Title: Disarmament Talks
Author: Lona Jennings
Category: Missing Scene for Victorian Candidate
Characters: Phileas, Jules, Rebecca, Passepartout.
Rating: PG-13. Not too good at deciding ratings. Phileas/Rebecca interaction. M/F foreplay activity.
Archive: DO NOT ARCHIVE or otherwise display on any Web page without author's express permission. Do not forward to any other news group or mailing list. May be redistributed to individual readers as long as Lona Jennings is acknowledged as author and nothing of value is exchanged.
Acknowledgements: This was beta'd by an Evil Monk, so who knows what you will find herein? Thanks Ephian. And thanks for posting this for me while I'm gone on vacation.
Spoilers: Big time spoilers for Victorian Candidate
Summary: Phileas slowly recovers aboard the Aurora after near annihilation at Balmoral.
Author's notes: This is my first episode-related fanfic and was written pretty fast (for me).
Comments may be sent to lonaj@nwlink.com
The Aurora runs north-northwest to the Scottish highlands, fleeing Balmoral and Castle Banquo at her best speed. Her legs stretch. She makes good time. The hum of her motor vibrates the hull. Verne has the helm. Both Rebecca and Passepartout tend to Fogg who sits at the great table in the salon. Fogg is stripped to the waist. A blood-speckled white shirt is tossed on a chair, black suspenders hang loose from his waistband. His head lolls on his cousin Rebecca's breast and his breath comes in shallow gasps. Passepartout lifts a sponge from a basin of medicated water and strokes a long sword cut on Fogg's right arm. Camphor vapors make the salon smell of hospital. In lamplight Passepartout's bloody water looks near black.
Rebecca runs her fingers through Fogg's soft brush of hair. It was she who carved him last night as he threatened Passepartout. She kisses his forehead in apology and tastes the salt of his sweat. There is a bruise with three black punctures on Fogg's left shoulder where Passepartout's chain mace contacted. It does not bleed, but Passepartout sponges it in sorrow.
No dignity hangs on Fogg now. His heart was dead an hour ago, no, now it's two, and its beating still amazes him. The pain in his arms seems more real. Fogg cannot lift either arm more than a few inches. He is helpless but refuses to leave the salon. His fear of solitude and sleep overcomes the awkwardness of being disrobed. When they launched from Balmoral, Fogg told Rebecca, "I want to be with you. I'm not tired." The truth is darker. If his eyes flicker in fatigue, he panics. He must see and touch her and the others to remember clearly they're alive and not dead.
Jules Verne restlessly paces his helm station. He questions the strength of his morals. Yesterday he would have sworn that no one, much less Count Gregory, could turn him against Fogg. In his naivete Verne tells himself even McLean's drugged vapors would not turn a true friend. But last night Verne judged Fogg a monster and would have shot him. The memory tastes bitter as he watches Fogg turn his head restlessly into Rebecca's shoulder.
Despite Fogg's best efforts, his eyes close in sleep. In ignorance his friends and cousin think this is a good thing, and Rebecca stands quietly not to disturb him. Fogg dreams of last night's fight. The burning rage lashes through him again. Helmeted League men waver in lamplight. His dream self brings a sword down hard on Rebecca and he wakes screaming a long wavering wolf howl of "No-o-o-o!" All three, Rebecca, Jules and Passepartout hold him down. He is too weak to fight. "Don't let me sleep. I can't sleep. They will make me kill you again," he tells them. He is in terror. He breathes hard.
Rebecca tells Passepartout to fetch Fogg's robe. Happy for something to do, Jean vibrates the spiral stair as he runs quickly up and down. He lightly drapes the gown over Fogg's bare shoulders and touches chill skin with the back of his hand. He tells Rebecca, "He icicle. I go adjust heating."
An ague shudders Fogg. His forehead on Rebecca's shoulder is both cold and sweating. A tear tracks Rebecca's cheek. Last night she believed Fogg guilty of hot murder and her doubt began his descent into madness. Disloyal, she calls herself, followed by just plain dense. She remembers his unexplained stammer. Fogg hasn't stammered in twenty years. Why didn't she question that sooner? My God, she was supposed to be a trained agent!
