Chapter Text
Things have gone downhill since Hamunaptra. Jonathan freely admits it. At first it was a few late nights staying in the bars where the English and Americans did their heavy drinking – a few early morning stumbles back to bed, that sort of thing. The occasional loss at cards. The odd nameless assignation in a back alleyway – rushed, but enjoyable nonetheless, if Jonathan could remember much about them the next day.
Then there were a few nights that ended under less than convivial circumstances, where Evie would clap her hand over her mouth at the sight of Jonathan’s latest black eye, or bruised cheek, or what-have-you. ‘Nonsense, old mum,’ he told her after that one, a brawl with a couple of large Germans who took offence to something Jonathan said (and maybe also to a clumsy attempt at pinching one of their wallets, but who could really say) and left him propped up in a doorway with a broken nose and an impressive number of bruised ribs. ‘Just an honest misunderstanding, not to worry.’
He knows he should stop – the bar fights aside, he’s starting to run low on funds, and the hangovers are dreadful. The trouble is, though, that it’s just so much easier. Who wouldn’t prefer the heady rush of feeling that the cards were turning in your favour, or the sensation, as a fist connected with your cheekbone, of being really, truly, alive, to sitting at home trying not to think about the horrors of the recent past. Better to drown out the sound of a man gurling through a mouthful of blood as he turns his face to look pleadingly at you with his empty eye sockets. Better to drink until you can no longer feel something burrowing its way up the inside of your arm. Yes, it’s been much easier to brush away the thoughts of being good for just this once, and instead head back to somewhere where the drinks flow freely.
The final straw is when Rick finds him mid-scuffle with a few chaps who’ve noticed him slinking back in to bar after taking a breath of fresh air in the private courtyard – apparently not as private as Jonathan thought – and have decided to take a swing at the pansy for sport. Unfortunately for them Jonathan can hold his own, and he manages to get a few good hits in – and quite a few bad ones as well, since he’s had several glasses of whiskey over the course of the evening – before he’s overwhelmed by sheer numbers. When Rick arrives Jonathan’s taken a few blows to the head already and is being held down while one of the little shits lays the boot in.
Rick wades in and sorts them out with an ease that Jonathan will later find slightly embarrassing. At this particular moment, however, he’s more concerned with how one coordinates heaving one’s guts up while also regaining the ability to breathe.
Rick carries him home over his shoulder, which is humiliating. He puts Jonathan on the spare bed, and Evie tucks him in and brings him a basin, and there are tears in her eyes, which is too awful to contemplate. He’s never made her cry before.
‘What are we going to do with you?’ she murmurs, but she looks to Rick. She’s not expecting an answer from Jonathan.
Rick has a solution though, and when Jonathan’s recovered enough to stop groaning and mumbling and start apologising, Rick tells him that they’re going on a little family trip.
‘When my head’s back in one piece,’ says Jonathan pitifully, but neither Rick nor Evie are having any of it. He’s dragged off to the washroom to have his head dunked in a bucket of cold water and then handed his toothbrush and a comb to make himself semi-presentable while Rick gets the motor ready. They drive to Jonathan’s apartment and Evie helps him to pack his trunk, wrinkling her nose at the pile of unwashed clothes in the corner. Jonathan grimaces a little too, having not realised quite how bad the place looks until now. Seeing things through the eyes of an outside observer is jarring.
It's alright for Evie though – she’s had Rick to turn to. Who has Jonathan had? A few men in a few dark corners, not exactly the sort you’d sit and talk to about it. There’s no one else left. Winston’s dead, Beni’s dead, all the other Americans are dead, even the curator is dead – and although he once swore that he’d kill Jonathan the next time he found him skulking around the museum looking for artifacts to reappropriate, at least if he was still around he would have been able to understand some of the horrors.
