New Sanctuary Fic: "Time and Beat"
DISCLAIMER: All belongs to Damien Kindler and Stage 3 Media and Ms. Tapping and all the usual suspects who aren't me. Just borrowing these beautiful people. Thanks for the favor.:)
TITLE: TIME AND BEAT
RATING: Teen
CATEGORIES: Helen/James, reference to Helen/John, a bit of Helen/Nikola friendship, angst, hurt/comfort
Beta love to helenhighwater7, taliatoennien, and annienau08.:)
TIME AND BEAT
by
Rowan Darkstar
Copyright (c) 2011
She was never in love with James Watson.
Not like John. Never like John. No one burned beneath her skin like John. John was pleasure and plague, shelter and fear, inextricable and woven into waking and dreams. He was a part of her soul from first touch to last light.
Perhaps, she had been in love with James for a day, or a month, or a year. Long ago.
She wasn't in love with James Watson.
*****
When Nigel died, Helen couldn't stop crying. She held her composure for a while, sorted affairs for her brief absence from the Old City Sanctuary, made the flight to London with professional grace. But in the garden beside the cemetery, the flood gates fell and there was no turning back. No one seemed surprised. It was a funeral service, after all. She hadn't spoken to Nigel in years. Nothing since the letter speaking of the birth of his darling Anna. And she had been too busy chasing monsters through the streets of Old City, too busy training a Sasquatch to brew respectable Earl Grey. Too busy to seek out her old friend.
The announcement had come on a foggy Old City morning. A simple telegram from Nigel's solicitor. Nigel had left instructions, a list of those who should be notified. James had received a matching telegram on the far side of the world; he had phoned her the moment it arrived.
Helen's newly trained butler had brought her tea, then rested a heavy hand on her shoulder, grunted, and walked away.
James met her at Heathrow, and together they drove to Liverpool. He took the wheel, while Helen leant on the passenger door and let the chill winds ravage her hair and dry any trace of tears. James held her hand through the ceremony and refused to let go.
Nikola appeared at the edges of the cemetery during the service. Hallowed ground wasn't his forte. And there was the small detail wherein the world believed him dead. But he found his way in the back door of the local inn where Helen and James had taken rooms, disguising himself as a vacuum salesman. He was happy to join his friends for libations and reminiscence. To his credit...he greeted Helen with open arms and held her tight against him for more than a full minute's count, and for once she felt nothing but sincere friendship and comfort in his touch. The warmth was more than welcome.
There were days Nikola understood her better than she liked to admit.
In the fireside room between Helen's and James' sleeping quarters, the three old friends gathered, along with a young doctor who worked at the Dublin safehouse.
"It's not so bad, being dead, really. A fresh start can be a wonderful thing," Nikola said to the young doctor. He took another sip of his wine, arm resting on the mantle as he warmed himself by the fire. "A bit like being invisible, I would imagine. I suppose our old Nigel could have identified." With his last words, Nikola glanced toward the sofa where Helen and James sat together.
Helen nodded and offered Nikola a half-hearted smile. "Nigel talked about that sometimes. About the good and bad of being invisible to the world. It did have its advantages, but..." She trailed off, her voice losing solidity, and Nikola gave a small nod and turned back to his wine.
Helen sat with her back against James' side as she gazed into the fire. His arm was wrapped around her torso, open palm resting solidly, protectively against her stomach.
She was silent and subtle in her grief, joining here and there in the gently melancholy conversation. Even smiling at a few of Nikola's stories of his ridiculous exploits. But her tears wouldn't quite stop, and James knew this wasn't like her. He had been glued to her side like an elemental for the past several hours.
When Nikola and his new young admirer got off onto the subject of the glorious era when the greatest race ever to walk the Earth had ruled all the inferior humans, Helen lost herself in the flickering flames. And James leaned so close to her ear, and whispered, "Helen. Are you truly all right? Talk to me."
