see me run now you're gone (helen/john, pg-13)
Title: see me run now you’re gone
Pairing: Helen/John
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Finding Adam isn't difficult. The hard part comes later. (spoilers for "Into the Black")
Notes: This follows the same premise as fall in decay (i.e., John finds a way to follow Helen) and some details from that fic are referenced here, but this should not at all be considered a sequel. The two stand separately on their own. Thanks go to lavenderseaslug, as always, for being fab about my random "Hey, can you take a look at this" emails.
Helen sits on the thin carpet in front of the fire, her knees drawn to her chest, arms clasped around her dress-covered legs. She stares at the flames as they warm her skin, but the heat doesn’t reach any deeper.
Finding Adam had not been difficult. Neither had capturing him and taking him somewhere secluded where they could kill him, though John had been right; it was easier with him working by her side.
Pulling the trigger had not been difficult either. Too much is at stake to allow him to live, even if she confiscated and destroyed all that he’d brought with him and turned him loose with empty pockets. She’s killed before, even tried to kill Adam Worth before.
There’s plenty of blood on her hands after nearly 160 years, but none like this. Until now.
Adam was an execution.
She’d even acquired a gun for it, one consistent with the time, whose bullets wouldn’t be suspect if he were to ever float to the surface and someone want to question his death.
She shivers and reaches next to her for the bottle of ibuprofen she’d taken from Adam’s bag. There are antibiotics and basic medical supplies on the table behind her, things that won’t exist for a while yet but will make her survival easier, more comfortable until she can find a way back to her own timeline. She takes two out of the bottle and pops the cap back on, tossing the pills into her mouth and dry swallowing them with a glance up at the ceiling. A headache’s coming, she can feel it.
She closes her eyes and inhales deeply, breathing in the scents of London. Wood smoke, from the fire in front of her; coal, from the air outside; people and an underlying stench of dirt almost imperceptible to one who doesn’t know it should be there, from the street out the window; something dark and earthy, from behind her.
John.
She opens her eyes and turns her head to find him. He’s brought her dinner, such as it is. An apple, some cheese and a crusty roll, a glass of wine to wash it down. She can’t help but smile; Will had once asked her how she could consider that to be a meal, but she’s always found it basic, comforting.
John’s promised her he’ll leave in the morning. She couldn’t bring herself to insist that he leave immediately. Part of her doesn’t want to be alone tonight, even if her only available company is John. She gestures for him to sit next to her; she’s still furious with him, but she’s no longer unwilling to breathe the same air.
---
Several moments of silence pass, broken only by the crunching of apples and gentle clink of glass on the floor. John watches Helen watch the fire as she eats, holding herself steady as if all her resources are focused on breathing. He’s overwhelmed with the urge to reach out and touch her, clasp her shoulder or brush the stray lock of hair off her cheek, but he doesn’t. She’s allowed him to sit next to her, but he knows the anger still sits within her, barely disguised beneath the surface.
“Are you alright?” He asks, tossing his apple core into the fire. It sizzles and sparks before catching aflame. He doesn’t know how many she’s killed, he doubts if even she knows, but he does know that despite her efforts to kill him and Adam before, today was the first time she’d killed someone who wasn’t trying to do the same to her.
He’d offered to do it. He’s the killer, not her. But she’d shaken her head, determined to finish this herself.
He’d watched as her hand leveled the gun at Adam’s head. Adam had asked her if she wouldn’t do the same for Ashley but the gun cracked, echoing across the river before he had a chance to say their daughter’s name. John had taken care of loading Adam’s pockets with rocks and dumping him into the Thames - if his body ever washes up, it will be unrecognizably disfigured - while Helen attended to his bags, setting aside to be destroyed anything that could interfere with the timeline.
She hasn’t said a word since.
Quietly, Helen turns her head, studying him. “No,” she whispers.
He’s shocked by the honesty. He’s even more shocked by the raw emotion in her face. She’s been hidden to him for so long, only showing the barest hints of her true feelings, that he’s nearly forgotten what she looks like behind the façade. Even in the depths of radiation sickness, she’d managed to disguise her weakness and exhaustion; her fears of finally facing her own mortality had been well hidden beneath her determination to find the keystone.
John suspects that he himself is a good portion of why she answered his question in the negative. He wants to apologize, but doesn’t know how. At the time, it had seemed so simple, so perfect; he realizes now he was delusional, riding a wave of adrenaline and blood loss, so easily distracted by Adam’s promises that he couldn’t see the largest, most obvious flaw.
He regrets his plan itself now, not just its revelation, and wonders whether he would’ve regretted the decision had he been given the chance to go through with it. It’s a moot point; he’s ruined things between them beyond repair. Helen would know if he does anything in the past to try to heal the future.