There’s Ardeth, of course. Dear old Ardeth Bay. Rode off into the sunset on his camel and never looked back, not once. He kissed his hand and touched his brow and he rode away looking all noble and handsome and was never heard of again. What a life – what an adventure, etcetera. Ardeth Bay deals with reanimated corpses and ancient curses on a regular basis, more than likely. Hamunaptra was probably just an ordinary outing for Ardeth Bay, nothing to give him nightmares at all. Ardeth Bay has probably never woken up screaming with terror once in his life. He probably doesn’t even think about Hamunaptra or Imhotep or Jonathan at all; probably wouldn’t even recognise Jonathan’s face if they bumped into one another in the marketplace. Not that Jonathan would care, of course. Jonathan has barely thought of Ardeth.
In fact, if anyone was to ask Jonathan how many times he’s thought about Ardeth Bay since leaving the City of the Dead he would probably say “Ardeth who? Oh, that chap! Haven’t thought about him at all, sorry to say.” Yes, that’s what he would say. What he absolutely, definitely, imperatively would not say is “I think about him all the time. I keep remembering his hand on my shoulder and the look on his face before he left. I keep daydreaming about him sweeping me on to the back of a camel and riding away into the sunset. When I’m alone at night I’ve been concocting impossible scenarios in my head that involve Ardeth Bay, and while they are frankly not any of your business, let me assure you that they are extremely pleasant to think about.”
In any case, the point is that whether or not Jonathan has spent a considerable amount of time thinking about a tall and handsome desert warrior with facial tattoos and a magnificent physique, Ardeth has probably never thought about Jonathan at all. And if Jonathan were to meet him again, and they were to talk about Hamunaptra, Ardeth would probably not have thought about that either and certainly wouldn’t be able to lend a sympathetic ear to a chap who might be having terrible trouble not seeing the living dead every time he closes his eyes.
This is the misery Jonathan wallows in as the motor jolts along the rough streets that lead away from Cairo and out towards Fort Brydon. His head is throbbing, as are his bruised knuckles.
‘Where are you taking me?’ he tries to ask, but Evie and Rick don’t seem to hear him over the noise of the engine, and his head hurts too much to try yelling. He doesn’t really need them to answer anyway, it’s clear enough where they’re headed. What he doesn’t understand is why. Perhaps O’Connell has some old military contacts at the fort who are planning to straighten Jonathan out. Christ, perhaps they’re going to try and reenlist him.
After a while he lies down across the back seat and allows sleep to take him. He’s not asleep long enough to have any dreams, which is lucky. It’s hard enough having to deal with Evie’s worry after he’s been in a scrap. Jonathan’s not sure he could cope with actually seeing her pity him, which he knows would be her inevitable response if she caught him having a nightmare.
It turns out Fort Brydon isn’t Jonathan’s destination after all. No, Evie and Rick take him to the airfield and Rick goes to speak with an RAF chap who seems to know who he is and nods enthusiastically at the envelope of money he’s provided with. Evie gives Jonathan a tearful embrace – she’s crying but also smiling hopefully, and Jonathan’s slightly bewildered but he returns the embrace anyway.
‘All right old mum,’ he says, patting her gently on the back. ‘Don’t you worry about me.’
‘I’m not,’ she says. ‘You’ll be in good hands now, Jonathan, you’ll see. They’ll take such good care of you. I’ll see you soon.’
He tries to ask – who will be taking good care of him, whose good hands, where are Rick and Evie packing him off to, exactly? But Evie’s already let go and is heading back towards the motor to retrieve Jonathan’s trunk – Rick intercepts her and although he can’t hear what’s said it’s clear that Rick is telling her off for making the attempt, which Jonathan finds highly interesting – and Jonathan is being jollied along towards a Bleriot XI two-seater by the RAF chap. The RAF chap, who hasn’t told Jonathan his name, has a charming smile and a proprietary hand on Jonathan’s shoulder. When he helps Jonathan up into the passenger seat, Jonathan looks back at him to see an appreciative gaze trained on his backside. He tries to smile at the chap. With his swollen face, it probably looks more like a horrifying grimace. In any case, it sets his head throbbing to try. Maybe when he comes back, after he gets to wherever he’s going.
They’ve been flying for what seems like an age when Jonathan spots it. In amongst the scrubby looking bits of desert down below, he can see an encampment with tents, and people, and livestock all milling about. There are children running around, and as the ‘plane circles closer, the children stop and watch, some of them pointing and waving.
