The end is in sight!...no, really, it is! Look, it's the last part (and the longest one, I think). ;-) Seriously, sorry it's taken me so long to finish this (yeah, I'm sure you're all in an agony of suspense *rolls eyes*), but Life, the Universe, and Everything is determined that I should pay more attention to it (and to other writing projects I have...like research papers, and fanfiction with real deadlines and everything) than these particular writing tendencies. *sigh* Anyway, I've had a devil of a time coming up with an ending I even remotely liked...somehow, it's actually much easier to use the material already given you than make up your own. Wonder why that is. *snort* In any case, you could show your appreciation for all of my efforts and hard work by writing a little review...*wink*
Part Six: Resolutions...?
Fogg watched his cousin disappear from the underground laboratory with the duke, and could do nothing. This helpless feeling had come over him many times before, not always in his Service career (he remembered watching Rebecca and Erasmus dangling from a tree in the orchard, clenching his hands and his teeth against moving or speaking), and he still found it the most galling, frustrating experience of his life. Throughout this entire mission he'd been feeling particularly helpless and out of control of the situation. And now here he was, stuck in a cavern with a boy angry at him and hundreds of vampires about to wake up.
It was enough to make a gentleman swear.
"Come on, Verne," Fogg grabbed the student's forearm with little ceremony, pulling him into the darkest corner he could find of the echoing cavern. At least the vampires liked dim lighting. If they could just manage not to be noticed by these vile creatures, perhaps they could slip out when the vile creatures were otherwise occupied. As plans went, it was abominable, but there really wasn't much else Phileas could do; he had to get Rebecca back somehow. He glanced at Jules and saw a set look on the young man's face—and this somehow made him feel a little better. He could count on the little Frenchman to back him up, at least until this entire ugly mess was over.
"Look around," Fogg mouthed to his companion, barely giving the words any sound. "See what you can find." The writer nodded and melted further into the corner, down a previously unseen short corridor into another part of the cavern. Fogg was impressed by the lad's skill in obliterating himself from view. An instant later, Verne reappeared and tugged at Fogg's coat sleeve excitedly. Fogg allowed this indignity and followed the younger man.
He pointed triumphantly at the neat piles of cloaks, top hats, and strange boots with gadgets on the sides—those must be what made the vampires fly. The exact things that set of vampires mere feet away from them were wearing, in fact. The smirk on Verne's face was possibly bigger than the one he'd worn before his Opening Night not all that long ago. However, Fogg couldn't find it in him to put the boy down this time.
"Fantastic," he whispered to Jules, quickly picking up the nearest sartorial accessories and putting them on over his clothes. Thankfully the cloak was so voluminous it covered his own, now quite grimy, clothes. Verne immediately followed his lead and looked utterly absurd in the top hat. Again, Fogg magnanimously decided against mentioning this.
He was about to slide back into the main part of the cavern, to join the vampires and attempt to act like he belonged there, when Verne again pulled at his arm. Phileas turned back to the younger man impatiently. Couldn't the blighted fool see how important it was to hurry? Before anything happened to Rebecca? Before that damnable duke could go through with his plans?
Verne held something up, dangling it in his hand as if he were attempting to entice Phileas with it. Fogg squinted in the extremely dim light and abruptly realized it was the piece of the duke's statue that the writer had taken. He looked into Verne's face, and the student gave him a long, meaningful look. A slow, calculating smile crossed the Englishman's visage, and he nodded understandingly. Jules nodded back, the look of cold ruthlessness on his face oddly mirroring Fogg's arrogantly determined expression. Phileas gave the younger man another long, considering look. What had he done to this boy?
He didn't have time to dwell on that particular matter. When they peeked back into the main cavern, they found the vampires all up and moving into positions to form two long, rigid lines. The two men didn't even have to look at each other to smoothly join the undead creatures, standing next to each other in formation. Fogg could practically feel the tension quivering through the Frenchman's body standing stiffly next to him. He wasn't sure he was in much better control of himself, come to think of it.
