Pairing: Phileas/Jules
Rating: PG-13
Category: Angst, POV, Slash
Summary: Jules learns a few things and gives a few away.
Disclaimer: I don't own anyone, much less these fine characters (if you know where I could buy them, please let me know *g*). I refuse to make any money off them in any event, so please don't sue me.
Notes: Sixth in the series - the series in order so far is "Difficult Paths", "Should I Stay or Should I Go?", "Waking up to Reality" , "Indecision" , "Before Morning Breaks" and "Revelations." Many thanks to the very wonderful beta readers who shall remain nameless, lest they be blamed. *g*
Spoilers: For the past stories in the fic series, as well as spoilers for "Crusader in the Crypt."


~~~~~

Revelations
by Nicole D'Annais
Copyright 2001



Nothing.

For three weeks now, we'd had no danger, no close calls, no life-threatening events.

And no sex.

I'd considered causing the Aurora to nearly crash, but the possibility of things going wrong with that convinced me not to try it. I wanted Phileas Fogg; I didn't want to die.

My outlook on life is uniquely skewed. I never liked danger. I liked to live with my head in the clouds, imagining all sorts of possibilities, but I never had any desire to live them. Now it is desire that makes me seek them out.

At least Rebecca has a mission that she's chosen to involve us in. The plan calls for her to take all the risks, of course, but then plans frequently go wrong. Perhaps something will happen to endanger us all.

I repeat: I don't want to die. But something has to give soon. I have become so distracted by my own wants that I can no longer work effectively. For example, I've started this same drawing four times, and I still cannot get it right. With a growl, I rip the page out of my book, ball it up, and throw it against the wall.

Only instead of the wall, I manage to hit Rebecca as she walks into the room. "Problems, Jules?"

"Just frustration, I'm afraid."

She sits down across from me as she checks the knives and other tricks hidden in her special suit. "Art can be painful, I'm told."

"Among other things." Things I would do well not to dwell on in front of the ever-perceptive Rebecca. "Do you think you can find these plans once you're inside the Baron's castle?"

"Well, I certainly hope so. I do hate to fail. Family flaw, I'm afraid--none of us take well to losing." She finishes her suit check and rises, looking around. "Speaking of family, where the devil is Phileas? We need to land soon."

"Don't ask me; I haven't seen him all day." I try to keep my voice neutral, but the moment the words escape my mouth, I can tell I failed.

Rebecca's eyes light up. "Ah, so you *are* annoyed with him. I knew it." She sits back down and leans over the table on her elbows. "What happened?"

"Nothing. Why?"

"Nice try, Jules, but I'm not stupid. What did he do?"

"Nothing." Which is the truth--it is the fact that he has done nothing that annoys me so.

For a long moment, Rebecca stares at me. Then she smiles kindly, and my heart sinks. I can only hope she isn't thinking what I think she's thinking. There is no way she could have come to that conclusion.

Except, of course, that she is a spy--and quite a good one at that.

"Ah."

My heart sinks further at the understanding tone in her voice. "What?" Even to my own ears, the innocence in that word rings false.

"Jules...whatever is going on between you and Phileas, whatever *has* gone on, you have to understand a few things about him."

"I don't know what you mean."

"Yes, you do. It's no good lying. I'm not blind, Jules, nor am I stupid. I know what's going on."

"Rebecca, I really don't know what you're talking about."

"When you left London so suddenly all those months ago, your shirt smelled more like Phileas than it did you. Now I know he wasn't wearing it--it wouldn't fit him. So the only explanation for that could be either you were wearing his cologne, which you, yourself told me you weren't, or he was *very* close to you."

"I borrowed his cologne--"

"You're a horrible liar."

She's right. I can invent many things with ease, but lies are not among them. Especially not when it comes to Rebecca. "I--what are you trying to say, Rebecca?" Brilliant, Jules, she'll never see through that.

"Jules...." She closes her eyes for a few seconds, and when they open again, I see a look there very similar to pity. "I--that is, Phileas--" She stops and takes a deep breath. "I'm sure this is difficult. You have to understand, however, that whatever might possibly be between you, Phileas may never give in. Not just because you're a man. Phileas has issues--"

Her sudden stop, followed by the widening of her eyes, has me cringing. What have I given away? "Rebecca...."

"Oh dear. You--the two of you...." She sits back in her chair and stares at me until it makes me vastly uncomfortable.

"I don't--"

"Yes, you do. You did. But you couldn't have. Unless...this is recent?"

"What is recent?"

The surprise is leaving her quickly, only to be replaced with annoyance. "Really, Jules. You need to learn when to stop trying. Unless you'd like me to spell it out for you in plain English."

"No!" She's right. I have to just contend with the fact that she knows. Better that than to have her put it into words. "No. You're not wrong."

"But the whole Adriana Locke thing...you were immune. Only a pure man...."

I shrug. "I can only assume the purity is exclusive to women."

"Ah." She studies me again, like an insect under a glass. "So the two of you are...what, exactly?"

"Nothing. The two of us are nothing." Well, that was much more bitter than I'd intended. "It was...I'm not sure what it was," I confess, softening my tone a bit. "A reaction to danger, perhaps?"

"I see." The pity is back, and I'm not sure if I hate it more or less than the annoyance. "Well, I'm not going to pretend you've chosen an easy path there. But then Phileas is known for that, so the two of you at least have that in common."

My life is a joke to her. Wonderful. "This isn't funny, Rebecca."

"I'm not laughing, Jules." She leans forward again and places her hand over mine on the table. "As I said, this is not an easy path," she says in a near whisper. "But if you feel it's worth fighting for, then do it. Phileas needs...well, Phileas needs a lot of things. And you just may be one of them."

I turn my hand palm up to capture hers. "Thank you." Her tacit approval means more than she may realize.

"And in the meantime," she adds with a small smile, "if you need an ear...or a shoulder..."

"Thank you again."

Passepartout's entrance to begin landing disrupts the moment, leaving Rebecca to prepare for her mission, and me to prepare for mine. If I am going to do this, I must approach it exactly as I've seen Rebecca approach her assignments for the Secret Service all this time. With skill, with diligence, and with a plan.

Especially with a plan.