The air puffs more warmly in the salon and it rapidly heats several degrees. Fogg's shaking slows and stops. He straightens and asks Rebecca, "Where are we going?" Before Rebecca can answer, Passepartout enters with a platter of ham sandwiches and a pot of fresh coffee. Rebecca realizes they have smelled the coffee brewing for quite some time. Fogg regards the food with little interest. He looks up at his valet, "Passepartout. Why am I so s-s-strong? Am I a freak?" he asks. His face is simple. He trusts Jean to have the right answer. Apparently McLean's lies poisoned even Fogg's food.
"You no strong, Master," Jean answers the truth as he knows it. "No stronger than me. You tall, but you just normal man. You thin man. I know lots men stronger than you."
"But last night, I killed you. I k-k-killed all of you." The false memories will not let him go.
Rebecca tells him, "No, the League men drugged us, else you would not have won so easily."
"D-d-dr . . ." Fogg cannot get out the word, but Jean kneels before him and uncovers the needle mark on his thick neck. Fogg rubs the track and pulls Passepartout's head close. "My friend," he says. Fogg's fragility disturbs Passepartout. The Fogg he knows bulls through obstacles and knocks down opposition.
Verne figures Fogg's stammering will ease when the drugs dissipate. He finds it strange to hear elegant, masterful Phileas Fogg trip on his tongue. It makes him a less frightening man. As Verne chews on his own sandwich, he watches Passepartout feed one to Fogg, a small bite at a time. Passepartout is an excellent cook. The sandwiches have thick slices of meat on Jean's own bread. Spicy mustard drips out the edges. They are undoubtedly delicious. Verne thinks paper would taste about the same. Rebecca mechanically wolfs down a sandwich. She also watches Passepartout's efforts.
Food revives Fogg. He attempts to take command of his life. Wavering uncertainly he stands. Rebecca asks, "If I stay with you, will you try to sleep in your cabin?" Involuntarily Fogg's eyes widen with fear, but he nods. He knows he will soon collapse, and it is childish to be afraid of the dark. Awkwardly they climb the corkscrew stair, Rebecca going before to pull him up, Passepartout behind to prevent any falls.
Verne watches them go and determines to relieve Rebecca's watch when Passepartout takes the helm. The blue globe shakes under his hand. Seldom have they pushed Aurora so hard. Only in distance does he feel safe. He wonders if Chatsworth's agents caught McLean and the rest of his League men. Rebecca plans to holiday at Fort Augustus. From there Verne hopes to cable Whitehall to answer that question.
On the high deck Passepartout unbuttons Fogg's trousers. They fall to the floor in a heap. With care Jean slips a soft cotton gown over his master's arms. Rebecca, her back discreetly turned, lights the lamp and prepares Fogg's bed. She pulls up a chair as he lies down on the sheets. He frowns at her, "You must be exhausted."
"I will be fine, Phil. Sleep," she commands and takes his hand. They smile.
Passepartout tidies the discarded clothes and then rejoins Verne at the helm. They talk of their chosen destination, Loch Ness. Salmon fishing will be good there.
The primal thrum of Aurora's propeller soothes Fogg. He closes his eyes but does not sleep. He lets his hand slip from Rebecca's and hopes she will think he has dropped off and retire herself. After a few moments she stands. The leather girdle of her fighting outfit galls. She unties the lacings and tosses it in the wardrobe. She pulls her knit undergarment loose from her leggings and rolling it up and off, massages the marks in her sides. Fogg needs no better proof he's alive than watching his cousin. Her unbound breasts move freely as she flexes her arms and stretches. She takes a hairbrush from Fogg's ivory handled set and brushes out her hair. Her nipples tighten in the chill room. From the wardrobe Rebecca removes one of Fogg's shirts and slips it on for warmth. It smells as he does in the morning, of fresh linen and sandalwood. She feels she is held in his arms.
She glances at the bed as she thinks of her cousin and finds Fogg's eyes watching. They are dark, his expression soft with longing. He has no strength to sit up, much less love her.
Rebecca does not stop to consider. She does not hide in conventions. She chooses to lift Fogg's blanket and lie down beside him. Taking his hand, she slips it under the shirt and cups it around her breast. He strokes her gently as if she were a cat. He looks into her eyes. Their lips meet softly, quietly. This earnest of life dispels the last of Fogg's fear, and McLean's lies slink away. In the next moment Fogg sleeps.
