And to think, he mused to himself, I denied myself the chance to hold her when she expressly asked me to. It had been weeks since then, but Richard still couldn't get it out of his head, how she had felt pressed against him. It wasn't like they'd danced very intimately either, but she'd been close enough – and warm enough – that he'd been hard-pressed to think of anything else since.

That Camille often danced, even if it was only swaying slightly where she stood, didn't help matters either.

Richard swirled the tea around in his cup before drinking the last of it in one long, bitter swallow and stood up. He very carefully did not look at where his colleague was doing – well, it looked like a mix between a slow dance and a tango, all of which involved a lot more gyrating than he'd ever associated with either. He caught his reflection in a beer glass and found, to his surprise, that he wasn't turning green with jealousy just yet.

He may not be very outwardly open with his feelings, but he had never gotten into the habit of lying to himself about them (or anything else, for that matter).

Richard caught Fidel's eye as he moved towards the exit, the younger man in the process of settling his tab. Camille was busy dancing and Dwayne had long since disappeared, chasing his next conquest. Lifting one hand in farewell, he wasn't surprised to see the knowing look in Fidel's eyes as he waved back.

The weather was nice, as always on Sainte Marie, so Richard decided to walk the beach back to his shack, and hopefully, work out some of his repression at the same time. Stopping just out of sight of the bar - it wouldn't do to let the people see him not taking things seriously – he took his suit jacket off, rolling the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows. Richard even took his tie off, stuffing it in the pocket of his jacket before swinging it over his shoulder.

Unconsciously he started whistling an old Drifters song, singing the last few words "…and save the last dance for me," as he unlocked the door to his shack. Considering he always left the windows open the lock probably deterred criminals less than the fact that the inhabitant was a police officer, but leaving the door unlocked was so far out of Richard's comfort zone it might as well have been the moon.

He hung his jacket over the porch railing, deciding it was a bit early to retire, even for him, so instead he went inside and grabbed a beer. Richard had quickly realised that there were two ways of enjoying a beer in Sainte Marie – ice cold or boiling hot and so, despite being British to the bone and preferring his pints lukewarm, he opted to drink cold beer. He shuddered a little every time he brought out a bottle and it perspired in the heat.

When Richard went back out to the porch, he choked on the swig of beer he'd just taken, swallowing it painfully before croaking out a confused "…Camille?"

"Bonjour, sir," she said – bashfully, he'd have called it, if his beautiful and French sergeant had ever shown any inclinations of being bashful. "I got soaked in a brawl at maman's bar, and well…" she trailed off, but Richard could see where she'd been going with it.

Whatever had left her looking almost like a soaked cat had also left her short, yellow dress practically see-through, offering him a very tantalising view of – he tore his eyes away from her.

"O-of course, there's, uh, there are towels in the bathroom, just – ahm, just help yourself to, to whatever," he blustered, very carefully not looking at her. It certainly didn't help him keep a professional relationship with her when she showed up at his place, a Friday night, looking like that.

"Thank you," she said, gratefulness shot through with mirth, and Richard didn't relax until he heard the bathroom door close behind her. Sinking into one of the porch chairs, he pressed the cold beer bottle against his forehead, shivering at the feel of the frigid glass, before taking a long pull of the bottle.

"Thank you so much, sir," she repeated herself, pulling his attention away from where he'd been watching the stars mirrored in the sea. Anything she said after that, well, none of it actually registered.

"I'm sorry, what was that?" he finally found it in himself to say, and he didn't have to wait long for Camille's expected eye-roll.

"Are you even listening to me?" she asked incredulously.

"No," he said. That's what happens, Richard absently thought to himself, when the most beautiful woman you've ever known stands before you dressed in one of your own shirts – and what looks like nothing else.

"You think I'm beautiful?" Camille said, uncharacteristic insecurity laced through her voice.

"Anyone who doesn't must be blind," Richard answered automatically, before realising exactly what it was she'd said. "…I-I didn't mean to say, to say any of that out loud, so if we could – could j-just forget it happened, that'd be, ehm, much appreciated."

Richard was very grateful when Camille didn't say anything, just gave him a long look before sitting down in the other chair, gracefully crossing her long legs at the knee, placing the bottle she must've grabbed on her way out on the table between them. It was a Herculean effort to tear his eyes away from them. They settled into an almost comfortable silence (as comfortable as Richard could ever find a silence), the only sound the lapping of the waves at the shore.

"Why do you insist on wearing these heavy shirts, those thick suits – and the ties, sir? Isn't it unbearably hot?" Richard breathed a sigh of relief at her question – while it wasn't exactly a line of inquiry he wanted to pursue, it was better than his slip of the tongue.

"I am British, Camille, and as such I feel I have a – reputation, to uphold. What would it look like if I wasn't properly dressed, appearing at the scene of a crime? People must know I take them seriously." He lifted his shoulders in what, had another man done it, would have been called a shrug.

"Seriously?" she scoffed, turning slightly in her chair to better look at him. "Is that why you insist on this ridicule costume?"

"I – yes, of course!" he blustered, carefully not looking at her. He'd found it was much easier to withhold certain parts of the truth if he didn't look her in the eyes. He'd sworn to never lie to himself, no one else had ever been involved in that vow.

