Better late than never...right?
Title: Thus the whirligig of time brings in his revenges.
Fandom: Sanctuary.
Rating: Mature.
Pairing: Helen/John.
Spoilers: Loosely based on the Victorian flashbacks from the Webisodes
Summary: The blurring of past and present is stronger than ever when laced with the nostalgic displacement of this particular holiday season.
Author notes: Written for mayogate as a Christmas present, she's kindly said I can share it now :D hope you don't mind that it's late (pretend I posted it last month, heh!)
She was surrounded by pools of warm flickering orange light, hundreds of little white Christmas candles, the tiny flames sputtering in the draft from the cracks in the window. Each sent a soft glow stretching towards the shadowy corners, flamed fingertips just touching the darkness. A clock chimed in her study, announcing the hour as late, or perhaps early depending on your preference for the marking of time. Helen leant back against the sofa and closed her eyes, her long legs tucked neatly beneath her, a heavy book resting on her elegant skirt covered lap. She brushed her fingers across the page, feeling the embossed letters dance beneath her light touch, and letting her mind slip away into the black behind her eyelids, breathed the room in deeply as if to taste the scent; a mix of wax, smoke, pine, dusty books and cinnamon. It reminded her of a hundred years ago.
A frown broke the content smile which tipped her lips, an unwanted wave of nostalgia tugging her heart. She opened her eyes into the muted light. Her study was old fashioned, certainly. But a laptop was open on her heavy oak desk, the wires of an unused lamp trailing into the corner where they met the wall. Photos lined the edges, sepia, black and white, faded colours and bright digital prints, capturing time in place and framing it. Leather covered albums lined the shelves, holding more moments and memories. Ashley was not lying when she said it would take a great deal of time to look through them all.
Helen had no photographs of John.
What was the point, when he was there every time she closed her eyes and fell away to the past?
The gentle stillness of him, his smile, and his gaze alight on her in the shadows.
The book slipped in her lap, a hand falling to her side, and in a counterpoint to the drooping of her eyelids she rested her head gently against the sofa. She was in a carriage, the velvet upholstery beneath her hands and skirts, the staccato click of hooves and the creak of wheels, the tiny room swaying, intimate in its closeness. He sat next to her. Watched her. A smile on his face. A glint in his jade eyes.
“Helen.”
He said her name like a prayer, soft in his deep voice, wrapped it in so much feeling.
She felt her breath catch, her heart thudding quickly in her chest. He was so close. She could feel his legs where they warmed her through her skirts, the heat spread through her body. He lifted a hand to her cheek, the backs of his fingers ghosting across her skin to tuck a curl of her hair behind her ear. He played with the ringlet, watching her intently, the soft hair wrapped around his finger like a thread of precious gold spun weave, thumb stroking it as if memorizing each individual strand before allowing it to spring free. She swallowed, wishing for a little water to sooth her throat. She trembled, her hand clenching against the velvet seat as he leaned in closer, a smile still etched on his lips. His nose brushed fleetingly across the path his hand had followed moments before and she bit her lip against the thrill of the contact, her eyes closing as he let his face rest burrowed in her curls.
“Helen,” he murmured, his breath hot against her ear, tendrils of awareness running through her body like currents, “my darling. Have you missed me?”
“I’m sorry?” She whispered, confusion marring her words. Miss him? Where had he gone? Fear laced through her skin. She smelt worked leather, her hand rising to grip his arm and encountering the thick material. Eyes snapping open, she gasped, felt him bite down sweetly on her earlobe. This was wrong. Something was wrong. She brought her hand up to his head, to pull him away, and brushed bare skin.
Whimpered.
“John, listen to me, this isn’t you.”
Flinched at the whiplash of his shouts.
“It’s who I am, who I always was, Helen.”
The flashes of him, lashing out.
In her study, the light of a hundred candles burning, melting to the wick, she woke to find him watching her, his eyes hooded, wearing an unfathomable expression. Unable to comprehend his presence, here, in her sanctuary, she noted instead in the brief seconds of her disbelief that the book from her lap had been removed and placed with care on a nearby table next to her favourite china tea service. Then he moved. As he leant towards her, her mind swung like a compass needle between the carriage and the man that was her fiancé to the sanctuary and the man that is her enemy. He had killed, murdered, broken her heart, and destroyed the bond she shared with her daughter, carelessly ripping trust to shreds in the name of saving her. Saving them both. He was sweet, scared, devoted. So gentle. A part of her ached for missing him.
