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I watched The Mummy Returns last night. I am now writing Jonathan fic.
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Jonathan doubted he had the presence of mind to be here. He wasn’t like Evie, wasn’t like Rick, definitely wasn’t like Bay. Jonathan was just a drunken gambler who had seen too much and tricked and lied his way through life. It was easier to be glib and falsely jovial than to give in to every dark thought.
Evie didn’t take him seriously when he’d said he’d rather like to join the dead. She didn’t understand. Jonathan didn’t blame her for that. His sister had led quite the sheltered life, Jonathan had insisted on it after their parents passed. She didn’t know about death, about the cloying terror of seeing the reaper cometh. Jonathan never wanted her to experience that.
But what Jonathan wanted and what Jonathan got were, as usual, two very different things.
“We will kill the creature and rescue her O'Connell,” Bay promised, leading them through the sewers of Cairo. “I give you my word my friend.”
Yes, well, your word counts for little ‘my friend’, Jonathan thought, remaining silent instead of saying what he wanted to. The Medjai was helping them now but barely two days ago he’d chased Jonathan down in the ruins of Hamunaptra. Jonathan considered himself justified in his distrust and doubt at Bay’s words.
Promises were cheap, Jonathan had found. Anyone could make a promise — “I promise we’ll survive this” — “I swear the reinforcements are coming” — “it’s just a flesh wound, I swear” — but few seemed capable of keeping them.
O'Connell had given them his word that he’d get them to Hamunaptra and he had. Jonathan had seen the blossoming romance between the American and his sister. Part of him disliked it. Greatly. Evie was his baby sister. O'Connell didn’t deserve her.
No one deserved Evie.
But O'Connell admitted straight up that Evie was too good for him, wasn’t deluded into thinking she’d become demure and obedient and quiet. Jonathan could see how Rick would compliment his sisters strengths and pick up the slack for her weaknesses; namely her inquisitive nature.
So sure, fine, it was reassuring to know that the American already cared about his sister so much he would try and dive headlong into a crowd of zombies to save her from that- that- from that.
Even though O'Connell didn’t deserve her, Jonathan admitted that Evie could do much worse than a man who’d fight a supernatural nightmare for her.
Still, it grated a little — okay a lot — that O'Connell was being reassured and given promises about the safety of Jonathan’s sister. It… well, he didn’t want Bay to reassure him about Evie — why would he want that from someone who’d tried to kill him? That would be absurd — but it was like the two men had entirely forgotten about him and his relationship Evie.
Like he didn’t matter.
Jonathan could accept that he didn’t matter, he was pretty much deadweight. He had enough alcohol in his system to probably not manage much distance in the desert before dehydrating. He didn’t have any weapons to use if they were attacked — throwing the pistol had seemed like a reasonable idea at the time, maybe it would have hit that mummy fellow and solved all their problems by cracking his skull?
Jonathan was, in essence, useless.
He wasn’t a young man anymore, wasn’t arrogant and full of hot air about his strength and bravery. The trenches had robbed him of his arrogance.
They’d robbed him of a lot truthfully.
“This is the quickest route out of the tunnels.” Bay said into the quiet of the sewer.
Jonathan wasn’t even remotely phased by what they were trudging through. A bit of human filth was nothing compared to rotting bodies and icy water up to the knee that bit down into the bone. But O'Connell would definitely expect him to complain; that was the role Jonathan had given himself since the war.
Serial complainer.
“Oh thank heavens!” Jonathan pitched his voice low but loud enough for both men to hear him. “I don’t want to think about what we’re walking through! These trousers are a lost cause, I tell you.”
O'Connell didn’t even look back at him when he spoke. “Shut up Jonathan.”
Jonathan shut up.
Jonathan hated bugs. He hated them. He also hated O'Connell and Ardeth fucking Bay.
But, most of all, Jonathan hated himself.
They’d had the element of surprise, a key aspect of any assault on an enemy, and Jonathan had blew it by being curious and greedy.
Evie could die because of his stupidity.
No. Jonathan shook his head. Evie wasn’t going to die. He wasn’t going to allow it.