A few minutes later, apparently at some unseen and unheard signal, the lines of vampires started marching. Fogg and Verne followed suit, weaving their way out of the cavern and eventually out into the front courtyard of the menacing old castle. As the many boots clacked across the stones, the two still living humans broke away from the rest. Verne ducked under the duke's carriage, the device from Rimini's statue in his deft hands being connected to the underside of the carriage. Fogg crouched down beside him, darting looks everywhere and occasionally glancing back down without comprehension to check on what the writer was doing.
"I've set the timer for 30 minutes," Jules told him in a whisper. "That should deflect them from where they're going." The sonic device would lead the army of vampires to the duke's carriage, wherever it may be, rather than to any of the capital cities the vampires were supposed to attack. Fogg had to admit he probably wouldn't have thought to have done that himself, nor would he have known how to do it in the first place, though Passepartout might have been able to, were he with Fogg in Verne's place. Fogg only hoped his manservant had made it to the Aurora--though he did wish he knew where the devil the Aurora and his manservant had gotten to.
Fogg watched the writer with unexpected talents fiddle and practically jumped out of his skin when he heard a distant voice call out from the doors of the castle, "Bring the carriage to the entrance!"
He looked around, saw the coachman and footman jogging toward them, and breathed out, "Oh no." The gentleman glanced down at Verne again and strangled out, "Come on, Verne, for God's sake, hurry up."
Verne ignored him, finishing his work before they both dodged away from the carriage and hid behind a wall as the carriage now trundled up to the main entrance. Both men watched for what would happen next, while Jules put his top hat back on with a bit of difficulty (Fogg refrained from telling the writer he really needn't bother). Rebecca and the duke regally descended the staircase behind an entourage of soldiers and climbed aboard the carriage.
Rebecca. Not this, on top of everything else that had happened so far--this was the worst mission Phileas had ever been on, even if he wasn't technically on this one (and he wasn't about to admit that that was a largish part of his problem with this mission), and when and if he ever got back to London, he would personally slug Chatsworth a couple more times for sending them all into this hellish--
Phileas started forward, an instinctual move, and was surprised to find himself pulled back by Jules's firm hold. "Wait! What are you doing don't be ridiculous!" The boy didn't even pause between the sentences; he'd apparently learned to spit everything out quickly around the quick-witted and quick-footed Fogg; he didn't even wait to listen when Fogg gently said his name. "There's no way we can take them all on!"
"Listen to me, Verne." Fogg wasn't going to make the mistake again of not explaining. If he explained things, Jules might listen and might help rather than fight him. And he admitted, if only to himself, that he needed help. "We have to do something. If we don't get her out of that carriage, she is going to die."
There was a loud sound, the clop clop of horse hooves; Fogg and Verne looked up and silently watched the carriage depart. Fogg lowered his head, numb. He had failed his cousin. He didn't even have his father or Chatsworth or anyone else to blame for this death; he had only himself. He had failed.
And then Jules suddenly almost yelled in excitement, pulling at the Englishman's cloak once more. It was becoming quite an irritating habit of the young man's. "Fogg Fogg Fogg! The Aurora!" He was pointing upward at a dark shape whirring in flight above them.
"Excellent." The word was heartfelt. Fogg felt like he could breathe once again. There was hope after all. The Aurora was faster than any horse-drawn carriage, after all; he could easily catch up with it, rescue Rebecca, and still give the duke the fate he deserved. "Follow me, Verne. Come on."
Both strode out to the center of the courtyard, looking around furtively, even though the area was now completely and eerily deserted. Fogg turned back to his companion. "Verne, d'you have any idea how these rockets work?"
Verne looked down reflexively at his feet. "I believe you put your ankle electrodes together," he answered after a moment's thought, a frown of concentration on his face.
"Shall we?"
Verne nodded; they clicked their heels together and were abruptly lifted into the air. Fogg found the uncontrolled movement disorienting, but judging from the grin on Verne's face he was inordinately pleased with the cold and fast flight. They ascended onto the top of the Aurora and crawled into the top floor. Fogg held up a hand to silence Jules before the younger man could make any enthusiastic comments; the Englishman could hear voices below. Jules watched Fogg, waiting for the older man to tell him what to do--Fogg was gratified and relieved, hoping this current strain of obedience might mean that Verne would at last stop mistrusting his motives. But this was still not the time to worry about that. He led the way downstairs and found Passepartout being threatened by that damned, insufferable, giggling little ass of an innkeeper.
