Pairing: Phileas/Jules
Rating: PG
Category: Angst, POV, Slash
Summary: Phileas can't make up his mind, but his mind has ideas of its own.
Disclaimer: I don't own anyone, much less these fine characters (if you know where I could buy them, please let me know *g*). I refuse to make any money off them in any event, so please don't sue me.
Notes: This goes along with "Difficult Paths", "Should I Stay or Should I Go?" and "Waking up to Reality." I think any of them can be read alone and still make sense, but it's turning into more and more of a series. Many thanks to the very wonderful beta readers who shall remain nameless, lest they be blamed. *g*
Spoilers: For the past stories in the fic series, as well as huge spoilers for "The Golem."


~~~~~

Indecision
by Nicole D'Annais
Copyright 2001



I am not in love with Jules Verne.

I do not know what on earth possessed me that night. Anger, frustration, sheer lust perhaps, but not love.

Not that I don't care about him, of course. I feel responsible for him. I want him to be well and safe and happy. I want him to be here.

I want him.

Perhaps I do have a few unresolved feelings for him. I was so certain that night that what I felt was unavoidable. Yet I was just as certain the next morning that I was wrong, that it was wrong to put either of us in the kind of situation that invariably rises from such a relationship.

I was so sure letting him go was the best thing to do, though I'm still not clear if I let him go or sent him away. Either way, the two of us in different countries seemed the safest solution. But the memories of that one night refuse to disappear. They've taken to haunting me anytime they please, day or night. One more dream of soft, moonlit skin, hard muscle and almost unbearable heat, and I shall have to join an insomniacs' club.

Three weeks. Twenty days, twenty-three hours and sixteen minutes, to be exact, since he pulled off in the carriage. And not a word since. He could be hurt, he could be in danger, he could be in the clutches of the League of Darkness.

He could be with someone else.

I am not sure which of those scenarios bothers me most. How easy it would be to go to Paris and find out the truth. All it would take is a short trip in the Aurora.

It would also require me to figure out what it is, exactly, that I want.

"Phileas, for Heaven's sake, have you heard a word I've said?"

With an effort, I focus on Rebecca. "Sorry. What did you say?"

"What had you so distracted...again?"

"Nothing."

"Indeed."

I don't care for the smirk on her face; it's as if she knows more than she's admitting. She couldn't possibly. I haven't said a thing, and I know Verne wouldn't have. She's trying to trick me into giving something away. It won't work. We've played that game too often. "You were saying?" I prompt at last.

"Passepartout and I were discussing a trip."

"Oh? Where are you going?"

"Not me. Us. All of us. We've decided we need to go to Paris."

If the pause in her explanation is to gauge my reaction, I intend to see that she be fully disappointed. "Oh? You've heard from Verne?"

"No, and I must say I still find that odd. However, his birthday is coming up, and I have it on good authority that he's having a party. I think that's the perfect time to go visit, don't you?"

I'm trapped. If I say no, she will know something is wrong. I have no choice but to agree and keep silent while she and Passepartout happily plan out our trip. Once again, I resign myself to the inevitable, which leaves only one thing left to ponder.

Just how much *is* inevitable?

~~~

Soft. So incredibly soft, I couldn't possibly compare it to anything else. The finest silks from the East would make a poor showing when compared to Jules Verne's skin. The memory of how it felt as my hands glided over inches of that skin, areas I knew had never been touched by sunlight, that were pale and so incredibly soft, is enough to drive the sanest, most practical man completely out of his mind.

Perhaps that's the problem. Could it be that the constant nights of torturous memories and no sleep have finally driven me mad?

If there is one thing I've learned, it's that anything is possible.

The sky begins to lighten, pale rays of light chasing away the shadows that pervade the room, herding them into the corners like bad dreams locked away until another night. Once again, sleep has, for the most part, eluded me, so I rise and dress before I make my way up to the main cabin of the Aurora.

An hour later, I can hear the rhythmic thump that can only be Rebecca attempting the stairs on her crutches. I wait until she sits down across from me at the table before I say anything. "You know the doctor said--"

"If you try to tell me the doctors said anything before I've had coffee I shall shove this crutch straight down your throat."

