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I swear, the sequel to Waistcoat wasn't meant to turn out this way ...
Title: Ambush
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Sanctuary
Characters/Pairings: James/Helen/Nikola. And I've no idea quite how that happened ...
Summary: Direct sequel to Waistcoat. James' reaction to Helen's crossdressing then goes ... somewhere else entirely *shrugs sheepishly*
Wordcount: 1832
Warnings/Notes: Kissing, crossdressing, them. Set early 20thC. I think
Disclaimer: Not mine
Title: Ambush
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Sanctuary
Characters/Pairings: James/Helen/Nikola. And I've no idea quite how that happened ...
Summary: Direct sequel to Waistcoat. James' reaction to Helen's crossdressing then goes ... somewhere else entirely *shrugs sheepishly*
Wordcount: 1832
Warnings/Notes: Kissing, crossdressing, them. Set early 20thC. I think
Disclaimer: Not mine
Ambush
They were waiting for James in the study.
Not sinisterly. Or at least so he thought, at first. They were making no effort to hide their presence, Nikola's laughing drawl carrying along the hall, Helen's brisk, teasing retorts quieter but no less clear. Casual and easy as they always were in each other's presence, just like any other time spent waiting for James to return from the Yard or his practice. He had no reason to suspect a trap.
Until he opened the door, and saw her.
She was sitting in his armchair. Reclining back, a glass of brandy at her elbow, golden hair brushing the collar of a man's jacket, trousered legs sprawled and slightly apart, the silk of her waistcoat gleaming faintly in the lamplight. Helen Magnus in a three-piece suit, a golden effigy in rich brown and cream, sprawled at her ease.
James stopped in the doorway. Stood stock still, utterly uncaring as their conversation stopped around him, allowing himself a moment of stunned shock in which to simply stare. In which to simply breathe. Catching sight of Nikola out of the corner of his eye, the smug, delighted expression on the man's face, and ignoring it. Simply staring at her, far from dignified, far from appropriate, simply letting his mind skip almost disbelievingly across her form, and catalogue, almost against his will, the details.
The snug fit of her jacket, cut for a slighter man than most and fitting almost shockingly well. They had done well there, at least. The strangeness of her throat, smooth and feminine against the hard, formal line of her collar, in desperate need of disguise. The shape of her beneath the waistcoat, causing it to ride up somewhat, in ways that must have driven Nikola to distraction.
And her legs. Most shocking, most provocative, most unseemly, her legs. The line of them clear from waist to ankle, defined beneath the fabric of her trousers, shockingly visible in a way a woman's legs were never meant to be. The outward turn of her calf in her seat, the flash of an ankle peeking from beneath the hem, the openness of her, like this ...
She sat up beneath his stare. Her back stiffening, her legs coming together in a seat altogether more appropriate for a woman, seemingly on pure instinct, and some part of James couldn't help but wonder if Nikola had been the one responsible for her previous, provocative sprawl. An altogether more masculine seat, and one that made sense to engender if this charade had an actual purpose, but right now all he could think was that being able to blame Nikola for his current state was a very appealing thought.
"James?" She stood up, confident and proud despite the uncertainty in her voice, smooth and sure as if she had been born to wear a man's clothing, born to stand golden and defiant in the face of every convention, every rule.
It was wholly possible that she had.
"Give him a moment, Helen," Nikola drawled softly, leaning insolently against the sideboard with a smug little grin, but there was something very close to sympathy in the vampire's eyes as he looked at James, a faint flash of amused fellow-feeling. "A man needs time to get his breath back ..."
James glared at him. Glared at the little grin that made it obvious it was not exertion James needed to regain his breathing from. Glared at the mischievous twinkle, the delighted curve of a lip that said this was all Nikola's idea, that this trap was the vampire's doing. That James' discomfort was the intended goal, all vague sympathy aside. James glared at Nikola, at the humour lurking beneath the uncertainty in Helen's eyes too. For a moment, in fine temper, he glared at them both.
Then he shook his head. At himself, mostly. It was, after all, them. He should hardly have expected anything less, from Nikola Tesla and Helen Magnus. Resigned, reluctantly amused, he let temper slip away.
But not, perhaps, a certain degree of vindictiveness. As he straightened, as he turned to look once more at Helen, this time with more clinical eye, with more careful and exacting a gaze. He let temper slip, but not, maybe, a certain determination to return the favour. Because it should be remembered that he was James Watson, that he had a certain degree of experience with their tricks, that he was not without recourse himself.
And to judge by the wary, anticipatory flash in Nikola's eyes, the ready shift in Helen's stance, for once laid completely bare without the disguise of skirts ... They were certainly aware of it. The both of them, aware of and delighting in James' determination to join their game, to repay their challenge with his own. The first foundation of friendship between them, they Five, they Three, and the most enduring.
