Author's Note. So this is weird. I don't really write fanfiction anymore, and I still considered this account inactive. But this has been in my head for a while, and I was totally stumped on my original projects. And I figured it's better than not writing. So I wrote it, and went, what the hell? Post it. So here it is.

Big wave to anyone still around who read my other stuff! Sarcastic Raccoon, I've been following Seeking That Which Was Lost. I just haven't stopped to review yet, because I kinda suck. But I'm going to sit down and do that soon.

Disclaimer. The characters of The Mummy are the property of Universal Studios. The characters of Mrs. Burns, Aunt Georgie, Rashid, Leila, Barbara Gibbons and Father Joseph are my own invention. Any resemblance they bear to other fictional characters or real people is purely coincidental.

Burns

She has these sort of wide hands. She isn't a stout woman, particularly, or tall or mannish; he's never thought so. But when Burns sees his mother he thinks about her hands and the broad squareness of them. And how she's always, always tried to hide it.

Her nails are long and tapered, she says to elongate the finger. Bright pink. Her wedding ring was a marquis-cut diamond for the same reason. Something like five carats, not so enormous on her hand. She never takes it off because she's afraid someone will see the size of the band. Wide enough for a man, maybe. For some men, anyway.

And Burns never would have noticed. Her hands were soft when they touched his face. Wiped his little boy tears and tended his little boy bruises. Smelled always of rosewater or lavender or vanilla. He never would have noticed they were so big if she didn't fret over them. Twist them in her lap and settle them against her skirt and tuck them away when she can manage it.

She loves winter. She loves muffs.

And she frets about her hands, even though her more noticeable features are striking. She frets about her hands, one of two things he's known her to worry herself to tears over, his whole life. The other being—

"Are you sure you want to tag along, Bernie? I just don't know if it's something you should be doing right now."

Burns give her a smile and pushes the glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Mother, I'll be fine."

"I just don't know if it's the right time."

He laughs. "I don't know what makes it the wrong time."

Her hands twist in her lap.

"I'm not married, I've the summer off from my classes, you and Daddy are in good health—"

She sniffs and wiggles her head. "Dr. Temple says he's developing gout."

"Well, if that's all."

Her wide, blue eyes snap up to his. "But what if he takes an ill turn?"

"Then he'll swell. But he'll be fine, and that's what Dr. Temple is for, right? What difference does it make if I'm here?"

"Bernard Felix."

He sighs, and leans into the unforgiving upholstery of his mother's spindly sofa. Hard stuffing and floral brocade. The only sort of furniture she buys. She stares at her hands and quakes and shivers, and digs a silk handkerchief from her pocket.

"I know I didn't raise you to be so cavalier."

"Mother—"

"Especially where people's health is concerned." Her worried gaze darts to his again. "You'll watch your health, won't you, dear? The water over there is contaminated. You can't drink it—you know that, right? You could get malaria."

"I promise I won't drink the water," Burns says, and smooths a smirk from his lips. "Knowing Dave, we'll be on a strict bourbon regiment."

She scowls. "Wicked boy! You know alcohol is illegal!"

"Only in America, Mother."

"Well, where else does it count? Oh, I knew that Dave Daniels was bound to be a bad influence—"

Burns raises his eyebrows. "You've been known to partake every now and then, Mother. Even with Prohibition."

She flutters a sigh. "I am an old woman. What are they going to do? Arrest me? It's young fellows like you—young, nice men like you—they like to make an example of. And then it's all over the papers. News reporters love a fallen angel."

He snorts. "I think they love gangsters more."

"Oh, I know," she sniffs, and dabs her eyes. "I can't even hardly open a paper anymore, it's always so obscene. They treat Al Capone like he's Douglas Fairbanks. Like all of this murder and death is glamorous—I simply can't stomach it." Straightens her spine and her voice. "And I'll not have my boy being another sad story—another victim of illegal liquor."

"Those stories are usually about girls, Mother."

"That's because most boys aren't so nice as you."

Burns sighs, staring at the ceiling. Gaze tracing the gold velvet rope all the way to the chandelier in the very center. Glitter-sparking like a star in the waves of cream plaster. He stares at it thinking of the flask in his pocket. Thinking of all the ordinary ways a man can break his mother's heart.

"I'll only be gone a month," he says.

She sighs.

"And Dr. Chamberlain is coming."

"That old carpetbagger."

Burns stares at her quizzically. "Mother, you're from Baltimore."

"So?"

"So it's quite a bit closer to Boston than Jackson."

She sniffs and smooths her skirt over her knees. "Closer geographically and closer culturally are not always the same thing, young man." And stares wide-eyed at him again. "Speaking of which, I was just speaking with Lois Crawford, and she says it's considered very offensive in those Arab countries to use your right hand. How people get by so backwards—or how you'll ever make it through a day without using your right hand—"

"Dr. Chamberlain says it's your left."

"Well Lois Crawford says—"

"Dr. Chamberlain has been to Egypt many times; I think he should know better than Lois Crawford." He doesn't mean for his voice to get so sharp, but it's too late. His mother gasps back a sob and blinks rapidly at tears. A searing sting. Burns bolts to his feet and crosses the room to sit beside her. To take her big hands while she leans into his shoulder and sniffles.

