A/N: All right, sorry for the wait. My internet connection these past three weeks has been absolute hell – nothing worked for me. So here's Chapter Seven and I hope you enjoy it. I stuck to the movie scenes a little more closely than I probably should have, but I particularly liked these ones and I couldn't find much reason to change too much yet, but don't worry – I really will be diverging from the movie within the next few chapters, I promise! So don't forget to leave a review, as it would be much appreciated! Thanks, guys!

A/N 2: As you guys may remember, at the start of Chapter One I said that Estora's stories The Mummy: A Final Rising and Sinister Resurrection were major influences for an important aspect in this story. Okay, so basically, Anzar and Ardeth Bey's relationship in Pistol is based on the same sort of relationship Estora has written about between Ardeth and Zahir Bey in Sinister Resurrection. She has given me full consent to use this as a major influence/inspiration, so for that I would like give her a very big Thank-You!

Disclaimer: Yeah, guys, I'm making a fortune from this…

PISTOL: A Rendition

Chapter Seven

The disappointment seemed to radiate from his sister, scorching him, as the two siblings gently chipped away at the ceiling – the only two tools that Jonathan 'found' in Hamunaptra since arriving. Evelyn hadn't said a word to him since Rachael had left them for the Americans, not that he really blamed her. It was, after all, only partially his fault that their personal guide around Hamunaptra had left for a better expedition team.

He couldn't get her image out of his mind. The way she looked at him as he walked off, before closing her eyes as if suddenly ashamed of her choice, as if suddenly caring what Jonathan thought of her. Well, he'd bloody well tell her what he thought of her once he'd finished here with Evelyn! He thought she was a cheap, shallow American with little respect for those around her. Didn't she care that Evelyn was now silently raging with her betrayal? Didn't she care that Jonathan didn't want her to be taken advantage of by the Americans? Didn't she care that he wanted her beside him, that he wanted her around? Didn't she care that he thought she was someone? Didn't she care that she meant something to him?

…Didn't he mean anything to her?

Jonathan suppressed a sigh and blunted his chisel against the rock when he smacked the ceiling too hard for the tool's tolerance. Ignoring his sister's patronising glare, Jonathan threw the useless thing to the sandy floor, shortly before realising that they didn't have any more tools.

Evelyn pocketed her chisel and shook her head. "Well, I hope you're happy with yourself, Jonathan."

Jonathan glared at his sister. "I'm overjoyed, Evy, thank you."

"This is not a time to be joking, Jonathan!" she snapped. "None of this would have happened if you hadn't stolen Rachael's puzzle box, or had kept your mouth shut about – about – you know…"

She trailed off, reddening furiously, so Jonathan helped her along. "Kept my mouth shut about sleeping with her?" he supplied bitterly, turning away and leaning against the rocky wall. "Is that what you mean? Just come out and say it, Evelyn. I'm a right bastard and a complete screw-up. And I bloody well fucked up big this time."

Evelyn flinched at his coarse language, reeling back and covering her mouth with a hand in horror. "Watch your language, Jonathan Carnahan!" she ordered, placing her hands on her hips and creating an uncanny impression of a cross mother. "Such language from someone such as yourself is quite unseemly. And yes, I will come out and say it. You can be a right…well…you know…" She trailed off and lowered her voice to a whisper, glancing around nervously as if fearing that someone would hear her, "bastard, when you feel like it, and yes, you can be a screw-up, and yes, you messed up really big this time! I'll admit that Miss O'Connell should control her temper around you a little more, but because of your inability to stay quiet for long enough to think about what comes out of your mouth, we've lost out guide around Hamunaptra, and we're stuck with that awful man who probably hasn't taken a shower in his entire life!"

She stopped to draw breath and her gaze softened. Walking over towards Jonathan, she rested her head on his shoulder blade, closing her eyes.

"…But…if you hadn't stolen the puzzle box, I highly doubt we'd be here right now. I mean – we're in Hamunaptra, Jonathan. That's an amazing statement as it is. I shouldn't be complaining, really. Rachael's still taking us home, isn't she? I think we've done well, Jonathan. And in the end, it's really all thanks to your drunken stupidity. I never thought I'd say that, but there you go."

Jonathan was silent for the entire duration of her speech, stunned. Wasn't she mad at him for screwing everything up for them? For ruining this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for her? "You're…you're not…angry?" he weakly asked. Evelyn snorted sulkily and forced Jonathan to turn around so that she could face him.

