TITLE: Half a Decanter
AUTHOR: Mara Greengrass
AUTHOR'S EMAIL: fishfolk@ix.netcom.com
PERMISSION TO ARCHIVE: Sure.
CATEGORY: Gen, drama, angst
RATINGS/WARNINGS: PG -13 or maybe even R for disturbing thoughts and a weapon or two.
MAIN CHARACTER(S): Phileas, Jules, anonymous baddies
SUMMARY: Phileas and alcohol are getting *much* too cozy.
DISCLAIMER: To quote another fanfic writer: I own not. You sue not. Well, I suppose the thugs belong to me, but really, who would want them?
NOTES/DEDICATION: I'm a teetotaler, so I don't know much about alcoholism, but I know about what might drive you to it. This story is for my husband, Avi, who doesn't quite understand my fic addiction but loves me anyway. If I have the courage to post this, it's only because of him, Dr. Joanne Carpenter, and Dr. Vicente Figueroa. Thanks also to beta readers Ellen Klomps and Monique Zastrow. Huge epic thanks to Aspen, whose comments made this a *much* better story. Special thanks to her for a few suggested lines that I stole wholesale because I couldn't improve on them.
***************************************************************
That glass was full a few moments ago. Oh well, there's always more in the decanter, thanks to Passepartout. Although he seemed remarkably reluctant to refill it this evening. What is this world coming to anyway, valets suggesting tea instead of whiskey? Whiskey's the only enjoyment left these days, why bother with tea?
It was close this time. Too damn close. I should never have let Rebecca agree to this job. Making her into bait again? I will have to speak with Chatsworth about this, a conversation involving sharp objects and...the glass is empty again.
If the assailant had been slightly closer or a fraction more skilled, Rebecca would be dead. And it would be my fault for not spotting the man with the gun in time. Perhaps, I should have taken this job myself rather than let Rebecca do it. Wait, I don't work for them anymore. Right. Must remember that fact. Fill the glass.
Too slow. Too damnably slow. Even getting out of bed takes too much effort these days. I wouldn't have even been there if Rebecca hadn't asked. She asked for my help and I failed her.
The decanter looks a good deal emptier than when Passepartout put it there, muttering something. Valets, even valued valets, muttering. Hmmph. Where did all the whiskey go? Maybe Verne helped drink it.
::Phileas peered around the room looking for the playwright.::
Right, Verne is off carousing with his fellow students. Rebecca went off to the theatre with some other man as if nothing had happened. Even Passepartout has disappeared to his lab. Well, that leaves me to work on the whiskey without interference.
Can't even do the easy jobs anymore, like watching your cousin's back, can you? Pretty soon you'll need help crossing the street safely.
The street. Outside. Fresh air. What a splendid idea.
::Phileas stood up, waiting until the world caught up with his head. Taking up his stick, he made his way towards the exit, much less gracefully than he believed. Standing outside, the cool air gave him the illusion of sobriety.::
One mistake. One mistake on my part is going to get someone killed. Damn, think of something else. Anything else.
::Phileas meandered down the street, saved from staggering only by superbly trained reflexes and months of practice.::
I've done nothing but make mistakes for months now. Misjudging Verne, getting dragged through time, fooled by so many villains I've lost count. I can't continue to depend on the situation being salvaged by pure luck.
What would happen if...what the hell was that?
::The noise came from somewhere up ahead, and it sounded suspiciously like a shout. A sober Phileas Fogg would have moved cautiously.::
Damn, can't a man even brood around here without being interrupted?
"Leave that man alone."
::If Phileas was surprised at the words coming out of his mouth, the two thugs were even more astonished by the sight and sound of a soused Phileas Fogg in high dudgeon. They were so surprised they actually loosened their grip on the man in question. Being only foolish enough to get caught, he took off into the night.::
Didn't even thank me. Typical. Oh look, a gun. That should probably concern me, shouldn't it? Hmm, left my gun on the Aurora. Oh well, had to happen some time.
Why are those idiots just standing there? Can't they just get on with it?
"You know I've half a decanter left, if you're not going to kill me."
I used to be afraid at times like this. I remember. The fear was my friend, washing the pain away and leaving something I understand behind. I understand the rush that comes with danger. But how do you deal with pain that eats away at you from the inside? Alcohol's the only other thing that works.
"To play this game...you must not care a jot about death."
::Phileas smiled slightly at the memory and strolled toward them. Backing up, the thugs exchanged worried glances. If he was this confident, they must be missing something.::
"Well, get on with it. Go on and kill me. It's about time."
Really, where do they find criminals these days, they can't manage the simplest task. I suppose I could just take the gun away, but it seems like too much trouble.
::Phileas leaned heavily on his stick, contemplating the two men, and the gun hesitantly pointed in his direction. All three ignored the sounds from the nearby street, until they heard the voice.::
"Drop the gun."
