It Was a Very Uncomfortable Feeling
Disclaimer: Not mine. Never will be.
AN: Hellooooooo, my wondrous friends! All right, I'm in a particularly good mood at the moment, because I actually managed to finish this fic. Read. Enjoy.
Thanks once again to the beta, as well as my terrific reviewers. Hooray!
The Sultan's Kasbah was Jonathan's favorite bar. Not only was it frightfully seedy, with cheap beer and an English owner, it was also full of stupid rich people. Jonathan loved stupid rich people. He loved most everything about them. He loved their pockets. He loved being their friend. He loved the wallets they left unattended while they slobered their way into slumber in a puddle of beer. Thus, whenever Jon was in Egypt, he tended to spend a fair bit of time at the Sultan's Kasbah. Of course, the other thing about the Sultan's Kasbah was that it was always very crowded. It could be difficult, at times, to find a seat.
Jonathan finally managed to spot two seats - one on either side of a fairly large man who was obviously engaged in the very serious business of getting drunk as quickly and quietly as possible. Jonathan, blissfully oblivious of this fact, forced his way through the crush of people whilst carefully protecting his full pint of beer. He made it all the way to one of the empty seats before he tripped on a sticky spot on the floor and managed to slop beer onto the back of the large man's jacket. The man, thankfully, did not notice, so Jon sat down next to him.
"D'you know Ethan Marks?" he inquired, gesturing in the general direction where Marks could be found, presumably.
The only answer Jon got was a deep-throated rumble that a more prudent gentleman would have taken as a growl. Jonathan, who was neither, merely took it to be an answer to the negative.
"Well, that's excellent. I recommend never making his acquaintance. Slimy git; always cheats at cards and then gets bloody angry when the same thing's done to him. Did you know he accused me of cheating just now? Cheating! Me!"
The man grimaced, but did not reply - he seemed to hope that if he closed his eyes and counted to ten, the annoying little man with the whiny voice would simply disappear. He signaled the bartender and took possession of another glass. Jonathan blinked at the numerous glasses sitting in front of the man and finally clued in.
"I'm Jonathan Carnahan," Jonathan Carnahan said. "I doubt you'll remember me tomorrow, but then again, I doubt I'll remember you tomorrow."
There was silence from the man next to him.
"Ah, come on," Jonathan said. He aimed a gentle elbow at the man's side, but thought better of it. "All I want's a name."
Another pause. Jonathan tapped long fingers against the bar, thinking. He wanted to know this stranger's name, badly. He had no real reason for wanting it, but ... There was something about him. Jon was being pushed by some compulsion, or a power, or something, and it was easier to go along with it. The same thing had happened when he'd made Evy late for her plane to Egypt and she'd missed it - the plane their parents flew out on, the plane that they died on. This type of feeling didn't hit him very often, but when it did, he heeded it.
"Look, old chap, just tell me your name and I'll not bother you again," Jonathan lied.
The man brightened considerably. He had been toying with the idea of punching Mr. Jonathan Carnahan, but punching him would probably result in being thrown out of the bar. He was fairly certain that while he wasn't drunk enough to forget everything that he wanted to forget, and neither was he sober enough to stagger to an alternative bar.
"Rick," the man said at last. "Rick O'Connell."
"Excellent!" Jonathan exclaimed, relaxing a little. He raised his glass to his new friend. "Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Rick - may I call you Rick?"
"No." Rick said. "Weren't you going to leave?"
"No," Jon said. "You're an American then? Can tell from the accent. What are you doing here in Egypt?"
"None of your damn business." Rick hunched in on himself, shifting uncomfortably on the rough wood of the bar stool. His jacket pocket banged against the counter, and something from within the depths of that pocket gave a metallic-sounding 'ping.'
Jonathan abruptly stopped moving, his gaze snapping to Rick's jacket.
Rick called for another drink.