"--that you should be using the wheelchair." I manage to keep myself from smiling at her reaction. "And I'm quite certain the crutch would not fit down my throat."

"Well I could damn well give it a good try."

I pour coffee and push it towards her without another word. Discretion is, after all, the better part of valour. We sit in silence for some time before Rebecca clears her throat. "So, is Sir Hugo your gift to Jules?"

"What?"

"You know Jules will be thrilled to meet him. Was that why you brought him along?"

Really, if I didn't know better, I'd come right out and ask her what she thinks she knows. "The man was at my club. I mentioned we were headed to Paris and he asked if he could join us. He's greatly interested in the design of my dirigible."

"I'm sure he is." I pick up a book and pretend I don't notice her staring at me while I pretend to read. "So," she says finally, "where were you before we left?"

"At home." Perhaps if I turn the pages loudly, she'll leave me alone.

"No, just before we departed. You disappeared."

I close the book, as it is obvious I couldn't read it now even if I were trying. "My dear cousin, I don't often ask you where you have been; I should think you would have learned to accord me the same amount of privacy."

"You were shopping, weren't you?"

"Why on earth would I be shopping?"

"Don't tell me you didn't get Jules a birthday present. That would be terribly rude, Phileas, even for you."

She knows nothing. But now I'm fairly certain she suspects. "Rebecca, if you're fishing for something, ask. Otherwise, you'd better go and get dressed before Hugo sees you in your dressing gown and has a heart attack. I'm sure he's used to *well-bred* ladies."

I'm not sure if it's the demand for a direct question, or the reminder of her current state of undress, but she gives me a distinctly displeased look and hobbles off, leaving me alone again with my thoughts. Thoughts which quickly turn--if they ever really left--to Jules Verne. I finger the lines etched on the heavy metal in my pocket and wonder at the impulse that led to the gift.

And if I'll have the will to give it to him.

~~~

Hugo departs immediately once we land in Paris, promising to meet us at Verne's later. Normally, I would be impatient as I wait for Rebecca, who, with Passepartout's assistance, is gathering a number of items she seems to think she can carry while walking on crutches, but today I am content to wait.

My lack of impatience could, I suppose, have something to do with a reluctance to face Verne again. I did virtually kick him out of England, though that wasn't my intention. I simply thought it was best for him to go. There is a fine distinction between the two.

"No, not that one, the other one." Rebecca sighs at Passepartout before turning to me. "There's no need for you to wait, Phileas. Go on ahead; we'll catch up--eventually," she adds with a glare at Passepartout. Considering the man is loaded down like a pack mule in his efforts to assist her, Rebecca's irritation seems a bit misplaced, but I know better than to point that out.

"I'll wait."

"Don't be ridiculous. Go on; I'm sure Jules will be glad to know we're in town."

Her certainty is far greater than mine on that count. "I don't mind waiting."

"I have no qualms about using this crutch against you, Phileas."

Damned if I do, damned if I don't. "Fine, I'll go. You'll catch up soon?"

"We'll be right behind you."

I've already turned toward the door before I mutter, "Not too far behind, I hope," but she hears it anyway. As I leave, I hear her mumbling, and catch one word distinctly--"chicken."

We've parked the Aurora only a short walk from Verne's room, and I find myself at the bottom of his steps far too quickly. I could stop at the tavern across the street and have a drink first, but Rebecca's parting words about my courage, or lack thereof, spur me onward up the stairs. Verne is staring out the window, a look of longing on his face. One thing about Verne--you rarely have to guess what he's thinking. He has yet to learn how to hide his feelings well; it's a talent he doesn't seem to need. I envy him that luxury.

I can see nothing of note on the street outside his window, so I can only assume it is the absence of something causing his expression. However, I refuse to make any assumptions about what he's missing.

As I step into his room, I deliberately make noise, alerting him to my presence. "You shouldn't have done that," he says, shaking his head, still staring out the window. "She'll think I'm a dullard."

"Well, I'm not sure what I've done, but I doubt anyone could think that about you for long."

The speed with which he spins around to face me would be comical if not for the sudden rise in tension in the room. "Fogg! I-I thought you were Felix." He blinks, as if suddenly registering that I am, in fact, standing in his room. "What are you doing here?"

"It seems Rebecca heard you were having a birthday party, and wanted to come scold you personally for not inviting her. She's quite put out with you, you know."

His eyes dart to the door over my shoulder before returning to me. "She's here?"

"She'll be along soon. She's on crutches, and insisted that I not wait for her. Passepartout is helping her, so apparently my presence was not required."

"A fact I'm sure she mentioned to you with the greatest tact and diplomacy," he comments with a bit of a smile.

"Oh, absolutely."

When raised in society, one learns early on how to fill an uncomfortable silence, but I confess I have no idea how to break into this one. Thankfully, Verne realises I'm still standing in the doorway and invites me into the room. As I move, the weight of his gift in my pocket bumps my leg, a reminder that I have a decision to make.

Or a hint as to what the decision should be. It's only a watch--and one he'd worn before. It's not as if it's a declaration. Not really.

I pull the watch out of my pocket. "I've brought you a gift."

"A gift?"

"I believe it is customary on one's birthday to receive gifts, is it not?"

"Oh, yes, of course."

I lay the watch in his open palm, my eyes remaining there as his fingers curl around it. "Your watch?"

"You left it behind when you...it was still in your room."

"Ah, Passepartout found it when he was cleaning and couldn't help pointing out I wouldn't know what time it was?" he said with a grin.

"Something to that effect." No need to tell him that I was the one who found it. Or that I couldn't stop myself from visiting that empty room on occasion. "I thought perhaps you might like to keep it."

He meets my eyes for only a second, long enough for me to register his confusion before he looks back down at the watch. "Thank you," he replies softly as he attaches the chain to his vest and pockets the watch. I should tell him to look at it more closely, that he missed the new engraving on the back, but the words freeze in my chest. Perhaps it would be better if he discovered it later.

Much, much later.

"Jules!" Another voice from the stairway captures our attention. A moment later, Felix Nadar steps into the room. Not that I'm supposed to recognise him, of course, but I did do my research into Jules Verne and his life thoroughly before we first met. Verne introduces us as another of his friends arrive, followed by Rebecca and Passepartout. I pointedly ignore Rebecca's careful observation of me, and turn my attention instead to the various females in the room, wondering just which one Verne is worried about thinking him a dullard.

And not caring to wonder why it bothers me.

