Chapter Text
“Are you… absolutely sure you’re ready for this, sir?”
He doesn’t respond right away. Continues to stare mindlessly out into the slowly darkening harbor, at the waves lapping gently against the hull of the Abraham Lincoln. Their luggage has long been loaded and Abigail and Passepartout are already onboard, waiting for him to join them. But he lingers still, oddly fearful to take that final step, much like he was that day when he cornered himself into that ridiculous bet.
Only the fear is different now. He isn’t afraid of the journey – longs for it, in fact. Needs it after the last two hellish weeks spent in this place he used to call his home.
Rather it is a fear of leaving someone behind he worries he may never see alive again.
A part of him envies Abigail in that: Bernard is standing right there in a crowd of gawkers, relatives and well-wishers, yet she walked up that gangway hand-in-hand with Passepartout and pointedly, purposefully never once looked back. He knows why, of course, and he can’t blame her. Just as he can’t help feeling disappointed in his old friend for the bigoted closed-mindedness he’d displayed about his daughter’s relationship. But he’s paid for it, dearly. Abigail refused to see or speak to him ever since, despite his numerous attempts to broach her, and even now she won’t deign him with a glance.
Makes it easier to part this way, Phileas reckons, when you are angry and hurt and have no one that you regret leaving behind. He doesn’t have that luxury, however. Not with Grayson. Never with Grayson. And especially not now after having come so terrifyingly close to losing him only a fortnight ago. Leaving him now after all this somehow feels terrifyingly final.
And yet he cannot stay.
“I know Doctor Hughes had cleared you for travel, but you have been through quite an ordeal. If you are not feeling quite up to it.”
Two weeks it had taken him to recover. Two weeks until the near-debilitating headaches abated and he could read an entire newspaper without issue. Two weeks until he could confidently go on walks without the need to rely on the support of his cane or of Passepartout’s solid elbow. Two weeks until the awful bruising around his neck faded enough to become invisible to the eye.
He can still see it there, of course, the phantom of it, the memory. Can still feel the crushing, suffocating grip of Bellamy’s hands on his throat. It’s one of the few things that had stayed with him from that day: the memory of those hands on him and the fear – a blinding, naked, spiraling fear based on an ugly distorted amalgam of memories both old and new that would rip him ruthlessly out of a much-needed slumber and wouldn’t release its hold on him fully even when he is sheathed from the worst of it by the reassuring light of day and the closeness of those he holds dear.
It is irrational, that fear, he knows. Bellamy is dead (although he’s still a little fuzzy on the details, his memory of those moments still badly fractured). He knows it’s true. He’s seen the medical report, he’s sat through the police inquiry with Abigail and Passepartout on either side of him like two overprotective guard dogs. Hell, he even watched them lower the man’s coffin into the ground. And it had been his decision, his choice to be there, despite his friends’ attempts to convince him otherwise. His money, too, paying for the burial. (There simply was no other money – Bellamy himself having been bankrupt at the time of his death, and having no surviving family and no friends, it seemed, either, who were willing to pitch in. And even though the thought of Bellamy in a pauper’s grave seemed almost deservedly fitting, Phileas didn’t quite feel right about it. They knew each other for far too long and there was just far too much history between them, even if most of it wasn’t good. Phileas thought he owed him at least that much.)
So, yes, the man is gone, buried before Phileas’s eyes under several layers of dirt. He won’t ever trouble Phileas again.
And yet the specter of him still won’t let Phileas go. At least not here in London where the very air around him is steeped in the memories of what has come to pass between them. Not here, where everyone knows him, where he can feel everyone’s stares on him wherever he goes, can hear the whispers behind his back – the judgment, the rumors, the speculations, all of it relished and devoured with hungry, morbid glee.
No, he needs to get away from here. For his own sanity, if nothing else. For a chance to breathe.
He must.
“I am,” he exhales, turning finally to grace his companion with a small, slightly rueful smile. “Ready, that is. And I feel perfectly fine, Grayson, don’t worry.”
The old man frowns up at him in concern, the lines on his face deepening. “Then what is the…. Oh.” A ripple of understanding smooths out the wrinkles, softens the worry in his washed-out blues. “Oh, I see.” He shakes his head with a quiet chuckle, pats Phileas gently on the arm. “Don’t you worry about me either, sir. This old dog still has a lot of fight left in him. I will be here to greet you when you return.”
There’s an infectious kind of certainty in Grayson’s voice, a reassuringly mischievous glint in his eyes. And Phileas desperately wants to believe him. But there’s a tightness in his chest at the thought of leaving him and a traitorous burn behind his eyes.
He looks away, back out toward the endless sea. Swallows tightly before he ventures to speak.
“How many times have I told you to stop calling me sir?”
He’d meant to sound collected, insouciant. Instead his voice betrays him, breaks upon the words, laying bare the turmoil inside him.
The hand on his arm squeezes once in silent support. “Habit, sir. You know what they say about old dogs and new tricks.”
Grayson’s tone is light, joking, but Phileas can detect a slight tremble in the old man’s voice, and when he risks a glance back there’s no mistaking the tremulous quality of his smile.
Yet the resolve in those pale blue eyes never wavers.
“Go on, sir,” Grayson urges, motioning toward the ship. “If this new adventure is what you feel you need, then you shouldn’t let me or anyone else stop you. Go on, go on,” he repeats when Phileas hesitates still, “your friends are waiting.”
Phileas follows his gaze to the frigate, to where Abigail and Passepartout stand up on the poop deck, anxiously waving at him to hurry. He nods to them, forcing a twitch of a smile for their benefit. Turns back to Grayson.
“I will come back,” he insists, needing the certainty of that conviction both for his own sake and for Grayson’s. His arms move almost on their own volition, wrapping around the old man’s shoulders, pulling him in. “I will! You wait for me, you hear?”
Grayson squeezes him in return, pats him gently on the back before pulling away. “I will be waiting at home as always, sir.”
Phileas walks away then. Runs quickly up the gangway, afraid to look back lest he should lose his resolve altogether. Hurries toward the poop deck to join his friends.
They aren’t alone. A tall imposing officer with a wind-weathered face and a thick mane of graying hair stands beside them, and he turns to Phileas, greeting his approach with a sharp nod and a proffered hand.
“Mr. Phileas Fogg?”
“That’s me,” Phileas replies, shaking the man’s hand. “Commander Farragut?”
“Indeed.” The officer smiles. “Welcome aboard, sir. I was just informing your friends that the Abraham Lincoln will be casting off in a few minutes. Your cabins are ready for you, so you are welcome to retire to them, or, if you prefer, you can stay up here and watch as we depart. Call on me if you need anything.”
With that he turns and walks away, and Phileas is left there with Abigail and Passepartout and unaccountable butterflies in his stomach.
“You ready, Mr. Fogg?” Abigail is watching him, keen and concerned.
“On to track down the mysterious cetacean, oui monsieur? Let the adventure begin!”
“Indeed.” He smiles, thin and crooked. Turns to look back at the dock, gripping the railing when the frigate rocks forward with a whistle of steam and pulls away from the shore, slowly leaving England behind. “Let the adventure begin.”