Jonathan stared intently at Rick's pocket, surreptitiously tilting his head and shifting his position on the stool in an attempt to catch a glimpse of whatever wondrous item had made that delightful noise.
Evy used to joke that her brother could sense gold. This was, for the most part, true, and had definitely come in handy several times in the past.
Rick grabbed his new drink and chugged it, tilting his whole body backward and spilling the contents of the pocket towards its edge ... There! The barest glint of an etched gold box, dancing with Egyptian hieroglyphs, beckoning Jon onwards. Jon licked his lips and looked furtively around. His hand twitched towards the pocket, but he folded it carefully around his drink. It was too dangerous to try now. Rick was, after all, a very large and lethal-looking man. Best to wait until the opportune moment.
"Bartender! Another drink for my friend here, if you please." Of course, Jon could always help the opportune moment along.
The bartender was of that excellent type of men who usually have no scruples about other people's business as long as they themselves benefit. At Jonathan's bequest, he kept a full glass in front of Rick O'Connell for the next half an hour, and would continue to do so until Jonathan stopped supplying him with money. Jonathan himself reached new levels of industriousness as he made several excursions into the seedy depths of the bar to plunge agile hands into full pockets.
The trouble came after the fourth such excursion, when he returned to the counter and discovered the promising little velvet bag carried not coins but a gold watch. The bartender, unfortunately, happened to glance up at this moment. He let out a bellow of rage and banged an empty glass down on the counter, his face contorting.
Jonathan gulped.
"'Ere now! Where did you get that piece from?" The bartender leaned over the counter and held out a demanding hand. Jonathan reluctantly moved the watch closer to him.
"It's ah - well, you see, I ah -"
"James!" The bartender yelled. "Some wanker's stolen your watch!"
There was a moment of hushed silence as the bar became still but for the movements of a short, lithe man who reached inside his pockets and felt for something that wasn't there.
The bartender grasped Jonathan's wrist and twisted, causing Jon to hiss in pain and drop the watch into a puddle of beer. The bartender snatched it up with his other hand and vaulted over the counter, still gripping Jon's wrist. He towed him along to the back of the room, giving Jonathan a terrible feeling of deja vu - he seemed to remember something like this happening back in grade school. Of course, back then he wasn't being led to a group of large, angry men who looked as though they wanted to kill him, but still. The basic idea was the same.
The bartender handed the watch over to James. "There ya are, lad," he said, almost kindly. "Back safe and sound. Best to leave that close to your skin, next time."
"Thank you, cousin," James said quietly, his thumb running over the edges of the watch.
"So what shall we do with you, little rat?" The bartender pushed Jonathan into a chair and blocked his view of Rick, who seemed to be beginning to move towards the exit. Jonathan squirmed.
"I'm sure it's just a misunderstanding - if you'll just let me leave then I'll -"
"That's an heirloom, that is!" The bartender yelled suddenly. "Passed down from his -" he jabbed a finger in James' direction - "great-grandfather. His da passed on last week and now it's his. This is a serious offense, ya daft bugger. We shan't be letting ye off so easy as all that."
Jonathan looked desperately about the room. He couldn't see a friendly face anywhere, except - except - Rick. Of course! Jonathan fought off several pairs of hands and managed to stand up. He squinted through the dim light of the bar until he spotted Rick's wavering form, headed in the rough direction of the door. Jon winced. What he was about to do was not very nice at all - even he usually drew the line long before it came to this. And what about the gold box? That feeling was pushing him again, however, so he drew a deep breath and opened his mouth. "He's the thief," he said, and pointed across the room directly at Rick.
Rick's head jerked up and he stared at Jon. "Whazzat?" He slurred, running a hand over bleary eyes.
"He's the man who stole from you. He's stolen something from me as well - I think it's in his pocket."
That was the killer. Possibly literally. Of course, it all worked out very nicely for Jon, because he was going to get away with only a few bruises and a gold box. Rick, on the other hand ... Well, it was best not to dwell on it too much.
