Authors' Forward
Last chapter, Bartholomew Lipsky, the villain whom Miriam Possible has been chasing down in hopes of gaining the key to restoring her good name, had the gall to invite her to tea. Stuck waiting on his move, she said yes, in the as yet vain hope he would reveal a path to proof of his misdeeds. Unfortunately for her, she got a bit more than she'd bargained for.
This time around, it seems our antagonists are a bit busier than they were the last time. What could it be? Only they and their compatriots know... And in the aftermath of those events, more tea time!
A quick a shoutout to the reviewers... :3
Slipgate: thank you for the kind - not to mention constructive - words! You pointed out something we weren't quite able to put our finger on. Thankfully, your words helped us rectify this...
melissa Ivory: glad you liked the shoutout to a certain Belgium detective; Neo loves the stories involving him, seemingly as much as Dame Agatha Christie loathed him. We're also quite pleased you like the story in and of itself, and hope you continue to enjoy it through to its conclusion!
Pharaoh Rutin Tutin: very astute observations about Bartholomew in relation to Dr. Drakken. That was something we discussed in a general sense, though not quite as succinctly as you did.
As we mentioned, we hope you, and all of our readers, continue to enjoy the fic. We had planned on the Authors' Notes being a bit of fun, but, due to the size of this chapter, we've chosen to be a bit brief. Hope you don't mind, and on with the fic!
MP MP MP MP
December 22, 1906
It was a warm night in Britain. Considering the time of year, that still meant bone-numbing temperatures, even for those who could afford thicker clothing. Then again, the cold was unnoticed by the woman who had running through the streets of London for the last fifteen minutes. Not only was her clothing of a more high class style, and thus warm in and of itself, but also held in the heat of her exertions.
Unfortunately, the combination of rushing to escape the police, and the cumbersome bulk of her dress, she was unable to catch herself when she missed sighting a homeless man huddling in a dark corner to get out of the wind. With an undignified squawk Miss Go found herself tumbling along the slick streets. It took her a few seconds to recover and get back on her footing, a few seconds which she didn't have to spare. In almost no time the policeman giving chase was standing at the ready a few feet away, revolver drawn.
"Don' move, Miss, o'else I'll have ta shoot ya in th' back," the Bobby shouted at the recovering Miss Go. That plus the suddenness of Miss Go's tripping served to scare off the few street urchins and scavengers that could possibly bear witness to whatever was about to happen. The pounding of their feet on the ground were a fitting accompaniment to the bodyguard's heart. "An' y'best no' think I won' do it!"
Miss Go snorted in anger at the threat to ignore her own instinctual reactions, but decided not to protest for the moment. Since the middle of the prior century, although allowed to carry them, it was the rare Bobby indeed that carried a firearm of any kind. Especially in this neighborhood, where an armed policeman would likely earn a swift, brutal beating from local toughs. Or even regular citizens who feared the British government's old tendency to use the military for policing actions.
All of which was proof positive that, despite having one of the classiest police forces in the world, there were always some bad apples. Granted, it was quite possible this particular Bobby was a regular, upstanding member of the police... But Miss Go really didn't feel like testing to find out if this was one of the good apples or bad. If she could get to one of the hypodermic needles hidden on her person, if she could inject him and further if she could keep him busy long enough when he came to collect her, she might get away. Too much 'if' in that for my liking!
As she was settling her hands in seemingly unusable positions behind her, Miss Go heard a sudden scuffle, the sound of a hammer nestling gently into its frame, and the sound of the Bobby choking. The sound of cloth rustling was quickly drowned out by the man's wheezing and the scraping of his boots on the cobblestone streets, and she smiled evilly, waiting for the telltale sounds to stop. She was rewarded for her patience barely a quarter of a minute later as the noise of struggle died down.
"I'm surprised you managed to dodge your pursuers, Lipsky, what with you being so over the hill!" she mocked as she turned around. As she had thought, the man she was stuck guarding had the police officer in what she thought was an overly complicated, if competently applied, choke hold. Damnable Greco-Roman teachings!
"This is no time for your barbed tongue," Bartholomew said sternly. He released the tight grip on the officer's neck and set him down gently against the wall. "They will be here soon. I was able to lose the police officer pursuing me, but only barely."
"Uh-huh. Right. Because you are most certainly capable of that!" Miss Go snarked again.
"What had I said of that wicked tongue?" Bart growled with pursed lips, "I distinctly remember you having trouble keeping up with me in Morocco last month!"
"And I remember always having trouble moving in Africa's heat!" Miss Go snapped back at him, earning a wry smirk from Bart.
"Be that as it may, we must move quickly, Miss Go," Bart hovered over the unconscious patrolman as he draped a tattered blanked one of the urchins had abandoned over his unconscious form, "That is the best way to ensure we are not spotted and recognized by the police." The villain then stood fully and gestured toward a door she hadn't noticed as it was well-hidden in the shadows of the night. Shady-looking, but of the right type to serve their needs. He eyed her critically as he added, "You were simply lucky he decided follow the police code. If he had not, your decency would have been quite compromised."
"Compromised," she grumbled as he opened the nearly hidden door she'd been heading towards and went in. "I'll show you compromised..." To her minor relief, he didn't do the ridiculous gentleman crap and hold the door, instead simply walking inside ahead of her. She followed, failing to notice a familiar figure with luxurious red hair spying their movements but a street away.
MP MP MP MP
"What in the devil are they doing in there?" The young blond man tapped his foot a few times before turning to his friend with added benefits. "We've been standing here in the cold for nearly twenty minutes, by my count. Why would they spend so much time in one spot when all of the British police are looking for them?"
"They seem to be waiting for someone," the redhead answered with narrowed eyes. I know they're waiting for something, at any rate... she thought, pursing her lips. As much as I do enjoy the warmth of our teatime meetings, and as much a gentleman as Bartholomew has been during them, I had hoped the meetings with him had finally borne fruit! But it seems the hints I picked up on were not enough to gain the whole picture...
"Are you certain they're waiting for someone?" Jon asked, rubbing his chin in thought, "Or could they be waiting for something? A delivery, some such?"
"I do not know, Jon..." Sighing in frustration, she began to speak her thoughts aloud, her speech much more agitated than it had been, "But that makes sense. They just obtained the messages from the French ambassador's office pertaining to their agreements with Britain, both public and secret. There is nowhere in Britain they could safely divest themselves of those documents no matter how well ensconced in their role. They would need to get to whoever they are obtaining this information for soon, lest the information be outdated..." She sighed and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "What do you think, Jon?"
"Well, mayhaps they're just stopping for a light drink," Jon suggested with a shrug. "I know that I'd certainly like a taste right now. The cold's nipping right through my trousers!"
Mim couldn't help but to slip him a tantalizing look, the comment having reminded her of an itch which would need scratched soon. "Do not worry of your trousers for now. They will be more a worry later tonight when they are in the way."
His look of mild surprise was swiftly replaced by one of knowing. "Ah, got ya. Still, I don't think it'd be a bad idea to go in and get a small drink. Maybe we could even ask the locals if they know anything."
"Jonathon, this is not a bar where one obtains alcohol and talks with friends," Mim stated with a bit of frustration. "Or, rather, it is not just a bar. You see that entrance, about twelve feet to the left? There's likely an easier to use one inside as well."
"I only see a poorly patched section of wal-…" The sounds of several loud bangs, sounding as a cannon would at a good distance, gave him pause. "That sounded like a boiler explosion!" he concluded after the briefest of pauses, before glancing over at Mim, who had dropped into a crouch as if preparing to dive for cover. She quickly shook her head and turned towards the southeast, and Jon's gaze followed hers. Both scanned the skyline, but saw no telltale red glow or fire, and he reached up to scratch his head in consternation, "I hope no one was hurt…"
"This is the industrial area, and the fact that the locals do not seem to be bothered makes me think it is a regular occurrence," Mim harrumphed in distaste, "That is one of the things I miss about America! The safety of our factories seems so far ahead of Britain's or those in France."
