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Most people overestimate how much paperwork a police officer has to go through, particularly the ones in high ranking positions. It always gets worse at the end of the year, too; just because murder doesn’t have a deadline doesn’t mean they don’t. Camille keeps this all in mind as she finds herself walking to Richard’s house on her day off, which she’s doing to be productive, not because she’s "bored" or she actually "enjoys Richard’s company", despite what her inner monologue or her mother keep telling her.
She’s thinking of the paperwork and not what she might be able to rile him up about, or maybe if the latest book he’s picked up is one she’s read and could discuss with him, when she walks into what she’s sure is a crime scene. For there is Richard, lying down on a beach chair in one of those hideously ugly tropical shirts, a book resting on his chest that undoubtedly hides a fatal wound. Immediately, Camille is reaching for the phone in her back pocket and doing a quick search of the parameter for a pool of blood and a murder weapon.
“Richard?” she says as she walks towards him, more quiet and panicked then she would have liked. Of course, it’s at that moment that he decides to bolt upright, slamming the book closed and shouting,
“Absolute bloody nonsense!”
Not dead, then.
Yet.
He looks up, clearly surprised to see her. But not displeased, she notes casually, ignoring the implications of such an observation.
“Ah, Camille,” he says. His brow furrows. “What are you doing?”
“Well, I was about to call an ambulance because you’re clearly suffering from heatstroke,” she answers, looking him up and down. His face manages to become redder, making him look more flustered than usual, despite the lack of a woollen suit. “First time I’ve seen you lying down in three years.”
“Yes, well, this, is absolute rubbish,” Richard says, straightening up as he prepares to go into full-on rant mode. “Seeing as I’m stuck on this ridiculous island, I figured I might as well actually enjoy being in the sun for Christmas,” he puts as much disdain in his voice as possible, his face contorted into an almost comical shape, “so here I am, on the beach with an itchy shirt and an incredibly uncomfortable chair -”
“All you need is a Santa hat,” Camille adds chirpily. She receives a glare for her efforts.
“It’s wrong,” Richard concludes. “It’s supposed to be cold. There’s supposed to be snow. Or at least sleet.”
“You don’t like how the island celebrates Christmas. I’m shocked,” she sighs. “But I thought the Commissioner gave you leave so you could go back to England? Go home to your sleet.” Richard shuffles his feet awkwardly.
“Well, he did, but my parents are actually going away for Christmas this year,” he says.
“Where to?”
“Australia, if you must know,” he says with a sigh. Camille tries, and fails, to hide her smirk, which might make him smile a bit too. “Seeing as the sun over there seems just as bright as here, I figured I’d give it a miss. Not to mention that living four thousand miles away has made me lose contact with my non-existent friends, so here on this godforsaken sandpit I shall stay.” Camille raises an eyebrow at him.
“Self-awareness and self-deprecation in the same sentence? My, my, maybe I should call an ambulance.”
“I’ll have to know that at least 90% of British humour is based on self-deprecation,” mutters Richard. “Anyway, what couldn’t wait until Monday?”
.
Richard comes into work on Monday by announcing, “We are absolutely not doing Secret Santa.” The three of them instantly share bemused smiles.
“I don’t think anyone was suggesting we do so, chief,” Fidel says. “Seeing as there are only four of us.”
“Five if you count the commissioner,” says Dwayne.
“Which we will be doing under absolutely no circumstances,” cuts Richard. “No, I just wanted to make sure that anyone who might be fancying the idea,” his gaze rests on Camille, “knew that there is no chance whatsoever of it happening. I have suffered through far too many of them and I have enough novelty holiday ties to last me three lifetimes.”
“Of course, sir, no Secret Santa,” says Fidel. “But perhaps some light decorating would be allowed?” He adds, gesturing towards the box on the floor. Richard’s eyes grow about three sizes.
“You,” he says, pointing at Camille. “Promised it would be small and tasteful.”
