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Darien had come to a decision. Somewhere between the Keeper's wake up call just after noon, the three loads of desperately-needed-to-be-washed laundry, and 5 p.m. when he'd grabbed his jacket and keys and left his apartment he'd decided to get the answers they just-as-desperately-needed to put this case to bed. Trouble was, there was only one place he knew of to do that. Of course, he still had to figure out exactly what he was going to pay for the information. He knew he didn't have the cash for it - maybe he should've taken his cut of Johnny Book's money when he'd had the chance - and he was pretty sure any information he'd acquired through the Agency, with the exception of two things - one of which he wasn't willing to give up on pain of a harvesting party hosted by good ole Charlie Borden - would either be valueless or something that could be discovered by other means should it be wanted.
He had parked a block over, in one of those empty lots turned into tightly packed parking spaces. It wasn't cheap, but it did have a real live (mostly) human being keeping an eye on things. Plus he wouldn't be at the receiving end of a ticket from the meter maid if he didn't make it back in time to feed the meter. He tried to look casual, just another bored local wandering past some of the more colorful shops in the area. Though tourist areas were nearby, this particular street catered far more to those who lived here, lacking the garish clothing and knickknacks that seemed to be an inevitable part of living off the largess of visitors to the city. He took the time to browse, window shopping just like the few others on the street were as he made his way towards the distinct entrance of the fourth monkey.
He was going to try and trade what he knew about Chrysalis for the info on Papadopoulos. He doubted even Fallon knew about them, given how far under the radar they flew. That fact had become frighteningly obvious when he'd spent a short time - very short, thankfully - working for the FBI. That there were gaping holes in their so-called intelligence had smacked Darien with a huge dose of reality and the difference between the Agency and the rest of the oxymorons in government intelligence. And he'd thought only Jones was that stupid. Oh no, it appeared they all were. Although it was possible that it wasn't stupidity so much as blindness. The status quo was always far easier to handle than the truth.
There was the slight issue of him going into this bargaining session without any real proof, but he hoped his story would be enough to peak her interest. From there, he could always take her on a tour of the local Chrysalis sites. The camp that was anything but a camp, the Stork fertility clinics, the (former) Cerberus Sentinel Corporation downtown, or the winery where Stark had been milking cows for Quicksilver. And if they weren't enough he could always make copies of the files buried in the Archives, carefully edited, of course. Those would be tangible proof. Right?
Darien snorted softly to himself; if Fallon was even half as good as he suspected, siccing her on Stark and company might be unfair. She'd have all their secrets laid bare for all to see within a short span of time. What she'd do with the info was something else entirely. He couldn't see her suddenly becoming all altruistic and sending the intel hither and yon just to make certain their seeming grandiose plans for world domination didn't come to fruition.
That realization caused Darien to frown slightly, wishing it wasn't the only coin he had to bargain with. He shook off the momentary worry; it'd be enough. It had to be. As he mounted the steps to the front door, it struck him again that this building was markedly different from those nearby. For instance, the wide stone steps to the double door - the only one of it's kind on the street and far more like the entryways found in Old Town proper. He was surprised to find the door locked, and stared at the handle in disbelief, quite certain that Fallon had said, 'we never close.' Strangely he wondered if something might be wrong; her line of work must have earned her more than a few enemies over the years, and he doubted Murphy had been wearing that gun the other day just for show.
He trotted back down the steps and stopped on the sidewalk, pondering what his next move should be. He gazed along the row of buildings and noticed the gap between Fallon's and the one to the right. Partly out of curiosity, he headed for it and discovered an alleyway that cut between the two buildings. It was only about six feet wide - he could just touch the walls on either side with his arms outstretched - and it was amazingly clean, no stench of rotting garbage or urine to make the nose wrinkle in disgust. He again noticed the difference in construction, the building to his right was clearly made from concrete block and painted a pale green, while Fallon's was dark gray stone, and old if he were any judge, which he wasn't, really. Unusually warm stone towards the end, especially for an alley that probably spent the majority of the day buried deep in shadows. The height of the building was all wrong to allow sun to hit the ground except for a few stray minutes around noon, and it was well past that time of day. Even if it had been warmed by sunlight, it would have cooled long before now.