She shies away from the hand he reaches out to place on her knee and he withdraws, bracing his hands behind him instead. He hadn’t meant it to be threatening or even comforting; Helen’s always been able to soothe herself. She wants him gone, she’s made that clear, and any verbal offer of companionship is sure to be met with an order to leave now; but he’s traveled this century alone once before and knows how to survive the years of unbearable loneliness. She’s always had people in her life - friends, family, lovers - to ease her pain.
This time, she won’t.
---
Helen realizes a moment later that his intended touch was not meant to be anything untoward. The fury she feels toward him has calmed somewhat over the events of the day, reducing to a light simmer, and she’s no longer interested in slitting his throat. For one thing, it would make an awful mess James and her past self would have to clean up in a few days, if they even decide to buy this house at all after seeing the bloodstain; too many abnormals depend on the existence of this very safe house to risk losing it.
She’s not certain what his hand on her knee was meant to convey: an apology, comfort, an offer of some kind. She isn’t terribly interested in finding out. A subtle shift in his posture and suddenly she can see into his eyes even though he’s looking straight into the fire. She can’t find any trace of violence in his eyes, only sadness and regret.
It reminds her of the good in John, of the kindness and care always present in the man she fell in love with. Somewhere inside of him, underneath the violence and the energy being and the rage, lie the qualities she most treasured in him.
She blinks, snapping herself out of it, and tosses her own apple core into the fire. She’s made excuses for John long enough.
It’s late fall and the house is drafty and she shivers; she remembers days of wandering around looking for the source of the drafts, plugging them with clay until they could get a proper builder to fix things. Despite the layers of petticoats, she’s cold and the fire isn’t doing much to warm her.
She startles, feeling a blanket cover her shoulders. She hadn’t noticed John standing up to collect the blanket from its place on the chair. She smiles up at him in thanks and clutches the edges, tugging it tight around her. She can’t imagine how John slept last night in the other room, cold and dark and drafty. Even if it means she’ll have to spend an hour in the morning attempting to realign her back, she knows she’ll be sleeping here tonight, on the floor in front of the fire.
She offers him an edge of the blanket once he sits down again. She’s still furious with him and the urge to kill him for his intentions hasn’t quite subsided, but she senses that she can trust him tonight, the last night with him before he leaves her for good.
He gives her a puzzled look in return.
“For warmth,” she says, shifting a bit closer.
She almost believes herself.
---
John nods and closes the remaining distance between them. He slides one arm around her lower back, pausing when she stiffens. She relaxes into him, tucking herself against his side like she used to when they were younger. He rests his head on hers, smiling when he feels her try to stifle a yawn. Aware that she hasn’t slept at all since they left the Sanctuary, he whispers that he’ll be right back and stands, shedding the blanket.
He’d chased away the mice the previous night and, after checking to ensure they haven’t return, carries the lumpy mattress into the front room. It isn’t a spectacular improvement over the floor, but it’s something. Helen nods, understanding his actions, and clears away the remains of dinner before adding a few more logs to the fire. She waits patiently for John to lay the thinnest blanket down on top of the mattress and even smiles when he gestures that she should lie down first.
He’ll take the outside, keeping the chill at bay from her back while the fire warms her front.
John turns his back while she changes, shedding all but the most basic clothing to prevent wrinkles and waking up in the middle of the night sweating from the combined heat of another person, several blankets and a warm fire. He only turns around when she coughs, already curled tightly underneath a layer of blankets. He quickly does the same and slips under the covers behind her.
Helen gradually unfurls, stretching out as she warms up. John mimics her movements, spooning behind her. Sliding his arm around her waist, he turns his head away from her neck so he won’t give into the urge to brush his lips against her bare skin.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, knowing it’s not nearly enough and never will be. He feels more than hears her breath catch in her throat.
A barely-perceptible nod and he looks down, seeing her fingers lace through his on top of the blanket.
He doesn’t have a clue what it means. “Sleep.”
He stays awake while she drifts off beside him. He’ll leave before she wakes up, respecting her wishes that he be gone in the morning. It’s easier this way.
As the fire burns down and dawn presses against the horizon, John makes his decision. They’re both damaged, but he is the one who’s destroyed. There’s still hope for her.
He slides out of their makeshift bed and tucks the covers around her before gathering his things. After adding extra logs to the fire, he kneels beside her.
“Goodbye, Helen,” he whispers. He presses his lips to her temple, lingering for just a moment, capturing the sensation.
Then he disappears.
---
A gunshot startles Helen awake. She clutches the blanket around her and scans the room, willing her heart to calm.
He’s gone, like she’d asked.
Her eyes land on the table; the spot that used to hold the gun she’d used on Adam is conspicuously empty. Her heart sinks as she rises from the bed, blankets trailing on the floor behind her; she peeks out the window at the crowd gathered at the end of the street.
