Authors' Foreword
And now, we seem to be back on the right track! Just two weeks since our last post, and here we are with another chapter! We hope to keep up this schedule for the foreseeable future, so look forward to more, and soon!
MP MP MP MP
December 24, 1905
Miriam had just walked up to the café's front door when sounds reminiscent of a Maxim gun split the chill morning air. She had barely kept herself from diving for cover, the sound so reminiscent of the Gatling guns and the rarer M1895 machine guns the American military had used in the Philippines, or the Maxim guns she'd heard in both the Philippines and China. She turned a sharp glare from the café's stoop, relieved upon seeing it had merely been an auto's backfiring.
Her glare immediately softened to concern as she beheld the poor driver whose face had been cut open by the swinging motor crank. His nose was also disturbingly out of place but he seemed otherwise fine and was standing, if a bit shaky legged. She shrugged minutely as he pushed a handkerchief against the wound and laughed at his own misfortune, setting about calming herself a bit before entering the café.
After settling her racing heart, she walked deeper into the café and saw her semi-regular teatime companion sitting in the usual spot. She couldn't help but let a smile that matched his grace her features, which in turn she wanted to berate herself for. I am just trying to get information from him! she griped mentally, Just because we are being pleasant does not mean I should consider this anything other than work!
As if to spite her own admonishments, she found herself fighting down a strong bout of curiosity when she saw his neck. There were marks and scratches that looked as if he had fought off someone trying to choke him... Or suffered the aggressions of a woman holding him in the throes of passion.
"Good evening, my dear Miriam," Bartholomew's nodded greeting drew the redhead from her consideration as she walked up to the table, "It is good to see you are in good health after the incident in London."
"No thanks to you," Miriam groused good-naturedly, scratching at the collar of her dress. Bartholomew couldn't help but notice that it was rather severely higher than her normal choice of fashion, going almost to the angle of her jaw, but held off asking about it as she sat. "I am assuming the papers you were attempting to abscond with did not make it?"
"No thanks to you," he parroted with an admirable smirk. "I was quite impressed that you figured out where the information was heading."
"It was not a big thing," Miriam said, waving her hand. "Your plots are much too complex; it made sense to me that you would have placed the documents with an intermediary while you went a different path. The police, myself, and Jonathan were already on your path, so placing the documents elsewhere and leading us on a wild goose chase was perfect. Draw attention from the real carrier and spark a possible international incident with Germany, tarnishing Britain's reputation. And," she smiled devilishly, "you would never have thought to simply keep the documents on your person. Much too ordinary and simple."
"Whoever said the intermediary was my idea, my dear Miriam?" Bartholomew's smirk, surprisingly, morphed into a boyish, charming grin, not at all ruined by the shrug that followed, "Had I had my way, the papers would have gone straight to a third party within London, to leave via a completely different route. Much as you suggested, actually... Though they likely would have stayed on Miss Go's person until then! She has much better places to hide such than I, the reason she carried the false ones until that damnable opium den!"
Miriam pursed her lips, but could not find fault with his claim. She shrugged herself, then fixed him with a considering gaze, "Speaking of papers, you realize I would be out of your hair if you could merely supply... Documentation that I was not at fault for the theft of the Electrostatic Illuminator, yes?"
"No matter how much you point out the easing of both our pains if I were to do so, my honor demands I not. It would be unsportsmanlike and cruel to give you a false hope of clearing your name," Bartholomew murmured in a regretful tone, all joking replaced with an air of seriousness. "In all honesty, as I may have mentioned, the political consequences bear far more on others than on myself, and it is for them that I am afraid we must continue our regular tête-à-tête."
"As I thought you would say," Miriam sighed. Shrugging to herself, both to loosen her tight shoulders and allow her dismiss the issue for the day — she couldn't force him to give her the proof, after all, especially knowing that it would have to be freely given if she had any hope of being fully cleared — she leaned forward to show the regularly raised topic was at rest, "Now that the traditional attempts to convince you freeing yourself of me as a burden have failed, where is the tea so I may drown my woes in lovely chamomile?"
"I must express my apologies," Bartholomew gestured to the redhead's side of the table and the glass of wine resting there, "But the café informed me that they were out of chamomile tea. I hope a nice red wine will suffice?"
"It will, Bartholomew," Miriam nodded at him with a slightly disappointed, but grateful smile. She sampled the wine and nodded satisfaction before following what had become a tradition during their regular afternoon teatime meetings: taking her cigarette case out and setting it on the table between her plate and the serving platter. She grabbed a hunk of bread and a small wedge of an herb-filled hard cheese and alternated dainty bites of each. "Is this a Riesling? It tastes much like one of my mother's favored vintages."
