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Last one for a while, and I swear, I swear, I'll ease up on the angst soon -_-;
Title: Hollow
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Sanctuary
Characters/Pairings: James, Nikola, mention of Nigel. Mostly gen
Summary: Set in 1960. Nikola doesn't deal well with losing a friend
Wordcount: 1848
Notes: Follows on from Old Times
Disclaimer: Not mine
Title: Hollow
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Sanctuary
Characters/Pairings: James, Nikola, mention of Nigel. Mostly gen
Summary: Set in 1960. Nikola doesn't deal well with losing a friend
Wordcount: 1848
Notes: Follows on from Old Times
Disclaimer: Not mine
Hollow
"Do you remember when we made this?" Nikola asked him, in the spring of 1960. Kneeling at James' feet, one shaking hand resting on James' knee, the other reaching up to hover over the glass and metal monster set into James' chest. He looked exhausted, worn to a thread, and James' mind kept skipping back to the torn, red-stained shirt Nikola had tossed away with a grin. The man had a distressing tendency to only show up when he was too battered to go elsewhere.
A whole world of enemies hunting him, then. A whole world, wanting to use the destructive genius Nikola had so foolishly shown them, with that almost childish pride of his. A whole world of enemies. And some of them had been more persistent than others.
"Pardon?" he asked, his mind not on the question, still trying to figure out how they'd gone from James entering his bedroom to find a furtive Nikola in a bloody shirt waiting for him, to him sitting by the fire with a vampire curled at his feet. A rather large part of him, somewhat bemused, kept insisting that this could not be a natural progression of events. And yet, there they were.
Nikola smiled at him, a tiny flicker through the shadows in his eyes, and let his hand fall to touch the lines of tubing spidering across James' chest, let his fingers curl lightly across glass and metal, pulling James' attention inexorably back to the present. "I said, do you remember when we made this?"
James blinked down at him, nonplussed, wondering where the question came from, and where it could be going, and then found a smile of his own. Found a wry little twist to give his mouth, and a hint of sarcasm to flavour his answer. "You mean," he said, watching Nikola carefully, watching the tired darkness in his eyes, "do I remember asking you to review the rough plans for me, and not four weeks later winding up with a vampire on my doorstep, and most of my lab taken over?"
Nikola grinned at him, a flash of teeth, that smug little tilt to his head coming back, a little. "Now, James, you know that was only for your own safety. Your theory was perfectly sound, but when it comes to actually building the thing ..."
"Yes," James drawled, raising his eyebrow. "I do seem to recall you mentioning that in your telegram. How did it go? 'James, stop. Am on the next ship to England, stop. Try not to kill yourself before I get there, stop.'" He smiled, letting himself remember for a moment receiving it, the rush of outrage and reluctant amusement. "You always did have such a way with words, Nikola."
The vampire raised an eyebrow, smooth and pointed. "Well," he drawled. "Considering your consistent lack of thought for your own health over the years, you could hardly blame me for the concern. I spent ten days on that crossing wondering if I was going to arrive to find you'd cut your own chest open in the interim." He shook his head. Reached out, almost absently, and pressed his hand against James' chest once more, as if to reassure himself that that had not, in fact, been the case. "More hair-raising than Helen, sometimes," he mused, distantly.
"Not that your hair ever needed help in that regard," James shot back, but softly. Vaguely bemused by the subject, by the mood his friend was in. He found himself frowning down at Nikola in outright concern. "Nikola, are you sure you're quite alright?" Because he wasn't sure if he'd ever seen the vampire this remote, this fragile, this concerned. Certainly not in years. Not since before the war.
Nikola looked up at him. Still petting at James' chest, touching seemingly without thought, some instinct keeping him attached to James. Keeping him close. The look in his eyes was distant and confused, enough so that James almost wondered if he were drugged, or in some kind of shock. It would explain a lot about the evening, though he wasn't sure he wanted to know what might put a vampire in such a state.
"Nikola?" he asked again, gently and carefully as he reached up to touch the man's hand where it was curled around the tubes keeping James alive. Nikola blinked at him, at their hands, owlish and bemused.
"I was in America," he said, from nowhere. Watching their hands, making no move to withdraw his own. "The OSS ... sorry, the CIA, I keep forgetting ... Chased me back out again. Though I think the aim was more 'capture and lock away' than 'chase out of the country'." An odd twitch of his face, a stuttering attempt at a smile. "Very close. They came very close. They're getting very good, you know."
"Judging by the bullet holes in the shirt you threw me, I'd say so," James commented. Drily, because Nikola would not appreciate coddling, but he moved his fingers softly over the vampire's hand, smoothed little circles over the backs of his knuckles. Nikola's eyelids fluttered desperately. "This isn't the first time that's happened to you in the past decade," James noted, quietly. "You don't usually take it so ..."