Darien paused about five feet from the end of the wall and set both palms flat against it to feel heat radiating from the stone and mortar, the source seeming to be from the inside. It took him a moment before he fit the pieces together, but he finally slipped them into place to complete the puzzle - forges. If she really was pouring and bending metal in there, she would need a heat source and lots of it. He was willing to bet the building, or at least the foundation dated back to the turn of the century and the furnaces, or whatever the hell they were called, had already existed when she bought the place and had simply been modified for their current use. Maybe it had been a bakery or the like in its original incarnation. He took up forward motion again; trying to calculate how much it had probably cost her to set up a foundry, even a small one, in San Diego. Not so much it wasn't worth her while, obviously.
As he came to the end of the alley he discovered that her building extended a good 10 feet further than the green one next door. That meant the 'road' that ran behind the row of stores for deliveries narrowed to the point where most SUVs, never mind most semi-trucks, wouldn't fit through. It apparently wasn't that big of an issue since the lot directly behind it was empty save for a beat up Jeep Wrangler and a sign proclaiming it was private. He didn't know if it had come with the building, or had been bought separately, but it had been used for parking for years based on the faded lines marking the spaces. The side that faced the next street over was gated and neatly fenced, effectively keeping out anyone desperate to find a place to park.
The rear of Fallon's store was more of that mortar and stone and dominated by two large loading bays that conveniently lined up with the parking lot, and a single ordinary door with an ancient security light hung above it. The loading doors were made of a heavy gauge steel that parted in the middle to slide to the side and that he doubted he could move even if they had been unlocked, however...
He checked the area and was pleased to find himself alone. He boldly strode over to the door, removing his lockpicks from the inner pocket of his jacket as he did. He gave the doorway a cursory check for alarms or cameras and saw none, the way apparently clear. He had the picks inserted and the pair of locks, regular and deadbolt, singing to his tune in moments. He turned the knob, removed the picks, and slipped them back into his pocket as he swung the door open and quickly stepped into the darkened interior.
He took a second to let his eyes to adjust before looking over the room. To his right, along the alley wall, was what looked like a giant brick oven, banked coals still glowing a deep red in the depths. The majority of the floor space was taken up with four sturdy benches with pointy things in various stages of construction - from newly forged to nearly complete - upon them. Overall the place was neat and clean, tools put away, protective gear like gloves and aprons hung on racks, and the floors swept clean of detritus. Whatever had caused the shop to close today hadn't been unexpected.
"Ye be either bloody brave or a right eejit."
Darien started, his head snapping about at the unexpected voice and found himself staring at a pair of green eyes hovering above the muzzle of a large handgun. He swallowed hard, hoping like hell she wasn't the type to shoot first and poke at the body later. He tried his best to look nonchalant and shrugged, "That would depend on the day."
Fallon snorted, the gun not wavering an inch. "Thought it was your partner who was off 'is nut, not ye."
Darien blinked, at a momentary loss as to what she was saying, but it finally registered. "Maybe it's contagious," he suggested, taking a cautious step forward.
"An' maybe it's dumb luck," she countered, the gun lowering slightly, so that it was now aimed at his midsection instead of his head, which wasn't much of an improvement to his way of thinking.
"And why is that?" he asked, being careful not to make any move that would look suspicious.
"'Cause I spotted ye, afore ye set off the alarm," she informed him. "Didn' your ma..." She paused, her train of thought switching tracks. "Your Aunt, teach ye it's not nice to break into people's homes?"
