Thanks to MrDrP, CajunBear73, Meca Vegeta, and the archduke for reading and reviewing. This being my maiden multi-chapter voyage on the potentially treacherous waters of KP fanfic, I welcome any and all feedback.

Particular thanks to beta-reader and guru Ultimate Naco Topping for the pearls of wisdom he has thrown before me.

As stated elsewhere, Disney, not I, owns Kim Possible. Alas and alack.


Chapter III

Personae Non Gratae

I.

"KIM POSSIBLE?!" Drakken's roar expressed the usual rage, confusion, and resentment.

"Yes, Doc, the Princess and the frog are in Saigon." Shego, as ever, affected being entirely absorbed in filing her nails as she delivered the news of her chance encounter.

Drakken put his hands to his cheeks and shook his head in frustration, before slumping over the railing that separated his elevated command platform and console from Shego's workstation and personal lounge. The cavern was still largely dark and desolate. Drakken had contracted with HenchCo for installation and tech support, but Hench of course had insisted on payment in advance, which had delayed things a bit.

"Honestly, Shego. What are the odds!" he griped, frowning.

"Oh, I don't know. Let's think about it, hmmm? Here's you"— one gloved hand making talky-talky motions in the air -- "plotting a harebrained scheme from your latest secret lair. Here's me" -- the other hand somehow managing to imbue talky-talky motions with a sardonic air -- "once again working for you, despite all my best instincts. What, do you suppose, is the likelihood that Kim Possible will show up right on time? Maybe absolutely GUARANTEED!"

With that, for emphasis, she balled up the "Shego" hand and smacked it into the "Drakken" hand with a loud crack.

Shego was enjoying tweaking Drakken, but had to admit (strictly to herself, of course) that it had been quite a shock to see her nemesis and the straphanger on the streets of Ho Chi Minh City. The healthy streak of paranoia that had kept her alive and – largely – out of jail for all these years whispered that they were looking for her, despite the low profile she'd been keeping lately. But after sneaking into the restaurant and eavesdropping on their lunchtime conversation, she realized the truth was simpler. And sweeter.

Of course, Drakken was ranting on without even noticing the smile dancing around the corners of Shego's mouth.

"Really, it's so unfair. Do you know how much it cost to relocate the lair here? The penalties from cashing out the 529 plan were a nightmare! I refuse to believe I'm going to lose it all again to that lippy child and her-"

"Whatawhatwhat now Doc?" Shego interjected, genuinely surprised. "Do you mean to tell me you had a college savings plan? What on earth for?"

"Come now, Shego," said Drakken, rolling his eyes. "You know how unpredictable supervillainy can be. Why, one might wind up having to educate a younger, cloned version of oneself, or an arch-enemy's child whom you've stolen and seduced into evil in a final ironic strike against them!"

Here Drakken paused, and the rapturous look on his face quickly shifted into a downcast expression, making it clear that these were two dreams he had had to let go of.

"Anyway," he continued, "you should think about it – you just can't buy the kind of peace of mind that comes with financial security…though, I guess you kind of can…I suppose that's rather the point…where was I again? Ah yes, ranting about Possible. Why, I-"

"Whoa, Doc, no need to get your hyper-electro-plasma-de-icing-irradiated shorts in a twist. There's more to the story." Shego smirked. "She can't go on missions!"

"…nnngg?" Confused black eyes gazed at her from under raised black eyebrows, a prominent blue jaw gaping.

"That's right, Doctor D! She works for the State Department and they've forbidden her from taking on missions. Oh, you would have died if you could hear their pathetic angstyness! "Oh, whatever will I do," Shego began in a high-pitched sing-song voice, "I feel so empty inside!" She switched to a false baritone. "Oh, don't worry honey, I'll take care of you – you don't need to fight evil when you've got your pathetic loser husband and your miserable bureaucratic wage-slave job! Now let's go home and I'll fill up that emptiness, heh heh, if you know what I mean…"

She paused to laugh deeply and wipe the tears of mirth from her eyes.

An evil grin flowered on Drakken's face. He turned back to his console, momentarily lost in thought.

"Oh, this is simply too good," he chortled. "Too rich! Poor little Kim Possible" – he practically spat the words – "has been forbidden from going on missions! Well, that gives me an idea…Shego! We have some calls to make!"

