Fic, SAJV, "Violent Love Play" PG

[rispacooper]

Title:Violent Love Play
Author: Rispacooper (2004...)
For: The Secret Adventures of Jules Verne
Pairing: Gen...or slash. It's slash to me, much like the show itself, but one could take this as gen, if one wanted. (Though why?)
Rating: PG at most
Warnings: not really
Summary: Rebecca’s observations after a bad day. This is gen or slash, depending on how you view it. Much like the show really.
Disclaimer: They do not belong to me, but sue me anyway, I could use the time off work. The food is free in jail, right?
AN: Initials in a tree… Title taken from a brief line in “The Templars and The Assassins; the Militia of Heaven” by James Wasserman. Which has nothing to do with anything.





“I trust, Verne, that the designs you are working on now include a device to save those foolish enough to fall from a mountain ledge.”

The stillness of the room was not something Rebecca had noticed overmuch until the icy remark from Phileas had broken it. Since it was her job to notice things she could only assume it was fatigue that had left her so careless. It certainly hadn’t been the book in her hands, recommended by Jules or not, she found it quite dull, not at all what she would have chosen to help wind down after a dangerous mission had just ended.

Her gaze dropped to one of her feet for a moment, to the boot that had been twitching in constant, continued excitement since she had sat down and dutifully had some tea at Passpartout’s request. The tea was long since gone, just cold leaves at the bottom of her cup and a sloshing in her stomach, but her edginess remained, and with a small sound of annoyance she shifted her glance to Phileas, who did not seem to be suffering any aftereffects at all from their experience today, aside from his abrupt and, now that she thought about it, extremely idiotic comment.

Her cousin seemed as motionless as the very air inside the ship, only his arms moving briefly as he turned one page of the paper he was reading and held it up so that just his hands and the back of his head were truly visible. And as well manicured as his fingernails had once been, they were not where she wanted to direct a pointed remark or two. Rebecca’s lips tightened with a disapproval that Phileas could no doubt sense even if he could not see. In fact he had quite artfully arranged his newspaper to avoid looks from any direction. It was such blatant cowardice that Rebecca could feel herself bristling.

The moment they had all boarded the airship and the mountains had begun to shrink in the distance behind them, Phileas had slipped upstairs, cleaning up and changing his clothing before any of the rest of them could even breathe a sigh of relief or fall into the nearest chair as Jules had done. That made her cousin’s plans obvious. The moment the Aurora reached Paris, Phileas would go out, to some tavern or café and not return until the bare hours of morning, drunk and stained, ready to pretend that today had never happened.

Though angry with that, Rebecca had managed to smile distractedly at Jules before she had gone upstairs to clean up as well, not surprised to see his hands trembling in his lap though he had tried to hide them.

Jules had not chosen stillness in the time between then and now, or to hide behind a well-ironed newspaper, and Rebecca almost nodded, not surprised at that either. Of course he hadn’t, his imagination had always been his way of helping him forgot his fears, the excitement of the day for a few hours; she had realized that after only a few days of knowing him. His journal’s pages would be filled with scribblings from old adventures, and the soft scratch of his pencil had been the only sound on the Aurora for the past hours.

He would need many more journals, if he stayed with them much longer, Rebecca realized suddenly, directing another long look at the back of Phileas’ head before turning away to study Jules’ profile.

The younger man was breathing heavily, his head bent down over the notebook spread over on the table before him. But his pencil had stopped moving, and after a moment, he put it down with force, nearly slamming it into the hard wood of the table. There was a fine layer of dirt still clinging to his fingertips and his reddened knuckles, and small scratches and cuts marred the tanned skin of his wrists just visible underneath his old coat. No one had thought to see to his injuries, or perhaps he had refused help, wanting to curl up with his notebook first; he was nearly as stubborn as Phileas. But the wounds pained him; she could see his wince as he moved one hand, noticing the faint imprint of fingers at his wrist as well.

Jules had nearly died today. Rebecca absorbed that fact as she observed the tense lines of his shoulders, the slow way he raised his head to look at Phileas though Phileas did not lower his paper to return his stare. Somehow she had overlooked that, pushed it aside perhaps, too much else on her mind, or too used to the idea of death to remember that others were not. Or perhaps she just hadn’t wanted to think of it at all, and had buried her face in the damned book. That did not sit easy, and Rebecca shifted slightly, turning back to Phileas and his newspaper.

She opened her mouth to say something, to remind Phileas of their friend’s fear, that they both owed him their deepest apologies, but Jules spoke first, his eyes fierce on the Times hiding Phileas from him.