He stopped, because there wasn't really a word to finish that sentance that would allow Nikola to keep his pride, and James very much did not want to drive him to silence. Not yet. Not until he knew what was wrong. But Nikola only smiled wryly, watching their hands with that little, self-aware curve of his lip, and nodded.
"I can't go back," he explained, his hand curling a little, clenching, and James felt the tug on the mechanism, felt the pressure on his chest. Light, for now, but there was darkness in Nikola's eyes, and he didn't seem aware of it. "Not for a few years, at least. They came too close. They came far too close. I can't go back for at least a few years."
James frowned, something niggling at the back of his mind, some inkling of what might ... But he couldn't quite catch it, so he simply pointed out: "You have a few years, Nikola." A wry curve of his own mouth, just a tinge of bitterness, perhaps. "More than a few."
Nikola looked up at him, then. Nikola looked up, and it seared into James, slammed into his chest hard enough to make his heart stumble against the steady ticking of the mechanism. The sudden hollowness in the vampire's eyes. The emptiness. He near gasped.
"Nigel doesn't," Nikola said. So careful. So precise. A hollowness lurking beneath the words, and a desperation, black and furious. "Nigel doesn't have ... I saw him. I said ... we said ..." A snarl, bubbling, desperate, and the hand tugged against James' chest, tugged savagely at him. "I can't go back. Not in time. And he knew. He knew." He looked up at James, and it was the closest James had ever seen to an open plea on his face, some stark, etched thing, as if James could fix it. As if James could try. "I can't go back," Nikola whispered. "He won't last a few years, James. And I can't go back."
James stared down at him. Feeling the pressure at his chest, feeling things stretch worryingly beneath the vampire's desperate hand, but he couldn't think of that. Didn't dare. (Your consistent lack of thought for your own health). Instead, he wrapped his hand as firmly as he could around Nikola's, hoping to hold it still at least, and met his friend's eyes with every calm, cold scrap of composure at his disposal. He understood. Oh, he understood. But that was not the point.
"No," he said, brutal as he could bear, soft as he dared. "You cannot, Nikola. Nigel would count it no present to him to learn you'd been captured for his sake." Not to mention Helen, or even James ... those holes in his shirt, the blood. What would they do, to a vampire in their care? With all the secrets Nikola commanded, and all the durability of a vampire to test his willingness to surrender them? What would they do, to Nikola? It wasn't to be thought of. Wasn't to be risked, and for their sakes at least, Nikola must understand that. For James' peace of mind, for Nigel's, Nikola must understand. "He wouldn't want you to go back."
Nikola stared at him. Desperation, guilt, relief, and James suddenly had the strange impression that Nikola had somehow been asking his permission. To risk it, with James' support, or perhaps ... perhaps to allow himself to stay safe. Perhaps to allow himself to stay away, even knowing what it meant. James couldn't tell. He wasn't sure Nikola could either.
"I know," Nikola said softly. Letting his hand loosen, patting an absent apology into James' chest, that odd little smile back on his face. Distant. Sad. "He said so. He knew ... he knew. And he told me to go. Told me to run." A cracked laugh. "How do you do that? How do you say goodbye, knowing you'll be dead before you see them again?"
James felt himself flinch. Felt the tiny little quiver through him, small, too small, hopefully, for the vampire to feel it. Feeling the steady metronome tick inside his chest, and the weight of age waiting to press in across it. "I don't know," he said, as distant as Nikola, as hollow. "I don't know." But he might. Oh, he might. Of all of them ...
"We're not meant to die," Nikola murmured, his head dipping to rest on James' knee, the curve of his cheek pressed against the bone. His hand tracing the lines of tubing once more, tap-tapping against the bronze casing in absent echo of the ticking underneath. The emptiness back in his eyes, that soft distance. "Not us. Never us. We were never meant to die."
James swallowed. Feeling his heart stagger under the ticking of machines, and wondering suddenly if this wasn't what Nigel had felt, as he said goodbye. This ache of knowledge and pity and grief. This soft, soft pity, and the rush of love, sudden and desperate, for the man curled at his feet, the friend, childish and old.
"Everything dies," he said, soft and calm as he was able. Letting himself reach down, smooth his hand through Nikola's hair. Touch the curve of his cheek with the backs of his fingers, ignoring the tremors there. "Even us, Nikola. Even us."
"Not us," the vampire repeated, pressing his hand again to James' chest, to the hope they had built there, but it was grief in his eyes. It was knowledge, despite himself, and a kind of pleading. As if James could fix it. As if he could try. "Not us."