But she shook her head, offered her friend a tearful smile and patted his hand. Their faces were so close as she turned that she felt the moisture on her cheeks spread to his. "I'm all right," she said gently. But she couldn't explain, and James' concern remained tangible and hot around her. He snugged her closer against him and pressed his mouth to her hair. She wrapped her fingers around his wrist.
A few minutes later, she saw one of Nikola's long fingers wave vaguely in her direction, and heard him say in a pathetic attempt at a stage whisper, "Are they...on again?"
She didn't have the energy...or insight...to reply.
****
The grandfather clock in the foyer chimed twice when Helen surrendered to the shadowed needs of the night.
She pulled a silk robe over her sleep dress. Making her way by slivers of moonlight, she crept in bare feet across the now silent room where mere hours before her friends had gathered and drunk and laughed. The floors had grown cold in the silence.
She should have knocked on James' door. She should have observed propriety. She knew before she turned the knob that the latch would be open. The door led only to their shared drawing room.
No lights burned in James' room. Helen could make out the shape of his sleeping form beneath the heavy quilt. She closed the door at her back without a sound, held her breath for a long moment until she could distinguish the deep, even rhythm of James' breath.
She stood for far too long with her fingers resting against the door frame, willing her legs to carry her forward. A cold draft danced beneath her gown and chilled her thighs.
For a moment, Helen debated retreating to her own room unnoticed. But she couldn't make herself return to the solitary darkness. The sick burn of humiliation spread through her stomach.
Bracing herself, Helen crept forward and slipped as delicately as possible beneath the warm covers of James' bed. He shifted as the feather mattress moved beneath them, drew in a deeper breath. Then he startled beside her, eyes snapping wide open in the thin moonlight.
She lay on her side, hair spread across the pillow, face mere inches from his.
"Helen..." His voice was hoarse from sleep, and the sensory memory rushed through her. How many nights...how many mornings...when this place, this space beside his sleeping form had been hers and hers alone? Now here she was, presuming such rights once more.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
James turned more fully toward her, propped himself on his elbow and swiped a hand across his eyes. "No, my dear, it's fine. Of course it's fine. Are you all right?" His hand moved out to tentatively rest on her hip, the thickness of the blankets a barrier between them.
Helen held her silence too long, knew she was worrying him; she could hear the tension in his breath, imagined she could hear the pace of his heartbeat. The words slipped from her lips before she could decide what to say. "How long am I going to live, James?"
James drew a slow inhale through his nose, and despite the blinding darkness, she could see the deepening of his eyes. The weight of his hand vanished from her hip, then came to rest warm and tender against her cheek. "I don't know, my love. I wish I could tell you."
"I know." Her voice sounded weak to her own ears. "I made this choice. It was mine to...I chose this path."
"You will never truly be alone. You do know that?"
The silence stretched in the narrow space between them. Her tears were hot. "I don't know."
He fell silent for a long beat, hand still at her cheek, thumb gently caressing her skin, brushing away the dampness.
"You're not alone tonight."
Her vision swam, watery and lost. Because she wanted so much to let it all go, to drown in the now. To forget. Helen Magnus slid closer and tucked herself into James Watson's welcoming arms. She held on tight and so did he.
"James...Nigel...our precious Nigel..." she whispered.
James' voice was almost too thick for words when he said, "I know. I loved the old boy, too."
She knew where to place her head in the crook of James' shoulder, which way their fingers best laced to fit. How to slide her hand to the skin just below the machine's breast place. How to rest her cheek to avoid the hard metal edge.
How to sleep to the gentle swish and pulse of the machine's function.
The world felt...softer. Sweeter. Warmer...in James' aura than anywhere else in the world. Helen closed her eyes and let his scent surround her. She listened to the rhythm of her past and let herself surrender to exhaustion and slumber.
She had to leave.
Helen packed her bags in the pink-orange glow of dawn and caught a bus back to London. She took an early flight to the fog of Old City.
Because Nigel Griffin wasn't the only one of The Five who was going to die.
