(A/N- Jeesh- how long is ffn going to be down! Fortunately, I'm halfway through ch. 8, so it shouldn't take as long as this one did. As always- thanks for the feedback! As to Ian and Sara… I don't want to spoil things by dropping any hints!)
Chapter 7
Stale beer and fresh vomit. At least, that's what Ian guessed the unique aroma was. Hard to tell beneath the pervasive stench of the cigarette smoke.
"See! I told you this place was great!" Frank shouted in his ear, struggling to be heard as the advertised 'live band' finished hacking its way through a Chieftains' tune.
"Lovely," Ian muttered, shouldering his way past a sweaty throwback to the Stone Age. If he found the man's half-clothed state odd, he was apparently the only one in the bar who did.
"Jesus, Ian. Pull the goddamn silver spoon out of your ass, why don't you?!" Motioning to the bartender, Frank plunked triumphantly down on a newly vacated bar stool.
Vaguely affronted, Ian stomped up to the middle-aged drunk who now occupied the seat next to Frank. Not quite touching him, Ian stood ramrod straight and glowered. Seconds later, he eased down onto the suddenly empty stool and flashed Frank a smug grin. He might be unfamiliar with the bar scene, but he was well schooled in the art of intimidation.
"That's one of the things I like about you, Ian. You're about as subtle as a sledge hammer." Tossing a twenty on the bar, Frank raised his pint glass in salute. "Happy anniversary, kid."
"Sláinte." The black and tan was perfectly poured and not quite cold. Three long gulps, and it was gone. A beer or twelve, or something stronger....
"I thought you didn't drink much?" Frank had that slightly concerned look on his face, the one that proved he was smarter than Robert in most of the ways that mattered.
"One drink is the sign of a civilized man. Two is permissible. Anything more than that verges on boorish." Ian parroted the words with a German accent, not that Frank would get the joke. Just as well. It wasn't a very funny joke.
"You're a weird kid, Ian."
"I'm a freak. I have it on good authority." Ian waved the bartender over and the concerned look on Frank's face got more concerned.
"Maybe a bar wasn't the best idea. You up for a movie?"
"Whiskey- and leave the bottle."
Wiping his hands on his dirty undershirt, the barkeep smirked. "This is an Irish pub, boyo. You're going to have to be a bit more specific."
"Midleton Rare." The smirk was replaced by an embarrassed frown.
"Bushmills will be just fine," Frank interjected, nudging Ian in the ribs with his elbow. As the bartender grudgingly turned away, Frank leaned in closer to Ian's ear. "They don't have two hundred dollar bottles of booze in this place, Ian. Damn! Are you trying to start a fight?"
"No fights. I don't think Robert wants me to kill anyone."
"Yea- I'm pretty sure not. Ian... please tell me you're not a mean drunk." If Frank got any more 'concerned', Ian was worried he'd rupture something.
"I don't drink," he placated, dropping a crumpled wad of cash on the bar and cracking the seal on the whiskey. As the bartender picked through the roll of hundreds looking for something smaller, Ian attempted a friendly smile. "Do you have any Ring Dings?"
Frank groaned and the bartender jammed a random bill in his pocket before stalking away, muttering under his breath. Ian knew enough Gallic to realize he'd been insulted, but as a favor to Frank he pretended he didn't.
Resolving to track down some Ring Dings before he went home, Ian filled his pint glass to the rim. Two drinks were permissible. He was still in the realm of the civilized. Slamming sixteen ounces back like another man would a shot glass, he enjoyed the burn as the alcohol tore straight to his gut. It tasted like the antiseptic Immo used on him when he was careless enough to be hurt, careless enough to let Irons know he'd been hurt.
Immo and sterile rooms and Kenneth's disapproving gaze. More memories he could do without. Time to discover whether memories could drown.
"I swear, if you get me killed tonight, Mai Li is going to castrate you. Cut your balls right off. She's a woman who could do it. Believe me, I know."
