Authors' Foreword
Hey, all, we're back for yet another chapter. We're glad to see our readers seem to be enjoying themselves, and with that, we're going back to an older tradition, and give a shout out to our reviewers!
Cthulhu rex, Magic Flying Spud, and Mindless Violence Fan: thanks for the reviews, sorry it's been so long since we started, and we hope you're enjoying the more regular updates!
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MP MP MP MP
"Tell me about it?" Bartholomew requested quietly, resting his elbows at the very edge of his chair's arms, clasping one hand over the other and leaning forward to rest his chin upon his hands.
Miriam was caught somewhat off guard by his actions and was still recovering from how… Warm he sounded at that moment. With a shy smile, she obliged him, "Our Christmas is... Well... Surprisingly very similar to yours, as unlikely as it sounds." She blushed lightly, her voice taking on a demure tone she would have denied profusely had she heard it. "No surprise, really; our family is originally from Germany. We kept most of the traditions, so I am quite familiar with what you described. Especially the wonderful food!"
"It is one of the things I love about the Fatherland," Bartholomew agreed, cocking his head slightly to the left. "Have you been there since you have been in Europe, Miriam?"
"A couple times," Mim nodded, stubbing her cigarette out in the ashtray, "Ironically, not in relation to any of your plots." Bartholomew chuckled, and Miriam leaned back, bringing her snifter of cognac to her lips to take a few sips before she picked up her thread from a moment before, "The food, though… I love my mother's Plätzchen, especially Mandel Spritzgebäck and pfeffernüsse. Then there's my father's wonderful sauerbraten and goose, though his trout course is the best."
"Judging by the accent, your family is Bavarian?" Bartholomew asked with honest curiosity, and Miriam nodded.
"Mein Großvater war aus München," Mim tittered slightly, flushing at the frustratingly girlish sound, but continued nonetheless, "Even with the visits to Germany, I have not used the language steadily; I am quite certain my accent is atrocious."
"Not at all," Bartholomew shook his head, his tone and the look on his face sincere. "I am a native of Germany, so I would be one to know." He blinked when he saw Miriam's eyebrows screw together and shoot towards her brow. The outright cuteness of the expression gave him a sudden thrill, very similar in fact to a rapid descent in his airship, and he took a healthy sip of from his snifter.
"I would have never guessed," she noted as he set his glass back down. "You sound as if you have lived in the United States your entire life!"
Covering further for his strange reaction, Bartholomew reached for a napkin to wipe his brow as he bashfully continued, "I speak English very well, I know. Just like a first language according to Miss Go, and yourself as well as a few other Americans I have met that know my birth country."
He pursed his lips, debating whether to give her an explanation, or to hedge against it. With a minute shrug, he continued, "My mother would not allow for imperfections such as an accent to hold fast for me. She has it in her head that the American accent is more neutral than British English, though why she felt the need for such I have not the faintest idea." He noticed the topic was shifting with his curiosity yet sated. With a slight pursing of the lips, he cocked his head and asked, "Were your parents the only ones which you spent your Christmas Day and meal with?"
"Had you not heard my mention of ours being similar to yours?" Miriam said teasingly, letting the rather blunt change of topic stand, despite her curiosity. "I have a brother, Markus." She paused and gave a soft, heartfelt laugh, "He's merely eighteen, but he is already married, and they are already trying to have children."
Her amusement faded slightly, and her gaze became far away for a moment, reliving a particularly fond memory, "He was always quick to wake when he was younger, doing his best to convince us all to get as much precious time out of the season as was available. Then there are my two uncles, Jason and Seamus, and my aunt, Sabine, who is ironically younger than I, my cousin Randall. And of course, all the children...
"We all gather at my family's ranch, even the hands and their families. We all consider them to be nearly family, to be honest. Sometimes Jonathan's family would visit when they were not back home, though Jonathan was almost always present." She chuckled at a sudden thought, "Which made our rather modest home seem positively undersized!"
"You are from a ranching family?" Bartholomew asked curiously, and Miriam nodded with a rather proud smirk.
"Yes, some of the best thoroughbreds and cutting horses in the United States have been bred on our farm." Miriam's smirk had become a positively glowing smile, and Bartholomew found himself returning it in kind, "I learned some blacksmithing and, before I entered college, I was quite an accomplished farrier."
Bartholomew looked quite honestly impressed with the information, and his words gave truth to his expression, "While I am good with riding and caring for a horse in the field, I was never as capable as I would have liked with the animals when it came to more intensive care."
"I tend to get along very well with animals." Miriam admitted with a shrug.
"Which probably explains the ease with which you handled that camel in Morocco," Bartholomew concluded.
"Yes," Miriam agreed with a giggle, covering her mouth until she could stifle the sound. When she had her control back, she favored Bartholomew with an apologetic look, "Poor Jon, however, suffered mightily at the hands of that stubborn beast!"
"It seemed the surly sort when Miss Go and I passed over hiring it and its rider at the stables." Bartholomew admitted.
"Surly is not how I would put it," Miriam corrected with a grimace, "More along the lines of stubborn, mean-spirited, hateful and unwilling to do more than the least it could to get by." She chuckled lightly as she added, "Dear Jon still has a bruise on the back of his left leg from the worst bite the beast gave him.
Bartholomew winced, understanding Miriam's declaration. The very same camel had, when they were considering it, spat a significant amount of foul smelling, sticky spittle right into Miss Go's face. The only thing that had saved the animal's life had been the stable owner's willingness to offer a significantly reduced rate on the rental of a half dozen pack mules and two rather fine horses for their trek into the desert.
"Well, at least we all made it out of that sandstorm more or less intact," Bartholomew said after a long moment, grimacing despondently, "Although the poor soldiers we had planned on stealing the machine guns from were not so lucky."
"Why did you try and steal those guns?" Miriam asked, then covered her mouth with her hand for a moment before reaching out to stall Bartholomew when he opened his mouth, "I am sorry; I should leave questions such as that out of our conversations here."
