Touched
Author: Regency
Title: Touched
Rating: G
Spoilers: up to Breach, For King and Country; speculation and AU beyond.
Word count: ~2,571
Pairing: none in particular (Will/Helen UST and Helen/John UST if you squint)
Summary: Will Zimmerman will always believe in Magnus first and foremost. Adam thinks this a sweet trait that may someday be the concubine’s downfall. Magnus knows it will be.
Author’s Notes: I thought Will believed Magnus’ explanations far too easily and that maybe Adam had a point about his not knowing her at all. Naturally, this fails to speak to that in the least.
AN II: Posted for the scifiverse Special Promotions Challenge. Come visit us!
Disclaimer: I don't own any characters recognizable as being from Sanctuary. They are the property of their actors, producers, writers, and studios, not me. No copyright infringement was intended and no money was made in the writing or distribution of this story. It was good, clean fun.
~!~
Will finds himself believing the madman-well, one of the madmen. There’s an abundance of them in residence today. This one is dying more quickly and more surely than the rest and he’s got the audacity to pull Magnus along for the ride. Will can’t live with that, that isn’t something by which he can abide. He has to find his way to Hollow Earth to save her, because he’s beginning to doubt her willingness to save herself. Actually, he’s beginning to doubt a lot of things, but if there was ever less of a time for that, he hasn’t lived it.
Helen Magnus is the only thing or person he trusts nowadays and now she’s what he has to lose.
~!~
Helen knows that Adam knows that she lies to her protégé at times. She does not tell creative truths or render interpretations of events made palatable by the benefit of hindsight; she lies. It isn’t a thing she enjoys, but it is something at which she excels. Perhaps because she’s had a century and then some to hone her vice into a craft; whatever the source, she recites her lines with ease. She is a consummate performer for those in her thrall and Adam knows because, once, he lived within it as well.
These aren’t untruths she tells with purely selfish motive, but ones for the greater good. The justification is preposterous enough that she daren’t say it aloud even if there were someone in whom to confide her confession. But she means it. She thinly sugarcoats reality to suit what she feels Will can handle. He is every bit a man capable of filling her chair and yet, she fears for what little naïveté he still possesses. Although the politics he’s tasted in their brief association have certainly put paid to his idealism, she knows he still believes that every servant of the Sanctuary Network is fundamentally honorable, and perhaps that every being is as well. She’d hate for such honesty to rob him of the man he is; she isn’t certain she would admire the man he’d become quite as much. She isn’t certain she’d want that to be the man to succeed her.
Nevertheless, she does acknowledge a less glorious truth. The truth, her truth is that she’d hate to see the end of his regard for her. There are things the past holds which William Zimmerman would not regard kindly, far less so than the multitude of sins with which Adam Worth has slandered her name. She has known this for three years and, still, the sheer magnitude of his faith in shattering unnerves her by what it says of his faith intact. He believes in her utterly and the enormity of it drives the breath from her lungs.
She cannot lie to him again.
~!~
Will wonders if it’s standard operating procedure for the men in Magnus’ orbit to go mad. They go mad with love, or bloodlust, or vengeance. Brilliant men with greater minds than his have thrown themselves from cliffs in her name and he has to wonder if he’s next. He’s been tripping on the frayed edges of his psyche for months-since childhood, if truth be told-and this affair where he loses her may be his bullet wound, his de-vamper, his nasty electro-monster from hell. This may be the moment where he abandons all hope to become one more obsessive speed bump on her road of good intentions. And the most terrifying thing is that he sees it coming.
He’s seen the faces of gods, or something close, and he came back to Earth because the only truths he wanted were the ones she had to show him. He can’t begin to dissect what it means to show that kind of faith, though he’s sure it’s beyond all reason. I haven’t been reasonable since I met her, he thinks, and why isn’t something he’s ready to face. Helen Magnus has managed to transform his world by becoming its center and he is terrifyingly okay with that.
Maybe he’s mad already.
~!~
He isn’t huddled poring over the map with the others when she goes to find him. Although she expects he’s memorized the details, it still surprises her. While Will might be an ardent student of human behavior, he’s also a rabble rouser; he likes to be in the midst of any operation underway. Now that he’s effectively replaced her as the temporary of Head of House, she expected him to have micromanaged planning to the extent of tedium. She hasn’t quite been successful at selling her protégé on the merits of “Que será, será,” one of her more tolerable failings of late.