In the observation room Passepartout naps a few hours, then relieves Verne at the helm. Verne climbs the stair thinking he will take Rebecca's place at Fogg's bedside, but finds her stretched out in his bed. He envies Fogg Rebecca's closeness. From the quiet rhythm of breathing he knows they both sleep. The Foggs do not need him tonight, and he goes to the workshop where his own bed is made. He will sleep the few hours left to sunrise.
The morning sun polishes Aurora's portholes. The end of Passepartout's watch approaches and a long sliver of dark water appears off the bow. It is Loch Ness.
Fogg wakes before Rebecca. He senses a woman beside him before he knows it is she. When he recognizes the red hair cascading across his chest, he cannot think why he should be sleeping with his cousin. Surely they had not . . .?
"Rebecca?" he asks softly. His index finger caresses her cheek. Her eyes ease open only a few inches from his. Fogg's brow lifts in question, "Dare I ask why we are sharing my bed?" His voice is normal. No stammer, no hesitation. A teasing grin bows his mouth.
Rebecca surprises him with a dazzling, giddy smile. She says nothing, but her eyes widen with intense joy. She lies so close he can smell her flesh and her hair. Sunlight picks out the feminine down on her cheek. Much longer in this posture and he will lose control . . . if he hasn't already. Abruptly Fogg sits up and immediately regrets it. His whole body aches. He seizes upon a likely explanation. "Oh, what a head!" he exclaims. "How much did I drink?"
Rebecca flies out of the bed. She seizes Fogg's robe and runs out the door. "Passepartout, Passepartout!" she calls. "Tend to your master! Jules, where are you? He's awake! He's alert!"
Passepartout enters Fogg's cabin with a pitcher of hot water and finds his master gingerly examining a bruised shoulder and bandaged right arm. "What happened?" Fogg asks his valet.
"You fight," Jean reluctantly says as he fills Fogg's washbasin. He avoids looking at his master.
"I didn't win, did I?" Fogg says and grimaces when he pulls the gown over his head. As he sponges his torso memories of Castle Banquo seep into his head, the anger, a battle and, oh God, the Queen.
"You win. You beat them all," Passepartout says as selects clothes for the day, laying out the russet leather jacket for the wilds of Loch Ness.
"I think I'll need help dressing this morning, Passepartout. If you would be so kind as to assist me."
Fogg stiffly descends the stair followed closely by Jean. The salon table sparkles with all of his finest silver, linen and crystal. Apparently they celebrate. Passepartout hurries past him to the galley. Neither Verne nor Rebecca can cook. Already smoke drifts into the salon. Chased from the galley, Rebecca join Fogg who stands at the chart table. Fogg guesses their course, "Loch Ness, eh? What is your assignment there, Cousin?"
Rebecca looks at Fogg closely. His face is open and relaxed. He gazes straight into her eyes, unblinking. Fogg convinces her he has forgotten Castle Banquo.
"I am to scout the locks at Fort Augustus for sabotage," she glibly lies. "Nothing too stressful. It should make a good holiday for us all. Would you like some coffee?"
Fogg smiles at Rebecca's retreating back. He thinks, Americans call that a poker face. Fogg feels he pulled it off rather well. He glances at Verne who stands at the helm. Verne saw Fogg's change of expression. Verne knows Fogg lies, that he has forgotten nothing at all.
Fogg invites Verne to conspire with him in love and protection. "Don't tell them," Fogg says. "We need to move on." Verne nods jerkily and answers with one word, "Certainly."
Unnoticed, Rebecca and Passeparout have returned with the coffee. Rebecca asks, "Certainly what?"
Flustered, Verne looks out the window at Loch Ness, now sliding below. A "V" in the water tracks their course. Finally, he answers, "That's certainly unusual! Look, it follows our shadow!"
They all look excitedly out the window at the legendary Loch Ness. A genuine monster to chase will do everyone good. "Passepartout!" Fogg exclaims, "can you bring us down closer?"
"Yes, master! Right away!" Jean answers. A new day begins.