"Yes," Jon agreed, looking back towards the front of the building they were watching, "But I still don't see this doo-…" He stopped and squinted, then shook his head in wonder, "I see it now… I'd have missed it had you not mentioned it, Mim!"
"As is the design," Mim nodded firmly. "By the looks of it, it is like some of the one of the many opium dens which I encountered in my time in China, the ones set up in higher class neighborhoods designed to be hidden in plain sight. The same kind that are still in Europe and even our own country! The addition of a bar is likely to allay suspicion of authorities or busybodies."
"Huh. What would those two want with opium?" her blond friend asked.
"I do not think they are there for opium. That only leads us back to waiting, which still has no sense. What could they be waiting for?" She grunted and began to pace back and forth, oblivious to everything but her own thoughts. Even the sound of alarm bells and police whistles in the distance did not rouse her from her musings. "Is it a person? A signal? How do they expect to get out of here with their information?"
"Maybe they're waiting for the fire from the boiler explosions to be taken care of?" the detective hazarded.
"Fire?" Mim's head shot up as she listened for the telltale sounds. Sure enough, fire bells from various firefighting wagons and the emergency whistles the police used were sounding in the distance. And all going in the direction of that explosion!"A signal!" her eyes widened in realization, "Jon, you're a genius!" Mim grabbed Jon's collar and began dragging him toward the den. "We must hurry!"
"Whoa!" Jon struggled to regain his balance as he rushed toward the nearly hidden entrance of the opium den. "I don't get it, Mim. What's going on?"
"A distraction is what is going on," she said with certainty. "I do not know how -compatriots, perhaps - but they are behind that fire, and likely the explosions we heard a moment ago! The explosions and fire shall distract the policemen and capture the attention they are desperate to avoid. It may even be too late as it is." She mentally prepared herself for what could very well be a nasty flashback as the door came in to clear view. "I would wager my freedom that there is a secret exit in this hole."
"Technically you're already wagering that with chasing Mr. L.!" Jon commented.
Mim somehow managed to both sigh and chuckle at the same time, breaking her melancholy mood a bit. "Somehow, you always know what to say..." she smiled as she opened the door and went in.
"...I still don't get it."
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"Ugh!" Miss Go's pacing to and fro had not stopped for even a moment since they had hidden themselves in the dingy hole-in-the-wall masquerading as a legitimate establishment. Why Bartholomew had picked this particular place to wait was beyond her. All she knew was that the lighting was dim, the few men that were conscious enough to see their surroundings were too touchy for comfort, and there was a distracting sense of exaltation flowing through her body.
That very exultation was diminishing her normally iron will, and her blood was boiling hotter with every moment she was pressed into the dark corner her employer had forced them into. It was that damnable tea! she griped to herself, favoring her employer with a dire glare. He should have told me what it was before I drank it!
She felt herself relaxing her gaze, indeed, her whole body as she continued starting at him. Of course, he could not have known I was going to drink the tea left out by the proprietor... She sighed in what she hoped was an unobtrusive fashion, a small part of her protesting how easily she forgave the man, but the majority cheering the response. Then she cursed herself as her employer looked back at her. Thinking as fast as her somewhat numbed mind would allow, she screwed her face up in as nasty a grimace as she could and asked, "Can we leave yet, Lipsky? I can't stand the smell in here."
"Patience, Miss Go," he urged quietly, the hand he placed on her shoulder - much in the manner of a commander comforting a fidgety soldier - adding to Miss Go's distraction. She grunted in a deeper sense of frustrated elation, and craned her neck in an attempt to see more of the hidden cranny they were in, out of sight from casual observers. He removed the hand from her shoulder when she stilled, giving her a vicious smile as he nodded towards the door, "We are biding our time. You will know the signal when it is given."
She grunted again, but settled back completely and tried to ignore the comforting warmth still spreading from where his hand had been. She shook her head and concentrated on the facts of the situation, hoping it would distract her. She knew that the proprietor of the establishment was a Chinaman of an oddly regal bearing, but that German nationalist owned it.
Strangely, the nationalist was as strong an anti-imperialist as her employer, if not more so. He was serving to protect them from detection long enough for a fellow ally, a former Prussian agent who spoke with a perfect French accent and was also loyal to the German Kaiser, to finish his part. Though the Prussian had feigned hatred at the unification of the Germanic states, he had nonetheless helped to set up the next stage of the plan.
The Prussian had perhaps four dozen local toughs ready to take action against the factories with bricks, clubs and small explosives designed to wreck the newfangled machines and possibly start small fires, but damage little else. The men were all former employees of those same factories, all of whom had been unable to change with the new manufacturing techniques the factories had begun using. They were to storm the factories and attack the workers still there, as well as the firefighters that would inevitably come to douse any flames.
Of course, once the police arrived to quell the seeming riot, in turn trying to save not just the precious factories which powered the empire, but the still employed factory workers and the firemen as well, the two villains would slip out of the opium den and into a back alley. From there, they'd make their way to an awaiting carriage which was under the protection of Austria-Hungary and free of suspicion all the way to the harbor. And it would all point to the French, or at least a faction within the French government, as the overall instigators. A fitting combination of resources, as Bart had said when he'd modified the original plan, a point to which Miss Go had grudgingly agreed.
Now, as she watched her employer sitting there as if the choking, smoke filled air gave him no pause, she wanted to shout at him. But she couldn't; she knew, and had agreed, that this it was the only place available which the police would not suspect enough to send officers just after the theft. And, despite her earlier bravado, she was not taking the atmosphere nearly as well as she had hoped she would.
"This air is stifling! How did London in winter get so warm?" Miss Go huffed, pulling at the top of her dress. "I can barely breathe..."
"I suggest you not begin to loosen your clothing," Bart said, motioning toward her hands which were now clumsily working at her top button. "It will be hard to resist the urge to continue removing everything later."
"And you'd know this why?" Miss Go half-heartedly snapped, before smiling as the man turned and grabbed her fumbling hands.
"That is unimportant. I hear the first signals; it is only a matter of time before we must move alo-..." he muttered, his face slackening slightly in surprise as her hands grasped his. She stared up at him, and wondered why she was so frustrated. It was, after all, a warm night, even for a London winter, and... She had never realized how Bartholomew's hands could be so gentle...
She was about to lean in towards her suddenly handsome employer when the sound of the front door bursting open assailed their ears, followed immediately by the sound of the proprietor screaming in rapid fire Chinese. "What th-..." Bart began, but the frustratingly familiar voice hollering back at the proprietor in his native tongue startled the villain into action. "Quickly, Miss Go, to the rear exit!"
"Wha-..." Miss Go's jaw was slack with a mixture of happiness and confusion as he stared down at her. She didn't understand her employer's sudden urge to leave the wonderfully dark room, but she didn't argue, and began attempting to stand, grabbing onto his coat to pull herself up. "Oohhh..." she moaned when he suddenly helped her the rest of the way to her feet. A hot flush spread rapidly across her skin at his touch, and she felt especially warm when he shook his head and grabbed her, bundling her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
"Come on, Miss Go!" he hissed as he barged through the rear door, "The Chinaman said the tea was weak, so please snap out of this stupor!"
"I'm fine!" she called out in a vague chuckle, reaching around his torso and pressing the side of her face close to his back to keep the bouncing of her view to a minimum. This also gave her an upside down view of Mim coming into the opium den's back room just as they were leaving. A huge smile crossed Miss Go's face as she waved at the red-head, "Bye, Mimmy!"
Her world spun drunkenly as Bart twisted to close the back door and bar it shut with the heavy timber and iron door bar he had suggested the owner install before the mission. "This was a good idea, Barty..."
Miss Go's cooing voice was almost drowned out by Mim, whose voice was still clearly audible despite the thick, heavy wooden door, "You won't get away, Lipsky!"