“I didn’t fall, Fogg.” Jules made his declaration in a startlingly hard voice, intent upon Phileas though Phileas still had not moved. “I was pushed.”

Kirsten, Karsten, whatever the damned woman’s name had been. Their “guide” through the mountain pass, who had instead led them into a trap and nearly killed Jules in the process. It had been most satisfying to see the woman choking in the dirt moments later, one of Rebecca’s knives sticking from her chest.

She supposed that men would have found Karsten beautiful, though her golden hair had held the brassiness of tint and the age she had told them had been an obvious lie, judging from the lines around her eyes. Rebecca should have known then the woman was a liar, or at least suspected and been on her guard. Instead she had been nearly as blind as Phileas, and almost let that woman kill one of her best friends.

The book fell to her lap, and Rebecca pressed a hand to her stomach, seeing Jules disappear from view behind the ledge, staring into the wide, frightened eyes and feeling herself too slow to catch him. It was not the first time he had been in danger, and yet somehow there had seemed to be no hope as he had just…vanished.

A sound had slipped out of her, and she had felt the weight of the knife in her hand, not hesitating though it was too late. Dead League agents covering the ground at her feet, just enough of them to distract her from Karsten and her traitorous plan, and Rebecca had reached out, wanting to call to Phileas, though he had still faced his own group of assassins. Too far away, she remembered thinking, she would never reach him. And Phileas…

Phileas had seemed to find Karsten quite beautiful, even if she had possessed dyed hair and squinting eyes. He had certainly spent enough time with her, ignoring both herself and Jules as though they had not even been there, trusting in that…woman’s word that the small path running along the steep cliffs was an easier way around the mountain.

“She pushed me.” Jules’ voice was flat now, his eyes large and confused, some part of him no doubt still the lonely student at the Sorbonne, amazed that anyone should know his name, much less want to kill him. But what the League could not have they would kill, and to a League agent such as Karsten the opportunity must have been too great not to try.

Jules would not speak of it, might not even understand enough to accuse Phileas; he had, after all, thought Karsten beautiful too, though he had not lingered at her side as Phileas had. Aside from his blushes upon meeting her, Jules had stayed away from the two of them, sketching in his book or exploring his surroundings and dreaming with a befuddled expression on his face. His thoughts he had kept to himself, something Rebecca had not thought odd until now, and she lashed herself viciously for her carelessness once again. Her resentment of Phileas had gotten the better of her again, blast the man.

If only he would not chase after danger no matter how attractive the form. And if only one could make him listen to reason when he had the scent of perfume in his nose.

“Karsten,” Jules said the name once, keeping his voice even, though this time Rebecca had the image of an iron pressed hard to yards of fabric, a hand struggling to smooth out the chaotic folds of cloth; Passpartout with water and a hot press every morning, ready to ensure that Phileas had his bloody paper the way he wanted it. “She pushed me, Fogg.” Jules spoke again, and Rebecca blinked, the only sign of surprise that she allowed herself.

“Yes, Verne,” Phileas hissed behind his newspaper, wrinkling the carefully straightened lines in his grip for a moment. A second later he was turning a page, the action not quite covering his slip, at least not to Rebecca’s eyes, and she looked back to Jules, suddenly intensely curious to see if Jules had recognized the slip too. A vague, undecided feeling that Rebecca did not like or understand at all suddenly made itself known, and she scowled at Phileas, somehow knowing that he was the cause. He had to be, since it could not have been poor Jules. But then her gaze went back to Jules as if drawn there, something even stranger when it was usually Phileas who commanded the attention of a room.

Just when she had again convinced herself that Jules was a complete innocent, there would be a sudden, startling awareness in his eyes, hinting of burdens that he would not share and knowledge that he suffered in silence. Things he did not speak of haunted his large, beautiful eyes, and then he would blink, and there would be only a naïve student, unsure of his welcome aboard this ship. But then he was French, and Rebecca nodded, eager to believe that was the reason, feeling the liquid rise up in her throat.

“She trapped the two of you.” Restless energy brought Jules’ back up, his chin lifting to a degree that would have done Her Majesty proud. “She could have killed you and Rebecca.”

Rebecca’s annoyance at being discussed while still in the room was nothing to her annoyance at hearing Jules turn from his attack, however surprising it was that he had attacked at all. You cannot give in to a Fogg, she heard herself repeating silently, Jules would have to find another weapon. He thought of others before himself, and that was not the way to win this battle.