Fogg was not amused.
"Unhand," he said, his temper finally fraying completely with the strain it had been under for many weeks, "my valet."
***
Verne heard the anger in Fogg's voice and thoroughly agreed with it. After everything that had happened in the past--day? Two days? Time lost its meaning completely in these situations, as he was to his resignation finding out--he was thoroughly sick of this damned situation, this damned country, and these damned people. He wanted an end.
He marched over to the side of the room and slid the sword out of its holder, the stinging sound of the metal sending an unpleasant shiver of memory down his back. But he was utterly determined. They were going to put an end to this, once and for all. No more. He turned and held the sword out to the Englishman in an almost ceremonial gesture. "Fogg?" he asked, the word almost as clipped as Fogg would have made it.
"Thank you, Verne," Fogg's voice was hoarse; Verne was almost completely out of Fogg's thoughts, the Frenchman knew, but at this moment he didn't resent that feeling of insignificance. How dare anyone defile the Aurora like this? And how dare they hurt Passepartout? "Go and find something long, wooden, and pointed, would you." Jules nodded, starting away, but he heard Fogg continue as he left, "Passepartout...would you be so kind as to open the doors? Our grotesquely enameled brethren...are leaving."
Passepartout gladly obeyed his master's orders, and Jules came back with a couple sharpened pieces of wood Passepartout had had lying around in the lab for some obscure reason fathomable only to himself. Verne handed the pieces to Fogg, who then handed one to Passepartout--and they both, with silent agreement, each chose one vampire to stab in the heart with the stake. Jules turned away, sickened. The look on Passepartout's face was cold and determined, his clownish mask once again slipping completely away. Fogg had just as determined a look on his face...but he actually appeared slightly regretful--no, not regretful, but there was some distance in his face that showed he didn't actually enjoy this task, only did it because it must be done. Jules didn't know how to take that. He didn't know how to take anything anymore. The sudden and almost anti-climactic resolution to this particular crisis, if not to the entire adventure, suddenly made Jules feel very tired, all the adrenaline leaching out of his body and leaving him weak-kneed. But he still didn't have time to consider anything, not yet. There were still things that needed to be done. There was still Rebecca to save.
The two the others had staked had disappeared instantly in a fine cloud of dust. All three pushed the rest of the vampires out of the doors that Passepartout had opened. After that, Fogg was calling for Passepartout to guide the ship after the carriage, hurrying the valet and Jules along with frantic impatience. They found the carriage quickly, and Fogg was lowered out of the Aurora. Jules watched over the side of the ship, his brain momentarily blessedly numbed, and saw Rebecca join Fogg on the little wooden platform after an oddly lengthy pause. He turned around a minute later to watch Passepartout raise the cousins up to the ship and watched silently as they both stepped onto the Aurora proper. He wanted to ask Rebecca how she felt, wanted to throw every swearword he could think of--both English and French--at Fogg, more out of pure reaction than anything else, wanted to tell Passepartout to send him right back to Paris...but he didn't say anything. He couldn't say anything.
No-one else spoke either. There seemed to be something curious in the atmosphere that constricted speech. Jules walked forward; he wasn't quite sure why, but he had an insane and completely out-of-line urge to take Rebecca's hand in his own. She swept past him to the observation window, staring outside blindly. Jules turned to her back sadly and in confusion, remembering certain things she'd said earlier in the castle, before they'd been separated. Perhaps she really had cared for this Rimini, incredible as it seemed to Jules's sometimes remarkably straightforward mind.
Passepartout went back to the airship controls, and Fogg slowly joined him, standing opposite Jules. At last he whispered, "Verne," and gestured with his head to Rebecca, an almost pleading look in his eyes. Verne shut his eyes briefly--had he any right to speak up?--but he stepped forward.
"I never had a chance to tell you...Rebecca, what a wonderful performance you gave in my play." She nodded, smiled, but refused to meet his eye, and kept fidgeting, one finger relentlessly poking into the palm of her other hand. She was intent on the action; he recognized that it was her way of holding back some great emotion. He thinned his lips, nodded once sadly to himself, confirming that indeed he had no right to interfere, and turned away.
