#stephenarch

“You know, this, this right here is why I like California,” Sophie said, shoving her hands in her pocket, trying not to freeze to death as she spoke. Did it always get this cold here? How could anyone live with this? Her coat wasn’t made for this kind of weather and she hoped they made it to their destination fast, because she might freeze to death if they didn’t.

Sophie listened to the message, allowing a soft smile to grace her lips. It was a hard Christmas to be alone--Trent still wasn’t talking to her--not that she blamed him, she knew she had done a shitty thing--and she was too far from Celine to hang out with her. 

--

“… are y’bein’ serious righ’ now ‘a…?”

“Okay so this is the wrong apartment. Shit.”

There’s no other explanation as to why Sophie barged into a strange man’s apartment--well, there was the whole ‘investigating a ghost’ thing, but she realized as soon as she turned the knob that she might have gotten the whole building wrong, not just apartment number. Was her memory failing her? Her mind had been foggy lately, as if it was a sign to give up her day job until she wasn’t using brain cells for two, but she felt restless and useless without a case.

‘a moment of weakness’

‘Merry Christmas… from the Temptations.’

Melvin’s bassnote of a voice sang through the bathroom door, prompting Camille to at last shut off the hissing filter of the shower stream that it was forced to power through. Five songs seemed appropriate for a thorough bathing’s length of time… and the ittybit that had made a temporary nest of her body would start fussing if she stayed in any longer. It certainly had her temper… barely formed–as far as she knew–and still raising hell at the slightest disturbance to it.

Her teeny feet stepped out of the stall, onto towels that carpeted the floor, all to catch the heavy driplets that fell from her clean skin and hair onto them. She’d been plentiful with her coverage of the bathroom’s linoleum–as these towels held the luxury of being someone else’s obligation. These didn’t have to be toted by her hand to the laundry, or even be picked up by her for that matter. Hotels had an entire staff dedicated to this, and Camille was hellbent in her intent to take advantage, despite the little tinge of guilt that came alongside it.

As she patted her body dry, nearly depleting their supply of fluffed white cotton, Camille sang along with the next tune that came of the radio, feeling her cheeks fill, and show their dimples with her excitement over Stephen’s being in New Orleans, and her being able to stay with him: in his physical presence and comfort over the holiday. Her good moods came by in swings as of late, with the baby she carried wreaking such havoc over her hormones. Having her most unobstructed means of support with her–in her New Orleans--elevated her spirit to one that would soar for as long as his trip had been planned.

So, with the knowledge that he was still stepped-out, she emerged bare from the bathroom, warmed by the heat of the room as well as the late morning’s winter sunlight shining through the window. She kept her hair wrapped in the same towel, body free to do its remaining drying by air while she turned the volume knob higher on the radio across the room.

“Fireside is blazin’ bright... we’re ca-ro-lin’ through the ni-hi-hii-ight,” She continued to sing, overshadowing Donny with her own ad-libbing and soulful vibrato, rubbing the subtle curve of her tummy while she let her legs and shoulders be carried away with the rhythm of the song. 

Her hums danced along with the cheery horns that lined the chorus’ end, and Camille turned, making for where she’d left her overnight bags for whatever she were to wear today. 

The smiling, pretty green eyes that fell on her froze this movement, though. And she stood before them with the song frozen on parted lips; her reactions were mixed, being spooked by his sudden presence, but all to giddy at seeing him back. In fact, she initially rushed to hug Stephen, but the air hitting her exposed skin drove her to look down, highlighting her nude state, and pulling a gasp that rose even louder than the volume of the radio.

“GE–ST–QUIT LOOKIN’, BOAY!” She panicked, reaching to her hair and snatching the towel free to fling at him. Though, she realized her even greater error when the mass of her damp hair fell against her shoulder blades. Now, she squealed, and snatched the nearest pillow on the hotel bed against her torso before scurrying back to the shelter of the bathroom.

--

    “Really? You’re really pregnant? Well, I mean, how do you feel about it? A’ you excited? A’ you afraid? What’s goin’ through y’head right now…? I mean, I’m excited f’ ya, but I wish I was close’ t’ya so I could… yeah. Oh, don’t cry, Camille. Ev’rything’s gonna be okay, y’know it will. I can fly down in th’ summe’ if y’need me to… yeah, I’d do that if you wanted me to.”

    “Non, cher... mama ain’ finna let me ‘roun nobody, ‘Specially ‘roun no man,” she sniffled, pausing the teary song of her voice, “I cain’ h-help it! I cain’ be no mama, Stephen..! Ma st-stupid ass ain’  e’em finish school, how I’ma brang a baby!”

    Truthfully, her tears held more weight behind them than this. Somehow Camille felt that he would be disappointed in her at this news. Christ knew it devastated her. And wounded in her in particular to tell him. She hadn’t even told the father.

    “Ion’ wan’ no beb by dat damn foo’,” she spat out, wiping messily at her cheeks, “I ain’ e’em wan’ to..!”