"Of course I'm angry," she said half-heartedly, suggesting that she really wasn't, "but I'm also…glad, I suppose, for lack of a better word. You single-handedly got us here, by finding Rachael in the first place." She grinned and hugged him tightly. "So even though you've screwed up…you're not a complete screw-up. Now let's get back to work before those beastly Americans find that compartment."

Jonathan let go of Evelyn as she pulled out her chisel once more and moved towards where she was chipping away at the ceiling. Jonathan picked up his blunted tool from the sandy floor, staring at it dourly, then looked around, a frown furrowing his brow. "Say…where's our smelly little friend gone?"


"All right!"

Rachael looked on with a keen interest as Chamberlain and Henderson found the secret compartment they had been searching for. Brushing away dust from the seam, Chamberlain examined the hieroglyphics surrounding the compartment, his lips silently forming the translations. Henderson looked around for something to open the compartment, in which Rachael helpfully held out the crowbar. Grabbing it roughly from her hands, Henderson jammed it into the seal.

"Let's get us some treasure –!"

"Careful!"

Henderson's efforts to open the compartment had been in vain, as Chamberlain had lashed out sharply to grab his wrist tightly. Henderson looked ready to start swearing violently at the Egyptologist, but Chamberlain spoke before him.

"Seti was no fool." Rachael didn't know who Seti was, but something in Chamberlain's grave tone suggested that this 'Seti' was of great importance – and that it wasn't safe to open the compartment. Chamberlain gestured towards the cowering diggers. The Egyptologist lowered his voice. "Perhaps we should let…the diggers open it."

Henderson shared a glance with Daniels and yanked the crowbar out of the seam, nodding. "All right," he drawled. "Let them open it."

As Chamberlain snapped something in Arabic, or whatever language it was – she honestly had no idea what, nor did she really care – Rachael leant back against the wall again and crossed her arms over her body. Three diggers scarpered forwards nervously, all clutching crowbars, and jammed them into the seal around the compartment.

Judging from the way Chamberlain was backing away from the compartment while yelling at the diggers, who doubled their efforts, Rachael came to the conclusion that the distance away from the compartment she was standing was more than likely not a safe one, so she took a few steps backwards.

Or at least, she would have if she hadn't been startled by a muffled crash that seemed to sound from…the floor?

She whipped her pistol out and pointed it at the sandy floor, her eyes sharp with precaution. A quick glance at Daniels told her that he hadn't heard anything, as he was staring at her strangely. "Did you hear that?" she asked quietly, her words nearly drowned out by the Egyptologist's shouting. Daniels frowned.

"Hear what?"

"That – that noise. It sounded like a crash. From underneath us."

The American shook his head. "I didn't hear nothing, O'Connell," he said, looking back up at where the diggers were prying the covering to the compartment away. "Don't go gaga on us now."

Gaga. What a delicate way of putting it. Dismayed, Rachael relaxed her aim with the pistol, her hand falling casually to her side but still gripping the weapon tightly. Sweat glistened on the three diggers' heads, but still Chamberlain yelled at them, even as the compartment covering started to loosen, a grating noise filling the dreary chamber. Chamberlain yelled again, just as the covering was pulled off, landing to the floor with a dull thud –

– But the excitement of having it open was quickly quenched with cries of the utmost horror as an intense burst of liquid shot out of the compartment, hitting the three diggers. Rachael stumbled backwards, raising her pistol like her three American companions, as agonising screams of pure anguish filled the air. The chemical was searing through the diggers' skin, burning it – burning their faces, burning their eyes, their throats –

She closed her eyes and turned away, pressing a hand to her mouth.

Rachael O'Connell was not a squeamish person. Quite the opposite, but watching the diggers stumble around blindly before her, screaming in pain, their faces half seared off in, dropping to the floor and writhing, made her stomach churn when it normally would not. Doubling over, the bile burned her throat, the bitter acidic taste of vomit filling her mouth.

In the background, she dimly heard Chamberlain say, "I told you it was not a good idea for a woman to join us…"


No matter how many times she had rinsed her mouth out with water, the vile taste of vomit lingered on her tongue and raw throat. Gagging slightly, Rachael shifted the gunny-sack on her shoulder and sullenly trudged over towards Evelyn's and Jonathan's small camp set up away from the American camp. Now that she had joined up with the American expedition team, it only seemed fitting that she moved her belongings over to their camp.

