The Stuff that Always Goes Here: Jules Verne is his own self, and Rebecca Fogg is the product of somebody's imagination (Gavin Scott's?), so neither of them belong to me. I make no money off this story; I write only for entertainment purposes. Any mistakes are mine, and there probably are some. But, hey…it's a nice story, enjoy it. ;-)
(The Gift of) A Perfect Likeness
"Mmm," Rebecca Fogg smiled to herself as she studied the drawing on the wall of Jules Verne's garret. It was a simple sketch, with none of his usual scribbles or scratchings out or afterthoughts, a pleasingly elegant and unadorned, finished sketch. It appealed to Rebecca's logical side.
She swung around when she heard the door open. "Rebecca!" Jules exclaimed in surprise when he saw his friend standing in the midst of his ugly garret. She was dressed in something deep and plush purple, a parasol swinging lightly in her loosely folded hands. Sunlight from the partially opened shutters haloed her golden-red head. Jules caught his breath and forced himself to turn around and close the door behind him. "I wasn't expecting you, Rebecca."
They never questioned the propriety of Rebecca being alone with him in his garret room.
"Hello Jules," Rebecca grinned as she watched the young Frenchman fumble with the temperamental doorknob. At last he forced the door closed with his shoulder. "I hope you don't mind that I came up to wait for you."
"Of course not," Jules smiled shyly, privately wondering if he could ever be able to stop her doing what she wanted. It didn't appear as if anyone else had managed this feat, not even Passepartout, and he was certainly one for doing the impossible. "Are Fogg and Passepartout with you?"
"Not this time," Rebecca replied lightly, heading across the small space to settle down in the desk chair. Her skirts swung discreetly around her in time with her graceful steps. Jules hesitantly stepped down into the main of his room and dithered, unsure what to do with himself now. He wasn't about to sit on the bed. "I just finished a mission in Switzerland," the Englishwoman explained, leaning her parasol against the desk and folding her hands demurely in her lap. She looked up and smiled at Jules. "I thought I'd visit you for the afternoon. My report is in no hurry; Sir Jonathan already knows I was successful."
"Oh." Jules managed a smile back, uncertain how to respond to this information. "Good."
Rebecca studied her friend and at last laughed. "Good grief, Jules, you needn't hover like a nervous governess," she said. "Please, sit down."
"Of course," Jules replied, wishing he didn't sound so foolish, even more desperately wishing he could remember how to be comfortable around Rebecca Fogg. He'd once known, he was sure. He at last went to the window, leaning against the ledge, half-turned so that he could look both at Rebecca and glance outside the window if he desired.
Rebecca covertly studied Jules again, noting the hair curling against his collar and the way the sunlight somehow blurred his features, softened them into something that was almost poetically dreamlike. He wore no cravat. Of course. She smiled again, a secret smile to herself, and turned back to the desk, looking for something with which to occupy herself since Jules apparently wasn't in a frame of mind for talking. She didn't mind. It was so easy to be silent with him, so...freeing. There were no pretenses. It was like that with Phileas too at times.
She picked up Jules's beloved notebook and started paging through it slowly, her eyes running over the closely scribbled French words with no recognition, her eyes glancing almost incuriously at the drawings of machines, the toys and fancies of a preoccupied mind.
"Why do you never draw people, Jules?"
Jules turned a startled head toward Rebecca, having lost himself in some deep reverie while staring out the window. "I'm sorry?" he said, his eyes not yet focusing in the abrupt contrast of darkness in his garret. She was a mere presence, a warm shadow in his room.
Rebecca was looking at a detailed drawing of a human body, an anatomical sketch with muscle or bone sketched in and given its scientific name. The thought had struck her that it was the only human being she'd ever seen sketched in Jules's notebook or his room. "Why do you never draw real people?" she asked again, looking up at him with a puzzled line furrowing her brow beneath golden-red bangs.
He smiled at her dreamily, unaware of the soft expression on his face, shaking his head. "I'm no good at likenesses," he said, wandering away from the window, at last comfortable in settling himself on the bed.
"Oh posh," Rebecca replied almost scoldingly. Jules laughed, looking at her over the bedpost. "You can't draw esoteric gadgets all the time," she pointed out. "You're good at drawing; you must try your hand at people instead of machines."
