One Night in Cairo
by Miss Becky
Disclaimer: One of these days I'm gonna surprise the hell out of you all by announcing that they're mine. Unfortunately, today is not that day.
Summary:
Rating: PG-13
Obligatory Thank-Yous: To Jen, my beta reader and dear friend. To Sears Portrait Studio, for simply existing. To Alan Silvestri, for this wonderful score I listen to constantly while writing. To Stephen Sommers, for having the imagination and creativity to give us these wonderful characters we play with.
Author's Note: You can blame this story on the man himself: Stephen Sommers. He's said in interviews (and on the DVD) that in TMR, all the relationships are stronger and "more intertwined." Hmm. Seems to me that nine years of separation between all of our heroes wouldn't exactly strengthen a friendship. So this is my take on why the O'Connells and Ardeth are so close.
********
O'Connell climbed the stairs to his hotel room two at a time, a bit unsteady on his feet, humming a scrap of nonsense doggerel that had been stuck in his head for most of the day. He was aware that he was grinning like a lunatic, but could not make himself stop. He did not want to stop. In fact, he could see no reason to ever stop smiling.
At the ripe old age of twenty-five, Rick O'Connell was in love.
He thrust his key at the lock and missed. Undaunted, he tried again, this time succeeding. With a flourish, he unlocked the door and flung it open. It flew back, hit the wall and rebounded. He elbowed it out of the way and strolled into the room. He tossed his key toward the bedside table; it fell short by several feet and bounced on the floor. Rick just looked at it and grinned.
He swung the door shut, sauntered over to the fallen key and picked it up. As his hand closed over it, his smile curdled and froze. A quiver ran through him, and his legs gave way. He sat down on the floor with a heavy thud.
"Oh, shit," he breathed. "I'm in love."
****
It defied all logic, of course. He wasn't supposed to fall in love. He was supposed to go through life and experience adventure and excitement, and women didn't go for those things, he had found. They preferred a quieter life, with elegant dinners and nice dresses. They painted watercolors and played the piano and crooked their little fingers when they drank tea and were generally very boring. They did not like getting sand in their hair, and they did not think there was anything worthwhile to be found in books, and they most certainly did not think camels were adorable.
Except for Evelyn Carnahan.
He had never meant anyone like her. Brave and strong, she was charmingly stubborn and fiercely intelligent. She was loyal to her brother and to anyone she let get close to her, such as himself. She had an endearing innocence about her, one that was slightly misleading, for he suspected she knew more about life than she sometimes let on. But that knowledge came mostly from books, and not real experience, and in that respect, she was a bit sheltered.
She had saved his life, several times. He was not deluded enough to think she had saved him on the gallows only out of sheer kindness; nonetheless, her desire for the Book at Hamunaptra had only been a part of it. She was a good person, generous and compassionate, and she had no doubt been moved to save him just so he might not die such a horrible death. That he could lead her to Hamunaptra had only been incidental.
And dear God, she was beautiful. He had never seen a woman as amazing as she was. Even in the prison courtyard, her hair pulled back, her body imprisoned by a severe blouse and skirt, she had looked incredible. Later, in the black Arab gown, she had nearly been his undoing, and when those dark, kohl-lined eyes had looked at him over that veil, his heart had almost stopped.
Oh yes. He had it bad, all right.
They had been in Cairo for three weeks now. The return journey from Hamunaptra had taken three days, at the end of which they had stumbled into the city, ludicrously grateful for the noise and chaos and stench. After the horrors of the desert and the City of the Dead, Cairo was a relative paradise.
That attitude had lasted all of six hours, for Rick.
The weeks had been busy ones. Evelyn had thrown herself into work at the Museum of Antiquities, and the city officials seemed content to let her. No one had officially named her as the curator, but the lack of proper sanction did not bother her. She went calmly about the process of running the library and museum, and the other employees did not interfere. They knew her well and took orders from her without any fuss, and things ran rather smoothly.
Surprisingly enough, the museum had not fared too badly in the mob attack. The people had been united under Imhotep's command and entered the museum with only one purpose – to find Evelyn and Daniels and kill the others. They had not been motivated by greed or a base need for violence. When they had not been able to obey their orders, they had not turned to looting and destruction, as others might have. Instead they had merely continued through the building and on into the street, ever seeking their prey.