"I already have, my dear Miriam!" Bart answered, and Miss Go giggled, closing her eyes to avoid watching the dizzying spin as Bart turned and dashed down the back alley towards the waiting coach. "Now, a quick trip up the coast to my airship, and we will be on our way to Paris!"
"I love flying..." Miss Go sighed, adding in her head, With you...She immediately held tighter to Bart. She knew she hadn't said what she wanted to, but was glad she hadn't. If she kept her thoughts confined, trapped within a small box in her mind, perhaps she could act upon them before the fear that those feelings brought out within could stop her.
MP MP MP MP
"Damn you, Lipsky!" Mim growled as she stormed into what would be hers and Jon's private room, at least until the ship made landfall on the Normandy coast in the late afternoon of the following day. They had booked passage on a passenger ship earlier in the day which was heading for Paris that night, a move which Mim was now grateful for.
She was still feeling the effects of the opium den, but not as badly as Jon. She glanced back at her friend and frowned guiltily as she thought about what had happened.
"Mim, try and go 'round back, I'll try and get through the door here!" Mim hadn't argued, as there was a good chance he would be able to break the door down. He was, despite his short stature, quite powerful.
She'd ran back into the bar, only to be assailed by the proprietor screaming at her in Mandarin Chinese. She had only enough time to yell back in Mandarin that they were chasing thieving fiends before three tall, burly men had stood from the bar. Their bearing and quick move towards Mim made it obvious as to their jobs: bouncers.
Jon, perhaps inspired by the leading edge of an opium induced haze, shoved her towards the still open front door and had charged the group of three. They had swiftly set into shoving and pushing at each other, somehow managing to fall through the door into the smoking room. Mim had tried to jump in to help, but was quickly set upon by the proprietor.
The man, she learned quickly, was very skilled in his home country's martial arts; far better, it was apparent to her, than she herself. He'd easily corralled her into a corner with kicks, feints and grand, sweeping blocks that nearly turned her own attacks upon herself. She had managed to land a few blows due to her still superior speed, but was honestly no match for his skill.
She was still embarrassed as to how she'd defeated him and how quickly it had happened. She had struck out at him, and he had dodged before sending a long, claw-like strike to her midsection. She had pulled back enough that the blow was glancing, but his fingers had caught underneath the snap buttons of her waistcoat. The blow had driven up and popped the buttons, and a finger had slipped under her bodice, ripping it open and revealing the flesh underneath. The man's eyes had boggled for barely an instant, but it had been enough so she could manage a strike firm enough behind his ear to knock him out.
She had immediately grabbed a discarded umbrella to use as a club and rushed into the smoke-filled back room. She had found Jon in the middle of fighting off the last of the men, the other two lying quite unconscious on the floor. If the men of the smoking den - and their strange positions as compared to mere moments earlier - were been any indication, he had won by being the least tripped up by the opium smokers on the floor. And while he was bruised and scraped, it seemed he had managed to avoid most of the toughs' blows while rendering them unconscious in turn.
She was quickly given an example of just how strong he was. When the tough saw Mim, he had turned and pulled a knife, obviously intent on holding her prisoner. While she would never have allowed the man to achieve a superior position, Jon had beaten her to the punch. He had grabbed the man from behind, reaching his arms around the man's elbows and rendering his knife useless. The bear hug had been powerful enough to make the man groan in pain, and then he'd lifted the man bodily and thrown him head first into a thick wooden support beam.
"Thank God you're alright!" Mim had sighed. Unfortunately, he hadn't been as hale as she'd thought. His hand had been severely lacerated by a broken ceramic bowl, and the thick, viscous brown of opium tar still clung to his hands, having been worked deep into the cuts. To make matters worse, in his stupor he had bent over the still smoking bowl of a water pipe, breathing heavily of the pungent, sickly-sweet smoke from burning opium cones. "Let's get you out of here, Jon!"
She had hurriedly taken him out, and somehow managed to find a cab working late in the area. She had tended to him as best she could, but decided it best to let Lipsky and Miss Go get away, must to Jon's chagrin.
Looking the blond over as he stood leaning against the doorframe, she shook her head and made her way over to him. "I'm so sorry for leaving you in that room alone, Jon," Mim said as she led him from the door to the bed, gently urging him to sit down.
"It's alright, Mim..." he answered in a distracted tone, unbuttoning his suit jacket and attempting to shrug it off, "I thought merely to keep you from their hands, figuring you could take them all with the proper distraction..."
"Well, had the proprietor not been so skilled, it would have worked!" she assured him as she helped him with his suit jacket. It was obvious the new bruises and scrapes were causing him problems despite the drug still coursing through his veins.
"Yeah, I hadn't figured the Chinaman to be a good fighter…" he looked away from her, shame on his face as he whispered, "I'm sorry that Mr. L. and Ms. G. got away, Mim…"
"Do not worry about that, Jon!" Mim admonished, barely resisting the urge to slap his shoulder, "Worry about yourself." She sighed unobtrusively, realizing part of his problem was the drug still in his system. The opium was obviously not settling well with him at all…
MP MP MP MP
Jon was unsure how he'd gotten to the bed, but he couldn't complain since sitting was helping the pounding in his head. He had tried to remove his shirt jacket, managing to unbutton it, but the vague feeling of pain lancing through his body halted him.
Not that it was objectionable; in point of fact, he'd felt more intense burning in his muscles when he was a young teen working in his father's warehouse moving large shipping crates around. And even later when he'd worked under Barkin, having to pull the stubborn man around in a rickshaw since he kept working despite the nearly crippling back injury he'd received fighting against the plains Indians not long before General Custer's catastrophic defeat.
Yet, despite being what many considered somewhat of a dunderhead, he knew the effects of some drugs. He knew the opium was related to morphine, so he felt it quite possible that, had he been sober, he would be in a great deal of pain.
As it stood, he was feeling... Good, if a bit muzzy headed. He shook his head, trying to focus on something, and found Mim's hands now working on his undershirt. He wanted to comment on the missing suit jacket, but instead he spoke on his strange state of mind. "I feel so odd..." he whispered as his shirt left his torso, "I have this... This feeling, like something creeping in uninvited... Yet... Yet I feel capable of doing so much, of saying so much..."
Mim's nimble fingers worked on loosening the buttons of his pants, and he found himself staring down at the crown of her head. A sudden thought struck him, inspired by his earlier efforts in fighting off the aftereffects of the fight in the opium den. He knew that part of his confusion was concern over his own problems with anxiety and the preventative his childhood doctor had prescribed him and which he still used.
Unfortunately, he would be unable to let his thoughts rest until he received a suitable answer. Looking at Mim, he gently clasped her hands in his to stop the distracting motion and asked, "Mim... Do I... Do I get like this when I imbibe hash oil in food or drink, or when I smoke cannabis for my anxiety?"
"Sometimes, Jon," Mim acknowledged guardedly, "But never this... Strangely subdued? Truthfully, you're usually more easily amused than normal - a hard task, I will admit!" He had enough presence of mind to groan at the poor joke as she continued, "And while sometimes scatter-brained, you are never this… This weepy, or so worryingly vague of thought."
Jon smiled at her answer, strangely relieved to hear it. "Thank God..." he murmured as a strangely faraway memory struck him. Her steady work at his pants fly reminded him of their plans for the night. A sense of joy, more intense and of a different type to the one he normally felt when preparing for the deed, flushed through him as he thought of being close to her once more.
Jon knew he didn't like having this feeling during their sexual couplings, and tried to remember just why he didn't like to let himself dwell on the possibilities. The buzz in his head, however, seemed to brush the attempts away. A deep part of him agreed with it and helped to put his qualms to rest.
"Those men were quite brutish, were they not?" Mim commented in dismay as she looked over his now trouserless body, examining his wounds. "Do not worry; I shall treat these abrasions and cuts before they become too bothersome. Especially the cuts on your hand!"