Helen Magnus had started to forget how to live her life without them....without...him.
She wasn't in love with James Watson.
She wasn't in love with James Watson.
*****
TITLE: TIME AND BEAT
RATING: Teen
CATEGORIES: Helen/James, reference to Helen/John, a bit of Helen/Nikola friendship, angst, hurt/comfort
Beta love to helenhighwater7, taliatoennien, and annienau08.:)
TIME AND BEAT
by
Rowan Darkstar
Copyright (c) 2011
She was never in love with James Watson.
Not like John. Never like John. No one burned beneath her skin like John. John was pleasure and plague, shelter and fear, inextricable and woven into waking and dreams. He was a part of her soul from first touch to last light.
Perhaps, she had been in love with James for a day, or a month, or a year. Long ago.
She wasn't in love with James Watson.
*****
When Nigel died, Helen couldn't stop crying. She held her composure for a while, sorted affairs for her brief absence from the Old City Sanctuary, made the flight to London with professional grace. But in the garden beside the cemetery, the flood gates fell and there was no turning back. No one seemed surprised. It was a funeral service, after all. She hadn't spoken to Nigel in years. Nothing since the letter speaking of the birth of his darling Anna. And she had been too busy chasing monsters through the streets of Old City, too busy training a Sasquatch to brew respectable Earl Grey. Too busy to seek out her old friend.
The announcement had come on a foggy Old City morning. A simple telegram from Nigel's solicitor. Nigel had left instructions, a list of those who should be notified. James had received a matching telegram on the far side of the world; he had phoned her the moment it arrived.
Helen's newly trained butler had brought her tea, then rested a heavy hand on her shoulder, grunted, and walked away.
James met her at Heathrow, and together they drove to Liverpool. He took the wheel, while Helen leant on the passenger door and let the chill winds ravage her hair and dry any trace of tears. James held her hand through the ceremony and refused to let go.
Nikola appeared at the edges of the cemetery during the service. Hallowed ground wasn't his forte. And there was the small detail wherein the world believed him dead. But he found his way in the back door of the local inn where Helen and James had taken rooms, disguising himself as a vacuum salesman. He was happy to join his friends for libations and reminiscence. To his credit...he greeted Helen with open arms and held her tight against him for more than a full minute's count, and for once she felt nothing but sincere friendship and comfort in his touch. The warmth was more than welcome.
There were days Nikola understood her better than she liked to admit.
In the fireside room between Helen's and James' sleeping quarters, the three old friends gathered, along with a young doctor who worked at the Dublin safehouse.
"It's not so bad, being dead, really. A fresh start can be a wonderful thing," Nikola said to the young doctor. He took another sip of his wine, arm resting on the mantle as he warmed himself by the fire. "A bit like being invisible, I would imagine. I suppose our old Nigel could have identified." With his last words, Nikola glanced toward the sofa where Helen and James sat together.
Helen nodded and offered Nikola a half-hearted smile. "Nigel talked about that sometimes. About the good and bad of being invisible to the world. It did have its advantages, but..." She trailed off, her voice losing solidity, and Nikola gave a small nod and turned back to his wine.
Helen sat with her back against James' side as she gazed into the fire. His arm was wrapped around her torso, open palm resting solidly, protectively against her stomach.
She was silent and subtle in her grief, joining here and there in the gently melancholy conversation. Even smiling at a few of Nikola's stories of his ridiculous exploits. But her tears wouldn't quite stop, and James knew this wasn't like her. He had been glued to her side like an elemental for the past several hours.
When Nikola and his new young admirer got off onto the subject of the glorious era when the greatest race ever to walk the Earth had ruled all the inferior humans, Helen lost herself in the flickering flames. And James leaned so close to her ear, and whispered, "Helen. Are you truly all right? Talk to me."
But she shook her head, offered her friend a tearful smile and patted his hand. Their faces were so close as she turned that she felt the moisture on her cheeks spread to his. "I'm all right," she said gently. But she couldn't explain, and James' concern remained tangible and hot around her. He snugged her closer against him and pressed his mouth to her hair. She wrapped her fingers around his wrist.
