Chapter Text
He was staring intently at the whiteboard, eyes glazed over, face empty of all expression except that of a deep and intense concentration.
"Sir?" Camille raised her eyes from the pile of papers in her hands to Detective Inspector Humphrey Goodman, flinching momentarily as she caught sight of his trance-like countenance.
It is a mannerism all too similar to- all too reminiscent of Ri... of his predecessor. And Humphrey's predecessor is somebody Camille longs very much to forget.
Swallowing a few painfully joyful memories, Camille strolled over to where her superior was standing, and passed him a newspaper article.
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Another closed case later and the team were seated comfortably in Catherine's bar.
Team.......... Well, thought Camille contemplatively, it was a team, really, wasn't it? Generally... generally, not much had changed since... since he'd left. The team still had drinks after work, still visited the shack...
If she were a harsh and unfeeling person, a person sensible enough to not still be ridiculously in love with somebody who had no doubt probably forgotten all about her a very long time ago (which, incidentally, was a person she'd really quite like to be), she might even say nothing had changed since R... Richard Poole (for if she were that person she'd surely be unafraid of saying his name) had left and Humphrey Goodman had arrived. After all, the new DI was, essentially, just another English man.
And English men were all practically all the same - but to claim that the only identifying aspect of Richard was his nationality felt so devastatingly wrong!
Probably because it was wrong, considered Camille gloomily.
And Richard and Humphrey meant such completely opposite things to her! The former, a person she not only lov- liked, but admired, too, was gone forever. The latter, here to stay, she knew she could never summon the energy to like let alone admire.
Mentally kicking herself, as she did every time her thoughts veered towards Richard (which was far too often, considering he is - and has been - on the other side of the world for months), she turned back to the conversation Dwayne, Fidel and Humphrey were having.
"...absurdly coincidental that I met them all again here! Here! On Saint-Marie, of all the places..."
Ah, yes - the reunion. She had almost forgotten. Humphrey had come across some of his old friends - from university, if she recalled correctly. He hadn't seen them in 25 years and he'd come across them on Saint-Marie. It was genuinely a gigantic coincidence.
"... so do you think it'd be okay if you gave me a lift?", a pair of beseeching blue eyes stared at her hopefully.
Camille blinked and responded, "Désolé, to where?"
She shot an imploring glance at Dwayne and Fidel but they appeared to be engaged in an intense conversation with Catherine - no doubt trying to coax her into giving them the recipe for her new pineapple stew. Yep, she could see Dwayne leaning forward and executing what he referred to as 'The Charm Offensive'. It had never worked on her mother, which was why Dwayne was unafraid to use it in abundance within the French sergeant's presence.
Camille tuned back into Humphrey.
"... and so they invited me to their villa, up in the rainforest." He beamed at her and she couldn't help envisioning the puppy she'd gotten for her 11th birthday - Antoinette, she'd called it..
"For uh, an early dinner, you know?" He continued, "English tea, 4pm. Thought it'd be pretty nice, all things considered. You know... catching up and all that?"
"-oui, c'est bien. That's fine," Camille replied quickly. "What time do you want me to pick you up?"
"Would 3.50 be alright? Got to be there for 4, you see... Of course if not I would be more than happy to-"
"-that's perfect, " she supplied speedily, before smiling at him, and then instantly regretting it upon seeing the look that flashed momentarily in his eyes.
It wasn't something she'd ever noticed until Dwayne and Fidel had told her - and now that she knew, it was suddenly all so grotesquely transparent. 'Grotesquely' was the wrong word perhaps for little glances, smiles, kind offers, expressive references to dinner and the shack, were hardly grotesque... Except they were! He was her superior, her boss. His infatuation was kind of sweet, if she was being generous, but she knew she could never... feel for him like he felt for her. But how was it that the prospect of handshaking Humphrey Goodman made her grimace yet she'd been more than happy to kiss Richard Poole on the cheek?