He met her eyes, completely unrepentant, forcing himself not to react to the fact that she knew that he'd been raised by his Aunt Celia and that his mom was long gone. "Apparently not," was his flippant reply. "'Sides, I coulda talked my way outta it when the cops showed. That fancy badge I have is good for a few things now and then."
"And who says the alarm brings the local guard?" The gun finally dropped away completely and he sighed in relief.
That the alarm brought someone other than the police was an interesting twist that he hadn't expected, but didn't doubt was true. "Then I guess I should thank you." He watched her eyes narrow, probably wondering why he'd broken into her place. "I'll just be going..."
The gun was suddenly aimed at his midsection again and he tried not to flinch in reaction. Though flinching would be better than suddenly disappearing, which part of him would have preferred, the way adrenaline was suddenly zinging along his veins. He didn't think she'd shoot him, though his confidence in the matter was dropping rapidly.
"What? Ye go through all that effort to break in and then just up an' leave? Comp'ny not good 'nuff for ye?" The gun waved about as her hands joined in the conversation, and he got the distinct impression that something was off with her.
He raised his hands slowly, to show he was unarmed. "Look, I made a mistake and I don't want any trouble..."
She laughed. "A blaggard like ye not looking for trouble? The divil 'imself is buyin' long-johns, 'bout now." The hand wielding the gun dropped to her side and she seemed to consider something long and hard before saying, "Care to join me in a few shorts?"
Again, he had to take a second to translate and then had to try and convince himself he was doing it right. Had she just invited him to stay for a drink? To test that theory he asked, "Well, are you planning on getting me drunk and using me for your personal pleasure?" He half expected her to shoot without warning, but instead she chuckled softly.
"Only if ye be very jammy. C'mon." She gestured for him to move with the gun and he joined her with what was surely a bemused expression on his face. She reached inside the doorway she'd been standing next to and retrieved a bottle filled with a dark amber liquid. "This way." She pointed the way with the gun and Darien reached out and set his hand about hers as it dawned on him that she was quite thoroughly tanked.
"How about I carry this for you?"
"Aye, why not?" She met his eyes and released the weapon to his hold. "Not like it's loaded."
Darien took a look at the gun, noting that it was indeed missing the clip. He gave her a questioning look.
"I might be fluthered, but I'm not stupid," she informed him, smiling slightly and striding off towards the end of the hall.
"Stupid is not something I'd ever accuse you of being." He stuffed the gun into the pocket of his jacket for the time being and followed her. The hall ended at a doorway, which she opened to reveal a staircase leading up. "You live here?" he asked at the first landing.
"Aye." She stopped before a door and turned back. "Why does everyone think I should be living in some grand palace? Not like I need a lot of space. It's jus' me."
Darien decided to be as honest as possible with his answer. "It's California. If you have money then you must be livin' large."
Fallon nodded slowly, as if not quite sure she understood. "Not one a full shilling, eh?" She swung the door open and walked inside. "Welcome to me 'umble abode." Darien stepped within and shut the door as she made her way to the kitchen.
Here there were swords; mounted on the walls, in racks under the windows, even leaning in corners. There was also more artwork, including a piece that slowly shifted and moved in the breeze admitted by the open window. The furniture was austere in comparison: a plain brown sofa flanked by two matching chairs that surrounded a glass topped coffee table. The dining area was off to the right, as was the kitchen, and further in were at least two rooms behind closed doors. The dining table was currently playing host to several boxes, and its chairs were stacked off to one side, signifying its lack of use for meals. The apartment was an odd mixture of simple and complex, and he could only wonder how much of that was a reflection of the person who lived there.
"'Ave a seat," she called out from the kitchen where he could hear her banging about.
"Hey, could you do me a favor?" he asked up as he followed her. He found her rummaging through her cabinets, as if she wasn't yet certain where things were located.
"Maybe. What is it?" She hadn't even turned to look at him as she altered her search to a box on the counter.