She doesn’t have the opportunity to utter a word before Henry inclines his chin towards the quiet end of library where she immediately finds Will. He projects an air of quiet competence as he oversees their charges, but she can’t fail to read the air of something more, too. His curiosity has changed trajectory; now, he’s searching within. She can only guess at what quandary makes him furrow his brow and frown, makes him pull away when she goes to comfort him in the small way she allows herself.
As she watches, he stiffens his spine and begins pulling in whatever vulnerability has seeped out. She’s stood witness to the act dozens of times and only in this instant does it occur to her that it’s all been for her. He is efficiently storing his doubt and bolstering his nerve; he will find her Hollow Earth, he will save her life, and they will go on. She can feel the resolute words on her lips as surely as they pass through his conscious mind. He has decided and, thus, it will be.
She wishes she still had his conviction.
~!~
He has no idea how long she’s been standing there when he finally sees her. The flush of graceful rage she sported for the majority of their brief confrontation has abated, leaving just Magnus in its wake. Though there’s still an affronted shade to her acquiescence, resignation carries the day. With a tip of his head, he invites her to occupy the empty armchair at his side-his right-hand, his most trusted side. It’s as much a gesture as an apology he can’t afford to give her. They’ve switched roles, what he says goes and he expects her to back him. By taking the seat, she proves that she does.
The relief feels written on his skin and deeper, and he dons it like armor. He can’t fight her to save her; he can’t fight her at all, he needs her. He needs this to be okay. And if he’s broken afterward, well, what’s one more casualty?
“How are you feeling,” he asks her once she seems comfortable enough. He can pretend her pallor is brought about by a lack of sun and not by the radiation eating away at her in increments. Self-delusion is one of his talents, you know. He’s world-class, his learning having begun with his mother’s death and continued ever since.
Magnus looses an exhale in answer, overcome. Will knows the feeling.
“We’ll make it, Magnus. In time for you and for Adam.” Optimism, he’s so very full of it.
“You sound so certain, Will, I almost believe you.” She smiles at him and he thinks he spies tacit forgiveness within it. She’s making amends. It’s the worst possible sign-Magnus is giving up.
“You should. Some of the greatest minds to ever think are pulling for you.” He doesn’t know how to stop her. All of his years of training have only taught him that the helplessness coursing through him is normal. Which isn’t particularly helpful right now.
She peers at him askance between glances at the re-imagined Rat Pack of Victorian Era geniuses gathered on the opposite end of the room. She belongs among them regardless of whether she has the authority to lead them. So, he wonders, why she’s bothering with him.
“Do you need something, Magnus?”
Somewhat shamefacedly, she looks away from him. He’s immediately concerned. Helen Magnus has lived for 159 years; she doesn’t do shame nowadays, if she ever has.
“Magnus?” He touches his fingertips to the inside of her wrist to bring her back to him. It feels almost comically Victorian, as her little scandalized chuckle concedes.
“I daresay we’ll make a proper British gentleman of you yet, William.”
He goes along with the spectacle and chuckles, too. “More impossible things have happened.”
Smiling, she reaches across to slip the tips of her fingers between his.
Positively Victorian, he thinks again, warm.
She agrees, “Indeed.”
“Now, tell me what’s wrong.”
Magnus sighs and begins to withdraw from the contact, but he captures her fingers with his. It’s the only point at which they’re touching at all anymore.
“Magnus. Talk to me.” Just as he thinks she’s about to continue to refuse, she surprises him.
“My middle name is Victoria, did I ever tell you that?”
Despite not having a clue where that came from or where this is going, he decides to go along. “No, I don’t think that’s ever come up. I expected it to be something like that or Elizabeth or Katherine, given the time you’re from.”
“Very astute, Dr. Zimmerman. I believe I knew some thirteen Katherines in my season. There were undoubtedly more, but those tended to answer to other diminutives: Kate, Katie, and Kit. This was true even more so for the girls named Elizabeth.” She smiles at him secretively, as though they’re sharing a private joke. “I daresay the parents of my generation were greatly lacking in creativity when it came to their offspring. I did quite well to be named as I was, don’t you agree?”