~~~

"Well, you certainly know how to throw a party, Verne."

"Thank you, Fogg. If I'd known you were coming, I'd have tried to make it at least a double murder. I know you find those much more challenging."

Rebecca's crutch slams on the floor. "Will you two *please* stop! You're giving me a headache."

"The headache is probably from the percussion, Miss Rebecca," Passepartout supplies helpfully.

"Concussion, my dear boy." The doctor is frowning down at Rebecca as he delivers more bad news. "I'm afraid the break is now a compound fracture. We'll have to immobilise the leg."

"Did you hear that, Rebecca? Immobilise," I reiterate. "As in keep still."

Rebecca, however, cares more about whatever she thinks she saw before she fell than about her leg. But the doctor is adamant about her remaining in Verne's room until her leg heals, a fact that quickly distracts her from her phantom monster. "There must be somewhere more comfortable that I can recuperate--not that your room is not charming, Jules."

The doctor, however, is relentless. "You do want to walk again?"

When faced with that kind of choice, Rebecca yields.

"Now look, I'll lend you Passepartout. Verne and I will fend for ourselves on the Aurora--God help us." God help us indeed. We shall need it.

~~~

"I think I have everything Miss Rebecca ask for. I'll be going now, Master, but be seeing you in the morning."

Verne and I both say our goodnights to Passepartout, and then we are left alone. Together. Standing in the middle of the main cabin in complete silence

I am in hell.

Verne clears his throat. "So...how have things been in England?"

"Cold and wet."

"So, nothing's changed there. And you, Passepartout, and Rebecca have all been fine? Other than Rebecca's leg, of course."

I need a drink. Possibly several drinks. There's a nearly empty decanter on the table; after offering silently to Verne, who refuses, I pour the contents into a glass and drink it in one shot. "We're all perfectly fine," I say, staring at the empty glass as I place it carefully on the table. "Really. You'd know that if you'd bothered to write."

"Under the circumstances, I thought it best to keep to myself for a while."

To yourself--or to the woman you were afraid would think ill of you? "You could have sent us word that you were at least still among the living, you know."

Verne closes his eyes for a brief moment before fixing me with an angry stare. "What do you want from me? You *told* me to go."

"Yes, and you left!" The last word echoes in the silence that follows as we stare each other down like opponents on a battlefield. I want to grab him and shake him until he understands my convoluted mind. More than that, I want to grab him and take him right here on the floor.

Oh, God.

Before I can fully process that thought, he manages to tear his eyes away from mine and dodge past me toward the stairs. I let him go--again--and head for the Aurora's small, but thankfully well-stocked, bar.