"It is no worry, Miriam," Bartholomew soothed reassuringly. "To be honest, I had hoped to take the guns from the soldiers before they happened upon a settlement of anti-imperialist guerrillas and their families. Alas, there was no need." He sighed lightly, glancing up, "I do hope they appreciated the small service I offered, though I am not an ordained minister. It was the least I could do."
"We saw the graves you dug for them," Miriam said solemnly, taking a long sip of her cognac before continuing, "With the lack of blood, Jon and I both concluded they had been overcome by the weather, as I have yet to see or hear of you or Miss Go killing in cold blood."
"Indeed," Bartholomew nodded, a rueful smile upon his face, "Though had we attacked them, at least they would have had a chance. One cannot fight against God or Mother Nature, after all."
"No, one cannot," Miriam agreed easily, "'Tis folly..."
"Indeed... Besides which," Bartholomew murmured softly, "My father and mother raised me better than to be party to murder. My mother would likely have had my skin had I performed such a craven act! And she would have found out, one way or another."
Sensing an opening which didn't seem nearly as sensitive as the earlier one, Miriam casually asked "So your mother likes to be on top of things?"
Her attempts to keep it sounding normal caught Bartholomew's attention. He shot her a sharp glare, completely unintentional, which seemed to suck the air out of his dinner companion's lungs. Realizing just what he was doing, Bartholomew sighed, his shoulders sagging uncharacteristically. "My apologies, Miriam. I am overly sensitive whenever my mother is brought up. I should not take my distaste out on you."
"Twopence for your thoughts?" she joked, an obvious attempt to leaven the mood. It worked well enough to earn a sincere smirk from him.
"The price for my thoughts on my mother would require much more than a simple twopence," he countered with a charming smile.
"Then how about making it a present?" Miriam suggested. "It is Christmas, after all."
"We have already exchanged presents, Miriam," Bartholomew said, his smile turning smug.
"Oh?" the redhead asked, a teasing grin upon her face.
"Indeed..." he chuckled, "Or do you consider revealing anything about family between two enemies to be normal?"
"Ah," Miriam agreed with a chuckle, "A point, good sir, a point... What of next year?"
Bartholomew paused at the simple question, his eyes drifting upwards and slightly to the right in thought. Even he did not plan presents a year previous to the date. It was very possible to make knowledge of himself and his mother her present, if she still wished for it the next year. But... To broach the subject of his mother was touchy business. He wasn't sure that he could even properly discuss the delicate, painful thing that was their relationship.
Glancing over at her, he could tell that even his mere hesitation had interested her enough to keep her thinking on it for a while. She could even do her own investigations into it, which would create a slew of new, even more alarming problems! Problems he found himself admitting intrigued him...
"What would I get in return?" he asked coyly as his mind continued racing for a suitable solution. "That is information that even my worst of enemies would covet. Surely one good present such as that deserves another like it." He reached for the bottle of cognac and raised an eyebrow at Miriam, who nodded distractedly, and refilled both of their snifters to a level slightly higher than would be considered proper by a brandy aficionado.
Miriam blinked while she processed that oddly cryptic answer. Why would his worst enemies desire such information as his relationship with his mother? Then again, he seemed more... Disgusted than nervous or worried.
"You say it is worth more than a twopence, yet your reaction is not protective, but more..." she paused, reaching for the correct word, "Troubled. Tell me..." Miriam sat forward, and favored him with an honest, open expression of curiosity, "What would be better, or perhaps easier, to discuss? Other family? Past, or perhaps present, loves or friends of certain convenience?"
He considered her last question with caution. China was the only topic she cringed from thus far in their conversations, and the prior lack of mention of a husband or love in her life, he felt it was safe to guess they were connected. Yet she had offered to bare such a thing in exchange for information about his mother or his own past loves.
He pursed his lips a moment, then carefully picked his words, "Perhaps you could tell me of your husband, or lost suitor. The one that I must guess died while in China?" Bartholomew halted his words with a wince, realizing he'd allowed his mouth to get ahead of his mind, and favored Miriam with an apologetic gaze.
And that was all he could do. He'd seen people wail in the pain of true loss. Many a man would claim that native peoples of Africa were not but animals with no emotion, but he knew otherwise. He'd seen the pain, the agony in the eyes of men and women and children whose wives and husbands and parents had been cut down. And he had been touched, deeply, by it.
Yet the soul-deep guilt and sorrow that flashed across Miriam's eyes took him aback in a way that no similar event had in the past. He couldn't help but to draw a comparison to soldiers he had seen fresh from the lines of battle, having survived that which their fellows mere feet away did not. Her eyes were unfocused, staring not at, so much as through the table while her hands gripped the arms of her chair with a strength that could have given a wrestler pause. While her breathing was steady, and her lip firm in set, Bartholomew could have sworn he heard the barest hiccup of suppressed grief, and that, he concluded, was why it struck him so deeply. The only other reason was too nebulous a possibility to even consider.
He would be the first to admit, even crow brazenly, that he was a villain. But he was also not the brute many felt was required of the role. He was a gentleman, dammit! No matter the situation, it was a deplorable thing to cause unnecessary pain to someone, especially a lady, or, in some ways worse, a woman he considered a gentlewoman in equal stead with any gentleman he'd ever met! It was, potentially, an unforgivable slight to his honor, a slight he'd inflicted on himself.
"I..." Miriam's strained voice brought Bartholomew out of his recriminations, and she sighed, "I apologize, Bartholomew. That was unladylike and rather uncalled for."
"Miriam..." Bartholomew began, but she held a hand up with a gently admonishing smile.
"My reaction stemmed mostly from the fact that you had so correctly deduced such a detail as my... My late husband." She shook her head as if a horse shaking away a persistent fly and favored him with an apologetic smile, "It is rather unsettling to know that I am so easy to read!"
