As the title suggests, this was supposed to be a funny story. I'm sorry that it's not. If anyone want's to rewrite this and make it a funny story I would really appreciate it.

Standard disclaimer: Characters/situations are not mine, plot line is, you know the drill.

Also, spoiler for Queen Victoria and the Giant Mole, so heads up there.

And finally, this would happen between Eye's of Lazarus and Lord of Air and Darkness. This should explain some of dear Jules sudden crankiness.



Jules of Denial

Rain came down in sheets. It soaked Jules as he ran through the streets of Paris to the English Embassy and inhibited his communication with the guard. The embassy lawn was soaked and the young man sank into it up to his ankles. By the time he reached the Aurora he was freezing, trembling with cold and soaked to the bone. But as he knocked on the hatch he rested in the knowledge that soon, very soon, he would be warm.

No one came to the hatch.

"PASSEPARTOUT!" Verne yelled, knocking again. "FOGG!" Still no answer. He was cold. He was tired. He wanted to be warm. He wanted to sit down. He wanted to know why the Aurora had arrived at three in the morning in the middle of a rain storm. He wanted the door to open. "Come on," he begged as he leaned against the hatch. "Please . . ."

The English have deep faith in manners, and so accordingly, once Jules had submitted himself to this common courtesy the hatch flew open and Jules almost fell into the dirigible. He caught his balance, but his dignity wasn't so lucky. "Well, Verne," Fogg said, with a smugly amused smile on his face. "What brings you out on this lovely day?"

"I was going to ask you the same thing," Jules said as Passepartout took his dripping coat, shook it out, and hung it up.

"Would you like some tea?"

"I'd like anything warm at this point," Verne said, sitting himself down in a plush chair across from Phileas.

Once he was situated with tea and toast and the red was fading from the tips of Verne's ears, Fogg was able to ask his question again. "So, now can you tell me what errand brings you to my door on this dark and stormy morning?"

"I saw you fly in last night," Verne said simply. "Can I have some more tea Passepartout?"

"Did you?" Fogg asked as Passepartout poured the steaming liquid into the cup. "I thought we got in well past three a.m."

"You did, I was writing."

"And looking out the window?"

"Too often they're synonymous."

Fogg smiled. "Burning the midnight oil, very encouraging. Where would France be without ambitious writers?"

Verne leaned forward, Fogg was being flippant, ignoring the question, this would not do. "So why did you come here in the dead of night during such a torrent?"

"Does it really matter?"

"The fact that you won't tell me makes me think it does."

"Master Fogg here to protect the Emperor," Passepartout said casually. One glance from Fogg and the Valet knew he had said too much. "I just be going for more . . . ah . . . the kettle, she is whispering." He meekly retreated from the room leaving Fogg and Verne alone to discuss the situation.

"Why are you protecting the Emperor?" Verne asked bewildered. "Can't the Imperial Guard do that?"

"Not as well as I can."

"Why?"

"That's not really important."

"Fogg, what are you hiding?" Verne demanded, feeling a little betrayed by his good friend's sudden silence.

Fogg glanced at his tea, brow furrowed, this was obviously not a conversation he desired. "Please, trust me, you're better off not knowing."

"I don't understand."

"Verne, please."

"Could you at least tell me why you can't tell me?"

"No."

"Oh," Jules said, his hurt working his way into his voice. "I see. I, ah, guess that your job necessitates this kind of secrecy every now and then."

"Yes it does."

"I was probably being very arrogant, thinking I had won your trust."

"You have."

"Then why won't you tell me?"

"It's French Intelligence that doubts you."

"French Intelligence?"

"The Emperor has been getting very," Fogg considered his words, "unusual threats. Very well written, very creative. In their efforts to find this miscreant they reviewed their files and, along with several other shady characters, your name came up."

"You're here because of me?"

"Yes, I am."

"To make sure I don't do anything?" He was hurt, which was precisely the effect Fogg had wanted to avoid.

"It was either me, or a member of his royal majesty's guard," Fogg said almost defensively. "You do understand don't you?"

Jules nodded, begrudgingly. "I suppose."

"Good, I would hate to think that you believed I did not have total confidence in you."

"Thank you Fogg," Jules said earnestly. "That means a lot to me."

Having expended more emotion than either of them were really comfortable with, both men sat silently for a moment, looking at the tea. After an indefinite amount of time Passepartout ventured into the room again. "Tea, Master, Mister Jules?" he asked almost apologetically. "It's hot and steamy and I'm thinking I read It's good for the blood, keeping it . . . red."

"Really?" Fogg asked, almost sarcastically. "Well, I would like another cup. I can never seem to get warm when it rains."

Passepartout fulfilled his duty to his master perfectly and then turned to the guest. "Would you be wanting some more tea, Mister Jules?"

"Sure, Passepartout, thank you," he said, holding up the tea cup. "What I don't understand is why the Imperial Guard would consider me a threat."

Fogg laughed and then, seeing Jules had not been joking, sobered up. "You're serious."