"We washed the opium out, Mim!" he protested weakly, "I..-"
"There is no arguing on this, Jonathon," she cut him off, giving an evil eye as he attempted to protest again, "I will tend to you as you would if I were the injured party. Remember last month in Madrid?"
Jon leaned in and leaned his forehead against hers, closing his eyes, "Of course. I'm sorry, Mim, I jus-..." A sudden knock at the door interrupted him, startling them both enough to bump their heads together firmly.
"J-just a minute!" Mim cried in a shaky voice, rubbing her forehead. She climbed from the bed and swiftly made her way to the door. Jon was shaken from his hot-blooded stupor while she dressed herself enough to answer the door, wondering if the shakiness in her voice was because of his comments and actions, or the bump they'd shared
His last thought shook him slightly from his stupor. Coming somewhat to his senses, he realized just how close he came to accidentally pressuring his best friend. As he berated himself, said friend came walking back from the door holding a note.
"Strange that someone came to a boat to deliver a message," he noted, clumping the sheets close to his body in slight embarrassment.
"It was not a messenger, though a messenger most likely dropped it off with the crewman that delivered it." Mim shrugged to him before opening the letter she'd received. She seemed unperturbed by it, but he noticed her eyes widen a fraction. "What is it?"
Looking up in surprise, she shook her head and chuckled. "I was simply taken aback by the date. Is it truly the twenty-second already?"
"Yes..." Jon wasn't sure where the sudden change in demeanor came from, but he was certain that there was to be no more physical interaction that night. Mim looked to be quite pleased, though Jon was sure it was more from the letter than him. Whatever was in that note must have been good news. Her sudden shift of topic attitude told him that she didn't wish to discuss it, which was curious in itself. Why am I so... Worried about this? I never have before now, an-...
"I am afraid that I must admit forgetting the date," she said sheepishly, cutting off his thoughts, "I will have to find a present for you when we reach Paris. Speaking of which... We cannot arrive too late lest we lose the trail."
"A point, Mim..." Jon agreed with a strangely happy smile as he watched her readjust her garments and don her usual dress.
"I am going to check on the time of our arrival, Jon. I shall be back directly," Mim informed him. When she caught his smile, she walked over and gave him a peck on the cheek. "And I will get the needed supplies to make a sugar and oil compress for those cuts and scrapes."
"I am not a horse!" Jon laughed brightly, remembering the many times when they were younger helping the red-head with injured horses.
"Perhaps not," Mim winked salaciously at him after placing a gentle hand just below the junction of his leg and hip, "But you're as strong and stubborn as one, my dear friend..." Jon felt himself responding to her comment and the implications of it, and Mim's smile became just a bit saucy as she kissed his cheek again, this time just at the edge of his mouth. She stood and made her way quickly to the door, calling back over her shoulder, "You try and get some rest while I am out."
"I shall endeavor to, Mim!" Jon called back to her, admittedly very tired despite his desires.
"I mean it, Jon!" Mim called again, sticking her head back into the cabin.
"I..." Jon began, only to pause for a brief moment when the door closed firmly, "Will... You must always get the last word in, eh, Mim?" he concluded with a fond smile. Then he lay back with a sigh, pondering the latest development. He didn't know what had been in that letter, but he couldn't help but feel like it was something he would not be happy to know of.
Less than a half hour later, Jon was hard pressed to remember the letter... Or why he had been so worried. It was plainly obvious that Mim still held a strong interest in the physical side of their friendship...
MP MP MP MP
December 24, 1906
Mim had just walked up to the café's front door when sounds reminiscent to a Maxim gun split the chill morning air. She had barely kept herself from diving for cover, having had the experience of hearing the Gatling guns the American military had used in the Philippines, or the Maxim guns she'd heard in both the Philippines and China. She turned a sharp glare out the front door of the café, and was relieved to see that it had merely been an auto's backfiring.
She felt a touch of concern for the poor driver, whose face was cut open when the crank had swung around to strike him. His nose was also disturbingly out of place but he seemed otherwise fine and was standing, if a bit shaky legged. She shrugged minutely and set about calming herself a bit before entering.
After settling her racing heart, she walked deeper into the café and saw her semi-regular teatime companion sitting in the usual spot. She couldn't help but let a smile that matched his grace her features, a smile which she wanted to berate herself for. I am just trying to get information from him! she griped mentally, Just because we're being pleasant does not mean I should consider this anything other than work!
As if to spite her own admonishments, she found herself fighting down a strong bout of curiosity when she saw his neck. There were marks and scratches that looked, in turn, like he had fought off someone trying to choke him... Or a woman holding him in the throes of passion.
"Good evening, my dear Miriam," Bart's nodded greeting drew the red-head from her consideration as she walked up to the table, "It is good to see you are in good health after the incident in London."
"No thanks to you," Mim groused good-naturedly, scratching at the collar of her dress. Bart couldn't help but notice that it was rather severely higher than normal, going almost to the angle of her jaw, but held off asking about it as she sat. "I am assuming the papers you were attempting to abscond with did not make it?"
"No thanks to you," he parroted with an admirable smirk. "I was quite impressed that you figured out where the information was heading."
"It was not a big thing," Mim said, waving her hand. "Your plots are much too complex; it made sense to me that you would have placed the documents with an intermediary while you went a different path. The police, myself, and Jonathon were already on your path, so placing the documents elsewhere and leading us on a wild goose chase was perfect. Draw attention from the real carrier and spark a possible international incident with Germany, tarnishing Britain's reputation. And," she smiled devilishly, "You would never have thought to simply keep the documents on your person. Much too ordinary and simple."
"Whoever said the intermediary was my idea, my dear Miriam?" Bart's smirk, surprisingly, morphed into a boyish, charming grin, not at all ruined by the shrug that followed, "Had I had my way, the papers would have gone straight to a third party within London, to leave via a completely different route. Much as you suggested, actually... Though they likely would have stayed on Miss Go's person until then! She has much better places to hide such than I!"
Mim pursed her lips, but could not find fault with his claim. She shrugged herself, then fixed him with a considering gaze, "Speaking of papers, you realize I would be out of your hair if you could merely supply... Documentation that I was not at fault for the theft of the Electrostatic Illuminator, yes?"
"No matter how much you point out the easing of both our pains if I were to, my honor demands I not. It would be unsportsmanlike and cruel to give you a false hope of clearing your name," Bart murmured in a regretful tone, all joking replaced with an air of seriousness. "In all honesty, as I may have mentioned, the political consequences bear far more on others than on myself, and it is for them that I am afraid we must continue our continual tête-à-tête."
"As I thought you would say," Miriam sighed. Shrugging to herself so she could let go of the issue for the day - she couldn't force him to give her the proof, after all - and loosen her shoulders, she leaned forward to show that regularly raised topic was at rest, "Now that we have the traditional attempts to convince you freeing yourself of me as a burden have failed, where is the tea so I may drown my woes in lovely chamomile?"
"I must express my apologies," Bart gestured to the red-head's side of the table and the glass of wine resting there, "But the cafe informed me that they were out of chamomile tea. I hope a nice red wine will suffice?"
"It will, Bartholomew," Miriam nodded at him with a slightly disappointed, but grateful smile. She sampled the wine and nodded satisfaction before following what had become a tradition during their regular afternoon teatime meetings: taking her cigarette case out and setting it on the table between her plate and the serving platter. She grabbed a hunk of bread and a small wedge of an herb-filled hard cheese and alternated dainty bites of each. "Is this a Riesling? It tastes much like one of my mother's favored vintages."
"It is indeed," Bart nodded, mildly surprised, "I presume your mother is somewhat of a wine aficionado?"
"She fancies herself such," Mim admitted after a long sip at her wine, "But I must admit that, a few wines aside, her tastes are rather..." Mim paused for a moment, taking another sip of her wine while she sought the proper word, "Trite. She tends to favor sweet wines with little to no other redeeming qualities."
