Pairing: Phileas/Jules
Rating: PG
Category: Angst, POV, Slash
Summary: Jules' side of the events leading up to Phileas' revelations.
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," though either can be read alone and still makes sense. Many thanks to three very wonderful beta readers who shall remain nameless, lest they be blamed. *g*
Spoilers: Yup. I've been told you don't have to have seen the show to get the story, but there are references to nearly every episode that's aired in the US.

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Should I Stay or Should I Go?
by Nicole D'Annais
Copyright 2001



I've never understood the conventional opinion that men belong with women and vice versa. Not that I don't appreciate a beautiful woman as much as the next man, but the male body is just as attractive in its own way. Besides, scientifically speaking, it's illogical to rule out half the species as inappropriate partners simply because of a few aesthetic differences.

Yes, I understand about procreation. But there are more than enough people handling that. The world will keep going whether Jules Verne provides offspring or not.

Phileas Fogg--now there's a man bound to conventional thinking. He puts on a good show, and he can be quite open-minded for the right idea--or if Rebecca goads him into it. But at the end of the day, Fogg is a proper gentleman. And for all he thinks he's in love with Rebecca, it's obvious that she is far too unconventional to ever fit into his neat, orderly world in the manner he would prefer. Saratoga Brown fit nicely into his perfect world, until she was killed. He was very taken with the idea of Saratoga. Nice, neat and tidy--it would have fit his image perfectly.

What Fogg needs is to have his tidy world turned upside down. His reaction to the glove of Melchizedek was unusual. I'm not sure if he's still grieving for the loss of Saratoga, or if he's just grown complacent, too sure of his own abilities. No matter how many guns he keeps in the house, or on his person, he's still vulnerable. He's certainly seen enough proof of late that he should realize that.

On second thought, perhaps it's not complacency. Maybe he simply doesn't care.

I've seen Fogg face death. Not once has he flinched at a gun to his own head. He's done a credible job of imitating a block of marble when faced with the endangerment of a friend or relative as well, but there is always something in his eyes that shows he's not as cold as he appears. His opponents don't see it, but it's there.

Except when his own neck is on the line. Passpartout related what he knew of Fogg's showdown with Cavois. He'd overheard Fogg's cold comment, "To play this game, you must not care a jot about death. Life, death--it all comes down to chance." Passpartout's careful recital of the words only underlined the seriousness with which Fogg must have said them.

One has to wonder what, exactly, happened to the man in the past. He's not said much about his days as an agent except to relate something relevant to a situation we were involved in. But the kind of coldness he shows, the flagrant disregard for his own life--I've never seen its equal. Rebecca doesn't have it, yet she's even more dedicated to her service to the Queen than Fogg is to anything.

The man definitely needs to be shaken up before he does something completely stupid. Between his disappearance at the hands--or whatever that was--of Vargas, and then his march straight into the Chinese warehouse, without a second thought, he has given me enough scares that my hair will be as white as his by the year's end.

A shake up of some kind is very much in order.

I quickly check the watch--his watch, since he'd just handed it back to me after getting it fixed--in my pocket. 11:42. Fogg will be in his room, with a cup of...ah, yes. It's Tuesday, so it will be Darjeeling tea. He'll be in the chair by the window, drinking tea and reading.

His room is only two doors from the one I use when I'm here, so in no time I'm knocking on his door. A moment later he answers. "Verne. Did you want something?"

"I want to talk to you," I answer, peering over his shoulder. As I suspected, there is an open book and a cup of tea on the table under the window.

"This can't wait until morning?"

"No, I don't think it can."

He rubs his eyes with an irritated scowl. "Fine, then, I suppose you'd better come in."

I step inside, closing the door behind me. Fogg goes to the window and picks up his tea, looking at me expectantly. "Well?" he asks when I don't speak immediately.

"Have you no regard whatsoever for your own life?" Perfect, Verne, just start right off with a rude accusation. That will help.

"I beg your pardon?"