And James closed his eyes, and clutched his fingers in Nikola's hair, and let the love swamp him. Let it stagger his heart in his chest, and make his voice soft, so soft, and shaking.
"Not us," he whispered back, and for one moment, wished so hard that they both didn't know he was lying. "Not us."
"Do you remember when we made this?" Nikola asked him, in the spring of 1960. Kneeling at James' feet, one shaking hand resting on James' knee, the other reaching up to hover over the glass and metal monster set into James' chest. He looked exhausted, worn to a thread, and James' mind kept skipping back to the torn, red-stained shirt Nikola had tossed away with a grin. The man had a distressing tendency to only show up when he was too battered to go elsewhere.
A whole world of enemies hunting him, then. A whole world, wanting to use the destructive genius Nikola had so foolishly shown them, with that almost childish pride of his. A whole world of enemies. And some of them had been more persistent than others.
"Pardon?" he asked, his mind not on the question, still trying to figure out how they'd gone from James entering his bedroom to find a furtive Nikola in a bloody shirt waiting for him, to him sitting by the fire with a vampire curled at his feet. A rather large part of him, somewhat bemused, kept insisting that this could not be a natural progression of events. And yet, there they were.
Nikola smiled at him, a tiny flicker through the shadows in his eyes, and let his hand fall to touch the lines of tubing spidering across James' chest, let his fingers curl lightly across glass and metal, pulling James' attention inexorably back to the present. "I said, do you remember when we made this?"
James blinked down at him, nonplussed, wondering where the question came from, and where it could be going, and then found a smile of his own. Found a wry little twist to give his mouth, and a hint of sarcasm to flavour his answer. "You mean," he said, watching Nikola carefully, watching the tired darkness in his eyes, "do I remember asking you to review the rough plans for me, and not four weeks later winding up with a vampire on my doorstep, and most of my lab taken over?"
Nikola grinned at him, a flash of teeth, that smug little tilt to his head coming back, a little. "Now, James, you know that was only for your own safety. Your theory was perfectly sound, but when it comes to actually building the thing ..."
"Yes," James drawled, raising his eyebrow. "I do seem to recall you mentioning that in your telegram. How did it go? 'James, stop. Am on the next ship to England, stop. Try not to kill yourself before I get there, stop.'" He smiled, letting himself remember for a moment receiving it, the rush of outrage and reluctant amusement. "You always did have such a way with words, Nikola."
The vampire raised an eyebrow, smooth and pointed. "Well," he drawled. "Considering your consistent lack of thought for your own health over the years, you could hardly blame me for the concern. I spent ten days on that crossing wondering if I was going to arrive to find you'd cut your own chest open in the interim." He shook his head. Reached out, almost absently, and pressed his hand against James' chest once more, as if to reassure himself that that had not, in fact, been the case. "More hair-raising than Helen, sometimes," he mused, distantly.
"Not that your hair ever needed help in that regard," James shot back, but softly. Vaguely bemused by the subject, by the mood his friend was in. He found himself frowning down at Nikola in outright concern. "Nikola, are you sure you're quite alright?" Because he wasn't sure if he'd ever seen the vampire this remote, this fragile, this concerned. Certainly not in years. Not since before the war.
Nikola looked up at him. Still petting at James' chest, touching seemingly without thought, some instinct keeping him attached to James. Keeping him close. The look in his eyes was distant and confused, enough so that James almost wondered if he were drugged, or in some kind of shock. It would explain a lot about the evening, though he wasn't sure he wanted to know what might put a vampire in such a state.
"Nikola?" he asked again, gently and carefully as he reached up to touch the man's hand where it was curled around the tubes keeping James alive. Nikola blinked at him, at their hands, owlish and bemused.
"I was in America," he said, from nowhere. Watching their hands, making no move to withdraw his own. "The OSS ... sorry, the CIA, I keep forgetting ... Chased me back out again. Though I think the aim was more 'capture and lock away' than 'chase out of the country'." An odd twitch of his face, a stuttering attempt at a smile. "Very close. They came very close. They're getting very good, you know."
"Judging by the bullet holes in the shirt you threw me, I'd say so," James commented. Drily, because Nikola would not appreciate coddling, but he moved his fingers softly over the vampire's hand, smoothed little circles over the backs of his knuckles. Nikola's eyelids fluttered desperately. "This isn't the first time that's happened to you in the past decade," James noted, quietly. "You don't usually take it so ..."
He stopped, because there wasn't really a word to finish that sentance that would allow Nikola to keep his pride, and James very much did not want to drive him to silence. Not yet. Not until he knew what was wrong. But Nikola only smiled wryly, watching their hands with that little, self-aware curve of his lip, and nodded.