He knows better than to do anything else. “Absolutely.”
She offers him her entire hand and he takes it. He ignores the alarming clamminess of her palm to focus on the underlying warmth of her flesh instead. “You’re an appalling liar, Will. That’s something you must improve.”
One topic on which they can’t agree. “The way I see it, being a bad liar means I have to pretty much always tell the truth.” It’s a tall order to fill, but he’s done all right in his life.
“Not if you expect to succeed as Head of the Global Sanctuary Network.”
He grimaces a smile, uncomfortable at the insinuation that someday that job won’t be hers. He isn’t afraid of filling her shoes, he’s afraid of seeing them empty. “Well, I’ve still got some time left before my next promotion, so you’ll have to forgive my lack of urgency.”
“You may not have the time you think.” He starts to deny it. “Will!” It’s obviously louder than she intends as the entire library falls to silence. She waves absently to the other occupants of the room and they reluctantly return to their work. Will wishes they wouldn’t.
“Magnus-”
“This is no time for denial. I am dying and I accept that. My death means that you must ascend to the position of Head or someone else will gladly step in to fill the vacuum. The future of this Network depends on your readiness.”
“And if I’m not ready?”
“Then, the last three years have been for nothing, because there is no one else I trust to carry on my life’s work.”
Will can feel the muscles in his jaw twitch under the force of his grinding teeth. He doesn’t need to hear this; she should know he doesn’t need to hear this. Doesn’t she know everything? The question isn’t a fair one but neither is life. He wants her to live when she’s fine with dying. This isn’t how he imagined saying goodbye to her, side by side in a room full of men who will look down on him or pity him or die themselves the moment she does. There will be no Sanctuary once there is no Helen Magnus and he can’t bear to be the one to say so.
Self-delusion wins again and maybe mercy, too.
“Then, I guess I have to be ready then.” He suppresses the somber sigh begging for release and squeezes her hand one more time. He doesn’t think he’ll touch her again. He can’t lie that well.
“You will be.” With a comforting pat, she lets go and leaves to join her peers. He takes solace in the sight of them together; it may be the last time.
~!~
She feels the heavy weight of his observation for the duration of the night. The men of her age bicker at the table with a touch of finely-tuned desperation. They are losing hours and they cannot give them back; it’s the guilt behind their polite smiles that tells her how much they wish to. Helen can’t help asking herself how she came to mean so much to so diverse a selection of men. She’d have to be a fool or utterly oblivious not to realize that each holds her in some deeply personal regard that they’d rather die than admit aloud, John excepted. They ache for her and, in return, she can do no less than feel the same.
Helen’s never been afraid of her own imminent demise, only of its distance. Today, it stalks her as a shadow in her peripheral vision, as the sloughing of skin as it begins to die on her frame, as the lingering aftertaste of iron on her palate. Very soon, she will cease to be the woman she was and only this body will remain. If only there were time, she’d leave them something more worthwhile to cherish.
There isn’t time.
She deigns to place herself between John and Nikola at the table. Their shoulders brush her own, causing her to flinch. The skin ulceration is in progress. She can only hope she doesn’t begin to bleed here when she just wants to be able to touch them again, these remainders of her true peers.
At once, she feels two capable hands take to her back, each immediately adjusting for propriety, though neither has ever been much of man for it and she never much a woman. John’s touch strays low to her waist and it’s intimate in a way that makes her shiver. Nikola’s palm rests directly against her spine, lending her the support she needs to remain erect and formidable. He is nothing if not a lover of symbolism. Their closeness makes the absence of warmth across her shoulders difficult to ignore. Nigel and James, they should be here now, completing this hapless polygon and seeing it to its conclusion. She still cannot imagine a future without them though she has already lived it.
Maybe there’s a small favor in this after all. She doesn’t have to carry this legacy solely on her shoulders anymore; her burden is at last well and truly shared. It’s a relief.
~!~
Will knows the moment when her acceptance becomes absolute. The burden slides like a tangible thing onto his back and now he carries the weight of their world. It’s nearly crushing, but he knows it’s the least he can do. If it lets her breathe, he’ll carry it forever. If it saves her life, he’ll die carrying it. He doesn’t mind at all.
To him, she’s worth it, absolutely.
