sanctuary fic: the wake [one hundred sixteen years late]
Title: The Wake [One Hundred Sixteen Years Late]
Summary: Seeing James back in the Sanctuary had scratched off a scab she hadn’t realized she still bore. [Post 4x01]
Words: 1,118
Disclaimer: Not mine. It all belongs to Damian.
Notes: Declan has a way of sneaking into fics I think will just be Helen/James. I blame my Declan head!canon that involves a lot of simultaneous teasing and hero-worship of Watson. Also, I really freaking loved “Tempus.” And Peter’s faaaaace.
She hadn't been there long, just a few days, but seeing James back in the Sanctuary had scratched off a scab she hadn't realized she still bore.
Everything that happened with Ashley had overshadowed James' death, had ripped right through her so completely that the small, James-sized hole in her heart had been eclipsed. She misses Ashley with every breath, but she's starting to deal with the loss; one hundred thirteen years of solitude has certainly helped with that.
But James.
She knows now that she never properly mourned him and seeing him again (so blessedly young and handsome and stern and brilliant beyond imagining) has brought it all back, torn the hole open anew. Her closest friend, her confidant, taken from her once in India and now taken from her again on a rooftop in London. The second time was voluntary but it doesn't hurt any less.
(She wonders if this is fixed now, her going back in time and slowly crawling her way forward back to her life. Did James know, when his heart sputtered to a stop, that she was going to see him again? How strong he was, she thinks, carrying it all with him for those precious decades he had.)
When her solitary confinement ends and she is freed to resume her life, the world she had so carefully preserved is in chaos. She handles as best she can, burning several bridges and building a few new ones before everything stabilizes. In the quiet aftermath, she begs Will for a few days' leave and she loves him for not pointing out that she's just had the longest sabbatical on record.
Declan greets her at the door, taking her bag, and he knows something is different when she doesn't try to wrestle it back. She takes his hand before he can ask what she needs, why she's there, and they walk in silence to James' sitting room. It was Declan's now but they still called it James'; the degrees on the wall were Watson's and it was his favorite brandy that was still stocked in the cupboard. Declan locks the door behind them and watches her pace in front of the fireplace, looking around like she's never been in the room before. She pauses when she catches sight of Declan's laptop lying on the couch, low battery light blinking insistently.
"He found my phone," she starts quietly. "Was utterly fascinated by it, as you can imagine." Declan's lips twitch into a smile; she’s jumped into the middle of the story, but he knows why she’s come. "It seems odd that he aged into such a luddite, don't you think?"
"You told him to bury it all deep in that big head of his, didn't you?" Declan guesses. "Maybe he buried that just a little too deep."
"Maybe," she breathes. His framed Oxford degree, hanging just to the right of the fireplace, is crooked so she straightens it, then traces the letters in his name with her index finger.
"How did he look?" Declan asks, settling himself in the chair opposite the one James always favored. Helen is relieved suddenly; she had thought on the plane over that this might be a mistake, coming back to London and having James be gone again, but Declan is just what she needs. Declan, who misses James just as much in his own way.
"Young," she answers, smiling, "and scruffy." And then, whispered: "Unburdened."
"Then you saw him at his best," Declan says pointedly and she knows he heard the last bit. "How long did it take him to figure you out?" He reaches over and grabs the dying laptop from the couch, waving at Helen to sit. The fabric is warm where the laptop had been sitting and she toes off her boots, wiggles her socked toes in front of the fire; this is a social call, not a professional one, and Declan is always trying to get her to relax. He's so like James that way.
"Not long at all, even for him," she admits. "Though I suppose he cheated a bit, looking at the dates on my driver's license."
"Ah, but he wouldn't call it cheating," Declan grins, pouring her a brandy. "He'd just say he was using the evidence at his disposal."
"You're right, of course," Helen takes the glass gratefully. Declan sips at his own and waits for her to continue. It means something that she sought him out, rather than Druitt or Tesla; he's not entirely sure what it means, but there's a significance there that he isn't going to meddle with.
"I thought I'd made my peace with it," she whispers, "with him. But seeing him again... Lord, Declan, he was so young..." She fades off again and Declan holds back the instinct to take her hand. There are some lines Helen Magnus won't cross for anyone.
"It was a gift, Magnus. Treat it as one."
She snaps back to herself, forcing a small smile as though she's just realized how much she shared. (James had told Declan once that it was her greatest flaw, the way she walled herself in. He's never believed it more than at this moment.) She shakes her head: "I don't know why this came back to me all of a sudden; it's been a whole century since then but I just can't seem to shake it."
"You're back in the Sanctuary," Declan gesturing at their surroundings vaguely. "The last time you were in this building you had James at your side. Your time in between was spent in a place with no standing memories; I'm not at all surprised you're mourning him again."
She stares at him a moment, watching the fire glint off his hair and the way his face falls from a confident grin to nervousness at her careful study. "I hadn't..." she pauses, composes herself. "I sometimes forget why James chose you. But then I see him in you and I can't believe it ever slipped my mind."
Declan nods, taking the compliment. He plucks the glass from her hand, then stands and offers his arm. "Come on," he prods, "He'd have my hide knowing I kept you up all night talking after such a long flight."
"You don't mind, do you?" She asks, and it strikes Declan as funny although he doesn't laugh. "My staying a few days?"
"Never," he assures her, squeezing her hand where it rests in the crook of his arm. "I'd relish the opportunity to talk about him some more, if you're up for it."