That mummy, Imhotep, was easier to distract than he’d thought he’d be. Apparently it didn’t matter when someone came from, gullible was gullible.
Of course O'Connell rescued Evie. Of course Bay went off and fought those priests. Of course Jonathan had to read from the other book. Of course he couldn’t get this last symbol.
Oh but he hated Ancient Egyptian with a passion.
And then he set those royal guard mummies on Imhotep’s lady. In hindsight, Jonathan should have guessed that’d piss of the mummy.
Thank God for O'Connell. Jonathan really hadn’t wanted to be choked to death by a pissed off undead mummy. That would have been difficult to fit on his headstone.
Here lies Jonathan, a fool who pissed off an Undead Mummy named Imhotep by murdering the love of his life when trying to protect his sister.
Maybe it would have been an extra large headstone?
Crawling away from the mummy who was sans an arm, Jonathan made sure the Book of Life wasn’t in range of Imhotep. The sight of the mummy’s arm on the sand before him had Jonathan’s mind helpfully supplying memories of similar sights.
Of course, watching the mummy reattach his arm like it was nothing definitely wasn’t something Jonathan had previous experience with. Somehow that made him feel more nauseous than the severed arm had.
Jonathan cursed his recall ability. He’d be remembering that for years to come.
If he lived that long.
Jonathan might live that long after all. Evie had made Imhotep mortal, reading from the Book of Life while O'Connell prepared for getting his arse thrown across the chamber by the mummy again. Jonathan still wondered if the American was supernatural himself. No one could stand up after taking that sort of beating.
Well, O'Connell could, obviously, considering how he was wrapped around his sister outside the ruins of Hamunaptra as it disappeared into the sands for eternity.
Jonathan nearly died of fright when a hand landed on his shoulder, light and warm.
The sight of the Medjai sat atop a camel, smiling made Jonathan want to curse at the man.
Ardeth fucking Bay.
If Jonathan didn’t know any better, he’d say that the Medjai enjoyed seeing him scream in fright and jump higher than a spooked cat. Actually Jonathan did know better. Bay definitely found Jonathan’s flailing amusing.
So did O'Connell and Evie for that matter.
Ah well, he thought, at least I can bring some amusement to this whole nightmare.
That was his role after all. The bumbling idiot. Court jester. Fool.
Disappointment.
Jonathan shook his head, shaking the thoughts away as they continued their trek across the desert. Bay had wandered off in the opposite direction after politely pointing them in the direction of the nearest village where a car might be available. The camels were comfortable enough but they reminded Jonathan too much of when this whole debacle had began.
The sandy air tasted bitter on his tongue at the flood of memories from only days ago. Heavens, it hadn’t even been a week since they’d arrived at Hamunaptra, no more the wiser to what had been waiting.
O'Connell tasked Jonathan with removing whatever ‘luggage’ they’d brought from the desert from the camels and storing it in the boot — “put it in the trunk Jonathan!” — of the car they managed to finangle from the villages blacksmith. It wasn’t more than four tyres, a few seats and an engine to be entirely honest, but it’d do.
“Oh that’s heavy,” Jonathan breathed in surprise after hauling one of the bags off his camel. It had clinked suspiciously, sounding full of something that definitely wasn’t bread. He wondered if it had perhaps been water tanks. Monty and his desert rats had buried a lot of water tanks across the desert during the war. Maybe some of those tanks had been buried near Hamunaptra?
It wasn’t water tanks.
“Evie!” Jonathan looked around frantically. His sister was over near one of the small houses, speaking with a group of women who, as far as Jonathan could tell from this distance, seemed to be trying to foist more clothing upon her. A reasonable thing considering the state of her dress. O'Connell had glared at every man in the village who’d looked a little too long at his sister. Jonathan had found his approval of the American rising steadily with every interaction between O'Connell and Evie that he witnessed.
“What now Jonathan?” O'Connell snapped.
Think of the devil and the American shall appear.
Jonathan looked at O'Connell with wide eyes. “Uhm… you might want to take a look at this,” he said after a moment, glancing down at the bag he was still holding, the flap of it covering what was inside. “Try not to swear.”