That’s their destination, a desert camp in the middle of nowhere. The plane lands and the RAF chap (Jonathan never does catch his name, in the end) goes off to talk to someone who looks fairly important, waving a letter around. There’s a tug on his sleeve and Jonathan looks around to find that an elderly woman is trying to get his attention. She beckons, indicating an open space in the middle of the tents, where a few people are sitting around on stools, chatting and working at various tasks. There’s a moment, where she catches sight of his face, that she looks very slightly horrified, but her expression settles after a moment into something more neutral and she waves her hand towards an empty stool. Jonathan takes a seat and she wanders away, leaving him to massage his bruised hand and wait for whatever comes next.
As it turns out, whatever comes next is none other than Ardeth Bay. The Ardeth Bay. That fellow. Subject of many imaginings and desires which Jonathan desperately tries not to think about. He appears around the side of one of the tents, tucking a letter into his robes and looking less surprised than Jonathan might have thought to see an Englishman sitting in the middle of his camp. Jonathan wonders for a moment if his more pessimistic imaginings were correct and Ardeth has no recollection of him at all, but he’s proven wrong almost immediately.
‘Jonathan Carnahan,’ Ardeth says, smiling and moving forward with his arm out as if to embrace Jonathan. Once he gets slightly nearer, and Jonathan stands up from the stool and turns towards him properly, Ardeth’s smile drops. His eyes narrow and he looks grim as he takes in the sight of Jonathan’s face.
‘Who did this to you?’ he says, and Jonathan tries for a disarming smile that probably looks dreadful combined with the bruising and the swelling.
‘Just a bit of confusion with a few chaps – thought I was looking at them funny, that sort of thing,’ he attempts to explain, but Ardeth has already turned away and is talking in a low voice to one of the other Medjai. The other man nods and wanders off in the direction of one of the farther tents as Ardeth turns back to Jonathan. He reaches out a hand and gently grasps Jonathan’s jaw, turning his head this way and that and studying his face with an intensity that sets Jonathan’s cheeks flaming. Jonathan can barely meet his eyes and dear lord, he’s so close that Jonathan can smell the scent of him, all cardamom and sandalwood and something else undefinable and intoxicating, and if Jonathan could drown himself in that scent he would. He swallows, and wonders if Ardeth can hear his heart beating, because it’s certainly loud enough in his own ears to drown out anything else.
Ardeth stares straight into his eyes for a long moment.
‘Your sister was right to send you to me – to us,’ he says, breaking the spell. He drops his hand and Jonathan can still feel the press of Ardeth’s fingers on his skin, can still feel the warmth of them.
‘I – Everything’s fine,’ says Jonathan, less coherently than he’d like.
‘Come with me,’ says Ardeth abruptly, turning on his heel and stalking away. His robes are streaming behind him with an unnecessary theatricality that Jonathan nevertheless appreciates.
He follows Ardeth into a tent, where a wave of a hand indicates he ought to sit down on one of the large cushions and make himself comfortable. Jonathan does this, although without the sense of elegance or composure he was hoping to command in front of Ardeth – actually, mostly what he does is fall into the cushion and then flail around for a bit as he struggles to right himself. He thinks he catches the ghost of a smirk flitting across Ardeth’s face, but it’s gone too quickly for him to be sure it was ever there to begin with.
There’s a small set of shelves towards the rear of the tent, and Ardeth heads over there to retrieve a small pot of something that he brings back to Jonathan, who’s had time to organise his limbs and sit upright. He feels stiff and awkward, which is nonsense, because he’s an absolute master at lounging about – ask his sister, she’d be the first to agree. O’Connell would be the second.
But there’s something about being here in this tent with Ardeth that’s got him on the wrong foot. His cheeks are still flaming, and he can’t get out of his head the look that Ardeth gave him while he held Jonathan’s chin and their eyes met. It must be all a product of too much time thinking about the man, too many nights with his hand wrapped around his prick imagining Ardeth sprawled out in front of him – oh fuck, he needs to stop letting his mind wander, needs to get himself under control.