~~~

It is not the sunlight filtering in through my window that wakes me or refuses to allow me to sleep again only an hour after I finally managed to fall asleep. No, it is the sounds from the main cabin, sounds of clinking glass and male voices. Upon closer scrutiny, I realise the voices belong to Passepartout and Verne. I'm not exactly anxious to face Verne after last night, but on the other hand I can just make out the faint smell of something cooking, and breakfast is a welcome proposition. Especially if there is a great deal of coffee.

It's not until I've put on my shirt that I realise my trousers are lying untidily on the rack, instead of in their usual neat, precise manner. A closer look, and I can see faint wrinkles in the fabric. Clearly Passepartout came back--he couldn't be bothered to iron my trousers?

I find the two of them hovering over a great many beakers and vials and fires. The only thing cooking appears to be glass containers of some kind of reddish liquid that doesn't appear to be drinkable. It certainly doesn't appear to be coffee, at any rate. They seem to be very excited about what they've discovered; so excited in fact, that they aren't listening to a word I'm saying.

Damn, I hate being ignored.

On the other hand, at least Verne is so distracted by this iron they've found in the clay that he isn't the least bit awkward about the conversation we had last night. After telling me that Sir Hugo has invited us to lunch, he turns all of his attention to more tests on the clay, leaving me to go back downstairs and dress in wrinkled trousers, without coffee.

This promises to be a very long day.

~~~

Lunch with Sir Hugo goes rather more smoothly than I'd thought it would, at least at first. The man is suitably impressed with Verne's ideas, which seems to please Verne, who is quite taken with Sir Hugo's ideas as well. I have to confess my doubts about their Utopian view of the future.

"Phileas thinks the slum I live in has character. Of course, he's never had to chip the ice off his own shaving water."

I laugh automatically, my mind registering on some level that it was an amusing comment. Most of my higher cognitive functions, however, seem to be taken up with one thought. I've never heard him say my name before. It's always been 'Fogg.'

With a strong effort, I pull my attention back to Sir Hugo, who is waiting for his servant to taste his food. How odd. I glance over at Verne, who seems amusedly bewildered about the whole deal. A bit eccentric, but then when one has money, one can be as eccentric as that money will allow. Owning a flying ship for pleasure is, I'm told, quite the eccentric quality.

Perhaps I should have Passepartout test my food in public.

The two of them are discussing their view of future Paris, agreeing heartily, until Verne asks where the ordinary people of Paris will live.

"Oh, forget them. Most of them prefer to live in squalor anyway."

"I disagree."

Those two words, along with the sudden change in Verne's body language, should be enough for anyone to realise they've made an error if they're trying to court his favour. Or even avoid a loud disagreement. "Well," I interject quickly, having been witness to Verne's outraged indignation before and not anxious to see it in public again, "perhaps we could change the subject."

Sir Hugo, for all his intelligence, is a singularly unastute man. "Despite your lamentable lack of direction," he says to Verne, apparently oblivious to the storm clouds gathering in the young man's eyes, "I am very taken with your work. I'd like to see more of your designs."

Nowhere in his file at British Secret Service did it say that Sir Hugo Basil was completely insane.

"I don't think so."

He's already rising from his seat, his book in hand, as I try to stop him. "Verne..."

"If ordinary people live in squalor," he tells Sir Hugo, "it's because people like you give them no alternative. You insult me. You insult the people of Paris." With that, he walks out without another word.

Well, at least this time it wasn't a *loud* scene.

