A Family Affair

Author's Note: First of all Happy 2005, everybody! I hope the Not-So-New Year is treating everyone well so far. Once again, I must apologize to you, my faithful readers, for the horribly long delay between posting chapters of this epic. The almost apocalyptic nature of "Real Life" (the horrific tsunami, another four years of Bush, etc., etc.) lately has made it difficult for me to find the time and, more importantly, the inspiration to continue working on this labor of love. My muses went on an extended hiatus, and have only recently been coaxed back to work, thanks to the many encouraging/entreating emails (thanks, Nanz!) and feedback posts that I've received over the past few weeks. So, without further ado, here's Chapter 68. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: Same as the other chapters.

Chapter 68.

Then can I walk beside you
I have come here to lose the smog
And I feel to be a cog in something turning
Well maybe it is just the time of year
Or maybe it's the time of man
I don't know who I am
But life is for learning

From "Woodstock" by Joni Mitchell

As a young child, Ian had learned not to speak unless spoken to when in his father's presence. Kenneth Irons detested idle chatter. He rarely spoke during meals unless he had something he deemed important enough to discuss, the end result being that, more often than not, a sepulchral silence prevailed over the dining room. However, having spent the past few days with the voluble Siri family, Ian had come to the conclusion that not only was engaging in discussion at the dining table perfectly acceptable behavior, it was extremely enjoyable as well. Everybody had gone out of their way to include him in the often-spirited debates, even though it had been painfully obvious that he was unaccustomed to speaking his mind.

Much to Ian's secret delight, it soon became clear that Lieutenant Graham Hopkins had no such reservations. Oblivious to his employer's reticence and barely concealed annoyance, he engaged Ian and Mrs. MacFadden in a steady stream of conversation in between bites of the delicious food, which was liberally washed down with the excellent dark-brown beer.

"So, you cooked for your girlfriend, eh, Nottingham?" the lieutenant posited, eyeing the other man over his glass.

Kenneth Irons choked on the mouthful of food he'd just swallowed, prompting Mrs. MacFadden to thump him on the back until he waved her off with an irritable, "I'm fine, I'm fine!"

"Yes," Ian confirmed once his father's brief coughing fit had passed. "I prepared Western omelets for her." 'My girlfriend!' he thought to himself. I really like the sound of that!

"Big tactical mistake there, if you ask me," Graham opined, shaking his head.

Ian bit. "How so?"

"Well, for one thing, from now on, she's gonna expect you to share the cooking duties."

"I think it is only fair that I do my share of the cooking and cleaning once we move in together," Ian shrugged, whereupon his father began choking again, having been caught in mid-sip this time. "However, since Sara has confessed that she is not much of a cook, I will probably end up preparing most of our meals, which means I will eventually have to broaden my repertoire. As things stand, I only know how to cook breakfast food."

Graham Hopkins stared at him, an expression akin to horror on his face. "That's crazy talk!" he finally sputtered. "What are you trying to do, Nottingham? Ruin things for the rest of us guys?"

Ian frowned in puzzlement. "I am not entirely sure what you mean by that, Lieutenant," he said truthfully.

"Pay him no mind, Master Ian!" advised Mrs. MacFadden, who was once again energetically thumping a coughing, red-faced Kenneth Irons on the back. "I'd be more than happy to teach you how to fix a variety of quick, delicious, and nutritious meals for you and yer lady."

"Thank you, Cookie," Ian smiled gratefully at her. "I will definitely take you up on your extremely generous offer. In fact, I have discovered that I enjoy cooking for Sara."

"Do stop assaulting me, Mrs. MacFadden!" Kenneth rasped as soon as he could draw a breath. "Really, I'm fine!"

Unaware of the fact that Ian could hear his every word, Graham was shaking his head and muttering beneath his breath. "Madness! Next thing you know, he'll willingly give up custody of his 'nads." He snorted derisively. "Who am I kidding? It's already too late! He's been pussy-whipped. Big time!" In a much louder voice, he said, "Just let me ask you this, Nottingham: Have you ever actually done any housecleaning?"

"No," Ian was forced to admit, "I have not. But the prospect of one day having to do so does not fill me with dread. To be perfectly frank, I find the idea of expecting the woman to do all of the cooking and cleaning to be rather antiquated." Hmmm. I'll have to remember to ask Gabriel what "pussy-whipped" means.