Title: Touched
Rating: G
Spoilers: up to Breach, For King and Country; speculation and AU beyond.
Word count: ~2,571
Pairing: none in particular (Will/Helen UST and Helen/John UST if you squint)
Summary: Will Zimmerman will always believe in Magnus first and foremost. Adam thinks this a sweet trait that may someday be the concubine’s downfall. Magnus knows it will be.
Author’s Notes: I thought Will believed Magnus’ explanations far too easily and that maybe Adam had a point about his not knowing her at all. Naturally, this fails to speak to that in the least.
AN II: Posted for the scifiverse Special Promotions Challenge. Come visit us!
Disclaimer: I don't own any characters recognizable as being from Sanctuary. They are the property of their actors, producers, writers, and studios, not me. No copyright infringement was intended and no money was made in the writing or distribution of this story. It was good, clean fun.
~!~
Will finds himself believing the madman-well, one of the madmen. There’s an abundance of them in residence today. This one is dying more quickly and more surely than the rest and he’s got the audacity to pull Magnus along for the ride. Will can’t live with that, that isn’t something by which he can abide. He has to find his way to Hollow Earth to save her, because he’s beginning to doubt her willingness to save herself. Actually, he’s beginning to doubt a lot of things, but if there was ever less of a time for that, he hasn’t lived it.
Helen Magnus is the only thing or person he trusts nowadays and now she’s what he has to lose.
~!~
Helen knows that Adam knows that she lies to her protégé at times. She does not tell creative truths or render interpretations of events made palatable by the benefit of hindsight; she lies. It isn’t a thing she enjoys, but it is something at which she excels. Perhaps because she’s had a century and then some to hone her vice into a craft; whatever the source, she recites her lines with ease. She is a consummate performer for those in her thrall and Adam knows because, once, he lived within it as well.
These aren’t untruths she tells with purely selfish motive, but ones for the greater good. The justification is preposterous enough that she daren’t say it aloud even if there were someone in whom to confide her confession. But she means it. She thinly sugarcoats reality to suit what she feels Will can handle. He is every bit a man capable of filling her chair and yet, she fears for what little naïveté he still possesses. Although the politics he’s tasted in their brief association have certainly put paid to his idealism, she knows he still believes that every servant of the Sanctuary Network is fundamentally honorable, and perhaps that every being is as well. She’d hate for such honesty to rob him of the man he is; she isn’t certain she would admire the man he’d become quite as much. She isn’t certain she’d want that to be the man to succeed her.
Nevertheless, she does acknowledge a less glorious truth. The truth, her truth is that she’d hate to see the end of his regard for her. There are things the past holds which William Zimmerman would not regard kindly, far less so than the multitude of sins with which Adam Worth has slandered her name. She has known this for three years and, still, the sheer magnitude of his faith in shattering unnerves her by what it says of his faith intact. He believes in her utterly and the enormity of it drives the breath from her lungs.
She cannot lie to him again.
~!~
Will wonders if it’s standard operating procedure for the men in Magnus’ orbit to go mad. They go mad with love, or bloodlust, or vengeance. Brilliant men with greater minds than his have thrown themselves from cliffs in her name and he has to wonder if he’s next. He’s been tripping on the frayed edges of his psyche for months-since childhood, if truth be told-and this affair where he loses her may be his bullet wound, his de-vamper, his nasty electro-monster from hell. This may be the moment where he abandons all hope to become one more obsessive speed bump on her road of good intentions. And the most terrifying thing is that he sees it coming.
He’s seen the faces of gods, or something close, and he came back to Earth because the only truths he wanted were the ones she had to show him. He can’t begin to dissect what it means to show that kind of faith, though he’s sure it’s beyond all reason. I haven’t been reasonable since I met her, he thinks, and why isn’t something he’s ready to face. Helen Magnus has managed to transform his world by becoming its center and he is terrifyingly okay with that.
Maybe he’s mad already.
~!~
He isn’t huddled poring over the map with the others when she goes to find him. Although she expects he’s memorized the details, it still surprises her. While Will might be an ardent student of human behavior, he’s also a rabble rouser; he likes to be in the midst of any operation underway. Now that he’s effectively replaced her as the temporary of Head of House, she expected him to have micromanaged planning to the extent of tedium. She hasn’t quite been successful at selling her protégé on the merits of “Que será, será,” one of her more tolerable failings of late.