A moment later, it all becomes much worse. Ardeth kneels down in front of Jonathan and takes the lid off the little pot he’s holding. Inside is some kind of pale greenish paste that smells awful. Ardeth uses two fingers to swipe out a decent-sized blob of whatever it is, places the pot on the floor and then leans towards Jonathan, shuffling himself forward as he does so in a way that means Jonathan has to move his knees apart to make space. And then, oh god, Ardeth Bay is kneeling between Jonthan Carnahan’s legs. Oh god.
His left hand comes up to cup Jonathan’s chin and Jonathan completely forgets how to breathe for a few moments. Ardeth is close – so close – that Jonathan can feel his breath against his cheek, and see every detail of his face – those deep brown eyes, framed by stupidly thick eyelashes, the dull blue of the tattoos across his cheeks, that mouth. Oh, god, that mouth. Those lips.
He’s been staring at Ardeth’s mouth for too long, and his eyes flick upwards in a panic. He meets Ardeth’s very steady, even gaze and he knows for certain that there is no way his face will ever return to a normal colour again.
‘Hold still,’ murmurs Ardeth, after a very long moment, and brings his other hand up to stroke his fingers along Jonathan’s cheekbone, spreading the foul-smelling paste across the worst of the bruising.
‘I say,’ Jonathan begins indignantly. ‘That stings.’
‘Hush,’ Ardeth says, one corner of his mouth turning up in an indulgent smile. ‘It will pass in a moment.’ He continues to spread the paste over Jonathan’s face with gentle strokes, a furrow of concentration between his brows. His gaze is intense enough that it makes Jonathan shiver, which earns him a tightening of Ardeth’s grasp on his chin and a rush of blood to his groin.
Fuck.
There’s no way Ardeth won’t have noticed the shiver and the hitch in Jonathan’s breathing, there’s no way he won’t have noticed the blushing and the way Jonathan is leaning in to his touch. But maybe, maybe he won’t notice that Jonathan’s hard, cock straining against his trouser front. And maybe he doesn’t, because all he does is calmly finish applying the paste to Jonathan’s bruises and then settle back on his heels as he replaces the lid on the jar.
‘The salve smells dreadful, but it will help,’ he says.
‘Thank you,’ says Jonathan awkwardly, trying to pretend everything is normal and fine, that his face isn’t beet-red and he’s not fighting against a significant amount of inner turmoil. ‘There’s no need to fuss over me, you know.’
There’s a pause. ‘I think there is,’ says Ardeth. ‘You are troubled, Jonathan Carnahan. Your sister worries for you, ever since leaving the City of the Dead. She says you are too stubborn to ask for help.’ He pats his chest and Jonathan can hear the rustle of paper from the letter tucked in there.
Jonathan waves a hand dismissively. ‘She doesn’t know what she’s talking about- too tied up with her American to pay much attention to me. I’m doing quite well, actually.’
‘No,’ says Ardeth. ‘You are not.’ He places a hand on Jonathan’s arm and Jonathan knows an urge to place his own hand on top of it, or perhaps to rub his face against it. He does neither of those things, though, just sits there gawping like a landed fish and stinking of salve and probably looking bally unattractive, the last thing he wants to look in front of Ardeth Bay.
Then Ardeth smiles, a wide, lovely, genuine smile, and Jonathan forgets about himself in the blinding light of that smile – probably one of the most beautiful things he’s seen, and all the more so because it’s directed at Jonathan and no-one else. ‘But, my friend,’ continues Ardeth, and he squeezes Jonathan’s arm lightly, as if this is all just very casual, as if Jonathan isn’t completely poleaxed, as if Ardeth hasn’t realised that Jonathan is desperately trying not to lust after him, ‘you will be.’
He’s left to settle in and unpack his things, although mostly what he does is sit there and give himself a stern talking to while his heartrate settles down and his colour returns to some approximation of normal. There’s a low bed at the back of the tent and, after a while, when no-one’s come to check on him, he decides to have settle his nerves by having a short lie-down that turns into a lengthy nap. When he wakes, his head is still aching but perhaps a little less than before. Someone has covered him with a blanket. The main thing he’s aware of, though, is that for the first time in a long time, he feels well rested. He hasn’t had a single nightmare.