"Any chance you could tone down the Irishisms? It wasn't one of my language choices back in high school." So, it could be construed as a rude request for a guest, especially when the host's home was decked out in medieval weaponry, but he figured it was worth the risk. Her burst of laughter proved him correct on that one.
"I'll try. The 'isms' kinda stick with one, y'know?" She'd moved from the box on the counter to one on the floor. It was looking more and more like she spent very little time in her own home.
"Fair 'nuff. Need some help?"
"Nay. I'll find 'em in a sec." She shot a mock glare in his direction "Do I need to make ye sit?"
Darien raised hands in surrender for the second time. "Nope." He backed out of the kitchen, leaving her to her search and headed back to the living room.
He chose the chair to the left of the sofa and settled back into it, finding it surprisingly comfortable considering how thin the padding appeared to be. His foot connected with something and he glanced down to see an empty bottle half under the chair. He picked it up, noting it matched the one Fallon had brought with her. As he settled back into the chair, something hard and unyielding poked him in the side. He fumbled about and retrieved the gun from his pocket. Apparently, medieval wasn't the only type of weaponry she was familiar with. His inexperienced eye pegged it as a match for the one Murphy had been wearing the other day. He shook his head and set the gun atop the table. He returned his attention to the bottle and sniffed the open top, the alcohol content enough to make his eyes water, and he wondered exactly how much of it she had drunk before he'd shown up on her doorstep.
"So, what are you celebrating?"
Fallon came out of the kitchen carrying two glasses held between her fingers and the mate to the bottle he held in his hand, which he returned to the floor. "Celebratin'? Guess ye can call it that." She plopped down on the sofa, and efficiently poured the liquid into the glasses. Once she'd set the bottle down, she handed one to Darien. "More like an anniversary. Me brother was killed today."
"Oh," Darien responded effusively. He lifted the glass and downed a large swallow to cover his embarrassment. There was a burst of flavor across his tongue and then pain as the volatile liquid burned its way down his throat and into his stomach. He gasped aloud and then coughed, the fumes practically a fog in the air in front of him. "Smooth," he commented, his voice hoarse.
She shook her head, a hint of a smile on her face. "Smooth is right. That's me family's private label. Not many outside Ireland proper get the chance to try it." She tossed back the contents of her glass, showing that she was immune to the effects. She'd probably grown up drinking the stuff.
He swirled the remainder before taking a cautious sip. It didn't cause nearly the damage the first sample had; maybe the lining of his throat had been burned away. "Do you miss them?"
She shrugged and poured more whiskey into his glass. "Aye, but I visit whenever I get the chance." She ran a hand through her hair. "They don't really approve of what I do. Me da and uncle Liam would still rather I run the foundry back 'ome."
"I get that. I certainly didn't follow the path any of my family hoped for." He eyed the contents of his glass, trying to judge how much it would be safe for him to drink before he reached the state of 'fluthered.' "But who ever does."
"Too right," she agreed. "Least they do their best to understand. Losing Ian..." She shook her head, eyes closing for a long moment.
The pain in her voice was a physical thing and Darien couldn't help but feel sympathy, considering he'd been through a similar life changing event. He hadn't a clue why she had invited him in other than some, perhaps, visceral need to not be alone, a need he could most certainly relate to. Although, he had the feeling alone is typically how she spent this particular day. "What happened?" he heard himself asking, the alcohol plainly making him stupider than usual.
Fallon twitched as if caught completely off guard by his, to him, innocent question. "Ask the 'ard ones, now do ye?"
Given that Father Tom had made that same observation not so long ago, one of the few things he remembered from that silver-eyed incident, Darien tipped his head in acknowledgement. "So I've been told."
She snorted derisively, finished off the contents of her glass in three slow swallows, and then refilled it. Darien wasn't expecting her to answer; it wasn't any of his business after all. There was no need to pry into her personal life and force her to relive a past that plainly caused her pain, if this drowning her sorrows was anything to go by.