::Three heads turned, but only one recognized the voice.::
No, not now, why now? Why the hell couldn't he have waited a few more minutes? Damn him for an interfering idiot.
"I said, drop the gun."
::The thugs took another astonished look at the young man pointing a gun in their direction and dropped their assorted weapons and backed quickly away. Apparently the drunk man did have a back-up plan, and they didn't want to know what the strange weapon currently pointed at them would do.::
"Fogg? What do I do now?"
What? Oh, them. "Let them go, Verne, they're not from the League." So close this time, nobody else in danger, no mission at stake, it would have been easy. Damn.
"Can you walk?"
He looks so solicitous, always so damn solicitous. I'm sick of it, sick of all of them. They always want something from me and now there's nothing left.
"I'm sorry I interfered with whatever you had planned, but when I saw the gun, I was worried."
What I had planned? I was going to, oh, he means my plan to disarm them. I can hardly tell him I didn't intend to.
"Where the *hell* did you get a gun, Verne?"
"Gun? Oh, this, it's not a gun, it's my cigarette case. It's so dark, I thought they wouldn't notice."
Wouldn't notice? The fool faced down two thugs with a cigarette case?
"What were you thinking? You could have been killed!"
"I thought a distraction might help, Fogg, I couldn't let them shoot you."
"What do you think I was trying to do? Who the hell asked you to interfere? I was doing just fine."
"I was only trying to help."
"Well, the next time, don't!"
I didn't mean to say that, how can I go back in time and take it all back? Whiskey loosens my tongue, that's the look I never wanted to see, disappointment, disillusionment. He's so young. So naïve.
"I don't understand."
Got to get out of here, I can't face him now.
"Fogg, come back. If I leave you here, Rebecca will kill me!"
That's almost a good argument. Not good enough.
"Fogg, stop. Whatever is wrong, we can fix it. We can fix anything."
No. Not anything. Not my mind.
"Fogg. Fogg. Phileas!"
::Phileas paused.::
"Where are you going?"
"I don't know." I've lost my chance, lost my nerve. I just need to rest.
"Come back to the Aurora. Please."
::Exhausted, Phileas sagged against his stick and Jules was there to catch him.::
"Leave me alone."
"No, no I can't."
"Verne..." I can't be bothered to argue now. I can start drinking again in the morning. Let the world take care of itself.
AUTHOR: Mara Greengrass
AUTHOR'S EMAIL: fishfolk@ix.netcom.com
PERMISSION TO ARCHIVE: Sure.
CATEGORY: Gen, drama, angst
RATINGS/WARNINGS: PG -13 or maybe even R for disturbing thoughts and a weapon or two.
MAIN CHARACTER(S): Phileas, Jules, anonymous baddies
SUMMARY: Phileas and alcohol are getting *much* too cozy.
DISCLAIMER: To quote another fanfic writer: I own not. You sue not. Well, I suppose the thugs belong to me, but really, who would want them?
NOTES/DEDICATION: I'm a teetotaler, so I don't know much about alcoholism, but I know about what might drive you to it. This story is for my husband, Avi, who doesn't quite understand my fic addiction but loves me anyway. If I have the courage to post this, it's only because of him, Dr. Joanne Carpenter, and Dr. Vicente Figueroa. Thanks also to beta readers Ellen Klomps and Monique Zastrow. Huge epic thanks to Aspen, whose comments made this a *much* better story. Special thanks to her for a few suggested lines that I stole wholesale because I couldn't improve on them.
***************************************************************
That glass was full a few moments ago. Oh well, there's always more in the decanter, thanks to Passepartout. Although he seemed remarkably reluctant to refill it this evening. What is this world coming to anyway, valets suggesting tea instead of whiskey? Whiskey's the only enjoyment left these days, why bother with tea?
It was close this time. Too damn close. I should never have let Rebecca agree to this job. Making her into bait again? I will have to speak with Chatsworth about this, a conversation involving sharp objects and...the glass is empty again.
If the assailant had been slightly closer or a fraction more skilled, Rebecca would be dead. And it would be my fault for not spotting the man with the gun in time. Perhaps, I should have taken this job myself rather than let Rebecca do it. Wait, I don't work for them anymore. Right. Must remember that fact. Fill the glass.
Too slow. Too damnably slow. Even getting out of bed takes too much effort these days. I wouldn't have even been there if Rebecca hadn't asked. She asked for my help and I failed her.
The decanter looks a good deal emptier than when Passepartout put it there, muttering something. Valets, even valued valets, muttering. Hmmph. Where did all the whiskey go? Maybe Verne helped drink it.