“It is,” Camille argues. “Have you seen the hotel lobbies? Besides, you promised you’d let me do it if I finished my report, and if you’d bothered to actually look at your desk, you’d realise I have.” She folds her arms and stares down Richard, who raises an eyebrow to peer down at the small pile of paper on his desk, flicking through it with one finger.
“Fine. But only because I believe in rewarding good behaviour,” he says eventually, and there might even be a small smile on his face. “But no mistletoe! We shouldn’t enable Dwayne.”
“I don’t think I’m the one who wanted it, sir,” Dwayne jokes.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Camille and Richard ask simultaneously, only Richard asks it with genuine confusion whereas Camille delivers it with a razor’s edge.
“Nothing, nothing,” Dwayne answers, refusing to meet Camille’s glare. “Fidel, pass me that tinsel.”
.
Richard has to admit that the station looks downright charming compared to Catherine’s bar, which is covered with an absolutely lurid amount of tinsel that overpowers the usual string of coloured lights. In the corner is an overly large, artificial Christmas tree, which he suspects Camille decorated, as it is the most elegant object in the whole establishment. They’ve even managed to crowd in a couple of light-up reindeer, which he’d complain far more about if they weren’t significantly better than the multiple nativity scenes he’d seen along the way. Most offensively, however, is the blow-up Santa and Snowman stationed on either side of the entrance onto the terrace. Richard finds his eyes wandering towards it, practically glaring at it with its bowtie and cheerful face, almost jealously. Jealous. Of an upgraded balloon. Dear god.
Distracted by the flashing red and green bow in Catherine’s hair, he doesn’t notice what she puts down in front of him until it’s too late. After his sputtering and everyone else’s laughter has finally stopped, he calmly asks,
“What was that?”
“A shrubb, sir,” Dwayne replies, still grinning.
“Is that at least a form of tea?”
“You can’t have Christmas without having at least one shrubb,” Catherine states (Richard fights the urge to point out that he’s spent more than thirty years of his life successfully avoiding them and has no urge to ruin the tradition now). “It’s only made of rum, orange peel, and syrup.”
“Ah, well, see that’s where you went wrong,” Richard exclaims. “Only one good drink has orange peel in it, and that is Earl Gray. Speaking of which…” Catherine rolls her eyes and walks back towards the bar, while Dwayne happily moves the so-called shrubb towards him (without asking, he might add).
“Are you not going to at least try some of our Christmas traditions?” Camille says angrily.
“If I like them,” he says genuinely. Camille mutters under her breath.
“Which traditions from Britain are your favourites?” Fidel asks, keen to break the tension, only to have Camille say, ‘don’t encourage him,’ under her breath.
“Well, you can’t go wrong with a Christmas pudding.” Richard answers after a moment. “And mince pies, gotta love a good mince pie. Turkey is nice, of course. Um...I like it when they play the Snowman after the Queen’s address.” He breaks off when he finds himself becoming wistful, because frankly he hasn’t enjoyed Christmas since he was about eleven, and certainly not since he started work as an officer. There’s always, always work to be done. Also, he’s kind of rubbish at gift-giving.
“We have blood pudding,” Dwayne offers eventually.
“Please tell me you’re not one of those places that does all the food on Christmas Eve,” Richard says. He sighs in relief when they all shake their heads. “Or one of those places that thinks seafood is an adequate Christmas meal because I - oh, really? Come on .”
“Well, we have ham too,” Camille says quickly. “And carols.”
“Lots of carols,” Fidel affirms.
“That’s possibly the worst thing you’ve told me all day,” says Richard. “And that’s really saying something.”
“Ha! I told you he’d hate the carols,” Dwayne says, the second drink clearly kicking in as he thumps Richard on the back in what he supposes is supposed to be a gesture of fraternal bonding. “It’s going to get in the way of all of his reading. How many times will you have read A Christmas Carol this year, Chief?” Richard ignores him.
“It’s fine, it tends to stop after midday,” Fidel says comfortingly.