So he was very surprised when she said, "Ye gotta understand that it's different over there. We live so close to the border that it 'as affected me family as much as any a'those in the country proper. You Americans have nothing that comes close."
For a second Darien wanted to argue that point, but even through the buzz the alcohol had already generated, he knew she was right, to a degree anyway. "Did your family," he made sure to choose his phrasing carefully, "step on some toes?"
She shook her head and leaned forward to rest her forearms on her thighs. "Nah, not directly. Me family stays out of politics as much as possible. We pay our taxes and bribes as necessary, and let the politicians run their little fiefdoms in peace. Trouble is, not all of our friends do the same."
"Oof. Sideswiped, were you?" He hadn't meant to mimic her accent and closed his eyes, only to snap them open them a second later when the world seemed to spin about him. Oh man, he wasn't gonna be driving home for quite a while. The whiskey was frickin' potent.
She just raised her eyebrows at him. "Aye, we was. Keep in mind I didn' learn most'a this until after the fact." Darien nodded in what he hoped was encouragement. "One'a me da's friends is a Chief Inspector in Derry." At Darien's blank look she added, "Like one a your plainclothes detectives; a 'igh-ranking one."
"Ah, got it."
"'E and 'is men bagged themselves some IRA members. Weren't more'n 20 of them, but they'd been causing havoc for a few months and the city was more'n tired of it. Seamus - ah, me da's friend is named Seamus -" she had plainly just realized she'd forgotten to mention the man's name before now, "ended up being the one they blamed, an' those that didn't get rounded up vowed revenge if their friends weren't released." She gave Darien a wry grin. "Trite, eh?"
"Very," he agreed, and watched as she slithered off the sofa to sit on the floor.
"They tried threats, which didn' work, so they decided a demonstration was in order." She set her half-full glass on the table and absently scratched the side of her neck. "Thing is, that while me family might have money and some power, they've no real influence, and like it that way. Yet the bleeding gits decided to use us to scare Seamus."
So far, everything she'd said had made sense. A warped sort of sense, admittedly, but considering his encounters with terrorists and their ilk it wasn't an idea from the deep corner of left field by any means. They'd connected dots, just so happened they were the wrong ones. "'Kay, I get the connection to your dad, but why target you?"
A hint of a smile crossed her features. "Gave ye just the short version of me file, eh?"
What was Darien supposed to do? Say no and lie when he had clearly revealed the truth already? "Yeah."
She nodded carefully, as if her head were too heavy for her to support. "Was wondering why ye asked. Ye sure ye want to 'ear this?" She eyed him speculatively.
Actually, he did. There was just something about her that had grabbed him and held on. On top of that, he was certain he was seeing Fallon - the person, as opposed to the hard-nosed businesswoman, or the supposedly dangerous mercenary. The alcohol and unique circumstances conspired to give him a glimpse of her human side, much like the occasion where he'd learned Claire's name by following her about while invisible. He wasn't quite sure doing it this way, with Fallon's guard down, was any less underhanded, but it had been her who initiated the contact. It wasn't wrong to take advantage of that, was it?
"All of it."
If she was surprised, she didn't let it show. "Aye, ye do." She took a moment to rub her eyes before returning to her tale. "I'd been a friend of Seamus' son, Sean, since 'bout the time we both began toddling, and I saw 'im fairly often. There were always rumors about that we was betrothed, but it was the furthest thing from the truth. T'was assumed they'd heard the rumor too." She shrugged, as if saying that she still didn't understand why people had chosen to believe the falsehood. "I was on me way to visit 'im, an' Ian," her voice cracked on her brother's name and she took a moment to compose herself, "was escorting me. As a precaution, y'know? No one was 'specting any trouble." She met Darien's eyes squarely. "The car was parked on the side of the road, nothing suspicious 'bout it. Just a car. When we came up alongside it, it exploded." Her eyes closed and she hugged her knees to her chest. "I musta blacked out for a second, 'cause when I came to I was trapped between Ian and what was left of the wall. The building'd been pretty banged up in the blast. Me left side felt like it was on fire and Ian... 'E just lay there, staring at me. After a minute or two I realized 'alf his face was gone."
