Father Alastair Drake decided that he was going to be miserable.

Yes.  Miserable.

It would serve them right, having to put up with his grumbling, and scowling, and pouting at everything and anything.

It would indeed.

Drake folded his arms tightly across his chest, slumped down in the seat of the train carriage, and narrowed his eyes.  He slid a glance over at his travelling companions.

They were ignoring him.

Un-bloody-believable.  How could they ignore him?  Him?  The paladin currently known to the world as Father Alastair Douglas Drake?  Him, a dog most faithful and obedient to the Church of England?  The man who had been declared, "The most annoying prat in England to ever put on a dog collar," by Reverend Lowthwaite one spring evening?

She had been a in a bit of a mood that night.  Threw a wobbly over a slight matter, one involving him and a bendy twisty straw and a blood bag.  Drake was mildly surprised at the appellation, but he was more surprised that she had called him that than at the designation itself.

He had promptly corrected her on that point.  He was the most annoying prat on the entire European continent, thank you very much, and he would kindly have you remember that fact.  The most annoying prat in all of Europe proper, he was, he was, and, soon, the world...yes, THE WORLD.

Drake had to suppress a snort of amusement.  He was only partially successful and wound up issuing a rather loud, and congested, wheeze.

They must have noticed that.  Sounded like I had an asthmatic cat stuck up me konk.

He hazarded a glance in their direction.

Reverend Lowthwaite was still reading that terrible history book and Father Northolt was sleeping.

Sleeping?  SLEEPING?  Fecking hell, man.  How was it that Northolt was forever sleeping?  If he wasn't sleeping, he was eating.  Sleeping and eating, that’s all the man did.  He didn’t act very Catholic at all.  Come to think on it, there wasn’t much Catholicy about the priest outside of the ornate vestments and the jewellery.

Drake pursed his lips together, narrowed his eyes, and thumped his back against the seat with some force.  It was enough to shift Northolt.  His elbow came off its perch on the windowsill, his chin came out of the palm of his hand, and his body dropped forward rapidly.

Northolt’s eyes snapped open and he made a noise that sounded almost like a gasp, a girlish one at that.  He blinked, adjusted his spectacles, and looked questioningly down at the boot of Reverend Lowthwaite.  Her boot just so happened to be in the middle of his chest.

“Erm…”  Northolt blinked again and made a face at Lowthwaite that would have ordinarily set Drake to sniggering.  “Macha, why is your foot on my chest?”

Somehow, her attention didn’t wander from the book she was reading, The History of Some Right Boring Shite or something like that.  “You were going to fall over.”  She withdrew her leg and returned to a normal, seated position.  Her eyes flicked upwards.  “Sorry about the muck.”  Then she returned to the book.

“Oh.”  Northolt pulled off one of his gloves and brushed away the faint traces of dirt.  “No harm done.”  He gave Lowthwaite (rather, the cover of her ruddy book) a toothy grin.  “Ta.”

She grunted in reply, though Drake recognised it was one of her better humoured grunts.

Northolt settled back into the seat and resumed his nap position, arm on sill, and chin in hand, eyeglasses on the tip of his nose.

Drake snorted as loudly and as nosily as he could, invoking the spirit of the bloody great rheumy feline trapped in his sinuses, and slid further down in the seat, stretching his long legs out before him.  He was able to rest his calves on the seats opposite him and so he did, his coattails dangling in the space between the bank heads.

He saw the reverend arch an eyebrow in his direction.  “What –” and here Lowthwaite turned the page, “–is your problem now?”

Drake pulled a face and stuck his tongue out at her, emphasising the act with a noise that sounded something like, “Neeyyuuuuhh.”

Lowthwaite stopped reading, set her book down in her lap (using her index finger as a bookmark), and gave him the most incredulous look he’d ever seen on her face.  She stared at him.  He stared back.  She blinked.  He blinked in return.  Then she sighed and opened the book.  “Sticking your tongue out with those fangs completely ruins the intended effect,” she said, her eyes directed toward the pages.

Drake frowned at her, rather put out by the comment.  “It’s not as if I could retract them, you know.”  He pouted and sniffed, “I can’t do anything about them.”

“You could keep your mouth shut,” volunteered Northolt, his eyes closed.

He never did...  Drake turned to face him, mouth agape.  Drake twisted his body too far round and wound up plopping down between the rows of seats in the small compartment, feet up and rear end smarting.

He could just see Lowthwaite smirking from behind her pages and he saw that Northolt wore a stupid little smile as well.  It was the Stupid Smile.

Dammit.  Bugger all.

Father Drake folded his arms once more and huffed from his not-so-uncomfortable but ever-so-embarrassing position on the floor.  Heavens knew he was miserable now.


†