“What? After starting at midnight mass,” Richard jokes, happily eyeing his tea as Catherine finally places it in front of him. He looks happily. “Oh, come. On.”
“Stop whining,” says Camille, leaning forward on the table. “There has to be something else you like about Christmas.” He barely hears her over the ecstasy he feels from finally sipping his tea.
“Hmm? Oh, right, well. I suppose I do like the tree, but a real one, you know,” Richard answers. Camille’s eyebrow goes up again. “Not that the one you have over there isn’t lovely, it is. I just love the smell of the old ones.” Camille’s face begins to soften.
“I know what you mean,” she says quietly, not looking at him. “During Christmas, Paris would always smell of cooked sugar from all of the bakeries, and the gingerbread.” She smiles and Richard feels a little bit of air leave his lungs.
“Rosie built her own gingerbread house,” Fidel says proudly. “With a little bit of help from Juliette, of course. I have photos!” Camille breaks from her soft reverie and Richard somewhat reluctantly moves his gaze away from her face, all of them gathering around Fidel’s phone to look at Rosie’s well, adorable, gingerbread house, despite the fact that one side is a mess of icing and indents where sweets used to be, and the other which looks like it was designed by a professional.
.
The next day, Richard arrives at the station early to find a miniature Christmas tree decorated with a selection of colourful baubles and many pine-scented car fresheners. He laughs quietly to himself, and has just sat down when Camille enters carrying a folder, smirking a little too broadly, almost as if she had waited outside to hear his reaction.
“I got the files you asked for,” she says, still trying to compose herself as she reaches into her folder, eyes flickering to the tiny tree.
“Thank you, Camille,” he says, also trying to remain formal. He smiles in thanks as she passes him the folder, yet she continues to linger somewhat awkwardly near his desk. He looks up at her expectantly.
“Here,” she says finally, reaching into her folder again and pulling out a nicely wrapped rectangle. “Something for you to put under your tree.”
“I - ugh. Well. Um. Thank you,” he says, clumsily taking it from her hand. He really hopes she knows enough about him by now that she’s not expecting him to pull out a present for her (though the truth is there is one for her, at home and unwrapped and quite happy to sit there for another year or four, because he wasn’t sure if he’d need it until then, but it’s there). However, she just smiles at him, quite happy with his stuttering, before walking back towards her own desk. He feels he should say something, anything, else, until Fidel walks in, clearly surprised at Camille being earlier than him, then spots the tree.
“Very festive, sir,” he nods, before shooting a smile at Camille that Richard pretends not to notice.
.
On Christmas Eve, Dwayne suggests that they patrol the island to look for any “grinch-y troublemakers, sir,” which results in them mostly hanging around the beach and marketplaces. For some reason, Richard allows it, though he draws the line at placing reindeer antlers or a Rudolph nose on either the jeep or the sidekick, much to Camille’s disappointment.
That said, he still tuts when the most useful thing Dwayne and Fidel seem to do all day is help a couple of children build a sandman, helping them scavenge for shells to use as buttons and also throwing sandballs, which Richard would be fine with if every time the kids ran down the beach they didn't make sand flick into his eyes and worst of all onto his suit, which is probably never going to be completely free of sand ever again. A sunburned but cheery tourist even donates his bucket hat to the sno -sandman, before (obnoxiously) getting a selfie with it.
“See, Christmas here isn’t all bad,” Camille says, coming to join him underneath the very limited shade of a tinselled and light-ed coconut tree with one of those blasted drinks in her hand.
“Yes, well, he’s going to regret that when he gets skin cancer,” he mutters. She rolls her eyes but smiles, offering him her drink. Clearly suffering from heatstroke, he actually does take a sip, but doesn’t admit it’s not nearly as bad the second time. Probably because it’s cold and it has to be 50 degrees celsius in the shade.
He’s almost starting to enjoy himself when the entire town seems to erupt in song. Camille immediately starts humming and swaying to the music, nudging him each time she does so.
“What? Are you honestly expecting me to sing along? They’re in French,” he says, taking his handkerchief and mopping his brow.