She doesn’t have the opportunity to utter a word before Henry inclines his chin towards the quiet end of library where she immediately finds Will. He projects an air of quiet competence as he oversees their charges, but she can’t fail to read the air of something more, too. His curiosity has changed trajectory; now, he’s searching within. She can only guess at what quandary makes him furrow his brow and frown, makes him pull away when she goes to comfort him in the small way she allows herself.
As she watches, he stiffens his spine and begins pulling in whatever vulnerability has seeped out. She’s stood witness to the act dozens of times and only in this instant does it occur to her that it’s all been for her. He is efficiently storing his doubt and bolstering his nerve; he will find her Hollow Earth, he will save her life, and they will go on. She can feel the resolute words on her lips as surely as they pass through his conscious mind. He has decided and, thus, it will be.
She wishes she still had his conviction.
~!~
He has no idea how long she’s been standing there when he finally sees her. The flush of graceful rage she sported for the majority of their brief confrontation has abated, leaving just Magnus in its wake. Though there’s still an affronted shade to her acquiescence, resignation carries the day. With a tip of his head, he invites her to occupy the empty armchair at his side-his right-hand, his most trusted side. It’s as much a gesture as an apology he can’t afford to give her. They’ve switched roles, what he says goes and he expects her to back him. By taking the seat, she proves that she does.
The relief feels written on his skin and deeper, and he dons it like armor. He can’t fight her to save her; he can’t fight her at all, he needs her. He needs this to be okay. And if he’s broken afterward, well, what’s one more casualty?
“How are you feeling,” he asks her once she seems comfortable enough. He can pretend her pallor is brought about by a lack of sun and not by the radiation eating away at her in increments. Self-delusion is one of his talents, you know. He’s world-class, his learning having begun with his mother’s death and continued ever since.
Magnus looses an exhale in answer, overcome. Will knows the feeling.
“We’ll make it, Magnus. In time for you and for Adam.” Optimism, he’s so very full of it.
“You sound so certain, Will, I almost believe you.” She smiles at him and he thinks he spies tacit forgiveness within it. She’s making amends. It’s the worst possible sign-Magnus is giving up.
“You should. Some of the greatest minds to ever think are pulling for you.” He doesn’t know how to stop her. All of his years of training have only taught him that the helplessness coursing through him is normal. Which isn’t particularly helpful right now.
She peers at him askance between glances at the re-imagined Rat Pack of Victorian Era geniuses gathered on the opposite end of the room. She belongs among them regardless of whether she has the authority to lead them. So, he wonders, why she’s bothering with him.
“Do you need something, Magnus?”
Somewhat shamefacedly, she looks away from him. He’s immediately concerned. Helen Magnus has lived for 159 years; she doesn’t do shame nowadays, if she ever has.
“Magnus?” He touches his fingertips to the inside of her wrist to bring her back to him. It feels almost comically Victorian, as her little scandalized chuckle concedes.
“I daresay we’ll make a proper British gentleman of you yet, William.”
He goes along with the spectacle and chuckles, too. “More impossible things have happened.”
Smiling, she reaches across to slip the tips of her fingers between his.
Positively Victorian, he thinks again, warm.
She agrees, “Indeed.”
“Now, tell me what’s wrong.”
Magnus sighs and begins to withdraw from the contact, but he captures her fingers with his. It’s the only point at which they’re touching at all anymore.
“Magnus. Talk to me.” Just as he thinks she’s about to continue to refuse, she surprises him.
“My middle name is Victoria, did I ever tell you that?”
Despite not having a clue where that came from or where this is going, he decides to go along. “No, I don’t think that’s ever come up. I expected it to be something like that or Elizabeth or Katherine, given the time you’re from.”
“Very astute, Dr. Zimmerman. I believe I knew some thirteen Katherines in my season. There were undoubtedly more, but those tended to answer to other diminutives: Kate, Katie, and Kit. This was true even more so for the girls named Elizabeth.” She smiles at him secretively, as though they’re sharing a private joke. “I daresay the parents of my generation were greatly lacking in creativity when it came to their offspring. I did quite well to be named as I was, don’t you agree?”