James smiled, slow and nearly vicious, and raised a mild eyebrow. "I can only assume you've come to me for help," he said, soft and precise as he looked them over, as he grinned at them. "Helen, you really should know better than to ask for clothing advice from Nikola ..."
The vampire straightened slowly, moving away from the sideboard with a slow, wicked grin. "I beg your pardon?" he purred, letting his eyes trail over Helen in pointed echo of James' earlier shocked staring, his own eyebrow a smooth counterpoint to James'. "I think, you must admit, the overall effect is quite stunning."
"Oh, indeed," James agreed readily, ignoring the hint of temper beginning to appear in Helen's face. "Simply, one must presume, not the one she was aiming for. I do suppose this disguise is actually supposed to get her somewhere?"
Nikola shrugged, an easy, casual movement, and smiled expansively. "Probably. I will admit, it wasn't my first concern." A grin, eyes twinkling. "Nor even my fourth ..."
"That much is readily apparent," James drawled, fighting a grin of his own. It was imperative that he remain restrained, at least a little longer. At least until ...
"Gentlemen," Helen interrupted, quellingly. "I am still present." She crossed her arms, the angry jut of her hip startling for how apparent it was, the lines of her waistcoat bunching and doing interesting things to the lines of her chest. Beside him, James distinctly heard Nikola give a low, approving hum, and, finally, allowed himself a rich, proper grin. Allowed himself fully into this game of theirs.
"My apologies, Helen," he murmured. Stepping close to take her hand and bow over it, part genuine remorse, part rich amusement at her annoyance. He smiled, caught by the sudden flash of metal, caught by the sudden realisation that the cufflinks on the sleeve beneath his hand were his own, caught by the realisation that she stood there dressed in clothes borrowed between himself and Nikola. That Helen Magnus stood there in their clothes, in a man's clothes. That she stood there fully a part of their world, reshaping it around herself, and it was, in some indefinable way, magnificent.
"I will help you," he said, with a small, faint smile. "You'll need to do something with your hair, and I have a journal, from an old friend, that will help with the ... with the waistcoat. And for goodness sake, Nikola. You could at least have lent her a cravat!"
"And cover up that throat?" the vampire asked, moving behind them, a warmth at James' back as they looked at Helen. Nikola rested his chin on James' shoulder, grinning as he looked between them, perfectly irrepressible, perfectly unconscious or uncaring of scandal, the perfect counterpoint to James himself. "I make no apologies for my needs ... gentlemen."
Helen laughed, rich and startled, to the broadening of Nikola's grin, and James sighed. "Yes," he said, with false disapproval. "I'm well aware of your flirtations with scandal, Nikola." Then he smiled, slow and secretive. "However ... there are advantages to being discrete. Such as the fact that no-one really expects certain things of you ..."
He grinned, ever so softly, and reached out to hook two fingers in the pocket of Helen's waistcoat, to draw her gently closer while she looked up at him with sparkling, challenging eyes and Nikola looked on with naked interest. He grinned, feeling the smoothness of silk and the stiffness of embroidery against the backs of his fingers, feeling the long, smooth climb of Helen's trousered legs against his own, feeling the heat of Nikola's excitement against his back. He grinned, and then he leaned down, and then he kissed her.
It was smooth, at first, wet and almost shocking in its softness, the give of her lips a strangeness against the stiff line of her collar, the brush of her hair odd against the strength of her presence, the press of her body against him. Her mouth was soft at first, and it shocked him. But she was Helen Magnus, and there was strength in her to match any man, regardless of dress, and she did not stay soft for long. She did not stay giving for long, not when she could take, not when she could press and bruise and demand, and steal the breath of any man that looked upon her.
James kissed her, fingers tangled in a man's shirt and a woman's fire, pressed between a vampire and a woman stronger than them both, more proud, and it was, in that fierce, indefinable way, magnificent.
"Helen?" Nikola rasped, when James managed to pull away, when he managed to pull back and leave her soft and bruised and shining with savage strength in her three-piece suit. "Helen?" the vampire asked, raggedly, his arms curling around James' waist and holding tight. "You remember that I said you mustn't remove those clothes? I may have been hasty in that analysis ..."
James laughed, a soft bark of joy and amusement and the sparking of the connection between them, and reached around to tug Nikola forward into a kiss across his shoulder, into a quick, bruising press of lips and a brief clash of teeth, while Helen watched them with hungry eyes.
"Oh, I don't know," he breathed, watching the darkness in Nikola's eyes, the fierce delight in Helen's. "Perhaps we could show her the advantages of male dress. Such as the fact that one doesn't really need to take it off to reach the important parts ..."
