Author: Harlaquinne
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Jules' life is about to change with one trip on the sidewalk.
Disclaimer: Any character you recognize from the show is not mine, so don't sue!
Weeks cramped up in the Aurora's miniscule living space had made Jules extremely homesick for his carefree life in the gutters of Paris. Even his dark, secluded apartment held more appeal than another night pent up with the bickering cousins. Passepartout was even beginning to wear his nerves thin and though he meant well, incessantly following him around was quite annoying. Consequently, after Jules' and Phileas' last argument, Jules had returned to his one true love – Paris.
Though the night air was nothing compared to what you could breathe in off the Aurora's bow, the familiar scents of smoke and mud didn't bother him in the least. Solid cobblestones beneath his feet were certainly an improvement compared to having practically nothing at all below him. A new script was spinning itself around in his thoughts when his concentration was broken as he passed the large building where he'd taken his law exams. He'd taken them at his father's insistence – and passed, but given up any hopes in a career at law when he'd taken the job at the Theatre Lyrique. The thought of his father's rage took over his thoughts and Jules scowled and continued on in a foul mood. The tone his father had taken with him about his career choice was the exact same tone Phileas had taken with him this afternoon. How dare he? Jules fumed. How dare Phileas treat me like a child as my father did? His thoughts returned to their afternoon quarrel.
They'd been lounging around outside the Aurora, after landing, enjoying having their feet on solid ground when Phileas had approached him. "Jules," he'd begun,"British Intelligence has requested Rebecca's services as well as my own once again. Naturally, you'll be coming along, so shall we say you'll be aboard again in four hours? Or is three quite enough?"
"Actually Phileas," Jules had replied,"I've the intention of working on my novel some, getting some peace and quiet back in Paris. Several prospective supporters have requested more of my writing and now that we've returned, I think it's high time I answered their requests."
"Prospective supporters, Verne? Those silly men devoting their lives to the, what is it you call them, the "fine arts." One thing I'd like to see instead of their dull plays is them making a penny off of them. Really, Verne, your future with British Intelligence is quite more prosperous than any career you might pursue as a writer. Besides, you're hardly one who can be left by himself."
"Are you inferring I'm nothing but a risk to society that must be kept under a watchful eye? Your watchful eye may I add? That anything I want to pursue is pointless as long as it doesn't benefit you? Think of the cases I'd solve Fogg, with my inventions, think how many more successful case files would have your name signed at the bottom! But I suppose that's all your thinking of, isn't it? How I'd help you? I'd rather help myself Fogg, and I'll be continuing on with devoting myself to the fine arts. Perhaps I'll see you later when I'm nothing more than another of those silly men. And you won't be quite so successful then as you'd hoped, because you'll get no help from me or my inventions if you're going to refuse my right to choose!" Passepartout and Rebecca had stepped to the sidelines to watch the heated argument between what could possibly be the two most stubborn people in Europe. Fogg, pretending to be unfazed by Jules' outburst, raised his chin slightly higher in his superior manner. Jules, fuming, left the group in a furious haste.
Caught up in his troubles and complaints, Jules' attention was anywhere but the path ahead of him. Stumbling upon the figure before him, he fell to his knees and found himself staring down at the still body of a young woman. Her chest was moving slightly and he sighed with relief. In the dark, with her hair swept across her face, he couldn't get a clear look at her. Her breathing, though uneven, could be heard faintly and her skin looked pale in the faint illumination of the street lamp. Knowing all too well what lurked the streets of Paris in the early morning hours, Jules scooped her up in his arms. Though it was still quite a distance to his apartment, he had no worries for she was extremely light – lighter than she should have been.
Wishing for warmth and cursing himself for not having anything left to burn, Jules set the girl carefully down upon his bed and rubbed his hands together, blowing on them. Lighting a candle nearly burnt to a nub, he pried up a floor board from the corner and shoved it into the sturdy black stove. Within minutes, the wood began to glow and a faint heat began to fill the room. Still, his mysterious guest's skin was cold as ice and he shuddered at the thought of how long she'd lain there in the near freezing temperatures. Perched on a chair beside the bed, keeping watch, his mind began to wonder from the girl back to the argument. He continued to brood over it until a line from one of his father's letters came back to him. I speak to you not as your father, but as an experienced adult. I give you the final gift of a point in the right direction and I can only hope you never venture off the correct path and have to face the horrors there. He'd forgiven his father over time, knowing there was nothing but affection behind his pressuring into the law career. Though Fogg had a rather odd way of displaying it, Rebeccas and Passepartout were convinced that he cared for Jules, and this thought sat with him for a moment. Perhaps Phileas, like his father, was only trying to set him off on the right path, though he'd had a rather rude approach to giving advice. Perhap Phileas, like his father, deserved his forgiveness…
His thoughts were interrupted as the girl sat straight up in bed in a panic. Her head whipped around and her eyes locked on him in a stare of bewilderment and recognition. "Verne…" she whispered.
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