“Well, you should have read up on chantes-noel before you came here, it’s on all of the tourist sites,” she smiles. “Surely at least one must be slightly familiar.”
“Well, you lot aren’t exactly going to sing ‘Frosty, the Snowman’, are you?” he replies. “Besides, I could barely recognise them in English, let alone French. It’s been a good twenty years since I’ve been to Christmas mass.”
“Would you like to come with me and Mama?” Camille asks after a pause. Richard looks at her in surprise but glances away just as quickly, not meeting her eyes.
“Ah, no, thank you. Wouldn’t want to intrude,” he says quietly. “Besides, it’s like Dwayne said, gotta read A Christmas Carol for the thirty-second time.” She nods in understanding, smiling at him.
“Well, have a good Christmas, Richard,” she says eventually. Glancing down at his watch, he realises that it’s the end of their shift, which of course he wouldn’t know because the sun is just as bright now as it was at 2 o’clock in the afternoon.
“You too, Camille,” Richard replies softly. She gets up without looking at him, reaching a hand out to help him, and they walk back to the jeep in silence. Despite himself, he rejects their offer of Christmas drinks, instead heading home.
.
That night, he finds himself in bed with the aforementioned Christmas Carol, a cup of tea, and a plate of cookies, the crumbs of which Harry happily cleans up. From his window, he can see the coconut tree dancing with the coloured lights someone trespassed onto his property to put up for him. He may or may not allow himself to think that it actually looks rather pretty.
His miniature Christmas tree sits on the edge of his desk, most of the smell having faded, the few Christmas cards he got sitting next to it. One of them is from his bank, of all places, and is simply a red-chested robin in a snow-covered tree. The other is from his parents, depicting a scene of a red-faced Santa and a bunch of koalas playing cricket on the beach. However, beside it is a tin of shortbread biscuits in all kinds of Christmas-related shapes: Christmas trees, Santa faces, bells, stars, and so on. It’s made him the most homesick he’s been in a while, and he’s already made a list of really excellent, wonderful birthday present ideas for his mum in thanks.
If he closes his eyes, it’s almost hot enough to believe that there is an actual fireplace warming him up. Perhaps, this Christmas won’t be so bad after all. Quiet, yes, but maybe not so bad.
“Isn’t that right, Harry?” he mumbles, opening his eyes and looking down at the lizard. Harry just cocks his head.
.
.
.
“Joyeux Noël!” Camille exclaims when he opens the door.
Well, there goes that quiet Christmas idea.
“Merry Christmas to you, too,” Richard replies when his ears have stopped ringing, even though it’s midday and he’s quite sure all merriment should have dissipated by ten o’clock, particularly in this kind of heat. “Why are you looking at me like that?” Camille slowly drags her eyes up towards his.
“I - well, sir, this is actually the first time I’ve seen you in a t-shirt,” she says.
“Well, Camille, it is my day off,” he says briskly, trying to ignore the heat in his cheeks. “It’s also bloody hot. And it's a polo shirt, not a t-shirt. I'm not twelve.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t like it,” Camille replies, eyebrows raised, and he’s honestly not going to have a face left if she keeps doing things like this to him. He coughs.
“Yes, well, if there’s been a murder I’ll go right away and -”
“Everything’s fine. I just wanted to invite you to Christmas lunch. Or dinner, really,” she says sweetly. That changes when he opens his mouth of course. “And by invite I mean force you to under punishment of death.” He sighs, accepting his fate; if he's learned anything over the past couple of years, it's not to argue with Camille.
.
Despite Camille’s protests, he does, in fact, change into his suit. Only without a tie, at Camille’s request. And it’s only been about ten minutes inside Catherine’s bar when his jacket has somehow snuck off him by one of them - or both, most likely, sneakily working together.