~~~

Erasmus.

So Phileas had a brother. That he lost him, the *way* he lost him, explains so much. No doubt he thinks it's entirely his fault his brother is dead. Rebecca refused to tell me anything further about what happened--if she even knows--and I won't ask Fogg.

I feel slightly guilty about inviting danger now that I know what drives Fogg to protect others even more than he must have before the incident with his brother. I would feel a great deal more guilty if I had known before, but since the man never talks about himself, how could I?

Still, this leaves me in a difficult position. I'm not yet ready to give up on him. But if danger isn't an option, then how can I get him to see, to understand what I've become certain of.

We must be together.

Not that I imagine dire consequences for the fate of the world if we never saw each other again. True, the League of Darkness could grab me and use my intelligence for their own nefarious plans, but there is no guarantee Fogg will be able to stop them every time even if he is here.

It would seem that even in protecting those he loves most, Phileas Fogg is fallible.

The revelation has been in the back of my mind all day, ever since Rebecca told me about Erasmus' death. The controlled fury on Fogg's face has stayed with me, and I find myself wondering just how strongly the loss still affects him, even now, if he allows that much to show through the tight rein he usually keeps on that kind of emotion.

He needs something positive in his life, something that will enable him to let go of the past and embrace the future. Now more than ever I understand why Rebecca pushes so hard to keep him involved in the Secret Service, despite his wish to have nothing to do with it. Left to his own devices, Fogg would most likely drown in his own sorrow in no time at all. He needs a reason to live.

Maybe I can give him one.

With my mind made up, I find my way to his room. My soft knock is answered immediately, almost as if he were expecting me. "Is there something you need?"

Such a loaded question. "I wanted to talk."

He hesitates just a second too long for either of us to pretend he doesn't understand why I'm here. "Come in," he says finally, closing the door once I'm inside. "What did you want to talk about?"

"You have to ask?"

He rubs at his neck and the motion pulls aside the mostly unbuttoned shirt, exposing his chest and one dark nipple, and a jolt of desire goes through me. "I'm not a psychic, Verne."

Fine, we'll play the game. "What happened with your brother on the mission?"

"You certainly don't beat around the bush."

"If I did you'd just find ways to avoid what I really wanted to know."

He nods, conceding that point. He's very good at misdirection and misunderstanding when he wants to be. "We went out on a mission. I came back, he didn't. Anything else you'd like to drudge up from my past while you're at it?"

"Why didn't he come back?"

"Well he wasn't captured, if that's what you were hoping, so you figure it out."

I shouldn't push. I should let it go for tonight. We're both tired, and there's so much more to do that's pressing. We need rest.

Or release. An idea that seems to have occurred to Fogg as well. "Why are you really here, Jules?" His voice is lower than usual, and as he stalks toward me, I can easily read what's on his mind. He's going to distract me, and himself. I shouldn't let him. On the other hand, I didn't even have to endanger my life to earn this. Yet.

"I told you," is my answer, but my body sways in toward his, belying the defiance in my voice.

"You're not really here to talk about Erasmus, are you? Isn't this what you really came for?" He leans down and captures my mouth with his own, lips demanding as his tongue reaches into my mouth, forcing all thoughts of brothers and intrigue out of my mind, until I'm not sure this *isn't* what I really came for. Nor do I care, as long as I get it.

Our hands are busy removing each others' clothing when a distant scream causes us to jump apart. "What was that?" I ask, running to the window.

Fogg, as usual, is already one step ahead of me. "I think it came from the church. Find Passepartout. I'll get Rebecca."

