I
noticed Jules had some serious issues to deal with after "Lord of Air and
Darkness" and who'd be better to help him through that angst than
Phil? A tiny spoiler for "Eyes of
Lazarus" and major spoilers of course for "LoAaD." And I don't touch alcohol, so if I've messed
up there somehow, it's only because I have no experience in that area. Honest!
Anyway, I don't own Phileas, Jules, or the Aurora, and I make no money off this story. You know the drill, I'm sure. ;-)
Late Night Drinking
"Verne? What the devil are you doing?"
Phileas Fogg hadn't been able to
sleep. The others had gone to bed hours
ago--when he had, after getting Rebecca and Jules inside the Aurora, cleaning up the gash on Jules's
forehead, debriefing each other on what had happened, and deciding what needed
to be done next--only Fogg had spent the hours in between tossing and turning
rather than peacefully catching up on his rest. He'd at last decided only a drink could numb him, and he'd pulled
on his robe to come downstairs, rejecting the idea of waking Passepartout to
get the drink for him.
And there he found Jules Verne,
sitting up--drooping over would be more accurate--at the table, a nearly empty
bottle of red wine and a nearly full glass of the same sticky liquid in front of
him. A small, neat patch of white
glared out from the side of the Frenchman's face, an ugly reminder of what had
just happened. He'd changed out of his
detested League uniform as soon as he could after getting back into the Aurora, and now wore his customary plaid
waistcoat and watch chain. He was
staring as if mesmerized into the glass; when Fogg spoke, he looked up at the
other man blearily.
"Oh," he said and took a
swig from his wineglass.
Fogg lifted an eyebrow and
waited. When Verne said nothing else,
ignoring the other man's presence altogether, Phileas headed for his drinks
cabinet and poured himself a brandy. He
sat down across from Jules, glass in hand.
"May I ask why you're drinking
my wine?" Phileas almost added he
was wasting a superb year--or at least, not giving it due respect by getting so
dreadfully drunk on it without paying any attention to its taste and
quality--but something warned him not to be too flippant with the other
man. For once he restrained himself.
Jules was blinking at the Englishman
calmly, a sort of disconnected state he could only achieve after a large
quantity of alcohol. "It's the
only way I know to get drunk," he stated reasonably and drank some more
from his glass.
"True," Phileas had to
concede and sipped at his brandy. He
was effortlessly hiding his concern for his friend, but he was definitely
worried. Verne was always moderate with
his alcohol on the Aurora, and he
would never have a drink--let alone a whole bottle, or even more as Fogg
suspected--without asking Fogg's permission first. He was so utterly polite that way.
Of course Phileas knew what was
bothering the writer. It had started
with that wretched Lazarus affair; Verne had felt almost as guilty as Fogg for
having Passepartout locked away in that awful cell. The writer had been a bit broody ever since, despite the
manservant's own attempts to cheer him up.
And then he'd gone all passionate about that damned book of Hugo's...and
now he was probably feeling like a miserable, wretched ass for being used and
duped by Helene d'Anjou. Not to mention
shaken at almost being conned into the League of Darkness. Phileas found himself half-hoping Jules felt
additionally guilty for being so rude before rushing off and disappearing on
him and the others into the French countryside. But he quashed that feeling as being beneath his dignity.
Fogg really couldn't blame the man
for wanting to get as drunk as possible.
But how could he talk to him, help him feel better?
It was not something Fogg was accustomed
to doing. As an English gentleman, he'd
always found it easier not to discuss emotions--whether they be his own or
somebody else's. So he kept the usual
unconcerned, slightly mocking mask on his face as he drank and tried to think
of something appropriate to say.
"Are you going to lecture me or
not?" Verne's slurred voice broke into his thoughts.
"Lecture you, Verne? What on Earth makes you think I'd do
that?"
Jules scowled into his wine as he
held the glass cupped firmly in his hands.
Perhaps so he wouldn't drop it, Phileas considered. "Aren't you at least going to say 'I
told you so'? Come on, Fogg, this is
your chance. You must be dying to be
your usual smug, superior self."
His bitter tone was only exacerbated by his inebriation.
Fogg calmly took another measured
sip of his drink. "I'm insulted
Verne," he said after he carefully set the glass down. "I am never smug and superior." His light tone belied the fact that the
words really had stung--did Verne actually think him such an arrogant upper
class elitist? Surely he wasn't that bad?
Verne snorted mirthlessly, and the
cynical sound coming from that young idealist almost physically hurt the
Englishman. "I was an idiot. You were right. Again. You must be
pleased." He drained his glass and
stared at its bottom wearily before going to pour the rest of the wine bottle
into it. The look of honest misery on
Jules's face forestalled Fogg's attempt to disregard the writer's emotions; the
Englishman could no longer be flippant.
This was too serious.
Phileas placed his hand over Verne's
on the bottle, arresting the younger man's movement. Jules looked up at him, eyes slightly unfocused but still
conveying his anger and resentment.
Fogg held his gaze and didn't remove his hand. Jules had to look away first, ashamed. Fogg let go of the bottle and the hand.