“John.”
Pairing: Helen/John
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Finding Adam isn't difficult. The hard part comes later. (spoilers for "Into the Black")
Notes: This follows the same premise as fall in decay (i.e., John finds a way to follow Helen) and some details from that fic are referenced here, but this should not at all be considered a sequel. The two stand separately on their own. Thanks go to lavenderseaslug, as always, for being fab about my random "Hey, can you take a look at this" emails.
Helen sits on the thin carpet in front of the fire, her knees drawn to her chest, arms clasped around her dress-covered legs. She stares at the flames as they warm her skin, but the heat doesn’t reach any deeper.
Finding Adam had not been difficult. Neither had capturing him and taking him somewhere secluded where they could kill him, though John had been right; it was easier with him working by her side.
Pulling the trigger had not been difficult either. Too much is at stake to allow him to live, even if she confiscated and destroyed all that he’d brought with him and turned him loose with empty pockets. She’s killed before, even tried to kill Adam Worth before.
There’s plenty of blood on her hands after nearly 160 years, but none like this. Until now.
Adam was an execution.
She’d even acquired a gun for it, one consistent with the time, whose bullets wouldn’t be suspect if he were to ever float to the surface and someone want to question his death.
She shivers and reaches next to her for the bottle of ibuprofen she’d taken from Adam’s bag. There are antibiotics and basic medical supplies on the table behind her, things that won’t exist for a while yet but will make her survival easier, more comfortable until she can find a way back to her own timeline. She takes two out of the bottle and pops the cap back on, tossing the pills into her mouth and dry swallowing them with a glance up at the ceiling. A headache’s coming, she can feel it.
She closes her eyes and inhales deeply, breathing in the scents of London. Wood smoke, from the fire in front of her; coal, from the air outside; people and an underlying stench of dirt almost imperceptible to one who doesn’t know it should be there, from the street out the window; something dark and earthy, from behind her.
John.
She opens her eyes and turns her head to find him. He’s brought her dinner, such as it is. An apple, some cheese and a crusty roll, a glass of wine to wash it down. She can’t help but smile; Will had once asked her how she could consider that to be a meal, but she’s always found it basic, comforting.
John’s promised her he’ll leave in the morning. She couldn’t bring herself to insist that he leave immediately. Part of her doesn’t want to be alone tonight, even if her only available company is John. She gestures for him to sit next to her; she’s still furious with him, but she’s no longer unwilling to breathe the same air.
---
Several moments of silence pass, broken only by the crunching of apples and gentle clink of glass on the floor. John watches Helen watch the fire as she eats, holding herself steady as if all her resources are focused on breathing. He’s overwhelmed with the urge to reach out and touch her, clasp her shoulder or brush the stray lock of hair off her cheek, but he doesn’t. She’s allowed him to sit next to her, but he knows the anger still sits within her, barely disguised beneath the surface.
“Are you alright?” He asks, tossing his apple core into the fire. It sizzles and sparks before catching aflame. He doesn’t know how many she’s killed, he doubts if even she knows, but he does know that despite her efforts to kill him and Adam before, today was the first time she’d killed someone who wasn’t trying to do the same to her.
He’d offered to do it. He’s the killer, not her. But she’d shaken her head, determined to finish this herself.
He’d watched as her hand leveled the gun at Adam’s head. Adam had asked her if she wouldn’t do the same for Ashley but the gun cracked, echoing across the river before he had a chance to say their daughter’s name. John had taken care of loading Adam’s pockets with rocks and dumping him into the Thames - if his body ever washes up, it will be unrecognizably disfigured - while Helen attended to his bags, setting aside to be destroyed anything that could interfere with the timeline.
She hasn’t said a word since.
Quietly, Helen turns her head, studying him. “No,” she whispers.
He’s shocked by the honesty. He’s even more shocked by the raw emotion in her face. She’s been hidden to him for so long, only showing the barest hints of her true feelings, that he’s nearly forgotten what she looks like behind the façade. Even in the depths of radiation sickness, she’d managed to disguise her weakness and exhaustion; her fears of finally facing her own mortality had been well hidden beneath her determination to find the keystone.
John suspects that he himself is a good portion of why she answered his question in the negative. He wants to apologize, but doesn’t know how. At the time, it had seemed so simple, so perfect; he realizes now he was delusional, riding a wave of adrenaline and blood loss, so easily distracted by Adam’s promises that he couldn’t see the largest, most obvious flaw.
He regrets his plan itself now, not just its revelation, and wonders whether he would’ve regretted the decision had he been given the chance to go through with it. It’s a moot point; he’s ruined things between them beyond repair. Helen would know if he does anything in the past to try to heal the future.