"I can't go back," he explained, his hand curling a little, clenching, and James felt the tug on the mechanism, felt the pressure on his chest. Light, for now, but there was darkness in Nikola's eyes, and he didn't seem aware of it. "Not for a few years, at least. They came too close. They came far too close. I can't go back for at least a few years."
James frowned, something niggling at the back of his mind, some inkling of what might ... But he couldn't quite catch it, so he simply pointed out: "You have a few years, Nikola." A wry curve of his own mouth, just a tinge of bitterness, perhaps. "More than a few."
Nikola looked up at him, then. Nikola looked up, and it seared into James, slammed into his chest hard enough to make his heart stumble against the steady ticking of the mechanism. The sudden hollowness in the vampire's eyes. The emptiness. He near gasped.
"Nigel doesn't," Nikola said. So careful. So precise. A hollowness lurking beneath the words, and a desperation, black and furious. "Nigel doesn't have ... I saw him. I said ... we said ..." A snarl, bubbling, desperate, and the hand tugged against James' chest, tugged savagely at him. "I can't go back. Not in time. And he knew. He knew." He looked up at James, and it was the closest James had ever seen to an open plea on his face, some stark, etched thing, as if James could fix it. As if James could try. "I can't go back," Nikola whispered. "He won't last a few years, James. And I can't go back."
James stared down at him. Feeling the pressure at his chest, feeling things stretch worryingly beneath the vampire's desperate hand, but he couldn't think of that. Didn't dare. (Your consistent lack of thought for your own health). Instead, he wrapped his hand as firmly as he could around Nikola's, hoping to hold it still at least, and met his friend's eyes with every calm, cold scrap of composure at his disposal. He understood. Oh, he understood. But that was not the point.
"No," he said, brutal as he could bear, soft as he dared. "You cannot, Nikola. Nigel would count it no present to him to learn you'd been captured for his sake." Not to mention Helen, or even James ... those holes in his shirt, the blood. What would they do, to a vampire in their care? With all the secrets Nikola commanded, and all the durability of a vampire to test his willingness to surrender them? What would they do, to Nikola? It wasn't to be thought of. Wasn't to be risked, and for their sakes at least, Nikola must understand that. For James' peace of mind, for Nigel's, Nikola must understand. "He wouldn't want you to go back."
Nikola stared at him. Desperation, guilt, relief, and James suddenly had the strange impression that Nikola had somehow been asking his permission. To risk it, with James' support, or perhaps ... perhaps to allow himself to stay safe. Perhaps to allow himself to stay away, even knowing what it meant. James couldn't tell. He wasn't sure Nikola could either.
"I know," Nikola said softly. Letting his hand loosen, patting an absent apology into James' chest, that odd little smile back on his face. Distant. Sad. "He said so. He knew ... he knew. And he told me to go. Told me to run." A cracked laugh. "How do you do that? How do you say goodbye, knowing you'll be dead before you see them again?"
James felt himself flinch. Felt the tiny little quiver through him, small, too small, hopefully, for the vampire to feel it. Feeling the steady metronome tick inside his chest, and the weight of age waiting to press in across it. "I don't know," he said, as distant as Nikola, as hollow. "I don't know." But he might. Oh, he might. Of all of them ...
"We're not meant to die," Nikola murmured, his head dipping to rest on James' knee, the curve of his cheek pressed against the bone. His hand tracing the lines of tubing once more, tap-tapping against the bronze casing in absent echo of the ticking underneath. The emptiness back in his eyes, that soft distance. "Not us. Never us. We were never meant to die."
James swallowed. Feeling his heart stagger under the ticking of machines, and wondering suddenly if this wasn't what Nigel had felt, as he said goodbye. This ache of knowledge and pity and grief. This soft, soft pity, and the rush of love, sudden and desperate, for the man curled at his feet, the friend, childish and old.
"Everything dies," he said, soft and calm as he was able. Letting himself reach down, smooth his hand through Nikola's hair. Touch the curve of his cheek with the backs of his fingers, ignoring the tremors there. "Even us, Nikola. Even us."
"Not us," the vampire repeated, pressing his hand again to James' chest, to the hope they had built there, but it was grief in his eyes. It was knowledge, despite himself, and a kind of pleading. As if James could fix it. As if he could try. "Not us."
And James closed his eyes, and clutched his fingers in Nikola's hair, and let the love swamp him. Let it stagger his heart in his chest, and make his voice soft, so soft, and shaking.
"Not us," he whispered back, and for one moment, wished so hard that they both didn't know he was lying. "Not us."