"You were angry with me,"
Fogg said quietly. "And the
countess is a beautiful woman." He
didn't want his friend to feel ashamed, damn it. He didn't want his friend to feel guilty either, or resent
him. Yes, Verne had been acting
pig-headedly, but Phileas had hurt his pride, and Phileas knew very well what
pride could lead people to do--after all, his own pride had made him act
selfishly, refusing to lend Verne the Aurora
and Passepartout in the first place. This whole mess had started off because
Verne had been trying to help out an old priest; Fogg could not fault the
writer's caring and helpful nature. It
was part of what made him Jules Verne, and Phileas wouldn't change his friend
for anything.
"That's no excuse," Jules
muttered, still refusing to meet Fogg's eye.
"Because of me, the League of Darkness has a plan to defeat the
Union and help the Confederacy--and slavery--win. Once again I helped the wrong side." His frustration was getting the better of
him as his words became louder and more slurred.
"Oh, don't be an idiot,
Verne," Fogg snapped out impatiently, exasperated by Jules's self-piteous
moanings. Jules looked at him in
wide-eyed surprise, quickly reverting to resentful anger. Just what Phileas didn't want. "Yes,
perhaps you did help the League," Fogg went on, managing to hold onto the
younger man's gaze this time. "But
now they know they can't use that plan because we know about it. They'll
have to think of something else. And we will stop them. They've barely got a head start on us to the
United States as it is; we'll catch them up in no time."
"That still doesn't change how
I acted," Verne argued, gesturing wildly with his arms. He winced and automatically raised his left
hand to his right shoulder; Rebecca had told her cousin how the Frenchman had
grabbed the chain she was holding onto before it could fall out of the ship and
send her with it to her death. The writer's
shoulders must be in complete agony; Fogg was surprised one or both of them
hadn't been dislocated--or that Verne hadn't complained more about the
discomfort he was going through.
Perhaps he thought the pain was his punishment, the Englishman mused. And probably the drink had dulled most of it
by now. Besides, Verne never did speak
up when he was hurt, did he? Fogg shook
his head. More pride. His own influence wasn't helping the man.
"Yes, and you can't change how
you acted," Fogg countered.
"So there's no use beating yourself up over it."
Verne raised his eyebrows at him,
the sardonic expression unusual and out of place on his face. Fogg scowled and bad-temperedly took another
sip of his brandy.
"I'm sorry Fogg," Jules
said after a strained pause. The words
came out with difficulty but his eyes showed his sincerity--and the depth of
his guilt.
"Oh, I should apologize,"
Fogg sighed wearily in reply; he didn't want to say these words--who ever
did? But he couldn't leave the other
man feeling so wretched. "I should
have helped you when you asked me to."
Perhaps I could have kept you out
of trouble then, he added to himself but knew he daren't say that aloud;
Verne already thought Fogg's opinion of him was impossibly low. And knowing Verne, even Phileas couldn't
have stopped the writer getting himself involved.
Phileas paused--perhaps it was the
drink, small though the quantity he'd imbibed was, or perhaps it was the
lateness of the hour after a long, stressful day, or even the fact that they
were alone, the others asleep and unaware of the conversation occurring below
them--but he went on: "I don't
blame you, Verne. I'm sorry if I've
ever given you the impression that I think you're incapable or not good enough
to be associated with us. It's quite
the opposite, I assure you." There. He'd said as much as he could--and even that
much had been damned difficult.
Jules blinked, Fogg's words sinking
into his beleaguered mind. Then he
looked up and smiled at Phileas beatifically.
"Thank you, Fogg," he said in pleased surprise.
Fogg smiled at the younger man
affectionately, thinking Verne must be very drunk indeed to be so gratified by
his words. As if sensing what the
Englishman was thinking, the Frenchman's eyes focused with some little difficulty
on the near-empty wine bottle on the table in front of him, a frown of intense
concentration on his face. Suddenly he
looked very sheepish. "I'm sorry,
Fogg, I appear to have drunk this entire bottle..." He appeared to be struggling to remember if
there were other bottles he'd already drunk and forgotten about.
"It's all right, Verne,"
Phileas said lightly. "That is
what it's there for."
"I'll put what's left
away," Verne decided and stood up shakily. He reached down to pick up the bottle and staggered.
"Ahh, I'll handle
that." Fogg snatched the wine away
before Jules could touch it. "Why
don't you sit down again? Relax,"
he suggested, crossing to the cabinet and safely stowing what was left of the
wine in the back.
"Relax..." Jules agreed,
sliding back onto the couch and closing his eyes, the exhausted, dark circles
under his eyes abruptly extremely visible.
Fogg watched him for a moment in amused and exasperated concern, then
strode back to the table.
"Come on, Verne," he said,
helping the writer to lie down properly.
"If you're going to fall asleep or pass out, you might as well be
comfortable about it." He found
the Frenchman's threadbare coat tossed onto another chair and spread it out
over Jules as a rough approximation of a blanket. Verne was already asleep, an arm falling over the side of the
couch and his mouth hanging slightly open.
"Rest, Jules," Fogg said quietly with a worried frown. "I fear our problems are only beginning."
He turned away to go upstairs and
make an attempt once more to fall asleep, when out of the corner of his eye he
saw his brandy glass. It still had a
little liquid left in it.
He drained the alcohol and left the
glass on the table for Passeparout to find and clean in the morning. And then he went upstairs to bed.
