"A Kiss Can Be a Fatal Thing Pt. One"
Author: K'Immielvr
Rated: PG
Archive: Sure
Summary: Phileas wakes up in the Phoenix 140 years away from everyone he knows.
Warning: A hangover, a concussion, and kissing.
Disclaimer/Notes: Kimmielvr wrote this as a belated birthday present for me. I've made two changes to it since Kimmielvr gave it to me. I put a title to it, and I made Phileas a little less SAJV a little more the man I've loved for somewhere between 16 and 20 years. Pay close attention to his eyes. *g* Neither Kimmielvr nor I own any part of The Secret Adventures of Jules Verne. This is an SAJV alternate universe (very AU *bg*). // are thoughts. My dad and I beta'd it for archiving.
"A Kiss Can Be a Fatal Thing Pt. One"
by Kimmielvr (c) 2001Albion 2001,
Phileas Fogg stumbled out of the Phoenix, the frigid, snow-filled air doing a marvelous job of sobering him very quickly. He blinked against the sting of the flakes, trying to recall how the hell he'd even got into the unpredictable time machine. Last thing he remembered with any clarity, was pouring himself a drink (always a mistake) in his quarters on the Aurora. There was a sharp pain at the base of his skull and tentatively he touched it, grimacing slightly as he felt the warm stickiness of blood. //Damn!// he swore to himself wishing that Passepartout was here -- where ever and when ever here was. Not only was his wiry valet the only person to remotely know how to operate the Dumas' machine but Phileas was certain he would know how to treat both his hangover and ache from his wound.
Well, he was alive and safe at the moment. He pondered the first, wondering if that belonged in the good or bad column, then shrugged as he peered through the whiteness of the snowy night. There, not more than a couple of hundred yards, was a house. With nothing more than his usual clothes he would quickly freeze if he didn't find shelter, and there was not much in the way of heat inside the machine. So, fighting the cold, the snow, his concussion, and hangover, Phileas made his slow way to the house.
Settled comfortably on her couch, Becca was just relaxing in front of the TV when there was an insistent, but weak knock at the door. Wondering who on earth it could be at this late hour and in this weather, Becca got up and answered it.
She was met by a tall, dark man, his hair just graying around the edges. He was slumped against the door frame. He looked to her, trying to straighten up but the effort was more than he could manage. "I'm terribly sorry for disturbing you. I wonder if you could perhaps render some assistance?"
For a second, Becca stood opened mouthed -- despite the state he was in, he was still incredibly handsome. His eyes, a pale blue, were still clear and lucid and bored into her hopefully. "Of course!" she managed to stutter, and as best she could, helped the stranger into her home. She settled him into her armchair, and after fetching some blankets and wrapping them warmly around him, crouched by the chair's arm. "Are you okay? Is there anything I can get you?"
At first Phileas shook his head, and regretted it immediately. He managed to smile at her. "No," he paused, rethinking. "Actually, you wouldn't have a drop of brandy, would you?" He shrugged, disappointedly as Becca shook her head. "Oh and forgive my atrocious manners, Fogg, Phileas Fogg. And you are? My little nightingale."
Blinking with surprise, she spluttered her name. "B-B-Becca. Phileas Fogg? As in the Jules Verne book?"
At the mention of her name, a distant look came into his eye. "Becca...a lovely name," he whispered, more to himself than her. Then he realized what she'd said. "You know Verne? That reprobate?" But he smiled as he said it the affection for his friend clearly showing. "He actually got one of those stories published?" Then he remembered he'd arrived via a time machine.
"Oh yes, Jules Verne is a very celebrated author; he created science-fiction well over a hundred years ago!" Becca fell suddenly silent as something dawned on her. "You mean that Phileas Fogg was a real person!"
Phileas laughed, flinching at the sudden stab of pain at the back of his head. "I should jolly well hope so! I most certainly feel real, unfortunately."
But she'd noticed his pain. "You're hurt! Why didn't you say? I'll go and clean it up." With in a couple of minutes, she was back with a bowl of warm water, a sponge, and a bandage. Carefully she dabbed away the drying blood from the wound, amused at how, at each gentle touch Phileas winced like a baby.
Before she was done, however, he gently took hold of her wrist and pulled her close. "You really are a nightingale." He gently kissed her lips. "Thank you."
Their eyes locked, both surprised, his that she so calmly accepted this forwardness, and hers that one small kiss could cause such a reaction in her. It was a gross understatement to say that she was suddenly tingling all over. Both pairs reflected embers of their passion.
Without thought, the next thing both of them knew they were in a fervent embrace. Phileas wrapped the blanket around them both; Becca absently discarded the sponge, neither of them paying any heed to his wound only to themselves...