~~~

It is much later than I had originally intended by the time I climb the stairs to Verne's room. I had planned to check in on Rebecca earlier, but my side trip with Sir Hugo lasted much longer than I would have liked. The fact that it also yielded far less information on exactly what he's plotting for this "city of the future," than I'd hoped for has left me rather put out.

Rebecca wheels angrily over to me as I enter the room. "Phileas, where have you been?"

Not exactly the reception I was expecting. "With Sir Hugo. He insisted on taking me around Paris like a bloody tourist, showing me all the things he could improve, without bothering to go into just how he would manage it. I daresay he was hoping I could persuade Verne--"

"Never mind! Jules is in prison. You have to do something about it."

My first thought is that I couldn't possibly have heard her correctly. "Prison? But why on earth would he be in prison?"

"They think he killed Claude Duval."

"Rubbish! Verne would never kill anyone. He hasn't the heart for it."

She fixes me with what I have dubbed her 'you simple man' look. "I know that--it was the golem. But Jules was standing over the body with clay on his hands, and the two of them had been fighting in the street just minutes before the murder. The police are already sizing his neck for the block."

"So he found the body, checked for signs of life, and ended up with clay on his hands. That hardly makes him the killer. There's no witness. There can't be, or he'd never have been a suspect."

"Actually...there was a witness...more or less."

I don't like the way she suddenly won't look at me. "What do you mean, 'more or less?'"

She wheels back toward the window, putting distance between us. "I was watching from the window. I saw Jules go in the building, I saw the golem kill Duval in silhouette behind the curtain, and then I saw Jules open the curtain and lean down next to the body."

"And you, of course, being the intelligent agent you are, told none of this to the police, correct?"

"Don't be ridiculous, of course I told the police what I saw."

"Perfect, Rebecca! So you thought as long as the police were ready to put him up on the block, you'd sharpen the blade of the guillotine yourself?"

Her hands wrap around the arms of her chair until her knuckles turn white. "Think, Phileas! You and I both know I couldn't lie to them. It would only make things look worse for him if they found out."

I take a deep breath and sit down on the step. "You're right, of course." Jules is in prison. Charged with murder. And the only other suspect is a monster of mud, seen only by a woman who'd just fallen down a flight of stairs before giving that testimony.

How in God's name am I supposed to get him out of this one?

I clear my mind; I have to think properly if I'm to fix this. Once I'm calm, I turn to Rebecca. "Tell me everything from the beginning."

~~~

Once I've heard Rebecca's side of the story, embellished with what bits she was able to coerce out of the inspector, my next stop is the prison. I wave off the attempts of the guard to guide me to Verne's cell--if we are to speak freely, I would much prefer there to be no guards about.

I can honestly say that I have never seen Verne look as miserable as he does standing behind those bars. I cannot help but say the first thing that comes to mind. "Well, Verne, you are in a mess."

"I didn't kill him, Fogg. I'm not the golem."

As if I'd really believe he'd done it. "Of course you aren't. For one thing, you're far too short."

At that he actually smiles, and I can see that as long as I treat this lightly, it will go a long way towards keeping his hopes up. Of course, there is no reason for him not to have high hopes. I *will* prove he is innocent.

"I feel like I'm in a nightmare and I can't wake up."

"I wish that were the case." His hand is curled around a bar of the cell; I put mine right above it, nearly touching his. "But you don't have to worry. We will solve this."

"We? What can I do stuck in here?"

At that, I have to smile. "Your mind is your greatest asset, Jules. Have they put that under lock and key as well?"

"No," he says with an answering smile. "They haven't."

"Good. Then tell me everything from the beginning."

By the time Verne finishes the story, it's nearly morning. I suspect the guards must be asleep, or I wouldn't have been allowed to stay here this long. According to my watch, I should have just enough time to stop off at the Aurora and change before I check in on Rebecca.

Difficult as it is to go with Verne behind bars with such a look on his face, as though he shall be there forever, I take my leave. I make my way to the Aurora and then Verne's room, where Rebecca, of course, begins haranguing me the moment I walk through the door. As tired as I am, I somehow manage not to be annoyed. Well, not too much at any rate. I settle for exacting my revenge by driving her into a frenzy with my frivolous outer exterior regarding Jules' situation.

As she fumes, I put one part of my mind to establishing a plan of attack. Logic would dictate that one of Verne's friends must know something. Clearly, I shall have to talk to them. The murders, of course, centre around Duval. A logical place to start would be Duval's...what, mistress? No, Verne maintains that Angelique was sincere when she said Duval was her model. Sincere she may well have been, but the one does not necessarily preclude the other. And when it comes to Angelique, I fear Verne may not be thinking with a clear head. He was quite taken with the woman; a fact, I might add, which bothers me not at all.

Or at least, not enough to distract me from saving the man from the guillotine.

Still needling Rebecca, I go to the window and take up Verne's binoculars to see if I can catch a glimpse of the famed Angelique. It would seem I'm in luck; she's standing by the window in her shift, brushing her hair. There is certainly no arguing her beauty--pale, luminescent skin, a long, slender neck, and graceful movements obvious even in the way she brushes her hair.

The forceful slamming of the window diverts my attention from the model. "Your friend is in prison, Phileas!"

As if I needed Rebecca to remind me of that. It was I who spent the night sitting against the bars that hold him, discussing these events. Still, I've fortified myself with coffee, and Verne's friends must be gathering for breakfast by now. The time has come to investigate.

"Where are you going?"

"To prove he's innocent." The confusion on Rebecca's face is a wonderful payment for the harassment she's been subjecting me to since I arrived.