Camille is also pleased to note that his sleeves are rolled up, and perhaps even a button or two of his shirt has been undone. It is, without a doubt, the most relaxed she’s ever seen him look, and she’s as equally happy to accept most of that responsibility, because it’s her mother’s bar he’s sitting in, reading the book she gave him for Christmas (a collection of poetry and short stories that has French translations in the back, and she’s beyond excited to see his face when he realises), drinking peppermint tea her mother had specially bought for him because “it’s Christmas”. She doesn’t even mind the incredibly dry English book he bought her, and she laughed at the one he got about the French spy (“It had a pretty cover!” he sputtered).
“You know, that’s the fourth biscuit you’ve taken,” he says, eyeing her over the top of his book. She happily pops the shortbread into her mouth, swallowing almost smugly.
“I would have thought you’d been thankful I’m not talking,” Camille replies. His brow furrows.
“That’s true, you have been unusually quiet,” he says. “In fact, the whole island has been - even when those bloody tourists in their terrible Santa hats and,” he shudders, “swim trunks started playing cricket on the beach.” She laughs.
“I said you shouldn’t be alone on Christmas,” she says. “Do you honestly think I want all of my noisy family members coming around and ruining my watching of The Grinch?”
“That is a truly terrible movie,” he says, giving her a pained expression. She’s about to explain that that’s the point, obviously, when a small child runs in and hugs the blowup Snowman, a smiling Fidel and Juliette following her, quickly saying their greetings before trying to detach Rosie from her snowy embrace. They’ve just unfastened her when Dwayne enters, wearing a true abomination of a tropical Christmas shirt, comprised entirely of cliches including, but not limited to: relaxed, sunglasses-wearing Santa, palm trees, surfing Santa, and even a flamingo and a dolphin. The mere sight of it twists Richard’s face into bug-eyed, speechless horror, which instantly sends Camille into a full-body, uncontrollable laugh.
“Ho, ho, ho! Merry Christmas to all,” shouts Dwayne. “Rosie, don’t you want to come and give Santa a great big hug for making a second trip from the North Pole, just for you?”
“I think Santa had so much eggnog he never even left Saint Marie,” Richard mutters, causing him to be lightly slapped on the shoulder by a still-grinning Camille. Much to Dwayne’s dismay, Rosie wanders away from him and heads towards the Christmas tree, tapping an aqua-coloured bauble in wonder. Fidel shoots him an apologetic look.
A minute later, Catherine walks in, wearing an overly intricate apron with a gingerbread design on it, along with about fifty bows, buttons, and frills on it. She places her hands on her hips and surveys them all, smiling happily to herself, and it’s at moments like this that Richard is genuinely thankful that she’s never turned to crime because he has no doubt she’d have them all running in circles with a flick of her finger.
“Well, now that we’re all here, I think it’s time to serve Christmas dinner. Don’t you?” Dwayne’s face immediately lights up, rejection by the toddler forgotten. “We shall be having eating inside, which I assume will be to everyone’s liking?” Catherine adds, raising her eyebrows at Richard. She leaves before he can respond, which, incredibly, he already has his mouth open to do so.
“What? What could you possibly have to complain about now?” Camille asks incredulously. He rubs his neck sheepishly.
“Well, actually, there is quite a nice cool breeze here,” he says. “First one I’ve felt in about, well, three years.” She shakes her head.
“You are impossible,” she declares, and walks off.
.
Richard (somewhat reluctantly) walks in to find a table - or more accurately about eight tables pushed together - laden with enough food to feed a small army, not to mention about ten candles and an elaborate, rich green tablecloth decorated with silk holly and ivy patterns. Richard hasn’t even opened his mouth to try and escape yet, still forming the words that currently consist of: “Oh no, this is far too much fuss, you really shouldn’t have, I should really at least bring something more than biscuits,” when Camille impatiently pats the seat in-between her and Dwayne. In the end, he sits down without a word.
“Finally,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Now that you’re here, we can say grace.” She gestures to him and his eyes pop, just as she knew they would.
“Me?” he squeaks. She gives up and laughs heartily.