Bart allowed a chuckle that he found strangely suited to mingle with Mim's own expression of delight, and shook his head, "It is a pity, that. A good wine with the right food is as close as a man - or woman - can come to heaven outside of a wonderful dining companion."
"Flattery, Bartholomew?" Mim asked with a raised eyebrow, earning a faint flush from her nemesis... A word she found harder and harder to apply to the often charming, if just as often bedeviling, man. "Next thing you know, you may be asking me to join you in your fiendish escapades!"
Mim barely held in a giggle as Bart almost snorted into his own wine, and put on an air of innocence as he gazed at her. "With your timing, my dear Miriam, I sometimes wonder who the fiend is..." he muttered in a droll fashion, not bothering to hide the smile tugging at the edges of his lips.
"I admit to nothing," Mim declared airily, holding a pose of exaggerated dignity, before winking at the man and taking another swallow of her wine, "How does this fine Christmas Eve find you?"
"As well as can be expected, considering recent news I have received." He pursed his lips immediately after saying the words. Even though they had met on a fairly regular basis over the prior year - whenever they were both in Paris at the same time, which had so far been nine meetings - she was still his enemy. His nemesis, even!
But if the look on the reporter's face was any indication, the proverbial cat had been let out of the bag. Sighing, he favored her with a wry smile. "I suppose I must expound upon that, eh?"
"It would be the gentlemanly thing to do, Bartholomew," Mim smiled sweetly. Bart got the distinct impression of a pit fighting dog ready to worry on a particularly tasty looking bone.
Bart gave a resigned sigh, his mouth setting into a thin line as he thought about the best way to broach the subject. After taking a long sip of his drink, he gazed somewhat above Mim's head and spoke in a distant tone, "I received word that my father has throat cancer, which our family physician fears will soon spread to other tissues. He can barely speak or breathe as the tumors are slowly closing his throat. The family doctor says he shall not last past February, but, knowing my father, he shall be alive at least until spring breaks."
"My sympathies." Bart looked at her sharply, but relaxed when he saw honest sympathy, and perhaps even grief, in her eyes.
"Thank you…" he smiled slightly, withdrawing a pipe and a pouch of tobacco from the coat around the back of his chair. He absently packed it and then fumbled about his suit jacket for his matches when a lit match was put up to his pipe.
Mim waited for him to get his pipe lit enough to draw from, then lit the cigarette held in her mouth, waving the match out and dropping it into the ashtray in the center of the table. She took a long draw and sighed a lungful of smoke towards the ceiling before prodding Bart gently, "Do you plan to visit him, Bartholomew?"
"Miss Go and I are leaving this evening sometime," Bart admitted, frowning slightly, "I would like to be back in Frankfurt before daybreak. Christmas with my father and the rest of his side of the family is always enjoyable, and with this likely his last, I should think even my mother would not care to sully it!"
Mim opened her mouth to speak, but the vehemence of Bart's last comment took her off guard. A very sore subject…She could see some deep seated pain hidden behind his eyes, and the intensity with which he drew from his pipe implied it was far deeper than she could see. Instead of pushing as her curiosity wished to do, she changed her line of questioning slightly to a hopefully less sensitive topic, "How are your family's normal Christmas celebrations?"
Bart thought on it for a moment, before signaling a waiter. He asked the young man for a good cognac and two snifters. Mim's reaction was to tilt her head slightly, her eyebrows twisting in confusion. "Please indulge me a moment, Miriam."
The use of her name without the normal 'my dear' took her aback as much as his somber tone, and she nodded mutely, taking a long drag on her cigarette at almost the same time as Bart took a long draw from his pipe, and watched him closely. After the waiter returned, Bart checked the bottle and nodded his thanks before opening the bottle and pouring a healthy portion for each of them. They both sampled the bouquet of the drink, and Bart seemed to take particular care to admire its visual qualities, obviously deep in thought the whole while.
Finally having enough of waiting for him, Mim sipped at her drink, and found herself enjoying the subdued mix of fruit, the spice-like flavors and the dry, crisp texture and warmth of the liquor. Much like Father's favorite Bourbons… Bart blinked and flushed slightly, realizing he had taken longer than he realized.
"My apologies," he murmured, sipping his drink and savoring it almost in the manner of a wine aficionado, before continuing, "I was lost in my memories. My family's Christmas Day celebrations are much like this cognac… Warm, comforting, rich and filled with subtleties of aroma, texture and flavor in a literal and metaphorical sense…"
Mim stared at the man; she was used to hearing hyperbole and wrathful declarations from, not having him to wax so poetic. If his words had caught her off guard, his voice was even more unexpected. Gone was the bombastic, grating, broken tenor she had heard regularly for over a year and a half. In its place was a cultured, soothing baritone that sent a shiver of what she could only believe was shock down her spine.
She tried to think of the words to describe the dichotomy, but that very dichotomy struck her temporarily speechless. Mim relaxed slightly when a warm, honest smile slipped over his countenance, "The house will be gaily decorated, especially the Christmas tree, and warm of both air and emotions… My sister will visit with her husband, and she and her daughters will invade the kitchen to cook the dinner for the day… They will only have one or two of our servants to help, because, much to mother's chagrin, Father believes that everyone able to should spend time with family…"
He didn't seem to realize he'd spoken so openly, yet continued his voice soft and so full of love despite his comment about his mother that Mim was nearly moved to tears, "But my sister, her daughters and the few servants remaining will fill the house with such wondrous odors and aromas… The first thing laid out will be several types of Plätzchen; cookies in English… The Weihnachtsstollen, a wondrously flavorful, rolled cake filled with fruits and spice, will usually be out next, but set to cool in the kitchen to keep greedy hands from them…"
He sighed, and then nodded as if recounting a regular occurrence. "Not long after the pork sauerbraten is started, my uncle Joseph will arrive, though this year he is bringing his bride to be. I look forward to meeting her as I have heard wondrous things of her from our mutual acquaintances… My aunt Helen may visit if she is not too sick, possibly bringing along her daughter, my cousin Elise…" He paused, sighing wistfully, "My cousin Edward was always there, but he was killed in China during the siege on the Legations in nineteen-hundred…"
Mim was just stubbing out her cigarette, having been so comforted by Bart's description of his family's Christmas which was so like her own. Yet when she heard where his cousin had died, she flinched and a few tears spangling her vision. She quickly withdrew another cigarette and a match from their case and lit it, hoping the noxious fumes from the match would explain away the tears if Bart saw them and asked. She normally didn't to smoke in such a fashion, not wanting to appear to be a hanger on to the seeming fashion some women put into smoking; but sometimes, needs went before wants.
He did not seem to notice her reaction, still staring off into the space above them with a subtly melancholic smile, "Even Mother will probably assist in setting the table when the time comes, if just to ensure it is done properly… By the time my sister is finished in the kitchen, we will have more cookies, Germknödel and Semmelknödel, Käsesahnetorte, Kartoffelklöße and many other dishes…"
He paused as a chuckle was startled out of him, and turned his attention back to Mim, "And of course, the giving and opening of presents… But I am sure that most households know of the joy that brings, especially with family."
"That sounds beautiful…" Mim said in a subdued, almost awed tone, shaking her head in wonder at the oddly homey scene her foe had painted. Strangely, she had always pictured him being an only child, spoiled as could be by a doting mother.
"It is, but…" he shrugged expansively, before taking a long pull from his nearly doused pipe, puffing until the tobacco was smoldering properly again, "It shall probably be the last such Christmas." He shrugged when he saw the small pout on Mim's face, and shrugged, "C'est la vie, as the Frenchmen say. What about you, my dear? Your family must have been quite something to have produced a woman as intriguing as yourself, especially around Christmas."
"Oh," Mim sighed as she was flooded with pleasant memories of her last Christmas at home, "Oh, yes, it truly is…"
"Tell me about it?" Bart requested quietly, resting his elbows at the very edge of his chair's arms, clasping one hand over the other and leaning forward to rest his chin upon his hands.
