Let the Dust Fall (Sanctuary; James/Helen; PG)
Title: Let the Dust Fall
Pairing: James/Helen
Rating: PG
Summary: After Normandy (so, spoilers), James reflects on Helen.
Thanks: To lavenderseaslug, who very quickly told me that this was not dumb and I should post it. She also requested that I keep its original title "the one after normandy where james wakes up and helen's kind of sad," but I opted to change it. :)
Dawn is just pressing at the edges of the windows, casting purple-grey hues over the room, when James stirs, finding himself suddenly awake. He blinks, slowly, against the change in consciousness and even with his superior reasoning it takes several moments for him to realize why.
Helen, who had been asleep in his arms when he last checked several hours earlier, now sits in the uncomfortable chair he’d put in the corner to make it seem less empty. She’s changed out of her nightgown and into one of his shirts and stares out the window, an afghan draped around her shoulders to ward off the early morning chill.
James studies her in the dying starlight, certain she’s so lost in her thoughts she hasn’t heard him stir. He’ll lead her back to herself in a moment. He’d known something was bothering her the moment they collapsed, exhausted, in a tiny protected room, falling asleep to the sounds of invasion as the adrenaline wore off. She’d held herself stiffly and though she’d made a show of curling into him, resting her cheek on his chest, it was obvious to anyone that her thoughts were elsewhere. Now, back home in London with her carefully-constructed walls crumbled, she simply looks sad. Older than she did last week.
He knows why.
John does this to her - to them - each time he appears, as long as he perceives he is needed, only to disappear with a quip and a flash of orange. James finds himself growing angry with John, not for the old reasons involving whores and murder and betrayal but for the way he always seems to leave Helen in pieces. For a man who once promised to love her for all eternity, John treats Helen awfully.
He must move, for Helen straightens and turns her gaze upon him. The change in angle highlights the tears on her cheeks, which she gently brushes away.
James swallows. He’s long learned not to be envious of John and what Helen still feels for him, though she tries her hardest not to. “Are you alright?” He really means to ask if she is ready for company or if he needs to pretend to be asleep, but they’ve become very good at not speaking about how Helen handles John’s appearances.
She nods after a moment. “Yes. I’m sorry if I woke you.” She stands, allowing the afghan to drop from her shoulders to the chair, and walks gracefully to the bed.
James shifts, though the movement isn’t necessary to allow her room to return. Her absence in the bed is conspicuous; he’d remained as he had lain while they had slept: on his side, slightly curled around a body that wasn’t there anymore. He does lift the sheets for her and she smiles thankfully as she lies next to him.
Helen faces him and places her palm on his shoulder, gently pushing him onto the mattress. James complies and his arms instinctively come up around her back. He presses a supportive kiss to her forehead and she smiles before resting her cheek on the machine over his chest. They don’t lie this way often - it leads to interesting patterns on her cheek in the morning - only when she needs to feel him near. His fingers trace the length of her spine as she settles against him. He feels her shudder and splays his palm across her back, warm and comforting, and holds her close.
“Sleep well, Helen,” he whispers as the sun finally breaks over the horizon.
Pairing: James/Helen
Rating: PG
Summary: After Normandy (so, spoilers), James reflects on Helen.
Thanks: To lavenderseaslug, who very quickly told me that this was not dumb and I should post it. She also requested that I keep its original title "the one after normandy where james wakes up and helen's kind of sad," but I opted to change it. :)
Dawn is just pressing at the edges of the windows, casting purple-grey hues over the room, when James stirs, finding himself suddenly awake. He blinks, slowly, against the change in consciousness and even with his superior reasoning it takes several moments for him to realize why.
Helen, who had been asleep in his arms when he last checked several hours earlier, now sits in the uncomfortable chair he’d put in the corner to make it seem less empty. She’s changed out of her nightgown and into one of his shirts and stares out the window, an afghan draped around her shoulders to ward off the early morning chill.
James studies her in the dying starlight, certain she’s so lost in her thoughts she hasn’t heard him stir. He’ll lead her back to herself in a moment. He’d known something was bothering her the moment they collapsed, exhausted, in a tiny protected room, falling asleep to the sounds of invasion as the adrenaline wore off. She’d held herself stiffly and though she’d made a show of curling into him, resting her cheek on his chest, it was obvious to anyone that her thoughts were elsewhere. Now, back home in London with her carefully-constructed walls crumbled, she simply looks sad. Older than she did last week.
He knows why.
John does this to her - to them - each time he appears, as long as he perceives he is needed, only to disappear with a quip and a flash of orange. James finds himself growing angry with John, not for the old reasons involving whores and murder and betrayal but for the way he always seems to leave Helen in pieces. For a man who once promised to love her for all eternity, John treats Helen awfully.
He must move, for Helen straightens and turns her gaze upon him. The change in angle highlights the tears on her cheeks, which she gently brushes away.
James swallows. He’s long learned not to be envious of John and what Helen still feels for him, though she tries her hardest not to. “Are you alright?” He really means to ask if she is ready for company or if he needs to pretend to be asleep, but they’ve become very good at not speaking about how Helen handles John’s appearances.
She nods after a moment. “Yes. I’m sorry if I woke you.” She stands, allowing the afghan to drop from her shoulders to the chair, and walks gracefully to the bed.
James shifts, though the movement isn’t necessary to allow her room to return. Her absence in the bed is conspicuous; he’d remained as he had lain while they had slept: on his side, slightly curled around a body that wasn’t there anymore. He does lift the sheets for her and she smiles thankfully as she lies next to him.
Helen faces him and places her palm on his shoulder, gently pushing him onto the mattress. James complies and his arms instinctively come up around her back. He presses a supportive kiss to her forehead and she smiles before resting her cheek on the machine over his chest. They don’t lie this way often - it leads to interesting patterns on her cheek in the morning - only when she needs to feel him near. His fingers trace the length of her spine as she settles against him. He feels her shudder and splays his palm across her back, warm and comforting, and holds her close.
“Sleep well, Helen,” he whispers as the sun finally breaks over the horizon.