But Phileas was shifting in his seat, the paper crackling as he lifted it and crossed his legs at the ankles, stretching his limbs out far in front of him. He resettled the paper with a cough and continued to give the appearance of reading as this were just any other bloody afternoon. The dizzying uncertainty behind her eyes returned, and Rebecca pushed it away crossly, not in the mood for puzzles or games and annoyed with the two of them for keeping her from this.

“Passpartout!” Phileas called out, not raising his head from his day-old Times. Passpartout appeared so quickly that Rebecca decided he had been listening by the doorway. Neither Jules nor Phileas so much as glanced at him as he entered, and Rebecca wondered if somehow she and Passpartout had both become invisible, accidental victims of one of Jules and Passpartout’s inventions.

“Another coffee, please, Passpartout,” Phileas ordered, and Jules slapped a hand on the table just as Passpartout reached for the cup. The valet froze with his hand still outstretched, looking from Phileas to her with round eyes.

“Rebecca could have died, Fogg!” Jules’ voice rose close to a shout, breaking as though the blow to the table had hurt him. It made him seem younger than he was, weaker and more desperate, all the easier to topple if they chose, and with a certain sickness, Rebecca recognized the origin of that thought and glanced again at her cousin, wondering briefly if Phileas was right about her job.

Phileas dropped the newspaper so abruptly at the rise of Jules’ passion that Passpartout stepped back and Rebecca felt herself blinking rapidly, struggling to remember if she had actually seen him move. His face was momentarily turned from her, but his voice remained even as he spoke, dropping his words with a coolness that ought to have countered the heat in Jules’ accusation.

“And did you think to fly to safety, Verne?” Phileas wondered, and Rebecca shivered at his softness.

Jules flinched back, rocking his chair before it steadied. With a deep frown that he would never attempt to hide, Jules looked down once again. Whatever he saw in his sketches did not seem to comfort him, and Rebecca doubted it was a trick of the light that made him grow paler.

“But you saved him, Master,” Passpartout stumbled between them, gesturing to her as though she could repair the situation. “Miss Rebecca tell me…” One glance at her face left Passpartout trailing off and grabbing Phileas’ empty cup to hurry back to the kitchen, to listen at the door again she was sure.

Phileas’ jaw worked; usually a sign of an irritation that would require her to defend some hapless innocent from his temper, but now Rebecca closed her eyes to it, feeling the spine of the book hard against her palm as she waited. It was almost like having bones underneath her hand, wrapped in a thin skin of leather and so easily broken that she had to fight the urge to hold it closer. Even as she did she could hear it began to crack in her grip. Putting it down would be wisest, if only her fingers would release it.

She had not called to him, she was sure of that. She had not even had the breath to try, and yet Phileas had been there, frightening her terribly as he had appeared and flung himself at the cliff, not seeming to slow at all. She had thought he was going to fall too, disappear forever, and instead somehow he had held on, shouting words she didn’t remember over the side, his whole body straining to hold himself at the edge.

“Yes, I did,” Phileas said at last, with a slowness that was not reluctance, and Rebecca opened her eyes. Phileas’ hands were curled on the arms of his chair, the paper on the floor as though he had forgotten it. He had washed those hands when he had gone upstairs; there wasn’t a trace of dirt to be found on them or underneath the fingernails that had clawed at the dust in order to reach over the ledge. All the scratches and scrapes across his palms had likewise been carefully bandaged and hidden beneath pristine plaster.

His old coat, the one torn and covered in filth had been discarded somewhere upstairs; his new one was one of his best, his waistcoat painstakingly chosen to match it, striking against the untouched white of his cravat. He would look well before he sank into wine, or port, or brandy, and woke with the stink of it still on him.

Rebecca frowned at the pain behind her eyes, the bare details of a report she had once read coming back to her. Second Agent: Dead. Wounded, fell from cliff at great height. Body not recovered.

“I held on,” Jules murmured, though with his gaze still intent upon his sketchbook. “I held on, Fogg,” he insisted, his voice quieter the second time, his shoulders sagging as though suddenly his strength had given way. “And you pulled me up.”

Look up, Jules, Rebecca found herself thinking, unclear on exactly why she had the thought at all, not even sure why Jules would say what he had, when it obvious to them all that he had held on. But the words did not escape her mouth, and it was a sensation similar to fear that would not let them out, that held her absolutely still despite her urge to get to her feet and shake the both of them. It was clearly, absolutely necessary for Jules to raise his head, to fix Phileas with one of his maddeningly certain stares and say it again. No one could resist those stares, she was sure. One might argue with them, but they foretold the future, and no one could fight that for long.

She watched Jules swallow, saw his slender fingers trace a pattern in the book before him until finally he lifted his chin, staring across at Phileas.