Frank's yammering voice wound down and Ian had to bite the inside of his lip to keep from laughing. Frank was almost as much fun to irritate as Kenneth had been, the lack of hitting an added bonus. Oh, yes. The beer had been a very good idea and the whiskey was proving to be an even better one. 'Recreational drug use.' He'd never understood the concept before now.
"You are going to be completely shit-faced," Frank said, his voice softening. "Have you ever even been drunk before?"
More memories. Not exactly good, but not exactly bad, and he nodded. "Once," he replied, ducking his head as if sharing a secret. "I was rebelling."
"Were you successful?"
Ian couldn't help a grimace at remoteness of that possibility. "Were the Irish?"
Frank chuckled and with a shrug of his shoulders let the concerned look fade away. "Okay, I give up. You deserve a bender. We shall drink 'til we puke, we'll kick a little local ass, and before the end of the night, we're gonna get you laid. Fair enough?"
I don't want to get laid. No, he couldn't even pretend to say those words. "I'm spoken for." Still not the truth, as Sara had barely spoken to him, much less for him. But it would do.
Tugging the half-empty bottle from Ian's hand, Frank tilted it to his lips. "You have a girlfriend and you didn't say anything? Spill. I want to hear about the woman who finally managed to throw a rope around you."
When he didn't respond, Frank poked him with the bottle. "It is a woman, isn't it?"
Snatching the whiskey, Ian took a deep swallow. Three glasses, no matter how you counted. He had officially reached 'boorish'. Right up there with disloyalty and disobedience on the list of deadly sins. Maybe Irons would give him credit for consistency?
"Earth to Ian! A simple, 'I don't want to talk about it,' would be sufficient."
"I don't want to talk about it."
"So- is she pretty?"
Ian was still debating whether Robert would forgive him for killing Frank when the band cranked the volume and kicked off their second set. The sound made his teeth hurt, and it took a moment to realize that it was 'Danny Boy' they were in the process of butchering. Surely Robert couldn't be angry with him for killing a band that was this bad?
"Jesus, they suck!" Frank shared his opinion with anyone close enough to hear, but not even the locals were willing to rise to the defense of the hapless trio. Reclaiming the bottle, he shook his head. "The only thing that band has going for it are the tight pants on the lead singer's ass."
"What he lacks in talent, he makes up for in enthusiasm. Reminds me of another singer I used to know." An uncharitable comment, but Ian didn't feel particularly charitable when it came to Conchobar.
"Doesn't sound like you liked the man much. I'm surprised he's still alive," Frank teased.
"I didn't and he's not."
The concerned look again. Ian was starting to get tired of it. "I didn't kill him, Frank. Not in this lifetime."
"Well, you're just a paragon of virtue now, ain't you? Don't suppose St. Ian would care to go in the back room and shoot some pool? At the very least, we'd escape the noise."
"Billiards?"
"Um, yea, Ian. Billiards. You do know how to play, don't you?"
"Of course," Ian replied, slipping from the stool. The room spun slightly, but he was steady on his feet. More than enough experience with all sorts of poisons in his body to handle a little alcohol. The fact that he'd never before had a choice in the matter made this experience all the sweeter.
"My bad," Frank said as he led the way. "I forgot you must have a pool table of your own back at stately Wayne manor."
"Not at the manor house, but at the estate in England and the château in the Alps..."
****************************
"How good are you at this game?" Frank whispered, his eyes locked on the green felt as a blocky redhead lined up a shot on the eightball.
"I'm excellent," Ian replied, wondering why they were whispering.
The eightball dropped into the corner pocket and Frank slapped a fifty-dollar bill in the center of the table. "Anyone care to make it interesting?"
The redhead who'd won the table stuck out a hand. "Ryan Brady, and I'd be more than happy to take your money."
"I'm afraid you're gonna have to take it from him," Frank said, jerking a thumb in Ian's direction.
"Not a problem," Ryan replied, his eyes widening as Ian shrugged off his sweatshirt and selected a cue from the rack on the wall.
"Your break." Frank smiled, drifting back to stand beside Ian. "Don't you think the shoulder holsters are a bit much?" he hissed.