"It is indeed," Bartholomew nodded, mildly surprised, "I presume your mother is somewhat of a wine aficionado?"
"She fancies herself such," Miriam admitted after a long sip at her wine, "But I must admit that, a few wines aside, her tastes are rather..." She paused for a moment, taking another sip of her wine while she sought the proper way to describe them, "Trite. She tends to favor sweet wines with little to no other redeeming qualities."
Bartholomew allowed a chuckle that he found strangely suited to mingle with Miriam's own expression of delight, and shook his head, "It is a pity, that. A good wine with the right food is as close as a man, or woman, can come to heaven outside of a wonderful dining companion."
"Flattery, Bartholomew?" Miriam asked with a raised eyebrow, earning a faint flush from her nemesis... A word she found harder and harder to apply to the often charming, if just as often bedeviling, man. "Next thing you know, you may be asking me to join you in your fiendish escapades!"
Miriam barely held in a giggle as Bartholomew almost snorted into his own wine, and put on an air of innocence as he gazed at her. "With your timing, my dear Miriam, I sometimes wonder who the fiend is..." he muttered in a droll fashion, not bothering to hide the smile tugging at the edges of his lips.
"I admit to nothing," Miriam declared airily, holding a pose of exaggerated dignity, before winking at the man and taking another swallow of her wine, "How does this fine Christmas Eve find you?"
"As well as can be expected, considering recent news I have received." He pursed his lips immediately after saying the words. Even though they had met on a fairly regular basis over the prior year — whenever they were both in Paris at the same time, which had so far been nine meetings — she was still his enemy. His nemesis, even!
But if the look on the reporter's face was any indication, the proverbial cat had been let out of the bag. Sighing, he favored her with a wry smile. "I suppose I must expound upon that, eh?"
"It would be the gentlemanly thing to do, Bartholomew," Miriam smiled sweetly, though he could see the reporter she was lurking behind her beguiling eyes. Bartholomew had the distinct impression of a pit fighting dog ready to worry on a particularly tasty looking bone.
Bartholomew gave another, more resigned sigh, his mouth setting into a thin line as he thought about the best way to broach the subject. After taking a long sip of his drink, he gazed somewhat above her head and spoke in a distant tone, "I received word that my father has throat cancer, which our family physician fears will soon spread to other tissues. At times, he can barely speak or breathe as the tumors are slowly closing his throat. The family doctor says he shall not last past February; knowing my father, however, he shall likely be alive at least until spring breaks."
"My sympathies." Bartholomew looked at her sharply, but relaxed when he saw honest sympathy, and perhaps even grief, in her eyes.
"Thank you…" he smiled slightly, withdrawing a pipe and a pouch of tobacco from the coat around the back of his chair. He absently packed it and then fumbled about his suit jacket for his matches when an unlit match was held up in front of him. With a grateful smile, he took the match and struck it with his thumb, to no apparent surprise of Miriam, before holding it above the bowl and gently puffing on his pipe.
Miriam waited for him to get his pipe lit enough to draw from, then struck another match, lighting the cigarette held in her mouth. She blew a stream of bluish smoke towards the ceiling, watching as it wafted lazily upwards, before dropping her gaze and waving the match out. Seeing Bartholomew similarly distracted, she dropped the match in the table's ashtray, gently prodding her dining companion, "Do you plan to visit him, Bartholomew?"
"Miss Go and I are leaving later this evening," Bartholomew admitted, frowning slightly, "I would like to be back in Frankfurt before daybreak. Christmas with my father and the rest of his side of the family is always enjoyable, and with this likely his last, I should think even my mother would not care to sully it!"
Miriam opened her mouth to speak, but the vehemence of Bartholomew's last comment took her off guard. A very sore subject… There was a deep seated pain hidden behind his eyes, and the intensity with which he drew from his pipe implied it ran far deeper than what was visible. Instead of pushing as her curiosity wished to do, she changed her line of questioning slightly to a hopefully less sensitive topic, "What are your family's normal Christmas celebrations like?"
Bartholomew thought on it for a moment, before signaling a waiter. He asked the young man for a quality cognac and two snifters. Miriam's reaction was to tilt her head slightly, her eyebrows twisting in confusion. "Please indulge me a moment, Miriam."
The use of her name without the normal 'my dear' took her aback as much as his somber tone, and she nodded mutely. To further distract her curiosity, she took a long drag on her cigarette, finding a touch of amusement as Bartholomew took a long draw from his pipe at the same time. She took the time the waiter was away to watch him closely, wondering after his suddenly unreadable expression.