She grimly assessed this. She was no longer with Evelyn and Jonathan, but even though the Americans had accepted her, she didn't feel as though she belonged there. She was more of an extra wheel, someone who wasn't necessary or needed – merely desired. And now that she had abandoned – changed groups, Rachael told herself, changed groups – her previous group, she didn't belong there either.

She was just…there.

In the middle of nowhere.

But don't forget about the treasure, she thought. That's all you're here for. The treasure. It doesn't matter about belonging anywhere, for fuck's sake. It'll all be over soon. Just take the treasure, get Carnahan and his sister back to Cairo then get the hell out of here. That's it.

Wasn't that what it was all about? Wasn't the treasure about why she had left Evelyn and Jonathan Carnahan for better, well-equipped group?

…Or was it just about getting away from him? So she wouldn't have to see him?

To remember?

She shook her head.

Of course it wasn't.

Inwardly sighing, her shoulders fell. Perhaps she shouldn't have been so hard on the absent-minded fellow. He had only been joking back at the trading post, and surely she was not so bitter in her youth yet to take such offence to the harmless comment? It was fairly funny, now that she thought about it, but at the time she just…flew off the handle, for lack of a better phrase.

It had almost as if it had been that she was…angry he thought so little of her.

Despite it only being a joke.

But it wasn't as if she cared about what he thought about her.

Gritting her teeth, she slipped down a sand dune to greet Evelyn and Jonathan, who were curled up next to a flickering campfire. Rachael noticed that Hassan was absent from the group, and picked up the quiet conversation murmured between the two siblings.

"What do you suppose killed him?" The girl was staring into the flickering flames of the fire, and she was as still as a statue as if in a state of total shock, but that wasn't what caught Rachael's concern – her voice was completely devoid of any sort of emotion. 'Him', Rachael supposed, was Hassan, and judging from Evelyn's behaviour, the timid librarian had either seen his dead body or watched him die.

Jonathan sighed and prodded a log on the fire with a long stick. "Did you ever see him eat?"

Evelyn snorted resentfully.

Jonathan shook his head. "Two team members in a day," he said dejectedly. "I don't really care about the second, but I really wish –"

"Rough day, huh?"

She didn't want to hear any more and made her presence known to the two. Evelyn jumped and Jonathan swivelled around, his mouth snapping shut and a frown appearing on his head. "What are you doing here, O'Connell?"

Rachael caught the bitter tone laced in his rude greeting – something that would normally have prompted a smirk to grace her face, but coming from him, just moments after nearly hearing him wish that she hadn't gone? It felt like a punch to the gut, yet still she forced a smirk onto her face. "I'm just collecting my belongings."

Evelyn nodded silently and bit her lip. "The warden died today."

Rachael sat down next to the librarian. "How?"

The girl shrugged. "We don't know."

An awkward silence settled over the three of them. Despite realising that it was probably not the wisest move on her part to continue with the morbid conversation, Rachael said, "Well, if it helps, we had our own little misfortune today. Three of our diggers were…uh…melted."

"Melted?" Evelyn repeated, aghast. "How?"

"Salt acid," Rachael said, remembering Chamberlain's explanation and blurting it out before she could think about what she was answering. "Pressurised salt acid. Some sort of ancient booby-trap."

Evelyn shivered as Rachael silently choked back another gag, realising what she had said. Jonathan winced and pointed a finger at the campfire, jerking his hand to create a poking motion. "Maybe this place really is cursed," he murmured absently.

A gust of wing blew through the camp and the fire flickered intensely.

An eerie silence enveloped the three.

Before she could stop herself, Rachael looked up and met Jonathan's firm gaze. Her lips parted in surprise and her mind screamed at her to look away, to focus on something else, anything else, but she found her eyes wouldn't obey. Even though Jonathan's face was still and stoic, his blue eyes betrayed everything. Disappointment, betrayal, hurt, anger –

ohgodmoremorepleasedontstop

"Oh, you two!"

Evelyn's exclamation shattered the brief connection and Rachael seized the opportunity to turn away, closing her eyes. She didn't know why she cared so much about what the Englishman thought, or why she was even contemplating it.

It wasn't as if it mattered.