Nikola laughed, short and giddy, and then it was lost as Helen rushed them both, shoved herself against James to reach behind him, to catch Nikola and kiss him breathless, to press her leg between James' and catch his gasp in his throat. No skirts to tangle her legs, no cage to hamper her movements. Helen Magnus, pure and barely sheathed, and she was glorious.
Later, James would definitely blame Nikola. For the suit, for the game, for the mischief that led them to ambush him, and he to challenge them in their turn. He would blame Nikola, confident in the knowledge that it was decidedly the vampire's fault.
It was worth remembering, though, that occasionally Nikola had some truly excellent ideas.
They were waiting for James in the study.
Not sinisterly. Or at least so he thought, at first. They were making no effort to hide their presence, Nikola's laughing drawl carrying along the hall, Helen's brisk, teasing retorts quieter but no less clear. Casual and easy as they always were in each other's presence, just like any other time spent waiting for James to return from the Yard or his practice. He had no reason to suspect a trap.
Until he opened the door, and saw her.
She was sitting in his armchair. Reclining back, a glass of brandy at her elbow, golden hair brushing the collar of a man's jacket, trousered legs sprawled and slightly apart, the silk of her waistcoat gleaming faintly in the lamplight. Helen Magnus in a three-piece suit, a golden effigy in rich brown and cream, sprawled at her ease.
James stopped in the doorway. Stood stock still, utterly uncaring as their conversation stopped around him, allowing himself a moment of stunned shock in which to simply stare. In which to simply breathe. Catching sight of Nikola out of the corner of his eye, the smug, delighted expression on the man's face, and ignoring it. Simply staring at her, far from dignified, far from appropriate, simply letting his mind skip almost disbelievingly across her form, and catalogue, almost against his will, the details.
The snug fit of her jacket, cut for a slighter man than most and fitting almost shockingly well. They had done well there, at least. The strangeness of her throat, smooth and feminine against the hard, formal line of her collar, in desperate need of disguise. The shape of her beneath the waistcoat, causing it to ride up somewhat, in ways that must have driven Nikola to distraction.
And her legs. Most shocking, most provocative, most unseemly, her legs. The line of them clear from waist to ankle, defined beneath the fabric of her trousers, shockingly visible in a way a woman's legs were never meant to be. The outward turn of her calf in her seat, the flash of an ankle peeking from beneath the hem, the openness of her, like this ...
She sat up beneath his stare. Her back stiffening, her legs coming together in a seat altogether more appropriate for a woman, seemingly on pure instinct, and some part of James couldn't help but wonder if Nikola had been the one responsible for her previous, provocative sprawl. An altogether more masculine seat, and one that made sense to engender if this charade had an actual purpose, but right now all he could think was that being able to blame Nikola for his current state was a very appealing thought.
"James?" She stood up, confident and proud despite the uncertainty in her voice, smooth and sure as if she had been born to wear a man's clothing, born to stand golden and defiant in the face of every convention, every rule.
It was wholly possible that she had.
"Give him a moment, Helen," Nikola drawled softly, leaning insolently against the sideboard with a smug little grin, but there was something very close to sympathy in the vampire's eyes as he looked at James, a faint flash of amused fellow-feeling. "A man needs time to get his breath back ..."
James glared at him. Glared at the little grin that made it obvious it was not exertion James needed to regain his breathing from. Glared at the mischievous twinkle, the delighted curve of a lip that said this was all Nikola's idea, that this trap was the vampire's doing. That James' discomfort was the intended goal, all vague sympathy aside. James glared at Nikola, at the humour lurking beneath the uncertainty in Helen's eyes too. For a moment, in fine temper, he glared at them both.
Then he shook his head. At himself, mostly. It was, after all, them. He should hardly have expected anything less, from Nikola Tesla and Helen Magnus. Resigned, reluctantly amused, he let temper slip away.
But not, perhaps, a certain degree of vindictiveness. As he straightened, as he turned to look once more at Helen, this time with more clinical eye, with more careful and exacting a gaze. He let temper slip, but not, maybe, a certain determination to return the favour. Because it should be remembered that he was James Watson, that he had a certain degree of experience with their tricks, that he was not without recourse himself.
And to judge by the wary, anticipatory flash in Nikola's eyes, the ready shift in Helen's stance, for once laid completely bare without the disguise of skirts ... They were certainly aware of it. The both of them, aware of and delighting in James' determination to join their game, to repay their challenge with his own. The first foundation of friendship between them, they Five, they Three, and the most enduring.
James smiled, slow and nearly vicious, and raised a mild eyebrow. "I can only assume you've come to me for help," he said, soft and precise as he looked them over, as he grinned at them. "Helen, you really should know better than to ask for clothing advice from Nikola ..."
The vampire straightened slowly, moving away from the sideboard with a slow, wicked grin. "I beg your pardon?" he purred, letting his eyes trail over Helen in pointed echo of James' earlier shocked staring, his own eyebrow a smooth counterpoint to James'. "I think, you must admit, the overall effect is quite stunning."