After the waiter returned, Bartholomew checked the bottle and nodded his thanks before opening the bottle and pouring a healthy portion for each of them. They both sampled the bouquet of the drink, and Bartholomew seemed to take particular care to admire its visual qualities, obviously deep in thought the whole while.
Finally having enough of waiting for him, Miriam sipped at her drink, and found herself enjoying the subdued mix of flavors that tasted as one of spiced fruit, a pleasantly subtle and earthy smokiness that mixed with and smoothed out the dry, crisp texture and warmth of the alcohol itself. Much like Father's favorite Bourbons… Bartholomew blinked and flushed slightly as he saw her take a drink, realizing he had taken longer than he realized.
"My apologies," he murmured, sipping his drink and savoring it almost in the manner of a wine aficionado, before continuing, "I was lost in my memories. My family's Christmas Day celebrations are much like this cognac… Warm, comforting, and rich, yet filled with subtleties of sight, aroma, texture and flavor in both a literal and metaphorical sense…"
Miriam stared at the man; she was used to hearing hyperbole and wrathful declarations from him, not having him to wax so wonderfully poetic. If his words had caught her off guard, his voice was even more unexpected. Gone was the bombastic, grating, half-broken tenor she had heard regularly for over a year and a half. In its place was a cultured, soothing baritone that sent a shiver of what she could only believe was shock down her spine.
She tried to think of the words to describe the dichotomy, but that very dichotomy struck her temporarily speechless. Miriam relaxed slightly when a warm, honest smile slipped over his countenance, "The house will be gaily decorated, especially the Christmas tree, and warm of both air and emotions… My sister will visit with her husband, and she and her daughters will invade the kitchen to cook the dinner for the day. They will only have one or two of our servants, those without family close by, to help, much to Mother's chagrin." At her cocked eyebrow, his smile, surprisingly, widened, "Father believes that everyone able, even servants, should spend holidays such as Christmas with family."
He didn't seem to realize he'd spoken so openly, even when Miriam nodded. When he continued, his voice soft and so full of love — despite his comment about his mother — that Miriam was nearly moved to tears, "But my sister, her daughters and the few servants remaining will fill the house with such wondrous odors and aromas. The first thing laid out will be several types of Plätzchen, then the Weihnachtsstollen," he caught an expression he misread as confusion in Miriam's eyes, and expanded his description with a note of apology in his tone, "Pläatzchen are cookies, and Weihnachtsstollen is a wondrously flavorful, rolled cake filled with fruits and spice. As I mentioned, that will usually be out after the cookies, both set to cool in the kitchen... And to keep greedy hands from them!"
He sighed, and then nodded as if recounting a regular occurrence. "Not long after my brother-in-law's pork and and my father's venison sauerbraten are started, my uncle Joseph will arrive, though this year he is bringing his bride-to-be. I look forward to meeting her as I have heard wondrous things of her from our mutual acquaintances. My Aunt Helen may visit if she is not too sick, possibly bringing along her daughter, my cousin Elise." He paused, sighing wistfully, "My cousin Edward was always there, but he was killed in battle in nineteen-hundred, during the siege on the Legations in China."
Miriam was just stubbing out her cigarette, having been so comforted by Bartholomew's description of his family's Christmas, so shockingly similar to her own, that the comment about his cousin caught her completely off guard. Yet when she heard where his cousin had died, she flinched and a few tears speckled her vision. She quickly withdrew another cigarette and a match from their case and lit it, hoping the noxious fumes from the match would explain away the tears in her eyes if Bartholomew saw them and asked. She normally didn't smoke in such a fashion, not wanting to appear to be a hanger on to the seeming fashion some women put into smoking; but sometimes, needs went before wants.
He did not seem to notice her reaction, still staring off into the space above them with a subtly melancholic smile, "Even Mother will probably assist in setting the table when the time comes, if just to ensure it is done properly. By the time my sister is finished in the kitchen, we will have more cookies, Germknödel and Semmelknödel, Käsesahnetorte, Kartoffelklöße, and many other dishes."
He paused as a chuckle was startled out of him, and turned his attention back to Miriam, "And of course, the giving and opening of presents… But I am sure that most households know of the joy that brings, especially with family."
"That sounds beautiful," Miriam said in a subdued, almost awed tone, shaking her head in wonder at the oddly homey scene her foe had painted. Strangely, she had always pictured him being an only child, spoiled as could be by a doting mother.