He paused when he would have walked completely away, and watched Fogg replace him, standing close behind Rebecca and whispering gently to her. He saw the hand Fogg raised to Rebecca's shoulder, saw the arrested movement at the cold tone in Rebecca's voice that told the Englishman she did not want his sympathy or pity, the door slammed in her cousin's face, and listened as Fogg raised his head and dropped the hand, holding back some emotion of his own while saying, "Passepartout? Will you set a course for home?"
"With the greatest of pleasure, Master," Passepartout replied sadly.
Jules frowned to himself as he walked slowly to the other end of the room, sitting down on the small but comfortable couch he found there. It was over. It was really over. Now, how could he delicately suggest that he wanted to go back to his home?
* * *
The sunrise the next morning was glorious, especially when viewed from the deck of the Aurora.
Jules stood outside, despite the cold wind that threatened to sever his head from his body, drinking in the oranges and reds and pinks and yellows of the sun rising through the thick white clouds. He thirsted for light. He felt as if he'd been denied water while stumbling through a desert of confusing darkness.
They had all gone to bed soon after that stilted conversation the night before, only Jules doubted anyone had actually slept very well. He certainly hadn't, despite the physical exhaustion that was still overwhelming him after not sleeping at all for the past two days. They were taking their time going back to London, this time; no one was in a hurry to speak with Sir Jonathan Chatsworth.
Jules wanted to go home.
He'd never thought he would miss boring lectures and getting drunk on cheap wine with his friends in the cafes, but this…this was too much. He wasn't sure of anything anymore, and he didn't think he could ever feel safe anymore. Even those strange visions he sometimes had were better than this mad way of living.
And he was still angry with Phileas Fogg.
Well, perhaps not angry. Well, yes, very decidedly angry. Well…
That was certainly part of his current frustration.
He was angry with Fogg. Decidedly, righteously angry with the elitist English gentleman. Once again, Fogg had displayed his ruthless disregard for human life by being prepared to kill his own cousin, just as he'd been prepared to hurt Jules simply because of a suspicion.
But Rebecca hadn't seen it that way.
He'd watched them in that room, after they found her in the coffin. She'd enjoyed that encounter with her cousin, enjoyed playing with him, exacerbating his fears (and Jules's for that matter) before proving that she was still herself. She'd walked straight into that poker, completely unafraid of what her cousin could do to her. And when she'd shown she was still, without a doubt, Rebecca Fogg, a look of such profound relief had surged across Fogg's face that Jules had been utterly shocked. How could he equate those two states of mind with each other? They were utterly incompatible.
But then, Phileas Fogg—oh hell, all three of them—did seem to have a knack for putting the thoroughly incompatible together quite easily.
Jules leant against the deck railing, closing his eyes and sighing deeply. Life was, at this moment, entirely too confusing for him to comprehend.
He simply didn't want to think anymore. He wanted to be left alone, to write his plays and study his law books. He never wanted to be bothered with sword-carrying Englishmen and gun-waving Frenchmen and nightdress-wearing Englishwomen again. It hurt too much.
"I hope you're not considering jumping," a cool voice said behind him.
Jules whirled around. He'd thought he was the only one up and about already; even Passepartout hadn't put in an appearance yet, he was sure. And yet here was Fogg, once again sneaking up on him and startling him. Jules really wished the older man would stop doing that.
"Of course not," he snapped. "If I wanted to die, I'd just ask you to do it for me. I'm sure you could come up with something creative."
Even Jules was surprised by the vehemence in his voice, and he turned quickly back to the sunrise, trying to find that peaceful feeling he had had for a fleeting instant when he'd first seen all those beautiful colors stealing over the sky. He didn't know why he was still having such an extreme reaction to the other man. He'd managed to work well enough with Fogg yesterday when it was necessary, after all, following Fogg's lead, taking his orders. Hadn't he?
Was that why he was angry? Because he could get over his anger and fear, and forgive the older man? Because, for certain tiny moments, he'd felt some sympathy for Fogg, had actually felt he understood something of what Fogg was going through?