"Good for you, laddie!" Mrs. MacFadden smiled approvingly at Ian. "If you'll excuse me for a few moments, gentlemen . . . " she waited a beat and then added pointedly, "Lieutenant," before sweeping out of the kitchen.

"Hey, I'm no caveman," Graham defended himself, raising his voice so the departing housekeeper could hear him. "I'm just your average heterosexual male who doesn't know his way around the kitchen and likes it that way. That's what takeout was invented for, you know? Plus, I learned the hard way that what I think is clean and what the female of the species thinks is clean are two entirely different things. According to my ex, my housekeeping leaves a lot to be desired - and she isn't even a neat freak!"

"Well, having only spent a few days cohabitating with Sara, I cannot say for certain whether our standards of cleanliness are, in fact, comparable. However, from what I have observed of her housekeeping habits, I can safely say she, too, is not a 'neat freak,'" Ian offered. "Far from it, in fact. And although I will admit that I prefer my living quarters to be kept in some semblance of order, I do not consider myself to be obsessively neat, which perhaps bodes well for peaceful coexistence - at least in that one regard."

"For your sake, I truly hope you're right," Graham murmured. He raised his glass. "Here's to harmonious cohabitation!"

"I will drink to that," Ian seconded.

They clinked glasses, and then the lieutenant promptly drained his.

Ian immediately followed suit, conscientiously seeking to keep pace with the other man's slow but steady rate of stout consumption. Whenever one of the dark-brown glass bottles became empty, Ian carefully lined it up in front of him and then darted a glance at his father to gauge his reaction to this tiny act of rebellion. Unfortunately, soon after he started doing this, Mrs. MacFadden came bustling back into the kitchen and cleared away the empties before his collection had a chance to become suitably impressive and/or antagonistic. However, he gained a considerable measure of consolation from the fact that she brought with her another six-pack of Guinness Stout, prompting Graham to proclaim, "Ah! You're a good woman, Mrs. MacFadden. I hope your husband, God bless his stout-loving soul, realizes what a gem he has for a wife."

"Och, to be sure he gets down on his knees every night and gives thanks to the good Lord for his enormous good fortune in marrying me!" Mrs. MacFadden promptly assured him with a grin.

"And well he should," Graham winked at her, "and well he should. Be sure and thank him on my behalf for his largesse."

"And on mine as well!" Ian chimed in.

"That I will, lads."

Graham raised his glass, which was once again full. "To Mr. MacFadden!"

"To Mr. MacFadden and his excellent taste in wives and, more importantly, beer!" Ian heartily agreed, clinking glasses with him.

"Hmph!" Kenneth Irons opined sourly, setting his wineglass down on the polished granite countertop with a sharp click.

Meg "Cookie" MacFadden was pleased to see that her employer had eaten very well. He'd even requested a second helping of food, although she suspected it was because he wanted to keep an eye on the younger men rather than because he was still hungry. Mr. Irons had barely eaten a thing in days, and she'd begun to seriously worry about his health, especially after rumors started flying that he'd been admitted to the infirmary in very bad shape. Because he'd closeted himself in his bedroom, none of the staff - herself included - had caught more than a brief glimpse of the enigmatic billionaire over the past few days, but Meg had been highly aware of the fact that his meals had come back practically untouched. She didn't think it was any coincidence that he'd gone off his feed following Master Ian's mysterious disappearance, nor that his appetite had returned now that the lad had come home. Before he himself had ended up in the infirmary following the Russians' terrifying siege, Stephen Immo had confided in Meg that he was worried about their employer's failing health.

One of the reasons for her long tenure as head cook and housekeeper of Irons' Westchester estate was the well-known fact that Meg MacFadden was the soul of discretion. Over the years, she'd witnessed some mighty strange things in this mansion, but with the sole exception of her husband, she'd never breathed a word about any of it to anyone. Gossipmongers didn't last long in Kenneth Irons' employ. However, even Meg's curiosity had been piqued by the tumultuous events in recent days, beginning with the unexplained absence of Master Ian and ending with his sudden reappearance this evening. Oh, to be sure, he'd gone off on sudden trips before, sometimes for weeks on end, but this time had been different. Stephen had told her that after Master Ian had failed to return home last Thursday night, Mr. Irons had begun drinking heavily - something he rarely did - which had exacerbated his already fragile health. Shortly afterwards, he'd taken to his quarters, where he had remained until late last night, when he'd been transferred to the infirmary, purportedly near death. Then, early this morning, Master Ian had allegedly shown up here with Detective Sara Pezzini, and all hell had broken loose.