He is still putting on his dressing jacket as I follow him out the door, tugging up my suspenders on the run.

~~~

The Foggs have the most uncanny ability to pack more adventure into twenty-four hours than any people I've ever met. Or read about, or dreamed of, or imagined.

The scream that interrupted us last night turned out to be Passepartout. The bones of St. Bartholomew attacked him in the church, only they weren't really the bones of St. Bartholomew.

Phileas and Rebecca thought I had finally lost my mind when I suggested the bones belonged to a star man. They didn't exactly apologize for their lack of belief when they saw the star man--and his ship--for themselves, but they seemed at least a little repentant. Possibly.

I had to tell Phileas that the lightning strike that had brought the star man back to life had also reduced his father's remains to little more than dust. For all of his apparent dislike of his father, his reaction to the news seemed to be one of sadness. Rebecca's half-teasing comment about the circumstances making it difficult to be mad at Sir Boniface allowed Phileas to hide the reaction quickly, but I saw it nonetheless.

His pain was compounded by the sudden possibility that his father's body was actually still intact--a possibility that turned out to be false, but one that raised his hopes for a few minutes. No sooner did we find out that it was not his father than he, Rebecca and I were all trapped in the church at the threat of being blown to bits.

He touched me in the church--not exactly a new development, but the timing, just after I'd gone to block the vestry doors, was the important part. It was as if he needed to touch me to prove that I was safe and in one piece.

It was that touch that leads me to hope he may still show up here tonight.

The hour is quite late, and none of us slept much last night, if at all. Part of me feels as if I could fall over into a deep sleep at any moment. And yet I am too keyed up to lie down, much less get the sleep I clearly need. Not until I know if he's going to come to me.

I've paced the length of the room three more times when there is a soft knock on the door. He doesn't even wait for me to answer; he just walks into the room and closes the door behind him.

"I'm sorry," he says almost immediately. "I thought it best not to stand in the hall."

Of course. Servants. There are more people here to worry about than just Passepartout or Rebecca. The reminder that this is an unwanted need chafes, but I put that feeling aside for now. As much as it might bother me, not fulfilling the need is worse. Besides which, the pain I'd glimpsed at the knowledge that his father was dust in a glass vial is back, and evident in his eyes, as if he's too tired to keep up his mask of indifference.

Or maybe he doesn't feel the need to keep up the pretense with me.

A silly notion, really. It's most likely just the lack of sleep. "Are you all right?"

I find myself fascinated by the movement in his throat as he swallows before answering. "I...I will be fine. It has been a long day."

"Two days." The light of the one long candle flickers across his face, revealing and hiding his eyes, making it difficult to tell what is there, so I step closer, stopping only inches from him. "Neither of us slept last night."

"True. We should probably both get some sleep."

"We should."

Neither of us move for a long moment. Finally, Phileas clears his throat. "Well...."

"Was there something you wanted?"

"Ah, wanted. Yes. No. I'm not sure."

"Phileas Fogg being indecisive. I should make note of the date."

That earned me a half a smile. "You are quite well, despite the day's events?"

"Yes, I'm fine." This is crazy. We do this every time, and I am tired of waiting. I take his hand and put it on my face. "See for yourself."

That seems to be all the invitation he needs, as his hand slides down my cheek to my neck and pulls me closer for a kiss. That one kiss breaks the dam, and the two of us both begin cataloging well-remembered body parts for any injury, until we're swept away in sensation.

It is only once we're both spent that I think to ask, "What did you do with your father's remains?"

"Hm?" My head is pillowed on his shoulder, making it impossible to see his face, but I can picture the confused look there before he processes the question. "Ah. I've had them placed back in the crypt. It was only a body. Having it in one piece will not bring him back."

"You wish to have him back?"

When the seconds continue to tick by without an answer, I begin to regret the question. I am about to apologize when he starts to speak. "I sometimes regret," he says tiredly, "that we parted on bad terms the last time we spoke."

It is the most he's ever said to me about his relationship with his father. "The past cannot be changed," is the best I can offer in my current state.

"Unless, of course, you have a working time machine." Before I can even voice my concern about that comment, he adds, "Not that that wouldn't make it even worse, I'm sure. The past is best left as it is."

"Yes. It is." His breathing evens out, and I can tell he's asleep. I know I should wake him and send him back to his own room, but I can do that soon enough. There is plenty of time before morning yet to pretend that separation isn't necessary.

~~~

Movement in the bed wakes me. As I open my eyes, I can see the first rays of sunlight creeping in the windows. By the time I am awake enough to be coherent, Phileas is half dressed. "We fell asleep," I say dumbly.

"There's time yet. Go back to sleep. You'll need your rest."

"Why?"

"I've decided how to make amends, or at least put my father to rest, if nothing else."

I can't decide if it's because I need more sleep, or because he does, but this conversation means nothing to me. "I don't understand."

"You'll see." He hovers over my bed for a moment before he reaches down to touch my cheek. For a moment, it looks as if he wants to say something, but he just touches a finger lightly to my lips and leaves without another word.

Too tired to try to analyze his latest cryptic actions, I turn over, bury my head in the pillow that still smells like him, and will myself back to sleep.

---

END



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