"I was hot. Besides, no one here will complain." Pasting a 'cat playing with something soft, fuzzy and soon to be dead' grin on his face, Ian scanned the room. Not a single eye held his for more than a second. "See?"
"I'm gonna tell Robert you're a psycho."
"Robert already knows I'm a psycho."
After a moment's thought, Frank nodded. "True enough. Win the money and I'll stop bitching."
"What are the rules?"
Frank was seized by a sudden coughing fit. Waving off an irritated glance from Ryan, he pulled Ian into the back corner. "You told me you knew how to play! You told me you were 'excellent'!"
"Different game. Why was the eightball the last one on the table?"
"Jeesh, Ian. It's straight-up barroom pool! What, are you like ten years old, you've never played a game of eightball?"
Crossing his arms, Ian leaned back against the wall. "I'm thirty-three, not ten, and I'm sorry I lack your vast knowledge of the arts."
Brought up short, Frank nodded. "Yea, okay. You're right. Listen up and I'll fill you in on the rules... Hey! Wait a minute, your records say you're thirty-five."
"They also say my name is 'Smith'."
Frank studied his beer for a moment. "True," he said philosophically. "Now listen up, because you've got a lot to learn..."
****************************
Ryan was good, almost running the table from the break. Ian was better. He was lining up his final shot, an easy bank on the eight, when a long low whistle broke his concentration
The girl stood in the doorway, well aware that every eye in the room was on her. Pretty garbage wearing thigh-high boots and cocksucker lips, she was old enough to be legal but not old enough to vote. Ian dismissed her with a glance, bending back over the table and ending the game with one quick shot.
"Thanks for the donation," Frank said, pushing past a stunned Ryan and collecting the money on the edge of the table. "It will go to a good cause."
Crimson lips smiled, and the girl in the doorway headed straight for Ian. He was the only one in the room who was surprised by the fact.
"You must be good," she said, her head tilted downward, copper-colored hair shining beneath the smoke-filtered light. "Ryan almost never loses."
Ian didn't have to feign indifference. She was what Irons would have classified as 'trash'. Not that that would have prevented his master from bedding the girl, but she would never have been allowed to stay the night. Playing in the dirt was one thing, sleeping in it was something else entirely.
Of course, she could have been the queen of the universe and it wouldn't have mattered.
She ran her hands down the cue he still held in a manner that was more pornographic than suggestive. Ian was still searching for a polite means of saying 'Go away' when she looked up.
Emerald green eyes. He'd always lost himself deep inside green eyes. Green eyes so excruciatingly not Sara's it made him want to retch.
"Wanna dance?" green eyes asked.
"Why not."
With a pat on the back and a knowing wink, Frank said, "I think that's my cue to go home."
****************************
'Bloody Sunday'. A very bad rendition of 'Bloody Sunday'. Hardly dance music, but this wasn't like any dance he'd ever been taught.
The girl ground against him, her hands skimming down his biceps, her breasts pressed hard against his ribs. He hadn't felt this much flesh against his bare skin... ever. No matter how hard he scrubbed, he doubted the taint would wash off. She didn't smell like Sara, she didn't feel like Sara, she couldn't be Sara no matter how desperately he wanted her to be.
But Sara would never be his.
Ian could feel her across the distance, twisting atop sweat drenched sheets. The blade was in rare form tonight, the dreams washing through her, carrying her along on a wave of ecstasy. When she screamed for a man that wasn't him, he let her fade away.
He didn't need Sara, he held green eyes in his arms
Two long strides and they were off the dance floor. Ian slammed a booted foot against the emergency exit and the door swung open to dangle from a single hinge. A shouted protest halted his progress, and Ian turned with a hungry grin. Fighting would be better than fucking an imposter- all he needed was an excuse.
The bartender wasn't about to give him one. Cowed eyes stared back at him, and the man held both his place and his tongue. The girl was not so reticent.
Red-tipped nails looped around his belt, urging him forward into the still, dark night. With a guttural growl, Ian allowed himself to be led. If this was his hell, he was going to revel in it. Sara didn't want him. Irons didn't want him. When he was done with her, the girl wouldn't want him either.