"It is, but…" he shrugged expansively, before taking a long pull from his nearly doused pipe, puffing until the tobacco was smoldering properly again, "It shall probably be the last such Christmas." He shrugged when he saw the small pout on Miriam's face, and shrugged, "C'est la vie, as the Frenchmen say."
Miriam nodded and made a sound somewhere between a sigh and an agreeing grun as Bartholomew took another, smaller puff on his pipe. He dropped his hands to the tabletop, cradling the pipe and focusing more intently on her, "What about you, my dear? Your family must have been quite something to have produced a woman as intriguing as yourself." He paused, and his smile became an almost urchin's grin when he added, "I would think your Christmas celebration would be quite the sight indeed!"
"Oh," Miriam sighed as she was flooded with pleasant memories of her last Christmas at home, "Oh, yes, it truly is…"
MP MP MP MP
Jonathan Stoppable, as anyone spying him could plainly see, was quite pleased with life. Despite the pursuit of two days prior — not to mention the still-sore muscles, the mostly healed lacerations, and the bruises from the opium den — he couldn't have been happier. The morning had dawned bright, warm and, surprisingly for Paris, clear, with no rain expected. The lack of rain in turn served to explain the rather thick crowds along the Avenue des Champs-Élysées and its side streets.
Not that he minded overly much. He had a good portion of the day set aside for purchasing a gift for his best friend and a few of his closer family back home. He somewhat regretted leaving off until Christmas Eve to do so, but the month had been rather busy, what with traveling all over France and even England, culminating in foiling the plot Bart and Miss Go had been involved in for that time. Not much I could do about it, he sighed to his thoughts, but it still bothers me...
Thinking on that distracted the blond enough that he bumped into someone whom he apologized profusely to in his clumsy, but serviceable, French. The event seemed to prove that the day was a good one, as the tall, thin man had merely smiled and accepted the apology with dignified grace, earning a titter from the rather attractive, and clearly smitten, woman on his arm.
The scene as they walked on drew him to earlier in the morning, and his feelings began to take on a happy, yet melancholy bearing. He'd somehow managed to wake before Mim, and had enjoyed nearly a half-hour of staring at his beautiful friend before waking her for her nearly ritualistic tea-time with Bart. They'd managed to enjoy a bit of play with each other, though they hadn't the time to do more than kiss and touch. In some ways, he was rather glad of it.
He loved her, as her best friend, and despite his own wishes, he'd come to feel... More than he should, as just her lover. Would he like to be more to her? Would he like to be more for her? On both counts, he'd be a fool to say anything other than a resounding yes. And yet...
"And yet...?" he repeated aloud, pursing his lips slightly. After a moment, he shrugged, his face returning to the neutral smile he'd had a moment earlier. He wasn't sure what he was feeling, or whether it could be considered falling for her, or just an increased closeness to his best friend brought about by their more and more regular love-making.
This is so confusing! he complained to himself with a half-amused grunt, frowning slightly in thought, When I was with Margaret, it was plain what we both wanted! Same with Bessie, Ethel, Mabel and Laura! He nodded in agreement with himself, when another few names came to the fore, giving him a bit of a mental pause. Sure, Florence, Sylvia and Grace protested seeking love, it was clear that Florence sought only one thing, at least at the time... And while Sylvia might have wanted more, she didn't push for more... And Grace really did want more, but was fine with what we had... And even with Grace, what we had wasn't such a closeness that I wanted to ask for her hand when her family moved up north, even if we did manage to stay friends...
He shook his head, then sighed and smiled slightly, At the very least we all knew it was what it was!
With Mim, however, it was... He had no words to describe it. He'd had sex with all of those women, and perhaps what he'd done with Sylvia and Grace could have been considered making love. With Mim, he had not a doubt what they did together, even if they weren't in love, they made love! But as to being in love?
"It wouldn't be a bad thing, would it?" he whispered aloud, as if speaking could help him come to a decision. Unfortunately, it didn't have any effect that he could tell, and he grunted in annoyance. "I should just forget about it..." he admonished himself once again, "This can only lead to five hundred miles of broken track! Besides which, if I'm right abo-... Oof!"
His self-directed warning was cut off as a man of positively unhealthy girth bumped into him. He had worked up a bit of a head of steam while lost in his thoughts, and was barely a block away from the Champs-Élysées when they collided. He managed to make the man stagger back a full half step, quite the impressive feat considering he hadn't been trying to. Especially with the man weighing in at over 350 pounds, if Jon's well trained teamster's eyes hadn't failed him.
