Pairing: Phileas/Jules
Rating: PG
Category: Angst, POV, Slash
Summary: The morning after is never as easy as the night before.
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: This goes along with "Difficult Paths" and "Should I Stay or Should I Go?" I think any of them can be read alone and still make sense, but it's turning into more and more of a series.. 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, yes. For the show, no.


Waking Up to Reality
by Nicole D'Annais
Copyright 2001


~~~~~

What a wonderful dream.

I can feel myself smile as I burrow further under the blankets, anxious to go back to sleep and dream some more. The memory of those hands on me, hands that held me tightly in their grip, then gentled as their owner realized I wasn't going to disappear, lulls me back to sleep, aided by echoes of sharp gasps and harsh breaths. As I bury my head under the pillow next to me, the smell of Phileas Fogg is so real it's as if he had really been here. Had really held me. Had really--

Oh.

It wasn't a dream.

Now I truly wish to sleep, not so much to relive the events of last night--though I certainly wouldn't mind that--but to avoid opening my eyes. I can already tell he's not in the bed. But I doubt he has left the room. He's probably sitting in one of the chairs, watching me with an expression that will tell me nothing when I open my eyes.

What the hell did I do? I only meant to shake him up; I didn't mean to end up in his bed! He took me by surprise--literally. The mere memory of that kiss, of being practically shoved onto the bed, causes me to shiver, which I'm sure has drawn his attention, if I didn't have it already. There's no use in pretending to sleep. I imagine he knew I was awake before I did.

I open my eyes. It takes me a moment to adjust to the light, but I can see a dark form silhouetted in the window. Fogg. Sitting in the chair by the window, fully dressed. I can't see his face, but from the way he's sitting, this can't be good.

Then again, what did I expect? Was I so blinded by the passion he showed last night that I just expected him to wake up this morning a changed man? If I'd thought that would get him to shed his careful adherence to all societal mores and just accept this...whatever it is between us, we'd have done this a lot sooner.

Of course, if I'd known how good it was going to be, I might have tried it sooner, regardless of his reaction. When forced to act as an agent, Fogg has a frightening intensity. To have that intensity focused entirely on me was amazing. He might be sitting across the room, but I can still feel his touch all over.

Damn. One of us must speak eventually, even if it leads to a conversation I suspect neither of us wants. Though I imagine his reasons are different than mine. I'm not sure what the proper opening line is for this kind of situation.

Oh, to hell with proper. "Out with it."

"Pardon?"

"I can see you've been sitting there working on whatever you want to say for some time. So say it."

"And a good morning to you too, Verne."

Bloody niceties. "Good morning. Or it was, but I suspect that is about to change."

I get a quick glimpse of his cheek as he turns his head, enough to see that the muscle there is working steadily, and then all I can see is the outline of his profile as he looks out the window. "I...last night...what I mean to say is...." Phileas Fogg at a loss for words. It certainly has been a day for firsts. "I think," he manages finally, his voice low, "you should go back to Paris, as you'd planned."

Back to Paris? Leave as if nothing had happened? One night of incredible sex and then I'm supposed to just go away and pretend like it didn't happen? Absolutely nothing is allowed to ruin his attempts at a perfect and easy life. Silly me for even considering it. "What about what I think? You expect me to just quietly fall in with whatever you say? That's worked so well in the past."

"Verne, please."

That one word deflates my anger in an instant. Not the word so much as the misery behind it. He hasn't come to terms with this possibility. No, this reality. I can accept that it must be difficult, and the best thing to do is go. So I will go.

But this is not over.

"Fine. I'll leave right after breakfast." I refuse to let the way he turns to face the window while I find my clothes and dress disturb me. And I won't give him the added weight of hearing any pain in my voice with a goodbye. Instead, I let myself silently out of the room and cover the short distance to my own room without thinking. I won't think until I'm on my way out of England.