Mim was caught somewhat off guard by his actions and was still recovering from how… Warm he sounded at that moment. With a shy smile, she obliged him, "Our Christmas is... Well... Surprisingly very similar to yours, as unlikely as it sounds." She blushed lightly, her voice taking on a demure tone she would have denied profusely had she heard it. "Our family is originally from Germany. We kept most of the traditions, so I am familiar with what you described. Especially the wonderful food!"
"It is one of the things I love about the Fatherland," Bart agreed, cocking his head slightly to the left. "Have you been there since you have been in Europe, Miriam?"
"A couple times," Mim nodded, stubbing her cigarette out in the ashtray, "Ironically, not in relation to any of your plots." Bart chuckled, and Mim leaned back, bringing her snifter of cognac to her lips to take a few sips before she picked up her thread from a moment before, "The food, though… I love my mother's Plätzchen, especially Mandel Spritzgebäck and pfeffernüsse. Then there's my father's wonderful sauerbraten and goose, though his trout course is the best."
"Judging by the accent, your family is Bavarian?" Bart asked with honest curiosity, and Mim nodded.
"Mein Großvater war aus München," Mim tittered slightly, "I have not used German in years, I am quite certain my accent is atrocious."
"Not at all," Bart shook his head, his tone and the look on his face sincere. "I am a native of Germany, so I would be one to know." He blinked when he saw Mim's eyebrows screw together and shoot towards her brow. The outright cuteness of the expression gave him a sudden thrill, very similar in fact to a rapid descent in his airship, and he took a healthy sip of from his snifter.
"I would have never guessed," she noted as he set his glass back down. "You sound as if you have lived in America your entire life!"
Covering further for his strange reaction, Bart reached for a napkin to wipe his brow as he bashfully continued, "I speak English very well, I know. Just like a first language according to Miss Go, and yourself as well as a few other Americans I have met that know my birth country."
He pursed his lips, debating whether to give her an explanation, or to hedge against it. With a minute shrug, he continued, "My mother would not allow for imperfections such as an accent to hold fast for me. She has it in her head that the American accent is more neutral than British English, though why she felt the need for such I have not the faintest idea." He noticed the topic was shifting with his curiosity yet sated. "Were your parents the only ones which you spent your Christmas day and meal with?"
"Had you not heard my mention of ours being similar to yours?" Mim said teasingly. "I have a brother, merely an adolescent at this time." Her gaze became far away for a moment, as she relived a particularly fond memory, "He was always quick to wake when he was younger, doing his best to convince us all to get as much precious time out of the season as was there are my two uncles, Jason and Seamus, and my aunt, Sarah, who is ironically younger than I. And of course, all the children...
"We all gather at my family's ranch, even the hands and their families. We all consider them to be nearly family, to be honest." She chuckled at a sudden thought, "Which made our rather modest home seem positively undersized!"
"You are from a ranching family?" Bart asked curiously, and Mim nodded with a rather proud smirk.
"Yes, some of the best thoroughbreds in the United States have been bred on our farm." Mim's smirk had become a positively glowing smile, and Bart found himself returning it in kind, "I learned some blacksmithing and, before I entered college, I was quite an accomplished farrier."
Bart looked quite honestly impressed with the information, and his words gave truth to his expression, "While I am good with riding and caring for a horse in the field, I was never good with the animals when it came to more intensive care."
"I tend to get along very well with animals," Mim admitted with a shrug.
"Which probably explains the ease with which you handled that camel in Morocco," Bart concluded.
"Yes," Mim agreed with a giggle, covering her mouth until she could stifle the sound. When she had her control back, she favored Bart with an apologetic look, "Poor Jon, however, suffered mightily at the hands of that stubborn beast!"
"It seemed the surly sort when Miss Go and I passed over hiring it and its rider at the stables," Bart admitted.
"Surly is not how I would put it," Mim corrected. "More along the lines of stubborn, mean-spirited, hateful and unwilling to do more than the least it could to get by." She chuckled lightly as she added, "Dear Jon still has a bruise on the back of his left leg from the worst bite the beast gave him.
Bart winced, understanding Mim's declaration. The very same camel had, when they were considering it, spat a significant amount of foul smelling, sticky spittle right into Miss Go's face. The only thing that had saved the animal's life had been the stable owner's willingness to offer a significantly reduced rate on the rental of a half dozen pack mules and two horses for their trek into the desert.
"Well, at least we all made it out of that sandstorm more or less intact," Bart said at length, grimacing, "Although the poor soldiers we had planned on stealing the machine guns from were not so lucky."
"Why did you try and steal those guns?" Mim asked, then covered her mouth with her hand for a moment before reaching out to stall Bart when he opened his mouth, "I'm sorry, I should leave questions such as that out of our conversations here."
"It is no worry, Miriam," Bart soothed reassuringly. "To be honest, I had hoped to take the guns from the soldiers before they happened upon a settlement of anti-imperialist guerrillas. Alas, there was no need." He sighed lightly, glancing up, "I do hope they appreciated the small service I offered, though I am not an ordained minister. It was the least I could do."
"We saw the graves you dug for them," Mim said solemnly, taking a long sip of her cognac before continuing, "With the lack of blood, Jon and I both concluded they had been overcome by the weather, as I have yet to see or hear of you or Miss Go kill in cold blood."
"Indeed," Bart nodded, a rueful smile upon his face, "Though had we attacked them, at least they would have had a chance. One cannot fight against God or Mother Nature, after all."
"No, one cannot," Mim agreed easily, "'Tis folly..."
"Indeed... Besides which," Bart continued as if Mim hadn't spoken, "My father and mother raised me better than to be party to murder. My mother would likely have had my skin had I performed such a craven act! And she would have found out, one way or another..."
Sensing an opening which didn't seem nearly as sensitive as the earlier one, Mim casually asked "So your mother likes to be on top of things?"
Her attempts to keep it sounding normal caught Bart's attention. He shot her a sharp glare, completely unintentional, which seemed to suck the air out of his dinner companion's lungs. Realizing just what he was doing, Bart sighed, his shoulders sagging uncharacteristically. "My apologies, Miriam. I am overly sensitive whenever my mother is brought up. I should not take my distaste out on you."
"Twopence for your thoughts?" she joked, an obvious attempt to leaven the mood. It worked well enough to earn a sincere smirk from him.
"The price for my thoughts on my mother would require much more than a simple twopence," he countered with a charming smile.
"Then how about making it a present?" Mim suggested. "It is Christmas, after all."
"We have already exchanged presents, Miriam," Bart said, his smile turning smug.
"Oh?" the red-head asked, a teasing grin upon her face.
"Indeed..." he chuckled, "Or do you consider revealing anything about family between two enemies to be normal?"
"Ah," Mim agreed with a chuckle, "A point, good sir, a point... What of next year?"
Bart paused at the simple question. Even he did not plan presents a year previous to the date. It was very possible to make knowledge of himself and his mother her present, if she still wished for it the next year. But... To broach the subject of his mother was touchy business. He wasn't sure that he could even properly discuss the delicate, painful thing that was their relationship.
Glancing over at her, he could tell that even his mere hesitation had interested her enough to keep her thinking on it for a while. She could even do her own investigations into it, which would create a slew of new, even more alarming problems! Problems he found himself admitting intrigued him...
"What would I get in return?" he asked coyly as his mind continued racing for a suitable solution. "That is information that even my worst of enemies would covet. Surely one good present such as that deserves another like it." He reached for the bottle of cognac and raised an eyebrow at Mim, who nodded distractedly, and refilled both of their snifters to a level slightly higher than would be considered proper by a brandy aficionado.
Mim blinked while she processed that oddly cryptic answer. Why would his worst enemies desire such information as his relationship with his mother? Then again, he seemed more... Disgusted than nervous or worried.