Ever since then, the household had been abuzz with speculation about the nature of Master Ian's relationship with the beautiful homicide detective. Meg had had the opportunity to meet Sara Pezzini just once before, when the detective had accepted an invitation to dine with Mr. Irons at the estate. Even though her interaction with the younger woman had been limited to a scant few minutes, it had been obvious to Meg that Mr. Irons was highly interested in the lovely detective - and just as obvious that the feeling wasn't mutual. Evidently, Detective Pezzini's rejection of him had made her all the more alluring, especially to someone who was accustomed to women practically falling all over themselves to first attract and then keep his attention. However, nothing Kenneth Irons did appeared to have any effect on this particular woman. She seemed to be immune to his considerable charm - not to mention the potent lure of his vast wealth. To add insult to injury, Sara Pezzini and Master Ian were now undeniably an item - something that Kenneth Irons patently did not approve of if their earlier disagreement over where to spend the upcoming holiday was anything to go by. Meg could hardly believe her ears when the younger man defiantly informed Mr. Irons that his Thanksgiving plans had changed. In the nearly 25 years she'd known him, Ian Nottingham had never once openly defied his father in this manner. She had watched the sweet, shy little boy grow up into an unfailingly polite, kind, and thoughtful young man who was totally dominated by his autocratic father. In fact, Meg was fairly certain that before now, Master Ian hadn't been romantically involved with anyone. Ever.

But evidently all that had changed. The fantastic story being bandied about was that Master Ian had run off with Detective Sara Pezzini, not to return until early that morning, when the two of them had paid a clandestine, unauthorized visit to Mr. Irons in the infirmary. Afterward, there had apparently been a violent altercation between the duo and the estate's security guards, who had unwisely attempted to prevent them from leaving. Lieutenant Hopkins' battered face bore mute testimony to the ferocity of the clash, but from what Meg could see, Master Ian did not have a mark on him. After handily defeating the hapless lieutenant and his men, he and his lady love had made good their escape.

However, it now seemed all was forgiven, for Master Ian had returned, and aside from their brief argument earlier, he appeared to be back in his father's good graces. Whatever the truth of the matter was, one thing was certain: Kenneth Irons had made a near-miraculous recovery, and was once again his eternally youthful self. In fact, he looked better than he had in quite some time, Meg decided after surreptitiously taking a good look at him. Moreover, she'd never seen Master Ian look happier or more relaxed. Meg was certain this had a lot to do with his new love interest. Okay, maybe it also has a little to do with the Guinness Stout, she thought wryly. This was also a new development; she had never before seen Ian Nottingham imbibe anything other than the occasional glass of wine. It'll do him good to loosen up a little, Meg decided, pretending not to see Mr. Irons' disapproving frown when she brought out another six-pack of stout after the two lads finished the first one. She hid a smile when she noticed that her employer didn't object when she refilled his wineglass for the third time.

"Everything was great, Mrs. MacFadden," Lieutenant Hopkins complimented her, rubbing his belly contentedly. "Thank you for fixing me a plate."

"You're quite welcome, Lieutenant," she smiled at him, removing his empty plate. "I hope you left room for dessert, because there's homemade apple crumb pie."

"Hmmm." Graham pretended to think about this for a few seconds. "I think I could manage to eat a slice," he grinned, winking at her.

"Very good. I'll just give you some time to digest your meal before I serve the pie," Meg said, rinsing his plate before placing it in the dishwasher. "Would anyone else like pie?"

"I would," Ian accepted. "But if it is not too much bother, I would like mine heated up and with a scoop of vanilla ice cream."

"Now, that's what I'm talking about!" Graham nodded enthusiastically. "If it's not too much trouble, could you make mine à la mode, too, Mrs. MacFadden?"

"It'll be no trouble a'tall. What about you, Mr. Irons?"