The bartender and his group of friends stared suspiciously from Jonathan to Rick.
"And what would be in his pocket?"
"It's - it's a gold box. It's got Ancient Egyptian on it."
The bartender frowned, but stalked over to Rick and snaked a hand in and out of his pocket before the drunk man quite realized what had happened. The bartender held out a gleaming box. Jon looked at it hungrily, moved forward towards it. It was lovely. Better than he'd even expected.
The bartender sighed heavily. "Well, then, y'are a lucky bugger, I'll give ye that. Ye're free to go, sir." He handed the box to Jonathan, who stuck it very carefully, almost reverently, into his own pocket. His at last! Perhaps he had finally found something of some worth ...
A myriad of emotions passed over Rick's face as he suddenly realized what was happening. "That - that's mine!" Rick stumbled toward Jonathan. "Give that back!"
Jonathan carefully backed away, began to move toward the door. "I'll just be leaving then," he said, brightly, to the group of angry people who were advancing upon Rick.
The last thing he saw before he went out the door were Rick's bright, angry eyes, staring at him as if memorizing his face so that no matter how drunk he was, he would never forget it.
It was a very uncomfortable feeling.
As Jon hurried along down the street, clutching his new treasure in his breast pocket, he heard a bottle smashing and Rick yelling as he launched himself at the angry mob.
Someone was going to die tonight.
Jonathan's insides twisted about, but he forced his feet forward. Something like what he had just doen was very likely to come back and bite him in the ass. Bad karma and all that, you know.
Jon took three more steps, then winced as he heard someone screaming. Two more, and someone was sobbing, and there was the sound of splintering wood and flesh-on-flesh impacts.
"Bloody hell!" Jonathan's anguished cry echoed through the empty street, and he reluctantly turned to sneak back into the bar. Damn conscience. It was going to get him killed someday.
The bar was chaos. James appeared to be the only sane one in the place, but only marginally. Rather than throwing himself into the fray, he seemed to be directing the fighting from on top of the bar counter, waving a table leg around to illustrate a point now and again. Most of the rest of the men appeared to be fighting amongst themselves now, not just Rick, because many of them were rather drunk, and could no longer remember why they were angry. The rest were still busy throwing themselves at Rick, who had barricaded himself behind a table.
Jonathan rushed to James and snatched the table leg out of his hands. He swung wildly until he managed to bash his way to Rick's little corner, where he proceeded to conk anyone within reach on the head with it. Rick peeked a head over the table, wielding his own table leg, but stopped short when he caught sight of Jonathan.
"Hullo!" Jonathan panted. "Felt terrible leaving you in a lurch like that, old chap; thought the least I could do was even the odds a little."
Rick did not appear to be very grateful, because he lunged at Jonathan's throat.
Jon, aghast, scrambled out of the way and attempted to make for the door.
"I'm trying to bloody well help you!" Jon dodged a fist and ducked under a sweaty arm.
"You're the one who started this mess in the first place!" Rick yelled back. He wasn't slurring as much as before, which was a dangerous sign. In a little longer he would be sober enough to escape the bar fight and stalk Jon through the streets of Cairo. Jon could tell that was the sort of man Rick was. He was very ... Intense. Yes. Intense was the right word for it.
"Police! Break it up!" A group of police appeared at the entrance and began to wade through the crowds of people.
"Yes, and I feel badly about it!" Jon gave up on the door and smashed through a window with his table leg. Rick himself made a valiant effort to smash Jon's head in while he swung through the window feet first, wincing as the glass scraped his shoulders and hands.
He collapsed in the alley, breathing hard, and looked up to see Rick trying to shove his broader shoulders through the window. Jonathan scuttled away further down the alley.
A policeman brought a heavy hand down on Rick's shoulder. Rick roared in anger and swung at the man.
Jonathan decided that he had done all he could and made good on his escape.
With any luck, he would never see Rick O'Connell again.
End