“Passpartout.” She knew her jaw fell slightly as Phileas turned his head to the door and summoned his valet before Jules could meet his gaze. Passpartout stepped into the room with a steaming coffeepot in one hand as if he had been waiting but had been afraid to enter before. “And how do you suggest I drink it?” Phileas asked coolly a moment later when Passpartout came toward him with only the pot, and Rebecca realized that he had forgotten the cup.

Jules lowered his head instantly, colour replacing the white in his cheeks now before his hair fell forward and hid most of his face. His shoulders bent around his body and his arms slid over the book, covering it as he picked up his pencil and held it still over the paper.

“How long until Paris?” Phileas questioned when Passpartout returned with a fresh cup and saucer on a tray and set about pouring more coffee.

“Phileas!” Rebecca spoke at last, brushing aside the small voice that warned her to hold her tongue for just a few moments longer. She had long ago grown tired of that damned voice anyway.

“Yes, Cousin?” He turned to her with his head angled politely to the side, the vaguest expression of interest on his face. She was amazed that he had dared to meet her eyes, after failing to look at Jules.

He had failed to look at Jules. The idea struck her suddenly, the newspaper glaring white on the dark floor.

With a care that surprised her, Rebecca paused to set the book aside before she swung back around to glare at her blasted cousin. The cup and saucer clattered softly in his hands, and her startled gaze dropped to the china and then shifted quickly to his hands, bemusement holding her in place.

“Phileas,” she said again, in what she sincerely hoped was a reasonable tone. His eyes were a muddy mix of colours, but the emotion in them would have been clear if she had only understood it. A vexed noise burst from her and she looked away from Phileas with an ill-disguised growl.

“Yes, Passpartout,” Jules had eyes only for the valet now, and his words were clipped. “…How long until Paris?” His intentions were just as clear as those of Phileas. He would claim his school kept him busy and stay away from them all for months the moment they reached the city. He might as well be drunk in some café too.

If she had not already gagged and throttled the small voice in her head, it might have agreed with what Phileas no doubt would have said, that Jules was safer there, without them in his life, throwing him into danger in the name of some greater good. He had his own life, and the reminder of that had sometimes left an unpleasant taste in her mouth even as they had shared a drink together.

But Phileas would not look up, and no one that cowardly had any say in the matter, Rebecca decided with a toss of her head.

“For God’s sake, Phileas!” she hissed at him. “One would think it was you who had almost died today and not Jules!” The League agents had been absolutely no threat at all and they both knew it. They had been at best a distraction.

Her reasoning fell away as her words ricocheted from point to point around the room, and even Passpartout grew still, his eyes as wide as harvest moons. Somehow that had been a misstep, though exactly why it was so wrong Rebecca wasn’t sure, and refused to admit to anyone, should they dare to ask.

Phileas was looking now, staring across at Jules, his body quiet and hard and battle-ready, though he only faced Jules, and perhaps it was only his training in his posture and nothing more.

“Passpartout,” Phileas called in a low voice, tossing his head to the side slightly. Rebecca looked back on Jules, not at all interested in Phileas’ latest demand for his valet until he spoke again. “I am shocked to see a guest of mine without even a cup of tea.” With a derisive snort, Phileas bent down to retrieve his paper, seeming indifferent to Passpartout’s sudden, startled motions or the brown eyes blinking wildly across from him. “And see to Mister Verne’s hands, I should think a writer would need them.”

“Yes, Master.” Passpartout hurried from the room as Rebecca jumped to her feet, heading for one of the cabinets where more plaster and bandages were kept.

“I’ll take care of your hands, Jules,” she offered with a smile, feeling her gaze slide away as Jules looked up at her. His cheeks were red, but he looked at her seriously, and then at the bandages in her hands.

“I can take care of it myself, Rebecca.” Jules spoke as though he was making a vow, and Rebecca just had time to tap her boot on the floor in irritation before he took the materials from her hands and set them on the table before him.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Jules,” she all but shouted and grabbed them back, though then realizing that she would need a basin of water first. With Jules staring at her like that she couldn’t think.

Not pleased at finding herself at a loss, she again glanced to Phileas. The same emotion as before clouded his eyes, just as unreadable and just as frustrating. Then he looked away and Jules reached for a bandage, drawing her attention. With a loud, crude word she had learned from Sir Boniface, without his knowledge of course, Rebecca stormed after Passpartout in the kitchen, wanting to talk to someone whom she understood perfectly and who would actually talk back to her.

The only sound in the room as she left was the rustling of the Phileas’ bloody newspaper.

The End