A few minutes later, she saw one of Nikola's long fingers wave vaguely in her direction, and heard him say in a pathetic attempt at a stage whisper, "Are they...on again?"
She didn't have the energy...or insight...to reply.
****
The grandfather clock in the foyer chimed twice when Helen surrendered to the shadowed needs of the night.
She pulled a silk robe over her sleep dress. Making her way by slivers of moonlight, she crept in bare feet across the now silent room where mere hours before her friends had gathered and drunk and laughed. The floors had grown cold in the silence.
She should have knocked on James' door. She should have observed propriety. She knew before she turned the knob that the latch would be open. The door led only to their shared drawing room.
No lights burned in James' room. Helen could make out the shape of his sleeping form beneath the heavy quilt. She closed the door at her back without a sound, held her breath for a long moment until she could distinguish the deep, even rhythm of James' breath.
She stood for far too long with her fingers resting against the door frame, willing her legs to carry her forward. A cold draft danced beneath her gown and chilled her thighs.
For a moment, Helen debated retreating to her own room unnoticed. But she couldn't make herself return to the solitary darkness. The sick burn of humiliation spread through her stomach.
Bracing herself, Helen crept forward and slipped as delicately as possible beneath the warm covers of James' bed. He shifted as the feather mattress moved beneath them, drew in a deeper breath. Then he startled beside her, eyes snapping wide open in the thin moonlight.
She lay on her side, hair spread across the pillow, face mere inches from his.
"Helen..." His voice was hoarse from sleep, and the sensory memory rushed through her. How many nights...how many mornings...when this place, this space beside his sleeping form had been hers and hers alone? Now here she was, presuming such rights once more.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
James turned more fully toward her, propped himself on his elbow and swiped a hand across his eyes. "No, my dear, it's fine. Of course it's fine. Are you all right?" His hand moved out to tentatively rest on her hip, the thickness of the blankets a barrier between them.
Helen held her silence too long, knew she was worrying him; she could hear the tension in his breath, imagined she could hear the pace of his heartbeat. The words slipped from her lips before she could decide what to say. "How long am I going to live, James?"
James drew a slow inhale through his nose, and despite the blinding darkness, she could see the deepening of his eyes. The weight of his hand vanished from her hip, then came to rest warm and tender against her cheek. "I don't know, my love. I wish I could tell you."
"I know." Her voice sounded weak to her own ears. "I made this choice. It was mine to...I chose this path."
"You will never truly be alone. You do know that?"
The silence stretched in the narrow space between them. Her tears were hot. "I don't know."
He fell silent for a long beat, hand still at her cheek, thumb gently caressing her skin, brushing away the dampness.
"You're not alone tonight."
Her vision swam, watery and lost. Because she wanted so much to let it all go, to drown in the now. To forget. Helen Magnus slid closer and tucked herself into James Watson's welcoming arms. She held on tight and so did he.
"James...Nigel...our precious Nigel..." she whispered.
James' voice was almost too thick for words when he said, "I know. I loved the old boy, too."
She knew where to place her head in the crook of James' shoulder, which way their fingers best laced to fit. How to slide her hand to the skin just below the machine's breast place. How to rest her cheek to avoid the hard metal edge.
How to sleep to the gentle swish and pulse of the machine's function.
The world felt...softer. Sweeter. Warmer...in James' aura than anywhere else in the world. Helen closed her eyes and let his scent surround her. She listened to the rhythm of her past and let herself surrender to exhaustion and slumber.
She had to leave.
Helen packed her bags in the pink-orange glow of dawn and caught a bus back to London. She took an early flight to the fog of Old City.
Because Nigel Griffin wasn't the only one of The Five who was going to die.
Helen Magnus had started to forget how to live her life without them....without...him.
She wasn't in love with James Watson.
She wasn't in love with James Watson.
*****