Bartholomew nearly recoiled, from both the biting frost which now clung to her self-directed comments and the strangely listless way she had spoken since he had asked. "Miriam," he began heavily, settling a hand around his recently refilled snifter, "I must once again apologize. I, too, have lost a love that was dear to my heart. I know of the pain you feel, yet I am acting as an ass, braying loudly with no thought on how I affect others as I go forth into the desert!"
"As do we all, from time to time," Miriam said softly, reaching out her right hand and laying it gently on Bartholomew's right before he could lift his snifter to his lips, "And I apologize as well for being such a silly girl for a moment. I am a grown woman, and had thought myself past his death, so your question was not so much improper as... Frankly... Unexpected, and rather blunt."
"Then we owe each other an apology," Bartholomew said firmly, his sense of honor holding firm rein over him at the moment. It wanted him to take full responsibility for the pain he had caused her, however brief it may have been. After all, he had been the one to ask! But as he considered Miriam a gentlewoman more than a lady, and she considered her reaction as much a guilty fault as he, his honor would accept a mutual apology. To his relief, Miriam agreed.
"I can accept that, Bartholomew," she nodded, "And I accept your apology as well, if you accept mine."
"So it is agreed," Bartholomew said, setting the snifter down and turning his hand to shake Miriam's. She clasped his hand and they shook, neither of them realizing they'd held on a touch longer than protocol demanded. They let go after a few seconds of staring at each other. Despite himself, Bartholomew felt a tingling where her hand had touched his. He tried to ignore it as he lifted the snifter to his lips. "So, then, this time next year, if we are still competing against each other, we shall tear each other's hearts out and lay them bare on the table!"
Bartholomew's words were said in a faux jovial manner so much like his normal bombast that Miriam almost cringed. "I suppose, though I would not say it in such a grisly fashion." Bartholomew's look of surprise made her roll her eyes, yet chuckle at once, "While I am not an average woman, even I must draw the line at removing organs from a still-living body," she explained.
"I see," he said before suddenly switching gears and picking up his glass, a large smile on his face. "A cheer must be made in the name of the holiday. What say you, my dear?"
"To family, and..." Miriam thought for a moment, then smiled lightly, a far off look in her eyes, "To family, and love, however you find it, or it finds you."
She raised her snifter of cognac, and Bartholomew tapped his to hers, a soft, sad smile upon his face, "To family, and love..."
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"Oh, really?" Miss Go murmured to Jon, the barest hint of a chuckle buried in her words, "I can guess that Mimmie has quite the appetite, and can be rather demanding of quality in her lovers!" A devilish smirk had replacing the look of annoyance on her face. There was also the strong hint of... Curiosity, and the subtlest, well-hidden hints at other thoughts in her eyes. His mind raced slightly as he considered a truly audacious idea. He almost started speaking, but guessed she had something else to add, so paused, hoping it would help him determine if he should follow his idea or let it lie, "I'm surprised you can keep up with her, even if you do seem stronger than most men."
"Yes, on all counts." Jon chuckled, making the answer confident and easy, but not cocky. He saw her eyes widen, then narrow consideringly, a subtle smile tugging the corner of her lips as she gazed at him. I think I might be right. He suddenly regretted tossing his drink back, especially if he went through with the rather audacious idea in his head. She is beautiful, and rather witty, even companionable when she's not being too biting. Perhaps, if I'm right, she could help me with-...
His thoughts were cut off when she pursed her lips, taking a long sip of her drink, not seeming bothered by the stout bourbon in the least. She sighed, cocking her head at the bottle she'd purchased seriously for a moment. She glanced at his empty glass and asked, "Are you averse to liqueurs, or do you prefer so-called manly drinks, Stoppable?"
"So long as it's of quality," Jon said, "I'm fine with any drink, though I prefer flavor and character over something that tastes of mineral spirits..."
Miss Go nodded, then uncapped her drink and poured them both a healthy portion, before capping it and setting it between them. She opened her mouth to speak, but the waiter arrived with an easy, "Pardon, monsieur, mademoiselle?"
"Merci!" Jon smiled at the man, moving his forearms and drink for the waiter. He caught Miss Go's reaction out of the corner of his eyes as he focused on the man, and she seemed surprised he could say even a simple 'thank you' in French. Of course, the year before he had been next to unable to speak it, as she'd seen when he'd tried to track her down. He chuckled internally at the reaction, even as he admired the tasty looking plate of food.
What looked to be a rather enlarged, bisected, and perfectly cooked fowl liver — duck if he had to guess — was centered on a round plate. It was covered with a generous portion of, if the smell and visual texture were any indication, a blood sauce made from the duck itself with bits of green spices clearly visible, as well as some sautéed scallions. Opposite the scallions was asparagus and sautéed greens. Next to the plate the waiter placed a bowl of smooth, buttery looking mashed potatoes, all of which made his mouth water.
He glanced up and, seeing that the waiter had already left, gave her a wide grin, "Thank you very much, Miss Go; it has been far too long since I've had any liver!"
"You like liver?" she crooked an eyebrow at him, "I have only met a few men that actually enjoy it."
"I love it," he shrugged, digging into his food with well mannered gusto. He speared his liver and sliced a bite-sized chunk off, chewing with obvious relish. He swallowed and sighed, "Perfect! Don't really get much duck, much less their livers, and this sauce… Thank goodness for the duck press, or else it'd be lost to a roast!"
As he put an admittedly large piece into his mouth, the woman across from him let a simple, honest smile slowly overtake her face. Then, for a brief moment, there was a look of shock, then annoyance, which, if the quick, downward flick of her eyes was any indication, was self-directed. She quickly smothered her reactions by taking another long sip at her drink, draining almost half of her glass.
Interesting... he thought, thankful the food in his mouth hid the smirk he felt blossoming, even as he realized she was seemingly waiting for something.
When he swallowed, she asked, "So where did you learn to keep up with a woman like Mimmie?" She paused, his lips pursing as he considered just how to answer. She mistook his expression for one of distaste at her question, "No offense, but you are a bit of a buffoon, and the men of Middleton struck me as rather... Prudish."