II.

Kim stared out the window of the Airbus as it prepared to set down at Siem Reap international airport.

Gazing over the dusty plain dotted with patches of trees, the murky waters of the Tonle Sap just visible to the south, she thought about all the exotic places she had visited on missions over the years – mystical monkey temples (including one right here in Cambodia), historic ruins, secret mountaintop lairs, inaccessible locations of natural beauty.

Rarely, if ever, had there been the opportunity to appreciate them. She had always been in mission mode, focused on the task at hand, whether it was Dementor, or Drakken, or DNAmy – what is it with the D-names for villains, anyway? – whose plan they were foiling. Occasionally there would be a moment of post-mission quiet when she and Ron could briefly take in the view from Mount Kilimanjaro or steal a kiss in the Boboli Gardens. But then they would be off again – back to cheerleading practice, midterms, game night with Cousin Larry – and who knew if they would ever return?

Now things could be different. Now, she could take some time for herself and be a normal tourist.

She looked at Ron in the seat next to her, head back, snoring softly and drooling out of the corner of his mouth. And here was her very own never-be-normal tourist to share it with.

It was all she could do to keep from bouncing up and down in her seat with excitement as the plane came in on final approach.

III.

Kim and Ron stepped into the lobby of the Raffles Grand Hotel d'Angkor. Its colonial-era architecture, ceiling fans, cool marble, and rattan furniture immediately made the two of them feel like characters in a film set in 1930s Indochina.

They were dressed for the part, too – Kim in a simple A-line linen dress in a light shade of blue, her hair pulled back into a ponytail, and Ron in a cream-colored linen suit and white cotton shirt.

They got their bearings, drawing a few appreciative glances from guests and staff in the lobby, before heading for the hotel's flagship Khmer restaurant, "Le Grand."

"You see, Kim?" Ron grinned and waved his arm to encompass the scene (missing by centimeters an enormous but delicate arrangement of orchids on an end table, causing three bellboys and an assistant manager to clutch their chests and then sigh deeply in relief).

"We stay down-scale and eat up-scale!" he continued. "Financially responsible and badically tasty."

Kim had to recognize his logic. After all, she was making a junior civil servant's salary and Ron's wages from the Consulate cafeteria, while tax-free, were fixed to the local Vietnamese wage scale. She had been a touch anxious about staying in a two-star hotel in Cambodia – even if she still was the towel-off type – but had been pleasantly surprised by the friendly staff and the spotless and homey room, with its terra-cotta tiles and aesthetically placed vases, teapots, and flowers. And staying in a budget hotel meant that they could spend freely elsewhere, for example on an elegant dinner at the Raffles.

Following Ron's plan to the letter, after freshening up from the trip and changing clothes they had walked the short distance from their auberge to the landmark Grand Hotel. The dusty street crunched beneath their shoes, and the humid air was full of the sweet smells of tropical fruits, the buzz of insects, and the murmur of the many languages being spoken by the tourists and locals. The slow-moving Siem Reap river twisted along beside them as they walked beneath a canopy of leafy trees.

It all combined to create an intensely exotic and romantic atmosphere, reinforcing the good mood which had accompanied Kim off the airplane.

In the restaurant they were shown to an elegantly set table by the window, looking out over the hotel's great lawn. Both were quickly overwhelmed by the mouth-watering offerings on the menu – modern twists on traditional Cambodian dishes. Kim chatted effortlessly with the waiter in French – ah, she thought, five years at the Sorbonne had to be good for something – and Ron, for once, ceded the ordering to her and her flawless French, though he did have some misgivings about the absence of a picture menu.

The restaurant was beginning to fill up as ruins-weary patrons in twos and fours wandered in, returned with powerful appetites from the day's sight-seeing. Kim and Ron chatted idly and gazed out across the lawn at the silhouette of the great temple of Angkor Wat that was just visible in the dusk. Shortly the waiter delivered their small bowls of sour soup and they reached for their spoons.

Suddenly there was a commotion at the table behind Ron and to his right, where four older tourists had been sitting. A grey-haired gentleman in a blue blazer, half out of his seat with his back to them, was clutching his throat and making straining sounds, his dinner companions gazing in horror, momentarily frozen over their shared plate of grilled fish wrapped in lettuce leaves.