It had only taken Evelyn a single day to bring the museum back to order, for in the four days she had been gone, the rest of the workers had done their best. All that was needed was some authority, which she had all too willing to provide.
Rick had spent most of the past three weeks just watching her. He fetched books she needed and artifacts and her glasses and anything else she needed. He tried to anticipate her wants and brought her juice when he thought she might be thirsty, or turned on another lamp if it seemed like it was getting too dark inside to read.
But mostly he just stayed out of her way. And Evelyn seemed to appreciate this. From time to time she would smile at him, and he would feel his heart stagger in his chest. Sometimes he grinned his goofy grin then, and sometimes he managed to control it. He was aware that things were slowly changing between them, but he was powerless to say exactly how, or to explain what that change was.
All he knew was that tonight he had made the final realization: he was in love with Evelyn Carnahan.
She had looked up at him over a display case, and the way the light had shone in her brown eyes, the way her collar had exposed the softness of her throat, the way her lips had curved into that smile she reserved just for him… It had all come together and he had just swayed in shock, stunned as the truth finally revealed itself.
In love. Himself.
Incredible.
He pushed himself off the floor, reeling slightly to one side. The grin was back. He was in love.
Damn if it didn't feel good.
****
As irrational as it was, he somehow expected his revelation to change things between them. So it was a bit surprising when nothing different happened the next day. Evelyn did not melt into his arms, violins did not play, and they did not fall into bed.
Chagrined at his own insanity, Rick scolded himself and went about helping Evelyn shelve books. Of course she did not know what he was thinking - how could she?
By mid-afternoon, he had discovered the delight of having his secret knowledge. He watched her, hiding a smile. Just being around her was good; being with her and knowing that he loved her was simply amazing.
At the end of the day, she closed up the museum and they gathered in the back courtyard. Jonathan sat on a sarcophagus as though it was a chaise longue, and Evelyn walked about, laying out plans for the following day's work; Rick was exhausted just listening to her.
"…and I must…Oh. O'Connell, could you get me that scroll, the one I was working on this morning?" She gave him a brief, harried smile and Rick immediately forgave her for being ordered about like a serving boy.
He wandered through the empty library, at last finding the scroll where she had left it, atop a bookshelf at the end of the room. Holding it carefully - she had scolded him before for his lack of respect for these ancient artifacts - he headed toward the courtyard again.
Outside, Evelyn's chatter suddenly broke off. "Oh," she said. "Hello again."
"Oh, it's you," he heard Jonathan say.
Curious, and yes, a little worried, Rick hurried forward. He could not explain the sudden rush of protectiveness that came over him when he thought of Evelyn facing a stranger. What if something happened to her?
He walked out of the library. "Visitors?"
Rick laid the scroll down, uncertain whether his worry had just been justified or not. He doubted the Med-jai was here for a social call. "What's the occasion?"
Ardeth Bay got right to the point. "I needed to speak to you. I have chosen a new curator for the museum. He is-"
And all hell broke loose.
"Now hold on there!" Evelyn cried. "You can't just come in here and replace me…"
"If you knew what my sister has done for this place…"
"…just because I'm a woman…"
"…you better think twice about that…"
"…will not stand for this…"
"…won't let anyone…"
"Hold on a minute!" Rick held up his hands and the two Carnahans fell silent. They were missing the point, he thought. He lowered his hands and looked narrowly at Ardeth Bay. "What do you mean, you have chosen?"
The Med-jai just gazed at him with that unreadable expression.
Rick groaned to himself. Wouldn't you know it?
In a very small voice, Evelyn said, "Oh."
It was, of course, Jonathan who brought things out into the open. "Are you telling us that you're the leader of the Med-jai?"
"Yes," Ardeth Bay said simply.
"Awfully young, aren't you?" Jonathan asked.
Rick gave Jonathan a hard look, one designed to shut the man up, and for a wonder, it worked. They might, after all, be in some serious trouble and not even know it. From his time with the Legion, he had learned a little about some of the desert tribes, the Tuareg and the Bedouin. He knew honor was very important to them.
He looked at Ardeth Bay and supposed he was probably the first person to ever manhandle the Med-jai and live to tell it. And it was for certain that no one had ever lit a match off the warrior's face before.