He let out a soft snort of amusement, shaking his head, "I think it was because you were accompanying Mr. L, and they mistook him for either your paramour or a rather brutish-looking older relative. While Middleton is not an entirely liberal town, they are quite forward thinking in general, and most men there tend towards respectful, at the least."
He shrugged slightly, spearing a bit of asparagus and greens, slicing them so he didn't make a mess of himself or his manners. He popped it into his mouth and chewed, swallowing as soon as the answer to her first question popped into his head, and rather easily at that. "As for how I learned to keep up with Mim... Would it offend you if I told you I've been with nine women biblically? And not just one time things, mind."
"Do you fancy yourself a bit of a Casanova, Stoppable?" his dining companion asked with a sharp smirk, taking Jonathan by mild surprise. He'd been hoping to get at least a small reaction of shock from her, maybe even an exclamation of disbelief. The smugness of her expression let him know that she knew what he had been going for, and subverted his expectations. Then, in a seeming about face, her face hardened a bit, her head tilting slightly forward with an aggressiveness he had expected less than her amusement, "Or are you one of those swine that ply women with wine or look to seduce whatever women strikes you as an easy mark with promises of love and eternal devotion?"
"Hardly, on both counts." Jon said, his face hardening a bit itself, "Especially the latter. I hate men and women, when applicable, like that, since it does nothing but break hearts and make people bitter!" He huffed a bit, even as Miss Go flinched at the anger in his expression. He shook his head minutely and grimaced, "Sorry Miss Go... But while I do love beautiful women, whether it's a simple bout of mutual convenience, or making love to them, I'd never lie about emotions like that."
"Good..." Miss Go muttered, as if speaking aloud words she'd intended as mere thought. Jon was so surprised by her unexpected comment that a silence fell for a few moments. He filled it with eating instead of contemplating people who used such unsavory tactics to get a bit of amusement. After a long moment, a slight, seemingly unconscious smile slid to her lips, "So you have enough skills to keep Mimmie satisfied... And nine women?"
"Yes." Jon said it easily, taking another bite of the buttery liver, to hide the smirk he knew floated at the corners of his mouth.
"A bit of a surprise, considering your rather..." She paused, glancing away with a moue, as if trying to avoid being too harsh with her words, "Flighty personality."
"That is part of my charm," he said easily, waiting for her to turn her gaze back to him, "What there is of it, at any rate!" He took a moment to eat some of the greens, then swallowed, "And I made sure that it was as enjoyable for them as myself."
"Buffoon..." she muttered, shaking her head with some small bit of annoyance in her tone. She spoke again, under her breath, but Jon's ears, when he was paying attention to what he was hearing, were as sharp as his nose, "At least you're willing to listen when a woman's interested, unlike a certain droll madman I know."
Well he thought as she lapsed into a rather tense silence, you've asked several rather prying questions, so it's my turn. He contemplated her last words, and his eyes sparkled at the subtle change in her mode of speech, And time for a bit of a test. Schooling his features into one of concern, and hoping she wouldn't be overly provoked, he asked, "Miss Go... What happened to put you in so foul a mood?" She glanced sharply at him and he cocked his head to reinforce his concern, "I mean, your temper being set off so easily was one thing, but now you're looking almost as angry, and for once I don't think it's me you're angry at."
"It's that damnable ass of a man I guard!" she bit off without thought, speaking more freely than was her wont. As Jon had hoped, she'd dropped into more casual speech, which made Jon relax a bit himself, even if she did seem more tense, "The damn fool threw me into a snowbank after..." She stopped, narrowing her eyes at the seemingly guileless ones staring at her, "After we had an argument."
"I see," Jon said, somewhat put out by her lack of a full response. He barely kept a smirk off of his face when he prodded the hornet's nest that seemed Miss Go's emotions, "Why'd he do that?"
"It was that damn opium laced tea I drank in that opium den," she answered in a low, harsh whisper. "It had me so hot blooded I all but threw myself at him! Most men with a brain would have jumped at the chance!" She blinked and narrowed her eyes at him, her voice raising slightly, but staying at a conversational level, "And I'm not an easy woman, by any stretch!"
"Perish the thought!" Jon proclaimed, hoping mimicking her earlier comment would calm her a bit more, "If you were, I'm sure you'd have already had a man with you at the table, or would have left already instead of conversing with me." He gave her a disarming smile, "Not that I mind in the least, of course! Converse with a lovely lady, or brave the crowds out and about today? An easy choice, even for a buffoon like me!"
"Lovely?" she whispered, again, seeming to speak a thought without intent or realization.
"Indeed, Miss Go!" His smile faded into one that was still easy and disarming, but hinted vaguely at something more than that, without saying just what it was he was thinking, "At the very least. And with your wit, and obvious intellect? If you don't mind a buffoon saying so, it makes you very alluring."
"Er..." Miss Go's mind seemed to short circuit, as if unused to hearing compliments. Jon felt he'd timed them perfectly, as she blushed from the crown of her head to just below her neck and glanced away from him. She seemed to take particular interest in the crowd and missed the relieved, and quite self-satisfied, smile that crossed his features. "Thank you."
"Not a problem," he murmured after regaining his composure. She glanced back at him with slightly narrowed eyes, as if her mind were catching up to the situation. She was also reaching for her bottle of liqueur once again, so Jon set about distracting her slightly, his face becoming contemplative, "I'm sure, though, that he was worried the tea had fogged your faculties enough that you weren't thinking properly? Despite being a villain, Bart seems to me to be a man of honor, who would not take advantage of a woman like that."
Miss Go's hand paused halfway to her drink, and her eyes flicked slightly left and right, as if having an internal debate. Most, he knew, would have missed it, and he might have, had he not had his own instincts — honed with his intensive detective training — or become at least passingly familiar with her during their occasional fights. Of course, to have caught what he did, he had found it necessary to stare a tad more than could be considered proper. To alleviate that, he went back to his food, taking a healthy helping of the potatoes, and waited on her.