That he was wearing the suit more as a suit of armour than anything else, well – while he knew many of the locals ridiculed him for it, or at least they had, the suit worked quite well as a protection against that, too. It didn't protect against the heat, but that was also the only thing it didn't help with.

"Why won't you dance with me, Richard?" When Camille spoke again, Richard had drained most of his beer and settled enough to almost let go of his discomfort – at least until he registered what she'd said, tension returning like a bad penny. It didn't help matters, either, that a shiver always ran down his spine whenever she used his name.

"I-I… I don't think that's quite, quite appropriate, do you, Detective Sergeant Bordey?" He took care to emphasise her name and title, hoping she'd drop the subject again. Going by the look on her face and the glare she aimed Richard's way, that didn't seem likely.

"Propriety is everything for you, isn't it – sir?" Camille seemed set on getting to the bottom of this, and while he hadn't known her for very long, he did know she was rather like a dog with a bone – tenacious, and unlikely to let go unless forced away. Very good quality in a police officer, but Richard would have preferred her to not have quite as much tenacity as she did, at least right then.

He held himself stiffly for another moment, back ramrod straight, before deflating, rubbing a hand over his face and into his hair.

"Do you really want to know, Camille?" he finally asked, bluster and nervousness left behind, all in favour of bone-deep weariness. He loved her, knew she didn't, wouldn't ever, feel the same. He had a feeling that either way she wouldn't remain friends with him – either he told her the truth, or she'd think he found her so despicable he couldn't bring himself to touch her.

"Cher Dieu, of course – otherwise I wouldn't have asked!" Camille was beautiful when she was annoyed, but then again, he hadn't yet managed to find out what state of mind she wasn't beautiful when experiencing.

"The reason I don't want to dance with you, Camille Bordey, is that I fear if I let myself hold you tight, let myself feel you in my arms, I'd never let you go again." He stood up and brushed himself off, not looking directly at her – out of the corner of his eye he saw her gaping in surprise. Deciding he had nothing to lose, not anymore, he turned to look straight at her, and for the first time let Richard let himself look his fill, tracing her body with his eyes before meeting her gaze head-on. The shock was still prevalent in her expression. "I'll tell the commissioner tomorrow that I'm resigning, you shouldn't be forced to work subordinated to someone like me."

Richard managed to get indoors – as much indoors as his shack allowed – before she found her bearings again. He heard Camille stand up, but when he didn't hear her stepping down the stairs soon after he turned to look – hope almost daring to rear its head. He was the epitome of grace when he almost fell over, stumbling when standing still, upon seeing her barely a foot away from him.

"Richard," she said, looking into his eyes. There was a seriousness to her being, one that almost managed to hide the nervousness in her eyes. "Do you love me?"

"I-," he stood ramrod straight, holding his arms at his sides, fists clenched at his hips. After his declaration on the porch, there wasn't much use in denying it, not really, but saying it straight out like that, when he'd only thought it before… it seemed daunting. Richard had never been much for doing the daunting tasks, but just maybe – he lowered his shoulders and took the plunge. "Yes. More than I've ever loved anyone, I love you – I am in love with you, and I don't think I ever can stop loving you."

He had imagined a lot of different reactions to that confession, the few times he'd let himself daydream of being the kind of brave man who told the woman he loved just that – everything from slaps to laughter to being reported for harassment. What he hadn't even dared to hope for was Camille kissing him.

Uncertain what to do with his hands, he kept his arms at his sides, but she only kissed him harder the more he hesitated. Slowly, carefully, as if afraid he'd spook her if he moved too fast, he let himself stroke his hands from her shoulders down her back, feeling her arch into him, taking advantage of the moan she let out to deepen the kiss. Kissing her harder, licking into her mouth, hands gripping her waist, he could've stayed where he was forever.

Unfortunately, he did have to breathe.

Tearing his mouth away from her, both of them just stood there for a long moment, forehead to forehead, panting. She had her hands at the nape of his neck, fingers playing absently with the hair there, and he was certain that, had he been a cat and capable of it, he would've been purring.

"This is wildly inappropriate," he finally muttered, when it didn't seem like she would say anything. She laughed, hiding her face in his shoulder. He could get used to the feeling of her in his arms, was afraid he had already.

"We are – very relaxed here, and I doubt anyone would blame us for taking what happiness we can find. You will not resign, you are much too good at your job for the commissioner to let that happen – fraternization or not." Camille pulled back, looking into his eyes. He usually had difficulties with direct eye contact, but found it strangely easy with her – maybe it was just the fact that he'd take any opportunity to look at her that did it. "If nothing else, Maman will find it very relaxing that I've stopped pining after you."

"Pining?" he laughed. "After me?"

"I love you and am – what do you English say – head over heels?" Richard could hear how much she meant what she was saying, and he knew what the words meant – independently of each other, that is. Put together in the way she was saying them, they didn't make any sense whatsoever. He told her as much, feeling a bit daft as he did.

"Richard. I love you. Je t'aime. Je t'adore. If I cannot have you, I will have no one."

With a declaration like that, what else was he to do other than kiss her senseless again?

I'm on tumblr as isauntervaguelydownwards. hmu if you wanna chat abt this or any of my other stories.