"I think what Jonathan means to say," he said, striving desperately for what little tact he possessed, "is that we're kinda surprised. None of us knew."
"Would it have made a difference?" asked the Med-jai.
Rick thought about this. "No."
A ghost of a smile lightened Ardeth's naturally stern expression. Then he looked at Evelyn. "I am sorry if you are displeased with my decision. But the curator of the museum has always been a Med-jai."
Rick remembered the way the curator had sacrificed himself for them all – then had to amend that. He had not done it for them. He had done it for Ardeth Bay, his leader. The man had been arrogant and a bit cold; Rick hadn't liked him much on their short acquaintance. But he had done a lot here at the museum, work that Evelyn was sustaining through her own blend of persistence and skill. Although Rick understood the reason for the tradition of the curator being a Med-jai, he couldn't stand aside and watch all of Evelyn's hard work be for nothing.
"What about everything she's already done?" he asked, earning him a grateful look from Evelyn. "She's put a lot of time and effort into this place. Doesn't that count for something?"
"I am sorry," Ardeth repeated, not sounding as though he really meant it. "But she is not a Med-jai."
"Why does that matter? She's been there! She knows more about Hamunaptra and Imhotep than any of the Med-jai. Well," he conceded, "except maybe for you."
Ardeth's expression did not change, but Rick had the distinct impression that the man was irritated. Probably nobody ever argued with him, either. "I appreciate Evelyn's experience," he said, trying a different tactic now. "But we are sworn to this task. This is our duty. We cannot give it to another, even if that person takes it willingly."
"Hamunaptra's buried," Rick said. "Seems to me your task is done, buddy." As soon as the word left his mouth, he mentally cringed, but it was too late. It was already out there and he could not take it back.
Evidently the mocking sarcasm usually inherent in the word was lost on Ardeth. "My friend, our task will never be done."
Taken aback by the Med-jai's response, and a bit ashamed of himself, Rick said nothing to this.
"But O'Connell killed him," Jonathan said.
"No," Ardeth Bay said. "He is undead. He cannot be truly killed."
"But the Book," Jonathan tried. "It's buried at Hamunaptra. No one can get to it now."
"Sooner or later someone will try to dig up Hamunaptra," Evelyn said. "I swear I will stop them."
"Like the curator was able to stop you?" Ardeth asked, not unkindly.
Evelyn flushed, her cheeks turning a soft pink that contrasted with her tan. Staring at that rosy color, Rick felt his heart miss a beat. He would do anything to get her this job. He would do whatever it took to get her what she wanted, to make her happy.
Now he turned to face Ardeth. "Why don't you just let her have the job?" he said. "You might as well. We're not going to give up."
"Yeah," Jonathan echoed.
The Med-jai chieftain glared at him for a moment, then nodded curtly. "Very well. We shall see." He looked at Evelyn. "The museum is yours." He inclined his chin in a gesture of farewell, then was gone.
Gone, but only temporarily. Rick knew they were fooling themselves if they thought they had seen the last of the Med-jai.
****
Life, as it was wont to do, went on.
Rick sold one of the gold trinkets taken from Hamunaptra and lived comfortably off the proceeds. Jonathan and Evelyn, he had learned, were quite well off financially, having come into large trust funds at age twenty-one. There was a house back in London and plenty of money. Anyone else might have wondered why Evelyn even bothered to work at all, when she clearly did not have to.
Rick did not wonder. He knew. He understood Evelyn now. It was hard to believe that he had once said, I get your parents. And I get him. But what are you doing here?
She continued to work hard, and he helped however he could.
In the evenings they sat together under the stars and talked. They shared
stories of their lives, taking time to learn about each other. Rick was patient
about this - he figured any time spent with Evelyn Carnahan was time well
spent.
Even if he wasn't kissing her all the time, as he so badly wanted to do.
Only as they said their farewells for the night did he get
to kiss her. Then she would stand slightly on tiptoe to reach his mouth, and
balance herself with one hand on his arm. Long after he had dropped into bed
for the night he could still feel a tingling sensation on his
And those kisses! He lay awake for hours, tormenting himself with the memories. She was unschooled, but shyly eager. He loved tasting her, drinking her in.
He wanted more, of course. But Rick O'Connell, normally the most impatient of men, found he was willing to wait forever, if at the end of that time he was awarded Evelyn Carnahan.
****
