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For a prompt on the kink meme. Which I couldn't make go above PG-13 -_-;
Title: Courting Oblivion
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Sanctuary
Characters/Pairings: James/Nikola, mentions of the Five
Summary: Set just after the discovery of John as the Ripper. James wants to forget
Wordcount: 1384
Warnings/Notes: For the prompt "James Watson/Nikola Tesla, sex and drugs to make me forget". Warnings for mentioned drug-use, Victorian mores
Disclaimer: Not mine
Title: Courting Oblivion
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Sanctuary
Characters/Pairings: James/Nikola, mentions of the Five
Summary: Set just after the discovery of John as the Ripper. James wants to forget
Wordcount: 1384
Warnings/Notes: For the prompt "James Watson/Nikola Tesla, sex and drugs to make me forget". Warnings for mentioned drug-use, Victorian mores
Disclaimer: Not mine
Courting Oblivion
Later on, James would like to tell himself that the decision to kiss Nikola was made under the influence. Of grief, of temporary madness, of the remnants of the drugs still coursing through his veins. He would like to pretend he had not been in his right mind. Like to excuse it, call it a lapse in judgement, a mistake.
It wasn't.
Oh, he'd been addled, alright. The grief of John's ... of what John had ... He'd been perhaps more than a little mad, that morning, it was true. And perhaps the lassitude of the drug had still remained, perhaps it had lowered his control to some degree. These things were facts. They were part of the decision he'd made.
But it had been a decision. It had been a conscious choice. And more than that, it had been ... calculated. To the last nuance, as such things had to be, in those days. A very calculated risk, on all levels.
He'd wanted ... freedom. From thought, from the memory ... from the memory of John's hands, that had stolen the lives of at the very least seven women. From the memory of his smile, as he lied barefaced to James. From ... from the thought of John altogether. From the existence of him. James had wanted to be free of it, even for one moment. And the drugs could only do so much, before they damaged him beyond his means to return. And even then, even so grieved and ever-so-slightly mad as he'd been then ... that had been an unacceptable risk.
So he had turned to the only other comfort really available. And some of it had been that Nikola was there, that he had put James to bed with a startling lack of judgement when James showed up at his door addled out of his wits, that he had hovered, that entire morning, whilst pretending to be absorbed in whatever sparking monstrosity constituted his latest experiment. Part of it had been that Nikola was close, and a friend, and quite simply there.
But another, more cynical part, that part which had understood his urges, his needs, for what they were, for the risks they had posed to him all his life ... that part had weighed his options. Had turned away from Helen, untouchable in her grief. Had recognised that Nigel had ... opinions ... on such matters, and friend or no would at least violently rebuff him, and potentially so much worse. Had recognised, in some dark, cold place, that should Nikola refuse him, should Nikola prove a threat ... that as a foreigner, and one widely regarded as eccentric at that, attempting to accuse an English gentleman of perversion ... Nikola would be laughed off at best. For Nikola that, at least, was not an option. That made him ... safe. Or at least safer.
Afterwards, no matter how he would try to excuse himself, James would remember that cold, clear thought. That calculation. And know that he had made his choice as deliberately and coldly as he had made any other in his life.
So he had kissed Nikola. In bare feet in the man's makeshift lab, in sweat-soaked shirtsleeves and trousers, barely dressed. He had caught the inventor gently by the shoulder, turned him, and pressed his mouth to the one opening in shock. Felt the brush of the man's mustache (so unlike John) against his face, felt Nikola's little sound of surprise fall between his lips. Felt the scientist stiffen in shock in his arms, felt the bunching of muscle, of a vampire's strength, and for a moment James had felt an elemental thrill like few others he had experienced. A rich, dark rush of danger, swamping every thought, and even if Nikola had thrown him away then and there, it would have been worth it for that.
But Nikola hadn't. He hadn't responded to the kiss, hadn't moved beneath James' hands save for to reach up and grip James' arms, to hold with bruising force, but not to push away. Not to draw near. Simply to hold, and remind James of his power.
When James pulled back, when he lifted his lips from that unresponsive mouth, he'd looked up to find Nikola watching him with that same speculative look that measured machines for their potential, for their possibilities and their risks. Nikola looked at him with soft, curious eyes, and a calculation to match James' own, a scientist's remote evaluation.
"I'm not Druitt," the vampire observed softly. Testingly.
"Anything but," James had agreed, with some vehemence, and a smile flickered over Nikola's face, a flash of smugness and boyish pride, and James had felt his own lips quirk somewhat against their will. Felt something far gentler than calculated desire slip into his chest.
