Damn Malone

Roxton wrinkles his nose in reflex, an involuntary gesture of mixed disgust and contempt as the bartender in the dive he's in approaches him again and refills his dirty glass for God knows how many times already.

His head begins to get thick and his thoughts sluggish, his tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth, you'd think that the rat poison he's been drinking for a while now (and which the damn bartender dares to call "his best bottle") should at least appease his killer instinct somewhat... but it seems to have the opposite effect and he angrily holds the glass and gulps the dark liquid down again in one gulp.

Damn Malone.

He notices a familiar red-haired lump move next to him and Roxton reluctantly watches as a concerned Challenger takes a seat at the bar next to him. The hunter brings one of his hands to his eyes and rubs them wearily as with a light wave of his other hand he signals the bartender to pour two more shots.

Challenger can't help but turn his head in distaste as the bartender approaches him with an extra glass and the bottle. The smell of sweat and something stale (indecipherable from his point of view) that the little man gives off stings his nose and causes an unpleasant sensation in the back of his throat, which he himself recognizes as the beginnings of nausea.

He grabs the glass and without a second thought swallows the liquid quickly, trying to push the sensation down again. He lets out his breath exhaling and coughs trying to relieve the burning that the liquid has produced when passing through his esophagus, although he has managed to relax the nausea - "Good God Roxton, this concoction could put a hole in your stomach in one gulp."

The hunter smiles, somewhat bewildered as he realizes how much trouble he's starting to have forming anything resembling a coherent thought

- "too strong for you old man?"

- "too strong for anyone my friend, maybe you should stop...you know...if you keep drinking this poison at that rate you'll end up knocked out before the real fun starts, and you won't be of any use to Marguerite in case she needs help."

Roxton glances sideways at her through the crowd at the back of the room, openly flirting with the guy she's trying to get information out of, and something sour and unpleasant pierces his stomach (and it's not alcohol), though he tries to feign indifference

-"I think she's doing just fine on her own Challenger, in fact I don't think she's ever needed our help."-

- "ohh I didn't mean to imply in any way that our Marguerite was a damsel in distress Roxton ...I can assure you."-

- "no, she's not...rather she's the damsel causing the distress"-and the attempt at humor tastes bitter to him.

Challenger snorts a laugh and slides a little on the stool as a result of the shaking, he straightens up again noting with amazement the slackness the drink has caused him, (hell, it was strong the rat poison)

- "but...not this time though, John."

- "no, not this time..."

- "because this time she's not the cause..."

- "no, she's not.."

- "and I thought you agreed that this was the best way to find out where they're holding Malone without blowing our cover."

- "yes, yes I was..."

- "and you know she's only doing this to help, right?"

- "did you come here just to annoy me Challenger? Because you're getting it..."

At that moment he hears her laugh. Her laughter echoes high above the stunned murmur of the atmosphere and Roxton can't help but warm inside. Her laughter has always had that effect on him.

But when he looks at her and she looks back at him openly, unabashedly and uncensoredly as she lets herself be embraced by the other man, he can't help but feel the pleasant warmth he felt from her laughter transform into something darker and more dangerous.

Jealousy.

And John deeply hates the word jealousy.

And all the baggage that ugly word brings with it.

And all the absurd ramifications that spread dangerously in so many different directions that it ends up making him lose control.

and John deeply hated losing control

He begins by doubting himself, which leads him to doubt Marguerite, which leads him again to doubt about the strength of the love that binds them, which leads him to a crippling fear that she will leave him, which leads him to an absurd and destructive possessiveness that will end up leading him (and he's pretty sure of that) eventually to a whole host of foolishness and absurdities that he fears (and unfortunately knows, because he's been there before) he'll end up committing.

She laughs again and damned if that's not an attractive sound.

And while his mind (numbed by alcohol) is screaming at him (though perhaps not loud enough) to put a stop to so much stupid and senseless sentiment, his primal instinct (much more possessive and primal)... warns him that he'd better grab his wife by the waist, quickly sling her over his shoulder and run like hell to the quiet safety of his tree house.

To hell with Malone and his stupidity for getting caught.

Centuries of technological and philosophical advancement to end up behaving like yet another Neardenthalhe's pretty sure the missing link on Darwin's ladder of evolution must be him, because right now he feels more in tune with the ape men than with his own humanity.

Because she belongs to him,

Only to him and no one else.

Damn Malone, it's all his fault. That's it

The emotions he's trying so hard to suppress suddenly intensify when he hears her laugh again, and he clings to the wood of the bar to keep himself from snapping the mouth (or legs...or maybe both) at the asshole who's running his hand around her narrow waist and causing her to laugh like that.

Because her laughter belongs to him too.

Only to him and no one else.

Challenger can see the exact moment when the Lord's tight alcoholic grip is about to slip and he places one of his big, strong hands on the man's forearm squeezing carefully, feeling the tremor of internal struggle. Jealousy, regret, hurt, pain, shame, guilt...a whole variety of feelings wander across the man's tormented face causing another round of the foul brew to be poured. The next day's hangover is going to be the size of Big Ben.

- "For what it's worth old mate, I'm thoroughly impressed by the way you're handling it...I think it's a real triumph of your personal control that you haven't tackled anyone yet, or lashed out in a fist fight or even tried to piss around her just to mark your territory."-

And Roxton doesn't hide his smile because the old man is starting to slur his words and in the midst of so much drama he has his funny point (and because the peeing around her thing is hilarious to him) - "oh well, I wouldn't put your money on it George, the night is still young."

The scientist lets out a slight chuckle of recognition - "that's true my friend" - and raising his glass once more he declares - "for the Queen and for anything still being possible".

But Roxton is not in the mood for many jokes and mumbles a - "idiot"- with an absolutely hoarse voice and his gaze fixed on the bottom of the bottle.

Challenger's eyes widen in surprise at the insult.

-"Not you George, I mean Malone," he apologizes.

-" ohh sure"- and the scientist ponders for a few brief moments, letting himself float in the relaxed haze his brain has become with the fourth swig of "the best bottle", (although by now it's starting to not seem like such a bad drink) -"right, fair enough...damn Malone".