"Perhaps," Jules inclined his head, still smiling in amusement. "Someday."
"Someday? Why not now?" Rebecca decisively shut the notebook and set it down on the desk. "Sketch me, Jules."
"What?" he looked startled, she was amused to note, the pleasure in his own face instantly draining away in what looked almost like panic. "You? Now?"
"You sound positively ill-bred," she lectured him reprovingly. "Yes, me, now. Go on. I want you to make a sketch of me."
"I can't!" he gasped in disbelief.
"And why not?" she asked reasonably. "Have you any other plans for the afternoon?"
"Well, not exactly--"
"Well then," Rebecca smiled, standing up. "Where shall I pose?"
He stayed on the bed, staring up at her, a remote expression on his sensitive face that somehow unnerved her. She suddenly doubted the merits of her impulsive plan, but she couldn't back out now. Anyhow, what harm could a simple sketch by a dear friend do? She shook her nerves away dismissively and wished for Jules to make his move, as he surely must do.
"I really don't think I should, Rebecca," he said at last quietly. He sounded quite serious, she was mildly surprised to note, and wondered why he was taking this so strongly. "I really haven't the talent or expertise to draw you well enough--" To honor you as you deserve he didn't dare add aloud.
"Jules," she told him gently, coming forward so she could take his hand. "I simply want a sketch from you. It doesn't matter how well it's done. You're my friend. Yes?" She held his gaze and squeezed his hand reassuringly.
He nodded at last, hesitantly. "Well then," she smiled, swinging his hand lightly, just once, still holding onto his cool brown fingers. "Where shall I stand?"
Jules looked around his garret, acutely aware that Rebecca still had his fingers loosely entwined in hers. There was no way to do her justice here, he knew; he would simply have to make the best of a bad lot and pray she wouldn't take too much offense when it turned out badly. "The window," he decided at last, standing up. "There's nowhere near enough light in here--" He let go of her hand to stride across the room, all of two entire steps, pushing the desk chair around so that it was angled toward the window, then swinging the shutters wide open to allow the sunlight to radiate in. "Please, sit," he invited with a gesture, and Rebecca obligingly sat in the chair, smoothing her skirts around her a trifle nervously. "Now, rest your hand on the ledge--that's it, and lean your chin against your hand--no, fingers curled in--" He gently curled her fingers in for her. She looked up into his face as he did so, searchingly, but he managed to avoid meeting her frank blue gaze by busying himself with her purple sleeve. He made a few more adjustments with quick, light hands, murmuring the occasional apology if he felt he was getting too--personal. She obediently sat still, letting him do whatever he wished, intensely aware of his presence so close to hers. She momentarily shut her eyes and breathed in his scent.
At last he stood back to admire the total affect, asked her to make a few more adjustments of arm or skirt, and finally picked up his sketchpad and pencil. He sat himself down against the wall, resting the notebook on his knees. It could be an awkward way to draw, but he'd managed it often enough before. Never while sketching a person, though. But then, he hadn't really tried sketching a real live, breathing model in a long while. He sighed, shaking his head at this folly. But it was what she wished.
The light fell on her, sunbeams streaming through the window and entangling themselves in her curls of hair. She looked out the window, an introspective look on her face. Perhaps she dreamed, Jules didn't know. He was caught up in the drawing, in starting with the broad outline and filling in the details, in attempting to get the truth of Rebecca Fogg. It was difficult but he was soon caught up in his work.
She was restless, sitting still and silent and looking out the Parisian window at nothing, but she was also patient, knowing that she had asked for this and unsure why she had. Genuine curiosity, perhaps. She wished to see how Jules perceived her.
Silence pervaded the cramped, messy garret, only the muffled scratchings on the paper breaking the soothing quiet, and they merely helped to lull Rebecca into a deep languor. Even the sounds of Paris outside seemed halted, outside Jules's and Rebecca's bubble. He was biting his lip in concentration, staring down at his paper, then glancing up at Rebecca again for a quick, scrutinizing glare. For the time being he could forget that it was Rebecca he was sketching. She thought about this tiny room that was the entirety of Jules's life and was glad that he had elsewhere--the Aurora, Shillingworth Magna--to go. How anyone could survive in such close quarters she didn't know. At least he had managed to make them his own with his sketches and papers and posters for plays and clothes left haphazardedly about.