"Crap," Darien muttered, as the minor epithet was not nearly strong enough to express his feelings. He was amazed that she'd been able, never mind willing, to tell him.
"I passed out for real then, and what little memory I do 'ave for the next week or so is fuzzy and unreliable at best." She relaxed the death grip on her legs and tipped her head so that her neck popped.
"I'll bet. You were rescued?" he asked, his heart pounding as memories of Kevin's last moments played out on that IMAX screen in his mind.
She managed a harsh bark of laughter. "Depends on your definition of 'rescued.' The fecks figured out right quick that they'd missed their target - me - and came up with a new plan on the fly. They dragged me outta the rubble, away from Ian, and told Seamus that I'd be returned when their friends were released."
Darien was suddenly stone cold sober, the last condition he wanted to be in while hearing this, and stared at her in disbelief. If she were telling the truth... But why would she lie? It wasn't as if she needed or wanted his sympathy, she had nothing to gain by spinning some elaborate con to tug his heartstrings. So, that meant the horror story he was listening to was real. Except... "Weren't you hurt in the explosion?"
"Aye. I've scars from shoulder to mid-thigh on me left side. They tried skin grafts to fix some a'em, but they'd gotten a mite infected and it din' take too well," she sneered this, as if daring him to ask to see the damage as proof.
He didn't need to see; he believed her, and was willing to bet the physical scars didn't go nearly as deep as the psychological ones. "How long?" he asked, as he downed the remaining liquid and debated the merits of more. He was wishing the drunk he should be enjoying hadn't been banished by her words.
"Was I a hostage?" He nodded. "Three days." She leaned her head back on the sofa cushion and stared blindly at the ceiling. "I don' remember much. Just... snapshots. Faces, voices... screams. I was able to identify four of me captors afterward. None of them me sgàil."
"Sgàil?" Darien repeated, aware that he'd mangled the word.
She snorted and looked at him. "Sgàil," she enunciated precisely. "It's Gaelic for... ghost. He was the leader of their little band of ne'er-do-wells. They called 'im 'Tor'." Her eyes lost focus, even though she continued gazing in his direction. "'Im I don' remember much of. Mostly 'is voice and 'is eyes. They was a brilliant blue. Lovely, but cold. I don' think 'e cared for nothing but 'iself. I saw me death in those eyes." She blinked, once again in the here and now. "Pair of eyes don' 'elp much to catch a fella."
"He wasn't caught?" Darien didn't even bother to try and hide his shock.
"The only one who wasn't," she confirmed. "T'others wouldn't give 'im up and the authorities weren't able to identify 'im. S'why 'e's me sgàil."
"So how'd you get away?" It was the next logical question.
"I din'. Was too bad 'urt to move much. No bleeding way I could walk. It weren't the cops neither. Me family came an' got me. Somehow, they tracked down where I was being held and got the drop on 'em. Aside from the sgàil, only one survived." Her tone was detached as she spoke. "They killed anyone in their way. Slaughtered 'em, really. The whole thing was over in less than 10 minutes. While the authorities still had their thumbs up their arses." She chuckled for an instant. "'Cept for Seamus, who helped. In an unofficial capacity, a'course."
"Of course," Darien agreed, flabbergasted. He couldn't imagine his family going to such lengths for him. No, they'd be far more likely to shrug and consider it a relief that he was no longer their problem. He rubbed the back of his neck and shifted in the chair; he'd been sitting in one position for far too long. "Your family didn't get into any... uh, trouble?"
She turned a dangerous smile on him. "No evidence, least not once it'd been melted down, and excellent alibis. 'Sides plenty of people felt they'd done 'em a service by getting rid of those fecking bastards."
"Melted down? They melted the guns?"