"You may reheat mine, but I would prefer whipped cream instead of ice cream, thank you," Kenneth requested.

"Very good, sir."

"There's nothing like home cooking!" Graham murmured, still absentmindedly rubbing his stomach. He'd been delighted to discover that his swollen nasal passages hadn't entirely neutralized his sense of taste. He hadn't had a thing to eat since breakfast, which had been interrupted by the unexpected arrival of Ian Nottingham and Detective Sara Pezzini. Lunchtime had come and gone while he sat in the infirmary waiting to be checked out, and by the time dinnertime had rolled around, he hadn't felt much like eating. Despite the cotton packing it, his nose had stubbornly continued to bleed, and the coppery taste of his own blood had effectively destroyed his appetite. Eventually, the bleeding had stopped, but as luck would have it, just as Graham was sitting down to have a bite to eat in the mess hall, a panicky young maid had called security to say that she'd heard Kenneth Irons shouting when she had passed by his private study moments earlier. After hastily assembling a team of men from the already dangerously thin ranks, Graham had gone to investigate.

He still hadn't figured out how Nottingham had managed to gain access to estate again. After that morning's debacle, he'd personally seen to it that all of the security codes had been changed and that extra personnel had been assigned to patrol duty. Yet the assassin had still managed to get onto the grounds and then inside undetected. I'll have to ask him how the heck he did that, Graham thought to himself. But I doubt he'll tell me. Hmmm. Maybe the alcohol will loosen his tongue. It was obvious to him that Nottingham was an inexperienced drinker. After just a few beers, the man was already showing signs of inebriation. It was also obvious to him that Nottingham's drinking was a blatant act of rebellion against his father's authority, and that this hadn't been lost on Kenneth Irons, who was none too pleased about it and didn't care who knew it. Normally, Graham would have bent over backwards to avoid getting caught in the middle of a familial power struggle - especially one that had all of the earmarks of a nasty and protracted battle like this one did - but when he'd discovered his employer in the kitchen along with the man whose movements he'd been tasked with monitoring, his curiosity about the extremely peculiar father/son dynamic had gotten the best of him, and he'd impulsively accepted Nottingham's invitation to dine with him and his father. Besides, Graham was famished, and he figured he might as well get a decent meal out of the deal.

Midway through his third bottle of stout, Ian noticed that his coordination was swiftly becoming impaired. First, he dropped his fork on the floor, and when he bent down to pick it up, he discovered that his limbs felt curiously heavy and that his fingers clumsily refused to follow his brain's commands. It took him a couple of tries to pick up the utensil, and when he sat back up, he promptly knocked over his glass of water. What's more, he'd suddenly developed an embarrassing habit of belching loudly and uncontrollably. The first time it happened, he flushed to his roots in mortification and apologized profusely. But after the fourth or fifth time, he simply followed Lieutenant Hopkins' lead, and nonchalantly muffled the explosive sound with one hand.

"I had homemade chocolate chip cookies for dessert while I was away," Ian commented, belatedly harkening back to the last thing the lieutenant had said. "I had not had them in years — not since I was in the army, in fact."

"How long were you in the army?" Graham asked him, opening the bottle of stout that had magically appeared in front of him. Nottingham also opened another one, but only after fumbling with the bottle opener for what seemed like an eternity.

"Four years," Ian replied, frowning at the recalcitrant bottle cap. He refilled his glass with exaggerated care and then met Lieutenant Hopkins' distinctly amused gaze. "One of the members of my unit occasionally received care packages from home, and he was kind enough to share his homemade chocolate chip cookies with the rest of us. Even slightly stale, they were delicious. That was nearly a decade ago, but I clearly remember how much all of us enjoyed eating them."

"You were in Special Ops, weren't you?"

"Yes. My unit was called the Black Dragons," Ian told him, noticing that he was starting to have difficulty enunciating certain words.

"Yeah, word was the Dragons were a bunch of bad-ass mother, um, dudes," Graham murmured, glancing apologetically at Mrs. MacFadden, who was dishing out pie nearby. "Did you see any action?"

"Yes, in -"

"The Black Dragons' missions are still highly classified, Lieutenant," Kenneth Irons cut in smoothly. "I'm sure you understand."

"Still classified, hunh?" Graham feigned surprise. "Yeah, yeah, sure, I understand."