"Mother, I'm sorry."

"Oh, Bernard."

"I am, I'm very sorry. I shouldn't have been so short."

She gasps back a shaking breath. Gazes at him with full, wet eyes. "I know I'm being silly, just plain silly. And you're probably right about about Dr. Chamberlain knowing more than Lois Crawford. You're probably right, I just...Oh, Bernie! I'm just worried sick for you."

He smiles, and rubs her shoulder. "I know, Mother. But I'm going to be fine. Dr. Chamberlain is a very talented Egyptologist. He has an office in Cairo and everything. This is his work and he's good at it."

"You're probably right."

"Of course I am."

She sighs. And smiles, leaning gently away from him. Folding her handkerchief in her lap and carefully tucking it away. She glances at him and touches his cheek.

"You're a good boy." And flushes. "Young man, I mean. I suppose..." Gazing off across the room, taking breaths in shallow gasps. Whispering, "It happened so fast."

Burns pats her shoulder and stands. "I'll be back before you know it."

"Time just seems to go faster..." She shudders, and blinks up at him. Blue and desperate. "You just never know how much time you really have left with a person."

Burns tries not to sigh too loudly. Stuffs his fists in his pockets so she won't see them, smooths his brow so he's not glaring when he meets her eyes.

"Mother. I'm going."

"I know."

"I know you're worried, but really. I'll be fine." She makes herself smile, and he leans down and plants a kiss on her cheek. And her big hand curves around his neck, holds him against her for a moment longer than usual. Smelling like rosewater.

"All right, then," she says, and lets go. Blinking and sighing. "You have a good time. And you telegram at every stop."

"Yes, ma'am."

"And you remember, there's no shame in coming home, if it gets to be too much."

Burns bites back a chuckle. "Yes, ma'am."

"You need anything, you let us know."

He nods. Glances at the clock on the mantle before he can stop himself, and swallows. "I ought to get the car, pick up Dave and Bar—" Flushes. Stops.

His mother's eyes narrow. "Dave and who?"

"Dave and Henderson. You know they're the ones I'm going with."

"'Ones with whom you're going,' and you weren't about to say Henderson just now. You said Bar-something." Her lips purse. "Barbara Gibbons."

Burns clears his throat. "What about her?"

"Is she coming along, too?"

Burns jolts a shrug. Wide-eyed guilty. "I—no. Of course not. No."

His mother frowns. Hard and sure and shrewd, settling in the lines around her mouth and eyes. She stares at him and shakes her head.

"Now I know I raised you better than to lie, Bernard."

He sighs.

"It's bad enough Dave swept in and stole her from you—"

"He didn't steal her—I went to call one time, and—"

"—now he brings you along on this trip he's taking with her, just to shove her and her fancy diamond in your face." She shakes her head. Scowling. "No, no. I do not like this one bit. That Dave Daniels is no good, I've said it all along—"

"Mother."

"You need to stay."

"Mother—"

"I said you need to stay, Bernard!" Her eyes flash. "You're a good, kindhearted boy, and maybe you don't see how your friend is trying to make fun of you, but I do. And I won't have it. I just won't have it."

Burns glances at the clock again, shaking his head at himself. And probably at his mother, too. Maybe even at Barbara Gibbons—

"I will say this, I'm glad you didn't take things any further with that girl. Running off to Egypt with a fellow like some kind of—some kind of—tramp."

Burns snorts. "Mother, it's 1926."

She glares. "And that means what, exactly? That the whole world's gone upside down?"

"They're engaged, Mother. Good as married."

She stares, that one wrinkle by her left eye twitching. Twitching. Hands curling into fierce fists. Too angry to notice how large they look in her lap.

"No. No, young man. Not 'good as married.' Not even close."

He stares and she stares. For a tick. And a tick. And at last he lets out a sigh. "Well. I think we can agree it actually is 'even close.'"

She huffs. "Not close enough for grand vacations. Heavens, I just don't know about this, Bernard. I just don't know. I don't like to think about people associating you with fast girls, going on a trip like this..."

Burns takes a breath. "Barbara isn't a fast girl. And you didn't want me going long before I let it slip that Dave is bringing her along."

Her eyes widen. "Well now I especially don't want you to go! Don't you want to settle down with a nice girl, have a family? You'll be taking your law exams next year—wouldn't you rather focus on serious things, and forget all this silly treasure-hunting nonsense in Egypt?"

Burns meets her gaze, and straightens his shoulders. Stands tall, chin up. And fights the urge to scratch his nose. He looks at her as calmly and seriously as his father does, when she's acting silly and everyone knows it but her. He tries to look like his father, the only one who can tell her she's worn out a lost point.

"Mother, I would very much like to get married, and have a family, and practice law. But I'm going to go to Egypt first."

She sniffs. "Heavens, Bernard..."

"I'm going," he says again. And gives her a parting smile. "I'll bring you back something nice, huh? Cleopatra's earrings."

She laughs, mostly earnest. Mostly. "Cleopatra's earrings. I'm not so sure I'd want them. I told you all of those queer happenings after they opened King Tut's tomb."

Burns chuckles, and she chuckles. And stands to give him one last hug. Strokes his back with her wide palm and stands on her toes. Tells his ear—

"At least I'm not so silly I'm fretting over curses, right?"