Disclaimer: Fireworks Entertainment owns Queen of Swords,
even though it's been canceled. Some of Dr. Helm's
complaints about Santa Helena derive from comments about
QoS made by Peter Wingfield on PWFC. They're not my
characters. It's not my universe, and I'm definitely not
making any money off of this. On with the show.
Summary: Dr. Helm discovers that drowning your troubles
can be more difficult some days than others.
Rating: PG
Characters: Dr. Helm, Tessa, Montoya, Grisham, Vera,
Chico, Montoya's horse, various guards.
Spoilers: A small one for 'Betrayed'.
Comments: This is very silly. No, really. It is. It's
also my first QoS fanfic, so please be kind. I'm
harmless.
Shameless plug: This story, and my other stuff
(Highlander and Star Trek) can be found at:
http://www.geocities.com/RainForest/Andes/3071/arch.html
Archive: Sure. Just ask first.
WATCHING THE WORLD GO BY
by Paula Stiles
Dr. Helm saw the whole thing. What it was, exactly,
he couldn't quite make out, having drunk far more wine
than one should before noon. Still, he had seen it all.
Ohh, yes.
He was sitting on the veranda of Santa Helena's one
tavern, on the edge of the town square, watching the
world go by and getting drunk, when it all began. It had
been a bad week for town doctoring in early 19th century
southern California, and he just didn't feel like
soldiering on today, for some reason. So, he'd closed up
shop and trudged over to the tavern. His usual seat was
free, as the other drunks preferred to indulge indoors
away from judgmental eyes and the larcenous attentions of
the settlement's military governor, Colonel Montoya.
Helm, for his part, preferred to make his drunken scenes
as public as possible. Why not? He seemed to spend enough
time in the town jail sober. Doing it drunk would be a
novelty.
He sat down at his table. There were stains upon
stains on the wood--wine, and other liquids that he
didn't care to consider. Not that pubs were any cleaner
in his native Wales--just colder. It concerned him a
little when Jorge the owner came out, unprompted, with a
bottle of red wine and a glass. Perhaps he was coming
here a bit too often. When Jorge plonked the bottle and
glass onto the table, Helm dumped a dead fly out of the
cloudy glass and peered dubiously into the vessel.
"This glass is filthy, Jorge," he said.
"Ah. My apologies, Se–or Helm," Jorge replied. He
helpfully picked up the glass, pulled his old, stained
shirt out of his trousers, and briskly wiped out the
inside of the glass with it. Then, he banged the glass
back down on the table.
"Oh. Why, thank you, Jorge," Helm lied. "That was
very...thoughtful." *A note for the future, Robert," he
told himself. *Never bring up the subject of bar
cleanliness with Jorge.* Not that it mattered. Hopefully,
Helm would soon be too drunk to care.
He was on his third--no, fourth--glass of wine when
Chico, the Queen of Swords' horse, galloped through the
square riderless. Helm stared after him, alarmed. Where
was the rider? Had she fallen, been captured? He was just
getting up to go find out when the Queen of Swords, Santa
Helena's very own masked vigilante (and object of Helm's
unrequited lust), ran by, heading in the direction of
Chico and leading Colonel Montoya's brand new stallion,
saddled and bridled, by the reins. Helm's jaw dropped
open. As soon as Queen and horse disappeared from sight,
Colonel Montoya and his sleazy Captain of the Guards,
Grisham--both in full parade uniform--appeared on foot in
hot pursuit with several guards. Helm sat down. He downed
his drink and poured another, fearing that he would soon
need it.
Spotting Helm sitting at the tavern, Montoya started
towards him. "Keep after them!" he shouted to the already
panting, sweat-drenched Grisham, and waved in the general
direction of the Queen's escape route. As Grisham
stumbled off after the Queen, Montoya staggered up to the
railing in front of Helm's table. Damn. So much for a
quiet, morning drunk.
"Did you see where she took him?" Montoya demanded,
as he leaned, panting, against the railing.
Helm paused with a fifth glass of wine halfway to
his lips. "Who?"