Jon, however, was launched almost ninety degrees off course, half-flying into the outside seating of a rather classy looking café. He struck a table firmly, upsetting it and its contents quite spectacularly. The patron sitting at the table, whose voice was oddly familiar to Jon's ears, gave an inarticulate cry of protest as he flew past. The upset table, somehow, missed her body, but did manage to catch her elbow. Despite the jarring impact, she managed to keep half of the drink in her hand from spilling.
The deep purple droplets of the liqueur somehow missed the woman's startlingly white blouse and the pleasantly off-white skirt, but some did land on her face, and the navy blue jacket she wore over them. The rest flew unerringly onto the jacket Jon was wearing. Luckily, like the woman who held the liqueur, his jacket was darker than his norm, so only the darkening of the material gave proof to the spill.
At least the potatoes missed me... Jon mused to himself, amazed that not just the plates, but the flimsy looking table, were intact. Intact enough, in fact, that it rolled about its round top to bump him firmly on the side of his head. Then his bruises, still sore from two days earlier, reminded him rather pointedly of their presence, as well as the sore ribs on his left side. Even the camel bite, mostly healed as it was, throbbed from the crash. As if irony was having fun at his expense, his still bandaged hand managed, somehow, not to throb in time with the rest of him... Not that he'd complain about that, to be sure!
Through squinted eyes he noticed an odd, globular bottle filled with what looked to be the same liquor that had spilled. A touch over a third of its contents had been imbibed, though if he had to guess, he'd interrupted the latest glass of the drink.
He looked up to see flashing, emerald green eyes staring down at him, the face they belonged to quickly congealing into recognition. A volatile mix of emotions flashed by too quickly for him to guess at what they were, before flaming into a rather intense anger. "Stoppable?"
"Um, hello, Ms. G." Jon managed to choke out as the beautiful woman glared down at him, "My apologi-.."
"You spilled my drink, you, you..." Her mouth worked a few times, seemingly so incensed at the incident that she was at a loss for words.
"Erm... Sorry?" He offered, finding it rather incongruous that she'd complain about the liqueur, though when he licked his lips to try and come up with a response, he couldn't help but understand, at least a little bit. It was quite good, tasting of raspberry, honey and some spirit or another.
"Sorry?" she snipped at him, "Sorry? That's all you can say for yourself?"
He didn't answer right away, instead carefully rolling into a sitting position, before pushing himself to his feet. He turned and gave her a sheepish half-smile as he scratched the back of his neck, "I kind of bounced off of that... Er, Ms. G.?" His voice faded when she stood, her glare intensifying slightly as she looked down at him. He knew she was tall, but even wearing short-heeled Oxford shoes, quite similar to his own derbys and identical in height at the heel she still towered above him by a good four, maybe a whole six inches. It was intimidating, yet at the same time, the height, the flashing eyes and the intensity of her emotions made for a very alluring vision of beauty that left him tongue tied.
The silence seemed to be all that was needed for her temper to be loosed from its restraints. "You dunderheaded, clumsy buffoon! Do you have any control over your own body?" she snapped and flung the rest of her drink into his face. He gasped in surprise, managing to close his eyes before the liqueur splashed into his face. He knew the woman was quite dangerous, and they were in the middle of the truce period declared by Bart, so he tried his best to keep his control.
Unfortunately, the move caught him so off guard that his mouth ran away from his brain, and he said the first thing that crossed his mind. "It wasn't entirely my fault, you hot-headed trollop!" he snapped as he wiped at his face, "That fat man I bounced off of had as much to do with i-..YEOUCH!" The slow, aching pain in his body was, however briefly, subsumed by the sharp intensity of that coming from his left ear. Miss Go had reached out, grabbing the helix of his ear and twisted sharply while pulling downwards. He ended up with his head awkwardly half-twisted, staring up at her with a pained grimace on his face, "Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow, let off!"
"Only if you apologize for calling me a trollop, you insufferable ass!" she growled, ignoring her waiter and the maître d', who were standing just aside from them with disapproving gazes. "Despite what you may think, Stoppable, I am a lady!"
"Okay, okay, I'm sorry," Jon groaned, knowing he was in an untenable situation. Not only was he somewhat responsible for the mess and disturbing the relaxed atmosphere of the rather nice café, but he had called her a trollop. That was something he'd taken pains to avoid, especially considering what one of Mim's best friends, Isabella — a woman he considered at least a friend in passing — did for a living. She didn't seem to believe him, and twisted his ear a bit more. "Ms. G., I should not have said that; you have my sincerest apologies! I'm not normally so careless with my words!"
Miss Go pursed her lips, and relaxed her hold a bit, before adding, "And you should really buy me another drink."