His fingers stroked through her hair, playing with the dark curls, his eyes fixed on the flecks of browns which changed in the firelight. She couldn’t believe he was here. Dreaming still? Where was her weapon? In her desk. Her forget-me-not blue eyes washed with fearful tears, her skin alive for his touch, her heart hoping for him. Her composure, her rationale, everything sputtered in the dying flames. The smoke and leather heady as he kissed her. Fleeting gentle touches, followed by deep passionate embrace and she moaned softly against his lips. Her fingers clenched and unclenched in the material of his jacket, palms face up against his shoulders, in the frozen act of pushing away.
He pushed her back against the sofa instead, his hand wrapped in her hair, the other stroking a path up her legs, disorientating kisses. Back in the carriage, the bump of the cobbled road beneath them. He pushed up her skirts, his fingers brushing over the soft smooth skin of her inner thighs, and she shivered, unable to tear her eyes away from him. He removed his jacket, letting it fall to the floor, her hands skimming over his shirt, over and undoing buttons, bare skin. She lifted her hips for him. Dark hair fanned out around her face, tangled curls in her eyes. His face was set in seriousness. Furrowed brow, lips tight. She gasped, bit back a moan, catching pictures in stop motion from the flickering light and her eyelids fluttering against mixed sensations. John, above her, around her, inside, the heat and cold and then and now. The speed of the carriage and the smell of the smoke and the hurt. Of his change, of her loneliness, of the past, of Ashley, of never being free. His breath was hot in her ear, tendrils of awareness running through her body like currents, like blood, iron tang and thick. She arched, snatching air, crying out to the high ceilings. Her hand dug into the velvet seat, her skirts around her waist and his mouth on her shoulder. She screamed.
A hundred years ago, John had laughed, and she had joined in, smiling, her eyes lit up with pleasure. The carriage stopped, and giggling they had smoothed their clothing, checking each other for signs of impropriety, pressing brief kisses between smiles. He had climbed out before her, turning to offer his hand. Nothing more than an honest gentleman taking his fiancé to see Shakespeare at Christmas time.
Helen closed the book resting in her lap with a sigh, blowing out the nearest remaining candle. Her fingers traced lightly over the title, the swirl of Twelfth Night. Her gaze flittered around the shadowed room.
Christmas always made her nostalgic.
O mistress mine, where are you roaming?
O, stay and hear; your true love's coming,
That can sing both high and low:
Trip no further, pretty sweeting;
Journeys end in lovers meeting,
Every wise man's son doth know.
Twelfth Night, 2. 3
Fandom: Sanctuary.
Rating: Mature.
Pairing: Helen/John.
Spoilers: Loosely based on the Victorian flashbacks from the Webisodes
Summary: The blurring of past and present is stronger than ever when laced with the nostalgic displacement of this particular holiday season.
Author notes: Written for mayogate as a Christmas present, she's kindly said I can share it now :D hope you don't mind that it's late (pretend I posted it last month, heh!)
She was surrounded by pools of warm flickering orange light, hundreds of little white Christmas candles, the tiny flames sputtering in the draft from the cracks in the window. Each sent a soft glow stretching towards the shadowy corners, flamed fingertips just touching the darkness. A clock chimed in her study, announcing the hour as late, or perhaps early depending on your preference for the marking of time. Helen leant back against the sofa and closed her eyes, her long legs tucked neatly beneath her, a heavy book resting on her elegant skirt covered lap. She brushed her fingers across the page, feeling the embossed letters dance beneath her light touch, and letting her mind slip away into the black behind her eyelids, breathed the room in deeply as if to taste the scent; a mix of wax, smoke, pine, dusty books and cinnamon. It reminded her of a hundred years ago.
A frown broke the content smile which tipped her lips, an unwanted wave of nostalgia tugging her heart. She opened her eyes into the muted light. Her study was old fashioned, certainly. But a laptop was open on her heavy oak desk, the wires of an unused lamp trailing into the corner where they met the wall. Photos lined the edges, sepia, black and white, faded colours and bright digital prints, capturing time in place and framing it. Leather covered albums lined the shelves, holding more moments and memories. Ashley was not lying when she said it would take a great deal of time to look through them all.
Helen had no photographs of John.
What was the point, when he was there every time she closed her eyes and fell away to the past?
The gentle stillness of him, his smile, and his gaze alight on her in the shadows.
The book slipped in her lap, a hand falling to her side, and in a counterpoint to the drooping of her eyelids she rested her head gently against the sofa. She was in a carriage, the velvet upholstery beneath her hands and skirts, the staccato click of hooves and the creak of wheels, the tiny room swaying, intimate in its closeness. He sat next to her. Watched her. A smile on his face. A glint in his jade eyes.
“Helen.”
He said her name like a prayer, soft in his deep voice, wrapped it in so much feeling.