If only he were a painter, he would have been utterly delighted with this angle, with the light coming down in golden shafts through that cloud…
He heard footsteps slowly and deliberately heading his way, and he closed his eyes, preparing himself and abandoning his sunrise. "You can't go on hating me forever, Verne," Fogg said, coming to a halt next to the student and looking at the sunrise thoughtfully. "It will wear you down. Burn you out. Believe me, I know."
Jules glanced at the older man quickly and surreptitiously. The Englishman looked his usual dapper self in pristine suit, not a hair out of place, but there was a sort of haggardness in those green eyes. "I don't hate you," Jules told him, remembering a gun pointed at his forehead as he failed miserably at taking in what had happened to him, remembering the unconcealed relief on Fogg's face when he found Jules was still alive in the Mole. "I dislike you intensely. And I feel I have every right to do so."
A smile flickered across Fogg's lined face. "Yes, I suppose you do," he told the writer with a tinge of humor in his voice. Jules gritted his teeth. He intensely disliked that patronizing tone as well. "You still don't understand, Verne."
"No," Jules replied frigidly. "And I don't suppose I ever will, if no one will explain." He turned on his heel, unwilling to stay in the other man's presence any longer, and headed for the door that would lead back into the airship.
"Wait, Verne," Fogg's voice called him back, and Jules unwillingly turned back and stood impatiently.
Phileas walked up to him, looking him directly in the eye. Jules determinedly held his stance and the other man's gaze. "I had to follow that course of action, Verne," the Englishman said quietly. "If Rebecca had truly been compromised, I would have had to kill her." He paused. "No matter how much it would have hurt."
"Why?" Jules asked in an uncompromising tone of voice.
"She is an agent for Her Majesty's Secret Service. She knows things, Jules. She is privy to a great many secrets that could do untold damage if they fell into the wrong hands. Don't you see? Even if I don't belong to the Service anymore, I still have my own duty that I must follow."
Jules's jaw clenched. "Duty. Duty. You might have a duty, Fogg, but that doesn't mean your only option is murder. You didn't even consider the possibility that Rebecca was only playing a part. You automatically assumed the worst and weren't even going to give her a chance. Don't you also have a duty to protect your cousin?"
Fogg scowled; Jules knew he'd touched a nerve with that, but it seemed to mean more than he could explain with what little knowledge he had of the gentleman. "Swift decision was called for—"
"Not necessarily! You couldn't carry out your original plan, could you? You were delayed, and because of that, you found out the truth. And nothing was really changed in the end, was it? The mission was still concluded successfully. And Rebecca was saved."
"Just barely."
"But she was saved! Why can't you admit for once that you were wrong?!" Jules's voice raised to an almost hysterical shout, and he stepped back quickly, breathing hard, attempting to regain control.
"This isn't about Rebecca, is it, Verne?" Fogg's voice was cool, thoughtful, grating on Jules's already shattered nerves. "This is about what I did to you."
"No," Jules snapped back, then immediately added, "Yes, perhaps, in part. But not completely. You were wrong about Rebecca as well." He turned away again; he couldn't stay here any longer.
"Jules," Phileas snagged Jules's coat sleeve and turned the smaller man back toward him, the change in his tone and attitude abrupt. "Jules, I'm sorry."
"Really." Jules refused to meet his eye.
"Dammit, man, I'm apologizing! I admit it. I was wrong. I was utterly and completely wrong about you at first. And yes, I was wrong about Rebecca as well. I. Am. Sorry."
Jules could hear the effort it was costing the arrogant gentleman to say those words, to apologize and admit he had been mistaken. Jules admitted to himself he had been waiting to hear those words, had been fully expecting them, knew that he deserved them.
But it simply wasn't enough.
"Fine," Jules said and tore out of Fogg's grasp. "Thank you for the apology. Would you please ask Passepartout to set a course for Paris? I'd like to go home."
And with that, he went inside, slamming the door behind him.
***
Phileas's shoulders slumped.
There was almost nothing more, in the entire world, which he hated than having to admit that he had been wrong. He usually managed to avoid it with a consummate skill that could quite often turn Rebecca's fury into laughter because he could be so devious about it.