"What about yourshelf, uh, yourself, Lieutenant?" Ian queried, although he already knew the answer, having read the lieutenant's file. "Did you see combat during your days with the Sheals, um, Seals?"

"Yeah, I did. In Kosovo and Afghanistan."

(Ian?)

Ian started as Sara's telepathic "voice" abruptly sounded inside his head.

(Yes, my love?)

(Just checking in. Whatcha doing?)

Ian realized that both Kenneth Irons and Lieutenant Hopkins were watching him curiously, having apparently noticed his involuntary flinch. "Excuse me," he muttered, standing. "I will be right back." The room tilted crazily for several seconds, forcing him to put out a hand to steady himself. Once he had regained a reasonable facsimile of his equilibrium, he headed to a nearby bathroom.

(I'm having a belated dinner,) Ian sent once he'd closed the bathroom door behind him. (After our earlier, um, activities, I dishcovered I was ravenous, so I came down to the kitchen in search of shushstenance.) Hmmm. Even my telepathic speech is becoming slurred, he thought to himself. Maybe she won't notice.

There was a slight pause. (Ian, have you been drinking?) Sara asked incredulously.

(Jus' some Guinnesh Stout, thash all,) he informed her, shrugging self-consciously.

(Well, I hate to break it to you, but you, my friend, are drunk,) she said, amusement coloring her "tone." (How much have you had?)

(Not quite three bottles,) Ian admitted sheepishly.

(Lightweight!) Sara teased him. (I sensed something odd was happening with you, but never in a million years would I have guessed you were drunk,) she laughed, but then abruptly became serious again. (I know you miss me, baby, but resorting to alcohol is never the answer. I hate the thought of you drinking alone.)

(Ah, but I'm not drinkin' alone!) he proudly announced. (Lieutenant Graham is drinkin' with me! In fac', it was hish idea.)

(Is that so? Well, tell "Lieutenant Graham" that I said to quit corrupting you! Geez, first Gabriel gets you stoned, and now this!) Sara huffed.

There was a pregnant pause. (How did you find out about that?) Ian queried guiltily.

(I smelled it on your clothing. Aren't you taking your newfound independence a little too far, Ian? First, you smoke pot, and now you're drinking beer! What are you gonna do next? Grow long hair and a beard? Oh, wait . . .)

(I dint shmoke any pot. Gabriel an' his girlfren' Chloe did. I only got a contact high,) Ian informed her.

("Only" a contact high, hunh? Do you even hear yourself, Nottingham? I don't suppose Lieutenant Hopkins warned you about the downside of drinking, did he?)

(There's a downside?)

(Um, yeah! There always is when you have too much of a good thing. It's called a hangover. Surely, you've heard of them?)

(Yes, but I was under th' impresshun that only hard liquor, like whishkey or tequila, could give you one.) He chuckled. (Liquor. Lick. Her. Thash funny, innit?)

(Drunk is drunk, Cowboy. Remember how bad you felt after crashing from your high earlier today?)

(Um, yeah?)

(Now double, no, triple that, and you'll have some idea of how you'll feel tomorrow if you keep on drinking. I speak from experience when I tell you that a really nasty hangover can make you pray for death,) Sara cautioned him.

There was another pause. (I think you're jus' tryin' to scare me,) Ian said uncertainly. He was having trouble aiming at the toilet bowl, which seemed a lot smaller than usual.

(Fine. Go right ahead and keep on drinking. Just don't come crying to me about how shitty you feel tomorrow when you wake up.)

(Perhaps you're right,) Ian reluctantly conceded. (It won't do for me to be hung over, 'speshally since I'm having breakfish with my father. I'll definly need to have my wits about me when dealin' with him. It's jus' that I can tell my drinking is really, really irritating him, and thash givin' me a ton of satishfaction.)

(Wait a sec, Kenny's there with you!)

(Yes. I guessh he was ravenish, too, after "meditating,") Ian confirmed, laughing. (Guinnesh Stout is sooo dee-lishush, Sara! Are you sure a couple more will hangover me?)

(You mean give you a hangover, and, judging by how toasted you are after just a few bottles, I'm gonna go out on a limb and say, yeah, it will. Must be that tweaked physiology of yours.)