"You don't believe in curses, huh?" she asked, inwardly surprised at how steady her voice was. Evelyn shook her head.

"No, I don't. I believe if I can see it and I can touch it then it's real. That's what I believe," she said firmly. "And if my observations are correct, that's what you believe, too, Miss O'Connell."

Rachael allowed a small grin to grace her lips. "I believe in being prepared." She pulled a rifle out of her gunny-sack and cocked it, just to make a point, and stood up, moving over towards where her few belongings resided, beside Evelyn's. "So you managed to set up the tent without too much hassle?"

Evelyn glanced over at the tent a few metres away from the campfire and shrugged. "Not too much hassle," she confirmed, "but it would have been easier with a third person."

Once more, Rachael made a reminder to teach Evelyn about the delicate art of subtlety, as it was blaringly obvious that the girl had no idea how to use it. Hiding the stab of guilt that punched her gut with her poker face, Rachael nodded and picked up her things. "Yeah, shame Hassan carked it."

If the girl was insulted, Rachael didn't stick around to find out, instead turning away and striding away purposefully towards the American camp.

Behind her, she caught the outraged remnants of Evelyn's and Jonathan's conversation. Curious as to what the two siblings would be saying about her, she stood still and strained her ears to pick up the rest of the conversation.

"Well, I never! Being so openly disrespectful of the dead! I know he was not the most agreeable of all people, but you would think that –"

"Forget it, Evy. She's…"

Rachael half expected Jonathan to finish the sentence off with a not worth it, but he trailed off as if suddenly unsure of how to finish.

"…She's…probably got a lot on her mind."

Rachael O'Connell's jaw was not accustomed to dropping open when she was surprised, but this was one of the rare times it did just that.

"Yes, well, we all have and you don't see me poking fun at the warden's untimely death."

"You, dear sister, merely lack Rachael's sharp edge."

"…I'm not sure whether to take that as a compliment or an insult."

Jonathan chuckled. "Either one. Although, speaking of Hassan, let's take a peek at his stuff."

"Jonathan, you really shouldn't –"

Evelyn was broken off by Jonathan's sharp yelp. Rachael's free hand jumped to her pistol in a wave of panic.

"What? What is it?"

"Broken bottle."

Rachael nearly swore out loud and her hand fell from her pistol, gritting her teeth and cursing herself for her stupidity. What was she thinking? That she could protect him from something? He wasn't worth it. Besides, it wasn't as though she was all that concerned about the Englishman.

Of course she wasn't.

She didn't care.

With that thought in mind, she shifted her belongings and strode away purposefully, ignoring the rest of the drifted conversation that followed her until she was out of earshot. Something about alcohol.

…That conjured an unpleasant memory.

Closing her eyes, she threw her stuff down next to Burns's pile of belongings and unceremoniously sat on top of it, not caring what she was crushing. Perhaps the word 'unpleasant' was a little strong, she considered, covering her face with her hands. The memory was…less desired than others. Yes, that sounded better.

Less desired.

moreohpleasemoredontstopjonathan –

This time she swore roughly and quite loudly, with every intention of letting every single person within hearing range that she was thoroughly pissed off, but she was drowned out by the familiar chorus of gunfire. With a start, her hand snapped to her waist to draw her pistol as her eyes flew open, scanning the immediate area, only just noticing that all three Americans, Beni and Chamberlain were absent.

Jumping to her feet, Rachael grabbed her gunny-sack and threw it open grabbing a rifle and a spare gun to shove in her holster. Her hand hovered over the sticks of dynamite, caught between deciding whether or not to take them.

Her debating time was cut short, however, as a bullet whizzed past her ear.

Her breath latched in her throat as she jumped out of the way of another potential killing shot, running and cocking her rifle. Running through sand was never pleasant, nor was it easy, but running for your life through sand was just about as bad as it could get. Turning around to face her prospective murderer to fire a well-aimed bullet through his chest, she pulled the trigger and moved out of the horse's way as the rider fell off, dead.

Screams and yells of the Americans echoed through the camp, laced with the cracking of gunshots. Firing her rifle to shoot down the attackers, she noticed that they looked peculiarly like the silent, unresponsive warriors on the cliff she had seen running away from Hamunaptra three years previously.

Upon closer inspection – in which she narrowly escaped a possible head decapitation – she decided that these new enemies were indeed the fellows on the cliff she had seen. Rachael snorted and fired, stepping over the man she had just killed. So much for 'silent' and 'unresponsive', then.