And admitting it this time had done nothing to change the boy's mind.
Why was Jules Verne so important? Fogg wasn't entirely sure, but there was something about the lad that made him seemed destined for greatness. And there was something about him that made Phileas feel...hopeful.
It wasn't often Fogg gave in to hope.
And besides...strange as it seemed even to himself, he wanted Verne to be his friend. The student had some quite incomprehensible ideas--he was French, after all--but it was refreshing to have someone to argue with. Someone else, whose arguments he couldn't always predict, whose mind seemed almost quicker than his own, at least in some areas.
Damn. Damn damn damn. Phileas couldn't shake the feeling that there was no way he could solve this.
He adjusted his coat and cravat, fiddled with his cufflinks, and at last felt ready to go back into the airship, descending the staircase to the main deck. He would find Passepartout and ask the servant to make breakfast. And he would tell him to take them to Paris before they went back to London.
He found Rebecca first. She was standing at the observation window, in front of the ship's controls, dressed in a surprisingly simple frock, her hair also very simply dressed. He took a moment to look at her before announcing his presence.
"Verne wants to go home," he said, walking up to join her at the window. "We should let him go."
Rebecca looked up into her cousin's face, a troubled cast to her blue eyes and pursed lips. "I still don't think that's wise, Phil," she said.
"Oh, Rebecca," he answered, "so long as the idiot doesn't go drunkenly wandering around the streets of Paris at night by himself, I'm sure he'll be fine. We can't keep him here against his will. You're being entirely overprotective."
"You're both acting like idiots," she shot back. "And it's extremely irritating."
Fogg glared at her, betrayed. She returned the gaze unrepentantly. "And your sex always pretends to be the practical ones," she added entirely unfairly.
"I apologized to him. He refused to accept it."
"Oh." Rebecca paused to consider her cousin's coldly given statement and immediately dropped her relentless teasing. "Ah." Her lips tightened, and she rested a light, gentle hand on top of Fogg's, clenching the railing, for an instant. "I'm sorry, Phil. He's as stubborn as you are, it seems."
"Which isn't very useful, is it?" Fogg managed to find a slightly amused tone. Rebecca rewarded him with a smile.
"I'll talk with him," she promised. "And if that doesn't work, I'll put Passepartout onto him."
Fogg shook his head. "Why are we doing this, Rebecca?"
Rebecca looked up at him candidly. "Because he's Jules Verne. Which, perhaps, at the moment doesn't mean very much to the world...but the world doesn't know him yet."
Fogg paused for a moment in thought, then laughed slightly. Sometimes, his cousin had a way with words that was...ineffable. "You're right, of course, Rebecca."
She grinned. "As always." With that, she left to go upstairs.
***
He was where she fully expected him to be, in the lab, staring deeply into one of those fiddly glass tubes that could seriously aggravate Rebecca at times. She knocked politely before entering the room through the already opened door.
He glanced back at her and half-smiled. "Hello, Rebecca," he said, sliding off his stool. "How are you?" he added, with a frown of concern replacing what had been a half-hearted smile at best in the first place.
"I'm fine," she said, "which is more than can be said for Phileas."
"Oh."
Rebecca sighed. "I really am getting tired of playing peacemaker between the two of you," she said frankly.
"You don't have to anymore," Jules told her shortly. "I'm going back to Paris. Didn't Fogg tell you?"
"Yes, he did," she shot back, "before he also told me that he apologized to you."
Jules looked up and held her gaze. "And you think that means something?"
Rebecca's eyes widened in surprise, and then they flashed in anger. "Of course it does," she snapped, and she saw Verne jerk back slightly in his own surprise. "He is a gentleman, Jules. He does not make an apology lightly. Phileas especially detests having to do it. The fact that he did most assuredly means something." She paced away from him, regaining her temper, then turned back, facing him from a greater distance. It seemed safer. He was staring into nothing deeply, as if nothing were the most interesting thing he'd ever stared into before. It wasn't fair of her to snap at him. He was confused, she knew that. And now she was just going to have to confuse him more, in order to make him see. "If we take you back to Paris, Jules, you do realize you will have to be more careful now, don't you?"