They stayed that way for a long time, though time, like sound and thoughts, felt suspended here for them both. At last, almost without his noticing it, Jules said, "I've finished."
Rebecca felt like she was waking from a long, deep sleep as she roused herself carefully out of the chair. She was stiff but it would wear off soon she knew, unconcerned. He raised himself just as carefully from the floor, his own body protesting. "May I?" she asked, holding out an expectant hand.
He gave her the notebook, unable to meet her eyes, unable to let go of the breath he was holding tight inside his chest, making his heart ache. She took the book and studied the page for a long time, consideringly, silently, for so long that at last Jules had to steal a look at her. He took the chance to study and memorize the slight frown furrowing her forehead.
Elegant simplicity. Rebecca knew she was beautiful, accepted and used that fact when it was to her advantage, but she encountered that idea anew by looking at this sketch. She knew it was she, and yet somehow she couldn't recognize this serene, thoughtful soul as herself. Jules had brought out some inward grace and made it manifest with his quick, gentle pencil strokes. A tear pricked at her eyes and she resisted from blinking it away, instead meeting Jules's worried gaze.
She placed a gentle kiss on his cheek. "It is beautiful," she said simply and handed him back the sketchpad. She didn't think she could bear to look at it any more. It made her almost too--perfect.
He smiled shyly, charming in his fumbling attempt at gracefully accepting the compliment. It made her heart ache more. "Please," he said, carefully tearing the page out of the book. "You must take it."
"No, Jules, I couldn't," Rebecca immediately put up her hands to ward off his offer.
"You must," he insisted, gently taking her hand and placing his drawing in it. "Think of it as a gift. You wanted the sketch done, after all; it's yours."
She smiled slightly and looked once more at the drawing. "No," she said, taking his hand and repeating his gesture with the paper. "You must keep it. Think of it...as my gift to you. It is enough simply to know you drew it and will have it."
He stared down at his own sketch for a long moment before looking up at her again and nodding, smiling. "Thank you," he said.
"And now I really must be going," Rebecca said to shake them both out of this dangerous moment. "Sir Jonathan might not be in any hurry to debrief me, but Phileas will be furious that I missed supper with him."
"You came here just so you could be late," Jules laughed, setting the page down carefully on his bed.
"Don't be silly," Rebecca reproved. He met her gaze once more, unrepentant smile still lurking on his face, and her frown melted into a secretive grin of her own. "He'd invited some dreadful Lord something or other for supper; I didn't want to sit through an entire evening of gambling stories! But if I leave now, I'll be just late enough that I can simply go home and miss Phileas's lecture until tomorrow. And tomorrow I can always find another way to delay hearing it." They shared a grin before Rebecca turned to pick up her parasol. She swung back to give Jules her hand. "We'll come visit you soon," she promised. "Or you will visit us."
"Of course," Jules said, still holding her hand, unwilling to let go.
They paused, and then Rebecca gently disengaged from him. "Good day, Jules," she said and turned. Jules slipped around her quickly so he could open the door for her. She smiled as she went past him and down the stairs.
He waited by the door until he could no longer hear the sound of her footsteps, and then a great breath of air left his body, leaving him drained. He shut the door and resisted the urge to go to the window and watch her get into her carriage. Instead he went to the bed and picked up the sketch he'd drawn, studying it almost dispassionately. He had been inspired.
Carefully, he placed the drawing in an unused desk drawer. He was actually grateful she'd wanted the sketch drawn, even more grateful she'd left it for him to keep. He would have a way to remember her now. Trite perhaps, but then, it was merely another version of one of the oldest stories ever written.
He should have been getting some work done--or at least working on one of the unfinished plays or stories he had in various states of completion. Instead, Jules Verne sat in his chair by the window, his head resting on his hand. He sat there well into the evening, staring outside as moonlight gradually fell onto him and threw him into sharp relief against the shadows of his darkened, cold room.
I can make a perfect likeness of your body if I trace
I can hold you until you turn out the light
and I can't see
~Barenaked Ladies, "Wrap Your Arms Around Me"