Her eyes raked the battle scene, her eyes darting back and forth between their new enemies. It didn't really strike her as being odd that not one of them cared that their fellow warriors were being killed – such was usually the case with desert tribes, much like the Tuaregs –

No, scratch that.

Her aqua-blue eyes caught one man, when every time one of his fellow warriors was shot down, his body language indicated that he longed to leap off his horse and slaughter the killer.

It was strange to see, but it gave her an idea.

Running up on a high ledge, her eyes followed this man, the one with raven-black locks and strange markings on his face, as he galloped through the ruins – chasing none other than Jonathan Carnahan.

If the situation were not so dire, Rachael would have laughed.

So she didn't laugh.

It never really occurred to her until afterwards that jumping off the ledge and barrelling into this warrior with a sword – sword?! – was possibly the most idiot thing she had ever done in her life besides accepting alcohol from the very man whose life was in danger. Yet jumped she did, and successfully slammed into the enemy she did. He was thrown off his horse, and Rachael with him, as the two hurtled to the sandy floor. Spinning up on one knee, Rachael fired her rifle.

And she would have shot him if it were not for the minor fact that he used his sword to strike her weapon away.

She still had her pistol and her spare gun, but both weapons were now essentially useless. She ducked as the man took a swipe at her head and rolled out of the way, now wishing that she had snatched the sticks of dynamite when she had the chance. Now she would have to settle with second-best, and pray that this man's loyalty to his tribe overrode his desire to kill her.

For as she rolled out of the way, she kicked out at a running enemy and tripped him over. With a thrill of satisfaction, she grabbed the man's collar and together the two stumbled to a standing position, with him in front of her like a human shield and her pistol shoved under his chin.

The reaction she had expected from the battle around her was that there was to be no reaction – so it completely astounded her when she realised that every single attacker in the midst froze, all eyes directed at Rachael, the man she was holding a pistol to, and the man previously engaged in fighting her.

Holding the man in a tight arm-lock, she cocked the pistol and dug the barrel deeper into his skin.

"La," her previous attacker breathed, his hand gripping a formerly concealed gun tightly. "Let him go. Your fight is with me."

"My fight," Rachael hissed, "is with every single one of you bastards." She kicked her captive's right ankle. "Including him."

The man's eyes flashed darkly as he took a step forwards. "Let him go," he repeated.

"And if I do? What will you do then?"

"Ardeth, for Allah's sake, kill her –"

Rachael kicked his ankle again, this time harder, which resulted in a growl. Frowning coldly, she tapped his jaw with her pistol. "Shut up. I wasn't talking to you. You forget who is holding the weapon to whom." She shot a challenging glare at Ardeth. "Ardeth, is it? Well, I ask you again – what will you do if I let him go?"

"We will leave, on the condition that you, too, leave."

Her captive snarled. "Ardeth, just shoot her –!"

She kicked his ankle again, this time making him hiss in pain as he staggered in her grip. "I can kick harder," she warned. Glancing back at Ardeth, she said, "Shoot me, he says. Perhaps it should be noted that by the time you pull your trigger, I will have already put a bullet through this man's head."

Her voice rung with pure confidence, cockiness, and callousness, as if she honestly couldn't care less about her own life.

In truth, however, she was utterly terrified.

Three years ago, in this very same godforsaken place, she decided that she was too young to die, and she was more than happy to stick to that consideration. Death was not an appealing thought.

But Ardeth seemed to have fallen for her bluff, and lowered his gun, throwing it to the sand and standing back.

"Ardeth, damn you, pick it up –"

"No, Anzar!"

Rachael smiled coldly and removed her pistol from her captive's – Anzar's – head, shoving the barrel into the small of his back and thrusting him forwards roughly towards Ardeth. "Get out of here, before I kill you both."

Ardeth shot her a harsh glare. "Leave this place. Leave this place or die!"


"Leave this place. Leave this place or die!"

The woman raised an eyebrow and opened her mouth, no doubt to ask for some sort of explanation to this rather dire order, but Ardeth didn't stay to receive it. Turning away, he grabbed Anzar's elbow and pushed him towards a horse, ignoring the cold glares of the Americans and their diggers. Anzar wrenched his arm out of Ardeth's grasp and turned on him furiously, his dark eyes flashing dangerously. "I told you to shoot the damn woman!" he snarled.