He used the time she was distracted to take in what was visible of her, though in a more surreptitious manner. From the beauty of her face to the lines of her body, he couldn't help but compare her to Mim, and quite favorably. She was without a doubt lovely, as he'd told her. While he wouldn't say she was more attractive, her face was far more classically beautiful than Mim's pretty cuteness. He then realized, almost with a start, that she wasn't wearing a corset, but she had a waist as slim as Mim, despite being taller and broader of both hip and shoulder.
Her bosom was also more prominent than Mim's, but not so much as to overbalance her arousing figure. And, he had to admit, that as nice as watching Mim's rear sway in trousers was, Miss Go's could draw his eyes far more easily. Despite finding Mim quite attractive, she was, in truth, the only redhead he'd laid with, and while he'd seen a couple other redheads that were attractive, five of his lovers had been brunettes, two blondes, and one a rather plain brown in color.
"You..." she murmured, still gazing out into the crowd. Her voice was soft and introspective in that moment, so at odds from her normal tone that Jon was taken aback. Her brilliant, emerald green eyes slowly lost direct focus as she stared off at something only she could see, seeming to flash and spark at some thought or another. The tone, and those eyes changing so, left him utterly enthralled.
Oh, Jonathan Charles Stoppable, he thought with a bit of worry, You're setting yourself up for a fall… He barely avoided grimacing at the sudden, worrying thought, then forced himself to relax as she dropped her hand down next to her empty glass, smiling to himself, But, then, there's worse things to fall for...
"You may be right about Bart, Buffoon," Miss Go said after settling her hand and returning her eyes to him.
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Miss Go just caught that inexplicably charming half-smirk he'd been wearing before he smothered it under what seemed to be honest concern. For her. His enemy! Was he truly that much of a fool? Then again, that part of her mind that had been overactive since the opium den reminded her, we are in a truce. And even Mimmie and Bart seem to be... Closer... Than enemies should. Rivals, then? Opponents of circumstance?
She wasn't sure what they truly could be, but looking at the man, she was forced to admit that he wasn't a bad dining companion. Better table manners by far than Otto or François, even better than Freidrich. And, she almost hated to admit, every bit as good as Alexander the man she'd come closest to actually loving... Certainly not as overbearingly pretentious like that foppish, if charming, git, Nigel! He was also better looking than all but Alexander had been, but she and Alexander had been more as he described himself and Mimmie than anything.
Of course, she couldn't include Grace in the comparison. While the woman had been a friend, and someone with whom she had shared an interesting bit of... Dalliance... With, she'd been a proper, in so much as you ignored her proclivities towards the fairer sex, Southern belle. With manners, speech, and an understated confidence to match. She had also been absolutely stunning, which made any comparison with the men she'd been with completely unfair.
That introspection sent many parts of her into a feuding snarl as to whether that spoke for the blond's attractiveness or the lack of looks her paramours had. Considering her budding, if tightly leashed feelings, for Bart, and the detective's goofy charm, she would have hazarded that there was equal blame to both sides. Though considering the catfights she'd seen over Alexander, and what she knew she, and other men and women had clearly felt for Grace, she knew that wasn't entirely the case.
She was a woman who leaned towards personalities, certainly, but looks could draw her just as easily as the next woman. And to be honest, she found herself adding, he is quite easy on the eyes, and the body he keeps hidden underneath those baggy clothes is far from unappealing.
She pursed her lips in contemplation as she leaned back under his regard. She considered whether it was the liqueur easing her normal strict inhibitions, but quickly discarded it. While she felt the pleasant flush of alcohol, she was far from inebriated; in truth, even when she'd been deep in her cups in the past, she'd always been able to keep her head when it came to men calling upon her. Besides, as annoying as she was, Mimmie would likely not consider him if he were the type of man to take advantage of a drunken woman!
No, it was definitely not the liqueur, nor was it her recent experience with opium, though that had helped, perhaps, to open her eyes to the possibilities. She wanted to protest her conclusions, but she was neither foolish nor self-deluded enough to protest very long. The final nail in the coffin of protests was that, despite finding his buffoonish attitude annoying, there was an undeniably attractive charm hidden underneath it.
He's not nearly as bad as I thought, she finally decided, I guess I can see how Mimmie would consider him worthwhile enough to scratch her itch.
At length, she glanced at his now finished plate, then outside, before pulling a pocket watch from within her coat. Seeing was nearly one o'clock, she sighed, wondering why she was considering just what she was, even if the answer was plain to her. I shouldn't do this. she thought, Not this soon, at least. Maybe, if I can tolerate him for a couple more hours... That thought in mind, she pushed the words hovering on her tongue out before her nerve failed.
"Tell me, Stoppable." She waited for a questioning grunt from the detective before looking back at him, "Besides looking for trinkets for your family and Mimmie, are you occupied today?"
"Not in the least," Jon told her honestly, his smile coming back, but softer, more contemplative, which nearly made her flush, "Why do you ask?"
"I'm waiting on a gift I commissioned for my brother and his wife," she drew the words out slightly, trying to sound bored, and knew she'd failed when his eyes sparkled with amusement and unfeigned interest. With a sigh, she allowed a slight smile, shaking her head, "Considering my dunderhead of a client is busy making nice with your dear Mimmie… Would you mind some company while you're out and about?"
"Of course not!" Jon chirped, that goofy, yet damnably fetching smile back on his face, "While the crowds are still thick, accompanying a beautiful and keenly clever woman would make them a lot more bearable!"
Dammit, there he goes again! she protested, How does this man make me blush like this? Ignoring the heat spreading from her face to her neck, she decided to counter with irony, "Of course it will; you'll be with me!"
He held up his glass of her liqueur, which she noticed was only about half empty, and considered it, then shrugged minutely and drained it, "Then let us settle the bill, and head out!"
