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*smiles sheepishly* I'll stop soon, I promise. Just riding the kick, that's all. James and Nikola, again, and somewhat ... more quietly dark, this time.
Title: A Youthful Age
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Sanctuary
Characters/Pairings: James, Nikola, mentions of Helen and John
Summary: 1946, Nikola fetches up on James' doorstep after three years in war-torn Europe
Wordcount: 753
Warnings/Notes: WWII. Which in this case definitely counts as a warning.
Disclaimer: Not mine
Title: A Youthful Age
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Sanctuary
Characters/Pairings: James, Nikola, mentions of Helen and John
Summary: 1946, Nikola fetches up on James' doorstep after three years in war-torn Europe
Wordcount: 753
Warnings/Notes: WWII. Which in this case definitely counts as a warning.
Disclaimer: Not mine
A Youthful Age
Nikola had curled protectively into himself in sleep, tucked into an exhausted ball on James' sofa, which he'd chosen somewhat involuntarily over a bed by simple virtue of falling asleep before James could get him into one. Barefoot, wearing a shirt he'd borrowed from James with a rather bleak little smile as he handed over the bloodied remains of his own, Nikola looked nothing like a ninety year old vampire who could kill someone with a twitch of his hand, nothing like the man who'd thrown the world into renewed chaos with one simple, ill-advised plan to force peace.
Instead, he looked like a worn copy of the proud, eager young man James had known all those years ago in Oxford. He looked a battered version of the man he'd been before John, and America, and the Death Ray, and three years spent running for his life through a war-torn Europe. Looked as if someone had plucked James' youthful friend up from the past, and brought him here to beat him into sleep.
In sleep, Nikola looked young, and tired, and badly used, and it did something strange to James' chest. Tore at memories of younger, better times, that James had quietly locked away as the world and he himself grew steadily older, and darker, and more full of pain. Tore at things he'd put away so carefully, and laid them bare once more.
He should call Helen. He knew he should. She hadn't heard from Nikola in over three years, not since she'd helped him disappear. None of them had. Ever since he'd vanished into the chaos of war-torn Europe, disappeared into the very maelstrom he'd tried, in his own, unique way, to stop, neither James nor Helen had had any idea if he were alive or dead. And Helen, at least, had worried.
He should call her. Should tell her Nikola was ... as safe as could be expected, for the moment, if exhausted and desperate and with something dark and drowning lurking behind his eyes. Should tell her that the vampire at least had the sense to come to one of them, when he'd barely escaped one too many times.
But he wouldn't. He knew he wouldn't. And only partly because he'd promised, because Nikola had asked, in some fit of pride, and James had answered in a bid for calm. Only partly for that.
He looked down at the stained, greyish remnant of cloth in his hands. Looked at it with eyes that saw the stories of the world, whether they wanted to or not. Saw the remains of a shirt that had been worn for weeks on end, worn until it was grey and thin. Saw the holes and the cuts, layered over each other, hours or days apart at a time. Saw the stains, layered in red, and the way much of it had spread up from beneath, but not all. Not all. Saw the ash ground in, and fluids that weren't blood, and the marks of fingerprints on the inside of an upper arm, where someone had clung inside Nikola's arms, and fallen away. Saw all that.
And remembered. Remembered the reports coming out of the continent, sketchy at first, then steadily more detailed. Steadily more horrifying. Remembered deliberately looking for reports out of Croatia, not so much in the hope that he'd find anything of their missing friend, but rather out of an odd sense of loyalty, a strange need to look out for Nikola's homeland in his absence.
James looked at the piece of cloth in his hands, and remembered reports on Jasenovac. Remembered the darkness in Nikola's eyes as he'd taken off this shirt, and handed it over with that odd, bleak little smile. Remembered blood that hadn't seeped from below, and the look in the vampire's eyes that James had only ever seen on one other person. Remembered the look that reminded him, for one black, terrible moment, of John.
