time.

He had been about to apologise but for the moment he was caught up in wondering what the rest of her might have felt like if he had been a little bolder. He realised that he was still holding on to her and it pulled him back to reality.

"I'm sorry."

She was trying to mask the pain on her face, but in that moment he knew that he had lost something he hadn't even known he'd wanted that badly. He'd assumed that he had been attracted to her because she was beautiful, that he'd wanted her as every other man had wanted her, and he had pushed her away, fearing that he might have perceived her as a conquest. He realised his mistake as she flexed her hand dislodging his in the process. He felt the loss of her skin against his keenly. Nodding and trying to straighten her back as much as she could in her seat, she tried to tell him that it didn't matter anymore, that it didn't do to dwell on something that could never be.

"We should get a move on, I know you don't like to be rushed. Do you want me to drive you closer?"

Mute, in case his voice belied the emotions now coursing through him, he shook his head and got out of the car taking his case from the back seat. Turning around he found that Camille was standing in front of him.

Awkwardness hung between them until she eventually reached out her arms and drew him to her briefly, placing the lightest of kisses on his cheek. Richard absorbed each and every feeling she elicited in him and created a memory of her, the only true one he would have. The way she smelt, the way her lips felt, the slight wetness around her eyes that he still couldn't believe was for him. It was all too much.

She stood back, numbed by the pain of lost chances while Richard's eyes bore into hers. There was nothing to say. There would never be anything to say. She wished one last time for him to fight for her when suddenly he dropped his bag, closed the gap between them and kissed her, his hands gently cupping her face.

It was the perfect goodbye kiss. Long and sweet and tender and heartbreaking. He pulled back. "I'm sorry. I just...wanted to know what it would have been like.

She stood blinking at him as he finished with an almost inaudible. "I hope you'll be happy."

Squaring his shoulders, he heard the car door behind him, echoing in the empty car park and came to the conclusion that she was on her way. That she hadn't even bothered to watch his sorry return to the UK.

"Richard, wait." He turned around to see her apprehensive face. "Change your flight." He looked dumbstruck. "Change your flight, stay with me."

He was struggling to find the right words, to try and explain to her the million reasons why he shouldn't do that. But she was in his arms again, crying and kissing him and his heart was breaking.

"Please stay. Just for the weekend. Stay for us. Then at least we'll know. We'll have more than this."

It was flawed logic, but he was sorely tempted. He knew that if he stayed, it would be perfect. Even if it was awful then it would be perfect. It had to be because it was Camille. And then in two days he would still be on a flight and this goodbye would be a thousand times worse.

Her voice cut through his thoughts. "Richard, please." Her thumb was caressing his face, forcing his eyes to find hers, her fingers curling and clutching round to the hair at the nape of his neck, and he crumbled, nodding his ascent as he kissed her again, manoeuvring them both back towards the car.

Pressing her up against the door Camille was overwhelmed by the voracity of his passion, his hot breath, his tongue, his mouth, dancing over her lips and her skin, lighting her nerve endings on fire where he passed.

He stopped and rested his head against the hot metalwork of the car before practically growling at her to get in the car.

She did as she was told and pulled herself into the driver's seat, still in a daze. She looked over at him and he was already on the phone.

"Its Detective Inspector Poole, I need to change my flight...no it can't wait, my flight leaves in two hours...no I won't hold..." She giggled as he balled his fists in frustration. He had clearly been put on hold. "Hello?...Yes I need to change my flight..." There was a quick exchange between them as he spun a perfect lie that revolved around his inability to leave whilst in the middle of an investigation which resulted in him saying "Sunday?" He flashed a look at Camille, he didn't want to push his luck if she only wanted him for one night. She nodded enthusiastically. "Sunday's fine, 6pm." His voice raised an octave briefly as her hand found his thigh. He cleared his throat and continued. "Can you email me?...Yes that's right. Thank you."

He hung up the phone and looked up to find her smiling at the road, then glanced at the speedometer. She was definitely speeding. She noticed his line of vision.

"I'm not going to slow down."

"I didn't ask you to."

Her smile broadened. "Aren't you even going to ask me to put both hands on the wheel?"

He looked as though he was seriously considering it until her fingers tensed a little bringing his attention back to the hand she was resting on his thigh. He watched as her thumb nervously danced a light pattern against his leg, enjoying her caress and warmth of her through the material of his trousers before she removed it to change gear. She didn't replace it, and although Richard missed the contact he decided that in this instance he was happy to have her concentration back on the road.

Pulling into her drive they now face a new challenge; Richard's earlier ardour had been dampened somewhat by the fact that her hand had not been replaced on his thigh. In the ensuing silence as he was contemplating whether his change of flight had been the right thing to do, she seemed to realise that his hesitancy and lack of confidence did not signal a lack of interest. Leaning forward, she kissed him lightly, gently trying to reassert his earlier mood and hint that in the very least they should get out of the car and talk. But eager to start where they had left off in the car park, his kiss was decidedly more enthusiastic.