He knows better than to do anything else. “Absolutely.”
She offers him her entire hand and he takes it. He ignores the alarming clamminess of her palm to focus on the underlying warmth of her flesh instead. “You’re an appalling liar, Will. That’s something you must improve.”
One topic on which they can’t agree. “The way I see it, being a bad liar means I have to pretty much always tell the truth.” It’s a tall order to fill, but he’s done all right in his life.
“Not if you expect to succeed as Head of the Global Sanctuary Network.”
He grimaces a smile, uncomfortable at the insinuation that someday that job won’t be hers. He isn’t afraid of filling her shoes, he’s afraid of seeing them empty. “Well, I’ve still got some time left before my next promotion, so you’ll have to forgive my lack of urgency.”
“You may not have the time you think.” He starts to deny it. “Will!” It’s obviously louder than she intends as the entire library falls to silence. She waves absently to the other occupants of the room and they reluctantly return to their work. Will wishes they wouldn’t.
“Magnus-”
“This is no time for denial. I am dying and I accept that. My death means that you must ascend to the position of Head or someone else will gladly step in to fill the vacuum. The future of this Network depends on your readiness.”
“And if I’m not ready?”
“Then, the last three years have been for nothing, because there is no one else I trust to carry on my life’s work.”
Will can feel the muscles in his jaw twitch under the force of his grinding teeth. He doesn’t need to hear this; she should know he doesn’t need to hear this. Doesn’t she know everything? The question isn’t a fair one but neither is life. He wants her to live when she’s fine with dying. This isn’t how he imagined saying goodbye to her, side by side in a room full of men who will look down on him or pity him or die themselves the moment she does. There will be no Sanctuary once there is no Helen Magnus and he can’t bear to be the one to say so.
Self-delusion wins again and maybe mercy, too.
“Then, I guess I have to be ready then.” He suppresses the somber sigh begging for release and squeezes her hand one more time. He doesn’t think he’ll touch her again. He can’t lie that well.
“You will be.” With a comforting pat, she lets go and leaves to join her peers. He takes solace in the sight of them together; it may be the last time.
~!~
She feels the heavy weight of his observation for the duration of the night. The men of her age bicker at the table with a touch of finely-tuned desperation. They are losing hours and they cannot give them back; it’s the guilt behind their polite smiles that tells her how much they wish to. Helen can’t help asking herself how she came to mean so much to so diverse a selection of men. She’d have to be a fool or utterly oblivious not to realize that each holds her in some deeply personal regard that they’d rather die than admit aloud, John excepted. They ache for her and, in return, she can do no less than feel the same.
Helen’s never been afraid of her own imminent demise, only of its distance. Today, it stalks her as a shadow in her peripheral vision, as the sloughing of skin as it begins to die on her frame, as the lingering aftertaste of iron on her palate. Very soon, she will cease to be the woman she was and only this body will remain. If only there were time, she’d leave them something more worthwhile to cherish.
There isn’t time.
She deigns to place herself between John and Nikola at the table. Their shoulders brush her own, causing her to flinch. The skin ulceration is in progress. She can only hope she doesn’t begin to bleed here when she just wants to be able to touch them again, these remainders of her true peers.
At once, she feels two capable hands take to her back, each immediately adjusting for propriety, though neither has ever been much of man for it and she never much a woman. John’s touch strays low to her waist and it’s intimate in a way that makes her shiver. Nikola’s palm rests directly against her spine, lending her the support she needs to remain erect and formidable. He is nothing if not a lover of symbolism. Their closeness makes the absence of warmth across her shoulders difficult to ignore. Nigel and James, they should be here now, completing this hapless polygon and seeing it to its conclusion. She still cannot imagine a future without them though she has already lived it.
Maybe there’s a small favor in this after all. She doesn’t have to carry this legacy solely on her shoulders anymore; her burden is at last well and truly shared. It’s a relief.
~!~
Will knows the moment when her acceptance becomes absolute. The burden slides like a tangible thing onto his back and now he carries the weight of their world. It’s nearly crushing, but he knows it’s the least he can do. If it lets her breathe, he’ll carry it forever. If it saves her life, he’ll die carrying it. He doesn’t mind at all.
To him, she’s worth it, absolutely.