"Buffoon..." she mumbled aloud, while in the safety of her mind, she added, If nothing else, today will be interesting...
MP MP MP MP
The two hours after their dinner had turned out, in Jon's opinion at least, to have been both very educational and entertaining. Miss Go was, indeed, as witty as he'd expected, and even more intelligent than she let on, easily matching Mim in that department. She'd been relatively relaxed when they left the café, but had become more so as the day wore on.
Granted, he had annoyed her a few times with his antics. Even then, she honestly seemed more amused than irked by it. At first she'd cut off her words from time to time. Considering they tended to be about some of the people about, he thought she might have been trying to avoid offending him. When they'd seen the man that had bumped into him, and he saw her literally bite her tongue, he'd tossed out a comment about the man's circus tent of a suit.
She'd barked a harsh laugh of agreement, and commented on being surprised. Jon had smirked, telling her that, while proper and an honestly nice guy, he didn't suffer fools gladly. Since then, they'd fallen into an easy companionship, and had learned they shared some surprisingly similar likes and tastes.
They liked ragtime and blues music, and both tolerated classical music, yet found liturgical music to be mostly a boring waste of time. They disagreed on the music from the Appalachians — what Miss Go disparagingly called 'hillbilly noise' — while Jon, having grown up in the Appalachians, rather liked it with how different it sounded compared to the more categorized forms of music.
Their tastes were similar enough, in point of fact, that she'd helped him decide on a few gifts for his family. They'd also purchased themselves new 'work' clothes, as their tastes and demands for them were quite similar. He'd discovered they appreciated many of the finer things, be it food or personal trinkets, as demonstrated when he'd purchased a new watch — his old one had been broken during the fight in the opium den — for which she'd complimented him. It had been reinforced when she'd picked up her brother's gift; the silverware was striking, seamlessly melding more simple elegance of the modern style his rather progressively minded mother preferred with fancy, engraved extravagance he felt wouldn't look out of place on a lord's table.
He had worried somewhat that, when she picked up the gift, she'd wish to dispense with his company. When he'd asked if she had anything else to do, she'd pondered for nearly a full minute, before that oh-so-fetching blush stained her cheeks. After apologizing for her woolgathering, she'd said she was enjoying herself, and asked if he'd like a bit of a late brunch, or early dinner, at a simpler place she favored.
He hadn't turned her down, and they were on their way at that moment. He still marveled at their similarities, especially at their love of lesser-known foodstuffs. An example was that she loved the Mexican foods he'd become fond of thanks to his lover Sylvia, though he hadn't experienced the wonder of the taco until the faire. It made sense to him when she told him she was originally from the Southwest.
Her love for food, however, was not nearly as outspoken as his. Her comments about food were more statements of fact rather than waxing poetic as he tended to. Which was why he was surprised when Miss Go grunted in disgust, her lips pinching as she looked to their left. Curious, Jon followed her gaze to a rather fancy looking restaurant which had outside seating designed for people to show off. It was a nicely landscaped place, with ornate ironwork bars and marble posts, styled like thin Roman architecture as reimagined in a modern style. It didn't take a detective's eye to see what had turned her face green.
The table at the center of the courtyard was joyfully welcoming a meal which was being presented to them by a forcefully impartial waiter. The meal was one which Jon had only heard tales about; he knew some high-class people had strange palates, but this was simply…
The table was cheering, cheering, for what was simply an obscenely stretched pig's face, apparently brined with some kind of blood sauce if Jon's detestably sharp sense of smell didn't fail him, and shamefully burned to a crisp at the ears. The poor beast's eyeballs were drooping out of the sockets, the brains visibly leaking out of a hole in the back of the head, with the jawbone and tongue set almost artistically next to the decapitated head. It was presented on a platter with what looked like small cups of vinegar and mustard.
He felt his earlier meal trying to come back up, discomfited beyond his own expectations. "While I love head cheese, and a whole hog roast isn't a bad thing at all…" Jon could feel the liver start to creep up his throat, "That's just... Sick..."
"It's wrong is what it is!" the bodyguard countered, grimacing in seeming agreement, "Especially when it is prepared poorly, as that one has! It should look like it's cut from a whole hog, not, not..." She held her hands out towards the monstrosity on the table as one of the men reached out to take some of the brain with a spoon, "Not that! That's an insult to a properly prepared meal!"
She tore her gaze away, shaking her head, "I don't think I'll have soused hog's face for a month after seeing that mess." She held her hand to her stomach, sticking her tongue out slightly in disgust, "And I think my lunch is trying to sour in my stomach."
"Same here," he muttered as they swiftly made their way farther down the block. He let out a groan of protest as they paused, just across the street from the place she'd offered to take him, "I suppose this is an unfortunate interruption of an intended meal."
"Perhaps…" she sighed softly, her eyes again flashing in that alluring, confused mess of emotions.
The drawn-out word, the consideration in it, caught his attention. Looking over, he was surprised to see her face smattered with indecision and… Shyness? His thoughts were confirmed when she bit her lip and averted her gaze in thought. The latter emotion fled her face almost as soon as he'd seen it, though, and she glanced back over to him with a more certain expression on her face. What is going through your mind, Miss Go?
He saw when she made whatever decision she'd debated with herself, as her eyes hardened in a rather captivating fashion, followed by her eyelids drooping unconsciously. She cocked her head, the display being coy in the most fetching manner, and she spoke with a serious mein. "Perhaps not. Tell me…" she leaned forward slightly, a confident smirk on her face "You're not going to get back together with Mimmie for, what... Three hours?"
"About that long, Miss Go..." he confirmed, a slow, rather saucy smile coming to his lips, "If not a bit longer..."
"Aglaya, Stoppa-... Jonathan..." She said with startling firmness, "I would prefer it if, when we are not... Working... If you used my name... Especially in private."
"In private, hmmm?" Jon barely kept from chuckling, which he felt would have caused her to reconsider what he felt was coming.