Ardeth gripped the horse's reins. "And perhaps I would have, had your life not been at stake. The moment I would have fired she would have already killed you."

If the honest respect for Anzar's life Ardeth held meant anything to the younger Med-jai, he did not let it show. "Then you should have let her kill me, if it meant getting rid of these people!" Anzar hissed. "It is our solemn duty to protect these ruins, to ensure that the Creature remains undiscovered, and to do that, sacrifices must be made!"

Ardeth grabbed Anzar's shoulder. "You would have done the same for me."

It was not a question – it sounded more like a statement that needed reassuring. Anzar stared at his elder brother for a few agonisingly slow moments before shaking his head slowly. "No, Ardeth," he gritted out from behind clenched teeth. "I would not have done the same. If it meant protecting this place, I would have killed her. Even at the cost of your life."

Ardeth's face showed no emotion, but his dark eyes deceived him. Anzar angrily shook off Ardeth's hand from his shoulder, snatching the reins out of his brother's slack hand and mounting the horse.

"You trust too easily for your own good, Ardeth. That's what makes you weak. Always unwilling to make sacrifices. You continue to fail in your sworn duty, brother. My only consolation is that if you die childless, I will lead the twelve tribes."

The words pierced, despite their often repetition.

That's what makes you weak.

Ardeth didn't turn around as his brother spurred the horse into action to flee the ruins with a few Med-jai who gladly followed him. Too deep in thought to even notice when his own horse trotted up beside him and waited for him to leap on, and ride out with the rest of the Med-jai, Ardeth vaguely patted the horse's neck. Was valuing human life really a weakness? Something to be looked down upon?

He hoped not.

Leaping onto his horse, Ardeth glanced around the campsite, observing the Med-jai warriors watching him for orders. "Yallah, imshi!" He snapped irritably, kicking his horse into action. Cantering through the ruins – and over many dead Med-jai bodies, he grimly noted – Ardeth cast a fleeting look at Anzar's back.

No, Ardeth. I would not have done the same. If it meant protecting this place, I would have killed her. Even at the cost of your life.

Ardeth winced. No matter how many times he had heard those words, he was still unable to look past them, unable to pretend that Anzar didn't really mean it. Perhaps he really was weak.

And perhaps, Ardeth bitterly reflected, he was being selfish. Guarding Hamunaptra was the first priority of a Med-jai warrior, and since his life clearly meant nothing in his brother's eyes…perhaps he ought to have seen it that way, too.


Holding a cloth to the girl's wound, Rachael carefully poured some of Jonathan's alcohol over it, ignoring Evelyn's hiss of pain. Using her free hand, she wound a strip of bandage around Evelyn's arm, tightening it and tying it in place. The bullet had been a through-and-through, and hadn't hit any major blood vessels. Biting her lip as she moved back to allow Evelyn to lean back into her 'bed' – next to campfire and not in the tent as one would have expected – Rachael said, "I should have left a weapon with you."

Evelyn shrugged her right shoulder, wincing when she tried to move her left with it. "It doesn't matter, Miss O'Connell. I'm perfectly all right."

Jonathan knelt in the sand beside his sister. "You need to go to a hospital, Evy."

"The only way you are taking me to a hospital would be to drag me there because I am most certainly not leaving Hamunaptra any earlier than planned, Jonathan Carnahan!"

Rachael nearly smiled. The girl would be fine.

"I'm just saying, Evy…you need medical attention, sooner or later."

"It'll have to be later, then."

Jonathan scowled and gently pushed Evelyn back into her sleeping place for the night. "Fine, but only if you go to sleep."

Evelyn rolled her eyes and settled into her sheets, staring at Rachael expectantly. "Well, Miss O'Connell, thank you for your help, and we won't take up any more of your time. I'm sure you'll be wanting to head back to the American group now."

This time she smiled. Unsubtle as ever. "I suppose I –"

She was broken off by a very drunken, hysterical cry issued from the American camp, followed by a large bout of swearing and a poorly sung American folk song. Choking back a very girl-like and uncharacteristic giggle, Rachael raised an eyebrow and Evelyn bit back a smile. "Perhaps it would be better if you didn't join them until they've passed out. You can stay here for the mean time."