I clear my mind completely as I change shirts, throwing the one I'd worn the night before on the floor as far from me as possible. It smells like him, and I can't keep my mind clear if I can smell him on me. I would bathe if I could, but it would cause comment, and it would make me late for breakfast, and later still leaving this place.

With a clean shirt and my hair once more in order, I hurry off to breakfast, anxious to put myself in any country other than backwards, stodgy England.

***

Breakfast in the Fogg household is normally quite amusing. Passpartout is cheerful and brimming with comments that make us laugh. Rebecca and Fogg banter over the morning newspaper. All in all, it's a good way to start the morning.

Not today. Fogg has hidden behind his paper, all of Rebecca's attempts to engage him in any sort of conversation met with one-word responses, if he responds at all. And I can't quite bring myself to react to Passpartout's antics. Indeed, breakfast is so difficult I find I'm rushing through the food and excusing myself at the first possible opportunity. I manage to tell them I'm leaving for Paris as I leave the room. Now all I have to do is pack and be gone.

If only it were that easy. Two minutes after I begin packing my few belongings, Rebecca barges into my room without knocking. "What happened?"

"I could have been undressed in here," I mutter without looking up or ceasing my packing activities.

"Well, you weren't. What happened?"

"What do you mean?"

She steps between the bed and me, blocking the suitcase. "Clearly you and Phileas had a fight. What happened?"

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

"I'm trained to notice subtle hints like Phileas unable to utter more than one word every five minutes and you running for the border, Jules. You can't sneak by me that easily. What happened?"

She refuses to move, so I reach around her to put my clothes in the suitcase. "Nothing happened."

"You're a horrible liar."

I can't do this. My patience has worn thin, and I truly have no desire to take this out on Rebecca. "It will pass," I say, part of me hoping those words are true. "Leave it alone."

She studies me for a moment before stepping aside. "You know how Phileas can get, Jules. He says the stupidest things, and he doesn't even realize it at the time. I'm sure this will all blow over."

"Yes, well, perhaps. In the meantime, it's best if I leave for now."

"Oh dear. It really was that serious?"

"Leave it alone, Rebecca."

"Very well." She picks up my shirt from the floor and holds it out, but when I reach out to take it, she doesn't let go. "Whatever happened, promise me you won't let it stop you from coming to us for help if anything goes wrong?"

After a moment, I nod, and she lets go of the shirt. I toss it in my suitcase with more force than necessary and shut the case. When I look up again, Rebecca is eyeing me strangely. "What?"

"Did you change colognes?"

"No. Why?"

She shakes her head. "Never mind. Safe journey, Jules." She hurries out before I can say more than goodbye. After one more check of the room, I follow suit.

I have to stop in the kitchens to find Passpartout, who reacts to my departure with the usual wishes for a good trip and a quick return, and several other comments that have me leaving the kitchens with a smile on my face.

A smile quickly erased when I find Fogg waiting for me near the door. For one fleeting moment I let myself hope he's come to his senses, but I know better. And if I didn't, his first words remind me anyway. "My driver is waiting to take you to the train."

"Don't bother. I can walk." The words come out more bitter than I'd intended.

"Don't be ridiculous. Take the carriage."

Ridiculous? Look who's talking. Still, the carriage will get me to the train that much faster. And agreeing will get me out of this house. "Fine." I turn to leave, but am stopped once more by his voice.

"Verne--"

Nothing. I turn to face him again. I can almost see his mind working, but I have no idea what's going through it. Finally, he gives a small shake of his head. "Safe journey," he says quietly before he turns and leaves.

"'Safe journey.' Right. 'Safe journey.'" I stop muttering when the driver gives me an odd look and climb silently into the carriage. As we pull away, I can't help but look back one more time. To my surprise, Fogg is standing in an upstairs window. Watching me leave.

I lean a little further out of the window, enough to be sure he knows I saw him, then settle back into the carriage for the short ride to the train station. Now I know. I may be leaving, but this is far from over.

---
END

Comments? ndannais@squidge.org



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