"Fine..." Jon grunted, then gasped in relief as she let go. She turned and spoke in such rapid fire French he was unable to catch more than a couple words. The waiter and the maître d' seemed to accept what she'd said, giving slight nods and turning back towards the restaurant. Jonathan didn't know why, but he had a feeling that he'd be paying extra for his drink. He sighed lightly, then smiled in a resigned fashion, At least the table is undamaged and none of the plates broke...
MP MP MP MP
Miss Go glowered at the blond Pinkerton agent for a long moment after the waiter and maître d' left, then let out a huffing sigh that mingled frustration, anger, and a touch of despondence as one. A slight majority of the frustration was directed at herself; she'd been lost in thought, and had imbibed a bit more of her favored drink than intended. After all, she'd purchased the bottle to take with her for later!
Then she'd allowed her temper free reign against the bumbling fool. She knew it wasn't entirely his fault, as she'd been bumped into by that same fat oaf earlier in the morning. As such, she'd risked the truce her employer, and she herself, had agreed to; it was a point of honor with her now, which she'd very nearly besmirched over an accident.
Even so, just seeing the man after the morning she'd had set her temper off like a quick match fuse. First, she'd woken from a rather... Profoundly keen dream focusing on the confused, mixed up jumble that was her memories of two nights earlier. She'd been sweaty, enough that her sheets had been soaked, and quite... Frustrated. Then she'd had to deal with Bart giving her lip about what she'd done when they'd managed to get to his estate near Paris. Not that it was completely undeserved, but she'd been under the influence of that damnable Chinaman's tea!
Then there was that cursed silversmith... His promise to have the dinnerware set ready for her by the morning had been off by hours, and meant she'd be waiting in the area until well after noon... And it was already two and a half weeks late as it was! Worse, it was to be a gift for her younger brother, Franklin — who had married his childhood sweetheart the prior month — and she'd wanted it back to them by Christmas!
The delay was vexing. Their wedding gift, a rather nice set of knives from a German knifemaker she'd commissioned, had taken barely a week to make. The fool of a Frenchman had been given nearly a month-and-a-half, and was just finishing them? I knew I should have gone to a German silversmith! she growled to herself, If the damn things didn't look as good as they did, I'd demand a discount... From his hide if needs be!
But... The pieces he'd shown her, freshly polished and gleaming even in the dim light of his shop, were breathtaking. Intricately engraved, precisely shaped and sized, and held within a nicely made velvet and oakwood case. Worth it, despite the delay. While it stretched her comfortable salary a bit, she loved her brother and his wife as family should, even if she hadn't seen them since she was barely seventeen. She snorted, ignoring the light wince from Stoppable, as if he thought it was directed at him, Maybe I should demand at least a bit of a discount...
She sighed as she watched the blond right the table, before picking up her bottle of liqueur and placing it on top of it. She was even more surprised when he helped to pick up the plates when a young man came out to collect them with nary a wince despite the hand he'd cut so badly back in London. She grimaced slightly in sympathy as he sat down in the chair opposite of the one she'd been sitting in. Part of her grumbled about his audacity, but overall she didn't begrudge him the motion; he had taken some powerful blows at the opium den, blows that must still hurt, and had hit the floor of the café rather roughly. Shaking her head at her own thoughts, she considered him briefly, He's a buffoon, but at least he's courteous... When he's not letting his mouth run away from him!
With a smirk she sat down across from him, cocking her head slightly, "How's the ear?"
"It'll be fine." Jon said shortly, then shrugged slightly, "Honestly, I haven't had anyone do anything like that since I was in school."
"Why am I not surprised?" Miss Go asked, more in the manner of someone stating a fact. She snickered slightly at his grimace, then favored him with a vaguely apologetic gaze, "Are you alright? You took a few good blows over in London."
"After that tumble, I'm feeling every bruise..." he chirped, offering her a hesitant smile, "Even the one that damn camel gave me in Morocco! But, eh, I've had worse."
"That walking whale should really pay more attention to his surroundings." she snipped, not realizing she'd spoken aloud until the blond muttered in agreement.
"No doubt!" he said with feeling, then his cheeks flushed slightly, "I'd have probably avoided him if I'd have paid more attention, but I was lost in thought, trying to decide on presents for some of my family back home and... Other things..."
"You, lost in thought? And here I thought the only thing you were capable of was following Mimmie like a puppy!" Miss Go snarked, ignoring the probably unintentional opening he'd left her. When he looked at her, she let the faint smirk on her face grow slightly; she didn't want to seem too callous, for some odd reason. "Perish the thought."