"Well then," Nikola murmured, grinning, and abruptly shifted his grip on James' arms, caught him up with all the strength of a vampire and pulled him close. So that James couldn't have escaped if he'd wanted to, and though he hadn't, there'd been ... a certain thrill in that. A certain rush.
And then, still grinning, the vampire kissed him back.
It had been ... savage. Glorious. It had cut through the opiate fog lurking at the edges of James' senses, cut through the grief layered underneath it, brushed them all aside and instead gone straight for the animal thing that lurked beneath. For that part of James that didn't calculate, didn't judge the risks, didn't care. For that part of James that only wanted, and seized the objects of that want for itself. Nikola pushed inside his mouth, licked his way in with eager curiosity and more than a hint of power, of fury, and James felt fire flicker like a drug in his veins. Felt darkness claw its way happily to the surface, and drown him where thoughts of John Druitt, of all he had lost, could not follow.
"Sure you want to play this game, James?" Nikola whispered softly as he pulled back, purred it into James' ear as he held his shaking form up with nonchalant ease. The vampire smiled at him, one hand gently stroking James' back in odd counterpoint to the almost vicious grin on his face, and there was something lurking in Nikola's eyes. Some hint that perhaps he knew exactly how calculated a venture this had been to James, that he knew exactly how much he was being used. That smile flickered again, that testing, taunting grin, daring James to back away. Daring James to step forward.
James chose the latter. Whatever reasons he would give himself later, whatever justifications he would put across that moment, knowing all the while they were false ... In that moment, tired and wrung-out and aching with a need for something, held firmly in a vampire's grasp ... James had chosen to step forward. He had chosen to push, to court with danger, to use a friend who knew it all the while.
He had chosen to kiss Nikola. He had chosen to let the vampire move him in slow, shuffling dance back towards the bed, chosen to curl into the strength of him, chosen to open himself to Nikola's curious, grinning exploration. Had chosen, with faint bemusement and a flicker of guilt as he realised that Nikola didn't know how this was done, to guide the vampire through it, to tussle him lightly through the steps, and find himself for some strange reason laughing, grinning down at Nikola's huffy confusion, raising his eyebrows at Nikola's sly, challenging grin.
He had chosen to forget. For one brief moment, for one brief morning. He had chosen to forget that John Druitt existed, that his world had been turned upon its head, that this act carried so much more danger than a vampire's strength. He had chosen to forget, chosen to act, chosen to court a vampire in his den, and trust himself to a friend.
And later, yes, he would like to tell himself it had been a mistake. Later, yes, he would make himself look Nikola coldly in the eye, and dare him to tell the world their secret. Later, he would flinch a little at the man's challenging eyebrow and cocky little grin, and feel himself smile ruefully in apology. Later, he would. Later.
Then, in that moment ... he had been content.
Later on, James would like to tell himself that the decision to kiss Nikola was made under the influence. Of grief, of temporary madness, of the remnants of the drugs still coursing through his veins. He would like to pretend he had not been in his right mind. Like to excuse it, call it a lapse in judgement, a mistake.
It wasn't.
Oh, he'd been addled, alright. The grief of John's ... of what John had ... He'd been perhaps more than a little mad, that morning, it was true. And perhaps the lassitude of the drug had still remained, perhaps it had lowered his control to some degree. These things were facts. They were part of the decision he'd made.
But it had been a decision. It had been a conscious choice. And more than that, it had been ... calculated. To the last nuance, as such things had to be, in those days. A very calculated risk, on all levels.
He'd wanted ... freedom. From thought, from the memory ... from the memory of John's hands, that had stolen the lives of at the very least seven women. From the memory of his smile, as he lied barefaced to James. From ... from the thought of John altogether. From the existence of him. James had wanted to be free of it, even for one moment. And the drugs could only do so much, before they damaged him beyond his means to return. And even then, even so grieved and ever-so-slightly mad as he'd been then ... that had been an unacceptable risk.
So he had turned to the only other comfort really available. And some of it had been that Nikola was there, that he had put James to bed with a startling lack of judgement when James showed up at his door addled out of his wits, that he had hovered, that entire morning, whilst pretending to be absorbed in whatever sparking monstrosity constituted his latest experiment. Part of it had been that Nikola was close, and a friend, and quite simply there.
But another, more cynical part, that part which had understood his urges, his needs, for what they were, for the risks they had posed to him all his life ... that part had weighed his options. Had turned away from Helen, untouchable in her grief. Had recognised that Nigel had ... opinions ... on such matters, and friend or no would at least violently rebuff him, and potentially so much worse. Had recognised, in some dark, cold place, that should Nikola refuse him, should Nikola prove a threat ... that as a foreigner, and one widely regarded as eccentric at that, attempting to accuse an English gentleman of perversion ... Nikola would be laughed off at best. For Nikola that, at least, was not an option. That made him ... safe. Or at least safer.