Though she wasn't entirely convinced what Goodman 'felt' for her was real. He seemed eager for a distraction from Sally, his divorced wife. Camille had always been talented at deciphering people's emotions, figuring out their motives and the way they thought - getting familiar with the way they worked.
Of course, Richard hadn't been anything like that. No... He'd been... Well. Quite... quite something else. Irritating. Pedantic. Infuriating... But she couldn't - no, wouldn't - allow herself to think of him. He was gone... Forever...
And there was no way, absolutely no way he was sat at home in England thinking of her.
...But if only he was...
Blinking furiously, she turned back to Humphrey.
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He thrust the key into the lock and opened the grey front door to the little grey house he called home. It didn't feel like home.
Although Detective Inspector Richard Poole of the Metropolitan police, Cambridge history graduate, and unassuming genius to all who knew him, was having severe difficulties in determining what, precisely, 'home' meant.
What did it consist of? Thought Richard moodily, as he undid the laces of his shiny black brogues and placed them uniformly on his wooden shoerack. What were its components? What made a home... a home?
There was somebody who would probably beable to tell him exactly what a home was. And while they were at it, that person would probably tell him exactly what they thought of his being unable to decide what one was.
Or that person might tell him to stop thinking so analytically about an innocent noun. That person had a peculiar way of providing inanimate things with character.
A smile crept onto Richard's face. Smiling illuminated his eyes - highlighted the extraordinary spectrum of green in his irises.
After a few seconds, he noticed his smile, and promptly wiped it off.
It didn't do to consider that person...
Richard removed his jacket and went into his little grey kitchen, which, despite being 'little', was much larger and much more functional than the kitchen he'd had on Saint-Marie. He made himself a cup of Earl Grey, and plonked himself down onto his little grey sofa.
What he should do was obvious. He should work... Find that tiny insignificant detail that he just knew would crack the whole of his latest case wide open. Only it appeared his fingers had minds of their own.
They'd probably had their own minds for a fair while, though, Richard thought absently, knowing exactly what would happen next, having done it pretty much every day for the last 5 months.
When his hands had finished tapping the keys of his laptop, he looked up at the words on his screen. And sighed.
Salut Richard
I hope you had a good flight. Is it raining in England? I bet you love it. No heat to complain about at all. The new DI is... Well... Let's just say that you wouldn't be impressed.
We miss you.
I miss you. Camille x
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I
C
Flight was ok, thanks.
It is raining here. New DI will be fine. How is the team?
R
An email thread, with her. Well, the email thread, really. Their correspondence had dwindled until it was virtually non existent and Richard couldn't help thinking it was all his fault.
After his response to her first email, her replies were starkly different. Personal and intimate had transformed into brisk and business-like. Efficient and unemotional - nothing like Camille herself.
There were only a few more emails that had followed that first exchange. In the last, Camille had told him that Humphrey was settling in and was approaching island life in a drastically different way to how Richard had.
Apparently Humphrey was quite the party boy. Probably partying now, thought Richard bitterly, noting the time on his wristwatch and instantly calculating that it would be about 7pm in Saint-Marie. Probably partying with Camille. Camille obviously likes him way more than me.
A worrying proportion of his evenings back in London were filled with regret: regret that he hadn't appreciated life on Saint-Marie, regret that he hadn't told people... things... he should have... told them.
Richard forced himself to focus. He needed to solve this case. His team in London were good, but... No, that was unfair. They were good. It was just... There was no... flow. Yes, that was the word. Flow. The 4 members of the Saint-Marie police force had worked with a fluid seamless grace that Richard's team in London simply didn't have, and wouldn't ever have even if they tried to replicate it.
It had been something about the island as well - the fact that colleagues could be friends, and that fraternisation rules weren't so prominent...
But if he was being realistic, it had really been about his relationship with Camille. They'd filled in each other's gaps; made up for each other's flaws, and gosh he missed that.
Well, missed her.
So, so much...