She felt her breath catch, her heart thudding quickly in her chest. He was so close. She could feel his legs where they warmed her through her skirts, the heat spread through her body. He lifted a hand to her cheek, the backs of his fingers ghosting across her skin to tuck a curl of her hair behind her ear. He played with the ringlet, watching her intently, the soft hair wrapped around his finger like a thread of precious gold spun weave, thumb stroking it as if memorizing each individual strand before allowing it to spring free. She swallowed, wishing for a little water to sooth her throat. She trembled, her hand clenching against the velvet seat as he leaned in closer, a smile still etched on his lips. His nose brushed fleetingly across the path his hand had followed moments before and she bit her lip against the thrill of the contact, her eyes closing as he let his face rest burrowed in her curls.
“Helen,” he murmured, his breath hot against her ear, tendrils of awareness running through her body like currents, “my darling. Have you missed me?”
“I’m sorry?” She whispered, confusion marring her words. Miss him? Where had he gone? Fear laced through her skin. She smelt worked leather, her hand rising to grip his arm and encountering the thick material. Eyes snapping open, she gasped, felt him bite down sweetly on her earlobe. This was wrong. Something was wrong. She brought her hand up to his head, to pull him away, and brushed bare skin.
Whimpered.
“John, listen to me, this isn’t you.”
Flinched at the whiplash of his shouts.
“It’s who I am, who I always was, Helen.”
The flashes of him, lashing out.
In her study, the light of a hundred candles burning, melting to the wick, she woke to find him watching her, his eyes hooded, wearing an unfathomable expression. Unable to comprehend his presence, here, in her sanctuary, she noted instead in the brief seconds of her disbelief that the book from her lap had been removed and placed with care on a nearby table next to her favourite china tea service. Then he moved. As he leant towards her, her mind swung like a compass needle between the carriage and the man that was her fiancé to the sanctuary and the man that is her enemy. He had killed, murdered, broken her heart, and destroyed the bond she shared with her daughter, carelessly ripping trust to shreds in the name of saving her. Saving them both. He was sweet, scared, devoted. So gentle. A part of her ached for missing him.
His fingers stroked through her hair, playing with the dark curls, his eyes fixed on the flecks of browns which changed in the firelight. She couldn’t believe he was here. Dreaming still? Where was her weapon? In her desk. Her forget-me-not blue eyes washed with fearful tears, her skin alive for his touch, her heart hoping for him. Her composure, her rationale, everything sputtered in the dying flames. The smoke and leather heady as he kissed her. Fleeting gentle touches, followed by deep passionate embrace and she moaned softly against his lips. Her fingers clenched and unclenched in the material of his jacket, palms face up against his shoulders, in the frozen act of pushing away.
He pushed her back against the sofa instead, his hand wrapped in her hair, the other stroking a path up her legs, disorientating kisses. Back in the carriage, the bump of the cobbled road beneath them. He pushed up her skirts, his fingers brushing over the soft smooth skin of her inner thighs, and she shivered, unable to tear her eyes away from him. He removed his jacket, letting it fall to the floor, her hands skimming over his shirt, over and undoing buttons, bare skin. She lifted her hips for him. Dark hair fanned out around her face, tangled curls in her eyes. His face was set in seriousness. Furrowed brow, lips tight. She gasped, bit back a moan, catching pictures in stop motion from the flickering light and her eyelids fluttering against mixed sensations. John, above her, around her, inside, the heat and cold and then and now. The speed of the carriage and the smell of the smoke and the hurt. Of his change, of her loneliness, of the past, of Ashley, of never being free. His breath was hot in her ear, tendrils of awareness running through her body like currents, like blood, iron tang and thick. She arched, snatching air, crying out to the high ceilings. Her hand dug into the velvet seat, her skirts around her waist and his mouth on her shoulder. She screamed.
A hundred years ago, John had laughed, and she had joined in, smiling, her eyes lit up with pleasure. The carriage stopped, and giggling they had smoothed their clothing, checking each other for signs of impropriety, pressing brief kisses between smiles. He had climbed out before her, turning to offer his hand. Nothing more than an honest gentleman taking his fiancé to see Shakespeare at Christmas time.
Helen closed the book resting in her lap with a sigh, blowing out the nearest remaining candle. Her fingers traced lightly over the title, the swirl of Twelfth Night. Her gaze flittered around the shadowed room.
Christmas always made her nostalgic.
O mistress mine, where are you roaming?
O, stay and hear; your true love's coming,
That can sing both high and low:
Trip no further, pretty sweeting;
Journeys end in lovers meeting,
Every wise man's son doth know.
Twelfth Night, 2. 3