"You say it is worth more than a twopence, yet your reaction is not protective, but more..." she paused, reaching for the correct word "Troubled. Tell me..." Mim sat forward, and favored him with an honest, open expression of curiosity, "What would be better, or perhaps easier, to discuss? Other family? Past - or perhaps present - loves or friends of certain convenience?"
He considered her last question with caution. Considering China was the only topic she cringed from thus far in their conversations; that and the prior lack of mention of a husband or love in her life, he felt it was safe to guess they were connected. Yet she had offered to bare such a thing in exchange for information about his mother or his own past loves.
He pursed his lips a moment, then carefully picked his words, "Perhaps you could tell me of your husband, or lost suitor... The one that I must guess died while in China?" Bart halted his words with a wince, realizing he'd allowed his mouth to get ahead of his mind, and favored Mim with an apologetic gaze.
And that was all he could do. He'd seen women wail in the pain of loss. Many a man would claim that native peoples of Africa were not but animals with no emotion, but he knew otherwise. He'd seen the pain, the agony in the eyes of men and women and children whose wives and husbands and parents had been cut down. And he had been touched, deeply, by it.
Yet the soul-deep guilt and sorrow that flashed across Mim's eyes took him aback in a way that no similar event had in the past. He couldn't help but to draw a comparison to soldiers he had seen fresh from the lines, having survived that which their fellows mere feet away did not. Her eyes were staring unfocused at the table while her hands gripped the arms of her chair with a strength that could have given a wrestler pause. While her breathing was steady, and her lip firm in set, Bart could have sworn he heard the barest hiccup of suppressed grief.
He would be the first to admit, even crow brazenly, that he was a villain. But he was also not the brute many felt was required of the role. He was a gentleman, dammit! No matter the situation, it was a deplorable thing to cause unnecessary pain to someone, especially a lady, or, in some ways worse, a woman he considered a gentlewoman in equal stead with any gentleman he'd ever met! It was, potentially, an unforgivable slight to his honor, a slight he'd inflicted on himself.
"I..." Mim's strained voice brought Bart out of his recriminations, and she sighed, "I apologize, Bartholomew. That was unladylike and rather uncalled for."
"Miriam..." Bart began, but she held a hand up with a gently admonishing smile.
"My reaction stemmed mostly from the fact that you had so correctly deduced such a detail of as my... My late husband." She shook her head as if a horse shaking away a persistent fly and shook her head, "It is rather unsettling to know that I am so easy to read!"
Bart nearly recoiled, from both the biting frost which now clung to her self directed comments and the strangely listless way she had spoken since he had asked. "Miriam," he began heavily, settling a hand around his recently refilled snifter, "I must once again apologize. I, too, have lost a love that was dear to my heart. I know of the pain you feel, yet I am acting as an ass, braying loudly with no thought on how I affect others as I go forth into the desert!"
"As do we all, from time to time," Mim said softly, reaching out her right hand and laying it gently on Bart's right before he could lift his snifter to his lips, "And I apologize as well for being such a silly girl for a moment. I am a grown woman, and had thought myself past his death, so your question was not so much improper as... Frankly... Unexpected, and rather blunt."
"Then we owe each other an apology," Bart said firmly, his sense of honor holding firm rein over him at the moment. It wanted him to take full responsibility for the pain he had caused her, however brief it may have been. After all, he had been the one to ask! But as he considered Mim a gentlewoman more than a lady, and she considered her reaction as much a guilty fault as he, his honor would accept a mutual apology. To his relief, Mim agreed.
"I can accept that, Bartholomew," she nodded, "And I accept your apology as well, if you accept mine."
"So it is agreed," Bart said, setting the snifter down and turning his hand to shake Mim's. She clasped his hand and they shook, neither of them realizing they'd held on a touch longer than protocol demanded. They let go after a few seconds of staring at each other. Despite himself, Bart felt a tingling where her hand had touched his. He tried to ignore it as he lifted the snifter to his lips. "So, then, this time next year, if we are still competing against each other, we shall tear each other's hearts out and lay them bare on the table!"
Bart's words were said in a faux jovial manner so much like his normal bombast that Mim almost cringed. "I suppose, though I would not say it in such a grisly fashion." Bart's look of surprise made her roll her eyes, yet chuckle at once, "While I am not an average woman, even I must draw the line at removing organs from a still-living body," she explained.
"I see," he said before suddenly switching gears and picking up his glass, a large smile on his face. "A cheer must be made in the name of the holiday. What say you, my dear?"
"To family, and..." Mim thought for a moment, then smiled lightly, a far off look in her eyes, "To family, and love, however you find it, or it finds you."
She raised her snifter of cognac, and Bart tapped his to hers, a soft, sad smile upon his face, "To family, and love..."
MP MP MP MP
Jon jumped up from the bed with a start as the hotel door opened just a few minutes before seven-thirty in the evening. He stared for a moment while trying to catch his bearings, still a bit disjointed from imbibing a few shots of strong, clear Russian liquor steeped with cannabis.
He watched Mim walk in and set a package down on the end table, almost gasping in shock as she cursed in an angry tone, "Just an hour or two? You pompous, money hungry ass! I'd have had more than a few choice words for you, had I thought your shit-filled brain could handle them!"
Jon's worry spiked higher when she growled incoherently and begin to pace back and forth, grumbling incomprehensibly under her breath.
"Mim?" he drawled lazily, "What's wrong?"
Mim, not having seen Jon when she came in the room, let out a startled squeak and spun on Jon, holding her hand to her heart. "I'm sorry, Jon, did I wake you?"
Jon shook his head, a reassuring smile on his face and concern writ plainly in his eyes. "No, Mim." Noting her oddly inconsistent behavior, he tentatively asked, "Are you okay?"
She sighed, walking over and sitting down on the end of the bed, "I... I'm sorry, Jon. I'm..." Tears sprang to her eyes and she clenched her fists in her lap, "I just... I was reminded of Christmas at home, and... And..."
Jon was immediately on his knees, drawing his friend and lover to his chest. He began stroking his fingers gently through her hair. "I'm here, Mim. Take your time… I'll be here for you."
Mim allowed herself, for the first time in almost six and a half years, to just cry. Even so, she tried to speak, her words halting between nearly body wracking sobs, "I... I remembered the Christmas... The Christmas in ninety-seven, Jon... Do... Do you remember?"
"The first Christmas after Al asked you to marry him," Jon nodded, then fell silent, waiting for Mim to speak in her own time.
"Y-yes..." Mim said softly a handful of minutes later, her voice calmer, if somewhat unsteady, "I... Oh, Jon, I miss him so, so horribly... I miss my family..."
"It's oka-..." Jon tried to assure her, but she pulled back suddenly, staring at him with an unreadable expression before her sadness seemed to intensify.
"Jon..." She reached a shaky hand to his face and cupped his cheek, "I... I'm sorry for you being here, with me... For being away from your fami-..."
"No!" Jon barely contained his voice from shouting as he realized the source of her sudden bout of guilt, "No, Mim," he whispered, grabbing her hand and kissing it much as she had on the train from Italy to France a year before. "I'm here because I want to be here, to help you. You're my best, my dearest friend, and my family understands this! They supported me, as they believed you when you claimed to be innocent. As did your family, although they dared not speak of it lest they risk problems with the law."
"I..." Mim whispered, then sighed, dropping her hand to his shoulder to grip it firmly, "Thank you, Jon."
"Thank you, Mim," Jon answered simply.
"For what?" she asked, cocking her head to the side, her voice only hinting at the grief she'd shown mere moments before.
"For trusting me, and believing in me enough to be the best friend a man could want." They stared at each other for a long moment, before Jon suddenly barked a laugh, causing Mim to squint her eyes and screw her eyebrows together in bemusement. "I'm sorry, Mim, it's just... This truce agreement, the one you have with Mr. L., the one Ms. G. and I seem to have bound ourselves to as well?"