She meant to decline politely and purposefully depart the small camp to attempt to gain a proper night's sleep – she meant to keep her eyes from straying to the clear blue gaze of the Englishman, hoping to go the rest of the night without looking at him once – but she found herself failing miserably on both accounts.

So she stayed with Evelyn and Jonathan in silence, listening to the drunken ramblings of the Americans.

…And she didn't feel quite so alone.


Evelyn had fallen asleep quickly – far too quickly for Rachael's liking – which meant that now she was stuck in Jonathan's presence, and her only other option for human company was with the Americans, who were still parading around and now singing 'God Save the Queen' when it really should have been 'God Save the King'.

So Rachael, even though hating to admit it, preferred Jonathan's presence over the Americans' presences. Despite him sipping slowly at the bottle of alcohol, she still thought that as long as she didn't touch the alcohol, she wouldn't get into the same situation that started this whole mess.

She vowed not to touch liquor in Jonathan Carnahan's presence.

A vow which was quickly broken when he offered some to her.

Rachael O'Connell was not familiarised to getting drunk on a regular basis, so she was not entirely sure what was happening until the two were nearly finished the bottle. Within those few hours the Americans had fallen silent – no doubt having passed out – and it was only at the point when Jonathan tried to shove the nearly empty bottle into her hand that a suspicion she might be drunk crossed her hazy mind. She shook her head and pushed the bottle away from her.

"I learnt my lesson last time, Carnahan." Her voice was slurred and the world around her tilted slightly as she struggled to stay on her feet.

"Of course you did." His voice, too, was slurring, but he appeared to be keeping a much better balance than Rachael. Even in her intoxicated state, Rachael knew what sarcasm was and what was not.

"I did!" Her loud, slurred voice was accompanied by a poorly coordinated arm movement which threw her off whatever balance she may have kept, falling forwards. Fortunately she was caught before she hit the ground, and Jonathan's arms firmly wrapped around her body to keep her steady. She glared up at his grinning face. "I hope you're not expecting anything in return."

He shrugged sheepishly. "Well…"

Rachael pushed away from him, staggering backwards. Even in her intoxicated condition, she would not fall into the same trap twice. "Forget it, buddy. You get nothing from me."

The Englishman smirked. "If you say so."

She opened her mouth to retort sharply, until she realised that, through her hazy memory, this conversation echoed her very first one with him. She kicked the sand, nearly falling over again, and turned away from him. "Damn it, Carnahan…"

"Jonathan."

"What?"

"Call me Jonathan."

She turned around again, a frown etched on her forehead and her glazed eyes glowering at him, although the combination was relatively ineffective. "I'll call you whatever the bloody hell I want to call you, Carnahan."

Jonathan smirked. "Does that mean I get to call you whatever I want, Rachael?"

She shivered. Rachael. The way he said it, the way he looked at her – the heated gaze…she didn't like it. The way he said her name…intensely…

…Seductively.

"Don't," she whispered.

"Don't what?"

"Don't say my name like that."

"Like how?"

Helplessly, she shook her head. "Like…that." Obviously, being drunk destroyed her ability to be coherent.

"You're being awfully vague, Rachael."

There. He said it again. Heatedly, passionately, even despite the slight slurring of the words. She gritted her teeth and poked a finger at his chest. "Has anyone ever told you how annoying you are?"

He smiled and grabbed her hand. "On many occasions, darling."

Darling. That's what he had called her when they first met, in the Kasbah. Furiously, she tried to wrench her hand out of his grip. "Don't call me that!" she snapped. He pulled her closer, refusing to let go of her hand. Blue intense eyes bored into hers as she tried – vainly – to pry her hand from his.

"Why not, darling?" he breathed, lowering his lips to her ear, sending shivers down her spine. "You get to call me whatever you want, so I don't see why not…"

She jerked away from him, blinking back the unintentional tears that stung her eyes. "Fuck you, Carnahan, just fuck y-"

-ou.

She meant to finish, meant to turn around and walk away without tripping over, back to the American camp so that she could retain at least an ounce of dignity. But she couldn't finish, and she didn't turn around and walk away.

Jonathan Carnahan's arm was wrapped tightly around her waist, and his lips had smothered her words.


Ooh…you know, I didn't really mean for this to turn out this way. It just sort of…happened. I still don't know where I'm going with this, so any suggestions would be much welcomed. Thanks for reading, and please don't forget to leave a review! Remember: I thrive on constructive criticism!