No, he thought, as he put the remnants of Nikola's war away, and looked down at the face of his friend softened in sleep, made young once more and only more terrible for it. No, he wouldn't tell Helen of this. Wouldn't show her the hollow copy of her friend. He'd let Nikola keep his pride, and his secrecy, and not tell Helen a thing.
Let his heart be the only one broken, this second time. Let his memories be the only ones torn.
Little as it was, it was all he could do, in this world grown steadily older.
Nikola had curled protectively into himself in sleep, tucked into an exhausted ball on James' sofa, which he'd chosen somewhat involuntarily over a bed by simple virtue of falling asleep before James could get him into one. Barefoot, wearing a shirt he'd borrowed from James with a rather bleak little smile as he handed over the bloodied remains of his own, Nikola looked nothing like a ninety year old vampire who could kill someone with a twitch of his hand, nothing like the man who'd thrown the world into renewed chaos with one simple, ill-advised plan to force peace.
Instead, he looked like a worn copy of the proud, eager young man James had known all those years ago in Oxford. He looked a battered version of the man he'd been before John, and America, and the Death Ray, and three years spent running for his life through a war-torn Europe. Looked as if someone had plucked James' youthful friend up from the past, and brought him here to beat him into sleep.
In sleep, Nikola looked young, and tired, and badly used, and it did something strange to James' chest. Tore at memories of younger, better times, that James had quietly locked away as the world and he himself grew steadily older, and darker, and more full of pain. Tore at things he'd put away so carefully, and laid them bare once more.
He should call Helen. He knew he should. She hadn't heard from Nikola in over three years, not since she'd helped him disappear. None of them had. Ever since he'd vanished into the chaos of war-torn Europe, disappeared into the very maelstrom he'd tried, in his own, unique way, to stop, neither James nor Helen had had any idea if he were alive or dead. And Helen, at least, had worried.
He should call her. Should tell her Nikola was ... as safe as could be expected, for the moment, if exhausted and desperate and with something dark and drowning lurking behind his eyes. Should tell her that the vampire at least had the sense to come to one of them, when he'd barely escaped one too many times.
But he wouldn't. He knew he wouldn't. And only partly because he'd promised, because Nikola had asked, in some fit of pride, and James had answered in a bid for calm. Only partly for that.
He looked down at the stained, greyish remnant of cloth in his hands. Looked at it with eyes that saw the stories of the world, whether they wanted to or not. Saw the remains of a shirt that had been worn for weeks on end, worn until it was grey and thin. Saw the holes and the cuts, layered over each other, hours or days apart at a time. Saw the stains, layered in red, and the way much of it had spread up from beneath, but not all. Not all. Saw the ash ground in, and fluids that weren't blood, and the marks of fingerprints on the inside of an upper arm, where someone had clung inside Nikola's arms, and fallen away. Saw all that.
And remembered. Remembered the reports coming out of the continent, sketchy at first, then steadily more detailed. Steadily more horrifying. Remembered deliberately looking for reports out of Croatia, not so much in the hope that he'd find anything of their missing friend, but rather out of an odd sense of loyalty, a strange need to look out for Nikola's homeland in his absence.
James looked at the piece of cloth in his hands, and remembered reports on Jasenovac. Remembered the darkness in Nikola's eyes as he'd taken off this shirt, and handed it over with that odd, bleak little smile. Remembered blood that hadn't seeped from below, and the look in the vampire's eyes that James had only ever seen on one other person. Remembered the look that reminded him, for one black, terrible moment, of John.
No, he thought, as he put the remnants of Nikola's war away, and looked down at the face of his friend softened in sleep, made young once more and only more terrible for it. No, he wouldn't tell Helen of this. Wouldn't show her the hollow copy of her friend. He'd let Nikola keep his pride, and his secrecy, and not tell Helen a thing.
Let his heart be the only one broken, this second time. Let his memories be the only ones torn.
Little as it was, it was all he could do, in this world grown steadily older.
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