::Phileas peered around the room looking for the playwright.::
Right, Verne is off carousing with his fellow students. Rebecca went off to the theatre with some other man as if nothing had happened. Even Passepartout has disappeared to his lab. Well, that leaves me to work on the whiskey without interference.
Can't even do the easy jobs anymore, like watching your cousin's back, can you? Pretty soon you'll need help crossing the street safely.
The street. Outside. Fresh air. What a splendid idea.
::Phileas stood up, waiting until the world caught up with his head. Taking up his stick, he made his way towards the exit, much less gracefully than he believed. Standing outside, the cool air gave him the illusion of sobriety.::
One mistake. One mistake on my part is going to get someone killed. Damn, think of something else. Anything else.
::Phileas meandered down the street, saved from staggering only by superbly trained reflexes and months of practice.::
I've done nothing but make mistakes for months now. Misjudging Verne, getting dragged through time, fooled by so many villains I've lost count. I can't continue to depend on the situation being salvaged by pure luck.
What would happen if...what the hell was that?
::The noise came from somewhere up ahead, and it sounded suspiciously like a shout. A sober Phileas Fogg would have moved cautiously.::
Damn, can't a man even brood around here without being interrupted?
"Leave that man alone."
::If Phileas was surprised at the words coming out of his mouth, the two thugs were even more astonished by the sight and sound of a soused Phileas Fogg in high dudgeon. They were so surprised they actually loosened their grip on the man in question. Being only foolish enough to get caught, he took off into the night.::
Didn't even thank me. Typical. Oh look, a gun. That should probably concern me, shouldn't it? Hmm, left my gun on the Aurora. Oh well, had to happen some time.
Why are those idiots just standing there? Can't they just get on with it?
"You know I've half a decanter left, if you're not going to kill me."
I used to be afraid at times like this. I remember. The fear was my friend, washing the pain away and leaving something I understand behind. I understand the rush that comes with danger. But how do you deal with pain that eats away at you from the inside? Alcohol's the only other thing that works.
"To play this game...you must not care a jot about death."
::Phileas smiled slightly at the memory and strolled toward them. Backing up, the thugs exchanged worried glances. If he was this confident, they must be missing something.::
"Well, get on with it. Go on and kill me. It's about time."
Really, where do they find criminals these days, they can't manage the simplest task. I suppose I could just take the gun away, but it seems like too much trouble.
::Phileas leaned heavily on his stick, contemplating the two men, and the gun hesitantly pointed in his direction. All three ignored the sounds from the nearby street, until they heard the voice.::
"Drop the gun."
::Three heads turned, but only one recognized the voice.::
No, not now, why now? Why the hell couldn't he have waited a few more minutes? Damn him for an interfering idiot.
"I said, drop the gun."
::The thugs took another astonished look at the young man pointing a gun in their direction and dropped their assorted weapons and backed quickly away. Apparently the drunk man did have a back-up plan, and they didn't want to know what the strange weapon currently pointed at them would do.::
"Fogg? What do I do now?"
What? Oh, them. "Let them go, Verne, they're not from the League." So close this time, nobody else in danger, no mission at stake, it would have been easy. Damn.
"Can you walk?"
He looks so solicitous, always so damn solicitous. I'm sick of it, sick of all of them. They always want something from me and now there's nothing left.
"I'm sorry I interfered with whatever you had planned, but when I saw the gun, I was worried."
What I had planned? I was going to, oh, he means my plan to disarm them. I can hardly tell him I didn't intend to.
"Where the *hell* did you get a gun, Verne?"
"Gun? Oh, this, it's not a gun, it's my cigarette case. It's so dark, I thought they wouldn't notice."
Wouldn't notice? The fool faced down two thugs with a cigarette case?
"What were you thinking? You could have been killed!"
"I thought a distraction might help, Fogg, I couldn't let them shoot you."
"What do you think I was trying to do? Who the hell asked you to interfere? I was doing just fine."
"I was only trying to help."
"Well, the next time, don't!"
I didn't mean to say that, how can I go back in time and take it all back? Whiskey loosens my tongue, that's the look I never wanted to see, disappointment, disillusionment. He's so young. So naïve.
"I don't understand."
Got to get out of here, I can't face him now.
"Fogg, come back. If I leave you here, Rebecca will kill me!"
That's almost a good argument. Not good enough.
"Fogg, stop. Whatever is wrong, we can fix it. We can fix anything."
No. Not anything. Not my mind.
"Fogg. Fogg. Phileas!"
::Phileas paused.::
"Where are you going?"
"I don't know." I've lost my chance, lost my nerve. I just need to rest.
"Come back to the Aurora. Please."
::Exhausted, Phileas sagged against his stick and Jules was there to catch him.::
"Leave me alone."
"No, no I can't."
"Verne..." I can't be bothered to argue now. I can start drinking again in the morning. Let the world take care of itself.