~~~

My discussion with Verne's friends yields little information. I'm not quite ready to remove Felix Nadar from my list of suspects, though my instinct says he's not the guilty party. Or at least not guilty of murder; cheating on his girlfriend is another story. Still, with his hands clearly full of two women, one has to wonder if he would have the time to dress up in clay and murder people.

Perhaps Verne will have some insight by now. I promised him decent food and something to pass the time, now would seem to be an excellent opportunity to make good on that promise.

As I'd hoped, he is ready with ideas when I arrive. He's figured out the golem angle, at least, and managed to tie it to a person. Angelique. The look in his eyes as he says he no longer trusts her saddens me. Why do I feel as if every time I turn around I see a little more of his innocence die? Part of me knows it's better for him; the League of Darkness aside, there are many others who would pay any price to get their hands on the knowledge he possesses. He needs to learn not to trust so easily.

And yet I find myself wanting to preserve the innocence left there, even as I strip it away bit by bit.

Perhaps those words were not the best choice, considering that we are alone in his cell, and they tend to send my mind in directions not conducive to solving murders.

But, back to Angelique. She holds the missing information I need to solve this. I know she does. I just have to get it out of her. The murders have all been connected to her in some way--her boyfriend's landlord, her boyfriend. Perhaps a long, questionable visit with her will draw the golem out into the open.

Some flowers, some wine, and a quick check of my guns, and I'm ready to proceed with my plan. I only hope it works.

~~~

The sun has gone down, the lights of Paris twinkling beyond the large window of Angelique's room, and still she has not given me enough information to make a connection. "A private pupil of Claude's," she says, one that she modelled for in exchange for the clay. But still no name.

"I need a name."

And then she takes out the key and unlocks the mystery with three words: "Sir Hugo Basil."

Well, perhaps not all of the mystery. But suddenly this makes sense. Hugo must have hired someone and had them dress up as the golem and kill Madame Dupuis while he was at a party with many witnesses. No one would suspect the foremost architect in Europe; especially not if he had an iron-clad alibi.

His motives, however, are a little less clear. Why those two people? Was he thinking of himself as Angelique's protector? Had he fallen in love with her? If that was, indeed, the case....

"Angelique, I can assure you, Jules is not a murderer. Would you care to help me prove it?"

Once she agrees, we give a tantalising performance at her window before raising the shade. Then we wait.

It doesn't take long, though the results are not as expected. The sound of shattering glass and a scream from across the road make me yank down the shade. The golem has come out of hiding, but his target is Rebecca. I run for Verne's room as fast as I can, arriving in time to see her tumbling out the window. I fire several shots into the chest of the monster, who, to my horror, goes out the window after Rebecca. By the time I get to the roof, only her hand is visible, grasping with desperation to hold onto the gutter.

I know I make a flip remark as I reach for her, but it is as much to hide my terror as to put her at ease. Inside, I am nearly paralysed with fear. I refuse to think of losing the closest thing I have to a sister the same way I lost my brother. But my grip is sure, and despite the mud, I manage to haul her back onto the roof to safety.

Even the sound tongue-lashing I receive for wooing a harlot instead of seeing to the safety of friends and family does not bother me. As long as she is still around to chastise me, I will gladly listen.