Well, I've jumped in with both feet. I might as well keep going. "You walk into everything like a man on a suicide mission. Do you really care so little whether you live or die?"

"As a matter of fact, I care a great deal about whether or not I live. But as I have very little control over that outcome, I see little use in worrying about it. It only serves as a distraction that helps weight the scales in the favor of death."

"You see? A cold, logical analysis. No emotion whatsoever."

His lips thin, and that muscle in his jaw begins to twitch. "Are you saying I have no emotions?"

I know better than to trust that calm tone. "No. Simply that you get very emotional when someone else is in danger, but you don't seem to care when you are. It's as if your own death doesn't matter."

"Well, if it achieves the objective, then I suppose it's a small price to pay."

If it were anyone else, I would swear I was being baited. But I know he's serious. That's the problem. "How can you say that? You may think you'll be paying a small price, but what about the rest of us?"

"You would live." The words are quiet, but firm, a testament to their importance.

"We would live, mourning you, having failed you. You would wish that on Passpartout? Rebecca? On me?"

"As long as you live? Yes."

Arrogant bastard. "That's very noble of you, Fogg. You don't mind if we grieve for you, as long as you don't have to grieve for us? Was that the problem with Saratoga? You're so scared of failing someone that you'd rather die, but you won't even kill yourself--you just seek out anyone who will do it for you. Is that it?"

"I think," he says, his teeth grinding together, "that you have said quite enough."

"Of course. How thoughtless of me. God forbid a friend have an issue with you and your death wish!" I take a deep breath before continuing more quietly. "I apologize. I'll head back to Paris first thing in the morning so you won't have to worry about my attempts to interfere with your hunt for death."

I've taken two steps toward the door when he stops me in my tracks. "Ah, yes, of course. After all, leaving is your specialty, is it not?"

"Excuse me?" I turn to find him staring out the window.

"Whenever something doesn't go your way, you just leave," he says to the drapery. "Isn't that right?"

How did we suddenly jump to my supposed faults? "I have no idea what you mean, but--"

"Rebecca and I were short with you," he says, turning intense eyes on me, "so you left--and ended up a lieutenant in the League of Darkness."

"I was trying to find a murderer!"

He raises one eyebrow in that insufferably smug manner. "Right, so you could join him?"

"That was unfair!"

"But true. In a manner of speaking." He steps closer to me, holding my gaze with his own. "Let's see, after the vampires, Rebecca was nearly killed--but you'd already left, so you didn't know that."

"I went after Dumas. I was trying to help."

Fogg nods, but his expression mocks the very gesture. "Of course. So then came the League of Darkness, which we've already covered, followed by our time in America. You stayed for that, of course, but then you really needed us to get back to Europe, did you not? And then we came back to England, and, oh yes, then you left."

"I came back when--"

"When there was danger, yes, I know. Tell me, did you come back to warn me, or for my protection?"

Neither. But I can't say that. "To warn you." It is not a lie. Warning him was my excuse to return. That I would have returned on my own soon enough is not relevant to the conversation. Or, I think, particularly helpful.

"Of course. But now you're leaving again."

"Under the circumstances, I think it's best."

"Certainly. It's always safer to run than to stay and fight."

He thinks I'm running when I leave? Not that he's entirely wrong, but it's not the way he makes it sound. Running from danger is not the same as running from him.

Besides, isn't his own behavior just another form of running? Perhaps then it's time I stop myself and see if he runs in response. Or if he stays. "You should know. You're always running towards death to avoid having to live."

"You've completely missed the point, Verne!"

"No, I don't think I have. But don't worry. I'm leaving anyway. I just came to leave you with something to think about." Before I can lose my nerve, I ignore the alarm signal muscle in his cheek and lean up to give him a slight, almost chaste, kiss on his lips.

I manage the same two steps toward the door before his hand grips my arm like a steel chain. In less than a heartbeat, he spins me around, and lays claim to my mouth in a kiss that is anything but chaste.

As I fumble with the ties of his robe while he pushes me to the bed, there is one main thought in my head.

He stayed.

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END

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