(Hmmm. Could be. But I know one thing for sure: my fishy-ala-gee mishes you, Sara.)

(I miss you, too, baby.)

Ian jumped as someone knocked on the bathroom door. "Hey, Nottingham, didja fall in?" Graham Hopkins called.

"Be right out, Lieutenant Graham!" Ian called. (I mush go, my love. Shpeak to you again inna hour?)

(Um, I'm thinking you'll be sleeping it off by then, but sure.)

(Bye!)

(Good-night, lover.)

Ian quickly washed his hands and then opened the door. Graham was leaning against the wall in the hallway.

"You okay? You were gone so long, your dad started trying to make small talk with me," he said.

"You are lying, Lieutenant Graham," Ian replied sternly, but then he smiled crookedly and poked the other man in the chest with an index finger. "My father never makes small talk!"

Graham grinned, shaking his head. "Okay, you got me. We just sat there in awkward silence. So, I got the hell outta there. Said I had to go take a leak. Turns out I really do gotta go, so 'scuse me." But he stopped short as he noticed the lowered toilet seat, slanting Ian a disbelieving look. "You put the toilet seat back down."

"Yesh, I did," Ian agreed, looking quizzically at the toilet. "Why?"

But the other man just shook his head again. "Un-fucking-believable," he muttered beneath his breath, and stepped past Ian into the small bathroom, closing the door behind him.

Ian wove his way back into the kitchen, where a piece of apple crumb pie à la mode awaited him. He attacked it with gusto.

"Mmmm! Thish is ex'lent, Cookie!" he told Mrs. MacFadden, savoring the contrast in flavors between the piping hot pie and cold, rapidly melting ice cream.

"Why thank you, Master Ian. It's one of me favorites, too!" she replied.

"And what do you know, it goes great with Guinnesh Stout, too!" he grinned, draining his glass. "Oh, look, time for 'nother bottle!"

"I think you've had enough to drink, Ian," Kenneth Irons said.

"I will decide when I have had enough, thank you very much," Ian retorted, plucking another bottle from the second six-pack.

"You're drunk, and I will not sit here and watch you make a fool of yourself!" Kenneth hissed.

"Then leave!" Ian made exaggerated shooing motions with his hands. "Go 'head. Nobody's forcin' you to shtay. Go on! G'night!"

Kenneth glowered furiously at him, but stayed put.

"How's the pie?" Graham queried, reentering the kitchen and retaking his seat.

"Dee-lish-shush!" Ian replied around a mouthful. "Annit goes great wif shtout!"

"Doesn't everything?" Grinning, Graham grabbed another bottle of stout for himself, deftly opening it and refilling his glass before tucking into his dessert.

"So, thish is what it feels like to be drunk," Ian mused. "'Snot so bad."

"This is your first time getting your drunk on?" Graham queried incredulously. "But you were in the army!"

Ian shook his head. "Never got drunk while I was in th'army." He leaned toward the younger man conspiratorially. "Th' Black Dragons were all work and no play. But, shhhh. 'S'top secret!"

"I see." Graham shot a quick glance at his employer, which confirmed his suspicion that Irons was livid with anger at his son's drunken confessions, but the opportunity to learn more about his predecessor was too good to pass up. "Is that where you learned how to use a sword? Earlier in the gym, I couldn't help but notice that you handle one like an expert."

"No. I was taught th' Way of th' Schword in Japan, years before I joined th'army."

"Oh, yeah? What other kinds of martial arts training did you have?"

Ian waved a dismissive hand. "Lots and lots. You know, if you're gonna be my replacement, Lieutenant Graham, there are shome things you really should know. Fr'instance: those angry Russians were jus' the tip of the iceshberg. Over the years, my father hash managed to make enemies of jus' 'bout every nashunality you can think of. Fortunately for you, not all of them have the wherewithal to launch shush a coordinated attack."

"Well, that's a relief," Graham said, noticing the way Kenneth Irons was gripping his fork, as though he'd like nothing better than to stab his son with it.

"Ian is exaggerating, Lieutenant," Kenneth gritted out. "But, as I'm sure you're well aware, one doesn't amass as much wealth and power as I have without stepping on some toes along the way. And although it is an unfortunate fact that I have enemies, attempts on my life are few and far between."