"What?" he switched his frown to her, resting a hand on the lab table, as if to reassure himself of its solidity, its reality.
"They--whoever they are--are not going to give up on you," she continued. "Look at what's already happened to you. They stole your sketches, Jules. They tried to steal you. They won't stop there."
He shook his head in denial. "That's stupid," he said, not paying attention to the words he spoke, "why would anyone want--"
"Look at what they did with just a single, incomplete set of your drawings."
Jules stopped, staring down at the table as if hypnotized by the grain of the wood, perhaps thinking of the English courier who had been stabbed by the Mole, perhaps thinking of the woman who had held him captive in his own invention. Rebecca waited painfully, hating this moment of realization for him. They were stripping away his innocence more and more, the more time he spent with them, but it was out of their hands now. It couldn't be stopped. He needed them, even if he hadn't realized that much yet, even if he didn't want to admit to it. And they needed him. That mind of his could definitely get them out of more scrapes, she was certain. And there was no way in hell any of them--Jules included; it was as much in his nature as theirs, even if he didn't want to admit that either at the moment--would stop getting into scrapes.
"I won't draw anymore," he said quietly, as if talking to himself. Rebecca paid attention nonetheless. "I'll, I'll stop writing. I'll burn my notebook. I...not again. I just want to be left alone. I'll--"
"Jules!" He snapped his head up to stare at her, as if he'd forgotten she was in the room with him. She swept toward him, grabbing his hand. "Don't be an idiot," she said brusquely, not caring that she sounded exactly like her cousin. It just couldn't be helped sometimes. "You will not give up your writing or your drawing. You can't let them do that to you, don't you see? You can't give in just to escape. That's the coward's way out. And I know for a fact that you are no coward." She took a deep breath. "We don't want to lose you, Jules. Any part of you."
He pulled back from her, his hand slipping out of hers. She didn't try to catch him back; she knew it was much too soon for that. He wasn't ready; he didn't trust her enough yet. "You—you don't have the right to lose me," he said carefully.
"Oh Jules," she sighed in exasperation, trying to hold back her laughter, a side effect of some release of tension inside her. "If it weren't for you, I don't think any of us would have gotten away from the vampires, let alone stopped A-the duke's mission." She barely stumbled at all; Verne certainly didn't notice the fumble.
"What do you mean?" he frowned.
She should be worried about him; he was being remarkably obtuse. "You're the one who figured out what was in the duke's statue. You're the one who took that contraption and used it on the duke's carriage. You're the one who found the disguises that allowed you and Phileas to get away. If you hadn't done all that, Passepartout would undoubtedly have died at the hands of that disgusting-sounding innkeeper, I would have had to find my own way, and you and Phileas...well. I don't know what would have happened to you two, though I'm sure Phileas would have thought of something if you hadn't." She stepped closer to him again but didn't attempt to touch him. "You did all that, Jules."
"But if it wasn't for Fogg finding the statues in the first place, and you pretending to be on the duke's side and finding the secret entrance, and Passepartout actually getting to the Aurora--"
"Exactly. Team effort. Yes, we Foggs like to be lone players, but even we have to admit that we can't do everything by ourselves." She smiled at him. "Thank you."
He paused, then smiled wryly back. "Thank you."
She sobered. "Don't go back to Paris yet," she said quietly. Her tone could never be mistaken for pleading. It sounded more like a gentle command. "And if you must, don't lose touch with us. We're too good a team, you see. And none of us would like to see anything happen to you."
"Well, I wouldn't like to see anything happen to you," he replied hesitantly. It sounded and looked as if he hesitated from embarrassment, not because the words were forced out of him for politeness' sake. Until the next words he spoke, that is. "...Any of you."
Rebecca looked up into his face at that, but for once she couldn't read his expression. "He's trying, Jules," she said. "Don't you think you could try too?"
He nodded a little, releasing a deep breath. "I'd still like to go back to Paris," he said. "I should. But...leave me an address at which I can contact you. When you're in Paris again..."
She took his hand again and squeezed it. "Yes. Or if you're in London."
He smiled wryly at that. "I don't think that's likely to happen, Rebecca."
She laughed, one of her deep, bewitching laughs. "Perhaps not. But you never can tell."