FINIS
5
Author: Lona Jennings
Category: Missing Scene for Victorian Candidate
Characters: Phileas, Jules, Rebecca, Passepartout.
Rating: PG-13. Not too good at deciding ratings. Phileas/Rebecca interaction. M/F foreplay activity.
Archive: DO NOT ARCHIVE or otherwise display on any Web page without author's express permission. Do not forward to any other news group or mailing list. May be redistributed to individual readers as long as Lona Jennings is acknowledged as author and nothing of value is exchanged.
Acknowledgements: This was beta'd by an Evil Monk, so who knows what you will find herein? Thanks Ephian. And thanks for posting this for me while I'm gone on vacation.
Spoilers: Big time spoilers for Victorian Candidate
Summary: Phileas slowly recovers aboard the Aurora after near annihilation at Balmoral.
Author's notes: This is my first episode-related fanfic and was written pretty fast (for me).
Comments may be sent to lonaj@nwlink.com
The Aurora runs north-northwest to the Scottish highlands, fleeing Balmoral and Castle Banquo at her best speed. Her legs stretch. She makes good time. The hum of her motor vibrates the hull. Verne has the helm. Both Rebecca and Passepartout tend to Fogg who sits at the great table in the salon. Fogg is stripped to the waist. A blood-speckled white shirt is tossed on a chair, black suspenders hang loose from his waistband. His head lolls on his cousin Rebecca's breast and his breath comes in shallow gasps. Passepartout lifts a sponge from a basin of medicated water and strokes a long sword cut on Fogg's right arm. Camphor vapors make the salon smell of hospital. In lamplight Passepartout's bloody water looks near black.
Rebecca runs her fingers through Fogg's soft brush of hair. It was she who carved him last night as he threatened Passepartout. She kisses his forehead in apology and tastes the salt of his sweat. There is a bruise with three black punctures on Fogg's left shoulder where Passepartout's chain mace contacted. It does not bleed, but Passepartout sponges it in sorrow.
No dignity hangs on Fogg now. His heart was dead an hour ago, no, now it's two, and its beating still amazes him. The pain in his arms seems more real. Fogg cannot lift either arm more than a few inches. He is helpless but refuses to leave the salon. His fear of solitude and sleep overcomes the awkwardness of being disrobed. When they launched from Balmoral, Fogg told Rebecca, "I want to be with you. I'm not tired." The truth is darker. If his eyes flicker in fatigue, he panics. He must see and touch her and the others to remember clearly they're alive and not dead.
Jules Verne restlessly paces his helm station. He questions the strength of his morals. Yesterday he would have sworn that no one, much less Count Gregory, could turn him against Fogg. In his naivete Verne tells himself even McLean's drugged vapors would not turn a true friend. But last night Verne judged Fogg a monster and would have shot him. The memory tastes bitter as he watches Fogg turn his head restlessly into Rebecca's shoulder.
Despite Fogg's best efforts, his eyes close in sleep. In ignorance his friends and cousin think this is a good thing, and Rebecca stands quietly not to disturb him. Fogg dreams of last night's fight. The burning rage lashes through him again. Helmeted League men waver in lamplight. His dream self brings a sword down hard on Rebecca and he wakes screaming a long wavering wolf howl of "No-o-o-o!" All three, Rebecca, Jules and Passepartout hold him down. He is too weak to fight. "Don't let me sleep. I can't sleep. They will make me kill you again," he tells them. He is in terror. He breathes hard.
Rebecca tells Passepartout to fetch Fogg's robe. Happy for something to do, Jean vibrates the spiral stair as he runs quickly up and down. He lightly drapes the gown over Fogg's bare shoulders and touches chill skin with the back of his hand. He tells Rebecca, "He icicle. I go adjust heating."
An ague shudders Fogg. His forehead on Rebecca's shoulder is both cold and sweating. A tear tracks Rebecca's cheek. Last night she believed Fogg guilty of hot murder and her doubt began his descent into madness. Disloyal, she calls herself, followed by just plain dense. She remembers his unexplained stammer. Fogg hasn't stammered in twenty years. Why didn't she question that sooner? My God, she was supposed to be a trained agent!