"Yeah, by my count, over the last six years, there have been four attempts on your life, including this latest bunch of Russians," Graham murmured. "But I'm willing to bet there were several attempts that never got publicized."

"Touché, Lieutenant Graham!" Ian grinned, raising his glass. "Your inshinks are commenduh-mahbull. Over that same period, I can verify that I foiled nearly a dozen asshasshination plots that the press never got wind of."

"So, that's, what, 15 or 16 assassination attempts in six years?" Graham calculated. "Lucky I have that hazard pay clause in my employment contract, hunh?"

Ian dropped his fork again. "I once killed one of my father's enemies with a fork," he remarked, after unsuccessfully trying to locate the wayward utensil, which Mrs. MacFadden kindly replaced.

Graham raised his eyebrows. "Is that so?" he murmured. "What, didn't you have any ammo left?"

Ian tried unsuccessfully to muffle a belch. "I was unarmed, so I was forced to improvise. It was one of those lil sheefood forks."

"Oh, yeah, I know the kind." Graham reached across the countertop and snagged another bottle of Guinness Stout. "I 'spose the guy had it coming."

"He hired three asshasshins to kill my father," Ian responded. "One actually shusheeded in wounding him before I could defeat her."

"A chick assassin? Was she a hot Asian babe, like that fierce Ziyi Zhang from House of Flying Daggers? Man, I wouldn't mind tussling with her, if you know what I mean."

Ian frowned. "No. She was German."

Graham nodded knowingly. "One of those icy Teutonic blondes, hunh? How'd you off her?"

"With my sword."

"Cool. Did you lop off her head?"

Ian squinted at the younger man. "You are rather morbid, you know that?"

Graham shook his head. "Am not. I'm just curious. It's not every day I get to talk shop with a professional assassin."

"Former professhunal asshasshin, if you please," Ian corrected him, after taking a long drink of stout.

"So, you're hanging up your sword?"

"Not . . . exactly."

"You're just not gonna be Mr. Irons' bodyguard anymore."

"Right."

"So, how did you meet Detective Pezzini?"

"We first met at th' Midtown Museum. I was guarding a collectshun of artifacts that my father had loaned to the museum for the Joan of Arc exhibit."

"Oh, yeah, I seem to remember hearing about that exhibit on the news after it was destroyed in an explosion," Graham said, taking a drink from his newly refilled glass. "So, instead of watching your father's stuff, you were checking out Ms. Pezzini, hunh?"

"Well, she is a work of art!" Ian grinned, oblivious to the fact that he had once again acquired a foam mustache.

Graham chuckled, shaking his head. "Man, have you got it bad!"

"If by 'it' you mean that I am deeply in love with her, you would be right," Ian admitted. "My schword is at her dishposal now."

Graham's lips quirked wryly. "Uh, yeah, I clued into that after you threatened to kill me and my men if we were ever foolish enough to try and harm her again."

"Rest assured that it was no idle threat," Ian murmured, abruptly sobering up. "But you do not strike me as a foolish man, Lieutenant."

The younger man, nodded. "Thanks. My momma would proudly tell you that she didn't raise no fool. Too bad the lovely detective is a bit of a klepto, though."

Ian frowned again. "A 'klepto'?"

"Yeah. Mr. Irons told me she stole something of his. A silver bracelet with a red stone, I think it was." Unconsciously, Graham's hand went to his brow, which all of a sudden had begun to throb again.

"My father was mistaken," Ian said firmly. "Although Sara does indeed wear a bracelet matching that description, she is Its rightful owner."

"Yeah," Graham said slowly, "I vaguely recall seeing it on her wrist in the tunnel this morning. In fact, that's the last clear memory I have of our, uh, confrontation."

"What Ian has neglected to mention is that the bracelet in question did, in fact, belong to me at one time," Kenneth interjected coolly. "However, owing to a set of rather unfortunate circumstances, Detective Pezzini came to be in possession of it. Thus far, I have been unsuccessful in persuading her to return it to me."

"Well, possession is nine-tenths of the law, right?" Graham murmured, noticing the way father and son were staring each other down. "Besides, pardon me for saying so, but it seems like an awful lot of fuss over a tacky piece of jewelry." He flinched as the pain in his head abruptly sharpened. "Sonofabitch!" he swore, pressing his fingers to his temples.