Ron saw Kim's body tense. He felt the slight breeze and heard the light "thock" under the table as she kicked off her shoes. With instincts honed by years of experience, he ducked down and to the left as her chair flew backwards from the force of her sudden leap and she vaulted straight over the table, turning a somersault in-flight to land directly behind the choking victim.

Simultaneously, in one smooth move, Ron scooped up Kim's bread plate and slid it gently on top of her soup bowl, while grabbing her napkin out of mid-air as it floated down from the point where her lap had been a moment earlier.

Ron then turned just in time to see Kim put her arms around Blue-Blazer from behind and jerk once, expelling the fish roll from its temporary lodging in his windpipe.

Unfortunately Blue-Blazer's flailings had so startled his friends that one of them, in her rush to get to his assistance, lost her balance struggling to get out of her chair and toppled over backwards – directly into a waiter carrying a rack of pork skewers sizzling over a small bed of live coals. The skewers flew straight up in the air, and the coals flew every which way, including some into the long lace curtains that lined the windows.

Kim's eyes darted around the room and found her new target in an instant. She kicked off again and backflipped once, twice down the narrow space between tables until she reached a silver seltzer dispenser on the sideboard by the waiters' station.

Meanwhile Ron reached into his right suit pocket – which had been hanging somewhat heavily – and snatched out a small pink object which, with a flick of his wrist, he deftly tossed skyward.

Almost faster than the eye could follow, Kim was back by the windows, spraying a stream of club soda on the curtain hems, which were just beginning to smolder. The nascent fires went out with angry sputters and hisses.

And Rufus, awakening in a flash from his nap, and using all four limbs, tipped the half-dozen flying skewers this way and that such that five landed harmlessly in potted plants scattered around the restaurant. The sixth he used to break his fall before starting in on its succulent cargo, his share of the spoils.

Staff and patrons stood agape. Blue-Blazer rubbed his neck and his companions stared at him, at each other, and finally at Kim and Ron. Ron walked around to Kim's side of the table and pulled her chair out; she smoothed her dress and sat down delicately. He laid her napkin on her lap, uncovered her soup bowl, and turned back to his seat.

Suddenly he felt the familiar sensations of a button spontaneously coming undone at his waist and of gravity tugging at his trousers. Yet his lips turned up in a small smile.

Kim looked up at him and smiled, as ever both pleased with her saving-the-day intervention, and a little shy in the face of all the attention.

"A-booyah," Ron said under his breath, as he snapped his suspenders and sat down.

They started in on their dinner to a backdrop of thunderous applause.

IV.

The next morning they made ready for a day of sight-seeing among the ruins of the ancient temples of Angkor Wat.

"It's not just a choice of shoes, KP - its a way of life!" As usual, Ron's voice began climbing in register and volume as he found a topic he could really get worked up about.

"Come again?" Kim's eyes narrowed and her eyebrows rose as she looked skeptically at her BFHB. "My footwear defines me? Pretty shallow, but I guess I should expect that from The Ron!"

"That was a long time ago, Kim." Ron put his large hands in front of him, palms forward, and waved them in a gesture simultaneously apologetic and dismissive. "Just hear me out. You: type A. Controlling" (standard sheepish Ron grin at the low rumble building in his BFW's throat), "in love with structure and order. Adherent to an essentially rigid moral code, notwithstanding your occasional lapses..." He continued, ignoring her glare. "And what are you wearing on your feet? Hiking boots! Why?"

"Gee, hard to say, Sherlock. Maybe because we're going hiking?"

"No, KP, so you can walk without coming into contact with wild, uncontrolled nature, fearing for the loss of your orderly little universe. Now look at me. The yin to your yang. The devil-may-care Ron-man, ready for anything, come what may. Open to the world and new experiences" (here pointing to the sandals on his feet) "and with toes open to the air, to the sun, to all of God's creation! Oh yeah, open-toed. That's what it's all about." Building to a climax like an old-school preacher at a revival meeting, he threw his hands up in the air. "C'mon Kim - let the world in! Don't be afraid! Wear your sandals and let those toes breathe the fresh air of freedom!"