O'Connell shot him a suspicious look, instantly reaching for one of his holstered weapons.
Yes, Jonathan thought, that’s probably a reasonable response considering their circumstances.
O'Connell lifted the flap.
“Holy crap.”
Jonathan nodded.
“Okay, put it in the trunk, don’t let anyone see it. We’ll sort this—” O'Connell gestured at the bag “—this out when we back in Cairo.”
“Right!” Jonathan picked the bag up, letting out a huff of surprise at the sheer weight of it. The damnable thing hadn’t weighed quite so much when he’d only been pulling it off the camel. Now he was countering gravity with something that weighed more than a dead body.
Jonathan had experience with those.
The bags secured in the boot of the car, Jonathan hopped into the cab behind O'Connell and his sister. They left the village, trundling along on flatter ground, sand dunes steadily receding the closer they got to greater civilisation. Jonathan remained silent in the back, not feeling in the mood to chatter incessantly to distract.
Honestly, he just wanted to sleep.
Unfortunately he had no alcohol and no desire to sleep without a bit of self-medicating. Damn.
Jonathan settled for staring out at the desert, gaze distant. He didn’t want to think but he didn’t want to not think either. Not thinking somehow always led to remembering the past and Jonathan had even less desire to do that in the company of his sister and O'Connell.
Well, O'Connell might understand. He’d been a soldier himself. He’d know not to ask. But Evie? Oh Evie would push and poke and pry at the edges of Jonathan’s carefully constructed armour until she’d peeled enough back to see inside.
Jonathan didn’t want his sister to see what the war had made him.
He sighed. Cairo couldn’t come fast enough.
So the Cairo authorities weren’t very pleased with what had happened. Jonathan couldn’t blame them; he wasn’t exactly pleased either.
An unknown threat enters the British fort in Cairo and dessicates an American and then, somehow, turns hundreds of Egyptians into mindless slaves covered in boils and coughing blood. Yes, that would irritate the British quite a bit.
O'Connell, the arse, found it amusing to be faced with an annoyed bureaucrat in a worn suit that needed a good pressing.
Jonathan, as the only English fellow who happened to be a fellow — sorry Evie — had the delightful task of explaining. He’d much rather be back in Hamunaptra.
There was that fatalistic sarcasm again.
“Listen, I’m very sorry for what has happened but we—” Jonathan gestured at himself, Evie and O'Connell “—have no idea what has happened. We’ve only just got back from the middle of the desert for Christ’s sake!”
“Why were you in the desert in the first place?” The official asked suspiciously and Jonathan thanked his panicked habit of constantly thinking of all the ways things could wrong.
It gave him excellent material to use for a lie.
“We were looking for some of the nomad tribes,” he replied without hesitation. Please don’t say anything, he thought when he saw Evie shift out the corner of his eye. O'Connell adjusted his grip around her waist, making the movement seem natural and not a response to Jonathan’s lies.
Thank heavens for O'Connell.
“I was hoping to write a paper on them for the Oxford Anthropology department.” Jonathan didn’t look away from the official. It wasn’t a lie per se. Whereas Evie was very much the academic one of the family, Jonathan was no slouch either.
Besides, he could write anything and Oxford would accept it for their family name alone.
The official stared at Jonathan for a long moment, obviously not really buying his explanation but, since Jonathan had introduced them and Carnahan was a known name of English archaeologists, unless the fellow had proof all he could do was nod and move on.
Which he promptly then did.
Jonathan blew out a heavy breath, relieved at managing to get away without any of them experiencing prison time — or more in O'Connell’s case. Evie was giving him that look again, the one she wore when he was doing something that irked her because she didn’t understand his motivations.
Bad luck old mum, Jonathan pulled her into a quick hug, you’re not ever going to understand those.
How do you explain that you’re motivated by your failure to die when you were supposed to?
Jonathan hid in his room, ordering a bottle, well, several bottles, of whiskey and scotch from the bar. He wasn’t in the mood for jovial company. He just wanted to drink and sleep.
O'Connell would wake him in the morning to make sure they didn’t miss their boat. So Jonathan popped the cork out of the nearest scotch and began to drink.
