Disclaimer: Don't own this. Or Casper van Dien. *sob*
Title: Enigmatic
Pairing: Jason McGreevy/Margaretha Zelle
Status: One-shot
Summary: What happened to Jason and Margaretha after the events of the movie? Would they remember their love?
The story is incredible, he has to admit. It's not like Danny hasn't come up with some crazy shit before, especially when he was hungover and didn't remember the night before. Jason has given up on trying to listen to him in such a state—both drunk and hungover, and sometimes sober—much less believe him.
But now Azelia—Azelia Barakat, mind you, the one who hates Danny Fremont's freaking guts—is corroborating this, and she's looking at Danny with some kind of adoration when just last week, even just yesterday, she absolutely couldn't stand him. That's a damn pretty piece of convincing evidence. But still…no, this is damn impossible. This cannot be fucking true. There's absolutely no way. They're both just crazy, and both too hungover—even though they don't look it. and there's no trace of alcohol on their breath—and they possibly hooked up last night, and maybe that's why she's looking at him with something akin to love. (Not that he's seen love much; he's just guessing at it. He's not much of a one-woman man.)
Besides, this crazy story about some woman? A spy that he'd crushed on for the weeks it had taken to supposedly uncover this tomb? This woman, that nobody trusted, who gave her life to help them by giving them a little more time? This spy, and all these months of digging, that he can't remember?
Total bullshit.
He dismisses the story, doesn't let it get to him. Those crazy mystical words Danny repeats whenever he sees something odd. All is as it should have been? What the hell does that mean? It's like he's quoting somebody or something.
But that woman he sees in the street, wearing fancy jewelry and a bright red dress (when that's completely and totally unrealistic in a dusty and crowded street in Egypt, for God's sake, but still, that's sexy and she obviously knows it)…well. It's like he knows her, even if he's sure that he's never met her before. Stranger things have happened, he supposes, but none that he can remember.
She sends him away when he tries to flirt with her, telling him that she's got a job to do and better places to be, and he doesn't see her again.
Until that night.
He's in a bar, all alone. Fremont's out on a date with Azelia—who woulda thought, huh? But they make a better couple than anyone would have expected—and Walker's off somewhere at a hospital. He's been feeling a little off lately, but he refuses to talk about it, only saying that through a mysterious donation, he's been able to afford the medication he needs.
So Jason just sits there. Alone, nursing his beer. True to their word, he and Andrew have stopped drinking so much—what's the point of having so much fun when you can't even remember it?—but he's been feeling a bit depressed tonight.
Then the bell jingles—like it's some gaudy store, and not a seedy bar instead—and a dark-eyed Egyptian beauty steps through the door. It's the same woman who was in the red dress in the street the day that Danny and Azelia started acting all weird in the first place, but he can tell immediately that she doesn't remember him. Well, hell, they only spoke for less than a minute. He's surprised that he even faintly remembers her. Her glance slides right by him but she unexpectedly takes a seat next to him. The bar's mostly empty. She could've sat anywhere.
She orders a beer, much to his surprise. From his experience, most women like fine wines and other fancy stuff he can't find the energy to care for. She downs her drink in less than two minutes.
"Long day, huh?" he says roughly, taking the rest of his beer like a shot.
"Extremely," she says, pulling off an accent that he can't quite place. Ah, well, maybe he's drunk already. "My job fell through," she explains. "Yours?"
He contemplates this. "Just…long. Not any different from any other day, except that it seemed to go by so much slower."
"Time is a fickle bitch," she states calmly, and he can tell his eyes have widened and his brows have risen. Not every woman in Egypt would use such language. Hell, barely any would. "She goes by slowly when you want to speed up, and when you love what's happening, time just flies by."
He wants to ask her what makes her different from all of the other girls he's ever known, but that sounds too damn emotional for someone he only just met five minutes ago, but instead he just chuckles into his drink and gets another one. The bartender gives him a dirty look, and he's received that look too many times not to know what it means. It means that he's going to be cut off soon. Not just because he's three-quarters drunk, but because the barman's not sure he's gonna get paid for all of his serving. (Hey. He runs from creditors. But he pays for good beer. That's actually worth something to him. Ironically, it's part of his dignity concept. Pay for what you like, and you deserve to keep getting it.)
A song comes on, something light and free, and she stands up abruptly. His eyes can't help but move down her body. Her hair is up in an elaborate hairstyle, a bun that is decorated with a few pearls. (How the hell can she afford those?) She's wearing some light blue cotton-y dress that hugs her waist and flares out at her knees, with sleeves that are tight and reach down her elbows, but easily removable and obviously comfortable and soft. Yes, quite easy to remove. He imagines pushing down the sleeve and kissing her perfect shoulder. (Somehow, he just knows it's flawless. He just knows. Like he's actually kissed it before, when he's never even seen it up that close or anything, just in that red dress when she shot him down.)
Her hand extends toward him, palm down, and he pushes the mental picture away. With a sigh, he stands up and takes her hand like a gentleman, one that he often isn't but will be for a lady, particularly for a lady like her.
When his hand touches hers…something floods into him. Like memories, almost. Just flashes. Drinking together, in a bar not unlike this one. "Renting" fine liquor. Sand and heat and magic and kissing when nobody was watching, when no eyes were looking upon them and judging the spy and the digger. Guns and shooting. Her telling him that she'll buy some time with her own life. Him telling her that she'll be killed, and then…nothing.
Like it never happened, huh? Yeah, right. He ignores the voice telling him that Danny was telling the truth and wasn't just going mad after a night with Azelia.
He bites his lip, hoping no one—especially she—will notice that he stared off into space for a while there. The same song is still playing though, so there's a good chance it was only a few seconds.