"Yes," she half-chuckled, though that blush he was coming to love on her face was making its reappearance, "If you wouldn't mind joining me at my little hole in the wall to share a few... Drinks... And perhaps a bit of... Conversation?"
Jon blinked at the rather blatant implications that were quite at odds with her words. He couldn't help it when the smile he'd been holding back came to the front, making the light blush which she tried to hide blossom into a fully scarlet flush. He let his eyes relax in a manner similar to hers, and leaned in, daringly caressing her ear with a soft kiss while whispering, "How could I say no?"
MP MP MP MP
Jon jumped up from the bed with a start as the apartment door opened just a few minutes before eight-thirty in the evening. He stared for a moment while trying to catch his bearings, still a bit disjointed from imbibing a few shots of strong, clear Russian liquor steeped with cannabis.
He heard Mim grumbling quietly, her tone rising and falling as, if he were to guess, she removed her boots. A moment later, she stormed into the bedroom of their Paris apartment, watching as she took painful care to set a package down on the end table, obviously worried about the contents in her agitated state.
"Bastard!" He almost gasped aloud, shocked more by the exceedingly rare curse than her angry tone, "Just an hour or two? I can't believe you, you pompous, money hungry ass!" Jon's shock over the cursing was overtaken by the flood of worry as she added contraction laden speech to the cursing, both indicators of a very, very angry Miriam Possible. "I'd have had more than a few choice words for you, had I thought your shit-filled brain could handle them!"
Those worries spiked higher when she growled incoherently and began to pace back and forth, grumbling incomprehensibly under her breath. "Mim?" he drawled lazily, sitting back down and leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, "What's wrong?"
Mim, not having seen Jon when she came in the room, let out a startled squeak and spun on him, holding her hand to her heart. "I'm sorry, Jon, did I wake you?"
Jon shook his head, a reassuring smile on his face and concern writ plainly in his eyes. "No, Mim." Knowing that, with her oddly inconsistent behavior, she could be of unpredictable temper, he tentatively asked, "Are you okay?"
She sighed, walking over and sitting down on the end of the bed, "I... I'm sorry, Jon. I'm..." Tears sprang to her eyes and she clenched her fists in her lap, "I just... I was reminded of Christmas at home, and... And..."
Jon was immediately on his knees, drawing his friend and lover to his chest. He began stroking his fingers gently through her hair. "I'm here, Mim. Take your time… I'll be here for you."
Mim allowed herself, for the first time in almost six and a half years, to cry. Even so, she tried to speak, her words halting between nearly body wracking sobs, "I... I remembered the Christmas... The Christmas in ninety-seven, Jon... Do... Do you remember?"
"The first Christmas after Al asked you to marry him," Jon nodded, then fell silent, waiting for Mim to speak in her own time.
"Y-yes..." Mim said softly a handful of minutes later, her voice calmer, if somewhat unsteady, "I... Oh, Jon, I miss him so, so horribly. I miss my family."
"It's oka-.." Jon tried to assure her, but she pulled back suddenly, staring at him with an unreadable expression before her sadness seemed to intensify.
"Jon." She reached a shaky hand to his face and cupped his cheek, "I... I'm sorry for you being here with me. For being away from your fami-.."
"No!" Jon barely contained his voice from shouting as he realized the source of her sudden bout of guilt, "No, Mim," he whispered, grabbing her hand and kissing it much as she had on the train from Italy to France the year before. He wasn't sure what to say to her to calm her, so he let his mouth speak from his heart, and hoped it worked out for the best. "I'm here because I want to be here, to help you. You're my best, my dearest friend, and my family understands this! They supported me, as they believed you when you claimed to be innocent. As did your family, although neither of our families dared speak of it lest they risk having problems of their own with the law."
"I..." Mim whispered, then sighed, raising her free hand to his shoulder to grip it firmly, "Thank you, Jon."
"Thank you, Mim," Jon answered simply.
"For what?" she asked, cocking her head to the side, her voice only hinting at the grief she'd shown mere moments before.
"For trusting me, and believing in me enough to be the best friend a man could want." They stared at each other for a long moment, before Jon suddenly barked a laugh, causing Mim to squint her eyes and screw her eyebrows together in bemusement. "I'm sorry, Mim, it's just... This truce agreement, the one you have with Mr. L., the one Ms. G. and I seem to have bound ourselves to as well?"
"Yes?" she prodded in a drawn out tone that mingled confusion and frustration with his obtuse comments.
"It's most interesting how it's turning out." At a raised eyebrow, he shrugged and expounded, "I ran into Ms. G. and had an interesting, and rather strange, erm..." he paused, pursing his lips and glancing at the ceiling as he sought the phrase to use. After a moment he shrugged, lying back on the bed and holding his arms out to his side as he continued, "Altercation is the wrong phrase, but it is fitting."
"Altercation." Mim's deadpan tone should have been a warning to Jon to choose his words carefully, but in his altered state of mind, he merely spoke as the words came to mind, much as he had been doing moments before.
"Yes," he chuckled. "I almost literally ran into her at a café as she was eating lunch on some shopping errand or another."
"What happened?" Mim's tone was a touch more strident, and Jon looked back at her, a guileless smile upon his face.
"We..." Jon's amusement nearly sounded like an outright laugh this time, earning a hard glare from Mim, "We merely reminded each other of the holiday truce agreement!"
"Jon!" Jon's amused tone did not sit at all well with Mim. "You ignored the tru-.."
Finally realizing that Mim's suddenly incensed tone was indeed bordering on anger, he was quick to assure her that she was misunderstanding him. "Not necessarily in the manner you're worrying, Mim!" This time he let out a long, uncaring belly laugh, a sound of such delighted humor that Mim managed to calm herself with the realization that he wouldn't laugh if a genuine fight had broken out.