The air puffs more warmly in the salon and it rapidly heats several degrees. Fogg's shaking slows and stops. He straightens and asks Rebecca, "Where are we going?" Before Rebecca can answer, Passepartout enters with a platter of ham sandwiches and a pot of fresh coffee. Rebecca realizes they have smelled the coffee brewing for quite some time. Fogg regards the food with little interest. He looks up at his valet, "Passepartout. Why am I so s-s-strong? Am I a freak?" he asks. His face is simple. He trusts Jean to have the right answer. Apparently McLean's lies poisoned even Fogg's food.
"You no strong, Master," Jean answers the truth as he knows it. "No stronger than me. You tall, but you just normal man. You thin man. I know lots men stronger than you."
"But last night, I killed you. I k-k-killed all of you." The false memories will not let him go.
Rebecca tells him, "No, the League men drugged us, else you would not have won so easily."
"D-d-dr . . ." Fogg cannot get out the word, but Jean kneels before him and uncovers the needle mark on his thick neck. Fogg rubs the track and pulls Passepartout's head close. "My friend," he says. Fogg's fragility disturbs Passepartout. The Fogg he knows bulls through obstacles and knocks down opposition.
Verne figures Fogg's stammering will ease when the drugs dissipate. He finds it strange to hear elegant, masterful Phileas Fogg trip on his tongue. It makes him a less frightening man. As Verne chews on his own sandwich, he watches Passepartout feed one to Fogg, a small bite at a time. Passepartout is an excellent cook. The sandwiches have thick slices of meat on Jean's own bread. Spicy mustard drips out the edges. They are undoubtedly delicious. Verne thinks paper would taste about the same. Rebecca mechanically wolfs down a sandwich. She also watches Passepartout's efforts.
Food revives Fogg. He attempts to take command of his life. Wavering uncertainly he stands. Rebecca asks, "If I stay with you, will you try to sleep in your cabin?" Involuntarily Fogg's eyes widen with fear, but he nods. He knows he will soon collapse, and it is childish to be afraid of the dark. Awkwardly they climb the corkscrew stair, Rebecca going before to pull him up, Passepartout behind to prevent any falls.
Verne watches them go and determines to relieve Rebecca's watch when Passepartout takes the helm. The blue globe shakes under his hand. Seldom have they pushed Aurora so hard. Only in distance does he feel safe. He wonders if Chatsworth's agents caught McLean and the rest of his League men. Rebecca plans to holiday at Fort Augustus. From there Verne hopes to cable Whitehall to answer that question.
On the high deck Passepartout unbuttons Fogg's trousers. They fall to the floor in a heap. With care Jean slips a soft cotton gown over his master's arms. Rebecca, her back discreetly turned, lights the lamp and prepares Fogg's bed. She pulls up a chair as he lies down on the sheets. He frowns at her, "You must be exhausted."
"I will be fine, Phil. Sleep," she commands and takes his hand. They smile.
Passepartout tidies the discarded clothes and then rejoins Verne at the helm. They talk of their chosen destination, Loch Ness. Salmon fishing will be good there.
The primal thrum of Aurora's propeller soothes Fogg. He closes his eyes but does not sleep. He lets his hand slip from Rebecca's and hopes she will think he has dropped off and retire herself. After a few moments she stands. The leather girdle of her fighting outfit galls. She unties the lacings and tosses it in the wardrobe. She pulls her knit undergarment loose from her leggings and rolling it up and off, massages the marks in her sides. Fogg needs no better proof he's alive than watching his cousin. Her unbound breasts move freely as she flexes her arms and stretches. She takes a hairbrush from Fogg's ivory handled set and brushes out her hair. Her nipples tighten in the chill room. From the wardrobe Rebecca removes one of Fogg's shirts and slips it on for warmth. It smells as he does in the morning, of fresh linen and sandalwood. She feels she is held in his arms.
She glances at the bed as she thinks of her cousin and finds Fogg's eyes watching. They are dark, his expression soft with longing. He has no strength to sit up, much less love her.
Rebecca does not stop to consider. She does not hide in conventions. She chooses to lift Fogg's blanket and lie down beside him. Taking his hand, she slips it under the shirt and cups it around her breast. He strokes her gently as if she were a cat. He looks into her eyes. Their lips meet softly, quietly. This earnest of life dispels the last of Fogg's fear, and McLean's lies slink away. In the next moment Fogg sleeps.