To her surprise, he laughed softly, shaking his head, "A surprise to me, as well." She shook her head as she looked about for her waiter, not catching the smirk sliding across his on features, "Though the fact that you didn't see me flying towards your table says you were probably lost in thought as well."
"Yes," Miss Go said simply, then turned to look at him sharply, her eyes narrowing cagily. "You..."
"No worries, Ms. G!" he chuckled, holding his hands out expansively, "I won't pry, though if it is something troubling you, I'm told I'm a very good listener..."
"You're truly odd, Stoppable." she said evenly, pursing her lips. The man seriously wishes to offer his ear, despite that we're enemies? she asked herself in a vaguely discomfited manner.
"Yup," he agreed amicably, as if it needed no expanding upon, "I've always been so, and shall probably always remain so." His smirk faded into a soft smile. It again reminded her of some of her thoughts two nights prior, and some aspects of her dream earlier in the morning.
She tried to quash her thoughts with a vengeance, despite her mind's stubborn refusal to listen to her when she spoke. "That wasn't a compliment!" The words were sharp, but, again as if to spite herself, her estimation of the man rose when he merely shrugged. They remained silent for a surprisingly companionable moment, before the blond spoke again, honest curiosity in his tone.
"Was late Christmas shopping what brought you out this morning?" he asked, drawing a grunt from the bodyguard.
"Yes, partially." She admitted, "As did the weather. No rain in Paris in winter?"
"I understand the appeal." The blond shrugged, then jumped slightly as the waiter arrived with her drink, as well as a matching one for him. He turned his eyes on her and raised a questioning eyebrow.
"Consider it an apology for overreacting earlier," she said simply before cocking her head slightly, holding a hand up to the waiter, "Have you eaten?"
"No, actually." Jon seemed surprised to admit, "And now that you mention it..."
"Okay, I'll buy you lunch." His eyes lit up in what could only be described as glee, but she held up a finger, "But you'll owe me answers to a few questions."
"Fine by me." he answered, "Just don't make them too prying..." When she raised an eyebrow, "Unless you're willing to respond in kind?"
"Fine," she said easily, turning to the waiter, "The same as I had for the gentleman, if you please."
"Very well, madam," the waiter said, as if she hadn't been involved in the earlier disturbance in the least.
He bowed and left, and when he was several steps away, the pale brunette turned, sitting forward slightly and stabbing the table as if to emphasize her words, "First off, tell me how you realized I had things on my mind!" Jon opened his mouth to respond, an inscrutable smile on his face, when he was cut off when Miss Go held up the same finger, her tone sharpening slightly, "Do not give me any poppycock about not seeing you bouncing off of that walking dirigible, either!"
"Perish the thought," Jon mimicked her earlier tone quite well, leaning back to take a sip of the drink she'd had brought out for him. He nodded, a smile of satisfaction on his face. When the detective spoke again, it was with an enthusiasm that would not be out of place in a common saloon as opposed to an upscale café in Paris. "I can see why you like this place, Ms. G.; a good bourbon isn't exactly easy to find in Paris!"
"And another thing!" she said suddenly, making him raise an eyebrow, "Cut the bumpkin speech, at least for now; I just called you a gentleman, after all!" It wasn't that she was truly bothered by the mode of speech, as it reminded her comfortingly of home. Perhaps too comfortingly, considering some of her confused thoughts and feelings! She frowned at that, countering with a mental growl, I've worked myself like a draft horse to pull myself up from my roots! Franklin may be fine living on the farm with our parents and Nana, but that is not the life for me... She barely resisted huffing in annoyance, It's got nothing to do with the dreams or memories, not in the least!
Despite her last thoughts ringing rather hollowly, she kept them from her face, staring down her nose until he flushed, agreeing with a chagrined nod, "Of course, Miss Go." After a moment, she relaxed her pose, but favored him with a raised eyebrow, prodding him to answer her, "As to how I knew you were troubled, a goodly part of it was, indeed, the... Distraction that you showed when I knocked over your table."
He raised a finger when she opened her mouth to protest, "But there was also your temper, which seemed quite a bit faster to ignite as compared to normal... And the fact that you have gone through at least a third of that drink of yours?" He nodded towards the container of the liqueur sitting next to her elbow. "I do not know you very well, Miss Go, but while you do not strike me as a teetotaler, I can hazard a guess that you usually avoid drinking to excess."
"I see..." she murmured, his astute observations startling her more than she'd like to admit, before catching what she'd said and privately rolling her eyes at herself. That fool of a scientist rubbing off on me, damn him!