When he regained control of himself, Jon continued, the occasional bubble of mirth slipping past his lips unimpeded, "You see, I was bumped into by a rather portly man and slammed rather forcefully into the table she sat at. She seemed to have been imbibing a touch more liqueur than most would during a late lunch, and when she saw who I was, she started complaining. Not about the mostly eaten helping of potatoes I'd knocked to the floor, but the fact that I had spilled half of her drink of choice."
He paused, thinking aloud, "It was some strange syrupy drink that smelled of raspberry and honey… Anyway, she stood and called me a clumsy buffoon, and tossed the other half of the drink in my face. A strange reaction considering her complaint!"
"You seem..." Mim began, shaking her head, a smile tugging at the edges of her mouth despite her worry, "Rather amused after having been called a buffoon."
"Well, I am often rather clumsy, Mim, and there are brighter men in the world!" His voice lost none of its edge of levity, and if anything was more amused when he continued, "Well, having been taken off my guard, I called her a hot-headed trollop." He grimaced and winced slightly, even before Mim favored him with a disapproving stare, "I could have chosen better words, but at the time, I was not so amused as I am now."
"I should hope not!" Mim murmured, swatting him on the chest for good measure.
"Well, she didn't take kindly to that, as I'm sure you can guess." The redhead nodded in agreement, and Jon winced at her disapproval. "So she grabbed my ear like a schoolmarm would!"
"Such as Mrs. Macmillan used to do oh-so-regularly?" Mim asked with a narrow eyed smirk as she recalled their shared childhood. A time she didn't like to think on often in relation to her education, but a good time for her and Jon.
"Almost as effectively, too!" Jon nodded enthusiastically, "After she grabbed my ear, she asked for an apology for the comment, which, with myself in such a position of disadvantage, I gave her. She then demanded repayment for the drink I'd spilled. I agreed, and after she calmed slightly, and while awaiting another drink, we spoke. After the drink arrived, she asked me if I should like some lunch, since she had a question or two of me. I obliged and we had a rather interesting conversation."
He opened his mouth to say more, but paused as he realized he was about to, once again, say more than he should. Pursing his lips, he shook his head in the manner of someone befuddled by the entire situation and shrugged, "As I said, it was all rather strange."
Mim shook her head in wonder at her friend, favoring him with a smile, "At least you showed restraint and had your wits about you enough to stop when you did."
Jon relaxed when it seemed she had missed his cutting the story short and he nearly sighed, covering it by speaking, "Yes, I guess I did. Hehe..." He laid his head back, and then looked to his left as Mim's hand planted itself firmly on the bed beside his head. Then her other hand came down on his right and she quickly straddled his torso. When he gazed up at her half lidded eyes, he realized that Mim had more on her mind than conversation. He gulped as unobtrusively as he could, his mirth swept away in an instant. "Mim, are you sure? With your having suffered from your memories earlier..."
"Jon..." she said in a subdued, emotional tone, "I... I need this right now... I need you right now." She looked slightly chagrined when she continued, blushing faintly. "I... I know this may seem... Untoward, but... I need to feel right now, and... Admittedly... To forget, at least a little bit. Please, Jon?"
"I..." Jon felt a brief stab in the heart at her words and some anxiety as to the situation. Thankfully, in his opinion, the anxiety was dulled and almost academic, though the emotional jolt was as unwelcome as it was unexpected. He reached up and cupped her face with his hands, giving her a hesitant smile and nod, "Okay, Mim. If you truly need this, I won't deny you, but please, I have to ask... Don't use me as a crutch of convenience, please?"
"Never!" Mim gasped, grabbing his hands and kissing the fingertips, "Jon... If... If I ever make you feel this way, you'll tell me...?" Jon opened his mouth to speak, but Mim shook her head firmly, "This isn't a negotiable request, Jon, this is how it has to be. And it goes both ways! I never, ever want you to feel used by me, and I want you to tell me if it seems I'm taking you for granted. Whenever it feels such, not just... Not just if we're about to have sex."
"Okay, Mim," Jon agreed after a moment, knowing just how serious her requests were. After holding her eyes for a moment, he added, "I promise." After considering him and his significant pause, Mim nodded that she believed him, letting go of his hands. She carefully climbed off of him, undressing as casually as if she were alone, though her eyes stayed on his form.
Her casualness about her body never ceased to amaze and please Jon. She was an exceedingly beautiful woman, in his and many other men's opinions. He couldn't help but feel blessed every time they were alone together, even if no sexual dalliances were in the offing. She will make some man very, very lucky someday, if she wishes to... he thought with a distracted smile, standing up himself to undress, And I must admit, part of me would not mind in the least if I were that man. But I will be content with whoever it is, so long as she's happy.
"So, Jon," she called out as she bent over to remove her stockings, "Just so I'm sure... The misunderstanding at the café was all that happened between you and Miss Go? There was no violence?"
"Oh, no, Mim," Jon assured her firmly, sure that his skin was now covered in a sheen of nervous sweat, "No... Violence... I promise."
"Good," Mim said as she turned, shoving him backwards towards the bed just after he'd removed his undergarments, "I do not want to hear of violence between the two of you during an agreed upon truce!"
"Of course not, Mim!" he all but cried as she began to plant wet, intense kisses from the base of his neck towards the angle of his jaw. The aggressiveness of her actions, though rare from Mim, were familiar to him in more ways than one, and he knew he was going to be busy for a good while. Again...
With that realization, a sudden, desperate thought lanced through his entire being. Oh, please, not like this again today... I'm not a machine!
Authors' Notes
Oh, dear... Oh, poor, poor Jon, what has he gotten himself into? Not that he really has much room to complain, non? Of course, Miss Go seems to have put herself into an interesting boat as well...
Then there's Bart and Mim. Such odd congruity between their family's Christmas celebrations, and seemingly similar outlooks on some things, but enemies at the same time... And a promise of more revelations between them. So much to look forward to!
As always, readers, there are a lot of fics out there, so let's not forget about 'em... Keep on reading, enjoying, and reviewing, it makes all of us authors happy, you know...!