She shies away from the hand he reaches out to place on her knee and he withdraws, bracing his hands behind him instead. He hadn’t meant it to be threatening or even comforting; Helen’s always been able to soothe herself. She wants him gone, she’s made that clear, and any verbal offer of companionship is sure to be met with an order to leave now; but he’s traveled this century alone once before and knows how to survive the years of unbearable loneliness. She’s always had people in her life - friends, family, lovers - to ease her pain.
This time, she won’t.
---
Helen realizes a moment later that his intended touch was not meant to be anything untoward. The fury she feels toward him has calmed somewhat over the events of the day, reducing to a light simmer, and she’s no longer interested in slitting his throat. For one thing, it would make an awful mess James and her past self would have to clean up in a few days, if they even decide to buy this house at all after seeing the bloodstain; too many abnormals depend on the existence of this very safe house to risk losing it.
She’s not certain what his hand on her knee was meant to convey: an apology, comfort, an offer of some kind. She isn’t terribly interested in finding out. A subtle shift in his posture and suddenly she can see into his eyes even though he’s looking straight into the fire. She can’t find any trace of violence in his eyes, only sadness and regret.
It reminds her of the good in John, of the kindness and care always present in the man she fell in love with. Somewhere inside of him, underneath the violence and the energy being and the rage, lie the qualities she most treasured in him.
She blinks, snapping herself out of it, and tosses her own apple core into the fire. She’s made excuses for John long enough.
It’s late fall and the house is drafty and she shivers; she remembers days of wandering around looking for the source of the drafts, plugging them with clay until they could get a proper builder to fix things. Despite the layers of petticoats, she’s cold and the fire isn’t doing much to warm her.
She startles, feeling a blanket cover her shoulders. She hadn’t noticed John standing up to collect the blanket from its place on the chair. She smiles up at him in thanks and clutches the edges, tugging it tight around her. She can’t imagine how John slept last night in the other room, cold and dark and drafty. Even if it means she’ll have to spend an hour in the morning attempting to realign her back, she knows she’ll be sleeping here tonight, on the floor in front of the fire.
She offers him an edge of the blanket once he sits down again. She’s still furious with him and the urge to kill him for his intentions hasn’t quite subsided, but she senses that she can trust him tonight, the last night with him before he leaves her for good.
He gives her a puzzled look in return.
“For warmth,” she says, shifting a bit closer.
She almost believes herself.
---
John nods and closes the remaining distance between them. He slides one arm around her lower back, pausing when she stiffens. She relaxes into him, tucking herself against his side like she used to when they were younger. He rests his head on hers, smiling when he feels her try to stifle a yawn. Aware that she hasn’t slept at all since they left the Sanctuary, he whispers that he’ll be right back and stands, shedding the blanket.
He’d chased away the mice the previous night and, after checking to ensure they haven’t return, carries the lumpy mattress into the front room. It isn’t a spectacular improvement over the floor, but it’s something. Helen nods, understanding his actions, and clears away the remains of dinner before adding a few more logs to the fire. She waits patiently for John to lay the thinnest blanket down on top of the mattress and even smiles when he gestures that she should lie down first.
He’ll take the outside, keeping the chill at bay from her back while the fire warms her front.
John turns his back while she changes, shedding all but the most basic clothing to prevent wrinkles and waking up in the middle of the night sweating from the combined heat of another person, several blankets and a warm fire. He only turns around when she coughs, already curled tightly underneath a layer of blankets. He quickly does the same and slips under the covers behind her.
Helen gradually unfurls, stretching out as she warms up. John mimics her movements, spooning behind her. Sliding his arm around her waist, he turns his head away from her neck so he won’t give into the urge to brush his lips against her bare skin.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, knowing it’s not nearly enough and never will be. He feels more than hears her breath catch in her throat.
A barely-perceptible nod and he looks down, seeing her fingers lace through his on top of the blanket.
He doesn’t have a clue what it means. “Sleep.”
He stays awake while she drifts off beside him. He’ll leave before she wakes up, respecting her wishes that he be gone in the morning. It’s easier this way.
As the fire burns down and dawn presses against the horizon, John makes his decision. They’re both damaged, but he is the one who’s destroyed. There’s still hope for her.
He slides out of their makeshift bed and tucks the covers around her before gathering his things. After adding extra logs to the fire, he kneels beside her.
“Goodbye, Helen,” he whispers. He presses his lips to her temple, lingering for just a moment, capturing the sensation.
Then he disappears.
---
A gunshot startles Helen awake. She clutches the blanket around her and scans the room, willing her heart to calm.
He’s gone, like she’d asked.
Her eyes land on the table; the spot that used to hold the gun she’d used on Adam is conspicuously empty. Her heart sinks as she rises from the bed, blankets trailing on the floor behind her; she peeks out the window at the crowd gathered at the end of the street.
“John.”