"The Queen of Swords! Where did she take him?" Beads
of sweat were forming at Montoya's hairline and running
down his face. Helm briefly considered offering him some
wine, then decided that he wasn't feeling all that
charitable today. He knocked back half of his glass and
swilled the sour liquid around in his mouth before
swallowing it. It really wasn't that bad once you'd had a
few glasses.
"The Queen of Swords is a man?" he asked finally.
"What?" Montoya gaped at him. "What are you talking
about?" His ponytail, Helm noticed, had come askew. He
was looking rather less elegant than usual. Really, he
looked as though he could do with a glass of wine--and
Helm was even less inclined to give him one than before.
"You said, 'him'," Helm explained in a neutral tone.
"What?! My horse, you idiot!" Montoya exclaimed.
"The Queen has stolen my new stallion!"
"I see." Helm drank down the rest of the glass. He
took his time refilling it.
Having caught his breath, Montoya appeared to have
now lost his patience. He sprang up the steps and slammed
his hands down on Helm's table, leaning over Doctor
menacingly. "Where did she go with him, Doctor? You were
sitting right here. Surely you saw her?" Instead of
answering, Helm stared into the contents of his glass. No
more fly legs. A very good sign.
"Well?" Montoya demanded.
"I'm thinking," Helm replied. He drank down a large
swallow of wine.
"I am waiting for your answer," Montoya growled.
"Hmm." He'd probably given her a good enough head
start, by now. "Yes. As a matter of fact, I *did* see the
entire thing." He gestured in the direction of Grisham's
departure. "Grisham had it about right, I think."
One side of Montoya's mouth twitched, but other than
that, he looked perfectly calm. "Thank you, Doctor. Now,
that was not so hard, was it?"
"Not as hard as finding your horse will be, I
suspect," Helm replied, tracing an old wine stain on the
table with one finger.
Montoya might have said more, but he was interrupted
by a soldier running up with one of the general cavalry
horses, saddled and bridled. Montoya backed away from the
table and down the steps. "We shall finish this
conversation later, Doctor," he promised as he mounted
his horse.
"Whatever for?" Helm said to Montoya's retreating
back as he rode off after Grisham, but doubted that
Montoya heard him.
A few moments later, Helm heard a woman screaming in
the distance. The screaming came rapidly closer.
Suddenly, Montoya's stallion appeared from the direction
in which he had disappeared. On his back rode Vera
Hidalgo, Don Hidalgo's wife, clinging desperately to the
saddle. Her terrified cries seemed only to spur the horse
on. Only a length or two behind her galloped Chico with
the Queen on his back. She seemed intent on stopping the
horse and saving Vera. They disappeared from whence
Chico, the Queen, and Montoya's stallion had originally
appeared.
Helm decided it was high time he dispensed with the
glass, and started drinking straight from the bottle.
A few moments later, Montoya, Grisham, and several
guards, all on horseback, thundered by from the direction
to which they had just left, disappearing after Vera,
Montoya's stallion, Chico, and the Queen. They soon
returned, milling about the middle of the square in
obvious frustration. Montoya steered his commandeered
cavalry gelding toward the tavern, this time with Grisham
in tow.
"Colonel, what the bloody Hell is Vera Hidalgo doing
riding your horse?" Helm said, before Montoya could
speak.
"Vera?" Grisham yelped, scaring his horse. "That
demon beast ran away with Vera?!" Oh, ho. What was this,
concern for the buxom, blonde Vera from a womanising
snake like Grisham? So, the rumours about Se–ora Hidalgo
sharing Captain Grisham's bed were true after all. My,
my.
"My dear doctor," Montoya said through his teeth.
"You appear to be quickly losing ground with that bottle.
Why don't you tell us where she went while you are still
coherent?"
Helm took a swig from the bottle and wiped his
mouth. "What for?" he said.
There was a pause, as Montoya digested this. "I beg
your pardon?" he said at last, in a deceptively courteous
tone.
Helm slouched down in his chair, which wasn't
difficult, and stretched out his long legs under the
table. "Now, Colonel," he chided Montoya. "You're always
accusing me of being in league with the Queen of Swords.
What reason will you have for throwing me in jail
tomorrow if I cooperate with you today?"
"Why, you heartless, English bas--" Grisham began.
