Sanctuary ficlet: "I Am Left Hoping Someday I'll Breathe Again"
Title: "I Am Left Hoping Someday I'll Breathe Again"
Author: talkofcake
Rating: PG
Category: Angst (or as I like to say, "aaaaaangst")
Pairing: Helen/John
Summary: They're both waiting. Waiting for a day that will never arrive.
A/N: Just a short, reflective piece on the currency of their relationship. And it's Thursday! Which means tomorrow is 'For King and Country'! Cue the flails.
Thanks to telksy for the read-through! :)
She's standing at the window. Waiting. Waiting for a day that will never arrive. Still she waits, with lonely eyes and a haunted heart and the rest of an eternity at her doorstep.
He enters in silence. She's only aware of his presence because of the faint scent that drifts to her nostrils. It's a scent she's imagined far too many times over the last century. It haunts her.
He drifts to her side like a wafting ghost, pale and effortless, long limbs and Victorian poise offering him a continued sense of grace even during his most violent hours. She despises it, for it's that very grace that never ceases to remind her of brighter days.
But this is not a violent hour.
Normally he would offer her a wistful expression, face full of emotion and longing and pain as he lifts a hand to brush against her porcelain skin, only to have it drop at his side before it makes contact, her warmth remaining a mere memory to his fingertips. But today he senses the things that weigh upon her, the utter loneliness and tragedy she is forced to endure. He can see it in the tension of her lips and the tight clasp of her hands. He feels every ounce of it.
Today his fingers make the vaguest, most delicate contact, calloused tips embracing, even just for a moment, porcelain dusted with rose.
Her eyes flutter shut, a soft breath emerging from her painted lips. It's so subdued he wonders if he imagined it.
With a gentle, yearning sigh, his arm, burdened by days of afternoon carriage rides, morning lectures, and crumpets in the Oxford courtyard, drops to his side, and he turns to leave. To his grandest surprise, the simple yet electric sensation of her fingers wrapping around his wrist beckons him to stay, even before her wavering voice does in the unabsorbed silence.
"John..."
He doesn't think one word has ever sounded so powerful, so meaningful, and yet so helpless all at once. He turns and meets her eyes, observes they look like the glass pond he took her skating on a hundred years ago. She's never been so fragile to him.
Empowered by her grasp, his wrist pulsing under the strength of it, he steps forward and carefully draws her into an embrace, alert for signs of her anticipated resistance. It's only to be expected, after all. When all he feels is her body melt against his, head tucking itself into the crook of his neck like it never left, he wraps his long arms around her with confidence, heart aching so strongly in his chest that he suspects it could burst at any moment.
"John," she repeats, drawing in a shaky breath. For this moment in time, she will let herself be comforted by the embrace she's experienced only in her unsolicited dreams. It's both alleviating and tormenting.
"Helen."
His breath warms her scalp, and she's painfully reminded of brisk, winter mornings with frost on the windows and tangled limbs between white linen.
"I miss you," she confesses, even though it's merely redundant with the way she's clinging. But it's more honest than she's been in decades.
"I miss you, too," he breathes, closing his eyes tightly and memorizing every way her body curves into his, every nuance of this single moment in time. The way her fingers bruise his skin. Her breath tickling his throat, causing goosebumps to arise. Remnants of a perfume he suspects, in her haste, is from the prior day. The pressure of her hips against his that tempts desire.
"I wish..."
"I know."
There's no need for her to finish. He's known since the day he first sliced into human flesh and discovered how fragile it is against a sharp blade, the warmth of burgundy blood trickling down his hands.
He holds her too long. She holds on too tight. And when it's over, the brush of his lips against her forehead and a curl of hair on the lapel of his jacket is all they will have.
They're both waiting. Waiting for a day that will never arrive.
Author: talkofcake
Rating: PG
Category: Angst (or as I like to say, "aaaaaangst")
Pairing: Helen/John
Summary: They're both waiting. Waiting for a day that will never arrive.
A/N: Just a short, reflective piece on the currency of their relationship. And it's Thursday! Which means tomorrow is 'For King and Country'! Cue the flails.
Thanks to telksy for the read-through! :)
She's standing at the window. Waiting. Waiting for a day that will never arrive. Still she waits, with lonely eyes and a haunted heart and the rest of an eternity at her doorstep.
He enters in silence. She's only aware of his presence because of the faint scent that drifts to her nostrils. It's a scent she's imagined far too many times over the last century. It haunts her.
He drifts to her side like a wafting ghost, pale and effortless, long limbs and Victorian poise offering him a continued sense of grace even during his most violent hours. She despises it, for it's that very grace that never ceases to remind her of brighter days.
But this is not a violent hour.
Normally he would offer her a wistful expression, face full of emotion and longing and pain as he lifts a hand to brush against her porcelain skin, only to have it drop at his side before it makes contact, her warmth remaining a mere memory to his fingertips. But today he senses the things that weigh upon her, the utter loneliness and tragedy she is forced to endure. He can see it in the tension of her lips and the tight clasp of her hands. He feels every ounce of it.
Today his fingers make the vaguest, most delicate contact, calloused tips embracing, even just for a moment, porcelain dusted with rose.
Her eyes flutter shut, a soft breath emerging from her painted lips. It's so subdued he wonders if he imagined it.
With a gentle, yearning sigh, his arm, burdened by days of afternoon carriage rides, morning lectures, and crumpets in the Oxford courtyard, drops to his side, and he turns to leave. To his grandest surprise, the simple yet electric sensation of her fingers wrapping around his wrist beckons him to stay, even before her wavering voice does in the unabsorbed silence.
"John..."
He doesn't think one word has ever sounded so powerful, so meaningful, and yet so helpless all at once. He turns and meets her eyes, observes they look like the glass pond he took her skating on a hundred years ago. She's never been so fragile to him.
Empowered by her grasp, his wrist pulsing under the strength of it, he steps forward and carefully draws her into an embrace, alert for signs of her anticipated resistance. It's only to be expected, after all. When all he feels is her body melt against his, head tucking itself into the crook of his neck like it never left, he wraps his long arms around her with confidence, heart aching so strongly in his chest that he suspects it could burst at any moment.
"John," she repeats, drawing in a shaky breath. For this moment in time, she will let herself be comforted by the embrace she's experienced only in her unsolicited dreams. It's both alleviating and tormenting.
"Helen."
His breath warms her scalp, and she's painfully reminded of brisk, winter mornings with frost on the windows and tangled limbs between white linen.
"I miss you," she confesses, even though it's merely redundant with the way she's clinging. But it's more honest than she's been in decades.
"I miss you, too," he breathes, closing his eyes tightly and memorizing every way her body curves into his, every nuance of this single moment in time. The way her fingers bruise his skin. Her breath tickling his throat, causing goosebumps to arise. Remnants of a perfume he suspects, in her haste, is from the prior day. The pressure of her hips against his that tempts desire.
"I wish..."
"I know."
There's no need for her to finish. He's known since the day he first sliced into human flesh and discovered how fragile it is against a sharp blade, the warmth of burgundy blood trickling down his hands.
He holds her too long. She holds on too tight. And when it's over, the brush of his lips against her forehead and a curl of hair on the lapel of his jacket is all they will have.
They're both waiting. Waiting for a day that will never arrive.