"Are you all right, Lieutenant?" Meg MacFadden asked worriedly, noticing his discomfort.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," Graham muttered as the pain disappeared as quickly as it had reappeared. Suddenly he realized that the pain in his head had occurred when he'd begun thinking about the exact same subject as the first time it had afflicted him: Detective Sara Pezzini and their battle earlier that day. Somehow, he didn't think this was a coincidence.

"He should be told, father," Ian said quietly.

"Yes, but now is neither the time nor the place," Kenneth said. "Lieutenant Hopkins, please report to the library tomorrow morning at 0900:00 hours. There is something of import you need to know if you are to become my head of security."

Mightily intrigued, Graham nodded. "I'll be there, sir."

"Very good." Kenneth stood. "Thank you for reheating dinner for me, Mrs. MacFadden, and for dessert as well. Everything was superb, as usual."

"Thank you, and you're quite welcome, sir," Meg replied. "Good night, then."

"Good night." Kenneth paused, eyeing the two remaining bottles of Guinness Stout. "I trust you'll be retiring soon as well, gentlemen?"

"Sir, yes, sir!" Graham replied, saluting him smartly. "We'll be right behind you."

"Yes, as soon as we take care of some unfinished business," Ian smirked, carefully opening another bottle of stout. "G'night, father. See you at breakfish!"

Kenneth pursed his lips in tacit disapproval, but simply turned and left the room.

"Not smart to provoke your old man like that, Nottingham," Graham murmured, opening his own bottle.

Ian shrugged. "I am beyond caring at this point."

"Well, you're a braver man than me, that's for sure. Or maybe just a drunker one." Graham raised his glass. "To false courage!"

"Hear, hear!"

They clinked glasses and then concentrated on emptying them.

"Well, that was wunnerful, but I am done drinkin'," Ian declared a few minutes later, getting to his feet. "Thank you for th' meal and th' pie, Cookie. It was very yummy."

"You're welcome, my dear boy," Meg replied, patting his arm affectionately. "Sleep well."

"Oh, I think that's a given," Graham smiled, hopping off his barstool. "Thanks again, Ma'am."

"Any time, Lieutenant. Good night, lads."

"Good night, Mrs. M."

"G'night, Cookie. See you at breakfish."

Followed closely by Graham, Ian rather unsteadily made his way down the corridor to the main staircase, where he paused and squinted up at the suddenly daunting flight of stairs.

"You gonna be okay making it to your quarters, Nottingham?" Graham asked him

"I think so," Ian murmured. "See you tomorrow morning in the library, Lieutenant Graham."

Graham chuckled. "A fan of Forrest Gump, hunh?"

"Who?"

"You know, Forrest Gump. The movie. Lieutenant Dan." A blank, bleary-eyed stare was Graham's only response. "Never mind. Good night, Nottingham."

"G'night." Ian slowly began trudging up the stairs, leaning heavily on the banister. When he finally reached his private quarters, his bed never looked so inviting. But before he fell into it, he opened the top drawer of his dresser and took out the t-shirt he'd removed from the hamper in Sara's bathroom and then secreted on his person before leaving her apartment earlier that day. He brought the garment to his nose and inhaled deeply of her marvelous scent. Shrugging out of his robe, which he carelessly let fall to the floor, he crawled into his bed, clutching the t-shirt to his chest.

(Sara?)

(Yes, my love?) she answered instantly.

(I'm pree drunk.)

(Yeah, I kinda gathered that from our earlier conversation.)

(I'm ver sleepy, too.)

(Go ahead and sleep it off, baby. I'll speak to you when you wake up.)

(Love you, Sara.)

(I love you, too, Ian.)

(G'night.)

(Nighty night. Sweet dreams.)

(If I dream 'bout you, they will be.)

Seconds later, with a smile on his face and her comforting scent lingering in the air, Ian drifted off.

More to come. Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou for all of the plentiful and entertaining feedback I've received over the past couple of months! Unfortunately, I can't promise that the wait won't be equally long for the next installment. I can only promise that there WILL be another chapter as soon as is humanly possible. Please, keep the feedback coming! It is the highlight of my day and really does inspire me to keep soldiering on! dragongrrl

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