No dreams for him. No sir.
Death… is only the beginning.
Jonathan bolted upright, gasping in wide-eyed terror. It took him several panicked breaths before his surroundings were recognisable to his terrified mind. He wasn’t in the desert, he was in a hotel room in Cairo. He wasn’t in the city of the dead; trapped in endless corridors of black stone, the sound of scarabs scuttling behind him as he ran, the voice of Imhotep laughing and repeating his last words over and over.
He wasn’t there. He wasn’t.
It had just been an exceptionally awful bad dream.
Jonathan looked at the bottle of the Glenfiddich on the bed beside him. It was empty.
Damn, he thought, picking the bottle up by the neck to place it on the table beside the bed. I could have done with some of that right about now.
The shutters on the windows of the hotel room were open, letting in a decently fresh breeze. Through the window, Jonathan saw the beginnings of dawn colours seeping into the inky blackness of the night sky.
He hadn’t even slept long enough for O’Connell to wake him from a drunken stupor.
“Just my luck,” he muttered, shuffling on the bed to the end of it. He’d passed out atop it, covers still drawn, and hadn’t really moved much from whatever position he’d curled up into for — he checked his watch — three hours.
The bottles strewn around his room were in various states of depleted. Just the sight of them made Jonathan feel sick. He had a hangover at least.
Well, the cure to any hangover is obvious. Jonathan stood, shaking his injured hand when it tingled and picked up the nearest bottle to the bed that had some liquid in it. Keep drinking.
It wasn’t particularly good whiskey– wait, no, it was scotch — but it would do the job.
Not too much unfortunately, Evie would be most displeased if he showed up to the boat obnoxiously drunk. So Jonathan paced himself.
One bottle.
Just the one.
I can always have more on the boat, he reminded himself when the bottle was empty, dropping it in the wicker waste bin beside the dresser. Wouldn’t be civilised for a boat not to have a bar after all.
O'Connell would be coming to wake him soon enough, his watch already showed it was closing in on six o'clock.
Had he really spent that long just drinking one bottle? What had he been thinking about to zone out for that long.
Jonathan knew the answer. He hadn’t been thinking about anything. It was something he’d done since the war, his mind would just shut off and he’d find himself coming back after an hour or two or three had passed, none the wiser as to what had happened during those missing hours.
It was as though he performed all the actions his body needed without being consciously aware of them.
Perhaps I do. The room was tidy, bottles either nearly lined up on the dresser with various levels of liquor in them, or deposited in the waste bin with the first. The bedding had been stripped back and folded neatly on top of the folded back blanket, ready for whatever maid arrived to collect it.
In fact, the entire room was organised and looked as though the maids had gone through it already.
Old habits die hard, I suppose. The military left its mark on his behaviour even when he wasn’t consciously aware of what his body was doing. I wonder if O'Connell experiences the same?
Of course, Jonathan would never ask the American. One did not talk about the war. It just wasn’t done. Not unless it was to celebrate it.
Jonathan sighed. He grabbed the case he’d lugged up to his room, having left O'Connell with the bags of gold — apparently he didn’t trust Jonathan with bags of gold treasure. He could wander around the hotel a little, perhaps head for the dining room for some breakfast before they left for the boat?
He wouldn’t go to the bar. Not now. Alcohol wouldn’t solve the hollow feeling in his bones. All it ever did was numb his awareness of it.
Jonathan was tired of numbing his body and mind. He missed being who he was before the war. He missed living and feeling outside of near death experiences.
He was tired of having to be reckless with his life in order to live it.
This is a long one so under cut
So, the boat was horrific. The waves, like the inconsiderate buggers they were , slammed into the hull and made Jonathan’s already delicate stomach feel all the worse. Evie had explicitly forbid Jonathan any alcohol — absolute harlot of a woman — for the duration of their trip to England and their ancestral home. O'Connell — the traitor — had backed her up, promising Jonathan a trip overboard if he ventured anywhere near the bar.
Apparently they didn’t trust him to keep his mouth shut about their… procurements from the desert.
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