~~~

The golem is no longer visible from the roof, so I take the gun and return to the street, determined to see this monster locked away, and Verne set free. Much to my surprise, however, it is Verne I find first. Holding a gun on Basil. And having the most enlightening conversation.

"You were going to use my watch to frame me for another murder," Verne says bitterly.

Basil is looking far too smug for my liking. "Come now, Verne, you're not a killer. You won't shoot me."

"He might not." I cock my gun and aim without thought. "But I certainly will."

Basil prattles on about how much good he's done, but I couldn't care less, and I can see Verne feels the same. Despite all the evil I've seen, I still haven't managed to stop asking why, as I ask Basil now. He did it all for his 'city of the future.'

Time and time again, I wonder just what Jules could possibly see to give him hope in any future with people such as this constantly trying to 'protect' it.

Indeed, Basil thinks Verne has somehow offended him by not running to join him in his murder for the sake of architecture. I wonder if madness is the curse of genius? Will Verne will succumb to the same God-like delusions in his latter years? I certainly intend to do everything in my power to keep that from happening.

But first things first. I want to know who that golem is. "Let's see its face."

As Verne leads Basil over to the monster, I realise fully that Verne is leading him with a gun. It is then that my mind fully understands Verne is holding a gun on someone. One more bit of innocence gone forever; though I suppose that one would have been unavoidable enough through association with us.

For someone with little experience, Verne holds the gun comfortably. Then again, the thought of revenge can make a gun feel like an instant old friend. I watch Verne closely, waiting, half-expecting him to snap at any moment, but he remains calm and betrays as little surprise as I feel at finding Basil's servant, Ambrose, behind the mask.

The surprise comes moments later, when Basil shows as little regard for Ambrose's life as he has for everyone else's. "He's no good to anyone anymore."

Before the shock can completely register, Ambrose, in a final show of strength, tackles Basil, burying him under the mud suit. My attention flies to Verne, who has the gun raised, ready to stop the golem from committing another murder.

Not today. I rush over and grab his free hand with mine, lowering the gun with the other. We wait for the horror to be over, though I barely pay attention to Ambrose and Basil, so focused am I on Verne. I would give all that I have to erase that pain from his face, to destroy the memories of this night he'll carry forever.

But even with all my vast resources, all that I have isn't enough to do the impossible.

So I keep him close, offering what comfort I can as both Basil and his servant breathe their last breaths. Silence lingers for a moment after they have ceased to struggle, and then the familiar cacophony of shrieks and gossip so common to scenes of violence begins. Familiar to me, at least. Jules, his misery etched so clearly on his face, drops the gun and pulls out of my grasp, walking away without another word. I move to follow him, then realise the police will be arriving any moment, and they'll need to be dealt with, to ensure Verne is left alone regarding this matter from now on.

While I wait, the memory of the first words I heard Verne say in this alley returns. Basil had Verne's watch. I pull the golem off Basil and search him, finding the watch in his vest pocket. Odious little man. There are a few smudges of mud on the watch, mostly from my own hands, so I take out my handkerchief and begin cleaning it as the police arrive.

