Alternate TMR. Rick arrives in London during a storm to pick up the pieces of a life he didn't know he had. All roads lead back to Egypt, and the tragedy he came to prevent...

I've discovered that I really enjoy writing stuff in shades of tragedy. Don't worry, I still like happy endings;) This is also semi-experimental in the fact that it's written in present tense, which is not what you usually see. I just thought it fit the tone of the story well with the first person viewpoints. If I ever skip anything that seems major, assume it progressed similarly to TMR.

Rated PG-13 for mild language, sexuality, violence, etc. Everything, in other words:)~

You guys know how I adore reviews:):):)

I do not own the characters of the Mummiverse (that would be Mr. Sommers) nor do I own the songs at the beginning of the chapters, which are really just there for fun. :) ~Buff

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i have a demon for a wife he delights in your pretty face and he hates my life takes notes on how to provoke past grief makes my teeth decay with the last of my self belief feed all day from underneath like a thief i'm left whipped barely able to speak i see nothing but constant supply i can read every look in your eye i live with a lie maybe our love will never die or maybe it's the last time i make you cry

--"addicted" faithless

It's always a shock to pass so abruptly from the warmth of the Cairo sun to the chill of London's clouds. Having lived in both climates I'm well accustomed to the habits of each, but something about that switch from warm to cold, from light to dark, has always unsettled me. I could never abandon London, not completely, but coming back always has an edge of sorrow to it, no matter what the circumstance.

The clouds stir above us as I help the driver heave the baggage out of the back of the taxi. The night is cloudy and dark as London winters often are. A storm hovers on the horizon, growling at the city, occasionally showering it with a light drizzle, but it hasn't broken yet. It simply waits for the right moment to unleash it's fury on those foolish enough to risk the anger of the tempest.

We'd dropped off Jonathan first, ostensibly because he was closer to the airport, but really because he didn't want to pay the fare. If I'd been in a better mood I might have argued with him about it, but tonight I'm in no mood to pick a fight. I'm really in no mood to do anything at all but chuck my entire life out the window, settle down in front of the fire, and get lost in a book. Preferably one that doesn't wake the dead.

"Mum? What can I carry?"

I look down at the luggage I've piled on the ground and place a large chest into my son's waiting arms. "Put it on the kitchen table."

"Sure, Mum."

Alex plucks the keys from my fingers and skips up the steps to our flat, tipping a little from the weight of the chest. I allow myself a small smile as I look after him, then gather as many bags as I can into my own arms and follow him up.

By then Alex has gotten the front door open and disappeared into the kitchen. I deposit the bags in the foyer and breathe in the smell of my familiar little home. Small but cozy, cluttered but inviting, I fell in love with the apartment the first time I saw it. In eight years, we haven't ever thought of moving away from it.

Thunder rolls in the distance, increasing the feeling of foreboding in the pit of my stomach. I realize with a sigh that I have to go back out into the cold to retrieve the rest of our bags.

"Alex?" I call. "Would you get the rest of our things?"

The little blond boy streaks out of the kitchen, stopping just short of running into me. "Mum, it's raining."

"I know."

Alex puts on his best pout and tries again. "So why do I have to do it?"

"Because mommy doesn't want to get wet, and you have to have a bath anyway. Go, please."

My son rolls his eyes and moves past me out the front door. I click it shut behind him and rest my forehead against the cool wood. Every day he looks more and more like him. Every day I notice little mannerisms that weren't there before, a raised eyebrow here, a laugh there, sometimes a stare so intense it seems the world depends on not blinking.

And every day, I feel a little more lost.

I've seen far worse storms. This one seems pretty tame comparatively, though as the skies open up above me I suddenly wish I'd remembered my umbrella. The shadowy streets blur together as I walk deeper and deeper into their labyrinth. I was lost as soon as I set foot outside the hotel, but I hadn't even bothered to look for a taxi. Though a part of me wants to get there as fast as possible, a larger part is desperate to avoid it. Not even the rain can wash away the horrible lump that is choking the back of my throat.

Time, that's all I need. As if eight years hasn't been enough.

I look up at the street sign as I turn the corner, fighting the urge to turn and run the other direction when I see what it reads. My eyes move to the whitewashed apartment building across the street. In the bright light of the streetlamp, I see a little blond boy dash down the main staircase. I swallow the lump in my throat and call out, "Hey! Hey, excuse me!"

The boy picks up a suitcase from the bottom step, his blue eyes watching my every move. "What do you want?"

"Is this the Carmen Villa?"

"Yeah."

"You wouldn't happen to know..." By now I've reached the other side of the street and have a clearer view of the kid. "If..."

"What?"

"If Evelyn Carnahan lives here?"

"What do you want with my mum?"

"She's your mother?" My stomach drops as he realized who the little boy must be. She had married that guy, after all. They were probably quite happy with a million more children and fabulous careers. Evelyn didn't need me any more than she had eight years ago...

But she does need me, now. Even if she doesn't know it. I wasn't just going to walk away this time.

"Who are you?" the boy asks. He still hasn't moved from the bottom step.

"I need to see your mom, is she here?"

"Yeah."

"Is your...is your dad here?"

"No."

I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. "Good. I mean, I...well. Yeah. Do you know where your mom is?"

Without a word the boy picks up the last suitcase and heads up the stairs. I follow him, not knowing what else to do. I want to offer to help him with the luggage, but I sense he wouldn't want or accept the help. As we climb the staircase I try to push away thoughts of who Evelyn must be now, what she must have. This could have been my son, this could have been my home, this could have been my life. It doesn't matter if eight years have passed or eighty, it doesn't make dwelling on the past any less painful.

The boy opens the door and walks into the darkened entryway, making no protest when I follow him in. He drops the suitcases and yells, "Mum! Someone's here to see you!"

Surreal doesn't begin to explain the feeling that overcomes me when Evelyn appears. Lightning flashes outside the window as our eyes lock, illuminating the room for a brief moment before we are plunged into darkness again. Her son flicks on the light switch, and she still hasn't moved, her eyebrows set in slight confusion, her eyes wide with unanswered questions. She is still Evelyn. Her hair is different now, tamed, darker. She looks more mature, maybe, but still with that mischievous glint in her eye that is still Evelyn. Still Evy.

"Hey, beautiful," I whisper, and she crumples to the floor.

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And there we have part one of eight. Want more?