Montoya cut him off with a wave of his hand. Montoya knew
perfectly well that Helm harboured no love for either of
them--let alone for Montoya's horse. After all, they had
both tried to kill him and dump his body in the desert
just a few weeks before. He did feel a little pity for
Vera, though, who had clearly got into water well over
her depth.
"Doctor," Montoya said in a strained voice. "Please
tell us where they have gone so that we can rescue Se–ora
Hidalgo."
"Actually, it looked as though the Queen had that
situation almost under control," Helm said. "But if you
insist...." He pointed in the direction of the Queen's
and Vera's departure. "They went that way."
"Thank you, Doctor," Montoya gritted out, and led
the cavalry after the fugitives. Grisham cast a glare
over his shoulder at Helm as he rode off. Helm,
unimpressed, drank down the rest of his bottle.
A few moments later, the Queen rode by on Montoya's
stallion, with Vera, on Chico, in hot pursuit. Vera was
shouting at the Queen in *very* unladylike Spanish. Helm
didn't catch all of what she said, but what he did
understand seemed to imply that the Queen shared
parentage with Colonel Montoya's stallion. After they
passed by, Helm called Jorge back out to his table.
"Jorge," he declared. "I think the day calls for
something stronger than wine at this point." Jorge just
nodded and vanished into the tavern. He came back out
with a labeless bottle of gin. He dispensed with the
glass, since Helm obviously wasn't going to use it. Helm
uncorked the bottle, took a large swig of gin, and
choked. The stuff was vile.
"Yes," he said approvingly. "That'll do." Jorge
nodded and left. Now, the question was--the table or the
floor? Helm decided to go with the table; it had a better
vantage point. This was important, as soon somebody would
surely be asking him what he'd seen. Standing on the
chair, he stepped up onto the table and lay down on it,
arms outstretched. The ceiling of the verandah was thick
with old cobwebs, he noticed. Some of them had got into
his hair, turning it more grey than usual.
After a few moments, the Queen rode up, on Chico,
alone. Helm turned his head to squint at her. "Oh. It's
you," he said. "Colonel Montoya is looking for you."
She shrugged. "I know." She spotted his half empty
bottle. "Is that wine?" she asked.
"No."
"Good." She reached out across the railing, plucked
the bottle from the crook of Helm's arm, and knocked back
a healthy swig. When she'd stopped choking, she gave him
the bottle back and said, "Dios, I needed that. Thank
you, Doctor. It's been a long day already."
"Tell me about it." He watched her ride off. As soon
as she'd left, he heard the thunder of hooves. Montoya,
Grisham, and the Guard galloped into view. Montoya seemed
to take in Helm's condition immediately, not that this
was difficult, considering Helm's supine position on the
table.
"Doctor, I have a few questions for you," Montoya
said as he rode up to the tavern's railing, Grisham right
behind him.
"Well, hurry up before I pass out," Helm retorted as
he considered the tavern's rafters.
"I know that you saw the Queen ride through here,
Doctor. I would like you to tell me where she went."
"*I'd* like a lot of things, too," Helm replied
cheerfully, balancing his gin bottle on his chest. "I'd
like some shirts whose sleeves I don't have to roll up
because the cuffs don't reach my wrists. I'd like to find
a bed in this godforsaken town where my feet don't hang
off the end. I'd like a horse that actually pays
attention to me whenever I tell it to do something. I'd
like to speak English with somebody who doesn't butcher
my native tongue. I'd like to get lucky--preferably with
a certain masked vigilante. And I certainly wouldn't mind
if you and Captain Grisham took a long dip in the deep
end of the ocean."
"Will you just shut up and tell us where she went?"
Grisham burst out in exasperation. Montoya looked
heavenward imploringly and Grisham stammered, "I
mean...oh, come on, you must have seen something!"
Helm rolled onto one elbow, hugging his bottle to
his chest, and looked them both over. "Yes," he admitted.
"Yes, I did. I saw the entire thing--from start to
finish."
"So, what happened?" Grisham demanded.
Helm thought about that for awhile. He knocked back
a slug of gin, grimaced, thought a little more.
"*Well*?" Montoya finally snapped.
Helm shook his head. "Haven't a clue," he replied,
with absolute honesty. Then, he flopped back down on the
table, closed his eyes, and fell asleep.
END
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