Maybe he's more drunk than he thought? Just keep telling yourself that, Jason. Keep denying that Danny's right. Maybe then that'll make it true.
He notices that she's still waiting for him to take her on the dance floor, where there are no other couples dancing. Her mouth has slightly curved up at the edges in what resembles his trademark amused smirk—if only Fremont would quit stealing it all the damn time—but she keeps silent as he leads her onto the floor, which is covered in scuff marks and stains from alcohol spills. The music changes as the piece finishes, turning into something slow and—dare he say it—romantic. Yes, it's romantic. Grinning, she takes her free hand and lets her long hair down, the pearl hairpins still sparkling in the dark richness of her curls.
In this shady bar that he's almost ashamed to be in, surrounded by a few drunks and one very unhappy, pissed off bartender, holding this mysterious woman in his arms, he wonders what led to this. His arms are tentatively placed on the small of her back, one hand reaching up slightly to play with the edges of her hair, which almost reaches her waist now that's it down. She's placed her arms around his neck, not too tightly but not like she's itching to get away, either.
Yes, their surroundings are rather sad, aren't they? But, for some strange reason, he's happy.
Their eyes make contact. They don't speak. Her eyes are a warm, deep brown, but with an edge of coldness in them at the corners, as if she's seen and done things she'd rather not talk about. (Well, so has he. It's not like he'd be in a position to judge her.)
She's an enigma. A puzzle to solve, and he's always liked puzzles to an extent. Her eyes are dark and unrevealing, but the way she touches him, she's almost gentle, almost wanting to touch him. As if she feels his desire for her, and returns it. Her dress is comfortable yet elegant, something very few people can accomplish. (He honestly just goes for something comfortable.) She hasn't spoken much, but somehow he knows that she's got a lot to say, and that's odd. Because he's never really been much of an intuitive man. Most people have to scream their emotions and thoughts and ideas at him just so he'll get that they're feeling something. He's not very…detail-oriented, shall we say.
Her fingers briefly tighten, clamping down on the nape of his neck where her fingers are casually interlocked. Were, anyway. "What is it?" he whispers, feeling that he should be quiet in this mostly-silent bar.
"Nothing," she says back, making her hands relax again. He can see her—no, feel her, practically—calming herself down, telling herself it wasn't anything worth stopping the dance for. "I just…it was just a memory." (She tells him later that it was the memory of when she was shot, just after he went through the portal.)
He lets it go, not making her talk about it.
They dance. And then, later, they go home together. No sex. Not even a kiss. Just him following her home, stumbling a little, both of them mostly-almost-drunk, and sitting in her living room and drinking some wine. (God, he hates wine. Absolutely despises it. But with her, it doesn't taste so bad. Kind of bittersweet, but not too sweet and not altogether bitter. Kind of like her. And like him.)
The next morning, he just…stays. It's odd. He's never done that with anyone before.
It takes him three days to kiss her.
It takes them, as a couple, a week to finally accept Danny's story as the truth—both of them feeling flashes of memory, both of them having major déjà vu as they said and experienced the same things that had gone on in their lost lives—and to talk about it.
Her name is Margaretha, but he calls her Mags, which she pretends to hate but secretly loves. (It's not that hard to tell. She fights hard to hide the smile, though, but it's still there as she yells at him not to call her that.)
It takes him almost a month to take her out to a respectable place, where they disrespectfully get drunk and nearly get kicked out in their hurry to—um—well, have sex on the table, really.
Eh. They can do that when they get to her place, and besides, he didn't really like the restaurant anyway. She was a bit more comfortable in it, but they are both creatures of dark places, of bars and shadows and bedrooms only illuminated by a sole candle at the far end of the room, in the latter of which he could only ever see her face (and the light in her eyes when she screamed his name and whispered her love all in one breath).
It takes him a year to decide to marry her, and six months more to gather up the courage to propose.
Danny and Azelia have already been married, have found a map to the Ark that she located in a desk that belonged to some historically famous person or something, and are going to wait for their first child's birth before they go to find the Ark. Azelia's convinced it's a boy, while Danny wants a little girl to love and protect. (Danny's right for once, something that shocks Azelia when the doctors tell them the gender of the baby.) He's made into little Ariadne's honorary uncle, and so is Walker. (The little girl is named after the princess that helped Theseus defeat the Minotaur, something Danny wrote about, which Azelia never really admitted to reading, though she was the one to suggest the name in the end, which Danny found quite suspicious. Mrs. Fremont confessed nothing, only smirked and blushed.)
Danny helps him choose the ring. The hard part is finding it, not paying for it. Turns out, if you don't drink so much, you get more income, especially if you get a steady job like he did when he starting being part of a couple.
Walker finally tells them all that he had tuberculosis. But that it's been cured, and he should be all right. (Danny refuses to admit he cried at that news, as if he was expecting it or something. But damn it all, he did, and if anyone's gonna say it, Jason should.)
He asks her to marry him a year and seven-and-a-half months after they officially met in that bar, about two years after they met in the alternate reality that Tutankhamen erased from everyone's memories. Even now, he and Margaretha only get flashes, usually when they're touching, just fingertips meeting as the dawn rose and her legs wrapped around him in a tangled, sweaty, wonderful mess.
She accepts ten seconds later.
It's probably a record for their relationship. They've taken so long with everydamnthing else. But he doesn't wonder about that. He just kisses her and slides the ring on her finger as her eyes shut and she moans into his mouth, breathes his name and her Iloveyous past his lips.
He never thought he'd fall in love with a spy. But it's probably the best thing he's ever done.
A/N: I wasn't really rather sure if I liked how this turned out. But I'm okay with it, which was all I was shooting for, and besides, I felt (and feel) that this couple needed some closure, a happy ending, if you will. I hope you liked it. Feel free to review.