"Who says they used guns?" she retorted. "Me family makes weapons and 'ave for nigh onto 1000 years. Do ya really think we don' know 'ow to use 'em, as well?"
The question may have been rhetorical, but Darien swallowed hard in reaction all the same, especially with the armory decorating the room he was in. "Remind me to never piss off your family, 'kay?"
She giggled. "I doubt ye need to worry 'bout that." Her hands came up to cover her face as she struggled to keep the sudden burst of amusement from shifting over to the hysterical. It took her a few minutes for her to regain control, but eventually her hands dropped away to reveal little more then reddened eyes. "Sorry."
Darien shook his head. "Don't be. I... Anything I say'll just sound trite," he used the word intentionally, "but I do understand."
She straightened, her tone accusatory. "'Ow could ye possibly... Oh, your brother. But that's not quite the same, now is it? You just 'ad to bury 'im."
"Fallon," his first use of her name, and he liked the way it rolled so nice and neatly off his tongue, "Kevin was shot, died in my arms, after pushing me out of the way."
"What? How?" she asked and Darien stiffened as warning bells went off in the back of his alcohol soaked cranium. She raised a hand. "I'm not looking for state secrets 'ere. This is personal, not business. Generalities will do."
'Trust works both ways.' Words from not so long ago that were still valid after all this time. Fallon had trusted him, let him into her home when her guard was lowered, if not down completely, at the very least he could grant her the same. Still, he made sure to choose his words carefully so as to not give away anything he knew would get him into hot water at work.
"The project," she already knew about it, if only in a vague way, "Kevin was working on was infiltrated by a man going by the name Arnaud de Thiel. He tried to take the files by force and killed everyone there, 'cept me."
"Bugger," she hissed, sympathy lacing the syllables. "De Thiel, sounds familiar."
"He also goes by de Ferhn or..."
She snapped her fingers. "The Phone. Knew I recognized the name."
"You know him?" Darien just barely kept his seat, wanting to grab her and shake her in hopes information would fall from her lips.
"I know of 'im. Grand schemes that implode, more often than not and with as high a casualty rate among his own people as his unlucky targets." All this was said with a decided air of distaste that implied she wasn't very impressed with Arnaud no matter how many 'most wanted' lists he was on. "'E's been a busy boy as of late."
'Crap.' Was she saying that she knew what Arnaud was up to right now? That she knew where he was? All thoughts of Papadopoulos vanished from Darien's mind as the opportunity to find the rat bastard Arnaud was handed to him on silver platter. If there was ever a time he wanted to take advantage of a woman who was drunk off her ass, this was it. However, he waited just one second too long. "Fallon..."
She pushed herself to her feet with a deliberation that was almost painful to watch. "This 'as been fun, but it's time to get on with the traditional end to this... celebration."
"And that would be...?" Okay, he was willing to play the straight man to get to her punch line.
"'Eading to the jacks to vomit and pass out." She stepped about the sofa and headed for the depths of the apartment. Not staggering, he couldn't even picture that, but doing that over steady walk people who knew they were way beyond plastered did. She was halfway down the hall, before he levered himself upright to trail after her. The partially open door at the end of the hallway revealed a bathroom done in varying shades of blue tile and about half of a white pedestal sink.
She swung the door shut, but it failed to close completely, leaving a gap just large enough for a strip of light to hit the wall, and allowing the sounds of passenger riding the porcelain bus to escape the confines of the bathroom. He waffled for a few minutes on the merits of doing what he could to assist, but decided against for two reasons. One: while it may have been an interesting couple of hours, he seriously doubted she'd want him butting in on this rather private moment, and two: there was a 50/50 chance the contents of his stomach would try to join hers if he stepped in that room right now.
So, he waited, noting the doors on either side of the hall, one of which must be her bedroom. After 10 minutes had passed, there was the sound of flushing, followed by running water, then silence. He allowed a couple more minutes to slide by before rapping lightly on the door.
"Fallon?"