Taking a moment to get her thoughts back on track, she gave thought to his apparent skills. She'd presumed that it was Mim that had tracked her down so easily back in New York. However, if he could guess that much from both his limited exposure to her and from what had happened just a few minutes earlier...
"I have been wrong before, of course," he added with a faint smirk and a challengingly raised eyebrow.
"While I do like my spirits and good beer," she admitted with a slight smirk of her own, "you are quite correct in that I avoid drinking to excess. It has caused... Complications, in the past."
"Especially with your occupation," he nodded knowingly. "I have known a few women who followed similar pursuits to your own, and some of the... Problems that can come from it."
"Just how long have you been a detective, Stoppable?" It wasn't one of the questions she'd intended to ask, and while she cursed herself for it, her growing curiosity over the detective compelled her to ask.
"Ironically, today will be five years and a week to the day," he chuckled. "I got my start in it helping Mim on a story she was following for the paper, some arson at a warehouse, not long after she returned from... Overseas."
"Oh, so it was Mimmie that got you into investigations!" she tittered. Miss Go knew he saw the curiosity that had suffused her being when he mentioned her having been overseas, but decided to respect his request not to pry. Instead, she favored him with a considering gaze, again wondering why her mouth seemed ready to ignore what her mind told it to ask. "I have a feeling that she doesn't pay you, as Bartholomew does me, Stoppable. And you seem rather fond, some would say overly fond, of following her around."
"She is my best friend." the blond chuckled easily.
"And that is all there is to it?" Miss Go countered, her eyes narrowing slightly, searching his face for any hint of deceit.
"And should there be more?" His riposte was calm and amused, much to her surprise, "We've known each other since she was just shy of four, while I was just over five. We played about in my father's warehouse as our fathers discussed business. We've been friends since, and I will always cover her back, if I am physically capable. No matter the cost, as she would me."
Oh, ho... she thought to herself, It seems now we're getting somewhere! Aloud, she chirped, "It sounds less that you are best friends and more like you are a married couple!"
"Not married, no..." Jon said, pursing his lips slightly, as if chewing on something he was unsure would be unpalatable or not, before shrugging minutely. "While any man would be lucky to have her as a husband," Miss Go barely repressed the urge to snicker at him, instead schooling her face into a neutral, even clinical, gaze, "I feel that... More than we have, together at least, is a long shot, at least for me."
Miss Go's eyebrows went up involuntarily, his earnest response surprising her a great deal. Then his wording, subtle hesitation and emphasis filtered through, making her smirk in a decidedly wicked fashion, "So you're more than merely best friends? You didn't say you were engaged or the like, so... Lovers, perhaps?"
Jon blinked at her, his eyes widening and his eyebrows raising. After a moment, he snickered, holding his bourbon up as if saluting her, before shooting it back with nary a wince, incidentally moving him up a bit more in her reckoning. He then favored her with an even gaze. "And what if we are?" he asked challengingly. Her eyes widened a bit, and he waited for her to open her mouth before adding, "I could ask the same of you and Bartholomew, even if he is your employer, but I'll wait and ask something else."
"Something else?" She countered, "I believe I said I was asking you questions."
"And did you not agree that if you were too prying, I could do the same in return, hmmm?" His expression was sickly sweet, and he knew he'd caught her out.
"Yes, I did, didn't I?" She sighed, grimacing at her own curiosity.
She opened her mouth to retract her question, but he spoke before she could, as if he knew she was going to do just that, "To answer your question, yes; some might call our situation one of convenience, but there is more to it than that; we trust and care for each other, so it is not some trifling, tawdry affair."
"Oh?" Miss Go murmured, her tone of mild interest, despite the well hidden gleam just touching her eyes.
Jon smiled far more warmly than one who seemed to have struck out in love. "'Oh' indeed…"
Authors' Notes
Miriam and Bartholomew seem to feel far more comfortable with each other than their apparent animosity would indicate! Enough so that Bartholomew shares such a lovely scene of familial togetherness with her... But will she return the favor, is the question, non?
Poor Jon... Through no fault of his own, he managed to not only upset the calm air of a nice café, but disturb Miss Go in the middle of some seemingly rare personal time. Which, of course, she seems to have turned into a way to do some investigations of her own. But then, Jon seems to have turned the tables on her, and managed to give himself an opening to ask some questions of his own! Just what else will come of their conversation in time? Well, that's all coming up in the next chapter, of course!
As always, readers, there are a lot of fics out there, so let's not forget about 'em... Keep on reading, enjoying, and if you feel like it, reviewing (that makes all of us authors happy, you know...)!