"Yes, I've never done anything . . ."

"Done, no, but been suspected."

"What are you talking about?"

Fogg looked around the room, it was his turn to be confused. "Well there was the whole business of the giant mole."

"But, but that was not my fault."

"Of course it wasn't, but the records show the original suspicion."

"Fogg, what are you talking about, what original suspicion?"

"Mister Jules be remembering," Passepartout insisted. "When master Fogg abducted you and then the threatening with the gun and sword."

Jules stared at Passepartout, then at his master, then at Passepartout again. He was obviously unnerved, but not for the right reasons.

"What are you talking about? Guns? Swords?" He struggled, trying to find the right kind of words. They eluded him. Finally he turned to the one person he trusted with more than his life. "Fogg?"

"Verne, how do you think we met?" Fogg asked, truly amazed at his friends inexplicable memory loss.

"I was working with Passepartout on the detection devices, to find the mole."

"Yes, of course," Fogg said dismissively. "But before that."

"Before what?"

"Before you were working with Passepartout?"

Jules seemed to stumble at this question, "I, ah, was in the café with Felix. I'm sure I was a little tipsy, Thomas's wine may not be good but it is strong."

"And how did we meet then? Did I just stumble into you on the street and say 'that chap looks like he might be able to detect a mole machine.'"

Jules knit his brow, his mouth worked up and down as his mind started and restarted possibilities. "I don't quite remember."

"Not at all?"

"No."

"And doesn't that strike you as odd?"

There is a look of subtle horror in the eyes of trauma victims. Phileas had seen it before, he had felt it before. He knew, categorically, the sense of dread that was filling his young friend's chest, the subtle clamping of the throat and chest and the inexplicable urge to run. The young writer licked his lips, "A gun," he said softly. "And a sword."

"Verne."

The young man laughed. "Of course, I, I, ah, just, just didn't, um, sword, ah, I've, I've gotta go." The young author stood up awkwardly and looked around him dazed. Passepartout had to lead him to the door and hand him his jacket, which Verne even forgot to put on as he stumbled out of the Aurora.

For a moment there was a deep and disturbing silence inside the dirigible. Finally, Fogg looked up at his valet. "Go," he said softly.

Passepartout didn't have to ask where or why. Two seconds later Fogg was alone and Passepartout was in wet grass up to his ankles.



Jules was eventually found in the Café only a block from his garret. The owner, a helpful Thomas, did not hesitate in pointing out the young man in the corner drinking an absurd amount of wine.

Passepartout approached cautiously, not wanting to hurt his good friend's feelings, but still believing that some things required explaining.

"Is this chair being sat in?" the valet asked timidly.

Jules glared at him, took another sip of horrible wine, and then nodded, effectively saying sit if you dare.

Passepartout dared and quickly ordered a bottle of much better wine. "For friends to share," he explained enthusiastically.

"Did he send you?" Jules accused.

Passepartout considered this question carefully. "He is sorry, and so am I. But he will not say that. Not to you."

"Am I supposed to respect that?"

"No," Passepartout admitted. "But the English, what can you do?"

Jules almost smiled at that, but caught himself and was able to keep the morose mask. "I just don't understand how I could forget that? He kidnaped me, brow beat me, threatened me, accused me of being a traitor! You would think that I would remember that!"

"You're angry?"

"Yes, I am."

"You feel betrayed."

"Yes, I do."

"You wander how he could do these things."

"Yes!"

"But mostly, you wander how you could forget them."

Jules was silent.

"He is the same man who you came to see this morning. You have the same history, only now you know it better."

"It's not the same, Passepartout."

"But it is!"

"No, this cast a whole new light on everything! He's never stopped suspecting me of conspiring with the League of Darkness or to kill the emperor or, or . . ."

"No," Passepartout said, throwing his hands up as if to stop a physical assault. "You cannot consider such things."

"I can't help but consider such things, Passepartout. Why else would an English gentleman, a member of the English secret service, give a damn about an unpublished, unsuccessful French writer?"

"Because, you are friends," Passepartout insisted. "It's true that Master suspected you at first, he didn't know you. But when he let you design the detectors and make them and install them, he was trusting you more than I've seen him trust any other man."

"Your exaggerating."

"No, I'm not," Passepartout insisted. "When you were being kidnaped and he was thinking you were part of the League of Darkness he felt betrayed. He helped be build the counter wave device, getting oil all over his clothes."

Both Verne and Passepartout knew that was a mark of almost unparalleled dedication.

"Did he?"

The valet nodded.

Jules looked thoughtfully into his wine for a moment, took a swig, and then set the glass squarely down on the table.

After another moment a silence Passepartout ventured to speak, "So, will, you be coming back this morning?" he asked tentatively.

"No," Jules said. "Not today."

"Oh," Passepartout said with disappointment in his voice.

"Maybe tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" he asked hopefully.

Jules sucked the damp café air in to his lungs through his teeth. "Yes, definitely tomorrow."