"In the morning," she promises and he hopes that dawn brings her the peace she's been craving for more than a century.
Summary: Seeing James back in the Sanctuary had scratched off a scab she hadn’t realized she still bore. [Post 4x01]
Words: 1,118
Disclaimer: Not mine. It all belongs to Damian.
Notes: Declan has a way of sneaking into fics I think will just be Helen/James. I blame my Declan head!canon that involves a lot of simultaneous teasing and hero-worship of Watson. Also, I really freaking loved “Tempus.” And Peter’s faaaaace.
She hadn't been there long, just a few days, but seeing James back in the Sanctuary had scratched off a scab she hadn't realized she still bore.
Everything that happened with Ashley had overshadowed James' death, had ripped right through her so completely that the small, James-sized hole in her heart had been eclipsed. She misses Ashley with every breath, but she's starting to deal with the loss; one hundred thirteen years of solitude has certainly helped with that.
But James.
She knows now that she never properly mourned him and seeing him again (so blessedly young and handsome and stern and brilliant beyond imagining) has brought it all back, torn the hole open anew. Her closest friend, her confidant, taken from her once in India and now taken from her again on a rooftop in London. The second time was voluntary but it doesn't hurt any less.
(She wonders if this is fixed now, her going back in time and slowly crawling her way forward back to her life. Did James know, when his heart sputtered to a stop, that she was going to see him again? How strong he was, she thinks, carrying it all with him for those precious decades he had.)
When her solitary confinement ends and she is freed to resume her life, the world she had so carefully preserved is in chaos. She handles as best she can, burning several bridges and building a few new ones before everything stabilizes. In the quiet aftermath, she begs Will for a few days' leave and she loves him for not pointing out that she's just had the longest sabbatical on record.
Declan greets her at the door, taking her bag, and he knows something is different when she doesn't try to wrestle it back. She takes his hand before he can ask what she needs, why she's there, and they walk in silence to James' sitting room. It was Declan's now but they still called it James'; the degrees on the wall were Watson's and it was his favorite brandy that was still stocked in the cupboard. Declan locks the door behind them and watches her pace in front of the fireplace, looking around like she's never been in the room before. She pauses when she catches sight of Declan's laptop lying on the couch, low battery light blinking insistently.
"He found my phone," she starts quietly. "Was utterly fascinated by it, as you can imagine." Declan's lips twitch into a smile; she’s jumped into the middle of the story, but he knows why she’s come. "It seems odd that he aged into such a luddite, don't you think?"
"You told him to bury it all deep in that big head of his, didn't you?" Declan guesses. "Maybe he buried that just a little too deep."
"Maybe," she breathes. His framed Oxford degree, hanging just to the right of the fireplace, is crooked so she straightens it, then traces the letters in his name with her index finger.
"How did he look?" Declan asks, settling himself in the chair opposite the one James always favored. Helen is relieved suddenly; she had thought on the plane over that this might be a mistake, coming back to London and having James be gone again, but Declan is just what she needs. Declan, who misses James just as much in his own way.
"Young," she answers, smiling, "and scruffy." And then, whispered: "Unburdened."
"Then you saw him at his best," Declan says pointedly and she knows he heard the last bit. "How long did it take him to figure you out?" He reaches over and grabs the dying laptop from the couch, waving at Helen to sit. The fabric is warm where the laptop had been sitting and she toes off her boots, wiggles her socked toes in front of the fire; this is a social call, not a professional one, and Declan is always trying to get her to relax. He's so like James that way.
"Not long at all, even for him," she admits. "Though I suppose he cheated a bit, looking at the dates on my driver's license."
"Ah, but he wouldn't call it cheating," Declan grins, pouring her a brandy. "He'd just say he was using the evidence at his disposal."
"You're right, of course," Helen takes the glass gratefully. Declan sips at his own and waits for her to continue. It means something that she sought him out, rather than Druitt or Tesla; he's not entirely sure what it means, but there's a significance there that he isn't going to meddle with.
"I thought I'd made my peace with it," she whispers, "with him. But seeing him again... Lord, Declan, he was so young..." She fades off again and Declan holds back the instinct to take her hand. There are some lines Helen Magnus won't cross for anyone.
"It was a gift, Magnus. Treat it as one."
She snaps back to herself, forcing a small smile as though she's just realized how much she shared. (James had told Declan once that it was her greatest flaw, the way she walled herself in. He's never believed it more than at this moment.) She shakes her head: "I don't know why this came back to me all of a sudden; it's been a whole century since then but I just can't seem to shake it."
"You're back in the Sanctuary," Declan gesturing at their surroundings vaguely. "The last time you were in this building you had James at your side. Your time in between was spent in a place with no standing memories; I'm not at all surprised you're mourning him again."
She stares at him a moment, watching the fire glint off his hair and the way his face falls from a confident grin to nervousness at her careful study. "I hadn't..." she pauses, composes herself. "I sometimes forget why James chose you. But then I see him in you and I can't believe it ever slipped my mind."
Declan nods, taking the compliment. He plucks the glass from her hand, then stands and offers his arm. "Come on," he prods, "He'd have my hide knowing I kept you up all night talking after such a long flight."
"You don't mind, do you?" She asks, and it strikes Declan as funny although he doesn't laugh. "My staying a few days?"
"Never," he assures her, squeezing her hand where it rests in the crook of his arm. "I'd relish the opportunity to talk about him some more, if you're up for it."
"In the morning," she promises and he hopes that dawn brings her the peace she's been craving for more than a century.