"Oh, indeed," James agreed readily, ignoring the hint of temper beginning to appear in Helen's face. "Simply, one must presume, not the one she was aiming for. I do suppose this disguise is actually supposed to get her somewhere?"
Nikola shrugged, an easy, casual movement, and smiled expansively. "Probably. I will admit, it wasn't my first concern." A grin, eyes twinkling. "Nor even my fourth ..."
"That much is readily apparent," James drawled, fighting a grin of his own. It was imperative that he remain restrained, at least a little longer. At least until ...
"Gentlemen," Helen interrupted, quellingly. "I am still present." She crossed her arms, the angry jut of her hip startling for how apparent it was, the lines of her waistcoat bunching and doing interesting things to the lines of her chest. Beside him, James distinctly heard Nikola give a low, approving hum, and, finally, allowed himself a rich, proper grin. Allowed himself fully into this game of theirs.
"My apologies, Helen," he murmured. Stepping close to take her hand and bow over it, part genuine remorse, part rich amusement at her annoyance. He smiled, caught by the sudden flash of metal, caught by the sudden realisation that the cufflinks on the sleeve beneath his hand were his own, caught by the realisation that she stood there dressed in clothes borrowed between himself and Nikola. That Helen Magnus stood there in their clothes, in a man's clothes. That she stood there fully a part of their world, reshaping it around herself, and it was, in some indefinable way, magnificent.
"I will help you," he said, with a small, faint smile. "You'll need to do something with your hair, and I have a journal, from an old friend, that will help with the ... with the waistcoat. And for goodness sake, Nikola. You could at least have lent her a cravat!"
"And cover up that throat?" the vampire asked, moving behind them, a warmth at James' back as they looked at Helen. Nikola rested his chin on James' shoulder, grinning as he looked between them, perfectly irrepressible, perfectly unconscious or uncaring of scandal, the perfect counterpoint to James himself. "I make no apologies for my needs ... gentlemen."
Helen laughed, rich and startled, to the broadening of Nikola's grin, and James sighed. "Yes," he said, with false disapproval. "I'm well aware of your flirtations with scandal, Nikola." Then he smiled, slow and secretive. "However ... there are advantages to being discrete. Such as the fact that no-one really expects certain things of you ..."
He grinned, ever so softly, and reached out to hook two fingers in the pocket of Helen's waistcoat, to draw her gently closer while she looked up at him with sparkling, challenging eyes and Nikola looked on with naked interest. He grinned, feeling the smoothness of silk and the stiffness of embroidery against the backs of his fingers, feeling the long, smooth climb of Helen's trousered legs against his own, feeling the heat of Nikola's excitement against his back. He grinned, and then he leaned down, and then he kissed her.
It was smooth, at first, wet and almost shocking in its softness, the give of her lips a strangeness against the stiff line of her collar, the brush of her hair odd against the strength of her presence, the press of her body against him. Her mouth was soft at first, and it shocked him. But she was Helen Magnus, and there was strength in her to match any man, regardless of dress, and she did not stay soft for long. She did not stay giving for long, not when she could take, not when she could press and bruise and demand, and steal the breath of any man that looked upon her.
James kissed her, fingers tangled in a man's shirt and a woman's fire, pressed between a vampire and a woman stronger than them both, more proud, and it was, in that fierce, indefinable way, magnificent.
"Helen?" Nikola rasped, when James managed to pull away, when he managed to pull back and leave her soft and bruised and shining with savage strength in her three-piece suit. "Helen?" the vampire asked, raggedly, his arms curling around James' waist and holding tight. "You remember that I said you mustn't remove those clothes? I may have been hasty in that analysis ..."
James laughed, a soft bark of joy and amusement and the sparking of the connection between them, and reached around to tug Nikola forward into a kiss across his shoulder, into a quick, bruising press of lips and a brief clash of teeth, while Helen watched them with hungry eyes.
"Oh, I don't know," he breathed, watching the darkness in Nikola's eyes, the fierce delight in Helen's. "Perhaps we could show her the advantages of male dress. Such as the fact that one doesn't really need to take it off to reach the important parts ..."
Nikola laughed, short and giddy, and then it was lost as Helen rushed them both, shoved herself against James to reach behind him, to catch Nikola and kiss him breathless, to press her leg between James' and catch his gasp in his throat. No skirts to tangle her legs, no cage to hamper her movements. Helen Magnus, pure and barely sheathed, and she was glorious.
Later, James would definitely blame Nikola. For the suit, for the game, for the mischief that led them to ambush him, and he to challenge them in their turn. He would blame Nikola, confident in the knowledge that it was decidedly the vampire's fault.
It was worth remembering, though, that occasionally Nikola had some truly excellent ideas.
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