Green eyes- hard, bright and brittle under neon lights.
"Don't you want to know my name?"
"No." Ian surged forward, falling into the sharp musky scent of sex and cigarettes and overripe flesh.
It would be so simple. So easy. Pin her to the ground. Pound himself into her until the earth itself swallowed them up. Fuck her raw within the warm safe confines of his own private hell. And when the fire was done burning them out, burning them through, he'd look into green eyes...
And she still.
Wouldn't.
Be.
Sara.
It would be so simple. So easy. Shove her against the wall. Wrap a hand around that fragile neck. Pound his fist into her until the bones broke and the blood made good its escape. And when he was done, he'd feed her to the river, the murky depths that would swallow her whole. He'd look into green eyes as she drifted away...
And she still.
Wouldn't.
Be.
Sara.
It would be so simple....
"Run."
"Hm?" She groaned against his chest, too far gone to be afraid.
Ian put a fist to the brick wall beside her head. Crack of bone, wet of blood, and now she knew enough to be scared. "Run before I decide to chase you."
High heels against stained concrete, a staccato beat that faded away almost as quickly as the memory of her face. The tightness in his chest had nothing to do with the girl. Stupid to have believed otherwise.
Grinding his bloodied hand against the wall, Ian strove for a pain that didn't burn quite so bright, sear quite so deep. What he found was Bodicia and no matter how hard he hit the wall, he wasn't going to stop her. He saw Sara's eyes fly open, and then they were both lost....
She was a broken thing long before he came to this cursed island. Shattered by Rome with the first touch of whip, the first groan of pleasure from the centurions, it is the witchblade that grants her the illusion of life. He gives her everything he has, everything he is, and he knows that it will never be enough.
In the middle of a blood-soaked field, she rides him. Screaming her release, her hatred, her challenge- some sick combination of all three that sets the carrion birds to wing. No love, no fondness, no lust. Just a vast aching nothingness that he can never fill no matter how hard he tries. It doesn't stop him from trying.
Sated and panting, she rolls away from him. He follows, just as he always does. A tentative hand through crimson hair, and he's grateful when she doesn't shy away.
"If we face the legion tomorrow, we will lose," he whispers. "Everyone will die. You will die."
Emerald green eyes that have seen too much. They stare through him as she smiles. "Good."
Falling to his knees, Ian emptied the liquid contents of his stomach. When the dry heaves released him from their grip, he rested his forehead against the cool stone and blinked back the tears. His fault. All his fault. If there was one past he'd never wanted Sara to know, Bodicia was it. The memories on the rooftop, his adolescent need to cling to a past where he still had a home... He had brought this dream to her, laid it like a gift at her feet. He had no one to blame but himself.
Ian wiped the vomit from his chin, tried to distract himself with the damage he had done to himself. It was impossible to tell who had won his pointless battle with the wall. His fingers were numb, white bone glinting through the raw meat that used to be his left hand. The wall hadn't fared much better, a pile of stone fragments beside his knee mute testimony to the power of his insanity.
Foolishness. Pure, self-indulgent foolishness. Kenneth would be irate. Which meant there was really no harm in giving the old man's anger just a bit more fodder.
Before he could reconsider, he was on his feet. Irons couldn't have every pay phone in D.C. tapped. Actually, he could. But he probably didn't. It shouldn't matter anyway. He'd been sent away, Irons wasn't even looking for him. And somehow he knew that wasn't true.
No change in his pocket, but the tip of his knife fit neatly into the base of the phone. More change than he'd need, this was going to be a short conversation.
It felt good just to dial her number.
"Ian?" Sleepy, disoriented. Afraid.
"It wasn't always like that, Sara."
"Nottingham!" From afraid to angry in the blink of an emerald green eye.
"It wasn't always bad. I wasn't always bad."
He hung up the phone before she could reply. Foolishness. Pure, self-indulgent foolishness.
He hoped Irons choked on it.