A Ficlet...Nikki/Helen
Leave Not a Rack Behind
Fewthistle
Bad Girls
Nikki/Helen
Post Season Three. After Series 3, Episode 16.
Words: 207
This began as a Spot On Drabble for the_pottingshed, but clearly went well beyond the 100 word limit. So here it is, instead.
For the first few nights, Nikki didn’t sleep. Like jewels, priceless and irreplaceable, these moments of time, when she could watch Helen unaware, were too precious to squander on something so mundane as sleep.
So she laid, her head propped up on one of her hands, and watched Helen’s slumbering form beside her. Watched the slow rise and fall of her chest, the silken expanse of skin revealed by her nightgown, the pattern of freckles along the curve of her breast, a constellation against a sea of honeyed cream.
She gazed mesmerized at the gentle planes of Helen’s face, the sculpted lines of cheekbones, the lush fullness of lips, awed by the knowledge that in this finite moment in time, Helen was hers. Even now it hardly seemed real. Nikki half dreaded that one night she would fall asleep to this vision, only to be awakened to the ugly reality of Larkhall. That this was all but a dream.
Perhaps it was. Still, for the gift of these moments, Nikki was willing to chance it all. We are such stuff as dreams are made on, Nikki thought, as she laid her head close to Helen’s on the pillow, her eyes slowly closing. Dreams indeed.
Fewthistle
Bad Girls
Nikki/Helen
Post Season Three. After Series 3, Episode 16.
Words: 207
This began as a Spot On Drabble for the_pottingshed, but clearly went well beyond the 100 word limit. So here it is, instead.
For the first few nights, Nikki didn’t sleep. Like jewels, priceless and irreplaceable, these moments of time, when she could watch Helen unaware, were too precious to squander on something so mundane as sleep.
So she laid, her head propped up on one of her hands, and watched Helen’s slumbering form beside her. Watched the slow rise and fall of her chest, the silken expanse of skin revealed by her nightgown, the pattern of freckles along the curve of her breast, a constellation against a sea of honeyed cream.
She gazed mesmerized at the gentle planes of Helen’s face, the sculpted lines of cheekbones, the lush fullness of lips, awed by the knowledge that in this finite moment in time, Helen was hers. Even now it hardly seemed real. Nikki half dreaded that one night she would fall asleep to this vision, only to be awakened to the ugly reality of Larkhall. That this was all but a dream.
Perhaps it was. Still, for the gift of these moments, Nikki was willing to chance it all. We are such stuff as dreams are made on, Nikki thought, as she laid her head close to Helen’s on the pillow, her eyes slowly closing. Dreams indeed.