***
Rebecca went downstairs again soon after that, to get breakfast--she'd said she was ravenous--but Jules remained on the upper level of the ship, lurking. He knew Fogg would have to come up eventually. He wanted to speak to the older man alone.
The Englishman came up the stairs sooner than he expected--but perhaps he should have expected that. Rebecca had probably told her cousin what had transpired, and Fogg had probably had the same idea as Jules. For once, Jules didn't mind the possibility that he could think like Phileas Fogg.
"Verne, there you are," Fogg was acting as if the earlier conversation on the outside deck hadn't happened, but Jules knew for certain that Fogg was still thinking about it. Jules felt a little ashamed about losing control like that, but he'd needed to say those things. "I was wondering if I could have a word with you?"
"I was wondering the same thing," Jules answered.
"Shall we go to my room? More privacy."
Jules nodded and followed the other man down the hall. Jules stood just in the door while Fogg paced a moment or two the narrow confines of the room.
Jules swallowed. "I'm...sorry...for my earlier behavior," he said with deliberate care over each word. It really wasn't any easier for him to say these words than it had been for Phileas. "I do accept your apology."
Fogg looked up that, his expression unfathomable. "Thank you," he said in the most impassive tone Jules had ever heard a human being use.
"But you must admit, I had good reason for reacting the way I did," Jules went on immediately.
"I do," Fogg agreed. "I did then, if you'll recall."
Jules winced. "Stop making me feel guilty," he snapped. "You should be the one who feels guilty."
"I do," Fogg answered simply. "I've made many mistakes in my life, Verne, and that was probably one of the worst. But only one of them. And it won't be the last." He paused. "We are none of us infallible, Verne. Not even you."
Jules studied the older man, considering his words. There it was again. That regret, that haunting sadness. Those were the moments he sympathised with the Englishman, when he felt he could almost like him. He was so complex. And no matter what Rebecca said, if it hadn't been for Fogg, Jules knew for a fact he wouldn't have gotten away from that castle.
He could...trust...Fogg. The thought cost him a great deal of effort. But after all the previous false starts...perhaps this was a real one. And it hadn't been all bad. Yes, there'd been vampires, and some rather sticky moments when he thought he could murder Fogg himself, but there'd actually been a moment or two buried in there somewhere when he'd been enjoying himself. And there was something very--satisfying--about knowing that he'd done that. He hadn't just been a law student at the Sorbonne; he'd done something exciting and secret in his life. He'd changed something, helped save a good deal of the world. And no matter what he'd said earlier about giving up on writing and drawing, he knew he couldn't do it, anymore than he could stop himself opening his big mouth and getting in trouble for his ideas and views.
"Oh yes, Verne," Fogg looked up, changing the subject and bringing Jules out of his thoughts. "I wanted to thank you. You said you would do what you had to do, when I talked to you before this mission began...and you did. Very good, man."
Jules's mouth quirked up in a smile. Perhaps Fogg could read minds? He stepped forward and held out his hand. "I'll see you in Paris in the future, no doubt," he said, quite composedly. His mind was suddenly and remarkably clear.
Fogg paused, looking down at the hand being proffered to him, then put out his own and firmly shook Jules's hand. He looked up, a rogue smile crossing his face, and again Jules caught a glimpse of that other side of the Englishman. "And if you ever feel an urge to get away from dreary old Paris," the older man said lightly, "I'm sure we could find room for you on the Aurora."
Jules laughed before he could catch himself. "Thank you," he said after a short pause, and then after a longer pause that threatened to become entirely too awkward, he slipped out of the room and headed downstairs to grab a bite of breakfast before gathering his few possessions in preparation for returning to his garret. It would be good to go home again, and hopefully find his old, familiar routine again. Write some plays at three in the morning, accidentally miss some classes and draw through some other ones, get drunk with his friends. He needed some distance. He knew not everything was resolved yet, and he knew that when he did meet Phileas again—which he no doubt would—there would probably be more fighting between them. It couldn't be helped, really, they were such different people. But Jules was willing to handle that when he came to it.
He didn't know what exactly he'd just gotten himself into…but it would no doubt prove interesting.
And he could handle interesting.