The only response was an unintelligible mumble from within, so he cautiously opened the door. The first thing he saw was her bare feet, toes facing away from him. He poked his head all the way in to find her curled up on her right side, hands tucked under her head as a makeshift pillow, which made it plain that she'd done this before. He sighed and shook his head. There was no way he was just going to let her sleep on the bathroom floor when he could move her to her bed without too much effort on his part.
As he squatted down next to her, her noticed that her shirt had rucked up, revealing those scars she'd mentioned. He wasn't sure what he had expected, hadn't really tried to imagine the kind of damage had been done to her and, looking at it now, he knew anything he'd conjured up wouldn't have been close. The swath he could see was only about four inches wide, but curved her around her side all the way to her spine. Burn tissue, most likely, not that he'd seen many people with extensive burn damage. There had been Mai-Lin, of course, but her injuries had been comparatively recent, red, raw, and without the benefits of time to soften them. Though in truth, from what he could see, Fallon's scarring looked worse, as if the damage had gone far beyond the superficial. It caused her flesh to look... The only thing he could think of was melted. Like candle wax running down the outside of wine bottles in a cheesy Italian restaurant, only inverted. The flesh indented instead of pushed outwards. And that wasn't all; there were also obvious surgical scars and irregular pockmarks that he guessed were from shrapnel.
Shoulder to thigh, she'd said. If it was this severe everywhere, it was no wonder the doctor's had been amazed that she survived; he certainly was. He reached out and gently tugged her shirt back into place, then slid his arms under her with every intention of carrying her to bed, but as he began to lift her she muttered, "I can walk."
"Stagger, you mean." All the same, he lowered her feet to the floor, not surprised that she could indeed support her own weight. "Come on."
"I s'pose," she agreed, taking the first step under her own power, but with Darien prepared to catch her if she faltered. He was pretty certain she wouldn't be able to walk any distance on her own; she was only semi-conscious at best.
Darien did a mental eeny-meeny-miney-moe, chose the door to the right, and was rewarded with a bedroom.
Fallon stumbled to a halt and grumbled, "Ach, you're gonna make me pay for this, now ain't ye?"
He couldn't help but be tempted, to lay claim to some favor to be paid in the future, especially knowing what she could give him if he but asked, yet he heard himself saying, "No worries." He got her moving again towards the king-sized sleigh bed that dominated the room. There wasn't much else; a bureau, a floor lamp she'd probably designed, based on the metalwork, and a full-length mirror leaning in one corner. The room was sadly barren, lacking anything that would make it a home. Maybe she just hadn't been here long enough to unpack personal items? Somehow, he suspected it was something else entirely.
He debated turning down the bed, which was neatly made, but the fact that he wasn't about to undress her, and the light blanket lying on the footboard, convinced him she'd be more comfortable atop the comforter instead of under. It wasn't as if she was going to freeze to death, after all. "Here you go."
Instead of lying down, she turned her head to gaze up at him. "Why're ye doin' this?"
He gave her a gentle push to encourage her, and she collapsed in a barely controlled manner onto the bed, curling right back up with hands tucked under the pillows, this time. He dragged the blanket up over her and then ran a hand through his hair before answering. "'Cause it's the right thing to do," he finally told her.
She blinked blearily up at him, plainly not getting it in her current pickled condition. He saved her the need to comment.
"Get some sleep." She didn't argue, her eyes drifting shut, the remaining alcohol and emotional overload overriding any potential resistance on her part. He watched her for a few minutes, still uncertain why she had allowed him to see her in what was surely a moment of weakness. Once convinced she was asleep, he turned to leave, but just as he was about to pass through the doorway her voice stopped him.
"Darien..."
"Yeah." Her saying his name had mysteriously caused his heart to jump, and not out of surprise.
"Thank ye."
He didn't doubt her sincerity for an instant. "You're welcome."
The response was an unintelligible mumble that made him smile.
It was time to go home.