“No, mon cheri,” Camille says without thinking, not noticing Catherine’s surprised but amused look. “But it was worth it for your face! Dwayne did you -” Richard stops listening and stares at his plate while Dwayne and Camille chuckle over him, badly imitating his reaction.
“All right, that’s enough ma cherie,” Catherine says, and suddenly the candlelight makes it look like Camille is blushing. “We’ll say grace, and then we can eat!” At that, Camille’s hand slips into his (and technically, so does Dwayne’s), which means he’s not exactly concentrating on the grace, and then Catherine is carving quite an excellent-looking ham, and he is trying to avoid any fish being put on his plate and silently bemoaning the lack of chips.
He looks down at his plate and is surprised by just how different it looks from the one back home. It sounds silly but it looks more colourful: sure, he’s got his slices of ham to the side, but there’s no gravy, no mashed potatoes and peas off to the side. God, there’s not even any turkey. Who’s ever heard of a Christmas without turkey? Still, he doesn’t want to actually be rude. Instead, he squares his shoulders and mentally prepares himself, picking up his fork and stabbing a decent amount, before quite bravely, he thinks, popping it in his mouth. That’s not too bad, he thinks while chewing. Though hot. Quite hot, actually. Downright spicy, in fact. He swallows roughly, then downs an entire glass of water as casually as he possibly can, all while Camille smirks at him.
“Would you like a prawn?” she asks while he pours his second glass of water, which he promptly drinks in one go, too.
“Um, perhaps later?” he says, glancing down at her plate. “When the eyes maybe aren’t staring back at me.” She rolls her eyes, before moving her gaze to Catherine, who smiles back at her, before promptly standing and heading back towards the kitchen. When she comes back, she’s carrying a casserole dish, which she places in front of Richard. He is beyond delighted, possibly even euphoric, to see that it contains a good, ol’ fashioned baked dinner. Minus the turkey.
“Oh, you shouldn’ - well, you should hav - I. Thank you,” he says at last, looking up at Catherine in shining gratitude and a decent amount of wonder, too. Behind him, Camille huffs.
“Merry Christmas, Richard,” Catherine returns. Instantly, he begins to tuck into his dinner, not seeming to mind that Catherine overcooked it - in fact, seeming to appreciate that she did, which thankfully causes some of the tension to leave Camille’s shoulders.
Just wait until he sees the Christmas pudding she’s made.
.
“Does anyone actually like Christmas pudding?” Camille says. Somehow, they’ve headed down towards the beach. There’s still a hint of purple light on the horizon, but mostly they’re surrounded by darkness only interrupted by lanterns and the boats in the harbour. By now, most of the tourists have gone back to their hotels and yachts, their voices and dance music audible but muffled, a slight laugh here or there. Even Richard doesn’t seem to be complaining.
“That’s not the point, Camille,” he answers, but it’s good-natured and only jokingly exasperated. Up ahead, Dwayne and Fidel swing Rosie between them, the teddy bear Dwayne had given her in his hand and a pair of red and green reindeer antlers on his head that Richard had tutted at. A short distance away, her mother and Juliette laugh together, clearly having moved on from recipes.
“What is the point of eating food you don’t like, huh?” She says, jabbing her finger at Richard’s chest.
“Well, I quite happen to like Christmas pudding,” Richard replies, before getting distracted by the pompom on the end of her Santa hat, flicking it over her shoulder absentmindedly. She feels her flutter slightly, her breath stuttering in the same rhythm.
“Well that’s good,” she says, quite proud that it doesn’t sound breathless. “Because my mother gave you one the size of London.” Despite his rather large portion size, Camille had still forced him to have some yule log, despite him muttering about how French it was.
“That’s true.” Richard concedes. “I’m guessing you won’t be offering your assistance?”
“I’ll help you throw it to the sharks,” grins Camille.
“There aren’t sharks here,” he says, somewhere between an affirming statement and a slightly panicked question. It’s at that moment that Dwayne chooses to trip/tackle Fidel into the ocean, causing Rosie to giggle delightedly and begin an all-out splash war. Excitedly, Camille runs towards the waves, smiling when she feels the water splash against her ankles. She’s only waded out to her knees when she finally turns around, looking at Richard standing unhappily on the shore.