Afterwards, no matter how he would try to excuse himself, James would remember that cold, clear thought. That calculation. And know that he had made his choice as deliberately and coldly as he had made any other in his life.
So he had kissed Nikola. In bare feet in the man's makeshift lab, in sweat-soaked shirtsleeves and trousers, barely dressed. He had caught the inventor gently by the shoulder, turned him, and pressed his mouth to the one opening in shock. Felt the brush of the man's mustache (so unlike John) against his face, felt Nikola's little sound of surprise fall between his lips. Felt the scientist stiffen in shock in his arms, felt the bunching of muscle, of a vampire's strength, and for a moment James had felt an elemental thrill like few others he had experienced. A rich, dark rush of danger, swamping every thought, and even if Nikola had thrown him away then and there, it would have been worth it for that.
But Nikola hadn't. He hadn't responded to the kiss, hadn't moved beneath James' hands save for to reach up and grip James' arms, to hold with bruising force, but not to push away. Not to draw near. Simply to hold, and remind James of his power.
When James pulled back, when he lifted his lips from that unresponsive mouth, he'd looked up to find Nikola watching him with that same speculative look that measured machines for their potential, for their possibilities and their risks. Nikola looked at him with soft, curious eyes, and a calculation to match James' own, a scientist's remote evaluation.
"I'm not Druitt," the vampire observed softly. Testingly.
"Anything but," James had agreed, with some vehemence, and a smile flickered over Nikola's face, a flash of smugness and boyish pride, and James had felt his own lips quirk somewhat against their will. Felt something far gentler than calculated desire slip into his chest.
"Well then," Nikola murmured, grinning, and abruptly shifted his grip on James' arms, caught him up with all the strength of a vampire and pulled him close. So that James couldn't have escaped if he'd wanted to, and though he hadn't, there'd been ... a certain thrill in that. A certain rush.
And then, still grinning, the vampire kissed him back.
It had been ... savage. Glorious. It had cut through the opiate fog lurking at the edges of James' senses, cut through the grief layered underneath it, brushed them all aside and instead gone straight for the animal thing that lurked beneath. For that part of James that didn't calculate, didn't judge the risks, didn't care. For that part of James that only wanted, and seized the objects of that want for itself. Nikola pushed inside his mouth, licked his way in with eager curiosity and more than a hint of power, of fury, and James felt fire flicker like a drug in his veins. Felt darkness claw its way happily to the surface, and drown him where thoughts of John Druitt, of all he had lost, could not follow.
"Sure you want to play this game, James?" Nikola whispered softly as he pulled back, purred it into James' ear as he held his shaking form up with nonchalant ease. The vampire smiled at him, one hand gently stroking James' back in odd counterpoint to the almost vicious grin on his face, and there was something lurking in Nikola's eyes. Some hint that perhaps he knew exactly how calculated a venture this had been to James, that he knew exactly how much he was being used. That smile flickered again, that testing, taunting grin, daring James to back away. Daring James to step forward.
James chose the latter. Whatever reasons he would give himself later, whatever justifications he would put across that moment, knowing all the while they were false ... In that moment, tired and wrung-out and aching with a need for something, held firmly in a vampire's grasp ... James had chosen to step forward. He had chosen to push, to court with danger, to use a friend who knew it all the while.
He had chosen to kiss Nikola. He had chosen to let the vampire move him in slow, shuffling dance back towards the bed, chosen to curl into the strength of him, chosen to open himself to Nikola's curious, grinning exploration. Had chosen, with faint bemusement and a flicker of guilt as he realised that Nikola didn't know how this was done, to guide the vampire through it, to tussle him lightly through the steps, and find himself for some strange reason laughing, grinning down at Nikola's huffy confusion, raising his eyebrows at Nikola's sly, challenging grin.
He had chosen to forget. For one brief moment, for one brief morning. He had chosen to forget that John Druitt existed, that his world had been turned upon its head, that this act carried so much more danger than a vampire's strength. He had chosen to forget, chosen to act, chosen to court a vampire in his den, and trust himself to a friend.
And later, yes, he would like to tell himself it had been a mistake. Later, yes, he would make himself look Nikola coldly in the eye, and dare him to tell the world their secret. Later, he would flinch a little at the man's challenging eyebrow and cocky little grin, and feel himself smile ruefully in apology. Later, he would. Later.
Then, in that moment ... he had been content.
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