As she climbed into his lap, he began to wonder if there was a quick release button to recline his seat when he saw her reaching for the door, holding his hand as she practically barrel rolled onto the ground and pulling him to her front door. He remembered pinning her up against the wall in her hall while he shed his jacket and she took care of his shirt buttons and his tie. But the rest of Richard's memory of how they got to bed was hazy. All he remembered was her lips, her hands, the weight of her and the trail of clothing that they left in her hall as he carried her towards her bedroom.

Her hand cupped Richard's face as he curled around her, caressing the beginnings of his stubble. She imagined them like iron filings pressing up towards her moving hand like an undulating wave and a smile touched her lips at the thought that her control over his body might extend to the unnatural as well as the functional. Her hand continued as she recounted their evening together thus far. Their initial love making had been every bit as passionate as she had expected it to be given their arguments, but if she was honest then she would have admitted to herself that there might have been something missing, that they had worked together purely on the basis of that passion alone and that their technique might have been lacking.

But that had been their first time.

For their second time he had seemed to realise this too and had broken away from their kiss to take her hand in his and move it downwards towards the apex of her thighs. She had initially been unsure of what he wanted from her, her hand had remained resolutely under his, shielding herself from him, his own personal Venus de Milo laid out before him in her naivety.

But her innocence was short lived as she realised that he was nervous, his eyes belying his previous show of confidence and his voice when he found it was a whisper, his dry mouth causing the words to fall from him, uncertain and unsteady as he asked her to teach him. She knew then what he wanted and her uncertainties evaporated with her understanding. If anything told her that the weekend wasn't just a weekend that he wanted more, then it was this.

His eyes flicked between studying the rhythmic motion of her hand; the pressure, the speed; to her face. The way it tilted first to the ceiling and then towards him; her body in fluid motion; her eyes fluctuating between shutting and staring. He watched her excitement bloom and just before she reached her peak his hand returned to hers helping her towards her release. When at last it came, he moved to make love to her again, riding it out until he felt her still beneath him, too tired to move anymore and he rolled away, curling himself around her. Ironically it was Richard who had fallen asleep first, arm splayed haphazardly across her.

He shifted from his doze next to her, shaking his head in a move designed to get her to stop the constant attention to his face that had now become annoying. She stopped instantly, wiling him back to sleep, settling herself next to him, her heart sinking as she thought of how little time they had left.

Richard had been aware that his first attempt at making love to Camille had been frantic, torrid and blissful. A quick fix for feelings that had been repressed for too long. He remembered the heat that enveloped him, the roll of her hips into his, the feel of her hands on his shoulder blades, his back, his backside and the way her pupils dilated before she cried out and stilled as he collapsed on top of her.

But he also knew that the euphoric nature of their first time together could never be repeated (although he hoped there would still be passion) and that behind it lay an un-enticing myriad of do's and don'ts. He only hoped he could live up to her expectations. He didn't want to be a joke that she laughed about with her friends after his departure on Sunday.

He had never been the most impulsive of men but in that moment he knew that if he was leaving then he wanted Camille to remember him as someone who actually gave a damn, someone who was better than the others. He moved forward and kissed her again, hoping that his body would be able to support his renewed vigour.

It had. He remembered the feeling of frustrated patience as he watched her, noting every flush, every movement, every change in tempo she made, memorising it for the future, even if there was no future, ensuring that she could never lie to him about this.

With a jolt, he opened his eyes and found himself back on the plane surrounded by strangers, his memories fading quickly with the embarrassment of being in public. There was a slight buzz in the air caused by the pressure, the muted light from overhead bulbs as people read and the hum of conversations that nobody wanted overheard. Among the hushed footfalls of the cabin crew as they silently stalked the cramped aisles he realised that nothing seemed real anymore. He surreptitiously studied those closest to him to see if he had given his thoughts away, a slight flush creeping over his collar. To those that were still awake he was invisible, just as he had always been.

He closed his eyes again and allowed himself to drift back to the woman he had left behind. He'd had 48 perfect hours. Waking on Saturday morning had been everything that he could have wished for and more. He had shown her in every way how much she meant to him, what he could do for her. His flushed deepened as he recalled her very enthusiastic response.

But he had also been right in thinking that leaving the second time had been harder. Much harder. She had insisted on driving him to the airport again. Partly because he wouldn't have been able to call a taxi without causing gossip but mostly because it had meant that she'd had a few extra precious minutes with him. Their goodbye in the car park that final time had been noisy but for entirely different reasons as Camille tried desperately to stop sobbing on his shoulder.

He ran his mind's eye back over her, memorising everything he had learnt about her body over the weekend. A lover's knowledge. The small mole on the back of her thigh, the pronounced arch of her foot, the strength of her, the feel of the back of her nails against his skin as she trailed her hands across his chest. She flashed before his eyes and he wondered if he hadn't made a mistake by not committing to her fully, by not going back.

He wished that there had been something that he could have said to comfort her, but there was nothing. He was leaving. They had studiously ignored any topic of conversation that had related to the future, Richard had known everything he had needed to from their first kiss. But what was the point in telling her that he was in love? They now lived in different countries and he would probably have a found a way to muck up their relationship within a couple of weeks anyway.

It was better left this way.