“Come on, Richard, you have to protect me from the sharks,” Camille shouts, laughing at his frown. She closes her eyes then, feeling the push of the waves against her legs, hearing the laughter around her, both from her immediate surroundings and the bustling restaurants and hotels, the gently bobbing boats. It’s one of the happiest Christmases she’s had in years, even if she does still have paperwork she needs to get to.
When she opens her eyes, a smile still on her face, she’s shocked to see that Richard has rolled the ends of his trousers up to his calf and is standing on the edge of the waves. He looks as surprised as she does, and much, much more unhappy about it. She practically bounds up to him.
“No, no, you don’t come any closer,” he says, holding a hand up to her. “This is far as I’m going, and I’m not going to be tricked or forced any further.”
“Fine,” she says, and slowly walks up to him like she’s approaching a wild animal. He doesn’t relax until she’s standing next to him, though he keeps a good inch between them, much to her disappointment.
“I’ll have you know my balance is sturdier than it’s ever been,” Richard states simply. “So any attempts to push me over will be futile.” This man just invites trouble, honestly.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” is all she says. He smiles at that, and out of the corner of her eye she can see him staring at her in a way she’s sure is unintentional but makes her breath catch anyway, before looking away. “Good Christmas?” she chokes out at last.
“I’d say so,” he answers after a pause. “Better than being at the station, at least.”
“They assigned you to work on Christmas?” Camille asks, her tone disbelief mixed with horror.
“Not really,” he replies. “I volunteered. New Year’s Eve, too. They’re awful nights, truly, truly awful nights. More drunkards than the entire population of Saint Marie, and,” he pauses, face aged by decades in a moment, “you know, tempers are high. Got a lot of, um, domestic calls. And it’s lonely too, you know. Not for me, for - well, everyone without a home.” He looks down, and she’s never wanted to slip her hand into his more. “It seemed right, that I should be there. That I should be doing good.”
“Three years, and you’re still surprising me,” Camille says softly. He looks at her in surprise, face unguarded, and she feels herself soften for him completely, and knows she is completely, totally, utterly, fucked. He pulls himself upright, shrugs in what seems like an attempt to roll off his own emotion.
“Yes, well, that wasn’t all of my Christmas, of course,” Richard coughs. “You know, all of the family would get together; cousins and aunts you’d only see once at Christmas, or when some ancient relative died. You know, the standard stuff.” She nods, already turning away slightly. “What I did like, though was, um, afterwards. When we got home. Mum wasn’t the best cook, but lunch would always inspire her, or that’s what she said happened. She’d end up making me a hot chocolate, dust some biscuits, you know, that kind of thing.” He coughs and shifts under her gaze. “More modest than your mother’s cooking, of course. But, ugh, yeah. It was nice, all the same.”
“It sounds lovely,” Camille says, smiling at him despite him not quite meeting his gaze. Feeling brave, and perhaps slightly drunk, she steps closer to him and presses her hand to his. “You’ll have to take me, sometime.” She doesn’t need to see his face to know he’s stunned, so instead when she looks up from his hand she kisses his cheek, before moving away and running further into the water. Her kick to the water that splatters him oh-ever-so-slightly is enough to break him out of his shock and send him spluttering.
“Camille,” Richard yells. “What did I tell you about splashing!”
“You didn’t say anything, sir!” Camille shouts back.
“No, you weren’t listening,” he says, already flustered. She runs out further into the water, edging towards Dwayne and Fidel’s water fight.
“Oh please, you are as oblivious as a donkey!” Camille retorts. Then, her face cracks into a devilish grin, mind suddenly filled with an idea. A - well, a wonderful, awful idea. “You didn’t even notice the mistletoe!”
“Mistl - MISTLETOE?” Richard squawks. “What mistletoe? Camille! Come back this instant! Camille! CAMILLE !”