"Oh, I'll ventilate something all right," growled Kim in mock anger as she grabbed Ron around the waist, threw him onto the bed behind her, and leapt on top of him, tickling mercilessly.

Once upon a time such commentary on his part would have left her seriously tweaked. In high school her insecurities wouldn't allow her to accept criticism from anyone, let alone her best friend and support of last resort. Now, however, while she could still find his slightly out-of-kilter view of the world a minor irritant, she could appreciate it more as part of the essential Ron-ness without which he just wouldn't be himself.

Ron squirmed beneath her extended assault, gamely counter-attacking, until the tickling turned into caressing and the laughter into passionate kissing. Looking into each others' eyes they made the silent, simultaneous decision that touring could wait a few minutes longer. As Ron's hands began to work at the buttons of her blouse, Kim had to admit to herself that, indeed, opening up wasn't necessarily all bad…

V.

Siem Reap astounded them as they toured its many majestic temples and monuments. The Grand's management, in a gesture of appreciation for their actions at dinner, had provided them a guide and air-conditioned jeep, which considerably eased the distances between temples. They gazed with wonder on the silent faces of the Bayon, with their mysterious smiles and ancient dignity. They climbed to the top of the pyramidal Ta Keo and, over orange sodas bought from the hawkers, admired the view of lush forest and mysterious, silent ruins in every direction. They marveled at the enormous trees growing out of the cracked façade of Ta Prohm.

Finally they turned to the centerpiece: the temple complex of Angkor Wat. It loomed above them as the approached from the west, crossing the moat and proceeding into the shadow of its towers. Despite being quite tired from a full day of touring in the hot sun, they were swept away by Angkor's magnificence. The delicate carvings of dancing apsaras invited them to examine panel after panel of fine stonework and beautiful depictions of scenes from the Ramayana. They wandered past pilasters, through darkened hallways and crumbling atria, through courtyard after courtyard, and up and down staircases worn smooth and slippery from centuries of use. Sometimes they held hands and walked along slowly behind their guide, only half-heeding his detailed analysis of the religious significance of the carvings and architecture; at other times they separated and strolled at their individual paces through the galleries.

The sun sank lower in the sky as the remaining tourists in the complex proceeded to the central tower, from which the view at sunset was said to be a highlight of any visit. Before joining the crowd their guide took them to one last stop at the wall-length carving of the "Churning of the Sea of Milk." Demons were arrayed on one side, pulling on an end of the serpent Vasuki, as gods pulled from the other direction, in a joint effort to recover the elixir of life which had been lost in the cosmic sea. Ron snorted when their guide pointed out the monkey deity Hanuman anchoring for the gods in this celestial tug-of-war.

Their guide paused and peered into a corner of the gallery, squinting into the deepening shadows created by the setting sun. "Is someone there?" Suddenly he jumped back.

"Ahh. The cheerleader." A voice hissed from the shadows. "Just as anticipated."

Kim assumed a ready position as Lord Montgomery Fiske emerged from the darkness in the corner of the gallery. His calm demeanor and quiet footsteps – pawsteps? – belied the cold menace in his eyes, and in the eyes of the dozen monkey ninjas who were climbing down from various concealed niches to assemble around him. Ron, a few steps behind Kim, rolled his eyes (of course: Cambodia, Monkey God, Monkey Fist, blah blah blah; what'd I expect?) and moved forward.

"So delighted to see the happy couple. Do I address you now as Mr. and Mrs. Pretender? Or perhaps Pretender and Consort?"

"The only addressing you'll be doing is on your letters from prison," Kim snapped back.

Monkey Fist sneered. "Much as I never fail to enjoy our little exchanges of pleasantries, I see no reason to drag this out and trouble all these innocent – and, in many cases, noticeably frail – tourists with our little dispute. I suggest we simply resolve this quickly." He squinted and his voice grew harder. "Give me the onyx Hanuman of Angkor, which you have stolen, and I will be on my way. You two can then continue your oh-so-very-charming integration into the bourgeoisie."

"Resist, and things could get very…untidy." Monkey Fist signaled with the slightest movements of his head and the monkey ninjas began to spread out so as to surround Kim and Ron.