"Yes?" she prodded in a drawn out tone that mingled confusion and frustration with his obtuse comments.
"Well, I ran into Ms. G. and had an interesting, and rather strange, erm..." he paused, pursing his lips and glancing at the ceiling as he sought the phrase to use. After a moment he shrugged, lying back on the bed and holding his arms out to his side as he continued, "Altercation is the wrong phrase, but it is fitting."
"Altercation." Mim's deadpan tone should have been a warning to Jon to choose his words carefully, but in his altered state of mind, he merely spoke as the words came to mind as he had been doing moments before.
"Yes," he chuckled. "I almost literally ran into her at a bistro as she was performing some shopping errand or another."
"What happened?" Mim's tone was a touch more strident, and Jon looked back at her, a guileless smile upon his face.
"We..." Jon's amusement nearly sounded like an outright laugh this time, earning a hard glare from Mim, "We merely reminded each other of the holiday truce agreement!"
"Jon!" Jon's amused tone did not sit at all well with Mim. "You ignored the tru-..."
Finally realizing that Mim's suddenly incensed tone was indeed bordering on anger, he was quick to reassure her she was misunderstanding him. "Not necessarily in the manner you're worrying, Mim!" This time he let out a long, uncaring belly laugh, a sound of such delighted humor that Mim managed to calm herself with the realization that he wouldn't laugh if a genuine fight had broken out.
When he regained control of himself, Jon continued, the occasional bubble of mirth slipping past his lips unimpeded, "You see, I was bumped into by a rather portly man and literally slammed into the table she sat at. She had been imbibing a touch more liqueur than most would during a late lunch. When she saw who I was, she started complaining. Not about the mostly eaten helping of potatoes I'd knocked to the floor, but the fact that I had spilled half of her drink of choice."
He paused, thinking aloud, "It was some strange syrupy drink that smelled of raspberry and honey… Anyway, she stood and called me a clumsy buffoon, and tossed the other half of the drink in my face. A strange reaction considering her complaint."
"You seem..." Mim began, shaking her head, a smile tugging at the edges of her mouth, "Rather amused after having been called a buffoon."
"Well, I am often rather clumsy, Mim, and there are brighter men in the world!" His voice lost none of its edge of levity, and if anything was more so when he continued, "Well, having been taken off my guard, I called her a hot-headed trollop." He grimaced and winced slightly, even before Mim favored him with a disapproving stare, "I could have chosen better words, but at the time, I was not so amused as I am now."
"I should hope not," Mim murmured, swatting him on the chest for good measure.
"Well, she didn't take kindly to that, as I'm sure you can guess." The redhead nodded in agreement, and Jon winced at her disapproval. "So she grabbed my ear like a schoolmarm would!"
"Such as Mrs. Macmillan used to do oh-so-regularly?" Mim asked with a narrow eyed smirk as she recalled their shared childhood. A time she didn't like to think on often in relation to her education, but a good time for her and Jon.
"Almost as effectively, too!" Jon nodded enthusiastically, "After she grabbed my ear, she asked for an apology for the comment, which, with myself in such a position of disadvantage, I gave her. She then demanded repayment for the drink I'd spilled. I agreed, and after she calmed slightly, and while awaiting another drink, we spoke. After the drink arrived, she asked me if I should like some lunch, since she had a question or two of me. I obliged and we had a brief, if interesting conversation."
He opened his mouth to say more, but paused as he realized he was about to, once again, say more than he should. Pursing his lips, he shook his head in the manner of someone befuddled by the entire situation and shrugged, "As I said, it was all rather strange."
Mim shook her head in wonder at her friend, favoring him with a smile, "At least you showed restraint and had your wits about you enough to stop when you did."
Jon relaxed when it seemed she had missed his cutting the story short and he nearly sighed, covering it by speaking, "Yes, I guess I did. Hehe..." He laid his head back, and then looked to his left as Mim's hand planted itself firmly on the bed beside his head. Then her other hand came down on his right and she quickly straddled his torso. When he gazed up at her half lidded eyes, he realized that Mim had more on her mind than conversation. He gulped as unobtrusively as he could, his mirth swept away in an instant. "Mim, are you sure? With your having suffered from your memories earlier..."
"Jon..." she said in a subdued, emotional tone, "I... I need this right now... I need you right now." She looked slightly chagrined when she continued, blushing faintly. "I... I know this may seem... Untoward, but... I need to feel right now, and... Admittedly... To forget, at least a little bit... Please, Jon?"
"I..." Jon felt a brief stab in the heart at her words and some anxiety as to the situation. Thankfully, in his opinion, the anxiety was dulled and almost academic, though the emotional jolt was as unwelcome as it was unexpected. He reached up and cupped her face with his hands, giving her a hesitant smile and nod, "Okay, Mim. If you truly need this, I won't deny you, but please, I have to ask... Don't use me as a crutch of convenience, please?"
"Never!" Mim gasped, grabbing his hands and kissing the fingertips, "Jon... If... If I ever make you feel this way, you'll tell me...?" Jon opened his mouth to speak, but Mim shook her head firmly, "This isn't a negotiable request, Jon, this is how it has to be. And it goes both ways! I never, ever want you to feel used by me, and I want you to tell me if it seems I'm taking you for granted. Whenever it feels such, not just... Not just if we're about to have sex."
"Okay, Mim," Jon agreed after a moment, knowing just how serious her requests were. After holding her eyes for a moment, he added, "I promise." After considering him and his significant pause, Mim nodded that she believed him, and carefully climbed off of him, undressing as casually as if she were alone.
Her casualness about her body never ceased to amaze and please Jon. She was an exceedingly beautiful woman, in his and many other men's opinions. He couldn't help but feel blessed every time they were alone together, even if no sexual dalliances were in the offing. She will make some man very, very lucky someday... he thought with a distracted smile, standing up himself to undress, And I must admit, part of me would not mind in the least if I were that man... But I will be content with whoever it is, so long as she's happy.
"So, Jon," she called out through as she bent over to remove her stockings, "Just so I'm sure... The misunderstanding at the bistro was all that happened between you and Miss Go? There was no violence?"
"Oh, no, Mim," Jon assured her firmly, feeling sure that his skin was now covered in a sheen of nervous sweat, "No... Violence... I promise."
"Good," Mim said as she turned, shoving him backwards towards the bed just after he'd removed his undergarments, "I do not want to hear of violence between the two of you during an agreed upon truce!"
"Of course not, Mim!" he all but cried as Mim began to plant wet, intense kisses from the base of his neck towards the angle of his jaw. The motions and actions, though rare from Mim, were familiar to him in more ways than one, and he knew he was going to be busy for a good while again. With that realization, a sudden, desperate thought lanced through his entire being. Oh, please, not like this again today... I'm not a machine!
Authors' Notes
Oh dear. Poor Jon. Looks like he's a bit in over his head! I'm sure most would be pretty pleased to be in his position. However, like his descendant Ron, he isn't quite an average guy.
Nothing like a bit of dark humor to try and lighten up a situation or conversation, eh Bart? Shame that it won't get either of them out of telling more about themselves next Christmas. Unless, of course, Miriam finally gets Bart to cough up the proof. But would it even matter if Bart's telling the truth about it all?
Miss Go and Jon's confrontation seems to have been a bit... Heated. At least he came out of it more or less unscathed, unlike most of his encounters with Mim. Of course, she comes out worse for wear as well; that dress was probably really itchy. And what was up with Bart's condition? Talk about bringing something up to drop it!
...or have we?
Bunches of thanks go to Alice Shade and Sir Sebastian for looking at this and doing some fact-checking. Couldn't have had a more fact-based story without you guys.
As always, there's lots of other fics out there, so keep up the reading, and don't forget to review the stories you like!
EDIT 04/16/2015: Fixed some wording and punctuation and stuff. Sprucing it up to look its best!