In the observation room Passepartout naps a few hours, then relieves Verne at the helm. Verne climbs the stair thinking he will take Rebecca's place at Fogg's bedside, but finds her stretched out in his bed. He envies Fogg Rebecca's closeness. From the quiet rhythm of breathing he knows they both sleep. The Foggs do not need him tonight, and he goes to the workshop where his own bed is made. He will sleep the few hours left to sunrise.
The morning sun polishes Aurora's portholes. The end of Passepartout's watch approaches and a long sliver of dark water appears off the bow. It is Loch Ness.
Fogg wakes before Rebecca. He senses a woman beside him before he knows it is she. When he recognizes the red hair cascading across his chest, he cannot think why he should be sleeping with his cousin. Surely they had not . . .?
"Rebecca?" he asks softly. His index finger caresses her cheek. Her eyes ease open only a few inches from his. Fogg's brow lifts in question, "Dare I ask why we are sharing my bed?" His voice is normal. No stammer, no hesitation. A teasing grin bows his mouth.
Rebecca surprises him with a dazzling, giddy smile. She says nothing, but her eyes widen with intense joy. She lies so close he can smell her flesh and her hair. Sunlight picks out the feminine down on her cheek. Much longer in this posture and he will lose control . . . if he hasn't already. Abruptly Fogg sits up and immediately regrets it. His whole body aches. He seizes upon a likely explanation. "Oh, what a head!" he exclaims. "How much did I drink?"
Rebecca flies out of the bed. She seizes Fogg's robe and runs out the door. "Passepartout, Passepartout!" she calls. "Tend to your master! Jules, where are you? He's awake! He's alert!"
Passepartout enters Fogg's cabin with a pitcher of hot water and finds his master gingerly examining a bruised shoulder and bandaged right arm. "What happened?" Fogg asks his valet.
"You fight," Jean reluctantly says as he fills Fogg's washbasin. He avoids looking at his master.
"I didn't win, did I?" Fogg says and grimaces when he pulls the gown over his head. As he sponges his torso memories of Castle Banquo seep into his head, the anger, a battle and, oh God, the Queen.
"You win. You beat them all," Passepartout says as selects clothes for the day, laying out the russet leather jacket for the wilds of Loch Ness.
"I think I'll need help dressing this morning, Passepartout. If you would be so kind as to assist me."
Fogg stiffly descends the stair followed closely by Jean. The salon table sparkles with all of his finest silver, linen and crystal. Apparently they celebrate. Passepartout hurries past him to the galley. Neither Verne nor Rebecca can cook. Already smoke drifts into the salon. Chased from the galley, Rebecca join Fogg who stands at the chart table. Fogg guesses their course, "Loch Ness, eh? What is your assignment there, Cousin?"
Rebecca looks at Fogg closely. His face is open and relaxed. He gazes straight into her eyes, unblinking. Fogg convinces her he has forgotten Castle Banquo.
"I am to scout the locks at Fort Augustus for sabotage," she glibly lies. "Nothing too stressful. It should make a good holiday for us all. Would you like some coffee?"
Fogg smiles at Rebecca's retreating back. He thinks, Americans call that a poker face. Fogg feels he pulled it off rather well. He glances at Verne who stands at the helm. Verne saw Fogg's change of expression. Verne knows Fogg lies, that he has forgotten nothing at all.
Fogg invites Verne to conspire with him in love and protection. "Don't tell them," Fogg says. "We need to move on." Verne nods jerkily and answers with one word, "Certainly."
Unnoticed, Rebecca and Passeparout have returned with the coffee. Rebecca asks, "Certainly what?"
Flustered, Verne looks out the window at Loch Ness, now sliding below. A "V" in the water tracks their course. Finally, he answers, "That's certainly unusual! Look, it follows our shadow!"
They all look excitedly out the window at the legendary Loch Ness. A genuine monster to chase will do everyone good. "Passepartout!" Fogg exclaims, "can you bring us down closer?"
"Yes, master! Right away!" Jean answers. A new day begins.
FINIS
5