I will not have this watch tainted by tonight's events. Not in reality, and not in Verne's mind. It's too important.

~~~

Verne's not in the main cabin when I arrive back at the Aurora. I manage to get most of the mud off my hands, if not my clothes, before I open the bar. The first glass I fill, I drain immediately. The second gives me pause, and after a moment, I take out another glass and fill it as well. Then I take them both and make my way to Verne's room.

His response to my knock is almost inaudible, but I take it as permission to enter, and open the door. He is standing by the window, staring out, the moonlight making it all too easy to see the pain on his face. "Here," I say, holding out one of the glasses as I cross the room. "Drink this."

"Anaesthetic?" he asks with a half-smile.

"I find it often helps me." I suppose it is an anaesthetic of a sort, though I rarely give it much thought.

"How is Rebecca?"

"Fine. Rather upset at missing the end of the whole blasted affair, it seems, but unharmed. Her leg even managed to survive without further damage."

He smiles, and for a few moments, we both drink in silence. I've finished my drink and nearly decided to leave when he finally speaks again. "Why did you stop me from killing the golem?"

"Because the part of you that was so anxious to kill the golem would have faded back into your soul to let the part of you that couldn't handle killing Ambrose deal with the repercussions."

"The police wouldn't have given me any trouble over killing the real murderer."

"Perhaps. Perhaps not." I study my glass, watching how the pale light from the window reflects off the cut crystal. "It's not so much the legal repercussions that would worry me."

I glance up in time to see Verne set his jaw. "You think I'm incapable of killing someone?"

"You say that as if it were something undesirable." That there is nothing at all undesirable about this man is something I leave unsaid. "I believe you are very well capable of killing someone when threatened, Jules. But that doesn't stop me from attempting to prevent that from happening. Ambrose was nearly dead. What good would it have done to shoot him?"

"I could have prevented another murder."

"You would have had killed one murderer. And the law would have killed the other one. Basil was as guilty as Ambrose--more so, really. He would have gone to the guillotine."

"Perhaps. Perhaps not." His mocking recitation of my earlier words arouses my anger more than it should. Anger at myself for not killing Ambrose before he fell through the window, at not figuring this out sooner, for bringing Basil into Verne's life in the first place.

Hell of a job of protecting him I'm doing.

"I suppose I should thank you, then. For saving me from becoming a killer."

The lateness of the hour, the events of the evening, and the events of our last night together in England are all combining to make both our tempers short. I must leave now, before we say or do anything either of us will regret.

Or won't regret.

"Well, then, you're welcome. And I think I'll turn in." I turn to go, then remember the watch still in my pocket. Again. "Oh. Here." I lay the watch in his hand, the scene eerily reminiscent of his birthday just two nights ago."

"Thank you." He smiles as he looks at the watch for a moment before placing it back in his vest pocket without looking at it. Again, I find myself tempted to mention the engraving, but I cannot.

In the end, I say goodnight and leave for the dark silence of my own room.

~~~

As I pull my nightshirt over my head, I hear a faint knock at my bedroom door. There is only one other person on the Aurora to my knowledge, so unless Passepartout has come back to the ship for some reason, it must be Verne. I open the door to find it is, indeed, Verne. "Was there something you needed?"

"May I come in?"

"Of course." I pull the door back enough to allow him entrance and close it out of habit. He ambles slowly across the room to my window and stares out for a moment. "Were you looking for a different view?" I ask finally.

"What? Oh, I'm sorry. I...."

I find myself drawn to his side before I make a conscious decision to move. "Yes?"

"I was looking at the watch. There's a quote on the back that wasn't there before."

Lie. That is my first instinct. Tell him I don't know what he's talking about, that those words have always been on the watch. He's just unobservant. "Yes. I had it done just before we left to come to Paris."

"Why?"

"I've no idea." Not true. I have an idea. I'm just not ready to face it. "It seemed appropriate at the time. A way to apologise for acting like an unmitigated ass before you left."

We stand by the window and face each other in complete silence. Then, finally, he asks the question neither of us want to answer. "What are we doing?"

"I've no idea about that either."

"I did have feelings for Angelique."

He refrains from explaining what kind of feelings, but then we might get into other conversations I imagine neither of us would ever want to have. "Completely understandable. She's quite lovely."

"Yes, but...."

I'm not sure where his thoughts are headed, but I can't imagine they are going in any direction I want to follow tonight. No, tonight, I want peace. I want proof that everything I care about is safe and well. And hope that it will all be that way tomorrow.

That thought in mind, I pull Jules into my arms for a kiss. He gives in willingly, and I consign tomorrow to deal with itself until the sun rises.

At this moment, tonight is all that matters.

---

End


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